The St. Louis Republic. [volume] (St. Louis, Mo.) 1888-1919, 1903-02-15

WRITTEN FOR THE SUNDAY REPUBLIC. q.
The Journal of Arthur Stirling" just is-
sued by u. Appleton & Co, may be said TO
he one of the most remarkable books of
mystery presented to the reading public in
recent years.
1t is the story of a. young and ambitious
poet-artist. a strange, solitary, sensitive be-
ing: a dreamer. who. in the midst of pow
erty and hardships. poured out~the depths
of his soul in a tragedy in blank verse, The
composition OF this tragedy. which he be-
lieved would dazzle the world. of literature
when published, his repeated failures 10
have II accepted by publishers. and his final
despair and suicide form the theme of the
journal. The friend 10 whom this journal
was by Stirling before his death
declares that the story IL contains ~ a true
narrative of the tragedy of Strings life.
revised and condensed from the original
manuscript.
Whether Arthur Stirling was. a real,
living character, as claimed. or only a crea-
ture of the editors imagination, certain it
Is that he is one OF the most extraordinary
personages that have appeared in literature.
The journal begins with the commence
ment of the work ON the poem which has
been the dream Of the artists life. The
following extracts are taken from the book:
WRITING THE POEM.
The book The book This day, SATURDAY.. the
sixth day IL April, 1891. l begin the, book.
/ have never kept a journal] have been too
busN lNlnEs nut To-day 1 begin a journal. am
20 built that l can do but one thing at a time.
Now that l have begun The Captive.' l must
be haunted with il ALI day; when 1 am NOT writ
ing it / must be dreaming it. or restless ne
cause l am not. Therefore it occurred 10 me
that in the hours Of WEAKNESS / would write
about 1t what was in MI m~ind-what fears ana
what hopes why and how / write it will be a
STORY in itself, and some day l think lit will be
read.
l have been for four day In a kind Of frenzy.
l nave come down like n collapsed balloon. and
i think I have Ind anaruE fn.Ex--.
1t was like the bursting of an. Ined
dam. these last four days. How long have
been rent up-eighteen months! And eighteen
months seems like a lifetime TO me have
been u. bloodhound in the leash, hunRertnr-hun
gering for this thing, and the longing has piled
up In me day by day. Sometimes II has been
more than 1 could bear; and when the time was
near. L was so wild that ] was sick. The look,
The hook! Freedom and the book.
/ think only OF the book. l thought Of i.
last Saturday. and it swept me away out Of
inEself. l mad planned the opening scene; but
then the thought Of the triumph song took hold
OF me. and it drove me mad. That song was
what ! had thought l could never dol had
never dared TO think of it. And it came to me
IL came! Wild, inceherent, Overwhelming. il
came. the victorious hymn. l could not think
of remembering it; 1t was not poetry-it was
reality. | was the Captive, ] had won freedom
a faith and a vision!
There are times when / sit before this thing
In my soul. crouching and gazing at it in fear.
Then ] see the naked horror of IL the shud-
dering reality of 1t. / see the Soul: motionless.
tense. quivering. wrestling in an agony with the
powers OF destruction. II Is SO real TO me that
my body stiffens into stone. and l sit with the
sweat on my forehead. That happened to me
to-day, and ] wrote a few lines Of the poem
that made my voice break-the passionate de-
spairing cry for deiiverance. for rest from the
terror.
But there is no rest. The mountain slope is
80 that there is no standing upon it, and once
you stop, it breaks your heart to begin again,
And so you go on-up-up-and there is not any
summit.
1t is that way when you write a book: and
that, way when you make a symphony; and that
way when you wage a war.
But my soul hungered for It. I have loved
the great elemental art-works-the arr-works
that were born of pure suffering. For months
before / began THE Captive / read hui three
books-read them and brooded over them. all
day and all night. They were .'Prometheus
Bound" .Prometheus Unbound" and Samson
Agonistes." And now there will be a fourth.
1t will be THE Captive"
The writing of q book il like the bearing of a
child. But every birth-pang OF the former lasts
for hours: and II is months before the labor lis
done.
. {. . H - : April n.
1 have not done much to-day. I spent the
morning brooding over the opening speech, II 4.
somber and terrible. but I have not gotten It
right. 1t must have a tread-a tread like an
orchestral. All. how 1 wish I had an orchestral.
rerdammtl'
The secret OF the thing Is iteration. must |
md a word that 10 like a hammer-struke l have
WV tNenty, out i nave not found the one. |
L have often fancied a resemblance between
The Captive" and c minor symphony: l won |
Der III any one else would have thought of It. |
IL Is not merely the opening-it is the whole |
content OF the thing-the struggle OF a prislner |
spirft. l would call 'The Captive a symphony. |
and print the c minor themes in 1t. only II |
would seem fanciful. But It would not really |
he fanciful to put the second theme opposite the /
thought of freedom-of the blue sky and the l
dawning spring. |
My heart leaps when / think OF my one big
step. / have put those pages away-I shall not
lock at them again for a month. Then / can
Judge them.
April lG.
All my soul has been centered upon living.
Since this book first took held OF me-eighteen
months ago-I could not tell with what terrible
intensity | have lived ii. 1t has been a shrine
that ] have kept in the corner Of my heart and
tended there. l have never gone near II. except |
upon my knees, There were days when l did not
go near 1t at all. when l was weak. or dis
traught. But i knew that every day I was
closer TO. the task: that every day my heart was
more full of II. 1t was like wild music-it came
TO n climax that swept me away in spite of
myself.
For seven years I have borne poverty and
rneanness, sickness. heat. cold. toil-that l might
make myself an artist. The indignities. the deg
radations-I could not tell them, if / spent all
the time I have in writing a journal. l have
lived In sarrets-amCns dirty people-vulgar peo- :
* Music AND NUS