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 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 particular. 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.