The reference to Landor in the following is to a volume of mine in
Macmillan's series _English Men of Letters_. This and the next two or
three years were those of the Fenian dynamite outrages at the Tower
of London, the House of Lords, etc.
[_Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, August 1881._]
MY DEAR COLVIN,--This is the first letter I have written this good
while. I have had a brutal cold, not perhaps very wisely treated; lots
of blood--for me, I mean. I was so well, however, before, that I seem to
be sailing through with it splendidly. My appetite never failed; indeed,
as I got worse, it sharpened--a sort of reparatory instinct. Now I feel
in a fair way to get round soon.
_Monday, August_ (_2nd_, is it?).--We set out for the Spital of
Glenshee, and reach Braemar on Tuesday. The Braemar address we cannot
learn; it looks as if "Braemar" were all that was necessary; if
particular, you can address 17 Heriot Row. We shall be delighted to see
you whenever, and as soon as ever, you can make it possible.
... I hope heartily you will survive me, and do not doubt it. There are
seven or eight people it is no part of my scheme in life to survive--yet
if I could but heal me of my bellowses, I could have a jolly life--have
it, even now, when I can work and stroll a little, as I have been doing
till this cold. I have so many things to make life sweet to me, it seems
a pity I cannot have that other one thing--health. But though you will
be angry to hear it, I believe, for myself at least, what is is best. I
believed it all through my worst days, and I am not ashamed to profess
it now.
Landor has just turned up; but I had read him already. I like him
extremely; I wonder if the "cuts" were perhaps not advantageous. It
seems quite full enough; but then you know I am a compressionist.
If I am to criticise, it is a little staid; but the classical is apt to
look so. It is in curious contrast to that inexpressive, unplanned
wilderness of Forster's; clear, readable, precise, and sufficiently
human. I see nothing lost in it, though I could have wished, in my
Scotch capacity, a trifle clearer and fuller exposition of his moral
attitude, which is not quite clear "from here."
He and his tyrannicide! I am in a mad fury about these explosions. If
that is the new world! Damn O'Donovan Rossa; damn him behind and before,
above, below, and roundabout; damn, deracinate, and destroy him, root
and branch, self and company, world without end. Amen. I write that for
sport if you like, but I will pray in earnest, O Lord, if you cannot
convert, kindly delete him!
Stories naturally at halt. Henley has seen one and approves. I believe
it to be good myself, even real good. He has also seen and approved one
of Fanny's. It will make a good volume. We have now
Thrawn Janet (with Stephen), proof to-day.
The Shadow on the Bed (Fanny's copying).
The Merry Men (scrolled).
The Body Snatchers (scrolled).
_In germis_
The Travelling Companion.
The Torn Surplice (_not final title_).
Yours ever,