Lloyd I believe is to be a printer—in the meantime he confines himself to being an expense. He is a first-rate lad for all that. He is now interrupting me about twice to the line, which does not condooce to clarity, I’m afraid.
Fanny is still far from well, quite far from well. My faith is in the Pirate.
I enclose all my artistic works; they are woodcuts—I cut them with a knife out of blocks of wood: I am a wood-engraver; I aaaam a wooooood engraaaaver. Lloyd then prints ’em: are they not fun? I doat on them; in my next venture, I am going to have colour printing; it will be very laborious, six blocks to cut for each picter, but the result would be pyramidal.
If I get through the summer, I settle in Autumn in le pays de France; I believe in the Brittany and become a Snoozer. You will come and snooze awhile won’t you, and try and get Louisa to join.
Pepys was a decent fellow; singularly like Charles Baxter, by the way, in every character of mind and taste, and not unlike him in face. I did not mean I had been too just to him but not just enough to bigger swells. I would rather have known Pepys than the whole jing-bang; I doat on him as a card to know.
We shall be pretty poor at the start, of course, but I guess we can haul through. Only intending visitors to the Brittannic Castle must not look for nightingales’ tongues. When next you see the form of the jeune et beau pray give him my love, when I come to Weybridge, I’ll hope to see him.—Ever yours affectionately,
R. L. Stevenson, 1er Roi de Béotie.
Pour copie conforme,
Le sécrétaire Royale, W. P. Bannatyne.
To Trevor Haddon