Enough of the Gasse. The weather is here much colder. It rained a good deal yesterday; and though it is fair and sunshiny again to-day, and we can still sit, of course, with our windows open, yet there is no more excuse for the siesta; and the bathe in the river, except for cleanliness, is no longer a necessity of life. The Main is very swift. In one part of the baths it is next door to impossible to swim against it, and I suspect that, out in the open, it would be quite impossible.—Adieu, my dear mother, and believe me, ever your affectionate son,

Robert Louis Stevenson

(Rentier).

To Charles Baxter

On the way home with Sir Walter Simpson from Germany. The L.J.R. herein mentioned was a short-lived Essay Club of only six members; its meetings were held in a public-house in Advocate’s Close; the meaning of its initials (as recently divulged by Mr. Baxter) was Liberty, Justice, Reverence; no doubt understood by the members in some fresh and esoteric sense of their own.

Boulogne Sur Mer, Wednesday, 3rd or 4th September 1872.

Blame me not that this epistle Is the first you have from me. Idleness has held me fettered, But at last the times are bettered And once more I wet my whistle Here, in France beside the sea. All the green and idle weather I have had in sun and shower, Such an easy warm subsistence, Such an indolent existence I should find it hard to sever Day from day and hour from hour. Many a tract-provided ranter May upbraid me, dark and sour, Many a bland Utilitarian Or excited Millenarian, —“Pereunt et imputantur You must speak to every hour.” But (the very term’s deceptive) You at least, my friend, will see, That in sunny grassy meadows Trailed across by moving shadows To be actively receptive Is as much as man can be. He that all the winter grapples Difficulties, thrust and ward— Needs to cheer him thro’ his duty Memories of sun and beauty Orchards with the russet apples Lying scattered on the sward. Many such I keep in prison, Keep them here at heart unseen, Till my muse again rehearses Long years hence, and in my verses You shall meet them rearisen Ever comely, ever green. You know how they never perish, How, in time of later art, Memories consecrate and sweeten These defaced and tempest-beaten Flowers of former years we cherish, Half a life, against our heart. Most, those love-fruits withered greenly, Those frail, sickly amourettes, How they brighten with the distance Take new strength and new existence Till we see them sitting queenly Crowned and courted by regrets! All that loveliest and best is, Aureole-fashion round their head, They that looked in life but plainly, How they stir our spirits vainly When they come to us Alcestis- like returning from the dead! Not the old love but another, Bright she comes at Memory’s call Our forgotten vows reviving To a newer, livelier living, As the dead child to the mother Seems the fairest child of all. Thus our Goethe, sacred master, Travelling backward thro’ his youth, Surely wandered wrong in trying To renew the old, undying Loves that cling in memory faster Than they ever lived in truth.

So; en voilà assez de mauvais vers. Let us finish with a word or two in honest prose, tho’ indeed I shall so soon be back again and, if you be in town as I hope, so soon get linked again down the Lothian road by a cigar or two and a liquor, that it is perhaps scarce worth the postage to send my letter on before me. I have just been long enough away to be satisfied and even anxious to get home again and talk the matter over with my friends. I shall have plenty to tell you; and principally plenty that I do not care to write; and I daresay, you, too, will have a lot of gossip. What about Ferrier? Is the L.J.R. think you to go naked and unashamed this winter? He with his charming idiosyncrasy was in my eyes the vine-leaf that preserved our self-respect. All the rest of us are such shadows, compared to his full-flavoured personality; but I must not spoil my own début. I am trenching upon one of the essayettes which I propose to introduce as a novelty this year before that august assembly. For we must not let it die. It is a sickly baby, but what with nursing, and pap, and the like, I do not see why it should not have a stout manhood after all, and perhaps a green old age. Eh! when we are old (if we ever should be) that too will be one of those cherished memories I have been so rhapsodizing over. We must consecrate our room. We must make it a museum of bright recollections; so that we may go back there white-headed, and say “Vixi.” After all, new countries, sun, music, and all the rest can never take down our gusty, rainy, smoky, grim old city out of the first place that it has been making for itself in the bottom of my soul, by all pleasant and hard things that have befallen me for these past twenty years or so. My heart is buried there—say, in Advocate’s Close!

Simpson and I got on very well together, and made a very suitable pair. I like him much better than I did when I started which was almost more than I hoped for.