I saw him yet a third time. It was done, it was finished; and he lay wounded in a dark room, listening. Outside in the streets of Washington a great endless army marched by, the army of victory, of salvation; and the old war-flags waved, and the old war-songs echoed, and he heard the trampling of ten thousand feet--the rumbling of the old cannon--and the ocean-roaring of the vast throngs of men! A wild delirium of victory throbbed in his soul,--burned him up, as he lay there alone, dying of his passion and his wounds. Born of the joy that throbbed in the air about him, born of the waving banners and the clashing trumpets and the trampling hosts and the shouting millions--a figure loomed up before him--a figure with eyes of flame and a form that towered like the mountains--with arms outstretched in rapture and robes that touched the corn-fields as she sped--angel, prophetess, goddess!--Liberty! * * * * * --And at her feet he sobbed out his life. * * * * * --The American! * * * * * July 18th. Still another day, and no news from the publisher's. The time is nearly up--I can not wait much longer. * * * * * They have rejected The Captive! They have rejected The Captive! In God's name, what does it mean? They have rejected The Captive! I stared at the paper in blank consternation! I couldn't realize the words, I couldn't understand what they meant. Such a thing never occurred to me in my wildest moment. What is the matter with them--are they mad? Great God, that any human creature!--And without a line about it! --“We have carefully considered the MS. which you have kindly offered us, and regret that we are not advised to undertake its publication. We are returning the MS. with thanks for your courtesy in submitting it.” * * * * * That letter came to me like a blow in the face.--I have spent hours to-night pacing the streets, almost speechless. Fools! --But I will not let such a thing disturb me for an instant. Yes, they are a great publishing-house--but such things as I have seen them publish! And they “regret.” Well, you _will_ regret, some day, never fear! * * * * * July 19th. The manuscript arrived this morning. I took it up-stairs and sat down, trembling, and read it all again. I wish that I could see the man or woman who read that poem and rejected it--just that I might see what kind of looking person it is. Oh, the wildness of it, the surge and the roar of it! The glory of it! * * * * * I can not afford to waste my time worrying about such things. I only say “Fools!” * * * * * --I took it to another publisher. I don't know any in particular, but I will try the best. This publisher didn't seem very anxious to read it. Go ahead, try it!--Or are you a fool too?