ersonally) do I want
sent. The reperusal of the _Admiral_, by the way, was a sore blow; eh,
God, man, it is a low, black, dirty, blackguard, ragged piece: vomitable
in many parts--simply vomitable. Pew is in places a reproach to both art
and man. But of all that afterwards. What I mean is that I believe in
playing dark with second and third-rate work. Macaire is a piece of
job-work, hurriedly bockled; might have been worse, might have been
better; happy-go-lucky; act it or-let-it-rot piece of business. Not a
thing, I think, to send in presentations. Do not let us _gober_
ourselves--and, above all, not _gober_ dam pot-boilers--and p.b.'s with
an obvious flaw and hole in them, such as is our unrealised Bertrand in
this one. But of this also, on a meeting.

I am not yet done with my proofs, I am sorry to say; so soon as I am, I
must tackle _Kidnapped_ seriously, or be content to have no bread, which
you would scarcely recommend. It is all I shall be able to do to wait
for the Young Folk money, on which I'll have to live as best I can till
the book comes in.

Plays at that rate I do not think I can possibly look at before July; so
let that be a guide to you in your views. July, or August, or
September, or thereabouts: these must be our times, whichever we attack.
I think you had better suspend a visit till we can take you in and till
I can speak. It seems a considerable waste of money; above all, as just
now I could not even offer you meals with my woman in such a state of
overwork. My father and mother have had to go to lodgings.--Post.

R. L. S.

TO W. E. HENLEY

[_Bournemouth, March 1885._]

DEAR LAD,--Much better, but rather unequal to do what I ought, a common
complaint. The change of weather much helped me, not too soon.

I have thought as well as I could of what you said; and I come
unhesitatingly to the opinion that the stage is only a lottery, must not
be regarded as a trade, and must never be preferred to drudgery. If
money comes from any play, let us regard it as a legacy, but never count
upon it in our income for the year. In other words, I must go on and
drudge at _Kidnapped_, which I hate, and am unfit to do; and you will
have to get some journalism somehow. These are my cold and blighting
sentiments. It is bad enough to have to live by an art--but to think to
live by an art combined with commercial speculation--that way madness
lies.

Time is our only friend. The _Admiral_, pulled