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Suddenly； as we were about to leave a station； she sprang up and leapt from the train； at which； the unfolded map still in her hand； she gazed bewildered until it vanished into the tunnel。
Among the many letters that I received about “King Solomon’s Mines；” perhaps the most interesting that I can find are from Robert Louis Stevenson。 The first of these； undated； as they all are； is written from Skerryvore； Bournemouth； where he was living at the time。 Here I should state that to my sorrow I never met Stevenson face to face： always we just missed each other。
Dear Sir； — Some kind hand has sent me your tale of Solomon’s Mines； I know not who did this good thing to me； and so I send my gratitude to headquarters and the fountainhead。 You should be more careful； you do quite well enough to take more trouble； and some parts of your book are infinitely beneath you。 But I find there flashes of a fine weird imagination and a fine poetic use and mand of the savage way of talking： things which both thrilled me。 The reflections of your hero before the battle are singularly fine； the King’s song of victory a very noble imitation。 But how； in the name of literature； could you mistake some lines from Scott’s “Marmion” — ay； and some of the best — for the slack…sided； clerical…cob effusions of the Rev。 Ingoldsby？ Barham is very good； but Walter Scott is vastly better。 I am； dear sir；
Your obliged reader；
Robert Louis Stevenson。
Of course I answered Stevenson’s letter — by the way； I have not the least idea who sent him the book — thanking him and pointing out that he had overlooked the fact that Allan Quatermain’s habit of attributing sundry quotations to the Old Testament and the Ingoldsby Legends； the only books with which he was familiar； was a literary joke。
Stevenson wrote back； again in an undated letter from Bournemouth and on a piece of manuscript paper：
Dear Mr。 Haggard； — Well； yes； I have sinned against you； that was the part of a bad reader。 But it inclines me the more to explain my dark saying。 As thus：
You rise in the course of your book to pages of eloquence and poetry； and it is quite true that you must rise from something lower； and that the beginning must infallibly （？） be pitched low and kept quiet。 But you began （pardon me the word） slipshod。 If you are to rise； you must prepare the mind in the quiet parts； with at least an acplished neatness。 To this you could easily attain。 In other words； what you have still to learn is to take trouble with those parts which do not excite you。
Excuse the tone of a damned schoolmaster； and believe me；
Yours truly；
Robert Louis Stevenson。
The next letter； also from Skerryvore； Bournemouth； which； because of its allusions to “King Solomon’s Mines；” although undated； must have been written at this time； is an enigma to me。 I have not the faintest idea to what it refers。
Dear Mr。 Haggard； — Is it not possible to make a gratuitous donation inter vivos？ Could not that be done in a separate instrument？ I know not if it matters； but if there were any ready way of gaining the point； I might adopt it。 My law is all to the wind； and indeed I never knew but a taste。
I thank you at least for the remark。
I e rarely to town； and am usually damned sick when I do。 But if I can； I’ll try to see you。 （I know a cousin of yours here by the way。）
What are you about？ I am again at a boys’ story； but I’ve been a year at it already and may be longer。
Yours very truly；
R。 L。 Stevenson。
P。S。 — Further reflection on “K。S。M。” makes me think you are one who gets up steam slowly。 In that case； when you have your book finished； go back and rewrite the beginning up to the mark。
My case is the reverse： I always begin well； and often finish languidly or hurriedly。
P。P。S。 — How about a deed of partnership？
This “deed of partnership” on the face of it would seem to suggest some scheme of collaboration。 Yet I do not think that this could have been the case — for the following reason。 I remember that my late brother Bazett； who was afterwards an intimate friend of Stevenson’s in Samoa； told me that someone； I know not who； had written to him suggesting that he and I should collaborate in a story； and that he had returned an angry and offensive answer to the suggestion； as I dare say it was quite natural that he should do。 This answer； it seems； had however weighed upon his mind。 At any rate Bazett informed me that Stevenson on several occasions spoke to him with deep regret as to his petulant reply。 This is all I know； or at any rate all that I can recollect； of the matter。 Yet what else can have been referred to in the above letter I am at a loss to guess。
Stevenson’s remark as to his finishing languidly is interesting； and； so far as my judgment goes； his romantic work shows its truth。 Thus to my fancy the first part of “Treasure Island” is far and away better than its end。 In an adventure story what is called style； however brilliant； is not enough： the living interest must be kept up to the last page； it should increase to the very end。 Of course I know that many of our critics； like those of Alexandria in the first centuries of our era； think and preach that style is the really important thing； much more important than the substance of the story。 I cannot believe that they are right。 The substance is； as it were； the soul of the matter； the style is its outward and visible body。 I prefer a creation with a great soul； even if its form is somewhat marred； to one with a beautifully finished form and very little soul。 Of course when the two are found together； a rare event； there is perfection。 Also people differ in their ideas of what style really is。 By it some understand inverted sentences； unusual words and far…fetched metaphors or allusions； making up a whole that is difficult to prehend。 Others hold that the greater the simplicity of the language； the better the style。 I am not an authority； but my own view is that above all things the written word should be clear and absolutely readable； and that work which does not fulfil these conditions can scarcely be expected to endure。 It runs a grave risk of passing with the fashion of the hour。 To take a single instance； the Authorised version of the Old Testament； considered as literature； seems to me to fulfil all the requisites of good writing； in fact to be style in the truest sense。 Yet the meaning remains perfectly clear； and were those books to cease to be studied for their religious contents； they would still always be read as a model of plain and vigorous English。
But to return to Stevenson。 Here I will add the last letter save one that I received from him； though again I do not know to what it refers； since the enclosure of which he speaks is missing； or at any rate has not been found at present。 Like the others it is undated； but the allusion to “Nada the Lily” shows that it must have been written about twenty years ago； at the beginning of 1892。
Valima Plantation； Samoan Islands。
Rider Haggard； Esq。
Dear Haggard； — In cleaning up the hideous mess which accumulates about the man of letters I came on the enclosed sheet。 Its filthiness will indicate its age。 But there is internal evidence which to me dates it still further back； and that is the reference to your brother Bazett。 I now know him well and regard him with the most sincere and lively affection and respect。 Indeed we are panions in arms and have helped each other back and forth in some very difficult and some very annoying affairs。 This has given a wonderful jog to my sense of intimacy with yourself until I have a difficulty in remembering that I have never seen you。 Two remarks and I leave my filthy enclosure to speak for itself。 First； the equations on the fly…leaf were not in the least intended for you — they’re pieces of a lesson in the Samoan language — and you must kindly regard them as non…existent。 Second； “Nada the Lily” is A1。
Sincerely yours；
Robert Louis Stevenson。
I only wish I could find the “filthy enclosure；” or at least remember with what it had to do。
I have one more allusion to my brother besides the letter which came to me with “The Man Haggard。” It is written on a little triangular bit of foolscap pinned into the manus