_Saturday._--I have received such a nice long letter (four sides) from
Leslie Stephen to-day about my _Victor Hugo_. It is accepted. This ought
to have made me gay, but it hasn't. I am not likely to be much of a
tonic to-night. I have been very cynical over myself to-day, partly,
perhaps, because I have just finished some of the deedest rubbish about
Lord Lytton's _Fables_ that an intelligent editor ever shot into his
wastepaper basket. If Morley prints it I shall be glad, but my respect
for him will be shaken.

R. L. S.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

Enclosing Mr. Leslie Stephen's letter accepting the article on Victor
Hugo: the first of Stevenson's many contributions to the Cornhill
Magazine.

[_Edinburgh, May 1874._]

MY DEAR COLVIN,--I send you L. Stephen's letter which is certainly very
kind and jolly to get[14]. I wrote some stuff about Lord Lytton, but I
had not the heart to submit it to you. I sent it direct to Morley, with
a Spartan billet. God knows it is bad enough; but it cost me labour
incredible. I was so out of the vein, it would have made you weep to see
me digging the rubbish out of my seven wits with groanings unutterable.
I certainly mean to come to London, and likely before long if all goes
well; so on that ground, I cannot force you to come to Scotland. Still,
the weather is now warm and jolly, and of course it would not be
expensive to live here so long as that did not bore you. If you could
see the hills out of my window to-night, you would start incontinent.
However do as you will, and if the mountain will not come to Mahomet
Mahomet will come to the mountain in due time, Mahomet being me and the
mountain you, Q.E.D., F.R.S.--Ever yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MRS. SITWELL

_[Swanston, May 1874], Tuesday._

Another cold day; yet I have been along the hillside, wondering much at
idiotic sheep, and raising partridges at every second step. One little
plover is the object of my firm adherence. I pass his nest every day,
and if you saw how he flies by me, and almost into my face, crying and
flapping his wings, to direct my attention from his little treasure, you
would have as kind a heart to him as I. To-day I saw him not, although I
took my usual way; and I am afraid that some person has abused his
simple wiliness and harried (as we say in Scotland) the nest. I feel
much righteous indignation against such imaginary aggressor. However,
one must not