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 élan 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 corner. I said: “Am I not here, have I not this thing to do? 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 vulgar 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.