There was a pause. “You have never had any such experience yourself?” asked Thyrsis. “Of inspiration, I mean.” “No,” was the answer. “I couldn’t pretend to.” “So your judgments are never from first-hand knowledge?” The professor hesitated. “I am dealing with you frankly---” he began. “I know,” said Thyrsis, “and I appreciate that. You understand that it’s an important point for me to get clear. I’ve felt that all along about you--I’ve felt it about so many others who set themselves against me. And yet I have to bear the burden of their condemnation--” “I never condemned you,” interposed the other. “Ah, but you did!” cried Thyrsis. “You told me that I knew less about writing than anyone in your class! And you spoke as one who had authority.” “But you had given no indications in the class-room--” “I know! I know! I tried to get you to see the reason. I wanted to create literature; and you set me down with a lot of formulas--you told me to write about ‘The Duty of the College Man to Support Athletics!’” “It’s difficult to see,” began Prof. Osborne, “how we could teach college boys to create literature--” “At least,” said the other, “you need not follow a method which would make it impossible for one of them to create literature if he had it in him.” “Does it seem to you as bad as that?” asked the professor, a little disturbed. “It truly does,” said Thyrsis. “But what would you say we could do?” To which the boy replied, “You might try to get your pupils to feel one deep emotion about life, or to think one worth-while thought; then they might stand a chance of knowing how it feels to write.” Section 7. Thyrsis was still reading in the papers and magazines of philanthropists and public-spirited citizens; and he was still sitting down to write them and explain his plight. He would beg them to believe that he wanted nothing but a bare living; and he would send copies of his books or articles or manuscripts, and ask these people to read them. And about this time an unusual thing happened--one of these philanthropists answered his letter. He wrote that he did not agree with Thyrsis’ ideas, by any means, but appreciated the power of his writing, and was certain that he had a career before him. Whereupon Thyrsis made haste to follow up his advantage, and wrote another letter--one of the most intense and impassioned that he ever composed in his life. He told about the new book he was dreaming. For years he had read his country’s history, and lived in it and thrilled with it. Especially had he read the Civil War; and now he was planning a book that should hold the War, and all the meanings of the War, as a wine-cup holds the rich flavors and aromas of the grape. A titan struggle it had been, the birth-agony of a nation; and it was a thing to be contemplated with amazement, that it should have produced so little in the way of art. Half a dozen poems there were; but of novels not one above the grade of juvenile fiction.