Talking of which, Heywood, as a small immortal, an immortalet, claims some attention. The Woman killed with Kindness is one of the most striking novels—not plays, though it’s more of a play than anything else of his—I ever read. He had such a sweet, sound soul, the old boy. The death of the two pirates in Fortune by Sea and Land is a document. He had obviously been present, and heard Purser and Clinton take death by the beard with similar braggadocios. Purser and Clinton, names of pirates; Scarlet and Bobbington, names of highwaymen. He had the touch of names, I think. No man I ever knew had such a sense, such a tact, for English nomenclature: Rainsforth, Lacy, Audley, Forrest, Acton, Spencer, Frankford—so his names run.
Byron not only wrote Don Juan; he called Joan of Arc “a fanatical strumpet.” These are his words. I think the double shame, first to a great poet, second to an English noble, passes words.
Here is a strange gossip.—I am yours loquaciously,
R. L. S.
My lungs are said to be in a splendid state. A cruel examination, an exanimation I may call it, had this brave result. Taïaut! Hillo! Hey! Stand by! Avast! Hurrah!
To Mrs. T. Stevenson
[Chalet am Stein, Davos, April 9, 1882.]
MY DEAR MOTHER,—Herewith please find belated birthday present. Fanny has another.
| Cockshot = Jenkin. Jack = Bob. Burly = Henley. Athelred = Simpson. Opalstein = Symonds. Purcel = Gosse. | But pray regard these as secrets. |