they might
advertise your book. It might be headed as sent in acknowledgment of
your _Lamia_. Or perhaps it might be introduced by the phrases I have
marked above. I dare say they would stick it in: I want no payment,
being well paid by _Lamia_. If they are not, keep them to yourself.

TO WILL H. LOW

_Damned bad lines in return for a beautiful book_

YOUTH now flees on feathered foot.
Faint and fainter sounds the flute;
Rarer songs of Gods.
And still,
Somewhere on the sunny hill,
Or along the winding stream.
Through the willows, flits a dream;
Flits, but shows a smiling face,
Flees, but with so quaint a grace,
None can choose to stay at home,
All must follow--all must roam.

This is unborn beauty: she
Now in air floats high and free,
Takes the sun, and breaks the blue;--
Late, with stooping pinion flew
Raking hedgerow trees, and wet
Her wing in silver streams, and set
Shining foot on temple roof.
Now again she flies aloof,
Coasting mountain clouds, and kissed
By the evening's amethyst.

In wet wood and miry lane
Still we pound and pant in vain;
Still with earthy foot we chase
Waning pinion, fainting face;
Still, with grey hair, we stumble on
Till--behold!--the vision gone!
Where has fleeting beauty led?
To the doorway of the dead!
[Life is gone, but life was gay:
We have come the primrose way!][15]

R. L. S.

TO EDMUND GOSSE

_Skerryvore, Bournemouth, Jan. 2nd, 1886._

MY DEAR GOSSE,--Thank you for your letter, so interesting to my vanity.
There is a review in the St. James's, which, as it seems to hold
somewhat of your opinions, and is besides written with a pen and not a
poker, we think may possibly be yours. The _Prince_[16] has done fairly
well in spite of the reviews, which have been bad: he was, as you
doubtless saw, well slated in the Saturday; one paper received it as a
child's story; another (picture my agony) described it as a "Gilbert
comedy." It was amusing to see the race between me and Justin M'Carthy:
the Milesian has won by a length.

That is the hard part of literature. You aim high, and you take longer
over your work, and it will not be so successful as if you had aimed low
and rushed it. What the public likes is work (of any kind) a little
loosely executed; so long as it is a little wordy, a little slack, a
little dim and knotless, the dear public likes it; it should