“I am pleased to be able to tell you that your poem is a great deal better than I expected to find it. I am forced to write briefly by reason of pressure of business; but you have very considerable literary gifts. The work is clearly made whole of sincerity; it shows a considerable command of expression, and a considerable understanding of style. It has qualities of imagination and of emotional insight, and is obviously the fruit of a wide reading. But besides these things, it is exactly as I expected, and as I told you--the work is very narrow in the range of its appeal; you can not in the least blame the publishers for declining it, because it is true that very few people would care for it. My own judgment is hardly capable in the matter, because I myself am not an idealist. Recording my own opinion, I found the poem monotonous, and not especially interesting; but then, I say that of much that some other people consider great poetry. “My advice to you is just what it was before--that you go out into the world and become acquainted with life. Not knowing you personally, I could not counsel you definitely, but I should think that what would benefit you most would be a good stiff course in plain, every-day newspaper reporting. Newspaper reporters have many deficiencies, but at least they learn to keep in touch with their audiences, and to write in a way that takes hold of the people. You may not welcome this advice--but we seldom welcome what is good for us.” * * * * * I am not dead yet, and I have not lost the power of getting angry. Such things as that do me good, they make me fight, they get all my soul in arms. Great God, the blindness, the asininity of it! It is enough if you can classify a man; give him a name--and then it's all out of the way. If he have faith and fire and aspiration and worship--and you have not--why, say that he is an idealist, and that you are something else, and let it go at that. * * * * * December 31st. The poem came back to-day, and I trudged off to another publisher's--the sixth. I have no hope now, however; I send it as a matter of form. I shudder at the prospect of to-morrow's coming; for it will be just a month more to the time I said I should have to go to work! And New Year's day--my soul, if I had foreseen this last New Year's! I thank Heaven for that blessing, at least. Who are these men that I should submit to their judgments? These men and their commonplace lives--are they not that very world out of which I have fought my way, by the toil of nights and days?--And now I must come back and listen to their foolish judgments about my song! --You felt what was in it, you poor, stupid man! But it did not take you with it, for you are not a poet; you have not kept the holy fire burning, you are not still “strenuous for the bright reward.” And so you found it monotonous! Some men find nature monotonous. And some men find music monotonous.