I have only to write the end--the last scene in the dungeon. And that is nothing. “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course!” * * * * * July 4th. I have only to write the echoes that are in my heart, the stammering words of thanksgiving. It is nothing--I have been over them. My whole being is melted with the woe of them--but I can do them anywhere--anyhow. --And a sudden wild longing has come over me for the city. I must take all the world into my arms--I am so happy--I love it so! Ah, I have done it! I have done it! I am free! _Free!_ FREE! I must get this thing typewritten--I must get rid of it--it must be published. How long does it take to get a book published? * * * * * July 5th. I fought a fight with myself yesterday, and won it. The last of my weaknesses! I wanted to pack up my things and go home! And finish my poem on the train! I was that hungry for the goal! But I am still here--doing the last scene. I shall stay until it is done. I can not stay after that. * * * * * Let me hear how your voice trembles as you sing the last strains of your song, and I will tell you how great an artist you are. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! * * * * * July 6th. Five in the afternoon! And the wind was howling in turret and tree, and all the forest was an organ chant. So I packed up my belongings, and laid my poem in next to my heart--the last words written: “It is done!” And I went out and stood and gazed at my little home. Farewell, farewell, little home! Perhaps I shall never see you again; but ever you will live in my fancy as my heaven upon earth. They built thee for picnic parties! And I wonder what proud prince had built for his pleasures--the Garden of Gethsemane! * * * * * And now I go forth like a bridegroom out of my chamber, rejoicing as a strong man to run a race. And all the world dances around me, and I stretch out my arms and sing! Come, come, my foes, where are ye now? What foes shall I be afraid of now! Is it the world and its trials? Come! * * * * * I go back to conquer--I have forged my weapon! I have bared my arm! Where are those foes of mine? * * * * * There is nothing so commonplace that it does not sing to me. I walk with a springing step, I laugh, I exult. Birds, flowers, men--I love them all; I get into the train, and the going of it is drunkenness. I have won! I have won! I go back to the world. Come, world! I have but four dollars left--four dollars!--and The Captive! * * * * * It is not strange that a man should be made drunk with happiness by the writing of a tragedy! That is the great insincerity of the artist. “That cry of agony!--what a triumph of genius was that my cry of agony!”