We’ll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire, To weep for old desire And things that are no more. The woods are spoiled and hoar, The ways are full of mire; We’ll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire. We loved, in days of yore, Love, laughter, and the lyre. Ah God, but death is dire, And death is at the door— We’ll walk the woods no more. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO SIDNEY COLVIN _Edinburgh_, [_Autumn_] 1875. MY DEAR COLVIN,—Thanks for your letter and news. No—my _Burns_ is not done yet, it has led me so far afield that I cannot finish it; every time I think I see my way to an end, some new game (or perhaps wild goose) starts up, and away I go. And then, again, to be plain, I shirk the work of the critical part, shirk it as a man shirks a long jump. It is awful to have to express and differentiate _Burns_ in a column or two. O golly, I say, you know, it _can’t_ be done at the money. All the more as I’m going to write a book about it. _Ramsay_, _Fergusson_, _and Burns_: _an Essay_ (or _a critical essay_? but then I’m going to give lives of the three gentlemen, only the gist of the book is the criticism) _by Robert Louis Stevenson_, _Advocate_. How’s that for cut and dry? And I _could_ write this book. Unless I deceive myself, I could even write it pretty adequately. I feel as if I was really in it, and knew the game thoroughly. You see what comes of trying to write an essay on _Burns_ in ten columns. Meantime, when I have done Burns, I shall finish Charles of Orleans (who is in a good way, about the fifth month, I should think, and promises to be a fine healthy child, better than any of his elder brothers for a while); and then perhaps a Villon, for Villon is a very essential part of my _Ramsay-Fergusson-Burns_; I mean, is a note in it, and will recur again and again for comparison and illustration; then, perhaps, I may try Fontainebleau, by the way. But so soon as Charles of Orleans is polished off, and immortalised for ever, he and his pipings, in a solid imperishable shrine of R. L. S., my true aim and end will be this little book. Suppose I could jerk you out 100 Cornhill pages; that would easy make 200 pages of decent form; and then thickish paper—eh? would that do? I dare say it could be made bigger; but I know what 100 pages of copy, bright consummate copy, imply behind the scenes of weary manuscribing; I think if I put another nothing to it, I should not be outside the mark; and 100 Cornhill pages of 500 words means, I fancy (but I never was good at figures), means 500,00 words. There’s a prospect for an idle young gentleman who lives at home at ease! The future is thick with inky fingers. And then perhaps nobody would publish. _Ah nom de dieu_! What do you think of all this? will it paddle, think you?