The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 23

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 épatant.

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 barbéd arrows.[42 - The Editor’s defence was in the following terms: “That which you condemn is really the best story now appearing in the paper, and the impress of an able writer is stamped on every paragraph of the Treasure Island. You will probably share this opinion when you have read a little more of it.”]

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.