Let not any man think that he can feel the love-clasp of my muse while he hides a satyr's body underneath his cloak. Free is my muse, and bold, fearing not the embrace of man, fearing not passion, nor the words of passion,--not the throbbing heart, nor the burning brow, nor the choking voice. But the warmth of her breath and the fire of her eyes, they were kindled at a shrine of which the beast does not know. Let not any man think that he can kiss the lips of my muse while his breath is tainted with the fumes of wine! * * * * * An artist is a man with one pleasure--and it is not self-indulgence; an artist is a man with one virtue--and it is not self-restraint. Sweetly and simply will I and my muse take all temptation, knowing not that it tempts, and wondering at the clamor of men. I will eat and drink that I may be nourished, I will sleep that I may be rested, I will dress that I may be warm. When I go among men it shall be to speak the truth, and when I press a woman to my heart, it shall be that a man may be born into the world. There is but one sin that I know, and that is dulness; there is but one virtue, and that is fire. And for the rest, I love pleasure, and hold it sweetest and holiest of all the words I know; the guide-post of all righteousness is pleasure--which whoso learns to read may follow all his days. * * * * * September 1st. “The reason for delay in replying to your letter is that it was mislaid. I am directed by Mr. ---- to say that he has so many requests to read manuscripts that he is compelled to make it an invariable rule to decline. “Secretary.” So that hope is gone! That letter--or rather the chain of thoughts which it brought me, made me feel ill to-night. “So many requests!” “An invariable rule!” So many swarming millions, helpless, useless, dying unknown and unheeded. And I am in the midst of them--helpless, unknown, and unheeded! And now that I have done my work, I can not find any one with faith enough--interest enough--even to look at it! How could a man who is a poet--who writes things that stir the hearts of men--how could he send such an answer to such a letter as I wrote him? I do not think that _I_ shall ever send such an answer! Or is it really true, then, that the world is such a thing that it closes the hearts even of poets? That his ardor and his consecration, his sympathy and love and trust--he gives all to the things of his dreams and never to the men and women he meets? Oh how shall I find one--just one--warmhearted man! * * * * * I begin the trying of the publishers once more to-morrow. * * * * * September 2d. I am in my sixth week! Two weeks of the money is nearly gone--I had to get another pair of shoes and a necktie and to have some things laundered twice. I have to be respectable now, I can not wash my own clothes at the faucet when no one is about.