nds on this
bare coast, has been promising herself, and I have been promising her, a
rare acquisition. And now Miss Burn has failed, and you utter a very
doubtful note. You do not know how delightful this place is, nor how
anxious we are for a visit. Look at the names: "The Solitude"--is that
romantic? The palm-trees?--how is that for the gorgeous East? "Var"? the
name of a river--"the quiet waters by"! 'Tis true, they are in another
department, and consist of stones and a biennial spate; but what a
music, what a plash of brooks, for the imagination! We have hills; we
have skies; the roses are putting forth, as yet sparsely; the meadows by
the sea are one sheet of jonquils; the birds sing as in an English
May--for, considering we are in France and serve up our song-birds, I am
ashamed to say, on a little field of toast and with a sprig of thyme (my
own receipt) in their most innocent and now unvocal bellies--considering
all this, we have a wonderfully fair wood-music round this Solitude of
ours. What can I say more?--All this awaits you. _Kennst du das Land_,
in short.--Your sincere friend,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO W. H. LOW

The verses enclosed were the set entitled "The Canoe Speaks,"
afterwards printed in _Underwoods_. Stevenson was suffering at this
time from a temporary weakness of the eyesight.

_La Solitude, Hyeres [April 1884]._

MY DEAR LOW,--The blind man in these sprawled lines sends greeting. I
have been ill, as perhaps the papers told you. The news--"great
news--glorious news--sec-ond ed-ition!"--went the round in England.

Anyway, I now thank you for your pictures, which, particularly the
Arcadian one, we all (Bob included, he was here sick-nursing me) much
liked.

Herewith are a set of verses which I thought pretty enough to send to
press. Then I thought of the Manhattan, towards whom I have guilty and
compunctious feelings. Last, I had the best thought of all--to send them
to you in case you might think them suitable for illustration. It seemed
to me quite in your vein. If so, good; if not, hand them on to
Manhattan, Century, or Lippincott, at your pleasure, as all three desire
my work or pretend to. But I trust the lines will not go unattended.
Some riverside will haunt you; and O! be tender to my bathing girls. The
lines are copied in my wife's hand, as I cannot see to write otherwise
than with the pen of Cormoran, Gargantua, or Nimrod. Love to your
wife.--Yours