DEAR McDONALD,--I find myself not only at the busiest part of the term, the part when professors of the university don't find time to go anywhere,--but also in the most trying portion of the work of getting out a book,--the last portion, the finishing and rounding off.
And I am going to ask you simply _not_ to come and see your friend, and _not_ to ask him to come to see you, _for at least three months more_. I know this seems horrid--but such are the only conditions upon which literary work is possible, when combined with the duties of a professor of literature. I don't want to see or hear or feel anything outside of my work till the book is done,--and I therefore have the impudent assurance to ask you to help me stand by my wheel. Of course it would be pleasant to do otherwise; but I can't even think of pleasant things and do decent work at the same time. Please think of a helmsman, off shore, and the ship in rough weather, with breakers in sight.
Hate to send you this letter--but I think you will sympathize with me in spite of it.
DEAR McDONALD,--I am very glad that I wrote you that selfish letter,--in spite of the protests of my little wife, who says that I am simply a savage. I am glad, because I felt _quite sure_ that you would understand, and that the result would be a very sweet note, which I shall always prize. Of course, I mean three months at the outside: I have vowed to finish by the year's end, and I think I can. As for letters, you can't write too many. It takes me five minutes at most to write a letter (that is, to you); but if it took an hour I could always manage that.
"Like the little crab,"--yes, indeed. Thursday, three enemies dug at my hole, but I zigzagged away from them. I go in and out by the back way, now, so as to avoid the risk of being seen from afar off.
Ever most affectionately (with renewed thanks for that delicious letter),
DEAR HENDRICK,--Verily I think I ought to be apologizing for my blues. But it is such a relief to write them betimes--when you are sure of a patient hearing. Besides, it may interest you to hear of a small professional scribbler's ups and downs. I used only to pray for opportunity: if I could only get an audience! Now I have one--a small one. An offer of $1200 from a syndicate, which would make for me nearly $3000 here; and plenty of others. _And I can't write._ That is, I can do nothing except what would lower the little reputation I have gained. In such a case the duty is plainly not to try, but to wait for the Holy Ghost,--or (as I am out of his domain) the coming of the gods. I am now in a period of mental drought, but have written half of a book that will probably be dedicated to E. H.,--or will certainly unless another incomplete book should be ready first, a book to be called perhaps "Thoughts about Feelings."