The Professor's House
buy. They would have held all his notes and
pamphlets, and the spasmodic rough drafts of passages far ahead. But he had never got them, and
now he really didn't need them; it would be like
locking the stable after the horse is stolen. For
the horse was gone—that was the thing he was
feeling most just now. In spite of all he'd neglected, he had completed his Spanish Adventurers in eight volumes—without filing-cabinets or money or a decent study or a decent stove—and without encouragement, Heaven knew! For all the interest the first three volumes awoke in the world, he might as well have dropped them into Lake Michigan. They had been timidly reviewed by
other professors of history, in technical and educational journals. Nobody saw that he was trying to do something quite different—they merely
thought he was trying to do the usual thing, and
had not succeeded very well. They recommended
to him the more even and genial style of John
Fiske.
St. Peter hadn't, he could honestly say, cared a whoop—not in those golden days. When the whole plan of his narrative was coming clearer and clearer all the time, when he could feel his hand growing easier with his material, when all the foolish conventions about that kind of writing were falling away and his relation with his work was becoming every day more simple, natural, and happy,
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