Whatever you do, do not neglect to send me what you publish on Villon: I look forward to that with lively interest. I have no photograph at hand, but I will send one when I can. It would be kind if you would do the like, for I do not see much chance of our meeting in the flesh: and a name, and a handwriting, and an address, and even a style? I know about as much of Tacitus, and more of Horace; it is not enough between contemporaries, such as we still are. I have just remembered another of my books, which I re-read the other day, and thought in places good—_Prince Otto_. It is not as good as either of the others; but it has one recommendation—it has female parts, so it might perhaps please better in France. I will ask Chatto to send you, then—_Prince Otto_, _Memories and Portraits_, _Underwoods_, and _Ballads_, none of which you seem to have seen. They will be too late for the New Year: let them be an Easter present. You must translate me soon; you will soon have better to do than to transverse the work of others.—Yours very truly, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, With the worst pen in the South Pacific. TO CHARLES BAXTER _SS._ ‘_Lübeck_,’ _at sea_ [_on the return voyage from Sydney_, _March_ 1891]. MY DEAR CHARLES,—Perhaps in my old days I do grow irascible; ‘the old man virulent’ has long been my pet name for myself. Well, the temper is at least all gone now; time is good at lowering these distemperatures; far better is a sharp sickness, and I am just (and scarce) afoot again after a smoking hot little malady at Sydney. And the temper being gone, I still think the same. . . . We have not our parents for ever; we are never very good to them; when they go and we have lost our front-file man, we begin to feel all our neglects mighty sensibly. I propose a proposal. My mother is here on board with me; to-day for once I mean to make her as happy as I am able, and to do that which I know she likes. You, on the other hand, go and see your father, and do ditto, and give him a real good hour or two. We shall both be glad hereafter.—Yours ever, R. L. S. TO H. B. BAILDON _Vailima_, _Upolu_ [_Undated_, _but written in_ 1891].