You sit with these books, and time and space “to nothingness do sink.” There looms up before you--like a bare mountain in its majesty--the great elemental world-fact, the death-grapple of the will with circumstance. You may build yourself any philosophy or any creed you please, but you will never get away from the world-fact--the death-grapple of the soul with circumstance. Æschylus has one creed, and Milton has another, and Shelley has a third; but always it is the death-grapple. Chaos, evil--circumstance--lies about you, binds you; and you grip it--you close with it--all your days you toil with it, you shape it into systems, you make it live and laugh and sing. And while you do that, there is in your heart a thing that is joy and pain and terror mingled in one passion. Who knows that passion? Who knows-- “With travail and heavy sorrow The holy spirit of Man.” Prometheus Bound, Prometheus Unbound, and Samson Agonistes! And now there will be a fourth. It will be The Captive. Am I a fool? I do not know--that is none of my business. It is my business to do my best. * * * * * Horace bids you, if you would make him weep, to weep first yourself. I understand by the writing of a poem just this: that the problem you put there you discover for yourself; that the form you put it in you invent for yourself; and, finally, that what you make it, from the first word to the last word, from the lowest moment to the highest moment, you _live_; that when a character in such a place acts thus, he acts thus because you, in that place--not would have acted thus, but _did_ act thus; that the words which are spoken in that moment of emotion are spoken because you, in that moment of emotion--not would have spoken them, but _did_ speak them. I propose that you search out the scenes that have stirred the hearts of men in all times, and see if you can find one that was written thus--not because the author had lived it thus, but because somebody else had lived it thus, or because he wanted people to think he had lived it thus. And now you are writing The Captive. You do not go into the dungeon in the body, because you need all your strength; but in the spirit you have gone into the dungeon, and the door has clanged, and it is black night--the world is gone forever. And there you sit, while the years roll by, and you front the naked fact. Six feet square of stone and an iron chain are your portion--that is circumstance; and the will--_you_ are the will. And you grip it--you close with it--all your days you toil with it; you shape it into systems, make it live and laugh and sing. And while you do that there is in your heart a thing that is joy and pain and terror mingled in one passion. * * * * *