[_Edinburgh, Autumn 1875._]
MY DEAR COLVIN,--_Fous ne me gombrennez pas._ Angry with you? No. Is the
thing lost? Well, so be it. There is one masterpiece fewer in the world.
The world can ill spare it, but I, sir, I (and here I strike my hollow
bosom so that it resounds) I am full of this sort of bauble; I am made
of it; it comes to me, sir, as the desire to sneeze comes upon poor
ordinary devils on cold days, when they should be getting out of bed and
into their horrid cold tubs by the light of a seven o'clock candle, with
the dismal seven o'clock frost-flowers all over the window.
Show Stephen what you please; if you could show him how to give me
money, you would oblige, sincerely yours, R. L. S.
I have a scroll of _Springtime_ somewhere, but I know that it is not in
very good order, and do not feel myself up to very much grind over it. I
am damped about _Springtime_, that's the truth of it. It might have been
four or five quid!
Sir, I shall shave my head, if this goes on. All men take a pleasure to
gird at me. The laws of nature are in open war with me. The wheel of a
dog-cart took the toes off my new boots. Gout has set in with extreme
rigour, and cut me out of the cheap refreshment of beer. I leant my back
against an oak, I thought it was a trusty tree, but first it bent, and
syne--it lost the Spirit of Springtime, and so did Professor Sidney
Colvin, Trinity College, to me.--Ever yours,