But the pressure of health, of the needs of daily livelihood, and of the more dominating ambitions of F. M. prevented the fulfilment of this scheme.
Many times he talked of it, drafted out portions of it—but it remained unaccomplished, and all that exists of it is the beginning chapters of the first book written in Paris ten years before, and then called Cæsar of France.
London proved to be impossible to him owing to the excitable condition of his brain. Therefore he took rooms in Hastings whence he wrote to me:
Nov. 21, 1897.
I am so glad to be here, in this sunlight by the sea. Light and motion—what a joy these are. The eyes become devitalised in the pall of London gloom....
There is a glorious amplitude of light. The mind bathes in these illimitable vistas. Wind and Wave and Sun: how regenerative these elder brothers are.
Solomon says there is no delight like wisdom, and that wisdom is the heritage of age: but there is a divine unwisdom which is the heritage of youth—and I would rather be young for a year than wise for a cycle. There are some who live without the pulse of youth in the mind: on the day, in the hour, I no longer feel that quick pulse, I will go out like a blown flame. To be young; to keep young: that is the story and despair of life....
Among the Christmas publications of 1897 appeared The Laughter of Peterkin by Fiona Macleod. This book, issued by Messrs. Archibald Constable and illustrated by Mr. Sunderland Rollinson, was a new departure for the author, an interlude in the midst of more strenuous original work, for it was the re-telling of three old tales of Celtic Wonderland: “The Four White Swans,” or “The Children of Lir,” “The Fate of the Sons of Turenn,” and “Darthool and the Sons of Usna.”
Some years later, after the publication of Lady Gregory’s “Gods and Fighting Men,” Mr. Alfred Nutt wrote to F. M. and suggested that she should again turn her attention to the re-telling of some of the beautiful old Celtic tales and legends. My husband, however, realised that he had far more dreams haunting the chambers of his mind than he could have time to give expression to. Therefore, very regretfully, he felt constrained to forego what otherwise would have been a work of love.