I wrote what I had written to all the others; I told him how I had struggled, and how I was living. Perhaps he is less busy than the rest. * * * * * December 19th. The manuscript came back to-day. The letter was simple--the old, meaningless form. I am waiting to hear from the professor. * * * * * December 20th. “I reply to your letter somewhat against my rule--chiefly because of what you tell me about your circumstances. I will read your manuscript if you still think it worth while to send it to me; but I must tell you at the outset that I consider the chances very unfavorable, as regards my finding the work what you believe it. I assure you that the literary situation is not in the least what you picture it; the book-market was never more wide-awake than it is now, the publishers are all as eager as possible for the least sign of new power; and besides that, the magazines afford outlet--not only for talent, but for mediocrity as well. You are entirely mistaken in your idea that literary excellence is not equivalent to commercial availability. If you could write one paragraph as noble as the average of Dr. ----, or one stanza as excellent as the average of Professor ----, you would find an instant and hearty welcome. “Moreover, I believe that you are entirely wrong in your ideas of what you need. You will not make yourself a great artist by secluding yourself from men--go out into the world, young man, go out into the world and see what men are! “As I say, it is not my rule to answer letters such as yours. The cry of the suffering is in the air every instant, if we heeded it we should never get our work done. But I am willing to read your poem, if this letter has not chilled your ardor.” * * * * * --Last night I read The Captive again, and it brought the tears into my eyes; and so my ardor is not chilled, good professor--and I will send you the poem. * * * * * --But as for going out into the world--I think I am learning what men are pretty fast! * * * * * December 23d. My poem stirs me, but it does not last. My whole habit of mind seems to me to be changed--a deep, settled melancholy has come over me; I go about mournful, haunted. I read--but all the time I am as if I had forgotten something, and as if half my mind were on that. I have lost all my ardor--I look back at what I was, and it brings the tears into my eyes. It is gone! It is gone! It will not ever come back! And each day I am drawing nearer to the rapids--to the ghastly prospect of having to drag myself back to work! Oh my God, what shall I do?--tell me anything, and I will do it! Give me a hope--any hope--even a little one! * * * * * The last day I can stretch my miserable pittance to is the first of February. * * * * * December 25th.