t be easily
pleased.

I never thought of it, but my new book, which should soon be out,
contains a visit to a murder scene, but not done as we should like to
see them, for, of course, I was running another hare.

If you do not answer this in four pages, I shall stop the enclosed fiver
at the bank, a step which will lead to your incarceration for life. As
my visits to Arcady are somewhat uncertain, you had better address 17
Heriot Row, Edinburgh, as usual. I shall walk over for the note if I am
not yet home.--Believe me, very really yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

I charge extra for a flourish when it is successful; this isn't, so you
have it gratis. Is there any news in Babylon the Great? My
fellow-creatures are electing school boards here in the midst of the
ages. It is very composed of them. I can't think why they do it. Nor why
I have written a real letter. If you write a real letter back, damme,
I'll try to _correspond_ with you. A thing unknown in this age. It is a
consequence of the decay of faith; we cannot believe that the fellow
will be at the pains to read us.

TO W. E. HENLEY

This is in reply to some technical criticisms of his correspondent on
the poem _Our Lady of the Snows_, referring to the Trappist
monastery in the Cevennes so called, and afterwards published in
_Underwoods_.

_Edinburgh [April 1879]._

MY DEAR HENLEY,--Heavens! have I done the like? "Clarify and strain,"
indeed? "Make it like Marvell," no less. I'll tell you what--you may go
to the devil; that's what I think. "Be eloquent" is another of your
pregnant suggestions. I cannot sufficiently thank you for that one.
Portrait of a person about to be eloquent at the request of a literary
friend. You seem to forget, sir, that rhyme is rhyme, sir, and--go to
the devil.

I'll try to improve it, but I shan't be able to--O go to the devil.

Seriously, you're a cool hand. And then you have the brass to ask me
_why_ "my steps went one by one"? Why? Powers of man! to rhyme with
_sun_, to be sure. Why else could it be? And you yourself have been a
poet! G-r-r-r-r-r! I'll never be a poet any more. Men are so d----d
ungrateful and captious, I declare I could weep.

O Henley, in my hours of ease
You may say anything you please,
But when I join the Muse's revel,
Begad, I wish you at the devil!
In vain my verse I plane and bevel,
Like Banville's rhyming devotees;
In vain by many an artful swivel