to W. H. Low

La Solitude, Hyères-les-Palmiers, Var, [April 1884].

MY DEAR LOW,—The blind man in these sprawled lines sends greeting.  I have been ill, as perhaps the papers told you.  The news—‘great news—glorious news—sec-ond ed-ition!’—went the round in England.

Anyway, I now thank you for your pictures, which, particularly the Arcadian one, we all (Bob included, he was here sick-nursing me) much liked.

Herewith are a set of verses which I thought pretty enough to send to press.  Then I thought of the Manhattan, towards whom I have guilty and compunctious feelings.  Last, I had the best thought of all—to send them to you in case you might think them suitable for illustration.  It seemed to me quite in your vein.  If so, good; if not, hand them on to Manhattan, Century, or Lippincott, at your pleasure, as all three desire my work or pretend to.  But I trust the lines will not go unattended.  Some riverside will haunt you; and O! be tender to my bathing girls.  The lines are copied in my wife’s hand, as I cannot see to write otherwise than with the pen of Cormoran, Gargantua, or Nimrod.  Love to your wife.—Yours ever,

R. L. S.

Copied it myself.