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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
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 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3537.I37J8 1903 
 
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THE JOURNAL OF 
 ARTHUR STIRLING 
 
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 THE JOURNAL OF 
 ARTHUR STIRLING 
 
 "THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW") 
 
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 REVISED AND CONDENSED 
 iriTH AN INTRODUCTORY SKETCH 
 
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 NEW YORK 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 1903 
 
 
 
 
Copyright, 1903 
 Bv D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 The matter which is given to the public in 
 this book will speak with a voice of its own; it is 
 necessary, however, to say a few words in ad- 
 vance to inform the reader of its history. 
 
 The writer of the journal herein contained 
 was not known, I believe, to more than a dozen 
 people in this huge city in which he lived. I am 
 quite certain that I and my wife were the only 
 persons he ever called his friends. I met him 
 shortly after his graduation from college, and 
 for the past few years I knew, and I alone, of a 
 life of artistic devotion of such passionate fervor 
 as I expect never to meet with again. 
 
 Arthur Stirling was entirely a self-educated 
 man; he had worked at I know not how many 
 impossible occupations, and labored in the night- 
 time like the heroes one reads about. He taught 
 himself to read five languages, and at the time 
 when I saw him last he knew more great poetry 
 
THE JOUKJ^AL OF AKTHUK STIELING 
 
 by heart than any man of letters that I have ever 
 met. He was the author of one book, a tragedy 
 in blank verse, called The Captive; that drama 
 forms the chief theme of this journal. For the 
 rest, it seems to me enough to quote this notice, 
 which appeared in the New York Times for June 
 9, 1902. 
 
 STIRLING. — By suicide in the Hudson River, poet and 
 man of genius, in the 22d year of his age, only son of 
 Richard T. and Grace Stirling, deceased, of Chicago. 
 Chicago papers please copy. 
 
 Arthur Stirling was in appearance a tall, 
 dark-haired boy — he was really only a boy — with 
 a singularly beautiful face, and a strange wist- 
 ful expression of the eyes that I think will haunt 
 me as long as I live. I made him, somewhat 
 externally and feebly, I fear, one of the charac- 
 ters in a recently published novel. That he was 
 a lonely spirit will be plain enough from his 
 writings; he lived among the poverty-haunted 
 thousands of this city, without (so he once told 
 me) ever speaking to a living soul for a week. 
 Pecuniarily I could not help him — for though 
 he was poor, I was scarcely less so. At the 
 time of his frightful death I had not seen him 
 for nearly two months — owing to circumstances 
 
 vi 
 
EDITOE'S INTEODUCTIOl^ 
 
 which were in no way my fault, but for which 
 I can nevertheless not forgive myself. 
 
 The writing of The Captive, as described in 
 these papers, was begun in April, 1901. I was 
 myself at that time in the midst of a struggle to 
 have a book pubHshed. It was not really pub- 
 lished until late in that year — at which time The 
 Captive was finished and already several times 
 rejected. • It was an understood thing between 
 us that should my book succeed it would mean 
 freedom for. both of us, but that, unfortunately, 
 was not to be. 
 
 Early in April of 1902 I had succeeded in 
 laying by provisions enough to last me while I 
 wrote another book, and I fled away to put up 
 my tent in the wilderness. The last time that I 
 ever saw Arthur Stirling was in his room the 
 night before I left. He smiled very bravely and 
 said that he would keep his courage up, that 
 he was pretty sure he would come out all 
 right. 
 
 I did not expect him to write often — I knew 
 that he was too poor for that; but after six weeks 
 had passed and I had not heard from him at all, 
 I wrote to a friend to go and see him. It de- 
 veloped that he had moved. The lodging-house 
 vii 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 keeper could only say that he had left her his 
 baggage, being unable to pay his rent; and that 
 he " looked sick." Where he went she did not 
 know, and all efforts of mine to find him were 
 of no avail. The only person that I knew of to 
 ask was a certain young girl, a typewriter, who 
 had known him for years, and who had wor- 
 shiped him with a strange and terrible passion — 
 who would have been his wife, or his slave, if he 
 had not been as iron in such things, a man so 
 lost in his vision that I suppose he always thought 
 she was lost in it too. This girl had copied his 
 manuscripts for years, with the plea that he 
 might pay her when he " succeeded " ; and she 
 has all of his manuscripts now, except what I 
 have, if she is alive. All that we could learn was 
 that she had " gone away " ; I feel pretty certain 
 that she went in search of him. 
 
 In addition, all that I have to tell is that on 
 Monday, June 9th last I received a large express 
 package from Arthur. It was sent from New 
 York, but marked as coming from another per- 
 son — evidently to avoid giving an address of his 
 own. Upon opening it I found two packages, 
 one of them carefully sealed and marked upon 
 the outside, The Captive; the other was the 
 viii 
 
EDITOK'S INTEODUCTION" 
 
 manuscript of this journal, and upon the top of 
 it was the following letter: 
 
 My dear : You have no doubt been wondering 
 
 what has become of me. I have been having a hard time of 
 it. I wish I could find some way to make this thing a little 
 easier, but I can not. When you read this letter I shall be 
 dead. There is nothing that I can tell you about it that you 
 will not read in the papers I send you. It is simply that I 
 was born to be an artist, and that as anything else I can not 
 live. The burden that has been laid upon me I can not bear 
 another day. I have told the whole story of it in this book — 
 I have kept myself alive for months, sick and weeping with 
 agony, in order that I might tear it out of my heart and get 
 it written. It has been my last prayer that the struggle my 
 life has been may somehow not be useless. There will come 
 others after me — others perhaps keener than I — and oh, the 
 world must not kill them all ! 
 
 You will take this manuscript, please, and go over it, and 
 cut out what you like to make it printable, and write a few 
 words to make people understand about it. And then see 
 if any one will publish it. You know more about all these 
 things than I do. If it should sell, keep part of the money 
 for your own work and give the rest to poor Ellen. As to 
 The Captive — I all but burned it, as you will read ; but keep 
 it, sealed as I have sealed it, for two years, and then offer it to 
 some publishers — to others than the nine who have already 
 rejected it. If you can not find any one to take it, then burn 
 it, or keep it for love, I do not care which. 
 
 I am writing this on Thursday night, and I am almost 
 dead. I mean to get some money to-morrow, and then to 
 buy a ticket for as far up the Hudson as I can go. In the 
 evening I mean to find a steep bank, and, with a heavy 
 dumb-bell I have bought, and a strong rope, I think I can 
 find the peace that I have been seeking. 
 
 ix 
 
THE JOUElfAL OF ARTHUK STIELING 
 
 The first thing that I have to say to you about it is, that 
 when you get this letter it will be over and done, and that I 
 want you, for God's sake, not to make any fuss. No one 
 will find my body and no one will care about it. You need 
 not think it necessary to notify the newspapers — what I'm 
 sending you here is literature and not journalism. I have 
 no earthly belongings left except these MSS., upon which 
 you will have to pay the toll. I have written to M — ^, a 
 man who once did some typewriting for me, asking him to 
 use a dollar he owes me in putting a notice in one of the 
 papers. I suppose I owe that to the people out West. 
 
 I can't write you to-night — before God I can't ; my head 
 is going like a steel-mill, and I'm so sick. You will get over 
 this somehow, and go on and do your task and win. And 
 if the memory of my prayer can help you, that will be some- 
 thing. Do the work of both of us if you can. Only, if you 
 do pull through, remember my last cry — remember the 
 young artist ! There is no other fight so worth fighting — 
 take it upon you — shout it day and night at them — what 
 things they do with their young artists ! 
 
 God bless you, dear friend. Yours, Arthur. 
 
 The above is the only tidings of him, except- 
 ing the extended accounts of his death which 
 appeared in the New York Times and the New 
 York World for June lo and ii, 1902, and sev- 
 eral letters which he wrote to other people. 
 There remains only to say a few words as to 
 the journal. 
 
 It is scrawled upon old note-books and 
 loose sheets of paper. The matter, although 
 a diary, contains odd bits of his writings— one 
 
EDITOE'S INTEODUCTION 
 
 of two letters to me which he had me send back, 
 and some extracts from an essay which a friend 
 of mine was offering at that time to magazines 
 in the hope of placing it for him. There is a 
 problem about the work which I leave to others 
 to solve — how much of it was written as dated, 
 and how much afterward, as a piece of art, as a 
 testament of his sorrow. Parts of it have struck 
 me as having been composed in the latter way, 
 and the last pages, of course, imply as much. 
 
 Extraordinary pages they are to me. That 
 a man who was about to take his life should 
 have written them is one of the strangest cases 
 of artistic absorption I know of in literature. But 
 Arthur Stirling was a man lost in his art just so — 
 so full of it, so drunk with it, that nothing in life 
 had other meaning to him. To quote the words 
 he loved, from the last of his heroes, he longed 
 for excellence " as the lion longs for his food." 
 
 So he lived and so he worked; the world had 
 
 no use for his work, and so he died. 
 
 S. 
 New York, November ij, igo2. 
 
 XI 
 
Reader : 
 
 I DO not know if " The Valley of the Shadow " 
 means to you what it means to me; I do not 
 know if it means anything at all to you. But I 
 have sought long and far for these words, to utter 
 an all but unutterable thought. 
 
 When you walk in the forest you do not 
 count the lives that you tread into nothingness. 
 When you rejoice with the springtime you do 
 not hear the cries of the young things that are 
 choked and beaten down and dying. When you 
 watch the wild thing in your snare you do not 
 know the meaning of the torn limbs, and the 
 throbbing heart, and the awful silence of the crea- 
 ture trapped. When you go where the poor 
 live, and see thin faces and hungry eyes and 
 crouching limbs, you do not think of these things 
 either. 
 
 But I, reader — I dwell in the Valley of the 
 Shadow. 
 
 Sometimes it is silent in my Valley, and the 
 creatures sit in terror of their own voices; some- 
 xiii 
 
THE JOURNAL OF ARTHUR STIRLINO 
 
 times there are screams that pierce the sky; but 
 there is never any answer in my Valley. There 
 are quivering hands there, and racked limbs, and 
 aching hearts, and panting souls. There is gasp- 
 ing struggle, glaring failure — maniac despair. 
 For over my Valley rolls The Shadow, a giant 
 thing, moving with the weight of mountains. 
 And you stare at it, you feel it; you scream, you 
 pray, you weep ; you hold up your hands to your 
 God, you grow mad; but the Shadow moves like 
 Time, like the sun, and the planets in the sky. 
 It rolls over you, and it rolls on; and then you 
 cry out no more. 
 
 It is that way in my Valley. The Shadow 
 is the Shadow of Death. 
 
 XIV 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Editor's Introduction v 
 
 The Author to the Reader xiii 
 
 Part I. Writing a poem i 
 
 II. Seeking a publisher 97 
 
 III. The end 301 
 
 XV 
 
PART I 
 WRITING A POEM 
 
PART I 
 
 WRITING A POEM 
 
 The book! The book! This day, Saturday, 
 the sixth day of April, 1901, I begin the book! 
 
 I have never kept a journal — I have been 
 too busy Hving; but to-day I begin a journal. I 
 am so built that I can do but one thing at a time. 
 Now that I have begun The Captive, I must 
 be haunted with it all day; when I am not writ- 
 ing it I must be dreaming it, or restless because 
 I am not. Therefore it occurred to me that in the 
 hours of weariness I would write about it what 
 was in my mind — what fears and what hopes; 
 why and how I write it will be a story in itself, 
 and some day I think it will be read. 
 
 I have come to the last stage of the fight, and 
 I see the goal. I will tell the story, and by and by 
 wise editors can print it in the Appendix! 
 
 Yesterday I was a cable-car conductor, and 
 to-day I am a poet ! 
 
 3 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUE STIKLING 
 
 I know of some immortal poems that were 
 written by a druggist's clerk, and some by a 
 gager of liquid barrels, but none by a cable-car 
 conductor. " It sounds interesting, tell us about 
 it! " says the reader. I shall, but not to-day. 
 
 To-day I begin the book! 
 
 I did not write that on April 6th, I wrote it a 
 month ago — one day when I was thinking about 
 this. I put it there now, because it will do to be- 
 gin; but I had no jests in my heart on April 6th. 
 
 April loth. 
 
 I have been for four days in a kind of frenzy. 
 I have come down like a collapsed balloon, and 
 I think I have had enough for once. 
 
 I have written the opening scene, but not 
 finally; and then I got into the middle — I could 
 not help it. How in God's name I am ever to do 
 this fearful thing, I don't know; it frightens me, 
 and sometimes I lose all heart. 
 
 I suppose I shall have to begin again to- 
 night. I must eat something first, though. That 
 is one of my handicaps: I wear myself out and 
 have to stop and eat. Will anybody ever love me 
 for this work, will anybody ever understand it? 
 
 4 
 
WEITIXG A POEM 
 
 I suppose I can get back where I was yester- 
 day, but always it grows harder, and more stem. 
 I set my teeth together. 
 
 It was like the bursting of an overstrained 
 dam, these last four days. How long I have been 
 pent up — eighteen months! And eighteen 
 months seems hke a lifetime to me. I have been 
 a bloodhound in the leash, hungering — ^hunger- 
 ing for this thing, and the longing has piled up in 
 me day by day. Sometimes it has been more 
 than I could bear; and when the time was near, 
 I was so wild that I was sick. The book! The 
 book! Freedom and the book! 
 
 And last Saturday I went out of the hell- 
 house where I have been pent so long, and I 
 covered my face with my hands and fled away 
 home — away to the little comer that is mine. 
 There I flung myself down and sobbed like a 
 child. It was relief — it was joy — it was fear! It 
 was everything! The book! The book! Then 
 I got up — and the world seemed to go behind 
 me, and I was drunk. I heard a voice calling — - 
 it thundered in my ears — ^that I was free — ^that my 
 hour was come — ^that I might live — ^that I might 
 live — live! And I could have shouted it — I 
 
 5 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 know that I laughed it aloud. Every time I 
 thought the thought it was like the throbbing of 
 wings to me — " Free! Free! " 
 
 No one can understand this — no one who has 
 not a demon in his soul. No one who does not 
 know how I have been choked — what horrors I 
 have borne. 
 
 I am through with that — I did not think of 
 that. I am free I They will never have me back. 
 
 That motive alone would drive me to my 
 work, would make me dare anything. But I do 
 not need that motive. 
 
 I think only of the book. I thought of it 
 last Saturday, and it swept me away out of my- 
 self. I had planned the opening scene; but then 
 the thought of the triumph-song took hold of 
 me, and it drove me mad. That song was what 
 I had thought I could never do — I had never 
 dared to think of it. And it came to me — it 
 came! Wild, incoherent, overwhelming, it came, 
 the victorious hymn. I could not think of re- 
 membering it; it was not poetry — it was reality. 
 / was the Captive, / had won freedom — a faith 
 and a vision! 
 
 So it throbbed on and on, and I was choked, 
 
WEITING- A POEM 
 
 and my head on fire, and my hands tingling, 
 until I sank down from sheer exhaustion — 
 laughing and sobbing, and talking to God as if 
 He were in the room. I never really believe in 
 God except at such times; I can go through this 
 dreadful world for months, and never think if 
 there be a God. — Here I sit gossiping about it. 
 — But I am tired out. 
 
 The writing of a book is hke the bearing of a 
 child. But every birth-pang of the former lasts 
 for hours; and it is months before the labor is 
 done. 
 
 It is not merely the vision, the hour of 
 exultation; that is but the setting of the task. 
 Now you will take that ecstasy, and hold on to 
 it, hold on with soul and body; you will keep 
 yourself at that height, you will hold that flaming 
 glory before your eyes, and you will hammer it 
 into words. Yes, that is the terror — into words 
 — into words that leap the hilltops, that bring 
 the ends of existence together in a Hghtning 
 flash. You will take them as they come, white- 
 hot, in wild tumult, and you will forge them, 
 and force them. You will seize them in your 
 naked hands and wrestle with them, and bend 
 
 7 
 
THE JOUKl^AL OF ARTHUK STIRLING 
 
 them to your will — all that is the making of a 
 poem. And last and worst of all, you will hold 
 them in your memory, the long, long surge of 
 them; the torrent of whirling thought — you will 
 hold it in your memory! You are dazed with 
 excitement, exhausted with your toil, trembling 
 with pain; but you have built a tower out of 
 cards, and you have mounted to the clouds upon 
 it, and there you are poised. And anything that 
 happens — anything! — Ah, God, why can the 
 poet not escape from his senses? — a sound, a 
 touch — and it is gone! 
 
 These things drive you mad. — 
 
 But meanwhile it is not gone yet. You have 
 still a whole scene in your consciousness — as if 
 you were a juggler, tossing a score of golden 
 balls. And all the time, while you work, you 
 learn it — you learn it! It is endless, but you learn 
 it. In the midst of it, perhaps, you come down 
 of sheer exhaustion; and you lie there, panting, 
 shuddering, your hands moist; you dare not 
 think, you wait. And then by and by you begin 
 again — if it will not come, you make it come, you 
 lash yourself like a dumb beast — up, up, to the 
 mountain-tops again. And then once more the 
 thing comes back — you live the scene again, as 
 
 8 
 
WKIXmG A POEM 
 
 an actor does, and you shape it and you master 
 it. And now in the midst of it, you find this 
 highest of all moments is gone ! It is gone, and 
 you can not find it! Those words that came as 
 a trumpet-clash, burning your very flesh — that 
 melody that melted your whole being to tears — 
 they are gone — you can not find them! You 
 search and you search — but you can not find 
 them. And so you stumble on, in despair and 
 agony; and still you dare not rest. You dare not 
 ever rest in this until the thing is done — done 
 and over — until you have nailed it fast. So you 
 go back again, though perhaps you are so tired 
 that you are fainting; but you fight yourself like 
 a madman, you struggle until you feel a thing at 
 your heart like a wild beast; and you keep on, 
 you hold it fast and learn it, clinch it tight, and 
 make it yours forever. I have done that same 
 thing five times to-day without a rest; and 
 toiled for five hours in that frenzy; and then 
 lain down upon the ground, with my head on 
 fire. 
 
 Afterward when you have recovered you sit 
 down, and for two or three hours you write; you 
 have it whole in your memory now — you have 
 but to put it down. And this forlorn, wet, be- 
 
 9 
 
THE JOUEl^AL OF ARTHUK STIELING 
 
 draggled thing — this miserable, stammering, 
 cringing thing — this is your poem! 
 
 Some day the world will realize these things, 
 and then they will present their poor poets with 
 diamonds and palaces, and other things that do 
 not help. 
 
 I wrote this, and then I leaned back, tired out. 
 My thoughts turned to Shakespeare, and while 
 I was thinking of him — 
 
 But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad. 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill ! 
 
 April nth. 
 
 I have not done much to-day. I spent the 
 morning brooding over the opening speech. It 
 is somber and terrible, but I have not gotten it 
 right. It must have a tread — a tread like an 
 orchestra! Ah, how I wish I had an orchestra! 
 — I would soon do it then — " So bist nun ewig 
 du verdammt! " 
 
 The secret of the thing is iteration. I must 
 find a word that is like a hammer-stroke. I have 
 tried twenty, but I have not found the one. 
 
 — I spent the rest of the day thinking over 
 the whole first act, mapping it out, so to speak. 
 
 lO 
 
WKITIISTG A POEM 
 
 I have often fancied a resemblance between 
 The Captive and the C-minor symphony; I 
 wonder if any one else would have thought of it. 
 It is not merely the opening — it is the whole con- 
 tent of the thing — the struggle of a prisoned 
 spirit. I would call The Captive a symphony, 
 and print the C-minor themes in it, only it would 
 seem fanciful. — But it would not really be fanci- 
 ful to put the second theme opposite the thought 
 of freedom — of the blue sky and the dawning 
 spring. 
 
 All except the scherzo. I couldn't find room 
 for the scherzo. Men who have wrestled with 
 the demons of hell do not tumble around Hke 
 elephants, no matter how happy they are. I wish 
 I could take out Beethoven's scherzos! 
 
 My heart leaps when I think of my one big 
 step. I have put those pages away — I shall not 
 look at them again for a month. Then I can 
 judge them. 
 
 April 13th. 
 
 A cable-car conductor and a poet! I think 
 that will be a story worth telling. 
 
 I have tried many and various occupations, 
 but I have not found one so favorable to the 
 study of poetry as my last. I should have made 
 II 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 out very well — if I had not been haunted by 
 The Captive. 
 
 With everything else you do you are more 
 or less hampered by having to sell your brain; 
 and also by having to obey some one. But a 
 cable-car is an unlimited monarchy; and all you 
 have to do is to collect fares and pull the bell, 
 both of which duties are quite mechanical. And 
 besides that you receive princely wages — and can 
 live off one-third of them, if you know how; and 
 that means that you need only work one-third 
 of the time, and can write your poetry the rest 
 of it! 
 
 This sounds like jesting, but it is not. I have 
 only been a cable-car conductor six months, but 
 in that time I have taught myself to read Greek 
 with more than fluency. All you need is good 
 health and spirits, a will of iron, and a very tiny 
 note-book in the palm of your hand, full of the 
 words you wish to learn. And then for ten or 
 twelve hours a day you go about running a car 
 with your body — and with your mind — hammer- 
 ing, hammering! It is excellent discipline — it is 
 fighting all day, " Pous, podos, the foot — pous, 
 podos, the foot — 34th Street, Crosstown East and 
 West — pous, podos, the foot!" 
 12 
 
WPJTIXG A POEil 
 
 And then when you get home late at night, 
 are there not the great masters who love you? 
 
 April 15th. 
 
 Thou wouldst call thyself Artist; thou 
 wouldst have the Eternal Presence to dwell with- 
 in thee, to fire thy heart with passion and dower 
 thy lips with song; canst thou go into thy closet, 
 and alone with thy Alaker, say these words: 
 
 ■■ O Thou Unthinkable, source of all light 
 and life. Thou the great unselfish One, the great 
 Sufferer; Thou seest my heart this day, how in it 
 dwells but love of Thy truth and worship of Thy 
 holiness. Thou seest that I seek not wealth that 
 men should serve me, nor fame that they should 
 honor me, for the glory that is Thine. Thou seest 
 that I bring all my praise to Thy feet, that I love 
 all things that Thou hast made, that I envy no 
 man Thy gifts, that I rejoice when Thou sendest 
 one stronger than I into the battle. And when 
 these things are not, may Thy power leave me; 
 for I seek but to dwell in Thy presence, and to 
 speak Thy truth, which can not die." 
 
 That prayer welled up in my heart to-day. 
 There are times when I sit before this thing in 
 13 
 
THE JOUENAL OF ARTHUK STIRLING 
 
 my soul, crouching and gazing at it in fear. 
 Then I see the naked horror of it, the shudder- 
 ing reality of it. I see the Soul: motionless, 
 tense, quivering, wrestling in an agony with the 
 powers of destruction. It is so real to me that 
 my body stiffens into stone, and I sit with the 
 sweat on my forehead. That happened to me 
 to-day, and I wrote a few lines of the poem 
 that made my voice break — the passionate de- 
 spairing cry for deliverance, for rest from the 
 terror. 
 
 But there is no rest. The mountain slope is 
 so that there is no standing upon it, and once you 
 stop, it breaks your heart to begin again. And 
 so you go on — up — up — and there is not any 
 summit. 
 
 It is that way when you write a book; and 
 that way when you make a symphony; and that 
 way when you wage a war. 
 
 But my soul hungered for it. I have loved 
 the great elemental art-works — the art-works 
 that were born of pure suffering. For months 
 before I began The Captive I read but three 
 books — read them and brooded over them, all 
 day and all night. They were Prometheus 
 14 
 
WHITING A POEM 
 
 Bound, Prometheus Unbound, and Samson 
 Agonistes. 
 
 You sit with these books, and time and space 
 " to nothingness do sink." There looms up be- 
 fore you — like a bare mountain in its majesty — 
 the great elemental world-fact, the death-grapple 
 of the will with circumstance. You may build 
 yourself any philosophy or any creed you please, 
 but you will never get away from the world-fact 
 — the death-grapple of the soul with circum- 
 stance, ^schylus has one creed, and Milton has 
 another, and Shelley has a third; but always it is 
 the death-grapple. Chaos, evil — circumstance — 
 lies about you, binds you; and you grip it — you 
 close with it — all your days you toil with it, you 
 shape it into systems, you make it live and laugh 
 and sing. And while you do that, there is in your 
 heart a thing that is joy and pain and terror min- 
 gled in one passion. 
 
 Who knows that passion? Who knows — 
 
 " With travail and heavy sorrow 
 The holy spirit of Man." 
 
 Prometheus Bound, Prometheus Unbound, 
 and Samson Agonistes! And now there will be 
 a fourth. It will be The Captive. 
 15 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 Am I a fool? I do not know — that is none 
 of my business. It is my business to do my best. 
 
 Horace bids you, if you would make him 
 weep, to weep first yourself. I understand by 
 the writing of a poem just this: that the problem 
 you put there you discover for yourself; that the 
 form you put it in you invent for yourself; and, 
 finally, that what you make it, from the first word 
 to the last word, from the lowest moment to the 
 highest moment, you live; that when a character 
 in such a place acts thus, he acts thus because 
 you, in that place — not would have acted thus, 
 but did act thus; that the words which are 
 spoken in that moment of emotion are spoken 
 because you, in that moment of emotion — not 
 would have spoken them, but did speak them. 
 I propose that you search out the scenes that 
 have stirred the hearts of men in all times, and 
 see if you can find one that was written thus 
 — not because the author had lived it thus, but 
 because somebody else had lived it thus, or be- 
 cause he wanted people to think he had lived it 
 thus. 
 
 And now you are writing The Captive. You 
 do not go into the dungeon in the body, because 
 l6 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 you need all your strength; but in the spirit you 
 have gone into the dungeon, and the door has 
 clanged, and it is black night — the world is gone 
 forever. And there you sit, while the years roll 
 by, and you front the naked fact. Six feet square 
 of stone and an iron chain are your portion — that 
 is circumstance; and the will — you are the will. 
 And you grip it — you close with it — all your 
 days you toil with it; you shape it into systems, 
 make it live and laugh and sing. And while you 
 do that there is in your heart a thing that is joy 
 and pain and terror mingled in one passion. 
 
 Yes, sometimes I shrink from it; but I will 
 do it — meaning what those words mean. I will 
 fight that fight, I will live that life — to the last 
 gasp ; and it shall go forth into the world a living 
 thing, a new well-spring of life. 
 
 It shall be — I don't know what you call the 
 thing, but when you have hauled your load half- 
 way up the hill you put a block in the way to 
 keep it from sliding back. That same thing has 
 to be done to society. 
 
 Man will never get behind the Declaration of 
 Independence again, nor behind the writings of 
 Voltaire again. We let Catholicism run around 
 3 17 
 
THE JOUEWAL OF ARTHUE STIELING 
 
 loose now, but that is because Voltaire cut its 
 claws and pulled out all its teeth. 
 
 April 1 6th. 
 
 I was thinking to-day, that The Captive 
 would be an interesting document to students 
 of style. Read it, and make up your mind 
 about it; then I will tell you — the first line of 
 it is almost the first line of blank verse I ever 
 wrote in my life. 
 
 I have read about the French artists, the 
 great masters of style, and how they give ten 
 years of their lives to writing things that are 
 never published. But I have noticed that when 
 they are masters at last, and when they do begin 
 to publish — they very seldom have anything to 
 say that I care in the least to hear. 
 
 — My soul is centered upon the thing! 
 
 Let it be a test. 
 
 I am trying to be an artist; but I have never 
 been able to study style. I believe that the style 
 of this great writer came from what he had to say. 
 You think about how he said it; but he thought 
 about what he was saying. 
 
 It seemed strange to me when I thought of 
 it. With all my trembling eagerness, with all my 
 i8 
 
WKITINQ A POEM 
 
 preparation, such an idea as " practise " never 
 came to me. How could I cut the path until I 
 had come to the forest? 
 
 All my soul has been centered upon living. 
 Since this book first took hold of me — eighteen 
 months ago — I could not tell with what terrible 
 intensity I have lived it. They said to me, " You 
 are a poet; why don't you write verses for the 
 magazines? " But I was not a writer of verses 
 for the magazines. 
 
 It has been a shrine that I have kept in the 
 corner of my heart, and tended there. I have 
 never gone near it, except upon my knees. 
 There were days when I did not go near it at all, 
 when I was weak, or distraught. But I knew 
 that every day I was closer to the task, that every 
 day my heart was more full of it. It was like wild 
 music — it came to a climax that swept me away 
 in spite of myself. 
 
 To get the mastery of your soul, to hold it 
 here, in your hands, at your bidding, to conse- 
 crate your life to that, to watch and pray and toil 
 for that, to rouse yourself and goad yourself day 
 and night for that; to thrill with the memory of 
 great consecrations, of heroic sufiferings and 
 aspirations; to have the power of the stars in 
 19 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUK STIKLING 
 
 your heart, of nature, of history and the soul of 
 man; that is your " practise." 
 
 April 17th. 
 
 It is true that my whole life has been a prac- 
 tise for the writing of this book, that this book is 
 the climax of my whole life. I have toiled — 
 learned — built up a mind — found a conviction; 
 but I have never written anything, or tried to 
 write anything, to be published. I have said, 
 " Wait; it is not time." And now it is time. If 
 there is anything of use in all that I have done, 
 it is in this book. 
 
 Yes; and also it is a climax in another way. 
 It is my goal and my salvation. — Ah, how I have 
 toiled for it ! 
 
 April 19th. 
 
 I saw my soul to-day. It was a bubble, blown 
 large, palpitating, whirling over a stormy sea; 
 glorious with the rainbow hues it was, but peril- 
 ous, abandoned. — Do you catch the feeling of 
 my soul? 
 
 Something perilous — I do not much care 
 what. A traveler scaling the mountains, leaping 
 upon dizzy heights; a gambler staking his for- 
 tune, his freedom, his life — upon a cast! 
 20 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 I will tell you about it. 
 
 It began when I was fifteen. My great-uncle, 
 my guardian, is a wholesale grocer in Chicago; 
 he has a large palace and a large waistcoat. 
 
 " Will you be a wholesale grocer? " said he. 
 
 " No," said I, " I will not." 
 
 I might have been a partner by this time, had 
 I said Yes, and had a palace and a large waist- 
 coat too. 
 
 " Then what will you be? " asked the great- 
 uncle. 
 
 " I will be a poet," said I. 
 
 " You mean you will be a loafer? " said he. 
 
 " Yes," said I — disliking argument — " I will 
 be a loafer." 
 
 And so I went away, and while I went I was 
 thinking, far down in my soul. And I said: " It 
 must be everything or nothing; either I am a 
 poet or I am not. I will act as if I were; I will 
 burn my bridges behind me. If I am, I will win 
 — for you can not kill a poet; and if I am not, I 
 will die." 
 
 Thus is it perilous. 
 
 I fight the fight with all my soul; I give every 
 ounce of my strength, my will, my hope, to the 
 making of myself a poet. And when the time 
 
 21 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AETHUPt STIELIXa 
 
 comes I write my poem. Then if I win, I win 
 empires; and if I lose — 
 
 " You put all your eggs into one basket," 
 some one once said to me. 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " I put all my eggs into one 
 basket — and then I carry the basket myself." 
 
 Xow I have come to the last stage of the jour- 
 ney — ^the " one fight more, and the last." And 
 can I give any idea of what is back of me, to nene 
 me to that fight? I will tr}- to tell you. 
 
 For seven years I have borne poverty and 
 meanness, sickness, heat, cold, toil — ^that I might 
 make myself an artist. The indignities, the deg- 
 radations — I could not tell them, if I spent all the 
 time I have in writing a journal. I have lived in 
 garrets — ^among dirty people — ^vulgar people — 
 vile people; I have worn rags and unclean 
 things; I have lived upon bread and water and 
 things that I have cooked myself; I have seen my 
 time and my strength wasted by a thousand hate- 
 ful impertinences — I have been driven half mad 
 with pain and rage; I have gone without friends 
 — I have been hated by every one; I have 
 worked at all kinds of vile drudgery — or stan'ed 
 myself sick that I might avoid working. 
 
 But I have said, " I will be an artist! " 
 
 22 
 
WKITING- A POEM 
 
 Day and night I have dreamed it; day and 
 night I have fought for it. I have plotted and 
 planned — I have plotted to save a minute. I 
 have done menial work that I might have my 
 brain free — all the languages that I know I have 
 worked at at such times. I have calculated the 
 cost of foods — I have lived on a third of the pit- 
 tance I earned, that I might save two-thirds of 
 my time. I once washed dishes in a filthy res- 
 taurant because that took only two or three hours 
 a day. 
 
 I have said, " I will be an artist! I will fix my 
 eyes upon the goal; I will watch and wait, and 
 fight the fight day by day. And when at last I 
 am strong, and when my message is ripe, I will 
 earn myself a free chance, and then I will write 
 a book. All the yearning, all the agony of this 
 my life I will put into it; every hour of trial, 
 every burst of rage. I will make it the hope of 
 my life, I will write it with my blood — give every 
 ounce of strength that I have and every dollar 
 that I own; and I will win — I will win! 
 
 " So I will be free, and the horror will be 
 over." 
 
 I have done that — I am doing that now. I 
 mean to finish it if it kills me. — 
 23 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIRLING 
 
 But I was sitting on the edge of the bed to- 
 night, and the tears came into my eyes and I 
 whispered: " But oh, you must not ask me to do 
 any more! I can not do any more! It will leave 
 me broken! " 
 
 Only so much weight can a man carry. The 
 
 next pound breaks his back. 
 
 April 22d. 
 
 I am happy to-night; I am a little bit drunk. 
 
 To-day was one day in fifty. Why should it 
 be? Sometimes I have but to spread my wings 
 to the wind. Yesterday I might have torn my 
 hair out, and that glory would not have come to 
 me. But to-day I was filled with it — it lived in 
 me and burned in me — I had but to go on and 
 go on. 
 
 The Captive! It was the burst of rage — the 
 first glow in the ashes of despair. I was walking 
 up and down the room for an hour, thundering 
 it to myself. I have not gotten over the joy of it 
 yet: "Thou in thy mailed insolence!" 
 
 I wonder if any one who reads those thirty 
 lines will realize that they meant eight hours of 
 furious toil on my part! 
 
 Stone by stone I build it. 
 The whole possibility of a scene — that is what 
 24 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 I pant for, always; that it should be all there, and 
 yet not a line to spare; compact, solid, each 
 phrase coming like a blow; and above all else, 
 that it should be inevitable! When you stand 
 upon the height of your being, and behold the 
 thing with all your faculties — the thing and the 
 phrase are one, and one to all eternity. 
 
 April 24th. 
 
 I was looking at a literary journal to-day. 
 Oh, my soul, it frightens me! All these libraries 
 of books — ^who reads them, what are they for? 
 And each one of them a hope ! And I am to leap 
 over them all — I — I? I dare not think about it. 
 
 I have been helpless to-day. I can not find 
 what I want — I struggled for hours, I wore my- 
 self out with struggling. And I have torn up 
 what I wrote. 
 
 Blank verse is such a — such a thing not to be 
 spoken of! Is there anything worse, except it 
 be a sonnet? How many miles of it are ground 
 out every day — sometimes that kind comes to 
 me to mock me — I could have written a whole 
 poem full of it this afternoon. If there are two 
 lines of that sort in The Captive, I'll bum it all. 
 
 An awful doubt came to me besides. Some- 
 25 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELIl^G 
 
 body had sown it long ago, and it sprouted to- 
 day. " Yes, but will it be interesting? " 
 
 Heaven help me, how am I to know if it will 
 be interesting? The question made me shudder; 
 I have never thought anything about making it 
 interesting — I've been trying to make it true. 
 Can it possibly be that the ecstasy of one soul, 
 the reality of one soul, the quivering, exulting 
 life of it — will not interest any other soul? 
 
 " How can you know that what you are do- 
 ing is real, anyhow? " The devil would plague 
 me to death to-day. " But how many millions 
 write poems and think they are wonderful! " 
 
 — I do not believe in my soul to-day, because 
 I have none. 
 
 April 25th. 
 
 Would you like to know where I am, and 
 how I am doing all these things? I am in a 
 lodging-house. I have one of three hall rooms 
 in a kind of top half-story. There is room for me 
 to take four steps; so it is that I " walk up and 
 down " when I am excited. I have tried — I have 
 not kept count of how many places — and this is 
 the quietest. The landlady's husband has a car- 
 penter shop down-stairs, but he is always drunk 
 and doesn't work; it has also been providentially 
 26 
 
WETTING A POEM 
 
 arranged that the daughter, who sings, is sick for 
 some time. Next door to me there is a man who 
 plays the 'cello in a dance hall until I know not 
 what hour of the night. He keeps his 'cello at 
 the dance hall. Next to him is a pale woman who 
 sits and sews all day and waits for her drunken 
 husband to come home. In front there is some 
 kind of foolish girl who leaves her door open in 
 the hope that I'll look in at her, and a couple of 
 inoffensive people not worth describing. 
 
 I get up — I never know the time in the morn- 
 ing; and sometimes I lie without moving for 
 hours — thinking — thinking. Or sometimes I 
 go out and roam around the streets; or sit per- 
 fectly motionless, gazing at the wall. When it 
 will not come, I make it. I breakfast on bread 
 and milk, and I eat bread and milk at all hours 
 of the day when I am hungry. For dinner I cook 
 a piece of meat on a little oil-stove, and for sup- 
 per I eat bread and milk. The rest of the time I 
 am sitting on the floor b/ the window, writing; 
 or perhaps kneeling by the bed with my head 
 buried in my arms, and thinking until the room 
 reels. When I am not doing that I wander 
 around like a lost soul; I can not think of any- 
 thing else. — Sometimes when I am tired and 
 27 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIKLING 
 
 must rest, I force myself to sit down and write 
 some of this. 
 
 I have just forty dollars now. It costs me 
 three dollars a week, not including paper and 
 typewriting. Thus I have ten or twelve weeks 
 in which to finish The Captive — that many and 
 no more. 
 
 If I am not finished by that time it will kill 
 me; to try to work and earn money in the state 
 that I am in just at present would turn me into a 
 maniac — I should kill some one, I know. 
 
 I am quivering with nervous tension — every 
 faculty strained to breaking; the buzz of a fly is 
 a roar to me. I build up these towering castles 
 of emotion in my soul, castles that shimmer in 
 the sunlight: 
 
 Banners yellow, glorious, golden ! 
 
 And then something happens, and they fall 
 upon me with the weight of mountains. 
 
 Ten weeks! And yet it is not that which 
 goads me most. 
 
 What goads me most is that I am a captive 
 in a dungeon, and am fighting for the life of my 
 soul. 
 
 28 
 
WKITING A POEM 
 
 I shall win, I do not fear — the fountains of 
 my being will not fail me. I saw my soul a sec- 
 ond time to-day; it was no longer the bubble, 
 blown large, palpitating. It was a bird resting 
 upon a bough. The bough was tossed and flung 
 about by a tempest; and a chasm yawned below; 
 but the bough held, and the bird was master of 
 its wings, and sang. 
 
 The name of the bough was Faith. 
 
 April 27th. 
 
 I have read a great deal of historical romance, 
 and a great deal of local color fiction, and a great 
 deal of original character-drawing — and I have 
 wished to get away from these things. 
 
 There is no local color, and no character- 
 drawing, in The Captive. You do not know the 
 name of the hero; you do not know how old he 
 is, or of what rank he is, at what period or in 
 what land he lives. He is described but once. 
 He is " A Man." 
 
 My philosophy is a philosophy of will. All 
 virtue that I know is conditioned upon freedom. 
 The object of all thinking and doing, as I see it, 
 is to set men free. 
 
 There is the tyranny of kings — the tyranny 
 29 
 
THE JOUENAL OF ARTHUK STIRLING 
 
 of force; there is the tyranny of priests — the tyr- 
 anny of ignorance; there is the tyranny of soci- 
 ety — the tyranny of selfishness and indolence; 
 and above all, and including all, and causing all — 
 there is the tyranny of self — the tyranny of sin, 
 the tyranny of the body. So it is that I see the 
 world. 
 
 So it is that I see history; I can see nothing 
 else in history. The tyranny of kings and 
 nobles, the tyranny of the mass and the in- 
 quisition, the tyranny of battle and murder 
 and crime — how was a man to live in those 
 ages? 
 
 How is a man to live in this age? The tyr- 
 anny of kings and of priests is gone, and from 
 the tyranny of industriaUsm the individual can 
 escape. But the lightning — is not that an inqui- 
 sition? And if it comes after you, will it not find 
 out all your secrets? And the tyranny of hurri- 
 cane and shipwreck, of accident, disease, and 
 death? Any tyranny is all tyranny, I say; and 
 the existence of tyranny is its presence. 
 
 It is conceivable that some day the sovereign 
 
 mind may shake off its shackles, and the tyranny 
 
 of matter be at an end. But that day is not yet; 
 
 and meanwhile, the thing existing, how shall a 
 
 30 
 
WEITESTG A POEM 
 
 man be free? That has been the matter of my 
 deepest brooding. 
 
 This much I have learned: 
 
 The man may accept this life, if it please him, 
 and its chances; but while he does he can never 
 be a soul. So long as he accepts this life and its 
 chances, he is the slave of tyranny. When the 
 day comes that mind is sovereign, I will give my- 
 self into the hands of this life. But meanwhile I 
 will know myself for what I am. — a bubble upon 
 the surface of a whirling torrent, an insect borne 
 aloft upon a flying wheel. 
 
 It is by your will that you are free; by your 
 will you are one with the infinite freedom, by 
 your will you are master of time and your fate, 
 lord of the stars and the endless ages, thinker of 
 all truth, hearer of all music, beholder of all 
 beauty, doer of all righteousness. That is the 
 truth which I have brought out of my deepest 
 brooding. 
 
 So long as your happiness is in anything 
 about yourself — your wealth, or your fame, or 
 your life — you are not free. So long as your hap- 
 piness is in houses and lands, in sons and in 
 daughters, you are not free. You give one atom 
 31 
 
THE JOURNAL OF AKTHUK STIKLIlSrG 
 
 of your soul to these things at your own peril; 
 for when your hour comes you tear them from 
 you, though they be as your eyes; and by your 
 will you save your soul alive. 
 
 Therefore I write The Captive. I put aside 
 childish things — I grip my hands upon naked 
 ReaHty. 
 
 There are nine characters in The Captive: a 
 tyrant, two slaves, six guests, and a man. There 
 are two scenes — a dungeon, and a banquet-hall. 
 
 A tyrant: I understand by a tyrant a man 
 whose happiness is the unhappiness of others. 
 I read of the discoverers of Mexico, and how they 
 found a pyramid of human skulls, raised as a 
 monument; that has been to me, ever since, the 
 type of tyranny. The forms of tyranny vary 
 through the ages, but the principle is always the 
 same; a tyrant is a man who is made great by 
 the toil and sorrow of others. 
 
 The slave also remains the same through all 
 time; and likewise the guest. The guest is the 
 man who takes the world as he finds it, and likes 
 a good dinner. The population of society is 
 made up of tyrants, slaves, and guests. 
 
 The man is a character of my own imagining. 
 32 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 The first scene of The Captive is the dun- 
 geon. When I was very young I was in Europe, 
 and I was in a dungeon; I have never forgotten 
 it. There enter the tyrant and the two slaves 
 with the man. They chain him to the wall, and 
 then the tyrant speaks. That first speech — I 
 have written it now — I have gotten the hammer- 
 thuds! Tyranny is an iron thing — you had to 
 feel the tread of it, the words had to roll like thun- 
 der. It is an advantage to me that I am full of 
 Wagner; I always hear the music with my poet- 
 ry. (I shall be disappointed if some one does not 
 make an opera out of The Captive.) 
 
 The man is there, and he is there forever. 
 After that, once a day, bread and water are 
 shoved in through an opening. But the door of 
 the dungeon does not open again until the last 
 act — when ten years have passed. 
 
 That is all. And now the man will battle with 
 that problem. Will he go mad with despair? 
 Will he sink into a wild beast? Will he commit 
 suicide? Or what will he do? Day by day he 
 sinks back from the question, numb with agony; 
 day by day the grim hand of Fate drags him to 
 4 33 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUK STIKLING 
 
 it; and so, until from the chaos of his soul he 
 digs out, blow by blow, a faith. 
 
 Here there will be Reality; no shams and no 
 lies will do here — here is iron necessity, and cries 
 out for iron truth. God — duty — ^will — virtue — 
 let such things no more be names, let us see what 
 they are! 
 
 These are awful words. Sometimes I shrink 
 from this thing as from fire, sometimes I rush to 
 it with a song; I am writing about it now because 
 I am worn out, and yet I can not think of any- 
 thing else. 
 
 This man will find the truth; being delivered 
 from the captivity of the world and set free to be 
 a soul. Superstition blinds him; doubt and de- 
 spair and weakness blind him ; but still he gropes 
 and strives, cries out and battles for truth; until 
 at last, shut up in his own being, he tears his way 
 out to the very source of it, and knows for himself 
 what it is. Infinite it is, and unthinkable; glori- 
 ous, all-consuming, all-sufUcing; food and drink, 
 friendship and love, ambition and victory, joy, 
 power, and eternity it is to him who £nds it; and all 
 things in this world are nothing to him who iinds it. 
 
 And so comes the victory to this soul. Hour 
 34 
 
WKITING- A POEM 
 
 by hour he catches gleams of the light; day by 
 day he toils toward it, with fear and agony and 
 prayer; until at last he knows his salvation — to 
 rest never, and to toil always, and to dwell in this 
 Presence of his God. In one desperate hour he 
 flings away the world and the hope of the world, 
 and vows this consecration, and lives. 
 
 He keeps the vow; it is iron necessity that 
 drives him. He finds himself, he finds his way — 
 each day his step is surer. 
 
 Each day the channels of his being deepen. 
 He lays broad plans for his life — he gathers all 
 knowledge, he solves all problems; lord of the 
 infinite mind, he ranges all existence, and beholds 
 it as the symbol of himself. Into the deeps and 
 yawning spaces of it he plunges; blind, he sees 
 what men have never seen; deaf, he hears what 
 men have never heard — singer he is, prophet and 
 poet and maker. New worlds leap into being in 
 the infinite fulness of his heart, visions of endless 
 glory that make his senses reel; as a column of 
 incense towering to the sky is the ecstasy of his 
 adoration and his joy. 
 
 And so the long years roll by; and the un- 
 35 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIRLING 
 
 conquered spirit has left tiie earth: left time and 
 space and self, and dwells where never man 
 has dwelt before. And then one day the door 
 of the dungeon is opened, and his chains are 
 shattered, and the slaves lead him up to the 
 light of day. 
 
 It is the banquet-hall; and there is the tyrant, 
 and there the guests — there is the world. 
 
 He is aged, and weak, and white, and terri- 
 ble. They stare at him; and he stares at them, 
 for he is dazed. They begin to mock at him, and 
 then at last he realizes, and he covers his face and 
 weeps — beholding the world, and the way that it 
 must come. They jeer at him, they strike him; 
 and when he answers not, they call to the slaves 
 to torture him. 
 
 This man has lived for ten years with himself. 
 He is nothing but a will. And now they will con- 
 quer him ! 
 
 I recall the highest moment of my being. I 
 
 saw that moment, and all the others of my life. 
 
 I saw them as something that I could not bear to 
 
 see, and I cried out that from that hour I would 
 
 36 
 
WEITIJSTG A POEM 
 
 change them. I have not kept the vow; there 
 was no one to drive me. 
 
 But this man they drive; they pinch him and 
 burn him and tear him; they crush his limbs, 
 they break his bones, they grind his flesh, they 
 make his brain a living fire of anguish. And he 
 fights them. 
 
 Into the deep recesses of his being goes the 
 cry — for all that he has — for all that he is! For 
 every ounce of his strength, for every throb of his 
 will, for every vision, every truth that he knows! 
 To bear this, to save him here! And so he 
 wrestles, so he rises, so he gropes and gasps; and 
 in the moment of his fiercest straining, with the 
 throb of all his being he bursts the barrier, he 
 rends the veil; and infinite passion rolls in in 
 floods upon him, he clutches all existence in his 
 arms; and from his lips there bursts a mad fren- 
 zied shout of rapture — that makes his tortur- 
 ers stand transfixed, listening, trembling with 
 terror. 
 
 And so they drag him back to his dun- 
 geon; and there, unable to move, he lies upon 
 the stones and pants out his ecstasy and his 
 life. 
 
 That is The Captive. 
 37 
 
THE JOUEXAX OF AETHUK SirRLIN'G 
 
 April 29th. 
 
 What counts in this thing is momentum — 
 spiritual momentum. You are filled with it all 
 the time, it never leaves you; it drives behind 
 you like a gale of wind; it roars in your ears 
 when you are awake, it rocks you to sleep when 
 you are weary; whenever you are dull or do not 
 heed it, it nags at you, it goads you, it beats into 
 your face. Each day it is more, each day it is 
 harder, more unattainable; but only do not stop, 
 it carries you with it Uke a wave; you motmt 
 upon each days achievement to reach the next, 
 you move with the power of all the days before. 
 It is momentum that counts. 
 
 Do not stop. — I or}- it all day — Do not stop! 
 
 April 30th. 
 
 It is weak of me, but sometimes I can not 
 help but look ahead — ^and think that it is done! 
 I could not find any words to tell the joy that 
 that will be to me — ^to be free, after so long — ^to 
 be free! 
 
 I do not care anything about the fame — ^it 
 would not be anything to me to be a great author. 
 If it could be done, nothing would please me bet- 
 ter than to publish it anonymously — ^to let no one 
 38 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 ever know that it was mine. If I could only have 
 the little that I need to be free, I would publish 
 all that I might ever write anonymously. 
 
 Yes, that is the thing that makes my blood 
 bound. To be free! Let it only be done — ^let it 
 only be real, as it will be — and the naked force of 
 it will shake men to the depths of their souls. I 
 could not write it, if I did not believe that I was 
 writing words that would grip the soul of any 
 man — I care not how dull or how coarse he 
 might be. 
 
 I finished the first act just now. 
 
 May 1st. 
 I am wild to-day. Oh, how can I bear this — 
 why should I have to contend with such things 
 as this! Is it not hard enough — the agony that 
 I have to bear, the task that takes all my strength 
 and more? And must I be torn to pieces by such 
 hideous degradation as this? Oh, my God, if 
 my life is not soon clear of these things I shall 
 die! 
 
 Oh, it is funny — yes, funny! — Let us laugh at 
 it. The dance-hall musician has brought home 
 his 'cello! I heard him come bumping up the 
 39 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIELmG 
 
 stairs with it — God damn his soul! And there 
 he sits, sawing away at some loathsome jig tunes! 
 And he has two friends in there — I listen to their 
 wit between the tunes. 
 
 Here I sit, like a wild beast pent in a cage. ' I 
 tell you I can bear any work in the world, but 
 I can not bear things such as this. That I, who 
 am seeking a new faith for men — ^who am writ- 
 ing, or trying to write, what will mean new life to 
 millions — should have my soul ripped into 
 pieces by such loathsome, insulting indignities! 
 
 Oh, laugh! — ^but / can't laugh — I sit here 
 foaming at the lips, and crying! And suppose 
 he's lost his position, and does this every day! 
 
 Now every day I must lay aside what I am do- 
 ing and sit and shudder when I hear him coming 
 up the steps — and wait for him to begin this! I 
 tell you, I demand to be free — I demand it! I 
 want nothing in this world but to be let alone. 
 I don't want anybody to wait on me. — / don't 
 want anything from this hellish world but to be let 
 alone! 
 
 It is pouring rain outside, and my overcoat is 
 thin; but I must go out and pace the streets and 
 wait until a filthy Dutchman gets through scrap- 
 ing ragtime on a 'cello. 
 
 40 
 
WKITING A POEM 
 
 All day wasted! All day! Does it not seem 
 that these things persecute you by system? I 
 came in, cold and wet, and got into bed, and then 
 he began again ! And the friends came back and 
 they had beer, and more music. And I had to 
 get up and put on the wet clothes once more. 
 
 May 2d. 
 
 I was crouching out on one of the docks last 
 night. I had no place else to go. I can think 
 anywhere, if it is quiet. 
 
 A wonderful thing is the night. I bless Thee 
 for the night, oh " siisse, heilige Natur "! 
 
 It was a voice in my soul, as clear as could be. 
 
 — She can not bear too long the sight of men, 
 sweet, holy Nature: the swarming hives — the 
 millions of tiny creatures, each drunk and blind 
 with his own selfishness; and so she lays her 
 great hand upon it all, and hides it out of her 
 sight. 
 
 Once it was all silent, and formless as the 
 desert; soon it shall all be silent and formless 
 again; and meanwhile — the night, the night! 
 
 Oh, I hunger for the desert! I do not care 
 for beauty — I have no time for beauty, I want the 
 41 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUK STIKLING 
 
 earth stem and forbidding. Give me some place 
 where no one else would want to go — an iron 
 crag where the oceans beat — a mountain-top 
 where the lightning splinters on the rocks. 
 
 I go at it again. But I am nervous — these 
 things get me into such a state that I simply can 
 not do anything. It was not merely yesterday — 
 I have it constantly. The dirty chambermaid 
 singing, or yelling down to the landlady; the 
 drunken man swearing at his wife; the boys 
 screaming in the street and kicking a tomato-can 
 about. When I think of how much beauty and 
 power has been shattered in my life by such 
 things as these, it brings tears of impotent rage 
 into my eyes. 
 
 I must be free — oh, I must be free ! 
 
 It comes strangely from the author of The 
 Captive, does it not? 
 
 I give all my life to my work, and sometimes, 
 when I am broken like this, I wonder if I do not 
 give too much. Once I climbed to a dizzy 
 height, and I cried out a dizzy truth: 
 
 " O God, how as nothing in Thy sight are 
 my writings! " 
 
 42 
 
WEITIN"G- A POEM 
 
 I do not know if I shall ever reach that height 
 again. 
 
 May 3d. 
 
 I have not one single beautiful memory in 
 my life. I have nothing in my life that, when I 
 think of it, does not make me writhe. 
 
 To all that I have lived, and known, and seen, 
 I have but one word, one cry — ^Away! Away! 
 Let me get away from it! Let me get away from 
 cities, let me get away from men, let me out of 
 my cage! Let me go with my God, let me for- 
 get it all — put it away forever and ever! Let 
 me no longer have to plot and plan, to cringe 
 and whimper, to barter my vision and my hours 
 for bread ! 
 
 Who knows what I suffer — who has any idea 
 of it? To have a soul like a burning fire, to be 
 hungry and swift as the Autumn wind, to have a 
 heart as hot as the wild bird's, and wings as eager 
 — and to be chained here in this seething hell of 
 selfishness, this orgy of folly. 
 
 Ah, and then I shut my hands together. No, 
 I am not weak, I do not spend my time chafing 
 thus ! I have fought it out so far — 
 
 " I was ever a fighter, so one fight more ! " 
 43 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIKLING 
 
 I will go back, and I will hammer and ham- 
 mer again — grimly — savagely — day by day. 
 And out of the furnace of my soul I will forge a 
 weapon that will set me free in the end — I think. 
 
 May 4th. 
 
 I wrote a little poem once. I remem- 
 bered two lines of it — a nature description; they 
 were not great lines, but there flashed over me 
 to-day an application of them that was a stroke 
 of genius, I believe. I was passing the Stock 
 Exchange. It was a very busy day. I climbed 
 one of the pillars, in spirit, and wrote high above 
 the portals: 
 
 Where savage beasts through forest midnight roam, 
 Seeking in sorrow for each other's joy. 
 
 May 5th. 
 
 A dreadful thing is unbelief! A dreadful 
 thing it is to be an infidel! 
 
 — That is what all men cry nowadays — there 
 is so much infidelity in the world — it is the curse 
 of our modern society — it is everywhere — it is 
 all-prevailing! 
 
 I had a strange experience to-day, Sunday. 
 I went into a church, and high up by the altar, 
 dressed in solemn garb and ofifering prayers to 
 God — I saw an infidel ! 
 
 44 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 He preached a sermon. The theme of his 
 sermon was " Liberalism." 
 
 " These men," cried the preacher, " are blind- 
 ing our eyes to our salvation, they are under- 
 mining, day by day, our faith! They tell us 
 that the sacred word of God is 'literature'! 
 And they show us more ' literature ' ; but oh, 
 my friends, what new Bible have they shown 
 us!" 
 
 As I got up and went out of that church, I 
 whispered: " What a dreadful thing it is to be an 
 infidel! " 
 
 Oh Dante and Goethe and Shakespeare — oh 
 Wordsworth and Shelley and Emerson! Oh 
 thrice-anointed and holy spirits! What a dread- 
 ful thing it is to be an infidel! 
 
 What a dreadful thing it is to believe in a 
 Bible, and not to believe in literature — to believe 
 in a Bible and not to believe in a God! 
 
 You think that this world lives upon the 
 revelation of two thousand years ago! Fool — 
 this world lives as your body lives by the beat- 
 ing of its heart — upon the revelation and the 
 efifort of each instant of its hfe. And to-day 
 or to-morrow the great Revealer might send 
 to some lonely thinker in his garret a new 
 45 
 
THE JOUENAL OF ARTHUE STIELING 
 
 word that would scatter to dust and ashes 
 all laws and all duties that now are known to 
 men. 
 
 There are many ways to look at the world, 
 and always a deeper one. I see it as a fearful 
 thing, towering, expanding, upheld by the toil 
 and the agony of millions. Who will bring us 
 the new hope, the new song of courage, that it go 
 not down into the dust to-day? 
 
 To do that there is the poet; to live and to 
 die unheeded, and to feed for ages upon ages the 
 hungry souls of men — that is to be a poet. 
 Therefore will he sing, and sing ever, and die in 
 the sweetness of his song. 
 
 When I think of that — not now as I write 
 it here in bare words — but in quivering reality, 
 it is a hand upon my forehead, and a presence in 
 the room. 
 
 May 6th. 
 
 Chiefest of all I think of my country! Pas- 
 sionately, more than words can utter, I love this 
 land of mine. If I tear my heart till it bleeds and 
 pour out the tears of my spirit, it is for this con- 
 secration and this hope — it is for this land of 
 Washington and Lincoln. There never was any 
 46 
 
WKiTUfG A POEM 
 
 land like it — there may never be any like it again; 
 and Freedom watches from her mountains, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 — It is a song that it needs, a song and a 
 singer; to point it to its high design, to thriU it 
 with the music of its message, to shake the heart 
 of every man in it, and make him bum and dare! 
 For the first time there is Libert}-; for the first 
 time there is Truth, and no shams and no lies, 
 enthroned. The news of it has gone forth like 
 the sound of thunder, and has shaken all the 
 earth: that man at last may five, may do what he 
 can and will! 
 
 — ^And to what is it? Is it to the heaping up 
 of ugly cities, the packing of pork and the gather- 
 ing of gold? That is the thing that I toil for — 
 to tear this land from the grasp of mean men 
 and of merchants! To take the souls of my 
 countrymen into the high mountains with me, 
 to thrill them with a soaring, strong resolve! 
 Living things shall come from this land of mine, 
 Hving things before I die, for the hunger of it 
 bums me, and wUl not ever let me rest. Free- 
 dom! freedom! And stem justice and honor, 
 and knowledge and power, and a noonday blaze 
 of light! 
 
 47 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 Arise in thy majesty, confronting the ages I 
 Stretch out thine arms to the millions that shall be! 
 Justice thine inheritance, God thy stay and sustenance, 
 My country, to thee 1 
 
 Those are feeble words. If this were a book, 
 I would tear it all up. 
 
 I wonder if any one will ever read this. As a 
 matter of fact, I suppose ten people will read gos- 
 sip about the book for every one who reads the 
 book. 
 
 This is just a month from the beginning. A 
 month to-day! Yes — I have done my share, I 
 have done a third of it — a third ! 
 
 But the end is so much harder! 
 
 May 9th. 
 
 I have been for two days in the mire. I was 
 disturbed, and then I was sluggish. Oh, the slug- 
 gishness of my nature! 
 
 If ever I am a great poet, I will have made 
 myself that by the power of my will; that is a fact. 
 I am by nature a great clod — I feel nothing, I 
 care about nothing. I look at the flowers as a 
 cow chewing its cud. — It is only that I will to do 
 right. 
 
 Sometimes the sight of my dulness drives me 
 wild. Then again I merely gaze at it. I try 
 48 
 
WKITING A POEM 
 
 time and again to get my mind on my work, and 
 something — ^anything, provided it is trivial 
 enough — turns me aside. Just now I saw a 
 spider-web, and that made me think of Bruce, and 
 thence I went by way of Walter Scott to Pales- 
 tine, and when I came to I was writing a song for 
 — who was the minstrel? — to sing outside of the 
 prison of Coeur de Lion. 
 
 I go wandering that way — sometimes I sit 
 so for an hour; and then suddenly I leap up with 
 a cry. But I may try all I please — I don't care 
 anything about the work — it doesn't stir me — 
 the verses I think of make me sick. And then I 
 remember that I have only so many weeks 
 more; and what it will mean to fail; and that 
 makes me desperate, but doesn't help. 
 
 When I have stopped at some resting-place 
 in the poem, I can get going again. But now I 
 have stopped in the middle of a climax; and the 
 number of times that I have read that last line, 
 trying to find another — Great heavens! 
 
 But I can not find another word. I am in de- 
 spair. 
 
 I know perfectly well what I shall do, only I 
 am a coward, and do not do it. I shall stay in 
 5 49 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUR STIELING 
 
 this state till my rage has heaped itself up enough 
 and breaks through everything at last. And 
 then I shall begin to hammer myself! to swear 
 at myself in a way that would make a longshore- 
 man turn white. And I shall spend perhaps two 
 or three hours — perhaps two or three days — 
 doing that, until I am quite in a white heat; and 
 then — I shall go to my work. 
 
 That is the price I pay for being distracted. 
 
 May nth. 
 
 I said to myself the day before yesterday — 
 with a kind of a dry sob — " I can't do it! I can't 
 doit!" 
 
 Oh how tormented I am by noises — noises! 
 What am I not tormented by? Some days ago 
 I was writing in a frenzy — and the landlady came 
 for her rent. And the horrible creature standing 
 there, talking at me! "So lonely! — don't ever 
 see people! Mrs. Smithers was a-saying — " Oh, 
 damn Mrs. Smithers! 
 
 I thought I could never do it — I was really 
 about to give it up. I went out on the street — I 
 roamed about for hours, talking I don't know 
 what nonsense to myself. And then at last I 
 came home, and I knelt down there at the bedside 
 50 
 
WETTING A POEM 
 
 and said: "Here you stay without anything to 
 eat until you've written ten Hnes of that poem! " 
 
 And that was how I did it. I stayed there, 
 and I prayed. I don't often pray, but that time 
 I prayed like one possessed — I was so lonely and 
 so helpless — and the work was so beautiful. I 
 stayed there for nine blessed hours, and then the 
 clock stopped and I couldn't count after that. 
 
 But the day came, and then the ten lines! 
 And so I had my breakfast. 
 
 These things leave you weak, but a little less 
 dull. 
 
 May 13th. 
 
 I have been working with a kind of wild des- 
 peration all day to-day. Oh it hurts — it hurts — 
 but I am doing it! Whenever I read some lines 
 of it that are real — ^whenever some great living 
 phrase flashes over me — then I laugh like a man 
 in the midst of a battle. 
 
 I shall be just as a man who has been through 
 a battle; haggard and wild and desperate. Oh, 
 I don't think I shall ever have the courage to do 
 it again! 
 
 I did not know what it meant! I did not! It 
 was giving myself into the hands of a fiend! 
 51 
 
THE JOUEI^AL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 All great books will be something different 
 to me after this. Did Shakespeare write thus 
 with the blood of his soul? Or am I weak? Did 
 he ever cry out in pain, as I have? 
 
 May 14th. 
 
 Another day of raw torture. It is like toiling 
 up a mountain side; and your limbs are of lead. 
 It is like struggling in a nightmare, — that is just 
 what it is hke. It is sickening. 
 
 But then you dare not stop. It is hard to go 
 on, but it is ten times as hard to start if you stop. 
 
 I could hardly stand up this afternoon! but 
 the thing was ringing in my ears — it went on 
 and on — I had to go after it ! I was in the seventh 
 heaven — I could see anything, dare anything, 
 do anything. It made no difference how hard — 
 it called to me — on — on! And I said: "Sup- 
 pose I were to be tortured — could I go then? " 
 And so I went and went. 
 
 I haven't written it down yet; I felt sick. But 
 I know it all. 
 
 Oh men — oh my brothers — will you love me 
 for this thing? 
 
 May i6th. 
 
 I did no writing yesterday or to-day. I have 
 been terribly frightened. 
 52 
 
WKITING- A POEM 
 
 I wrote what I had to write the day before 
 yesterday — I could not help it. But when I 
 stopped my head was literally on fire, and the 
 strangest mad throbbing in it — I stood still in 
 fear, it felt so as if something were going to 
 burst — my head seemed to weigh a ton. I 
 poured cold water over it, but it made no dif- 
 ference — it stayed that way all night and all 
 yesterday. 
 
 What am I to do? I dare not think — I took 
 a long walk, and even now I find myself thinking 
 of the book without knowing it. Imagine me 
 sitting on a doorstep and playing for two hours 
 with a kitten! 
 
 Why should I be handicapped in such a way 
 as this? I had never thought of such a thing. 
 
 I was thinking about The Captive — it is my 
 own. Nobody has helped me — I have told not 
 one person of it. Everything in it has come out 
 of my soul. 
 
 May 17th. 
 
 I feel better to-day, but I hardly know what 
 to do. 
 
 Meantime I was happy! — Think of a poet's 
 being happy with city flowers! of a poet's being 
 
 53 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUK STIKLING 
 
 happy with store-flowers — prostitute-flowers — 
 flowers for sale ! 
 
 It was all about a narcissus — " Very flower of 
 youth, and morning's golden hour! " — as I called 
 it once. And it danced so! (It was out on the 
 curbstone) — and I went off happy. 
 
 Then I thought of a poem that is pure dis- 
 tilled ecstasy to my spirit. I will write it, and be 
 happy again : 
 
 Sit thee by the ingle, when 
 The sear faggot blazes bright ; 
 Spirit of a winter's night ! — ... 
 Sit thee there, and send abroad. 
 With a mind self-overaw'd, 
 Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her ! 
 She has vassals to attend her ; 
 She will bring, in spite of frost. 
 Beauties that the earth hath lost; 
 She will bring thee, all together, 
 All delights of summer weather ; 
 All the buds and bells of May, 
 From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 
 All the heaped Autumn's wealth, 
 With a still, mysterious stealth ; 
 She will mix those pleasures up. 
 Like three fit wines in a cup. 
 And thou shall quaff it ! 
 
 Ah ! And so I went along, " sun, moon, and 
 stars forgot " — laughing and half dancing. Peo- 
 ple stared at me — and I laughed. And then I 
 54 
 
WKITESTG A POEM 
 
 passed three pretty girls, and I laughed, and they 
 laughed too. I guess they thought I was going 
 to follow them. 
 
 — But that pleasure was not in my cup, dear 
 girls. 
 
 Some of these days I hope to live in a beauti- 
 ful world, where a man may speak to a pretty 
 girl on the street. Badness is its own punish- 
 ment, let the bad world observe. 
 
 I would rather look at a beautiful woman 
 than do anything else I know of in this world, 
 except listen to music. 
 
 May 1 8th. 
 
 I often think how I shall spend my money 
 after The Captive is done. I shall take a band of 
 chosen youths, seekers and worshipers, and we 
 shall build a house on a mountain-top and wor- 
 ship the Lord in the beauty of music ! 
 
 I shall have to begin at the beginning — I have 
 never had any one to teach me music. But oh, 
 if I did know! — ^And if Lever got hold of an 
 orchestra — how I would make it go! 
 
 And in the middle of it the astonished orches- 
 tra would see the conductor take wings unto 
 himself and fly off through the roof. 
 
 55 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUR STIRLING 
 
 A book that I mean to write some day will 
 be called The Pleasures of Music, and it will sing 
 the joys of being clean and strong, of cold water 
 and the early morning and a free heart. It will 
 show how all the unhappiness of men is that they 
 live in the body and in self, and how the world is 
 to be saved through music, which is not of the 
 body, nor of self — which is free and infinite, 
 swift as the winds, vast as the oceans, endless as 
 time, and happy as whole meadows of flowers! 
 The more who come to partake of it, the better 
 it is; for generous is " Frau Musika," her heart 
 is made wholly of love. 
 
 — ^And when I have shown all these things, 
 Frau Musika, I shall tell of the golden lands that 
 I have visited upon the wings of thy spirit! — 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain ! 
 What fields or waves or mountains. 
 
 What shapes of sky or plain ! 
 
 What love of thine own kind, virhat ignorance of pain ! 
 
 May 20th. 
 I live among the poor people and that keeps 
 me humble. There is not much chance for free- 
 dom, I hear them say, there are not many who 
 can dwell in the forests. Prove your right to it 
 56 
 
WBITIXG A POEi£ 
 
 — ^prove what jou can do — ^the law is stem. I 
 am not afraid of the challenge; I will prove what 
 I can do. 
 
 But I see one here and there with whom the 
 law is not so strict, I think. 
 
 I met a merchant the other night. I dreamed 
 of him. He said: " I buy such goods as men 
 need; I buy them as cheaply as I can, since life 
 is grim. I sell them as cheaply as I can, since 
 men are poor and suffering. I make of profit 
 what I need to live humbly. I am not of the 
 world's seekers; I am of the finders." 
 
 I met also a guileless fool. 
 
 We passed a great mansion. " I should like 
 to know the man who lives there," said the 
 fool. 
 
 " Should you? " said I. 
 
 " Is he a hero? " asked the fool. 
 
 " Xo," said I. 
 
 " Is he a poet? " asked the fool. 
 
 " Xo," said I, 
 
 " Must he not be verj- beautiful," said the 
 fool, " that men judge him worthy of so much 
 beauty? " 
 
 57 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUR STIELING 
 
 May 2 1 St. 
 
 I must finish this thing this time! That cry- 
 rings in my ears night after night. I am toiling 
 upward — upward — I can see no sign of the end 
 yet — but I must finish this time! If I had to stop 
 with this thing haunting me — if I had to go out 
 into that jungle of a world with this weight upon 
 me — to repress myself with this fire in my heart 
 — I could not bear it — I could not bear it ! 
 
 And if I stopped and went out into that world 
 
 again — how many weeks of agony would it cost 
 
 me to get back to where I am now ! 
 
 I must finish this time! 
 
 May 22d. 
 
 " No, ofificer, I am neither a burglar nor a 
 highwayman, nor anything else worth bother- 
 ing; I'm just a poet, and I'm crazy, to all prac- 
 tical purposes, so please get used to me and let 
 me wander about the streets at these strange 
 hours of the night without worrying! " 
 
 Poor, perplexed policeman! Poor, per- 
 plexed world! Poor, perplexed mothers and 
 fathers, sisters and cousins and aunts of poets! 
 
 Mit deinen schwarzbraunen Augen 
 
 Siehst du mich forschend an : 
 " Wer bist du, ufid was fehlt dir, 
 
 Du fremder, kranker Mann ! " 
 
 58 
 
TTEITIN^G A POEM 
 
 Who does not love the poet Heine — melo- 
 dious, beautiful, bitter soul? Is there any other 
 poet who can mingle, in one sentence, savage 
 irony and tenderness that brings tears into 
 the eyes? "Who can tell the secret of his 
 flower-like verses? 
 
 Ich bin ein deutscher Dichter, 
 
 Bekannt im deutschen Land ; 
 Nennt man die besten Namen 
 
 So wild auch der meine genannt. 
 Und was mir fehlt, du Kleine, 
 
 Fehlt manchem im deutschen Land ; 
 Nennt man die schlimmsten Schmerzen, 
 
 So wird auch die meine genannt ! 
 
 I have never seen but one beautiful thing in 
 New York, and that is its mighty river in the 
 night-time. I wander down to the docks when 
 my work is done, and when it is still; I sit and 
 gaze at it until the city is quite gone, and all its 
 restlessness, — until there is but that grave pres- 
 ence, rolling restlessly, silently, as it has rolled for 
 ages. It makes no comments; it has seen many 
 things. 
 
 To-night I sat and watched it till a tangled 
 forest sprang up about me, and I saw a strange, 
 high-bowed, storm-beaten craft glide past me, 
 59 
 
THE JOURNAL OF AETHUR STIRLING 
 
 ghostly white, its ghostly sailors gazing ahead 
 and dreaming of spices and gold. 
 
 The old, old river — my only friend in a whole 
 city! It goes its way — it is not of the hour. 
 
 It fascinates me, and I sit and sit and wonder. 
 I gaze into its black and gurgling depths, and 
 whisper what Shelley whispered: " If I should go 
 down there, I should know! " 
 
 But no, I should not know anything. 
 
 The days when thou wert not, did they trouble 
 thee? The days when thou art not shall trouble 
 thee as much. 
 
 May 24th. 
 
 AN ESSAY AFTER RIGHTEOUSNESS 
 
 I write this to set forth a purpose which I 
 have for over a year held before me. I write it 
 that it may serve me for a standard. I write it 
 at a time when my bank-account consists of 
 twenty-five dollars, and I mean to publish it at 
 such a time as by the method of plain living and 
 high thinking, I shall have been able to increase 
 it a hundredfold. 
 
 We are told that a man who would write a 
 60 
 
WHITIXG A POEM 
 
 great poem must first make a poem of his life. 
 An artist, as I understand the word, is a man who 
 has but one joy and one purpose and one inter- 
 est in life — the creating of beauty; he is a man 
 lifted above and set apart from all other motives 
 of men; a man who seeks not wealth nor com- 
 fort nor fame, nor values these things at all; a 
 man whose heart is forever lonely, whose life is 
 an endless sorrow, and whose excuse and whose 
 spur and whose goal and whose consecration, is 
 the creating of beauty. 
 
 What power — be it talent or genius — God 
 has given me, I can not tell ; I only know that an 
 artist in that sense of the word I mean to be. I 
 have thought out a plan by which I shall make 
 the publishing of my books, as well as the writing 
 of them, a thing of Art. 
 
 No one will read very far in what I shall write 
 without perceiving there a savage hatred of the 
 spirit of the modem world of wealth; it is only 
 because I have faith in democracy and hope in 
 the people of my country that I do not go to wor- 
 ship my God on a desert island. The world which 
 I see about me at the present moment — ^the 
 world of politics, of business, of society — seems 
 to me a thing demoniac in its hideousness; a 
 6i 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUR STIELING 
 
 world gone mad with pride and selfish lust; a 
 world of wild beasts writhing and grappling in 
 a pit. 
 
 I am but a voice crying in the wilderness, and 
 these things must run their course. But in the 
 meantime there is one thing that I can do, and 
 the doing of that has become with me a passion 
 — I can keep my own life pure; I can see that 
 there is one man amid all this madness whose life 
 is untouched by any stain of it; who lives not 
 by bread alone, nor by jewelry and gold; who 
 lives not to be stared at and made drunk with 
 pride, but to behold beauty and dwell in love; 
 who labors day and night to keep a heart full of 
 worship and to sing of faith to suffering men; 
 who takes of the reward of that singing just what 
 food and shelter his body needs; and who 
 shrinks from wealth and luxury as he would from 
 the mouth of hell. 
 
 To live humbly and in oblivion would be my 
 choice, but it will be my duty to do differently. 
 I know enough about the human heart to know 
 that the presence of one righteous man makes 
 ten thousand unrighteous men angry and un- 
 comfortable. And therefore, for the help of any 
 whom it may comfort, and for the damnation of 
 62 
 
"WEITIXG A POEM 
 
 all the rest, I shall choose that the life I live and 
 the thing I do shall be public; I shall choose that 
 the millions in our country who are wearing out 
 their frantic lives in the pursuit of the dollar, and 
 the few who are squandering their treasures in 
 drunken pomp, shall know that there is one man 
 who laughs at them — whom all the millions of 
 all of them could not buy — and who dwells in 
 joy and worship in a heaven of which they can 
 not even know. In other words, it is my idea 
 not merely to make a poem of my life, but to 
 publish the poem. 
 
 I shall have other, and deeper, and kinder rea- 
 sons also, for what I shall do. What I write in 
 my books must be from my deepest heart, the 
 confession of those moments of which I would 
 speak to no living soul; it must be all my tender- 
 ness, and all my rapture, and all my prayer; and 
 do you think it will come easily to me to put that 
 out before the rough world to be stared at, to be 
 bound up in a book and hawked about by com- 
 mercial people? . . . 
 
 (Here follows in the manuscript the outline of a plan for 
 publishing the writer's works at cost.) 
 
 Would it not be interesting to me, if I could 
 but pierce the future once, and see how long it is 
 63 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 destined to be before I do so publish a book! I 
 would do my work better, I fancy, for that. — 
 But let it lie. I shall publish it some day 
 surely, that I know at least. 
 
 Sometimes I can hardly realize what it will be 
 to me when I have really won fame, when I can 
 speak the things that so need speaking — and be 
 heard. 
 
 May 25th. 
 
 Line by line, page by page, I do it. I am 
 counting the days now, wondering — longing. 
 
 It is not merely the writing of it, it is the see- 
 ing of it — the planning and designing. Some- 
 times I brood over it for hours — I can not find 
 what I want; and then suddenly a phrase flashes 
 over me and like a train of gunpowder my 
 thought goes running on — leaping, flying; and 
 then the whole thing is plain as day. And I hold 
 it all living in my hands. 
 
 I am blessed with a good memory. In times 
 of excitement such as that I seize all the best 
 phrases and carry them away, and bury them out 
 of sight, like a miser. They are my nuggets of 
 gold. 
 
 And sometimes I am a greedy miser, and 
 64 
 
WKITING A poem; 
 
 stand perplexed ; shall I go on and gather more, 
 or shall I make off with the armful that I have? 
 
 May 26th. 
 
 My religion is my Art. I have no prayer but 
 my work. 
 
 Sometimes that is a glory, and sometimes 
 again that is an agony. To have no duty out- 
 side of yourself; to have no inspiration outside 
 of yourself; to have no routine to help you, 
 no voice to cry out when your conscience goes 
 to sleep, no place of refuge in your weakness ! — 
 
 All that is but the reason why I dare not be 
 weak. I have chosen to lead and not to follow; 
 therefore I have no rest, and may not look behind 
 me, and can think of nothing but the way. 
 
 To be the maker of a religion is to sweat 
 blood in the night-time. 
 
 There is but one way that I may live — to take 
 every impulse that comes — to be watching, 
 watching — to dare always and instantly, to hesi- 
 tate, to put off never, to seize the skirt of my 
 muse whenever it shimmers before me. So I 
 make rnyself a habit, a routine, a discipline; and 
 so each day I have new power. So each day I 
 6 65 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUE STIKLmG 
 
 feel myself, I bare my arms, I walk erect, exult- 
 ing — I laugh — I am a god! 
 
 — And as I write that a feeling takes rise in 
 me, and my heart beats faster; but I am tired, I 
 sink back, I do not take the gift that is offered; 
 and then my conscience gives a growl, and in a 
 flash I see what I have done, and feel a throb of 
 rage and leap up. 
 
 One of my perils is that when I am strong I 
 feel that I must always be so. This truth that is 
 so obvious, these words that flow so swift — what 
 need is there to fear for them, to write them 
 now? — And so they are never written. 
 
 May 27th. 
 Will you imagine me to-day, kneeling by the 
 bedside, shuddering; my face hidden, the tears 
 streaming down my cheeks — and I crying aloud: 
 " I will— oh, I will! " 
 
 I can not tell any more. 
 
 May 29th. 
 I am coming to the last scenes. I hear them 
 rumbling in my soul — far, far off — like a distant 
 surf on a windless night. 
 
 I am coming, step by step : I mean to fight it 
 out on this line. 
 
 66 
 
WKITING A POEM 
 
 I know a man who always rose to the occa- 
 sion. Never was he challenged that he did not 
 dare and triumph. Oh, if instead of being hun- 
 gry and pining, I had but the music of that divine 
 
 inspirer! — 
 
 Heller schallend, 
 
 mich umwallend, 
 sind es Wellen 
 
 sanfter Lufte .' 
 Sind es Wogen 
 
 wonniger Diifte ? 
 Wie sie schwellen, 
 
 mich umrauschen, 
 soil ich athraen, 
 
 soil ich lauschen .'' 
 Soil ich schliirfen, 
 
 untertauchen, 
 siiss in Diiften 
 
 mich verhauchen ? 
 
 May 30th. 
 
 To-day I had a spiritual experience — a reve- 
 lation; to-day, in a flash of insight, I understood 
 an age — ^whole centuries of time, whole nations 
 of men. 
 
 I had been writing one of the great hymns, 
 one of the great victories; and I had been drunk 
 with it, it had come with a surge and a sweep, it 
 had set everything about me in motion — huge 
 phantom shapes — all life and all being gone mad. 
 67 
 
THE JOUKl^AL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 And then, when I had written it, I went out 
 into the dark night; I walked and walked, not 
 knowing where, still tingling with excitement. 
 And, suddenly, I stood spellbound — the cathe- 
 dral! 
 
 There it was — there it was! I saw it, alive 
 and real before me — all of it — all that I had seen 
 and known! I cried out for joy, I stretched out 
 my arms to it — the great, dark surging presence; 
 and all my soul went with it, singing, singing — 
 up into the misty night! 
 
 June 1st. 
 
 I sat to-night by the river again. It was 
 moonlight, and the water lay shimmering. A 
 little yacht, gleaming with lights, sped by; it was 
 very close, and I saw a group of people on it, I 
 heard them laughing; and one of them — a wom- 
 an — ^was singing. 
 
 O God, what a voice! So rich, so exquisite! 
 It soared upward and died again, quivering like 
 the reflection of the stars on the water. It went 
 in — in to the very depths of my soul; it loosed 
 all the woe of my spirit, it made the tears gush 
 into my eyes. And then it died away, away in the 
 distance; and I sat with my hands clasped. 
 
 Sail on — sail on — oh heavenly voice! Far- 
 68 
 
WEITIISTG A POEM 
 
 off vision of brightness and beauty ! Your lot is 
 not my lot. 
 
 — There is something within me that weeps 
 yet, at the echo of that music. Oh, what would 
 I not give for music! How much of my bitter- 
 ness, how many of my sorrows have melted into 
 tears at one stra:in! 
 
 And I can not have it! Oh, you who do have 
 it, do you know what you have? Oh beautiful 
 voice, do you hear yourself? 
 
 All things else I can make for myself — friend- 
 ship and love — nature and books and prayer; 
 all things but music! 
 
 Can you not hear that voice dying — dying — 
 " over the rolling waters " ? 
 
 June 2d. 
 I shall come out of this a man — a man! I 
 shall know how to live all my days ! I shall have 
 memories that will always haunt me, memories 
 that I can build the years by ! 
 
 June 3d. 
 
 From the time that I began The Captive it 
 
 has been almost two months; it is just six weeks 
 
 from the day I wrote that I had ten or twelve 
 
 weeks in which to finish. I have done well finan- 
 
 69 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUR STIELING 
 
 cially — I have twenty-one dollars left, and I have 
 paid for my typewriting. 
 
 It is not a fortune. But enough is as good as 
 a fortune. 
 
 And I am coming on! I have been counting 
 the scenes — I am really within sight of the end. 
 
 — That day when I crouched by the bed I 
 saw all of the end. I have seen the whole thing. 
 It will leave me a wreck, but I can do it. And it 
 will take me about three weeks. 
 
 Think of my being able to say that ! — Five or 
 six hundred lines at least I shall have to do, and 
 still I dare to say that. But I am full of this 
 thing, I mount with it all the time. I am finding 
 my wings. 
 
 Nothing can stop me now; I feel that I shall 
 hold myself to it. I become more grim every 
 day. 
 
 No one can guess what it means to me to 
 find that I have hold of the whole of this thing! 
 It is like strong wine to me — I scarcely know 
 where I am. 
 
 June 4th. 
 I am sitting down by the window, and first I 
 kick my heels against my old trunk, and then I 
 70 
 
WEITma A POEM 
 
 write this. Hi! Hi! I think of a poem that I 
 used to recite about Santa Claus — " Ho, Castor! 
 ho, Pollux! " — and then ho a lot of other things 
 — a Donner and a Blitzen I remember in partic- 
 ular. I want a reindeer — a Pegasus — a Valkyrie 
 — an anything — to carry me away up into the air 
 where I can exult without impropriety! 
 
 Come blow your horn, hunter. 
 
 Come blow your horn on high ! 
 
 In yonder room there lieth a 'cello player. 
 
 And now he's going to move away ! 
 
 Come blow your horn 
 
 That's an old Elizabethan song. I heard 
 them come up for his trunk just now, and they've 
 dragged it down-stairs, and I hear the landlady 
 fuming because they are tearing the wall paper. 
 I have never loved the sound of the landlady's 
 voice before. 
 
 — The world is divinely arranged, there is no 
 question about it. 
 
 June 5th. 
 
 Deep in my soul I was convinced that the 
 room would be let to something worse. But 
 now it appears that the landlady's sister is to 
 occupy it. 
 
 — So now I will get to work I 
 71 
 
THE JOURNAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 — Moving is noisy; I can't complain. I 
 have been walking about the streets. I am hun- 
 gry for the work; but still, I had much to think 
 of. It is a wonderful thing — a glorious thing, 
 this story — it will make men's hearts leap. 
 
 June 6th. 
 
 I have plenty of time to write journals, if I 
 feel like it. There is the sister, and there is the 
 landlady, and there is another woman, and they 
 have been jabbering about dresses all of the 
 morning. I have been like a crazy man — I was 
 all on fire this morning, too! O God, it is too 
 cruel! 
 
 I could dress those three hags with broom- 
 sticks. 
 
 — How long is this to continue, I want to 
 know. Here it is afternoon and they are still 
 chattering. Every time I have tried to compose 
 my thoughts they have come back and begun 
 chattering again. And so I can only pace about, 
 and then rush out into the street — and wear my- 
 self sick. I call this simply monstrous. That my 
 soul should be tied down to such vulgarity as this 
 — is it not maddening? Here I am — ^with all my 
 72 
 
WEITIXG A POEM 
 
 load of woe — ^at this fearful crisis ! And I am to 
 be shattered and wrecked and ruined by this! 
 Just as long as they choose to sit there, just so 
 long I am helpless. Was it for this that I have 
 borne all the pain? 
 
 It seems to me that I hear jeering laughter 
 around me from a swarm of little demons. I 
 hide my face and flee, but they follow me. 
 
 But what can you expect? Have they not a 
 right to talk? — Yes — all the world has a right 
 to be as hideous as it can. And I have no right 
 but to suffer and to choke in my rage. 
 
 Three vile, ignorant serving-women! Serv- 
 ing-women — ah yes, and if they were my serv- 
 ants! If I could pay them! — But who serves 
 me! Of what consequence am I! 
 
 These things goad me, they are like poisoned 
 thorns in my flesh. The infinite degradation of 
 it all, the shame, the outrage ! 
 
 It has burned a brand deep into my flesh, 
 
 and never while I live will it come out. Ah, 
 
 you rich men! You who rule us, who own the 
 
 treasures, the opportunities, the joys! You who 
 
 73 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUE STIRLING 
 
 trample the fair gardens of life like great blind 
 beasts ! 
 
 Do you think it is nothing to me that the 
 inspiration and the glory of my whole lifetime 
 is to be trampled into nothingness for lack of 
 what others spend upon one dress? Yes, of my 
 whole lifetime! My whole lifetime! Give me 
 but what another will spend upon one foolish 
 gimcrack that he never looks at again, and I will 
 live for a whole lifetime ! And I will write such 
 music — Bah! What am I doing? 
 
 — Sometimes when I think of these things a 
 black shadow stalks over my heart. I hear a 
 voice, " Fool, and do you still think that you 
 are ever to escape from this? Do you not per- 
 ceive that this sordid shame is your lot? Do you 
 not perceive that you may writhe and twist, 
 struggle and pant, toil and serve, till you foam at 
 the lips? Who will heed you! Who will hear 
 you! Who cares anything about you! — Who 
 wants your Art! Who wants your work! Who 
 wants your life! — Fool! " 
 
 — Of course this thing could not go on. And 
 so of course, — stammering and writhing, as I 
 74 
 
WEITINQ A POEM 
 
 always do when I have my nose pushed into this 
 kind of filth — I had to speak to the landlady 
 about it to-night. — 
 
 And of course the landlady was astonished. 
 " Why, Mr. Stirling, can't a body talk in a body's 
 own room? " Yes, a body can talk, but then 
 other bodies have to move away. 
 
 Now she's going to speak to her sister about 
 it. And here I sit, writhing and trembling. Oh 
 my God, suppose I have to move! Oh merciful 
 Father, have pity on me — I can't bear much of 
 this! To go tramping around this hot and hor- 
 rible city, to go into some new and perhaps yet 
 more dirty place! And oh, the agony, the shame 
 — suppose that will not do, and I have to keep on 
 searching! Dragging this fearful burden with 
 me! And I have only eighteen dollars left! 
 
 If I think of it any longer I shall scream with 
 nervousness. 
 
 June 7th. 
 And now it is all settled. A body has to talk 
 in a body's own room, and a body's nose has to 
 turn up with indignation as a body announces the 
 fact. And so here I sit, waiting for the express- 
 man to come for my trunk. 
 75 
 
THE JOUEN"AL OF AKTHUR STIRLING 
 
 Now that it is over it does not seem so bad. 
 I am like a snail — once back in my shell, I do not 
 care what happens. I have given up trying to 
 write The Captive, and so nothing bothers me 
 any more. — I have forgotten all about it now, it 
 is years behind me. 
 
 But I have seen it all; I can get it back in 
 good time. I do not fear. 
 
 I have rolled up a little bundle, a tooth-brush 
 and some manuscripts principally; and I send 
 the rest to a friend's house. I have had an in- 
 spiration. Why should I stay in this hot and 
 steaming place? — Why should I be " barricaoed 
 evermore within the walls of cities? " Ich will 
 ins Land! 
 
 Why did I not think of this in the beginning? 
 I am going now to see the springtime ! — " the 
 only pretty ring time, when birds do sing — hey 
 ding-a-ding! " 
 
 That was a real idea. I do not know where I 
 
 am going; but I will walk and get somewhere — 
 
 there will be woods. I'll sleep in hay-ricks if it 
 
 can't be managed any other way. 
 
 Away, away from men and towns, 
 To the wildwood and the downs ! 
 
 I could have been through in three weeks 
 76 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 now, I believe. But it was not to be. We have 
 to take what comes to us — 
 
 Let us then be up and doing. 
 With a heart for any fate. 
 
 I'm glad I don't have to write poetry like that! 
 
 June 8th. 
 Howdy-do, Brother Bobolink! How in the 
 world did you guess I was coming this way? 
 
 — Es ist nun einmal so, 
 
 Kein Dichter reist incognito ! 
 
 Ah, to be out in the open air again, to see the 
 world green and beautiful; to run with the wind 
 and look at the flowers and listen to the birds ! I 
 am sitting by a spring; I have eaten my dinner. 
 
 I turned my steps Jerseyward. 
 
 — I have been walking all day. I must find 
 some place to stop very soon. I can not think of 
 the country with this burden on me. I am like 
 a sick animal — I seek a hiding-place. I fancied 
 I might think of my work on the way, but I can 
 not. The world is happy; my work is not happy. 
 
 My hope is all in the end of the journey, and 
 the walking is drudgery. And then, my money 
 
 77 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUR STIELmG 
 
 is going! I must find some sort of a hut — a tum- 
 ble-down house, an old barn — anything. 
 
 I shall trudge one more day's journey. Then 
 I think I shall be far enough from New York. 
 
 • — I passed a tramp to-day; and while we 
 walked together I composed an address: 
 
 " My brother — for are we not brothers, thou 
 and I? 
 
 " Have we not fled from the sleek man, thou 
 and I? And is it not we alone that know Truth? 
 
 " Thy clothing is ragged, and there is hunger 
 in thine eyes; it is so also with me. 
 
 " It is thy fate to wander; it is my fate to 
 wander too. And with restless eyes to look out 
 upon the world, to meet with distrust from men. 
 
 " Yet not for that am I sad, nay, not for that, 
 but for a deeper sorrow; because I was sent out 
 into the world with a curse upon me, because I 
 was sent out into the world a Drunkard. 
 
 " Yea, so it is, my brother. 
 
 " And that for which I thirst is not easy to 
 find; and when I have found it I am not content, 
 but must seek more; and so I have only desola- 
 tion. 
 
 " Who laid this curse upon us, my brother? 
 78 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 " That we should dwell in sorrow and unrest? 
 
 " That no man should heed our voice, and 
 that we should grow weak and faint? 
 
 " That we should die, and be forgotten — thou 
 and I? 
 
 " Oh, tell us wherefore — ye wise men." 
 
 June 9th. 
 
 I have walked another day. I am beginning 
 to get away from the suburban towns, and into 
 the real country. I knew that it would cost me a 
 good deal to go to a hotel last night, and it was 
 warm, so I slept in a hay-stack ! It was quite an 
 adventure. Now I've got my pockets stufifed full 
 of rolls, Benjamin Franklin style. 
 
 — My mind is like the ocean after a storm. 
 
 The great waves come rolling over it still; it 
 is all restless, tossing. But it is sinking, sinking 
 to rest! — Heaven grant that I may find my place 
 of refuge before it is quite calm. 
 
 It is everything or nothing with me; I am 
 made that way. Either I give every instant of 
 my time, every thought, every effort to my work, 
 or else I close up like a flower and wait. I can 
 not write poetry and hunt a lodging too. 
 
 So I am waiting — waiting. — 
 79 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHDR STIKLINa 
 
 June loth. 
 I began inquiring to-day — a shanty, a barn — 
 anything. Every one thinks it necessary to be 
 very much puzzled about what I want it for. My 
 'Clothes are still fairly respectable, and so they tell 
 me about pretty summer cottages — only so 
 much per month! 
 
 June 1 2th. 
 I have been. tramping on and on for two more 
 days. I do not believe I shall ever find what I 
 want. Nothing but one old musty place in ruins, 
 so far! And my money is going, and I am wild 
 with anxiety ! I am almost tempted to turn back 
 to the ruin. 
 
 June 13th. 
 
 I am sitting in a room in a dirty hotel. It 
 was raining to-day and I had to come here. I 
 shall probably have to pay fifty cents too. I won't 
 stay to breakfast. 
 
 Oh what will I do if my money gives out? 
 I saw a cottage to-day, that a man said I could 
 have for ten dollars a month. I was tempted to 
 spend nearly all I had and take it, and live on 
 bread and water. I am desperate. 
 80 
 
WEITIN"G A POEM 
 
 June 14th. 
 
 " Perhaps maybe you'd like ' Oaklands,' " 
 said the farmer, laughing. 
 
 " Oaklands " turned out to be the home of a 
 millionaire " dry-goods man " who was in Eu- 
 rope. I did not want " Oaklands." 
 
 " I don't know of anything else," said the 
 farmer, scratching his head. Then he added with 
 a grin, " unless it be the cook-house." 
 
 " What's the cook-house? " I asked, suspi- 
 ciously. 
 
 " Oh, it's a kind of a little place they've got 
 'way out in the woods," said the farmer. " It's 
 where they goes when they goes picnicking." 
 
 My heart gave a jump. " What sort of a 
 place? " I asked. 
 
 " They've got a big platform chiefly, where 
 they put up a tent. The cook-house ain't nothin' 
 but a little two by four shanty, with a big stove 
 in it." 
 
 " How big is it? " I cried. 
 
 " It's about half o' this here room, I reckon." 
 
 (" This here room " was about six of my 
 rooms in New York !) 
 
 " And where is it? " I cried. " How can I 
 get there? " 
 
 7 81 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 " Oh, you don't want to go to no sech place 
 ez that! " said the farmer. " There ain't no bed 
 nor nothin' in it! An' it's two mile out there in 
 the woods! " 
 
 Let anybody imagine how my heart was go- 
 ing! " Who can show it to me? " I panted. 
 
 " Why," said he, " I'm the man that's in 
 charge of it; but I " 
 
 " And can you rent it to me for a month? " 
 
 " Why, I don't know any reason why I can't 
 rent it to you for a year — only it ain't worth 
 nothin', an' " 
 
 "Then rent it to me! The less it is worth 
 the better it will suit me. But come, show me 
 where it is! " 
 
 " I reckon I can show you," said the man, 
 looking perplexed. " But what in the world do 
 you want to go into that lonesome place for? 
 Why, boy, nobody goes there in a month! An' 
 what you goin' to do for somethin' to eat, an' 
 some place to sleep, an' " 
 
 I managed to get him started at last. And 
 now, oh just look at me! I've been roaming 
 around staring at it — inside and outside. The 
 gods love me after all. 
 
 82 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 The infinite relief that it is! The infinite ex- 
 ultation that it is! And all to myself — not a soul 
 near me! And out in the woods! And mine for 
 a month! Oh blessed 'cello player that moved 
 away; blessed landlady's sister that talked — ! 
 
 And oh blessed cook-house! We will make 
 thee a consecrated cook-house before we get 
 through — we will! We will cook a dish in thee 
 that will warm the hearts of a goodly company — 
 oh blessed cook-house! 
 
 — And outside a great white moon streaming 
 through the forest trees! 
 
 The " cook-house " is about ten feet square. 
 It is about one-third stove, now covered with a 
 newspaper and serving as a table. Besides that 
 there is one chair, for which I have just impro- 
 vised a leg, with the help of my knife. 
 
 Besides the knife I have a fork, a plate, a cup, 
 and a spoon — borrowed from the farmer. I have 
 a blanket and a bed consisting of an old carriage 
 robe, rented from the farmer. I have a lamp and 
 a kerosene-can — ditto. I have a frying-pan — 
 ditto. But I haven't my little oil-stove, so I fear 
 I shall eat mostly cold things. I have a pail of 
 milk, a loaf of bread, a ginger-cake, some butter, 
 83 
 
THE JOUENAL OE AETHUE STIELING 
 
 some eggs, some bacon, some apples and some 
 radishes; also a tooth-brush, a comb, a change 
 of clothing, two handkerchiefs, some pencils and 
 paper, Prometheus Bound, Prometheus Un- 
 bound, Samson Agonistes, faith, hope, and 
 charity! 
 
 — I believe I have named all the necessaries 
 of life. 
 
 June isth. 
 
 I have scooped myself out a bathtub below 
 the spring. I forgot towels in my list of neces- 
 saries! I fear it will be inconvenient on rainy 
 days. I am like a child with a new toy, in my 
 wonderful home. I was too excited to think of 
 working. I fried an egg over a little fire, and 
 then I roamed all about the woods. I don't re- 
 member ever having been so happy before. I 
 had forgotten there was anything beautiful in the 
 world. — 
 
 — I spent the whole of the afternoon dream- 
 ing a dream. When I have finished The Captive 
 and gotten some money, I am going to have a lit- 
 tle house in the woods ! I have just had it before 
 my eyes — and I laughed with delight like a boy. 
 
 It will be a fine big house — it will cost about 
 84 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 fifty dollars; and there will be a table and a chair, 
 and a cot, and such things. It will stand by a 
 lake, a wild lake far out in the mountains! I have 
 vowed to find a lake at least five miles from any- 
 thing; and once a week I will have somebody 
 bring me provisions. 
 
 — That is the way I shall spend next summer! 
 — Up, up! Get to work! — 
 
 June 17th. 
 
 I have done nothing for two days but wander 
 around and stare at things. It is all gone, every 
 gleam of it! And I can not bring it back — I 
 know not what to do, where to turn. I stopped 
 in one of the hardest parts of the whole thing — in 
 the very midst of it; and how in the world am I 
 to begin? I walk around, I sit down, I get up 
 again; I try to put my thoughts upon it, I 
 bring them back again and again. But I can not 
 do it — I have let every thread of it go. What has 
 tramping over the country and delight in houses 
 got to do with my work? 
 
 I have nothing to write — the whole thing is 
 a blank to me. And here I am, eating up my 
 provisions! — This shows me what I am — ^what a 
 child. 
 
 85 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 — But how am I to get up on those fearful 
 heights again? How am I to take the first step 
 toward those fearful heights again? I cry that 
 all day ! 
 
 June 20th. 
 Oh, the joy of being out in the woods! I 
 never knew of it before — I never dreamed it! 
 
 It is better than an orchestra. To be able to 
 stretch your arms! To have a place to walk! 
 To be able to talk aloud ! — to laugh — to shout — 
 to do what you please ! — to be free from all men, 
 and the thought of all men! 
 
 And to hear your own poetry aloud ! — I cried 
 out to-day that I would go back and do the whole 
 of The Captive over again, so that I could hear it 
 out loud. It made me quite wild yesterday when 
 I first realized that I was alone! 
 
 — Last night there was a gale, and the clouds 
 sped over the moon, and the wind roared in the 
 trees — and I roared too ! 
 
 — " For I see the crescent promise of my 
 spirit hath not set! " 
 
 June 2 1 St. 
 I did just as I have always done before. I 
 got desperate enough, and then I went to work. 
 86 
 
WKITINQ A POEM 
 
 I said " I will! and I will! and I will! " I think 
 I said nothing else for twenty-four hours. 
 
 And so the storm again, and the great waves 
 speeding! 
 
 Is there any one who has ever watched the 
 great waves? — How they go! They take you 
 right with them. My verses shall be waves. 
 
 I am tired out again; but oh, I am filled with 
 my music! There was never any poetry like it in 
 the world! 
 
 And at the height of it I cry out: " I am free! 
 I am free! 
 
 " I won't have to stop again! 
 
 " I can go to the very end of it ! 
 
 " And I don't care who hears me ! 
 
 "I am free!" 
 
 June 23d. 
 
 I ate a raw egg this morning. For yesterday 
 I let the fire go out five times, and gave up my 
 breakfast rather than start a sixth. 
 
 I wanted to save time — I thought it would 
 be egg just the same; but I record it for future 
 generations of poets, that the experiment is not 
 a success. You taste raw egg all day. 
 87 
 
THE JOUEISTAL OF ARTHUE STIELING 
 
 I shall have them all hard-boiled in the farm- 
 house after this. 
 
 — Twenty-eight lines to-day! I had more, 
 but I lost them, and then I fell down. 
 
 — There is always a new height, but there are 
 not always new words. My verse grows more 
 and more incoherent, and more and more dar- 
 ing. I can feel the difference of a whole life- 
 time between it now, and what I wrote ten 
 weeks ago. 
 
 — That is as it should be, of course. One 
 does not reckon by days in a dungeon. 
 
 I notice also that the periods get longer; it 
 has more sweep — it leaps wider spaces — it is less 
 easy to follow. 
 
 — Oh, let not any man read what I wrote this 
 morning, except he stand upon the heights! 
 
 I have worn a path in the woods, deep and 
 wide, pacing back and forth, back and forth, all 
 day. Any one who saw me would think that I 
 was mad. Fighting — fighting — ^all the time 
 fighting! Sometimes I run — sometimes I don't 
 know what I do. Last night I know that it grew 
 88 
 
WKITESTG A POEM 
 
 dark, and that I was still lying flat on the dead 
 leaves, striking my hands, that were numb with 
 excitement. I was too weak to move — but I re- 
 member panting out, " There is nothing like that 
 in King Lear! " 
 
 I brought about twenty phrases out of that, 
 and one or two sentences. They will fall into the 
 verse the next time it comes. 
 
 June 24th. 
 
 — Listen to me, oh thou world — I will tell 
 you something! You may take a century to 
 understand those phrases — to stop laughing at 
 them, perhaps — who knows? But those sen- 
 tences are real; and they will last as long as there 
 is a man alive to read them ! 
 
 When I let anything make me cease to be- 
 lieve in that scene, may I die ! 
 
 — I will shout it aloud on the streets; they 
 are real! 
 
 And there has been nothing like them done 
 for some years, either. 
 
 June 25th. 
 To-day you may imagine me frantically 
 throwing stones at a squirrel. I said: " If I get 
 89 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHDE STIELINQ 
 
 him I won't have to go to the farmhouse to- 
 morrow." 
 
 I had had nothing to eat but bread and apples 
 for two meals, and I couldn't stand that again. 
 
 I had fried squirrel and fried apples for sup- 
 per. It was a very curious repast. 
 
 And I was hungry, and I ate too much! That 
 made me wild, of course, and I flung all my 
 apples away into the woods. May they feed new 
 squirrels! 
 
 June 26th. 
 
 I get up every morning like — like the sun! 
 I overflow with laughter — nothing frightens me 
 now. I never knew what was the matter with 
 me before — it was simply that I could not fight as 
 I chose. If ever I go back again to have my 
 soul pent up in the cities of men! 
 
 I am full of it — full of it! I grapple with it 
 all the day, I can not get enough of it. I do crazy 
 things. 
 
 And the harder it is the faster I go! This 
 thing has been my torturing — it has made me 
 fight and live. That is really the truth. 
 
 And I am coming to the end — really to the 
 end! 
 
 90 
 
WKITING A POEM 
 
 June 27th. 
 A rainy day! And no glass in my house — 
 only a board cover to the window. I made my- 
 self a nest on the sheltered side. 
 Nearer! Nearer! 
 
 June 29th. 
 Wandering through the woods dreaming of 
 a banquet-hall. — The guests are witty. 
 
 I have put into the mouths of the guests all 
 that the world has said to me, since first I went 
 poetical. 
 
 June 30th. 
 
 To-day I got a big stock of things to eat. I 
 count my time not by days, but by loaves of 
 bread and dozens of hard-boiled eggs. 
 
 — This book goes out into the world, not to 
 
 be judged, but to judge! 
 
 July 1st. 
 
 You do not hear much from a man in a bat- 
 tle, just now and then a cry. 
 
 I have gone in to seek out my last enemy — 
 the last demon who has defied me. I shall close 
 with him — I shall have the thing over with — I 
 will no longer be haunted and made sick. 
 91 
 
THE JOUEITAL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 — I believe I shall do it all in one day. I 
 don't think I can lay it aside. 
 
 July 3d. 
 
 It is done ! — 
 
 I wrote that at three o'clock this morning, 
 and then I lay back and laughed and sobbed, and 
 in the end I fell asleep in the chair. 
 
 I was not ill — my relief was so great. I was 
 only happy. I lay back and closed my eyes. I 
 have born my child. 
 
 It is done! It is done! I realize it, and then 
 I am like a crazy person. I do not know what I 
 am doing — I only wander around and sit down 
 in the woods and laugh and talk to myself. O 
 God, I am so happy! 
 
 I have only to write the end — the last scene 
 in the dungeon. And that is nothing. " I have 
 fought the good fight, I have finished the 
 course! " 
 
 July 4th. 
 I have only to write the echoes that are in my 
 heart, the stammering words of thanksgiving. 
 It is nothing — I have been over them. My 
 whole being is melted with the woe of them — 
 but I can do them anywhere — anyhow. 
 92 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 — And a sudden wild longing has come over 
 me for the city. I must take all the world into 
 my arms — I am so happy — I love it so ! 
 
 Ah, I have done it! I have done it! I am 
 free! Free! FREE! 
 
 I must get this thing typewritten — I must 
 get rid of it — it must be published. How long 
 does it take to get a book published? 
 
 July 5th. 
 
 I fought a fight with myself yesterday, and 
 won it. The last of my weaknesses! I wanted to 
 pack up my things and go home ! And finish my 
 poem on the train! I was that hungry for the 
 goal! But I am still here — doing the last scene. 
 I shall stay until it is done. I can not stay after 
 that. 
 
 Let me hear how your voice trembles as you 
 
 sing the last strains of your song, and I will tell 
 
 you how great an artist you are. 
 
 Good night, sweet prince, 
 And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! 
 
 July 6th. 
 Five in the afternoon! And the wind was 
 howling in turret and tree, and all the forest was 
 an organ chant. So I packed up my belongings, 
 
 93 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 and laid my poem in next to my heart — the last 
 words written: " It is done! " 
 
 And I went out and stood and gazed at my 
 little home. Farewell, farewell, little home! 
 Perhaps I shall never see you again; but ever 
 you will live in my fancy as my heaven upon 
 earth. They built thee for picnic parties! And 
 I wonder what proud prince had built for his 
 pleasures — the Garden of Gethsemane! 
 
 And now I go forth like a bridegroom out of 
 my chamber, rejoicing as a strong man to run a 
 race. And all the world dances around me, and 
 I stretch out my arms and sing! 
 
 Come, come, my foes, where are ye now? 
 What foes shall I be afraid of now! Is it the 
 world and its trials? Come! 
 
 I go back to conquer — I have forged my 
 weapon! I have bared my arm! Where are 
 those foes of mine? 
 
 There is nothing so commonplace that it 
 does not sing to me. I walk with a springing 
 step, I laugh, I exult. Birds, flowers, men — I 
 love them all ; I get into the train, and the going 
 of it is drunkenness. I have won! I have won! 
 94 
 
WEITING A POEM 
 
 I go back to the world. Come, world! I 
 have but four dollars left — four dollars! — and 
 The Captive! 
 
 It is not strange that a man should be made 
 drunk with happiness by the writing of a trag- 
 edy! That is the great insincerity of the artist. 
 " That cry of agony! — what a triumph of genius 
 was that my cry of agony! " 
 
 — It is not the sorrow, it is the struggle; so 
 I read the tragedy. This man is dead, but God 
 lives, and Art lives. 
 
 I will go back, I will do anything now — I will 
 empty ash-cans, and find it a joy. The book is 
 done — safe in next to my heart! — And now it 
 will be printed, and not fire nor earthquake can 
 destroy it after that. Free! Free! 
 
 I am writing on the train. I write common- 
 places. That is because I can not shout. 
 
 But back there, coming out of the woods, I 
 shouted — and not commonplaces either! 
 
 Coming out of the forest — forest-drunk! 
 Now I know all about Pan and his creatures ! 
 
 I write carelessly. But in my heart I sit 
 95 
 
THE JOUHXAL OF AKTHTK STIRLmG 
 
 shuddering before that fearful glory. O God, 
 my Father, let me not forget this awful week, 
 and I will live in Truth all my days. 
 
 July 7th.* 
 W^andering all day about the streets of the 
 hot city, seeing it not, hearing it not — waiting 
 for the last lines of the poem to be copied! I 
 could not do anything until that was done, and at 
 a publisher's. I got it and fled home, and spent 
 the night correcting the copy. 
 
 Ah, God, what a thing it is! How it roars, 
 how it thunders, how it surges! How infinite, 
 how terrible! Stern, throbbing — is there any- 
 thing like it in the world? 
 
 Ten lines of it make my blood tingle — an act 
 of it makes me burj* my face in my pillow and 
 laugh and sob for five minutes. 
 
 Go forth, oh my perfect song! 
 
 * Possibly an error in the date, as the day was Sunday. 
 
 96 
 
PART II 
 SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
PART II 
 
 SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 July 8th. 
 To-day I took it to the publisher's! 
 
 I had been pondering for a week who were 
 the best publishers. To-day I hardly had the 
 courage to go in — I know nothing about such 
 things — and my hands shook so I could hardly 
 hold the package. 
 
 I asked to see the manager. I told him I had 
 a manuscript to submit. He looked at me — I 
 guess I must look rather seedy. " What sort 
 of a manuscript? " he asked. " A blank verse 
 drama! " 
 
 Then he took it and glanced over it. " Blank 
 verse dramas are difficult things to publish," he 
 said. 
 
 " You had best read it, I think," I answered, 
 " you will find it worth while." 
 99 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 " Very well, if you wish," said he, " we always 
 read everything that is offered to us." 
 
 " How soon shall you be able to let me 
 know? " 
 
 " Oh, in a week or ten days." 
 
 And then I went out — shuddering with ex- 
 citement. A week or ten days! Well — I can 
 wait. I have done all my duty, at any rate. 
 
 July 9th. 
 I have certainly played a bold game with my 
 poem! At the publisher's at last — and I, having 
 paid my room-rent, have just a dollar in my 
 pocket! 
 
 I have been tramping about all day to-day, 
 looking for some work. I don't care what it is — 
 I can do anything to keep alive for a week or ten 
 days. — I wonder if they will advance me some 
 money at once. 
 
 They all stare at me suspiciously. I think 
 some of the wildness of the woods must still hang 
 about me. — Anyway, I walk along on air, I fear 
 nothing. I could hug all the passers-by. My 
 book is at the publisher's ! I could beg, I think, 
 
 ICO 
 
SEEKIITG A PUBLISHEK 
 
 if I had to, and do it serenely, exultingly. I 
 have only a dollar — but have I not all the 
 
 stars? 
 
 I was thinking to-day about Carlyle, and that 
 ghastly accident to his manuscript. Let others 
 blame Carlyle for his sins — for those days of 
 agony and horror I forgive him all things, and 
 love him. 
 
 I have the original manuscript of The Cap- 
 tive put safely away. If that poem were de- 
 stroyed it would kill me. I can think of anything 
 else in the world but such a thing as that. 
 
 July loth. 
 
 What will they write me about it? I picture 
 to myself all the emotions of a pubHsher when he 
 discovers a poem like that! Ah yes, good pub- 
 lisher, I have scanned your lists for many months 
 back; but you have published nothing like The 
 Captive. 
 
 And then I shall taste my first drop of suc- 
 cess. 
 
 — I do not want it for myself — it is not that — 
 I want it for the book! I want people to love it — 
 I want it to stir their souls ! I want brothers and 
 
 lOI 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AETHUU STIKLmG 
 
 friends and lovers in that great glory of mine! 
 That is why I want all the world to shake with it. 
 
 And then I can go on! 
 
 — I wonder if they will write to me sooner, 
 when they find out what it is. — 
 
 I have been picturing myself with some 
 money ! It is all over now — and I can do that — 
 will it not be strange to have some money! I 
 have been thinking where I should live, and what 
 I should do. 
 
 The first thing I shall do is to get somebody 
 to teach me music. And then all the concerts 
 that I long for! How long has it been since I 
 have heard a note of music? 
 
 I think that is all I want. I want no toys in 
 my life. I want my freedom, and my soul, and 
 the forest once again. — 
 
 I read some of the psalms to-night — far, far 
 into the morning. My heart is a psalm. 
 
 — I have gotten something to do! I am a 
 waiter in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue! I got 
 1 02 
 
SEEKmG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 the place this morning. Ugh! — it is nasty be- 
 yond words. But I do not care, it will keep me 
 
 alive. 
 
 July nth. 
 
 What a thing is hope! I have been for two 
 days chained in the most horrible kind of a place. 
 Picture it — to stand all day and see low people 
 stuffing themselves with food — the dirt and the 
 grease and the stench and the endless hideous 
 drudgery ! And I five days out of the springing 
 forest and the ecstasy of inspiration! — Truly, it 
 is a thing to put one's glory to a test! But I 
 hardly feel it — I walk on air — deep back in my 
 soul there is an organ song, I hear it all day, all 
 day! 
 
 How soon will they write? I fly up-stairs 
 each night, looking for a letter. Hurry up! 
 Hurry up! 
 
 — " Pegasus im Joche! " 
 
 July 13th. 
 The book! The book! I go thinking about 
 it — when I come home I throw myself down on 
 the bed and laugh with suppressed excitement. 
 I think all day — they are reading it now, perhaps ! 
 Ah, my book! And perhaps I'll find somebody 
 at home there to see me about it to-night!- 
 103 
 
THE JOUKIfAL OF AKTHUE STIKLDTG 
 
 I look at the reviews — I am interested in all 
 the books of the day now — ^because The Captive 
 is going to be among them! How will it seem 
 to see it there, in big letters? 
 
 And how will it seem to be known? I am not 
 a fool — I know what will help me to my peace 
 when I am out there in the woods again — and it 
 will not be that the newspapers have been talk- 
 ing about me, and that the dames of high society 
 have asked me to their tea-parties. But there 
 are one or two men in this world that I should 
 like to know. Perhaps as the author of a book 
 that is known it would be possible. 
 
 — Yes, before I was one of the mob, and now 
 I have shown what I can do. 
 
 July 15th. 
 The horror of that awful " eating-joint " 
 grows on me every hour. I could not bear it 
 much more — physically it makes me ill, and no 
 amount of enthusiasm can make that better. I 
 will not sell a second more of my time than I have 
 to. I made up my mind that I would give up 
 the place at the end of the week. The money 
 will do me for another week after that, and by 
 104 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 that time I will surely have heard from the pub- 
 lishers. 
 
 I'll have to tell them, that's all, — it is nothing 
 to be ashamed of. They'll have to give me some 
 money in advance. I can not live in that cess- 
 pool. 
 
 Yes, to-morrow and half of the next day, — 
 that is all I will bear! 
 
 — I long sometimes to go and see them; but 
 no, I can wait. 
 
 July 17th. 
 
 I treated myself to a long holiday this after- 
 noon. I went up to the park, and walked and 
 walked. Everything was in a tumult within me 
 — I was clear of that last prison. And all the ex- 
 citement and the power of that poem are still in 
 me. I am restless, all on fire, stern, hungry, like 
 a wind-storm. Come not near me unless you 
 wish for truth! Come not near me if you fear 
 the gods! 
 
 To-day my thoughts went surging into the 
 future. I shall have money! — I shall be free! — 
 And what shall I do next? I counted up what 
 10; 
 
THE JOUKl^AL OF AKTHUR STIRLING 
 
 I might have — even a slight success for the book 
 would mean a fortune such as turned my head to 
 think of. What would I do? 
 
 My mind pounced upon a new work — a work 
 that I have dreamed of often. Would it be my 
 next work? I thought — ^would I be able — 
 would I dare? It is a grand thing. 
 
 I went on, and got to thinking of it; I almost 
 forgot that I was not still in the woods. What a 
 sweeping thing I see it! 
 
 The American! It would have to be a three- 
 volume novel, I fear — it would be as huge as Les 
 Miserables! 
 
 It is the Civil War!^ I am haunted by that 
 fearful struggle. Is there anything more fearful 
 in history, any more tremendous effort of the 
 human spirit? And so far it has not made one 
 great poem, one great drama, one great novel ! 
 
 It was the furnace-fire in which this land was 
 forged — this land which holds in its womb the 
 future of the world — this land that is to give laws 
 to the nations and teach mankind its destiny. I 
 search the ages, and I find no struggle so fraught 
 with meaning, with the woe and the terror and 
 the agony of a desperate hope. 
 1 06 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 It must be all put into an art-work, I say! 
 There is no theme that could thrill the men of this 
 country more, that could lift them more, that 
 could do more to make their hearts throb with 
 pride. We sent all the best that we had — armies 
 and armies of them — and they toiled and suf- 
 fered, they rotted upon a thousand fields of hor- 
 ror. And their souls cry out to me, that it must 
 not be for naught, that the fearful consecration 
 must not be for naught. 
 
 The world is filled with historical fiction; it 
 is the cant and the sham of the hour. — Bah! 
 
 — This is what I long to do; to take the 
 agony of that struggle and live it and forge it 
 into an art-work; to put upon a canvas the soul 
 of it; to put it there, living and terrible, that the 
 men of this land might know the heritage that is 
 come down to them. 
 
 It would take years of toil, it would take 
 money, too — I should have to go down there. 
 But some day I shall do it! 
 
 I saw some of it to-day, and it made my 
 blood go! 
 
 I saw a poet, young, sensitive, throbbing at 
 the old, old wrong, at the black shame of our his- 
 107 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AETHUK STIELmG- 
 
 tory; I saw him drawn into that fearful whirlpool 
 of blood and passion, driven mad with the pain 
 and the horror of it; and I saw him drilled and 
 hammered to a grim savageness, saw him fight- 
 ing, day by day, with his spirit, forging it into 
 an iron sword of war. He was haggard and 
 hollow-eyed, hard, ruthless, desperate. He saw 
 into the future, he saw the land he loved, 
 the land he dreamed of — the Union! She 
 stretched out her arms to him; she cried with 
 the voices of unborn ages, she wrung her hands 
 in the agony of her despair. And for her his 
 heart beat, for her he was a madman, for her 
 he marched in sun and in snow, for her he was 
 torn and slashed, for her he waded through fields 
 of slaughter. Of her he dreamed and sung — 
 sung to the camps in the night-time, till armies 
 were thrilled with his singing. 
 
 This was the thing of which he sang, the 
 gaunt, grim poet: There is a monster, huge be- 
 yond thought, terrible, all-destroying; the name 
 of it is Rebellion, and the end of it is Death! 
 Day by day you grapple with it, day by day you 
 hammer it, day by day you crush it. Down 
 with it, down with it! Finish it! 
 1 08 
 
SEEEIXG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 I heard that as a battle-cr\': " Finish it! " I 
 saw a man, wild and war-frenzied, riding a war- 
 frenzied horse; he rode at the head of a squadron, 
 bare-headed, sword in hand, demon-Uke — ^thun- 
 dering down-hill upon a mass of men, stabbing, 
 slashing, trampling, scattering! Above the roar 
 of it all I heard his cr}-: " Finish it! Finish it! " 
 
 And afterward he staggered from his horse 
 and knelt by the men he had killed, and wept. 
 
 — I saw him again. It was when the man of 
 the hour had come at last; when the monster had 
 met his master; when, day by day, they hammered 
 it, the fire-spitting, death-dealing monster; when 
 they closed with it in death-grapple in a tangled 
 wilderness, where armies fought hke demons in 
 the dark, and the wounded were burned by the 
 thousands. I saw companies of fainting, star%-- 
 ing, agonized men, retreating, stiU battling, day 
 by day; and I saw the wild horseman galloping 
 on their track, slashing, trampling — ^and still w"ith 
 the battle-3-eU: ■■ Finish it! Finish it! " 
 
 I saw him yet a third time. It was done, it 
 
 was finished; and he lay wounded in a dark 
 
 room, hstening. Outside in the streets of \\'ash- 
 
 ington a great endless army marched by, the 
 
 109 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUE STIKLINa 
 
 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-roar- 
 ing 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 1 8th. 
 
 Still another day, and no news from the pub- 
 lisher'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! 
 no 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 I stared at the paper in blank consternation! 
 I couldn't realize the words, I couldn't under- 
 stand what they meant. Such a thing never oc- 
 curred to me in my wildest moment. 
 
 What is the matter with them — are they mad? 
 Great God, that any human creature! — ^And 
 without a hne 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 pub- 
 lish! 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 
 III 
 
THE JOUEjSTAL OF ARTHUE STIELING 
 
 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 afiford 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? 
 
 — Of course I shall have to begin tramping 
 around, looking for some work again. I must 
 find something better than the last. 
 
 July 20th. 
 
 Nervous, impatient — it is so that I have lived. 
 Never to waste an instant has been my passion. 
 I have struggled, watched, fought for a minute. 
 If ever I were held back or kept idle it drove 
 me wild, and I burst through everything. It 
 has always been a torture to me not to be think- 
 ing something. 
 
 But less of that torture than I have now, I 
 think I never had; it seems as if I had won the 
 mastery — I mind nothing any more. I walk 
 
 112 
 
SEEKIXG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 upon the air, and I never tire. Thoughts — end- 
 less thoughts — come to me without ever the 
 asking; nothing disturbs me, nothing hinders 
 me — I take everything along with me. — I am 
 full of impulse, of life, of energy! — 
 
 I am the owner of the sphere. 
 
 Of the seven stars and the solar year. 
 
 Of Caesar's hand and Plato's brain ! — 
 
 And this when I have spent all the day look- 
 ing for work! — answering advertisements, and 
 tramping to this place and that! Discouraging? 
 — what does the word mean? 
 
 — I am the man who has never learned to 
 shiver and shake! 
 
 I thought of a young Irishman I worked with 
 a long time ago. " Once I went into a place, and 
 says I, ' I'd like to be havin' a job.' An' he 
 looked me over, an' he says, says he, ' Git oot! ' 
 An' so I thought I'd better git oot! " 
 
 It might take me some time to find a pub- 
 lisher, I was thinking to-day. I do not know 
 anything about publishers. But once get it be- 
 fore the world, that is the thing! I fear nothing, 
 9 113 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIRLING 
 
 I can wait. It is done, that is all I can think of. 
 — The rest " must follow, as the night the day." 
 
 July 2 1 St. 
 To-night I sat by the bedside trembling, 
 thinking of what I had learned. Oh, this faith 
 that I have gained, it must go forth among men! 
 A prayer welled up in my soul — I have learned 
 what I can do — I have learned that I can do what 
 I will! I have seen the infinite heights that lie 
 beyond — oh, let me not fail! The hopes of un- 
 born generations are in my soul. 
 
 — That is true. What systems shall come of 
 this vision of mine, what new ways of beauty, 
 what new happiness and new freedom! That 
 thought has shaken the very depths of my soul. 
 
 It makes me leap up — it makes me wish to 
 
 go! Why should I not start now? Why should 
 
 I waste to-day? 
 
 July 22d. 
 
 I have been making plans. I must get to 
 work. I was racing through all sorts of vast 
 schemes to-day as I walked about the streets 
 hunting for something to do. I will make my 
 Greek perfect first — I can do that while I am 
 walking. 
 
 114 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 I made an athlete of myself pacing up and 
 down with The Captive! I honestly think I 
 walked ten or twelve hours some days. I have 
 walked all day to-day, but I do not feel tired. 
 I answered advertisements in the papers. 
 
 — Why are men impolite? I do not believe I 
 could ever learn to speak rudely. 
 
 July 23d. 
 
 The impossible occupations that I have 
 thought of, in trying to solve my problem! To- 
 day I saw myself a lighthouse-keeper! What 
 does a lighthouse-keeper do, anyway? And 
 could I manage to get such a place where I 
 could be alone by myself? 
 
 — But no, some one would have to attend to 
 the light!— 
 
 I thought of being a hall-boy. But you are 
 not paid very much. — I said, however, that I 
 would at least get some sort of a place up-town. 
 I could not stand it down in the " business " 
 world. 
 
 God, how horrible it is! All that seething 
 efifort — and for what? All this " business " — is 
 "5 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF ARTHUE STIRLING 
 
 it really necessary to the developing of the souls 
 of men? Does each man in that rushing mob 
 need more money yet, to begin developing his 
 soul? 
 
 — Another occupation! I saw myself a 
 lonely hunter, living by a mountain lake, and 
 shooting game for a living! I wonder if that 
 wouldn't be possible. I never shot any game, 
 but I could learn. 
 
 It would suit me perfectly to sit by a moun- 
 tain lake and read Greek and watch for ducks. 
 
 July 27th. 
 I was getting down pretty close to the limit 
 again, but I got something to do to-day. I had 
 to take what I could find; it is what would be 
 called a good position, I suppose; I am in a 
 wholesale-paper store. I get twelve dollars, and 
 that is quite something. 
 
 The business of the will is to face the things 
 that come — not any other things. Now I have to 
 drill and discipline myself anew, to learn to save 
 my soul alive in a wholesale-paper store ! 
 
 It is a great, dingy place, full of chaffering, 
 hungry-looking men. They are all desperately 
 116 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 serious; it is a great "business house," I be- 
 lieve ; the very atmosphere of it is deadly poison. 
 
 — Oh bald-headed, grim-visaged senior-part- 
 ner, that didst gaze at me over black-rimmed 
 spectacles — so I have " an opportunity to rise," 
 have I ? 
 
 Yes, — I shall rise upon wings of a sapphire 
 sheen, and toss myself up in the wind and shake 
 down showers of golden light into thy wonder- 
 ing eyes, oh bald-headed, grim-visaged senior- 
 partner! 
 
 — It is my business to show samples of paper. 
 I shall learn all about them in a few days, and 
 then I shall go at the Greek. 
 
 July 28th. 
 
 Whenever I feel weary I run ofif into a corner 
 and whisper into my ear, " It is done! Be not 
 afraid!" Instantly my heart goes up like swift 
 music. 
 
 July 31st. 
 
 Twelve days since I left The Captive; they 
 said it would take three weeks. 
 
 Something strange flashed over me to-day, 
 something that sent a shudder through me; I 
 117 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 have done a strange thing to myself this summer, 
 not in metaphor, but in fact. I have seen a ghost; 
 I have drunk a potion; I have gazed upon a 
 nymph; I have made myself mad! 
 
 I am no longer a man among men — I am 
 " the reed that grows never more again " ! 
 
 — I try to lose myself in a book, but the book 
 does not hold me. Nothing satisfies me as it 
 used to, — I am restless, hungry, ill at ease. Why 
 should I read this man's weak efiforts — what 
 profits me that man's half-truths? 
 
 — And all the time I know too well what I 
 want — I want to fight! 
 
 I want to get back into the woods again! I 
 want that vision again! That work again! I 
 want myself! 
 
 — And here I am, a bird in a cage, beating the 
 bars. What folly to say that I can be strong and 
 endure this thing! That I can endure anything, 
 dare anything. Yes, so I can — if I can strive! 
 Put me out there alone, and set me a task, and 
 I will do it though it kill me. But how can I 
 conquer when I can not strive? 
 ii8 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 Here I am, tied! I am tied — not hand and 
 foot — but tied in soul. Tied in time! Tied in 
 attention! How can I be anything but beaten 
 and wretched? How can I expect anything but 
 defeat and ruin? A song comes to me, it calls 
 me — and I can not go! I must stare at it and 
 watch it leave me! — How can that not drive me 
 wild? 
 
 The great wings of my soul begin to beat — I 
 go up, I am wild for the air, — and then suddenly 
 I am struck back by the hideous impertinences 
 of the wholesale-paper business! How can I en- 
 dure such things as that — how can I conquer? 
 Why, it is like the clashing in my ears of twenty 
 trumpets out of tune! 
 
 Do not keep me here long! Do not keep 
 me here long! 
 
 — It is something that I find very strange and 
 curious to watch — how spontaneously, and 
 instinctively, all young men dislike me. Have I 
 a brand upon my forehead? 
 
 It is not my habit to stand upon the pedestal 
 of my inspiration, and gaze down upon those that 
 119 
 
THE JOUEl^AL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 I meet. Sympathy is my life — I can sympa- 
 thize even with men who aspire to rise in busi- 
 ness. But I have to Hve many lives, and new 
 lives; and I can brook no delay. 
 
 I will make no compromises; I have sworn a 
 vow against idle words — they may dislike me as 
 they will. I give my work, for which I am paid; 
 I can not give my soul. 
 
 August 2d. 
 Oh what a horrible thing is "business"! 
 Here, where I am, — this is the world. An indus- 
 trial era ! 
 
 This is a wholesale-paper house, and the 
 three partners who run it call themselves, with 
 unconscious irony, "wholesale-paper men"! 
 They live their lives in wholesale-paper, — they 
 talk it — they dream it — they plan it — they have 
 no hope in the world except to find people to buy 
 wholesale-paper! And the manager — keen and 
 hungry — he is planning to be a wholesale-paper 
 man himself. And here are twenty-five men and 
 youths apparently having but one virtue in the 
 world, the possibility of consecrating their souls 
 to wholesale-paper! 
 
 What they make is useful, it may even be 
 1 20 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 sublime — in which way the business is unique. 
 But none of these men ever thinks of that — they 
 would be just as absorbed in the business if it 
 were wholesale bonnets. None of them has the 
 least care in the world about books. And these 
 men who come here to buy the paper — are they 
 any better? Or is their interest in the paper the 
 profits it may bring to them? 
 
 — Dear God! — That brought me back to The 
 Captive. 
 
 — I have been sick to-day, and sickness clips 
 your wings. It is an error of mine — I pay for 
 my food with my soul, and so I try to eat httle, 
 and thereby make myself ill. 
 
 August 3d. 
 
 I got my first twelve dollars to-day! 
 
 August 5th. 
 To-day I made a resolution, that I must stop 
 this chafing, this panting, this beating my wings 
 to pieces. A man's inspiration must be under his 
 control, to stop it, as well as to start it. I can not 
 write or dream poetry while I am in this slavery, 
 and somehow I have to realize it. When I go 
 121 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIKLING 
 
 home I will get to some work, and not wander 
 around hungering. 
 
 After my glimpse of the forest it is frightful 
 to be penned in this steaming city. To have to 
 work in an office all day — sometimes it makes 
 me reel. And then at night too, when I try to 
 read, the room gets sufifocating. 
 
 Then I go out among the tenement-house 
 crowds, carrying my little note-book. I stop at 
 a lamp-post and look at a couple of words and 
 then walk on and learn them ! So I go for hours. 
 
 — Hurry up, publishers! — I wrote to them 
 to-night. 
 
 August 7th. 
 " In answer to your letter of the 5th instant, 
 we beg to inform you that your manuscript is 
 now in the hands of our readers, and that you 
 may expect a report upon it in a week." 
 
 I am reading Euripides. 
 
 August 8th. 
 
 Oh how will I find words for my delight when 
 
 I have got a little money and can escape from 
 
 dirt and horror. To-night two vile men have 
 
 been quarreling in the room underneath, and I 
 
 122 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 have been drinking in all their brutal ugliness. 
 Bah!— 
 
 To live in a place where there are not hor- 
 rible women in wrappers, reeling, foul-smelling 
 men, snuffling children with beer-cans! 
 
 This is more of my " economy "! 
 
 To-night I sat upon the edge of the bed and 
 whispered, " To be free! I shall be free! " — until 
 I was trembling in every nerve. 
 
 My beautiful poem! My beautiful poem will 
 set me free! 
 
 Sometimes I love it just as if it were a child. 
 
 Augfust loth. 
 Twelve dollars more! 
 
 August nth. 
 " We have read with the utmost interest the 
 manuscript of The Captive which you have been 
 so good as to show us. We are very sorry to say 
 that it does not seem to us that the publication 
 of this poem would be a venture in which we 
 could engage with profit. At the same time, 
 however, we have been very much struck with 
 it, and consider it an altogether remarkable piece 
 123 
 
THE JOUElSrAL OF AUTHXTR STrRLHsTG 
 
 of work. We should like very much to have the 
 privilege of an interview with you, should you 
 find it convenient." 
 
 Now what in the world do they mean by that? 
 If they are not going to publish the book, W'hat 
 do they want to see me for? And I've wasted 
 two weeks more of my life ! 
 
 I had not reckoned on petty things such as 
 these. I fear I have not much knowledge of men. 
 How can a man read The Captive and not know 
 that others would read it? What are they in 
 business for, anyway? 
 
 August 1 2th. 
 
 I begged off from work for an hour. I have 
 had an interview with the great publishers! I 
 have learned a great deal too. 
 
 I saw the manager of the firm. He meant to 
 be very kind, that is the first thing to say; the 
 second is that he is very well-dressed, and com- 
 fortable-looking. 
 
 " Now, ^Ir. Stirling," said he, " you know a 
 
 publishing house is always on the lookout for 
 
 the new man. That is why I wanted to have the 
 
 pleasure of meeting you. It is evident to me 
 
 124 
 
SEEKCN-Q A PUELISHEE 
 
 that you have literary talent of no common 
 kind." 
 
 (I bow.) 
 
 " I wish that I could tell you that we could 
 consider The Captive an available piece of 
 writing; I have read it myself with the greatest 
 care. But you must know, Mr. Stirling, that it is 
 an exceedingly difficult piece of work; I mean 
 difificult from a publisher's point of view. There 
 is very little demand for poetry nowadays — a 
 publisher generally brings out at a loss even the 
 poems that make a reputation for their authors. 
 "W^hether you are aware of that I don't know, but 
 it is true; and I think of all kinds of poetry a 
 blank verse tragedy is the most to be shunned." 
 
 (Here a pause. I have never any tongue 
 when I am with men.) 
 
 " What I want to talk to you about, ^Ir. Stir- 
 ling, is the work which you contemplate in the 
 future. As I said, I was interested at once in this 
 work; I should like very much indeed to advise 
 you and to be of any assistance to you that I can. 
 I should like very much to know what your plans 
 are. I should like very much to see anything 
 that you might write. Are you contemplating 
 anything just at present? " 
 125 
 
THE JOUEl^AL OF ARTHUE STIRLmG 
 
 " No, not just at present." 
 
 " Not? Don't you think that you might find 
 it possible to produce something just a little more 
 in accordance with the public taste? Don't you 
 think, for instance, that you might possibly write 
 a novel? " 
 
 (Some hesitation.) " I have thought of a 
 novel." 
 
 " Ah ! And might I ask — would it be a 
 character study? — or perhaps historical? — or — " 
 
 " It would be historical." 
 
 " Ah! And of what period? " 
 
 " The Civil War." 
 
 (A great look of satisfaction.) " Dear me ! 
 Why, that is very interesting indeed, Mr. Stirling! 
 I should like to see such a work from your pen. 
 And are you thinking of completing it soon? " 
 
 (General discomfort on my part.) " I had 
 never thought of the time exactly. I had feared 
 it would take a great many years." 
 
 (Perplexity.) " Oh, pshaw! — still, of course, 
 that is the way all great work is done. Yes, one 
 has to obey one's own inspiration. I understand 
 perfectly how he can not adjust himself to the 
 market. I have seen too often how disastrous 
 such attempts are." 
 
 126 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 (More courteous platitudes, I assenting. 
 Then at last, weary — ) 
 
 " You don't think, then, that you will be able 
 to undertake The Captive? " 
 
 " No, Mr. Stirling, I really do not think we 
 can. You understand, of course, if I take this 
 work to the firm I have to tell them I think it will 
 sell; and that I can not honestly do. You know 
 that a publishing house is just as much limited 
 as any other business firm — it can not afiford to 
 publish books that the trade does not want. And 
 this is an especially unusual sort of thing, it is by 
 no means easy to appreciate — you must be aware 
 of that yourself, Mr. Stirling. You see when I 
 read a manuscript I have to keep constantly be- 
 fore my mind the thought of how it is going to 
 affect the public — a very different thing from my 
 own judgment, of course. From the former 
 standpoint I believe there are things in The Cap- 
 tive that would meet with a reception not satis- 
 factory to either of us, Mr. Stirling." 
 
 (Perplexity on my part.) " You'll have to 
 explain that to me, I fear." 
 
 " Why — but the explaining of that would be 
 to offer you my opinion about the book " 
 
 " I should be very pleased to hear it. Your 
 127 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELIlTa 
 
 reason for declining it, then, is not altogether that 
 it is a blank-verse drama? " 
 
 " Not altogether, Mr. Stirling. It's a little 
 difficult for me to tell you about these things, you 
 know. I understand that the book must have 
 meant a great deal to you, and so I am naturally 
 diffident. But if you will pardon my saying so, 
 it seems to me that the book — it is obviously, of 
 course, the work of a young man — it is very 
 emotional, it strives to very high altitudes. I 
 will not say that it is exaggerated, but — the last 
 part particularly — it seems to me that you are 
 writing in too high a key, that your voice is 
 strained." (An uncomfortable pause.) " Of 
 course, now, that is but my opinion. It will not 
 seem of any value to you, perhaps, but while I 
 read it I could not get away from the fact that it 
 was not altogether natural. It seemed hysterical 
 and overwrought in places — it gives the effect of 
 crudeness. It is rather hard, you know, to ex- 
 pect a man who sits at a desk all day to follow you 
 in such very strenuous flights." (A slight laugh.) 
 
 " Mind you it is not that I do not appreciate 
 high qualities, Mr. Stirling, it is merely that it 
 seemed to me that if it were toned down some- 
 what it would be better — you know such things 
 128 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 strike different people in different ways; you do 
 not find it easy to believe that it would affect 
 men so — but I am pretty sure that the impulse 
 of the average critic would be to go still further — 
 to make fun of it. Here, for instance — ^let me 
 read you the opinion upon the book that was 
 handed in by one of our most experienced readers 
 — etc., etc. — " 
 
 I have told enough of that story, giving the 
 conversation as literally as I can recall it. I am 
 always a fool, the presence of other men over- 
 awes me; I sit meek and take all that comes, and 
 then make my escape. The great publishers' 
 manager still thinks he impressed me with his 
 wisdom — he has half an idea I'm going to " tone 
 down " The Captive! 
 
 — He read me that criticism — great God, it 
 makes me writhe! It was like a review of the 
 Book of Revelations by Bill Nye. 
 
 That my work should be judged by such men! 
 
 —"Exaggerated!" "Hysterical!" And is 
 there nothing hysterical in life, then? And 
 would you go through battle and pestilence with 
 the same serenity that you sit there at your desk 
 all day, you publisher? 
 
 1° 129 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AKTHUK STIRLING 
 
 As if a man who was being torn to pieces 
 would converse after the manner of Mr. Howells 
 and Jane Austen! 
 
 — " Tone it down! " That bit of inanity has 
 been haunting my ears. Tone down The Cap- 
 tive! Tone down the faith and rapture of my 
 whole life, until it is what the reading public will 
 find natural! — And tone down the Liebes-Tod 
 — and tone down the Choral Symphony — ^and 
 Epipsychidion — and King Lear! 
 
 Swounds, show me what thou'lt do : 
 
 Woo't weep? Woo't fight? Woo't fast? Woo't 
 
 tear thyself ? 
 Woo't drink up eisel ? Eat a crocodile ? 
 I'll do't. Dost thou come here to whine ? 
 To outface me with leaping in her grave ? 
 Be buried quick with her, and so will I : 
 And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw 
 Millions of acres on us, till our ground. 
 Singeing his pate against the burning zone, 
 Make Ossa like a wart ! Nay, an thou'lt mouth, 
 I'll rant as well as thou ! 
 
 " This is mere madness," observes the queen. 
 Tone it down! 
 
 August 1 2th. 
 I sat last night brooding over this thing till 
 almost dawn. I could not bring myself to the 
 130 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 thought of offering my work again to be judged 
 by such people. I made up my mind to take a 
 different course — I sat and wrote a long letter to 
 a certain poet whom I love and honor. He is 
 known as a critic — he will know. I told him the 
 whole story, and asked him to read the poem. 
 
 It was something that I had never thought 
 about, the effect of The Captive upon common- 
 place people. I was so full of my own rapture — 
 I made my audience out of my own fancy. And 
 now these snuffy little men come peering at it! 
 
 My appeal is not to the reading public — my 
 appeal is to great minds and heroic hearts — to the 
 ages that will come when I have gone. 
 
 — And can it be that I am to repeat the old, 
 old story — will every one laugh at me and leave 
 me to starve? 
 
 — I will get myself together and prepare for 
 a siege. I will find an opening somewhere. You 
 can not shut up a volcano. 
 
 August 1 6th. 
 
 There seems to be little use of struggling. I 
 can not control myself. I wander around, rest- 
 less, unhappy. That horrible prison that I am 
 pent in — God, how I hate it ! Such heart-sicken- 
 
 131 
 
THE JOURXAL OF AETHUK STIELIXG 
 
 ing waiting — ^waiting! — ^and meanwhile that in- 
 tolerable treadmill! It drives me wild! I am so 
 full of life, of passion; and to be dragged back — 
 and back — and stamped on ! Each day I feel my- 
 self weaker; each day my power and my joy are 
 going. Let me go — let me go! 
 
 Is my inspiration of no value at all, my ardor, 
 my tenderness, my faith, — ^all nothing? You 
 treat me as if I were an ox! 
 
 It is like being chained in the galleys! The 
 dust and the heat, the jostling crowds, the bang- 
 ing and rattling, the bare, hideous streets — ^and 
 above it all the wild, rampant vulgarity — the 
 sordidness, the cheapness, the chaffering! ]My 
 eyes stare at advertisements and signs until they 
 bum me in my head. 
 
 Oh, the hell of egotism and vulgarity that is 
 a city! 
 
 — " A\^hy so much trouble? Other men bear 
 dust and heat, and do their work without com- 
 plaining! " Ah, yes! — ^but they do not have to 
 write poems in the bargain! 
 
 If it were for truth and beauty, such a life 
 would be heroism. But the hoards of wealth that 
 132 
 
SEEKIXG A PUBLISHER 
 
 they heap up — they spend it upon fine houses, 
 and silly clothes, and gimcracks, and jewels, and 
 rich food to eat, and wines to drink, and cigars to 
 smoke! Bah! — 
 
 It is the brutality of it all that drives me wild. 
 I see great, hulking, disgusting bodies that live to 
 be pampered and fed. And after that, in the 
 place of minds, I see little restless centers of van- 
 ity — hungering, toiling, plotting, intriguing — to 
 be stared at and praised and admired. 
 
 August 2oth. 
 I thought that I would surely have heard 
 from my poet by now. I am not a good waiter. 
 
 The senior-partner's nephew is a young Ger- 
 man, over to learn the language. He is on a fur- 
 lough from the army. He has close-cropped 
 hair, a low forehead, and two front teeth like a 
 squirrel's. When he smiles he makes you think 
 of a horse. He has opinions, commercial and 
 political, which he enunciates in a loud voice. 
 Think of hstening to Prussian opinions ! 
 
 And there is another clerk who was meant for 
 a variety-show specialist. He hums comic songs 
 and cracks jokes, and conducts witty pantomime 
 133 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELESTG 
 
 incessantly. He is very popular. He is never 
 quiet. Sometimes he slaps you on the back. 
 
 I wrestle with my soul all day; the rage of it 
 is like to burst me. The infinite pettiness of it — 
 that is the thing! I am bitten and stung by a 
 swarm of poisonous flies! 
 
 August 24th. 
 
 Another twelve dollars yesterday! I gasp 
 with relief as if I were hauling a load up succes- 
 sive slopes; here is so much gained, so much 
 safe. I have gotten along on twelve dollars; I 
 have a little over thirty-five. 
 
 I believe these things are more wearing than 
 the toil of writing; I know I find it so. Then I 
 accomplish something; here I work myself into 
 nervous frenzies, and chafe and pant for nothing. 
 I can feel how it weakens me; I can feel that I 
 have less elasticity, less elan every day. Ah, God, 
 let me go! 
 
 August 25th. 
 
 Why doesn't he answer my letter? 
 
 August 27th. 
 To-day I took myself off in a comer. I said: 
 "Am I not here, have I not this thing to dof 
 134 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 The power that I have in my soul — it is to be 
 used for the doing of this; if I am to save my soul, 
 it must be by the doing of this! And I am a fool 
 that I do not face the fact. I shall be free some 
 day — that I know — I have only to bide my time 
 and wait. Meanwhile I am to stay here — or until 
 I have money enough; and now I will turn my 
 soul to iron, and do it ! I am going to study what 
 I can in this place, and at night I am going to 
 speed home and get into a book. I will never 
 stop again, and never give up — and above all 
 never think, and never feel! I will get books of 
 fact to read — I will read histories, and no more 
 poetry. I will read Motley, and Parkman, and 
 Prescott, and Gibbon, and Macaulay. — Macaulay 
 will not afflict me with wild yearnings, I guess." 
 
 — Is there any author in the world more vul- 
 gar than Macaulay? — unless it be Gibbon. Or 
 possibly Chesterfield. 
 
 I have heard Chesterfield's letters referred to 
 as a " school for gentlemen." When the world is 
 a little bit civilized, men will read them as they 
 now read Machiavelli's Prince. 
 
 — All these resolutions while I was selling 
 wholesale-paper! I fought quite a battle, and 
 13s 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELESTG 
 
 heard some of the old-time music. What a task 
 for a poet, — to fight not to Hve ! 
 
 August 30th. 
 I have still heard nothing from my poet! I 
 wrote to him to-day to ask him if he had received 
 my letter. Eighteen whole days gone by, and I 
 watching every mail, with The Captive lying idle 
 in a drawer! I can not stand waiting hke this — 
 Why do not people answer my letters promptly? 
 
 August 31st. 
 
 I have been reading George Moore's Evelyn 
 Innes for the last two days. He is striving toward 
 deeper things; but the mark of the beast is in the 
 fiber. 
 
 The spiritual struggles of a young lady with 
 two sloppy lovers at once ! Of a young and beau- 
 tiful girl whose first walk on the street with a 
 baronet is a " temptation." And who turns nun 
 at last and worships the Holy Virgin, in order 
 to forget her nastiness! A Gallicized novelist 
 ought to deal with Gallic characters. While I 
 was reading Evelyn Innes, I could never get 
 away from the impression that I was reading 
 the career of a chambermaid. 
 
 And the whole story hinges upon the fact that 
 136 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 a woman can not sing the sacred ecstasy of 
 Tristan and Isolde without being a harlot! 
 
 I read the Confessions of a Young Man, and 
 I felt the vigor of it, and the daring; but it was 
 a very cheap kind of daring. The fundamental 
 laws of hfe are occasionally enunciated by com- 
 monplace people, and that gives an opportunity 
 to be startling. But I leave it for small boys to 
 gape at such fireworks; my interest is in the stars. 
 
 The last chapter runs into absolute brutality. 
 I am accustomed to say that Gautier is a ruffian 
 author, but if there is any ruffianism in Gautier 
 more savage than that sentiment about the 
 " skinful of champagne," I do not know where 
 to find it. 
 
 About such stufif as that I would say that it 
 makes me sick, but it is not worth that — it simply 
 makes me tired. One would not call it impudent, 
 because it is so silly — it is the drivehng of a fool. 
 He will get me off in a corner now, will he, and 
 probe my soul? " Out with it! — Why not con- 
 fess that you'd like to live a life of dissipation if 
 you only had the money!" Why, you poor 
 fool, before I would live such a life, I'd have 
 my eyes torn out, and my ears torn off, and 
 
 137 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 my fingers, and my hands, and my feet. " Why 
 not confess the wild joys of getting drunk on 
 champagne!" Poor fool, I have never tasted 
 champagne. 
 
 — " Perhaps that is just the reason," you add. 
 When the folly of a fool reaches its climax, the 
 fool becomes a wit. But possibly that is it, I 
 never was drunk. 
 
 — ^And yet I know something about drunken- 
 ness. I once buried a drunkard. He was my 
 father. He died in a delirium. 
 
 There must be something young about my 
 attitude — men smile at me. But I do not find it 
 easy to imagine evil of men. I do not mean the 
 crowd — I do not philosophize about the crowd. 
 But I mean the artists. I was looking at a pic- 
 ture of Musset the other day; it was a noble 
 face — the face of a man; and in the face of a man 
 I read dignity and power — high things that I 
 love and bow before. Here are lips, — and lips 
 are things that speak of beauty; here are eyes, — 
 and eyes are things that seek the Hght. And now 
 to gaze upon that face and say : " This man lived 
 in foulness; he was the slave of hateful lust — he 
 138 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 died rotten, and sodden with drink." — I say that 
 I do not find it easy. 
 
 I have nothing to do with any artist who has 
 anything to do with sin — anything, one way or 
 the other. If a man must still think about sin, 
 let him go back, and let him go down, — let him 
 be a Christian. Let him wrestle with his body, 
 overcome himself, obey laws, and learn fear. 
 To such men and to such ways I can only say: " I 
 have nothing to do with you." My life is for free 
 men — my words are for free men — for men defy- 
 ing law and purged of fear, for men mad with 
 righteousness. What right have foul men in the 
 temple of my muse? The thought of them is in- 
 sult to me — away with them — in their presence 
 I will not speak of what I love. For I am a 
 drunkard — yes, and I am drunk all night and 
 all day! And I am a lover — a free lover — 
 knowing no law and defying all restraint. And 
 how can I say such things in the presence of 
 foul men? 
 
 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 
 
 139 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 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. 
 140 
 
SEEKENG A PUBLISHER 
 
 September ist. 
 " 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 unheed- 
 ed! 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 / 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 
 141 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 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 — ^warm- 
 hearted 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. 
 
 My " room " costs me seventy-five cents a 
 week, and my food from a dollar and a half to two 
 dollars. At the end of the seventh week I shall 
 have over fifty dollars clear. I have made up my 
 mind to give up the place at the end of that time. 
 Twelve dollars is the most I ever earned, but I 
 can't stand it longer than that. 
 
 I shall be clear for nearly four months, and 
 that will surely put me safe until I have found a 
 publisher. I would go away into the country 
 142 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 again, only I must have books. I have nothing 
 to write now. 
 
 — Oh the heat of this dreadful city; some- 
 times it takes all my strength to bear that and my 
 drudgery, and nothing else. When the night 
 comes I am panting, and can only shut my eyes. 
 
 If I am kept here long, I tell you I shall never, 
 as long as I live, be as strong and keen as I might 
 have been. 
 
 So long as I was working, striving for an 
 education, preparing myself, I could bear it. But 
 now I have done all that I can do amid these sur- 
 roundings. I cry out day and night, " I have 
 earned my freedom! " 
 
 September 6th. 
 
 He had no business to send me that answer! 
 He had no business to send it! I care not how 
 many such requests he gets! Pain throbbed in 
 that letter, hunger and agony were in it; and if 
 he were a man he would have known it! He had 
 no business to send me that answer! I shall 
 never forgive him for it. 
 
 The last publisher said it would take a month; 
 they had many manuscripts on hand, and could 
 143 
 
THE JOmXAL OF AETMLK STTRLIXG 
 
 not do any better. So I have only to set my 
 teeth together and wait. 
 
 I count the davs before m}" escape from that 
 hideous place down-town. The thought of it 
 drives me wiM — it gets more and more a torture. 
 Can I stay out the week? I ask. 
 
 September 8th. 
 
 All daj' — all day — I have but one thought in 
 my mind — but one thought in my life! I am be- 
 set by it, I can not escape it. That horrible 
 shame to which I am subjected! 
 
 It turns all my life to gall! It beats down my 
 enthusiasm, it jeers at my faith, it spits into the 
 face of my tmselfishness! I come home even.- 
 night weak and worn and filled with despair, or 
 else with a choking in my throat, and helpless, 
 cruel rage in my soul. Xever mind that I am go- 
 ing to be free — ^the wrong is that it should ever 
 have been — ^it will stay with me all mj- days and 
 turn all my life to gall! It will wreck all my ^^- 
 sions, all mj- aspirations, my faith, my eagerness: 
 the memor\- of it wUl sound Uke a mocking voice 
 in my ears, a sneer! 
 
 Day by day I strive and struggle and tear my- 
 self to pieces, and sink back worn out; and 
 144 
 
SEEKCSTG A PUBLISHER 
 
 don't you suppose that has any effect upon me? 
 I can feel it. I see it plain as day, and shudder 
 at it — I am being cowed! I am being tamed, 
 subdued, overpowered; the thing is like a great 
 cold hand that is laid upon me, pressing me down, 
 smothering me! I know it — and I cry out and 
 struggle as if in a nightmare ; but it only presses 
 the harder. Why, I was Hke a lion — restless — 
 savage — all-devouring! Never-ceasing, eager, 
 untamable — hungry for life, for experience, for 
 power! I rushed through in days what others 
 took months at — I watched every instant — I 
 crowded hours into it. 
 
 — And now look at me ! I crouch and wnine 
 — there is an endless moan in my soul. Can you 
 break a man's spirit so that he never rises again? 
 So that all his attempts to be what he was mock 
 at him? So that he never fries any more? Look 
 at those poor wretches you pass on the street — 
 those peasants from Europe, from Russia! See 
 the restless, shifting eyes, the cringing gait — 
 that is what it is to be tamed ! 
 
 Hateful tyrant of the commonplace — so you 
 will lay your cold hand over me and crush out 
 145 
 
THE JOUEI^AL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 all the fire from my heart. All this that was to 
 build new empires — new hopes, new virtues, new 
 power; all that I was, and all that I sought to be! 
 Ah, but you will not crush me — understand it 
 well, you may beat me and kick me, you may 
 starve me to death, but you will never overcome 
 me, you will never tame me into one of the pack- 
 horses of society! I will fight while I have a 
 breath in me, while my heart has left one beat. 
 
 The time may come when I shall have to drag 
 myself away like a sick beast to die in the moun- 
 tains; but if it does, I shall go defying you! 
 
 Bah! 
 
 — How I wish I could find a rich man who 
 could spare it, and from whom I could steal a 
 thousand dollars. I would turn it into a thou- 
 sand songs that diamonds could not buy — ^that 
 would build new empires — and then I would 
 pay the poor rich man back. 
 
 — I read a poem of Matthew Arnold's last 
 night : 
 
 From the world's temptations. 
 From tribulations ; 
 From that fierce anguish 
 Wherein we languish ; 
 146 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 From that torpor deep 
 Wherein we he asleep, 
 Heavy as death, cold as the grave. 
 Save, oh save ! 
 
 September loth. 
 
 A man was talking to me to-day about what 
 I am doing. " I should think you would try to 
 get some work more congenial," he said, " some 
 literary work." Yes! — I sell wholesale-paper, 
 and that is bad enough; but at least I do not sell 
 my character. 
 
 I to enter into the literary business world! I 
 to forsake my ideals and my standards — to learn 
 to please the public and the men who make 
 money out of the public ! Ah, no — let me go on 
 selling paper, and " keep my love as a thing apart 
 — no heathen shall look therein! " 
 
 What could I do, besides? And who would 
 give me a chance? I could not review books — 
 I know nothing about modern books, and still 
 less about modern book standards. Neither do 
 I know anything to write that any magazines 
 would want. 
 
 — And besides, in four days more, shall I not 
 147 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 have fifty or sixty dollars? And what shall I 
 want then? 
 
 Ah, how I count the days! And when I am 
 out of this place, how I will run away from it! 
 The very books I read while I was there will 
 always be painful to me. 
 
 — They will be glad to get rid of me, too. 
 Poor me — I have given up trying to be under- 
 stood. All these things pass. My business is 
 with God. 
 
 Cicero thinks that the remembering of past 
 sorrows is a pleasure. Yes, when the sorrows are 
 beautiful, noble. But I have sorrows in my life, 
 the thoughts of which send through my whole 
 frame — literally and physically — a spasm. 
 
 September nth. 
 I told the bald-headed, grim-visaged senior- 
 partner to-day that I was going to leave. He 
 seemed surprised — ofifered me a " raise." I 
 told him I was going out of New York. 
 
 — I am a liar. Sometimes I philosophize 
 about that. I am an unprincipled idealist. I have 
 148 
 
SEEKESTG A PUBLISHER 
 
 not the least respect for fact; I am doing my 
 work. If I could help my work, I would lie 
 serenely in all the six languages I know. And 
 if I were caught, I would say, " Why, yes, of 
 course! " 
 
 I think I would rather have a finger cut off 
 than say to a New York business man, " I am a 
 poet! " 
 
 September 12th. 
 
 I have been forcing myself to read Gibbon, 
 but half of him was all I could stand. I think with 
 astonishment of the reputation of this history, a 
 bare recital of facts, without the least interest or 
 importance, and a recital by the shallowest of 
 men! 
 
 The vulgarity of his character is more evi- 
 dent than ever since the repressed parts of his 
 biography have appeared. It is comical. And 
 this man, who has no more understanding of 
 spirituality than a cow, to tell the story of the 
 greatest movement of the soul of man in his- 
 tory! 
 
 There is not one gleam of the Christian super- 
 stition left in me. I have nothing to fear from the 
 sneers of Gibbon any more than I have from 
 those of Voltaire ; but I do not care to hear lec- 
 149 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 tures on the steam-engine by a man who does 
 not believe in steam. 
 
 — Some of these days — the last thing that I 
 can see on the horizon of my future — I am going 
 to write a tragedy called Jesus. The time is 
 past, it seems to me, when an artist must leave 
 alone the greatest art-theme of the ages. 
 
 Is it not the greatest? Is there any story in 
 history more sublime than the story of this man? 
 A humble, ignorant peasant he was, and out of 
 the faith of his soul he made the future of the 
 world for centuries! It is a thing that makes 
 your brain reel. 
 
 I write it casually, but I have shuddered over 
 it far into the deep, deep night. I have dreamed 
 of two acts — one of them Gethsemane, and the 
 other Calvary. — Poor fool, perhaps I shall never 
 write them! 
 
 I have burrowed into that soul, seeking out 
 the truths of it; the truths, as distinguished from 
 the ten thousand fancies of men. When I write 
 that drama I shall deal with those truths. 
 
 The climax of the scene in the garden of 
 Gethsemane will be a vision in which looms up 
 150 
 
SEEKIXG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 before him the whole history of Christianity; and 
 that will be the last agony. It will be then that 
 he sweats blood. 
 
 That will be something, I think. 
 
 September 13th. 
 
 To-morrow is the last time I shall ever go 
 into that hellish place! To-morrow is the last 
 time in all my life that I shall ever have to say, 
 " W^e have this same quality in ninety-pound 
 paper at four sixty-nine! " 
 
 Throughout all this thing it seemed to me 
 that when I came out I should no longer have a 
 soul. But it is not so; I shall still keep at it 
 grimly. 
 
 September 14th. 
 
 And now to-day I make my plans. I must 
 keep near a library; but I shall hunt out a room 
 up-town. There I can be near the Park, and I 
 '■hall suffer a little less from these hideous noises. 
 I shall go over there and spend every day — find 
 out some place where there are not too many 
 nurse-girls! 
 
 I can not begin any other book; I must 
 stand or fall by The Captive. I shall be a " homo 
 unius libri " ! 
 
THE JOUE]SrAL OF AKTBUE STIELrN^a 
 
 But I can not attempt to write again — ever — 
 in these circumstances. It is not that my force 
 is spent — I am only at the beginning of my life, 
 I see everything in the future. But I could not 
 vv^restle with these outside things again — ^it took 
 all my courage and all my strength to do it once. 
 
 There is no reason why I should worry about 
 that. I have fifty-six dollars, and I am free for 
 four months, barring accidents. And surely I 
 shall have found some one to love my book by 
 that time ! 
 
 And so I set to work reading. 
 
 September 15th. 
 A slight preliminary, of course. I spent a 
 ghastly day hunting for a room. I found one in 
 a sufficiently dirty and cheap place, and then I 
 spent another hour finding a man who would 
 take my trunk for a quarter. Having succeeded 
 in that, I walked up there to save five cents; and 
 when the trunk came the driver tried to charge 
 me fifty cents ! 
 
 Picture me haggling and arguing on the 
 steps — " Didn't know it was so far — Man didn't 
 
 1^2 
 
SEEKIXG A PUELISHEE 
 
 understand "' — God knows what else! And then 
 he tries to carry off the trunk — and I rush- 
 ing behind, looking for a poHceman! Again 
 more arguing, and a crowd, of course. At last 
 it appears that I have to pa\- him what he asks 
 and go down to the City HaU and make my 
 complaint — hadn't told him how many steps 
 there were, etc. So finally I agree to carry 
 it up the steps myself, if he'U only leave it for 
 a quarter! 
 
 Next you must picture me breaking mj- back 
 and tearing my fingers and the damned wall pa- 
 per — ^wlule the damned frowsy-headed landlady 
 yells and the damned frowsy-headed boarders 
 stick out their heads! And so in the end I get 
 into my steaming hot room and shut the 
 door and fall down on the bed and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 O God, the stings of this bitter, haunting, 
 horrible poverty! The ghastly weight that has 
 hung about mj- neck since ever I can remember! 
 Oh, shall I ever be free from it? Shall I ever 
 know what it is to have what I ought to have, to 
 think of my work without the intrusion of these 
 degrading pettinesses? 
 
 153 
 
THE JOUEI^AL OF AKTHUE STIRLING 
 
 They are so infinite, so endless, so hideous! 
 The thing gets to be a habit of my thoughts; my 
 whole nature is steeped and soaked in it — in filthy 
 sordidness! I plot and I plan all the day — I can 
 not buy a newspaper without hesitating and 
 debating — I am like a ragpicker going about the 
 streets! 
 
 Sometimes the thing goads me so that I think 
 I must go mad — when I think of the time that I 
 lose, of the power, of the courage! I walk miles 
 when I am exhausted, to save a car-fare! I wear 
 ragged collars and chafe my neck ! I stand wait- 
 ing in foul-smelling grocery shops with crowds of 
 nasty people! I cook what I eat in a half-dirty 
 frying-pan because I can not afford to pay the 
 servant to wash it! So it is that I drag myself 
 about — chafing and goaded — crouching and 
 cringing like a whipped cur! 
 
 My God, when will I be free? My God! My 
 God! 
 
 — The boarding-houses that I have been in! 
 The choice collection of memories that I have 
 stored away in my mind, memories of boarding- 
 houses! The landladies' faces — the assorted 
 stenches — the dark hallways — the gabbling, 
 154 
 
SEEKIXG A PUBLISHER 
 
 quarreling, filthy, beer-carrying tenants! Oh, I 
 wring my hands and something clutches me in 
 my heart! Let me go! Let me go! 
 
 Six times in the course of my life, when I have 
 been starved sick on my own feeding, I have be- 
 come a " table-boarder " ; and out of those six 
 experiences I could make myself another Zola. 
 The infinite variety of animality in those six vile 
 stables — the champing jaws and the slobbering 
 mouths and the rank odor of food! The men 
 who shoveled with their knives or plastered 
 things on their forks as hod-carriers do mortar! 
 The women who sucked in their soup, and the 
 children who smeared their faces and licked 
 their lips and slopped upon the table-cloth! The 
 fat Dutchman who grunted when he ate, and then 
 leaned back and panted! The yellow woman 
 with the false teeth who gathered everything 
 about her on the table! The flashy gentleman 
 with the diamond scarf-pin and the dirty cufTs, 
 who made a tower out of his dirty dishes and then 
 sucked his teeth! O God! 
 
 And the loathsome food! — For seven years I 
 have had my nose stamped into this mud, and 
 all in vain; I can still starve, but I can not eat 
 what is not clean. 
 
 155 
 
THE JOUKITAL OF AETHUE STIELmG 
 
 — Some day I shall put into a book all the 
 rage and all the hate and all the infamy of these 
 things, and it will be a book that will make your 
 flesh sizzle. And you will wonder why I did it! 
 
 It will be better than Troilus and Cressida, 
 better than the end of Gulliver's Travels — better 
 than Swellfoot the Tyrant! 
 
 I wonder why nobody else ever reads or men- 
 tions Swellfoot the Tyrant? I call it the most 
 whole-hearted, thorough-going, soul-satisfying 
 piece of writing in any language that I know. 
 
 — When you think of my work you must 
 think of these things! I do not mention them 
 often, but they are never out of my mind. If 
 you should read anything beautiful of mine, you 
 must bear in mind that it is about half a chance 
 that there was a dirty child screaming out in the 
 hall while I wrote it. 
 
 September 20th. 
 It took me a couple of days to realize that I 
 have still not to go down-town. But I have a fine 
 facility in making myself new habits! Just now 
 I am on a four months' studying campaign. It is 
 monotonous — to read about. I get up at six, 
 156 
 
SEEKDSTG A PUBLISHER 
 
 and when I have had my breakfast and fixed a 
 lunch, I go over into the Park. There are only 
 birds and squirrels and a few tramps about then, 
 and it is glorious. Sometimes I am so happy 
 that I do not want to read ; later come the squall- 
 ing children and the hot sun; but I flit about 
 from place to place. I wonder what they think of 
 
 me! — 
 
 Wer bist du, und was fehlt dir ! 
 
 I read all day, right straight along, and all 
 night, now that it is not too hot. I have always 
 done my reading by periods — I read our nine- 
 teenth-century poets that way, sixteen hours a 
 day; I read Shakespeare in three weeks that way, 
 and finished the month with Milton. So when I 
 got German, I read Goethe and Schiller, and 
 Moliere and Hugo again. 
 
 Now I am reading history; it gives me the 
 nightmare, but one has to read it. 
 
 Every night when I put down my book, I 
 flee in thought to my own land as to a city of 
 refuge. A history where everything counts ! A 
 history that is not a mad, blind chaos of blood and 
 horror! A history that has other meaning than 
 the drunken lust and the demon pride of a Napo- 
 leon or a Louis le Grand! 
 157 
 
THE JOURISTAL OF AETHUR STIRLING 
 
 — Some day the ages will discern two move- 
 ments in history: the first, the Christian dis- 
 pensation, and the second the American. 
 
 There is a great deal in knowing how to read, 
 especially with such books as history. I try to 
 read as I write; to lash my author, to make him fill 
 my mind. If he gets sluggish I am soon through 
 with him — I read whole paragraphs in a sentence, 
 and whole volumes in an hour. 
 
 September 25th. 
 
 The third week of the publisher's month has 
 gone by. God, how cruel is waiting! I wonder 
 if their readers knew how hungry I am if they 
 would not hurry a little! 
 
 I say to myself — " There has been enotigh of 
 this nonsense! Oh, surely there will not be any 
 more, surely these men must take it! " 
 
 September 28th. 
 I still read the literary journals and tingle 
 with excitement thinking of the time when The 
 Captive is discussed in them. Can I believe that 
 this book will not stir the world? If I did not 
 believe it, I could not believe anything! 
 
 I feel a new interest now in the authors that 
 people talk about. I want to know who they are 
 158 
 
SEEKIJSTG A PUBLISHER 
 
 and what they do. And all the time I find my- 
 self thinking: " Have I more than this man? — 
 More than that man? " That always throws me 
 into despair, because I am a great admirer; and 
 because I am always hypnotized by the last thing 
 that I read. 
 
 But I find very little that is great in modern 
 books. Books are better made now than they 
 ever were before — I mean in the way of literary 
 craftsmanship. As far as form goes, there is no 
 author living who would put together such a 
 hodge-podge as Wilhelm Meister, or La Nou- 
 velle Helo'ise. But they all imitate each other; 
 they are all mild and tame; there is no real 
 power, no genius among them. They have even 
 forgotten it exists. 
 
 I came across this, for instance, the other day 
 in a book of Mr. Howells's: 
 
 " In fact, the whole belief in genius seems to 
 me rather a mischievous superstition, and if not 
 mischievous, always, still always, a superstition. 
 From the account of those who talk about it, 
 genius appears to be the attribute of a very po- 
 tent and admirable prodigy which God has cre- 
 159 
 
THE JOURNAL OF AETHUU STZELING 
 
 ated out of the common for the astonishment and 
 confusion of the rest of us poor human be- 
 ings. Do they mean anything more or less than 
 the mastery which comes to any man in accord- 
 ance with his powers and dihgence in any direc- 
 tion? If not, why not have an end to the super- 
 stition which has caused our race to go on for so 
 long writing and reading of the difference be- 
 tween talent and genius? " 
 
 Is not that simply blasphemous? 
 
 — Have I genius? Ah, save the word! 
 
 How can I know? It is none of my affair — 
 I do my work. 
 
 Genius is next to the last and most sacred 
 word we know, next to God; and next to the 
 most abused word. Every man will possess it, 
 in degree proportionate to his vanity. I think if 
 they knew the work and the terror that goes with 
 even a grasp at it, they would not make so free 
 with it. 
 
 September 30th. 
 
 I wait — I wait for The Captive. I do all these 
 
 other things — I read, I think, I study — but all 
 
 the while I am merely passing the time. I am 
 
 waiting for The Captive to win me the way. All 
 
 160 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 my life hangs on that, I can do nothing else but 
 pray for that — pray for it and yearn for it! 
 
 — Yes — and do you know it? — I am sinking 
 down every day! Down, down! The Captive is 
 my high- water mark; where I was when I wrote 
 that I shall never come again in my life — until I 
 am given my freedom and new courage, and can 
 set to work to toil as I did then! 
 
 Tell me not about future books, foolish pub- 
 lishers! I have told you I put all that I had and 
 all that I was into that book! And by that book 
 I stand or I fall. 
 
 October 3d. 
 
 Their month is up. I walked down there to- 
 day and saw them. " The manuscript is now be- 
 ing read — we are awaiting a second report." 
 
 A second! That made my heart go like mad. 
 " Does that mean that the first is favorable? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " It means that we are interested in it," the 
 man answered; " we will let you know shortly." 
 
 Oh this waiting, this waiting! 
 
 October 8th. 
 Ah, God! I came home from the Park to- 
 night, and I saw something that made my heart 
 12 161 
 
THE JOUEN^AL OF AKTHUK STIELING 
 
 go down like lead. It hurt me so that I cried 
 out! 
 
 My manuscript ! It was back again ! 
 
 O Christ! How the sight of it hurt me! 
 There was a letter with it, and my hand shook as 
 I opened it: 
 
 " We are returning you the manuscript of 
 The Captive by messenger herewith, regretting 
 exceedingly that we can not make you a pub- 
 hshing ofifer upon it." 
 
 Is not this awful? Oh, it is terrible! It is 
 beyond belief! A whole month gone, and only a 
 note like that to show for it! Four weeks of 
 yearning and hoping — of watching the mail in 
 agony — of struggling and toiling to forget ! And 
 then a note like this! 
 
 Oh, it drives me wild! I sat to-night in a 
 chair motionless, forgetting that I was hungry, 
 forgetting everything. I looked to the future; I 
 had a feeling that I do not think I ever had in my 
 life before — a horrible, black, yawning despair — 
 a thing so fearful that it took my breath away. 
 Suppose you were standing on a bridge over an 
 162 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 abyss, and that suddenly it gave way, and in one 
 dreadful instant you realized that you were going 
 down — down like a flash — and that nothing 
 could save you! 
 
 So it is to be this, so this is to be my life! I 
 am to send this book to publisher after publisher, 
 and have it come back like this! And meanwhile 
 to spend my time alternating between this room 
 — and the wholesale-paper business! 
 
 Yes, I am getting to see the truth! I am a 
 helpless atom, struggling to survive — a glimmer- 
 ing light in the darkness — and I am going out! 
 I am losing — and what shall I do! Who will save 
 me — who will help me? 
 
 I was talking to a friend yesterday; he pre- 
 dicted just what happened. " Make one rule," 
 he said, " expect nothing of the world. When 
 you send out a manuscript, know that it is coming 
 back! — Otherwise you go mad." 
 
 But I should go mad that way. Why, what 
 
 am I to do? How am I to work unless I can get 
 
 free? I can not live a single day unless I have 
 
 that hope. And if these blind creatures that make 
 
 163 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STrRLTtiTG 
 
 money out of books keep on sending my poem 
 back — why, it will kill me — it will turn me into 
 a fool! 
 
 October 9th. 
 
 I did not go to bed last night until nearly 
 daylight. I was desperate — I was crazy with per- 
 plexity. This thing had never occurred to me as 
 the wildest possibility. 
 
 I would pace the floor for hours; and then 
 again sink into a stupor. "They send it back! 
 They don't want it! " — I kept on muttering. — 
 And, poor fool that I am, I had pictured to myself 
 how they would read it. I saw the publisher him- 
 self glancing at a line of it by chance, and then 
 rushing on. I saw him declaiming it with excited 
 eyes — as I used to declaim it ! Poor fool ! 
 
 — ^\Vell, I made another desperate attempt. I 
 wrote last night to another poet that I respect — 
 (the list is not ver)- long). I wrote in the heat of 
 my despair — I told him the whole story. I said 
 that I was crying for the judgment of some one 
 who had love and enthusiasm; some one who 
 had another idea than making money out of 
 it. I told him that I knew he had many such 
 requests, but that he never had one from a man 
 164 
 
SEEKIXG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 who had worked as I had. I pleaded that he 
 need only read a few lines — I begged him to let 
 me hear from him at once. 
 
 — ^And now I shall wait. I can't do anything 
 else but wait! 
 
 October loth. 
 I tried to read a novel to-day, but I could 
 not fix my attention — I could not do anything. 
 
 October nth. 
 
 " I answer your letter at once as you ask me 
 to. In the first place let me assure you of my 
 sympathy. You are at a stage at which all poets 
 — or nearly all — ^have to pass. Do not let your- 
 self be disheartened — keep at it — and if you work 
 as you write you will come out the victor in the 
 end. 
 
 " As to my reading the book, you must be- 
 lieve what I tell you — that I am simply crowded. 
 I have no time to explain, but I could not pos- 
 sibly do it now, nor can I tell you when I could. 
 Go ahead and try the publishers — there are 
 enough of them. And take my advice — do not 
 go on clinging to that book — do not pin all your 
 hope to that — go on — go on! Maybe it is young 
 and exaggerated — what of it? Go on! — Mean- 
 i6s 
 
THE JOUEITAL OF AKTHUK STIELmG 
 
 while your circumstances seem to you hard — but 
 in future years when you look back at them you 
 will see, as all men see, that it was in that struggle 
 that you got your strength." 
 
 It is a lie! It is a lie! It is silly cant — it is 
 brutal stupidity! What, you try to tell me that 
 it is in contest with these degradations — these 
 horrors — that I am to find my enthusiasm and my 
 hope ! Am I a dog that you must kick me to my 
 task? — It is a lie, I say — it is a He! 
 
 If you could not find time to read my work, 
 very well; but you did not have to sugar the pill 
 with silly platitudes such as those. " Go on, go 
 on! " My God, what a mockery! Is it not to go 
 on that I am panting day and night — is it not with 
 the hunger to go on that I am mad? — You fool — 
 do you think I wrote to you because I wanted 
 some one to admire me — ^because I had the need 
 of praise and encouragement in my work? Give 
 me a year's freedom — give me two hundred dol- 
 lars — and I'll show you how much I care for 
 your praise. 
 
 But then you chain me here to your torture 
 stake, and bid me " Go on! Go on! " 
 1 66 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 — And it is in that struggle that I am to get 
 my strength! That sentence burns in my blood, 
 it stings me! What is this struggle that you 
 prate about, anyway? And what do you mean by 
 " getting my strength? " Did I get my strength 
 to write The Captive that day when those fish- 
 wives moved in next door to me? Did I get my 
 strength to dream of my new work that day when 
 I was chasing after an express-driver to save a 
 quarter? Do I get it now when I am sitting here 
 panting and ill with a headache, and with despair, 
 and with lack of food? Damn such asininity, 
 I say! 
 
 What do you mean, I cry — what do you 
 mean? Would it have helped Kant to solve 
 the problems of the universe to have had a 
 swarm of mosquitoes buzzing about his face? 
 Would it have helped Beethoven to compose his 
 symphonies to have had a dance hall over his 
 head? What ghastly farce it is! That a poet 
 is helped to realize his dreams and his joys in 
 this hellish, reeking, market-place of a city! 
 Why, I tell you, sir, that every hour that I have 
 lived in it I have known that I have paid out 
 unmeasured powers of my soul! And I know 
 now, as every other poet knows, that when I am 
 167 
 
THE JOUEI^AL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 out of it I come with what pittance of strength 
 I have been able to save from the horrible ordeal. 
 Do you think that I am a fool that I do not know 
 what inspires me and what degrades me? Why, 
 sir, I sit here and watch my spirit wither like a 
 frost-bitten plant! 
 
 Such things bring tears of indignation into 
 my eyes. 
 
 — As a matter of simple reference, if any one 
 wants to know what I imagine helps a poet — it 
 is to live in the woods, to think and to dream, to 
 read books and hear music, to eat wholesome 
 food — and, above all, to escape from hot asphalt 
 streets, cable-car gongs, and flaring advertise- 
 ments of soaps and cigars. 
 
 October 12th. 
 
 I had an adventure to-day. I woke up with a 
 headache, dull, sick, discouraged. I cared no 
 more about anything. I got out The Captive 
 and made ready to take it to the publishers. 
 
 And then I thought I would read a little of it. 
 
 I sat down in the corner — I forgot the pub- 
 lishers — I sat reading — reading — and my heart 
 beat fast, and my hands shook, and all my soul 
 rose in one hymn of joy! 
 
 168 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 Oh world, do your worst, I do not care! You 
 may turn me off — but the gates of heaven are 
 open! I will go on — I will bear anything — ^bear 
 all things! I will wait and live and learn mean- 
 while, knowing with all my soul what this book is 
 and what it must bring. So long as I can read it, 
 I can wake my soul again. 
 
 It is at the publishers'. I will read books 
 meantime and be happy. 
 
 I saw a manuscript clerk this time. She was 
 very airy. I fear I am a sad-looking poet — my 
 buttonholes are beginning to wear out. " We 
 never read manuscripts out of turn," she said. 
 " It will take them three or four weeks." 
 
 — Yes, good poet, that is my answer to you. 
 I can not take your advice — I will cling to my 
 book — I will pin all my hopes to it! I will toil 
 and strive for it, I will haunt men with it, I will 
 shout it from the housetops. No other book — 
 no future book — this book! It is a great book — 
 a great book — it is — it is! 
 
 I am not ignorant of the price it costs to do 
 that; it is my fate that I have to pay it. I can 
 see, for instance, how Wordsworth paid it — 
 169 
 
THE JOUENAL OF ARTHUK STIRLING 
 
 Wordsworth, our greatest, our noblest poet since 
 Milton. He had his sacred inspiration, and the 
 world laughed at it; and so, grimly, systematic- 
 ally, he set to work to teach them — to say to all 
 men — to say to himself — to say day and night — 
 " It is poetry! It is great poetry! It is — if is! " 
 And of course at last he made them believe 
 him; and when they believed him, he — Words- 
 worth — was a matter-of-fact, self-centered, dull 
 and poor old man. 
 
 — It all rests with you, good world! How 
 long must I stand here and knock at the door? 
 
 October i8th. 
 
 I am reading, reading — and trying to forget 
 meanwhile! When I get through my long list of 
 histories I shall go back to my Greek dramatists 
 again. My Greek is getting better now — I ex- 
 pect to have a happy time with Aristophanes. — 
 He is the funniest man that ever lived, Aris- 
 tophanes. 
 
 Then I am coming back to read the French 
 novelists. There are many of them I do not 
 know. (I do not expect to like them — I do not 
 like Frenchmen.) 
 
 170 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 October 22A. 
 
 I was glancing to-day over a volume of Shel- 
 ley's, and the memory of old glories thrilled in 
 me. Ah, let me not forget what Shelley was to 
 me in my young struggling days! Let me not 
 forget while I am wrestling with a dull world — 
 let me not forget what a poet is to young men 
 hungering for beauty! Let me not forget! 
 
 Yes, it is to such that my appeal is, it is by 
 such that I will be judged! It is for such that I 
 toil! For hearts upon whom the cold world has 
 not laid its hand! For the poets and the seekers 
 of all ages! Oh come to me, poets and seekers of 
 all ages — dwell in my memory and strengthen 
 my soul! That I go not down altogether — 
 that I be not overcome by the dull things 
 about me! 
 
 These thoughts are not becoming to a reader 
 of history. But I am not a good reader of his- 
 tory — the old beasts are still growling within me. 
 Something starts a longing in me — I cry out that 
 I am getting dull, that I am going down, that I 
 am putting ofif — I, who never put ofif before! 
 And so the old storms rise and the great waves 
 come rolling again! 
 
 171 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUK STIELmG 
 
 October 25th. 
 
 I read that over just now. Yes, it is this that 
 I dread. I dread the habit of not striving! When 
 that becomes my habit it is my death! And here 
 I sit, day by day — doing just the thing I dread! 
 " Let me go now! " something shouts in me. 
 "Now — or I shall never go at all! " 
 
 Oh, if I could find some word to tell men the 
 terror of that thought! 
 
 — It is my life — that is what it is! To obey 
 this thing within me, to save this thing within 
 me, to find this thing within me — that is my life ! 
 
 It is a demon thing — it is a thing that has 
 lifted me up by the hair of my head and shaken 
 me — that has glared at me with the wild eyes of 
 a beast — that has beaten me like a storm of wind 
 and struck me down upon the ground! It shakes 
 me now — it shakes me all the time — it makes me 
 scream with pain — incoherently, frantically. 
 " Oh save me! — Spare me! — Let me go! " 
 
 I rave, you say — yes, I know. That is because 
 I can not say what I feel. But what matters it? 
 
 Sometimes I say to myself, " I put all that in 
 The Captive, and men have not heard it! And 
 172 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 now, what can I do that they will hear — shall I 
 have to go out in the streets and scream? Or 
 what other desperate thing is there? " 
 
 — Mark this, oh you world that I can not 
 make hear me! Some desperate thing I shall do 
 — I will not sit here and be respectable always! 
 
 — I wonder what locusts taste like, and just 
 where one could find wild honey. 
 
 October 29th. 
 I sang a song to-day — a mad, mad song! I 
 wish I could bring it back. It came to me un- 
 expectedly, while I was kneeling by the bed, 
 thinking. 
 
 I have forgotten it all now — one always for- 
 gets his best songs. I have not a line of this one, 
 except the chorus: 
 
 For I am lord of a thousand dollars ! 
 
 So it is that my best songs go. I can count 
 them on my fingers. But I have not yet learned 
 how precious they are — that is why I lose them. 
 
 — Do you remember that time on the great 
 clififs by the ocean? There was nothing left but 
 the ending again — 
 
 Oh bear me away in thy bosom. 
 Thou wind of the mountain high ! 
 
THE JOUEWAL OF ARTHUK STIRLING 
 
 November 2d. 
 
 I am not always as I write here — I am not 
 always angry. I have my tender moments, when 
 I see my woe as the world's woe — above all the 
 poverty. Oh let me always have a tender heart 
 for the poor! 
 
 November 6th. 
 
 I have a distant relative in this city, an old 
 gentleman who belongs to clubs and is what is 
 known as a " man of the world." He has quite 
 a sense of humor — is famous for good stories. 
 He told me that he was interested in me — that he 
 would be glad to find a place for me in life, if I 
 would only get over my youthful follies. It has 
 been years since I saw him, but I can still hear 
 him. 
 
 The last words he ever said to me were these 
 — said with his quiet, amused smile: " Never 
 mind, my boy, leave it to time. You needn't 
 argue with me — just leave it to time, and it'll 
 come out all right." 
 
 Never have I sunk into a fit of despair that 
 I have not thought of that; and the quiet smile 
 has become the sneer of an imp. It has become 
 all the world watching me, and knowing full well 
 the issue; wise world! 
 
 174 
 
SEEKIITG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 That memory has never yet lost its power to 
 make me grip my hands suddenly. " So! And 
 my life has no other purpose, then, than to point 
 a moral for a rich clubman! " 
 
 Leave it to time! Leave it to time! O God, 
 what a sentence that is — so savage — and so true! 
 Leave it to the long weary days that come one 
 after another — that never tire — that never are 
 beaten — that never are less — never faster — never 
 slower — that wear you out as water wears a 
 stone! Leave it to time! Say nothing, fear 
 nothing; leave it to time! Leave it to the hours 
 of dulness, the hours of sickness, the hours of de- 
 spair! Leave it to failure piled upon failure, 
 to insult piled upon insult, to rebuff upon rebuff, 
 to sneer upon sneer! Leave it to the endless, 
 never-ceasing sight of ugliness; the endless, 
 never-ceasing sight of selfishness; of pettiness, 
 emptiness, heartlessness, hatefulness! Leave it 
 to heat and to cold, to dust and to dirt, to hun- 
 ger and penury, to headache and heartache, and 
 bitter, bitter loneliness! Leave it to time! Leave 
 it to time! — Oh my Father in heaven! 
 
 November 8th. 
 — ^What am I doing? I am reading books full 
 175 
 
THE JOUKITAL OF AETHUR STIELmQ 
 
 of facts — I am reading books that do not make 
 me wretched. I am not reading poetry. 
 I am leaving it to time ! 
 
 November loth. 
 
 It has been four weeks yesterday! I have 
 been expecting to hear from the last publishers 
 every day for a week. I have been trembling 
 while I watched each mail. I have more than a 
 hope that these publishers will take it — they pub- 
 lish a deal of poetry. 
 
 But I have been practising my friend's plan, 
 I have been saying to myself all day: "You 
 might as well know that it is coming back. What 
 is the use of trying to deceive yourself? " 
 
 It has been four months since I finished The 
 Captive ! If I had known then what I know now, 
 I do not believe I could ever have written a line 
 of it. 
 
 What do I know now? 
 
 — I know more than I care to own to my- 
 self. There is a deadly growth taking root in the 
 depths of my soul. 
 
 November 13th. 
 It is two months to-day since I gave up my 
 last place. I have gotten along on just three dol- 
 176 
 
SEEKIITG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 lars a week, including everything. I find it is not 
 possible to do better than that, there are so many 
 odds and ends one needs. I have spent twenty- 
 seven dollars. I have twenty-nine dollars. That 
 means I can try two, or possibly three, pub- 
 lishers — after this one. 
 
 November i6th. 
 My method did make it easier after all. The 
 letter came this morning. 
 
 " We have read with care the manuscript of 
 The Captive which you have offered us. We are 
 pleased to be able to tell you that we have found 
 it a very fine piece of work, but we are sorry to 
 say that our previous experience with publica- 
 tions of this character does not lead us to believe 
 that we could make a success of it. 
 
 " We are holding MS. subject to your order." 
 
 I did a desperate thing to-day — two of them. 
 First I had to go and get the manuscript, so I 
 asked to see the publisher. I sat down and looked 
 straight into his face and said: " How is a man 
 who is trying to write what is fine to keep alive 
 if the publishers won't publish what he writes? " 
 
 He was very kind — he seemed to be inter- 
 
 13 177 
 
THE JOOIXAL OF AETHUE STIELIXG 
 
 ested. He explained that a publisher who pub- 
 lished books that the public did not want would 
 be driven out of business in a year. Then he said 
 he knew many who were facing the same problem 
 as I : that there was nothing to do but ^sxite for 
 the magazines and the papers, and that it was a 
 bitter shame that society made no pro\-ision for 
 such men. " Your work is as noble and sincere 
 as work can be," he said, " but I do not believe 
 that you will find a publisher in this country to 
 undertake it. unless tliere be one who feels 
 wealthy enough to do it as a se^^•ice to litera- 
 ture and a labor of love." 
 
 That made me turn white. I got my manu- 
 script and I went out on the street, and tlie houses 
 reeled about me. " So." I said, " and that set- 
 tles it: " 
 
 As I walked along I stared into the future. 
 It seemed ver\- clear all of a sudden. 
 
 I thought it all out. " Xo one will publish 
 The Captive," I said, " and no one would heed it 
 if it were published. Therefore I have but one 
 question to face. Have I the strength to go on, 
 living as I have lived, distracted and tormented 
 as I have been — and still piling up new emotions 
 
 irS 
 
SEEKIXO A PUBLISHER 
 
 in my soul, daring new eiiforts, reaching new 
 heights, producing new books? I can have no 
 idea that my second work will be any more avail- 
 able than my first; on the contrary, I know that 
 it would be just what The Captive is, only more 
 so. Therefore, perhaps it will be ten years — per- 
 haps it will be twenty years — before men begin to 
 pay any heed to what I have written! And so 
 there is the question. Have I the strength to go 
 on in that way — have I the strength to face that 
 future? " 
 
 Then I grew faint and had to lean against a 
 railing. / ktiew that I could not do that! 
 
 It is no question of what I will do! It is a 
 question of what I can do! I am weakened and 
 sick with the yearning that I have in me already. 
 My -last " business " experience drove me mad. 
 And I am to go on, I am to rouse new hunger, 
 new passion, new agony in my soul! Why, the 
 work that I have dreamed of next is so hard and 
 so far-away that I hardly dared even whisper it! 
 It would take years and years of toiling! And I 
 am to do it here in this seething city — to do it 
 while I sell wholesale-paper — to do it while I am 
 sick for lack of food! I can not do it! I cow not! 
 179 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 I went home, and I was crazy; so it was that 
 I did my second desperate thing. 
 
 I sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. . 
 
 I wrote a letter — I can not see how it could fail 
 to stir the soul of any man. I told him how I 
 had toiled — I told him how for four long months 
 I had waited in agony — I told him what the pub- 
 lishers had said to me. I begged him — I im- 
 plored him — for the sake of the unuttered mes- 
 sage that cried out day and night in my soul — 
 not to throw the letter aside — to read it — to give 
 me a chance to talk to him. I said : " I will live 
 in a hut, I will cook my own food, I will wear the 
 clothes of a day laborer! If I can only be free — if 
 I can only be free to be an artist! I could do it, 
 all of it, for two hundred dollars a year; and I 
 could win the battle, I know, if I had but three 
 years. I am desperate as I write to you — I look 
 ahead and I can see only ruin; and not ruin for 
 myself — I do not mind that — but ruin for my art ! 
 I can tell you what that means to me in but 
 one way — I ask you to read my book. I have 
 put all my soul into that book — I will stake my 
 all upon it. If you will only read it, you will see 
 what I mean — you will see why I have written 
 you this letter. You will see that it is not a beg- 
 i8o 
 
SEEKIl^G A PUBLISHER 
 
 gar's letter, but a high challenge from an artist's 
 soul." 
 
 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 manu- 
 script 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 pub- 
 lisher 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, help- 
 181 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AKTHUK STIELIXG 
 
 less. 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 suf- 
 fering and toiling humanity." 
 
 Isn't that a slap in the face for you? 
 182 
 
SEEKING A PUELISHEK 
 
 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, )'ou 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-daj-. Oh, my God, 
 what a thing this world is! What stupid, blind 
 brutahty, what hideous vulgarity! This man a 
 clergyman! And this is his faith, his nobility, his 
 understanding! 
 
 \A'hy, 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 — hunger- 
 ing for sympathy and kindness! And oh, my 
 soul ! — my God ! — you have beaten me and kicked 
 me as if I were a filthy cur! 
 
 Had I not offered up my heart for a sacrifice? 
 Had I not. burned it with fire? Had I not made 
 all m)- being one consecration? And all for men, 
 for men! For men I had torn myself — lashed 
 myself — ^killed myself — for men I had forgotten 
 what self was — yes, literally that — forgotten what 
 self was! So little self had I left that I was will- 
 
 183 
 
THE JOUEE'AL OF AETHUK STIELINQ 
 
 ing to ask favors! So much consecration had I, 
 so much trust, that I would beg! I had wept — 
 I had suffered — I had starved! I had dreamed 
 and sung, toiled until I set fire to my very brain! 
 And you have beaten me and kicked me as if I 
 were a filthy cur! 
 
 Those thoughts turn my whole soul into one 
 wild curse! Have done with laying bare your 
 heart to men, have done with telling your life 
 to men! Why should you go on trying to be a 
 poet, go on putting your secret soul into books, 
 to be spurned at by the rabble? Your soul is 
 your own — it is your God's — and what have the 
 rabble to do with it! And all its tenderness! all 
 its shrinking ecstasy! all its holiest consecration! 
 — You will take them out to sell them to the 
 rabble! 
 
 When will you get back into yourself, you 
 fool? When will you have learned your lesson, 
 and let this hellish world boot you out of its way 
 no more? Let ever any man know a gleam of 
 your heart again! — see one trace of your joy! 
 
 — And I came to it on my knees — to this 
 world — crouching, cringing, begging! Oh, oh! 
 — I scream it — Oh! 
 
 184 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 — And after that I sank down by the bed and 
 hid my face and sobbed: " Oh, Shelley! Oh, my 
 Shelley! " 
 
 December 3d. 
 
 — I saw myself a business man to-day, clearing 
 a path for myself! But it does not last — I am not 
 that kind of a man. My folly is my being — rest 
 assured that I shall climb back to the heights 
 again where I am willing to bear any insult. 
 
 But it will be a long time before I write any 
 more letters. I have come to understand the 
 world's point of view. 
 
 I suppose busy men get thousands of letters 
 from cranks; they will get no more from me. 
 
 December 5th. 
 
 I was reading an essay on Balzac to-day. I 
 read about Balzac's fondness for things; and I 
 put the book down and spent an hour of perplex- 
 ity. I fear I am a very narrow person in my sym- 
 pathies and understandings. Why should a man 
 care about things! About all sorts of houses and 
 furniture, and pictures, and clothes, and jewels! 
 
 I can understand a man's caring about love 
 and joy and aspiration. But things! I can 
 185 
 
THE JOUKN^AL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 understand a child's caring about things, or a 
 fool's caring; I see millions of such; but an art- 
 ist? A thinker? A man? 
 
 I am reading novels nowadays — reading all 
 sorts of things that entertain. I have not read a 
 poem for a long time, I have no interest in read- 
 ing unless I can go with it. 
 
 I have been studying some of the French 
 novelists — some of Maupassant yesterday. What 
 a strange creature is a Frenchman! A nervous, 
 hysterical, vain, diseased creature ! 
 
 " The Gallic disease! " Let that be a phrase. 
 
 The Gallic disease is this: to see only one 
 thing in life, to know only one purpose, to under- 
 stand only one pleasure; to have every road lead 
 to that, every thought, every phrase. To know 
 that every character in a book is thinking it; to 
 know that every man who is introduced is look- 
 ing for a woman ! And that as soon as he finds 
 her, they must forthwith — whatever be their age, 
 rank, character, and position at the moment — be- 
 gin to burn with unclean desires! 
 
 That is what one might call the convention of 
 1 86 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 French fiction. It gets very monotonous when 
 you are used to it; it takes all of the interest out 
 of the story. For there is but one ending to such 
 a story. 
 
 One's whole being is lowered by contact with 
 that incessant animal appeal. 
 
 December 8th. 
 
 I have discovered another trouble — as if I did 
 not have enough! I am to suffer from indiges- 
 tion! It plagues me continuously — I can not do 
 anything for an hour after a meal, no matter what 
 simplest thing I have eaten. 
 
 And so all through my life I am to be hin- 
 dered in my work by having to wrestle with this 
 handicap ! Just as if I had not been a clean man, 
 but some vulgar bon vivant. 
 
 December loth. 
 
 This is my fifth publisher. They said they 
 thought it would take two weeks, but it has been 
 three already, and they have not even answered 
 my letter of inquiry. I see you can put no reli- 
 ance on them in the matter of time. 
 
 December nth. 
 In two days more it will be three months since 
 I gave up my situation. I count my little hoard 
 187 
 
THE JOUEN-AL OF AKTHUE STIELINa 
 
 day by day, as a castaway might, or a besieged 
 garrison. I have begun to try to get along on 
 cheap foods again — (that is the reason of my in- 
 digestion). Yesterday I burned a mess of oat- 
 meal, and now I shall live on burned oatmeal for 
 I know not how long. I was cooking a large 
 quantity to save time. 
 
 I count my store. I have come the last 
 month on eleven dollars ! I have been doing my 
 own washing, and reading the newspapers at a 
 library. I buy nothing but food — chiefly bread 
 and milk and cereals. Why is it that everything 
 that is cheap has no taste? 
 
 Sometimes I am angry because I can not 
 have anything good to eat, but I only write my 
 dignified sentiments here. 
 
 I am getting down to the limit again; I sit 
 shuddering. I shall have to get some work 
 again; I can not bear to think of it! What shall 
 I do? If I go to that slavery again it will be the 
 death of my soul, for I have no hope, and I can 
 not fight as I did before. 
 
 And I can only try one or two publishers 
 more. Oh, take it! Take it! 
 1 88 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 December 14th. 
 
 I went down to see them to-day. The manu- 
 script mislaid — very sorry — had written readers 
 to examine it at once — expecting report any in- 
 stant — will write me — etc. 
 
 And so I walked home again. 
 
 Yes, elegant ladies and gentlemen, I am a 
 poor poet; and my overcoat is out at one elbow, 
 and I am sick. I look preoccupied, too; would 
 you like, perhaps, to know what is in my mind? 
 I will tell you five minutes of it to-day: 
 
 " Bang! Bang! Look out of the way there, 
 you fool ! — Use Casey's Corn Cure ! — Extry ! Ex- 
 try! Evening Slop-Bucket and Swill-Barrel, six 
 o'clock edition! — And it was at seventy-two and 
 the market — Cab! Cab! — Try Jones's Little 
 Five-cent Cigars! — Brown's Elite Tonsorial and 
 Shaving Parlors! — Have you seen Lucy Legs in 
 the High Kicker? The Daily Hullabaloo says — 
 Shine, boss? — But she wouldn't cut it on the bias, 
 because she thought — Read the Evening Slop- 
 Bucket! Five hundred million copies sold every 
 year! We rake all the mud-gutters and it only 
 costs you one cent! The Slop-Bucket is the pa- 
 189 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIKLING 
 
 per of the people! — Move along, young man, 
 don't block up the passage! Bang! Bang! 
 Hurry up there, if you want to get aboard — 
 Come along, my honey-baby girl ! (hand-organ) — 
 If you will try Superba Soap — Simpkins's Whis- 
 ky is all the rage! — Isaac Cohenstein's Cash 
 Clothing Store, Bargains in Gents' Fall Over- 
 coats! Look at these! Walk in, sir! Cash! 
 Cash! — The most elegant topaz brooches, with 
 little — Read the Daily Swill-Barrel! — Extry! 
 Extry! He Cut Her Throat with a Carving- 
 Knife! — Bang! Bang! — Toodles' Teething Sir- 
 up — Look at my elegant hat with the flamin- 
 go on it! — O'Reilly's Restaurant — walk in and 
 gorge yourself, if you can pay us. Walk in! — 
 Get out of the way there! — Have you read the 
 Pirate's Pledge! The Literary Sensation — Cash! 
 Cash! — Just come and see our wonderful dis- 
 play of newly imported — Smith and Robinson, 
 Diamonds and Jewelry, latest and most elegant — 
 Use Tompkins's Tooth Powder ! Use Tompkins's 
 Tooth Powder!! USE TOMPKINS'S— Read the 
 Evening Slop-Bucket! We rake all the mud- 
 gutters! — Murphy's Wines and Liquors — ^Try 
 Peerless Cocktails — Levy's High-Class Clothing 
 Emporium ! — Come in and buy something — any- 
 190 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 thing — we get down on our knees — ^we beg you ! 
 — Cab, sir? Cab! — Bargains! Bargains! — Cash! 
 Cash! — Yein, yein, yeiii!" 
 
 So it keeps up for hours! And I put my fin- 
 gers in my ears and run. 
 
 December 17th. 
 
 To-day I happened to read in one of the mag- 
 azines an article on a Hterary subject by a college 
 professor of some reputation. It was a fine piece 
 of work, I thought, very true ; and I got to think- 
 ing of him, wondering if he might not be the man. 
 
 I have no hope that these last publishers will 
 take the book, and so I made up my mind to 
 write to him. 
 
 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 let- 
 ter 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 
 191 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELrSTG 
 
 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 find- 
 ing 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 af- 
 ford outlet — not only for talent, but for medi- 
 ocrity as well. You are entirely mistaken in 
 your idea that literary excellence is not equiva- 
 lent to commercial availability. If you could 
 write one paragraph as noble as the average of 
 Dr. , or one stanza as excellent as the aver- 
 age 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 
 192 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 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 ar- 
 dor 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! 
 14 193 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AKTHUK STIRLINa 
 
 Oh my God, what shall I do? — tell me any- 
 thing, and I will do it! Give me a hope — ^any 
 hope — even a little one! 
 
 The last day I can stretch my miserable pit- 
 tance to is the first of February. 
 
 December 25th. 
 Christmas Day — and I have no news, ex- 
 cept that I am hungry, and that I am sitting in 
 my room with a blanket around me, and with a 
 miserable cold in my head. 
 
 It is the agony of an unheated room, an old 
 acquaintance of mine, that comes with each bit- 
 ter winter. I live in a house full of noisy people 
 and foul odors; and so I keep my door shut 
 while I try to read, and so my room is like a barn. 
 
 I could not accomplish an)rthing to-day — I 
 could not read. I felt like a little child. I wanted 
 nothing but to hide my head on some one's 
 shoulder and sob out all my misery. 
 
 I am nothing but a forlorn child, anyway, lost 
 in this great, cruel city. 
 
 — I am not much at pathos; but it was 
 Christmas night, and I had one kind of cold in my 
 head, and another kind in my feet. 
 194 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 December 27th. 
 
 I tell you that my salvation was my impa- 
 tience! My salvation was that I wasted not an 
 instant, that I fought — that I fought ! And each 
 hour that I am forced to submit — that I am 
 forced to endure and be still — that is an hour of 
 ruin! It was those fearful seven weeks that be- 
 gan it — and now I shall have to go back to that 
 again! Oh my God, how can I bear it? What 
 can I do? The pain of it heaps itself up in my 
 soul — I am desperate — I will go mad! Tell me 
 what to do! Tell me what to do ! 
 
 December 28th. 
 
 I had a strange adventure to-night, a long, 
 long adventure. I was free for once in my life! 
 Free and glorious — and delivered from earth! 
 It happened all in a dream; I sat crouching in the 
 corner, thinking. 
 
 I had been walking down the street during 
 the day and had seen a flower in a window, and 
 had been made happy for a minute, thinking of 
 last spring. My step had grown light, and I had 
 forgotten the street around me. But then I had 
 heard two little girls, sitting in a doorway, whis- 
 per excitedly: " Oh, look — he's laughing! " And 
 195 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 instantly all my soul had shrunk up, and my dream 
 had fled, and I had hurried past and turned the 
 corner. 
 
 Is it not a strange thing? I mused — this as I 
 sat by the window — that deep instinct of secrecy 
 — that cowardice! Why is it that I would die 
 before I would let any man see the life of my 
 soul? What are these people to me? I know 
 them not at all, and never shall. But I crouch 
 back — I put on a mask — yes, think of it, I even 
 give up the life of my soul, rather than that any 
 man should see me acting differently than him- 
 self! 
 
 Somehow all at once that thought took hold 
 of me with an overwhelming power — I saw the 
 truth as I had never seen it before in my life. I 
 saw how we live in society; and how social con- 
 vention and triviality have us in such a grasp 
 that it never even dawns upon us that the laws 
 it dictates are not eternal and necessary! " You 
 must be dignified, and calm, and commonplace," 
 say social convention and triviality. 
 
 — But I am not dignified — I am not calm! — ■ 
 I am not commonplace! 
 
 Well, then, you must seem so. You must 
 196 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 walk quietly; you must gaze around indifferently; 
 you must keep a vacant face; you must try to 
 look innocent of a thought. If you can't manage 
 that — if you really want to think — ^why then you 
 must flee away to the woods, where you are sure 
 no one will come upon you and find you out. 
 And if you can't do that — why then there's noth- 
 ing for you to do but give up thinking, give up 
 living, become like everybody else! 
 
 That idea shook me all of a sudden, it made 
 me quite wild — it made me dig my nails into my 
 hands. It was the truth — I saw that — it was the 
 truth! Here I was, a miserable, pining, starving 
 wretch — and for no reason in the world but that 
 I was a coward, but that I was a coward — a blind 
 fool! Because I had not let the empty-headed 
 and sodden, the placid and smug, the fat and 
 greasy citizens of our great metropolis, tell me — 
 the servant of the muses — how I ought to look, 
 how I ought to act, what I ought to be! The 
 very breath of my body is prayer — is effort — is 
 vision; to dwell in my own light, to behold my 
 own soul, to know my own truth — that is my one 
 business in this world! To assert my own force 
 — to be what I like — that is my duty, that is my 
 197 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIKLIXG 
 
 hope, my one hope in all the world! And I do 
 not, I can not, I dare not do it! I am sick and 
 starved and dying, and I crouch in corners while 
 I pray for help, and if a gleam of sunshine comes 
 from a flower to me, it goes because a child sees 
 me laughing! 
 
 I sat burning with the rage of that, ^^'hat am 
 I to do? I cried. How is it to be changed? Shall 
 I live my life in spite of all men? 
 
 And then I heard one of my devils — my 
 commonplace devil — say, " But people would 
 think you were crazy! " 
 
 " What do I care what people think? " I 
 burst out. 
 
 Then came another of my devils — my face- 
 tious devil — and he made me laugh. " By all 
 means," said he, " let us get together a few 
 eager poets, and establish a Society for the Prop- 
 agation of Lunacy. Let us break down these 
 conventions and confound the eyes of the fat and 
 greasy citizens, and win freedom for our souls at 
 any price. Let us wear strange clothes, and re- 
 cite our poetry upon the streets. Let us " 
 
 But I was not in a mood for my facetious 
 devil — I flung him aside and sprang up and fled 
 out to the street (this in thought, of course). 
 198 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 What do I need with others? I exclaimed — with 
 others to help me dare? This has to do with me! 
 And it has to do with me now — with this mo- 
 ment ! Am I to give up and let myself go down 
 for such a phantom as this! For such a dread as 
 that wooden-headed men and women will think 
 me " queer " ! Am I to stay in a prison such as 
 that — to be bound by a chain such as thatf I 
 — I, who go about trying to persuade myself 
 that this world is nothing to me — that this world 
 is nothing to any one — that it is a phantom — that 
 the soul is truth! When I say that the soul is 
 truth, do I mean it? Do I mean it? And if I do 
 mean it, will I act by it — will I act by it now — 
 now, while I see it? Will I fling off this night- 
 mare, will I tear my way through these wrappings 
 that have choked me? Will I say, once and for 
 all time, that I will be myself — ^that I will live my 
 life — ^and that no man shall stop me — that no man 
 shall make me afraid? Will I take the battle upon 
 me and win it — win it now — fling off the last 
 rag of it — put the world straight behind me — 
 now — heref Spread the wings of my soul and 
 take my flight into the far spaces of myself! And 
 dwell there — stay there — ^hold to the task and 
 give it not up though it kill me — now — now! 
 199 
 
THE JOUEITAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 These thoughts took hold of me — they made 
 my brain reel — and I cried aloud in excitement. 
 I had not been so much awake since the day I 
 came out of the woods! I said the word — I said 
 it — the mad word that I had not heard for six 
 long months — that I had not heard since I wrote 
 the last lines of my poem and came back to 
 the haunts of men. And I clinched my hands, 
 and stamped upon the ground, and shouted: 
 " Come on! Come on! " — to the legions of my 
 spirit. And it was like the taking flight of a 
 great swarm of birds within me — a rushing of 
 wings and a surging upward, a singing for joy 
 as of a symphony. And there was singing in my 
 soul, the surge of it caught me — and I waved 
 my arms and went striding on, shouting still, 
 " Come on! Come on! 
 
 " Now! now! We will have it out with them 
 — here — here! We will fight our fight and win 
 it, and they shall not turn us back — no, by God, 
 they shall not! And they may take it as they 
 please — my soul is free — free once again ! Away ! 
 Away! " 
 
 And I felt the breeze of the mountains about 
 me, and heard the rushing of the storm-wind and 
 the trampling of the thunder. There awoke the 
 200 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 old rush in my heart, the old Valkyrie music that 
 flies over the forests and mountains. And I 
 laughed as I sang it; I heard the war-horses 
 neighing, and yelled to them — faster and faster 
 — higher and higher — away from earth and all 
 men! — 
 
 And then suddenly I felt some one seize 
 me by the shoulder and shake me, and heard 
 a gruff voice say: "Here! Here! What's 
 the matter with you? " And I stared, half- 
 dazed. It was a big policeman, and around 
 me I saw a sea of staring faces, wild-eyed 
 children, women gazing in fright, boys jeer- 
 ing; and the windows were filled with yet an- 
 other crowd! 
 
 " What's the matter with you? " demanded 
 the policeman again. " Are you drunk, or 
 crazy! " 
 
 And then I realized. But the fire was still 
 blazing in me, and a wild rage whirled over me. 
 " Then it is by this that I am to be stopped!" I 
 gasped. " By this! It is not possible after all, 
 it seems; and I'm to be dragged back after all! — 
 By Heaven, we'll see! " 
 
 And so I gave the cry again — the cry of the 
 
 20I 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELmG 
 
 Valkyrs that is madness to me! Do you not 
 hear it? — and I was away again and free! 
 
 What does a man want for his soul, if it be 
 not just to strive, and to be resisted, and still 
 to strive? What difference makes anything else 
 — time, place or conditions? I was myself again 
 — ^and what else did I care about? I felt the 
 policeman take me by the collar and march me 
 down the street; but I hardly knew that — I was 
 on the mountains, and I laughed and sang. The 
 very hatefulness of what was about me was my 
 desperation — I would make head against such 
 things or I would die in the attempt! I would 
 be free! — I would live! I would live my life; and 
 not the life of these people about me! I would 
 fight and win, I would hold fast my heart, I 
 would be true though the heavens fell! I would 
 have it out, then and there, as I said — I would 
 not come back to earth until I was master of 
 myself. 
 
 And so when I stood in the station-house 
 and the sergeant asked me my name, I said: 
 " Desire is my name, and the soul is my home! " 
 And then because they shook me and worried me, 
 I stretched forth my arms and cried out: " O 
 God, my Father — ^thou who art my help and my 
 202 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 life — thou soul of my soul — shall I go back for 
 these things? — Shall I fear for these things? No, 
 no — while I have life I will not! I will live for the 
 truth, I will be crushed no longer! " 
 
 They led me to a cell, and when I heard the 
 door shut I laughed like a madman for joy. 
 And then — ah, then — ^who can tell it? They 
 came — all my angels and all my demons! AH 
 my muses and all my nymphs! And the bases 
 of the earth rocked and the heavens danced and 
 sang; and I mounted on the wings of the ages, 
 and saw the joys of the systems and the dancing 
 of the young suns. Until I could bear it no 
 more, and fell down and sobbed, and cried out to 
 my soul that it was enough, enough! 
 
 — ^And afterward I sat there on the stone 
 floor, and ate bread and water and ambrosial 
 peace ; and a doctor came in to see me, and asked 
 me who I was. And I laughed — oh, who ever 
 laughed like that? And I said, " I ant the author 
 of The Captive! " 
 
 He left me and I sat there, shaking my head 
 
 and pounding the stone floor for joy. And I sang 
 
 again, and sang again. Yes, the author of The 
 
 Captive! And captive myself, and free at last! 
 
 203 
 
THE JOUEl^AL OF AKTHUE STIRLING 
 
 It was far into the night when I stopped sing- 
 ing; and then I lay down and never before had 
 I known such peace; for I had found the way — I 
 had seen the hght — I was deHvered from all fear 
 and dulness for the rest of my days! I was so 
 excited I could not sleep — when I fell asleep 
 at last it was from sheer exhaustion. 
 
 And when they roused me the next morning 
 I bounded to my feet like a shot, and shouted to 
 my soul, and was up and away through the forest 
 like a startled deer again! They tried their very 
 best to catch me, but they could not. I had not 
 lived in the woods for nothing, I knew the paths, 
 I knew where the mountains were. And when 
 they thought they had me in court, I was on the 
 very summits — and laughing and drunk with the 
 mountain air! 
 
 I have a keen sense of humor, — and of course 
 I am never so drunk that I do not know I'm 
 drunk, and know just what I'm drunk about — 
 else how could I write poems about it? Do 
 you think that when Shakespeare cried out his 
 " Blow ye winds and crack your cheeks! " he did 
 not know just what he was saying? Ah! — And 
 when I saw all these queer little men about me, 
 staring and wondering — and so solemn! — I 
 204 
 
SEEKIIfG A PUBLISHER 
 
 laughed the inextinguishable laughter of Olym- 
 pus, and shouted so that they dragged me out of 
 court in a hurry. 
 
 And then there came the end! They took me 
 to the insane asylum, and I sat down on the floor 
 of a cell and gazed at myself in amazement and 
 panted: So there is a way you can live, after all! 
 There is a way you can make them support you ! 
 There is a way you can do all your work in peace, 
 and worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness! 
 I could scarcely believe it all — it took half an 
 hour for me to realize it. And then I shouted 
 that I was saved! — and fell to work at shaping 
 that mad Song of the West Wind I had been 
 so full of. 
 
 And then suddenly I heard a muffled voice 
 say: " What in the dickens are you making all 
 that rumpus for? " And I stared about me and 
 saw that I was still crouching by the window in 
 my room! And I shrank back and quivered 
 with rage, because I knew that I had been mak- 
 ing a noise and that some one out in the hall had 
 been listening to me! 
 
 And that was the end of my long adventure. 
 20; 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AETHUK STIRLIXG 
 
 December 30th. 
 
 " I am pleased to be able to teU 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 van.- consider- 
 able literary gifts. The work is clearly made 
 whole of sincerity; it shows a considerable com- 
 mand of expression, and a considerable under- 
 standing of style. It has qualities of imagina- 
 tion 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 ver\- narrow in the range of its 
 appeal; you can not in the least blame the pub- 
 lishers for declining it, because it is true that very 
 few people would care for it. IMy owti 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 ad%'ice to you is just what it was before 
 — ^that you go out into the world and become ac- 
 quainted with Ufe. Not knowing you personally, 
 I could not coimsel you definitely, but I should 
 think that what would benefit you most would be 
 206 
 
SEEKIXG A PUBLISHER 
 
 a good stiff course in plain, every-day newspaper 
 reporting. Newspaper reporters have many de- 
 ficiencies, 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 as- 
 ininity 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 ideal- 
 ist, 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! 
 207 
 
THE JOUEJSTAL OF AKTHUK STIELESTG 
 
 And New Year's day — my soul, if I had fore- 
 seen 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 common- 
 place 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 lis- 
 ten 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 monoto- 
 nous! Some men find nature monotonous. And 
 some men find music monotonous. 
 
 January 5th. 
 
 Two days ago I was reading Menschen und 
 Werke, by Georg Brandes. I was glancing over 
 an essay on Friedrich Nietzsche, and I came upon 
 some things that made my heart throb: — 
 
 "This man [Nietzsche's ideal] takes willingly 
 upon himself the sorrow of speaking the truth. 
 His chief thought is this: A happy life is an im- 
 possibility; the highest that man can attain is a 
 208 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 heroic life, a life in which, amid the greatest dif- 
 ficulties, something is striven for which, in one 
 way or other, proves for the good of all. To 
 what is truly human only the true men can lift us, 
 those who seem to have come into being through 
 a leap of nature, the thinkers and discoverers, the 
 artists and producers, and those who achieve 
 more through their being than their doing; the 
 noble, the good in a great sense, those in whom 
 the genius of the good works. These men are the 
 goal of history. Nietzsche formulates the sen- 
 tence ' Humanity shall labor continually at this, 
 to beget solitary great men — and this and noth- 
 ing else is its task.' — 
 
 " Here Nietzsche has reached the final answer 
 to his question ' What is Culture? ' For upon 
 this rest the fundamental principles of Culture, 
 and the duties which it imposes. It lays upon me 
 the duty to place myself actively in relation to the 
 great human ideals. Its chief thought is this: 
 To every one who will look for it and partake of 
 it, it sets the task; to labor in himself and outside 
 of himself at the begetting of the thinker and the 
 artist, the truth-loving and the beauty-loving 
 man, the pure and good personality — and there- 
 with at the fulfilment of nature. . . . 
 15 209 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIKLMG 
 
 " In our day a so-called Culture institution 
 signifies only too often an arrangement by which 
 the cultured, moving in closed ranks, force to 
 one side all those solitary and contrary ones 
 whose striving is directed to higher things. Also 
 among the learned there is so far lacking, as a 
 rule, all sense for the genius that is coming into 
 being, and every feeling for the work of the con- 
 temporary and struggling soul. Therefore, in 
 spite of the irresistible and restless advance in all 
 technical and specialized fields, the conditions 
 for the originating of the great are so little im- 
 proved that the opposition to the highly gifted 
 has rather increase4 than diminished. 
 
 " From the government the superior indi- 
 viduals can not expect much. It helps them 
 rarely when it takes them into its service, very 
 certainly it will help them only when it gives 
 them full independence. Only true Culture can 
 prevent their early becoming weary or ex- 
 hausted, and protect them from the exaspera- 
 ting battle with Culture-philistinism." 
 
 Those words made my blood tingle, they 
 made me tremble. Alone, miserable, helpless — 
 here was a voice at last, a friend! I dropped the 
 
 210 
 
SEEKCSTG A PUBLISHER 
 
 book and I went to the library, and I was back 
 with " Also sprach Zarathustra " in an hour. 
 
 I have been reading it for two days — reading 
 it in a state of excitement, forgetting everything. 
 Here is a man! — Here is a man! The first night 
 that I read it I kicked my heels together and 
 laughed aloud in glee, like a child. Oh, it was so 
 fine ! And to find things like this already written, 
 and in the world! Great heavens, it was like find- 
 ing a gold mine underneath my feet; and I have 
 forgotten all my troubles again, forgotten every- 
 thing! I have found a man who understands me, 
 a man to be my friend ! 
 
 I do not know what the name Friedrich Nietz- 
 sche conveys to the average cultured American. 
 I can only judge by my own case — I have kept 
 pace with our literary movements and I have 
 read the standard journals and reviews; but I 
 have never come upon even a reference to 
 Friedrich Nietzsche, except as a byword and a 
 jest. 
 
 I had rather live my own life than any other 
 man's life. My own vision is my home. But 
 
 211 
 
THE JOURNAL OF ARTHUR STIRLING 
 
 every great man's inspiration is a challenge, and 
 until you have mastered it you can not go on. 
 
 I speak not of poets, nor of philosophers, but 
 of religious teachers, of prophets; and I speak 
 but my opinion — let every man form his own. I 
 say that I have read all those that men honor, and 
 that a greater prophet than this man has not 
 come upon the earth in centuries. I think of 
 Emerson and Carlyle as the religious teachers, 
 the prophets, of this time; and beside this 
 mighty spirit Emerson is a child and Carlyle a 
 man without a faith or an idea. I call him the 
 John Baptist of the new Dispensation, the first 
 high priest of the Rehgion of Evolution; and I 
 bid the truth-seeker read well his Bible, for in it 
 lies the future of mankind for ages upon ages to 
 come. 
 
 Half that I love in my soul's life I owe to the 
 prophet of Nazareth. The other half I owe, — 
 not to Nietzsche, but to the new Dispensation 
 of which he is a priest. Nietzsche will stand 
 alone; but he is nevertheless the child of his age 
 — he sings what thousands feel. 
 
 It is a disadvantage to be the first man. If 
 
 212 
 
SEEKDfG A PUBLISHER 
 
 you are the first man you see but half-truths and 
 you hate your enemies. When you seek truth, 
 truly, all systems and all faiths of men — they are 
 beautiful to you — bom of sorrow, and hallowed 
 with love; but they will not satisfy you, and 
 you put them by. You do not let them influence 
 you one way or the other; you can no more find 
 truth while you are bound to them by hatred than 
 while you are bound to them by love. There are 
 dreary places in " Also sprach Zarathustra," nar- 
 rownesses and weaknesses too; they come when- 
 ever the writer is thinking of the evils of the hour, 
 whenever he is gazing, not on the vision of his 
 soul, but on the half-truths of the men about 
 him. 
 
 When I speak of Christ let no man think of 
 Christianity. I speak of a prince of the soul, the 
 boldest, the freest, the noblest of men that I 
 know. With the thousand systems that mankind 
 has made in his memory, I have simply nothing 
 in any way to do. 
 
 To me all morality is one. Morality is hunger 
 and thirst after righteousness. Morality is a qual- 
 ity of will. The differences that there are be- 
 213 
 
THE JOUEIsTAL OF AETHUK STIKLING 
 
 tween Christ and Nietzsche are differences of the 
 intellect — where no man is final. 
 
 The doctrine of each is a doctrine of sacrifice; 
 with one it is a sacrifice of love, with the other it 
 is a sacrifice of labor. For myself, I care not for 
 the half-truths of any man. I said to my soul, 
 " Shall I cast out love for labor? " And my soul 
 replied, " For what wilt thou labor but love? " 
 
 Moral sublimity lies in the escape from self. 
 The doctrine of Christ is a negation of life, that of 
 Nietzsche an aifirmation; it seems to me much 
 easier to attain to sublimity with the former. 
 
 It is easier to die for righteousness than to 
 live for, it. If you are to die, you have but to fix 
 your eyes upon your vision, and see that you do 
 not take them away. But the man who will live 
 for righteousness — he must plant and reap, must 
 gather fire- wood and establish a police-force; 
 and to do these things nobly is not easy; to do 
 them sublimely seems hardly possible at all. 
 
 Twenty centuries ago the Jewish world was 
 
 a little plain, and God a loving Father. He held 
 
 you in his arms, he spoke to you in every dream, 
 
 in every fantasy, in every accident. Life was 
 
 214 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 very short — ^but a little trial — you had only to be 
 patient, and nothing mattered. Society did not 
 exist — only your neighbor existed. Knowledge 
 did not exist, nor was it needed — the world was 
 to end — perhaps to-night — and what difference 
 made all the rest? You took no heed for the 
 morrow — for would not your Father send you 
 bread? You resisted not evil — for if you died, 
 was not that all that you could ask? 
 
 It was with such a sweet and simple faith as 
 this that the victory of Jesus Christ was won. 
 These were his ideas, and as the soul was all-con- 
 suming with him, he lived by them and died by 
 them, and stands as the symbol of faith. 
 
 And now twenty centuries have gone by. 
 And a new teacher has come to whom also the 
 soul is all-consuming. What ideas has hel And 
 what task does he face? 
 
 I speak not to children. I speak to men seek- 
 ing truth. 
 
 In twenty centuries we have learned that God 
 is not a Father who answers prayers and works 
 miracles and holds out his arms at the goal. We 
 have come shuddering to the awful mystery of 
 
 215 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AKTHUE STIELEsG 
 
 being; strange and terrible words have been 
 spoken — words never to be forgotten — " phe- 
 nomenon," and " thing-in-itself "; not knowing 
 what these words mean, you are ignorant and rec- 
 reant to the truth; knozi'ing what they mean, 
 you tug no more at the veil. Also we have 
 learned that time and change are our portion, 
 " the plastic dance of circumstance "; we talk no 
 more of immortality. A\'e have turned our hopes 
 to the new birth of time, to the new goal of our 
 labor, the new parent of our love, that we name 
 Society. 
 
 And likewise Evolution has come, which is 
 the whole of knowledge. And we have learned 
 of starry systems, of the building of worlds, of 
 the pageant of histon,- and the march of mind. 
 Out of all these things has come a new duty, 
 which is not peace, but battle — which is not pa- 
 tience, but will — which is not death, but life. 
 
 There is no room in the world of Evolution 
 for the doctrine of non-resistance to evil. Non- 
 resistance to evil is the negation of life, and the 
 negation of life is the negation of faith. How 
 shall you resist not evil when life is action and 
 not passion? When not a morsel of food can you 
 216 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 touch except by the right that jou are more fit- 
 ted to sur\'ive than that morsel? How when you 
 know that you rose from the beast by resistance? 
 And that }ou stay above the beast by resistance? 
 Will you give up the farm land to be jungle 
 again? Or will you teach the beasts your non- 
 resistance? And the trees of the forest to crowd 
 no more your land! 
 
 It is no longer possible to build a heaven 
 and reject the earth. Such as life is you have to 
 take it. 
 
 And you have to live it. The huge machin- 
 ery of Society is on your hands, with all its infinite 
 complications, its infinite possibilities of beauty 
 and joy. Your life is, as ever, a sacrifice: all life 
 is, as ever, a sacrifice; but it is a sacrifice to man 
 — a sacrifice to the best. Once your task was self- 
 abnegation, and that was easy; now it is self-as- 
 sertion, and that is hard. Knowing what you 
 are, you will dare to live, not for your own sake, 
 but that strength and beauty may be in the world. 
 Knowing what you might be, you choose infinite 
 toil for your portion, and in the humility of toil 
 you find your holiest peace. Your enemy you 
 resist with all your soul, not for hatred of your 
 217 
 
TPIE JOUKl^AL OF AUTHUK STIELmG 
 
 enemy, but for love of the right. If he were not 
 evil he could not be your enemy; and being evil, 
 he has no right to be. Your conscience to you is 
 no longer a shame, but a joy; you think no more 
 of infinite sin, but of infinite virtue. — ^And for the 
 rest, you do not attain perfection, and you are not 
 worshiped as a god; you are much troubled by 
 trivialities, and the battle tries your soul. But 
 you make no truce with lies, and you never lay 
 down your sword; you keep your eyes upon a 
 far goal, and you leave the world better than 
 you found it. When you come to die you have 
 no fear, but a song; for you are master of your- 
 self, and you have learned to know that which 
 you are. 
 
 — And there is only to add — ^that whether you 
 believe these things or not, they are what you 
 actually do. It seems to me not desirable that 
 one's belief should be less than one's practise. 
 
 January 6th. 
 Has any one, at this end of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury, a clear idea of what the poets of the ages 
 called Inspiration? If no one have, I will describe 
 it. With the least remainder of superstition in 
 218 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 him a man would scarcely be able to put aside 
 the idea that he was merely the Incarnation, the 
 mouthpiece, the medium of overwhelming pow- 
 ers. The idea of Revelation in the mind de- 
 scribes exactly the state of affairs — ^that suddenly, 
 ^•ith unspeakable certaint}- and fineness, some- 
 thing became visible and audible, something that 
 shakes and pervades one to the depths. One 
 hears — he does not seek; he takes — ^he does 
 not ask who gives: like Ughtning gleams out a 
 thought, of necessity, formed without hesitation 
 — I have never had a choice. An ecstasy, whose 
 colossal strain breaks in the middle ^ith a stream 
 of tears, in the coiu^e of which the step becomes, 
 involuntan,-, now raging, now slow; a state in 
 which one is completely beside himself, with the 
 distinctest consciousness of countless shudder- 
 ings and quiverings, even to the toes of his feet; 
 a depth of joy in which all that is painful and som- 
 ber ser\'es, not as a contrast, but as conditioned, 
 as demanded, as a necessary color in such an over- 
 flow of light; an instinct of rhythmic relations 
 which overleaps vast spaces of forms; all happen- 
 ing in the highest degree involuntarily, but as if 
 in a storm of sensations of freedom, of infinity-, of 
 power, of divinity. — ^This is my experience of In- 
 219 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELmG 
 
 spiration; I doubt not but that one must needs 
 go back thousands of years to find one who might 
 say, " It is also mine." 
 
 Do you think that / wrote that — I, Arthur 
 Stirling? No, I did not write that. The man 
 who wrote that is known to you as an atheist. 
 
 January 7th. 
 
 When Zarathustra came into the next city, 
 which lay beside the forest, he found in that place 
 much people gathered together in the market; 
 for they had been called that they should see a 
 rope-dancer. And Zarathustra spoke thus unto 
 the people: 
 
 " / teach ye the Over-man. The man is some- 
 thing who shall be overcome. What have ye 
 done to overcome him? 
 
 " All being before this made something be- 
 yond itself: and you will be the ebb of this great 
 flood, and rather go back to the beast than over- 
 come the man? 
 
 " What is the ape to the man? A mockery 
 or a painful shame. And even so shall man be to 
 the Over-man: a mockery or a painful shame. 
 
 " Man is a cord, tied between Beast and 
 Over-man — a cord above an abyss. 
 220 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 " A perilous arriving, a perilous traveling, a 
 perilous looking backward, a perilous trembling 
 and standing still. 
 
 " What is great in man is that he is a bridge, 
 and no goal; what can be loved in man is that 
 he is a going-over and a going-under. 
 
 " I love them that know not how to live, be 
 it even as those going under, for such are those 
 going across. 
 
 " I love them that are great in scorn, because 
 these are they that are great in reverence, and 
 arrows of longing toward the other shore! " 
 
 And here ended the first speech of Zara- 
 thustra. 
 
 " The air thin and clear, the danger nigh, 
 and the spirit filled with a joyful mischief; these 
 things go well together. 
 
 " I will have gnomes about me, for I am 
 merry. . . . 
 
 " I feel no more with you; these clouds which 
 I see under me, these clouds black and heavy 
 over which I laugh — ^just these are your storm- 
 clouds. 
 
 " You gaze upward if you long for exalta- 
 tion. I gaze downward because I am exalted. 
 
 221 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIRLING 
 
 " Who among you can both laugh and be 
 exalted? 
 
 " Who climbs upon the highest mountains, 
 he laughs at all sorrow-play and sorrow-reality. 
 
 " Bold, untroubled, mocking, full of power 
 — so will wisdom have us; she is a woman and 
 loves always but the warrior. 
 
 " You say to me: ' Life is hard to bear.' But 
 for what had you your pride in the morning, 
 and in the evening your submission? . . . 
 
 " I would believe only in a god who knew 
 how to dance. 
 
 " And when I saw my devil, I found him 
 earnest, profound, deep, solemn; he was the 
 Spirit of Heaviness — through him fail all things. 
 
 " Not by anger, but by laughing, one kills. 
 Up, let us kill the Spirit of Heaviness! . . . 
 
 " Free dost thou call thyself? Thy ruling 
 thoughts will I hear, and not that thou hast es- 
 caped a yoke. 
 
 " Art thou such a one that can escape a 
 yoke? 
 
 " Free from what? What is that to Zarathus- 
 tra! Clear shall your eye tell me: free to what? 
 
 " Canst thou give to thyself thy good and 
 
 222 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 thine evil, and hang thy will above thee as thy 
 law? Canst thou be thine own judge, and 
 avenger of thy law? 
 
 " Fearful it is to be alone with the judge and 
 the avenger of thy law. So is a stone flung out 
 into empty space and into the icy breath of iso- 
 lation. — 
 
 " Dost thou know truly, my brother, the 
 word scorn? And the pain of thy righteousness, 
 to be just that which thou dost scorn? . . . 
 
 " As I lay in sleep a sheep ate up the ivy 
 crown of my head — ate and then said : ' Zara- 
 thustra is no more a scholar.' 
 
 " Said it and went strutting away, and 
 proud. A child told it to me. . . . 
 
 " This is the truth. I am gone out of the 
 house of the scholars, and have slammed to the 
 door behind me. . . . 
 
 " I am too hot, and burning with my own 
 thoughts; oft will it take away my breath. I 
 must into the open and out of all dusty rooms. 
 
 " But they sit cool in cool shadows; they 
 wish in all things to be but spectators, and 
 guard themselves lest they sit where the sun 
 burns the steps. 
 
 223 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIRLING 
 
 " Like those who stand upon the street and 
 stare at the people who go by; so they wait also 
 and stare at the thoughts that others have 
 thought. 
 
 " If one touches them with the hands, they 
 make dust around them like meal-sacks, and in- 
 voluntarily; but who could guess that their dust 
 comes from corn and the golden rapture of the sum- 
 mer fields? 
 
 " Too far away into the future I flew; a hor- 
 ror overcame me. And as I looked around me, 
 there was Time my only companion. 
 
 " Then I flew backward, homeward — and 
 ever faster: so I came to you, men of the present, 
 and to the Land of Culture. 
 
 " For the first time I brought an eye for you, 
 and good wishes; truly, with longing in my heart 
 I came. 
 
 " And what happened to me? Frightened 
 as I was — I had to laugh. Never had my eyes 
 seen anything so color-besprinkled! 
 
 " I laughed and laughed while my foot still 
 trembled, and my heart too: ' Here is the home 
 of all paint-pots!' said I. 
 
 " Painted over with fifty spots in face and 
 224 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 limbs; so sat ye there, to my amazement, ye 
 men of the present ! . . . 
 
 " Written all over with the signs of the past, 
 and also these signs painted over with new signs; 
 so you have hidden yourself well from all sign- 
 readers! . . . 
 
 " All Times and Principles look piebald out 
 of your coverings; all Customs and Faiths speak 
 piebald out of your features. . . . 
 
 " How could ye believe, ye color-besprinkled ! 
 — who are pictures of everything that ever was 
 beheved! . . . 
 
 " Ah, whither shall I go now with my long- 
 ing? " 
 
 " Who are pictures of everything that ever 
 was believed! Who are pictures of everything 
 that ever was believed!" I read that and I 
 slapped my knees and I lay back and laughed 
 like a very Falstaff. " Pictures of everything 
 that ever was believed!" Ho, ho, ho! 
 
 — That is some of Nietzsche! 
 
 January 8th. 
 To-day it snowed hard, and it occurred to 
 me that I might add to my money. I bought a 
 i6 225 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 second-hand shovel and went out to shovel snow^. 
 It is not so bad, I said, you are out of doors, and 
 also you can think of Nietzsche. 
 
 I made a dollar and a half, but I fear I did not 
 think very much. My hands were cold, for one 
 thing, and my shoes thin, for another. 
 
 There is nothing that brings me down like 
 physical toil. It is madness to believe that you 
 can do anything else — you drudge and drudge, 
 and your mind is an absolute blank while you do 
 it. It is a thing that sets me wild with nervous- 
 ness and impatience. I hate it! I hate it! 
 
 And I find myself crying out and protesting 
 against it; and then I see other men not minding 
 it, and I hear the words of my dear clergyman 
 friend: " The labor which all of us have to share." 
 So I say to myself: Perhaps I am really an idler 
 then! A poor unhappy fool that can not face 
 life's sternness, that is crying out to escape his 
 duty! 
 
 That I could say such a thing — O God, 
 what sign is that of how far I have fallen! Of 
 how much I have yielded! — 
 
 A vapor, heavy, hueless, formless, cold ! 
 Leave it to time! Leave it to time! 
 226 
 
SEEKIXG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 — I hear that, and I hear around me the 
 laughter of mocking demons. It startles my soul 
 — but no longer to rage as it used to. I sit and 
 stare at it with a great, heavy numbness possess- 
 ing me. 
 
 January 12th. 
 I am still reading Nietzsche. I think I shall 
 read all that he has written. I am always kept 
 aware of the limitations, but he is a tremendous 
 man. Can you guess how this took hold of 
 me? — 
 
 THE GRAVE-SONG 
 
 " There lies the island of graves, the silent; 
 there are also the graves of my youth. Thither 
 will I carry an evergreen wreath of life." 
 
 Thus resolving in my heart, I went over the 
 sea. — 
 
 Oh ye visions and apparitions of my youth! 
 Oh all ye glances of love, ye godlike moments! 
 How swiftly you died in me! I remember you 
 to-day as my dead. 
 
 From you, my dearest dead, there comes to 
 me a sweet odor, heart-melting, tear-melting. 
 Truly it shakes and melts the heart of the lonely 
 seaman. 
 
 227 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUE STIELIISTG 
 
 Still am I the richest and the most to be en- 
 vied — I, the most lonely. For I had you, and 
 you have me still; say, to whom fell, as to me, 
 such rose-apples from the trees? . . . 
 
 Me to kill, they strangled you, you song-birds 
 of my hopes. Yea, at you, the dearest, shot wick- 
 edness its arrows — to strike my heart! . . . 
 
 This word will I speak to my enemies: 
 " What is all murder of man beside that which 
 ye did to me? " 
 
 Thus, in the good hour, spake my purity: 
 " Godlike shall all being be to me." 
 
 Then ye fell upon me with your foul spirits; 
 ah, whither now hath the good hour fled? 
 
 " All days shall be holy to me " — so spake 
 once the wisdom of my youth; truly the speech 
 of a happy wisdom. 
 
 But then you enemies stole away my nights 
 and sold them to sleepless torment; ah, whither 
 now hath the happy wisdom fled? . . . 
 
 As a blind man once I went a blissful way; 
 then you threw rubbish in the blind man's way; 
 and now he is weary of the old blind ascend- 
 ings. . . . 
 
 And once would I dance as never had I 
 danced before; above all the heavens away would 
 228 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 I dance. And then you lured away my dearest 
 singer! . . . 
 
 Only in the dance can I speak metaphors of 
 the highest things: — and now my highest meta- 
 phor remained unspoken in my limbs! 
 
 Unspoken and undelivered remained my 
 highest hope! And there died all the visions and 
 solaces of my youth! 
 
 That thing brought the tears down my 
 cheeks. It is what my soul has cried all day and 
 all night — that I see all my joy and all my beauty 
 going! 
 
 It is the fearful, the agonizing waiting that 
 does it. I know it — I put it down — there is noth- 
 ing kills the soul in a man so much as that. When 
 you wait your life is outside of yourself; you 
 hope, — you are at the mercy of others — at the 
 mercy of indifference and accident and God 
 knows what. 
 
 But again I cry, "What can I do? If 
 there is anything I have not done — tell me! 
 Tell me!" 
 
 Here I sit, and I have but seven dollars left to 
 my name, including what I made by the shovel- 
 ing. And I sit and watch the day creep on me 
 229 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 like a wild beast on its prey — the day when I must 
 go back into the world and toil again! Oh, it 
 will kill me — it will kill me ! 
 
 I sit and wait and hang upon the faint 
 chance of one publisher more. It is my only 
 chance, — and such a chance! I find myself 
 calculating, wondering; yes, famous books 
 have been rejected often, and still found 
 their mark. Can I still believe that this book 
 will shake men? 
 
 Ah, God, in my soul I do not believe it, be- 
 cause I have lost my inspiration ! I have let go of 
 that fire that was to drive like a wind-storm over 
 the world. 
 
 Yes, I ask myself if such things can be! I ask 
 myself if they were real, all those fervors and all 
 that boldness of mine! If it was natural, that way 
 that Hived! 
 
 — Oh, and then I look back, and my heart 
 grows sick within me. 
 
 So I spend my time, and when I turn and try 
 to lose myself in Nietzsche, his mercilessness 
 flings me into new despair. 
 230 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 January i8th. 
 
 I have the terrible gift of insensibihty; and 
 I think my insensibility torments me more than 
 anything else in the world. 
 
 I have no life, no power, no feeling, natu- 
 rally — it is all my will, it is all effort. And now 
 that I am not striving, I sink back into a state of 
 numbness, of dull, insensible despair. I no longer 
 feel anything, I no longer care about anything. 
 I pass my time in helpless impotence — and day 
 by day I watch a thing creeping upon me as in 
 a nightmare. I must go out into the world again 
 and slave for my bread ! 
 
 — Oh, then I will feel something, I think! 
 
 Another week and more is gone, and I have 
 but a little over four dollars. 
 
 January 20th. 
 
 I have stopped reading Nietzsche. I could 
 not stand any more of it. It does not satisfy me. 
 
 It is not merely that I am so weak now, and 
 that his mocking goads me. I would have been 
 through with him in any case. He is so narrow 
 — so one-sided. 
 
 It is reaction from the present, of course, that 
 accounts for it. Too much gazing upon the 
 231 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUK STIRLING 
 
 world, that has led him to believe that love of 
 man necessarily implies compromise. 
 
 There are two words that are absent from his 
 writings — they are love and humanity; and so it 
 never satisfies you, you are always discontented, 
 you have always to correct and supply. 
 
 January 22d. 
 
 Oh why do those publishers take so long! I 
 wait and yearn; I grow sick with waiting and 
 yearning. 
 
 I never allowed any weakness in my soul be- 
 fore; I never made any terms with it. I blamed 
 everything upon myself. And now that my 
 whole life is weakness and misery, I writhe and 
 struggle — I turn back always on myself, suspect- 
 ing myself, blaming myself. I can not lay it to 
 the world, I can not get into the habit — it is such 
 a miserable habit! How many millions there are 
 of them — poor, querulous wretches, blaming 
 their fate, crying out against the world's injus- 
 tice and neglect — crying out against the need of 
 working, wishing for this and that — discontent- 
 ed, impotent, miserable! Oh my God — and I am 
 one of such ! 
 
 I can not bear the sound of my own voice 
 232 
 
SEEKIN"G A PUBLISHEE 
 
 when I complain! I hear the world answering 
 me — and I take the part of the world! " Why 
 don't you be a man and go out and earn your 
 way? Why don't you face your fate? You prate 
 about your message — what business has a man 
 with a message that is too much for him? What 
 business have you with weakness — what excuse 
 have you for weakness? " 
 
 And so I came to see it. The world is right 
 and I am all wrong! And the truth of it burns 
 me like an acid in my brain. 
 
 January 24th. 
 And all the time my whole being is still rest- 
 less with the storms that raged in it last spring! 
 I have all those memories, all that poignancy. I 
 can not realize it — any of what I was and had — 
 but I know it as a fact, a memory, and I crouch 
 and tremble, I grow sick with it. 
 
 Why don't they write to me? My money is 
 going! 
 
 January 26th. 
 
 The reason that I shudder so at the prospect 
 
 of having to face the world again, is that I have 
 
 no hope. / have no hope! Once I could go out 
 
 into that helHsh market. I could be any man's 
 
 233 
 
THE JOUK]SrAL OF AETHUR STIRLING 
 
 slave, do any drudgery — because I saw a light 
 ahead — I saw deliverance — I had a purpose! 
 
 And now what purpose have I — what hope 
 have I ? I tell you I am a man in a trap ! I can do 
 nothing! I can do no more than if I were walled 
 in with iron! 
 
 I say that my business in this world is to be a 
 poet! I say that there is only one thing I can do 
 — only one way that I can get free — and that is 
 by doing my work, by writing books. And I 
 have done all that I can do, I have earned my 
 freedom — and no one will give it to me! Oh, I 
 shall die if I am penned here much longer! 
 
 I eat out my heart, I burn up my very en- 
 trails in my frenzies. Set me free! Set me free! 
 
 I thought to-day if I only had a little money 
 — if I could only publish that book myself! I can 
 not believe that men would not love it — I can 
 not — no, you may crush me all you please, but I 
 can not! And I would take it and shout it from 
 the housetops — I would peddle it on the streets 
 — I would make the world hear me! 
 
 — And then I sink back, and I hear the world 
 say, " You poor fool! " 
 
 234 
 
SEEKIXG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 January 28th. 
 
 I have onh' a dollar and a half left! I have 
 sat, shuddering and waiting, all that I dare; the 
 end is come now, I must look for work to-mor- 
 row. It is hke a death-sentence to me. I could 
 do nothing to-night. 
 
 January 29th. 
 
 Providence came to help me to-night for 
 once ! It snowed to-day and I have been hard at 
 w ork again. 
 
 Januar\- 30th. 
 
 Some more snow. ]My hands were nearly 
 frost-bitten, but I keep at it; for at least it is 
 out in the air, and it gives me a little longer 
 respite. 
 
 In the afternoon I made up my mind to go 
 and see the publishers and ask them if they could 
 not read the story at once — it has been a month. 
 I saw their literary manager; he said he was go- 
 ing to read it himself. 
 
 January 31st. 
 
 ]\Iore snow again to-daj'. And I have made 
 over five dollars. But I have come out of it more 
 dead than alive — dulled, dispirited, utterly worn 
 out. 
 
 23s 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUR STIELIIfG 
 
 If I could only be an animal for a time. But 
 each day of the drudgery only makes me wilder 
 with nervousness. 
 
 February ist. 
 
 They regret, of course, and hold the MS. at 
 my disposal. I went up to get it this afternoon, 
 and half by accident I met the man I had seen be- 
 fore. I had a talk with him. He was a very curi- 
 ous personage. 
 
 He seemed to have been interested in The 
 Captive. " I'll tell you," he said, " you know 
 there's really some extraordinary work in that 
 poem. I believe that you have it in you to make 
 some literature before you get through, Mr. Stir- 
 ling." 
 
 " Do you? " I said. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " I feel pretty sure of it. 
 You ask me to tell you about it — so you mustn't 
 mind if I speak frankly. And of course it's very 
 crude. You haven't found your voice yet, you're 
 seeking for mastery, and your work is obviously 
 young. Anybody can see in a few lines that it's 
 young — it's one of those things like Goetz von 
 Berlichingen, or Die Rauber — you tear a passion 
 to tatters, you want to rip the universe up the 
 236 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 back. But of course that wears off by and by; it 
 isn't well to take life too seriously, you know, 
 and I don't think it'll be long before you come 
 to feel that The Captive isn't natural or possible 
 — or desirable either." 
 
 The publisher was smoking a cigar. He 
 puffed for a moment and then he asked, " What 
 are you doing now? " 
 
 " Nothing just at present," said I. 
 
 " I should have supposed you'd be writing an- 
 other poem," he replied, — " though of course as 
 a matter of fact the wisest thing you can do is to 
 wait and learn. Your next book will be entirely 
 different, you can be quite sure — you won't be so 
 anxious to get hold of all the world and make it 
 go your way." 
 
 I smiled feebly. " Possibly not," I said. 
 
 " I'll tell you a story," said the publisher — 
 "speaking about youthful aspirations! I was 
 
 talking to Mr. X last night, the author of 
 
 .* You wouldn't think X was the sort 
 
 of man to be reforming the world, would you? 
 But he told me about his earliest work, that he 
 said he had tucked away in a drawer, and it turned 
 
 * The manuscript names an extremely popular historical 
 novel. 
 
 237 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIKLING 
 
 out he was like all other authors. This was a 
 socialist story, it seems, and the hero delivered 
 
 fiery speeches six pages long. And X said 
 
 that he had written it and taken it to a publisher, 
 expecting to upset the world a week after it ap- 
 peared, but that he never could get anybody to 
 publish it, and gave it up finally and went into 
 journalism. The funny part of it was that he had 
 sent it here, and when he told me about it, I re- 
 membered looking it over and writing him just 
 about what I'm telling you." 
 
 The publisher smoked for a moment or two. 
 " You see, Mr. Stirling," he said at last, " he 
 had to wait ten years before he ' arrived.' So 
 you must not be discouraged. Have you read 
 his book? " 
 
 " No, I have not." 
 
 " It is a very pretty piece of work — it's been 
 many months since it came out, but they say it's 
 still selling in the thousands. Don't get dis- 
 couraged, Mr. Stirling, keep at it, because you 
 have real talent, I assure you." 
 
 I rose to go, and he shook my hand. " Take 
 
 my advice," he said, " and write something 
 
 more practicable than a tragedy. But of course 
 
 don't forget in any case that we shall always 
 
 238 
 
seekijStg a publisher 
 
 be very happy to read anything of yours at 
 any time." 
 
 — I walked down the street meditating. I 
 will get over it again, of course; but to-night I 
 sat in the dark and the cold, shivering. And I 
 asked myself if it must not be so after all. " Is it 
 true, the thing that I did; is it natural F " I said. 
 " Or must it not be exaggerated and crude, as 
 they all tell me! And uninteresting! — What is 
 the use of it? I tormented myself that way and 
 tore myself to pieces, but it does not stir any one 
 else." 
 
 Ah, of course it's all dead in me — and I'm 
 prepared to believe anything they tell me! It's 
 overwrought, it's young, it's pitched in too high 
 a key, it's strained and unnatural, it takes life too 
 seriously! Certainly at any rate they are right 
 that I shall never, never do the same thing again. 
 
 But unfortunately I don't feel like writing 
 anything else. I don't know anything about his- 
 torical novels. 
 
 — I would have read some of the poem again 
 to-night, but I'm too discouraged. I am tired 
 of it. I know it by heart, and it doesn't take hold 
 of me. 
 
 239 
 
THE JOUENAL OE AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 I have been too long among men, I groan. 
 I see their point of view too well! 
 
 Why, there are things in that book that when 
 I read them now make me shudder. I have hard- 
 ly the courage to offer it to any one else to read. 
 I don't know any one to take it to, besides. 
 
 God, I'm so unhappy! 
 
 February 3d. 
 To-day an idea occurred to me, one that 
 should have occurred before. Once upon a time 
 I was introduced to the editor of the . Per- 
 haps he will not remember it, I said. But any- 
 how, why not try? I will take him The Captive 
 — perhaps he can use it in the magazine — ^who 
 knows? 
 
 1 knew nothing better to do, so I went there. 
 He was very polite — he did remember my face. 
 He was fearfully busy, it seemed. He did not 
 think there was much likelihood of a magazine's 
 publishing a blank-verse tragedy; but I told him 
 how I had worked, and he said he'd read it. 
 
 And so there's one chance more! 
 
 My poor, foolish heart is always ready to 
 tremble with new hope. But faith in that book 
 was so ground into it! 
 
 240 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 — I asked him to read it at once, I explained 
 that I was in great haste. I think he understood 
 what I meant. My clothes show it. 
 
 I have been hoarding my money — counting 
 every cent. I dread the world so! Now that I 
 am so broken, so laden with misery, it sounds 
 about me as one jeer of mockery. But I shall 
 have to be hunting a place soon — you never can 
 tell how long it may take you, and the chances are 
 so terrible. 
 
 I will not do anything until I hear from this 
 one man, however. He promised to let me know 
 in a week. 
 
 I did not see him at the publisher's — he has 
 another office besides. He had huge piles of pa- 
 pers and books about him; he is an important 
 man, I guess; can it be that he will be the one to 
 save me? 
 
 I think: "Oh if he knew, he would!" I 
 find myself thinking that of all the world — if 
 I could only make them understand! Poor, 
 impotent wretch, if I could only find the 
 word! 
 
 — Or is it simply my blind egotism that 
 makes me think that? 
 
 17 241 
 
THE JOUKISTAL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 February 6th. 
 
 I do not think that what I write can be of 
 much interest. It must be monotonous — all this 
 despair, this endless crying out, this endless repe- 
 tition of the same words, the same thought. 
 
 Yet that is all that my life is! That is just 
 what I do every day — whenever I am not read- 
 ing a book to forget myself. 
 
 It is all so simple, my situation! That is the 
 most terrible thing about it, it is the same thing 
 always and forever. 
 
 I have lived so much agony through this 
 thing — it would not startle me if I saw that my 
 hair had turned white. I know I feel like an old 
 man. I am settled down into mournfulness, into 
 despair; I can do nothing but gaze back — I have 
 lived my life — I have spent my force — I am tired 
 and sick. 
 
 I! I! I! — do you get tired of hearing it? 
 It was not always like that; once you read a 
 little about a book. 
 
 February 8th. 
 This is the fifth day. I am counting the days, 
 I have been counting the very hours. He said 
 
 242 
 
SEEKmG A PUBLISHER 
 
 he would be a week. And I — only think of it — 
 I have but two dollars and sixty cents left! 
 
 Hurry up ! Hurry up ! 
 
 — And then I say with considerable scorn in 
 my voice: " Haven't you learned enough about 
 that manuscript yet? And about publishers 
 yet?" 
 
 February loth. 
 
 Just imagine ! I went to see him to-day, and 
 he stared at me. " Why, sure enough, Mr. Stir- 
 hng! — It had slipped my mind entirely! " 
 
 I have learned to bear things. I asked him 
 calmly to let me know as soon as possible. He 
 said: "I am honestly so rushed that I do not 
 know where to turn. But I will do the best I 
 possibly can." 
 
 I said — poor, pitiful cringing, is it not ter- 
 rible? — that I'd be up his way again in three 
 days, and did he think he could have it read 
 by then. He said he was not sure, but that 
 he'd try. 
 
 And so I went away. Now I have two dollars 
 and twenty-three cents. I have to pay my rent 
 to-morrow, and that will leave me a dollar and a 
 half. I can make that do me seven or eight days 
 — I have one or two things at home. I'll wait 
 243 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUK STIELmG 
 
 the three days — and then I'll have to set out in 
 earnest to find something to do. 
 
 Oh, the horror of not knowing if you can pay 
 your next week's room rent in this fearful city! 
 
 February nth. 
 I sat and looked at myself to-day. I said: 
 " When a soul is crushed like this, can it ever get 
 up again? Can it ever be the same, no matter 
 what happens? Don't you see the fact, that 
 you've been tamed and broken — that you've 
 given in! And how will you ever rise from the 
 shame of it, how will you ever forget it? All this 
 skulking and trembling — how will you ever dare 
 look yourself in the face again! Will not it mock 
 your every effort? Why, you poor wretch, 
 you've got a broken back! " 
 
 February 12th. 
 
 And to-morrow again I must go there, trem- 
 bling and nervous, hanging on a word! 
 
 There is not much sense in it, but I have 
 learned to hate all men who have ease and power. 
 
 February 13th. 
 I knew it! I could have told it beforehand. 
 " I am awfully sorry, Mr. Stirling, but it is no 
 244 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 use talking, I simply can not! I will write you 
 just as soon as ever I get it read." 
 
 And so I came out. I had a dollar and twenty 
 cents. My rent would be due in four days again. 
 So even if I got some work at once I should have 
 to pawn something. 
 
 — Thus I began my search for a situation. 
 I could not choose — I was willing to take any- 
 thing. 
 
 I fear I look like a tramp; but I have several 
 letters from places where I have worked. Still, I 
 could not find anything. I have tramped all 
 day until I could hardly move. I bought a 
 paper, but everything advertised was gone by 
 that time. 
 
 If it would only snow again, so that I could 
 shovel some more! 
 
 February 14th. 
 
 Again I have been pacing the streets the 
 whole endless day, beaten back and rebuffed at 
 every turn. I have been drilled for this, this is 
 the climax! First take every gleam of heart out 
 of me, and then set me to pacing the streets in 
 the cold, to be stared at and insulted by every 
 kind of a man ! 
 
 And still nothing to do. 
 245 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 February 15th. 
 I take my lunch with me — I have cut myself 
 down to twenty cents a day for food. I walk and 
 walk, and I am so hungry I can not do on less 
 than that. I have but sixty cents left to-night. 
 I failed again to-day. 
 
 February i6th. 
 
 It is not as desperate as it sounds, because I 
 have a few books and things that I can sell — I do 
 not believe that I will actually starve — I have 
 always done my work well, and have gotten 
 references. But O God, the shame of it — the 
 endless, heapedrup bitterness! 
 
 I have sunk into a beast of burden. I trudge 
 on with my mind torpid — I take whatever comes 
 to me, and go on mechanically. Oh it cows me, 
 it wears me down! I have learned to bear any- 
 thing — anything! A man might kick me and I 
 would not mind. 
 
 I think I went to fifty places yesterday. 
 Nothing to do — nothing. To-day is Sunday, but 
 I tried even to-day. I came home to get some 
 dinner. — I might have been a porter in a hotel, 
 and carried trunks — that was my one chance. 
 But I have not the physical power for that. 
 246 
 
SEEKESTG A PUBLISIiER 
 
 — And then after all — toward evening — when 
 I was so tired I was almost wild — I had an offer 
 at last! And guess what it was — of all the things 
 that I had made up my mind I could not bear 
 — to be a waiter! 
 
 It is, I believe, what a man should call a rare 
 opportunity. It is a fairly good restaurant just 
 ofif Broadway; and I get ten dollars and tips. 
 Poor me! My heart bounded for a moment, and 
 then I asked myself. And what do you want with 
 money any more? I took the place, and I am to 
 begin the day after to-morrow. I am so tired I 
 can hardly move. 
 
 February 17th. 
 
 Was it not irony? I have watched day by day 
 for snow; and now that I have taken the other 
 place — behold, to-day it snows a foot! 
 
 — I went to see the editor in the afternoon. 
 I was desperate at the thought of to-morrow. I 
 said I would tell him! — But when I got there I 
 only had the courage to inquire about the 
 poem. He had not read it. I feared he seemed 
 annoyed. 
 
 I shall not go there again for a week. I can 
 not make him hurry. 
 
 247 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AUTHUK STIELING 
 
 Februai-y i8th. 
 
 To-day I had to begin by apologizing to my 
 landlady, and begging her to let me pay her a 
 week later. I had to go into an elaborate expla- 
 nation — she wanted to know why I had not been 
 working all these months, and so on. She has a 
 red face, and drinks, I think. 
 
 Then I had to take a load of my best books — 
 my poor, few precious books that I have loved 
 — and sell them at a second-hand bookstore. 
 When I had sold them I had to hire a waiter's 
 suit for a week, until I had money to buy it. And 
 then with that awful thing on I went down to the 
 restaurant. 
 
 Can you imagine how a pure woman would 
 feel if she had to go into a brothel to live? That 
 was just how I felt — ^just how! Oh my God, the 
 indignity of it! Is there anything that I could do 
 more humiliating? 
 
 — But I have lost the power of getting angry. 
 Only my heart is one great sob. 
 
 February 20th. 
 Oh, that hellish place! What is there in this 
 whole city more brutal than that restaurant? 
 Day and night, day and night, to see but one 
 248 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 thing — to see flashy, overdressed, fat and vulgar 
 men and women gorging themselves! Oh, this 
 will teach me to feel — this at least! I go about 
 with my whole being one curse of rage — I could 
 throttle them ! And to bow and smirk and lackey 
 them — all day! All day! Oh, what shall I do — 
 how shall I bear it? 
 
 They offer me tips. At first I thought I 
 should refuse; but no, I dare not do that, even if 
 I wanted to. And since I have stooped to do it, 
 I will take all I can get. To get money is my one 
 passion now. Oh my God, how can I bear it! 
 
 February 21st. 
 
 I said to-day, I must fight this thing — I must, 
 or it will kill me; I can not let myself go to wreck 
 in this fashion — Vve got to fight! 
 
 And so I got my note-book; and I fell to 
 work to drive myself as of old. The effort that it 
 cost me made me ill, but I did it. I shall keep on 
 doing it — I am like a man faced by a fiend — I 
 must keep on — I must! 
 
 But then, why do you want to have new lan- 
 guages? Do you not know enough now to keep 
 you in reading matter for all the time you are ever 
 likely to have? 
 
 249 
 
THE JOUEliAL OF AETHUK STIKLING 
 
 February 24th. 
 
 Oh, one can get used to even a flashy restau- 
 rant ! It is your fate — you take it. This is how 
 I pass all my time there. I struggle to resist the 
 deadening of it, and the horror of it; while I am 
 going about the loathsome grind I try to think — 
 try to have some idea in my head. And some- 
 thing comes to me — something beautiful, per- 
 haps; and then in a few moments, in the clatter 
 and confusion, I lose it; and after that I go about 
 haunted, restless, feeling that I have lost some- 
 thing, that I ought to be doing something. 
 What the thing is, I do not even know — but so it 
 drives me and drives me! 
 
 I spend literally hours that way. 
 
 February 25th. 
 When are you going to read that poem — 
 when? The week was gone yesterday — but I 
 will not trouble you, even now! I wait, I wait! 
 
 February 27th. 
 There is another torment about this fearful 
 place that I am in, one that you could not im- 
 agine. I had thought that it would be a pleas- 
 ure, but it tears my soul. They have music in the 
 250 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 evening; and fancy a person in my state listening 
 to a violin ! 
 
 Chiefly, of course, they play trash; but some- 
 times there comes something beautiful, perhaps 
 only a phrase. But it takes hold of my soul, it 
 makes my eyes grow dim, it makes me shudder. 
 It is all my pent-up agony, it is all my sleeping 
 passion — why, it overwhelms me! And I am 
 helpless — I can not get away from it! 
 
 Remember that I have not heard any music 
 for a year. It is like the voice of a dead love to 
 me. I thought to-night that I could not bear it. 
 
 March ist. 
 
 To-day I had a day ofif, and I went to see 
 the editor. I have been waiting, day by day, 
 for a letter; it has been a month since I left 
 it with him, and I found that he had not read 
 it yet! 
 
 " Mr. Stirling," he said, " it is not my fault, it 
 has simply been impossible. Now I will tell you 
 what to do. I am going out of the city Sunday 
 week, and I shall have a little leisure then. I do 
 not see how I can get to it before that, so you 
 take it and see if you can find some one else to 
 read it meanwhile. If you will bring it to me 
 2=; I 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIKLIKG 
 
 Saturday, a week from to-day, I will promise you 
 faithfully to read it on Sunday." 
 
 So I took the manuscript. I tried four pub- 
 lishing houses, but I could not find one that 
 would read it in a week. I had to take the manu- 
 script home. 
 
 March 3d. 
 
 To-morrow ends my second week at the res- 
 taurant. It took me five days to find that place, 
 but I am going to give it up to-morrow. I could 
 not bear it, if it were to save my life. I can not 
 bear the noise and the grease and the dirt, and the 
 endless, endless vulgarity; but above all I can 
 not bear the music. 
 
 I can bear almost any degradation, I have 
 found; but not when I have to listen to music! 
 
 Besides, I can afiford to give it up. I have 
 made a fortune. I shall have over thirty dollars 
 when I leave! 
 
 I have always been paid, I find, in proportion 
 to the indignities I bore — in proportion to the 
 amount I humiliated myself before the rich and 
 the vulgar. These vile, bejeweled, befeathered 
 women, these loathsome, swinish men — these 
 are the people who have money to spend. They 
 2^,2 
 
SEEKIls'G A PUBLISHER 
 
 go through the world scattering their largess 
 with royal hand; and you can get down and 
 gather it up out of the mud beneath their feet. 
 
 I come home at night worn out and weak, 
 sometimes almost in a stupor; but I am never 
 too ill to brood over that hideous state of afifairs. 
 I gaze at it and I wring my hands, and I cry: Oh 
 my Father in heaven, will it always be like this? 
 
 Think of it — this money that these people 
 squander — do you know what it is? It is the toil 
 of society ! That is what it is, — it is my toil — it is 
 the toil of the millions that swarm in the tene- 
 ments where I live — it is the toil of the laborers, 
 the beasts of burden of society, in the cities and 
 in the country. 
 
 Think about it, I cry, think about it! — Can I 
 not find any word, is there nothing I can do or say 
 now or at any time, to make men see it? Why, 
 you take it for granted — / have taken it for grant- 
 ed all my days — that money should belong to the 
 brutal rich to squander in whatever inanity may 
 please them! But it never dawns upon you that 
 this money is the toil of the human race! Money 
 is the representation of all that human toil cre- 
 ates — of all value; it is houses that laborers build, 
 253 
 
THE JOUKXAL OF AltTHUE STIELES'G 
 
 it is grain that farmers raise, it is books that 
 poets ^\Tite! And see what becomes of it — see! 
 sec' Or are you blind or mad, that you zvill not 
 see? Have you no more faith in man, no more 
 care about the soul? 
 
 You think that I have been made sick by my 
 work in that one haunt of vice. But it is not 
 only that, it is not only that fever district where 
 all the diseases of a city gather. I have been 
 all ozer the city, and it is everj-Avhere the same. 
 Go to the opera-house any night and you may 
 see blasphemous vanity enough to feed the starr- 
 ing of this city for a year. Walk up Fifth A\-e- 
 nue and see them dri\-ing; or go to Xe^\■port and 
 see them there, ^\'hy, I read in the papers once 
 of a woman who gave a ball — and the little fact 
 has stuck in my mind ever since that she wore 
 a dress trimmed with lace that cost a thousand 
 dollars a meter! I do not speak of the infinite 
 %ailgarity of the thing — it is the monstrous crime 
 of it that cries to me. These people — ^\vhy, they 
 have society by the throat! 
 
 I bur\- my face in my pillow and sob : but then 
 I look up and pray for faith. I say we are 
 
 254 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 only at the beginning of civilization, we can 
 see but the first gleams of a social conscience; 
 but it will come — it must come! Am I to be- 
 lieve that mankind will always submit to toil 
 and pant to make lace at a thousand dollars a 
 meter to cover the pride-swollen carcase of a 
 society dame? 
 
 How is it to be managed? I do not know. 
 I am not a political economist — I am a seeker 
 after righteousness. But as a poet, and as a clear- 
 eyed soul, I stand upon the heights and I cry out 
 for it, I demand it. I demand that society shall 
 come to its own, I demand that there shall be in- 
 telligence in the world! I demand that the toil 
 of the millions shall not be for the pride of the 
 few! I demand that it shall not be to buy dia- 
 monds and dresses and banquets, horses and car- 
 riages, palaces and yachts! I demand that it 
 shall be for the making of knowledge and power, 
 of beauty and light and love! 
 
 Oh, thou black jungle of a world! — ^What 
 
 know you of knowledge and power, of beauty 
 
 and light and love? What do you dream of these 
 
 things? The end of man as you know it is to fight 
 
 255 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUK STIKLING 
 
 and struggle like a maniac, and grab for his own 
 all that he can lay his claws upon. And what is 
 your social ideal — but to lavish, each man upon 
 himself, all that he can lavish before he dies? And 
 whom do you honor save him who succeeds in 
 that? And whom do you scorn save him who 
 fails? 
 
 Oh thou black jungle of a world! — I cry it 
 
 once again — 
 
 Where savage beasts through forest midnight roam, 
 Seeking in sorrow for each other's joy ! 
 
 I sit alone and think of these things, until my 
 breath comes hard with rage. I say: " It is these 
 that I serve — it is these who own the fruits of my 
 toil — it is these for whom I am starved and 
 crushed — it is these by whom my God-given 
 power is trampled into annihilation! " 
 
 March 4th. 
 I gave the place up this morning. I have 
 thirty-one dollars. I think such a sum of money 
 never made me less happy. 
 
 I have nothing to do but drag myself back to 
 my room and wait there until the eighth, to take 
 back my manuscript. It will be five weeks that 
 he has kept me — I suppose that is not his fault. 
 256 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 And then I say: " Fool, to torment yourself 
 with such hopes! Don't you know that he will 
 say what all the rest have said? He is a clever 
 man, and he knows everything; but what use is 
 he going to have for your poetry? " 
 
 I wandered about almost all of to-day, or sat 
 stupid in my room. I have lost all my habits of 
 efifort — I have forgotten all that I ever knew, all 
 my hopes, all my plans. I said: " I will study! " 
 But then I added: " Why should I? Shall I not 
 only make myself miserable, get myself full of 
 emotion, and to no purpose but the carrying of 
 dishes? " 
 
 It is terrible to me to have to acknowledge 
 any change in my way of living — I never did that 
 before. Compromises! Concessions! Surren- 
 ders! — words such as those set me mad. But 
 what am I to do? What can I do? I writhe 
 and twist, but there is no escape. I struggle up- 
 ward, but I am only beaten back and back? How 
 should I not stop striving? 
 
 Circumstances made no difiference to a man. 
 So I used to prate! 
 
 i8 257 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 No difference! Why, I was a giant in my 
 soul, swift and terrible as the lion. I leaped 
 upon my task, I seized upon everything that 
 came my way. I passed whole classes of men 
 at a bound, I saw, I felt — I bore the world in 
 my soul. I would dare everything, learn every- 
 thing, live everything — take it all into myself. 
 And every day I was stronger, every day I was 
 more ! — 
 
 And now see me ! You have penned me here, 
 you have starved me, stunted me, crushed me — 
 I sit shivering and staring at my own piteousness! 
 Why, I can not even be angry any more — I am 
 too shrunken, too impotent for that! And was 
 it my fault? Have I not fought till I was ill? 
 
 — But never did I put forth a hope that it 
 was not withered in the bud! My every enthusi- 
 asm you stamped into the ground; every ad- 
 vance that I made — why you smote me in the 
 face! And all my ardor, my confidence, my 
 trust — has it ever met with anything but jeers? 
 
 — Yes, and now you turn away — this revolts 
 you! This is bare, painful egotism — this is whi- 
 ning — ^this is querulous misery. It offends you 
 like the sight of raw flesh! 
 258 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 — It is my raw soul. My poor little naked, 
 pitiful, beaten soul! — groveling, and begging, 
 too! 
 
 — But whose fault is it — merciful Heaven, 
 whose fault is it? It is my nature to live in my- 
 self — to live from myself. And this that is un- 
 bearable egotism, why, it would have been exult- 
 ing power! Joy in a vision! Mastery of a life 
 and an art ! 
 
 But here you shut me up! You crush me 
 down! I try to escape — I cry out: " I am not an 
 egotist — I am a worshiper! I want nothing in 
 the world so much as to forget myself — my 
 rights, my claims, my powers, my talents! I 
 want to think of God! Only give me a chance — 
 only give me a chance to do that, and I care 
 not what you do with me ! Here I stand with my 
 poor little work, begging, pleading for some one 
 to heed it! Thinking of it only, living for it 
 only, insisting upon it day and night! But do 
 you think that I do that of choice? My God, 
 no — you are mad — I only want to go on! Give 
 me but the chance to go on — and do you think 
 that I would care whether any man admired my 
 work? " 
 
 259 
 
THE JOUEl^AL OF AKTHUE STIKLING 
 
 — Why, I would not even know it — I would 
 be out in the mountains alone! 
 
 " But for what had you your pride in the 
 morning, and in the evening your submission? " 
 
 Can you guess how that jeer rings in my ears, 
 how it goads me? 
 
 March 5th. 
 Sinking down! Sinking down! To see your- 
 self one of the losing creatures, to know that 
 there is no help for you in this world — that no 
 one will heed you, no one will stretch out a hand! 
 To see yourself with every weakness, to see your- 
 self as everything that you hate — to be mad with 
 rage against yourself, and still to be able to do 
 nothing! 
 
 — Understand what I mean — poor fools, do 
 not think it is for myself that I fear. If I 
 wanted to fight a way for myself — I could do it 
 yet — never fear. But ah, you will save the 
 mother and not her child! What I weep for, 
 what I die for, is my ART! 
 
 My vision, my life, my joy, my fire! These 
 are the things that are dying! And when the 
 soul is dead do you think that I shall care about 
 260 
 
seekhstg a publishee 
 
 the body? Do you think that I will stay in this 
 world a shell, a mockery, a corpse? Stay either 
 to putrefy with pleasure or to be embalmed in 
 dulness? Nay, you do not know me! 
 
 — I said to myself to-night, " If I perish in 
 this world it will be because I was too far ahead 
 of my environment — that and that only. It will 
 be because I was pure, single-hearted, conse- 
 crated, and because of such you neither know 
 nor care." Do I fear to say that? I am done 
 with shame — I think that I am dying — let me 
 speak the truth. 
 
 — And I have really said the word then — the 
 word that can not be recalled — that my hope is 
 dead, that I give up — that I can not live my life? 
 Nay — I do not have to say the word, the word 
 says itself. 
 
 March 6th. 
 To-day I shook myself together. I could not 
 stand such wretchedness. I said, I will get a 
 novel, and I will put myself into it — grimly — I 
 will read in spite of everything. 
 
 And such a book as I lighted on by chance! 
 — Once I had whole yawning vistas of books 
 261 
 
TIIE JOUKXAL OF AETHUK STIKLIXG 
 
 toward which I stretched out my arms; but 
 somehow I had forgotten them all to-day. I 
 could do no better than pick up a book by 
 chance. — 
 
 I picked up Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and 
 I found myself in the midst of the same misery 
 that haunts me here. I read it, but it did not 
 help me. 
 
 — It is strange what poverty has ground into 
 my soul. I find myself reading such a book with 
 but one feeling, one idea crying out in me. I 
 discover that my whole being is reduced to the 
 great elemental, primitive instinct of self-preser- 
 vation. Love is dead in me, generosity, humani- 
 ty, imagination is dead, — everything but one 
 wild-beast passion; and I find myself panting as 
 I read: " Get some money! Get some money! 
 Hold on to it! " 
 
 — After a while I think suddenly: "And I 
 am a poet! " That brings a moan from me and 
 I sit shuddering. 
 
 March 7th. 
 Tess of the D'Urbervilles is one of the most 
 unconvincing books I ever read. I neither be- 
 lieved in it nor cared about it in the slightest. 
 262 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 I am shown a " pure woman," and by and by 
 I learn, to my perplexity, that she has been se- 
 duced; after which she continues the " pure wom- 
 an " again, and I am asked to agonize over her 
 troubles! But all the time I keep saying, " This 
 is not a woman that you are showing me at all — 
 a woman with a soul; it is a puppet figure that 
 you suppose ' seduced ' for the sake of the story." 
 
 It is our absurd English ideas of " propriety " 
 that make possible such things. If the author 
 had had to show the seduction of " Tess " the 
 weakness of the thing would have been plain in 
 an instant. That he did not show it was his lack 
 of conscience. There is no propriety in art but 
 truth. 
 
 March 8th. 
 
 I took the manuscript to the editor again to- 
 day. He told me to come in on Monday. 
 
 Deep in my soul I can have no more disap- 
 pointments about it. I take it about from habit. 
 I sat and looked it over last night, but one can 
 not read emotional things in cold blood. I said. 
 Is this true? Is it natural? Is there any use 
 in it? 
 
 I was tempted to cut out one or two things; 
 but I decided to let it stay as it was. 
 263 
 
THE JOUEN"AL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 March loth. 
 I have been sitting to-night in my room, 
 half-dazed, or pacing about the streets talking to 
 myself in a frenzy. I can hardly believe that it 
 is true, I can hardly realize it! I laugh with ex- 
 citement, and then I cry. 
 
 I went to-day to get back my manuscript. 
 And the editor said : " Mr. Stirling, it is a most 
 extraordinary piece of work. It is a most inter- 
 esting thing, I like it very much." 
 
 I stared at him gasping. Then I waited 
 to hear him say — " But I regret " — But he 
 didn't! 
 
 " I can't tell you anything definite about it," 
 he said. " I want to submit it to the firm. I 
 wouldn't undertake to accept any such unusual 
 thing for the magazine without consulting them, 
 and especially seeing if they will bring it out 
 afterward " 
 
 " You are thinking of using it in the maga- 
 zine ! " I cried. 
 
 " As I tell you, I can't say positively. I can 
 only tell you what I think of it. I will have them 
 read it at once " 
 
 " I will take it to them to-day! " I put in. 
 264 
 
SEEKmG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 " No," he said, " you need not, for I am going 
 there this afternoon, and I will take it, and ask 
 them to read it immediately." 
 
 I can't remember what else he said. I was 
 deaf, crazy! I rushed home, talking to myself in- 
 coherently. I remember sitting here in a chair 
 and saying aloud, "Oh, it can't be! It is im- 
 possible! That it should be good enough to pub- 
 lish in a magazine like that! It is some mistake 
 — it will all come to nothing. It's absurd! " 
 
 So I sat, and I thought what such a thing 
 would mean to me — it would make my reputa- 
 tion in a day — I should be free — free! But I 
 thought of it and it did not make me happy; I 
 only sat staring at myself, shuddering. The end- 
 less mournfulness that is in my heart surged up 
 in me like a tide, and suddenly I began to cry 
 like a child. 
 
 " It has come to me too late," I exclaimed, 
 "too late! I can't believe it — it doesn't mean 
 anything to me. I don't care anything about it 
 — I mean the poem! / don't believe in it myself! " 
 
 God, do you know I said that, and meant it? 
 I said more — I sat and whispered it to myself: 
 " Let them take it, yes, let them! I don't care — 
 265 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUR STIELING 
 
 it will set me free — I shall have some money! 
 But they're fools to do it, they're fools! " 
 
 March nth. 
 
 I tremble with excitement all the day, dream- 
 ing about that thing. I go about half-mad. 
 " Oh, just think of it," I whisper, " just think 
 of it! " 
 
 I linger about it hungrily ! He spoke as if he 
 really meant to make them take it. 
 
 March 13th. 
 
 I went to see him to-day to ask. No, they 
 had not let him know yet, but they had the manu- 
 script. He would write me. 
 
 I made up my mind that I would not bother 
 him again. I will wait, hard as it is. 
 
 I sat asking myself to-day, " Do you really 
 mean that you believe that poem is going to stir 
 the world — this huge, heedless world you see 
 about you? Have you truly that blind, unrea- 
 soning faith that you try to persuade yourself 
 you have? " 
 
 Ah, I don't know what I believe now. Only, 
 once I had my young courage, — I feared not the 
 266 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 world, I could do anything. Now I am but one 
 among a million. 
 
 March i6th. 
 
 I force myself to read these things that half- 
 interest me; but I think I spend a quarter of my 
 time wandering about whispering that they are 
 going to publish it. I cry out, " Oh, they 
 must!" I go into the library and stare at the 
 magazine and think of it there. I walk past the 
 publishers', and think of it there! I have been 
 inquiring all about publishing, about terms and 
 all that sort of thing. It makes my brain reel — 
 why, they might pay me five hundred dollars for 
 it! Think of it — five hundred dollars! — I could 
 go crazy with such a thought as that. 
 
 And then I think what the reviews will say 
 of it, and I cry, " Oh, no, it can't be true! " 
 
 Again I find myself saying, " Only let them 
 take it! I don't care about the rest, whether it 
 succeeds or not — let them take it! " 
 
 March i8th. 
 I walked past the editor's ofifice to-day. It 
 took just every bit of will that I had, not to go 
 in. I said: " He might know even now, and I 
 wouldn't hear till to-morrow! " 
 267 
 
THE JOUE]S"AL OF ARTHUK STIELmG 
 
 But I didn't do it. I said I would wait a week, 
 anyhow. 
 
 March 2oth. 
 
 I don't know what in the world to make of it. 
 
 The week ended to-day, and nothing yet; 
 and I hit upon another scheme, I went to the 
 pubHshers. I said: " I will ask them, and he 
 needn't know anything about it and it won't 
 bother him." So I went in and they referred 
 me to the manuscript clerk. She said she had 
 never heard of The Captive. 
 
 " But it's here somewhere," I said, " the edi- 
 tor brought it here." 
 
 " There is no manuscript ever comes here," 
 she answered, " that is not entered on my books." 
 
 " But," I said, " some member of the firm 
 must have it." 
 
 " If any member of the firm got it," she said, 
 smiling, " the first thing he would do would be to 
 bring it to me to enter in the books." 
 
 I insisted. I wanted to see somebody in the 
 firm, but she answered me there was no use. 
 Finally she suggested that they might know 
 something about it up in the offices of the maga- 
 zine. I went there, but no, no one had ever 
 heard of it there. 
 
 268 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 I came home dazed. I don't know what in 
 the world to make of it. He certainly said that 
 the firm was reading it. I wrote to-night to ask 
 him about it. 
 
 March 23d. 
 
 I have waited day by day in the utmost per- 
 plexity to hear from him about that. I should 
 have heard from him yesterday. I don't know 
 what in the world to make of it. Can he have 
 gone in to them privately? Or can he have for- 
 gotten it — he is so busy ! 
 
 I dread the latter circumstance — but I dread 
 as much to anger him in the other case. 
 
 March 27th. 
 
 I waited four days more. I went up to see 
 him. Just as I feared. I have annoyed him. I 
 could see it. I know he must be tired of seeing 
 my face. 
 
 " Mr. Stirling," he said, " I have told you 
 that the poem is being read by the firm, and that 
 I will let you know the moment I hear from 
 them." 
 
 " I only came," I said, " because the clerk 
 
 told me " 
 
 269 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AKTHXTl STIRLIXG 
 
 " There are some things clerks don't know," 
 he put in. 
 
 I tremble at the thought of making him an- 
 gry. I will not go near him again. 
 
 March 30th. 
 I am doing my best to keep my mind on 
 some reading, so as not to make the agony un- 
 bearable. But it is ver\^ hard — ^the mails disturb 
 you. I can only read in the middle of the day, 
 and at night. In the morning I expect the first 
 mail, trembling; but after that I know a city let- 
 ter can't come till afternoon, so I can read. Then 
 again at night I know it can't come. 
 
 — I am reading The Ring and the Book. I 
 have always found that it doesn't do to take vul- 
 gar opinions. I had supposed I should find The 
 Ring and the Book hard reading. 
 
 It is skippable — ^the consequence of having a 
 foolish scheme to fill out. But the story of Pom- 
 pilia and Giuseppi is one of the finest things I 
 know of anjT\"here. 
 
 April 3d. 
 
 It has been another week. I could not stand 
 it any more. I am going over to the publishers' 
 again this afternoon. 
 
 270 
 
SEEKIXG A PUBIJSHEE 
 
 — ^\Vhat in Heaven's name does this thing 
 mean? I met the satisfied smile of the clerk 
 again. " We have never seen the manuscript, 
 Mr. Stirling! " 
 
 If you could only see how positive she is! 
 " I don't know anything about what the editor 
 told you, I can only tell you positively that he 
 has never submitted any such manuscript to 
 the firm, or to anybody connected with the 
 firm." 
 
 That thing drove me wild. I don't know 
 what to make of it. Surely he's given it to some 
 one, for he told me so. 
 
 I went up to the magazine rooms, and he 
 was in his office; but he had left word that he 
 would not see any one, and they would not even 
 take in my name. 
 
 April 4th. 
 I can do nothing but haunt that place till I 
 find out what it means! It has been three weeks 
 and a half since he gave it to them, and he 
 said I would hear at once. ^\'hat in the world 
 does he think it means to me? Can't I pre- 
 sume the slightest gleam of interest, of care, 
 on his part? 
 
 271 
 
THE JOURNAL OJT AETHUK STIRLING 
 
 April 5th. 
 
 To-day I could not stand it any longer. I 
 went to the place again. I saw the manuscript 
 clerk once more — the same answer. I went up- 
 stairs; he was there again, but busy. I wrote a 
 note and left it. I explained that I did not in the 
 least wish to trouble him, but that the thing 
 meant a great deal to me, and that I had the 
 utmost need of promptness; that it had been 
 almost four weeks since he gave it to the firm, 
 and that nobody there seemed to know anything 
 about it. 
 
 April 7th. 
 
 He did not answer my letter! I thought I 
 should hear to-day. O God, this is the most 
 tormenting thing! Think what it means! And 
 what in Heaven's name has he done? Surely 
 some one — he must have given it to some one! 
 
 Only why in the world doesn't he under- 
 stand my perplexity and explain? 
 
 April 9th. 
 
 No letter yet. I went back to the publishers' 
 
 again this morning. I have been wandering by 
 
 the place every day since. They had not seen it 
 
 yet. She said she'd have the firm inquire, but I 
 
 272 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 said not to, as it might annoy him. " He surely 
 has given it to some one, you know." — She 
 laughed at me. 
 
 I went up to the magazine office again. He 
 was not there, but I saw his associate. The as- 
 sociate did not know anything about it either. 
 
 April loth. 
 I waited one day more and no answer. I 
 wrote to him again to-night, begging him to 
 please reply. 
 
 — I have begun several novels, but I can't get 
 interested in them. I am simply sick. I came 
 out of that horrible restaurant with money 
 enough to do me for ten weeks, and here are 
 over five of them gone in this hideous way. Oh, 
 it is monstrous! 
 
 It has been nine weeks and 'a half since I gave 
 him that poem in the beginning! I never spent 
 nine such weeks of horror in my life. 
 
 April 1 2th. 
 " In answer to your letter I beg to inform you 
 that the manuscript of The Captive is now in 
 the hands of the firm, and that you may expect 
 a decision in about a week." 
 19 273 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUK STIKLIi^G 
 
 So! It is a relief at any rate to know that 
 the thing is all right. I can wait a little better 
 now. 
 
 Of course I knew it must be there. A plague 
 on that foolish clerk! 
 
 April 14th. 
 All the while that I am writing about this 
 thing I keep up my courage by thinking what 
 it will mean to me. It is something so immense 
 that I can hardly realize it. I shall be famous!^ 
 And he really liked it, there can be no doubt 
 about that ! He was too busy to talk much, but 
 he showed he liked it. 
 
 April 17th. 
 Oh my soul, I think this is the most frightful 
 thing — is it not simply a nightmare? I have 
 been pacing the floor to-night in an agony. 
 They have never seen that manuscript! 
 
 I was going by there to-day, and I couldn't 
 withstand the temptation; the week was not up, 
 but I said: " If I inquire, there's no reason why 
 he should know about it." I went in. 
 
 And that terrible clerk — she smiled at me 
 still! The more I talked, the more she shook 
 her head. " There's no such manuscript ever 
 274 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEK 
 
 been seen here," she said. I showed her the let- 
 ter, and that decided her to go in and see the 
 firm. They sent out word that neither they nor 
 their readers had ever heard of it, but that they 
 would write to the editor at once. 
 
 Oh, I think this is horrible— horrible! And 
 then just guess what I did! I couldn't bear the 
 agony — I went to the other place, and he wasn't 
 there, and so at last I went to his club. 
 
 He wasn't at the club, but they told me where 
 he was; and I spent ten cents telephoning him. 
 At this place they said he had an engagement to 
 be there later, so I spent another ten cents, and 
 that time I found him. I told him who I was. 
 " The week isn't up yet," I said, " but the firm 
 say they have never received the manuscript." 
 
 "So?" he said; his voice sounded hard, I 
 thought, and it made me shudder. " You come 
 up to see me the day after to-morrow at ten 
 o'clock, and you'll hear about your manu- 
 script." 
 
 And that is all. And I walked out of the 
 great, rich club, and I have been pacing up and 
 down in my own garret ever since. I am almost 
 too ill with anxiety to stand. 
 275 
 
THE JOUElsrAL OF AKTHUE STIRLING 
 
 April 1 8th. 
 And to-day I can only wait. Once I lay down 
 upon the bed and cried. 
 
 April 19th. 
 I don't know how to tell this thing. I am 
 simply dazed. I had an experience to-day — the 
 most hideous thing that I think ever happened 
 to me in my life. Oh, I have been like a madman 
 ever since — I lost my head — I did not know what 
 I was doing. I was really crazy — it is three 
 o'clock in the morning, now, but I shall write it 
 down — I can not sleep. 
 
 To-day I went up to see that man as he 
 told me to. I went trembling with suspense — 
 just think, it has been eleven weeks since this 
 agony began. And I went into his office — he 
 was alone; and when he saw me he sprang to his 
 feet — my soul, he looked like a tiger. He stood 
 there in the middle of the room fairly gasping 
 with rage. 
 
 " So," he cried, " you've come, have you! I 
 
 tell you, young man, I have never been subjected 
 
 to such an outrage as this in my life! I would 
 
 not read another manuscript for you — why, I 
 
 276 
 
SEEKIISTG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 wouldn't stand for such an imposition from Bal- 
 zac or Thackeray — no, sir, I wouldn't ! " 
 
 I stared at the man simply speechless with 
 astonishment. " Why," I panted, " what do you 
 mean? " 
 
 " What do I mean? Why, you have hounded 
 me about this city until I'm crazy. There's no 
 place I can go to escape you. You come to 
 my office, you come here, you come to my club! 
 You have made yourself a perfect pest at the 
 publishers to every one! Why " 
 
 He stopped out of breath. Of course I have 
 no courage or head with men — I was ready to 
 grovel at his feet. " My dear sir," I pleaded, 
 " I assure you I didn't mean to do anything of 
 the kind — it was only that the clerk kept telling 
 me " 
 
 " I don't care what the clerk kept telling you! 
 I tell you that that manuscript has been in the 
 hands of the company since the day I told you 
 I would leave it there. Of course there have 
 been delays, there is all sorts of routine to go 
 through with; but suppose all our contributors 
 did the same thing — what would we do? " 
 
 He was talking at me as if expecting a reply. 
 Fortunately the right words came to my lips — 
 277 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AETHUE STIRLING- 
 
 I was really ready to cry with shame and per- 
 plexity. 
 
 " I don't think it is quite the same with all 
 your contributors," I said, with a trembling 
 voice. " While I have been waiting I have been 
 simply starving." 
 
 It seemed to clear the atmosphere. He stared 
 at me, and then he sat down. He was ashamed of 
 himself, I could see. "Why," he said, "you 
 couldn't have been paid an3rthing for months." 
 
 " I didn't know," I said, " I didn't know any- 
 thing about it. But I have been starving." 
 
 He spoke more quietly. " Air. Stirling," he 
 said, " I'm very sorry about this, the whole thing 
 has been unfortunate. Excuse me that I spoke 
 angrily; let us not think any more about it." 
 
 I stood there, feeling almost like crying, I was 
 so nervous. 
 
 " Now, about that manuscript," he went on, 
 " I'm doing what I can to learn about it. It's 
 been there all along, as I told you, and you will 
 hear about it soon, ^^'hy, Mr. Stirling, I even 
 took the trouble to send my secretary down there 
 yesterday to make sure that it was all right." 
 
 " I did not want you to go to any such 
 trouble," I stammered. 
 
 278 
 
SEEKEXG A PUBUSHEE 
 
 " That's all right," he said, " don't mention it. 
 Now they will have decided in a few days, and 
 I will write you " 
 
 " Xo, please do not," I said, still with my ab- 
 ject humility. " Don't take any more trouble — 
 let me go there and find out " 
 
 " By no means! " said he. " Take my advice 
 and don't go near there again under any circum- 
 stances. You can't tell how much an author 
 hurts himself by troubling a publisher as you 
 have done. Don't go near there — ^let me write 
 to you." 
 
 I promised that I would; and then with more 
 abjectness I got myself out of that room, and I 
 w-ent out and sat down upon a step near by, sim- 
 ply shaking like a leaf. 
 
 " Oh, heavens! " I gasped. " That was hor- 
 rible! Horrible!" 
 
 I sat dazed — thinking about it — thinking it 
 over and over — I couldn't understand it, try as I 
 might. Why should he have been so angry that 
 day — had he not told me to come there? And 
 had he not said I should have a report? 
 
 — And then suddenly something flashed over 
 me that made me leap! That firm had written 
 279 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUK STIRLING 
 
 him a letter the day before yesterday asking about 
 the manuscript, and that was why he was angry! 
 And he had sent his secretary down to inquire! — 
 But why in Heaven's name should he send his 
 secretary down to inquire when he had a tele- 
 phone connecting zvith the firm right there in his 
 office ! 
 
 And so I saw it — all in one instant the thing 
 flashed over me! 
 
 I was so wild I paid a car-fare — I rode straight 
 as a die down to that place, and I went in and saw 
 the clerk. 
 
 " He has sent the manuscript now," I said, 
 " hasn't he? " 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 " He sent it in yesterday? " I said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He sent it by his secretary, didn't he? " 
 
 " Yes," she said again. 
 
 " Thank you," I answered, and went out. 
 
 Is not that simply monstrous, simply awful 
 beyond words? I have been beside myself to- 
 night with rage, with amazement, with perplexi- 
 ty. Oh, think what I have suffered at the hands 
 of that frightful man ! And what have I done to 
 280 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 him — why should he have treated me so? What 
 does it mean? I am baffled every way I turn. 
 
 The thing is like flame in my blood — like 
 acid in my veins. It makes me hysterical with 
 pain. I cry aloud. 
 
 — What do you mean by it, you monster, 
 you wretch? Why, here for eleven weeks I have 
 been hanging upon your every word — eleven 
 weeks of my life spent in torment — absolutely 
 flung away! Eleven weeks! And you have lied 
 to me — and you have kicked me about like a 
 dog! 
 
 What do you mean? What do you mean? 
 Tell me, above all, why you did it! Were you 
 torturing me on purpose? Or did you simply 
 forget it? But then, how could you forget it 
 when you had to tell me all those miserable false- 
 hoods? And when you had to write me those 
 letters? 
 
 And then to-day! 
 
 That is the thing that goads me most — to- 
 day! I stood there cringed before you like a 
 beaten cur — you kicked me — you spit upon me! 
 And it was every bit of it a lie! That insolent 
 rage of yours — why, it wasn't even genuine! 
 281 
 
THE JOUEl^AL OF AKTHUE STIELmG 
 
 You weren't even angry — you knew that you 
 had no reason to be angry — that you had treated 
 me as if I were a worm to tread on! And yet 
 you stood there and abused me! 
 
 Oh — why, the thing is madness to think of! 
 It is more madness the more you reahze it ! I 
 have never known anything Uke it before in 
 my Hfe. 
 
 Yes — actually — it is something quite new to 
 me. I have met blind people — people who would 
 not heed me — but a really evil person I have 
 never known before! A person who has no re- 
 spect for another's rights — who would trample 
 upon another! Oh, you miserable wretch — and 
 the lies — the lies! The hateful sneaking of it — 
 you black-hearted, insolent man! The manu- 
 script had been there all the time! The delays, 
 the routine! And you had sent your secretary 
 down to inquire ! And above all — oh, above all — 
 the prince of them — I must not go near there 
 lest I should injure myself! I must not go near 
 them — they were so weary of seeing me ! And I 
 never saw a single soul there in my life but one 
 clerk! 
 
 I never suffered such a thing as this before in 
 all my days — deliberate, brutal injustice! And 
 282 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 that I should be so placed as to be a victim of 
 such a thing — that I should have to hang upon 
 your words and to be at your mercy for eleven 
 weeks of agony ! You are a great editor, a club- 
 man, a rich man ! You have fame and power and 
 wealth — and you stand up there and scald me 
 with your rage — and with your heart a mess of 
 lies all the time! 
 
 — But why did you do it? That is the thing 
 I ask myself in consternation. Why? Why? — 
 Were you not interested in my work? If you 
 weren't — why didn't you give it back to me, and 
 let me go my way? And if you were — if you had 
 any idea of publishing it — then why did you use 
 me in this way? Where was the manuscript all 
 this time? What did you mean to do with it? 
 How long did you expect me to wait? And what 
 object did you have in telling me untruths about 
 it meanwhile? 
 
 — The whole thing is as blank to me as night. 
 That a man should have in him so much infinite 
 indifiference about another as to leave that manu- 
 script in a drawer, and write me that I was to 
 "have a report on it within a week"! Why, 
 it is something of which I can not even think. 
 283 
 
THE JOUEl^AL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 And then to get out of it by that sham anger and 
 that sneaking! — 
 
 April 2oth. 
 I have done absolutely nothing but brood 
 over this thing and rage all day. What am I to 
 do? — I sat and wondered if there was anything I 
 could do but go and shoot that man. And I 
 asked myself: Ought I not at least to go and get 
 the manuscript from that accursed place this in- 
 stant? Ought I not to have taken it then and 
 there? But see the utter misery of my situation, 
 the abject shame of it — suppose they were to take 
 the thing! It is my one hope in this world — I 
 dare not lose it — I have to leave it there! 
 
 But then, what hope is there now? I ask. 
 Why, he was going to urge it upon them! And 
 now, of course, he's simply sent it in there with- 
 out a word! 
 
 Don't you see what it was — it was that let- 
 ter of inquiry they wrote him! He paid no more 
 attention to me than if I were a hound; but he 
 had to send it when they wrote! And perhaps 
 they said something about carelessness and that 
 made him wild. 
 
 Oh, the thing is an endless spring of gall to 
 284 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 me! I am all raw with it — I have to rush out 
 on the street and walk away my passion. I never 
 saw my situation so plainly — the horrible impo- 
 tence of it! Just see what I struggle against, 
 the utter insane futility of everything I do! 
 Why, I beat my wings in a void, I hammer my 
 head against a wall ! 
 
 — And now I must wait for that thing to 
 come back — don't I know that it will come back? 
 And don't I know that that will be the end of me? 
 
 A black, horrible gloom has settled down 
 upon me. I am utterly lost in despair. 
 
 April 2 1 St. 
 I will write no more about that man — my 
 whole being is turned to bitterness. I wonder at 
 myself — I have no longer one feeling left in this 
 world except a black brooding hatred of him! 
 
 — And all the time the thing haunts me like 
 a detective story — I can't find the solution! 
 What does it mean? Why did he do it? It is so 
 irrational — so impossible — so utterly incompre- 
 hensible! And shall I never know the truth about 
 it? 
 
 285 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 April 24th. 
 " We regret that we are not advised to under- 
 take the publication of The Captive. We return 
 the manuscript by express." 
 
 There it is! I read that thing, and I felt my 
 whole being sinking down as if into hell. There 
 it is ! And that is the end of it all ! Oh, merciful 
 Providence, is it not simply too cruel to be be- 
 lieved! Eleven weeks! Eleven weeks! 
 
 — I can do no more — I do not know where 
 to turn. I believe I shall go mad with my misery. 
 
 April 25th. 
 To-day I thought I would go up and see him 
 — I thought I could not live until I knew what 
 this thing meant. I heard myself saying, " I de- 
 mand to know why you treated me thus? I say 
 I demand it! Before God, how dared you — or 
 don't you believe in a God? " 
 
 — Then again I thought, I will plead with 
 him. It must be some mistake — I can't believe 
 that it is all over. Why, he liked it! And now 
 perhaps it was only looked over by some careless 
 reader and flung aside! 
 
 286 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 But no — I could not go near the place! I 
 could not face that man again. The memory of 
 his look as he stood there in his insolence is so 
 hateful to me that it makes me tremble. 
 
 April 26th. 
 
 I see myself crying this out from the house- 
 tops. I even wrote a letter to a newspaper, but 
 I did not send it. 
 
 I went to a lawyer, a man I used to know. I 
 told him I had no money — I asked him to help 
 me. But I can not sue him — he was under no 
 obligations, it seems; and I can not prove that 
 the manuscript was injured in value by the delay. 
 
 So there is nothing that I can do. He will 
 go his way — he will never think of me again. He 
 is rich and famous. — 
 
 — I have just nine dollars left of my money. 
 I can not possibly make it do more than three or 
 four weeks; and meanwhile I sit and brood and 
 watch them go by in blank despair. 
 
 April 28th. 
 
 I fight with myself — I must get that hellish 
 thing out of my head! I went to a publisher's 
 to-day — I didn't have the heart to go in, but I 
 gave it to the clerk. 
 
 287 
 
THE JOUEISTAL OF AETHUE STIELmG 
 
 It will take two or three weeks. This will be 
 the eighth publisher. 
 
 I said to-day: " I will force myself to read, I 
 will get myself together; I will not let myself be 
 stamped to the mud by this man." 
 
 There is nothing I can do about it — I only 
 poison my whole soul thinking of it. I must put 
 it out of my mind — I must work! 
 
 May 1st. 
 
 I said to myself to-day: " Do you really be- 
 lieve that the world would heed that poem? Do 
 you think that if any publisher published it, he 
 could sell it? " I answered, " No, I do not." 
 
 If one took it I should think I was making a 
 fool of him. I offer it on that chance! 
 
 — What am I going to do? I do not know. 
 I must try to find some work that does not tear 
 me to pieces; and then perhaps some day I shall 
 be able to write something different. 
 
 May 3d. 
 My whole soul is in a turmoil these days. I 
 struggle, — I can not give up while I live; but 
 for what do I struggle? I am a man journeying 
 in a thicket; I can not see one step before me. 
 288 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 — I try to forget myself — I try to get interest- 
 ed in a book. But I never had but one kind of 
 interest. I can not get used to living without a 
 purpose, without enthusiasm, without morality. 
 
 I have no ideas any more. My whole life is 
 shrunken and contracted. It is all stagnant — the 
 garden of my soul is full of weeds. The broad 
 fields that I used to cover, the far-off things I 
 used to strive for — what have they to do with 
 me now? 
 
 — I heard a gull to-day — far, far up — a mere 
 speck in the sky. I started, as I watched him 
 vanish. Then I said: " But you, too, will have to 
 come down and mingle in the turmoil and the 
 danger! " 
 
 May 6th. 
 
 I go over into the Park — the springtime is in 
 full glory, all the sights that used to thrill my 
 heart are there; the splendor of new verdure and 
 young flowers, the birds that I love rioting in 
 song. But it moves me not in the least, it only 
 makes me ten times more mournful. I turn 
 away. 
 
 Why, once an apple spray in blossom was to 
 me a drunken ecstasy. 
 
 2° 289 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIRLING 
 
 — Shall I ever know what it is to be gener- 
 ous, and rich and royal in my heart again? To 
 know that surging fulness of emotion that 
 makes you think of gold and purple and regal 
 pomp? 
 
 I tell you the whole thing is a question of 
 money with me. I have come down to the bare 
 bed-rock of sordidness — I must have money — 
 money! — It is everything in this world to me. I 
 can never think of anything else again until I 
 have it. 
 
 I see myself going out into the world and 
 fighting as other men fight, and making a place in 
 it for myself. 
 
 May 8th. 
 
 I am getting down again; my poor hoard 
 is going! I sit and count it — I calculate it — 
 I lay out my bill of fare. Oh, where shall I 
 go, what can I do? Can I write anything? I 
 ask. I have nothing in me but a naked, shiver- 
 ing longing. 
 
 I dread to be in the desperate fix I was the 
 last time I could find no work. And yet I can 
 not make up my mind to do anything until I hear 
 from this one publisher more. 
 290 
 
SEEKING- A PUELISHEE 
 
 May 5ciL 
 I walked over there to-<lay to save a pcstEge- 
 stamp. They had not heard from the reader yei. 
 
 — ^I sir down and try to sitidy. Then I get up 
 
 and say I ought r.ot to put it off any longer. 
 
 Tzen again I think: "Wai: until to-morrow, at 
 
 any rate." 
 
 May loth. 
 
 I was looking at that mans magazine to-day. 
 
 V."hat thoughts it brought to me — v.hat agonies. 
 
 vrhat longings, what despair! And, above all, 
 
 what ocean-noods of bitterness! 
 
 I walked ail the way down to the wholesale- 
 paper store. I thought I would prefer that to 
 evils that I know not of. I have almost a terror 
 of having to come into contact with new people. 
 
 But my place was filled. I trudged home 
 again. I went to the publisher's too; nothing 
 vet. The three weeks were up to-day. 
 
 Mav i;±. 
 I dared not wait any more to-day. I had 
 just three dollars and ten cents left. And m.y 
 rent is due the day after to-morrow. I have an- 
 swered every sort of advertisement, from dish- 
 291 
 
THE JOURNAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 washing to tutoring a boy. I guess I looked too 
 seedy for the latter. 
 
 — Sometimes when I am wandering around 
 in all this misery, still yearning for what I might 
 have been, the thought comes across my mind: 
 " And in this huge world there might yet be some 
 one who would understand the thing! Some one 
 who would help me! Some one by whom it 
 would be an honor to be helped — if I could only 
 find him." 
 
 And here I am, having my life beaten out of 
 me, spark by spark, — and I can't find him — I 
 can't! 
 
 I cry out for money — for money ! 
 
 But no, it is others who have it. — And the 
 way that they use it — O God, the way that 
 they use it! 
 
 If all the world were poor, it would not be so 
 bad; but the sight of wealth — of infinite oceans 
 of it squandered in perfect frenzies of ostentation! 
 The sight of this " world " — this world, which 
 they take quite as a matter of course ! 
 
 I have seen a good deal of this world myself, 
 and I at least do not take it thus. I gaze upon 
 292 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHER 
 
 the men and women who do take it thus, and I 
 say, " Are you men and women really? Or are 
 you not some strange, un-Godmade creatures, 
 without ever a thought about justice, without 
 ever a gleam of reason or purpose or sense? " 
 
 May 14th. 
 I have tramped the streets for two days more. 
 I was made so ill by my anxiety last time that I 
 made up my mind I would not risk it again. I 
 asked my landlady to-night to wait a while, as I 
 was looking for some work. She was ungracious 
 enough, but I have no longer any sensibilities — 
 I only want to be safe. She can wait — she has 
 my trunk, as I told her. 
 
 Probably she wouldn't even be as willing, if 
 she could see what is in it! I have no longer any- 
 thing to sell. I had to exchange my waiter's cos- 
 tume for a pair of trousers, for mine were all in 
 rags. 
 
 I have two dollars and seventy cents. I im- 
 agine that is a safe margin. 
 
 There are no words that can tell what an ab- 
 solutely deadening thing it is to be wandering 
 about the city looking for work. It turns yon 
 
 293 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 into a log of wood — you not only no longer have 
 an idea, you have not a thought of an idea. You 
 simply drag on and on until the thing becomes 
 a habit, and you go without even thinking of 
 that. 
 
 May 15th. 
 " Our readers have examined with a great 
 deal of interest the unusual piece of work which 
 you have sent us. But it has been our experience 
 that poetry proves such a distressing adventure 
 commercially, that we are forced to decline the 
 ofifer which you have so kindly made us. We 
 wish, however, to assure you of our desire to see 
 anything else which you may have on hand, or 
 may have at any time in future." 
 
 That is about the way the letter ran — I tore it 
 up. I did not read it but once. I took the thing 
 to another firm — it can't do any harm. 
 
 I have not been able to find anything to-day. 
 
 May 1 6th. 
 So long as I have thoughts I can write a 
 journal; but while my life is that of an animal, 
 it doesn't seem very necessary. I have always 
 felt myself an outcast — a poet has to be that; but 
 I never felt it quite so much as at present. I wan- 
 294 
 
SEEKING A PUBLISHEE 
 
 der around from door to door; and those who 
 have homes and money and power — they simply 
 order me out of the way. 
 
 May 1 8th. 
 
 I do not think I can stand this much longer. 
 I never had such a time' before finding anything. 
 I think my state must be written in my face — 
 men no longer have any use for me. 
 
 I fear my coat is seedy. And I know my col- 
 lar is soiled; but the two I left at the laundry 
 won't be done till to-morrow. 
 
 I have broken my last two-dollar bill. I 
 watch in terror for the next week — I can not face 
 that woman again. I must save enough for that. 
 
 May 19th. 
 
 I applied for a position as office-boy to- 
 day — I was desperate. I have not enough to 
 last me through a week, if I pay the woman 
 anything. 
 
 But they said I was too old. 
 
 My feet are most horribly sore. I can hardly 
 walk. And I have the strangest ringing in 
 my head. I could not eat any supper — and 
 the milk won't keep in this warm weather, 
 either. 
 
 29s 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUK STIKLmG 
 
 May 22d. 
 
 The day before yesterday, when I woke up in 
 the morning, I could hardly stand. My head was 
 on fire, and I do not think I have ever been so 
 sick before. I got around to a drug-store — ^the 
 man said he would give me some powders; he 
 said they were forty cents, but I dared not pay 
 it. He gave them to me for a quarter. He said 
 I should have a tonic, but I haven't had it. 
 
 I was too ill to move all day yesterday. I am 
 better to-day, but still I daren't go out. I have 
 only eighty-five cents left. 
 
 I must manage to get out and get some work 
 to-morrow, or I shall go mad. 
 
 I had a scene with that horrible creature yes- 
 terday. It was the second week — she thought I 
 was shamming, I know. She said she never 
 allowed her " roomers " to get behindhand — it 
 was her invariable rule. O God, I was so sick 
 I could scarcely see — I did not care what she did. 
 I told her that I had no money; that I was wait- 
 ing to get some work; that I would pay her the 
 first moment I could. 
 
 " Why don't you keep work when you get 
 296 
 
SEEKOTG A PUBLISHEE 
 
 it? " she demanded. " You have been idle nearly 
 all the whole time you've been here." 
 
 I could not argue with her; she can turn me 
 out when she likes. 
 
 May 24th. 
 
 I dragged myself out to-day. I feel better 
 except for the blisters on my feet. But nothing 
 to do! Nothing to do! Oh, I am half mad. 
 
 I thought to-day I would call upon some of 
 my relatives. But I bit my lips together — no, I 
 will not ever do that! 
 
 It is the ghastly heat that kills me. Yester- 
 day was almost stifling, I thought I could not 
 bear it. I never knew it to be so hot so early. 
 
 May 26th. 
 I have got but thirty-five cents, and to-day I 
 was so tired I had to rest for two hours neverthe- 
 less. Oh, merciful heavens, but this is fiery tor- 
 ture! 
 
 It is half a week again. I know she will not 
 
 let me stay another week. I did a strange thing 
 
 — I wrapped up all my papers and carried them 
 
 out under my coat. She can keep everything 
 
 297 
 
THE JOUENAL OF ARTHUK STIRLING 
 
 else I have, but my papers are mine. I took 
 them to the grocery-store where I buy things 
 and asked the man to keep them for me. 
 
 May 27th. 
 
 What does a man do when he wants to work 
 and can't find anything? Does he really starve? 
 Or does he get locked up? Or what? 
 
 I said to-day: I will eat nothing but bread 
 and oatmeal till I get something to do. 
 
 May 29th. 
 It was just as I thought. She has demanded 
 her money — and I have but fifteen cents! I 
 helped a man up with a trunk and got ten. She 
 told me that I would have to get out. It is 
 clear to-night. I shall sleep somewhere in the 
 Park. I can not write any more. 
 
 May 31st. 
 I got some work to do after all — at the height 
 of my despair. I am giving out samples of a 
 hitherto unequaled brand of soap. 
 
 It was yesterday morning, I met one of the 
 
 men and asked him where he got the job. He 
 
 said they wanted more men, so I got on a car 
 
 and rode down there in haste. I made fifty cents 
 
 298 
 
SEEKTXG A PrEUSHEK 
 
 yesterday, for half a day, and a dollar to-day. 
 Thank God! 
 
 I spent the night before last in the Park, and 
 last night in the room where I am ^sTiting. It is 
 in a tenement-house. I paid fifty cents a week 
 for it, and there is a dntnken man snoring on the 
 other side of a board partition. 
 
 I sha'n't go back to the other place, of 
 course, until I get more money. Besides, she 
 has probably rented the room. 
 
 I am so relieved at ha\-ing gotten something 
 to do. I beheve I am even proud of the soap. 
 
 I am getting used to walking all day; any- 
 thing so long as one doesn't have the agonizing 
 worry about star^'ation. I am ill, but I shall keep 
 at it, and answer advertisements meanwhile by 
 mail, till I get something better. 
 
 I am going out to sit by the river. I can not 
 stand the heat and stench in this room. To-mor- 
 row is Sunday. I shall have a long rest. 
 
 June 2d. 
 I did not go back to distribute soap to-day. 
 I have given up the work. I have just seventy 
 cents left in my pocket. The rent of this room 
 299 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELINQ 
 
 is up on June 6th, and the money will last me 
 until then. 
 
 On June 6th I am going to die, 
 
 — To-day I went to the publisher's. I said: 
 " On June 6th I am going out of town. (Grim 
 humor, that!) On June 6th you will have had the 
 manuscript three weeks and more. I shall have 
 to ask you to have a report by that date, or to 
 return it to me now." He said: " You shall have 
 the report." 
 
 If they will publish the poem, I shall wait. 
 If not, I shall die on June 6th. That is settled. 
 
 300 
 
PART III 
 THE END 
 
PART III 
 THE END 
 
 Listen to me now. I must soon get to the 
 end of this. I mean to tell you about it. I have 
 spent yesterday and to-day going over this jour- 
 nal, explaining things that I had written too 
 briefly, putting in things that ought to be there. 
 I mean to tell everything. 
 
 When I began this journal it was with the idea 
 that I should be famous, and that then it would 
 be published. Of late I have written it from 
 habit, mainly, never expecting that any one would 
 see it. Now I write again for a reader, to a 
 reader. I know that it will be published. 
 
 The night before last I went down by the 
 river. As well as I can remember, these were 
 the thoughts that came to me. 
 
 It was a calm, still night, and I sat watching 
 the lights on the water. Then suddenly I recol- 
 303 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUK STIELING 
 
 lected the night when the yacht had passed, and 
 I had heard the woman singing. It came back 
 to me like an apparition, that voice and that 
 melody. I heard it again more plainly than 
 words can tell, dying away over the water; and 
 a perfect sea of woe rolled over my soul. 
 
 I thought of that night, what I had been that 
 night, what hopes I had had, what fervor, what 
 purpose, what faith. That was, you remember, 
 just when I was at the height of my work; and 
 the memory came back to me, as it has never 
 come back to me since the day that I came out 
 of the forest with my book. It simply over- 
 whelmed me, it shook me to the very depths of 
 my being. I buried my face and burst out sob- 
 bing. It shook away from me all the hideous 
 dulness that had mastered me. I saw myself as I 
 was, ruined, lost. I cried out: " Oh, my Father 
 in heaven, it is gone! It is gone, and it will 
 never come back! I am a lost soul! I am a 
 traitor, I am ruined!" 
 
 So I went on, feverishly, twisting my hands 
 together. " I have given up the fight ! I have 
 been beaten — oh, my God — beaten! Think of 
 those raging hours in the woods, those hours of 
 defiance, of glory ! I gazed at commonplaceness 
 304 
 
THE END 
 
 and dulness — I mocked at it; and now it has con- 
 quered me! I am trampled down, beaten! It is 
 all gone out of me! " And then I cried out in 
 despair and terror: " Oh, no, it can't be! It 
 cmi't be!" 
 
 But even while I cried that, my thoughts fled 
 back to the horror to which I was tied, to the 
 samples of soap and to the filthy hole next to 
 a drunken laborer. The thing overwhelmed me, 
 even while I stood there trying to resolve. 
 
 I was frenzied. " I have done everything," I 
 panted, " I have fought and toiled and struggled 
 — I have wept and prayed, and even begged. 
 And yet I have been beaten — I have gone down 
 — down! And what more is there that I can do? 
 I shall be beaten down again! Oh, what shall I 
 do? Is there any hope, any new plan that I can 
 try? Shall I go through the streets and shriek 
 it; shall I lay hold upon some man and make him 
 hear me? Is there anything — anything? " 
 
 To make them understand what I have! To 
 make them understand what they are doing! 
 God gave me a vision — it may not come again 
 for a century, it can never come again — it is mine 
 — mine only! And they grind it into the dust! 
 This demon power that is in me — don't you sup- 
 305 
 
THE JOUENAL OF ARTHUK STIRLING 
 
 pose I know what it is? This thing that roars 
 like the wind upon the mountains, that runs 
 like the great billows on the sea! 
 
 I was pacing back and forth in the silent 
 night. I had all the world about me, I cried out 
 to it, I gripped it, to make it hear me. " Fools! 
 oh fools! " I cried, "what is it that you do believe 
 in? BHnd creatures that you are, this raging 
 faith of mine — this fervent ardor — you do not 
 believe in that! You do not believe in enthu- 
 siasm, you do not believe in ecstasy, you do not 
 believe in genius! You think that I am mad, 
 poor raving poet! You see me sick, haggard, 
 dragging myself about. 
 
 " But I am caged, I tell you, — i am caged! 
 You are killing me as you would kill some ani- 
 mal; and I am never to sing that song — I am 
 never to sing that song! " 
 
 The thing was a madness to me. " No, no! " 
 I rushed on, " I will! I will get free — I say I 
 will! If I must, I will go out and beg on the 
 streets, before I will let this thing die! Show 
 me the vilest of you — I will get down upon my 
 knees before him — I will kiss his feet and beg 
 him to let me live! There is no degradation of 
 my self that I will not bear! I! — what am I? 
 306 
 
THE END 
 
 I am a worm — I am filth — I am vanity and im- 
 pertinence and delusion. But this thing — this 
 is God! Oh you man with a carriage, will yon 
 not give me a little? For a hundred or two of 
 dollars I can live for a year! And you — why, 
 see that ring on your finger! You would not 
 think twice if you lost it; and yet think what 
 I could do with that bauble! Oh, see how 
 you abuse life — how you mock it, how you 
 trample upon it — how you trample upon 
 God! 
 
 — " So I go about all day, haunted all the 
 time, raging, lusting for my task. And you who 
 believe in genius in the past, and do not believe 
 in it in the present ! Some of you had this faith 
 when you were young; but I have it always — 
 it is /.' I was born for that, I will die for that! 
 It is my love, my food, my health, my breath, 
 my life! It comes to me wherever I am — carry- 
 ing trays in a restaurant — pacing back and forth 
 by the river — sitting here in my room and wri- 
 ting of it!" 
 
 So I thought, so I cried out; and each time 
 as the thing surged in me, I sank down and 
 moaned and sobbed. " No, it is all lost. I am 
 307 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUR STIRLrNG 
 
 helpless. I am beaten! I am walled in and tor- 
 tured! I am a slave, I am a prisoner — I " 
 
 — And so the torrent of my thoughts sped on, 
 and so I rushed with it — rushed to my fate. For 
 suddenly I came to four words — four fearful 
 words that roared in my soul like the thunder! — 
 
 "I AM A CAPTIVE!" 
 
 It was like the falling of a bolt from the sky. 
 It came with a sound that stunned me, with a 
 flash that lit in one instant the whole horizon of 
 my mind. 
 
 " I am a captive! I am The Captive! Fool 
 that I am, — pent here in these prison-walls of 
 tyranny, and beating out my brains against 
 them! Panting — praying — cursing — ^pining to 
 be free! And I am The Captive! " 
 
 The thing struck terror into the last chambers 
 of my soul. I stood stock still; I felt my flesh 
 quiver, I felt my very hair move. I saw a pair 
 of demon eyes glaring into mine — I saw all the 
 wildness and the fearfulness of life in that one 
 instant. 
 
 " I wrote a book, I tried to make it true — and, 
 oh, my God, how have I succeeded! " 
 
 I do not know what I did, I was half-crazed, 
 as in a nightmare. I fought and struggled; but 
 308 
 
THE EXD 
 
 I was in the grip of a truth, and though it set 
 my brain on fire, I had to face it. 
 
 I was The Captive ! I was The Captive ! And 
 I was crying out against circumstances — I was 
 crying out against my fate — and all the time there 
 it stood and faced me — the truth, the iron truth: 
 
 — I was to die! 
 
 A sudden fury swept over me — my whole 
 being flamed with wrath. "What!" I cried. 
 " I shall go on in this servitude — in this degra- 
 dation! I shall go on playing the lackey to the 
 filthy pleasures of men, cringing, crouching be- 
 fore any insult — begging for my bread — begging 
 to keep my miserable self alive! And I shall see 
 one by one my virtues die in me, my powers, my 
 consecrations! I shall sink into a beast of bur- 
 den, into a clod of the earth, into a tool of men! 
 
 " And I, who wrote The Captive — my God, 
 who wrote The Captive! I, who stood upon that 
 height, drank in that glory, sang with those an- 
 gels and gods! I, who was noble and high-born 
 — pure and undefiled — seer and believer — I! I 
 walked with Truth — and now I am a slave; a 
 whimpering, beaten hound! They have made a 
 309 
 
THE JOUElfAL OF AKTHUK STIELIlilG 
 
 eunuch of me, they have cut away my manhood! 
 They have put me with their swine, they have 
 fed me upon husks, they have bid me drink 
 their swill! And I bear it, by God, I bear it! 
 And why? 
 
 " I bear it that I may live! " 
 
 "Come here, come here! Look at this!" 
 The thing seized me by the shoulders and shook 
 me, the thing with the fiery eyes. " Did you 
 mean it, all that you wrote in that book — did 
 you mean it, those vows that you swore in the 
 forest? Were they the truth of your soul as 
 you faced your God — or were they shams that 
 you dallied with to please your vanity? Answer 
 me! Answer!" 
 
 I sank down upon the ground as I heard 
 that voice. I was shuddering with fear; and I 
 moaned aloud : " I don't want to die ! I want to 
 live, I want to do my work! " — ^And then I heard 
 the voice say, " You hound ! " 
 
 And so I shut my hands like a vise; and I 
 
 panted: "No, no! Come! Take me! I will 
 
 go ! " I think it must have been hours that I lay 
 
 there, wrestling in horrible agony. I cried again 
 
 310 
 
THE EISTD 
 
 and again: " Yes, yes, — I will do it! I will do 
 it! " I fled on breathlessly, whispering, panting 
 to myself. Before I knew it I was saying part of 
 The Captive — the first fearful lines of the strug- 
 gle: 
 
 Spirit or fiend that led me to this way ! 
 
 Oh, tell me, was ever poet so taken at his 
 word before? 
 
 I thought of that then, and I shook like a leaf 
 with the pain of it. Again and again I faced it, 
 again and again I failed. It was physical pain, it 
 was a thing that I could feel like a clutch at my 
 heart. Was it not tearing out my very soul? 
 
 But the voice cried out to me: " You have 
 been a slave to the world! You have been a 
 slave to life! You have been crucified upon the 
 cross of Art! " — Yes, and all things a man may 
 sacrifice to Art but one thing; he may not sac- 
 rifice his soul! 
 
 " What! " it rushed on. " Have you so much 
 faith in your art, and no faith in your God? Is it 
 for Him that you have so much need to fear, to 
 crouch and tremble, to plot and to plan — for 
 Him? And when he made you, when he gave 
 you your inspiration — his soul was faint? " 
 
 311 
 
THE JOUENAL OF ARTHUR STIELmG 
 
 " He that sendeth forth the surging spring- 
 time, and covereth all the earth with new life! 
 He that is the storm upon the sea, the wind upon 
 the mountains, the sun upon the meadows! He 
 that poureth the races from his lap! He that 
 made the ages, the suns and the systems through- 
 out all space — he that maketh them forever and 
 smiteth them into dust again for play! He that 
 is infinite, unthinkable, all-glorious, all-sufficient 
 — He hath need of thee! 
 
 " He hath need that thy wonderful books 
 should be written, that mankind should hear thy 
 wonderful songs! Thy books, thy songs, that 
 are to last through the ages! And when this 
 earth shall have withered, when the sun shall have 
 touched it with his fiery finger, when it shall 
 roll through space as silent and bare as the desert, 
 when the comet shall have smitten it and hurled 
 it into dust, when the systems to which it belongs 
 — the sun into which it melted — shall be no more 
 known to time — where then will be thy hooks and 
 thy songs? Where then will be these things for 
 which thou didst crouch and tremble, didst plot 
 and plan? For which thou didst lick the feet of 
 vile men — for which thou didst give up thy God! " 
 
 And then I leaped up and stretched out my 
 312 
 
THE END 
 
 arms. " No! No! " I cried aloud: " I have done 
 with it! Have I not fought this fight once, and 
 did I not win it — this fight of The Captive? And 
 can I not fight it and win it again? Away, away 
 with you, world, for I am a free man again, and 
 no slave! Soul am I, will am I, unconquerable, 
 all-defying! In His arms I lie, in His breath I 
 breathe, in His life I live — I am He! Fear I 
 know not, death I know not, slavery and sin and 
 doubt and fear I will never know again! " 
 
 Nay, — nay. Go thy road, proud world, and 
 I go mine ! — 
 
 In dem wogenden Schwall, 
 in dem tonenden Schall, 
 in des Welt-Athems 
 
 wehendem AH ! — 
 
 ertrinken — 
 
 versinken — 
 
 unbewusst — 
 
 hbchste Lust I 
 
 Oh, think not of that poetry! Think of the 
 music! The surging, drunken, overwhelming 
 waves of music! Do you not hear them — do you 
 not hear them? — 
 
 Wie sie schwellen, 
 
 mich umrauschen ! 
 Soil ich athmen, 
 
 soil ich lauschen I 
 
THE JOUEISTAL OF ARTHUR STIRLING 
 
 So the thing went; and I panted and 
 throbbed, and sank down upon the ground for 
 weakness. There came to me all that mad poetry 
 that I had written myself, all that victory that I 
 had won, that freedom, that vision, that glory! 
 It came to me ten times over, for was it not every- 
 thing to me now? It was more than I could 
 bear, it split my brain. 
 
 And it would not leave me. All through the 
 long, long night I prayed and wept with it; and 
 in the morning I reeled through the street with 
 it, and men stared at me. 
 
 But here was one time when I did not fear 
 men! I was free — I was a soul at last. I had 
 won the victory, I went my way as a god. I had 
 renounced, I had given up fear, I had given up 
 my self. My mind was made up, and I never 
 change my mind. I had passed the death-sen- 
 tence upon myself, I walked through the streets 
 as a disembodied soul — as the Captive dragged 
 to the banquet-hall. 
 
 But no, I went to my torture of myself. 
 
 I went to the store. It was early Sunday 
 morning, and the place was just open. — I got my 
 papers and put them under my arm — my original 
 314 
 
THE EI^D 
 
 draft of The Captive, and all my journal. I went 
 down the street and came to a place where a man 
 was burning some trash. 
 
 I was a demon in my strength just then; my 
 head reeled, but I went with the dancing step of 
 new-born things. I stood upon the heights, I 
 " laughed at all Sorrow-play and Sorrow-real- 
 ity " ! " Ho, sir," I cried, " I have things here 
 that will make a fire for you ! " 
 
 And so I knelt down and unwrapped The 
 Captive. " There is much fire in this," I said; 
 " once I thought it would explode, I did. It was 
 a shot that would have been heard around the 
 world, sir! Only I could not pull the trigger." 
 
 The man stared at me, and so I burned it, page 
 by page, and laughed, and sang a foolish song 
 that I thought of: Stride la vampa! 
 
 And afterward I unwrapped the journal. I 
 laughed at my journal — 'tis a foolish thing; but 
 then all at once my conscience touched me. I 
 said: " Is it not a shame? Is it not small of you? 
 They would not heed you! — fool, what of it? 
 Perhaps it is not their fault — certainly it is their 
 sorrow. But you will not get much higher than 
 you are now by trampling upon them." 
 
 And so I stopped; and I wrapped up my 
 315 
 
THE JOUEl^AL OF AKTHUE STIRLING 
 
 journal again. " You have fire enough now, sir," 
 I said to the man. " I will keep this to build an- 
 other fire with." 
 
 I went on. " Let them have it," I said, " let 
 them make what they can out of it." And then I 
 laughed aloud: "And they will discuss it! And 
 there will be reviews of it! And wise articles 
 about it ! And learned scholars will write tomes 
 upon it, showing how many sentences there are 
 in it ending with a punctuation mark; and old 
 ladies and Methodist ministers will shake their 
 heads over it and say: ' See what comes of not 
 believing in Adam! ' " 
 
 I walked on, singing the Ride of the Valkyr- 
 ies, the children staring at me, going to Sunday- 
 school. 
 
 But I was glad that there was another copy of 
 The Captive left. I love even that wicked editor 
 now. 
 
 — All that was a day and a half ago. I am not 
 so happy now, but I am very calm. I have found 
 my righteousness again, and I can take whatever 
 comes. 
 
 And tasks in hours of insight willed 
 Can be in hours of gloom fulfilled ! 
 316 
 
THE EjSTD 
 
 June 3d. 
 I have now three days more to wait, to learn 
 if The Captive is accepted. I have money 
 enough to last me till then. If it is not accepted 
 I should obviously have to starve, should I not? 
 For I will never serve the world again. And 
 am I a sheep that must be driven? No, I shall 
 find a quicker way of dying than by starvation. 
 In the meanwhile I live my life and say my 
 prayer. 
 
 I have thought a great deal about the thing, 
 and it seems by no means best for the world that 
 it should treat all the men who have my gift as 
 it has treated me. Let the world take notice that 
 I perish because I have not cheap qualities. Be- 
 cause I was born to sing and to worship! Be- 
 cause I have no alloy, because I will not compro- 
 mise, because I do not understand the world, and 
 do not serve its uses! If I only knew all the 
 book-gossip of the hour, and all the platitvides of 
 the reviews! If only I knew anything of all the 
 infinite frivolity and puerility that occupies the 
 minds of men! But I do not, and so I am an out- 
 cast, and must work as a day laborer for my 
 bread. 
 
 317 
 
THE JOUEISTAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 — The infinite irrationality of it seems to me 
 notable. Why, upon the men of genius of the 
 past you feed your lives, you blind and foolish 
 men ! They are the bread and meat of your souls 
 — they make your civilizations — they mold your 
 thoughts — they put into you all that little life 
 which you have. And your reviews have use 
 enough for them! Your publishers pubHsh 
 enough of them! But what thoughts have you 
 about the NEW teacher, the NEW inspirer? 
 
 The madness of the thing! I read books 
 enough, it seems to me, telling of the sufiferings 
 of the poets of a century ago! — of the indififer- 
 ence of the critics, the blindness of the public, of 
 a century ago. And those things pain you all so 
 cruelly! But the possibility of their happening 
 to the poets of the present — it never seems to 
 enter into your heads ! Why, that very man who 
 sent me back his curt refusal by his secretary — 
 he writes about the agonies of Shelley and Keats 
 in a way that brings the tears into your eyes! 
 And that is only one example among thou- 
 sands. 
 
 What do these men think? Is it their idea 
 that the public and the critics are now so true 
 and so eager that the poets have nothing more to 
 318 
 
THE EISTD 
 
 fear? That stupidity and blindness and indiffer- 
 ence are quite entirely gone out of the world? 
 That aspiration and fervor are now so much the 
 rule that the least penny-a-liner can judge the 
 new poet? 
 
 And they think that the soul is dead then! 
 And that God has stopped sending into this 
 world new messages and new faiths! 
 
 Oh you civilization! You society! You 
 critics and lovers of books! Why, that new mes- 
 sage and that new faith ought to be the one thing 
 in all this world that you bend your faculties to 
 save! It is that upon which all your life is built 
 — it is that by which this Republic, for one thing, 
 is to be made a factor in the history of mankind. 
 But what do you do? What have you done? 
 Here I am; and come now and tell me what it is 
 that you think you have done. For I have the 
 message! — I have the faith! And you have 
 starved me, and you have beaten me, until I am 
 too ill to drag myself about! 
 
 And what can I do? Where can I turn? 
 What hope have I, except, as Swift's phrase has 
 it, to "die like a poisoned rat in a hole"? I 
 could wish that you would think over that phrase 
 a little while, cultivated ladies and gentlemen. It 
 319 
 
THE JOUENAL OE AKTHUE STIELLNG 
 
 is not pleasant — to die like a poisoned rat in a 
 hole. 
 
 You ask me to believe in your civilization; 
 you ask me to believe in your love of light! Let 
 me tell you when I would believe in your civiliza- 
 zation and your love of light. 
 
 I say that the last and the highest thing in 
 this world is Genius. I say that Religion and 
 Art and Progress and Enlightenment — that all 
 these things are made out of Genius; and that 
 Genius is first and last, highest, and best, and 
 fundamental. And I say that when you recog- 
 nize that fact — when you believe in Genius — 
 when you prepare the way for it and make 
 smooth the paths for it — I say that then and then 
 alone may you tell me that you are civilized. 
 
 The thing shrieks against heaven — your 
 cruelty, your stupidity. Since ever the first poet 
 came into this world it has been the same story 
 of agony, indignity, and shame. And what do 
 you do? 
 
 It is poverty that I talk about, poverty alone! 
 
 The poet wants nothing in this world but to be 
 
 let alone to listen to the voices of his soul. He 
 
 wants nothing from you in all this world but that 
 
 320 
 
THE EXD 
 
 you give him food while he does it — while he 
 does it, miserable people — not for himself, but 
 for you. 
 
 This is the shame upon you — ^that you expect 
 — that you always have expected — ^that the poet, 
 besides doing the fearful task his inspiration lays 
 upon him — ^that he shall go out into the coarse, 
 ruthless world and slave for his bread! That is 
 the shame! That is the indignity, that is the 
 brutaUty, the stupidity, the infamy! Shame 
 upon you, shame upon you, world! 
 
 The poet ! He comes with a heart trembling 
 with gladness; he comes with tears of rapture in 
 his eyes! He comes with bosom heaving and 
 throat choking and heart breaking. He comes 
 with tenderness and with trust, with joy in the 
 beauty that he beholds. He comes a minstrel, 
 with a harp in his hand — and you set your dogs 
 upon him — you drive him torn and bleeding from 
 your gates! 
 
 The poet! You make him go out into the 
 market and chaffer for his bread! You subject 
 him to the same law to which you subject your 
 loafers and your louts — ^that he who will not work 
 
 22 221 
 
THE JOUKlSrAL OF AKTHUK STIELING 
 
 can not eat! Your drones, and your drunkards 
 — and your poets! Every man must earn for 
 himself, every man must pay his way! No man 
 must ask favors, no man must be helped, no man 
 shall be any dififerent from other men! For 
 shame ! For shame ! 
 
 And you love letters! You love poetry! 
 You are civilized, you are liberal, you are en- 
 lightened! You are fools! 
 
 I tell you the agony of this thing is in me yet 
 — it has heaped itself up in my soul all my days. 
 It was my life, it was my life that cried out ! And 
 now that I can not save my own self — oh, let me 
 at least save the others! O God, let me not die 
 till I have said one word that reaches their hearts, 
 till I have done something to change this ghastly 
 thing! The voices of the ages cry out to me. 
 Not only the hundreds who have gone before — 
 but the hundreds and the thousands who are to 
 come! What are we to do? they cry — who shall 
 save usf Are we to share the same fate — are we 
 too to struggle and die in vain? And in this world 
 that is civilized! In this world that seeks prog- 
 ress! In this world that wants nothing but light! 
 322 
 
THE EJSTD 
 
 Not to the mob I speak, not to those who 
 once mocked me; if none but they lived, I should 
 hold my tongue and go. But you men who are 
 leaders, you men who stand upon the top, you 
 men who see! — can I not find some word to 
 reach you? You men who really love books — 
 who have money — who want nothing but to 
 put it to use! — can I not find some word to 
 reach youf 
 
 God! And it is all so simple. 
 
 1 tell you this land will never be civilized, 
 this land will never lead mankind, it will never be 
 anything but the torture-house that I have found 
 it, until it makes some provision for its men of 
 Genius! Until this simple fundamental thing be 
 true — that a man may know that if he have Genius 
 — that the day he shows he has Genius — he will 
 be honored and protected by society and not 
 trampled and kicked like a dog. That he will not 
 have to go out into the market-place and vend 
 his wares! That he will not have to make sick 
 his soul haggling for his bread ! That if he turns 
 his strength to higher things, and exposes him- 
 self to the world thereby, he will not be trodden 
 down in the struggle for existence! That he will 
 
 323 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUE STIKLING 
 
 not have to bear indignities and insults; that he 
 will not have to write till he be ripe, or be stunted 
 and deformed by early deprivation. 
 
 Genius. And am I not to die now? — And 
 what matters the world? 
 
 Therefore let me write it: that I was a man 
 of Genius. And that you have trodden me down 
 in the struggle for existence. That I saw things 
 that no other man has ever seen, I would have 
 written things that no other man can ever write. 
 And that you have trodden me down in the strug- 
 gle for existence — that you have trodden me 
 down because I could not earn my bread! 
 
 This is what I tell you — this is what I cry 
 out to you, that the man of Genius can not earn 
 his bread! That the work by which he develops 
 his power is something absolutely and utterly 
 dififerent from the work by which he earns his 
 bread! And that every hour which he gives to 
 the one, he lessens his power and his capacity for 
 the other! Every hour that he gives to the earn- 
 ing of his bread, he takes from his soul, he weak- 
 ens his work, he destroys beauty which never 
 again can he know or dream ! 
 324 
 
THE END 
 
 And this again is what I tell you, this again 
 is what I cry out to you: that the power by 
 which a man of Genius does his work, and the 
 power by which he earns his bread, are things 
 so entirely distinct that they may not occur together 
 at all! The man may have both, but then again 
 he may only have the former. — And in that case 
 he will die like a poisoned rat in a hole. 
 
 What is the first principle of the democracy 
 of which we boast, if it be not that excellence, 
 that power, that Genius, is not the attribute of 
 the rich or the nable, but that it may make its ap- 
 pearance anywhere among men? And you who 
 sigh for men of talent to raise American letters 
 — what do you do about it? I will tell you some- 
 thing right now, to begin with; it will startle you, 
 perhaps, and you may not believe it; but I mean 
 to prove it later on. For the present I say this: 
 that of the seven poets who constitute the glory 
 of the literature of England in the nineteenth 
 century, four of them were rich men, five of them 
 were independent, one of them was endowed 
 when he was a youth, and the seventh, the 
 greatest of them all, died like a poisoned rat 
 in a hole. 
 
 325 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUK STIKLING 
 
 And what do you do about it? What you do 
 is to lean back in your chair and say : " The Uter- 
 ary market was never so wide-awake as it is now, 
 and the publishers never so anxious for new tal- 
 ent"! 
 
 Fools ! And you think that the publishers are 
 in business for the developing of talent, and for 
 the glory of literature! And that they care about 
 whether a man of Genius dies in the streets, or 
 not! Why, have I not heard them tell me, with 
 their own lips, that " a publisher who published 
 books that the trade did not want would be 
 driven out of business in a year"? 
 
 And you tell me that the author is an inde- 
 pendent man nowadays! And can earn his liv- 
 ing with his books! 
 
 It is your privilege to think that, if you 
 choose; but perhaps you will not mind hearing 
 what / tell you — that the author can find no way 
 to a living more degrading to him than the earn- 
 ing of it with his books. I have shoveled snow, 
 and shoveled manure too, in the streets, and 
 shoveled food for swine in a restaurant.. But I 
 326 
 
THE END 
 
 never did anything so degrading as I should have 
 had to do if I had tried to earn my Hving with 
 my books. 
 
 Oh, the author may be independent, may he! 
 And you will escape with that fine platitude, 
 and with that bitter mockery ! And never think 
 that the author's independence is but the fine 
 phrase for your own indifference! 
 
 Again it is your privilege to think what you 
 choose; but again perhaps you will not mind 
 hearing what I tell you — that there can never 
 be any man in this world more dependent than 
 an author, if he be a true author. A true au- 
 thor is the singer and dreamer of society; and 
 who is there more dependent than the singer 
 and the dreamer — who is there less powerful and 
 less cunning in the things of the body? 
 
 Why, the author gives up his whole life for 
 your joy and help, he consecrates himself, he 
 lashes and burns and tortures himself — for your 
 sake! And you spurn him from you, and tell 
 him he is "independent "! 
 
 Here is the truth, here is the crux, here is the 
 whole thing in" a sentence.-- A publisher is hot in 
 
 3'27 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 business for the furtherance of Art, or for the up- 
 lifting of humanity, or for the worship of God. 
 He doesn't mind doing these things incidentally, 
 of course, when the fortunate occasion arises; 
 but do you think if he had his choice between 
 publishing a new Paradise Lost to be read fifty 
 years from date, and publishing a biography of 
 a reigning prince, or a treatise on gastronomy, 
 or a new dime novel by Marie Corelli in a first 
 edition of a hundred thousand copies — do you 
 think he would hesitate, now really? 
 
 You say that " literary excellence is identical 
 with publishing availability"! I tell you that 
 they are as far apart — why, that they are just 
 exactly this far apart — as far as what mankind 
 likes is from what mankind ought to like. 
 
 And you ask the man of Genius to cringe 
 and tremble before the standard of what the 
 reading public likes! You ask him to tame the 
 frenzy of his inspiration, to pull your pleasure- 
 carriages with his winged steed! He shall be no 
 more the seer and the prophet and the leader — 
 he shall be mountebank and public-entertainer. 
 
 And you call yourself civilized! O God! 
 
 And the poet! Again the poet! Is he not 
 328 
 
THE END 
 
 vital to your society? Is he not, in the last analy- 
 sis, the lawmaker, the law-enforcer — this seeker, 
 this inspirer, this man with the new vision of 
 right? I look at this society — body enough I 
 see, bone and muscle, and a good, large, capable 
 stomach. Brain enough I see, too, or nearly 
 enough; but Soul? Soul? Who will dare to tell 
 me that there is Soul enough? And your poet — 
 why, he is your Soul! He is the man who fills the 
 millions with the breath of life, who makes the 
 whole vast machine a living, rejoicing, beautiful 
 thing. He — every noble impulse that you have 
 has come originally from him — the memory of 
 his words thrill in the hearts of men — pupils 
 gather to study them — tired hearts seek them for 
 refreshment — they grow and they fill all the 
 earth — and never through the centuries do they 
 die! They blossom into noble impulses, into new 
 movements, — into reforms that reach down to 
 the lowest wretches of the gutter, who never 
 even heard of a poet. Why, they have reached 
 to the very dogs, that are beaten less than they 
 were. 
 
 And what is it that makes civilization in the 
 end? What is it that the world really honors in 
 329 
 
THE JOUKl^AL OF AETHUK STIELING 
 
 the end? You Americans, you who love your 
 country, you who believe in your country's insti- 
 tutions, who believe that your country holds in 
 her womb the future of mankind ! You who want 
 the world to believe that! — how are you going to 
 get the world to believe that? Is it — poor, im- 
 potent, foolish creatures — by covering your land 
 until it is a maze of twenty-story office buildings? 
 By lining it with railroads six feet apart? — Do you 
 not know that this very hour the reason why Eu- 
 rope does not believe in America is that it has 
 not a man to sing its Soul? That it has been a 
 century in the eyes of the world, and has not yet 
 brought forth one single poet or thinker of the 
 first rank? 
 
 The poet! And I sought to be that man, 
 my heart burned to sing that song! And look 
 at me! 
 
 Who will dare to say that I might not have 
 sung it? What chance have I had — have I not 
 been handicapped and stunted, beaten and dis- 
 couraged, punished as if I had been a loafer — by 
 you, the world? Here I am — I am only a boy — 
 and thrilling with unutterable things! And I am 
 going: down,- down to destruction! Why, for 
 3W 
 
THE EXD 
 
 what I had to say I needed years and years to 
 ripen; and how can I tell now — how can any 
 man tell now — ^what those things would have 
 been? 
 
 And I — ^what am I? — a worm, an atom! But 
 what happens to me to-day may happen to an- 
 other to-morrow, and may happen to a hundred 
 in a century. And who knows? — who cares? 
 
 ^^'hat do you do with your railroad presi- 
 dents? You take good care that they get their 
 work done, don't you? They have secretaries to 
 catch every word, they have private cars to carry 
 them where they would go, men to run and serve 
 them, to make smooth their paths and save their 
 every instant for them ! But your poet, your man 
 of genius — who makes smooth his paths, who 
 helps himf He needs nobody to run and serve 
 him — he needs no cars and no palaces, no gold 
 and precious raiment — no, nor even praise and 
 honor! What he needs — I have said it once — 
 he needs but to be left alone, to listen to the 
 voices of his soul, and to have some one bring 
 him food to keep him alive while he does it. That 
 — only that! — think of it — ^for the most precious 
 things of this life, the things that alone save- this- 
 331 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AETHUE STIELIISTG 
 
 life from being a barren mockery and a grinning 
 farce! And he can not have them — and you, you 
 enlightened society, you never care about it, you 
 never think of it! 
 
 If he comes a master, he can force his way; 
 or if he be rich, or if some one honor him, then 
 he can live his life and heed nothing. But when 
 he is poor! And when he is weak ! And when he 
 is young! God help him, God help him! — for 
 you, you great savage world, you crush him. 
 
 You send him to the publishers! And he is 
 young, and crude, and inexperienced! He has 
 not found himself, he has not found his voice, 
 he stammers, he falters, he is weak! And you 
 send him to the publishers ! 
 
 I have said it once, I say it again: that the 
 publisher is part of the world and his law is a 
 law of iron — he publishes the books that will 
 sell. And this feeble voice, this young love, this 
 tender aspiration, this holy purpose — oh, it is a 
 thing to make one shudder! 
 
 And these things higher yet, these things 
 so precious that we dare not whisper them — this 
 332 
 
THE EXD 
 
 new awe of righteousness — this new rage at what 
 the world loves best — ^this flash of insight that 
 will astound a new age! 
 
 You send it all to the publisher! 
 
 But what can you do? I will tell you what 
 you can do — I will tell you what you will do when 
 you come finally to honor what is truly precious 
 in this life — when you are really civilized and en- 
 lightened — when you really believe in and value 
 Genius. 
 
 You will provide it that your young poet, 
 your young worshiper, come elsewhere to receive 
 a judgment than to the money-making publisher, 
 and to the staring, vulgar crowd. You will pro- 
 vide it that he does not measure his voice against 
 the big-drum thumping of the best-selling pom- 
 posities of the hour. You will provide it that he 
 come, with all honor and all dignity, to the best 
 and truest men that you can engage for the serv- 
 ice; and that he come to be judged by one stand- 
 ard, and that not the standard of sales. Whether 
 it be true, whether it be noble, whether it be sin- 
 cere; whether it show imagination, whether it 
 have melody, beauty, love, aspiration, knowl- 
 333 
 
THE JOUEXAL OF AETHUK STIKLItfG 
 
 edge; whether, in short, in those forms or in 
 any other forms, it have power! Whether the 
 man who wrote it is a man worth training, 
 whether he will repay society for its trust, 
 whether he will bring new beauty into the world! 
 — And then, if these things be true, so long as 
 he works, and grows, and proves his value, so 
 long shall he have the pittance that he needs until 
 he be the master of his voice. 
 
 Yes, you never thought of that before! I 
 read everything — everywhere — and I never 
 heard it before. And what does that tell about 
 the poverty and blindness and stupidity of this 
 world? Are we not rich enough? Are we not 
 the richest nation in the world? Have we not 
 railroads and houses, food and clothing and bank- 
 stocks enough to make the brain reel? And do 
 we not call ourselves a Christian land? And wor- 
 ship as divine the Teacher who said that " man 
 shall not live by bread alone, but by every word 
 that proceedeth out of the mouth of God "? 
 
 Oh, you world! 
 
 And what would it do? What would it mean ? 
 I will tell you a few things that it would mean. 
 334 
 
THE EXD 
 
 First of all it would mean that the man who 
 felt in him the voice of God would know that 
 there was a road he could travel, would know 
 that there was a home for him. He would no 
 longer face the fearful alternative of mediocrity 
 or starvation. He would no longer be tempted, 
 he would no longer be forced to turn from his 
 faith, and stunt his development, and wreck his 
 plans, by base attempts to compromise between 
 his highest and what the world will pay for. Can 
 you have any idea what that would mean to 
 an artist? You say that you love art! Can you 
 have any idea of the eflfect which that would have 
 upon art? Upon the art of your country — upon 
 American literature ! To have a band of perhaps 
 a hundred — perhaps a thousand, proved and 
 chosen — the best and strongest that could be 
 found — and set free and consecrated to the search 
 for beauty! Try it for fifty years — try it for ten 
 years — try the method of raising your poets in 
 your gardens instead of flinging them into your 
 weed-beds — and see what the result would be! 
 See if in fifty years American literature would not 
 have done more than all the rest of the world ! 
 
 And what would it cost? — O God! Is there 
 335 
 
THE JOUEK"AL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 a railroad in this country so small that its earnings 
 would not pay for it — for the whole of the thou- 
 sand? Why, pay a poet five hundred dollars a 
 year, and he is a rich man; if he is not, he is no 
 poet, but a knave. 
 
 And there would be waste? — Yes — where is 
 there not waste? But grant that in the whole 
 thousand there is just one who is a master mind; 
 and that him you set free and keep from defeat — 
 that him with all his glory you make yours — and 
 then tell me if there be any other way in this 
 world that you could have done so much for man 
 with your money! 
 
 — No, these are not your ways, oh you cruel 
 world! You let every man go his way — you let 
 him starve, you let him die in any hole that he 
 can find. The poet — tenderest and most sensi- 
 tive of all men! The poet — the master of the 
 arts of sufifering! Exposed on every side, nerv- 
 ous, haunted, unused to the world, knowing 
 how to feel and knowing that alone! Is not his 
 life an agony under any conditions, — is he not 
 tortured for you — the world? And you leave 
 him helpless, despairing! 
 336 
 
THE END 
 
 What is the matter with you? — How can you 
 be so blind? There are some of you who really 
 love books — look and see the story of genius — 
 if it be not a thing to make you shudder and 
 turn sick. It has been so through all the ages, 
 and it will be so through all the ages to come, 
 until society has a conscience and a soul. Tell 
 me if there is anything in this world more fright- 
 ful than the lot of the poets who have been born 
 poor — of Marlowe and Chatterton and Gold- 
 smith, Johnson and Burns and Keats! And who 
 can tell how many were choked before even their 
 first utterance? 
 
 I can not talk of that, for it makes me sick; 
 but I will talk of the poets who were born rich. 
 Is it not singular — is it not terrible — how many 
 of the great stalwart ones were rich? To be edu- 
 cated, to own books, to hear music, to dwell in 
 the country, to be free from men and men's judg- 
 ments! Oh, the words break my heart! 
 
 — But was not Goethe rich, and did he not 
 
 have these things? And was not Hugo rich? 
 
 And Milton? When he left college he spent five 
 
 years at his father's country place and wrote four 
 
 '3 337 
 
 r 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 poems that have done more to make men happy 
 than if they had cost many milHons of dollars. 
 
 But let me come to what I spoke of before, 
 the seven poets of this century in England. 
 
 I name Wordsworth and Byron, Tennyson, 
 Browning and Swinburne, Shelley and Keats. I 
 said that six of them were independent, and that 
 the other — the greatest — died like a dog. 
 
 Wordsworth came first; he was young and 
 poor and struggling, and a friend left him just 
 such an independence as I have cried for; and 
 he consecrated himself to art, and he revolution- 
 ized English poetry, he breathed truth into a 
 whole nation again. And when he was clear and 
 looked back, he made such statements as these: 
 that " a poet has to create the taste by which he 
 is to be enjoyed," and that " my poetry has never 
 brought me enough to pay for my shoe-strings." 
 
 And see how the publishers and critics — how 
 the literary world — received him! How they 
 jeered and jibed, and took fifty years to under- 
 stand him! Oh think of these things, think what 
 they mean, you who love literature! Think that 
 338 
 
THE END 
 
 the world owes its possession of Wordsworth's 
 poetry to the accident that a friend died and left 
 him some money! 
 
 I name Byron; he was a rich man. I name 
 Tennyson; he had a little competence, and he 
 gave up the idea of marriage and for ten years 
 devoted himself to art; and when he was thirty- 
 two he published his work — and then they gave 
 him a pension! 
 
 I name Browning; Browning went his own 
 way, heeding no man; and he never had to think 
 about money. I name Swinburne; and the same 
 was true of him. 
 
 I name Shelley; and Shelley was wealthy. 
 They kept him poor for a time, but his poems do 
 not date from then. When he wrote the poetry 
 that has been the spiritual food of the high souls 
 of this century, he lived in a beautiful villa in 
 Italy, and wandered about the forest with his 
 books. And oh, you who love books, stop just 
 a moment and listen: I am dying, and the cry of 
 all my soul is in this. Tell me, you who love 
 Shelley — the " pardlike spirit, beautiful and 
 swift " — " thyself the wild west wind, oh boy 
 339 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUE STIELING 
 
 divine!" — tell me how much you think you'd 
 have had of that glorious burst of music — that 
 golden rain of melody, of heavenly ecstasy — if 
 the man who wrote had been a wholesale-paper 
 clerk or a cable-car conductor! How much do 
 you think you'd have had if when he'd torn him- 
 self free to write Queen Mab — or even if he'd 
 been ripe enough and written his Prometheus — 
 if he'd had to take them to pubhshers! If he had 
 had to take them to the critics and the literary 
 world and say, " Here is my work, now set me 
 free that I may help mankind! " 
 
 — And when I wrote that I sank down and 
 burst into tears. It can not be helped. It is 
 very hard for me. — 
 
 Oh, but come face this thing — you that are 
 responsible! 
 
 — " But who is responsible? " I hear a voice. 
 Every single man is responsible — every single 
 man who has money, who loves letters, and who 
 faces these facts — you — you — are responsible! 
 
 Perhaps you are weary of my pleading, you 
 think that I perish of my own weakness. But 
 340 
 
THE END 
 
 come and tell me, if you can, what it is that I 
 have not done? What expedient is there that I 
 have not tried, what resource, what hope? Have 
 I not been true enough, have I not worked 
 enough? Have I been extravagant, have I been 
 dissipated? Did I not make my work my best? 
 Come and reason with me — I shall be dead when 
 you read this, but let us talk it over calmly. Put 
 yourself here in my place and tell me what you 
 would do. Have I not tried the publishers, the 
 critics, the editors, the poets, the clergymen, the 
 professors? Have I not waited — until I am sick, 
 crazy? Have I not borne indignities enough? 
 Have I not gotten myself kicked enough for my 
 efforts? 
 
 — But you say: " I know nothing about The 
 Captive! " Yes — so it is — then let us go back 
 to Shelley. A fair test would be Queen Mab or 
 The Revolt of Islam — he was my age then; but 
 I will go ten years later and take Prometheus 
 Bound. Would he have found any one to pub- 
 lish it? Did he find any one to read it? Why, 
 ten or twenty years after Shelley died. Browning 
 (then a boy) records that he searched all Eng- 
 land for a copy of that queer poet's works! 
 341 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUE STIRLING 
 
 Why, Shelley's poetry was a byword and a 
 mockery ; and Shelley himself — first of all he was 
 insane, of course, and afterward he was exile, 
 atheist, adulterer, and scoundrel. They took his 
 children away from him, because he was not fit 
 to take care of them! 
 
 And he would not have been welcomed with 
 open arms, I think! And he wouldn't have been 
 set free — consecrated soul that he was. And sen- 
 sitive, nervous, fragile, hysterical boy — do you 
 think he would ever have written his poems, 
 that he would ever have uttered his message? 
 
 I have to make somebody understand this 
 thing, somehow. I suggest that you think what 
 that would have meant to you — to you who love 
 poetry. Think that you would never have read: 
 
 Oh wild west wind, thou breath of Autumn's being! . . . 
 Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud, 
 I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed ! 
 
 Think that you would never have read: 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 That thy brain must know ! 
 
 That you would never have read: 
 
 On a poet's lips I slept ! 
 342 
 
THE END 
 
 I repeat that I have to make somebody under- 
 stand this thing. I try that plan a little more. 
 Listen to me now — think what it would have 
 meant if that wise friend had not died when he 
 did; think that you would never have read: 
 
 And then my heart with rapture fills. 
 And dances with the daffodils ! 
 
 Think that you would never have read : 
 
 The light that never was on sea or land, 
 The consecration and the poet's dream ! 
 
 Think that you would never have read: 
 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 
 Moving about in world not realized ; 
 
 High instincts before which our moral nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ! 
 
 That you would never have read: 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things 
 
 And battles long ago. 
 
 I say a third time that I have to make some- 
 body understand this thing. Let us try it again 
 now, just once again. Let us suppose that there 
 had not been any little independence or any pen- 
 sion. Who can think what it would have meant 
 343 
 
THE JOTJKNAL OF AKTHUE STIRLING 
 
 to us? Who can think what it would mean 
 
 never to have read 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, 
 or 
 
 When the war-drum throbs no longer, 
 or 
 
 Crossing the bar. 
 
 Never to have read 
 
 Blow, bugle, blow ! 
 
 Never to have read 
 
 My strength is as the strength of ten. 
 Because my heart is pure ! 
 
 Oh, think not of what these things are to you 
 ■ — think of what they are to tnenl How many rail- 
 roads would pay for them? — one, do you think? 
 The work of how many libraries have they done, 
 do you think? How much money do you think 
 could be raised in the world to-day to save them? 
 
 And not one cent to create them! 
 
 — I have saved the chief thing to the last. I 
 have spoken of the six fortunate ones who had 
 money; I have not spoken of thee, oh my poor, 
 poor Keats! The hours that I have hungered 
 with thee, the hours that I have wept with thee, 
 344 
 
THE END 
 
 oh thou my poet, oh thou my Keats! Oh thou 
 most wretched, most miserable of poets, oh thou 
 most beautiful, most exquisite, most unthinkable 
 of poets! Most inspired poet of England, since 
 Milton died! — It was given to others to be beau- 
 tiful, it was given to thee alone to be perfect! It 
 was given to thee to be ecstasy incarnate, to be 
 melody too sweet to hear! It was given to thee, 
 alone of all poets, to achieve by mere language 
 a rapture that thrills the soul like the sound of 
 an organ. And they mocked thee, they spit 
 upon thee, they cursed thee, oh my poor, poor 
 Keats! Thou, the hostler's son — thou, the 
 apothecary's clerk! Thou, sick and starved and 
 helpless — thou, dying of disease and neglect and 
 despair: 
 
 Oh for a draft of vintage ! That hath been 
 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvfed earth. 
 Tasting of Flora and the country green. 
 
 Dance and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
 Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
 And purple-stainfed mouth ; 
 
 That I might drink and leave the world unseen. 
 And with thee fade away into the forest dim I 
 
 " Go back to thy gallipots, Mr. Keats! " 
 Think not of Gififord — poor fool — but think of 
 34S 
 
THE JOUENAL OF AKTHUR STIELING- 
 
 yourself, oh world! Think what you lost in that 
 man! You killed him, yes, you trampled him, 
 and you throttled him! And he was only twenty- 
 five! And he had never finished Hyperion — be- 
 cause he had not the heart! 
 
 — Come, now, all you who love books, come 
 quickly, and let us take up a subscription, that 
 we may save for men the rest of Hyperion! 
 
 Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains. 
 And feeds her grief with his remembered lay ! 
 
 I have been sitting here from seven in the 
 evening until three in the morning, and I can 
 not write any more. 
 
 Only — think about this thing. Look up the 
 facts and see if they are not true. These seven 
 men made England's poetry for a century; they 
 made England's thought for a century — they 
 make it to-day! They are the inspiration of 
 whole peoples, the sources of multitudes of no- 
 ble deeds and purposes. What do you think in 
 money would be represented by the value of 
 these books alone? Enough to support ten thou- 
 sand poets for a lifetime, do you think? And 
 how many hundreds of thousands of students are 
 346 
 
THE END 
 
 hearing about them this day? How many young 
 men and maidens are going out into the world 
 owing all that they have that is beautiful to them? 
 And all these authors of the day, all these critics 
 and teachers, novelists and poets — how much of 
 what they have that is true do they not owe to 
 these men? Go ask them, go ask them! 
 
 — And you have it all because of the acci- 
 dent that these men were independent! You 
 have all from six of them for that, and from the 
 seventh you have nothing — yes, almost nothing 
 — because he was poor! Because he was a hos- 
 tler's son, and not a gentleman's son; and you 
 sent him back to his gallipots and to his grave. 
 
 June 4th. 
 I wait to hear from the publisher merely as a 
 matter of duty. I have .never had the least idea 
 that he will take the book. 
 
 I have made up my mind to drown myself. 
 There is no mess about it, and men do not have 
 to know of it. 
 
 I have often read of murder cases. They tie 
 a rope around the body and a stone to the rope; 
 347 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AETHUE STIELING 
 
 but the stone slips out, or the rope wears, and 
 then it is unpleasant. I used to say they were 
 fools; why did they not get a dumb-bell or some- 
 thing like that, and a small chain. Then there 
 would have been no trouble. 
 
 When I thought of that I smiled grimly. I 
 am living on dry bread, and saving my money to 
 buy a dumb-bell and a chain on Friday. 
 
 I pray most of the time. I have no longer 
 the old ecstasy — such things do not come often 
 in cities. But it will come once again before I 
 die, that I know. 
 
 I have a strange attitude toward death. To 
 me it is nothing. There is, of course, the pain of 
 drowning — it probably hurts to be strangled, but 
 I do not think it will hurt as much as ten lines of 
 The Captive hurt. 
 
 About the physical part of it, the " invisible 
 corruption," I never think; it is enough that it 
 will be invisible. And for the rest, death is noth- 
 ing, it is the end. I have never shrunk from the 
 thought of it, it does not come as a stranger to 
 me now. I take it simply and naturally — it is 
 348 
 
THE 'E^B 
 
 the end. It is the end that comes to all things 
 in this phantom-dance of being; to flowers and 
 to music, to mountains and to planets, to his- 
 tories, and to universes, and to men. 
 
 I said : " It must come some day. It may 
 come any day. Love not thy life too much — 
 know what thou art." 
 
 God can spare me. He got along without 
 me once, and doubtless he can do it again. There 
 are many things that I should like to see — I 
 should like to see all the ages; but that was not 
 my fate. 
 
 When I was young they taught me to be 
 orthodox. And I see them stare at me now in 
 horror. " Suicide! " they gasp. " Suicide! " 
 
 Yes! — ^Why not? Am I not the lord of mine 
 own life, to end it as well as to live it? 
 
 And the law! Prate not of laws, I know of 
 no laws, either of man or God; my law is the 
 right and my holy will. 
 
 And the punishment! Well, and if your hell 
 be a reality, why, it is my home — it is the home of 
 349 
 
THE JOURNAL OF AETHUR STIELmG 
 
 all true men. The sublime duty of being damned 
 is ever my reply to theological impertinences. 
 
 — No, the sight of death does not thrill me 
 in the least — when I stand upon the brink it will 
 hot thrill me. It is not fearful; what the weakest 
 of men have done, I can do. And it is not sub- 
 lime. Life is sublime, life thrills me; death is 
 nothing. 
 
 June sth. 
 
 To-day I wished that it were winter. A 
 wonderful idea came to me — I am almost tempted 
 to live and wait for winter. I said: I would 
 choose one place where the money-blind and the 
 folly-mad assemble — where I have seen them 
 and had my eyes burned by the sight. I would 
 go to the opera-house on the opening night! I 
 would go to the top gallery, and I would put 
 my journal, my story, under my coat; and in 
 the midst of the thing I would give one cry, to 
 startle them; and I would dash down that long 
 flight of steps, and shoot over the railing head- 
 first. 
 
 — Ha! That would make them think! They 
 might read the book, then. 
 
 What place could be more fatted? In an 
 350 
 
THE END 
 
 opera-house meet, as nowhere else in this world 
 that I know of, the two extremes of life — God 
 and the devil. I mean on a Wagner night! 
 Here is the inspiration of a sainted poet, here 
 is ecstasy unthinkable, flung wide and glorious 
 as the dawn; and here is all the sodden and bru- 
 tal vulgarity of wealth, deaf, blind, and strutting 
 in its insolent pomposity. 
 
 — I am very ill to-day — I have a splitting 
 headache and I am weak. It is from trying to 
 save too much money for the dumb-bell, I fear. 
 But I laugh — what care I? My body is going 
 to wreck — but what care I? Ah, it is a fine 
 thing to be death-devoted, and freed from all 
 the ills that flesh is heir to! I go my way — do 
 what I please — hammer on and on, and let hap- 
 pen what will. What, old head! — wilt ache? I 
 guess I can stop thy aching before long! And 
 all ye mechanical miscellaneities — stomachs and 
 what not! Thou wilt trouble me too? Do thy 
 pleasure, go thy way — I go mine! 
 
 There is a kind of intoxication in it. I climb 
 
 upon all these ills that used to frighten me — I 
 
 mock at them, I am a god. I smite my head — 
 
 I say, " I am done with thee, old head! I have 
 
 351 
 
THE JOUKN"AL OF AETHUR STIRLING 
 
 thought with thee all the thoughts I have to 
 think! " 
 
 I have made me right drunk upon life, yes, 
 that is the truth; and now the feast is over, and 
 I will smash the crockery ! Come, boys, come ! — 
 Away with it! Through the window here with 
 the head — look out of the way below there for 
 the stomach — ha, ha! 
 
 — Is not that Shakespearian humor for you? 
 Such a thing it is to be death-devoted! 
 
 — But there is a deeper side to this wonder- 
 ful thing — this prospect of peace — this end of 
 pain. All these solemn realities that were so 
 much to thee — this " world " and all its ways — 
 its conventions and proprieties, its duties and its 
 trials; how now, do they seem so much to thee 
 after all? Cynical relative that wouldst " leave 
 it to time " — was I so wrong, that I would not 
 hear thy wisdom? Suppose thou wert coming 
 with me to-morrow — hey? And to leave all thy 
 clothes and thy clubs, thy bank-account, and thy 
 reputation, and thy stories ! Ah, thou canst not 
 come with me, but thou wilt come after me some 
 day, never fear. This is a journey that each 
 man goes alone. 
 
 352 
 
THE END 
 
 Oh, it is easy to be a man when you are sen- 
 tenced to die. Then all things slip into their 
 places, power and pride, wealth and fame — what 
 strange fantasies they seem! What tales I could 
 tell the world at this minute, of how their ways 
 seem to me! — Oh, take my advice, good friend, 
 and pray thy God for one hour in which thou 
 mayst see the truth of all those foolish great 
 things of thy hfe! 
 
 I read Alastor this afternoon. What a strange 
 vision it is! And I, too, in awe and mystery 
 shall journey away unto a high mountain to die. 
 
 — And then later I went out into the Park. 
 I saw a flower; and suddenly the wild ecstasy 
 flashed over me, and I sank down upon a seat, 
 and hid my face in my hands, and everything 
 swirled black about me. I cried: " I do not want 
 to die! Why, I am only a boy! I love the flow- 
 ers — I want to see the springtime! " 
 
 And then I felt some one take me by the 
 shoulder, and heard a grim voice within me say, 
 "Come! Come!" 
 
 Oh, it will be all right, never fear! Never 
 yet have I failed to do what I resolved to do. 
 '^ 353 
 
THE JOUKNAL OF AKTHUK STIKLING 
 
 And thou world, thou wouldst have me thy 
 slave; but I am no man's slave — not I! 
 
 My death-warrant is ready. I go for it to- 
 morrow. 
 
 June 6th. 
 
 Last night I knelt by the bedside, far into 
 the deep hours, far into the dawn. The whole 
 drama of my life rolled out before me, I saw it 
 all, I lived it all again; and Him in whose arms 
 I lay — I blessed Him for the whole of it. Now 
 that the pain is gone I see that it was beautiful, 
 that flower of my life. Other flowers the plant 
 might have borne; but this flower was beautiful; 
 and each flower is for itself. 
 
 I stretch out my arms, I float upon a tide, 
 back, back, into the rolling source of things. 
 Weep not for me, you who may love me; I can 
 not die, for I never was; that which I am, I was 
 always, and shall be ever; I am He. Go out into 
 the world, you who may love me, and say, " This 
 flower is he, this sunset cloud is he; this wind is 
 his breath, this song is his spirit." 
 
 What is my faith, the faith in which I die? 
 It is the faith of modern thought; it is the faith 
 354 
 
THE ElvTD 
 
 of the ages. It is a spiritual Pantheism, an im- 
 passioned Agnosticism. 
 
 A Presence am I; what is my source I know 
 not, nor can I ever know. The moral fact I 
 know, my will; and I take it as I find it, and re- 
 joice in the making of beauty. 
 
 Do I believe that I ever shall live again? I 
 know that I shall not. I do not insult His 
 perfection and my faith, with the wish that such 
 as I should be immortal. What I have He gave 
 me; it is His, and He will take it. I have no 
 rights, and I have no claims. I see not why He 
 should give me ages because He has given me an 
 hour. He never turns back. He never makes 
 over again — that I know. 
 
 — And neither do I ask rewards; my life was 
 beautiful, I bless Him for every prayer. I ask 
 Him not that He cover the fair painting with 
 whitewash. 
 
 I have no fear of Oblivion. I have no 
 thoughts about it. There are no thoughts in 
 ObHvion. 
 
 355 
 
THE JOUEl^AL OF AKTHUE STIKLING 
 
 The days when thou wert not, did they trouble 
 thee? The days when thou art not shall trouble thee 
 as much. 
 
 — I have made up my mind that I will get 
 some work this morning-, or sell my coat, or 
 something. I will go out into the country, I 
 will be alone with Him to-night. I will fling 
 off every chain that has bound me. I will fling 
 off the world, I will fling off pain, I will fling off 
 health. I will say, " Burst thyself, brain ! Rend 
 thyself, body, as thou wilt! — but I will see my 
 God to-night before I die! " 
 
 I have been to the publishers. They gave 
 me back The Captive. " It is done." 
 
 U) 
 
 THE END 
 
 3S6 
 
TWO NOTABLE BOOKS OF FICTION. 
 
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BY EDWARD NOYES WESTCOTT. 
 
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 novelist on a par with the best of those who live and have their being in the 
 heart of hearts of American readers. If the author is dead — lamentable 
 fact — his book will live." — Philadelphia Item. 
 
 The Teller. 
 
 Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 The publishers of " David Harum" have the pleasure of presenting the 
 only other story written by the lamented Edward Noyes Westcott. Mr. 
 Westcott's business life lay with practical financial matters, and in " The 
 Teller" he has drawn upon his knowledge of life in a bank. It is unneces- 
 sary to emphasize the interest attaching to the only other work in fiction 
 done by the author of " David Harum." 
 
 Fortunately for the readers of this masterpiece, Mr. Westcott wrote sev- 
 eral letters in regard to the book while he was engaged upon the manuscript, 
 and these, with other letters, have been preserved. They have been edited 
 for publication by h'S sister, and are included in this volume. A biography 
 of Mr. Westcott is added by his friend, Mr. Forbes Heermans, who describes 
 the manner in which ** David Harum " was written. Some peculiarly inter- 
 esting portraits of Mr. Westcott and a picture of his home illustrate the 
 book. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
 
RECENT FICTION. 
 
 The Man Who Knew Better. 
 
 By T. Gallon, author of "Tatterley," etc. Dlustrated by 
 Gordon Browne. 8vo. Cloth, ^1.50. 
 
 **The best Christinas story that has appeared since the death of Charles 
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 Under the Skylights. 
 
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 top, $1.50. 
 
 The charming humor, dellghtfiil flavor, and refined quality of Mr. Fuller's 
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 By Frank T. Bullen, author of "The Cruise of the Cachalot," 
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 *'Mr. Bullen writes with a sympathy and pathetic touch rare indeed. His 
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 The Alien. 
 
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 While Charlie Was Away. 
 
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RECENT FICTION. 
 
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 " Vera is a marvellous piece of womanhood." — London Star. 
 
 Those Delightful Americans. 
 
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 author of "An American Girl in London," "A Voyage 
 of Consolation," etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50 
 
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 ** Promises well for the literary career of its author." — Philadelphia Press. 
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 *' Human passions are depicted with a vividness amounting to a triumph 
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 ing on that account, 
 
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 l2mo. Cloth, ;^l.50. 
 
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 of deep water adventunng which will lay firm hold upon the imagination. The thrill- 
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HAMLIN GARLAND'S BOOKS, 
 
 UNIFORM EDITION. 
 
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 subject." — Chicago jfoumal, 
 
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 much power, and the characters of Brennan the smart wire-puller, the millionaire Davis, 
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 for them to live in ^'hey seem to move and act in the cold gray light of reality, and 
 iu that trying light they are evidently human." — Chicago Record. 
 
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 " It awakens in the mind a tremendous admiration for an artist who could so find 
 his way through the mists of familiarity to an artistic haven ... In reading ' A Spoil 
 of Office * one feels a continuation of interest extending from the fictional into the actual, 
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 two ere one will run up against the characters in real life." 
 
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 book." — Chicago Record. 
 
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 Detroit Free Press. 
 
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 Or, or Pafs Flaxen. l6nio. Boards, 50 cents. 
 
 "True feeling, the modesty of Nature, and the sure touch of art are the marks of 
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 "A gossiping and very interesting account of the Second Empire, The narra- 
 tive has to do mainly with the social life of the court, and yet it offers many a 
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 social character, and its bright comments on men and events, make the book very 
 readable." — TAe Critic. 
 
 " The many surviving Americans who were presented at the French court during 
 the last empire, and are still fondly cherishing the memory of things as they were, 
 will be delighted with this little book. According to Mme. Carette, things in the 
 days of the third Napoleon were about as they should be in France, especially at 
 court, and the narrative is written with a simplicity and sincerity which disarm 
 criticism."— A^^w York Herald. 
 
 Memoirs of Madame de Remusat^ 1802-1808. 
 
 Edited by her Grandson, Paul de R^musat, Senator. 
 i2mo. Cloth, $2.00. 
 
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 from life by a keen-eyed, quick-witted woman ; some of the author's reflections 
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 " Notwithstanding the enormous library of works relating to Napoleon, we know 
 of none which cover precisely the ground of these 'Memoirs.' Mme.de R^musat 
 was not only lady in waiting to Josephine during the eventful years 1802-1808, but 
 was her intimate friend and trusted confidante. Thus we get a view of the daily 
 life of Bonaparte and his wife, and the terms on which .they lived, not elsewhere to 
 be found," — New York Mail. 
 
 A Selection from the Letters of Madame de 
 R6musat, 1804-1814. 
 
 Edited by her Grandson, Paul de R^musat, Senator. 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 " A most attractive volume. The letters will be read by those who have perused 
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 acquaintance for the first time."— iVtfw York Herald. 
 
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 do not avoid public events, are not devoted to them. They depict the social aspect 
 of the times, and form an excellent background against which to review the public 
 events which form the principal subject of the previous 'Memoirs' by the same 
 author." — The Independent. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
 
BOOKS BY MRS. EVERARD COTES 
 
 (Sara Jeannette Duncan). 
 
 Those Delightful Americans, izmo. Cloth, ;^i.5o. 
 
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 through English glasses. The impressions of New York and of country-house 
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 the part of the visiting strangers that are constantly entertaining. 
 
 A Voyage of Consolation. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, 
 $1.50. 
 
 His Honour, and a Lady. Illustrated, izmo. Cloth, 
 
 ^1.50. 
 
 The Story of Sonny Sahib. Illustrated, i zmo. Cloth, 
 
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 Vernon's Aunt. With many Illustrations. 1 2mo. Cloth, 
 ^1.25. 
 
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 by F. H. ToWNSEND. izmo. Cloth, ^1.50; paper, 50 
 cents. 
 
 The Simple Adventures of a Memsahib. With 
 
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 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
 
BOOKS BY FRANK T. BULLEN. 
 
 Deep-Sea Plunderings. 
 
 Illustrated. larao. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 Mr. Bullen, who has proved him?eif a past master of deep-water litera- 
 ture, affords in these pages a series of briUiant and often dramatic pictures 
 of the sailor's life and adventures. While the picturesque enters into his 
 book, he deals also with the stern verities of fo'c'sle life, and he brings 
 before the reader strange and bewildering phases of deep-waier adventuring 
 which will lay firm hold upon the imagination. 
 
 The Apostles of the Southeast. 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " Mr. BuUen's characters are living ones, his scenes full of life and real- 
 Ism, and there is not a page in the whole book which is not brimful of 
 deepest interest." — Philadelphia Item. 
 
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 Being Recollections of the First Four Years of my Sea 
 Life. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " So strong, original, and thrilling as to hold captive the attention of 
 the mature as well as of the youthful reader." — Philadelphia Public Ledger. 
 
 The Cruise of the Cachalot, 
 
 Round the World after Sperm Whales. Illustrated. 12 mo. 
 Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 *' It IS immense — there is no other word. I've never read anything that 
 equals it in its deep-sea wonder and mystery, nor do I think that any book 
 before has so completely covered the whole business of whale-fishing, and, at 
 the same time, given such real and new sea pictures. I congratulate you most 
 heartily. It's a new world you've opened the door to." — Rudyard Kipling. 
 
 Idylls of the Sea. 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
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 the monsters of the deep, superstitions and tales of the sailors — all find a 
 place in this strange and exciting book." — Chicago Times-Herald. 
 
 APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
 

 
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