Chapter IV

. is at present all ends and beginnings; but it can be pulled together.

This is all I have been able to screw up to you for this month, and I may add that it is not only more than you deserve, but just about more than I was equal to. I have been and am entirely useless; just able to tinker at my Grandfather. The three chapters--perhaps also a little of the fourth--will come home to you next mail by the hand of my cousin Graham Balfour, a very nice fellow whom I recommend to you warmly--and whom I think you will like. This will give you time to consider my various and distracted schemes.

All our wars are over in the meantime, to begin again as soon as the war-ships leave. Adieu.

R. L. S.

TO A. CONAN DOYLE

_Vailima, August 23rd, 1893._

MY DEAR DR. CONAN DOYLE,--I am reposing after a somewhat severe experience upon which I think it my duty to report to you. Immediately after dinner this evening it occurred to me to re-narrate to my native overseer Simelé your story of _The Engineer's Thumb_. And, sir, I have done it. It was necessary, I need hardly say, to go somewhat farther afield than you have done. To explain (for instance) what a railway is, what a steam hammer, what a coach and horse, what coining, what a criminal, and what the police. I pass over other and no less necessary explanations. But I did actually succeed; and if you could have seen the drawn, anxious features and the bright, feverish eyes of Simelé, you would have (for the moment at least) tasted glory. You might perhaps think that, were you to come to Samoa, you might be introduced as the Author of _The Engineer's Thumb_. Disabuse yourself. They do not know what it is to make up a story. _The Engineer's Thumb_ (God forgive me) was narrated as a piece of actual and factual history. Nay, and more, I who write to you have had the indiscretion to perpetrate a trifling piece of fiction entitled _The Bottle Imp_. Parties who come up to visit my unpretentious mansion, after having admired the ceilings by Vanderputty and the tapestry by Gobbling, manifest towards the end a certain uneasiness which proves them to be fellows of an infinite delicacy. They may be seen to shrug a brown shoulder, to roll up a speaking eye, and at last secret burst from them: "Where is the bottle?" Alas, my friends (I feel tempted to say), you will find it by the Engineer's Thumb! Talofa-soifua.

O a'u, o lau uo moni, O Tusitala. More commonly known as

R. L. STEVENSON.

Have read the _Refugees_; Condé and old P. Murat very good; Louis xiv. and Louvois with the letter bag very rich. You have reached a trifle wide perhaps; too _many_ celebrities? Though I was delighted to re-encounter my old friend Du Chaylu. Old Murat is perhaps your high-water mark; 'tis excellently human, cheerful and real. Do it again. Madame de Maintenon struck me as quite good. Have you any document for the decapitation? It sounds steepish. The devil of all that first part is that you see old Dumas; yet your Louis XIV. is _distinctly good_. I am much interested with this book, which fulfils a good deal, and promises more. Question: How far a Historical Novel should be wholly episodic? I incline to that view, with trembling. I shake hands with you on old Murat.

R. L. S.

TO AUGUSTUS ST. GAUDENS

Mr. St. Gaudens' large medallion portrait in bronze, executed from sittings given in 1887, had at last found its way to Apia, but not yet to Vailima.

_Vailima, September 1893._

MY DEAR ST. GAUDENS,--I had determined not to write to you till I had seen the medallion, but it looks as if that might mean the Greek Kalends or the day after to-morrow. Reassure yourself, your part is done, it is ours that halts--the consideration of conveyance over our sweet little road on boys' backs, for we cannot very well apply the horses to this work; there is only one; you cannot put it in a panier; to put it on the horse's back we have not the heart. Beneath the beauty of R. L. S., to say nothing of his verses, which the publishers find heavy enough, and the genius of the god-like sculptor, the spine would snap and the well-knit limbs of the (ahem) cart-horse would be loosed by death. So you are to conceive me, sitting in my house, dubitative, and the medallion chuckling in the warehouse of the German firm, for some days longer; and hear me meanwhile on the golden letters.

Alas! they are all my fancy painted, but the price is prohibitive. I cannot do it. It is another day-dream burst. Another gable of Abbotsford has gone down, fortunately before it was builded, so there's nobody injured--except me. I had a strong conviction that I was a great hand at writing inscriptions, and meant to exhibit and test my genius on the walls of my house; and now I see I can't. It is generally thus. The Battle of the Golden Letters will never be delivered. On making preparation to open the campaign, the King found himself face to face with invincible difficulties, in which the rapacity of a mercenary soldiery and the complaints of an impoverished treasury played an equal part.--Ever yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

I enclose a bill for the medallion; have been trying to find your letter, quite in vain, and therefore must request you to pay for the bronze letters yourself and let me know the damage.

R. L. S.

TO JAMES S. STEVENSON

_Vailima Plantation, Island of Upolu, Samoa, Sept. 4th, 1893._

MY DEAR COUSIN,--I thank you cordially for your kinsmanlike reply to my appeal. Already the notes from the family Bible have spared me one blunder, which I had from some notes in my grandfather's own hand; and now, like the daughters of the horseleech, my voice is raised again to put you to more trouble. "Nether Carsewell, Neilston," I read. My knowledge of Scotland is fairly wide, but it does not include Neilston.

However, I find by the (original) Statistical Account, it is a parish in Renfrew. Do you know anything of it? Have you identified Nether Carsewell? Have the Neilston parish registers been searched? I see whole vistas of questions arising, and here am I in Samoa!

I shall write by this mail to my lawyer to have the records searched, and to my mother to go and inquire in the parish itself. But perhaps you may have some further information, and if so I should be glad of it. If you have not, pray do not trouble to answer. As to your father's blunder of "Stevenson of Cauldwell," it is now explained: _Carse_well may have been confounded with _Cauldwell_: and it seems likely our man may have been a tenant or retainer of Mure of Cauldwell, a very ancient and honourable family, who seems to have been at least a neighbouring laird to the parish of Neilston. I was just about to close this, when I observed again your obliging offer of service, and I take you promptly at your word.

Do you think that you or your son could find a day to visit Neilston and try to identify Nether Carsewell, find what size of a farm it is, to whom it belonged, etc.? I shall be very much obliged. I am pleased indeed to learn some of my books have given pleasure to your family; and with all good wishes, I remain, your affectionate cousin,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

The registers I shall have seen to, through my lawyer.

TO GEORGE MEREDITH

_Sept. 5th,1893, Vailima Plantation, Upolu, Samoa._

MY DEAR MEREDITH,--I have again and again taken up the pen to write to you, and many beginnings have gone into the waste paper basket (I have one now--for the second time in my life--and feel a big man on the strength of it). And no doubt it requires some decision to break so long a silence. My health is vastly restored, and I am now living patriarchally in this place six hundred feet above the sea on the shoulder of a mountain of 1500. Behind me, the unbroken bush slopes up to the backbone of the island (3 to 4000) without a house, with no inhabitants save a few runaway black boys, wild pigs and cattle, and wild doves and flying foxes, and many parti-coloured birds, and many black, and many white: a very eerie, dim, strange place and hard to travel. I am the head of a household of five whites, and of twelve Samoans, to all of whom I am the chief and father: my cook comes to me and asks leave to marry--and his mother, a fine old chief woman, who has never lived here, does the same. You may be sure I granted the petition. It is a life of great interest, complicated by the Tower of Babel, that old enemy. And I have all the time on my hands for literary work.

My house is a great place; we have a hall fifty feet long with a great redwood stair ascending from it, where we dine in state--myself usually dressed in a singlet and a pair of trousers--and attended on by servants in a single garment, a kind of kilt--also flowers and leaves--and their hair often powdered with lime. The European who came upon it suddenly would think it was a dream. We have prayers on Sunday night--I am a perfect pariah in the island not to have them oftener, but the spirit is unwilling and the flesh proud, and I cannot go it more. It is strange to see the long line of the brown folk crouched along the wall with lanterns at intervals before them in the big shadowy hall, with an oak cabinet at one end of it and a group of Rodin's (which native taste regards as _prodigieusement leste_) presiding over all from the top--and to hear the long rambling Samoan hymn rolling up (God bless me, what style)! But I am off business to-day, and this is not meant to be literature.

I have asked Colvin to send you a copy of _Catriona_, which I am sometimes tempted to think is about my best work. I hear word occasionally of the _Amazing Marriage_. It will be a brave day for me when I get hold of it. Gower Woodseer is now an ancient, lean, grim, exiled Scot, living and labouring as for a wager in the tropics; still

## active, still with lots of fire in him, but the youth--ah, the youth

where is it? For years after I came here, the critics (those genial gentlemen) used to deplore the relaxation of my fibre and the idleness to which I had succumbed. I hear less of this now; the next thing is they will tell me I am writing myself out! and that my unconscientious conduct is bringing their grey hairs with sorrow to the dust. I do not know--I mean I do know one thing. For fourteen years I have not had a day's real health; I have wakened sick and gone to bed weary; and I have done my work unflinchingly. I have written in bed, and written out of it, written in hemorrhages, written in sickness, written torn by coughing, written when my head swam for weakness; and for so long, it seems to me I have won my wager and recovered my glove. I am better now, have been rightly speaking since first I came to the Pacific; and still, few are the days when I am not in some physical distress. And the battle goes on--ill or well, is a trifle; so as it goes. I was made for a contest, and the Powers have so willed that my battlefield should be this dingy, inglorious one of the bed and the physic bottle. At least I have not failed, but I would have preferred a place of trumpetings and the open air over my head.

This is a devilish egotistical yarn. Will you try to imitate me in that if the spirit ever moves you to reply? And meantime be sure that away in the midst of the Pacific there is a house on a wooded island where the name of George Meredith is very dear, and his memory (since it must be no more) is continually honoured.--Ever your friend,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Remember me to Mariette, if you please; and my wife sends her most kind remembrances to yourself.

R. L. S.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

Finished on the way to Honolulu for a health change which turned out unfortunate. With the help of Mr. J.H. Stevenson and other correspondents he had now, as we have seen, been able (regretfully giving up the possibility of a Macgregor lineage) to identify his forbears as having about 1670 been tenant farmers at Nether Carsewell in Renfrewshire. The German government at home had taken his _Footnote to History_ much less kindly than his German neighbours on the spot, and the Tauchnitz edition had been confiscated and destroyed and its publisher fined.

[_Vailima, and s.s. Mariposa, September 1893._]

MY DEAR CHARLES,--Here is a job for you. It appears that about 1665, or earlier, James Stevenson {in / of} Nether Carsewell, parish of Neilston, flourished. Will you kindly send an able-bodied reader to compulse the parish registers of Neilston, if they exist or go back as far? Also could any trace be found through Nether-Carsewell? I expect it to have belonged to Mure of Cauldwell. If this be so, might not the Cauldwell charter chest contain some references to their Stevenson tenantry? Perpend upon it. But clap me on the judicious, able-bodied reader on the spot. Can I really have found the tap-root of my illustrious ancestry at last? Souls of my fathers! What a giggle-iggle-orious moment! I have drawn on you for £400. Also I have written to Tauchnitz announcing I should bear one-half part of his fines and expenses, amounting to £62, 10s. The £400 includes £160 which I have laid out here in land. Vanu Manutagi--the vale of crying birds (the wild dove)--is now mine: it was Fanny's wish and she is to buy it from me again when she has made that much money.

Will you please order for me through your bookseller the _Mabinogion_ of Lady Charlotte Guest--if that be her name--and the original of Cook's voyages lately published? Also, I see announced a map of the Great North Road: you might see what it is like: if it is highly detailed, or has any posting information, I should like it.

This is being finished on board the _Mariposa_ going north. I am making the run to Honolulu and back for health's sake. No inclination to write more.--As ever,

R. L. S.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

On a first reading of the incomplete MS. of _The Ebb Tide_, without its concluding chapters, which are the strongest, dislike of the three detestable--or rather two detestable and one contemptible--chief characters had made me unjust to the imaginative force and vividness of the treatment.

_[Vailima] 23rd August._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--Your pleasing letter _re The Ebb Tide_, to hand. I propose, if it be not too late, to delete Lloyd's name. He has nothing to do with the last half. The first we wrote together, as the beginning of a long yarn. The second is entirely mine; and I think it rather unfair on the young man to couple his name with so infamous a work. Above all, as you had not read the two last chapters, which seem to me the most ugly and cynical of all.

You will see that I am not in a good humour; and I am not. It is not because of your letter, but because of the complicated miseries that surround me and that I choose to say nothing of.... Life is not all Beer and Skittles. The inherent tragedy of things works itself out from white to black and blacker, and the poor things of a day look ruefully on. Does it shake my cast-iron faith? I cannot say it does. I believe in an ultimate decency of things; ay, and if I woke in hell, should still believe it! But it is hard walking, and I can see my own share in the missteps, and can bow my head to the result, like an old, stern, unhappy devil of a Norseman, as my ultimate character is....

Well, _il faut cultiver son jardin_. That last expression of poor, unhappy human wisdom I take to my heart and go to _St. Ives_.

_24th Aug._--And did, and worked about 2 hours and got to sleep ultimately and "a' the clouds has blawn away." "Be sure we'll have some pleisand weather, When a' the clouds (storms?) has blawn (gone?) away." Verses that have a quite inexplicable attraction for me, and I believe had for Burns. They have no merit, but are somehow good. I am now in a most excellent humour.

I am deep in _St. Ives_ which, I believe, will be the next novel done. But it is to be clearly understood that I promise nothing, and may throw in your face the very last thing you expect--or I expect. _St. Ives_ will (to my mind) not be wholly bad. It is written in rather a funny style; a little stilted and left-handed; the style of St. Ives; also, to some extent, the style of R. L. S. dictating. _St. Ives_ is unintellectual, and except as an adventure novel, dull. But the adventures seem to me sound and pretty probable; and it is a love story. Speed his wings!

_Sunday night._--_De coeur un peu plus dispos, monsieur et cher confrère, je me remets à vous écrire._ _St. Ives_ is now in the 5th

## chapter copying; in the 14th chapter of the dictated draft. I do not

believe I shall end by disliking it.

_Monday._--Well, here goes again for the news. Fanny is _very well_ indeed, and in good spirits; I am in good spirits, but not _very_ well; Lloyd is in good spirits and very well; Belle has a real good fever which has put her pipe out wholly. Graham goes back this mail. He takes with him three chapters of _The Family_, and is to go to you as soon as he can. He cannot be much the master of his movements, but you grip him when you can and get all you can from him, as he has lived about six months with us and he can tell you just what is true and what is not--and not the dreams of dear old Ross.[66] He is a good fellow, is he not?

Since you rather revise your views of _The Ebb Tide_, I think Lloyd's name might stick, but I'll leave it to you. I'll tell you just how it stands. Up to the discovery of the champagne, the tale was all planned between us and drafted by Lloyd; from that moment he has had nothing to do with it except talking it over. For we changed our plan, gave up the projected Monte Cristo, and cut it down for a short story. My impression--(I beg your pardon--this is a local joke--a firm here had on its beer labels, "sole importers")--is that it will never be popular, but might make a little _succès de scandale_. However, I'm done with it now, and not sorry, and the crowd may rave and mumble its bones for what I care.

Hole essential.[67] I am sorry about the maps; but I want 'em for next edition, so see and have proofs sent. You are quite right about the bottle and the great Huish, I must try to make it clear. No, I will not write a play for Irving nor for the devil. Can you not see that the work of _falsification_ which a play demands is of all tasks the most ungrateful? And I have done it a long while--and nothing ever came of it.

Consider my new proposal, I mean Honolulu. You would get the Atlantic and the Rocky Mountains, would you not? for bracing. And so much less sea! And then you could actually see Vailima, which I _would_ like you to, for it's beautiful and my home and tomb that is to be; though it's a wrench not to be planted in Scotland--that I can never deny--if I could only be buried in the hills, under the heather and a table tombstone like the martyrs, where the whaups and plovers are crying! Did you see a man who wrote the _Stickit Minister_,[68] and dedicated it to me, in words that brought the tears to my eyes every time I looked at them. "Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying. _His_ heart remembers how." Ah, by God, it does! Singular that I should fulfil the Scots destiny throughout, and live a voluntary exile, and have my head filled with the blessed, beastly place all the time!

And now a word as regards the delusions of the dear Ross, who remembers, I believe, my letters and Fanny's when we were first installed, and were really hoeing a hard row. We have salad, beans, cabbages, tomatoes, asparagus, kohl-rabi, oranges, limes, barbadines, pine-apples, Cape gooseberries--galore; pints of milk and cream; fresh meat five days a week. It is the rarest thing for any of us to touch a tin; and the gnashing of teeth when it has to be done is dreadful--for no one who has not lived on them for six months knows what the Hatred of the Tin is. As for exposure, my weakness is certainly the reverse; I am sometimes a month without leaving the verandah--for my sins, be it said! Doubtless, when I go about and, as the Doctor says, "expose myself to malaria," I am in far better health; and I would do so more too--for I do not mean to be silly--but the difficulties are great. However, you see how much the dear Doctor knows of my diet and habits! Malaria practically does not exist in these islands; it is a negligeable quantity. What really bothers us a little is the mosquito affair--the so-called elephantiasis--ask Ross about it. A real romance of natural history, _quoi_!

Hi! stop! you say _The Ebb Tide_ is the "working out of an artistic problem of a kind." Well, I should just bet it was! You don't like Attwater. But look at my three rogues; they're all there, I'll go bail. Three types of the bad man, the weak man, and the strong man with a weakness, that are gone through and lived out.

Yes, of course I was sorry for Mataafa, but a good deal sorrier and angrier about the mismanagement of all the white officials. I cannot bear to write about that. Manono all destroyed, one house standing in Apolima, the women stripped, the prisoners beaten with whips--and the women's heads taken--all under white auspices. And for upshot and result of so much shame to the white powers--Tamasese already conspiring! as I knew and preached in vain must be the case! Well, well, it is no fun to meddle in politics!

I suppose you're right about Simon.[69] But it is Symon throughout in that blessed little volume my father bought for me in Inverness in the year of grace '81, I believe--the trial of James Stewart, with the Jacobite pamphlet and the dying speech appended--out of which the whole of _Davie_ has already been begotten, and which I felt it a kind of loyalty to follow. I really ought to have it bound in velvet and gold, if I had any gratitude! and the best of the lark is, that the name of David Balfour is not anywhere within the bounds of it. A pretty curious instance of the genesis of a book. I am delighted at your good word for _David_; I believe the two together make up much the best of my work and perhaps of what is in me. I am not ashamed of them, at least. There is one hitch; instead of three hours between the two parts, I fear there have passed three years over Davie's character; but do not tell anybody; see if they can find it out for themselves; and no doubt his experiences in _Kidnapped_ would go far to form him. I would like a copy to go to G. Meredith.

_Wednesday._--Well, here is a new move. It is likely I may start with Graham next week and go to Honolulu to meet the other steamer and return: I do believe a fortnight at sea would do me good; yet I am not yet certain. The crowded _up_-steamer sticks in my throat.

_Tuesday, 12th Sept._--Yesterday was perhaps the brightest in the annals of Vailima. I got leave from Captain Bickford to have the band of the _Katoomba_ come up, and they came, fourteen of 'em, with drum, fife, cymbals and bugles, blue jackets, white caps, and smiling faces. The house was all decorated with scented greenery above and below. We had not only our own nine out-door workers, but a contract party that we took on in charity to pay their war-fine; the band besides, as it came up the mountain, had collected a following of children by the way, and we had a picking of Samoan ladies to receive them. Chicken, ham, cake and fruits were served out with coffee and lemonade, and all the afternoon we had rounds of claret negus flavoured with rum and limes. They played to us, they danced, they sang, they tumbled. Our boys came in the end of the verandah and gave _them_ a dance for a while. It was anxious work getting this stopped once it had begun, but I knew the band was going on a programme. Finally they gave three cheers for Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, shook hands, formed up and marched off playing--till a kicking horse in the paddock put their pipes out something of the suddenest--we thought the big drum was gone, but Simelé flew to the rescue. And so they wound away down the hill with ever another call of the bugle, leaving us extinct with fatigue, but perhaps the most contented hosts that ever watched the departure of successful guests. Simply impossible to tell how well these blue-jackets behaved; a most interesting lot of men; this education of boys for the navy is making a class, wholly apart--how shall I call them?--a kind of lower-class public school boy, well-mannered, fairly intelligent, sentimental as a sailor. What is more shall be writ on board ship if anywhere.

Please send _Catriona_ to G. Meredith.

_S.S. Mariposa._--To-morrow I reach Honolulu. Good-morning to your honour.

R. L. S.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

In the interval between the last letter and this, the writer had been down with a sharp and prolonged attack of fever at Honolulu, and Mrs. Stevenson had come from Samoa to nurse and take him home.

_Waikiki, Honolulu, H. I., Oct. 23rd, 1893._

DEAR COLVIN,--My wife came up on the steamer and we go home together in 2 days. I am practically all right, only sleepy and tired easily, slept yesterday from 11 to 11.45, from 1 to 2.50, went to bed at 8 P.M., and with an hour's interval slept till 6 A.M., close upon 14 hours out of the 24. We sail to-morrow. I am anxious to get home, though this has been an interesting visit, and politics have been curious indeed to study. We go to P.P.C. on the "Queen" this morning; poor, recluse lady, _abreuvée d'injures qu'elle est_. Had a rather annoying lunch on board the American man-of-war, with a member of the P.G. (provisional government); and a good deal of anti-royalist talk, which I had to sit out--not only for my host's sake, but my fellow guests. At last, I took the lead and changed the conversation.

R. L. S.

I am being busted here by party named Hutchinson.[70] Seems good.

[_Vailima--November._]--Home again, and found all well, thank God. I am perfectly well again and ruddier than the cherry. Please note that 8000 is not bad for a volume of short stories;[71] the _Merry Men_ did a good deal worse; the short story never sells. I hope _Catriona_ will do; that is the important. The reviews seem mixed and perplexed, and one had the peculiar virtue to make me angry. I am in a fair way to expiscate my family history. Fanny and I had a lovely voyage down, with our new C.J. and the American Land Commissioner, and on the whole, and for these disgusting steamers, a pleasant ship's company. I cannot understand why you don't take to the Hawaii scheme. Do you understand? You cross the Atlantic in six days, and go from 'Frisco to Honolulu in seven. Thirteen days at sea _in all_.--I have no wish to publish _The Ebb Tide_ as a book, let it wait. It will look well in the portfolio. I would like a copy, of course, for that end; and to "look upon't again"--which I scarce dare.

[_Later._]--This is disgraceful. I have done nothing; neither work nor letters. On the Mé (May) day, we had a great triumph; our Protestant boys, instead of going with their own villages and families, went of their own accord in the Vailima uniform; Belle made coats for them on purpose to complete the uniform, they having bought the stuff; and they were hailed as they marched in as the Tama-ona--the rich man's children. This is really a score; it means that Vailima is publicly taken as a family. Then we had my birthday feast a week late, owing to diarrhoea on the proper occasion. The feast was laid in the Hall, and was a singular mass of food: 15 pigs, 100 lbs. beef, 100 lbs. pork, and the fruit and filigree in a proportion. We had sixty horse-posts driven in the gate paddock; how many guests I cannot guess, perhaps 150. They came between three and four and left about seven. Seumanu gave me one of his names; and when my name was called at the ava drinking, behold, it was _Au mai taua ma manu-vao!_ You would scarce recognise me, if you heard me thus referred to!

Two days after, we hired a carriage in Apia, Fanny, Belle, Lloyd and I, and drove in great style, with a native outrider, to the prison; a huge gift of ava and tobacco under the seats. The prison is now under the _pule_ of an Austrian, Captain Wurmbrand, a soldier of fortune in Servia and Turkey, a charming, clever, kindly creature, who is adored "by _his_ chiefs" (as he calls them) meaning _our_ political prisoners. And we came into the yard, walled about with tinned iron, and drank ava with the prisoners and the captain. It may amuse you to hear how it is proper to drink ava. When the cup is handed you, you reach your arm out somewhat behind you, and slowly pour a libation, saying with somewhat the manner of prayer, "_Ia taumafa e le atua. Ua matagofie le fesilafaga nei._" "Be it (high-chief) partaken of by the God. How (high chief) beautiful to view is this (high chief) gathering." This pagan practice is very queer. I should say that the prison ava was of that not very welcome form that we elegantly call spit-ava, but of course there was no escape, and it had to be drunk. Fanny and I rode home, and I moralised by the way. Could we ever stand Europe again? did she appreciate that if we were in London, we should be _actually jostled_ in the street? and there was nobody in the whole of Britain who knew how to take ava like a gentleman? 'Tis funny to be thus of two civilisations--or, if you like, of one civilisation and one barbarism. And, as usual, the barbarism is the more engaging.

Colvin, you have to come here and see us in our {native / mortal} spot. I just don't seem to be able to make up my mind to your not coming. By this time, you will have seen Graham, I hope, and he will be able to tell you something about us, and something reliable. I shall feel for the first time as if you knew a little about Samoa after that. Fanny seems to be in the right way now. I must say she is very, very well for her, and complains scarce at all. Yesterday, she went down _sola_(at least accompanied by a groom) to pay a visit; Belle, Lloyd and I went a walk up the mountain road--the great public highway of the island, where you have to go single file. The object was to show Belle that gaudy valley of the Vaisigano which the road follows. If the road is to be made and opened, as our new Chief Justice promises, it will be one of the most beautiful roads in the world. But the point is this: I forgot I had been three months in civilisation, wearing shoes and stockings, and I tell you I suffered on my soft feet; coming home, down hill, on that stairway of loose stones, I could have cried. O yes, another story, I knew I had. The house boys had not been behaving well, so the other night I announced a _fono_, and Lloyd and I went into the boys' quarters, and I talked to them I suppose for half an hour, and Talolo translated; Lloyd was there principally to keep another ear on the interpreter; else there may be dreadful misconceptions. I rubbed all their ears, except two whom I particularly praised; and one man's wages I announced I had cut down by one half. Imagine his taking this smiling! Ever since, he has been specially attentive and greets me with a face of really heavenly brightness. This is another good sign of their really and fairly accepting me as a chief. When I first came here, if I had fined a man a sixpence, he would have quit work that hour, and now I remove half his income, and he is glad to stay on--nay, does not seem to entertain the possibility of leaving. And this in the face of one

## particular difficulty--I mean our house in the bush, and no society, and

no women society within decent reach.

I think I must give you our staff in a tabular form.

HOUSE KITCHEN OUTSIDE

+ o _Sosimo_, provost + o _Talolo_, provost + o _Henry Simelé_, and butler, and my and chief cook. provost and overseer valet. of outside + o _Iopu_, second cook. boys. o _Misifolo_, who is Fanny and _Tali_, his wife, no _L[=u]_. Belle's chamberlain. wages. _Tasi Sele_. _Ti'a_, Samoan cook. _Maiele_. _Feiloa'i_, his child, no wages, likewise no _Pulu_, who is also work--Belle's pet. our talking man and cries the ava. + o _Leuelu_, Fanny's boy, gardener, odd jobs.

IN APIA

+ _Eliga_, washman and daily errand man.

The crosses mark out the really excellent boys. Ti'a is the man who has just been fined 1/2 his wages; he is a beautiful old man, the living image of "Fighting Gladiator," my favourite statue--but a dreadful humbug. I think we keep him on a little on account of his looks. This sign o marks those who have been two years or upwards in the family. I note all my old boys have the cross of honour, except Misifolo; well, poor dog, he does his best, I suppose. You should see him scour. It is a remark that has often been made by visitors: you never see a Samoan run, except at Vailima. Do you not suppose that makes me proud?

I am pleased to see what a success _The Wrecker_ was, having already in little more than a year outstripped _The Master of Ballantrae_.

About _David Balfour_ in two volumes, do see that they make it a decent-looking book, and tell me, do you think a little historical appendix would be of service? Lang bleats for one, and I thought I might address it to him as a kind of open letter.

_Dec. 4th._--No time after all. Good-bye.

R. L. S.

TO J. HORNE STEVENSON

The following refers again to the introduction to the history of his own family which Stevenson was then preparing under the title _A Family of Engineers_. The correspondent was a specialist in genealogical research. I give this letter as a sample of many which passed between these two namesakes on this subject; omitting the remainder as too technical to be of general interest.

_Vailima, Samoa, November 5th, 1893._

MY DEAR STEVENSON,--A thousand thanks for your voluminous and delightful collections. Baxter--so soon as it is ready--will let you see a proof of my introduction, which is only sent out as a sprat to catch whales. And you will find I have a good deal of what you have, only mine in a perfectly desultory manner, as is necessary to an exile. My uncle's pedigree is wrong; there was never a Stevenson of Caldwell, of course, but they were tenants of the Mures; the farm held by them is in my introduction; and I have already written to Charles Baxter to have a search made in the Register House. I hope he will have had the inspiration to put it under your surveillance. Your information as to your own family is intensely interesting, and I should not wonder but what you and we and old John Stevenson, "land labourer in the parish of Dailly," came all of the same stock. Ayrshire--and probably Cunningham--seems to be the home of the race--our part of it. From the distribution of the name--which your collections have so much extended without essentially changing my knowledge of--we seem rather pointed to a British origin. What you say of the Engineers is fresh to me, and must be well thrashed out. This introduction of it will take a long while to walk about!--as perhaps I may be tempted to let it become long; after all, I am writing _this_ for my own pleasure solely. Greetings to you and other Speculatives of our date, long bygone, alas!--Yours very sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_P.S._--I have a different version of my grandfather's arms--or my father had if I could find it.

R. L. S.

TO JOHN P----N

The next two numbers are in answer to letters of appreciation received from two small boys in England, whose mother desires that they should remain nameless.

_Vailima, Samoa, December 3rd, 1893._

DEAR JOHNNIE,--Well, I must say you seem to be a tremendous fellow! Before I was eight I used to write stories--or dictate them at least--and I had produced an excellent history of Moses, for which I got £1 from an uncle; but I had never gone the length of a play, so you have beaten me fairly on my own ground. I hope you may continue to do so, and thanking you heartily for your nice letter, I shall beg you to believe me yours truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO RUSSELL P----N

_Vailima, Samoa, December 3rd, 1893._

DEAR RUSSELL,--I have to thank you very much for your capital letter, which came to hand here in Samoa along with your mother's. When you "grow up and write stories like me," you will be able to understand that there is scarce anything more painful than for an author to hold a pen; he has to do it so much that his heart sickens and his fingers ache at the sight or touch of it; so that you will excuse me if I do not write much, but remain (with compliments and greetings from one Scot to another--though I was not born in Ceylon--you're ahead of me there).--Yours very truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM

_Vailima, December 5, 1893._

MY DEAREST CUMMY,--This goes to you with a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. The Happy New Year anyway, for I think it should reach you about _Noor's Day_. I dare say it may be cold and frosty. Do you remember when you used to take me out of bed in the early morning, carry me to the back windows, show me the hills of Fife, and quote to me

"A' the hills are covered wi' snaw, An' winter's noo come fairly"?

There is not much chance of that here! I wonder how my mother is going to stand the winter. It she can, it will be a very good thing for her. We are in that part of the year which I like the best--the Rainy or Hurricane Season. "When it is good, it is very, very good; and when it is bad, it is horrid," and our fine days are certainly fine like heaven; such a blue of the sea, such green of the trees, and such crimson of the hibiscus flowers, you never saw; and the air as mild and gentle as a baby's breath, and yet not hot!

The mail is on the move, and I must let up.--With much love, I am, your laddie,

R. L. S.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

The following quotes the extract, from Fountainhall's "Decisions of the Lords of Council, etc.," which suggested to Stevenson the romance of Cameronian days and the Darien adventure of which, under the title of _Heathercat_, he only lived to write the first few introductory chapters (see vol. xxi. p. 177, of this edition).

_6th December 1893._

"_October 25, 1685._--At Privy Council, George Murray, Lieutenant of the King's Guard, and others, did, on the 21st of September last, obtain a clandestine order of Privy Council to apprehend the person of Janet Pringle, daughter to the late Clifton, and she having retired out of the way upon information, he got an order against Andrew Pringle, her uncle, to produce her.... But she having married Andrew Pringle, her uncle's son (to disappoint all their designs of selling her), a boy of thirteen years old." But my boy is to be fourteen, so I extract no further.--FOUNTAINHALL, i. 320.

"_May 6, 1685._--Wappus Pringle of Clifton was still alive after all, and in prison for debt, and transacts with Lieutenant Murray, giving security for 7000 marks."--i. 372.

No, it seems to have been _her_ brother who had succeeded.

MY DEAR CHARLES.--The above is my story, and I wonder if any light can be thrown on it. I prefer the girl's father dead; and the question is, How in that case could Lieutenant George Murray get his order to "apprehend" and his power to "sell" her in marriage?

Or--might Lieutenant G. be her tutor, and she fugitive to the Pringles, and on the discovery of her whereabouts hastily married?

A good legal note on these points is very ardently desired by me; it will be the corner-stone of my novel.

This is for--I am quite wrong to tell you--for you will tell others--and nothing will teach you that all my schemes are in the air, and vanish and reappear again like shapes in the clouds--it is for _Heathercat_: whereof the first volume will be called _The Killing Time_, and I believe I have authorities ample for that. But the second volume is to be called (I believe) _Darien_, and for that I want, I fear, a good deal of truck:--

_Darien Papers_, _Carstairs Papers_, _Marchmont Papers_, _Jerviswoode Correspondence_,

I hope may do me. Some sort of general history of the Darien affair (if there is a decent one, which I misdoubt), it would also be well to have--the one with most details, if possible. It is singular how obscure to me this decade of Scots history remains, 1690-1700--a deuce of a want of light and grouping to it! However, I believe I shall be mostly out of Scotland in my tale; first in Carolina, next in Darien. I want also--I am the daughter of the horseleech truly--"Black's new large map of Scotland," sheets 3, 4, and 5, a 7s. 6d. touch. I believe, if you can get the

_Caldwell Papers_,

they had better come also; and if there be any reasonable work--but no, I must call a halt....

I fear the song looks doubtful, but I'll consider of it, and I can promise you some reminiscences which it will amuse me to write, whether or not it will amuse the public to read of them. But it's an unco business to supply deid-heid coapy.

TO J. M. BARRIE

_Vailima, Samoa, December 7th, 1893._

MY DEAR BARRIE,--I have received duly the _magnum opus_, and it really is a _magnum opus_.[72] It is a beautiful specimen of Clark's printing, paper sufficient, and the illustrations all my fancy painted. But the

## particular flower of the flock to whom I have hopelessly lost my heart

is Tibby Birse. I must have known Tibby Birse when she was a servant's mantua-maker in Edinburgh and answered to the name of Miss _Broddie_. She used to come and sew with my nurse, sitting with her legs crossed in a masculine manner; and swinging her foot emphatically, she used to pour forth a perfectly unbroken stream of gossip. I didn't hear it, I was immersed in far more important business with a box of bricks, but the recollection of that thin, perpetual, shrill sound of a voice has echoed in my ears sinsyne. I am bound to say she was younger than Tibbie, but there is no mistaking that and the indescribable and eminently Scottish expression.

I have been very much prevented of late, having carried out thoroughly to my own satisfaction two considerable illnesses, had a birthday, and visited Honolulu, where politics are (if possible) a shade more exasperating than they are with us. I am told that it was just when I was on the point of leaving that I received your superlative epistle about the cricket eleven. In that case it is impossible I should have answered it, which is inconsistent with my own recollection of the fact. What _I_ remember is, that I sat down under your immediate inspiration and wrote an answer in every way worthy. If I didn't, as it seems proved that I couldn't, it will never be done now. However, I did the next best thing, I equipped my cousin Graham Balfour with a letter of introduction, and from him, if you know how--for he is rather of the Scottish character--you may elicit all the information you can possibly wish to have as to us and ours. Do not be bluffed off by the somewhat stern and monumental first impression that he may make upon you. He is one of the best fellows in the world, and the same sort of fool that we are, only better-looking, with all the faults of Vailimans and some of his own--I say nothing about virtues.

I have lately been returning to my wallowing in the mire. When I was a child, and indeed until I was nearly a man, I consistently read Covenanting books. Now that I am a grey-beard--or would be, if I could raise the beard--I have returned, and for weeks back have read little else but Wodrow, Walker, Shields, etc. Of course this is with an idea of a novel, but in the course of it I made a very curious discovery. I have been accustomed to hear refined and intelligent critics--those who know so much better what we are than we do ourselves,--trace down my literary descent from all sorts of people, including Addison, of whom I could never read a word. Well, laigh i' your lug, sir--the clue was found. My style is from the Covenanting writers. Take a particular case--the fondness for rhymes. I don't know of any English prose-writer who rhymes except by accident, and then a stone had better be tied around his neck and himself cast into the sea. But my Covenanting buckies rhyme all the time--a beautiful example of the unconscious rhyme above referred to.

Do you know, and have you really tasted, these delightful works? If not, it should be remedied; there is enough of the Auld Licht in you to be ravished.

I suppose you know that success has so far attended my banners--my political banners I mean, and not my literary. In conjunction with the Three Great Powers I have succeeded in getting rid of My President and My Chief-Justice. They've gone home, the one to Germany, the other to Souwegia. I hear little echoes of footfalls of their departing footsteps through the medium of the newspapers....

Whereupon I make you my salute with the firm remark that it is time to be done with trifling and give us a great book, and my ladies fall into line with me to pay you a most respectful courtesy, and we all join in the cry, "Come to Vailima!"

My dear sir, your soul's health is in it--you will never do the great book, you will never cease to work in L., etc., till you come to Vailima.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO R. LE GALLIENNE

_Vailima, Samoa, December 28th, 1893._

DEAR MR. LE GALLIENNE,--I have received some time ago, through our friend Miss Taylor, a book of yours. But that was by no means my first introduction to your name. The same book had stood already on my shelves; I had read articles of yours in the Academy; and by a piece of constructive criticism (which I trust was sound) had arrived at the conclusion that you were "Log-roller." Since then I have seen your beautiful verses to your wife. You are to conceive me, then, as only too ready to make the acquaintance of a man who loved good literature and could make it. I had to thank you, besides, for a triumphant exposure of a paradox of my own: the literary-prostitute disappeared from view at a phrase of yours--"The essence is not in the pleasure but the sale." True you are right, I was wrong; the author is not the whore but the libertine; and yet I shall let the passage stand. It is an error, but it illustrated the truth for which I was contending, that literature--painting--all art , are no other than pleasures, which we turn into trades.

And more than all this, I had, and I have to thank you for the intimate loyalty you have shown to myself; for the eager welcome you give to what is good--for the courtly tenderness with which you touch on my defects. I begin to grow old; I have given my top note, I fancy;--and I have written too many books. The world begins to be weary of the old booth; and if not weary, familiar with the familiarity that breeds contempt. I do not know that I am sensitive to criticism, if it be hostile; I am sensitive indeed, when it is friendly; and when I read such criticism as yours, I am emboldened to go on and praise God.

You are still young, and you may live to do much. The little artificial popularity of style in England tends, I think, to die out; the British pig returns to his true love, the love of the styleless, of the shapeless, of the slapdash and the disorderly. There is trouble coming, I think; and you may have to hold the fort for us in evil days.

Lastly, let me apologise for the crucifixion that I am inflicting on you (_bien à contre-coeur_) by my bad writing. I was once the best of writers; landladies, puzzled as to my "trade," used to have their honest bosoms set at rest by a sight of a page of manuscript.--"Ah," they would say, "no wonder they pay you for that";--and when I sent it in to the printers, it was given to the boys! I was about thirty-nine, I think, when I had a turn of scrivener's palsy; my hand got worse; and for the first time, I received clean proofs. But it has gone beyond that now. I know I am like my old friend James Payn, a terror to correspondents; and you would not believe the care with which this has been written.--Believe me to be, very sincerely yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MRS. A. BAKER

The next is in answer to a request for permission to print some of the writings of R. L. S. in Braille type for the use of the blind.

_December 1893._

DEAR MADAM,--There is no trouble, and I wish I could help instead. As it is, I fear I am only going to put you to trouble and vexation. This Braille writing is a kind of consecration, and I would like if I could to have your copy perfect. The two volumes are to be published as Vols. I. and II. of _The Adventures of David Balfour_. 1st, _Kidnapped_; 2nd, _Catriona_. I am just sending home a corrected _Kidnapped_ for this purpose to Messrs. Cassell, and in order that I may if possible be in time, I send it to you first of all. Please, as soon as you have noted the changes, forward the same to Cassell and Co., La Belle Sauvage Yard, Ludgate Hill.

I am writing to them by this mail to send you _Catriona_.

You say, dear madam, you are good enough to say, it is "a keen pleasure" to you to bring my book within the reach of the blind.

Conceive then what it is to me! and believe me, sincerely yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

I was a barren tree before, I blew a quenchèd coal, I could not, on their midnight shore, The lonely blind console.

A moment, lend your hand, I bring My sheaf for you to bind, And you can teach my words to sing In the darkness of the blind.

R. L. S.

TO HENRY JAMES

_Apia, December, 1893._

MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,--The mail has come upon me like an armed man three days earlier than was expected; and the Lord help me! It is impossible I should answer anybody the way they should be. Your jubilation over _Catriona_ did me good, and still more the subtlety and truth of your remark on the starving of the visual sense in that book. 'Tis true, and unless I make the greater effort--and am, as a step to that, convinced of its necessity--it will be more true I fear in the future. I _hear_ people talking, and I _feel_ them acting, and that seems to me to be fiction. My two aims may be described as--

_1st._ War to the adjective. _2nd._ Death to the optic nerve.

Admitted we live in an age of the optic nerve in literature. For how many centuries did literature get along without a sign of it? However, I'll consider your letter.

How exquisite is your character of the critic in _Essays in London_! I doubt if you have done any single thing so satisfying as a piece of style and of insight--Yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

Recounting a scene of gratitude for bounty shown by him to the prisoners in Apia gaol.

[_Vailima, December 1893._]

MY DEAR COLVIN,--One page out of my picture book I must give you. Fine burning day; 1/2 past two P.M. We four begin to rouse up from reparatory slumbers, yawn, and groan, get a cup of tea, and miserably dress: we have had a party the day before, X'mas Day, with all the boys absent but one, and latterly two; we had cooked all day long, a cold dinner, and lo! at two our guests began to arrive, though dinner was not till six; they were sixteen, and fifteen slept the night and breakfasted. Conceive, then, how unwillingly we climb on our horses and start off in the hottest part of the afternoon to ride 4 1/2 miles, attend a native feast in the gaol, and ride four and a half miles back. But there is no help for it. I am a sort of father of the political prisoners, and have _charge d'âmes_ in that riotously absurd establishment, Apia Gaol. The twenty-three (I think it is) chiefs act as under gaolers. The other day they told the Captain of an attempt to escape. One of the lesser political prisoners the other day effected a swift capture, while the Captain was trailing about with the warrant; the man came to see what was wanted; came, too, flanked by the former gaoler; my prisoner offers to show him the dark cell, shoves him in, and locks the door. "Why do you do that?" cries the former gaoler. "A warrant," says he. Finally, the chiefs actually feed the soldiery who watch them!

The gaol is a wretched little building, containing a little room, and three cells, on each side of a central passage; it is surrounded by a fence of corrugated iron, and shows, over the top of that, only a gable end with the inscription _O le Fale Puipui_. It is on the edge of the mangrove swamp, and is reached by a sort of causeway of turf. When we drew near, we saw the gates standing open and a prodigious crowd outside--I mean prodigious for Apia, perhaps a hundred and fifty people. The two sentries at the gate stood to arms passively, and there seemed to be a continuous circulation inside and out. The captain came to meet us; our boy, who had been sent ahead was there to take the horses; and we passed inside the court which was full of food, and rang continuously to the voice of the caller of gifts; I had to blush a little later when my own present came, and I heard my one pig and eight miserable pine-apples being counted out like guineas. In the four corners of the yard and along one wall, there are make-shift, dwarfish, Samoan houses or huts, which have been run up since Captain Wurmbrand came to accommodate the chiefs. Before that they were all crammed into the six cells, and locked in for the night, some of them with dysentery. They are wretched constructions enough, but sanctified by the presence of chiefs. We heard a man corrected loudly to-day for saying "_Fale_" of one of them; "_Maota_," roared the highest chief present--"palace." About eighteen chiefs, gorgeously arrayed, stood up to greet us, and led us into one of these _maotas_, where you may be sure we had to crouch, almost to kneel, to enter, and where a row of pretty girls occupied one side to make the ava (kava). The highest chief present was a magnificent man, as high chiefs usually are; I find I cannot describe him; his face is full of shrewdness and authority; his figure like Ajax; his name Auilua. He took the head of the building and put Belle on his right hand. Fanny was called first for the ava (kava). Our names were called in English style, the high-chief wife of Mr. St--(an unpronounceable something); Mrs. Straw, and the like. And when we went into the other house to eat, we found we were seated alternately with chiefs about the--table, I was about to say, but rather floor. Everything was to be done European style with a vengeance! We were the only whites present, except Wurmbrand, and still I had no suspicion of the truth. They began to take off their ulas (necklaces of scarlet seeds) and hang them about our necks; we politely resisted, and were told that the king (who had stopped off their _siva_) had sent down to the prison a message to the effect that he was to give a dinner to-morrow, and wished their second-hand ulas for it. Some of them were content; others not. There was a ring of anger in the boy's voice, as he told us we were to wear them past the king's house. Dinner over, I must say they are moderate eaters at a feast, we returned to the ava house; and then the curtain drew suddenly up upon the set scene. We took our seats, and Auilua began to give me a present, recapitulating each article as he gave it out, with some appropriate comment. He called me several times "their only friend," said they were all in slavery, had no money, and these things were all made by the hands of their families--nothing bought; he had one phrase, in which I heard his voice rise up to a note of triumph: "This is a present from the poor prisoners to the rich man." Thirteen pieces of tapa, some of them surprisingly fine, one I think unique; thirty fans of every shape and colour; a kava cup, etc., etc. At first Auilua conducted the business with weighty gravity; but before the end of the thirty fans, his comments began to be humorous. When it came to a little basket, he said: "Here was a little basket for Tusitala to put sixpence in, when he could get hold of one"--with a delicious grimace. I answered as best as I was able through a miserable interpreter; and all the while, as I went on, I heard the crier outside in the court calling my gift of food, which I perceived was to be Gargantuan. I had brought but three boys with me. It was plain that they were wholly overpowered. We proposed to send for our gifts on the morrow; but no, said the interpreter, that would never do; they must go away to-day, Mulinuu must see my porters taking away the gifts,--"make 'em jella," quoth the interpreter. And I began to see the reason of this really splendid gift; one half, gratitude to me--one half, a wipe at the king.

And now, to introduce darker colours, you must know this visit of mine to the gaol was just a little bit risky; we had several causes for anxiety; it _might_ have been put up, to connect with a Tamasese rising. Tusitala and his family would be good hostages. On the other hand, there were the Mulinuu people all about. We could see the anxiety of Captain Wurmbrand, no less anxious to have us go, than he had been to see us come; he was deadly white and plainly had a bad headache, in the noisy scene. Presently, the noise grew uproarious; there was a rush at the gate--a rush _in_, not a rush _out_--where the two sentries still stood passive; Auilua leaped from his place (it was then that I got the name of Ajax for him) and the next moment we heard his voice roaring and saw his mighty figure swaying to and fro in the hurly-burly. As the deuce would have it, we could not understand a word of what was going on. It might be nothing more than the ordinary "grab racket" with which a feast commonly concludes; it might be something worse. We made what arrangements we could for my tapa, fans, etc., as well as for my five pigs, my masses of fish, taro, etc., and with great dignity, and ourselves laden with ulas and other decorations, passed between the sentries among the howling mob to our horses. All's well that ends well. Owing to Fanny and Belle, we had to walk; and, as Lloyd said, "he had at last ridden in a circus." The whole length of Apia we paced our triumphal progress, past the king's palace, past the German firm at Sogi--you can follow it on the map--amidst admiring exclamations of "_Mawaia_"--beautiful--it may be rendered "O my! ain't they dandy"--until we turned up at last into our road as the dusk deepened into night. It was really exciting. And there is one thing sure: no such feast was ever made for a single family, and no such present ever given to a single white man. It is something to have been the hero of it. And whatever other ingredients there were, undoubtedly gratitude was present. As money value I have actually gained on the transaction!

Your note arrived; little profit, I must say. Scott has already put his nose in, in _St. Ives_, sir; but his appearance is not yet complete; nothing is in that romance, except the story. I have to announce that I am off work, probably for six months. I must own that I have overworked bitterly--overworked--there, that's legible. My hand is a thing that was, and in the meanwhile so are my brains. And here, in the very midst, comes a plausible scheme to make Vailima pay, which will perhaps let me into considerable expense just when I don't want it. You know the vast cynicism of my view of affairs, and how readily and (as some people say) with how much gusto I take the darker view?

Why do you not send me Jerome K. Jerome's paper, and let me see _The Ebb Tide_ as a serial? It is always very important to see a thing in different presentments. I want every number. Politically we begin the new year with every expectation of a bust in 2 or 3 days, a bust which may spell destruction to Samoa. I have written to Baxter about his proposal.[73]

FOOTNOTES:

[56] The correspondent whose letter I had sent on was a high official at the Foreign Office: the subject, Stevenson and Samoa.

[57] Hemorrhage from the lungs.

[58] Vitrolle's _Mémoires_ and the "1814" and "1815" of M. Henri Houssaye were sent accordingly.

[59] Ultimately _The Ebb Tide_.

[60] For a volume of selected _Essays_, containing the pick of _Virginibus Puerisque_, _Memories and Portraits_, and _Across the Plains_.

[61] _The Owl_ was to be a Breton story of the Revolution; _Death in the Pot_, a tale of the Sta. Lucia mountains in California; the scene of _The Go-Between_ was laid in the Pacific Islands; of _The Sleeper Awakened_ I know nothing.

[62] Of _Island Nights' Entertainments_.

[63] John Addington Symonds.

[64] _Across the Plains._

[65] Volume of sonnets by José Maria de Hérédia.

[66] Dr. Fairfax Ross, a distinguished physician of Sydney, and friend of the Stevenson family, who during a visit to England this summer had conveyed to me no very reassuring impression as to the healthfulness of the island life and climate.

[67] W. Hole, R.S.A.: essential for the projected illustrations to _Kidnapped_ and _Catriona_.

[68] Mr. S. R. Crockett. The words quoted from this gentleman's dedication were worked by Stevenson into a very moving and metrically original set of verses, addressed to him in acknowledgment (_Songs of Travel_, xlii.).

[69] Simon Fraser, the Master of Lovat, in _Catriona_: the spelling of his name.

[70] The bust was exhibited in the New Gallery Summer Exhibition, 1895.

[71] _Island Nights' Entertainments._

[72] _The Window in Thrums_, with illustrations by W. Hole, R.S.A. Hodder and Stoughton. 1892.

[73] The scheme of the Edinburgh Edition.

XIV

LIFE IN SAMOA--_Concluded_

FOURTH YEAR AT VAILIMA--THE END

JANUARY-DECEMBER 1894

This new year began for Stevenson with an illness which seemed to leave none of the usual lowering consequences, and for Samoa with fresh rumours of war, which were not realised until the autumn, and then--at least in the shape of serious hostilities--in the district of Atua only and not in his own. On the whole Stevenson's bodily health and vigour kept at a higher level than during the previous year. But for serious imaginative writing he found himself still unfit, and the sense that his old facility had for the time being failed him caused him much inward misgiving. In his correspondence the misgiving mood was allowed to appear pretty freely; but in personal intercourse his high spirits seemed to his family and visitors as unfailing as ever. Several things happened during the year to give him peculiar pleasure: first, at the beginning of the year, the news of Mr. Baxter's carefully prepared scheme of the Edinburgh Edition, and of its acceptance by the publishers concerned. On this subject much correspondence naturally passed between him and Mr. Baxter and myself, over and above that which is here published; and finally he resolved to leave all the details of the execution to us. By the early autumn the financial success of the scheme was fully assured and made known to him by cable; but he did not seem altogether to realise the full measure of relief from money anxieties which the assurance was meant to convey to him. Other pleasurable circumstances were the return of Mr. Graham Balfour after a prolonged absence; the visit of a spirited and accomplished young English man of business and of letters, Mr. Sidney Lysaght (see below, pp. 385, 388, etc.); and the frequent society of the officers of H.M.S. _Curaçoa_, with whom he was on terms of particular regard and cordiality. Lastly, he was very deeply touched and gratified by the action of the native political prisoners, towards whom he had shown much thoughtful kindness during their months of detention, in volunteering as a testimony of gratitude after their release to re-make with their own hands the branch road leading to his house: "the Road of Loving Hearts," as it came to be christened. Soon afterwards, the anniversaries of his own birthday and of the American Thanks-giving feast brought evidences hardly less welcome, after so much contention and annoyance as the island affairs and politics had involved him in, of the honour and affection in which he was held by all that was best in the white community. By each succeeding mail came stronger proofs from home of the manner in which men of letters of the younger generation had come to regard him as a master, an example, and a friend.

But in spite of all these causes of pleasure, his letters showed that his old invincible spirit of inward cheerfulness was beginning not infrequently to give way to moods of depression and overstrained feeling. The importunity of these moods was no doubt due to some physical premonition that his vital powers, so frail from the cradle and always with so cheerful a courage overtaxed, were near exhaustion. During the first months of the year he attempted little writing; in the late spring and early summer his work was chiefly on the annals of his family and on the tale _St. Ives_. The latter he found uphill work: after the first ten or twelve chapters, which are in his happiest vein, the narrative, as he himself was painfully aware, began to flag. Towards the end of October he gave it up for the time being and turned to a more arduous task, the tragic _Weir of Hermiston_. On this theme he felt his inspiration return, and during the month of November and the first days of December wrought once more at the full pitch of his powers and in the conscious delight of their exercise. On the third of December, after a morning of happy work and pleasant correspondence, he was seen gazing long and wistfully toward the forest-clad mountain, on a ledge of which he had desired that he should be buried. In the afternoon he brought his morning's work to his wife, the most exacting of his critics; asked her whether it was not well done; and in her glow of admiring assent found his confirmation and his reward. Nevertheless she could not throw off an oppressive sense of coming calamity. He was reassuring her with gay and laughing talk when the sudden rupture of a blood-vessel in the brain laid him almost in a moment unconscious at her feet; and before two hours were over he had passed away. All the world knows how his body was carried by the loving hands of his native servants to the burial-place of his choice, and rests there with the words of his own requiem engraved on his tomb--the words which we have seen him putting on paper when he was at grips with death fifteen years before in California--

"Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill."

TO CHARLES BAXTER

Mr. Baxter, after much preliminary consideration and inquiry, had matured and submitted to Stevenson the scheme of the Edinburgh edition, to which this letter is his reply. The paper on _Treasure Island_ appeared in the Idler for August 1889, and was afterwards reprinted in the miscellany _My First Book_ (Chatto and Windus, 1894). See Edinburgh edition, _Miscellanies_, vol. iv. p. 285.

_1st January '94._

MY DEAR CHARLES,--I am delighted with your idea, and first, I will here give an amended plan and afterwards give you a note of some of the difficulties.

[Plan of the Edinburgh edition--14 vols.]

... It may be a question whether my Times letters might not be appended to the _Footnote_ with a note of the dates of discharge of Cedercrantz and Pilsach.

I am particularly pleased with this idea of yours, because I am come to a dead stop. I never can remember how bad I have been before, but at any rate I am bad enough just now, I mean as to literature; in health I am well and strong. I take it I shall be six months before I'm heard of again, and this time I could put in to some advantage in revising the text and (if it were thought desirable) writing prefaces. I do not know how many of them might be thought desirable. I have written a paper on _Treasure Island_, which is to appear shortly. _Master of Ballantrae_--I have one drafted. _The Wrecker_ is quite sufficiently done already with the last chapter, but I suppose an historic introduction to _David Balfour_ is quite unavoidable. _Prince Otto_ I don't think I could say anything about, and _Black Arrow_ don't want to. But it is probable I could say something to the volume of _Travels_. In the verse business I can do just what I like better than anything else, and extend _Underwoods_ with a lot of unpublished stuff. _À propos_, if I were to get printed off a very few poems which are somewhat too intimate for the public, could you get them run up in some luxuous manner, so that fools might be induced to buy them in just a sufficient quantity to pay expenses and the thing remain still in a manner private? We could supply photographs of the illustrations--and the poems are of Vailima and the family--I should much like to get this done as a surprise for Fanny.

R. L. S.

TO H. B. BAILDON

_Vailima, January 15th, 1894._

MY DEAR BAILDON,--Last mail brought your book and its Dedication. "Frederick Street and the gardens, and the short-lived Jack o' Lantern," are again with me--and the note of the east wind, and Froebel's voice, and the smell of soup in Thomson's stair. Truly, you had no need to put yourself under the protection of any other 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 licence 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.

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 _Débâcle_ and a few of Kipling's tales. Are you a reader of Barbey d'Aurévilly? He is a never-failing source of pleasure to me, for my sins, I suppose. What a work is the _Rideau Cramoisi!_ and _L'Ensorcelée!_ 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.[74] 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.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_Vailima, Jan. 29th, 1894._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--I had fully intended for your education and moral health to fob you off with the meanest possible letter this month, and unfortunately I find I will have to treat you to a good long account of matters here. I believe I have told you before about Tui-ma-le-alii-fano and my taking him down to introduce him to the Chief Justice. Well, Tui came back to Vailima one day in the blackest sort of spirits, saying the war was decided, that he also must join in the fight, and that there was no hope whatever of success. He must fight as a point of honour for his family and country; and in his case, even if he escaped on the field of battle, deportation was the least to be looked for. He said he had a letter of complaint from the Great Council of A'ana which he wished to lay before the Chief Justice; and he asked me to accompany him as if I were his nurse. We went down about dinner time; and by the way received from a lurking native the famous letter in an official blue envelope gummed up to the edges. It proved to be a declaration of war, quite formal, but with some variations that really made you bounce. White residents were directly threatened, bidden to have nothing to do with the King's party, not to receive their goods in their houses, etc., under pain of an accident. However, the Chief Justice took it very wisely and mildly, and between us, he and I and Tui made up a plan which has proved successful--so far. The war is over--fifteen chiefs are this morning undergoing a curious double process of law, comparable to a court martial; in which their complaints are to be considered, and if possible righted, while their conduct is to be criticised, perhaps punished. Up to now, therefore, it has been a most successful policy; but the danger is before us. My own feeling would decidedly be that all would be spoiled by a single execution. The great hope after all lies in the knotless, rather flaccid character of the people. These are no Maoris. All the powers that Cedercrantz let go by disuse the new C. J. is stealthily and boldly taking back again; perhaps some others also. He has shamed the chiefs in Mulinuu into a law against taking heads, with a punishment of six years' imprisonment and, for a chief, degradation. To him has been left the sole conduct of this anxious and decisive inquiry. If the natives stand it, why, well! But I am nervous.

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 and gone in for engineering, I should be dead by now. Well, the gods know best.

... I hope you got my letter about the _Rescue_.--Adieu.

R. L. S.

True for you about the benefit: except by kisses, jests, song, _et hoc genus omne_, man _cannot_ convey benefit to another. The universal benefactor has been there before him.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_Feb. 1894._

DEAR COLVIN,--By a reaction, when your letter is a little decent, mine is to be naked and unashamed. We have been much exercised. No one can prophesy here, of course, and the balance still hangs trembling, but I _think_ it will go for peace.

The mail was very late this time: hence the paltriness of this note. When it came and I had read it, I retired with _The Ebb Tide_ and read it all before I slept. I did not dream it was near as good; I am afraid I think it excellent. A little indecision about Attwater, not much. It gives me great hope, as I see I _can_ work in that constipated, mosaic manner, which is what I have to do just now with _Weir of Hermiston_.

We have given a ball; I send you a paper describing the event. We have two guests in the house, Captain-Count Wurmbrand and Monsieur Albert de Lautreppe. Lautreppe is awfully nice--a quiet, gentlemanly fellow, _gonflé de rêves_, as he describes himself--once a sculptor in the atelier of Henry Crosse, he knows something of art, and is really a resource to me.

Letter from Meredith very kind. Have you seen no more of Graham?

What about my Grandfather? The family history will grow to be quite a chapter.

I suppose I am growing sensitive; perhaps, by living among barbarians, I expect more civility. Look at this from the author of a very interesting and laudatory critique. He gives quite a false description of something of mine, and talks about my "insolence." Frankly, I supposed "insolence" to be a tapu word. I do not use it to a gentleman, I would not write it of a gentleman: I may be wrong, but I believe we did not write it of a gentleman in old days, and in my view he (clever fellow as he is) wants to be kicked for applying it to me. By writing a novel--even a bad one--I do not make myself a criminal for anybody to insult. This may amuse you. But either there is a change in journalism, too gradual for you to remark it on the spot, or there is a change in me. I cannot bear these phrases; I long to resent them. My forbears, the tenant farmers of the Mures, would not have suffered such expressions unless it had been from Cauldwell, or Rowallan, or maybe Auchendrane. My Family Pride bristles. I am like the negro, "I just heard last night" who my great, great, great, great grandfather was.--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO J. H. BATES

The next is to a correspondent in Cincinnati, who had been the founder of an R. L. S. Society in that city, "originally," he writes me, under date April 7, 1895, "the outcome of a boyish fancy, but it has now grown into something more substantial."

_Vailima, Samoa, March 25th, 1894._

MY DEAR MR. JOE H. BATES,--I shall have the greatest pleasure in acceding to your complimentary request. I shall think it an honour to be associated with your chapter, and I need not remind you (for you have said it yourself) how much depends upon your own exertions whether to make it to me a real honour or only a derision. This is to let you know that I accept the position that you have seriously offered to me in a quite serious spirit. I need scarce tell you that I shall always be pleased to receive reports of your proceedings; and if I do not always acknowledge them, you are to remember that I am a man very much occupied otherwise, and not at all to suppose that I have lost interest in my chapter.

In this world, which (as you justly say) is so full of sorrow and suffering, it will always please me to remember that my name is connected with some efforts after alleviation, nor less so with purposes of innocent recreation which, after all, are the only certain means at our disposal for bettering human life.

With kind regards, to yourself, to Mr. L. C. Congdon, to E. M. G. Bates, and to Mr. Edward Hugh Higlee Bates, and the heartiest wishes for the future success of the chapter, believe me, yours cordially.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO WILLIAM ARCHER

_Vailima, Samoa, March 27th, 1894._

MY DEAR ARCHER,--Many thanks for your _Theatrical World_. Do you know, it strikes me as being really very good? I have not yet read much of it, but so far as I have looked, there is not a dull and not an empty page in it. Hazlitt, whom you must often have thought of, would have been pleased. Come to think of it, I shall put this book upon the Hazlitt shelf. You have acquired a manner that I can only call august; otherwise, I should have to call it such amazing impudence. The _Bauble Shop_ and _Becket_ are examples of what I mean. But it "sets you weel."

Marjorie Fleming I have known, as you surmise, for long. She was possibly--no, I take back possibly--she was one of the greatest works of God. Your note about the resemblance of her verses to mine gave me great joy, though it only proved me a plagiarist. By the by, was it not over _The Child's Garden of Verses_ that we first scraped acquaintance? I am sorry indeed to hear that my esteemed correspondent Tomarcher has such poor taste in literature.[75] I fear he cannot have inherited this trait from his dear papa. Indeed, I may say I know it, for I remember the energy of papa's disapproval when the work passed through his hands on its way to a second birth, which none regrets more than myself. It is an odd fact, or perhaps a very natural one; I find few greater pleasures than reading my own works, but I never, O I never read _The Black Arrow_. In that country Tomarcher reigns supreme. Well, and after all, if Tomarcher likes it, it has not been written in vain.

We have just now a curious breath from Europe. A young fellow just beginning letters, and no fool, turned up here with a letter of introduction in the well-known blue ink and decorative hieroglyphs of George Meredith. His name may be known to you. It is Sidney Lysaght. He is staying with us but a day or two, and it is strange to me and not unpleasant to hear all the names, old and new, come up again. But oddly the new are so much more in number. If I revisited the glimpses of the moon on your side of the ocean, I should know comparatively few of them.

My amanuensis deserts me--I should have said you, for yours is the loss, my script having lost all bond with humanity. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin: that nobody can read my hand. It is a humiliating circumstance that thus evens us with printers!

You must sometimes think it strange--or perhaps it is only I that should so think it--to be following the old round, in the gas lamps and the crowded theatres, when I am away here in the tropical forest and the vast silences!

My dear Archer, my wife joins me in the best wishes to yourself and Mrs. Archer, not forgetting Tom; and I am yours very cordially,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

## Partly concerning a fresh rising, this time of the partisans of

Tamasese from the district of Atua, which had occurred and was after some time suppressed; partly in reference to the visit of Mr. Sidney Lysaght; partly in reply to a petition that his letters might be less entirely taken up with native affairs, of relatively little meaning to his correspondent.

[_Vailima, April 1894._]

MY DEAR COLVIN,--This is the very day the mail goes, and I have as yet written you nothing. But it was just as well--as it was all about my "blacks and chocolates," and what of it had relation to whites you will read some of in the Times. It means, as you will see, that I have at one blow quarrelled with _all_ the officials of Samoa, the Foreign Office, and I suppose her Majesty the Queen with milk and honey blest. But you'll see in the Times. I am very well indeed, but just about dead and mighty glad the mail is near here, and I can just give up all hope of contending with my letters, and lie down for the rest of the day. These Times letters are not easy to write. And I dare say the consuls say, "Why, then, does he write them?"

I had miserable luck with _St. Ives_; being already half-way through it, a book I had ordered six months ago arrives at last, and I have to change the first half of it from top to bottom! How could I have dreamed the French prisoners were watched over like a female charity school, kept in a grotesque livery, and shaved twice a week? And I had made all my points on the idea that they were unshaved and clothed anyhow. However, this last is better business; if only the book had come when I ordered it! _À propos_, many of the books you announce don't come as a matter of fact. When they are of any value, it is best to register them. Your letter, alas! is not here; I sent it down to the cottage, with all my mail, for Fanny; on Sunday night a boy comes up with a lantern and a note from Fanny, to say the woods are full of Atuas and I must bring a horse down that instant, as the posts are established beyond her on the road, and she does not want to have the fight going on between us. Impossible to get a horse; so I started in the dark on foot, with a revolver, and my spurs on my bare feet, leaving directions that the boy should mount after me with the horse. Try such an experience on Our Road once, and do it, if you please, after you have been down town from nine o'clock till six, on board the ship-of-war lunching, teaching Sunday School (I actually do) and making necessary visits; and the Saturday before, having sat all day from 1/2-past six to 1/2-past four, scriving at my Times letter. About half-way up, just in fact at "point" of the outposts, I met Fanny coming up. Then all night long I was being wakened with scares that really should be looked into, though I _knew_ there was nothing in them and no bottom to the whole story; and the drums and shouts and cries from Tanugamanono and the town keeping up an all-night corybantic chorus in the moonlight--the moon rose late--and the search-light of the war-ship in the harbour making a jewel of brightness as it lit up the bay of Apia in the distance. And then next morning, about eight o'clock, a drum coming out of the woods and a party of patrols who had been in the woods on our left front (which is our true rear) coming up to the house, and meeting there another party who had been in the woods on our right {front / rear} which is Vaea Mountain, and 43 of them being entertained to ava and biscuits on the verandah, and marching off at last in single file for Apia. Briefly, it is not much wonder if your letter and my whole mail was left at the cottage, and I have no means of seeing or answering particulars.

The whole thing was nothing but a bottomless scare; it was _obviously_ so; you couldn't make a child believe it was anything else, but it has made the consuls sit up. My own private scares were really abominably annoying; as for instance after I had got to sleep for the ninth time perhaps--and that was no easy matter either, for I had a crick in my neck so agonising that I had to sleep sitting up--I heard noises as of a man being murdered in the boys' house. To be sure, said I, this is nothing again, but if a man's head was being taken, the noises would be the same! So I had to get up, stifle my cries of agony from the crick, get my revolver, and creep out stealthily to the boys' house. And there were two of them sitting up, keeping watch of their own accord like good boys, and whiling the time over a game of Sweepi (Cascino--the whist of our islanders)--and one of them was our champion idiot, Misifolo, and I suppose he was holding bad cards, and losing all the time--and these noises were his humorous protests against Fortune!

Well, excuse this excursion into my "blacks and chocolates." It is the last. You will have heard from Lysaght how I failed to write last mail. The said Lysaght seems to me a very nice fellow. We were only sorry he could not stay with us longer. Austin came back from school last week, which made a great time for the Amanuensis, you may be sure. Then on Saturday, the _Curaçoa_ came in--same commission, with all our old friends; and on Sunday, as already mentioned, Austin and I went down to service and had lunch afterwards in the wardroom. The officers were awfully nice to Austin; they are the most amiable ship in the world; and after lunch we had a paper handed round on which we were to guess, and sign our guess, of the number of leaves on the pine-apple; I never saw this game before, but it seems it is much practised in the Queen's Navee. When all have betted, one of the party begins to strip the pine-apple head, and the person whose guess is furthest out has to pay for the sherry. My equanimity was disturbed by shouts of _The American Commodore_, and I found that Austin had entered and lost about a bottle of sherry! He turned with great composure and addressed me. "I am afraid I must look to you, Uncle Louis." The Sunday School racket is only an experiment which I took up at the request of the late American Land Commissioner; I am trying it for a month, and if I do as ill as I believe, and the boys find it only half as tedious as I do, I think it will end in a month. I have _carte blanche_, and say what I like; but does any single soul understand me?

Fanny is on the whole very much better. Lloyd has been under the weather, and goes for a month to the South Island of New Zealand for some skating, save the mark! I get all the skating I want among officials.

Dear Colvin, please remember that my life passes among my "blacks or chocolates." If I were to do as you propose, in a bit of a tiff, it would cut you off entirely from my life. You must try to exercise a trifle of imagination, and put yourself, perhaps with an effort, into some sort of sympathy with these people, or how am I to write to you? I think you are truly a little too Cockney with me.--Ever yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO W. B. YEATS

_Vailima, Samoa, April 14, 1894._

DEAR SIR,--Long since when I was a boy I remember the emotions with which I repeated Swinburne's poems and ballads. Some ten years ago, a similar spell was cast upon me by Meredith's _Love in the Valley_; the stanzas beginning "When her mother tends her" haunted me and made me drunk like wine; and I remember waking with them all the echoes of the hills about Hyères. It may interest you to hear that I have a third time fallen in slavery: this is to your poem called the _Lake Isle of Innisfree_. It is so quaint and airy, simple, artful, and eloquent to the heart--but I seek words in vain. Enough that "always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds on the shore," and am, yours gratefully,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO GEORGE MEREDITH

The young lady referred to in the following is Mr. Meredith's daughter, now Mrs. H. Sturgis; the bearer of the introduction, Mr. Sidney Lysaght, author of _The Marplot_ and _One of the Grenvilles._ It is only in the first few chapters of Mr. Meredith's _Amazing Marriage_ that the character of Gower Woodseer has been allowed to retain any likeness to that of R. L. S.

_Vailima, Samoa, April 17th, 1894._

MY DEAR MEREDITH,--Many good things have the gods sent to me of late. First of all there was a letter from you by the kind hand of Mariette, if she is not too great a lady to be remembered in such a style; and then there came one Lysaght with a charming note of introduction in the well-known hand itself. We had but a few days of him, and liked him well. There was a sort of geniality and inward fire about him at which I warmed my hands. It is long since I have seen a young man who has left in me such a favourable impression; and I find myself telling myself, "O, I must tell this to Lysaght," or, "This will interest him," in a manner very unusual after so brief an acquaintance. The whole of my family shared in this favourable impression, and my halls have re-echoed ever since, I am sure he will be amused to know, with _Widdicombe Fair_.

He will have told you doubtless more of my news than I could tell you myself; he has your European perspective, a thing long lost to me. I heard with a great deal of interest the news of Box Hill. And so I understand it is to be enclosed! Allow me to remark, that seems a far more barbaric trait of manners than the most barbarous of ours. We content ourselves with cutting off an occasional head.

I hear we may soon expect _The Amazing Marriage_. You know how long, and with how much curiosity, I have looked forward to the book. Now, in so far as you have adhered to your intention, Gower Woodseer will be a family portrait, age twenty-five, of the highly respectable and slightly influential and fairly aged _Tusitala_. You have not known that gentleman; console yourself, he is not worth knowing. At the same time, my dear Meredith, he is very sincerely yours--for what he is worth, for the memories of old times, and in the expectation of many pleasures still to come. I suppose we shall never see each other again; flitting youths of the Lysaght species may occasionally cover these unconscionable leagues and bear greetings to and fro. But we ourselves must be content to converse on an occasional sheet of notepaper, and I shall never see whether you have grown older, and you shall never deplore that Gower Woodseer should have declined into the pantaloon _Tusitala_. It is perhaps better so. Let us continue to see each other as we were, and accept, my dear Meredith, my love and respect.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_P.S._--My wife joins me in the kindest messages to yourself and Mariette.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

_[Vailima], April 17, '94._

MY DEAR CHARLES,--_St. Ives_ is now well on its way into the second volume. There remains no mortal doubt that it will reach the three-volume standard.

I am very anxious that you should send me--

1st. _Tom and Jerry_, a cheap edition.

2nd. The book by Ashton--the _Dawn of the Century_, I think it was called--which Colvin sent me, and which has miscarried, and

3rd. If it is possible, a file of the Edinburgh Courant for the years 1811, 1812, 1813, or 1814. I should not care for a whole year. If it were possible to find me three months, winter months by preference, it would do my business not only for _St. Ives_, but for the _Justice-Clerk_ as well. Suppose this to be impossible, perhaps I could get the loan of it from somebody; or perhaps it would be possible to have some one read a file for me and make notes. This would be extremely bad, as unhappily one man's food is another man's poison, and the reader would probably leave out everything I should choose. But if you are reduced to that, you might mention to the man who is to read for me that balloon ascensions are in the order of the day.

4th. It might be as well to get a book on balloon ascension,

## particularly in the early part of the century.

* * * * *

III. At last this book has come from Scribner, and, alas! I have the first six or seven chapters of _St. Ives_ to recast entirely. Who could foresee that they clothed the French prisoners in yellow? But that one fatal fact--and also that they shaved them twice a week--damns the whole beginning. If it had been sent in time, it would have saved me a deal of trouble....

I have had a long letter from Dr. Scott Dalgleish, 25 Mayfield Terrace, asking me to put my name down to the Ballantyne Memorial Committee. I have sent him a pretty sharp answer in favour of cutting down the memorial and giving more to the widow and children. If there is to be any foolery in the way of statues or other trash, please send them a guinea; but if they are going to take my advice and put up a simple tablet with a few heartfelt words, and really devote the bulk of the subscriptions to the wife and family, I will go to the length of twenty pounds, if you will allow me (and if the case of the family be at all urgent), and at least I direct you to send ten pounds. I suppose you had better see Scott Dalgleish himself on the matter. I take the opportunity here to warn you that my head is simply spinning with a multitude of affairs, and I shall probably forget a half of my business at last.

R. L. S.

TO MRS. SITWELL

[_Vailima, April 1894._]

MY DEAR FRIEND,--I have at last got some photographs, and hasten to send you, as you asked, a portrait of Tusitala. He is a strange person; not so lean, say experts, but infinitely battered; mighty active again on the whole; going up and down our break-neck road at all hours of the day and night on horseback; holding meetings with all manner of chiefs; quite a political personage--God save the mark!--in a small way, but at heart very conscious of the inevitable flat failure that awaits every one. I shall never do a better book than _Catriona_, that is my high-water mark, and the trouble of production increases on me at a great rate--and mighty anxious about how I am to leave my family: an elderly man, with elderly preoccupations, whom I should be ashamed to show you for your old friend; but not a hope of my dying soon and cleanly, and "winning off the stage." Rather I am daily better in physical health. I shall have to see this business out, after all; and I think, in that case, they should have--they might have--spared me all my ill-health this decade past, if it were not to unbar the doors. I have no taste for old age, and my nose is to be rubbed in it in spite of my face. I was meant to die young, and the gods do not love me.

This is very like an epitaph, bar the handwriting, which is anything but monumental, and I dare say I had better stop. Fanny is down at her own cottage planting or deplanting or replanting, I know not which, and she will not be home till dinner, by which time the mail will be all closed, else she would join me in all good messages and remembrances of love. I hope you will congratulate Burne Jones from me on his baronetcy. I cannot make out to be anything but raspingly, harrowingly sad; so I will close, and not affect levity which I cannot feel. Do not altogether forget me; keep a corner of your memory for the exile

LOUIS.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

[_Vailima, May 1894._]

MY DEAR CHARLES,--My dear fellow, I wish to assure you of the greatness of the pleasure that this Edinburgh Edition gives me. I suppose it was your idea to give it that name. No other would have affected me in the same manner. Do you remember, how many years ago--I would be afraid to hazard a guess--one night when I communicated to you certain intimations of early death and aspiration after fame? I was particularly maudlin; and my remorse the next morning on a review of my folly has written the matter very deeply in my mind; from yours it may easily have fled. If any one at that moment could have shown me the Edinburgh Edition, I suppose I should have died. It is with gratitude and wonder that I consider "the way in which I have been led." Could a more preposterous idea have occurred to us in those days when we used to search our pockets for coppers, too often in vain, and combine forces to produce the threepence necessary for two glasses of beer, or wander down the Lothian Road without any, than that I should be strong and well at the age of forty-three in the island of Upolu, and that you should be at home bringing out the Edinburgh Edition? If it had been possible, I should almost have preferred the Lothian Road Edition, say, with a picture of the old Dutch smuggler on the covers. I have now something heavy on my mind. I had always a great sense of kinship with poor Robert Fergusson--so clever a boy, so wild, of such a mixed strain, so unfortunate, born in the same town with me, and, as I always felt, rather by express intimation than from evidence, so like myself. Now the injustice with which the one Robert is rewarded and the other left out in the cold sits heavy on me, and I wish you could think of some way in which I could do honour to my unfortunate namesake. Do you think it would look like affectation to dedicate the whole edition to his memory? I think it would. The sentiment which would dictate it to me is too abstruse; and besides, I think my wife is the proper person to receive the dedication of my life's work. At the same time, it is very odd--it really looks like the transmigration of souls--I feel that I must do something for Fergusson; Burns has been before me with the gravestone. It occurs to me you might take a walk down the Canongate and see in what condition the stone is. If it be at all uncared for, we might repair it, and perhaps add a few words of inscription.

I must tell you, what I just remembered in a flash as I was walking about dictating this letter--there was in the original plan of the _Master of Ballantrae_ a sort of introduction describing my arrival in Edinburgh on a visit to yourself and your placing in my hands the papers of the story. I actually wrote it, and then condemned the idea--as being a little too like Scott, I suppose. Now I must really find the MS. and try to finish it for the E.E. It will give you, what I should so much like you to have, another corner of your own in that lofty monument.

Suppose we do what I have proposed about Fergusson's monument, I wonder if an inscription like this would look arrogant--

This stone originally erected by Robert Burns has been repaired at the charges of Robert Louis Stevenson, and is by him re-dedicated to the memory of Robert Fergusson, as the gift of one Edinburgh lad to another.

In spacing this inscription I would detach the names of Fergusson and Burns, but leave mine in the text.

Or would that look like sham modesty, and is it better to bring out the three Roberts?

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_Vailima, May 18th, 1894._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--Your proposals for the Edinburgh Edition are entirely to my mind. About the _Amateur Emigrant_, it shall go to you by this mail well slashed. If you like to slash some more on your own account, I give you permission. 'Tis not a great work; but since it goes to make up the two first volumes as proposed, I presume it has not been written in vain.[76]--_Miscellanies_. I see with some alarm the proposal to print _Juvenilia_; does it not seem to you taking myself a little too much as Grandfather William? I am certainly not so young as I once was--a lady took occasion to remind me of the fact no later agone than last night. "Why don't you leave that to the young men, Mr. Stevenson?" said she--but when I remember that I felt indignant at even John Ruskin when he did something of the kind I really feel myself blush from head to heel. If you want to make up the first volume, there are a good many works which I took the trouble to prepare for publication and which have never been republished. In addition to _Roads_ and _Dancing Children_, referred to by you, there is _An Autumn Effect_ in the Portfolio, and a paper on Fontainebleau--_Forest Notes_ is the name of it--in Cornhill. I have no objection to any of these being edited, say with a scythe, and reproduced. But I heartily abominate and reject the idea of reprinting _The Pentland Rising_. For God's sake let me get buried first.

_Tales and Fantasies._ Vols. I. and II. have my hearty approval. But I think III. and IV. had better be crammed into one as you suggest. I will reprint none of the stories mentioned. They are below the mark. Well, I dare say the beastly _Body-Snatcher_ has merit, and I am unjust to it from my recollections of the Pall Mall. But the other two won't do. For vols. V. and VI., now changed into IV. and V., I propose the common title of _South Sea Yarns_. There! These are all my differences of opinion. I agree with every detail of your arrangement, and, as you see, my objections have turned principally on the question of hawking unripe fruit. I dare say it is all pretty green, but that is no reason for us to fill the barrow with trash. Think of having a new set of type cast, paper especially made, etc., in order to set up rubbish that is not fit for the Saturday Scotsman. It would be the climax of shame.

I am sending you a lot of verses, which had best, I think, be called _Underwoods_ Book III., but in what order are they to go? Also, I am going on every day a little, till I get sick of it, with the attempt to get _The Emigrant_ compressed into life; I know I can--or you can after me--do it. It is only a question of time and prayer and ink, and should leave something, no, not good, but not all bad--a very genuine appreciation of these folks. You are to remember besides there is that paper of mine on Bunyan in the Magazine of Art. O, and then there's another thing in Seeley called some spewsome name, I cannot recall it.

Well--come, here goes for _Juvenilia_. _Dancing Infants_, _Roads_, _An Autumn Effect_, _Forest Notes_ (but this should come at the end of them, as it's really rather riper), the t'other thing from Seeley, and I'll tell you, you may put in my letter to the Church of Scotland--it's not written amiss, and I dare say _The Philosophy of Umbrellas_ might go in, but there I stick--and remember _that_ was a collaboration with James Walter Ferrier. O, and there was a little skit called _The Charity Bazaar_, which you might see; I don't think it would do. Now, I do not think there are two other words that should be printed.--By the way, there is an article of mine called _The Day after To-morrow_ in the Contemporary which you might find room for somewhere; it's no' bad.

Very busy with all these affairs and some native ones also.

TO R. A. M. STEVENSON

[_Vailima, June 17th, 1894._]

MY DEAR BOB,--I must make out a letter this mail or perish in the attempt. All the same, I am deeply stupid, in bed with a cold, deprived of my amanuensis, and conscious of the wish but not the furnished will. You may be interested to hear how the family inquiries go. It is now quite certain that we are a second-rate lot, and came out of Cunningham or Clydesdale, therefore _British_ folk; so that you are Cymry on both sides, and I Cymry and Pict. We may have fought with King Arthur and known Merlin. The first of the family, Stevenson of Stevenson, was quite a great party, and dates back to the wars of Edward First. The last male heir of Stevenson of Stevenson died 1670, £220, 10s. to the bad, from drink. About the same time the Stevensons, who were mostly in Cunningham before, crop up suddenly in the parish of Neilston, over the border in Renfrewshire. Of course, they may have been there before, but there is no word of them in that parish till 1675 in any extracts I have. Our first traceable ancestor was a tenant farmer of Mure of Cauldwell's--James in Nether Carsewell. Presently two families of maltmen are found in Glasgow, both, by re-duplicated proofs, related to James (the son of James) in Nether Carsewell. We descend by his second marriage from Robert; one of these died 1733. It is not very romantic up to now, but has interested me surprisingly to fish out, always hoping for more--and occasionally getting at least a little clearness and confirmation. But the earliest date, 1655, apparently the marriage of James in Nether Carsewell, cannot as yet be pushed back. From which of any number of dozen little families in Cunningham we should derive, God knows! Of course, it doesn't matter a hundred years hence, an argument fatal to all human enterprise, industry, or pleasure. And to me it will be a deadly disappointment if I cannot roll this stone away! One generation further might be nothing, but it is my present object of desire, and we are so near it! There is a man in the same parish called Constantine; if I could only trace to him, I could take you far afield by that one talisman of the strange Christian name of Constantine. But no such luck! And I kind of fear we shall stick at James.

I. JAMES, a tenant of the Mures, in Nether-Carsewell, || Neilston, married (1665?) Jean Keir. || | ---------------------------------------------- | II. ROBERT (Maltman in Glasgow), died 1733, | married 1st; married second, | Elizabeth Cumming. | || | ------------------------------ | | WILLIAM (Maltman in Glasgow). III. ROBERT (Maltman in | Glasgow), married -------------------- Margaret Fulton (had | | | a large family). | | | || ROBERT, MARION, ELIZABETH. IV. ALAN, West India merchant, married Jean Lillie. || V. ROBERT, married Jean Smith. | ------- | VI. ALAN.--Margaret Jones. | VII. R. A. M. S.

NOTE.--Between 1730-1766 flourished in Glasgow Alan the Coppersmith, who acts as a kind of a pin to the whole Stevenson system there. He was caution to Robert the Second's will, and to William's will, and to the will of a John, another maltman.

So much, though all inchoate, I trouble you with, knowing that you, at least, must take an interest in it. So much is certain of that strange Celtic descent, that the past has an interest for it apparently gratuitous, but fiercely strong. I wish to trace my ancestors a thousand years, if I trace them by gallowses. It is not love, not pride, not admiration; it is an expansion of the identity, intimately pleasing, and wholly uncritical; I can expend myself in the person of an inglorious ancestor with perfect comfort; or a disgraced, if I could find one. I suppose, perhaps, it is more to me who am childless, and refrain with a certain shock from looking forwards. But, I am sure, in the solid grounds of race, that you have it also in some degree.

Enough genealogy. I do not know if you will be able to read my hand. Unhappily, Belle, who is my amanuensis, is out of the way on other affairs, and I have to make the unwelcome effort. (O this is beautiful, I am quite pleased with myself.) Graham has just arrived last night (my mother is coming by the other steamer in three days), and has told me of your meeting, and he said you looked a little older than I did; so that I suppose we keep step fairly on the downward side of the hill. He thought you looked harassed, and I could imagine that too. I sometimes feel harassed. I have a great family here about me, a great anxiety. The loss (to use my grandfather's expression), the "loss" of our family is that we are disbelievers in the morrow--perhaps I should say, rather, in next year. The future is _always_ black to us; it was to Robert Stevenson; to Thomas; I suspect to Alan; to R. A. M. S. it was so almost to his ruin in youth; to R. L. S., who had a hard hopeful strain in him from his mother, it was not so much so once, but becomes daily more so. Daily so much more so, that I have a painful difficulty in believing I can ever finish another book, or that the public will ever read it.

I have so huge a desire to know exactly what you are doing, that I suppose I should tell you what I am doing by way of an example. I have a room now, a part of the twelve-foot verandah sparred in, at the most inaccessible end of the house. Daily I see the sunrise out of my bed, which I still value as a tonic, a perpetual tuning fork, a look of God's face once in the day. At six my breakfast comes up to me here, and I work till eleven. If I am quite well, I sometimes go out and bathe in the river before lunch, twelve. In the afternoon I generally work again, now alone drafting, now with Belle dictating. Dinner is at six, and I am often in bed by eight. This is supposing me to stay at home. But I must often be away, sometimes all day long, sometimes till twelve, one, or two at night, when you might see me coming home to the sleeping house, sometimes in a trackless darkness, sometimes with a glorious tropic moon, everything drenched with dew--unsaddling and creeping to bed; and you would no longer be surprised that I live out in this country, and not in Bournemouth--in bed.

My great recent interruptions have (as you know) come from politics; not much in my line, you will say. But it is impossible to live here and not feel very sorely the consequences of the horrid white mismanagement. I tried standing by and looking on, and it became too much for me. They are such illogical fools; a logical fool in an office, with a lot of red tape, is conceivable. Furthermore, he is as much as we have any reason to expect of officials--a thoroughly common-place, unintellectual lot. But these people are wholly on wires; laying their ears down, skimming away, pausing as though shot, and presto! full spread on the other tack. I observe in the official class mostly an insane jealousy of the smallest kind, as compared to which the artist's is of a grave, modest character--the actor's, even; a desire to extend his little authority, and to relish it like a glass of wine, that is _impayable_. Sometimes, when I see one of these little kings strutting over one of his victories--wholly illegal, perhaps, and certain to be reversed to his shame if his superiors ever heard of it--I could weep. The strange thing is that they _have nothing else_. I auscultate them in vain; no real sense of duty, no real comprehension, no real attempt to comprehend, no wish for information--you cannot offend one of them more bitterly than by offering information, though it is certain that you have _more_, and obvious that you have _other_, information than they have; and talking of policy, they could not play a better stroke than by listening to you, and it need by no means influence their action. _Tenez_, you know what a French post office or railway official is? That is the diplomatic card to the life. Dickens is not in it; caricature fails.

All this keeps me from my work, and gives me the unpleasant side of the world. When your letters are disbelieved it makes you angry, and that is rot; and I wish I could keep out of it with all my soul. But I have just got into it again, and farewell peace!

My work goes along but slowly. I have got to a crossing place, I suppose; the present book, _St. Ives_, is nothing; it is in no style in

## particular, a tissue of adventures, the central character not very well

done, no philosophic pith under the yarn; and, in short, if people will read it, that's all I ask; and if they won't, damn them! I like doing it though; and if you ask me why! After that I am on _Weir of Hermiston_ and _Heathercat_, two Scotch stories, which will either be something different, or I shall have failed. The first is generally designed, and is a private story of two or three characters in a very grim vein. The second--alas! the thought--is an attempt at a real historical novel, to present a whole field of time; the race--our own race--the west land and Clydesdale blue bonnets, under the influence of their last trial, when they got to a pitch of organisation in madness that no other peasantry has ever made an offer at. I was going to call it _The Killing Time_, but this man Crockett has forestalled me in that. Well, it'll be a big smash if I fail in it; but a gallant attempt. All my weary reading as a boy, which you remember well enough, will come to bear on it; and if my mind will keep up to the point it was in a while back, perhaps I can pull it through.

For two months past, Fanny, Belle, Austin (her child), and I have been alone; but yesterday, as I mentioned, Graham Balfour arrived, and on Wednesday my mother and Lloyd will make up the party to its full strength. I wish you could drop in for a month or a week, or two hours. That is my chief want. On the whole, it is an unexpectedly pleasant corner I have dropped into for an end of it, which I could scarcely have foreseen from Wilson's shop, or the Princes Street Gardens, or the Portobello Road. Still, I would like to hear what my _alter ego_ thought of it; and I would sometimes like to have my old _maître-ès-arts_ express an opinion on what I do. I put this very tamely, being on the whole a quiet elderly man; but it is a strong passion with me, though intermittent. Now, try to follow my example and tell me something about yourself, Louisa, the Bab, and your work; and kindly send me some specimens of what you're about. I have only seen one thing by you, about Notre Dame in the Westminster or St. James's, since I left England, now I suppose six years ago.

I have looked this trash over, and it is not at all the letter I wanted to write--not truck about officials, ancestors, and the like rancidness--but you have to let your pen go in its own broken-down gait, like an old butcher's pony, stop when it pleases, and go on again as it will.--Ever, my dear Bob, your affectionate cousin,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_Vailima, June 18th, '94._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--You are to please understand that my last letter is withdrawn unconditionally. You and Baxter are having all the trouble of this Edition, and I simply put myself in your hands for you to do what you like with me, and I am sure that will be the best, at any rate. Hence you are to conceive me withdrawing all objections to your printing anything you please. After all, it is a sort of family affair. About the Miscellany Section, both plans seem to me quite good. Toss up. I think the _Old Gardener_ has to stay where I put him last. It would not do to separate John and Robert.

In short, I am only sorry I ever uttered a word about the edition, and leave you to be the judge. I have had a vile cold which has prostrated me for more than a fortnight, and even now tears me nightly with spasmodic coughs; but it has been a great victory. I have never borne a cold with so little hurt; wait till the clouds blow by, before you begin to boast! I have had no fever; and though I've been very unhappy, it is nigh over, I think. Of course, _St. Ives_ has paid the penalty. I must not let you be disappointed in _St. I._ It is a mere tissue of adventures; the central figure not very well or very sharply drawn; no philosophy, no destiny, to it; some of the happenings very good in themselves, I believe, but none of them _bildende_, none of them constructive, except in so far perhaps as they make up a kind of sham picture of the time, all in italics and all out of drawing. Here and there, I think, it is well written; and here and there it's not. Some of the episodic characters are amusing, I do believe; others not, I suppose. However, they are the best of the thing such as it is. If it has a merit to it, I should say it was a sort of deliberation and swing to the style, which seems to me to suit the mail-coaches and post-chaises with which it sounds all through. 'Tis my most prosaic book.

I called on the two German ships now in port, and we are quite friendly with them, and intensely friendly of course with our own _Curaçoas_. But it is other guess work on the beach. Some one has employed, or subsidised, one of the local editors to attack me once a week. He is pretty scurrilous and pretty false. The first effect of the perusal of the weekly Beast is to make me angry; the second is a kind of deep, golden content and glory, when I seem to say to people: "See! this is my position--I am a plain man dwelling in the bush in a house, and behold they have to get up this kind of truck against me--and I have so much influence that they are obliged to write a weekly article to say I have none."

By this time you must have seen Lysaght and forgiven me the letter that came not at all. He was really so nice a fellow--he had so much to tell me of Meredith--and the time was so short--that I gave up the intervening days between mails entirely to entertain him.

We go on pretty nicely. Fanny, Belle, and I have had two months alone, and it has been very pleasant. But by to-morrow or next day noon, we shall see the whole clan assembled again about Vailima table, which will be pleasant too; seven persons in all, and the Babel of voices will be heard again in the big hall so long empty and silent. Good-bye. Love to all. Time to close.--Yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO HENRY JAMES

_Vailima, July 7th, 1894._

DEAR HENRY JAMES,--I am going to try and dictate to you a letter or a note, and begin the same without any spark of hope, my mind being entirely in abeyance. This malady is very bitter on the literary man. I have had it now coming on for a month, and it seems to get worse instead of better. If it should prove to be softening of the brain, a melancholy interest will attach to the present document. I heard a great deal about you from my mother and Graham Balfour; the latter declares that you could take a First in any Samoan subject. If that be so, I should like to hear you on the theory of the constitution. Also to consult you on the force of the particles _o lo'o_ and _ua_, which are the subject of a dispute among local pundits. You might, if you ever answer this, give me your opinion on the origin of the Samoan race, just to complete the favour.

They both say that you are looking well, and I suppose I may conclude from that that you are feeling passably. I wish I was. Do not suppose from this that I am ill in body; it is the numskull that I complain of. And when that is wrong, as you must be very keenly aware, you begin every day with a smarting disappointment, which is not good for the temper. I am in one of the humours when a man wonders how any one can be such an ass as to embrace the profession of letters, and not get apprenticed to a barber or keep a baked-potato stall. But I have no doubt in the course of a week, or perhaps to-morrow, things will look better.

We have at present in port the model warship of Great Britain. She is called the _Curaçoa_, and has the nicest set of officers and men conceivable. They, the officers, are all very intimate with us, and the front verandah is known as the Curaçoa Club, and the road up to Vailima is known as the Curaçoa Track. It was rather a surprise to me; many naval officers have I known, and somehow had not learned to think entirely well of them, and perhaps sometimes ask myself a little uneasily how that kind of men could do great actions? and behold! the answer comes to me, and I see a ship that I would guarantee to go anywhere it was possible for men to go, and accomplish anything it was permitted man to attempt. I had a cruise on board of her not long ago to Manu'a, and was delighted. The goodwill of all on board; the grim playfulness of[77] quarters, with the wounded falling down at the word; the ambulances hastening up and carrying them away; the Captain suddenly crying, "Fire in the ward-room!" and the squad hastening forward with the hose; and, last and most curious spectacle of all, all the men in their dust-coloured fatigue clothes, at a note of the bugle, falling simultaneously flat on deck, and the ship proceeding with its prostrate crew--_quasi_ to ram an enemy; our dinner at night in a wild open anchorage, the ship rolling almost to her gunwales, and showing us alternately her bulwarks up in the sky, and then the wild broken cliffy palm-crested shores of the island with the surf thundering and leaping close aboard. We had the ward-room mess on deck, lit by pink wax tapers, everybody, of course, in uniform but myself, and the first lieutenant (who is a rheumaticky body) wrapped in a boat cloak. Gradually the sunset faded out, the island disappeared from the eye, though it remained menacingly present to the ear with the voice of the surf; and then the captain turned on the searchlight and gave us the coast, the beach, the trees, the native houses, and the cliffs by glimpses of daylight, a kind of deliberate lightning. About which time, I suppose, we must have come as far as the dessert, and were probably drinking our first glass of port to Her Majesty. We stayed two days at the island, and had, in addition, a very picturesque snapshot at the native life. The three islands of Manu'a are independent, and are ruled over by a little slip of a half-caste girl about twenty, who sits all day in a pink gown, in a little white European house with about a quarter of an acre of roses in front of it, looking at the palm-trees on the village street, and listening to the surf. This, so far as I could discover, was all she had to do. "This is a very dull place," she said. It appears she could go to no other village for fear of raising the jealousy of her own people in the capital. And as for going about "tafatafaoing," as we say here, its cost was too enormous. A strong able-bodied native must walk in front of her and blow the conch shell continuously from the moment she leaves one house until the moment she enters another. Did you ever blow the conch shell? I presume not; but the sweat literally hailed off that man, and I expected every moment to see him burst a blood-vessel. We were entertained to kava in the guest-house with some very original features. The young men who run for the _kava_ have a right to misconduct themselves _ad libitum_ on the way back; and though they were told to restrain themselves on the occasion of our visit, there was a strange hurly-burly at their return, when they came beating the trees and the posts of the houses, leaping, shouting, and yelling like Bacchants.

I tasted on that occasion what it is to be great. My name was called next after the captain's, and several chiefs (a thing quite new to me, and not at all Samoan practice) drank to me by name.

And now, if you are not sick of the _Curaçoa_ and Manu'a, I am, at least on paper. And I decline any longer to give you examples of how not to write.

By the by, you sent me long ago a work by Anatole France, which I confess I did not _taste_. Since then I have made the acquaintance of the _Abbé Coignard_, and have become a faithful adorer. I don't think a better book was ever written.

And I have no idea what I have said, and I have no idea what I ought to have said, and I am a total ass, but my heart is in the right place, and I am, my dear Henry James, yours,

R. L. S.

TO MARCEL SCHWOB

_Vailima, Upolu, Samoa, July 7, 1894._

DEAR MR. MARCEL SCHWOB,--Thank you for having remembered me in my exile. I have read _Mimes_ twice as a whole; and now, as I write, I am reading it again as it were by accident, and a piece at a time, my eye catching a word and travelling obediently on through the whole number. It is a graceful book, essentially graceful, with its haunting agreeable melancholy, its pleasing savoury of antiquity. At the same time, by its merits, it shows itself rather as the promise of something else to come than a thing final in itself. You have yet to give us--and I am expecting it with impatience--something of a larger gait; something daylit, not twilit; something with the colours of life, not the flat tints of a temple illumination; something that shall be _said_ with all the clearnesses and the trivialities of speech, not _sung_ like a semi-articulate lullaby. It will not please yourself as well, when you come to give it us, but it will please others better. It will be more of a whole, more worldly, more nourished, more commonplace--and not so pretty, perhaps not even so beautiful. No man knows better than I that, as we go on in life, we must part from prettiness and the graces. We but attain qualities to lose them; life is a series of farewells, even in art; even our proficiencies are deciduous and evanescent. So here with these exquisite pieces the XVIIth, XVIIIth, and IVth of the present collection. You will perhaps never excel them; I should think the "Hermes," never. Well, you will do something else, and of that I am in expectation.--Yours cordially,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO A. ST. GAUDENS

_Vailima, Samoa, July 8, 1894._

MY DEAR ST. GAUDENS,--This is to tell you that the medallion has been at last triumphantly transported up the hill and placed over my smoking-room mantelpiece. It is considered by everybody a first-rate but flattering portrait. We have it in a very good light, which brings out the artistic merits of the god-like sculptor to great advantage. As for my own opinion, I believe it to be a speaking likeness, and not flattered at all; possibly a little the reverse. The verses (curse the rhyme) look remarkably well.

Please do not longer delay, but send me an account for the expense of the gilt letters. I was sorry indeed that they proved beyond the means of a small farmer.--Yours very sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MISS ADELAIDE BOODLE

_Vailima, July 14, 1894._

MY DEAR ADELAIDE,--... So, at last, you are going into mission work? where I think your heart always was. You will like it in a way, but remember it is dreary long. Do you know the story of the American tramp who was offered meals and a day's wage to chop with the back of an axe on a fallen trunk. "Damned if I can go on chopping when I can't see the chips fly!" You will never see the chips fly in mission work, never; and be sure you know it beforehand. The work is one long dull disappointment, varied by acute revulsions; and those who are by nature courageous and cheerful, and have grown old in experience, learn to rub their hands over infinitesimal successes. However, as I really believe there is some good done in the long run--_gutta cavat lapidem non vi_ in this business--it is a useful and honourable career in which no one should be ashamed to embark. Always remember the fable of the sun, the storm, and the traveller's cloak. Forget wholly and for ever all small pruderies, and remember that _you cannot change ancestral feelings of right and wrong without what is practically soul-murder_. Barbarous as the customs may seem, always hear them with patience, always judge them with gentleness, always find in them some seed of good; see that you always develop them; remember that all you can do is to civilise the man in the line of his own civilisation, such as it is. And never expect, never believe in, thaumaturgic conversions. They may do very well for St. Paul; in the case of an Andaman islander they mean less than nothing. In fact, what you have to do is to teach the parents in the interests of their great-grandchildren.

Now, my dear Adelaide, dismiss from your mind the least idea of fault upon your side; nothing is further from the fact. I cannot forgive you, for I do not know your fault. My own is plain enough, and the name of it is cold-hearted neglect; and you may busy yourself more usefully in trying to forgive me. But ugly as my fault is, you must not suppose it to mean more than it does; it does not mean that we have at all forgotten you, that we have become at all indifferent to the thought of you. See, in my life of Jenkin, a remark of his, very well expressed, on the friendships of men who do not write to each other. I can honestly say that I have not changed to you in any way; though I have behaved thus ill, thus cruelly. Evil is done by want of--well, principally by want of industry. You can imagine what I would say (in a novel) of any one who had behaved as I have done. _Deteriora sequor_. And you must somehow manage to forgive your old friend; and if you will be so very good, continue to give us news of you, and let us share the knowledge of your adventures, sure that it will be always followed with interest--even if it is answered with the silence of ingratitude. For I am not a fool; I know my faults, I know they are ineluctable, I know they are growing on me. I know I may offend again, and I warn you of it. But the next time I offend, tell me so plainly and frankly like a lady, and don't lacerate my heart and bludgeon my vanity with imaginary faults of your own and purely gratuitous penance. I might suspect you of irony!

We are all fairly well, though I have been off work and off--as you know very well--letter-writing. Yet I have sometimes more than twenty letters, and sometimes more than thirty, going out each mail. And Fanny has had a most distressing bronchitis for some time, which she is only now beginning to get over. I have just been to see her; she is lying--though she had breakfast an hour ago, about seven--in her big cool, mosquito-proof room, ingloriously asleep. As for me, you see that a doom has come upon me: I cannot make marks with a pen--witness "ingloriously" above; and my amanuensis not appearing so early in the day, for she is then immersed in household affairs, and I can hear her "steering the boys" up and down the verandahs--you must decipher this unhappy letter for yourself and, I fully admit, with everything against you. A letter should be always well written; how much more a letter of apology! Legibility is the politeness of men of letters, as punctuality of kings and beggars. By the punctuality of my replies, and the beauty of my hand-writing, judge what a fine conscience I must have!

Now, my dear gamekeeper, I must really draw to a close. For I have much else to write before the mail goes out three days hence. Fanny being asleep, it would not be conscientious to invent a message from her, so you must just imagine her sentiments. I find I have not the heart to speak of your recent loss. You remember perhaps, when my father died, you told me those ugly images of sickness, decline, and impaired reason, which then haunted me day and night, would pass away and be succeeded by things more happily characteristic. I have found it so. He now haunts me, strangely enough, in two guises; as a man of fifty, lying on a hillside and carving mottoes on a stick, strong and well; and as a younger man, running down the sands into the sea near North Berwick, myself--_ætat. 11_--somewhat horrified at finding him so beautiful when stripped! I hand on your own advice to you in case you have forgotten it, as I know one is apt to do in seasons of bereavement.--Ever yours, with much love and sympathy,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MRS. A. BAKER

This refers again to the printing of some of his books in Braille type for the blind.

_Vailima, Samoa, July 16, 1894._

DEAR MRS. BAKER,--I am very much obliged to you for your letter and the enclosure from Mr. Skinner. Mr. Skinner says he "thinks Mr. Stevenson must be a very kind man"; he little knows me. But I am very sure of one thing, that you are a very kind woman. I envy you--my amanuensis being called away, I continue in my own hand, or what is left of it--unusually legible, I am thankful to see--I envy you your beautiful choice of an employment. There must be no regrets at least for a day so spent; and when the night falls you need ask no blessing on your work. "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of these."--Yours truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_July, 1894._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--I have to thank you this time for a very good letter, and will announce for the future, though I cannot now begin to put in practice, good intentions for our correspondence. I will try to return to the old system and write from time to time during the month; but truly you did not much encourage me to continue! However, that is all by-past. I do not know that there is much in your letter that calls for answer. Your questions about _St. Ives_ were practically answered in my last; so were your wails about the edition, _Amateur Emigrant_, etc. By the end of the year _St. I._ will be practically finished, whatever it be worth, and that I know not. When shall I receive proofs of the Magnum Opus? or shall I receive them at all?

The return of the Amanuensis feebly lightens my heart. You can see the heavy weather I was making of it with my unaided pen. The last month has been particularly cheery largely owing to the presence of our good friends the Curaçoas. She is really a model ship, charming officers and charming seamen. They gave a ball last month, which was very rackety and joyous and naval....

On the following day, about one o'clock, three horsemen might have been observed approaching Vailima, who gradually resolved themselves into two petty officers and a native guide. Drawing himself up and saluting, the spokesman (a corporal of Marines) addressed me thus. "Me and my shipmates inwites Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, Mrs. Strong, Mr. Austin, and Mr. Balfour to a ball to be given to-night in the self-same 'all." It was of course impossible to refuse, though I contented myself with putting in a very brief appearance. One glance was sufficient; the ball went off like a rocket from the start. I had only time to watch Belle careering around with a gallant bluejacket of exactly her own height--the standard of the British navy--an excellent dancer and conspicuously full of small-talk--and to hear a remark from a beach-comber, "It's a nice sight this some way, to see the officers dancing like this with the men, but I tell you, sir, these are the men that'll fight together!"

I tell you, Colvin, the acquaintance of the men--and boys--makes me feel patriotic. Eeles in particular is a man whom I respect. I am half in a mind to give him a letter of introduction to you when he goes home. In case you feel inclined to make a little of him, give him a dinner, ask Henry James to come to meet him, etc.--you might let me know. I don't know that he would show his best, but he is a remarkably fine fellow, in every department of life.

We have other visitors in port. A Count Festetics de Tolna, an Austrian officer, a very pleasant, simple, boyish creature, with his young wife, daughter of an American millionaire; he is a friend of our own Captain Wurmbrand, and it is a great pity Wurmbrand is away.

Glad you saw and liked Lysaght. He has left in our house a most cheerful and pleasing memory, as a good, pleasant, brisk fellow with good health and brains, and who enjoys himself and makes other people happy. I am glad he gave you a good report of our surroundings and way of life; but I knew he would, for I believe he had a glorious time--and gave one.[78]

I am on fair terms with the two Treaty officials, though all such intimacies are precarious; with the consuls, I need not say, my position is deplorable. The President (Herr Emil Schmidt) is a rather dreamy man, whom I like. Lloyd, Graham and I go to breakfast with him to-morrow; the next day the whole party of us lunch on the _Curaçoa_ and go in the evening to a _Bierabend_ at Dr. Funk's. We are getting up a paper-chase for the following week with some of the young German clerks, and have in view a sort of child's party for grown-up persons with kissing games, etc., here at Vailima. Such is the gay scene in which we move. Now I have done something, though not as much as I wanted, to give you an idea of how we are getting on, and I am keenly conscious that there are other letters to do before the mail goes.--Yours ever,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO J. M. BARRIE

_Vailima, July 13, 1894._

MY DEAR BARRIE,--This is the last effort of an ulcerated conscience. I have been so long owing you a letter, I have heard so much of you, fresh from the press, from my mother and Graham Balfour, that I have to write a letter no later than to-day, or perish in my shame. But the deuce of it is, my dear fellow, that you write such a very good letter that I am ashamed to exhibit myself before my junior (which you are, after all) in the light of the dreary idiot I feel. Understand that there will be nothing funny in the following pages. If I can manage to be rationally coherent, I shall be more than satisfied.

In the first place, I have had the extreme satisfaction to be shown that photograph of your mother. It bears evident traces of the hand of an amateur. How is it that amateurs invariably take better photographs than professionals? I must qualify invariably. My own negatives have always represented a province of chaos and old night in which you might dimly perceive fleecy spots of twilight, representing nothing; so that, if I am right in supposing the portrait of your mother to be yours, I must salute you as my superior. Is that your mother's breakfast? Or is it only afternoon tea? If the first, do let me recommend to Mrs. Barrie to add an egg to her ordinary. Which, if you please, I will ask her to eat to the honour of her son, and I am sure she will live much longer for it, to enjoy his fresh successes. I never in my life saw anything more deliciously characteristic. I declare I can hear her speak. I wonder my mother could resist the temptation of your proposed visit to Kirriemuir, which it was like your kindness to propose. By the way, I was twice in Kirriemuir, I believe in the year '71, when I was going on a visit to Glenogil. It was Kirriemuir, was it not? I have a distinct recollection of an inn at the end--I think the upper end--of an irregular open place or square, in which I always see your characters evolve. But, indeed, I did not pay much attention; being all bent upon my visit to a shooting-box, where I should fish a real trout-stream, and I believe preserved. I did, too, and it was a charming stream, clear as crystal, without a trace of peat--a strange thing in Scotland--and alive with trout; the name of it I cannot remember, it was something like the Queen's River, and in some hazy way connected with memories of Mary Queen of Scots. It formed an epoch in my life, being the end of all my trout-fishing. I had always been accustomed to pause and very laboriously to kill every fish as I took it. But in the Queen's River I took so good a basket that I forgot these niceties; and when I sat down, in a hard rain shower, under a bank, to take my sandwiches and sherry, lo! and behold, there was the basketful of trouts still kicking in their agony.

I had a very unpleasant conversation with my conscience. All that afternoon I persevered in fishing, brought home my basket in triumph, and sometime that night, "in the wee sma' hours ayont the twal," I finally forswore the gentle craft of fishing. I dare say your local knowledge may identify this historic river; I wish it could go farther and identify also that particular Free kirk in which I sat and groaned on Sunday. While my hand is in I must tell you a story. At that antique epoch you must not fall into the vulgar error that I was myself ancient. I was, on the contrary, very young, very green, and (what you will appreciate, Mr. Barrie) very shy. There came one day to lunch at the house two very formidable old ladies--or one very formidable, and the other what you please--answering to the honoured and historic name of the Miss C---- A----'s of Balnamoon. At table I was exceedingly funny, and entertained the company with tales of geese and bubbly-jocks. I was great in the expression of my terror for these bipeds, and suddenly this horrid, severe, and eminently matronly old lady put up a pair of gold eye-glasses, looked at me awhile in silence, and pronounced in a clangorous voice her verdict. "You give me very much the effect of a coward, Mr. Stevenson!" I had very nearly left two vices behind me at Glenogil--fishing and jesting at table. And of one thing you may be very sure, my lips were no more opened at that meal.

_July 29th._--No, Barrie, 'tis in vain they try to alarm me with their bulletins. No doubt, you're ill, and unco ill, I believe; but I have been so often in the same case that I know pleurisy and pneumonia are in vain against Scotsmen who can write. (I once could.) You cannot imagine probably how near me this common calamity brings you. _Ce que j'ai toussé dans ma vie!_ How often and how long have I been on the rack at night and learned to appreciate that noble passage in the Psalms when somebody or other is said to be more set on something than they "who dig for hid treasures--yea, than those who long for the morning"--for all the world, as you have been racked and you have longed. Keep your heart up, and you'll do. Tell that to your mother, if you are still in any danger or suffering. And by the way, if you are at all like me--and I tell myself you are very like me--be sure there is only one thing good for you, and that is the sea in hot climates. Mount, sir, into "a little frigot" of 5000 tons or so, and steer peremptorily for the tropics; and what if the ancient mariner, who guides your frigot, should startle the silence of the ocean with the cry of land ho!--say, when the day is dawning--and you should see the turquoise mountain tops of Upolu coming hand over fist above the horizon? Mr. Barrie, sir, 'tis then there would be larks! And though I cannot be certain that our climate would suit you (for it does not suit some), I am sure as death the voyage would do you good--would do you _Best_--and if Samoa didn't do, you needn't stay beyond the month, and I should have had another pleasure in my life, which is a serious consideration for me. I take this as the hand of the Lord preparing your way to Vailima--in the desert, certainly--in the desert of Cough and by the ghoul-haunted woodland of Fever--but whither that way points there can be no question--and there will be a meeting of the twa Hoasting Scots Makers in spite of fate, fortune and the Devil. _Absit omen!_

My dear Barrie, I am a little in the dark about this new work of yours:[79] what is to become of me afterwards? You say carefully--methought anxiously--that I was no longer me when I grew up? I cannot bear this suspense: what is it? It's no forgery? And AM I HANGIT? These are the elements of a very pretty lawsuit which you had better come to Samoa to compromise. I am enjoying a great pleasure that I had long looked forward to, reading Orme's _History of Indostan_; I had been looking out for it everywhere; but at last, in four volumes, large quarto, beautiful type and page, and with a delectable set of maps and plans, and all the names of the places wrongly spelled--it came to Samoa, little Barrie. I tell you frankly, you had better come soon. I am sair failed a'ready; and what I may be if you continue to dally, I dread to conceive. I may be speechless; already, or at least for a month or so, I'm little better than a teetoller--I beg pardon, a teetotaller. It is not exactly physical, for I am in good health, working four or five hours a day in my plantation, and intending to ride a paper-chase next Sunday--ay, man, that's a fact, and I havena had the hert to breathe it to my mother yet--the obligation's poleetical, for I am trying every means to live well with my German neighbours--and, O Barrie, but it's no easy!... To be sure, there are many exceptions. And the whole of the above must be regarded as private--strictly private. Breathe it not in Kirriemuir: tell it not to the daughters of Dundee! What a nice extract this would make for the daily papers! and how it would facilitate my position here!

_August 5th._--This is Sunday, the Lord's Day. "The hour of attack approaches." And it is a singular consideration what I risk; I may yet be the subject of a tract, and a good tract too--such as one which I remember reading with recreant awe and rising hair in my youth, of a boy who was a very good boy, and went to Sunday Schule, and one day kipped from it, and went and actually bathed, and was dashed over a waterfall, and he was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. A dangerous trade, that, and one that I have to practise. I'll put in a word when I get home again, to tell you whether I'm killed or not. "Accident in the (Paper) Hunting Field: death of a notorious author. We deeply regret to announce the death of the most unpopular man in Samoa, who broke his neck, at the descent of Magiagi, from the misconduct of his little raving lunatic of an old beast of a pony. It is proposed to commemorate the incident by the erection of a suitable pile. The design (by our local architect, Mr. Walker) is highly artificial, with a rich and voluminous Crockett at each corner, a small but impervious Barrièer at the entrance, an arch at the top, an Archer of a pleasing but solid character at the bottom; the colour will be genuine William-Black; and Lang, lang may the ladies sit wi' their fans in their hands." Well, well, they may sit as they sat for me, and little they'll reck, the ungrateful jauds! Muckle they cared about Tusitala when they had him! But now ye can see the difference; now leddies, ye can repent, when ower late, o' your former cauldness and what ye'll perhaps allow me to ca' your _tepeedity_! He was beautiful as the day, but his day is done! And perhaps, as he was maybe gettin' a wee thing fly-blown, it's nane too shüne.

_Monday, August 6th._--Well, sir, I have escaped the dangerous conjunction of the widow's only son and the Sabbath Day. We had a most enjoyable time, and Lloyd and I were 3 and 4 to arrive; I will not tell here what interval had elapsed between our arrival and the arrival of 1 and 2; the question, sir, is otiose and malign; it deserves, it shall have no answer. And now without further delay to the main purpose of this hasty note. We received and we have already in fact distributed the gorgeous fahbrics of Kirriemuir. Whether from the splendour of the robes themselves, or from the direct nature of the compliments with which you had directed us to accompany the presentations, one young lady blushed as she received the proofs of your munificence.... Bad ink, and the dregs of it at that, but the heart in the right place. Still very cordially interested in my Barrie and wishing him well through his sickness, which is of the body, and long defended from mine, which is of the head, and by the impolite might be described as idiocy. The whole head is useless, and the whole sitting part painful: reason, the recent Paper Chase.

There was racing and chasing in Vailele plantation, And vastly we enjoyed it, But, alas! for the state of my foundation, For it wholly has destroyed it.

Come, my mind is looking up. The above is wholly impromptu.--On oath,

TUSITALA.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

The missionary view of the Sunday paper-chase, with an account of Stevenson's apologies to the ladies and gentlemen of the mission, have been printed by Mr. W. E. Clarke in the Chronicle of the London Missionary Society for April and May 1908.

_[Vailima] Aug. 7th, 1894._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--This is to inform you, sir, that on Sunday last (and this is Tuesday) I attained my ideal here, and we had a paper-chase in Vailele Plantation, about 15 miles, I take it, from us; and it was all that could be wished. It is really better fun than following the hounds, since you have to be your own hound, and a precious bad hound I was, following every false scent on the whole course to the bitter end; but I came in 3rd at the last on my little Jack, who stuck to it gallantly, and awoke the praises of some discriminating persons. (5 + 7 + 2-1/2 = 14-1/2 miles; yes, that is the count.) We had quite the old sensations of exhilaration, discovery, an appeal to a savage instinct; and I felt myself about 17 again, a pleasant experience. However, it was on the Sabbath Day, and I am now a pariah among the English, as if I needed any increment of unpopularity. I must not go again; it gives so much unnecessary tribulation to poor people, and, sure, we don't want to make tribulation. I have been forbidden to work, and have been instead doing my two or three hours in the plantation every morning. I only wish somebody would pay me £10 a day for taking care of cacao, and I could leave literature to others. Certainly, if I have plenty of exercise, and no work, I feel much better; but there is Biles the butcher! him we have always with us.

I do not much like novels, I begin to think, but I am enjoying exceedingly Orme's _History of Hindostan_, a lovely book in its way, in large quarto, with a quantity of maps, and written in a very lively and solid eighteenth century way, never picturesque except by accident and from a kind of conviction, and a fine sense of order. No historian I have ever read is so minute; yet he never gives you a word about the people; his interest is entirely limited in the concatenation of events, into which he goes with a lucid, almost superhuman, and wholly ghostly gusto. "By the ghost of a mathematician" the book might be announced. A very brave, honest book.

Your letter to hand.

Fact is, I don't like the picter.[80] O, it's a good picture, but if you _ask_ me, you know, I believe, stoutly believe, that mankind, including you, are going mad. I am not in the midst with the other frenzy dancers, so I don't catch it wholly; and when you show me a thing--and ask me, don't you know--Well, well! Glad to get so good an account of the _Amateur Emigrant_. Talking of which, I am strong for making a volume out of selections from the South Sea letters; I read over again the King of Apemama, and it is good in spite of your teeth, and a real curiosity, a thing that can never be seen again, and the group is annexed and Tembinoka dead. I wonder, couldn't you send out to me the _first_ five Butaritari letters and the Low Archipelago ones (both of which I have lost or mislaid) and I can chop out a perfectly fair volume of what I wish to be preserved. It can keep for the last of the series.

_Travels and Excursions_, vol. II. Should it not include a paper on S. F. from the Mag. of Art? The A. E., the New Pacific capital, the Old ditto. _Silver._ _Squat._ This would give all my works on the States; and though it ain't very good, it's not so very bad. _Travels and Excursions_, vol. III., to be these resuscitated letters--_Miscellanies_, vol. II.--_comme vous voudrez, cher monsieur!_

_Monday, Aug. 13th._--I have a sudden call to go up the coast and must hurry up with my information. There has suddenly come to our naval commanders the need of action, they're away up the coast bombarding the Atua rebels. All morning on Saturday the sound of the bombardment of Luatuanu'u kept us uneasy. To-day again the big guns have been sounding further along the coast. One delicious circumstance must not be forgotten. Our blessed President of the Council--a kind of hoary-headed urchin, with the dim, timid eyes of extreme childhood and a kind of beautiful simplicity that endears him to me beyond words--has taken the head of the army--honour to him for it, for his place is really there--and gone up the coast in the congenial company of his housekeeper, a woman coming on for sixty with whom he takes his walks abroad in the morning in his shirt-sleeves, whom he reads to at night (in a kind of Popular History of Germany) in the silence of the Presidential mansion, and with whom (and a couple of camp stools) he walked out last Sunday to behold the paper-chase. I cannot tell you how taken I am with this exploit of the President's and the housekeeper's. It is like Don Quixote, but infinitely superior. If I could only do it without offence, what a subject it would make!

To-morrow morning early I am off up the coast myself. Therefore you must allow me to break off here without further ceremony.--Yours ever,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO DR. BAKEWELL

The following is to a physician in Australia.

_Vailima, August 7, 1894._

DEAR DR. BAKEWELL,--I am not more than human. I am more human than is wholly convenient, and your anecdote was welcome. What you say about _unwilling work_, my dear sir, is a consideration always present with me, and yet not easy to give its due weight to. You grow gradually into a certain income; without spending a penny more, with the same sense of restriction as before when you painfully scraped two hundred a year together, you find you have spent, and you cannot well stop spending, a far larger sum; and this expense can only be supported by a certain production. However, I am off work this month, and occupy myself instead in weeding my cacao, paper-chases, and the like. I may tell you, my average of work in favourable circumstances is far greater than you suppose: from six o'clock till eleven at latest,[81] and often till twelve, and again in the afternoon from two to four. My hand is quite destroyed, as you may perceive, to-day to a really unusual extent. I can sometimes write a decent fist still; but I have just returned with my arms all stung from three hours' work in the cacao.--Yours, etc.,

R. L. S.

TO JAMES PAYN

_Vailima, Upolu, Samoa [August 11, 1894]._

MY DEAR JAMES PAYN,--I hear from Lang that you are unwell, and it reminds me of two circumstances: First, that it is a very long time since you had the exquisite pleasure of hearing from me; and second, that I have been very often unwell myself and sometimes had to thank you for a grateful anodyne.

They are not good, the circumstances, to write an anodyne letter. The hills and my house at less than (boom) a minute's interval quake with thunder; and though I cannot hear that part of it, shells are falling thick into the fort of Luatuanu'u (boom). It is my friends of the _Curaçoa_, the _Falke_, and the _Bussard_ bombarding (after all these--boom--months) the rebels of Atua. (Boom-boom.) It is most distracting in itself; and the thought of the poor devils in their fort (boom) with their bits of rifles far from pleasant. (Boom-boom.) You can see how quick it goes, and I'll say no more about Mr. Bow-wow, only you must understand the perpetual accompaniment of this discomfortable sound, and make allowances for the value of my copy. It is odd, though, I can well remember, when the Franco-Prussian war began, and I was in Eilean Earraid, far enough from the sound of the loudest cannonade, I could _hear_ the shots fired, and I felt the pang in my breast of a man struck. It was sometimes so distressing, so instant, that I lay in the heather on the top of the island, with my face hid, kicking my heels for agony. And now, when I can hear the actual concussion of the air and hills, when I _know_ personally the people who stand exposed to it, I am able to go on _taut bien que mal_ with a letter to James Payn! The blessings of age, though mighty small, are tangible. I have heard a great deal of them since I came into the world, and now that I begin to taste of them--Well! But this is one, that people do get cured of the excess of sensibility; and I had as lief these people were shot at as myself--or almost, for then I should have some of the fun, such as it is.

You are to conceive me, then, sitting in my little gallery room, shaken by these continual spasms of cannon, and with my eye more or less singly fixed on the imaginary figure of my dear James Payn. I try to see him in bed; no go. I see him instead jumping up in his room in Waterloo Place (where _ex hypothesi_ he is not), sitting on the table, drawing out a very black briar-root pipe, and beginning to talk to a slim and ill-dressed visitor in a voice that is good to hear and with a smile that is pleasant to see. (After a little more than half an hour, the voice that was ill to hear has ceased, the cannonade is over.) And I am thinking how I can get an answering smile wafted over so many leagues of land and water, and can find no way.

I have always been a great visitor of the sick; and one of the sick I visited was W. E. Henley, which did not make very tedious visits, so I'll not get off much purgatory for them. That was in the Edinburgh Infirmary, the old one, the true one, with Georgius Secundus standing and pointing his toe in a niche of the façade; and a mighty fine building it was! And I remember one winter's afternoon, in that place of misery, that Henley and I chanced to fall in talk about James Payn himself. I am wishing you could have heard that talk! I think that would make you smile. We had mixed you up with John Payne, for one thing, and stood amazed at your extraordinary, even painful, versatility; and for another, we found ourselves each students so well prepared for examinations on the novels of the real Mackay. Perhaps, after all, this is worth something in life--to have given so much pleasure to a pair so different in every way as were Henley and I, and to be talked of with so much interest by two such (beg pardon) clever lads!

The cheerful Lang has neglected to tell me what is the matter with you; so, I'm sorry to say, I am cut off from all the customary consolations. I can't say, "Think how much worse it would be if you had a broken leg!" when you may have the crushing repartee up your sleeve, "But it is my leg that is broken." This is a pity. But there are consolations. You are an Englishman (I believe); you are a man of letters; you have never been made C.B.; you hair was not red; you have played cribbage and whist; you did not play either the fiddle or the banjo; you were never an æsthete; you never contributed to ----'s Journal; your name is not Jabez Balfour; you are totally unconnected with the Army and Navy departments; I understand you to have lived within your income--why, cheer up! here are many legitimate causes of congratulation. I seem to be writing an obituary notice. _Absit omen!_ But I feel very sure that these considerations will have done you more good than medicine.

By the by, did you ever play piquet? I have fallen a victim to this debilitating game. It is supposed to be scientific; God save the mark, what self-deceivers men are! It is distinctly less so than cribbage. But how fascinating! There is such material opulence about it, such vast ambitions may be realised--and are not; it may be called the Monte Cristo of games. And the thrill with which you take five cards partakes of the nature of lust--and you draw four sevens and a nine, and the seven and nine of a suit that you discarded, and O! but the world is a desert! You may see traces of discouragement in my letter: all due to piquet! There has been a disastrous turn of the luck against me; a month or two ago I was two thousand ahead; now, and for a week back, I have been anything from four thousand eight hundred to five thousand two hundred astern. I have a sixième, my beast of a partner has a septième; and if I have three aces, three kings, three queens, and three knaves (excuse the slight exaggeration), the devil holds quatorze of tens!--I remain, my dear James Payn, your sincere and obliged friend--old friend let me say,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MISS MIDDLETON

A letter from the lady to whom this is addressed, and who had been a friend of the Stevenson family in Edinburgh, had called up some memories of a Skye terrier, Jura, of whom readers have heard something already.

_Vailima, Samoa, September 9, 1894._

DEAR MISS MIDDLETON,--Your letter has been like the drawing up of a curtain. Of course I remember you very well, and the Skye terrier to which you refer--a heavy, dull, fatted, graceless creature he grew up to be--was my own particular pet. It may amuse you, perhaps, as much as "The Inn" amused me, if I tell you what made this dog particularly mine. My father was the natural god of all the dogs in our house, and poor Jura took to him of course. Jura was stolen, and kept in prison somewhere for more than a week, as I remember. When he came back Smeoroch had come and taken my father's heart from him. He took his stand like a man, and positively never spoke to my father again from that day until the day of his death. It was the only sign of character he ever showed. I took him up to my room and to be my dog in consequence, partly because I was sorry for him, and partly because I admired his dignity in misfortune.

With best regards and thanks for having reminded me of so many pleasant days, old acquaintances, dead friends, and--what is perhaps as pathetic as any of them--dead dogs, I remain, yours truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO A. CONAN DOYLE

The following refers to the papers originally contributed by various writers to Mr. Jerome's periodical The Idler, under the title _My First Book_, and afterwards republished in a volume. The references towards the end are to the illustrations in the pages of The Idler.

_Vailima, Samoa, September 9, 1894._

MY DEAR CONAN DOYLE,--If you found anything to entertain you in my _Treasure Island_ article, it may amuse you to know that you owe it entirely to yourself. _Your_ "First Book" was by some accident read aloud one night in my Baronial 'All. I was consumedly amused by it, so was the whole family, and we proceeded to hunt up back Idlers and read the whole series. It is a rattling good series, even people whom you would not expect came in quite the proper tone--Miss Braddon, for instance, who was really one of the best where all are good--or all but one!... In short, I fell in love with "The First Book" series, and determined that it should be all our first books, and that I could not hold back where the white plume of Conan Doyle waved gallantly in the front. I hope they will republish them, though it's a grievous thought to me that that effigy in the German cap--likewise the other effigy of the noisome old man with the long hair, telling indelicate stories to a couple of deformed negresses in a rancid shanty full of wreckage--should be perpetuated. I may seem to speak in pleasantry--it is only a seeming--that German cap, sir, would be found, when I come to die, imprinted on my heart. Enough--my heart is too full. Adieu.--Yours very truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. (in a German cap, damn 'em!).

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

[_Vailima, September 1894._]

MY DEAR COLVIN,--This must be a very measly letter. I have been trying hard to get along with _St. Ives_. I should now lay it aside for a year and I dare say I should make something of it after all. Instead of that, I have to kick against the pricks, and break myself, and spoil the book, if there were anything to spoil, which I am far from saying. I'm as sick of the thing as ever any one can be; it's a rudderless hulk; it's a pagoda, and you can just feel--or I can feel--that it might have been a pleasant story, if it had been only blessed at baptism.

Our politics have gone on fairly well, but the result is still doubtful.

_Sept. 10th._--I know I have something else to say to you, but unfortunately I awoke this morning with colly-wobbles, and had to take a small dose of laudanum with the usual consequences of dry throat, intoxicated legs, partial madness and total imbecility; and for the life of me I cannot remember what it is. I have likewise mislaid your letter amongst the accumulations on my table, not that there was anything in it. Altogether I am in a poor state. I forgot to tell Baxter that the dummy had turned up and is a fine, personable-looking volume and very good reading. Please communicate this to him.

I have just remembered an incident that I really must not let pass. You have heard a great deal more than you wanted about our political prisoners. Well, one day, about a fortnight ago, the last of them was set free--Old Poè, whom I think I must have mentioned to you, the father-in-law of my cook, was one that I had had a great deal of trouble with. I had taken the doctor to see him, got him out on sick leave, and when he was put back again gave bail for him. I must not forget that my wife ran away with him out of the prison on the doctor's orders and with the complicity of our friend the gaoler, who really and truly got the sack for the exploit. As soon as he was finally liberated, Poè called a meeting of his fellow-prisoners. All Sunday they were debating what they were to do, and on Monday morning I got an obscure hint from Talolo that I must expect visitors during the day who were coming to consult me. These consultations I am now very well used to, and seeing first, that I generally don't know what to advise, and second that they sometimes don't take my advice--though in some notable cases they have taken it, generally to my own wonder with pretty good results--I am not very fond of these calls. They minister to a sense of dignity, but not peace of mind, and consume interminable time, always in the morning too, when I can't afford it. However, this was to be a new sort of consultation. Up came Poè and some eight other chiefs, squatted in a big circle around the old dining-room floor, now the smoking-room. And the family, being represented by Lloyd, Graham, Belle, Austin and myself, proceeded to exchange the necessary courtesies. Then their talking man began. He said that they had been in prison, that I had always taken an interest in them, that they had now been set at liberty without condition, whereas some of the other chiefs who had been liberated before them were still under bond to work upon the roads, and that this had set them considering what they might do to testify their gratitude. They had therefore agreed to work upon my road as a free gift. They went on to explain that it was only to be on my road, on the branch that joins my house with the public way.

Now I was very much gratified at this compliment, although (to one used to natives) it seemed rather a hollow one. It meant only that I should have to lay out a good deal of money on tools and food and to give wages under the guise of presents to some workmen who were most of them old and in ill-health. Conceive how much I was surprised and touched when I heard the whole scheme explained to me. They were to return to their provinces, and collect their families; some of the young men were to live in Apia with a boat, and ply up and down the coast to A'ana and Atua (our own Tuamasaga being quite drained of resources) in order to supply the working squad with food. Tools they did ask for, but it was especially mentioned that I was to make no presents. In short, the whole of this little "presentation" to me had been planned with a good deal more consideration than goes usually with a native campaign.

[I sat on the opposite side of the circle to the talking man. His face was quite calm and high-bred as he went through the usual Samoan expressions of politeness and compliment, but when he came on to the object of their visit, on their love and gratitude to Tusitala, how his name was always in their prayers, and his goodness to them when they had no other friend, was their most cherished memory, he warmed up to real, burning, genuine feeling. I had never seen the Samoan mask of reserve laid aside before, and it touched me more than anything else. A.M.]

This morning as ever was, bright and early up came the whole gang of them, a lot of sturdy, common-looking lads they seemed to be for the most part, and fell to on my new road. Old Poè was in the highest of good spirits, and looked better in health than he has done any time in two years, being positively rejuvenated by the success of his scheme. He jested as he served out the new tools, and I am sorry to say damned the Government up hill and down dale, probably with a view to show off his position as a friend of the family before his workboys. Now, whether or not their impulse will last them through the road does not matter to me one hair. It is the fact that they have attempted it, that they have volunteered and are now really trying to execute a thing that was never before heard of in Samoa. Think of it! It is road-making--the most fruitful cause (after taxes) of all rebellions in Samoa, a thing to which they could not be wiled with money nor driven by punishment. It does give me a sense of having done something in Samoa after all.

Now there's one long story for you about "my blacks."--Yours ever,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

The following was written on hearing of the death of his friend's father.

[_Vailima, September 1894._]

MY DEAR CHARLES,--... Well, there is no more Edmund Baxter now; and I think I may say I know how you feel. He was one of the best, the kindest, and the most genial men I ever knew. I shall always remember his brisk, cordial ways and the essential goodness which he showed me whenever we met with gratitude. And the always is such a little while now! He is another of the landmarks gone; when it comes to my own turn to lay my weapons down, I shall do so with thankfulness and fatigue; and whatever be my destiny afterward, I shall be glad to lie down with my fathers in honour. It is human at least, if not divine. And these deaths make me think of it with an ever greater readiness. Strange that you should be beginning a new life, when I, who am a little your junior, am thinking of the end of mine. But I have had hard lines; I have been so long waiting for death, I have unwrapped my thoughts from about life so long, that I have not a filament left to hold by; I have done my fiddling so long under Vesuvius, that I have almost forgotten to play, and can only wait for the eruption, and think it long of coming. Literally, no man has more wholly outlived life than I. And still it's good fun.

R. L. S.

TO R. A. M. STEVENSON

Stevenson had received from his cousin a letter announcing, among other things, the birth of a son to the writer, and rambling suggestively, as may be guessed from the following reply, over many disconnected themes: the ethnology of Scotland, paternity and heredity, civilisation _versus_ primitive customs and instincts, the story of their own descent, the method of writing in collaboration, education, Christianity and sex, the religion of conduct, anarchism, etc.; all which matters are here discursively touched on. "Old Skene" is, of course, the distinguished Scottish antiquarian and historian, William Forbes Skene, in whose firm (Skene & Edwards, W.S.) Stevenson had for a time served irregularly enough as an unpaid clerk.

[_Vailima, September 1894._]

DEAR BOB,--You are in error about the Picts. They were a Gaelic race, spoke a Celtic tongue, and we have no evidence that I know of that they were blacker than other Celts. The Balfours, I take it, were plainly Celts; their name shows it--the "cold croft," it means; so does their country. Where the _black_ Scotch come from nobody knows; but I recognise with you the fact that the whole of Britain is rapidly and progressively becoming more pigmented; already in one man's life I can decidedly trace a difference in the children about a school door. But colour is not an essential part of a man or a race. Take my Polynesians, an Asiatic people probably from the neighbourhood of the Persian Gulf. They range through any amount of shades, from the burnt hue of the Low Archipelago islander, which seems half negro, to the "bleached" pretty women of the Marquesas (close by on the map), who come out for a festival no darker than an Italian; their colour seems to vary directly with the degree of exposure to the sun. And, as with negroes, the babes are born white; only it should seem a _little sack_ of pigment at the lower part of the spine, which presently spreads over the whole field. Very puzzling. But to return. The Picts furnish to-day perhaps a third of the population of Scotland, say another third for Scots and Britons, and the third for Norse and Angles is a bad third. Edinburgh was a Pictish place. But the fact is, we don't know their frontiers. Tell some of your journalist friends with a good style to popularise old Skene; or say your prayers, and read him for yourself; he was a Great Historian, and I was his blessed clerk, and did not know it; and you will not be in a state of grace about the Picts till you have studied him. J. Horne Stevenson (do you know him?) is working this up with me, and the fact is--it's not interesting to the public--but it's interesting, and very interesting, in itself, and just now very embarrassing--this rural parish supplied Glasgow with such a quantity of Stevensons in the beginning of last century! There is just a link wanting; and we might be able to go back to the eleventh century, always undistinguished, but clearly traceable. When I say just a link, I guess I may be taken to mean a dozen. What a singular thing is this undistinguished perpetuation of a family throughout the centuries, and the sudden bursting forth of character and capacity that began with our grandfather! But as I go on in life, day by day, I become more of a bewildered child; I cannot get used to this world, to procreation, to heredity, to sight, to hearing; the commonest things are a burthen. The prim obliterated polite face of life, and the broad, bawdy, and orgiastic--or mænadic--foundations, form a spectacle to which no habit reconciles me; and "I could wish my days to be bound each to each" by the same open-mouthed wonder. They _are_ anyway, and whether I wish it or not.

I remember very well your attitude to life, this conventional surface of it. You had none of that curiosity for the social stage directions, the trivial _ficelles_ of the business; it is simian, but that is how the wild youth of man is captured; you wouldn't imitate, hence you kept free--a wild dog, outside the kennel--and came dam near starving for your pains. The key to the business is of course the belly; difficult as it is to keep that in view in the zone of three miraculous meals a day in which we were brought up. Civilisation has become reflex with us; you might think that hunger was the name of the best sauce; but hunger to the cold solitary under a bush of a rainy night is the name of something quite different. I defend civilisation for the thing it is, for the thing it has _come_ to be, the standpoint of a real old Tory. My ideal would be the Female Clan. But how can you turn these crowding dumb multitudes _back?_ They don't do anything _because_; they do things, write able articles, stitch shoes, dig, from the purely simian impulse. Go and reason with monkeys!

No, I am right about Jean Lillie. Jean Lillie, our double great-grandmother, the daughter of David Lillie, sometime Deacon of the Wrights, married, first, Alan Stevenson, who died May 26, 1774, "at Santt Kittes of a fiver," by whom she had Robert Stevenson, born 8th June 1772; and, second, in May or June 1787, Thomas Smith, a widower, and already the father of our grandmother. This improbable double connection always tends to confuse a student of the family, Thomas Smith being doubly our great-grandfather.

I looked on the perpetuation of our honoured name with veneration. My mother collared one of the photos, of course; the other is stuck up on my wall as the chief of our sept. Do you know any of the Gaelic-Celtic sharps? you might ask what the name means. It puzzles me. I find a _M'Stein_ and a _MacStephane_; and our own great-grandfather always called himself Steenson, though he wrote it Stevenson. There are at least three _places_ called Stevenson--_Stevenson_ in Cunningham, _Stevenson_ in Peebles, and _Stevenson_ in Haddington. And it was not the Celtic trick, I understand, to call places after people. I am going to write to Sir Herbert Maxwell about the name, but you might find some one.

Get the Anglo-Saxon heresy out of your head; they superimposed their language, they scarce modified the race; only in Berwickshire and Roxburgh have they very largely affected the place names. The Scandinavians did much more to Scotland than the Angles. The Saxons didn't come.

Enough of this sham antiquarianism. Yes, it is in the matter of the book[82] of course, that collaboration shows; as for the manner, it is superficially all mine in the sense that the last copy is all in my hand. Lloyd did not even put pen to paper in the Paris scenes or the Barbizon scene; it was no good; he wrote and often rewrote all the rest; I had the best service from him on the character of Nares. You see, we had been just meeting the man, and his memory was full of the man's words and ways. And Lloyd is an impressionist, pure and simple. The great difficulty of collaboration is that you can't explain what you mean. I know what kind of effect I mean a character to give--what kind of _tache_ he is to make; but how am I to tell my collaborator in words? Hence it was necessary to say, "Make him So-and-so"; and this was all right for Nares and Pinkerton and Loudon Dodd, whom we both knew, but for Bellairs, for instance--a man with whom I passed ten minutes fifteen years ago--what was I to say? and what could Lloyd do? I, as a personal artist, can begin a character with only a haze in my head, but how if I have to translate the haze into words before I begin? In our manner of collaboration (which I think the only possible--I mean that of one person being responsible, and giving the _coup de pouce_ to every part of the work) I was spared the obviously hopeless business of trying to explain to my collaborator what _style_ I wished a passage to be treated in. These are the times that illustrate to a man the inadequacy of spoken language. Now--to be just to written language--I can (or could) find a language for my every mood, but how could I _tell_ any one beforehand what this effect was to be, which it would take every art that I possessed, and hours and hours of deliberate labour and selection and rejection, to produce? These are the impossibilities of collaboration. Its immediate advantage is to focus two minds together on the stuff, and to produce in consequence an extraordinarily greater richness of purview, consideration, and invention. The hardest chapter of all was "Cross Questions and Crooked Answers." You would not believe what that cost us before it assumed the least unity and colour. Lloyd wrote it at least thrice, and I at least five times--this is from memory. And was that last chapter worth the trouble it cost? Alas, that I should ask the question! Two classes of men--the artist and the educationalist--are sworn, on soul and conscience, not to ask it. You get an ordinary, grinning, red-headed boy, and you have to educate him. Faith supports you; you give your valuable hours, the boy does not seem to profit, but that way your duty lies, for which you are paid, and you must persevere. Education has always seemed to me one of the few possible and dignified ways of life. A sailor, a shepherd, a schoolmaster--to a less degree, a soldier--and (I don't know why, upon my soul, except as a sort of schoolmaster's unofficial assistant, and a kind of acrobat in tights) an artist, almost exhaust the category.

If I had to begin again--I know not--_si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait_ ... I know not at all--I believe I should try to honour Sex more religiously. The worst of our education is that Christianity does not recognise and hallow Sex. It looks askance at it, over its shoulder, oppressed as it is by reminiscences of hermits and Asiatic self-tortures. It is a terrible hiatus in our modern religions that they cannot see and make venerable that which they ought to see first and hallow most. Well, it is so; I cannot be wiser than my generation.

But no doubt there is something great in the half-success that has attended the effort of turning into an emotional religion, Bald Conduct, without any appeal, or almost none, to the figurative, mysterious, and constitutive facts of life. Not that conduct is not constitutive, but dear! it's dreary! On the whole, conduct is better dealt with on the cast-iron "gentleman" and duty formula, with as little fervour and poetry as possible; stoical and short.... There is a new something or other in the wind, which exercises me hugely: anarchy,--I mean, anarchism. People who (for pity's sake) commit dastardly murders very basely, die like saints, and leave beautiful letters behind 'em (did you see Vaillant to his daughter? it was the New Testament over again); people whose conduct is inexplicable to me, and yet their spiritual life higher than that of most. This is just what the early Christians must have seemed to the Romans. Is this, then, a new _drive_[83] among the monkeys? Mind you, Bob, if they go on being martyred a few years more, the gross, dull, not unkindly bourgeois may get tired or ashamed or afraid of going on martyring; and the anarchists come out at the top just like the early Christians. That is, of course, they will step into power as a _personnel_, but God knows what they may believe when they come to do so; it can't be stranger or more improbable than what Christianity had come to be by the same time.

Your letter was easily read, the pagination presented no difficulty, and I read it with much edification and gusto. To look back, and to stereotype one bygone humour--what a hopeless thing! The mind runs ever in a thousand eddies like a river between cliffs. You (the ego) are always spinning round in it, east, west, north, and south. You are twenty years old, and forty, and five, and the next moment you are freezing at an imaginary eighty; you are never the plain forty-four that you should be by dates. (The most philosophical language is the Gaelic, which has _no present tense_--and the most useless.) How, then, to choose some former age, and stick there?

R. L. S.

TO SIR HERBERT MAXWELL

_Vailima, Samoa, September 10, 1894._

DEAR SIR HERBERT MAXWELL,--I am emboldened by reading your very interesting Rhind Lectures to put to you a question: What is my name, Stevenson?

I find it in the forms Stevinetoun, Stevensoune, Stevensonne, Stenesone, Stewinsoune, M'Stein, and MacStephane. My family, and (as far as I can gather) the majority of the inglorious clan, hailed from the borders of Cunningham and Renfrew, and the upper waters of the Clyde. In the Barony of Bothwell was the seat of the laird Stevenson of Stevenson; but, as of course you know, there is a parish in Cunningham and places in Peebles and Haddington bearing the same name.

If you can at all help me, you will render me a real service which I wish I could think of some manner to repay.--Believe me, yours truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_P.S._--I should have added that I have perfect evidence before me that (for some obscure reason) Stevenson was a favourite alias with the M'Gregors.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_Vailima, Samoa, October 6th, 1894._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--We have had quite an interesting month and mostly in consideration of that road which I think I told you was about to be made. It was made without a hitch, though I confess I was considerably surprised. When they got through, I wrote a speech to them, sent it down to a Missionary to be translated, and invited the lot to a feast. I thought a good deal of this feast. The occasion was really interesting. I wanted to pitch it in hot. And I wished to have as many influential witnesses present as possible. Well, as it drew towards the day I had nothing but refusals. Everybody supposed it was to be a political occasion, that I had made a hive of rebels up here, and was going to push for new hostilities.

The Amanuensis has been ill, and after the above trial petered out. I must return to my own, lone Waverley. The captain refused, telling me why; and at last I had to beat up for people almost with prayers. However, I got a good lot, as you will see by the accompanying newspaper report. The road contained this inscription, drawn up by the chiefs themselves:

"THE ROAD OF GRATITUDE

"Considering the great love of Tusitala in his loving care of us in our distress in the prison, we have therefore prepared a splendid gift. It shall never be muddy, it shall endure for ever, this road that we have dug."

This the newspaper reporter could not give, not knowing any Samoan. The same reason explains his references to Seumanutafa's speech, which was not long and _was_ important, for it was a speech of courtesy and forgiveness to his former enemies. It was very much applauded. Secondly, it was not Poè, it was Mataaf[=a] (don't confuse with Mataafa) who spoke for the prisoners. Otherwise it is extremely correct.

I beg your pardon for so much upon my aboriginals. Even you must sympathise with me in this unheard-of compliment, and my having been able to deliver so severe a sermon with acceptance. It remains a nice point of conscience what I should wish done in the matter. I think this meeting, its immediate results, and the terms of what I said to them, desirable to be known. It will do a little justice to me, who have not had too much justice done me. At the same time, to send this report to the papers is truly an act of self-advertisement, and I dislike the thought. Query, in a man who has been so much calumniated, is that not justifiable? I do not know; be my judge. Mankind is too complicated for me; even myself. Do I wish to advertise? I think I do, God help me! I have had hard times here, as every man must have who mixes up with public business; and I bemoan myself, knowing that all I have done has been in the interest of peace and good government; and having once delivered my mind, I would like it, I think, to be made public. But the other part of me _regimbs_.[84]

I know I am at a climacteric for all men who live by their wits, so I do not despair. But the truth is I am pretty nearly useless at literature, and I will ask you to spare _St. Ives_ when it goes to you; it is a sort of _Count Robert of Paris_. But I hope rather a _Dombey and Son_, to be succeeded by _Our Mutual Friend_ and _Great Expectations_ and _A Tale of Two Cities_. No toil has been spared over the ungrateful canvas; and it _will not_ come together, and I must live, and my family. Were it not for my health, which made it impossible, I could not find it in my heart to forgive myself that I did not stick to an honest, commonplace trade when I was young, which might have now supported me during these ill years. But do not suppose me to be down in anything else; only, for the nonce, my skill deserts me, such as it is, or was. It was a very little dose of inspiration, and a pretty little trick of style, long lost, improved by the most heroic industry. So far, I have managed to please the journalists. But I am a fictitious article and have long known it. I am read by journalists, by my fellow-novelists, and by boys; with these, _incipit et explicit_ my vogue. Good thing anyway! for it seems to have sold the Edition. And I look forward confidently to an aftermath; I do not think my health can be so hugely improved, without some subsequent improvement in my brains. Though, of course, there is the possibility that literature is a morbid secretion, and abhors health! I do not think it is possible to have fewer illusions than I. I sometimes wish I had more. They are amusing. But I cannot take myself seriously as an artist; the limitations are so obvious. I did take myself seriously as a workman of old, but my practice has fallen off. I am now an idler and cumberer of the ground; it may be excused to me perhaps by twenty years of industry and ill-health, which have taken the cream off the milk.

As I was writing this last sentence, I heard the strident rain drawing near across the forest, and by the time I was come to the word "cream" it burst upon my roof, and has since redoubled, and roared upon it. A very welcome change. All smells of the good wet earth, sweetly, with a kind of Highland touch; the crystal rods of the shower, as I look up, have drawn their criss-cross over everything; and a gentle and very welcome coolness comes up around me in little draughts, blessed draughts, not chilling, only equalising the temperature. Now the rain is off in this spot, but I hear it roaring still in the nigh neighbourhood--and that moment, I was driven from the verandah by random raindrops, spitting at me through the Japanese blinds. These are not tears with which the page is spotted! Now the windows stream, the roof reverberates. It is good; it answers something which is in my heart; I know not what; old memories of the wet moorland belike.

Well, it has blown by again, and I am in my place once more, with an accompaniment of perpetual dripping on the verandah--and very much inclined for a chat. The exact subject I do not know! It will be bitter at least, and that is strange, for my attitude is essentially _not_ bitter, but I have come into these days when a man sees above all the seamy side, and I have dwelt some time in a small place where he has an opportunity of reading little motives that he would miss in the great world, and indeed, to-day, I am almost ready to call the world an error. Because? Because I have not drugged myself with successful work, and there are all kinds of trifles buzzing in my ear, unfriendly trifles, from the least to the--well, to the pretty big. All these that touch me are Pretty Big; and yet none touch me in the least, if rightly looked at, except the one eternal burthen to go on making an income for my family. That is rightly the root and ground of my ill. The jingling, tingling, damned mint sauce is the trouble always; and if I could find a place where I could lie down and give up for (say) two years, and allow the sainted public to support me, if it were a lunatic asylum, wouldn't I go, just! But we can't have both extremes at once, worse luck! I should like to put my savings into a proprietarian investment, and retire in the meanwhile into a communistic retreat, which is double-dealing. But you men with aries don't know how alas family weighs on a fellow's mind.

I hear the article in next week's _Herald_ is to be a great affair, and all the officials who came to me the other day are to be attacked! This is the unpleasant side of being (without a salary) in public life; I will leave any one to judge if my speech was well intended, and calculated to do good. It was even daring--I assure you one of the chiefs looked like a fiend at my description of Samoan warfare. Your warning was not needed; we are all determined to _keep the peace_ and to _hold our peace_. I know, my dear fellow, how remote all this sounds! Kindly pardon your friend. I have my life to live here; these interests are for me immediate; and if I do not write of them, I might as soon not write at all. There is the difficulty in a distant correspondence. It is perhaps easy for me to enter into and understand your interests; I own it is difficult for you; but you must just wade through them for friendship's sake, and try to find tolerable what is vital for your friend. I cannot forbear challenging you to it, as to intellectual lists. It is the proof of intelligence, the proof of not being a barbarian, to be able to enter into something outside of oneself, something that does not touch one's next neighbour in the city omnibus.

Good-bye, my lord. May your race continue and you flourish.--Yours ever,

TUSITALA.

TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM

For a fuller account of the road-making affair here mentioned, see pp. 431, 462.

_[Vailima] October 8th, 1894._

MY DEAR CUMMY,--So I hear you are ailing? Think shame to yoursell! So you think there is nothing better to be done with time than that? and be sure we can all do much ourselves to decide whether we are to be ill or well! like a man on the gymnastic bars. We are all pretty well. As for me, there is nothing the matter with me in the world, beyond the disgusting circumstance that I am not so young as once I was. Lloyd has a gymnastic machine, and practises upon it every morning for an hour: he is beginning to be a kind of young Samson. Austin grows fat and brown, and gets on not so ill with his lessons, and my mother is in great price. We are having knock-me-down weather for heat; I never remember it so hot before, and I fancy it means we are to have a hurricane again this year, I think; since we came here, we have not had a single gale of wind! The Pacific is but a child to the North Sea; but when she does get excited, and gets up and girds herself, she can do something good. We have had a very interesting business here. I helped the chiefs who were in prison; and when they were set free, what should they do but offer to make a part of my road for me out of gratitude? Well, I was ashamed to refuse, and the trumps dug my road for me, and put up this inscription on a board:--

"_Considering the great love of His Excellency Tusitala in his loving care for us in our tribulation in the prison we have made this great gift; it shall never be muddy, it shall go on for ever, this road that we have dug!_" We had a great feast when it was done, and I read them a kind of lecture, which I dare say Auntie will have, and can let you see. Weel, guid bye to ye, and joy be wi' ye! I hae nae time to say mair. They say I'm gettin' _fat_--a fact!--Your laddie, with all love,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO JAMES PAYN

_Vailima, Samoa, Nov. 4, 1894._

MY DEAR JAMES PAYN,--I am asked to relate to you a little incident of domestic life at Vailima. I had read your _Gleams of Memory_, No. 1; it then went to my wife, to Osbourne, to the cousin that is within my gates, and to my respected amanuensis, Mrs. Strong. Sunday approached. In the course of the afternoon I was attracted to the great 'all--the winders is by Vanderputty, which upon entering I beheld a memorable scene. The floor was bestrewn with the forms of midshipmen from the _Curaçoa_--"boldly say a wilderness of gunroom"--and in the midst of this sat Mrs. Strong throned on the sofa and reading aloud _Gleams of Memory_. They had just come the length of your immortal definition of boyhood in the concrete, and I had the pleasure to see the whole party dissolve under its influence with inextinguishable laughter. I thought this was not half bad for arthritic gout! Depend upon it, sir, when I go into the arthritic gout business, I shall be done with literature, or at least with the funny business. It is quite true I have my battlefields behind me. I have done perhaps as much work as anybody else under the most deplorable conditions. But two things fall to be noticed: In the first place, I never was in actual pain; and in the second, I was never funny. I'll tell you the worst day that I remember. I had a hemorrhage, and was not allowed to speak; then, induced by the devil, or an errant doctor, I was led to partake of that bowl which neither cheers nor inebriates--the castor-oil bowl. Now, when castor-oil goes right, it is one thing; but when it goes wrong, it is another. And it went wrong with me that day. The waves of faintness and nausea succeeded each other for twelve hours, and I do feel a legitimate pride in thinking that I stuck to my work all through and wrote a good deal of _Admiral Guinea_ (which I might just as well not have written for all the reward it ever brought me) in spite of the barbarous bad conditions. I think that is my great boast; and it seems a little thing alongside of your _Gleams of Memory_ illustrated by spasms of arthritic gout. We really should have an order of merit in the trade of letters. For valour, Scott would have had it; Pope too; myself on the strength of that castor-oil; and James Payn would be a Knight Commander. The worst of it is, though Lang tells me you exhibit the courage of Huish, that not even an order can alleviate the wretched annoyance of the business. I have always said that there is nothing like pain; toothache, dumb-ague, arthritic gout, it does not matter what you call it, if the screw is put upon the nerves sufficiently strong, there is nothing left in heaven or in earth that can interest the sufferer. Still, even to this there is the consolation that it cannot last for ever. Either you will be relieved and have a good hour again before the sun goes down, or else you will be liberated. It is something after all (although not much) to think that you are leaving a brave example; that other literary men love to remember, as I am sure they will love to remember, everything about you--your sweetness, your brightness, your helpfulness to all of us, and in

## particular those one or two really adequate and noble papers which you

have been privileged to write during these last years.--With the heartiest and kindest good-will, I remain, yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

This was the last letter I received from my friend. On the morning of his death the following month he spoke of being behindhand with his December letter and of his intention to write it next day.

[_Vailima, November 1894._]

DEAR COLVIN,--Saturday there was a ball to the ship, and on Sunday Gurr had a child to be baptized. Belle was to be godmother and had to be got down; which was impossible, as the jester Euclid says. However, we had four men of very different heights take the poles of a sort of bier and carry her shoulder high down the road, till we met a trap. On the return journey on Sunday, they were led by Austin playing (?) on a bugle, and you have no idea how picturesque a business it was; the four half-naked bearers, the cane lounge at that height from the ground, and Belle in black and pretty pale reclining very like a dead warrior of yore. However she wasn't dead yet. All the rest of the afternoon we hung about and had consultations about the baptism. Just as we went in to dinner, I saw the moon rise accurately full, looking five times greater than nature, and the face that we try to decipher in its silver disk wearing an obliterated but benignant expression. The ball followed; bluejackets and officers danced indiscriminately, after their pleasant fashion; and Belle, who lay in the hotel verandah, and held a sort of reception all night, had her longest visit from one of the blue-jackets, her partner in the last ball. About one on the Sunday morning all was over, and we went to bed--I, alas! only to get up again, my room being in the verandah, where a certain solemnly absurd family conclave (all drunk) was being held until (I suppose) three. By six, I was awake, and went out on the verandah. On the east the dawn had broken, cold and pink and rust colour, and the marshes were all smoking whitely and blowing into the bay like smoke, but on the west, all was golden. The street was empty, and right over it hung the setting moon, accurately round, yellow as an apricot, but slumberous, with an effect of afternoon you would not believe if you had not seen it. Then followed a couple of hours on the verandah I would be glad to forget. By seven X. Y. had joined me, as drunk as they make 'em. As he sat and talked to me, he smelt of the charnel house, methought. He looked so old (he is one month my senior); he spoke so silly; his poor leg is again covered with boils, which will spell death to him; and--enough. That interview has made me a teetotaller. O, it is bad to grow old. For me, it is practically hell. I do not like the consolations of age. I was born a young man; I have continued so; and before I end, a pantaloon, a driveller--enough again. But I don't enjoy getting elderly. Belle and I got home about three in the afternoon, she having in the meantime renounced all that makes life worth living in the name of little Miss Gurr, and I seriously reflecting on renouncing the kindly bowl in earnest! Presently after arrived the news of Margery Ide (the C.J.'s daughter) being seriously ill, alarmingly ill. Fanny wanted to go down; it was a difficult choice; she was not fit for it; on the other hand (and by all accounts) the patient would die if she did not get better nursing. So we made up our own minds, and F. and I set out about dusk, came to the C.J.'s in the middle of dinner, and announced our errand. I am glad to say the C.J. received her very willingly; and I came home again, leaving her behind, where she was certainly much wanted.

_Nov. 4th._--You ask about _St. Ives_. No, there is no Burford Bridge in it, and no Boney. He is a squire of dames, and there are petticoats in the story, and damned bad ones too, and it is of a tolerable length, a hundred thousand, I believe, at least. Also, since you are curious on the point, St. Ives learned his English from a Mr. Vicary, an English lawyer, a prisoner in France. He must have had a fine gift of languages!

Things are going on here in their usual gently disheartening gait. The Treaty Officials are both good fellows whom I can't help liking, but who will never make a hand of Samoa.--Yours ever,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO PROFESSOR MEIKLEJOHN

Congratulating an old friend of Savile Club days (see vol. xxiii. p. 263) on his sailor son.

_Vailima, Samoa, Nov. 6th, 1894._

MY DEAR MEIKLEJOHN,--Greeting! This is but a word to say how much we felicitate ourselves on having made the acquaintance of Hughie. He is having a famous good chance on board the _Curaçoa_, which is the best ship I have ever seen. And as for himself, he is a most engaging boy, of whom you may very well be proud, and I have no mortal manner of doubt but what you are. He comes up here very often, where he is a great favourite with my ladies, and sings me "the melancholy airs of my native land" with much acceptancy. His name has recently become changed in Vailima. Beginning with the courteous "Mr. Meiklejohn," it shaded off into the familiar "Hughie," and finally degenerated into "the Whitrett."[85] I hear good reports of him abroad and ashore, and I scarce need to add my own testimony.

Hughie tells me you have gone into the publishing business, whereat I was much shocked. My own affairs with publishers are now in the most flourishing state, owing to my ingenuity in leaving them to be dealt with by a Scotch Writer to the Signet. It has produced revolutions in the book trade and my banking account. I tackled the Whitrett severely on a grammar you had published, which I had not seen and condemned out of hand and in the broadest Lallan. I even condescended on the part of that grammar which I thought to be the worst and condemned your presentation of the English verb unmercifully. It occurs to me, since you are a publisher, that the least thing you could do would be to send me a copy of that grammar to correct my estimate. But I fear I am talking too long to one of the enemy. I begin to hear in fancy the voice of Meiklejohn upraised in the Savile Club: "No quarter to publishers!" So I will ask you to present my compliments to Mrs. Meiklejohn upon her son, and to accept for yourself the warmest reminiscences of auld lang syne.--Yours sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO LIEUTENANT EELES

_Vailima, Samoa, November 24, 1894._

MY DEAR EELES,--The hand, as you will perceive (and also the spelling!), is Teuila's, but the scrannel voice is what remains of Tusitala's. First of all, for business. When you go to London you are to charter a hansom cab and proceed to the Museum. It is particular fun to do this on Sundays when the Monument is shut up. Your cabman expostulates with you, you persist. The cabman drives up in front of the closed gates and says, "I told you so, sir." You breathe in the porter's ears the mystic name of _Colvin_, and he immediately unfolds the iron barrier. You drive in, and doesn't your cabman think you're a swell. A lord mayor is nothing to it. Colvin's door is the only one in the eastern gable of the building. Send in your card to him with "From R. L. S." in the corner, and the machinery will do the rest. Henry James's address is 34 De Vere Mansions West. I cannot remember where the place is; I cannot even remember on which side of the park. But it's one of those big Cromwell Road-looking deserted thoroughfares out west in Kensington or Bayswater, or between the two; and anyway Colvin will be able to put you on the direct track for Henry James. I do not send formal introductions, as I have taken the liberty to prepare both of them for seeing you already.

Hoskyn is staying with us.

It is raining dismally. The Curaçoa track is hardly passable, but it must be trod to-morrow by the degenerate feet of their successor the Wallaroos. I think it a very good account of these last that we don't think them either deformed or habitual criminals--they seem to be a kindly lot.

The doctor will give you all the gossip. I have preferred in this letter to stick to the strictly solid and necessary. With kind messages from all in the house to all in the wardroom, all in the gunroom, and (may we dare to breathe it) to him who walks abaft, believe me, my dear Eeles, yours ever,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO SIR HERBERT MAXWELL

_Vailima, Samoa, December 1, 1894._

DEAR SIR HERBERT,--Thank you very much for your long and kind letter. I shall certainly take your advice and call my cousin, the Lyon King, into council. It is certainly a very interesting subject, though I don't suppose it can possibly lead to anything, this connection between the Stevensons and M'Gregors. Alas! your invitation is to me a mere derision. My chances of visiting Heaven are about as valid as my chances of visiting Monreith. Though I should like well to see you, shrunken into a cottage, a literary Lord of Ravenscraig. I suppose it is the inevitable doom of all those who dabble in Scotch soil; but really your fate is the more blessed. I cannot conceive anything more grateful to me, or more amusing or more picturesque, than to live in a cottage outside your own park-walls.--With renewed thanks, believe me, dear Sir Herbert, yours very truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO ANDREW LANG

The following refers of course to _Weir of Hermiston_, the chief character of which was studied from the traditions of Lord Braxfield, and on which Stevenson was working at the full height of his powers when death overtook him two days later.

_Vailima, Samoa, December 1, 1894._

MY DEAR LANG,--For the portrait of Braxfield, much thanks! It is engraved from the same Raeburn portrait that I saw in '76 or '77 with so extreme a gusto that I have ever since been Braxfield's humble servant, and am now trying, as you know, to stick him into a novel. Alas! one might as well try to stick in Napoleon. The picture shall be framed and hung up in my study. Not only as a memento of you, but as a perpetual encouragement to do better with his Lordship. I have not yet received the transcripts. They must be very interesting. Do you know I picked up the other day an old Longman's where I found an article of yours that I had missed, about Christie's? I read it with great delight. The year ends with us pretty much as it began, among wars and rumours of wars, and a vast and splendid exhibition of official incompetence.--Yours ever,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO EDMUND GOSSE

The next, and last, letter is to Mr. Gosse, dated also only two days before the writer's death. It acknowledges the dedication "To Tusitala" of that gentleman's volume of poems, _In Russet and Silver_, just received.

_Vailima, Samoa, December 1, 1894._

I AM afraid, my dear Weg, that this must be the result of bribery and corruption! The volume to which the dedication stands as preface seems to me to stand alone in your work; it is so natural, so personal, so sincere, so articulate in substance, and what you always were sure of--so rich in adornment.

Let me speak first of the dedication. I thank you for it from the heart. It is beautifully said, beautifully and kindly felt; and I should be a churl indeed if I were not grateful, and an ass if I were not proud. I remember when Symonds dedicated a book to me; I wrote and told him of "the pang of gratified vanity" with which I had read it. The pang was present again, but how much more sober and autumnal--like your volume. Let me tell you a story, or remind you of a story. In the year of grace something or other, anything between '76 and '78, I mentioned to you in my usual autobiographical and inconsiderate manner that I was hard up. You said promptly that you had a balance at your banker's, and could make it convenient to let me have a cheque, and I accepted and got the money--how much was it?--twenty or perhaps thirty pounds? I know not--but it was a great convenience. The same evening, or the next day, I fell in conversation (in my usual autobiographical and ... see above) with a denizen of the Savile Club, name now gone from me, only his figure and a dim three-quarter view of his face remaining. To him I mentioned that you had given me a loan, remarking easily that of course it didn't matter to you. Whereupon he read me a lecture, and told me how it really stood with you financially. He was pretty serious; fearing, as I could not help perceiving, that I should take too light a view of the responsibility and the service (I was always thought too light--the irresponsible jester--you remember. O, _quantum mutatus ab illo_!) If I remember rightly, the money was repaid before the end of the week--or, to be more exact and a trifle pedantic, the se'nnight--but the service has never been forgotten; and I send you back this piece of ancient history, _consule Planco_, as a salute for your dedication, and propose that we should drink the health of the nameless one, who opened my eyes as to the true nature of what you did for me on that occasion.

But here comes my Amanuensis, so we'll get on more swimmingly now. You will understand perhaps that what so particularly pleased me in the new volume, what seems to me to have so personal and original a note, are the middle-aged pieces in the beginning. The whole of them, I may say, though I must own an especial liking to--

"I yearn not for the fighting fate, That holds and hath achieved; I live to watch and meditate And dream--and be deceived."

You take the change gallantly. Not I, I must confess. It is all very well to talk of renunciation, and of course it has to be done. But, for my part, give me a roaring toothache! I do like to be deceived and to dream, but I have very little use for either watching or meditation. I was not born for age. And, curiously enough, I seem to see a contrary drift in my work from that which is so remarkable in yours. You are going on sedately travelling through your ages, decently changing with the years to the proper tune. And here am I, quite out of my true course, and with nothing in my foolish elderly head but love-stories. This must repose upon some curious distinction of temperaments. I gather from a phrase, boldly autobiographical, that you are--well, not precisely growing thin. Can that be the difference?

It is rather funny that this matter should come up just now, as I am at present engaged in treating a severe case of middle age in one of my stories--"The Justice-Clerk." The case is that of a woman, and I think that I am doing her justice. You will be interested, I believe, to see the difference in our treatments. _Secreta Vitæ_ comes nearer to the case of my poor Kirstie. Come to think of it, Gosse, I believe the main distinction is that you have a family growing up around you, and I am a childless, rather bitter, very clear-eyed, blighted youth. I have, in fact, lost the path that makes it easy and natural for you to descend the hill. I am going at it straight. And where I have to go down it is a precipice.

I must not forget to give you a word of thanks for _An English Village_. It reminds me strongly of Keats, which is enough to say; and I was

## particularly pleased with the petulant sincerity of the concluding

sentiment.

Well, my dear Gosse, here's wishing you all health and prosperity, as well as to the mistress and the bairns. May you live long, since it seems as if you would continue to enjoy life. May you write many more books as good as this one--only there's one thing impossible, you can never write another dedication that can give the same pleasure to the vanished

TUSITALA.

FOOTNOTES:

[74] This question is with a view to the adventures of the hero in _St. Ives_, who according to Stevenson's original plan was to have been picked up from his foundered balloon by an American privateer.

[75] As to admire _The Black Arrow_.

[76] The suppressed first part of the _Amateur Emigrant_, written in San Francisco in 1879, which it was proposed now to condense and to some extent recast for the Edinburgh Edition.

[77] Word omitted in MS.

[78] I may be allowed to quote the following sentence from a letter of this gentleman written when the news of our friend's death reached England:--"So great was his power of winning love that though I knew him for less than a week I could have borne the loss of many a more intimate friend with less sorrow than Stevenson's. When I saw him, last Easter, there was no suggestion of failure of strength. After all I had heard of his delicacy I was astonished at his vigour. He was up at five, and at work soon after, and at eleven o'clock at night he was dancing on the floor of the big room while I played Scotch and Irish reels on the rickety piano. He would talk to me for hours of home and old friends, but with a wonderful cheerfulness, knowing himself banished from them for life and yet brought close to them by love. I confidently counted on his living; he took keen interest in my own poor work, and it was one of my ambitions to send him a book some day which would better deserve his attention."

[79] _Sentimental Tommy_: whose chief likeness to R. L. S. was meant to be in the literary temperament and passion for the _mot propre_.

[80] A proposed frontispiece for one of the volumes of the Edinburgh Edition.

[81] _Sic_: query "least"?

[82] Of _The Wrecker_.

[83] _Trieb_, impulse.

[84] It seemed an obvious duty to publish the speech in question through the English press, as the best proof both of Stevenson's wise and understanding methods of dealing with his native friends, and of the affection and authority which he enjoyed among them. I have reprinted it, as a necessary supplement to this letter, in Appendix II. at end of the present volume.

[85] Whitrett or Whitrack is Scots for a weasel: why applied to Mr. Meiklejohn I know not.

APPENDIX I

ACCOUNT OF THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF R. L. STEVENSON, BY LLOYD OSBOURNE

He wrote hard all that morning of the last day; his half-finished book, _Hermiston_, he judged the best he had ever written, and the sense of successful effort made him buoyant and happy as nothing else could. In the afternoon the mail fell to be answered; not business correspondence--for this was left till later--but replies to the long, kindly letters of distant friends, received but two days since, and still bright in memory.

At sunset he came downstairs; rallied his wife about the forebodings she could not shake off; talked of a lecturing tour to America that he was eager to make, "as he was now so well," and played a game at cards with her to drive away her melancholy. He said he was hungry; begged her assistance to help him make a salad for the evening meal; and to enhance the little feast, he brought up a bottle of old Burgundy from the cellar. He was helping his wife on the verandah, and gaily talking, when suddenly he put both hands to his head, and cried out, "What's that?" Then he asked quickly, "Do I look strange?" Even as he did so he fell on his knees beside her. He was helped into the great hall, between his wife and his body-servant, Sosimo, losing consciousness instantly as he lay back in the arm-chair that had once been his grandfather's. Little time was lost in bringing the doctors--Anderson, of the man-of-war, and his friend Dr. Funk. They looked at him and shook their heads; they laboured strenuously, and left nothing undone; but he had passed the bounds of human skill.

The dying man lay back in the chair, breathing heavily, his family about him frenzied with grief, as they realised all hope was past. The dozen and more Samoans that formed part of the little clan of which he was chief sat in a wide semicircle on the floor, their reverent, troubled, sorrow-stricken faces all fixed upon their dying master. Some knelt on one knee, to be instantly ready for any command that might be laid upon them. A narrow bed was brought into the centre of the room, the Master was gently laid upon it, his head supported by a rest, the gift of Shelley's son. Slower and slower grew his respiration, wider the interval between the long, deep breaths. The Rev. Mr. Clarke was now come, an old and valued friend; he knelt and prayed as the life ebbed away.

He died at ten minutes past eight on Monday evening the 3rd of December, in the forty-fifth year of his age.

The great Union Jack that flew over the house was hauled down, and laid over the body, fit shroud for a loyal Scotsman. He lay in the hall which was ever his pride, where he had passed the gayest and most delightful hours of his life, a noble room with open stairway and mullioned windows. In it were the treasures of his far-off Scottish home: the old carved furniture, the paintings and busts that had been in his father's house before him. The Samoans passed in procession beside his bed, kneeling and kissing his hand, each in turn, before taking their places for the long night watch beside him. No entreaty could induce them to retire, to rest themselves for the painful and arduous duties of the morrow. It would show little love for Tusitala, they said, if they did not spend their last night beside him. Mournful and silent, they sat in deep dejection, poor, simple, loyal folk, fulfilling the duty they owed their chief.

A messenger was despatched to the few chiefs connected with the family, to announce the tidings and bid them assemble their men on the morrow for the work there was to do.

Sosimo asked on behalf of the Roman Catholics that they might be allowed to recite the prayers for the dead. Till midnight the solemn chants continued, the prolonged, sonorous prayers of the Church of Rome, in commingled Latin and Samoan. Later still, a chief arrived with his retainers, bringing a precious mat to wrap about the dead.

He too knelt and kissed the hand of Tusitala, and took his place amid the sleepless watchers. Another arrived with a fine mat, a man of higher rank, whose incipient consumption had often troubled the Master.

"Talofa Tusitala!" he said as he drew nigh, and took a long, mournful look at the face he knew so well. When, later on, he was momentarily required on some business of the morrow, he bowed reverently before retiring. "Tofa Tusitala!" he said, "Sleep, Tusitala!"

The morning of the 4th of December broke cool and sunny, a beautiful day, rare at this season of the year. More fine mats were brought, until the Union Jack lay nigh concealed beneath them. Among the new-comers was an old Mataafa chief, one of the builders of the "Road of the Loving Hearts," a man who had spent many days in prison for participation in the rebellion. "I am only a poor Samoan, and ignorant," said he, as he crouched beside the body; "others are rich, and can give Tusitala the

## parting presents of rich fine mats; I am poor, and can give nothing this

last day he receives his friends. Yet I am not afraid to come and look the last time in my friend's face, never to see him more till we meet with God. Behold! Tusitala is dead; Mataafa is also dead to us. These two great friends have been taken by God. When Mataafa was taken, who was our support but Tusitala? We were in prison, and he cared for us. We were sick, and he made us well. We were hungry, and he fed us. The day was no longer than his kindness. You are great people and full of love. Yet who among you is so great as Tusitala? What is your love to his love? Our clan was Mataafa's clan, for whom I speak this day; therein was Tusitala also. We mourn them both."

A meeting of chiefs was held to apportion the work and divide the men into parties. Forty were sent with knives and axes to cut a path up the steep face of the mountain, and the writer himself led another party to the summit--men chosen from the immediate family--to dig the grave on a spot where it was Mr. Stevenson's wish that he should lie. Nothing more picturesque can be imagined than the narrow ledge that forms the summit of Vaea, a place no wider than a room, and flat as a table. On either side the land descends precipitously; in front lies the vast ocean and the surf-swept reefs; to the right and left green mountains rise, densely covered with the primeval forest. Two hundred years ago the eyes of another man turned towards that same peak of Vaea as the spot that should ultimately receive his war-worn body: Soalu, a famous chief.

All the morning, Samoans were arriving with flowers; few of these were white, for they have not learned our foreign custom, and the room glowed with the many colours. There were no strangers on that day, no acquaintances; those only were called who would deeply feel the loss. At one o'clock a body of powerful Samoans bore away the coffin, hid beneath a tattered red ensign that had flown above his vessel in many a corner of the South Seas. A path so steep and rugged taxed their strength to the utmost; for not only was the journey difficult in itself, but extreme care was requisite to carry the coffin shoulder-high.

Half an hour later, the rest of his friends followed. It was a formidable ascent, and tried them hard. Nineteen Europeans, and some sixty Samoans, reached the summit. After a short rest, the Rev. W. E. Clarke read the burial service of the Church of England, interposing a prayer that Mr. Stevenson had written and had read aloud to his family only the evening before his death:--

We beseech Thee, Lord, to behold us with favour, folk of many families and nations, gathered together in the peace of this roof; weak men and women, subsisting under the covert of Thy patience.

Be patient still; suffer us yet a while longer--with our broken purposes of good, and our idle endeavours against evil--suffer us a while longer to endure, and (if it may be) help us to do better. Bless to us our extraordinary mercies; if the day come when these must be taken, have us play the man under affliction. Be with our friends; be with ourselves. Go with each of us to rest; if any awake, temper to them the dark hours of watching; and when the day returns to us, our sun and comforter, call us up with morning faces and with morning hearts--eager to labour--eager to be happy, if happiness shall be our portion--and if the day be marked for sorrow, strong to endure it.

We thank Thee and praise Thee; and in the words of Him to whom this day is sacred, close our oblation.

APPENDIX II

ADDRESS OF R. L. STEVENSON TO THE CHIEFS ON THE OPENING OF THE ROAD OF GRATITUDE, OCTOBER 1894

Mr. Stevenson said, "We are met together to-day to celebrate an event and to do honour to certain chiefs, my friends,--Lelei, Mataafa, Salevao, Poè, Teleso, Tupuola Lotofaga, Tupuola Amaile, Muliaiga, Ifopo, and Fatialofa. You are all aware in some degree of what has happened. You know these chiefs to have been prisoners; you perhaps know that during the term of their confinement I had it in my power to do them certain favours. One thing some of you cannot know, that they were immediately repaid by answering attentions. They were liberated by the new administration; by the King, and the Chief Justice, and the Ta'its'ifono, who are here amongst us to-day, and to whom we all desire to tender our renewed and perpetual gratitude for that favour. As soon as they were free men--owing no man anything--instead of going home to their own places and families, they came to me; they offered to do this work for me as a free gift, without hire, without supplies, and I was tempted at first to refuse their offer. I knew the country to be poor, I knew famine threatening; I knew their families long disorganised for want of supervision. Yet I accepted, because I thought the lesson of that road might be more useful to Samoa than a thousand breadfruit trees; and because to myself it was an exquisite pleasure to receive that which was so handsomely offered. It is now done; you have trod it to-day in coming hither. It has been made for me by chiefs; some of them old, some sick, all newly delivered from a harassing confinement, and in spite of weather unusually hot and insalubrious. I have seen these chiefs labour valiantly with their own hands upon the work, and I have set up over it, now that it is finished, the name of 'The Road of Gratitude' (the road of loving hearts) and the names of those that built it. 'In perpetuam memoriam,' we say, and speak idly. At least so long as my own life shall be spared, it shall be here perpetuated; partly for my pleasure and in my gratitude; partly for others; to continually publish the lesson of this road."

Addressing himself to the chiefs, Mr. Stevenson then said:--

"I will tell you, Chiefs, that, when I saw you working on that road, my heart grew warm; not with gratitude only, but with hope. It seemed to me that I read the promise of something good for Samoa: it seemed to me, as I looked at you, that you were a company of warriors in a battle, fighting for the defence of our common country against all aggression. For there is a time to fight, and a time to dig. You Samoans may fight, you may conquer twenty times, and thirty times, and all will be in vain. There is but one way to defend Samoa. Hear it before it is too late. It is to make roads, and gardens, and care for your trees, and sell their produce wisely, and, in one word, to occupy and use your country. If you do not, others will."

The speaker then referred to the Parable of the Talents, Matt. xxv. 14-30, and continuing, impressively asked: "What are you doing with your talent, Samoa? Your three talents, Savaii, Upolu, and Tutuila? Have you buried it in a napkin? Not Upolu at least. You have rather given it out to be trodden under feet of swine: and the swine cut down food trees and burn houses, according to the nature of swine, or of that much worse animal, foolish man, acting according to his folly. 'Thou knewest that I reap where I sowed not, and gather where I have not strawed.' But God has both sown and strawed for you here in Samoa; He has given you a rich soil, a splendid sun, copious rain; all is ready to your hand, half done. And I repeat to you that thing which is sure: if you do not occupy and use your country, others will. It will not continue to be yours or your children's, if you occupy it for nothing. You and your children will in that case be cast out into outer darkness, where shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth; for that is the law of God which passeth not away. I who speak to you have seen these things. I have seen them with my eyes--these judgments of God. I have seen them in Ireland, and I have seen them in the mountains of my own country--Scotland--and my heart was sad. These were a fine people in the past--brave, gay, faithful, and very much like Samoans, except in one particular, that they were much wiser and better at that business of fighting of which you think so much. But the time came to them as it now comes to you, and it did not find them ready. The messenger came into their villages, and they did not know him; they were told, as you are told, to use and occupy their country, and they would not hear. And now you may go through great tracts of the land and scarce meet a man or a smoking house, and see nothing but sheep feeding. The other people that I tell you of have come upon them like a foe in the night, and these are the other people's sheep who browse upon the foundation of their houses. To come nearer; and I have seen this judgment in Oahu also. I have ridden there the whole day along the coast of an island. Hour after hour went by and I saw the face of no living man except that of the guide who rode with me. All along that desolate coast, in one bay after another, we saw, still standing, the churches that have been built by the Hawaiians of old. There must have been many hundreds, many thousands, dwelling there in old times, and worshipping God in these now empty churches. For to-day they were empty; the doors were closed, the villages had disappeared, the people were dead and gone; only the church stood on like a tombstone over a grave, in the midst of the white men's sugar fields. The other people had come and used that country, and the Hawaiians who occupied it for nothing had been swept away, 'where is weeping and gnashing of teeth.'

"I do not speak of this lightly, because I love Samoa and her people. I love the land, I have chosen it to be my home while I live, and my grave after I am dead; and I love the people, and have chosen them to be my people to live and die with. And I see that the day is come now of the great battle; of the great and the last opportunity by which it shall be decided whether you are to pass away like these other races of which I have been speaking, or to stand fast and have your children living on and honouring your memory in the land you received of your fathers.

"The Land Commission and the Chief Justice will soon have ended their labours. Much of your land will be restored to you, to do what you can with. Now is the time the messenger is come into your villages to summon you; the man is come with the measuring rod; the fire is lighted in which you shall be tried, whether you are gold or dross. Now is the time for the true champions of Samoa to stand forth. And who is the true champion of Samoa? It is not the man who blackens his face, and cuts down trees, and kills pigs and wounded men. It is the man who makes roads, who plants food trees, who gathers harvests, and is a profitable servant before the Lord, using and improving that great talent that has been given him in trust. That is the brave soldier; that is the true champion; because all things in a country hang together like the links of the anchor cable, one by another: but the anchor itself is industry.

"There is a friend of most of us, who is far away; not to be forgotten where I am, where Tupuola is, where Poè Lelei, Mataafa, Solevao, Poè Teleso, Tupuola Lotofaga, Tupuolo Amaile, Muliaiga, Ifopo, Fatialofa, Lemusu are. He knew what I am telling you; no man better. He saw the day was come when Samoa had to walk in a new path, and to be defended not only with guns and blackened faces, and the noise of men shouting, but by digging and planting, reaping and sowing. When he was still here amongst us, he busied himself planting cacao; he was anxious and eager about agriculture and commerce, and spoke and wrote continually; so that when we turn our minds to the same matters, we may tell ourselves that we are still obeying Mataafa. Ua tautala mai pea o ia ua mamao.

"I know that I do not speak to idle or foolish hearers. I speak to those who are not too proud to work for gratitude. Chiefs! You have worked for Tusitala, and he thanks you from his heart. In this, I could wish you could be an example to all Samoa--I wish every chief in these islands would turn to, and work, and build roads, and sow fields, and plant food trees, and educate his children and improve his talents--not for love of Tusitala, but for the love of his brothers, and his children, and the whole body of generations yet unborn.

"Chiefs! On this road that you have made many feet shall follow. The Romans were the bravest and greatest of people! mighty men of their hands, glorious fighters and conquerors. To this day in Europe you may go through parts of the country where all is marsh and bush, and perhaps after struggling through a thicket, you shall come forth upon an ancient road, solid and useful as the day it was made. You shall see men and women bearing their burdens along that even way, and you may tell yourself that it was built for them perhaps fifteen hundred years before,--perhaps before the coming of Christ,--by the Romans. And the people still remember and bless them for that convenience, and say to one another, that as the Romans were the bravest men to fight, so they were the best at building roads.

"Chiefs! Our road is not built to last a thousand years, yet in a sense it is. When a road is once built, it is a strange thing how it collects traffic, how every year, as it goes on, more and more people are found to walk thereon and others are raised up to repair and perpetuate it and keep it alive; so that perhaps even this road of ours may, from reparation to reparation, continue to exist and be useful hundreds and hundreds of years after we are mingled in the dust. And it is my hope that our far-away descendants may remember and bless those who laboured for them to-day."

INDEX TO THE LETTERS

[_For short Index to VOLS. I.-XXII., see pp. 509-519._]

"Abbé Coignard" (France), xxv. 409, 410

_Academy, The_, xxiii. _intro._ xvii., 166; contributions to, xxiii. 184, xxv. 364

"Across the Plains," xxv. 123 & _n._ 1, xxv. 207, 224, 301 _n._ 1; dedication, xxv. 127 & _n._ 1, xxv. 323 & _n._ 1; inception, xxv. 97 & _n._ 1

"Actor's Wife," projected, xxiii. 308

Adams, Henry, historian, xxv. 4, 29, 41, 43, 45

"Address to the Unco Guid" (Burns), xxiii. 225

"Adela Chart" ("The Marriages," H. James), xxv. 108-9, 110

"Adelaïde," song (Beethoven), xxiii. 64

Adirondack Mountains, stay in, xxiv. 234, 306 _et seq._

Admiral Benbow inn (Treasure Island), xxiii. 327

"Admiral Guinea," play (with Henley), xxiii. 327; xxiv. 106, 119, 120, 146, 147; xxv. 447

"Admiral," the (Story of a Lie), xxiii. 248, 249; xxiv. 90

"Adventures of David Balfour," proposed double volume of, xxv. 283, 357, 366

"Æneid," reading of, xxiv. 186, 265, 306

"Æsthetic Letters" (Schiller), xxiv. 71

Ahab, King, xxv. 304

"Ah perfido spergiuro," song, xxiii. 166

_Aitu fafine_, an, xxv. 41, 135

Alabama case, xxiii. 110

"Aladdin" (Pyle), xxv. 164

Alais, visit to, xxiii. 216

"Alan Breck Stewart," ("Catriona" and "Kidnapped"), xxiv. 201, 203, xxv. 46, 142; letter as from, xxv. 46-8

Alexander, J. W., xxiv. 249, 250; drawing by, of R. L. S., xxiv. 199

Allan Ramsay, Fergusson and Burns, essay on, projected, xxiii. 191, 192, 193

Allen, Grant, ballade by, xxiv. 248

"Amateur Emigrant," xxiii. 235, 237, 239, 240, 244, 252, 254, 255, 259, 260, 265, 266, 267, 277, 352; xxv. 396-7 & _n._ 1, 398, 414, 423

"Amazing Marriage" (Meredith), R. L. S. drawn in, xxv. 344, 390-1

"Amelia Balfour," _see_ Jersey, Countess of

American politics, xxiii. 112

Anderson, Dr., xxv. 457-8

Andrews, Mrs., xxiii. 113

Angelo, Michael, xxiii. 32

Angus, W. Craibe, letters to, xxv. 69, 87, 118

"Annals of the Persecutions in Scotland" (Aikman), xxiii. 18

Anser, xxiii. 22

Anstey, F., xxv. 275

Anstruther, at, xxiii. 12

"Antichrist, L'" (Renan), xxv. 304

"Antiquary, The" (Scott), xxiv. 91

Antwerp, xxiii. 185

Apemama, Gilbert Islands, xxiv. 358

Apia, at, xxiv. 293, 370, 375; xxv. 226; famous hurricane at, xxiv. 345, 346, 369, 371; xxv. 147, 172-3, 174; prisoners at, gratitude shown by, to R. L. S., xxv. 367 _et seq._

Apiang, Island, xxiv. 358

Apology, difficulty of, xxiii. 133, 134

"Apology for Idlers," xxiii. 203, 204, 205, 207, 210

"Appeal to the Clergy of the Church of Scotland," xxiii. 141, 142

Appin case (Catriona), xxv. 161, 351

Appin country, in, xxiii. 284

Appin Murder, xxiii. 284, 331, 332; xxv. 161, 351

Appleton, Dr., xxiii. _intro._ xvii. 143, 144, 168, 178

"Arblaster" (Black Arrow), xxiii. _intro._ xx.

Arbroath, Abbot of, xxiii. 29

Archer, Thomas, letter to, xxiv. 305

Archer, William, xxiv. 105, 161, 214; letters to, xxiv. 147, 156, 161, 163, 247, 270, 272, 273, xxv. 384

Archer, William and Thomas, letter to, xxiv. 300

Areia, chief, xxiv. 315

Arnold, Matthew, xxiii. 15

Arthur's Seat, xxiii. 71

Artist, the, problem of, xxv. 378-9

"Art of Literature," projected, xxiii. 342

"Art of Virtue," xxiii. 265

Asceticism and Christianity, xxiii. 213

Assurance of Faith, xxiii. 299,300

"As You Like It" (Shakespeare), xxiv. 96

_Atalanta_, magazine, contributions to, xxv. 279 & _n._ 1, 283

_Athenæum_, xxiii. 239

"At Last" (Kingsley), xxiv. 101

"Attwater" (Ebb Tide), xxv. 301, 307, 350, 382

Atua, bombardment of, xxv. 424, 426

Auckland, visits to, xxv. 30, 34; xxv. 290, 291, 292

"Auld Licht Idylls" (Barrie), xxv. 264

"Auntie's Skirts" (Child's Garden of Verse), xxiii. 223

Aurévilly, Barbey d', works of, xxiv. 83; xxv. 174, 314, 379

"Ausfürliche Erklarung der Hogarthischen Kupferstiche" (Lichtenberg), xxiii. 178

"Autolycus at Court," xxiii. 170

"Autumn Effect, An," xxiii. 155, 166; xxv. 397-8

Autun, xxiii. 216, 219

Avignon, at, xxiii. 77

Ayrshire and Galloway, walking tour in, xxiii. 182, 202

Babington, Mrs. Churchill, xxiii. 54; letter to, xxiii. 30

Babington, Professor Churchill, xxiii. 30, 54; xxiv. 130

Bacon, Sir F., on Time, xxiii. 81

Baildon, H. B., xxv. 56; letters to, xxv. 56, 377, 381

Baker, Mrs. A., letters to, xxv. 366, 413

Baker, Shirley, of Tonga, xxv. 40, 44

Baker, Sir Samuel, xxv. 175

Bakewell, Dr., letter to, xxv. 424

Balfour, Dr. George, xxiii. 330

Balfour, Graham, xxv. 221, 251 & _n._ 1, 292, 339, 348, 351, 355, 363, 406, 416; "Life" of R. L. S., by, xxiii. _intro._ xix.; at Vailima, xxv. 144, 374, 401, 403

Balfour, James, xxiii. 4

Balfour, Miss Jane, letter to, xxiii. 223

Balfour, Mr., of the Shaws, xxv. 47

Balfour, Mrs. Lewis, xxiii. 4, 5

Balfour of Burley (Old Mortality), xxiii. 130

Balfour, Rev. Lewis, xxiii. 4

"Balfour's Letters," xxv. 293

"Ballade in Hot Weather" (Henley), xxiv. 248

"Ballades, Rondeaus, etc." (collected by Gleeson White), xxiv. 248

"Ballads," xxiv. 380; xxv. 34, 53, 57, 73

Ballantyne, R., xxiii. _intro._ xxiii.

Balzac, xxv. 154; on literary frenzy, xxiii. 173; style of, xxiv. 60

Bamford, Dr. W., xxiii. 271; letter to, xxiii. 272

"Barbara" (Catriona), xxv. 294-5

Barbizon, visits to, xxiii. 174 _et seq._, 183

Barmouth, visits to, xxiii. 124, 146

"Baronial and Ecclesiastical Antiquities" (Billing), xxiv. 270

"Barrack Room Ballads" (Kipling), xxv. 48

"Barrel Organ," xxiii. 171

Barrie, J. M., appreciation, xxv. 276-7: letters to, xxv. 154, 264, 276, 362, 416

Barrie, Mrs. (Margaret Ogilvie), xxv. 417

Bartholomew, Messrs., xxv. 177

Basin, Thomas, xxiii. 203 & _n._ 1

Basselin, Olivier, poems by, xxiii. 193

Bass Rock, xxiii. 207

Bates, --, xxiii. 89

Bates, Edward Hugh Higlee, xxv. 384

Bates, E. M. G., xxv. 384

Bates, J. H., letter to, xxv. 384

Bathgate, the inn maid at, xxiii. 226, 227

"Bauble Shop," play (H. A. Jones), xxv. 385

Baudelaire, --, xxiii. 160, 195

Baxter, Charles, xxiii. 3, 159, 174, 285, 336, 341, 353, 356; xxiv. 14, 47, 79; xxv. 174, 240, 266, 273, 306, 357; letters to, xxiii. 33, 34, 46, 49, 52, 92, 193, 217, 262, 285, 336, 341; xxiv. 14, 121, 122, 200, 251, 260, 268, 286, 294, 296, 301, 303, 322, 327, 343, 344, 369, 375, 384, 392; xxv. 53, 82, 120, 177. 213, 270, 278, 288, 292, 337, 345, 360, 376, 392, 394, 433; literary agency of, xxiv. 252; scheme of, for "Edinburgh Edition," xxv. 372 & _n._ 1, 373

Baxter, Edmund, xxiv. 394; xxv. 54; death of, xxv. 433

Baynes, Professor Spencer, editor "Encyclopædia Britannica," xxiii, 202

"Beachcombers" (with Lloyd Osbourne), xxiv. 361

"Beach de Mar," projected xxv. 187

"Beach of Falesá," xxv. 5, 20, 25, 76, 97, 102, 103 & _n._ 1, 120, 122, 131, 138, 147, 152, 221, 224, 235-6, & _n._ 1, 239, 240, 250, 266, 272, 274, 284; illustrations to, xxv. 253-4, 288; marriage contract in, xxv. 187 & _n._ 1; publication, xxv. 1.

"Beau Austin," play (with Henley), xxiv. 106

Becker, Consul, xxv. 139, 141, 268

"Becket" (Tennyson), xxv. 385

"Bedtime" projected, xxiv. 99

"Beggars" (_Scribner's_), xxiv. 235, 253; xxv. 97, 209, 301

Bell Rock, book on, xxiv. 78; xxv. 322; controversy on, xxiv. 121

Bell, the, in the Vailima woods, xxv. 277

Ben More, xxiii. 318

Bennet, Dr., xxiii. 84, 101

Bentley, publisher, xxiii. 336, 339, 346

Béranger, article on, xxiii. 186, 191, 193

Bereavement, xxiv. 52

Berlin Convention, xxv. 6

Berlioz, paper on (Henley), xxiii. 318

"Bête Humaine" (Zola), xxiv. 396; xxv. 319

"Betteredge" (Moonstone), xxiii. 18

Bickford, Captain, R.N., C.M.G., xxv. 334, 351

Bitter Creek, xxiii. 234

_Black and White_, contributions to, xxiii. 286, 337, 341

"Black Arrow," xxiv. 5, 31, 56, 247, 376, 385 & _n._ 1; serial issue, xxiv. 55; success, xxiv. 68; suggested French version, xxiv. 398

"Black Canyon" (L. Osbourne), xxiii. 347, 348, 349

Blackie, Professor, xxiii. 28, 30, 306

Blacklock, Consul, xxv. 142

"Black Man," xxiii. 308

_Blackwood's Magazine_, xxiv. 370

Blair of Blairmyle (_see_ "Young Chevalier"), xxv. 216

"Blanche Amory" (Thackeray), xxiv. 212

"Bloody Wedding," projected, xxv. 66, 97

Board of Trade Offices, xxiv. 87

Boccaccio, xxv. 301

"Body Snatchers," xxiii. 308, 316, 321; xxiv. 125, 130; xxv. 397

"Bondage of Brandon" (Hemming), xxiii. 333

"Bondman, The" (Hall Caine), xxiv. 396-7

Boodle, Miss Adelaide, xxiv. 375; letters to, xxiv. 231, 259, 267, 284, 297, 339, 401; xxv. 80, 147, 217, 243, 248, 410

"Book, A, of Stories," projected contents, xxiii. 171

"Book of Verses" (Henley), xxv. 121

_Book Reader_, notice of "Prince Otto," xxiv. 195

Books wanted, xxiii. 36, 332; xxiv. 78, 101, 130, 134, 270, 274, 338; xxv. 111, 112, 174, 215, 271, 287, 293, 346, 361, 392

Boswell, James, xxiii. 193, 203, 295

"Bottle Imp," xxiv. 292; xxv. 272, 284, 340; Samoan translation, xxv. 64 & _n._ 1

Bough, Sam, painter, xxiii. 24, 26-30; xxiv. 60

Bourget, Paul, xxv. 130-2, 315, 323

Bourke, Captain, R.N., xxv. 263

Bournemouth, at, xxiv. 104 _et seq._; xxv. 111

"Bouroche, Major" (Débâcle), xxv. 250

Braemar, at, xxiii. 282, 313, 320

Braille, books by R. L. S., to be issued in, xxv. 366, 413

Brandeis, xxv. 141

"Brashiana," burlesque sonnets, xxiii. 283; xxiv. 14, 38, 39

Brash, the publican, xxiii. 336; xxiv. 14

Braxfield (Weir of Hermiston), xxv. 260 & _n._ 1, 264-5; portrait of, xxv. 453

Bridge of Allan, at, xxiii. 33, 174

British Museum, visits to, xxiv. 105, 107, 186-7, 202, 229, 365

Bronson, --, editor, xxiii. 240

Brooke, Rajah, xxv. 129

Brown, --, xxiv. 230

Brown, Dr. John, verses to, xxiii. 296, 297

Brown, Horatio F., xxiii. 303, 304; letters to, xxiii. 303, 304

Brown, Mrs., xxiii. 13

Brown, Rev. Dr., xxv. 312

Brown R. Glasgow (editor of _London_), xxiii. 184, 251; illness, xxiii. 214 & _n._ 1

Browne, Gordon, xxv. 301, 305; letter to, xxv. 252

Browning, Robert, xxiv. 107, 202; book on, by Gosse, xxv. 74

Bruce, Michael, xxiii. 71

Bruno, Father, xxiv. 312, 334

Brussels, at, xxiii. 36

Buckinghamshire, walking tour in, xxiii. 124, 155

Buckle, Mrs., xxiv. 176

"Bucolics" (Virgil), xxiii. 18

"Bummkopf" (typical pedant), xxiii. 225

Bunner, --, xxiv. 64, 154

Bunting, --, xxiv. 227

Bunyan, John, xxiv. 29; essay on, xxiii. 334; xxv. 398

Burford Bridge, visit to, xxiii. 183

Burial customs, Gilbert Islanders', xxiv. 400-1

Burke, Edmund, xxiii. 71

Burlingame, E. L., editor of _Scribner's Magazine_, xxiv. 233; xxv. 6, 138; letters to, xxiv. 253-4, 269, 273-4, 319, 338, 367, 376, 387, 394, xxv. 24, 32, 86, 110, 128, 145, 174, 210, 215, 257, 266

Burne-Jones, Sir Edward, xxiii. 224; xxiv. 101, 107, 202; xxv. 394

Burney, "Admiral," R.N., xxv. 394

Burn, Miss, xxiv. 89

Burns Exhibition, Glasgow, xxv. 69, 87 _et seq._

Burns, Robert, xxiii. _intro._ xxiii.; xxv. 69, 70, 88, 395-6; articles and writings on, xxiii. 111, 151, 179, 191, 192, 193, 202, 203, 224, 226, 237, 241, 245, 250, 263, 273, 358, xxiv. 63; house of, Dumfries, xxiii. 66; judgment on, xxiii. 224; poems of, xxiii. 4, xxiv. 256

Burt, xxiii. 298

_Bussard_, the ship, xxv. 425

Butaritari, Gilbert Islands, xxiv. 358

"But still our hearts are true" (Eglinton), xxv. 69, 70

"But yet the Lord that is on high" (Scotch Psalter), xxiii. 23

"By Proxy" (Payn), xxiv. 7

Byron, Lord, xxiii. 132; essay on (Henley), xxiii. 318; xxiv. 7

Caldecott, Randolph, xxiii. 248, 267

California, visit to, xxiii. 228

Calistoga, at, xxiii. 277

Calton Hill (Picturesque Notes on Edinburgh), xxiii. 216

Calvin, John, studies in, xxiii. 126

Cambridge, visits to, xxiii. 219; xxiv. 105

Cameron, Captain, xxiv. 349, 350

Campagne Defli, at, xxiv. 4, 8 _et seq._

Campbell of Glenure, murder of, xxiii. 284, 331, 332

Campbell, Rev. Professor Lewis, xxiii. 278, 316; letter to, xxiv. 113

"Canadian Boat Song" (Earl of Eglinton), xxv. 69, 70

Candlish, Dr., xxiv. 63

"Cannon Mills," projected, xxiv. 403

Canoe Journey in France (_see_ Inland Voyage), xxiii. 204

"Canoe, The, Speaks" (Underwoods), xxiv. 89, 231

"Canterbury Pilgrimage" (Chaucer), illustrated, gift of, xxiv. 149

"Capitaine Fracasse, Le" (Théophile Gautier), xxiii. 75

Cap Martin, xxiii. _intro._ xxxiv., 93, 114

"Captain Singleton" (Defoe), xxiv. 101, 102

Carlyle, Thomas, xxiii. 302; xxiv. 135; appreciation of, xxiii. 301, 302; on Coleridge, xxiii. 220

"Carmosine" (Musset), xxiv. 97

Carrington, C. Howard, letter to, xxiv. 152

Carr, T. Comyns, xxiv. 68

Carruthers, --, xxv. 40

Carson, Mrs., xxiii. 252

"Carthew" (Wrecker), xxv. 112 & _n._ 1

"Casamassima" (H. James), xxiv. 263

_Casco_, schooner, cruise in, xxiv. 234, 287 _et seq._, 290-1, 300, 305, 310, 312-3, 316 _et seq._, 325 _et seq._

"Case Bottle," xxiii. 281

"Cashel Byron's Profession" (Shaw), xxiv. 270-1

"Casparidea," unpublished, xxiii. 283

"Cassandra" (Mrs. R. L. Stevenson), xxiv. 22

Cassell and Co., xxiv. 110, 127; xxv. 57, 110, 124, 272, 283

"Catriona" (at first called "David Balfour," _q.v._), xxiii. _intro._ xxiii., 331; xxiv. 190, 402; xxv. 108, 144, 155, 158 & _n._ 1, 160-1, 163, 166-7, 172, 187, 192, 201-2, 211, 215, 240, 250, 264, 274, 283, 290, 298, 301, 305, 310, 316, 344, 351 & _n._ 1, 352, 378; in Braille, xxv. 366; characters in, xxv. 216; draft of, xxv. 162; maps for, xxv. 177-8; "my high-water mark," xxv. 393 (but _see_ 379); projected illustrations, xxv. 349 _n._ 1; replies to remarks on, xxv. 294 _et seq._; restraint of description in, xxv. 367

Cavalier (de Sonne), xxiii. 307

Cavalier, Jean, xxiii. 306, 307

"Cavalier," The (G. P. R. James), xxiv. 274

Cedercrantz, Conrad, Chief Justice of Samoa, xxv. 7, 13, 48-9, 67, 95-6, 98-100, 102, 124-5, 175, 188, 239, 256, 275, 278, 281, 286, 305, 364, 376, 380-1

Celtic blood in Britain, xxv. 379

_Century Magazine_, xxiv. 26, 30, 55, 90, 171; article in, by H. James, on R. L. S., xxiv. 250-1; contributions to, xxiii. 338, xxiv. 55, 170, 171, 185; critical notice in, of R. L. S., xxiv. 63, 64

Cévennes, the tramp in (_see_ "Travels with a Donkey"), xxiii. 183

Ceylon, projected visit, xxv. 98

Chair of History and Constitutional Law, Edinburgh University, candidature for, xxiii. 282, 309 _et seq._, 331, 335, 336

Chalmers, Rev. J., xxv. 30, 33, 39, 56-7

"Chapter of Artistic History," suggested title for proposed book by Henley, xxiii. 318

"Chapter on Dreams" (_Scribner's_), xxiv. 235; xxv. 97

"Character of Dogs" (_English Illustrated_), xxiv. 67; xxv. 41 _n._ 2

"Charity Bazaar," xxv. 398

Charles of Orleans, paper on, xxiii. 182, 191, 192, 202, 203, 204

"Charlotte" (Sorrows of Werther), xxiii. 60, 61

Charteris, Rev. Dr., xxiv. 276; letters to, xxiv. 276, 279

Chastity, xxiii. 338, 360

Chateaubriand (Sainte-Beuve), xxiii. 78

Chatto, Andrew, letter to, xxiv. 110

Chatto and Windus, publishers, xxiii. 335; xxiv. 110; xxv. 395; letter to, xxiv. 231

Chepmell, Dr., xxiv. 242

Chester visited, xxiii. 145, 146

"Chevalier Des Touches" (d'Aurévilly), xxv. 174, 314, 380

Chicago Exhibition, xxv. 379

Children, feelings towards, xxiii. 99, 101, 147, 171

Children in the [Kilburn] Cellar (_see also_ Boodle), letter to, xxv. 243

"Child's Garden of Verse," xxiii. 282; xxiv. 5, 17 _et seq._, 24, 54, 55, 70, 99 _et seq._, 106, 116, 154; xxv. 385; dedication, xxiv. 16, 19, 27, 92; illustrations, xxiv. 18 _et seq._, 32, 115; publication, xxiv. 138, 140; reviews, xxiv. 147

"Child's Play," xxiv. 70; xxv. 301

Chiltern Hills, visited, xxiii. 155

"Choice of Books" (F. Harrison), xxv. 113

Christianity and Asceticism, xxiii. 213

Christmas Books (Dickens), xxiii. 148

Christmas Day at Vailima, xxv. 40-1

"Christmas Sermon," xxv. 123 _n._ 1

Christ's Hospital, xxiv. 206, 207

Chrystal, Professor, xxiv. 118

"Cimourdain" (Quatre-vingt Treize, by Hugo), xxiii. 130 _n._ 1

"Clarissa Harlowe" (Richardson), xxiii. 210

Clarke, Mrs. W. E., xxv. 26

Clark, R. & R., printers, xxv. 124

Clark, Rev. W. E., missionary, xxiv. 371; xxv. 10, 11 & _n._ 1, 26, 30, 64 _n._ 1, 101; xxv. 203, 236, 329, 330, 422, 458, 460

Clark, Sir Andrew, xxiii. 55, 77, 84

Claxton, missionary, xxv. 64

Clinton, --, xxiii. 332, 333

Clouds, descriptions of, xxv. 178-9

Club, at Vailima, xxv. 168, 170, 176

Clytie, bust of, xxiii. 170

Cockfield Rectory, xxiii. 276; at, xxiii. 54, 56

"Coggie," _see_ Ferrier, Miss

Coleridge, S. T., xxiii. 220

Colinton, manse of, xxiii. 5

"Collected Essays" (Huxley), xxiv. 219

Collins, Wilkie, xxiii. 238

"Colonel Jack" (Defoe), xxiv. 101, 103

Colorado, xxiv. 110 _et seq._, 229 _et seq._, 234

Colvin, Lady (_see also_ Sitwell, Mrs.), xxiii. 54

Colvin, Sir Sidney, xxiii. 88, 91, 93, 94 _et seq._, 116, 117, 152; xxiv. 13, 47, 133, 191, 210, 216, 278, 323, 343, 396; choice of, for literary executor, xxiii. _intro._ xviii.; introduction of Eeles to, xxv. 452; letters to (_see_ especially xxv. 5), xxiii. 75, 76, 105, 106, 108, 124, 127, 129, 140, 141, 143, 157, 167, 169, 173, 178, 186, 191, 195, 196, 201, 202, 206, 211, 212, 225, 230, 232, 234, 235, 241, 244, 247, 251, 253, 258, 267, 269, 272, 273, 274, 276, 284, 291, 297, 300, 308, 310, 316, 320, 339, 349; xxiv. 15, 33, 55, 69, 81, 98, 99, 101, 134, 136, 137, 186, 189, 192, 210, 219, 227, 235-6, 238, 264, 265, 275, 283, 285, 293, 295, 298, 316, 329, 336, 353, 357, 362, 385; xxv. 9, 25, 34, 48, 54, 58, 66, 76, 83, 90, 94, 102, 112, 121, 132, 152, 156, 166, 178, 193, 211, 221, 230, 249, 258, 271, 282, 289, 291, 294, 299, 310, 324, 338, 347, 352, 367, 380, 382, 387, 396, 404, 414, 422, 430, 441 (the last), 448; letters to, from Mrs. R. L. Stevenson, xxiv. 308, 347; portraits of, xxv. 78-9, 80 & _n._ 1, 83-5, 94, 100; testimonial from, xxiii. 316

"Come back" (Clough), xxiii. 294

Comines, Philippe de, xxiii. 193

Commissioners of Northern Lights, yacht of, xxv. 98 & _n._ 1

"Comtesse d'Escarbaguas" (Molière), xxiv. 123

"Comtesse de Rudolstadt" (Sand), xxiii. 135

"Confessions" (St. Augustine), xxiv. 82-3

Congdon, L. C., xxv. 384

Conrad, Joseph, xxv. 76

"Consuelo" (Sand), xxiii. 87, 135

Consulship, xxv. 208 & _n._ 1

_Contemporary Review_, contributions to, xxiv. 143, 181, 227; xxv. 398

Cook's "Voyages," xxv. 346

"Coolin," Skye terrier, xxiv. 201

Coquelin, xxiii. 276

_Cornhill Magazine_, xxiii. _intro._ xvii.; xxiv. 355; contributions to, xxiii. 56, 104, 125, 129, 180, 184, 191, 201, 203, 204, 205, 206, 208, 210, 211, 224, 237, 238, 256, 258, 264, 281, 341, 352, 355; xxiv. 90; xxv. 397; Henley's "Hospital" poems in, xxiii. 174 _n._ 1, 176

Cornwall, Barry, xxv. 29 _n._ 2

Cornwall, impressions of, xxiii. 207

"Correspondence" (Wodrow's), xxiii. 291

Corsica, glimpse of, xxiii. 108

"Country Dance," xxiii. 171, 172

"Country Wife" (Wycherley), Lamb's essay on, xxiv. 87

Covenanters, xxiii. 65, 67; rhyming by, xxv. 363

Craig, --, xxiii. 25

Cramond, xxiii. 61

"Cramond" and other cousins, xxiv. 44

Crane, Walter, xxiii. 212; xxiv. 32

"Crashaw," essay (Gosse), xxiii. 291

"Crime inconnu" (Méry), xxiii. 258

"Crime, Le, et le Châtiment" (Dostoieffsky), xxiv. 182 _n._ 1, 183

"Criminal Trials" (Arnott), xxiii. 332

"Critical Kitcats" (Gosse), xxiv. 235

_Critic, The_, notice in, xxiv. 64

Crockett, S. R., xxv. 349 & _n._ 2, 403; letters to, xxiv. 280; xxv. 305

Crosse, Henry, sculptor, xxv. 383

Cumming, Miss Gordon, xxiv. 308

Cummy (_see_ Cunningham)

Cunningham, Alison, xxiii. 5, 69, xxiv. 100; letters to, xxiii. 32, 340; xxiv. 16, 17, 44, 167, 196, 200, 202, 204, 220; xxv. 359, 445

_Curaçoa_, H.M.S., xxv. 189, 202, 234, 267 _et seq._, 416, 425; officers of, xxv. 374, 389, 405-9, 414, 447, 450; petty officers' ball, xxv. 414-5

"Curate of Anstruther's Bottle," xxiii. 108, 109, 170

Curtin, Jeremiah, widow and daughters of, xxiv. 108, 222

Cusack-Smith, Sir Berry, xxv. 334

Dalgleish, Dr. Scott, and the Ballantyne Memorial, xxv. 393

Damien, Father, xxiv. 291-2, 349, 354, 356; letter on, xxiv. 383-4, 391 _n._ 1, 404; xxv. 124

"Damned Ones of the Indies" (Joseph Méry), xxiii. 258

Damon, Rev. F., xxiv. 383

"Dance of Death" (Rowlandson's), xxv. 292-3

Dancing Children (Notes on the Movements of Young Children), xxv. 397-8

"Daniel Deronda" (George Eliot), xxiii. 210

Darien affair, books on, wanted, xxv. 361

Darwin, Charles, xxiii. 57, 122

David Balfour, character, xxv. 155, 189-90

"David Balfour" (title first given both to "Kidnapped" and "Catriona," _q.v._), xxiv. 179, 190-1, 196, 201, 204; xxv. 108, 144, 158 & _n._ 1, 160, 161-2, 163, 167, 172, 177, 279, 283, 313, 316, 351, 366, 379; "Catriona" issued as, in serial form, xxv. 294; historical introduction planned, xxv. 376; unfinished, xxiv. 402

Davis, Dr., of Savaii, xxv. 32

Davos, visits to, xxiii. _intro._ xxxiv., 280 _et seq._, 331 _et seq._; papers on (_Pall Mall Gazette_), xxiii. 281, 347

"Dawn of the Century" (Ashton), xxv. 392

"Day after To-morrow" (_Contemporary_), xxv. 398

"Deacon Brodie," play (with Henley), xxiii. 185, 257; xxiv. 119, 230, 248; production, xxiv. 99, 102, 261

"Dead Man's Letter," projected, xxiii. 249, 308

Deans, Jeanie, xxiii. 65

"Death in the Pot," projected, xxv. 314 & _n._ 1

Death, thoughts on, xxiii. 136, 275, 276; xxiv. 58, 162, 183, 227

"Débâcle" (Zola), xxv. 250 & _n._ 1, 318, 319, 379

Deborah and Barak, fancies on, xxiii. 154, 155

"Decisions of the Lords of Council" (Fountainhall), xxv. 293, 336, 360

"Defence of Idlers" (_see_ "Apology for Idlers")

Defoe, Daniel, works of, xxiv. 101, 103

"Delafield," xxiii. 350; xxv. 55-6 _n._ 1

"Delhi," and other cousins, xxiv. 44

de Mattos, Mrs., letters to, xxiii. 199; xxiv. 152, 167

"Demi-Monde" (Dumas _fils_), scene in, xxiv. 273

Depression, xxiii. 199, 200

De Quincey, Thomas, biography of (Japp), xxiii. 321

"Dernière Aldini, La," xxiv. 97

Desborough, Mrs., xxiv. 177

Descamps, Maxime, xxiv. 405

"Descent of Man" (Darwin), xxiii. 57

des Ursins, Juvénal, xxiii. 192

"Devil on Cramond Sands," xxiii. 170, 249, 308

Dew-Smith, A. G., xxiv. 151; letter to, xxiii. 287

Dhu Heartach lighthouse, xxiii. 10

"Diaboliques, Les" (d'Aurévilly), xxv. 174

"Dialogue of Character and Destiny," unfinished, xxiii. 257, 267

"Dialogue on Man, Woman, and 'Clarissa Harlowe,'" projected, xxiii. 211

Diana of the Ephesians, play on, planned, xxiii. 124, 125

"Diary," suggested publication of, xxv. 208

Dick, Mr., xxiv. 135; letter to, xxiv. 83

"Dickon Crookback" (Black Arrow), xxiii. _intro._ xx.

"Dictionary of Music" (Grove), xxiii. 151

Didier, Father, xxv. 67

"Die Judin" at Frankfurt, xxiii. 44

Disappointment, xxiii. 295

Dobell, Dr., xxiv. 201, 230

Dobson, Austin, xxiii. 307; xxiv. 205; letter to, xxiv. 126

"Dr. Syntax's Tour," xxv. 292-3

"Dodd" (Wrecker), xxv. 378

"Dogs" (Mayhew), xxiii. 341

"Dolly" (Way of the World), xxiii. 215

Donadieu's restaurant, xxiii. 254

Donat, --, xxiv. 312

"Don Juan" (Byron), xxiii. 354

"Don Juan," unfinished play (with Henley), xxiii. 256, 257, 258

Dorchester, visited, xxiv. 153

Dostoieffsky's works, xxiv. 182-3

Dover, T. W., letter to, xxv. 209

Dowden, Professor, xxiv, 211-12

Dowdney, --, xxv. 138

Dowson, Mr., xxiii. 86, 88

Doyle, Sir A. Conan, letters to, xxv. 298, 336, 429

"Dreams," xxv. 97

Duddingston Loch, xxiii. 75, 164

"Du hast Diamanten und Perlen," song, xxiii. 58

Dumas, Alexandre (_pêre_), xxiii. 347; Henley's book on, xxiv. 54, 257

Dumas, novels of, xxiv. 398

Dumfries, at, xxiii. 64

Dunblane, at, xxiii. 33

Dunnet, --, xxv. 106

Dunoyer, Olympe, xxiii. 307

"Du schönes Fischermädchen," song (Schubert), xxiii. 139

Dutra, Augustin, xxiii. 240

Dutton, Mr., xxiv. 356

"Dyce of Ythan," projected (_see also_ "The Young Chevalier"), xxv. 172

"Dynamiter, The," xxiv. 114, 176

Dynamite, views on, xxiv. 108

Earraid, Isle of, xxiii. 10, 24, 318

"Earthly Paradise" (Morris), xxiii. 36

Easter Island, images from, xxiv. 362, 367

"Ebb Tide" (with Lloyd Osbourne), xxiv. 361, 399 & _n._ 1, 402; xxv. 120, 172 & _n._ 1, 281, 288 _et seq._, 290 & _n._ 1, 301 _et seq._, 307, 310, 314 _et seq._, 318, 321, 325, 350, 353, 372; criticism, xxv. 347 _et seq._; illustrations for, notes on, xxv. 301

"Echoes" (Henley), xxv. 215

Eckenhelm, xxiii. 39

"Eclogues" (Virgil), xxiii. 34

Edinburgh Academy (school), old boys' dinner, xxiii. 168, 169

Edinburgh, at, xxiii. _passim_; homes in, xxiii. 5; life at, 1874-5, xxiii. 123 _et seq._

Edinburgh Castle, xxiii. 69, 71

_Edinburgh Courant_, wanted, xxv. 392

Edinburgh Edition of works, xxv. 372-3, 394, 396, 404, 414; illustrations in, xxv. 423 & _n._ 1; suggested prefaces, xxv. 376

"Edinburgh Eleven" (Barrie), xxv. 276

Edinburgh, influence of, xxv. 155

Edinburgh, "Picturesque Notes on," xxiii. 185, 211, 216, 218

_Edinburgh Review_, article in, on Rembrandt, by Colvin, xxiii. 225

Edinburgh Society of Arts, medal awarded to R. L. S., xxiii. 10

Edinburgh streets, xxiv. 100

Edinburgh University, Speculative Society at, xxiii. 35, 64, 184; xxiii. 312; xxiv. 178 studies at, xxiii. 8 _et seq._

Eeles, Lieutenant, R.N., xxv. 415; letters to, xxv. 267, 451

Effort, uses of, xxiv. 88

Eglinton, Hugh, 12th Earl of, xxv. 69

"Egoist, The" (Meredith), xxiii. 353

Eimeo, storm near, xxiv. 324

"Einst, O Wunder, einst," song, xxiii. 65

"Elements of Style" (_Contemporary Review_), xxiv. 181

Elgin marbles, the, xxiii. 158-60, 163-4

Eliot, George, works of, xxiii. 210

Elstree murder, xxiii. 338

"Emerson" (H. James), xxiv. 278

"Emigrant Train, The," xxv. 97

"Encyclopædia Britannica," contributions to, xxiii. 179, 186, 191, 202-3

"Endymion" (Keats), xxiv. 170

"Engineer's Thumb" (Doyle), xxv. 340

England and Samoa, xxv. 6 _et seq._

England and Scotland, contrasts between, xxiii. 56 _et seq._

_English Illustrated Magazine_, contributions to, xxiv. 68 & _n._ 1

"English Odes," edited by Gosse, xxiii. 292; suggestions concerning, xxiii. 293-4

English, the, mock definition of, xxiii. 225

"English Village, An" (Gosse), xxv. 457

"English Worthies" Series, book for, xxiv. 134

"Ensorcelée, L'" (d'Aurévilly), xxv. 314, 380

"Epilogue to an Inland Voyage," xxiv. 68

Epitaph for himself, by R. L. S., xxiii. 269; xxv. 375

Epitaph (mock) on himself, xxiv. 69

_Equator_, schooner, cruise in, xxiv. 291-2, 340, 343, 347, 357-8, 369, 390; xxv. 3

"Eroica" Symphony (Beethoven), xxiii. 166

"Escape at Bedtime" ("Child's Garden"), xxiv. 55

Essays, xxiii. 143; selected, projected volume and suggested contents, xxv. 301 & _n._ 1

"Essays in Art" (Hamerton), xxiii. 242

"Essays in London" (H. James), xxv. 367

"Essays on the Art of Writing," xxiv. 265

"Essays on Travel," xxiii. 201, 281

"Etherege," essay (Gosse), xxiv. 45

"Evan Harrington" (Meredith), characters in, xxiv. 97

Evictions, Highland, xxiii. 298

"Evictions" (Miller), xxiii. 297

Ewing, Professor, xxiv. 226

Exeter, visited, xxiv. 105, 153

"Expansion of England" (Seeley), xxiv. 55, 56

"Fables in Song," xxiii. 127-8, 132, 141, 142

"Fables" (Lord Lytton), xxiii. 129

Fage, xxiii. 307

Fairchild, Blair, xxiv. 239, 405

Fairchild, Charles, xxiv. 233, 237, 239, 250; letter to, xxiv. 246

Fairchild, Mrs. Charles, xxiv. 233, 237, 239, 250; xxv. 379; letters to, xxiv. 403; xxv. 163, 240

Fair Isle, visit to, xxiii. 24

Fakarava, at, xxiv. 295, 312

"Falconers, The Two, of Cairnstane," xxiii. 170

_Falke_, the, xxv. 425

Fall of Man, the, xxiii. 212

"Familiar Essays," xxiv. 230

"Familiar Studies of Men and Books," xxiii. 149, 224, 229, 351, 355; publication, xxiii. 335.

"Family of Engineers" ("History of the Stevensons" or the "Northern Lights"), unfinished; xxv. 120, 310, 315-6, 319-20, 322, 334, 339, 348, 357; germ of, xxiv. 279; xxv. 95

"Family of Love," xxiii. 170

"Fantasio" (de Musset), xxiv. 97

Farehau, xxiv. 310, 315

"F.A.S., In Memoriam" (Underwoods), xxiii. 300

Fast-day, xxiii. 153

"Fastidious Brisk," sobriquet, xxiv. 72

"Faust" (Goethe), xxiv. 71

Faxon, --, xxiv. 390

"Femmes Savantes" (Molière), xxiv. 123

Fenian dynamite outrages, xxiii. 320

Fergusson, Robert, poet, xxiv. 214, 215; xxv. 57, 70-1, 88; monument, xxv. 395-6

Ferrier, James Walter, xxiii. 48, 223; xxiv. 46, 47, 63, 98; appreciation of, xxiv. 46 _et seq._; collaboration with, xxv. 398; death, xxiv. 6, 46 _et seq._, 59, 69, 71-2, 96 _n._ 1; letter to, xxiii. 269

Ferrier, Miss, xxiv. 90; letters to, xxiv. 46, 52, 71, 88, 121, 132, 282

Festetics de Solna, Count, at Apia, xxv. 415

Fielding, Henry, xxiii. 129

Fiji, xxv. 50, 96, 102

Fiji, High Commissioner of, proclamation by, xxv. 280

"Finsbury Tontine, The" (_see_ "Wrong Box")

Flaubert, Gustave, on prose, xxv. 71-2

Fleming, Marjorie, xxiv. 245 _n._ 1; verses of, xxv. 385

"Flint, Captain" ("Treasure Island"), xxiii. 326

"Flowers of the Forest," air, xxiii. 113

Folau, --, Chief Judge, xxv. 30

"Folk Lore" (Lang), xxiv. 130

Folleté, M., xxiii. 100

"Fons Bandusiæ" (Macdonald), xxiv. 249

Fontainebleau (_see also_ Barbizon, _and_ "Forest Notes"), visits to, xxiii. 124, 182, 183, 184, 189, 282, 305

"Footnote to History," xxiv. 362 _et seq._, 369 _et seq._, 386; xxv. 5, 41 _n._ 1, 117, 120, 122, 124, 126, 129-30, 138, 140-4, 146, 163, 172, 188, 192, 211, 250, 257, 267, 274; publication of, xxv. 146; German reception of, xxv. 346

"Foreigner, The, at Home," essay, xxiii. 56

"Forester," unfinished paper (J. W. Ferrier), xxiii. 269

"Forest Notes," essay on Fontainebleau (_Magazine of Art_), xxiii. 180, 181, 186, 198, 201, 202; xxiv. 32, 57, 58, 67, 68 _n._ 1; xxv. 397-8

"Forest State, The: A Romance" (_see also_ "Prince Otto"), xxiii. 259, 265, 266

Forfeited Estates, tenants of, xxiii. 298

Forster, --, xxiii. 321

Forth, Firth of, xxiii. 61, 68, 69

_Fortnightly Review_, contributions to, xxiii. 127, 132, 281

"Fortune by Sea and Land" (Heywood), xxiii. 354

Fortune, Mr. and Mrs., xxiii. 15

"Fortunes of Nigel" (Scott), xxiv. 91

Foss, Captain, xxv. 106

"Four Great Scotsmen," project for, xxiii. 111

"Fra Diavolo," at Frankfurt, xxiii. 42

France, Anatole, xxv. 321, 409

Franchise for working men, xxiii. 97

François, a baker, xxiii. 240; xxiv. 42

François Villon, xxiii. 182, 191, 192, 207; xxiv. 397; Schwob's writings on, xxv. 52

Frank, --, xxv. 330

Frankfurt, at, xxiii. 38

Franklin, Benjamin, article on, projected, xxiii. 253, 265, 266, 333

_Fraser's Magazine_, contribution to, xxv. 97, 123

French possessions in the Pacific, xxiv. 293

French translations, _see_ letters to Schwob

"Friend," the (S. T. Coleridge), xxiii. 221

Friends, the six, xxiv. 47

"Fruits of Solitude" (Penn), xxiii. 303

Funk, Dr., xxv. 416, 458

Galitzin, Prince Leon, xxiii. 119, 120, 121, 125, 155

Galpin, --, xxiv. 202

"Gamekeeper," sobriquet for Miss Boodle, xxiv. 259, 284

"Game of Bluff," _see_ "Wrong Box"

Garschine, Madame, xxiii. 98, 99, 102, 108, 115, 147; letter from, xxiii. 128

"Gauvain" (Quatre-vingt Treize, by Hugo), xxiii. 130 _n._ 1

"Gavin Ogilvy," character (Barrie), xxv. 277

"Gavottes Célèbres" (Litolf's edition), xxiv. 188

"Gebir," line from, quoted (Landor), xxiii. 329

"Genesis of the Master of Ballantrae," xxv. 33

"Gentleman of France" (Weyman), xxv. 312

"George the Pieman" (Deacon Brodie), xxiii. 257

German policy in Samoa, xxiv. 370; xxv. 6 _et seq._, 176 _et passim_

Gévaudan, xxiii. 218

"Giant Bunker," xxiv. 70

Gibson, Captain, xxv. 203

Gilbert Islands, burial customs in, xxiv. 399, 400; papers on, xxv. 84; suggested plan and title, 84; visited, xxiv. 291-2, 356-7 _et seq._, 368

Gilder, R. W., editor _Century Magazine_, xxiii. 338; xxiv. 26, 29, 30, 64, 98, 149, 185, 250

Gilfillan, --, xxiv. 349, 352

Gladstone, Rt. Hon. W. E., xxiii. 113; xxiv. 136-7, 139, 192

Glasgow, Knox memorial at, xxv. 88

"Gleams of Memory" (Payn), xxv. 447

Glencorse Church, xxiii. 180; xxv. 305, 307

"Go Between," xxv. 314-5 & _n._ 1

"Goguclat" (St. Ives), xxiii. _intro._ xx.

"Good Boy, A" ("Child's Garden"), xxiv. 55, 170

"Gordon Darnaway" ("Merry Men"), xxiii. _intro._ xx.

Gordon, General C. G., xxiv. 107, 137, 139-40, 183; xxv. 57

Gosse, Edmund, xxiii. 311, 316, 328, 329, 341; xxiv. 36, 120, 244; appointment to Clark Readership, xxiv. 99; letters to, xxiii. 219, 224, 226, 236, 243, 245, 260, 271, 292, 293, 306, 311, 313, 324, 325, 332, 338, 350, 359, 360; xxiv. 26, 29, 30, 45, 50, 87, 97, 125, 139, 173, 181, 244, 277; xxv. 71, 317, 454; "Life" by, of his father, xxv. 71, 130, 317

Gosse, Mrs. Edmund, xxiii. 225, 227; letter to, xxiii. 347

Gosse, P. H., "Life" of, by E. Gosse, xxv. 71, 130, 317

"Gossip, A, on Romance," xxiii. 283, 342, 349

Göttingen, xxiii. 118, 122, 125

"Gower Woodseer" ("Amazing Marriage," by Meredith), prototype of, xxv. 344, 390-1

Grange, Lady, xxiii. 298

Grant, --, xxiii. 316

Grant, Geordie, xxiii. 19

Grant, Lady, xxiv. 53, 72

Grant, Mrs., of Laggan, xxiii. 298

Granton, xxiii. 8

Grant, Sir Alexander, xxiv. 53, 72, 132

"Grape from a Thorn" (Payn), xxiv. 7

Graves, home and foreign, xxv. 349 & _n._ 1

"Gray, Thomas" ("English Men of Letters"), by Gosse, xxiii. 350, 351, 360; works of, edited by Gosse, xxiv. 140

"Great Expectations" (Dickens), xxiv. 22-3

"Great North Road," unfinished, xxiii. 328; xxiv. 106, 127, 139, 152, 402

Greenaway, Kate, xxiv. 32

Green, Madame, singer, xxv. 249

Grey, Sir George, xxv. 290, 298-9; visit to, xxv. 292

Grez, at, xxiii. 183, 185, 187; meeting with Mrs. Osbourne at, xxii. 183, 228

Grove, Sir George, xxiii. _intro._ xviii. 151, 178, 204

Guérin, Maurice de, xxiii. 165

Gurr, --, xxv. 48, 105, 116, 448

Gurr, Mrs., xxv. 107

Guthrie, Charles J., letters to, xxiii. 312; xxiv. 178

"Guy Mannering" (Scott), xxiv. 91; xxv. 167

Habakkuk, prophet, xxiii. 211

Haddon, Trevor, letters to, xxiii. 357, 360; xxiv. 10, 39, 93

Haggard, Bazett, xxv. 138, 161, 170-1, 193 _et passim_

Haggard, Rider, xxiv. 257; xxv. 86, 226-7

"Haggis, The" (Burns), xxiv. 256

"Hair Trunk," xxiii. 205-6

Hake, Dr. Gordon, xxiv. 239

Hall, Basil, xxv. 111

Hallé, Sir Charles, xxiii. 169, 198

"Hall, Mr." (Clarissa Harlowe), xxiii. 211

Hamerton, P. G., xxiii. _intro._ xvii., 58, 216, 218, 315 _n._ 1, 316, 336; letters to, xxiii. 242, 314, 335; xxiv. 143

"Hamerton, P. G., An Autobiography," xxiii. 216

Hamilton, Captain, death of, xxv. 65

"Hamlet" (Shakespeare), xxv. 51

Hammond, Basil, xxiv. 13 & _n._ 1

Hampstead, at, xxiii. 124, 133

Hand, Captain, R.N., xxv. 139

Handwriting, tests of, xxv. 254-5

Hansome, Rufe, xxiii. 278

Happiness, xxiv. 183-4

Hardy, Thomas, xxiv. 153; xxv. 266

Hargrove, Mr., xxiii. 25, 26

"Harry Richmond" (Meredith), characters in, xxiv. 97

Harte, Bret, xxiii. 210

"Hastie" (Kidnapped), xxiv. 196

Hawaiian Islands, stay in, xxiv. 291

"Hawthorne" (H. James), xxiii. 273, 277

Hayley, --, xxiii. 252

Hazlitt, William, xxv. 385

"Heart of Midlothian" (Scott), xxiii. 65; xxv. 154

"Heathercat," unfinished, xxv. 281, 360-1, 403

Hebrides, yachting trip in, xxiii. 124, 139, 140

Hecky, a dog, xxiv. 202

Hegel, --, xxiv. 75

Heintz, Dr., xxiii. 244

Henderson, Mr., xxiii. 6, 328; xxiv. 31

Henley, Anthony, xxiii. 238, 240

Henley, E. J., xxiv. 261

Henley, W. E., xxiii. 124, 171, 172, 177, 284, 285, 334, 352; xxiv. 29, 47, 52, 59, 67, 79, 99, 151, 155, 191, 202, 302, 377; xxv. 97, 121, 123, 174; appreciation of, xxv. 213; dramatic collaboration with, xxiii. 185, 256, 257; xxiv. 99, 106, 119, 146; editor of _London_, xxiii. 184; in hospital, xxv. 427; letters to, xxiii. 204, 217, 219, 221, 233, 238, 249, 255, 256, 265, 317, 319, 326, 328, 330, 334, 341, 342, 352, 362; xxiv. 17, 23, 31, 32, 34, 36, 37, 47, 54, 57, 65, 72, 79, 91, 96, 102, 111, 114, 120, 123, 127, 131, 133, 146, 147, 155, 229, 239, 248, 257; xxv. 214; poems by, xxv. 122, 214

"Henry Shovel," _see_ "Shovels of Newton French"

_Herald_, ship, xxv. 444

Herbert, George, poetry of, xxiii. 18

Herrick, Robert, xxiii. _intro._ xx.; xxiv. 36, 82

"Herrick, Robert," essay (Gosse), xxiv. 45

_Hester Noble_, unfinished play (with Henley), xxiii. 256, 257

"Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin' yet?" air, xxiii. 113

Highland History, projected, xxiii. 280, 290-1, 297; xxv. 117

"Highland Widow" (Scott), xxv. 24

"High Woods of Umfanua," _see_ "Beach of Falesá"

Hiroshigé, prints by, xxiii. 157

"Histoire d'Israël" (Renan), xxv. 304

"Histoire des Origines de Christianisme" (Renan), xxv. 304

"History of America" (Adams), xxv. 215, 266

"History of England" (Macaulay), xxiii. 70

"History of France" (Martin), xxiii. 193

"History of Indostani" (Orme), xxv. 419, 423

"History of Notorious Pirates" (Johnson), xxiv. 101

"History of the Great Storm" (Defoe), xxiv. 101

"History of the Rebellion" (Clarendon), xxiii. 31

"History of the Stevensons," _see_ "Family of Engineers"

"History of the United States" (Bancroft), xxiii. 246

Hogarth, William, xxiii. 69; Cambridge lectures on, by Colvin, xxiii. 178

Hokusai (_Magazine of Art_), xxiv. 32

Hole, W., illustrator, xxiv. 270, 319, 321-2, 346; xxv. 349 & _n._ 1, 362 _n._ 1

"Holy Fair" (Burns), xxiii. 4; xxiv. 265 _n._ 1

Homburg, visit to, xxiii. 182

"Home is the Sailor," lines chosen for epitaph, xxiii. 269; xxv. 375

Home Rule Bill of 1885, xxiv. 192

"Homme, L', qui rit" (Hugo), xxiii. 125 & _n._ 1

Honolulu, visits to, xxiv. 291, 319 _et seq._, 329, 353; xxv. 281, 345, 349, 362

"Horatian Ode" (Marvell), xxiii. 293

Hoskin, Dr., xxv. 268, 270, 452

"House of Eld" Fables, xxiii. 12, 141

Houses, characteristics of, xxiii. 145, 146

Howard Place, 8, Edinburgh, birthplace, xxiii. 5

"Howe, Miss" (Clarissa Harlowe), xxiii. 210

"Huckleberry Finn" (Twain), xxiv. 139

"Huguenots, Les," opera, xxiii. 200

"Huish" (Ebb Tide), xxv. 313

"Human Compromise," xxiii. 267

Humble Apology (Longman's), xxiv. 181

Humble Remonstrance (Longman's), xxiv. 127

Hume, David, xxiii. 4, 72, 111, 145

"Humilies et offensés" (Dostoieffsky), xxiv. 183

Hunter, Robert, "portrait" of, xxv. 301

Hurricane at Apia, the great, xxiv. 345, 346, 369; xxv. 141, 172-4; chapter on, in "Footnote," issued in _Scots Observer_, xxv. 174

Hutchinson, --, bust by, of R. L. S., xxv. 353 & _n._ 1

Hyde, Rev. Dr., and Father Damien, xxiv. 292; controversy with, xxiv. 383-4, 391 & _n._ 1, 402, 404

Hyéres, at, xxiv. 5, 21 _et seq._; xxv. 60

Hyndman, --, xxiv. 141

"Hyperion" (Keats), xxiv. 170

Iceland, book on, by Gosse suggested, xxiii. 333

"Ich unglückselige Atlas," song (Schubert), xxiii. 139

Ide, Annie H., and R. L. S.'s birthday, xxv. 89-90, 118-9; letter to, xxv. 118

Ide, C. J., Land Commissioner and afterwards Chief Justice in Samoa, xxv. 281, 298, 380-1, 450; letter to, xxv. 88

Ide, Margery, xxv. 450

_Idler, The_, xxv. 372, 429; contributions to, xxv. 376

_Illustrated London News_, xxv. 301

Inchcape bell, xxiii. 29

Income-tax, xxiii. 113, 114

Inglis, John, Justice-General, xxiii. 181

Ingram, John H., xxiii. 166

"Inland Voyage," xxiii. 183, 185, 204, 211, 212, 218, 229, 247; xxiv. 103; criticisms on, xxiii. 215-6

"Inn Album" (Robert Browning), review of, xxiii, 198, 199

"Inn, The," xxv. 429

"In Russet and Silver" (Gosse), dedication of, xxv. 454

"In the Garden," projected, xxiv. 99

"In the South Seas," first published as "The South Seas," xxiv. 290, 292, 297, 320-1, 358, 362, 399, 403; xxv. 5, 12, 16, 22, 26, 34, 45, 54, 61 & _nn._ 1 & 2, 68, 69, 77, 78, 80, 97, 100; criticisms, xxiv. 293, 348-9; xxv. 76; dedication proposed, xxiv. 304

Intimate Poems, suggested edition, xxv. 377

_Iona_, vessel, xxiii. 24

Ireland, Alexander, letter to, xxiii. 342

Ireland, plan for life in, xxiv. 108, 222

Irongray, tombs at, xxiii. 65

"Isabella and the Pot of Basil" (Keats), xxiv. 170

Isaiah, prophet, xxiii. 211

"Is it not verse except enchanted groves" (Herbert), xxiii. 18

"Island Nights' Entertainments," xxv. 64, 272, 284, 290; illustrations, xxv. 312; length, xxv. 353 & _n._ 1; reviews xxv. 315 & _n._ 1

"Isle of Voices," xxv. 272

"Islet, The," xxv. 301

"Ivanhoe" (Scott), xxiv. 31

Jack, the island horse, xxv. 35-6, 41, 136, 142

James, G. P. R., novels by, ordered by R. L. S., xxiv. 273

James, Henry, xxiv. 105, 127, 130, 133, 143, 154, 182, 235, 250, 359; xxv. 29, 317, 415, 452; letters to, xxiv. 127, 160, 214, 215, 237, 249, 262, 278, 288, 334, 382, 396; xxv. 43, 108, 130, 274, 320, 335, 367, 406

"James More," xxv. 161, 216, 295

_Janet Nicoll_, ss., cruise in, xxiv. 292-3, 385 _et seq._, 392, 403; xxv. 11, 54, 304

Japan and Japanese art, interest in, xxiii. 157, 158, 159; xxiv. 32, 57

Japp, Dr. Alexander, xxiii. 329; letters to, xxiii. 321, 327, 351

Jeafferson, --, xxiv. 178

"Jedidiah Cleishbotham" (Scott), xxiii. 65

Jenkin family, xxiii. 25, 100

Jenkin, Mrs. Fleeming, xxiii. 10, 25; xxiv. 300; letters to, xxiv. 150, 151, 187, 221, 225, 258; xxv. 273

Jenkin, Professor Fleeming, xxiii. 10, 25, 118, 122, 175, 176, 183, 247, 311, 341, 353; xxiv. 48, 258, 272; death, xxiv. 106, 150, 151; memoir of, by R. L. S. (_see_ "Memoir"); debt to, xxiv. 331

Jerome, Jerome K., xxv. 372, 429

"Jerry Abershaw," projected, xxiii. 328, 329; xxiv. 152

Jersey, Countess of, in Samoa, xxv. 145, 227, 228, 325; letters to, xxv, 228-9; on her visit to R. L. S., xxv. 228

Jersey, Earl of, xxv. 288

"Jess" (Window in Thrums), xxv. 277

Jhering, Professor, xxiii. 118, 122

_J. L. Tiernan_, schooner, xxiv. 359

Joan of Arc, Byron's epithet for, xxiii. 354

"Jock o' Hazeldean," air, xxiii. 113

"John Peel" of the song, xxiii. 28

"John Silver" (Treasure Island), xxiv. 112, 123; genesis of, xxiv. 31

Johnson, --, an American, xxiii. 108, 110, 111, 112

"Johnson," or "Johnstone," pseudonym, xxiv. 14, 121

Johnson, Samuel, xxiii. 298; "Life" of, xxiii. 193, 203

Johnstone, Marie, Mary, or May, xxiii. 94, 95, 98, 99, 101

Johnstone, Mr. and Mrs., xxiii. 96, 99

_John Williams_, missionary barque, xxiv. 387

"Jolly Beggars" (Burns), sent for autograph, xxv. 69, 87, 118

Jones, Henry Arthur (_see also_ "Bauble Shop"), letter to, xxiv. 133

Jonson, Ben, xxiii. 294

Journalistic work, xxiii. 184

"Joy of Earth" (Meredith), xxv. 214

Jura, Skye terrier, xxv. 428-9

"Justice Clerk," _see_ Weir of Hermiston

"Juvenilia," xxv. 397-8

Kaiulani, Hawaiian Princess, xxiv. 345, 346

Kalakaua, King, xxiv. 320

Kalaupapa, Molokai, xxiv. 351 _et seq._

Kalawao, Molokai, xxiv. 353-4

_Katoomba_, H.M.S., xxv. 334; band of, xxv. 351

Kava, native beverage, xxv. 183 & _n._ 1

"Keats" ("English Men of Letters," by Colvin), xxiii. 349, 350-1; xxiv. 210, 211

Keir, Jean, xxv. 335

Kelso, xxiii. 156

"Kenilworth" (Scott), xxiv. 91

"Kidnapped," xxiii. 24, 331; xxiv. 106, 146, 147, 179, 190, 195-6, 203, 233, 265, 317, 370, 377; xxv. 108, 160, 215, 250, 283, 301, 351; in Braille, xxv. 366; projected illustrations, xxv. 349 _n._ 1; reception, xxiv. 198; reviews, xxiv. 203; sequel (_see_ "Catriona"), xxv. 144; suggested French translation, xxv. 52

Killigrew, Anne, xxiii. 293 _n._ 1

"King Lear" (Shakespeare), xxv. 51

"King Matthias's Hunting Horn" lost, xxiii. 158, 160, 170

Kinglake, W., xxiii. 70

"King's Horn, The," xxiii. 308

Kingston, W.G., xxiii. _intro._ xxiii.

Kingussie, at, xxiii. 284, 357

Kipling, Rudyard, anticipated visit from, xxv. 105 & _n._ 1; xxv. 163, 165; appreciations of, xxiv. 396; xxv. 46, 213, 275; letter to, xxv. 46; writings of, xxv. 379

Kirriemuir, xxv. 417

"Kirstie Elliot" (Weir of Hermiston), xxiii. _intro._ xx.; xxv. 457

Kitchener, Colonel, _ib._

Kitchener, Viscount, xxv. 236-7

Knappe, Consul, xxiv. 370; xxv. 139, 141

"Knox, John, and his Relations with Women," xxiii. 141, 149, 150, 153, 155

Knox, John, "Works" of, xxiii. 117

Knox, John, writings on, xxiii. 55, 61, 111, 141, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 153, 155, 158, 159, 167, 170, 171, 173

Ko-o-amua, ex-cannibal chief, xxiv. 293

"Kubla Khan" (Coleridge), xxiii. 92, 220

Kuniyoshi, prints by, xxiii. 157

Labiche, --, xxiii. 239

Labour, imported, in Samoa, xxv. 159 & _n._ 1

Lacy, Mr., xxiii. 307

"Lady Barberina" (H. James), xxiv. 128

"Lady Carbury" ("Way of the World"), xxiii. 215

Lafarge, John, painter, xxv. 4, 29 & _n._ 1, 41, 43, 45

La Fontaine, "Fables" of, xxv. 49

"Lake Isle of Innisfree" (Yeats), xxv. 390

Lamb, Charles, xxiii. 209

"Lamia" (Keats), illustrated by Low, xxiv. 142, 166; dedication of, xxiv. 169-71

Lampman, Archibald, sonnet by, xxiv. 321 & _n._ 1

Landor, W. S., xxiii. 302, 317, 320-1

"Landscape" (Hamerton), xxiv. 143-4

Land's End, visited, xxiii. 183, 209

Lang, Andrew, xxiii. 115, 117, 222, 311, 316; xxiv. 106, 134, 206, 257, 278, 381, 388; xxv. 357, 427; letters to, xxiv. 399; xxv. 216, 453; story suggested by, xxv. 141 & _n._ 1; on "Treasure Island," xxiv. 67

Lantenac, M. (Victor Hugo), xxiii. 130 _n._ 1

"Lantern Bearers, The" (_Scribner's_), xxiv. 235, 254; xxv. 97, 301

Large, Miss, xxv. 329-31

La Sale, Antoine, projected essay on, xxiii. 207

"Last Sinner, The," xxiii. 171

Laupepa, _see_ Malietoa

Lautreppe, Albert de, xxv. 383

Lavenham, xxiii. 56

Law examination passed, xxiii. 182

"Lay Morals," 86, 185; xxiv. 62 _et seq._

"Leading Light, The," projected, xxiii. 329

"Leaves of Grass" (Whitman), xxiii. 70

Le Gallienne, Richard, letter to, xxv. 364

Legal work, xxiii. 182, 184

Leigh, Hon. Capt., xxv. 227-8, 231, 233, 234, 235

Leith, xxiii. 159, 202

Lemon, --, picture by, xxiv. 167

Lenz, --, xxiv. 198

Le Puy, xxiii. 217

"Lesson, The, of the Master" (H. James), xxiv. 382; xxv. 108, 274

"Letter to the Church of Scotland," xxv. 398

"Letter to a Young Gentleman," xxv. 123 _n._ 1

"Letters and Memories of Jane Welsh Carlyle" (Froude), xxiii, 301, 302

Letters, desiderata in, xxiii. 259

"Letters" (Flaubert), xxiv. 405; xxv. 59

"Letters from a Gentleman in the North of Scotland to his Friend in London" (Burt), xxiii. 291

"Letters to his Family and Friends," xxiii. _intro._ xix.

Leven, xxiii. 61

"Library, The" (Lang), xxiii. 307

"Lieder und Balladen" (Burns), Silbergleit's translation, xxiii. 39

Life, two views on, xxiv. 158, 164, 165

"Life and Death," xxiii. 171

"Life of General Hutchinson" (Mrs. Hutchinson), xxiii. 30, 31, 32

"Life of Hazlitt," projected, xxiii. 283, 336, 339, 345

"Life of P. H. Gosse" (Edmund Gosse), xxv. 71, 130, 317

"Life of R. L. S." (Balfour), xxiii. _intro._ xix.; xxv. 4, 59

"Life of Robertson" (Dugald Stewart), xxiii. 119

"Life of Samuel Johnson" (Boswell), xxiii. 193, 203

"Life of Sir Walter Scott" (Lockhart), xxiv. 75, 84, 170, 171

"Life of Wellington" ("English Worthies"), unfinished, xxiv. 106, 134, 139

"Life on the Lagoons" (H. F. Brown), xxiii. 303

Lillie, Jean and David, connection of, with the Stevensons, xxv. 436

"Lion of the Nile," xxiv. 321

Lions, xxiii. 307

Lippincott, xxiv. 54-5, 90

"Literary Recollections" (Payn), xxiv. 381

"Little Minister" (Barrie), xxv. 265, 276

"Lives of the Admirals" (Southey), xxiii. 70

"Lives of the Stevensons," _see_ "Family of Engineers"

"L. J. R.," Essay Club, xxiii. 46, 48; xxv. 121

Llandudno, visited, xxiii. 124, 148

Locker-Lampson, Frederick, letters to, xxiv. 205, 206, 207, 208, 215

"Lodging for the Night," xxiii. 184, 191, 248

Logan, John, xxiii. 71, 72

_London_, contributions to, xxiii. 184

"London Life" (H. James), xxiv. 289

London, visits to (see _also_ British Museum), xxiii. 77, 155, 330; xxiv. 105, 107, 186-7, 189, 202, 209, 229

"London Voluntaries" (Henley), xxv. 214

Longman, --, publisher, xxiv. 30, 66, 111, 134; xxv. 123, 125

_Longman's Magazine_, contributions to, xxiv. 127, 130, 134, 143, 181; xxv. 454

"Lord Nidderdale" (Way of the World), xxiii. 215

"Lord Rintoul" (Little Minister), xxv. 265

"Lost Sir Massingberd" (Payn), xxiv. 7, 177

Loti, Pierre (M. Viaud), xxiv. 308

"Loudon Dodd" (Wrecker), xxv. 24, 172 & _n._1

"Louis XIV. et la Révocation de l'Édit de Nantes" (Michelet), xxiii. 69

"Louse, The" (Burns), xxiv. 256

"Love in the Valley" (Meredith), xxiv. 54; xxv. 214, 390

"Lovelace" (Clarissa Harlowe), xxiii. 210

Love, young, advice on, xxiii. 358

Lowell, John Russell, xxiv. 107

Low, Mrs. W. H., xxiv. 107, 202, 217

Low, W. H., xxiv. 107, 202, 217, 234, 250, 251, 255, 288, 369, 390; xxv. 25, 111; illustrated edition by, of "Lamia," xxiv. 142, 166; dedication of, xxiv. 169-71; letters to, xxiv. 57, 63, 72, 89, 115, 142, 153, 166, 169, 172, 177, 185, 217, 230, 245, 346; xxv. 378

_Lübeck_, s.s., passage on, xxiv. 375 _et seq._; xxv. 48, 50, 53, 81

_Ludgate Hill_, s.s., passage in, xxiv. 110, 230, 232; xxiv. 235 _et seq._

Lully, J.B., gavotte by, xxiv. 188-9

Lysaght, Sidney, xxv. 385-6, 388, 405, 415 & _n._ 1; books by, xxv. 390; visit from, xxv. 374

_Macaire_, play (with Henley), xxiv. 146, 147

_Macbeth_ (Shakespeare), xxiv. 57

M'Carthy, Justin, xxiv. 173

McClure, S. S., publisher, relations with, xxiv. 234, 252, 321, 379; xxv. 120

McCrie, --, xxiii. 117

Macdonald, David, xxiii. 20

Macdonald, Flora, xxiii. 298

Macdonald, George, xxiv. 248

Macdonald, J. H. A., xxiii. 114

Macgregor, clan, xxv. 293, 346

M'Gregor-Stevenson connection, question of, xxv. 440

Mackay, Professor Æneas, xxiii. 282; letters to, xxiii. 309

Mackintosh family, xxiii. 169

M'Laren, Duncan, xxiii. 96, 97, 114

MacMahon, President, xxiii. 116

Macmillan, Alexander, xxiii. 151

_Macmillan's Magazine_, xxiii. _intro._ xvii. 204; contributions to, xxiii. 125, 149, 151

Macpherson, Miss Fanny (Lady Holroyd), xxv. 83 & _n._ 1

Madeira, plan to visit, xxiv. 328

"Mademoiselle Merquem" (Sand), xxiii. 87

_Magazine of Art_, contributions to, xxiii. 333-4; xxiv. 54, 57, 115, 181; xxv. 97, 123, 398, 423

Majendie, Colonel, xxiv. 283

"Malade Imaginaire" (Molière), xxiv. 123

"Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerre," xxiii. 102

Malie, abode and following of Malietoa, xxv. 6, 9 _et seq._

Malietoa Laupepa, xxv. 9, 176, 234, 466; friendliness with, xxv. 10; and Mataafa, troubles concerning, xxv. 6-9 _et seq._

Manasquan, at, xxiv. 234, 286-8

Manchester Ship Canal, xxiv. 135

_Manhattan_, magazine, xxiv. 57, 90

"Manse, The," xxiii. 4; xxv. 301

Manu'a, islands of, "queen" of, xxv. 407-8

Marat, xxiv. 183

Marbot, "Memoires" of, xxv. 274, 321

"Marche funèbre" (Chopin), xxiii. 139

Marcus Aurelius, xxiv. 183

"Marden, Colonel" (Clarissa Harlowe), xxiii. 210

"Margery Bonthron," xxiii. 171

"Marion," xxiii. 307

_Mariposa_, s.s., xxv. 346

"Markheim," xxiii. _intro._ xx., xxiii.; xxiv. 125, 213

"Marmont's Memoirs," xxiv. 134

Marot, Clement, poems by, xxiii. 108

"Marplot, The" (Lysaght), xxv. 390

Marquesas Islands, visited, xxiv. 290, 293, 371

Marryat, Captain, works by, ordered by R. L. S., xxiv. 338

Marseilles, at, xxiv. 5, 12-14, 98

Marshall Islands, visited, xxiv. 292

Martial, xxiv. 82

Martin, A. Patchett, letters to, xxiii. 208, 209

"Martin's Madonna," xxiii. 171

Marvell, Andrew, xxv. 46

Mary, Queen of Scots, xxiii. 62

"Mary Wollstonecraft" (Mrs. Pennell), xxiv. 149

"Master of Ballantrae," xxiii. _intro._ xxiii.; xxiv. 235, 265, 268-70, 274, 276, 278, 279, 291, 314, 317, 328, 338, 339, 346, 349, 360, 369, 370, 377, 398; xxv. 43, 171 & _n._ 2, 250, 357; illustrations, xxiv. 319, 320; original plan of, xxv. 396; paper on, xxv. 376; suggested French translation, xxv. 52

Mataafa, xxiv. 370; xxv. 176, 256; troubles concerning, xxv. 6-9 _et seq._, 93 _et seq._, 280, 332-3, 350; visits to, xxv. 193 _et seq._, 242; with Lady Jersey, xxv. 228 _et seq._

Matlock, visited, xxiv. 105, 189

Maupassant, Guy de, xxiv. 383

Maxwell, Sir Herbert, xxv. 437; letters to, xxv. 440, 453

"Mazeppa" (Byron), xxiii. 132

Medallion portrait by St. Gaudens, xxv. 410

Medea (Ordered South), xxiii. 86 & _n._ 1

Mediterranean, impression of, xxiii. 104, 105

Meiklejohn, Hugh, xxv. 269, 450, 451

Meiklejohn, Professor John, xxiii. 263, 316; compliments on "Burns" article, xxiii. 241; letters to, xxiii. 263; xxv. 450

"Mein Herz ist im Hochland," xxiii. 41

Melford, xxiii. 56

Melville, Herman, xxiv. 295, 348, 381

"Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin," xxiv. 106-7, 150, 169, 174, 187, 225

"Memoirs of a Cavalier" (Defoe), xxiv. 101

"Memoirs of an Islet," essay, xxiii. 23

"Memoirs of Henry Shovel," unfinished, xxiv. 402

"Memorials" (Laing), xxv. 293

"Memorials of a Scottish Family," projected (_see also_ "Family of Engineers"), xxiv. 279

"Memories and Portraits," xxiii. 56, 318 _n._ 1; xxiv. 96 _n._ 1, 214, 215, 230, 231, 257; xxv. 51, 53, 301 & _n._ 1

"Men and Books," xxiii. 86

Menken, Adah, xxiii. 275

Mentone, at, xxiii. 55, 77, 81 _et seq._, 143-4

Meredith, George, xxiii. 183, 311; xxiv. 97, 278 & _n._ 1; xxv. 351-2; letters to, xxv. 343, 390

"Merry Men, The," xxiii. 282, 316, 317, 321; xxiv. 35, 90, 125, 213, 215; xxv. 353; criticisms on, xxiii. 319; dedication, xxiv. 211; germ of, xxiii. 308; places described in, xxiii. 317

Michaels, barber, xxiii. 244

Michelet, --, xxv. 304

Middleton, Miss, letter to, xxv. 428

Millais, Sir John E., xxiv. 139; on R. L. S., as artist, xxiii. _intro._ xxx.

Milne, Mrs., letter to, xxiv. 70

Milson, John, xxiv. 130

"Mimes" (Schwob), xxv. 409

"Misadventure in France, A," essay, xxiv. 67-8

"Misadventures of John Nicholson" (_Yule-Tide_), xxiii. 12; xxiv. 211, 214; xxv. 57 & _n._ 1

"Miscellanies" (Edinburgh edition), xxv. 33, 376, 397 & _n._ 1, 424

"Misérables, Les" (V. Hugo), xxiii. 129 _n._ 1

Missions and missionary work, xxv. 10, _n._ 1, 33, 56, 57, 203, 410-11, 422

Möe, Princess, xxiv. 308, 309, 313

"Mobray" (Clarissa Harlowe), xxiii. 210

Mödestine, the donkey of the Cévennes journey, xxiii. 218

Molière, xxiii. 69; plays, xxiv. 96, 123

"Moll Flanders" (Defoe), xxiv. 101

Molokai, visited, xxiv. 291, 345, 349 _et seq._, 356

Monaco, at, xxiii. 93

Monastier, visit to, xxiii. 217

Monkhouse, Cosmo, letters to, xxiv. 85, 95

Monroe, Miss, letters to, xxiv. 191, 193, 261

"Monsieur Auguste" (Méry), xxiii. 257, 258

Montagu, Basil, xxv. 29 _n._ 2

Montaigne, xxiv. 130, 144

Monterey, xxiv. 36; ranche life at, xxiii. 229, 234, 235, 236

"Monterey, California," xxiii. 241, 242

Montpellier, at, xxiv. 4

"Moonstone, The" (Wilkie Collins), xxiii. 18

Moors, H. J., xxiv. 292, 370, 371; xxv. 10, 28, 29, 30, 31, 40, 96, 107

"Morality, the, of the Profession of Letters" (_Fortnightly_), xxiii. 281

"More New Arabian Nights," xxiv. 106, 108, 114, 127, 139, 140, 142

Morley, Charles, of the _Pall Mall Gazette_, xxiv. 125

"Morley Ernstein" (G. P. R. James), xxiv. 75

Morley, John (Viscount Morley), xxiii. 127, 132, 226, 268

_Morning Star_, missionary ship, cruise in, projected, xxiv. 337, 338-9, 340, 343, 384

Morris, William, letter to, xxv. 162

Morse, Captain, xxv. 222

Morse, Miss, letter to, xxv. 253

Mount Chessie, xxiv. 44

Mount Saint Helena, xxiii. 277

Mount Vaea, burial-place of R. L. S., xxv. 9, 10, _n._ 1, 458 _et seq._

Mulinuu, abode and party of Malietoa, xxv. 9 _et seq._, 107, 330, 332, 333, 370

"Mulvaney" (Soldiers Three), letter as from, xxv. 46

"Murder of Red Colin," projected, xxiii. 331

Murders, famous, volume on, projected by Gosse and R. L. S., xxiii. 338, 350

"Murders in the Rue Morgue" (Poe), xxiii. _intro._ xxiii

Mures, the, of Caldwell, xxv. 358

Murphy, Tommy, a lost child, story of, xxiii. 161, 162

Murrayfield, xxv. 57

Murray, Grahame, xxiii. 90

Murray, W. C., xxv. 69

Musset, Alfred de, comedies of, xxiii. 212

Mutiny, Indian, novel on, projected, xxiv. 283-4

"My Boy Tammie," air, xxiii. 113

"My First Book," series in _Idler_, xxv. 33, 376, 429

Myers, F. W. H., letter to, xxiv. 184

Napoleon III., xxv. 250, 319

Nares, Captain (The Wrecker), xxv. 269

Navigator Islands, xxiii. 180, 205; xxiv, 405

Navy, British, men of, xxv. 351-2

Nebraska, aspect of, xxiii. 233-4

Nerli, Count, xxv. 228

Neruda, Mme. Norman, xxiii. 169, 198

Nether Carsewell, xxv. 342, 346

"New Arabian Nights," xxiii. 185, 218; xxiv. 7, 256

New Caledonia, visited, xxiv. 293, 385, 392

"New Poems" (Edmund Gosse), xxiii. 245-6

Newport, U.S.A., at, xxiv. 233, 237-8, 255

_New Quarterly_, contributions to, xxiii. 237

_New Review_, contribution to, xxv. 18 _n._ 1

New Year's wish, a, xxiii. 212

New York, at, xxiv. 233-4, 238

_New York Ledger_, contribution to, xxiv. 361

_New York Tribune_, editor of, letter to, xxiv. 7

New Zealand, xxiv. 405

Nice, visits to, xxiii. 84; xxiv. 4, 6, 79, 92

Nile Campaigns, xxiv. 81

Noël-Pardon, M., xxiv. 394

"Noll and Nell," poem (Martin), xxiii. 210

"Norma," opera, xxiii. 252

"Northern Lights" (_see also_ "Family of Engineers"), xxiii. 4, 10; xxv. 322

Norwood, at, xxiii. 57

"Note on Realism" (_Magazine of Art_), xxiv. 59, 62, 181

"Notes on the Movements of Young Children," xxiii. 133, 143 & _n._ 2

"Notre Dame" (Hugo), xxiii. 129 _n._ 1

Noumea, visited, xxiv. 293, 392, 396

Nukahiva Island, at, xxiv. 290, 293

Nulivae Bridge, at, xxv. 223

"Ode to Duty" (Wordsworth), xxv. 173 & _n._ 1

"Ode to the Cuckoo," authorship of, xxiii. 71, 72

O'Donovan Rossa, xxiii. 321

"OEdipus King" (Sophocles), xxiv. 114

"Olalla," xxiv. 106

Old English History (Freeman's), xxv. 117

"Old Gardener," xxv. 404

"Old Mortality" (Scott), xxiii. 129 _n._ 1; essay on, xxiv. 6, 68, 96

"Old Pacific Capital" (_Fraser's Magazine_), xxv. 97

Oliphant, Mrs., xxiv. 370, 382

Omission, art of, xxiv. 60

Omond, --, xxiv. 178

"Omoo" (Melville), xxiv. 348

"One of the Grenvilles" (Lysaght), xxv. 390

"Only Child," projected, xxiv. 99

"On the Enjoyment of Unpleasant Places," xxiii. 15, 151-3

"On the Principal Causes of Silting in Estuaries" (T. Stevenson), xxiv. 135

"On some Aspects of Burns" (_Cornhill_), xxiii. 224, 227

"On some Ghostly Companions at a Spa," xxiii. 285

"Operations of War" (Hamley), xxiii. _intro._ xxxiv.

Orange, at, xxiii. 80

"Ordered South," xxiii. _intro._ xxvii., 56, 77, 83, 86, 87 & _n._ 1, 116, 122, 126, 267; published, xxiii. 125

Organ-grinder episode, xxiii. 155-6

Ori a Ori, chief, xxiv. 291, 302, 304, 306-7, 309-10 _et seq._, 317, 334; letter from, xxiv. 332-3, 337

"Origines de la France Contemporaine" (Taine), xxiv. 258; xxv. 111-2, 319

"Origines" (Renan), xxv. 304

Orkneys and Shetlands, tour of, xxiii. 10, 24

_Orlando_, H.M.S., xxv. 329

Orr, Fred, letter to, xxv. 127

"Orsino" (_Twelfth Night_), R. L. S. as, xxiii. 175, 176

Osbourne, Lloyd, xxiii. _intro._ xvii., 300, 348 _et seq._; xxiv. 28, 139, 178, 198, 199, 201, 290, 309, 323, 330, 341, 366, 392, 396, 399, 402; xxv. 3, 21 & _n._ 2, 50, 52, 67, 78, 96, 98, 99, 390, 445; account by, of death of R. L. S., xxv. 457 _et seq._; collaboration with (_see also_ "Wrecker"), xxiv. 235, 249, 250, 256, 283-4, 328, 361, 367, 379, 380, 389, 399, 402; xxv. 347-9, 437-8; illness, xxv. 152

Osbourne, Mrs., _see_ Stevenson, Mrs. R. L.

Ossianic controversy, xxiii. 298

_Othello_ (Shakespeare), xxv. 51

Otis, Captain, xxiv. 234, 290

Otway, essay on (Gosse), xxiv. 45

Our Lady of the Snows, monastery, poem on (Underwoods), xxiii. 221-2

"Owl, The," projected, xxv. 315 & _n._ 1

"Oxford Dictionary of the English Language" (Murray), xxiv. 37

P--N, John, letter to, xxv. 358

P--n, Russell, letter to, xxv. 359

Pacific Ocean, xxiii. 240

Pacific voyages, _see_ "In the South Seas"

Page, H. A., pseudonym for Dr. Japp, _q.v._

Pago-pago harbour, xxv. 8, 65

Painters and their art, xxiv. 60-1

"Painters' Camp, in the Highlands" (Hamerton), xxiii. 216

_Pall Mall Gazette_, contributions to, xxiii. 281, 346; xxiv. 120, 125, 130, 131, 227; xxv. 397; Henley's articles in, xxiii. 238

"Pan's Pipes," xxiii. 212; xxv. 301

Papeete (Tahitian Islands), xxiv. 291, 296, 308, 314

Paperchase, Sunday, xxv. 422

Paris Exhibition of 1878, xxiii. 183

Paris, visits to, xxiii. 183, 305; xxiv. 105, 107

Parker, Lieutenant and Mrs., xxv. 29

"Parliament Close" (Picturesque Notes on Edinburgh), xxiii. 216

Parliament House, Edinburgh, verses on, xxiii. 193-4

Parnessiens, proposed paper on, xxiii. 168

"Paston Letters," xxiii. 203

"Pastoral" (Longman's), xxiv. 221; xxv. 301

Paton, John, and Co., xxiv. 252

Paul, C. Kegan, xxiii. 212

Paumotus atolls, visited, xxiv. 290, 293-4

"Pavilion, The, on the Links," xxiii. 229, 238, 249, 256, 259, 262, 267

Payne, John, xxv. 427

Payn, James, xxiv. 355; handwriting of, xxv. 365; letters to, xxiv. 176, 355, 381; xxv. 425, 446; novel by, xxv. 171; works of, xxiv. 7-9

"Pearl Fisher" (with Lloyd Osbourne, _see_ "Ebb Tide"), changes of name for story, xxv. 288 _et seq._

"Pegfurth Bannatyne," xxiii. 361, 362

Pella, letter from, xxiii. 115, 128

Pembroke, Earl of, xxv. 290

"Penn" (H. Dixon), xxiii. 277

Pennell, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph, xxiv. 149; letter to, xxiv. 149

Penn, William, article on, projected, xxiii. 265

"Penny plain and Twopence coloured," essay, xxiv. 93

"Penny Whistles," _see_ "Child's Garden of Verse"

"Pentland Hills" (Picturesque Notes on Edinburgh), xxiii. 216

"Pentland Rising," xxv. 397

Penzance, visit to, xxiii. 206

Pepys, Samuel, xxiv. 29, 183; essay on, xxiii. 281

"Petit Jehan de Saintre" (La Sale), essay on projected, xxiii. 267

"Petits Poèmes en Prose," xxiii. 195, 196, 197

"Petronius Arbiter," xxiv. 83

"Pew" (_Admiral Guinea_), xxiv. 119, 120

Peyrat, Napoleon, xxiii. 307

_Pharos_, s.y., xxv. 98 & _n._ 1

"Phasellulus loquitur," xxiv. 116

Pheidias, xxiii. 159

"Philosophy of Umbrellas" (with Ferrier), xxv. 398

Picts, the, xxv. 434-6

"Picturesque Notes on Edinburgh," xxiii. 185, 211, 216, 218

"Pilgrim's Progress" (Bunyan), xxiii. 203; Bagster's edition, essay on cuts in, xxiii. 334

Pilsach, Baron Senfft von, President of the Council, Samoa, xxv. 7, 95 _et seq._, 100-1, 275, 281, 286, 305, 364, 376

"Pinkerton" (Wrecker), xxiv. 368; xxv. 141 & _n._ 1, 146, 378

"Pioneering in New Guinea" (Chalmers), xxv. 39

Piquet, xxv. 428

"Pirate, The" (Marryat), xxiii. 329

"Pirate, The" (Scott), xxiii. 318

"Pirbright Smith," xxiii. 361

"Pitcairn's Criminal Trials of Scotland," xxv. 271, 293

Pitlochry, at, xxiii. 282, 306

"Plain Speaker" (Hazlitt), xxiv. 130

Platz, Herr, xxiv. 194

Poe, Edgar, xxiii. _intro._ xxiii., 166; xxiv. 83

Poems by Baildon, technique discussed, xxv. 377

Poepoe, Joseph, xxiv. 330

Poland, projected visit to, xxiii. 151, 152, 155

Pollington, Lord, xxiv. 260

Pollock, ----, xxiv. 36

Pomaré V., King, xxiv. 309

Poor folk, charity of, xxv. 209-10

"Poor Thing, The," xxiii. 141

Poquelin, ----, xxiv. 123

_Portfolio, The_, xxiii. _intro._ xvii.; contributions to, xxiii. 58, 77, 141, 146, 151, 152, 153, 164, 166, 168, 185, 216; xxv. 397-8; Colvin's work for, xxiii. 178

Portobello, beach incident, xxiii. 73; train incident, xxiii. 63

"Portrait of a Lady" (H. James), xxiv. 263

Positivism, studies in, xxiii. 159

Pratt, ----, fables by, xxv. 49

"Prince de Galles," xxiii., 356

"Prince of Grünewald," _see_ "Prince Otto"

"Prince Otto" (Forest State _q.v._), xxiii. 229, 265, 266, 267, 278, 353; xxiv. 5, 23, 24, 34, 35, 36, 54, 66, 68, 73, 81, 106, 110, 142, 154, 173, 181; xxv. 53, 376; criticisms, xxiv. 191; publication, xxiv. 138; reviews, xxiv. 155-6

"Princess Casamassima" (H. James), xxiv. 160 _n._ 1

Princes Street, Edinburgh, xxiii. 72, 74

Pringle, Janet, xxv. 361

"Printemps, Le," group (Rodin), xxiv. 202, 209

Prisoners, Samoan, gratitude of, _see_ "Road of Loving Hearts"

Privateers, enquiry on, xxv. 380 & _n._ 1

Proctor, Mr. B. W., xxv. 29 & _n._ 2

"Professor Rensselaer," xxiii. 249

Pronouns, "direct and indirect," quip on, xxv. 174

"Providence and the Guitar," xxiii. _intro._ xx., 185, 219, 248, 268

Publishers, xxv. 123-5

"Pulvis et Umbra" (_Scribner's_), xxiv. 235, 253, 264, 274,284, 384; xxv. 123 & _n._ 1

"Pupil, The" (H. James), xxv. 132

Purcell, Rev. ----, xxiii. 332-3; xxiv. 159

Purple passages in literature, xxv. 72-3

"Pye," ----, xxv. 30

Pyle, Howard, xxv. 164 _n._ 1

_Queen_, ship, xxv. 353

Queensferry, xxiii. 68, 69

Queen's River, xxv. 417

"Quentin Durward" (Scott), xxiii. 129 _n._ 1; xxiv. 91

"RAB and his Friends" (Brown) xxiii. 296

Raiatea, xxiv. 308 _et seq._

Raleigh, Walter, on restrained egoism in literature, xxiii. _intro._ xxvi., xxvii.

"Randal" (The Ebb Tide), xxv. 187

"Random Memories: the Coast of Fife" (_Scribner's_), xxiii. 12, 15; xxiv. 235, 387; xxv. 97, 301

Rarotonga, xxv. 269

"Raskolnikoff" (Le Crime et le Châtiment), xxiv. 182

Rawlinson, Miss, letters to, xxiv. 227; xxv. 274; verses to, xxiv. 227

Rawlinson, Mrs., xxiv. 227

Reade, Charles, xxiii. 129 _n._ 1

"Real Thing" (H. James), xxv. 322

"Redgauntlet" (Scott), xxiii. _intro._ xxiii., 287 _n._ 1

Reformation, studies in, xxiii. 159

"Refugees" (Doyle), xxv. 340

Reid, Captain Mayne, works of, xxv. 13

"Reign of Law" (Duke of Argyll), xxiii. 67 & _n._ 1

"Rembrandt," article on, by Colvin (_Edinburgh Review_), xxiii. 225

"Reminiscences" (Carlyle), xxiii. 301

Rémy, Père, xxv. 327

Renaissance story, projected, xxiii. 167, 168

Renan, Ernest, works, xxv. 304

Rennie, John, xxiv. 121

Resignation, xxiv. 62, 76 _et seq._

"Restoration Dramatists," essay on (Lamb), xxiv. 85

Retrospective musings, xxv. 437-8

Revenge, Christian doctrine of, xxiii. 214

Rhone, the, xxiii. 79

"Richard Feverel" (Meredith), xxv. 265

_Richard III._ (Shakespeare), xxiv. 398; xxv. 51

Richardson, Samuel, novelist, xxiii. 129 _n._ 1

Richmond, Sir W. B., xxiv. 107; portrait by, xxiv. 202

_Richmond_, s.s., xxiv. 337, 343

Richmond, stay at, xxiv. 104

"Rideau Cramoisi, Le" (d'Aurévilly), xxv. 314, 380

_Ringarooma_, ship, xxv. 268-9

"Rising Sun," projected, xxiv. 403

"Ritter von dem heiligen Geist" (Heine), xxiii. 88 & _n._ 1

R. L. S. Society, Cincinnati, xxv. 384

"R. L. Stevenson in Wick" (Margaret H. Roberton), xxiii. 15 _n._ 1

"Roads," paper on, xxiii. 55, 58, 59, 60, 62, 63, 67, 76, 77, 117, 119, 121, 141, 143, 201; xxv. 397-8

"Road, the, of Loving Hearts," xxv. 374, 431 _et seq_., 441, 442, 446, 459 _et seq._; inscription on, xxv. 441, 446; speech by R. L. S. at opening of, xxv. 441, 446, 462 _et seq._

Robert, Louis, xxiv. 28

Roberts, Earl, xxiv. 81

Robertson, --, xxiii. 117

Robertson's Sermons, xxiv, 268

Robinet, --, painter, xxiii. 98, 99

"Robin Run-the-Hedge," unfinished, xxiv. 402

"Robinson Crusoe" (Defoe), xxiv. 101, 103

Rob Roy, xxv. 293

"Rob Roy" (Scott), xxiv. 91

"Rocambole" (Ponson du Terrail), xxiii. 254

Roch, Valentine, xxiv. 110, 238 _et passim_

"Roderick Hudson" (H. James), xxiv. 262-3, 265

Rodin, Auguste, sculptor, xxiv. 107, 202; letters to, xxiv. 209, 216

Rodriguez Albano, xxiii. 244

"Rois en Exil" (Daudet), xxiii. 346

"Romance" (Longman's), xxiv. 181

Roman Law, studies in, xxiii. 126

Rondeaux, xxiii. 188-9

"Rosa Quo Locorum," xxv. 33

"Rose," character of (Meredith), xxiv. 97

"Rosen, Countess von" (Forest State), xxiii. 266

Ross, Dr. Fairfax, xxv. 348 & _n._ 1, 350

Ross family, xxiii. 28

Ross of Mull, used in "The Merry Men," xxiii. 41

Rossetti, D. G., xxiv. 239

Ross, Rev. Alexander and Mrs., xxiii. 27

Rothschild, Baron, xxiii. 195

"Rover," verses (Gosse), xxiv. 27

Rowfant, xxiv. 215

"Rowfant Rhymes" (Locker-Lampson), xxiv. 205

Royal Society of Edinburgh, xxiv. 118, 135

Royat, visits to, actual and projected, xxiv. 39, 98, 99 _et seq._; xxv. 105, 131

Ruedi, Dr., xxiii. 297

Rui = Louis, in Samoan pronunciation, xxiv. 307, 310 _et alibi_

Ruskin, John, xxiii. 117; xxv. 397

Russel family, xxiii. 21, 22

Russel, Miss Sara, xxiii. 21, 22

Russel, Mrs., xxiii. 22

Russel, Sheriff, xxiii. 21, 22

Ruysdael, --, painting by, xxiii. 178

Sachsenhausen, xxiii. 43

Sagas, love of, xxiii. 332; xxiv. 207; xxv. 162, 211

"St. Agnes' Eve" (Keats), xxiv. 170

St. Augustine, xxiii. _intro._ xxiv.

St. Gaudens, Augustus, sculptor, xxiv. 170, 234, 238, 390; xxv. 25; letters to, xxv. 308, 341, 410; medallion portrait by, xxiv. 238-9, 250, 255

St. Gaudens, Homer, letters to, xxiv. 287

St. Germain, at, xxiii. 305

"St. Ives," xxv. 281, 347-8, 371, 375, 380 & _n._ 1, 387, 392, 403, 405, 414, 430, 450; inception of, xxv. 285-6; parallel to, xxv. 442; scheme for, xxv. 287

St. John, apostle, and the Revelation (in Renan's book), xxv. 304

St. Paul, xxv. 304; teaching of, xxiii. 214

Saintsbury, Professor G., xxiii. 307

Salvini, T., article on, xxiv. 72

Samoa and the Samoans for children (letters to Miss Boodle on), xxv. 147, 217, 243

Samoa, climate of, xxv. 250, 278, 333, 348 _n._ 1, 350, 419 contrasted with Europe, xxv. 355 exile in, xxv. 349 letters from, xxv. 9 _et seq._ missionary work, in, interest in, xxv. 10 & _n._ 1; xxv. 33, 56, 57 rain in, xxv. 443-4 rivers of, xxv. 132-3 _et seq._ visit to, and settlement in, xxiv. 290 _et seq._ war trouble in, projected work on, xxiv. 370, 379, 380

Samoan character, xxv. 381, 432 chiefs, road made by, _see_ "Road of Loving Hearts" history, _see_ "Footnote to History" language, xxv. 49; study of, xxv. 181, 203 politics, apologies for dwelling on, xxv. 388, 445; interest in. xxv. 4 _et passim_ prisoners (chiefs), _see_ "Road of Loving Hearts"

_Samoa Times_, xxiv. 392

"Samuel Pepys," essay (_Cornhill_), xxiii. 281

Sanchez, Adolpho, xxiii. 240

Sanchez, Mrs., xxv. 257

Sand, George, writings of, xxiii. 87

Sandwich Islands, xxiv. 292, 340

"San Francisco," xxiii. 342

San Francisco, stay at, and visits to, xxiii. 229, 230; xxiv. 234, 283, 286, 289, 290

"Sannazzaro," xxiii. 167

Saône and Rhone, projected journey down and book on, xxiv. 98, 99

Saranac Lake, at, xxiv. 233-4, 240 _et seq._; xxv. 123 _n._ 1

Sargent, John S., artist, xxiv. 105, 167; portrait by, xxiv. 117, 155

_Saturday Review_, xxiii. 58, 69, 77

Savage Island, at, xxiv. 387

Savile Club, the, xxiii. 124, 127, 133, 186, 263; xxiv. 187

Schmidt, Emil, President of Council, Samoa, xxv. 416, 424

"Schooner Farallone," _see_ "Ebb Tide"

Schopenhauer, studies in, xxiii. 159

Schwob, Marcel, letters to, xxiv. 327, 397; xxv. 51, 409

Sciatica, xxiv. 92

"Scotch Church and Union" (Defoe), xxiv. 101

Scotch labourer and politics, xxiii. 61

Scotch murder trials, books on, asked for, xxv. 271

Scotch songs, Russian pleasure in, xxiii. 113

"Scotland and the Union," projected, xxiii. 297

Scotland, last visit, xxiv. 227

Scotland, whisky, etc., of, xxiii. 41

_Scotsman_, xxv. 398

_Scots Observer_, contribution to, xxv. 174

"Scots wha hae," air, xxiii. 113

Scott, Dr., letter to, xxiv. 374

Scott, Sir Walter (_see also_ Waverley Novels), xxiii. 65 & _n._ 1, 111, 130 _n._ 1, 264, 333; xxiv. 75, 76, 84, 91, 382; xxv. 86, 110, 154, 164, 167,371; love of action, xxiii. _intro._ xxxiv.; nobility of character, xxiii. _intro._ xxxv.; novels, xxv. 24; novels contrasted with R. L. S.'s, xxiii. _intro._ xxiii.

Scribner, C., xxiv. 233, 253-4, 390; xxv. 25, 380, 392; letters to, xxiv. 252

Scribner, Messrs., verse published by, xxiv. 395

_Scribner's Magazine_, xxiv. 110, 142, 253, 258; contributions, actual and suggested, xxiv. 233, 235, 239, 240, 247, 252, 268, 277, 287, 367, 377 _et seq._, 387, 393; xxv. 86, 97, 110, 115, 171 _n._ 1

"Sea-Cook, The" (_see also_ "Treasure Island"), xxiii. 326-7

Sedan, xxv. 250, 318

Seed, Hon. J., xxiii. 179; xxiv. 405

Seeley, Professor, style of, xxiv. 55-6

Seeley, Richmond, publisher and editor (_see also_ "Portfolio"), xxiii. _intro._ xvii., 141, 142, 143, 148, 398

Sellar, Mrs., xxiii. 115

"Sensations d'Italie" (Bourget), xxv. 127, 130-1

"Sentimental Journey" (Sterne), xxiii. _intro._ xxiii.

"Sentimental Tommy" (Barrie), xxv. 419 & _n._ 1

Seraphina (_see also_ "Prince Otto"), xxiii. _intro._ xx.

"Service of Man" (Cotter Morison), xxiv. 219-20

Seumanutafa, Chief, of Apia, xxv. 26, 48-9, 105

"Seventeenth Century Studies" (Gosse), xxiv. 45

Sewall, Mr., American Consul at Samoa, xxv. 4, 29, 58, 65-6

"Shadow, The, on the Bed" (Mrs. R. L. S.), xxiii. 308, 316, 321

Shairp, Professor, xxiii. 191, 263

Shaltigoe, wreck at, xxiii. 22

Shannon, W. J., xxiii. 332-3

Shaw, Bernard, appreciation of, xxiv. 270-1

Shelley, Lady, xxiv. 105, 149, 177, 179, 211; xxv. 131

"Shelley Papers" (Dowden), xxiv. 211, 212

Shelley, P. B., xxiv. 177-8, 212; 372, 373-4; and Keats, xxiv. 211

Shelley, Sir P. B., xxiv. 177-8, 211, 373; xxv. 458

"Sherlock Holmes" (Doyle), xxv. 299

Shetland, visited, xxiii. 10, 24

"Shovels of Newton French," projected, xxv. 5, 55-6, 82-3, 172

Sick child, episode of, xxiii. 230, 269

"Sign of the ship" causerie (Lang), xxiv. 278, 388

"Sigurd" (W. Morris), xxiii. 334; xxv. 162

Silverado, life at, xxiii. 278

"Silverado Squatters," xxiii. 230, 279, 283, 352, 355; xxiv. 5, 26, 27, 30 & _n._ 1, 34, 56, 66, 67, 73, 92; xxv. 423; serial issue of, xxiv. 55

"Silver Ship," _see_ "Casco"

Simoneau, Jules, xxiii. 239, 240, 244; xxiv. 423; letters to, xxiv. 36, 41

Simoneau, Mrs., xxiv. 42

"Simon Fraser" (Catriona), xxv. 351 & _n._ 1

Simpson, Sir Walter, xxiii. 36,43, 46, 49, 69, 89, 124, 159, 174, 182, 187, 259, 341, 353; xxiv. 47; letter to, xxiv. 117, 229, 242; yachting trip with, xxiii. 124, 139, 140

Simson, Dr., xxiv. 91

Sinclair, Miss Amy, xxiii. 24, 27-8

Sinclair, Sir Tollemache, xxiii. 27

Sinico, --, singer, xxiii. 166

"Sire de Malétroit's Door," xiii. 184, 206, 207, 211, 248

Siron, aubergiste, Barbizon, xxiii. 187

Sitwell, Mrs. (_see also_ Colvin, Lady), xxiii. 54, 300; xxiv. 335; xxv. 85; letter to, from Mrs. R. L. Stevenson, xxiv. 331; letters to, from R. L. S., xxiii. 57, 58, 61, 63, 66, 68, 71, 74, 77, 83, 86, 91, 93, 101, 103, 104, 110, 115, 121, 125, 127, 131, 133, 137, 139, 140, 144, 148, 149, 151, 153, 155, 156, 158, 161, 164, 166, 168, 171, 174, 175, 177, 180 _bis_, 181, 187, 189, 197, 198, 200, 203, 205, 207, 323; xxiv. 24; xxv. 393

Skelt, xxiv. 57, 93

Skene, William Forbes, xxv. 434-5

Skerryvore, article on (Archer), xxiv. 305

"Skerryvore" (house), xxiv. 105, 109, 141, 196, 252; xxv. 31 _n._ 2, 75

Skinner, Mr., xxv. 413

Slade School, xxiv. 39

"Sleeper Awakened," xxv. 314 & _n._ 1

Smeoroch, Skye terrier, xxiv. 77 & _n._ 1; xxv. 429

Smiles, Samuel, xxiv. 121

Smith, Adam, xxiii. 72

Smith, Captain, xxiii. 235

Smith, Rev. George, xxiii. 4; xxiv. 265 _n._ 1

Soalu, Chief, xxv. 460

Society for Psychical Research, Journals of, xxv. 299

"Soldiers Three" (Kipling), xxv. 46

"Solemn Music" (Milton), xxiii. 294

"Solomon Crabb," xxiii. 343-4

"Solution, The" (Lesson of the Master, H. James), xxiv. 382

"Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle" (Wordsworth), xxiii. 315 & _n._ 1

"Song of To-morrow," xxiii. 141

"Songs of Scotland without words, for the Pianoforte" (Surrenne), xxiii. 113

"Songs of Travel," xxiv. 190, 239, 337, 362, 375, 378, 395; xxv. 349 & _n._ 1

"Sonnet to England" (Martin), xxiii. 210

"Sophia Scarlett," proposed, xxv. 144, 152-3, 172, 187, 281

Sophocles, translation (Campbell), xxiv. 113

Sorrow, discipline of, xxiv. 163

Soudan affairs, xxiv. 107

Southey, R., xxiii. 302

"South Sea Ballads," xxiv. 298-9, 317, 321, 380, 395, 399

"South Sea Bubble" (Earl of Pembroke), xxv. 153 _n._ 1; on Kava, xxv. 183 _n._ 1; on Samoan streams, xxiv. 133 _n._ 1

"South Sea Idylls" (Stoddard), xxiv. 180

South Sea Islands, call of, xxiii. 180, 205

"South Sea Letters," published first as "The South Seas," later as "In the South Seas," _q.v._; selection from, projected, xxv. 423

South Seas, cruises in, xxiv. 233 _et seq._, 286 _et seq._

"South Sea Yarns" (with Lloyd Osbourne), projected, xxiv. 361, 367, 379; xxv. 397

Spain, xxiii. 119

_Spectator_, xxiii. 239, 264; xxv. 58

"Spectator" (Addison's), style of, xxiii. 252

Speculative Society, Edinburgh University, xxiii. 35, 64, 184, 312; xxiv. 178

Speed, --, xxv. 210

Spencer, --, xxv. 74-5

Spencer, Herbert, xxiii. 169

_Sperber_, German warship, xxv. 29

Speyside, in, xxiii. 284

"Spring Sorrow" (Henley), xxiii. 186

"Spring time," xxiii. 191, 193, 196, 197, 202

"Squaw Men," projected, xxiii. 329

"Squire" (Story of a Lie), xxiii. 249

"Squire Trelawney" (Treasure Island), xxiii. 326-7

Stansfield, --, xxv. 269

"Stepfather's Story," projected, xxiii. 207

Stephen, Leslie, xxiii. _intro._ xvii., 174, 184, 205, 206, 207, 241, 256, 257, 264, 267, 302, 311; xxiv. 47; letter from with appreciation of "Victor Hugo," xxiii. 129 _et seq._ & _n._ 1; introduction by, of R. L. S. and Henley, xxiii. 172; on "Forest Notes," xxiii. 201, 202; testimonial from, xxiii. 316

Stephenson, --, xxiii. 25

Sterne, Laurence, xxiii. _intro._ xxiii.

Stevenson, Alan, xxv. 335, 401, 436

Stevenson family, inquiries concerning, xxv. 293, 335, 342, 357, 399, 435-7

Stevenson, Hugh, xxv. 335

Stevenson, James, xxv. 334

Stevenson, James S., letter to, xxv. 334, 342

Stevenson, J. Horne, xxv. 293, 345, 435; letter to, xxv. 357

Stevenson, John, xxv. 358

Stevenson, Katharine (_see also_ de Mattos), xxiii. 138

Stevenson, Macgregor, xxv. 293

Stevenson, Mrs. Alan, xxv. 110, 436

Stevenson, Mrs. R. L., xxiv. 234, 247-8, 251, 256, 258-9, 275, 282, 291-2, 323, 330-1, 341-2, 390; xxv. 29, 30, 31, 38, 249-50, 371, 377; character, xxiii. 279-80; first meeting, xxiii. 183, 228; marriage, xxiii. 228 _et seq._, 260, 262, 268, 270, 272, 274; xxiv. 105; collaboration with R. L. S., xxiii. 282; letter to, on avoiding the infliction of pain in literary work, xxiii. _intro._ xxvi.; story by (_see_ "Shadow on the Bed"); ill health and illness of, xxiii. 280, 283-4, 320-1,355; xxv. 146, 280, 297 _et seq._, 320-1 _et alibi_; letter to, xxiv. 349; letters from, to S. Colvin, xxiv. 309, 347, to Mrs. Sitwell, xxiv. 331, to J. A. Symonds, xxiv. 11

Stevenson, Mrs. Thomas (_née_ Balfour), xxiii. 4, 6, 148; xxiv. 39, 147, 199, 216, 220, 234, 248, 251, 258, 276, 280, 290, 291, 309, 310, 314, 323, 331, 336, 341, 343, 366, 375, 405; xxv. 3, 31, 50, 53, 193 _et seq._, 259, 282, 403, 406, 416; letters to, xxiii. 14, 15, 17, 19, 21, 24, 36, 38, 39, 44, 56, 81, 94, 96, 97, 99, 107, 112, 116, 117, 118, 120, 187, 215, 216, 218, 298, 337, 354; xxiv. 9, 21, 66, 76, 202, 383; settled in Samoa, xxv. 76, 78

Stevenson, Mrs. Thomas, and Thomas Stevenson, letters to (jointly), _see_ Stevenson, Thomas, _infra_

Stevenson, name, query on to Sir H. Maxwell, xxv. 440

Stevenson, Robert, xxiii. 4, 13, 160, 200; xxiv. 359; xxv. 87, 95, 98, 120, 310, 315, 401, and _see_ "Family of Engineers"

Stevenson, Robert (the first), xxv. 335

Stevenson, Robert Alan Mowbray (Bob), xxiii. 49, 57, 58, 83, 103, 105, 109, 110, 124, 133, 135, 137, 138, 140, 149, 174, 183, 187, 239, 308, 341; xxiv. 3, 69, 89, 124, 167, 196, 328 & _n._ 1; letters to, xxiii. 356; xxiv. 8, 59, 196, 198, 240, 323; xxv. 398, 401, 434

Stevenson, Robert Louis Balfour ("R. L. S."), ancestry, xxiii. 4, 5; appearance, xxiii. _intro._ xxxviii.; appreciation of, by Lysaght, xxv. 415 _n._ 1; appreciation of his own literary skill, xxv. 443; characteristics and habitudes, xxiii. _intro._ xxii., xxvi. _et seq._, 8-12, 186; xxiv. 296; xxv. 33, 415, _n._ 1; charm, xxiii. _intro._ xxiii., xxvi., xxvii.-ix., xxxi., 55; xxv. 415; conversation, xxiii. _intro._ xxxi., 9. 123; help derived from writings of, xxii., _intro._ xxix., 253-4; interest in missionary work, xxv. 10 & _n._ 1, 33, 56, 57; interest in music, xxiv. 188-9, 196 _et seq._, 285, 302; xxv. 85, 92, 125, 185; literary style and methods, xxiii. _intro._ xix. _et seq._; xxv. 173; political views, xxiv. 107-8; portraits, busts, photographs of, xxiv. 117, 154, 170, 177, 199, 202, 238-9, 250, 255; xxv. 309, 310, 341, 353 & _n._ 1; relations with his father, xxiv. 5, 6 _et alibi_; religious views, xxiii. _intro._ xxxii., 11, 12, 53-4, 67

Life, 1850-57, Birth and Early delicacy, xxiii. 5

1858-67, Education and home life and early travels, xxiii. 6-8

1868-70, Engineering studies, xxiii. 10

1871-4, Law studies, religious differences with parents, xxiii. 10-12

1874-5 (May to June), Law studies, home life, experimental literature, travels, home and foreign, and friendships, xxiii. 123-4

1875-79 (July to July), Bar studies concluded, travels in France and Germany, life at the bar abandoned for literature; Fontainebleau again, xxiii. 182-3; early journalistic and other writing, xxiii. 184-5

1879-1880 (July to July), Californian visit, hardships, illness, marriage, xxiii. 228-30

1880, Aug.-1882, Oct., Home from California, xxiii. 279; summers in Scotland, xxiii. 279-80; winters at Davos, and literary work, xxiii. 280, 283

1882, Oct.-1884, Aug., The Riviera again, Montpellier and Marseilles, Nice, xxiv. 5; Hyères home life, happier relations with parents, illness and literary work, letters, xxiv. 3-5

1874, Sept.-1887, Aug., Bournemouth homes--"Skerryvore," invalid life, friendships, and literary work, xxiv. 104-9; visit to Paris, schemes for life in Ireland, xxiv. 108; death of his father, and departure for Colorado, xxiv. 110

1887, Aug.-1888, June, Voyage to New York and reception there, friends new and old, stay in the Adirondacks, journey to San Francisco, xxiv. 233-4

1888, June-1890, Oct., Voyages in the Pacific, xxiv. 290-3; settlement at Vailima, xxiv. 291-2; controversy about Father Damien, xxiv. 292

1890, Nov.-1891, Dec., First year at Vailima, Samoan politics, letters on, to _The Times_--building of the first Vailima house, xxv. 3-8

1892, Jan. to Dec., Life at Vailima, second year, visitors, enlargement of the house, Samoan politics, threatened deportation, xxv. 144-6

1893, Jan. to Dec., Life at Vailima, third year, the addition to the house completed, Samoan politics, proclamation aimed at him, illness of Mrs. R. L. Stevenson, trips to Sydney, to Honolulu, to New Zealand, outbreak of war, financial anxieties, signs of life-weariness, xxv. 280-2

1894, Jan. to Dec., fourth year at Vailima, illness and recovery, loss of literary facility, financial position, visitors, xxv. 373-5; the making of the Road of Gratitude, xxv. 374, 432 _et seq._, 441, 446; speech and feast to the chiefs, xxv. 441, 446, 462 _et seq._; sudden death and burial, xxv. 8, 10 _n._ 1, 375; account of, by Lloyd Osbourne, xxv. 457 _et seq._; epitaph, xxiii. 268; xxv. 375

Stevenson, Thomas, xxii. 4, 5, 11, 12, 20, 24, 146, 148, 180, 260, 261 & _n._ 1, 279, 285, 298, 328, 347, 353; xxiv. 5, 6, 39, 58, 105, 107, 108, 118, 119, 135, 138, 147, 161, 187, 188, 189, 196, 199, 210, 216, 220, 234, 276, 280, 365, 405; xxv. 335, 382, 401; affection for Mrs. R. L. S., xxiii. 279; gift to her of a Bournemouth house, xxiv. 105; biographical essay on, xxiii. 21; letters to, xxiii. 13, 42, 111, 113, 213, 290, 330; xxiv. 9, 22, 62, 74, 90, 118, 119, 137, 159, 179, 190, 201; Memories of, xxv. 413; misunderstandings with, xxiii. _intro._ xvii., 11, 12, 55, 67; religious views, xxiii. 11, 12, 52, 67; death, xxiii. 5; xxiv. 109, 227

and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson, joint letters to, xxiii. 215, 296, 305; xxiv. 27, 75, 76, 78, 100, 110, 130, 168, 199

"Stewart, Alan Breck," xxv. 46-8

Stewart, James (_see_ Appin murder)

Stewart, Miss (Bathgate), xxiii. 227

Stewart, Sir Herbert, xxiv. 81

Stewart's plantation, Tahiti, xxv. 153 & _n._ 1

"Stickit Minister" (Crockett), dedication of, xxv. 349 & _n._ 1

Stobo Manse, at, xxiii. 284, 357

Stockton, F. R., verse to, xxiv. 125

Stoddard, Charles Warren, xxv. 267; letters to, xxiii. 275, 294; xxiv, 180

"Stories and Interludes" (Barry Pain), xxv. 215

"Stories," or "A Story Book," projected, xxiii. 249

Storm, ideas on, xxiii. 150

"Story of a Lie," xxiii. 12, 229, 230, 235, 237, 247, 249; xxiv. 90

"Strange Adventures of Mr. Nehemiah Solny," projected, xxiii. 170

"Strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," xxiii. _intro._ xxiii.; xxiv. 106, 169, 171, 182, 233, 253, 398; xxv. 289; publication, xxiv. 166; dedication, xxiv. 167; criticisms, xxiv. 184

Strathpeffer, at, xxiii. 280, 284, 285

Streams, Samoan, peculiarities of, xxv. 36

Strong, Austin, xxiv. 151, 341; xxv. 92, 117, 249 & _n._ 1, 269 & _n._ 1, 389, 403, 446

Strong, Mrs., xxiv. 325 & _n._ 1, 341; xxv. _passim_; letter to, xxiii. 286

Stuebel, Dr., German Consul, xxv. 35, 41 & _n._ 1, 141

Sturgis, Mrs., xxv. 391

"Subpriorsford," nickname for Vailima, xxv. 165, 170

"Such is Life," poem (Martin), xxiii. 209

Sudbury, Suffolk, at, xxiii. 56

Suffering, value of, xxiii. 251

Suffolk, peasantry, xxiii. 61

"Suicide Club," xxiii. _intro._ xx., 356

Sullivan, Russell, xxv. 25

Sunrise, tonic of, xxv. 401

Sutherland, Mr., xxiii. 15

Sutherland, Mrs., xxiii. 22

Swan, Professor, xxiii. 193; xxiv. 143; xxv. 315

Swanston Cottage, Lothianburn, xxiii. 8, 123, 126 _et seq._, 312

"Sweet Girl Graduate, A," and other poems (Martin), xxiii. 208-9

Swift, Dr. and Mrs., of Molokai, xxiv. 351-2

Swinburne, A. C., poems, xxv. 390

Sydney, N.S.W., visits to, and illnesses at, xxiv. 292-3, 325, 375, 382 _et seq._, 394; xxv. 4, 38, _n._ 1, 53 _et seq._, 61, 77, 81, 208, 288-9, 296

Symonds, J. A., xxiii. 281, 304, 311, 317, 334, 341, 351, 361; xxiv. 142; dedication of book by, xxv. 454; epithet of, for R. L. S., xxiii. _intro._ xxvi.; letter to, from Mrs. R. L. Stevenson, xxiv. 11; letters to, xxiv. 182, 254, 304; on Southey, xxiii. 302; death of, xxv. 317 & _n._ 1

"Table Talk" (Hazlitt), xxiv. 130

Tacitus, xxiv. 83

Tahiti, xxiv. 291, 371

Tahitian Islands, xxiv. 293; stay in, xxiv. 291, 296 _et seq._

Tait, Professor, xxiv. 118

"Tales and Fantasies," xxv. 397.

"Tales for Winter Nights," projected title, xxiii. 316, 318

"Tales of a Grandfather" (Scott), xxv. 117

"Tales of my Grandfather" (_see also_ "Family of Engineers"), xxv. 110

"Talk and Talkers" (_Cornhill_), xxiii. 283, 341, 349; xxiv. 138

Tamasese, xxiv. 371; xxv. 67, 351

Tamate, _see_ Chalmers

Tati, high chief of the Tevas, xxiv. 317

Tauchnitz, Baron, and "Footnote," xxv. 346

Tautira, at, xxiv. 291, 302 _et seq._, 317

Taylor, Ida and Una, xxiv. 105, 372, 374

Taylor, Lady, xxiv. 105, 180; xxv. 203; death of, xxv. 254; letters to, xxiv. 211, 212, 286, 357, 372

Taylor, Miss, xxv. 364; letter to, xxv. 254

Taylor, Sir Henry, xxiv. 145, 180

Tembinoka, King of Apemama, xxiv. 358-9, 368, 400; verses to, xxiv. 378, 380

_Temple Bar_, contributions to, xxiii. 184, 206, 207, 211

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord (_see also_ "Becket"), xxiv. 205

"Tentation de St. Antoine" (Flaubert), xxiii. 150

Teriitera, Samoan name of R. L. S., xxiv. 308, 310, 317, 321

"Tess of the D'Urbervilles" (Hardy), xxv. 266 _n._ 1, 296

Thackeray, W. M., xxv. 154

"Theatrical World" (Archer), xxv. 384

"Thérèse Raquin" (Zola), xxiv. 57

"The Tempest" (Shakespeare), xxiv. 96

"Thomas Haggard" (Window in Thrums), xxv. 276

Thomson, Maggie, xxiii. 25

Thomson, Mr., xxiii. 8

"Thomson," pseudonym, letters in character of and as to, xxiv. 14, 121, 122

Thoreau, Henry David, essay on (Familiar Studies), xxiii. 226, 229, 252, 255, 262, 263, 265, 273; xxiv. 149, 158; criticisms on, xxiii. 322

"Thoughts on Literature as an Art," xxiii. 266

"Thrawn Janet" (_Cornhill_), xxiii. 282, 308, 316, 321; xxiv. 90; xxv. 295

"Tibby Birse" (Window in Thrums), xxv. 276, 362 _n._ 1

Time, Archer's criticisms in, xxiv. 156, 159, 160, 161

"Time" (Milton), xxiii. 294

_Times, The_, letters to, on Samoan affairs, xxv. 7, 94, 98, 119, 137, 145, 212, 376, 386, 387

Todd, John, xxiv. 221

Todd, Mrs., xxiv. 221

"Tod Lapraik" (Catriona), xxv. 294-5

"Tommy Haddon" (Wrecker), xxv. 268 & _n._ 1

"Toothache, The" (Burns), xxiv. 256

"Torn Surplice, The," suggested title, xxiii. 321

Torquay, at, xxiv. 109

Torrence, Rev. ----, xxiii. 181

"Touchstone, The," xxiii. 141

Tourgenieff, ----, xxiii. 222

"Tourgue, la" ("Quatre-vingt Treize," Hugo), xxiii. 130

Trades Unions, xxiii. 97

"Tragedies of the Wilderness" (Drake), xxiv. 270

"Tragic Comedians" (Meredith), xxiii. 224

"Tragic Muse, The" (H. James), xxiv. 397; xxv. 44, 130-1

"Transformation of the Scottish Highlands," projected, xxiii. 297

Traquair, Willie, xxiii. 20, xxiv. 70

"Travailleurs de la Mer" (Hugo), xxiii. 129 _n._ 1

Travel-books, cheap edition projected, xxiii. 294

"Travelling Companion, The," projected, xxiii. 321; xxiv. 68, 149

"Travels and Excursions," Vols. II. and III. discussed, xxv. 423

"Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes," xxiii. 183, 184, 185, 216, 217, 219, 225, 229, 248, 250, 257

"Treasure Island," xxiii. _intro._ xxxv., 282, 283, 326, 334, 352, 355; xxiv. 31, 93, 101, 112, 179, 233; xxv. 76, 124, 289, 429; publication as serial, xxiii. 328; in book form, xxiv. 6, 27, 35, 67; criticisms, xxiv. 66; genesis of, xxiv. 101; illustrated edition, xxiv. 159; paper on, xxv. 376

"Treasure of Franchard," xxiv. 4, 398; xxv. 153

"Trial of Joan of Arc," xxiii. 203

"Trials of the Sons of Rob Roy, with Anecdotes," xxiii. 332

"Tricoche et Cacolet," xxiii. 219

"Tristram Shandy" (Sterne), xxiii. 118

Trollope, Anthony, novels of, xxiii. 215

"Trophées, Les" (Hérédia), xxv. 331 & _n._ 1

Trudeau, Dr., xxiv. 234

Tulloch, Principal, xxiii. 280, 290, 297, 316; xxv. 97, 123

Tupper, Martin, xxiii. 348

"Tushery," xxiv. 6, 31, 32

Tusitala, xxv. 196 _et aliter_

Tutuila, visited, xxv. 4, 8, 58, 65

"Twa Dogs" (Burns), xxiii. 225

Twain, Mark (Samuel Clemens), xxiii. 276

_Twelfth Night_ (Shakespeare) at the Jenkins', xxiii. 175, 176, 178

"Two Falconers, The, of Cairnstane," xxiii. 170

"Two St. Michael's Mounts," essay, projected, xxiii. 207

"Two Years before the Mast" (Dana), xxiv. 297

"Typee" (Melville), xxiv. 348

Ulufanua, island, xxv. 97

"Underwoods," collected verses, xxiii. 222, 271, 281, 296, 300; xxiv. 36, 89, 107, 170, 173 _n._ 1, 189-90, 214, 215, 229-30, 231, 395; xxv. 376, 398; dedication of, xxiv. 374; review by Gosse, xxiv. 244; success of, xxiv. 239, 255-6

United States, the, and Samoa, xxv. 6 _et seq._

Upolu and Savaii, xxv. 8

Vacquerie, ----, xxiii. 307

Vaea, Mount, xxv. 9, 135, 388; burial-place, xxv. 10 _n._ 1, 460

Vaea river, xxv. 132 _et seq._

Vailima, home at, xxiv. 291; purchase of, xxiv. 292, 372-3, 374, 377, 390; life at, xxv. 3 _et seq._, 148-51, 156 _et seq._, 280 _et seq._; visitors to, xxv. 228; expenses, xxv. 282; household staff, xxv. 356-7; joy of colour at, xxv. 378; new house, xxv. 145-6, 251, 269, 271, 278-9, 284, 287; decorations for, xxv. 308-9; feeling about, xxv. 349

"Vailima Letters," xxiii. _intro._ xviii., xxix.; xxv. 5

_Vanity Fair_, magazine, contributions to, xxiii. 184, 198, 199

"Vanity Fair" (Thackeray), xxv. 154

Vedder, Elihu, illustrator of "Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám," xxiv. 116

"Velasquez" (R. A. M. Stevenson), xxiii. 57

"Vendetta, in the West," unfinished, xxiii. 229, 238-9, 241, 244, 255, 256, 259, 266

Verses, Miscellaneous and Impromptu--

"Adela, Adela, Adela Chart," xxv. 109

"Bells upon the City are ringing in the night," xxiv. 167

"Blame me not that this Epistle," letter in verse to Baxter, xxiii. 46

"Brave lads in olden musical centuries," xxiii. 304

"Dear Henley, with a pig's snout on," xxiii. 330

"Do you remember--can we e'er forget?--," xxiv. 376

"Far have you come, my lady, from the town," rondel, xxiii. 188

"Feast of Famine" (Ballads, 1890), xxiv. 298-9, 321, 330, 395

"Figure me to yourself, I pray," xxiii. 287

"He may have been this and that," xxiv. 190

"Here's breid an' wine an' kebbuck," xxiii. 257

"Home no more home to me, where must I wander?" (Songs of Travel), xxiv. 303

"I heard the pulse of the besieging sea" (to Colvin), xxiv. 366; xxv. 23 & _n._ 1

"In the beloved hour that ushers day" (Songs of Travel), xxiv. 240

"I was a barren tree before," xxv. 366

"I would shoot you, but I have no bow," xxiii. 360

"Let us who part like brothers part like bards" (Songs of Travel), xxiv. 378, 380

"My Stockton if I failed to like," xxiv. 125

"Noo lyart leaves blaw ower the green," xxiii. 193

"Nor you, O Penny Whistler, grudge," xxiv. 20

"Not roses to the rose, I trow," xxiv. 205

"Not yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert," xxiii. 271

"Nous n'irons plus au bois," rondel, xxiii. 188-9

"Of the many flowers you brought me" (to Miss Rawlinson), xxiv. 227

"Of where or how, I nothing know," xxiii. 232

"O Henley, in my hours of ease," xxiii. 222

"O, how my spirit languishes," xxiv. 299

"O Sovereign of my Cedercrantz," xxv. 278

"Priests' Drought, The," ballad, xxiv. 321

"Song of Rahero," ballad, xxiv. 317, 321, 330, 395; xxv. 58

"Tandem Desino," xxiv. 79 _et seq._ "The pleasant river gushes," xxiv. 32

"There was racing and chasing in Vailima plantation," xxv. 422

"Though I've often been touched with the volatile dart," xxv. 109

"Ticonderoga," ballad, xxiv. 321, 395

"To Felix," xxiv. 189, 190 "We're quarrelling, the villages," xxv. 50

"When from her land to mine she goes" (Songs of Travel), xxiv. 345

"Woodman, The" _(New Review)_, xxv. 18 & _n._ 1, 20

"Youth now flees on feathered foot," xxiv. 172, 181

"Vicar of Wakefield," xxv. 14 _n._ 1

"Vicomte de Bragelonne" (Dumas), xxiv. 398; xxv. 51

Victor Hugo's romances, essay on, xxiii. 56, 124-5, 126, 127, 135

Victoria, Queen, xxiii. 323

Villiers, Lady Margaret, xxv. 228, 236

"Viol and Flute" (Gosse), xxiv. 98

"Virginibus Puerisque," xxiii. 184, 185, 203, 204, 208, 212, 284, 294; xxv. 301 _n._ 1; publication, xxiii. 281; new edition, xxiv. 195, 216; reprint, xxiv. 230

Vitrolles, Baron de, xxv. 288 _n._ 1, 321

Viviani, Emillia, xxiv. 212

Vogelweide, Walther von der (Studies in the Literature of Modern Europe), Gosse's introduction to, xxiii. 221

"Volsungs" (Morris), xxiii. 334

Voltaire, xxiii. 297; on OEdipus, xxiv. 114

_Vossische Zeitung_, xxv. 263

Wachtmeister, Count, xxv. 96

"Waif Woman, The," xxv. 272 & _n._ 1

Walker, Patrick, xxiv. 91

"Walking Tours," xxiii. 202

_Wallaroo_, H.M.S., officers, xxv. 452

Walter, the Skye terrier, and his sobriquets, xxiii. 280, 281, 318; xxv. 41 & _n._ 2, _et alibi_

"Wandering Willie," air, xxiii. 113

"Wandering Willie's Tale" (Redgauntlet), xxiii. 287

"Washington" (Irving), xxv. 30

Watts-Dunton, T., letter to, xxiv. 203

Waverley Novels (Scott), xxiv. 75, 76, 84, 91; xxv. 228

"Waverley" (Scott), xxiii. _intro._ xxiii.; xxiv. 91

"Way of the World" (Trollope), xxiii. 215

Weather and the old woman, xxiii. 175

Webster, essay on (Gosse), xxiv. 45

Week, The, xxiv. 45

"Wegg, Silas," (Our Mutual Friend), xxiii. 226

"Weg," nickname for Gosse, xxiii. 224, 226, 227

"Weir of Hermiston," unfinished, xxiii. _intro._ xx., 12; xxv. 144, 170, 264-5, 274, 281, 284, 287, 293, 306-7, 338, 350, 375, 383, 392, 403, 453, 456-7; scheme for, xxv. 258, 260-1, 270-1

Wellington, Duke of (_see also_ "Life" of), xxiv. 34 _n._ 1; Tennyson's "Ode" on, xxiii. 293

Went, George, xxv. 23 & _n._ 1, 100

"Werther" (Goethe's "Sorrows of Werther"), xxiii. 60

Western Islands, trip among, xxiii. 124

West Highlands, visit to, xxiii. 183

"What was on the Slate," xxiii. 222, 267

"When the Devil was well," xxiii. 167, 168, 186

"Where" and "Whereas," use discussed, xxv. 163

"White Company" (Doyle), xxv. 336

Whitman, Walt, essays on, xxiii. 55, 70, 72, 86, 89, 103, 104, 139, 140; works of, xxiii. 70, 72, 357-8; xxiv. 183

Whitmee, Rev. S. J., missionary xxv. 174, 180, 202, 203; letter to, xxv. 174

Wick, at, xxiii. 12, 15

"Widdicombe Fair," song, xxv. 391

Wiesbaden, visit to, xxiii. 182

"Wild Man of the Woods," xxiii. 249

"Will o' the Mill," xxiii. 184, 207, 248, 268

Williams, Dr., of Nice, xxiv. 59

Williams, Mr. and Mrs., xxiii. 353

"William Wilson" (Poe), xxiii. _intro._ xxiii.

"Wiltshire" (Beach of Falesá), xxv. 187

"Window in Thrums" (Barrie), xxv. 276, 362 & _n._ 1

Winslow Reef, xxiv. 362

"Winter and New Year" (Picturesque Notes on Edinburgh), xxiii. 216

"Winter's Walk, The," unfinished, xxiii. 201, 202

Wise, ----, xxv. 55

"Witch of Prague" (Crawford), xxv. 275

"Wogg" (_see_ Walter), other names for, xxiii. 280-1, 318

Wolseley, Viscount, xxiv. 81

"Woman killed with Kindness" (Heywood), xxiii. 354

Women characters, dissatisfaction with, xxiv. 398

Women, thoughts on (_see also_ Elgin marbles), xxiii. 162-4, 358

Wood, Sir Evelyn, xxiv. 81

"Wrecker" (with Lloyd Osbourne), xxiii. 12, 275; xxiv. 362, 367-8, 379, 380, 389, 396, 399, 402; xxv. 5, 11, 24, 33, 84, 87, 108, 110, 115, 128, 138,141, 152, 171, 210, 215, 221, 224, 274, 376, 378; finished, xxv. 111-2 & _n._ 1, 113, 115, 120, 122; comments, xxv. 146; discussed, xxv. 437 & _n._ 1; publication of, xxv. 87, 144; success of, xxv. 238, 258, 357

Wreck of the _Susannah_, xxiii. 308

"Wrong Box, The," or "The Finsbury Tontine," or "The Game of Bluff" (with Lloyd Osbourne), xxiv. 235, 249-50, 256, 258, 282, 291, 320, 322, 328, 360, 370

Wurmbrand, Captain Count, xxv. 354, 369, 370, 383, 415

Wyatt, Mr., xxiii. 6

Yeats, W. B., letter to, xxv. 390

"Yellow Paint," xxiii. 141

Yelverton, ----, xxiii. 275

"Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum" (Treasure Island), xxiii. 326

Yoshida Torajiro, essay on (Familiar Studies), xxiii. 229, 262, 264, 265

"Young Chevalier," unfinished, xxv. 144, 171 _n._ 1, 187-8, 189, 192, 216-7, 264, 281, 305; characters in, xxv. 190-1

_Young Folks_, contributions to, xxiii. 328, 329, 332, 339; xxiv. 31, 55, 148

_Yule-Tide_, contribution to, xxv. 57

Zassetsky, Madame, xxiii. 97, 99, 102, 105, 108, 110, 113, 114, 115, 118, 122

Zassetsky, Nelitchka, xxiii. 98, 102, 104, 107, 108, 112, 114, 115, 116

Zola, Emile, xxiii. 346-7; xxiv. 396; xxv. 250 _n._ 1, 318, 319, 379

INDEX TO VOLUMES I-XXII

[_For Index to the_ LETTERS, _see pp. 469-507 of this Volume._]

"A birdie with a yellow bill," xiv. 23

"A child should always say what's true," xiv. 5

Additional Memories and Portraits, xvi. 155

Additional Poems, xiv. 259

"Adela, Adela, Adela Chart," xiv. 276

Admiral Guinea, xv. 145

Advertisement of "Moral Emblems," Edition de Luxe, xxii. (end)

Advertisement of "Moral Emblems," Second Collection, xxii. (end)

Advertisement of "The Graver and the Pen," xxii. (end)

Æs Triplex, ii. 358

"All night long, and every night," xiv. 4

"All round the house is the jet-black night," xiv. 28

"All the names I know from nurse," xiv. 46

"A lover of the moorland bare," xiv. 74

Alpine Diversions, xxii. 248

Alps, The Stimulation of the, xxii., 252

Amateur Emigrant, The: Part I., From the Clyde to Sandy Hook: The Second Cabin, ii. 7; Early Impressions, ii. 15; Steerage Scenes, ii. 24; Steerage Types, ii. 32; The Sick Man, ii. 43; The Stowaways, ii. 53; Personal Experiences and Review, ii. 66; New York, ii. 77. Part II., Across the Plains: Notes by the Way to Council Bluffs, ii. 93; The Emigrant Train, ii. 107; The Plain of Nebraska, ii. 115; The Desert of Wyoming, ii. 119; Fellow Passengers, ii. 124; Despised Races, ii. 129; To the Golden Gates, ii. 133

"A mile an' a bittock, a mile or twa," xiv. 110

"_A naked house, a naked moor_," xiv. 71

Antwerp to Boom, i. 7

"A picture-frame for you to fill," xiv. 74

Apology, An, for Idlers, ii. 334

Appeal, An, to the Clergy of the Church of Scotland, xxii. 199

"As from the house your mother sees," xiv. 59

"As the single pang of the blow, when the metal is mingled well," xiv. 254

"At evening when the lamp is lit," xiv. 36

Autumn Effect, An, xxii. 112

Back to the World, i. 120

Bagster's "Pilgrim's Progress," xxii. 186

Balfour, David, xi. 1

Ballads, xiv. 139

Ballantrae, The Master of, xii. 5; its genesis, xvi. 341

Beach, The, of Falesá: A South Sea Bridal, xvii. 193; The Ban, xvii. 206; The Missionary, xvii. 228; Devil-work, xvii. 240; Night in the Bush, xvii. 258; The Bottle Imp, xvii. 277; The Isle of Voices, xvii. 311

Beau Austin, xv. 91

Beggars, xvi. 190

"Berried brake and reedy island," xiv. 226

"Birds all the sunny day," xiv. 44

Black Arrow, The: Prologue, viii. 7; Book I. The Two Lads, viii. 25;

## Book II. The Moat House, viii. 83; Book III. My Lord Foxham, viii.

123; Book IV. The Disguise, viii. 165; Book V. Crookback, viii. 217

Black Canyon, Advertisement of, xxii. (end)

Black Canyon or Wild Adventures in the Far West, xxii. (end)

"Blame me not that this epistle," xiv. 261

"Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying," xiv. 257

Boarders, The, i. 195

Body-snatcher, The, iii. 277

Books which have Influenced Me, xvi. 272

Bottle Imp, The, xvii. 275

"Brave lads in olden musical centuries," xiv. 270

"Bright is the ring of words," xiv. 227

"Bring the comb and play upon it," xiv. 15

Builder's Doom, The, xxii. (end)

Burns, Robert, Some Aspects of, iii. 43

"By Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees," xiv. 133

Calton Hill, Edinburgh, i. 314

Camisards, The Country of the, i. 211

Camp, A, in the Dark, i. 167

Catriona: Part I. The Lord Advocate, xi. 7; Part II. Father and Daughter, xi. 203

Changed Times, i. 99

Character, A, xxii. 37

Character, The, of Dogs, ix. 105

Charity Bazaar, The, xxii. 213

Charles of Orleans, iii. 171

Cheylard and Luc, i. 177

"_Chief of our aunts_, not only I," xiv. 56

"Children, you are very little," xiv. 18

Child's Garden, A, of Verses, xiv. 1

Child's Play, ii. 394

Christmas at Sea, xiv. 207

Christmas Sermon, A, xvi. 306

Cockermouth and Keswick, xxii. 80

College Magazine, A, ix. 36

College Memories, Some, ix. 19

College Papers: Edinburgh Students in 1824, xxii. 41; The Modern Student considered generally, xxii. 45; Debating Societies, xxii. 53; The Philosophy of Umbrellas, xxii. 58; The Philosophy of Nomenclature, xxii. 63

"Come up here, O dusty feet," xiv. 24

Compiègne, At, i. 94

Crabbed Age and Youth, ii. 321

Criticisms: Lord Lytton's "Fables in Song," xxii. 171; Salvini's "Macbeth," xxii. 180; Bagster's "Pilgrim's Progress," xxii. 186

"Dark brown is the river," xiv. 10

Davos in Winter, xxii. 241

Davos Press, The, xxii. (end)

Day, The, after To-morrow, xvi. 279

Deacon Brodie, or the Double Life, xv. 1

"Dear Andrew, with the brindled hair," xiv. 79

"Dear Thamson class, whaure'er I gang," xiv. 121

"Dear Uncle Jim, this garden ground," xiv. 50

Debating Societies, xxii. 53

"Do you remember--can we e'er forget?" xiv. 242

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Strange Case of, v. 227

Donkey, the Pack, and the Pack Saddle, i. 143

"Down by a shining water well," xiv. 32

Dreams, A Chapter on, xvi. 177

Dynamiter, The: Prologue of the Cigar Divan, v. 7; Challoner's Adventure, v. 15; Somerset's Adventure, v. 73; Desborough's Adventure, v. 149; Epilogue of the Cigar Divan, v. 212

Ebb-Tide, The: Note by Mr. Lloyd Osbourne, xix. 3; Part I. The Trio, xix. 7; Part II. The Quartette, xix. 81

Edinburgh: Picturesque Notes, i. 269; Introductory, i. 271

Edinburgh Students in 1824, xxii. 41

Education, The, of an Engineer, xvi. 167

El Dorado, ii. 368

Engineers, Records of a Family of, xvi. 3

English Admirals, The, ii. 372

Enjoyment, The, of Unpleasant Places, xxii. 103

Epilogue to An Inland Voyage, i. 122

Episodes in the Story of a Mine, ii. 254

Essays of Travel: Davos in Winter, xxii. 241; Health and Mountains, xxii. 244; Alpine Diversions, xxii. 248; The Stimulation of the Alps, xxii. 252

"Even in the bluest noonday of July," xiv. 77

"Every night my prayers I say," xiv. 13

Fables: The Persons of the Tale, xxi. 269; The Sinking Ship, xxi. 272; The Two Matches, xxi. 274; The Sick Man and the Fireman, xxi. 275; The Devil and the Inn-keeper, xxi. 276; The Penitent, xxi. 277; The Yellow Paint, xxi. 277; The House of Eld, xxi. 280; The Four Reformers, xxi. 286; The Man and His Friend, xxi. 287; The Reader, xxi. 287; The Citizen and the Traveller, xxi. 288; The Distinguished Stranger, xxi. 289; The Cart-horses and the Saddle-horse, xxi. 290; The Tadpole and the Frog, xxi. 291; Something in it, xxi. 291; Faith, Half-faith, and No Faith at all, xxi. 295; The Touchstone, xxi. 297; The Poor Thing, xxi. 304; The Song of the Morrow, xxi. 310

Falling in Love, On, ii. 302

Familiar Studies of Men and Books: Preface by Way of Criticism, iii. 5; Victor Hugo's Romances, iii. 19; Some Aspects of Robert Burns, iii. 43; Walt Whitman, iii. 77; Henry David Thoreau: His Character and Opinions, iii. 101; Yoshida-Torajiro, iii. 129; François Villon, Student, Poet, and Housebreaker, iii. 142; Charles of Orleans, iii. 171; Samuel Pepys, iii. 206; John Knox and his Relations to Women, iii. 230

"Far from the loud sea beaches," xiv. 72

"Far have you come, my lady, from the town," xiv. 263

"Farewell, fair day and fading light," xiv. 233

Farewell, Modestine! i. 253

"Far 'yont amang the years to be," xiv. 105

"Faster than fairies, faster than witches," xiv. 24

Father Apollinaris, i. 183

Father Damien: An Open Letter to the Rev. Dr. Hyde of Honolulu, xvi. 315

Feast, The, of Famine; Marquesan Manners, xiv. 167; The Priest's Vigil, xiv. 169; The Lovers, xiv. 172; The Feast, xiv. 176; The Raid, xiv. 182; Notes, xiv. 213

Fife, The Coast of, xvi. 155

"Figure me to yourself, I pray," xiv. 268

Fleeming Jenkin, Memoir of, ix. 165

Florac, i. 234

Fontainebleau: Village Communities of Painters, xvi. 215

Footnote, A, to History: Eight Years of Trouble in Samoa: The Elements of Discord, I. Native, xvii. 5; II. Foreign, xvii. 15; The Sorrows of Laupepa, xvii. 27; Brandeis, xvii. 53; The Battle of Matautu, xvii. 70; Last Exploits of Becker, xvii. 83; The Samoan Camps, xvii. 103; Affairs of Laulii and Fangalii, xvii. 112; "Furor Consularis," xvii. 128; The Hurricane, xvii. 142; Laupepa and Mataafa, xvii. 156

Foreigner, The, at Home, ix. 7

Forest Notes, xxii. 142

"For love of lovely words, and for the sake," xiv. 97

"Forth from her land to mine she goes," xiv. 239

"Frae nirly, nippin', Eas'lan' breeze," xiv. 106

"Friend, in my mountain-side demesne," xiv. 73

"From breakfast on all through the day," xiv. 12

Genesis, The, of "The Master of Ballantrae," xvi. 341

"Give to me the life I love," xiv. 219

"God, if this were enough," xiv. 234

"Go, little book, and wish to all," xiv. 67

Gossip, A, on a Novel of Dumas's, ix. 124

Gossip, A, on Romance, ix. 134

Goulet, Across the, i. 203

Graver, The, and the Pen, xxii. (end)

"Great is the sun, and wide he goes," xiv. 46

Great North Road, The, xxi. 203

Green Donkey Driver, The, i. 149

Greyfriars, Edinburgh, i. 298

Health and Mountains, xxii. 244

Heart of the Country, The, i. 7

Heather Ale: A Galloway Legend, xiv. 201; Notes, xiv. 215

Heathercat, xxi. 177

"He hears with gladdened heart the thunder," xiv. 233

"Here all is sunny, and when the truant gull," xiv. 97

"Here, from the forelands of the tideless sea," xiv. 273

"Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?" xiv. 229

"How do you like to go up in a swing?" xiv. 22

Hugo's, Victor, Romances, iii. 19

Human Life, Reflections and Remarks on, xvi. 354

Humble Remonstrance, A, ix. 148

Hunter's Family, The, ii. 230

"I am a kind of farthing dip," xiv. 95

Ideal House, The, xvi. 370

"If I have faltered more or less," xiv. 86

"If two may read aright," xiv. 55

"I have a goad," i. 158

"I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me," xiv. 12

"I have trod the upward and the downward slope," xiv. 233

"I heard the pulse of the besieging sea," xiv. 244

"I knew a silver head was bright beyond compare," xiv. 240

"I knew thee strong and quiet like the hills," xiv. 232

"I know not how it is with you," xiv. 225

"In all the grove, nor stream nor bird," xiv. 249

"In ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt," xiv. 80

"In dreams unhappy I behold you stand," xiv. 221

Inland Voyage, An, i. 7; Epilogue to, i. 122

"In mony a foreign pairt I've been," xiv. 125

"In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane," xiv. 230

"In the belovèd hour that ushers day," xiv. 231

"In the highlands, in the country places," xiv. 228

"In the other gardens," xiv. 49

Introduction, by Andrew Lang, to the Swanston Edition, i. ix.

"In winter I get up at night," xiv. 3

"I read, dear friend, in your dear face," xiv. 85

"I saw you toss the kites on high," xiv. 16

"I should like to rise and go," xiv. 7

"I sit and wait a pair of oars," xiv. 78

Island Nights' Entertainments, xvii. 193

Isle, The, of Voices, xvii. 311

"It is not yours, O mother, to complain," xiv. 90

"It is the season now to go," xiv. 70

"It is very nice to think," xiv. 4

"It's an owercome sooth for age an' youth," xiv. 135

"It's rainin'. Weet's the gairden sod," xiv. 116

"It's strange that God should fash to frame," xiv. 120

"I was a barren tree before," xiv. 276

"I will make you brooches and toys for your delight," xiv. 225

"I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day," xiv. 14

Juvenilia, and other Papers, xxii. 3

Kidnapped, x. 77

Knox, John, and his Relations to Women, iii. 230

La Fère, of Cursed Memory, i. 79

Landrecies, At, i. 46

Lantern-Bearers, The, xvi. 200

Last Day, The, i. 248

"Last, to the chamber where I lie," xiv. 28

"Late in the nicht in bed I lay," xiv. 129

"Late lies the wintry sun a-bed," xiv. 25

Later Essays, xvi. 215

Lay Morals, xvi. 379

Legends, Edinburgh, i. 291

"Let Beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams," xiv. 224

"Let now your soul in this substantial world," xiv. 255

Letter to a Young Gentleman who proposes to embrace the Career of Art, xvi. 290

Letters from Samoa, xviii. 351

"Let us, who part like brothers part like bards," xvi. 245

"Light foot and tight foot," xiv. 277

Light-keeper, The, xxii. 217

"Little Indian, Sioux or Crow," xiv. 19

Lodging, A, for the Night, iv. 227

"Long must elapse ere you behold again," xiv. 241

Lord Lytton's "Fables in Song," xxii. 171

Lozère, Across the, i. 213

Macaire, xv. 205

Manse, The, ix. 61

Markheim, viii. 273

Martial Elegy, A, for some Lead Soldiers, xxii. (end)

Master, The, of Ballantrae, xii. 5; its genesis, xvi. 341

Maubeuge, At, i. 21

Memoirs of an Islet, ix. 68

Memories and Portraits, ix. 7; Additional Memories and Portraits, xvi. 155

Merry Men, The, xxi. 69

Mimente, In the Valley of the, i. 237

Monks, The, i. 188

Montvert, Pont de, i. 218

Moral Emblems, xxii. (end)

Moral Emblems: Second Collection, xxii. (end)

Morality, The, of the Profession of Letters, xvi. 260

More New Arabian Nights, v. 7

Mountain Town, A, in France, i. 257

Movements of Young Children, Notes on the, xxii. 97

Moy, Down the Oise to, i. 74

"My bed is like a little boat," xiv. 21

"My body which my dungeon is," xiv. 98

"My bonny man, the warld, it's true," xiv. 118

My First Book, "Treasure Island," xvi. 331

"'_My house_,' I say. But hark to the sunny doves," xiv. 98

"My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky," xiv. 2

New Arabian Nights, iv. 3; More New Arabian Nights, v. 7

New Form of Intermittent Light for Lighthouses, xxii. 220

New Town, Edinburgh: Town and Country, i. 305

Nicholson, John, The Misadventures of, x. 3

Nomenclature, The Philosophy of, xxii. 63

"Noo lyart leaves blaw ower the green," xiv. 265

Note, A, on Realism, xvi. 234

Notes and Essays, chiefly of the Road: A Retrospect, xxii. 71; Cockermouth and Keswick, xxii. 80; Roads, xxii. 90; Notes on the Movements of Young Children, xxii. 97; On the Enjoyment of Unpleasant Places, xxii. 103; An Autumn Effect, xxii. 112; A Winter's Walk in Carrick and Galloway, xxii. 132; Forest Notes, xxii. 142

Not I, and other Poems, xxii. (end)

"Not yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert," xiv. 89

"Nous n'irons plus au bois," xiv. 263

Noyon Cathedral, i. 86

Nuits Blanches, xxii. 27

Nurses, xxii. 34

"Of a' the ills that flesh can fear," xiv. 131

"Of his pitiable transformation," xiv. 263

"Of speckled eggs, the birdie sings," xiv. 9

"Of where or how, I nothing know," xiv. 267

Oise, The, in Flood, i. 55; Down the Oise to Moy, i. 74; Through the Golden Valley, i. 84; To Compiègne, i. 91 Church Interiors, i. 105

"O it's I that am the captain of a tidy little ship," xiv. 32

"O, I wad like to ken--to the beggar-wife says I," xiv. 116

"O mother, lay your hand on my brow," xiv. 92

Olalla, xxi. 127

Old Mortality, ix. 26

Old Scots Gardener, An, ix. 46

Old Town, Edinburgh: The Lands, i. 278

"Once only by the garden gate," xiv. 220

"On the great streams the ships may go," xiv. 68

Ordered South, ii. 345

Origny Sainte-Benoîte: A By-Day, i. 62; The Company at Table, i. 68

Our Lady of the Snows, i. 181

"Out of the sun, out of the blast," xiv. 87

"Over the borders, a sin without pardon," xiv. 17

Pacific Capitals, The Old and New: Monterey, ii. 141; San Francisco, ii. 159

Pan's Pipes, ii. 415

Parliament Close, Edinburgh, i. 285

Pastoral, ix. 53

Pavilion on the Links, The: Tells how I camped in Graden Sea-wood, and beheld a Light in the Pavilion, iv. 167; Tells of the Nocturnal Landing from the Yacht, iv. 174; Tells how I became Acquainted with my Wife, iv. 180; Tells in what a Startling Manner I learned that I was not alone in Graden Sea-wood, iv. 189; Tells of an Interview between Northmour, Clara, and myself, iv. 197; Tells of my Introduction to the Tall Man, iv. 202; Tells how a Word was cried through the Pavilion Window, iv. 208; Tells the last of the Tall Man, iv. 214; Tells how Northmour carried out his Threat, iv. 221

"Peace and her huge invasion to these shores," xiv. 93

Penny Plain and Twopence Coloured, xi. 116

Pentland Hills, To the, Edinburgh, i. 327

Pentland Rising, The: The Causes of the Revolt, xxii. 3; The Beginning, xxii. 6; The March of the Rebels, xxii. 8; Rullion Green, xxii. 13; A Record of Blood, xxii. 17

Pepys, Samuel, iii. 206

Pines, A Night among the, i. 206

"Plain as the glistering planets shine," xiv. 223

Plea, A, for Gas Lamps, ii. 420

Pont-sur-Sambre: We are Pedlars, i. 31; The Travelling Merchant, i. 36

Portraits, Some, by Raeburn, ii. 385

Prayers written for Family Use at Vailima, xvi. 431

Précy and the Marionnettes, i. 111

Prince Otto: Book I. Prince Errant, vii. 7; Book II. Of Love and Politics, vii. 49; Book III. Fortunate Misfortune, vii. 171

Providence and the Guitar, iv. 273

Pulvis et Umbra, xvi. 299

Raeburn, Some Portraits, by, ii. 385

Rajah's Diamond, The: Story of the Bandbox, iv. 86; Story of the Young Man in Holy Orders, iv. 111; The Story of the House with the Green Blinds, iv. 127; The Adventure of Prince Florizel and a Detective, iv. 159

Random Memories: I. The Coast of Fife, xvi. 155; II. The Education of an Engineer, xvi. 167; _Rosa quo Locorum_, xvi. 345

Realism, A Note on, xvi. 234

Records of a Family of Engineers, xvi. 3

Reflections and Remarks on Human Life, xvi. 354

"Resign the rhapsody, the dream," xiv. 236

Retrospect, A, xxii. 71

Roads, xxii. 90

Robin and Ben, or the Pirate and the Apothecary, xxii. (end)

_Rosa quo Locorum_, xvi. 345

Royal Sport Nautique, The, i. 16

St. Ives, xx. 3

Salvini's "Macbeth," xxii. 180

Sambre and Oise Canal: Canal Boats, i. 50

Sambre Canalised, On the: To Quartes, i. 26; To Landrecies, i. 41

Satirist, The, xxii. 25

"Say not of me that weakly I declined," xiv. 99

Scots Gardener, An old, ix. 46

Sea-Fogs, The, ii. 239

"She rested by the Broken Brook," xiv. 222

Silverado Squatters, The, ii. 173; In the Valley: 1, Calistoga, ii. 179; 2, The Petrified Forest, ii. 184; 3, Napa Wine, ii. 188; 4, The Scot Abroad, ii. 194. --With the Children of Israel: 1, To Introduce Mr. Kelmar, ii. 201; 2, First Impressions of Silverado, ii. 205; 3, The Return, ii. 215

"Since I am sworn to live my life," xiv. 263

"Since long ago, a child at home," xiv. 237

"Sing clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still," xiv. 96

"Sing me a song of a lad that is gone," xiv. 256

Sire de Malétroit's Door, The, iv. 250

Sketches: The Satirist, xxii. 25; Nuits Blanches, xxii. 27; The Wreath of Immortelles, xxii. 30; Nurses, xxii. 34; A Character, xxii. 37

"Smooth it slides upon its travel," xiv. 23

"Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed," xiv. 58

Songs of Travel, xiv. 217

Song, The, of Rahéro: A Legend of Tahiti, xiv. 139; The Slaying of Támatéa, xiv. 139; The Venging of Támatéa, xiv. 148; Rahéro, xiv. 159; Notes, xiv. 211

"Son of my woman's body, you go, to the drum and fife," xiv. 227

South Seas, In the: Part I. The Marquesas.--An Island Landfall, xviii. 5; Making Friends, xviii. 12; The Maroon, xviii. 21; Death, xviii. 28; Depopulation, xviii. 36; Chiefs and Tapus, xviii. 44; Hatiheu, xviii. 53; The Port of Entry, xviii. 61; The House of Temoana, xviii. 69; A Portrait and a Story, xviii. 77; Long Pig--A Cannibal High Place, xviii. 85; The Story of a Plantation, xviii. 95; Characters, xviii. 105; In a Cannibal Valley, xviii. 112; The Two Chiefs of Atuona, xviii, 119. Part II. The Paumotus.--The Dangerous Archipelago--Atolls at a Distance, xviii. 129; Fakarava: An Atoll at Hand, xviii. 137; A House to Let in a Low Island, xviii. 146; Traits and Sects in the Paumotus, xviii. 155; A Paumotuan Funeral, xviii. 165; Graveyard Stories, xviii. 170. Part III. The Eight Islands.--The Kona Coast, xviii. 187; A Ride in the Forest, xviii. 197; The City of Refuge, xviii. 203; Koahumanu, xviii. 209; The Lepers of Kona, xviii. 215. Part IV. The Gilberts.--Butaritari, xviii. 223; The Four Brothers, xviii. 229; Around Our House, xviii. 237; A Tale of a Tapu, xviii. 247, 255; The Five Days' Festival, xviii. 265; Husband and Wife, xviii. 278. Part V. The Gilberts--Apemama.--The King of Apemama: The Royal Trader, xviii. 289; Foundation of Equator Town, xviii. 298; The Palace of Many Women, xviii. 306; Equator Town and the Palace, xviii. 313; King and Commons, xviii. 321; Devil-work, xviii. 320; The King of Apemama, xviii. 342

Squatting, The Act of, ii. 221

Starry Drive, A, ii. 250

Stevenson at Play: Introduction by Lloyd Osbourne, xxii. 259; War Correspondence from Stevenson's Note-book, xxii. 263

Stevenson, Thomas, ix. 75

Story, The, of a Lie, xxi. 3

Student, The Modern, considered generally, xxii. 45

Suicide Club, The, iv. 3; Story of the Young Man with the Cream Tarts, iv. 5; The Story of the Physician and the Saratoga Trunk, iv. 37; The Adventure of the Hansom Cabs, iv. 65

"Summer fading, winter comes," xiv. 33

Talk and Talkers: I., ix. 81; II., ix. 94

Tarn, In the Valley of the, i. 224

Technical Elements, Some, of Style in Literature, xvi. 241

"The bed was made, the room was fit," xiv. 96

"The clinkum-clank o' Sabbath bells," xiv. 111

"The coach is at the door at last," xiv. 26

"Thee, Mackintosh, artificer of light," xiv. 273

"The embers of the day are red," xiv. 257

"The friendly cow, all red and white," xiv. 16

"The ganger walked with willing foot," xiv. 67

"The gardener does not love to talk," xiv. 49

"The infinite shining heavens," xiv. 222

"The jolly English Yellowboy," xiv. 274

"The lamps now glitter down the street," xiv. 37

"The lights from the parlour and kitchen shone out," xiv. 14

"The Lord Himsel' in former days," xiv. 123

"The moon has a face like the clock in the hall," xiv. 22

"The morning drum-call on my eager ear," xiv. 233

"The pleasant river gushes," xiv. 272

"The rain is raining all around," xiv. 5

"The red room with the giant bed," xiv. 56

Thermal Influence of Forests, xxii. 225

"The Silver Ship, my King--that was her name," xiv. 238

"The stormy evening closes now in vain," xiv. 230

"The sun is not a-bed when I," xiv. 20

"The tropics vanish, and meseems that I," xiv. 243

"The unfathomable sea, and time, and tears," xiv. 75

"These nuts, that I keep in the back of the nest," xiv. 34

"The world is so full of a number of things," xiv. 16

"The year runs through her phases; rain and sun," xiv. 82

Thoreau, Henry David: His Character and Opinions, iii. 101

Thrawn Janet, v. 305

"Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing," xiv. 6

"Through all the pleasant meadow side," xiv. 26

Ticonderoga: A Legend of the West Islands, xiv. 187; The Saying of the Name, xiv. 189; The Seeking of the Name, xiv. 194; The Place of the Name, xiv. 196; Notes, xiv. 214

Toils and Pleasures, ii. 264

Toll House, The, ii. 245

"To see the infinite pity of this place," xiv. 240

"To the heart of youth the world is a highway side," xiv. 221

"To you, let snow and roses," xiv. 224

Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes, i. 141

Treasure Island-- Part I. The Old Buccaneer, vi. 9; Part II. The Sea-Cook, vi. 49; Part III. My Shore Adventure, vi. 87; Part IV. The Stockade, vi. 109; Part V. My Sea Adventure, vi. 145; Part VI. Captain Silver, vi. 185; My First Book, xvi. 331

Treasure, The, of Franchard, vi. 267

"Trusty, dusky, vivid, true," xiv. 235

Truth of Intercourse, ii. 311

Umbrellas, The Philosophy of, xxii. 58

"Under the wide and starry sky," xiv. 86

Underwoods: I. In English, xiv. 67; II. In Scots, xiv. 105

"Up into the cherry-tree," xiv. 6

Upper Gévaudan, i. 165, 201

Velay, i. 141

Villa Quarters, Edinburgh, i. 311

Villon, François: Student, Poet, and Housebreaker, iii. 142

Virginibus Puerisque, I., ii. 281; II., ii. 292; On Falling in Love, ii. 302; Truth of Intercourse, ii. 311; Crabbed Age and Youth, ii. 321; An Apology for Idlers, ii. 334; Ordered South, ii. 345; Æs Triplex, ii. 358; El Dorado, ii. 368; The English Admirals, ii. 372; Some Portraits by Raeburn, ii. 385; Child's Play, ii. 394; Walking Tours, ii. 406; Pan's Pipes, ii. 415; A Plea for Gas Lamps, ii. 420

Walking Tours, ii. 406

Walt Whitman, iii. 77

War Correspondence from Stevenson's Note-book, xxii. 263

"We built a ship upon the stairs," xiv. 9

Weir of Hermiston, xix. 159; Sir Sidney Colvin's Note, xix. 284; Glossary of Scots Words, xix. 297

"We see you as we see a face," xiv. 85

"We travelled in the print of olden wars," xiv. 96

"We uncommiserate pass into the night," xiv. 255

"What are you able to build with your blocks?" xiv. 35

"When aince Aprile has fairly come," xiv. 109

"When at home alone I sit," xiv. 38

"When children are playing alone on the green," xiv. 31

"When chitterin' cauld the day sail daw," xiv. 275

"Whenever Auntie moves around," xiv. 11

"Whenever the moon and stars are set," xiv. 7

"When I am grown to man's estate," xiv. 9

"When I was sick and lay a-bed," xiv. 11

"When the bright lamp is carried in," xiv. 27

"When the golden day is done," xiv. 43

"When the grass was closely mown," xiv. 47

"Where the bells peal far at sea," xiv. 84

"Who comes to-night? We ope the doors in vain," xiv. 83

Willebrock Canal, On the, i. 11

Will o' the Mill, vi. 235

Winter and New Year, Edinburgh, i. 320

Winter's Walk, A, in Carrick and Galloway, xxii. 132

"With half a heart I wander here," xiv. 94

Wreath, The, of Immortelles, xxii. 30

Wrecker, The: Prologue, xiii. 5; The Yarn, xiii. 19; Epilogue, xiii. 427

Wrong Box, The, vii. 219

"Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember," xiv. 93

Yoshida-Torajiro, iii. 129

Young Chevalier, The, xxi. 253

"Youth now flees on feathered foot," xiv. 76

"You, too, my mother, read my rhymes," xiv. 55

THE END.

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