April 19th.

I saw my soul to-day. It was a bubble, blown large, palpitating, whirling
over a stormy sea; glorious with the rainbow hues it was, but perilous,
abandoned.--Do you catch the _feeling_ of my soul?

Something perilous--I do not much care what. A traveler scaling the
mountains, leaping upon dizzy heights; a gambler staking his fortune, his
freedom, his life--upon a cast!

I will tell you about it.

It began when I was fifteen. My great-uncle, my guardian, is a wholesale
grocer in Chicago; he has a large palace and a large waistcoat.

"Will you be a wholesale grocer?" said he.

"No," said I, "I will not."

I might have been a partner by this time, had I said Yes, and had a palace
and a large waistcoat too.

"Then what will you be?" asked the great-uncle.

"I will be a poet," said I.

"You mean you will be a loafer?" said he.

"Yes," said I--disliking argument--"I will be a loafer."