and very narrow; upon the lungs I will not linger; the heart
is large enough for a ballroom; the belly greedy and inefficient; the
brain stocked with the most damnable explosives, like a dynamiter's den.
The whole place is well furnished, though not in a very pure taste;
Corinthian much of it; showy and not strong.

About your place I shall try to find my way above, an interesting
exploration. Imagine me, as I go to bed, falling over a blood-stained
remorse; opening that cupboard in the cerebellum and being welcomed by
the spirit of your murdered uncle. I should probably not like your
remorses; I wonder if you will like mine; I have a spirited assortment;
they whistle in my ear o' nights like a north-easter. I trust yours
don't dine with the family; mine are better mannered; you will hear
nought of them till 2 A.M., except one, to be sure, that I have made a
pet of, but he is small; I keep him in buttons, so as to avoid
commentaries; you will like him much--if you like what is genuine.

Must we likewise change religions? Mine is a good article, with a trick
of stopping; cathedral bell note; ornamental dial; supported by Venus
and the Graces; quite a summer-parlour piety. Of yours, since your last,
I fear there is little to be said.

There is one article I wish to take away with me: my spirits. They suit
me. I don't want yours; I like my own; I have had them a long while in
bottle. It is my only reservation.--Yours (as you decide),

R. L. MONKHOUSE.

TO W. E. HENLEY

_La Solitude, Hyeres [May 1884]._

DEAR BOY,--_Old Mortality_[9] is out, and I am glad to say Coggie likes
it. We like her immensely.

I keep better, but no great shakes yet; cannot work--cannot: that is
flat, not even verses: as for prose, that more active place is shut on
me long since.

My view of life is essentially the comic; and the romantically comic.
_As You Like It_ is to me the most bird-haunted spot in letters;
_Tempest_ and _Twelfth Night_ follow. These are what I mean by poetry
and nature. I make an effort of my mind to be quite one with Moliere,
except upon the stage, where his inimitable _jeux de scene_ beggar
belief; but you will observe they are stage-plays--things _ad hoc_; not
great Olympian debauches of the heart and fancy; hence more perfect, and
not so great. Then I come, after great wanderings, to Carmosine and to
Fantasio; to one part of La Derniere Aldini (which, by the by, we might
dramatise in a week),