biton in hand, and, fluttered about by
city sparrows, pour forth your spirit in a voluntary. Now when the
spring begins, you must lay in your flowers: how do you say about a
potted hawthorn? Would it bloom? Wallflower is a choice pot-herb;
lily-of-the-valley, too, and carnation, and Indian cress trailed about
the window, is not only beautiful by colour, but the leaves are good to
eat. I recommend thyme and rosemary for the aroma, which should not be
left upon one side; they are good quiet growths.

On one of your tables keep a great map spread out; a chart is still
better--it takes one further--the havens with their little anchors, the
rocks, banks, and soundings, are adorably marine; and such furniture
will suit your ship-shape habitation. I wish I could see those cabins;
they smile upon me with the most intimate charm. From your leads, do you
behold St. Paul's? I always like to see the Foolscap; it is London _per
se_ and no spot from which it is visible is without romance. Then it is
good company for the man of letters, whose veritable nursing
Pater-Noster is so near at hand.

I am all at a standstill; as idle as a painted ship, but not so pretty.
My romance, which has so nearly butchered me in the writing, not even
finished; though so near, thank God, that a few days of tolerable
strength will see the roof upon that structure. I have worked very hard
at it, and so do not expect any great public favour. _In moments of
effort, one learns to do the easy things that people like._ There is the
golden maxim; thus one should strain and then play, strain again and
play again. The strain is for us, it educates; the play is for the
reader, and pleases. Do you not feel so? We are ever threatened by two
contrary faults: both deadly. To sink into what my forefathers would
have called "rank conformity," and to pour forth cheap replicas, upon
the one hand; upon the other, and still more insidiously present, to
forget that art is a diversion and a decoration, that no triumph or
effort is of value, nor anything worth reaching except charm.--Yours
affectionately,

R. L. S.

TO MISS FERRIER

Soon after the date of the following letter Miss Ferrier went out to
her friends and stayed with them through the trying weeks which
followed.

_La Solitude, Hyeres_ [_March_ 22, 1884].

MY DEAR MISS FERRIER,--Are you really going to fail us? This seems a
dreadful thing. My poor wife, who is not well off for frie