Symonds was actually dining with us when your letter came, and I communicated your remarks. . . . He is a far better and more interesting thing than any of his books. The Elephant was my wife’s; so she is proportionately elate you should have picked it out for praise—from a collection, let me add, so replete with the highest qualities of art. My wicked carcase, as John Knox calls it, holds together wonderfully. In addition to many other things, and a volume of travel, I find I have written, since December, 90 _Cornhill_ pages of magazine work—essays and stories: 40,000 words, and I am none the worse—I am the better. I begin to hope I may, if not outlive this wolverine upon my shoulders, at least carry him bravely like Symonds and Alexander Pope. I begin to take a pride in that hope. I shall be much interested to see your criticisms; you might perhaps send them to me. I believe you know that is not dangerous; one folly I have not—I am not touchy under criticism. Lloyd and my wife both beg to be remembered; and Lloyd sends as a present a work of his own. I hope you feel flattered; for this is _simply the first time he has ever given one away_. I have to buy my own works, I can tell you.—Yours very sincerely, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO W. E. HENLEY [_Chalet am Stein_, _Davos_, _April_ 1882.] MY DEAR HENLEY,—I hope and hope for a long letter—soon I hope to be superseded by long talks—and it comes not. I remember I have never formally thanked you for that hundred quid, nor in general for the introduction to Chatto and Windus, and continue to bury you in copy as if you were my private secretary. Well, I am not unconscious of it all; but I think least said is often best, generally best; gratitude is a tedious sentiment, it’s not ductile, not dramatic. If Chatto should take both, _cui dedicare_? I am running out of dedikees; if I do, the whole fun of writing is stranded. _Treasure Island_, if it comes out, and I mean it shall, of course goes to Lloyd. Lemme see, I have now dedicated to W. E. H. [William Ernest Henley]. S. C. [Sidney Colvin]. T. S. [Thomas Stevenson]. Simp. [Sir Walter Simpson]. There remain: C. B., the Williamses—you know they were the parties who stuck up for us about our marriage, and Mrs. W. was my guardian angel, and our Best Man and Bridesmaid rolled in one, and the only third of the wedding party—my sister-in-law, who is booked for _Prince Otto_—Jenkin I suppose sometime—George Meredith, the only man of genius of my acquaintance, and then I believe I’ll have to take to the dead, the immortal memory business.