_[Edinburgh] February 8, 1875._
MY DEAR COLVIN,--Forgive my bothering you. Here is the proof of my
second _Knox_. Glance it over, like a good fellow, and if there's
anything very flagrant send it to me marked. I have no confidence in
myself; I feel such an ass. What have I been doing? As near as I can
calculate, nothing. And yet I have worked all this month from three to
five hours a day, that is to say, from one to three hours more than my
doctor allows me; positively no result.
No, I can write no article just now; I am _pioching_, like a madman, at
my stories, and can make nothing of them; my simplicity is tame and
dull--my passion tinsel, boyish, hysterical. Never mind--ten years
hence, if I live, I shall have learned, so help me God. I know one must
work, in the meantime (so says Balzac) _comme le mineur enfoui sous un
eboulement_.
_J'y parviendrai, nom de nom de nom!_ But it's a long look
forward.--Ever yours,