Mr. (later Sir) George Grove was for some years before and after this
date the editor of Macmillan's Magazine (but the true monument to his
memory is of course his _Dictionary of Music_). After the Knox
articles no more contributions from R. L. S. appeared in this
magazine, partly, I think, because Mr. Alexander Macmillan
disapproved of his essay on Burns published the following year. The
Portfolio paper here mentioned is that entitled _On the Enjoyment of
Unpleasant Places_.
_[Swanston, Autumn 1874], Thursday._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I have another letter from Grove, about my _John Knox_,
which is flattering in its way: he is a very gushing and spontaneous
person. I am busy with another Portfolio paper for which I can find no
name; I think I shall require to leave it without.
I am afraid I shall not get to London on my way to Poland, but I must
try to manage it on my way back; I must see you anyway, before I tackle
this sad winter work, just to get new heart. As it is, I am as jolly as
three, in good health, fairish working trim and on good, very good,
terms with my people.
Look here, I must have people well. If they will keep well, I am all
right: if they won't--well I'll do as well as I can, and forgive them,
and try to be something of a comfortable thought in spite. So with that
cheerful sentiment, good-night dear friend and good health to you.
_Saturday._--Your letter to-day. Thank you. It is a horrid day, outside.
You talk of my setting to a book, as if I could; don't you know that
things must _come_ to me? I can do but little; I mostly wait and look
out. I am struggling with a Portfolio paper just now, which will not
come straight somehow and _will_ get too gushy; but a little patience
will get it out of the kink and sober it down I hope. I have been
thinking over my movements, and am not sure but that I may get to London
on my way to Poland after all. Hurrah! But we must not halloo till we
are out of the wood; this may be only a clearing.
God help us all, it is a funny world. To see people skipping all round
us with their eyes sealed up with indifference, knowing nothing of the
earth or man or woman, going automatically to offices and saying they
are happy or unhappy out of a sense of duty, I suppose, surely at least
from no sense of happiness or unhappiness, unless perhaps they have a
tooth that twinges, is it not like a bad dream? Why don't they stamp
their foot upon the ground and awake? There is the moon rising in the
east, and there is a person with their heart broken and still glad and
conscious of the world's glory up to the point of pain; and behold they
know nothing of all this! I should like to kick them into consciousness,
for damp gingerbread puppets as they are. S. C. is down on me for being
bitter; who can help it sometimes, especially after they have slept ill?
I am going to have a lot of lunch presently; and then I shall feel all
right again, and the loneliness will pass away as often before. It is
the flesh that is weak. Already I have done myself all the good in the
world by this scribble, and feel alive again and pretty jolly.
_Sunday._--What a day! Cold and dark as mid-winter. I shall send with
this two new photographs of myself for your opinion. My father regards
this life "as a shambling sort of omnibus which is taking him to his
hotel." Is that not well said? It came out in a rather pleasant and
entirely amicable discussion which we had this afternoon on a walk. The
colouring of the world, to-day is of course hideous; we saw only one
pleasant sight, a couple of lovers under a thorn-tree by the wayside,
he with his arm about her waist: they did not seem to find it so cold as
we. I have made a lot of progress to-day with my Portfolio paper. I
think some of it should be nice, but it rambles a little; I like
rambling, if the country be pleasant; don't you?--Ever your faithful
friend,