[EDINBURGH, AUGUST 1877.]

MY DEAR COLVIN, - I'm to be whipped away to-morrow to Penzance, where at the post-office a letter will find me glad and grateful.

I am well, but somewhat tired out with overwork. I have only been home a fortnight this morning, and I have already written to the tune of forty-five CORNHILL pages and upwards. The most of it was only very laborious re-casting and re-modelling, it is true; but it took it out of me famously, all the same.

TEMPLE BAR appears to like my 'Villon,' so I may count on another market there in the future, I hope. At least, I am going to put it to the proof at once, and send another story, 'The Sire de Maletroit's Mousetrap': a true novel, in the old sense; all unities preserved moreover, if that's anything, and I believe with some little merits; not so CLEVER perhaps as the last, but sounder and more natural.

My 'Villon' is out this month; I should so much like to know what you think of it. Stephen has written to me apropos of 'Idlers,'

that something more in that vein would be agreeable to his views.

From Stephen I count that a devil of a lot.

I am honestly so tired this morning that I hope you will take this for what it's worth and give me an answer in peace. - Ever yours,

LOUIS STEVENSON.

Letter: TO MRS. SITWELL

[PENZANCE, AUGUST 1877.]

. . . YOU will do well to stick to your burn, that is a delightful life you sketch, and a very fountain of health. I wish I could live like that but, alas! it is just as well I got my 'Idlers'

written and done with, for I have quite lost all power of resting.

I have a goad in my flesh continually, pushing me to work, work, work. I have an essay pretty well through for Stephen; a story, 'The Sire de Maletroit's Mousetrap,' with which I shall try TEMPLE BAR; another story, in the clouds, 'The Stepfather's Story,' most pathetic work of a high morality or immorality, according to point of view; and lastly, also in the clouds, or perhaps a little farther away, an essay on the 'Two St. Michael's Mounts,'

historical and picturesque; perhaps if it didn't come too long, I might throw in the 'Ba.s.s Rock,' and call it 'Three Sea Fortalices,'

or something of that kind. You see how work keeps bubbling in my mind. Then I shall do another fifteenth century paper this autumn - La Sale and PEt.i.t JEHAN DE SAINTRE, which is a kind of fifteenth century SANDFORD AND MERTON, ending in horrid immoral cynicism, as if the author had got tired of being didactic, and just had a good wallow in the mire to wind up with and indemnify himself for so much restraint.

Cornwall is not much to my taste, being as bleak as the bleakest parts of Scotland, and nothing like so pointed and characteristic.

It has a flavour of its own, though, which I may try and catch, if I find the s.p.a.ce, in the proposed article. 'Will o' the Mill' I sent, red hot, to Stephen in a fit of haste, and have not yet had an answer. I am quite prepared for a refusal. But I begin to have more hope in the story line, and that should improve my income anyway. I am glad you liked 'Villon'; some of it was not as good as it ought to be, but on the whole it seems pretty vivid, and the features strongly marked. Vividness and not style is now my line; style is all very well, but vividness is the real line of country; if a thing is meant to be read, it seems just as well to try and make it readable. I am such a dull person I cannot keep off my own immortal works. Indeed, they are scarcely ever out of my head.

And yet I value them less and less every day. But occupation is the great thing; so that a man should have his life in his own pocket, and never be thrown out of work by anything. I am glad to hear you are better. I must stop - going to Land's End. - Always your faithful friend,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Letter: TO A. PATCHETT MARTIN

[1877.]

DEAR SIR, - It would not be very easy for me to give you any idea of the pleasure I found in your present. People who write for the magazines (probably from a guilty conscience) are apt to suppose their works practically unpublished. It seems unlikely that any one would take the trouble to read a little paper buried among so many others; and reading it, read it with any attention or pleasure. And so, I can a.s.sure you, your little book, coming from so far, gave me all the pleasure and encouragement in the world.

I suppose you know and remember Charles Lamb's essay on distant correspondents? Well, I was somewhat of his way of thinking about my mild productions. I did not indeed imagine they were read, and (I suppose I may say) enjoyed right round upon the other side of the big Football we have the honour to inhabit. And as your present was the first sign to the contrary, I feel I have been very ungrateful in not writing earlier to acknowledge the receipt. I dare say, however, you hate writing letters as much as I can do myself (for if you like my article, I may presume other points of sympathy between us); and on this hypothesis you will be ready to forgive me the delay.

I may mention with regard to the piece of verses called 'Such is Life,' that I am not the only one on this side of the Football aforesaid to think it a good and bright piece of work, and recognised a link of sympathy with the poets who 'play in hostelries at euchre.' - Believe me, dear sir, yours truly,

R. L S.

Letter: TO A. PATCHETT MARTIN

17 HERIOT ROW, EDINBURGH [DECEMBER 1877].

MY DEAR SIR, - I am afraid you must already have condemned me for a very idle fellow truly. Here it is more than two months since I received your letter; I had no fewer than three journals to acknowledge; and never a sign upon my part. If you have seen a CORNHILL paper of mine upon idling, you will be inclined to set it all down to that. But you will not be doing me justice. Indeed, I have had a summer so troubled that I have had little leisure and still less inclination to write letters. I was keeping the devil at bay with all my disposable activities; and more than once I thought he had me by the throat. The odd conditions of our acquaintance enable me to say more to you than I would to a person who lived at my elbow. And besides, I am too much pleased and flattered at our correspondence not to go as far as I can to set myself right in your eyes.

In this d.a.m.nable confusion (I beg pardon) I have lost all my possessions, or near about, and quite lost all my wits. I wish I could lay my hands on the numbers of the REVIEW, for I know I wished to say something on that head more particularly than I can from memory; but where they have escaped to, only time or chance can show. However, I can tell you so far, that I was very much pleased with the article on Bret Harte; it seemed to me just, clear, and to the point. I agreed pretty well with all you said about George Eliot: a high, but, may we not add? - a rather dry lady. Did you - I forget - did you have a kick at the stern works of that melancholy puppy and humbug Daniel Deronda himself? - the Prince of prigs; the literary abomination of desolation in the way of manhood; a type which is enough to make a man forswear the love of women, if that is how it must be gained. . . . Hats off all the same, you understand: a woman of genius.

Of your poems I have myself a kindness for 'Noll and Nell,'

although I don't think you have made it as good as you ought: verse five is surely not QUITE MELODIOUS. I confess I like the Sonnet in the last number of the REVIEW - the Sonnet to England.

Please, if you have not, and I don't suppose you have, already read it, inst.i.tute a search in all Melbourne for one of the rarest and certainly one of the best of books - CLARISSA HARLOWE. For any man who takes an interest in the problems of the two s.e.xes, that book is a perfect mine of doc.u.ments. And it is written, sir, with the pen of an angel. Miss Howe and Lovelace, words cannot tell how good they are! And the scene where Clarissa beards her family, with her fan going all the while; and some of the quarrel scenes between her and Lovelace; and the scene where Colonel Marden goes to Mr. Hall, with Lord M. trying to compose matters, and the Colonel with his eternal 'finest woman in the world,' and the inimitable affirmation of Mowbray - nothing, nothing could be better! You will bless me when you read it for this recommendation; but, indeed, I can do nothing but recommend Clarissa. I am like that Frenchman of the eighteenth century who discovered Habakkuk, and would give no one peace about that respectable Hebrew. For my part, I never was able to get over his eminently respectable name; Isaiah is the boy, if you must have a prophet, no less. About Clarissa, I meditate a choice work: A DIALOGUE ON MAN, WOMAN, AND 'CLARISSA HARLOWE.' It is to be so clever that no array of terms can give you any idea; and very likely that particular array in which I shall finally embody it, less than any other.

Do you know, my dear sir, what I like best in your letter? The egotism for which you thought necessary to apologise. I am a rogue at egotism myself; and to be plain, I have rarely or never liked any man who was not. The first step to discovering the beauties of G.o.d's universe is usually a (perhaps partial) apprehension of such of them as adorn our own characters. When I see a man who does not think pretty well of himself, I always suspect him of being in the right. And besides, if he does not like himself, whom he has seen, how is he ever to like one whom he never can see but in dim and artificial presentments?

I cordially reciprocate your offer of a welcome; it shall be at least a warm one. Are you not my first, my only, admirer - a dear tie? Besides, you are a man of sense, and you treat me as one by writing to me as you do, and that gives me pleasure also. Please continue to let me see your work. I have one or two things coming out in the CORNHILL: a story called 'The Sire de Maletroit's Door'

in TEMPLE BAR; and a series of articles on Edinburgh in the PORTFOLIO; but I don't know if these last fly all the way to Melbourne. - Yours very truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN

HOTEL DES ETRANGERS, DIEPPE, JANUARY 1, 1878.

MY DEAR COLVIN, - I am at the INLAND VOYAGE again: have finished another section, and have only two more to execute. But one at least of these will be very long - the longest in the book - being a great digression on French artistic tramps. I only hope Paul may take the thing; I want coin so badly, and besides it would be something done - something put outside of me and off my conscience; and I should not feel such a m.u.f.f as I do, if once I saw the thing in boards with a ticket on its back. I think I shall frequent circulating libraries a good deal. The Preface shall stand over, as you suggest, until the last, and then, sir, we shall see. This to be read with a big voice.

This is New Year's Day: let me, my dear Colvin, wish you a very good year, free of all misunderstanding and bereavement, and full of good weather and good work. You know best what you have done for me, and so you will know best how heartily I mean this. - Ever yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN

[PARIS, JANUARY OR FEBRUARY 1878.]

MY DEAR COLVIN, - Many thanks for your letter. I was much interested by all the Edinburgh gossip. Most likely I shall arrive in London next week. I think you know all about the Crane sketch; but it should be a river, not a ca.n.a.l, you know, and the look should be 'cruel, lewd, and kindly,' all at once. There is more sense in that Greek myth of Pan than in any other that I recollect except the luminous Hebrew one of the Fall: one of the biggest things done. If people would remember that all religions are no more than representations of life, they would find them, as they are, the best representations, licking Shakespeare.