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one） cannot so much as observe the existence of savage psychology
when it is put before it。 I am at bottom a psychologist and
ashamed of it； the tale seized me one…third because of its
picturesque features； two…thirds because of its astonishing
psychology； and the SPECTATOR says there's none。 I am going on
with a lot of island work； exulting in the knowledge of a new
world； 'a new created world' and new men； and I am sure my income
will DECLINE and FALL off； for the effort of comprehension is death
to the intelligent public； and sickness to the dull。
I do not know why I pester you with all this trash； above all as
you deserve nothing。 I give you my warm TALOFA （'my love to you；'
Samoan salutation）。 Write me again when the spirit moves you。 And
some day； if I still live； make out the trip again and let us hob…
a…nob with our grey pows on my verandah。 … Yours sincerely；
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON。
Letter： TO W。 CRAIBE ANGUS
VAILIMA； SAMOA； APRIL 1891。
DEAR MR。 ANGUS； … Surely I remember you！ It was W。 C。 Murray who
made us acquainted； and we had a pleasant crack。 I see your poet
is not yet dead。 I remember even our talk … or you would not think
of trusting that invaluable JOLLY BEGGARS to the treacherous posts；
and the perils of the sea； and the carelessness of authors。 I love
the idea； but I could not bear the risk。 However …
'Hale be your heart； hale be your fiddle … '
it was kindly thought upon。
My interest in Burns is； as you suppose； perennial。 I would I
could be present at the exhibition； with the purpose of which I
heartily sympathise； but the NANCY has not waited in vain for me； I
have followed my chest； the anchor is weighed long ago； I have said
my last farewell to the hills and the heather and the lynns： like
Leyden； I have gone into far lands to die； not stayed like Burns to
mingle in the end with Scottish soil。 I shall not even return like
Scott for the last scene。 Burns Exhibitions are all over。 'Tis a
far cry to Lochow from tropical Vailima。
'But still our hearts are true； our hearts are Highland；
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides。'
When your hand is in； will you remember our poor Edinburgh Robin？
Burns alone has been just to his promise； follow Burns； he knew
best； he knew whence he drew fire … from the poor； white…faced；
drunken； vicious boy that raved himself to death in the Edinburgh
madhouse。 Surely there is more to be gleaned about Fergusson； and
surely it is high time the task was set about。 I way tell you
（because your poet is not dead） something of how I feel： we are
three Robins who have touched the Scots lyre this last century。
Well； the one is the world's； he did it； he came off； he is for
ever； but I and the other … ah！ what bonds we have … born in the
same city； both sickly； both pestered； one nearly to madness； one
to the madhouse； with a damnatory creed； both seeing the stars and
the dawn； and wearing shoe…leather on the same ancient stones；
under the same pends； down the same closes； where our common
ancestors clashed in their armour； rusty or bright。 And the old
Robin； who was before Burns and the flood； died in his acute；
painful youth； and left the models of the great things that were to
come； and the new； who came after； outlived his greensickness； and
has faintly tried to parody the finished work。 If you will collect
the strays of Robin Fergusson； fish for material； collect any last
re…echoing of gossip； command me to do what you prefer … to write
the preface … to write the whole if you prefer： anything； so that
another monument （after Burns's） be set up to my unhappy
predecessor on the causey of Auld Reekie。 You will never know； nor
will any man； how deep this feeling is： I believe Fergusson lives
in me。 I do； but tell it not in Gath； every man has these fanciful
superstitions； coming； going； but yet enduring； only most men are
so wise （or the poet in them so dead） that they keep their follies
for themselves。 … I am； yours very truly；
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON。
Letter： TO EDMUND GOSSE
VAILIMA； APRIL 1891。
MY DEAR GOSSE； … I have to thank you and Mrs。 Gosse for many
mementoes； chiefly for your LIFE of your father。 There is a very
delicate task； very delicately done。 I noted one or two
carelessnesses； which I meant to point out to you for another
edition； but I find I lack the time； and you will remark them for
yourself against a new edition。 They were two； or perhaps three；
flabbinesses of style which （in your work） amazed me。 Am I right
in thinking you were a shade bored over the last chapters？ or was
it my own fault that made me think them susceptible of a more
athletic compression？ （The flabbinesses were not there； I think；
but in the more admirable part； where they showed the bigger。）
Take it all together； the book struck me as if you had been hurried
at the last； but particularly hurried over the proofs； and could
still spend a very profitable fortnight in earnest revision and
（towards the end） heroic compression。 The book； in design；
subject； and general execution； is well worth the extra trouble。
And even if I were wrong in thinking it specially wanted； it will
not be lost； for do we not know； in Flaubert's dread confession；
that 'prose is never done'？ What a medium to work in； for a man
tired； perplexed among different aims and subjects； and spurred by
the immediate need of 'siller'！ However； it's mine for what it's
worth； and it's one of yours； the devil take it； and you know； as
well as Flaubert； and as well as me； that it is NEVER DONE； in
other words； it is a torment of the pit； usually neglected by the
bards who （lucky beggars！） approached the Styx in measure。 I speak
bitterly at the moment； having just detected in myself the last
fatal symptom； three blank verses in succession … and I believe；
God help me； a hemistich at the tail of them； hence I have deposed
the labourer； come out of hell by my private trap； and now write to
you from my little place in purgatory。 But I prefer hell： would I
could always dig in those red coals … or else be at sea in a
schooner； bound for isles unvisited： to be on shore and not to
work is emptiness … suicidal vacancy。
I was the more interested in your LIFE of your father； because I
meditate one of mine； or rather of my family。 I have no such
materials as you； and （our objections already made） your attack
fills me with despair； it is direct and elegant； and your style is
always admirable to me … lenity； lucidity； usually a high strain of
breeding； an elegance that has a pleasant air of the accidental。
But beware of purple passages。 I wonder if you think as well of
your purple passages as I do of mine？ I wonder if you think as ill
of mine as I do of yours？ I wonder； I can tell you at least what
is wrong with yours … they are treated in the spirit of verse。 The
spirit … I don't mean the measure； I don't mean you fall into
bastard cadences； what I mean is that they seem vacant and smoothed
out； ironed； if you like。 And in a style which （like yours） aims
more and more successfully at the academic； one purple word is
already much； three … a whole phrase … is inadmissible。 Wed
yourself to a clean austerity： that is your force。 Wear a linen
ephod； splendidly candid。 Arrange its folds； but do not fasten it
with any brooch。 I swear to you； in your talking robes； there
should be no patch of adornment； and where the subject forces； let
it force you no further than it must； and be ready with a twinkle
of your pleasantry。 Yours is a fine tool； and I see so well how to
hold it； I wonder if you see how to hold mine？ But then I am to
the neck in prose； and just now in the 'dark INTERSTYLAR cave；' all
methods and effects wooing me； myself in