* * * * *
[The next letter was written on receiving from the United States a copy
of Messrs. Lippincotts's fine edition of Keats's _Lamia_, illustrated
by Mr. W. H. Low, and bearing on the frontispiece the dedication: "In
testimony of loyal friendship and of a common faith in doubtful tales
from faery land, I dedicate to Robert Louis Stevenson my work in this
book"; together with the Latin legend "_neque est ullum certius amicitiæ
vinculum quam consensus et societas consiliorum et voluntatum_".]
Jan. 2nd, 1886.
MY DEAR LOW,—_Lamia_ has come, and I do not know how to thank you, not
only for the beautiful art of the designs, but for the handsome and apt
words of the dedication. My favourite is "Bathes unseen," which is a
masterpiece; and the next, "Into the green recessed woods," is perhaps
more remarkable, though it does not take my fancy so imperiously. The
night scene at Corinth pleases me also. The second part offers fewer
opportunities. I own I should like to see both _Isabella_ and the _Eve_
thus illustrated; and then there's _Hyperion_—O, yes, and _Endymion_!
I should like to see the lot: beautiful pictures dance before me by
hundreds: I believe _Endymion_ would suit you best. It, also, is in faery
land; and I see a hundred opportunities, cloudy and flowery glories,
things as delicate as the cobweb in the bush; actions, not in themselves
of any mighty purport, but made for the pencil: the feast of Pan, Peona's
isle, the "slabbèd margin of a well," the chase of the butterfly, the
nymph, Glaucus, Cybele, Sleep on his couch, a farrago of unconnected
beauties. But I divagate; and all this sits in the bosom of the publisher.
What is more important, I accept the terms of the dedication with a
frank heart, and the terms of your Latin legend fairly. The sight of
your pictures has once more awakened me to my right mind; something may
come of it; yet one more bold push to get free of this prison-yard of the
abominably ugly, where I take my daily exercise with my contemporaries.
I do not know, I have a feeling in my bones, a sentiment which may take
on the forms of imagination, or may not. If it does, I shall owe it to
you; and the thing will thus descend from Keats even if on the wrong
side of the blanket. If it can be done in prose—that is the puzzle—I
divagate again. Thank you again; you can draw and yet you do not love the
ugly: what are you doing in this age? Flee, while it is yet time; they
will have your four limbs pinned upon a stable door to scare witches.
The ugly, my unhappy friend, is _de rigueur_: it is the only wear! What
a chance you threw away with the serpent! Why had Apollonius no pimples?
Heavens, my dear Low, you do not know your business....
I send you herewith a Gothic gnome for your Greek nymph; but the gnome
is interesting, I think, and he came out of a deep mine, where he guards
the fountain of tears. It is not always the time to rejoice.—Yours ever,