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 Poe, it was Mataafā (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.
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,
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 Curacoa—"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 Curacoa, 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." 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 Curacoa 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 Vitae 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
 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.
 As to admire The Black Arrow.
 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.
 Word omitted in MS.
 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."
 Sentimental Tommy: whose chief likeness to R. L. S. was meant to be in the literary temperament and passion for the mot propre.
 A proposed frontispiece for one of the volumes of the Edinburgh Edition.
 Sic: query "least"?
 Of The Wrecker.
 Trieb, impulse.
 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.
 Whitrett or Whitrack is Scots for a weasel: why applied to Mr. Meiklejohn I know not.
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.
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, Poe, 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 Poe Lelei, Mataafa, Solevao, Poe 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.]
"Abbe 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
"Adelaide," 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
"AEneid," reading of, xxiv. 186, 265, 306
"AEsthetic 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
Athenaeum, 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
Aurevilly, Barbey d', works of, xxiv. 83; xxv. 174, 314, 379
"Ausfuerliche 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 "Encyclopaedia Britannica," xxiii, 202
"Beachcombers" (with Lloyd Osbourne), xxiv. 361
"Beach de Mar," projected xxv. 187
"Beach of Falesa," 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
Beranger, article on, xxiii. 186, 191, 193
Bereavement, xxiv. 52
Berlin Convention, xxv. 6
Berlioz, paper on (Henley), xxiii. 318
"Bete 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" (Debacle), 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" (Theophile 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
Cevennes, 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'Aurevilly), 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" (Moliere), 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" (Mery), xxiii. 258
"Crime, Le, et le Chatiment" (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
Curacoa, 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 Mery), 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
"Debacle" (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
"Derniere Aldini, La," xxiv. 97
Desborough, Mrs., xxiv. 177
Descamps, Maxime, xxiv. 405
"Descent of Man" (Darwin), xxiii. 57
des Ursins, Juvenal, 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'Aurevilly), 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 (pere), 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 schoenes Fischermaedchen," 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
"Encyclopaedia 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
"Ensorcelee, L'" (d'Aurevilly), 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" (Moliere), 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
Follete, M., xxiii. 100
"Fons Bandusiae" (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
Francois, a baker, xxiii. 240; xxiv. 42
Francois 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 Celebres" (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
Gevaudan, 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