I may mention with regard to the piece of verses called _Such is Life_ that I am not the only one on this side of the Football aforesaid to think it a good and bright piece of work, and recognised a link of sympathy with the poets who "play in hostelries at euchre."--Believe me, dear sir, yours truly, R. L. S. TO A. PATCHETT MARTIN _17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh [December 1877]._ MY DEAR SIR,--I am afraid you must already have condemned me for a very idle fellow truly. Here it is more than two months since I received your letter; I had no fewer than three journals to acknowledge; and never a sign upon my part. If you have seen a Cornhill paper of mine upon idling, you will be inclined to set it all down to that. But you will not be doing me justice. Indeed, I have had a summer so troubled that I have had little leisure and still less inclination to write letters. I was keeping the devil at bay with all my disposable activities; and more than once I thought he had me by the throat. The odd conditions of our acquaintance enable me to say more to you than I would to a person who lived at my elbow. And besides, I am too much pleased and flattered at our correspondence not to go as far as I can to set myself right in your eyes. In this damnable confusion (I beg pardon) I have lost all my possessions, or near about, and quite lost all my wits. I wish I could lay my hands on the numbers of the Review, for I know I wished to say something on that head more particularly than I can from memory; but where they have escaped to, only time or chance can show. However, I can tell you so far, that I was very much pleased with the article on Bret Harte; it seemed to me just, clear, and to the point. I agreed pretty well with all you said about George Eliot: a high, but, may we not add?--a rather dry lady. Did you--I forget--did you have a kick at the stern works of that melancholy puppy and humbug Daniel Deronda himself?--the Prince of Prigs; the literary abomination of desolation in the way of manhood; a type which is enough to make a man forswear the love of women, if that is how it must be gained.... Hats off all the same, you understand: a woman of genius. Of your poems I have myself a kindness for _Noll and Nell_, although I don't think you have made it as good as you ought: verse five is surely not _quite melodious_. I confess I like the Sonnet in the last number of the Review--the _Sonnet to England_.