swoops at me round the corner, like a lion, and fluffs the
snow in my face; and I could aspire to be elsewhere; but yet I do not
catch cold, and yet, when I come in, I eat. So that hitherto Saranac, if
not deliriously delectable, has not been a failure; nay, from the mere
point of view of the wicked body, it has proved a success. But I wish I
could still get to the woods; alas, _nous n'irons plus au bois_ is my
poor song; the paths are buried, the dingles drifted full, a little walk
is grown a long one; till spring comes, I fear the burthen will hold
good.

I get along with my papers for Scribner not fast, nor so far specially
well; only this last, the fourth one (which makes a third part of my
whole task), I do believe is pulled off after a fashion. It is a mere
sermon: "Smith opens out";[24] but it is true, and I find it touching
and beneficial, to me at least; and I think there is some fine writing
in it, some very apt and pregnant phrases. _Pulvis et Umbra_, I call it;
I might have called it a Darwinian Sermon, if I had wanted. Its
sentiments, although parsonic, will not offend even you, I believe. The
other three papers, I fear, bear many traces of effort, and the
ungenuine inspiration of an income at so much per essay, and the honest
desire of the incomer to give good measure for his money. Well, I did my
damndest anyway.

We have been reading H. James's _Roderick Hudson_, which I eagerly press
you to get at once: it is a book of a high order--the last volume in
particular. I wish Meredith would read it. It took my breath away.

I am at the seventh book of the _AEneid_, and quite amazed at its merits
(also very often floored by its difficulties). The Circe passage at the
beginning, and the sublime business of Amata with the simile of the
boy's top--O Lord, what a happy thought!--have specially delighted
me.--I am, dear sir, your respected friend,

JOHN GREGG GILLSON, J.P., M.R.I.A., etc.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

The following narrates the beginning of the author's labours on _The
Master of Ballantrae_. An unfinished paper written some years later
in Samoa, and intended for Scribner's Magazine, tells how the story
first took shape in his mind. See Edinburgh edition, _Miscellanies_,
vol. iv. p. 297: reprinted in _Essays on the Art of Writing_.

[_Saranac Lake, December 24, 1887._]

MY DEAR COLVIN,--Thank you for your explanations. I have done no more
Virgil since I finished the se