Mr. Low for a
contribution from R. L. S.

_La Solitude, Hyeres, October [1883]._

MY DEAR LOW,-- ... Some day or other, in Cassell's Magazine of Art, you
will see a paper which will interest you, and where your name appears.
It is called _Fontainebleau: Village Communities of Artists_, and the
signature of R. L. Stevenson will be found annexed.

Please tell the editor of Manhattan the following secrets for me: 1_st_,
That I am a beast; 2_nd_, that I owe him a letter; 3_rd_, that I have
lost his, and cannot recall either his name or address; 4_th_, that I am
very deep in engagements, which my absurd health makes it hard for me to
overtake; but 5_th_, that I will bear him in mind; 6_th_ and last, that
I am a brute.

My address is still the same, and I live in a most sweet corner of the
universe, sea and fine hills before me, and a rich variegated plain; and
at my back a craggy hill, loaded with vast feudal ruins. I am very
quiet; a person passing by my door half startles me; but I enjoy the
most aromatic airs, and at night the most wonderful view into a moonlit
garden. By day this garden fades into nothing, overpowered by its
surroundings and the luminous distance; but at night and when the moon
is out, that garden, the arbour, the flight of stairs that mount the
artificial hillock, the plumed blue gum-trees that hang trembling,
become the very skirts of Paradise. Angels I know frequent it; and it
thrills all night with the flutes of silence. Damn that garden;--and by
day it is gone.

Continue to testify boldly against realism. Down with Dagon, the fish
god! All art swings down towards imitation, in these days, fatally. But
the man who loves art with wisdom sees the joke; it is the lustful that
tremble and respect her ladyship; but the honest and romantic lovers of
the Muse can see a joke and sit down to laugh with Apollo.

The prospect of your return to Europe is very agreeable; and I was
pleased by what you said about your parents. One of my oldest friends
died recently, and this has given me new thoughts of death. Up to now I
had rather thought of him as a mere personal enemy of my own; but now
that I see him hunting after my friends, he looks altogether darker. My
own father is not well; and Henley, of whom you must have heard me
speak, is in a questionable state of health. These things are very
solemn, and take some of the colour out of life. It is a great thing,
after all, to be a man of reasonable ho