And now we'll leave theory for practice. I don't think you can do anything now--anything at all. You _might_--but the chances are not worth taking. You will be surprised to hear, I fancy, that the author must see his proofs--not for the purpose of assuring himself that the text is according to the copy, but for the purpose of making it _different_ from the MS. Very few writers can perfect their work in MS.; they cannot see the _colour_ and line of it, till it gets into type. When a statue is cast, it is cast exactly according to the mould, and shows the lines of the mould, which have to be removed: then the polishing is done, and the last touches are given. Very slight work--but everything depends upon it. So with artistic writing. It is by changes in the printed form that the final effect is obtained. Exactness according to the MS. means nothing at all; that is only the casting,--a matter of course; and another man can no more look after your proofs than he can put on your hat. Did you ever try the experiment of letting a friend try to fit your hat comfortably on your own head? It can't be done.
Health is good; sprain about well; book nearly through--sixteen chapters written. Only, the flavour is not yet quite right.
Finally, dear friend, don't think, because I write this letter, that I am very blue, or despondent, or anything of that sort. I am feeling to-day unusually well,--and remember something said to me ten years ago by a lady who at once detested me after our introduction. She said: "A man with a nose like you should not worry about the future--he will _bore_ his way through the world." I trust in my nose. With true love to you,
DEAR McDONALD,--I am very, very sorry that you had that accident,--and I fear that you are worse off than you let me know. I must get down to-morrow (Saturday), and see how you are--though I fear I can do no more than chatter to you like an _usots'ki_. Well, we've both had accidents lately--my foot isn't quite well yet. We must have extra good luck to make up for these mishaps.
Yes, I should be glad to know your friend Bedloe,--or any of your naval friends: they are _men_ as well as gentlemen, and I feel quite at home with them.
Ah! I had almost forgotten. I _have_ Kipling's "Day's Work" already. It is great--very great. Don't mistake him, even if he seems too colloquial at times. He is the greatest living English poet and English story-teller. Never in this world will I be able to write one page to compare with a page of his. He makes me feel so small, that after reading him I wonder why I am such an ass as to write at all. Love to you, all the same, for thinking of me in that connection.