to W. Craibe Angus

Vailima, Samoa, April 1891.

DEAR MR. ANGUS,—Surely I remember you!  It was W. C. Murray who made us acquainted, and we had a pleasant crack.  I see your poet is not yet dead.  I remember even our talk—or you would not think of trusting that invaluable Jolly Beggars to the treacherous posts, and the perils of the sea, and the carelessness of authors.  I love the idea, but I could not bear the risk.  However—

‘Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle—’

it was kindly thought upon.

My interest in Burns is, as you suppose, perennial.  I would I could be present at the exhibition, with the purpose of which I heartily sympathise; but the Nancy has not waited in vain for me, I have followed my chest, the anchor is weighed long ago, I have said my last farewell to the hills and the heather and the lynns: like Leyden, I have gone into far lands to die, not stayed like Burns to mingle in the end with Scottish soil.  I shall not even return like Scott for the last scene.  Burns Exhibitions are all over.  ’Tis a far cry to Lochow from tropical Vailima.

‘But still our hearts are true, our hearts are Highland,
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.’

When your hand is in, will you remember our poor Edinburgh Robin?  Burns alone has been just to his promise; follow Burns, he knew best, he knew whence he drew fire—from the poor, white-faced, drunken, vicious boy that raved himself to death in the Edinburgh madhouse.  Surely there is more to be gleaned about Fergusson, and surely it is high time the task was set about.  I may tell you (because your poet is not dead) something of how I feel: we are three Robins who have touched the Scots lyre this last century.  Well, the one is the world’s, he did it, he came off, he is for ever; but I and the other—ah! what bonds we have—born in the same city; both sickly, both pestered, one nearly to madness, one to the madhouse, with a damnatory creed; both seeing the stars and the dawn, and wearing shoe-leather on the same ancient stones, under the same pends, down the same closes, where our common ancestors clashed in their armour, rusty or bright.  And the old Robin, who was before Burns and the flood, died in his acute, painful youth, and left the models of the great things that were to come; and the new, who came after, outlived his greensickness, and has faintly tried to parody the finished work.  If you will collect the strays of Robin Fergusson, fish for material, collect any last re-echoing of gossip, command me to do what you prefer—to write the preface—to write the whole if you prefer: anything, so that another monument (after Burns’s) be set up to my unhappy predecessor on the causey of Auld Reekie.  You will never know, nor will any man, how deep this feeling is: I believe Fergusson lives in me.  I do, but tell it not in Gath; every man has these fanciful superstitions, coming, going, but yet enduring; only most men are so wise (or the poet in them so dead) that they keep their follies for themselves.—I am, yours very truly,

Robert Louis Stevenson.