A cottage near a moor is soon to receive our human forms; it is also near a burn to which Professor Blackie (no less!) has written some verses in his hot old age, and near a farm from whence we shall draw cream and fatness. Should I be moved to join Blackie, I shall go upon my knees and pray hard against temptation; although, since the new Version, I do not know the proper form of words. The swollen, childish, and pedantic vanity that moved the said revisers to put 'bring' for 'lead,' is a sort of literary fault that calls for an eternal hell; it may be quite a small place, a star of the least magnitude, and shabbily furnished; there shall -, -, the revisers of the Bible and other absolutely loathsome literary lepers, dwell among broken pens, bad, GROUNDY ink and ruled blotting-paper made in France - all eagerly burning to write, and all inflicted with incurable aphasia. I should not have thought upon that torture had I not suffered it in moderation myself, but it is too horrid even for a hell; let's let 'em off with an eternal toothache.
All this talk is partly to persuade you that I write to you out of good feeling only, which is not the case. I am a beggar: ask Dobson, Saintsbury, yourself, and any other of these cheeses who know something of the eighteenth century, what became of Jean Cavalier between his coming to England and his death in 1740. Is anything interesting known about him? Whom did he marry? The happy French, smilingly following one another in a long procession headed by the loud and empty Napoleon Peyrat, say, Olympe Dunoyer, Voltaire's old flame. Vacquerie even thinks that they were rivals, and is very French and very literary and very silly in his comments. Now I may almost say it consists with my knowledge that all this has not a shadow to rest upon. It is very odd and very annoying; I have splendid materials for Cavalier till he comes to my own country; and there, though he continues to advance in the service, he becomes entirely invisible to me. Any information about him will be greatly welcome: I may mention that I know as much as I desire about the other prophets, Marion, Fage, Cavalier (de Sonne), my Cavalier's cousin, the unhappy Lions, and the idiotic Mr. Lacy; so if any erudite starts upon that track, you may choke him off. If you can find aught for me, or if you will but try, count on my undying gratitude. Lang's 'Library' is very pleasant reading.
My book will reach you soon, for I write about it to-day - Yours ever,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Letter: TO SIDNEY COLVIN
KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, PERTHSHIRE, JUNE 1881.
MY DEAR COLVIN, - THE BLACK MAN AND OTHER TALES.
The Black Man:
I. Thrawn Janet. II. The Devil on Cramond Sands. The Shadow on the Bed. The Body Snatchers. The Case Bottle. The King's Horn. The Actor's Wife. The Wreck of the SUSANNA.
This is the new work on which I am engaged with Fanny; they are all supernatural. 'Thrawn Janet' is off to Stephen, but as it is all in Scotch he cannot take it, I know. It was SO GOOD, I could not help sending it. My health improves. We have a lovely spot here: a little green glen with a burn, a wonderful burn, gold and green and snow-white, singing loud and low in different steps of its career, now pouring over miniature crags, now fretting itself to death in a maze of rocky stairs and pots; never was so sweet a little river. Behind, great purple moorlands reaching to Ben Vrackie. Hunger lives here, alone with larks and sheep. Sweet spot, sweet spot.
Write me a word about Bob's professoriate and Landor, and what you think of THE BLACK MAN. The tales are all ghastly. 'Thrawn Janet' frightened me to death. There will maybe be another - 'The Dead Man's A Letter.' I believe I shall recover; and I am, in this blessed hope, yours exuberantly,
R. L. S.
Letter: TO PROFESSOR AENEAS MACKAY
KINNAIRD COTTAGE, PITLOCHRY, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 21, 1881.
MY DEAR MACKAY, - What is this I hear? - that you are retiring from your chair.