g the
foundations of the new house; this is all very jolly, but six months of
it has satisfied me; we have too many things for such close quarters; to
work in the midst of all the myriad misfortunes of the planter's life,
seated in a Dyonisius' (can't spell him) ear, whence I catch every
complaint, mishap and contention, is besides the devil; and the hope of
a cave of my own inspires me with lust. O to be able to shut my own door
and make my own confusion! O to have the brown paper and the matches and
"make a hell of my own" once more!

I do not bother you with all my troubles in these outpourings; the
troubles of the farmer are inspiriting--they are like difficulties out
hunting--a fellow rages at the time and rejoices to recall and to
commemorate them. My troubles have been financial. It is hard to arrange
wisely interests so distributed. America, England, Samoa, Sydney,
everywhere I have an end of liability hanging out and some shelf of
credit hard by; and to juggle all these and build a dwelling-place here,
and check expense--a thing I am ill fitted for--you can conceive what a
nightmare it is at times. Then God knows I have not been idle. But since
_The Master_ nothing has come to raise any coins. I believe the springs
are dry at home, and now I am worked out, and can no more at all. A
holiday is required.

_Dec. 28th._--I have got unexpectedly to work again, and feel quite
dandy. Good-bye.

R. L. S.

TO HENRY JAMES

Mr. Lafarge the artist and Mr. Henry Adams the historian have been
mentioned already. The pinch in the matter of eatables only lasted
for a little while, until Mrs. Stevenson had taken her bearings and
made her arrangements in the matter of marketing, etc.

_Vailima, Apia, Samoa, December 29th, 1890._

MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,--It is terrible how little everybody writes, and
how much of that little disappears in the capacious maw of the Post
Office. Many letters, both from and to me, I now know to have been lost
in transit: my eye is on the Sydney Post Office, a large ungainly
structure with a tower, as being not a hundred miles from the scene of
disappearance; but then I have no proof. The _Tragic Muse_ you announced
to me as coming; I had already ordered it from a Sydney bookseller:
about two months ago he advised me that his copy was in the post; and I
am still tragically museless.

News, news, news. What do we know of yours? What do you care for ours?
We are in