_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,