Every now & then I force myself to stop & write a short story or a bit of verse: I can’t bear the strain: but the instant I open the pages of the other I write as I am writing now—as fast as I could copy! What do you think? Am I possessed of a demon? Is it a freak of mental disturbance, or what? I have the feeling that if I could only read it to you, you would know. If it is as good as Mrs. Trimble, Mr. Jackson & Miss Woolsey think, I shall be indeed rewarded, for it will “tell.” But I can’t believe it is. I am uneasy about it—but try as I may, all I can, I cannot write slowly for more than a few moments. I sit down at 9.30 or 10, & it is one before I know it. In good weather I then go out, after lunching, and keep out, religiously till five: but there have not been more than three out of eight good days all winter:—and the days when I am shut up, in my room from two till five, alone—with my Ramona and Alessandro, and cannot go along with them on their journey, are maddening. Fifty-two last October and I’m not a bit steadier-headed, you see, than ever! I don’t know whether to send this or burn it up. Don’t laugh at me whatever you do. Yours always, H. J. XXIV A HALF-CENTURY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE A HALF-CENTURY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE (1857-1907) I The brilliant French author, Stendhal, used to describe his ideal of a happy life as dwelling in a Paris garret and writing endless plays and novels. This might seem to any Anglo-American a fantastic wish; and no doubt the early colonists on this side of the Atlantic Ocean, after fighting through the Revolution by the aid of Rochambeau and his Frenchmen, might have felt quite out of place had they followed their triumphant allies back to Europe, in 1781, and inspected their way of living. We can hardly wonder, on the other hand, that the accomplished French traveler, Philarète Chasles, on visiting this country in 1851, looked through the land in despair at not finding a humorist, although the very boy of sixteen who stood near him at the rudder of a Mississippi steam-boat may have been he who was destined to amuse the civilized world under the name of Mark Twain.[23]