To-day I happened to read in one of the magazines an article on a literary subject by a college professor of some reputation. It was a fine piece of work, I thought, very true; and I got to thinking 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 letter 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 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 finding 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 afford outlet—not only for talent, but for mediocrity as well. You are entirely mistaken in your idea that literary excellence is not equivalent to commercial availability. If you could write one paragraph as noble as the average of Dr. ——, or one stanza as excellent as the average 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!