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saint； were that saint our Tamate himself！ Yourself were enough；
and yourself coming with so rich a sheaf。
For what is this that you say about the Muses？ They have certainly
never better inspired you than in 'Jael and Sisera；' and 'Herodias
and John the Baptist；' good stout poems； fiery and sound。 ''Tis
but a mask and behind it chuckles the God of the Garden；' I shall
never forget。 By the by； an error of the press； page 49； line 4；
'No infant's lesson are the ways of God。' THE is dropped。
And this reminds me you have a bad habit which is to be comminated
in my theory of letters。 Same page； two lines lower： 'But the
vulture's track' is surely as fine to the ear as 'But vulture's
track；' and this latter version has a dreadful baldness。 The
reader goes on with a sense of impoverishment； of unnecessary
sacrifice； he has been robbed by footpads； and goes scouting for
his lost article！ Again； in the second Epode； these fine verses
would surely sound much finer if they began； 'As a hardy climber
who has set his heart；' than with the jejune 'As hardy climber。' I
do not know why you permit yourself this license with grammar； you
show； in so many pages； that you are superior to the paltry sense
of rhythm which usually dictates it … as though some poetaster had
been suffered to correct the poet's text。 By the way； I confess to
a heartfelt weakness for AURICULAS。 … Believe me the very grateful
and characteristic pick…thank； but still sincere and affectionate；
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON。
Letter： TO W。 H。 LOW。
VAILIMA； JANUARY 15th； 1894。
MY DEAR LOW； … 。 。 。 Pray you； stoop your proud head； and sell
yourself to some Jew magazine； and make the visit out。 I assure
you； this is the spot for a sculptor or painter。 This； and no
other … I don't say to stay there； but to come once and get the
living colour into them。 I am used to it； I do not notice it；
rather prefer my grey； freezing recollections of Scotland； but
there it is； and every morning is a thing to give thanks for； and
every night another … bar when it rains； of course。
About THE WRECKER … rather late days； and I still suspect I had
somehow offended you； however； all's well that ends well； and I am
glad I am forgiven … did you not fail to appreciate the attitude of
Dodd？ He was a fizzle and a stick； he knew it； he knew nothing
else； and there is an undercurrent of bitterness in him。 And then
the problem that Pinkerton laid down： why the artist can DO
NOTHING ELSE？ is one that continually exercises myself。 He cannot：
granted。 But Scott could。 And Montaigne。 And Julius Caesar。 And
many more。 And why can't R。 L。 S。？ Does it not amaze you？ It
does me。 I think of the Renaissance fellows； and their all…round
human sufficiency； and compare it with the ineffable smallness of
the field in which we labour and in which we do so little。 I think
DAVID BALFOUR a nice little book； and very artistic； and just the
thing to occupy the leisure of a busy man； but for the top flower
of a man's life it seems to me inadequate。 Small is the word； it
is a small age； and I am of it。 I could have wished to be
otherwise busy in this world。 I ought to have been able to build
lighthouses and write DAVID BALFOURS too。 HINC ILLAE LACRYMAE。 I
take my own case as most handy； but it is as illustrative of my
quarrel with the age。 We take all these pains； and we don't do as
well as Michael Angelo or Leonardo； or even Fielding； who was an
active magistrate； or Richardson； who was a busy bookseller。 J'AI
HONTE POUR NOUS； my ears burn。
I am amazed at the effect which this Chicago exhibition has
produced upon you and others。 It set Mrs。 Fairchild literally mad
… to judge by her letters。 And I wish I had seen anything so
influential。 I suppose there was an aura； a halo； some sort of
effulgency about the place； for here I find you louder than the
rest。 Well； it may be there is a time coming； and I wonder； when
it comes； whether it will be a time of little； exclusive； one…eyed
rascals like you and me； or parties of the old stamp who can paint
and fight； and write and keep books of double entry； and sculp； and
scalp。 It might be。 You have a lot of stuff in the kettle； and a
great deal of it Celtic。 I have changed my mind progressively
about England； practically the whole of Scotland is Celtic； and the
western half of England； and all Ireland； and the Celtic blood
makes a rare blend for art。 If it is stiffened up with Latin
blood； you get the French。 We were less lucky： we had only
Scandinavians； themselves decidedly artistic； and the Low…German
lot。 However； that is a good starting…point； and with all the
other elements in your crucible； it may come to something great
very easily。 I wish you would hurry up and let me see it。 Here is
a long while I have been waiting for something GOOD in art； and
what have I seen？ Zola's DEBACLE and a few of Kipling's tales。
Are you a reader of Barbey d'Aurevilly？ He is a never…failing
source of pleasure to me； for my sins； I suppose。 What a work is
the RIDEAU CRAMOISI！ and L'ENSORCELEE！ and LE CHEVALIER DES
TOUCHES！
This is degenerating into mere twaddle。 So please remember us all
most kindly to Mrs。 Low； and believe me ever yours；
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON。
P。S。 … Were all your privateers voiceless in the war of 1812？ Did
NO ONE of them write memoirs？ I shall have to do my privateer from
chic； if you can't help me。 My application to Scribner has been
quite in vain。 See if you can get hold of some historic sharp in
the club； and tap him； they must some of them have written memoirs
or notes of some sort； perhaps still unprinted； if that be so； get
them copied for me。
R。 L。 S。
Letter： TO H。 B。 BAILDON
VAILIMA； JANUARY 30TH； 1894。
MY DEAR BAILDON； … 'Call not blessed。' … Yes； if I could die just
now； or say in half a year； I should have had a splendid time of it
on the whole。 But it gets a little stale； and my work will begin
to senesce； and parties to shy bricks at me； and now it begins to
look as if I should survive to see myself impotent and forgotten。
It's a pity suicide is not thought the ticket in the best circles。
But your letter goes on to congratulate me on having done the one
thing I am a little sorry for； a little … not much … for my father
himself lived to think that I had been wiser than he。 But the
cream of the jest is that I have lived to change my mind； and think
that he was wiser than I。 Had I been an engineer； and literature
my amusement； it would have been better perhaps。 I pulled it off；
of course； I won the wager； and it is pleasant while it lasts； but
how long will it last？ I don't know； say the Bells of Old Bow。
All of which goes to show that nobody is quite sane in judging
himself。 Truly； had I given way an