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 Bûshes 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 crushes The spirit of the bard: God pity him who tushes— His task is very hard. The filthy gutter slushes, The clouds are full of rain, But doomed is he who tushes To tush and tush again. At morn with his hair-br_u_shes, Still, ‘tush’ he says, and weeps; At night again he tushes, And tushes till he sleeps. And when at length he pushes Beyond the river dark— ‘Las, to the man who tushes, ‘Tush’ shall be God’s remark! TO W. E. HENLEY [_Chalet La Solitude_, _Hyères_, _May_ 1883.] DEAR HENLEY,—You may be surprised to hear that I am now a great writer of verses; that is, however, so. I have the mania now like my betters, and faith, if I live till I am forty, I shall have a book of rhymes like Pollock, Gosse, or whom you please. Really, I have begun to learn some of the rudiments of that trade, and have written three or four pretty enough pieces of octosyllabic nonsense, semi-serious, semi-smiling. A kind of prose Herrick, divested of the gift of verse, and you behold the Bard. But I like it. R. L. S. TO W. E. HENLEY _Hyères_ [_June_ 1883]. DEAR LAD,—I was delighted to hear the good news about —. Bravo, he goes uphill fast. Let him beware of vanity, and he will go higher; let him be still discontented, and let him (if it might be) see the merits and not the faults of his rivals, and he may swarm at last to the top-gallant. There is no other way. Admiration is the only road to excellence; and the critical spirit kills, but envy and injustice are putrefaction on its feet. Thus far the moralist. The eager author now begs to know whether you may have got the other Whistles, and whether a fresh proof is to be taken; also whether in that case the dedication should not be printed therewith; _B_ulk _D_elights _P_ublishers (original aphorism; to be said sixteen times in succession as a test of sobriety).