ng all the while; and
some of the quarrel scenes between her and Lovelace; and the scene where
Colonel Marden goes to Mr. Hall, with Lord M. trying to compose matters,
and the Colonel with his eternal "finest woman in the world," and the
inimitable affirmation of Mobray--nothing, nothing could be better! You
will bless me when you read it for this recommendation; but, indeed, I
can do nothing but recommend Clarissa. I am like that Frenchman of the
eighteenth century who discovered Habakkuk, and would give no one peace
about that respectable Hebrew. For my part, I never was able to get over
his eminently respectable name; Isaiah is the boy, if you must have a
prophet, no less. About Clarissa, I meditate a choice work: _A Dialogue
on Man, Woman, and "Clarissa Harlowe."_ It is to be so clever that no
array of terms can give you any idea; and very likely that particular
array in which I shall finally embody it, less than any other.

Do you know, my dear sir, what I like best in your letter? The egotism
for which you thought necessary to apologise. I am a rogue at egotism
myself; and to be plain, I have rarely or never liked any man who was
not. The first step to discovering the beauties of God's universe is
usually a (perhaps partial) apprehension of such of them as adorn our
own characters. When I see a man who does not think pretty well of
himself, I always suspect him of being in the right. And besides, if he
does not like himself, whom he has seen, how is he ever to like one whom
he never can see but in dim and artificial presentments?

I cordially reciprocate your offer of a welcome; it shall be at least a
warm one. Are you not my first, my only, admirer--a dear tie? Besides,
you are a man of sense, and you treat me as one by writing to me as you
do, and that gives me pleasure also. Please continue to let me see your
work. I have one or two things coming out in the Cornhill: a story
called _The Sire de Maletroit's Door_ in Temple Bar; and a series of
articles on Edinburgh in the Portfolio; but I don't know if these last
fly all the way to Melbourne.--Yours very truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

The _Inland Voyage_, it must be remembered, at this time just put
into the publisher's hands, was the author's first book. The "Crane
sketch" mentioned in the second of the following notes to me was the
well-known frontispiece to that book on which Mr. Walter Crane was
then at wo