irely taken from you.

Otto is, as you say, not a thing to extend my public on. It is queer and
a little, little bit free; and some of the parties are immoral; and the
whole thing is not a romance, nor yet a comedy; nor yet a romantic
comedy; but a kind of preparation of some of the elements of all three
in a glass jar. I think it is not without merit, but I am not always on
the level of my argument, and some parts are false, and much of the rest
is thin; it is more a triumph for myself than anything else; for I see,
beyond it, better stuff. I have nine chapters ready, or almost ready,
for press. My feeling would be to get it placed anywhere for as much as
could be got for it, and rather in the shadow, till one saw the look of
it in print.--Ever yours,

PRETTY SICK.

TO W. E. HENLEY

_La Solitude, Hyeres-les-Palmiers, May 1883._

MY DEAR LAD,--The books came some time since, but I have not had the
pluck to answer: a shower of small troubles having fallen in, or
troubles that may be very large.

I have had to incur a huge vague debt for cleaning sewers; our house was
(of course) riddled with hidden cesspools, but that was infallible. I
have the fever, and feel the duty to work very heavy on me at times; yet
go it must. I have had to leave _Fontainebleau_, when three hours would
finish it, and go full-tilt at tushery for a while. But it will come
soon.

I think I can give you a good article on Hokusai; but that is for
afterwards; _Fontainebleau_ is first in hand.

By the way, my view is to give the _Penny Whistles_ to Crane or
Greenaway. But Crane, I think, is likeliest; he is a fellow who, at
least, always does his best.

Shall I ever have money enough to write a play?

O dire necessity!

A word in your ear: I don't like trying to support myself. I hate the
strain and the anxiety; and when unexpected expenses are foisted on me,
I feel the world is playing with false dice.--Now I must Tush, adieu.

AN ACHING, FEVERED, PENNY-JOURNALIST.

A lytle Jape of TUSHERIE.

By A. Tusher.

The pleasant river gushes
Among the meadows green;
At home the author tushes;
For him it flows unseen.

The Birds among the Bushes
May wanton on the spray;
But vain for him who tushes
The brightness of the day!

The frog among the rushes
Sits singing in the blue.
By'r la'kin! but these tushes
Are wearisome to do!

The task entirely crushe