Chapter V: Religion (2)

Several of the phrases you object to are proper nautical, or long-shore phrases, and therefore, I think, not out of place in this long-shore story. As for the two members which you thought at first so ill-united; I confess they seem perfectly so to me. I have chosen to sacrifice a long-projected story of adventure because the sentiment of that is identical with the sentiment of "My uncle." My uncle himself is not the story as I see it, only the leading episode of that story. It's really a story of wrecks, as they appear to the dweller on the coast. It's a view of the sea. Goodness knows when I shall be able to re-write; I must first get over this copper-headed cold.

R. L. S.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

The reference to Landor in the following is to a volume of mine in
Macmillan's series _English Men of Letters_. This and the next two or
three years were those of the Fenian dynamite outrages at the Tower
of London, the House of Lords, etc.

[_Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, August 1881._]

MY DEAR COLVIN,--This is the first letter I have written this good while. I have had a brutal cold, not perhaps very wisely treated; lots of blood--for me, I mean. I was so well, however, before, that I seem to be sailing through with it splendidly. My appetite never failed; indeed, as I got worse, it sharpened--a sort of reparatory instinct. Now I feel in a fair way to get round soon.

_Monday, August_ (_2nd_, is it?).--We set out for the Spital of Glenshee, and reach Braemar on Tuesday. The Braemar address we cannot learn; it looks as if "Braemar" were all that was necessary; if particular, you can address 17 Heriot Row. We shall be delighted to see you whenever, and as soon as ever, you can make it possible.

... I hope heartily you will survive me, and do not doubt it. There are seven or eight people it is no part of my scheme in life to survive--yet if I could but heal me of my bellowses, I could have a jolly life--have it, even now, when I can work and stroll a little, as I have been doing till this cold. I have so many things to make life sweet to me, it seems a pity I cannot have that other one thing--health. But though you will be angry to hear it, I believe, for myself at least, what is is best. I believed it all through my worst days, and I am not ashamed to profess it now.

Landor has just turned up; but I had read him already. I like him extremely; I wonder if the "cuts" were perhaps not advantageous. It seems quite full enough; but then you know I am a compressionist.

If I am to criticise, it is a little staid; but the classical is apt to look so. It is in curious contrast to that inexpressive, unplanned wilderness of Forster's; clear, readable, precise, and sufficiently human. I see nothing lost in it, though I could have wished, in my Scotch capacity, a trifle clearer and fuller exposition of his moral attitude, which is not quite clear "from here."

He and his tyrannicide! I am in a mad fury about these explosions. If that is the new world! Damn O'Donovan Rossa; damn him behind and before, above, below, and roundabout; damn, deracinate, and destroy him, root and branch, self and company, world without end. Amen. I write that for sport if you like, but I will pray in earnest, O Lord, if you cannot convert, kindly delete him!

Stories naturally at halt. Henley has seen one and approves. I believe it to be good myself, even real good. He has also seen and approved one of Fanny's. It will make a good volume. We have now

Thrawn Janet (with Stephen), proof to-day.
The Shadow on the Bed (Fanny's copying).
The Merry Men (scrolled).
The Body Snatchers (scrolled).

_In germis_

The Travelling Companion.
The Torn Surplice (_not final title_).

Yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP

Dr. Japp (known in literature at this date and for some time
afterwards under his pseudonym H. A. Page; later under his own name
the biographer of De Quincey) had written to R. L. S. criticising
statements of fact and opinion in his essay on Thoreau, and
expressing the hope that they might meet and discuss their
differences. In the interval between the last letter and this
Stevenson with all his family had moved to Braemar.

_The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar, Sunday [August 1881]._

MY DEAR SIR,--I should long ago have written to thank you for your kind and frank letter; but in my state of health papers are apt to get mislaid, and your letter has been vainly hunted for until this (Sunday) morning.

I regret I shall not be able to see you in Edinburgh; one visit to Edinburgh has already cost me too dear in that invaluable particular health; but if it should be at all possible for you to push on as far as Braemar, I believe you would find an attentive listener, and I can offer you a bed, a drive, and necessary food, etc.

If, however, you should not be able to come thus far, I can promise you two things: First, I shall religiously revise what I have written, and bring out more clearly the point of view from which I regarded Thoreau; second, I shall in the Preface record your objection.

The point of view (and I must ask you not to forget that any such short paper is essentially only a _section through_ a man) was this: I desired to look at the man through his books. Thus, for instance, when I mentioned his return to the pencil-making, I did it only in passing (perhaps I was wrong), because it seemed to me not an illustration of his principles, but a brave departure from them. Thousands of such there were I do not doubt; still, they might be hardly to my purpose, though, as you say so, some of them would be.

Our difference as to pity I suspect was a logomachy of my making. No pitiful acts on his part would surprise me; I know he would be more pitiful in practice than most of the whiners; but the spirit of that practice would still seem to be unjustly described by the word pity.

When I try to be measured, I find myself usually suspected of a sneaking unkindness for my subject; but you may be sure, sir, I would give up most other things to be so good a man as Thoreau. Even my knowledge of him leads me thus far.

Should you find yourself able to push on to Braemar--it may even be on your way--believe me, your visit will be most welcome. The weather is cruel, but the place is, as I dare say you know, the very "wale" of Scotland--bar Tummelside.--Yours very sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MRS. SITWELL

_The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar, [August 1881]._

... Well, I have been pretty mean, but I have not yet got over my cold so completely as to have recovered much energy. It is really extraordinary that I should have recovered as well as I have in this blighting weather; the wind pipes, the rain comes in squalls, great black clouds are continually overhead, and it is as cold as March. The country is delightful, more cannot be said; it is very beautiful, a perfect joy when we get a blink of sun to see it in. The Queen knows a thing or two, I perceive; she has picked out the finest habitable spot in Britain.

I have done no work, and scarce written a letter for three weeks, but I think I should soon begin again; my cough is now very trifling. I eat well, and seem to have lost but little flesh in the meanwhile. I was _wonderfully_ well before I caught this horrid cold. I never thought I should have been as well again; I really enjoyed life and work; and, of course, I now have a good hope that this may return.

I suppose you heard of our ghost stories. They are somewhat delayed by my cold and a bad attack of laziness, embroidery, etc., under which Fanny had been some time prostrate. It is horrid that we can get no better weather. I did not get such good accounts of you as might have been. You must imitate me. I am now one of the most conscientious people at trying to get better you ever saw. I have a white hat, it is much admired; also a plaid, and a heavy stoop; so I take my walks abroad, witching the world.

Last night I was beaten at chess, and am still grinding under the blow.--Ever your faithful friend,

R. L. S.

TO EDMUND GOSSE

_The Cottage (late the late Miss M'Gregor's), Castleton of Braemar,
August 10, 1881._

MY DEAR GOSSE,--Come on the 24th, there is a dear fellow. Everybody else wants to come later, and it will be a godsend for, sir--Yours sincerely.

You can stay as long as you behave decently, and are not sick of, sir--Your obedient, humble servant.

We have family worship in the home of, sir--Yours respectfully.

Braemar is a fine country, but nothing to (what you will also see) the maps of, sir--Yours in the Lord.

A carriage and two spanking hacks draw up daily at the hour of two before the house of, sir--Yours truly.

The rain rains and the winds do beat upon the cottage of the late Miss Macgregor and of, sir--Yours affectionately.

It is to be trusted that the weather may improve ere you know the halls of, sir--Yours emphatically.

All will be glad to welcome you, not excepting, sir--Yours ever.

You will now have gathered the lamentable intellectual collapse of, sir--Yours indeed.

And nothing remains for me but to sign myself, sir--Yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_N.B._--Each of these clauses has to be read with extreme glibness, coming down whack upon the "Sir." This is very important. The fine stylistic inspiration will else be lost.

I commit the man who made, the man who sold, and the woman who supplied me with my present excruciating gilt nib to that place where the worm never dies.

The reference to a deceased Highland lady (tending as it does to foster unavailing sorrow) may be with advantage omitted from the address, which would therefore run--The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar.

TO EDMUND GOSSE

_The Cottage, Castleton of Braemar, August 19, 1881._

If you had an uncle who was a sea captain and went to the North Pole, you had better bring his outfit. _Verbum Sapientibus._ I look towards you.

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO EDMUND GOSSE

[_Braemar, August 19, 1881._]

MY DEAR WEG,--I have by an extraordinary drollery of Fortune sent off to you by this day's post a P.C. inviting you to appear in sealskin. But this had reference to the weather, and not at all, as you may have been led to fancy, to our rustic raiment of an evening.

As to that question, I would deal, in so far as in me lies, fairly with all men. We are not dressy people by nature; but it sometimes occurs to us to entertain angels. In the country, I believe, even angels may be decently welcomed in tweed; I have faced many great personages, for my own part, in a tasteful suit of sea-cloth with an end of carpet pending from my gullet. Still, we do maybe twice a summer burst out in the direction of blacks--and yet we do it seldom. In short, let your own heart decide, and the capacity of your portmanteau. If you came in camel's hair, you would still, although conspicuous, be welcome.

The sooner the better after Tuesday.--Yours ever,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO W. E. HENLEY

The following records the beginning of work upon _Treasure Island_,
the name originally proposed for which was _The Sea Cook_:--

[_Braemar, August 25, 1881._]

MY DEAR HENLEY,--Of course I am a rogue. Why, Lord, it's known, man; but you should remember I have had a horrid cold. Now, I'm better, I think; and see here--nobody, not you, nor Lang, nor the devil, will hurry me with our crawlers. They are coming. Four of them are as good as done, and the rest will come when ripe; but I am now on another lay for the moment, purely owing to Lloyd, this one; but I believe there's more coin in it than in any amount of crawlers: now, see here, _The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Story for Boys_.

If this don't fetch the kids, why, they have gone rotten since my day. Will you be surprised to learn that it is about Buccaneers, that it begins in the "Admiral Benbow" public-house on Devon coast, that it's all about a map, and a treasure, and a mutiny, and a derelict ship, and a current, and a fine old Squire Trelawney (the real Tre, purged of literature and sin, to suit the infant mind), and a doctor, and another doctor, and a sea cook with one leg, and a sea-song with the chorus "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum" (at the third Ho you heave at the capstan bars), which is a real buccaneer's song, only known to the crew of the late Captain Flint (died of rum at Key West, much regretted, friends will please accept this intimation); and lastly, would you be surprised to hear, in this connection, the name of _Routledge_? That's the kind of man I am, blast your eyes. Two chapters are written, and have been tried on Lloyd with great success; the trouble is to work it off without oaths. Buccaneers without oaths--bricks without straw. But youth and the fond parent have to be consulted.

And now look here--this is next day--and three chapters are written and read. (Chapter I. The Old Sea-dog at the "Admiral Benbow." Chapter II. Black Dog appears and disappears. Chapter III. The Black Spot.) All now heard by Lloyd, F., and my father and mother, with high approval. It's quite silly and horrid fun, and what I want is the _best_ book about the Buccaneers that can be had--the latter B's above all, Blackbeard and sich, and get Nutt or Bain to send it skimming by the fastest post. And now I know you'll write to me, for _The Sea Cook's_ sake.

Your Admiral Guinea is curiously near my line, but of course I'm fooling; and your Admiral sounds like a shublime gent, Stick to him like wax--he'll do. My Trelawney is, as I indicate, several thousand sea-miles off the lie of the original or your Admiral Guinea; and besides, I have no more about him yet but one mention of his name, and I think it likely he may turn yet farther from the model in the course of handling. A chapter a day I mean to do; they are short; and perhaps in a month _The Sea Cook_ may to Routledge go, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! My Trelawney has a strong dash of Landor, as I see him from here. No women in the story, Lloyd's orders; and who so blithe to obey? It's awful fun boys' stories; you just indulge the pleasure of your heart, that's all; no trouble, no strain. The only stiff thing is to get it ended--that I don't see, but I look to a volcano. O sweet, O generous, O human toils. You would like my blind beggar in Chapter III. I believe; no writing, just drive along as the words come and the pen will scratch!

R. L. S.
Author of Boys' Stories.

TO DR. ALEXANDER JAPP

This correspondent had paid his visit as proposed, discussed the
Thoreau differences, listened delightedly to the first chapters of
_Treasure Island_, and proposed to offer the story for publication
to his friend Mr. Henderson, proprietor and editor of Young Folks.

[_Braemar, September 1881._]

MY DEAR DR. JAPP,--My father has gone, but I think I may take it upon me to ask you to keep the book. Of all things you could do to endear yourself to me, you have done the best, for my father and you have taken a fancy to each other.

I do not know how to thank you for all your kind trouble in the matter of _The Sea Cook_, but I am not unmindful. My health is still poorly, and I have added intercostal rheumatism--a new attraction--which sewed me up nearly double for two days, and still gives me a list to starboard--let us be ever nautical!

I do not think with the start I have there will be any difficulty in letting Mr. Henderson go ahead whenever he likes. I will write my story up to its legitimate conclusion; and then we shall be in a position to judge whether a sequel would be desirable, and I would then myself know better about its practicability from the story-teller's point of view.--Yours ever very sincerely,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO W. E. HENLEY

This tells of the farther progress of _Treasure Island_, of the price
paid for it, and of the modest hopes with which it was launched. "The
poet" is Mr. Gosse. The project of a highway story, _Jerry Abershaw_,
remained a favourite one with Stevenson until it was superseded three
or four years later by another, that of the _Great North Road_, which
in its turn had to be abandoned, from lack of health and leisure,
after some six or eight chapters had been written.

_Braemar, September 1881._

MY DEAR HENLEY,--Thanks for your last. The L100 fell through, or dwindled at least into somewhere about L30. However, that I've taken as a mouthful, so you may look out for _The Sea Cook, or Treasure Island: A Tale of the Buccaneers_, in Young Folks. (The terms are L2, 10s. a page of 4500 words; that's not noble, is it? But I have my copyright safe. I don't get illustrated--a blessing; that's the price I have to pay for my copyright.)

I'll make this boys' book business pay; but I have to make a beginning. When I'm done with Young Folks, I'll try Routledge or some one. I feel pretty sure the _Sea Cook_ will do to reprint, and bring something decent at that.

Japp is a good soul. The poet was very gay and pleasant. He told me much: he is simply the most active young man in England, and one of the most intelligent. "He shall o'er Europe, shall o'er earth extend."[41] He is now extending over adjacent parts of Scotland.

I propose to follow up _The Sea Cook_ at proper intervals by _Jerry Abershaw: A Tale of Putney Heath_ (which or its site I must visit): _The Leading Light: A Tale of the Coast_, _The Squaw Men: or the Wild West_, and other instructive and entertaining work. _Jerry Abershaw_ should be good, eh? I love writing boys' books. This first is only an experiment; wait till you see what I can make 'em with my hand in. I'll be the Harrison Ainsworth of the future; and a chalk better by St. Christopher; or at least as good. You'll see that even by _The Sea Cook_.

Jerry Abershaw--O what a title! Jerry Abershaw: d--n it, sir, it's a poem. The two most lovely words in English; and what a sentiment! Hark you, how the hoofs ring! Is this a blacksmith's? No, it's a wayside inn. Jerry Abershaw. "It was a clear, frosty evening, not 100 miles from Putney," etc. Jerry Abershaw. Jerry Abershaw. Jerry Abershaw. _The Sea Cook_ is now in its sixteenth chapter, and bids for well up in the thirties. Each three chapters is worth L2, 10s. So we've L12, 10s. already.

Don't read Marryat's _Pirate_ anyhow; it is written in sand with a salt-spoon: arid, feeble, vain, tottering production. But then we're not always all there. _He_ was _all_ somewhere else that trip. It's _damnable_, Henley. I don't go much on _The Sea Cook_; but, Lord, it's a little fruitier than the _Pirate_ by Cap'n. Marryat.

Since this was written _The Cook_ is in his nineteenth chapter. Yo-heave ho!

R. L. S.

TO W. E. HENLEY

Stevenson's uncle, Dr. George Balfour, had recommended him to wear a
specially contrived and hideous respirator for the inhalation of
pine-oil.

_Braemar, 1881._

Dear Henley, with a pig's snout on
I am starting for London,
Where I likely shall arrive,
On Saturday, if still alive:
Perhaps your pirate doctor might
See me on Sunday? If all's right,
I should then lunch with you and with she
Who's dearer to you than you are to me.
I shall remain but little time
In London, as a wretched clime,
But not so wretched (for none are)
As that of beastly old Braemar.
My doctor sends me skipping. I
Have many facts to meet your eye.
My pig's snout's now upon my face;
And I inhale with fishy grace,
My gills outflapping right and left,
_Ol. pin. sylvest._ I am bereft
Of a great deal of charm by this--
Not quite the bull's eye for a kiss--
But like a gnome of olden time
Or bogey in a pantomime.
For ladies' love I once was fit,
But now am rather out of it.
Where'er I go, revolted curs
Snap round my military spurs;
The children all retire in fits
And scream their bellowses to bits.
Little I care: the worst's been done:
Now let the cold impoverished sun
Drop frozen from his orbit; let
Fury and fire, cold, wind and wet,
And cataclysmal mad reverses
Rage through the federate universes;
Let Lawson triumph, cakes and ale,
Whisky and hock and claret fail;--
Tobacco, love, and letters perish,
With all that any man could cherish:
You it may touch, not me. I dwell
Too deep already--deep in hell;
And nothing can befall, O damn!
To make me uglier than I am.

R. L. S.

This-yer refers to an ori-nasal respirator for the inhalation of pine-wood oil, _oleum pini sylvestris_.

TO THOMAS STEVENSON

With all his throat and lung troubles actively renewed, Stevenson
fled to Davos again in October. This time he and his wife and stepson
occupied a small house by themselves, the Chalet am Stein, near the
Buol Hotel. The election to the Edinburgh Professorship was still
pending, and the following note to his father shows that he thought
for a moment of giving the electors a specimen of his qualifications
in the shape of a magazine article on the Appin murder--a theme
afterwards turned to more vital account in the tales of _Kidnapped_
and _Catriona_.

[_Chalet am Stein, Davos, October 1881._]

MY DEAR FATHER,--It occurred to me last night in bed that I could write

The Murder of Red Colin,
A Story of the Forfeited Estates.

This I have all that is necessary for, with the following exceptions:--

_Trials of the Sons of Roy Rob with Anecdotes_: Edinburgh, 1818, and

The second volume of Blackwood's Magazine.

You might also look in Arnot's _Criminal Trials_ up in my room, and see what observations he has on the case (Trial of James Stewart in Appin for murder of Campbell of Glenure, 1752); if he has none, perhaps you could see--O yes, see if Burton has it in his two vols. of trial stories. I hope he hasn't; but care not; do it over again anyway.

The two named authorities I must see. With these, I could soon pull off this article; and it shall be my first for the electors.--Ever affectionate son,

R. L. S.

TO EDMUND GOSSE

Some of the habitual readers of Young Folks had written objecting to
the early instalments of _Treasure Island_, and the editor had come
forward in their defence.

_Davos Printing Office, managed by Samuel Lloyd Osbourne & Co., The
Chalet [Nov. 9, 1881]._

DEAR WEG,--If you are taking Young Folks, for God's Sake Twig the editorial style; it is incredible; we are all left panting in the rear; twig, O twig it. His name is Clinton; I should say the most melodious prosewriter now alive; it's like buttermilk and blacking; it sings and hums away in that last sheet, like a great old kettle full of bilge water. You know: none of us could do it, boy. See No. 571, last page: an article called "Sir Claude the Conqueror," and read it _aloud_ in your best rhythmic tones; mon cher, c'est epatant.

Observe in the same number, how Will J. Shannon girds at your poor friend; and how the rhythmic Clinton steps chivalrously forth in his defence. First the Rev. Purcell; then Will J. Shannon: thick fall the barbed arrows.[42]

I wish I could play a game of chess with you.

If I survive, I shall have Clinton to dinner: it is plain I must make hay while the sun shines; I shall not long keep a footing in the world of penny writers, or call them obolists. It is a world full of surprises, a romantic world. Weg, I was known there; even I. The obolists, then, sometimes peruse our works. It is only fair; since I so much batten upon theirs. Talking of which, in Heaven's name, get _The Bondage of Brandon_ (3 vols.) by Bracebridge Hemming. It's the devil and all for drollery. There is a Superior (sic) of the Jesuits, straight out of Skelt.

And now look here, I had three points: Clinton--disposed of--(2nd) Benj. Franklin--do you want him? (3rd) A radiant notion begot this morning over an atlas: why not, you who know the lingo, give us a good legendary and historical book on Iceland? It would, or should, be as romantic as a book of Scott's; as strange and stirring as a dream. Think on't. My wife screamed with joy at the idea; and the little Lloyd clapped his hands; so I offer you three readers on the spot.

Fanny and I have both been in bed, tended by the hired sick nurse; Lloyd has a broken finger (so he did not clap his hands literally); Wogg has had an abscess in his ear; our servant is a devil.--I am yours ever, with both of our best regards to Mrs. Gosse,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,
The Rejected Obolist.

TO W. E. HENLEY

This letter speaks of contributions to the Magazine of Art (in these
years edited by Mr. Henley) from J. A. Symonds and from R. L. S.
himself, "Bunyan" meaning the essay on the cuts in Bagster's edition
of the _Pilgrim's Progress_. A toy press had just been set up in the
chalet for the lad Lloyd.

_Davos Printing Office, managed by Samuel Lloyd Osbourne & Co., The
Chalet [Nov. 1881]._

DEAR HENLEY,--I have done better for you than you deserved to hope; the Venice Medley is withdrawn; and I have a Monte Oliveto (short) for you, with photographs and sketches. I think you owe luck a candle; for this no skill could have accomplished without the aid of accident.

How about carving and gilding? I have nearly killed myself over Bunyan; and am too tired to finish him to-day, as I might otherwise have done. For his back is broken. For some reason, it proved one of the hardest things I ever tried to write; perhaps--but no--I have no theory to offer--it went against the spirit. But as I say I girt my loins up and nearly died of it.

In five weeks, six at the latest, I should have a complete proof of _Treasure Island_. It will be from 75 to 80,000 words; and with anything like half good pictures, it should sell. I suppose I may at least hope for eight pic's? I aspire after ten or twelve. You had better

--Two days later.

Bunyan skips to-day, pretty bad, always with an official letter. Yours came last night. I had already spotted your Dickens; very pleasant and true.

My wife is far from well; quite confined to bed now; drain poisoning. I keep getting better slowly; appetite dicky; but some days I feel and eat well. The weather has been hot and heartless and unDavosy.

I shall give Symonds his note in about an hour from now.

Have done so; he will write of Vesalius and of Botticelli's Dante for you.

Morris's _Sigurd_ is a grrrrreat poem; that is so. I have cried aloud at this re-reading; he had fine stuff to go on, but he has touched it, in places, with the hand of a master. Yes. Regin and Fafnir are incredibly fine. Love to all.--Yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO P. G. HAMERTON

The volume of republished essays here mentioned is _Familiar
Studies of Men and Books_. "The silly story of the election" refers
again to his correspondent's failure as a candidate for the Edinburgh
Chair of Fine Arts.

[_Chalet am Stein, Davos, December 1881._]

MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--My conscience has long been smiting me, till it became nearly chronic. My excuses, however, are many and not pleasant. Almost immediately after I last wrote to you, I had a hemorreage (I can't spell it), was badly treated by a doctor in the country, and have been a long while picking up--still, in fact, have much to desire on that side. Next, as soon as I got here, my wife took ill; she is, I fear, seriously so; and this combination of two invalids very much depresses both.

I have a volume of republished essays coming out with Chatto and Windus; I wish they would come, that my wife might have the reviews to divert her. Otherwise my news is _nil_. I am up here in a little chalet, on the borders of a pinewood, overlooking a great part of the Davos Thal, a beautiful scene at night, with the moon upon the snowy mountains, and the lights warmly shining in the village. J. A. Symonds is next door to me, just at the foot of my Hill Difficulty (this you will please regard as the House Beautiful), and his society is my great stand-by.

Did you see I had joined the band of the rejected? "Hardly one of us," said my _confreres_ at the bar.

I was blamed by a common friend for asking you to give me a testimonial; in the circumstances he thought it was indelicate. Lest, by some calamity, you should ever have felt the same way, I must say in two words how the matter appeared to me. That silly story of the election altered in no tittle the value of your testimony: so much for that. On the other hand, it led me to take quite a particular pleasure in asking you to give it; and so much for the other. I trust, even if you cannot share it, you will understand my view.

I am in treaty with Bentley for a life of Hazlitt; I hope it will not fall through, as I love the subject, and appear to have found a publisher who loves it also. That, I think, makes things more pleasant. You know I am a fervent Hazlittite; I mean regarding him as _the_ English writer who has had the scantiest justice. Besides which, I am anxious to write biography; really, if I understand myself in quest of profit, I think it must be good to live with another man from birth to death. You have tried it, and know.

How has the cruising gone? Pray remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your son, and believe me, yours very sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

The memory here evoked of Brash the publican, who had been a special
butt for some of the youthful pranks of R. L. S. and his friends,
inspired in the next few weeks the sets of verses mentioned below
(vol. 24, pp. 14, 15, 38) in letters which show that the fictitious
Johnson and Thomson were far from being dead.

_[Chalet am Stein], Davos, December 5, 1881._

MY DEAR CHARLES,--We have been in miserable case here; my wife worse and worse; and now sent away with Lloyd for sick nurse, I not being allowed to go down. I do not know what is to become of us; and you may imagine how rotten I have been feeling, and feel now, alone with my weasel-dog and my German maid, on the top of a hill here, heavy mist and thin snow all about me, and the devil to pay in general. I don't care so much for solitude as I used to; results, I suppose, of marriage.

Pray write me something cheery. A little Edinburgh gossip, in Heaven's name. Ah! what would I not give to steal this evening with you through the big, echoing, college archway, and away south under the street lamps, and away to dear Brash's, now defunct! But the old time is dead also, never, never to revive. It was a sad time too, but so gay and so hopeful, and we had such sport with all our low spirits and all our distresses, that it looks like a kind of lamplit fairyland behind me. O for ten Edinburgh minutes--sixpence between us, and the ever-glorious Lothian Road, or dear mysterious Leith Walk! But here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling; here in this strange place, whose very strangeness would have been heaven to him then; and aspires, yes, C. B., with tears, after the past. See what comes of being left alone. Do you remember Brash? the sheet of glass that we followed along George Street? Granton? the night at Bonny mainhead? the compass near the sign of the _Twinkling Eye_? the night I lay on the pavement in misery?

I swear it by the eternal sky
Johnson--nor--Thomson ne'er shall die!

Yet I fancy they are dead too; dead like Brash.

R. L. S.

TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON

The next is after going down to meet his wife and stepson, when the
former had left the doctor's hands at Berne.

_Chalet Buol, Davos-Platz, December 26, 1881._

MY DEAR MOTHER,--Yesterday, Sunday and Christmas, we finished this eventful journey by a drive in an _open_ sleigh--none others were to be had--seven hours on end through whole forests of Christmas trees. The cold was beyond belief. I have often suffered less at a dentist's. It was a clear, sunny day, but the sun even at noon falls, at this season, only here and there into the Praettigau. I kept up as long as I could in an imitation of a street singer:--

"Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses," etc.

At last Lloyd remarked, a blue mouth speaking from a corpse-coloured face, "You seem to be the only one with any courage left?" And, do you know, with that word my courage disappeared, and I made the rest of the stage in the same dumb wretchedness as the others. My only terror was lest Fanny should ask for brandy, or laudanum, or something. So awful was the idea of putting my hands out, that I half thought I would refuse.

Well, none of us are a penny the worse, Lloyd's cold better; I, with a twinge of the rheumatiz; and Fanny better than her ordinary.

General conclusion between Lloyd and me as to the journey: A prolonged visit to the dentist's, complicated with the fear of death.

Never, O never, do you get me there again.--Ever affectionate son,

R. L. S.

TO EDMUND GOSSE

Mr. Gosse and R. L. S. had proposed to Mr. R. W. Gilder, of the
Century Magazine, that they should collaborate for him on a series of
murder papers, beginning with the Elstree murder; and he had accepted
the proposal on terms which they thought liberal.

_Hotel Buol, Davos, Dec. 26, 1881._

MY DEAR GOSSE,--I have just brought my wife back, through such cold, in an open sleigh too, as I had never fancied to exist. I won't use the word torture, but go to your dentist's and in nine cases out of ten you will not suffer more pain than we suffered.

This is merely in acknowledgment of your editorial: to say that I shall give my mind at once to the Murder. But I bethink me you can say so much and convey my sense of the liberality of our Cousins, without exhibiting this scrawl. So I may go on to tell you that I have at last found a publisher as eager to publish, as I am to write a Hazlitt. Bentley is the Boy; and very liberal, at least, as per last advices; certainly very friendly and eager, which makes work light, like whistling. I wish I was with the rest of--well, of us--in the red books. But I am glad to get a whack at Hazlitt, howsoe'er.

How goes your Gray? I would not change with you; brother! Gray would never be suited to my temperament, while Hazlitt fits me like a glove.

I hope in your studies in Young Folks you did not miss the delicious reticences, the artistic concealments, and general fine-shade graduation, through which the fact of the Xmas Nr. being 3d. was instilled--too strong--inspired into the mind of the readers. It was superb.

I may add as a postscript: I wish to God I or anybody knew what was the matter with my wife.--Yours ever,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

[_Chalet am Stein, Davos-Platz, March 1882._]

MY DEAR COLVIN,--Herewith _Moral Emblems_. The elephant by Fanny--the rest by me.

I would have sent it long ago. But I must explain. I brought home with me from my bad times in America two strains of unsoundness of mind, the first, a perpetual fear that I can do no more work--the second, a perpetual fear that my friends have quarrelled with me.[43] This last long silence of yours drove me into really believing it, and I dared not write to you.

Well, it's ancient history now, and here are the emblems. A second series is in the press.

_Silverado_ is still unfinished; but I think I have done well on the whole, as you say. I shall be home, I hope, sometime in May, perhaps before; it depends on Fanny's health, which is still far from good and often alarms me. I shall then see your collectanea. I shall not put pen to paper till I settle somewhere else; Hazlitt had better simmer awhile. I have to see Ireland too, who has most kindly written to me and invited me to see his collections.

Symonds grows much on me: in many ways, what you would least expect, a very sound man, and very wise in a wise way. It is curious how F. and I always turn to him for advice: we have learned that his advice is good.--Yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM

[_Chalet am Stein, Davos-Platz, February 1882._]

MY DEAR CUMMY,--My wife and I are very much vexed to hear you are still unwell. We are both keeping far better; she especially seems quite to have taken a turn--_the_ turn, we shall hope. Please let us know how you get on, and what has been the matter with you; Braemar I believe--the vile hole. You know what a lazy rascal I am, so you won't be surprised at a short letter, I know; indeed, you will be much more surprised at my having had the decency to write at all. We have got rid of our young, pretty, and incompetent maid; and now we have a fine, canny, twinkling, shrewd, auld-farrant peasant body, who gives us good food and keeps us in good spirits. If we could only understand what she says! But she speaks Davos language, which is to German what Aberdeen-awa' is to English, so it comes heavy. God bless you, my dear Cummy; and so says Fanny forbye.--Ever your affectionate,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

_[Chalet am Stein, Davos], 22nd February '82._

MY DEAR CHARLES,--Your most welcome letter has raised clouds of sulphur from my horizon....

I am glad you have gone back to your music. Life is a poor thing, I am more and more convinced, without an art, that always waits for us and is always new. Art and marriage are two very good stand-by's.

In an article which will appear some time in the Cornhill, _Talk and Talkers_, and where I have full-lengthened the conversation of Bob, Henley, Jenkin, Simpson, Symonds, and Gosse, I have at the end one single word about yourself. It may amuse you to see it.

We are coming to Scotland after all, so we shall meet, which pleases me, and I do believe I am strong enough to stand it this time. My knee is still quite lame.

My wife is better again.... But we take it by turns; it is the dog that is ill now.--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO W. E. HENLEY

In the early months of this year a hurt knee kept Stevenson more
indoors than was good for him.

[_Chalet am Stein, Davos-Platz, February 1882._]

MY DEAR HENLEY,--Here comes the letter as promised last night. And first two requests: Pray send the enclosed to c/o Blackmore's publisher, 'tis from Fanny; second, pray send us Routledge's shilling book, Edward Mayhew's _Dogs_, by return if it can be managed.

Our dog is very ill again, poor fellow, looks very ill too, only sleeps at night because of morphine; and we do not know what ails him, only fear it to be canker of the ear. He makes a bad, black spot in our life, poor, selfish, silly, little tangle; and my wife is wretched. Otherwise she is better, steadily and slowly moving up through all her relapses. My knee never gets the least better; it hurts to-night, which it has not done for long. I do not suppose my doctor knows any least thing about it. He says it is a nerve that I struck, but I assure you he does not know.

I have just finished a paper, _A Gossip on Romance_, in which I have tried to do, very popularly, about one-half of the matter you wanted me to try. In a way, I have found an answer to the question. But the subject was hardly fit for so chatty a paper, and it is all loose ends. If ever I do my book on the Art of Literature, I shall gather them together and be clear.

To-morrow, having once finished off the touches still due on this, I shall tackle _San Francisco_ for you. Then the tide of work will fairly bury me, lost to view and hope. You have no idea what it costs me to wring out my work now. I have certainly been a fortnight over this _Romance_, sometimes five hours a day; and yet it is about my usual length--eight pages or so, and would be a d----d sight the better for another curry. But I do not think I can honestly re-write it all; so I call it done, and shall only straighten words in a revision currently.

I had meant to go on for a great while, and say all manner of entertaining things. But all's gone. I am now an idiot.--Yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO W. E. HENLEY

The following flight of fancy refers to supposed errors of judgment
on the part of an eminent firm of publishers, with whom Stevenson had
at this time no connection. Very soon afterwards he entered into
relations with them which proved equally pleasant and profitable to
both parties, and were continued on the most cordial terms until his
death.

[_Chalet am Stein, Davos, March 1882._]

MY DEAR HENLEY,--Last night we had a dinner-party, consisting of the John Addington, curry, onions (lovely onions), and beefsteak. So unusual is any excitement, that F. and I feel this morning as if we had been to a coronation. However I must, I suppose, write.

I was sorry about your female contributor squabble. 'Tis very comic, but really unpleasant. But what care I? Now that I illustrate my own books, I can always offer you a situation in our house--S. L. Osbourne and Co. As an author gets a halfpenny a copy of verses, and an artist a penny a cut, perhaps a proof-reader might get several pounds a year.

O that Coronation! What a shouting crowd there was! I obviously got a firework in each eye. The king looked very magnificent, to be sure; and that great hall where we feasted on seven hundred delicate foods, and drank fifty royal wines--_quel coup d'oeil_! but was it not overdone, even for a coronation--almost a vulgar luxury? And eleven is certainly too late to begin dinner. (It was really 6.30 instead of 5.30.)

Your list of books that Cassells have refused in these weeks is not quite complete; they also refused:--

1. Six undiscovered Tragedies, one romantic Comedy, a fragment of Journal extending over six years, and an unfinished Autobiography reaching up to the first performance of King John. By William Shakespeare.

2. The Journals and Private Correspondence of David, King of Israel.

3. Poetical Works of Arthur, Iron Dook of Wellington including a Monody on Napoleon.

4. Eight books of an unfinished novel, _Solomon Crabb_. By Henry Fielding.

5. Stevenson's Moral Emblems.

You also neglected to mention, as _per contra_, that they had during the same time accepted and triumphantly published Brown's _Handbook to Cricket_, _Jones's First French Reader_, and Robinson's _Picturesque Cheshire_, uniform with the same author's _Stately Homes of Salop_.

O if that list could come true! How we would tear at _Solomon Crabb_! O what a bully, bully, bully business. Which would you read first--Shakespeare's autobiography, or his journals? What sport the monody on Napoleon would be--what wooden verse, what stucco ornament! I should read both the autobiography and the journals before I looked at one of the plays, beyond the names of them, which shows that Saintsbury was right, and I do care more for life than for poetry. No--I take it back. Do you know one of the tragedies--a Bible tragedy too--_David_--was written in his third period--much about the same time as Lear? The comedy, _April Rain_, is also a late work. _Beckett_ is a fine ranting piece, like _Richard II._, but very fine for the stage. Irving is to play it this autumn when I'm in town; the part rather suits him--but who is to play Henry--a tremendous creation, sir. Betterton in his private journal seems to have seen this piece; and he says distinctly that Henry is the best part in any play. "Though," he adds, "how it be with the ancient plays I know not. But in this I have ever feared to do ill, and indeed will not be persuaded to that undertaking." So says Betterton. _Rufus_ is not so good; I am not pleased with _Rufus_; plainly a _rifaccimento_ of some inferior work; but there are some damned fine lines. As for the purely satiric ill-minded _Abelard and Heloise_, another _Troilus, quoi!_ it is not pleasant, truly, but what strength, what verve, what knowledge of life, and the Canon! What a finished, humorous, rich picture is the Canon! Ah, there was nobody like Shakespeare. But what I like is the David and Absalom business: Absalom is so well felt--you love him as David did; David's speech is one roll of royal music from the first act to the fifth.

I am enjoying _Solomon Crabb_ extremely; Solomon's capital adventure with the two highwaymen and Squire Trecothick and Parson Vance; it is as good, I think, as anything in Joseph Andrews. I have just come to the part where the highwayman with the black patch over his eye has tricked poor Solomon into his place, and the squire and the parson are hearing the evidence. Parson Vance is splendid. How good, too, is old Mrs. Crabb and the coastguardsman in the third chapter, or her delightful quarrel with the sexton of Seaham; Lord Conybeare is surely a little overdone; but I don't know either; he's such damned fine sport. Do you like Sally Barnes? I'm in love with her. Constable Muddon is as good as Dogberry and Verges put together; when he takes Solomon to the cage, and the highwayman gives him Solomon's own guinea for his pains, and kisses Mrs. Muddon, and just then up drives Lord Conybeare, and instead of helping Solomon, calls him all the rascals in Christendom--O Henry Fielding, Henry Fielding! Yet perhaps the scenes at Seaham are the best. But I'm bewildered among all these excellences.

Stay, cried a voice that made the welkin crack--This
here's a dream, return and study BLACK!

--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO ALEXANDER IRELAND

The following is in reply to a letter Stevenson had received on some
questions connected with his proposed Life of Hazlitt from the
veteran critic and bibliographer since deceased, Mr. Alexander
Ireland. At the foot is to be found the first reference to his new
amusement of wood engraving for the Davos Press:--

[_Chalet am Stein, Davos, March 1882._]

MY DEAR SIR,--This formidable paper need not alarm you; it argues nothing beyond penury of other sorts, and is not at all likely to lead me into a long letter. If I were at all grateful it would, for yours has just passed for me a considerable part of a stormy evening. And speaking of gratitude, let me at once and with becoming eagerness accept your kind invitation to Bowdon. I shall hope, if we can agree as to dates when I am nearer hand, to come to you sometime in the month of May. I was pleased to hear you were a Scot; I feel more at home with my compatriots always; perhaps the more we are away, the stronger we feel that bond.

You ask about Davos; I have discoursed about it already, rather sillily I think, in the _Pall Mall_, and I mean to say no more, but the ways of the Muse are dubious and obscure, and who knows? I may be wiled again. As a place of residence, beyond a splendid climate, it has to my eyes but one advantage--the neighbourhood of J. A. Symonds--I dare say you know his work, but the man is far more interesting. It has done me, in my two winters' Alpine exile, much good; so much, that I hope to leave it now for ever, but would not be understood to boast. In my present unpardonably crazy state, any cold might send me skipping, either back to Davos, or further off. Let us hope not. It is dear; a little dreary; very far from many things that both my taste and my needs prompt me to seek; and altogether not the place that I should choose of my free will.

I am chilled by your description of the man in question, though I had almost argued so much from his cold and undigested volume. If the republication does not interfere with my publisher, it will not interfere with me; but there, of course, comes the hitch. I do not know Mr. Bentley, and I fear all publishers like the devil from legend and experience both. However, when I come to town, we shall, I hope, meet and understand each other as well as author and publisher ever do. I liked his letters; they seemed hearty, kind, and personal. Still--I am notedly suspicious of the trade--your news of this republication alarms me.

The best of the present French novelists seems to me, incomparably, Daudet. _Les Rois en Exil_ comes very near being a masterpiece. For Zola I have no toleration, though the curious, eminently bourgeois, and eminently French creature has power of a kind. But I would he were deleted. I would not give a chapter of old Dumas (meaning himself, not his collaborators) for the whole boiling of the Zolas. Romance with the smallpox--as the great one: diseased anyway and blackhearted and fundamentally at enmity with joy.

I trust that Mrs. Ireland does not object to smoking; and if you are a teetotaller, I beg you to mention it before I come--I have all the vices; some of the virtues also, let us hope--that, at least, of being a Scotchman, and yours very sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_P.S._--My father was in the old High School the last year, and walked in the procession to the new. I blush to own I am an Academy boy; it seems modern, and smacks not of the soil.

_P.P.S._--I enclose a good joke--at least, I think so--my first efforts at wood engraving printed by my stepson, a boy of thirteen. I will put in also one of my later attempts. I have been nine days at the art--observe my progress.

R. L. S.

TO MRS. GOSSE

Mrs. Gosse had sent R. L. S. a miniature Bible illustrated with rude
cuts, picked up at an outdoor stall. "Lloyd's new work" is _Black
Canyon_.

[_Chalet am Stein, Davos, March 16, 1882._]

DEAR MRS. GOSSE,--Thank you heartily for the Bible, which is exquisite. I thoroughly appreciate the whole; but have you done justice to the third lion in Daniel (like the third murderer in Macbeth)--a singular animal--study him well. The soldier in the fiery furnace beats me.

I enclose a programme of Lloyd's new work. The work I shall send to-morrow, for the publisher is out and I dare not touch his "plant": _il m'en cuirait_. The work in question I think a huge lark, but still droller is the author's attitude. Not one incident holds with another from beginning to end; and whenever I discover a new inconsistency, Sam is the first to laugh--with a kind of humorous pride at the thing being so silly.