received from Messrs. Scribner
of a proposed volume of verse to contain, besides _Ticonderoga_ and
the two ballads on Marquesan and Tahitian legends, a number of the
other miscellaneous verses which he had written in the course of his
travels. In the end, the ballads only stood for publication at this
time; the other verses were reserved, and have been posthumously
published under the title _Songs of Travel_.

_Union Club, Sydney [August 1890]._

MY DEAR BURLINGAME,--

_Ballads._

The deuce is in this volume. It has cost me more botheration and dubiety
than any other I ever took in hand. On one thing my mind is made up: the
verses at the end have no business there, and throw them down. Many of
them are bad, many of the rest want nine years' keeping, and the
remainder are not relevant--throw them down; some I never want to hear
of more, others will grow in time towards decent items in a second
_Underwoods_--and in the meanwhile, down with them! At the same time, I
have a sneaking idea the ballads are not altogether without merit--I
don't know if they're poetry, but they're good narrative, or I'm
deceived. (You've never said one word about them, from which I astutely
gather you are dead set against: "he was a diplomatic man"--extract from
epitaph of E. L. B.--"and remained on good terms with Minor Poets.") You
will have to judge: one of the Gladstonian trinity of paths must be
chosen. (1st) Either publish the five ballads, such as they are, in a
volume called _Ballads_; in which case pray send sheets at once to
Chatto and Windus. Or (2nd) write and tell me you think the book too
small, and I'll try and get into the mood to do some more. Or (3rd)
write and tell me the whole thing is a blooming illusion; in which case
draw off some twenty copies for my private entertainment, and charge me
with the expense of the whole dream.

In the matter of rhyme no man can judge himself; I am at the world's
end, have no one to consult, and my publisher holds his tongue. I call
it unfair and almost unmanly. I do indeed begin to be filled with
animosity; Lord, wait till you see the continuation of _The Wrecker_,
when I introduce some New York publishers.... It's a good scene; the
quantities you drink and the really hideous language you are represented
as employing may perhaps cause you one tithe of the pain you have
inflicted by your silence on, sir, The Poetaster,

R. L. S.

Lloyd is off home; my