* * * * * So there is one chance more. I do not see how he can refuse, and if he will only read the manuscript, I will be safe, I think. * * * * * November 20th. I have done nothing but wait for four days, but I have not heard from him yet. To-day I made up my mind that I would take the manuscript to another publisher's meanwhile. He is probably busy, and may not answer for a long while; and I can get the manuscript from a publisher at any time. * * * * * November 24th. Still I have not heard anything from Mr. ----. My soul was full of hope again, but it is sinking down as before. Is he not going to answer me at all?--Can it be that he has not even read my letter? * * * * * November 26th. I wrote to him again to-day, inquiring. If he does not answer that, I shall suppose his secretary threw it away. There is nothing weakens my soul like this endless waiting. I wander around desolate, helpless, I can not fix my mind on anything. Oh, the shame of it! * * * * * November 30th. I could not give up that hope yet. It seemed to me so terrible that of all the men of wealth in this city there should not be one willing to help me save my message.--I wrote to-day the same letter to a clergyman who I know is wealthy, and who I believe would be interested in my work. * * * * * December 2d. “I have received your letter, and I regret very much that I can not grant the request you make. The pressure upon my time is such that I can not possibly undertake to read your book. There would be no use in my doing so, anyhow, for I tell you frankly it seems to me the situation you are in is just what you need. My advice to you is to be a man and face it. I do not see any reason why one person should be set free from the labor which all of us have to share; and I assure you that you are entirely mistaken if you think that an artist has nothing to expect but ruin from contact with the world, and with suffering and toiling humanity.” Isn't that a slap in the face for you? Great God, I think that is the most insulting thing that has ever happened to me in all my days. “Set free from the labor which all of us have to share!”--What do you think I am--a tramp, or a loafer, you hound! “A high challenge from an artist's soul!” I think I never had so much hatred in my heart in all my life as I have to-day. Oh, my God, what a thing this world is! What stupid, blind brutality, what hideous vulgarity! This man a _clergyman_! And this is his faith, his nobility, his understanding! Why, I came out of the forest with my naked heart in my hands! I came out quivering with emotion, melting with love and with trust for all men! I came all sensitive and raw--hungering for sympathy and kindness! And oh, my soul!--my God!--you have beaten me and kicked me as if I were a filthy cur!