cessive; and then think of writing a book of travels on the spot, when
I am continually extending my information, revising my opinions, and
seeing the most finely finished portions of my work come part by part in
pieces. Very soon I shall have no opinions left. And without an opinion,
how to string artistically vast accumulations of fact? Darwin said no
one could observe without a theory; I suppose he was right; 'tis a fine
point of metaphysic; but I will take my oath, no man can write without
one--at least the way he would like to, and my theories melt, melt,
melt, and as they melt the thaw-waters wash down my writing, and leave
unideal tracts--wastes instead of cultivated farms.

Kipling is by far the most promising young man who has appeared
since--ahem--I appeared. He amazes me by his precocity and various
endowment. But he alarms me by his copiousness and haste. He should
shield his fire with both hands "and draw up all his strength and
sweetness in one ball." ("Draw all his strength and all His sweetness up
into one ball"? I cannot remember Marvell's words.) So the critics have
been saying to me: but I was never capable of--and surely never guilty
of--such a debauch of production. At this rate his works will soon fill
the habitable globe; and surely he was armed for better conflicts than
these succinct sketches and flying leaves of verse? I look on, I admire,
I rejoice for myself; but in a kind of ambition we all have for our
tongue and literature I am wounded. If I had this man's fertility and
courage, it seems to me I could heave a pyramid.

Well, we begin to be the old fogies now; and it was high time
_something_ rose to take our places. Certainly Kipling has the gifts;
the fairy godmothers were all tipsy at his christening: what will he do
with them?

Good-bye, my dear James; find an hour to write to us, and register your
letter.--Yours affectionately,

R. L. S.

TO RUDYARD KIPLING

In 1890, on first becoming acquainted with Mr. Kipling's _Soldiers
Three_, Stevenson had written off his congratulations red-hot. "Well
and indeed, Mr. Mulvaney," so ran the first sentences of his note,
"but it's as good as meat to meet in with you, sir. They tell me it
was a man of the name of Kipling made ye; but indeed and they can't
fool me; it was the Lord God Almighty that made you." Taking the cue
thus offered, Mr. Kipling had written back in the character of his
own Irishman, Thom