Chapter M: Cowles (3)

As he started to leave the room, Clinton suddenly stopped before a full-length portrait of a noble-looking, pleasant-faced man apparently about sixty years old. It was his old master—"Old Winthrop," as the boys used to call him. He had died ten years ago, and Clinton had hardly seen him more than once or twice since he left the school; but the picture almost brought the tears to his eyes as he stood there and thought how much he owed to that man. Winthrop had been a stern, almost relentless, master; but he had had a complete and true understanding of a boy's feelings and motives, and his boys had respected him as they had respected no one else, then or since. They had, every one of them, placed the most absolute confidence and reliance in him. No boy ever thought of questioning "Old Winthrop's" decision, whether the decision was on a point of school discipline, or athletics, or local etiquette, or morals, or base-ball, or religion. He had taught his boys, and they had learned the lesson well, that "honor" and "loyalty" were the two great things in life; that to do what was not honorable was to commit the greatest crime; that to be disloyal to one's friends, to one's school, to one's trust, to one's self, was to render one unfit to associate with gentlemen. "He made me all that I am now," murmured Clinton to himself, and his voice was a little husky. "If I've ever done anything well, it was due to him."

* * * * *

The Governor walked out across the fields with the Master and Mr. Toppan in the direction of Prescott House; and when it became noised about that, after all, he was to lunch there, and not at the Master's, the Prescott boys yelled with joy and jeered at their crestfallen rivals across the way.

* * * * *

On the way, Clinton stopped to look in at the Chapel, where the prize speaking was to take place that evening. He laughed as he saw the well-remembered platform with its faded red carpet, and as he thought of his woeful failure the last time he had engaged in a speaking competition there. How he had vainly and weakly struggled with "Webster's Reply to Hayne," and lost his memory in the middle of it, and had sat down ignominiously, and how Old Winthrop had said, "Well, Clinton, whatever else you may do when you grow up, you will never make a speaker. Your effort was the worst I ever heard here." That was the only point that Clinton could remember on which Winthrop had ever been wrong. Certainly the audiences that were nightly cheering the keen, eloquent speeches which the Governor had been making for the past four campaigns would vigorously question the fulfilment of Mr. Winthrop's prophecy.

* * * * *

"Well, boys, who is going to win the Founder's Cup to-day?" Clinton asked as he sat down in the lounging-room of the Prescott House and a crowd of boys stood round the doorway, while the bolder sat uneasily on the edge of a table in the middle of the room.

"'Scotty,' I mean Bruce Campbell," replied one, rather grudgingly. "He's a Master's House fellow; but we're afraid he'll get it; although 'Skipper' Cunningham—he's one of us"—he said, pointing to a tall, stalwart, nice-looking boy outside in the hall, "will give him a hard push for it. You see, 'Scotty's' bound to get three firsts at any rate, and it's a close thing in the two-twenty-yard dash. 'Skipper's' good for a lot of seconds and one first, anyway," he said, enthusiastically.

"Oh, no, two!" shouted another boy. And thereupon so lively a discussion arose that the overawing presence of the Governor was quite forgotten.

"Prescott House is sure of the Master's Cup, anyway," said "Kid" Nelson, confidentially, to the Governor; "you can bet on that." Since his interview in the school-room, "Kid" had quite taken Clinton under his personal care.

Meanwhile, the Governor arose, and examined the pictures of the old athletic teams on the wall, and to the delight of the boys pointed out his own picture, a disreputable-looking member of one of the old foot-ball teams, absolutely unrecognizable now as the portrayal of the tall, determined, grave-looking man who stood towering up above his devoted Copley School mates for the time being.

And he still further won their undying devotion when, after asking to be taken to a certain bedroom upstairs, he very knowingly walked to the window, leaned far out, then jerked himself back with a satisfied air; and then showed them how a boy, by hanging far out of the window while two other boys grasped his legs from within, could reach round the corner of the House, get hold of a portico-railing, and escape from the room and down to the earth in that fashion. It was undoubtedly an immoral thing for the Governor to do, but he could not resist the temptation, so delightful was it to find how the memory of all the most minute old misdeeds came back.

The Masters of Prescott House, indeed, were very sure that Governor Clinton's influence had been very far from good on their charges, when during the next week they found that five boys made use of this highly reprehensible method of exit from the House during evening study-hour.

And at dinner what could more delight the boys than that Clinton should decline to sit at the head of the table, next to the Master and the other teachers, but should sit opposite, with a boy on either side, where he could learn all the details of the present school life, its rivalries, revelries, hardships, and zests!

Time passed quickly, until at three o'clock all assembled on the field for the great expected sports. The day was glorious for them; a crisp, cold, sunny October day, with the air intensely clear and full of life. What a day and what splendid games, thought Clinton. And he cheered and shouted like a small boy, and was far less stately than the grave First Class fellows who called themselves "Sub-Freshmen" in a manner anticipatory of future dignities.

Firsts, Clinton found, counted ten; seconds, six; thirds, three, and fourths, one; and the contest between the two houses was as close as the greatest lover of sports could desire. And so it happened that when the two-hundred-and-twenty yard dash came off, the Master's House had won 78 points and Prescott House 80 points; and of the two favorites, "Skipper" Cunningham had won 44 and Bruce Campbell 41. It was admitted that this race would practically decide the day; for the few remaining points, it was fairly well settled in advance, would be equally divided between the various champions from the two houses.

"It's a good deal more exciting than a political campaign," said the Governor to his friend Toppan.

There was a half hush as the two rivals lined up for the famous event in the final heat—all the other competitors having fallen before them in the preliminary heats. Both Cunningham and Campbell were shapely formed youths, lithe and muscular, as each leaned far forward with his arms stretched out in the starting posture, waiting for the signal.

The pistol cracked and the two boys were off. By the time they had gone half the distance Campbell was leading by about eight feet. Suddenly he was seen to stagger and something appeared to fly off from his legs. He fell down upon the track and Cunningham darted by him with the race well in hand. As he went by, he looked to see what the matter was, and then suddenly stopped and turned around. His Prescott House followers held their breath in amazement, dismay, and confusion. Then the spectators saw what had happened. Campbell's running-shoe had become loose and the spikes had stuck in a clayey bit of soil, pulling the shoe off the foot, and causing Campbell's ankle to turn and throw him. Cunningham, panting for breath, walked up to Campbell as he rose slowly, and said, "Too bad, Bruce, old man; are you hurt?"

"No," said Campbell, "I got my wind a little knocked out. What did you stop for?"

"Oh, all right," said Cunningham; "then we'll start the race over again." And he walked down to the starting-line in a simple, unconcerned way.

And how the boys were cheering him,—even the Prescott House boys, though it was a great disappointment to them! The failure to win then might cost them both cups; and if Cunningham had won that race, both cups would have surely been theirs. But they cheered just the same.

The Governor turned to the Head Master. "By George!" he exclaimed, "that's a splendid piece of work. That boy is a boy to be proud of. Did you see, he had that race cold? It was a sure thing and he didn't choose to win it in that way."

Mr. Stoughton was looking proud and happy. "That's the kind of a boy he is," he answered; "and I believe," he added, with enthusiasm, "they all are, here."

The Governor was about to say that the credit was due to Stoughton when he noticed that preparations were being made to start the race over again. Again the pistol sounded and the two were off, this time Cunningham doing a little better than before, but still a few feet behind Campbell. Toward the end he began to gain, and the Prescott House boys plucked up courage again and yelled themselves hoarse; but Campbell was still in the lead and finally won by about three feet. The rest of the games came out just as expected; and, as prophesied, the two-twenty-yard dash was the decisive match, giving the Master's cup to the Master's House with 98 points, as against Prescott House with 96 points, and the Founder's Cup going to Campbell, with 51 points as opposed to Cunningham's 50 points. And so the Master's House boys celebrated their victory, and the Prescott House boys celebrated their defeated hero's, "Skipper" Cunningham's, deeds with almost as much vigor as if they owned the cups. And really it was not much of a defeat after all.

After the games, before going back to the school to award the cups formally, the Governor went up to where Cunningham stood. "Cunningham," he said, holding out his hand, "I want to shake hands with you. I'm proud of my school and that you're in it, and I'm proud of you. I want to ask you what made you stop and offer to run the race over again."

"Why," said the "Skipper," blushing and confused and very much surprised, "what else could I have done?"

"I know," said Clinton, "but it was only one of the fortunes of war that is likely to happen in any contest. The race was yours, legally, even if Campbell did have an accident. Why shouldn't you have run it out and won the cup for your House and for yourself?"

"Oh," replied the "Skipper," simply, "but that wouldn't have been honorable. It wouldn't have been fair and square. No Copley boy would do that."

It was all said in so matter of course a way that the Governor saw that the idea that elsewhere such a thing was often done had never entered the boy's head. As he walked away, the boy's words rang in the Governor's ears: "Not fair and square." "Not honorable." "No Copley boy would do that."

How the Governor made a splendid speech, and how he called them all "old fellows," and how he spoke of the fine traditions of honor which Mr. Winthrop began and Mr. Stoughton was continuing, and how he told them interesting stories of political fights—where they would be tempted to forget some of the Copley standard of conduct—and how he praised old "Skipper" Cunningham and said he was as good as the victor, and how he said that he was going to present a cup to the school to be fought for every year, to be called the "Winthrop Cup," and to be given to the second best athlete, and how he said he wanted the "Skipper's" name to be placed first upon it, and how he proposed three cheers for "Popper" Stoughton—all these things are part of the school history, and are handed down from one class to another as they tell of that memorable "Governor's Day."

And then all the boys escorted him down to the station, and gave their school, class, and House yells, and nearly jerked his arm off in their anxiety to shake hands with him. And at six o'clock the Governor and his private secretary boarded the limited express, which was due to arrive at the great manufacturing city of Dunster at half-past seven, just in time for the rally.

"Well, Mr. Porter, I'm sorry you were busy writing out that dictation, for you missed a good time. I haven't had as much fun for years. But now comes the serious part of life again. Have you got my speech all written out?"

Porter produced it; and the Governor read it through, while the lines in his face deepened and his look became again severe and judicial. "I guess that is sufficiently strong," he said, when he had finished reading—"but no more so than the man deserves; isn't that so?" he burst out heartily.

"No," said Porter.

"You don't think that I'm taking any unfair advantage of him?" Clinton asked, in a thoughtful manner. "Of course, his getting drunk may have been more in the nature of an accident than anything else and doesn't necessarily mean that a man is unfit," he said half to himself. "It's a rather small issue, isn't it, to make against a man?"

"_You_ didn't make it; he did," answered Porter.

"You're right," said the Governor, suddenly, and he began to study the speech carefully in order to get it clearly in his head. "Let me have those copies of the court record," he said. Porter handed them over. "I don't want to use these against a man if it wouldn't be a square thing to do," again argued the Governor, "I don't want to take unfair advantage of a weakness on his part."

"As I said before," replied the private secretary, "I consider it your duty to the party."

"Of course," said the Governor, "that makes the difference; if only I personally were the gainer, I might hesitate, but the party welfare demands it."

At half-past seven the train drew into the station in Dunster; and a delegation of the city committee met the Governor with a barouche and four horses and a band playing "Hail to the Chief," to the Governor's great weariness. At the city hall, where the rally was to be held, a large crowd of representative men of the party were assembled in one of the ante-rooms behind the stage. As the party leaders filed up, Clinton addressed a few happy words to each, calling most of them by name, for he had spoken in Dunster before.

Then the signal was given and the chairman of the meeting, looking worried and overweighted by the responsibilities of the occasion, marched up on the stage with the Governor, the rest shambling on behind in a shamefaced manner and with a certain want of confidence, like a flock of sheep. While the chairman was making his speech of introduction, which occupied thirty-five minutes, and during which he carefully anticipated every point which the real speakers of the evening might make, the Governor took out the pages of his speech, together with the court documents, and again carefully read them through. At last the chairman finished and the Governor walked slowly forward on the platform. The audience cheered wildly and the band hurriedly played "Hail to the Chief." The Governor took his manuscript and the other papers out of his breast-pocket, laid them on the reading-desk, opened them, gave a last glance at them, and then stood waiting for the uproar to subside.

As he stood there looking at the excited audience, a man's face in the row next to the front caught his eye, and he looked hard at him. It seemed familiar. He gazed still harder; and then saw that it was no one whom he knew, but that the face was the very image of "Skipper" Cunningham's. Like a flash Clinton's mind reverted to the scene at Copley School. He heard the frank, manly, ringing tones of Cunningham as he replied to the Governor's remarks.... Then Clinton perceived that the audience was waiting for him, and he began,

"My friends of Dunster, not alone my party mates, I thank you for this warm welcome. I have tried my best while your Governor to earn it...."

Those who were there said that Governor Clinton had never before in his life made so strong and so ringing a speech. The argument was searching, filled with sarcasm, and unanswerable. It stirred his audience from the bottom of their souls, for the Governor's words seemed instinct with truth and sincerity. As he sat patiently waiting for the local candidate for the Legislature, who was speaking on painfully uninteresting local issues, to finish, Clinton felt, himself, that his speech had distinctly been a success. He also felt that he had done right.

After the Governor and his private secretary, Mr. Porter, rode back to the hotel, he said, "Porter, I wish you'd take down a note which I want to dictate to-night to Bellingham. Enclose with it the manuscript of my speech and the copies of those court records. Take a copy of it and send it to-night."

On reaching the hotel the note was written and mailed with the enclosures that night; and the Bellingham episode in the campaign appeared to be closed so far as Clinton was concerned.

* * * * *

The Governor reached the State House the next day about noon; and at three o'clock it was announced to him that Mr. Bellingham was outside and desired to see him.

"This is a nuisance," muttered the Governor as Bellingham entered. The latter walked up to the Governor and held out his hand.

"Governor," he said, "I am here to apologize to you most sincerely for what I said in my speech the other night. I want to tell you that I will make full explanation of it in the newspapers and to my audience to-night. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate and how much I thank you for your note and for your forbearance in not delivering that speech which you sent me. For I admit you had the greatest provocation to return the attack."

"Oh, that's all right," replied Clinton. "It's all over with now. Sit down."

Just at that moment Jim Blakely and Dawson, the _Standard_ reporter, were waiting outside in the private secretary's office for a chance to see Clinton, and conversing excitedly with Mr. Porter.

"What in Heaven's name made the Governor give up his idea of attacking Bellingham in his speech last night?" asked Blakely. "I thought we had it all decided on that he was to produce those convictions and make a rousing assault on that blackguardly politician," he continued; "and now he goes up to Dunster and makes a speech with not a word in it on Bellingham's personal record, and confines himself to political issues. He's a damned fool, that's what he is. He's throwing away his election."

"I don't know," said Porter, "how it happened. All I know is, that he had his speech all prepared and was studying it all the way to Dunster. He had it on his desk before him, and I was never so surprised in all my life as I was when I heard him go on without a word regarding Bellingham's career or in reply to his disreputable assaults. And you could have knocked me down with a feather when the Governor told me last night to write to Bellingham and enclose the legal papers. Wait a minute and I'll show you what he wrote. I know I can rely on you two not to make it public."

Both men nodded, and Porter took up some paper on his desk and read:

"ALFRED P. BELLINGHAM, ESQ.,

"Dear Sir:—I have read your remarks of last night and I
enclose you the speech which I intended to deliver in reply
to them. It will never be delivered, however. I also enclose
you certain documents which may be of interest to you. Upon
careful consideration of these and of your recent course in
this campaign, I feel sure that you will be of the opinion,
as a gentleman, that the way to your election or to mine in
this State does not lie along such a road.

"Yours truly,
"ROBERT CLINTON."

"Well, I call the Governor, with all due respect, a tenderfoot," said the reporter, whistling loudly as he heard the letter. "Did the Governor give you any explanation of his change of heart?"

"Nothing very intelligible," answered Porter. "He said something about Copley School that I couldn't make out."

* * * * *

"And now," said Bellingham, inside the Executive Chamber, to Clinton, "I want to explain to you the other night's speech. I admit that I was drunk. I admit also that many years ago I was indicted for fraud at an election, and I was convicted and fined for drunkenness; but, God help me, I believe that during the past twenty years I have lived down these things. I hadn't touched a drop of liquor for five years up to the other night. It was, you remember, a very biting cold night, and I had driven six miles from the railroad station and was thoroughly chilled through. I felt it in my lungs, and my host over-persuaded me to take some whiskey. It went straight to my head, and you unfortunately know the result. But as I said before, Governor, I cannot sufficiently apologize to you and thank you for your forbearance."

The Governor paused a moment. "You needn't thank me," he said. "You should thank 'Skipper' Cunningham."

Bellingham looked confused and waited for the Governor to explain his remark. The Governor, however, offered no explanation. Instead, he said, abruptly, "Bellingham, I'm going to tell you, as man to man, that I think you've done a very square thing by coming here to me to-day and saying what you've said. I think it was a mighty frank and honorable thing in you to do. I'm proud to be fighting you as my opponent."

He paused again, and then suddenly asked, "You never were a Copley School boy, were you?"

"No," said Bellingham.

"You ought to have been," answered the Governor.

THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Edited by Sidney Colvin

SARANAC LAKE:—WINTER, 1887-1888

During the two years and nine months of Stevenson's residence at Bournemouth preceding the date of his father's death, he had made no apparent progress toward recovery. Every period of respite had been quickly followed by a relapse, and all his work, brilliant and varied as it was, had been done under conditions which would have reduced almost any other man to inactivity. The close and frequently recurring struggles against the danger of death from hemorrhage and exhaustion, which he had been used, when they first occurred, to find exciting, grew in the long run merely irksome, and even his persistent high courage and gayety, sustained as they were by the devoted affection of his family and many friends, began occasionally, for the first time, to fail him. Accordingly when in May, 1887, the death of his father severed the strongest of the ties which bound him to the old country, he was very ready to listen to the advice of his physicians, who were unanimous in thinking his case not hopeless, but urged him to try some complete change of climate, surroundings, and mode of life. His wife's connections pointing to the West, he thought of the mountain health-resorts of Colorado, and of their growing reputation for the cure of lung patients. Having let his house at Bournemouth, he accordingly took passage on board the steamship Ludgate Hill, sailing for New York from London on August 17, 1887, with his whole party, consisting of his wife, his widowed mother, whom they had persuaded to join them, his young stepson, and a trusted servant, Valentine.

It was the moment when his reputation had first reached its height in the United States, owing especially to the immense impression made by the _Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_. He experienced consequently—for the first time—the pleasures, such as they were, of celebrity, and also its inconveniences; found the most hospitable of refuges in the house of his kind friends, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, of Newport; and quickly made many other friends, including the owner and the editor of this Magazine, from whom he immediately received and accepted very advantageous offers of work. Having been dissuaded from braving, for the present, the fatigue of the long journey to Colorado and the extreme rigors of its winter climate, he determined to try instead a season at the mountain station of Saranac Lake, in the Adirondack Mountains, New York State, which had lately been coming into reputation as a place of cure. There, under the care of the well-known resident physician, Dr. Trudeau, he spent nearly seven months, from the end of September, 1887, to the end of April, 1888, with results on the whole favorable to his own health, though not to that of his wife, who at these high altitudes was never well. His work during the winter consisted of the twelve papers published in the course of 1888 in SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE, including, perhaps, the most striking of all his essays, _A Chapter on Dreams_, _Pulvis et Umbra_, _Beggars_, _The Lantern Bearers_, _Random Memories_, etc.; as well as the greater part of the _Master of Ballantrae_ and _The Wrong Box_—the last originally conceived and drafted by Mr. Lloyd Osbourne—and the ballad of _Ticonderoga_.

On the Porch of the Cottage at Saranac, in the Adirondacks, U. S. A.
(From a Photograph.)]

The following letters are extracted from those which tell of his voyage to New York and his reception there at this date, and of his winter's life and work at Saranac:

NEWPORT, R. I., U. S. A. [September, 1887].

MY DEAR COLVIN,—So long it went excellent well, and I had a
time I am glad to have had; really enjoying my life. There
is nothing like being at sea, after all. And O why have I
allowed myself to rot so long on land? But on the Banks I
caught a cold, and I have not yet got over it. My reception
here was idiotic to the last degree.... It is very silly, and
not pleasant, except where humor enters; and I confess the
poor interviewer lads pleased me. They are too good for their
trade; avoided anything I asked them to avoid, and were no
more vulgar in their reports than they could help. I liked
the lads.

O, it was lovely on our stable-ship, chock full of stallions.
She rolled heartily, rolled some of the fittings out of our
state-room, and I think a more dangerous cruise (except that
it was summer) it would be hard to imagine. But we enjoyed
it to the masthead, all but Fanny; and even she perhaps a
little. When we got in, we had run out of beer, stout, cocoa,
soda-water, water, fresh meat, and (almost) of biscuit. But
it was a thousandfold pleasanter than a great big Birmingham
liner like a new hotel; and we liked the officers, and made
friends with the quartermasters, and I (at least) made a
friend of a baboon (for we carried a cargo of apes), whose
embraces have pretty near cost me a coat. The passengers
improved, and were a very good specimen lot, with no drunkard,
no gambling that I saw, and less grumbling and backbiting than
one would have asked of poor human nature. Apes, stallions,
cows, matches, hay, and poor men-folk all or almost all came
successfully to land—Yours ever,

R. L. S.

[NEWPORT, U. S. A., September, 1887.]

MY DEAR JAMES,—Here we are at Newport in the house of the
good Fairchilds; and a sad burthen we have laid upon their
shoulders. I have been in bed practically ever since I came.
I caught a cold on the Banks after having had the finest
time conceivable, and enjoyed myself more than I could have
hoped on board our strange floating menagerie; stallions and
monkeys and matches made our cargo; and the vast continent of
these incongruities rolled the while like a haystack; and the
stallions stood hypnotised by the motion, looking through the
ports at our dinner-table, and winked when the crockery was
broken; and the little monkeys stared at each other in their
cages, and were thrown overboard like little bluish babies;
and the big monkey, Jacko, scoured about the ship and rested
willingly in my arms, to the ruin of my clothing; and the man
of the stallions made a bower of the black tarpaulin, and sat
therein at the feet of a raddled divinity, like a picture on
a box of chocolates; and the other passengers, when they were
not sick, looked on and laughed. Take all this picture, and
make it roll till the bell shall sound unexpected notes and
the fittings shall break loose in our stateroom, and you have
the voyage of the _Ludgate Hill_. She arrived in the port of
New York, without beer, porter, soda-water, curaçoa, fresh
meat, or fresh water; and yet we lived, and we regret her.

My wife is a good deal run down, and I am no great shakes.

America is, as I remarked, a fine place to eat in, and a
great place for kindness; but, Lord, what a silly thing is
popularity; I envy the cool obscurity of Skerryvore. If it
even paid, said Meanness! and was abashed at himself.—Yours
most sincerely,

R. L. S.

[NEW YORK; end of September, 1887.]

MY DEAR S. C.,—Your delightful letter has just come, and finds
me in a New York Hotel, waiting the arrival of a sculptor
(St. Gaudens) who is making a medallion of yours truly and who
is (to boot) one of the handsomest and nicest fellows I have
often seen. I caught a cold on the Banks; fog is not for me;
nearly died of interviewers and visitors, during twenty-four
hours in New York; cut for Newport with Lloyd and Valentine,
a journey like a fairy-land for the most engaging beauties,
one little rocky and pine-shaded cove after another, each
with a house and a boat at anchor, so that I left my heart in
each and marvelled why American authors had been so unjust to
their country; caught another cold on the train; arrived at
Newport to go to bed and grow worse, and to stay in bed until
I left again; the Fairchilds proving during this time kindness
itself; Mr. Fairchild simply one of the most engaging men in
the world, and one of the children, Blair, _aet._ ten, a great
joy and amusement in his solemn adoring attitude to the author
of _Treasure Island_.

Here I was interrupted by the arrival of my sculptor. I have
begged him to make a medallion of himself and give me a copy.
I will not take up the sentence in which I was wandering so
long, but begin fresh. I was ten or twelve days at Newport;
then came back convalescent to New York. Fanny and Lloyd are
off to the Adirondacks to see if that will suit; and the rest
of us leave Monday (this is Saturday) to follow them up. I
hope we may manage to stay there all winter. I have a splendid
appetite and have on the whole recovered well after a mighty
sharp attack. I am now on a salary of £500 a year for twelve
articles in _Scribner's Magazine_ on what I like; it is more
than £500 but I cannot calculate more precisely [it was £700].
You have no idea how much is made of me here; I was offered
£2000 for a weekly article—eh heh! how is that? but I refused
that lucrative job. They would drive even an honest man into
being a mere lucre-hunter in three weeks; to make _me gober_
is I think more difficult; I have my own views on that point
and stick to them. The success of _Underwoods_ is gratifying.
You see, the verses are sane, that is their strong point, and
it seems is strong enough to carry them.

A thousand thanks for your grand letter, ever yours,

R. L. S.

SARANAC LAKE, ADIRONDACKS,
NEW YORK, U. S. A.
[October, 1887.]

MY DEAR BOB,

The cold [of Colorado] was too rigorous for me; I could not
risk the long railway voyage, and the season was too late to
risk the Eastern, Cape Hatteras side of the steamer one; so
here we stuck and stick. We have a wooden house on a hill top,
overlooking a river, and a village about a quarter of a mile
away, and very wooded hills; the whole scene is very Highland,
bar want of heather and wooden houses.

I have got one good thing of my sea voyage; it is proved the
sea agrees heartily with me, and my mother likes it; so if
I get any better, or no worse, my mother will likely hire a
yacht for a month or so in summer. Good Lord! what fun! Wealth
is only useful for two things; a yacht and a string quartette.
For these two I will sell my soul. Except for these I hold
that £700 a year is as much as anybody can possibly want; and
I have had more, so I know, for the extry coins were of no
use excepting for illness, which damns everything.

I was so happy on board that ship, I could not have believed
it possible; we had the beastliest weather, and many
discomforts; but the mere fact of its being a tramp-ship
gave us many comforts; we could cut about with the men and
officers, stay in the wheel-house, discuss all manner of
things, and really be a little at sea. And truly there is
nothing else. I had literally forgotten what happiness was,
and the full mind—full of external and physical things, not
full of cares and labours and rot about a fellow's behaviour.
My heart literally sang; I truly care for nothing so much as
for that. We took so North a course that we saw Newfoundland;
no-one in the ship had ever seen it before.

It was beyond belief to me how she rolled; in seemingly smooth
water, the bell striking, the fittings bounding out of our
stateroom. It is worth having lived these last years, partly
because I have written some better books, which is always
pleasant, but chiefly to have had the joy of this voyage. I
have been made a lot of here, and it is sometimes pleasant,
sometimes the reverse; but I could give it all up, and agree
that — was the author of my works, for a good seventy ton
schooner and the coins to keep her on. And to think there
are parties with yachts who would make the exchange! I know a
little about fame now; it is no good compared to a yacht; and
anyway there is more fame in a yacht, more genuine fame; to
cross the Atlantic and come to anchor in Newport (say) with
the Union Jack, and go ashore for your letters and hang about
the pier, among the holiday yachtsmen—that's fame, that's
glory—and nobody can take it away; they can't say your book
is bad; you _have_ crossed the Atlantic. I should do it South
by the West Indies, to avoid the damned banks; and probably
come home by steamer, and leave the skipper to bring the yacht
home.

Well, if all goes well, we shall maybe sail out of Southampton
water some of these days and take a run to Havre, and try the
Baltic, or somewhere.

Love to you all
Ever your afft.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Low was delightful as always. St. Gaudens, a very nice fellow
too, has done a medallion of me.

[The following refers to a review by Mr. Gosse of Stevenson's volume of verse called "Underwoods." The book had been published a few weeks previously, and is dedicated, as readers will remember, to a number of physicians who had attended him at sundry times and places.]

SARANAC LAKE, Oct. 8th, 1887.

MY DEAR GOSSE,—I have just read your article twice, with
cheers of approving laughter; I do not believe you ever wrote
anything so funny; Tyndall's 'shell,' the passage on the
Davos press and its invaluable issues, and that on V. Hugo
and Swinburne, are exquisite; so, I say it more ruefully, is
the touch about the doctors. For the rest, I am very glad you
like my verses so well; and the qualities you ascribe to them
seem to me well found and well named. I own to that kind of
candour you attribute to me; when I am frankly interested, I
suppose I fancy the public will be so too—and when I am moved,
I am sure of it. It has been my luck hitherto to meet with no
staggering disillusion. 'Before' and 'After' may be two; and
yet I believe the habit is now too thoroughly ingrained to be
altered. About the doctors, you were right, that dedication
has been the subject of some pleasantries that made me grind,
and of your happily touched reproof which made me blush.
And to miscarry in a dedication is an abominable form of
book-wreck; I am a good captain, I would rather lose the tent
and save my dedication.

I am at Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks, I suppose for
the winter; it seems a first-rate place; we have a house
in the eye of many winds, with a view of a piece of
running water—Highland, all but the dear hue of peat—and
of many hills—Highland also, but for the lack of heather.
Soon the snow will close on us; we are here some twenty
miles—twenty-seven they say, but this I profoundly
disbelieve—in the woods; communication by letter is slow and
(let me be consistent) aleatory; by telegram is as near as
may be impossible.

I had some experience of American appreciation; I liked a
little of it, but there is too much; a little of that would
go a long way to spoil a man; and I like myself better in the
woods. I am so damned candid and ingenuous (for a cynic), and
so much of a 'cweatu' of impulse—aw' (if you remember that
admirable Leech), that I begin to shirk any more taffy; I
think I begin to like it too well. But let us trust the Gods;
they have a rod in pickle; reverently I doff my trousers, and
with screwed eyes await the _amari aliquid_ of the great God
Busby.

I thank you for the article in all ways, and remain yours
affectionately,

R. L. S.

SARANAC, October, 1887.

[To W. H. Low.]

SIR,—I have to trouble you with the following _paroles bien
senties_. We are here at a first-rate place. 'Baker's' is the
name of our house; but we don't address there, we prefer the
tender care of the Post-Office, as more aristocratic (it is
no use to telegraph even to the care of the Post-Office, who
does not give a single damn). Baker's has a prophet's chamber,
which the hypercritical might describe as a garret with a hole
in the floor; in that garret, sir, I have to trouble you and
your wife to come and slumber. Not now, however: with manly
hospitality, I choke off any sudden impulse. Because first, my
wife and my mother are gone (a note for the latter, strongly
suspected to be in the hand of your talented wife, now sits
silent on the mantel shelf), one to Niagara and t' other to
Indianapolis. Because, second, we are not yet installed. And
because, third, I won't have you till I have a buffalo robe
and leggings, lest you should want to paint me as a plain
man, which I am not, but a rank Saranacker and wild man of
the woods.

Yours,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

I am well.

[The Wondrous Tale referred to in the following is Stevenson's _Black Arrow_, which had been through Mr. Archer's hands in proof.]

SARANAC LAKE, October, 1887.

DEAR ARCHER,—Many thanks for the Wondrous Tale. It is scarcely
a work of genius, as I believe you felt. Thanks also for your
pencillings; though I defend 'shrew,' or at least many of the
shrews.

We are here (I suppose) for the winter in the Adirondacks,
a hill and forest country on the Canadian border of New York
State, very unsettled and primitive and cold, and healthful,
or we are the more bitterly deceived. I believe it will do
well for me; but must not boast.

My wife is away to Indiana to see her family; my mother,
Lloyd, and I remain here in the cold, which has been exceeding
sharp, and the hill air, which is inimitably fine. We all eat
bravely, and sleep well, and make great fires, and get along
like one o'clock.

I am now a salaried party; I am a _bourgeois_ now; I am to
write a monthly paper for Scribner's, at a scale of payment
which makes my teeth ache for shame and diffidence. The
editor is, I believe, to apply to you; for we were talking
over likely men, and when I instanced you, he said he had had
his eye upon you from the first. It is worth while, perhaps,
to get in tow with the Scribners; they are such thorough
gentle-folk in all ways that it is always a pleasure to deal
with them. I am like to be a millionaire if this goes on, and
be publicly hanged at the social revolution; well, I would
prefer that to dying in my bed; and it would be a godsend to
my biographer, if ever I have one. What are you about? I hope
you are all well and in good case and spirits, as I am now,
after a most nefast experience of despondency before I left;
but indeed I was quite run down. Remember me to Mrs. Archer,
and give my respects to Tom—Yours very truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

[The lady to whom the following letter is addressed, as well as a good many others to come, had been a close friend of the Stevenson family at Bournemouth, and on their departure had been trusted to keep an eye on their interests in connection with their house (which had been let) and other matters, and to report thereon from time to time. In their correspondence Stevenson is generally referred to as the Squire and the lady as the Gamekeeper.]

[SARANAC LAKE, December, 1887.]

MY DEAR MISS BOODLE,—I am so much afraid, our gamekeeper may
weary of unacknowledged reports! Hence, in the midst of a
perfect horror of detestable weathers of a quite incongruous
strain, and with less desire for correspondence than—well,
than—well, with no desire for correspondence, behold me
dash into the breach. Do keep up your letters. They are most
delightful to this exiled backwoods family; and in your next,
we shall hope somehow or other to hear better news of you
and yours—that, in the first place—and to hear more news of
our beasts and birds and kindly fruits of the earth and those
human tenants who are (truly) too much with us.

I am very well; better than for years: that is for good.
But then my wife is no great shakes; the place does not suit
her—it is my private opinion that no place does—and she is
now away down to New York for a change, which (as Lloyd is
in Boston) leaves my mother and me and Valentine alone in
our wind-beleaguered hilltop hatbox of a house. You should
hear the cows butt against the walls in the early morning
while they feed; you should also see our back log when the
thermometer goes (as it does go) away—away below zero, till
it can be seen no more by the eye of man—not the thermometer,
which is still perfectly visible, but the mercury, which curls
up into the bulb like a hibernating bear; you should also see
the lad who "does chores" for us, with his red stockings and
his thirteen year old face, and his highly manly tramp into
the room; and his two alternative answers to all questions
about the weather; either "Cold," or with a really lyrical
movement of the voice, "_Lovely_—raining!"

Will you take this miserable scrap for what it is worth? Will
you also understand that I am the man to blame, and my wife
is really almost too much out of health to write—or at least
doesn't write?—And believe me, with kind remembrances to Mrs.
Boodle and your sister, very sincerely yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

SARANAC LAKE, Winter, 1887-8.

MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,—It may please you to know how our family
has been employed. In the silence of the snow the afternoon
lamp has lighted an eager fireside group; my mother reading,
Fanny, Lloyd, and I devoted listeners; and the work was
really one of the best works I ever heard; and its author is
to be praised and honoured; and what do you suppose is the
name of it? and have you ever read it yourself? and (I am
bound I will get to the bottom of the page before I blow the
gaff, if I have to fight it out on this line all summer; for
if you have not to turn a leaf, there can be no suspense,
the conspectory eye being swift to pick out proper names;
and without suspense, there can be little pleasure in this
world, to my mind at least), and, in short, the name of it
is _Roderick Hudson_, if you please. My dear James, it is
very spirited, and very sound, and very noble too. Hudson,
Mrs. Hudson, Rowland, O, all first-rate: Rowland a very fine
fellow; Hudson as good as he can stick (did you know Hudson? I
suspect you did), Mrs. H. his real born mother, a thing rarely
managed in fiction.

We are all keeping pretty fit and pretty hearty; but this
letter is not from me to you, it is from a reader of R. H. to
the author of the same, and it says nothing, and has nothing
to say but thank you.

We are going to re-read _Casamassima_ as a proper pendant.
Sir, I think these two are your best, and care not who knows
it.

May I beg you, the next time _Roderick_ is printed off, to
go over the sheets of the last few chapters, and strike out
'immense' and 'tremendous'? You have simply dropped them there
like your pocket-handkerchief; all you have to do is to pick
them up and pouch them, and your room—what do I say?—your
cathedral! will be swept and garnished.—I am, dear sir, your
delighted reader,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_P.S._—Perhaps it is a pang of causeless honesty, perhaps I
hope it will set a value on my praise of _Roderick_, perhaps
it's a burst of the diabolic, but I must break out with the
news that I can't bear the _Portrait of a Lady_. I read it
all, and I wept too; but I can't stand your having written it;
and I beg you will write no more of the like. _Infra_, sir;
Below you: I can't help it—it may be your favourite work, but
in my eyes it's BELOW YOU to write and me to read. I thought
_Roderick_ was going to be another such at the beginning;
and I cannot describe my pleasure as I found it taking bones
and blood, and looking out at me with a moved and human
countenance, whose lineaments are written in my memory until
my last of days.

R. L. S.

My wife begs your forgiveness; I believe for her silence.

[The following narrates the beginning of the author's labours on the _Master of Ballantrae_. An unfinished paper written some years later in Samoa, and intended for SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE, tells how the story first took in his mind. _See_ Ed. ed. Miscellanies, vol. iv., p. 297.]

[SARANAC, December 24, 1887-8.]

MY DEAR COLVIN,—Thank you for your explanations. I have done
no more Virgil since I finished the seventh book, for I have
first been eaten up with Taine, and next have fallen head over
heels into a new tale, _The Master of Ballantrae_. No thought
have I now apart from it, and I have got along up to page
ninety-two of the draught with great interest. It is to me a
most seizing tale: there are some fantastic elements, the most
is a dead genuine human problem—human tragedy, I should say
rather. It will be about as long, I imagine, as _Kidnapped_.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

(1) My old Lord Durrisdeer.

(2) The Master of Ballantrae, _and_

(3) Henry Durie, _his sons_.

(4) Clementina, _engaged to the first, married to
the second_.

(5) Ephraim Mackellar, _land steward at Durrisdeer
and narrator of the most of the book_.

(6) Francis Burke, Chevalier de St. Louis, _one of
the Prince Charlie's Irishmen and narrator of the
rest_.

Besides these many instant figures, most of them dumb or
nearly so: Jessie Brown, the whore, Captain Crail, Captain
McCombie, our old friend Alan Breck, our old friend Riach
(both only for an instant), Teach the pirate (vulgarly
Blackbeard), John Paul and Macconochie, servants at
Durrisdeer. The date is from 1745 to '65 (about). The scene
near Kirkcudbright, in the States, and for a little moment
in the French East Indies. I have done most of the big work,
the quarrel, duel between the brothers, and announcement of
the death to Clementina and my Lord—Clementina, Henry, and
Mackellar (nicknamed Squaretoes) are really very fine fellows;
the Master is all I know of the devil; I have known hints
of him, in the world, but always cowards: he is as bold as
a lion, but with the same deadly, causeless duplicity I have
watched with so much surprise in my two cowards. 'Tis true,
I saw a hint of the same nature in another man who was not a
coward; but he had other things to attend to; the Master has
nothing else but his devilry. Here come my visitors ... and
have now gone, or the first relay of them; and I hope no more
may come. For mark you, sir, this is our 'day'—Saturday, as
ever was; and here we sit, my mother and I, before a large
wood fire and await the enemy with the most steadfast courage;
and without snow and greyness: and the woman Fanny in New
York, for her health which is far from good; and the lad
Lloyd at the inn in the village because he has a cold; and the
handmaid Valentine abroad in a sleigh upon her messages; and
to-morrow Christmas and no mistake. Such is human life: _la
carrière humaine_. I will enclose, if I remember, the required
autograph.

I will do better, put it on the back of this page. Love
to all, and mostly, my very dear Colvin, to yourself. For
whatever I say or do, or don't say or do, you may be very sure
I am,—Yours always affectionately,

R. L. S.

SARANAC, February, 1888.

Raw Haste Half Sister to Delay.

DEAR MR. BURLINGAME,—1. Enclosed please find another paper.

2. There will be another severe engagement over the _Master_;
a large part will have to be rehandled. I am very sorry; but
you see what comes of my trying to hurry. As soon as I have
got a bit ahead again with the papers I shall tackle this job.
I am better; my wife also.—Yours sincerely,

R. L. S.

_P.S._, and a _P.S._ with a vengeance.—Pray send me the tale
of the proof if already printed—if not, then the tale of
the MS.—and—throw the type down. I will of course bear the
expense. I am going to recast the whole thing in the third
person; this version is one large error. Keep standing,
however, the Chevalier's narration, as I _may_ leave that in
the first person.

R. L. S.

_Monday._

To yesterday's two barrels I add two requests. 1st. Will you
let the cost of the printing stand over against the _Master_,
as otherwise I may be involved in 'pecuniary embarrassments'?
And that, sir, is no joke. 2nd. Will you send me (from the
library) some of the works of my dear old G. P. R. James.
With the following specially I desire to make or to renew
acquaintance: _The Songster_, _The Gypsy_, _The Convict_, _The
Stepmother_, _The Gentleman of the Old School_, _The Robber_.

Excusez du peu.