rritating deliberation and correctness about
her and everybody connected with her? If she would only write bad
grammar, or forget to finish a sentence, or do something or other that
looks fallible, it would be a relief. I sometimes wish the old Colonel
had got drunk and beaten her, in the bitterness of my spirit. I know I
felt a weight taken off my heart when I heard he was extravagant. It is
quite possible to be too good for this evil world; and unquestionably,
Mrs. Hutchinson was. The way in which she talks of herself makes one's
blood run cold. There--I am glad to have got that out--but don't say it
to anybody--seal of secrecy.

Please tell Mr. Babington that I have never forgotten one of his
drawings--a Rubens, I think--a woman holding up a model ship. That woman
had more life in her than ninety per cent. of the lame humans that you
see crippling about this earth.

By the way, that is a feature in art which seems to have come in with
the Italians. Your old Greek statues have scarce enough vitality in them
to keep their monstrous bodies fresh withal. A shrewd country attorney,
in a turned white neckcloth and rusty blacks, would just take one of
these Agamemnons and Ajaxes quietly by his beautiful, strong arm, trot
the unresisting statue down a little gallery of legal shams, and turn
the poor fellow out at the other end, "naked, as from the earth he
came." There is more latent life, more of the coiled spring in the
sleeping dog, about a recumbent figure of Michael Angelo's than about
the most excited of Greek statues. The very marble seems to wrinkle with
a wild energy that we never feel except in dreams.

I think this letter has turned into a sermon, but I had nothing
interesting to talk about.

I do wish you and Mr. Babington would think better of it and come north
this summer. We should be so glad to see you both. _Do_ reconsider
it.--Believe me, my dear Maud, ever your most affectionate cousin,

LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM

The following is the first which has been preserved of many letters
to the admirable nurse whose care, during his ailing childhood, had
done so much both to preserve Stevenson's life and awaken his love of
tales and poetry, and of whom until his death he thought with the
utmost constancy of affection. The letter bears no sign of date or
place, but by the handwriting would seem to belong to this year:--

1871?

MY DEAR CUMMY,--I was great