After leaving Cockfield Stevenson spent a few days in London and a
few with me in a cottage I then had at Norwood. This and the
following letters were written in the next days after his return
home. "Bob" in the last paragraph is Robert Alan Mowbray Stevenson,
an elder cousin to whom Louis had been from boyhood devotedly
attached: afterwards known as the brilliant painter-critic and author
of _Velasquez_, etc.
_17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, Monday, September 1st, 1873._
I have arrived, as you see, without accident; but I never had a more
wretched journey in my life. I could not settle to read anything; I
bought Darwin's last book in despair, for I knew I could generally read
Darwin, but it was a failure. However, the book served me in good stead;
for when a couple of children got in at Newcastle, I struck up a great
friendship with them on the strength of the illustrations. These two
children (a girl of nine and a boy of six) had never before travelled in
a railway, so that everything was a glory to them, and they were never
tired of watching the telegraph posts and trees and hedges go racing
past us to the tail of the train; and the girl I found quite entered
into the most daring personifications that I could make. A little way
on, about Alnmouth, they had their first sight of the sea; and it was
wonderful how loath they were to believe that what they saw was water;
indeed it was very still and grey and solid-looking under a sky to
match. It was worth the fare, yet a little farther on, to see the
delight of the girl when she passed into "another country," with the
black Tweed under our feet, crossed by the lamps of the passenger
bridge. I remember the first time I had gone into "another country,"
over the same river from the other side.
Bob was not at the station when I arrived; but a friend of his brought
me a letter; and he is to be in the first thing to-morrow. Do you know,
I think yesterday and the day before were the two happiest days of my
life? I would not have missed last month for eternity.--Ever yours,