‘They’re a-lowering of a quarter-boat, Mr. Mark,’ resumed the old salt. ‘We shall soon know more of her.’ ‘Ay,’ replied the young gentleman called Mark, ‘and here, Mr. Seadrift, comes your sweet daughter Nancy tripping down the cliff.’ ‘God bless her kind heart, sir,’ ejaculated old Seadrift. CHAPTER I The notary, Jean Rossignol, had been summoned to the top of a great house in the Isle St. Louis to make a will; and now, his duties finished, wrapped in a warm roquelaure and with a lantern swinging from one hand, he issued from the mansion on his homeward way. Little did he think what strange adventures were to befall him!— That is how stories should begin. And I am offered HUSKS instead. What should be: What is: The Filibuster’s Cache. Aunt Anne’s Tea Cosy. Jerry Abershaw. Mrs. Brierly’s Niece. Blood Money: A Tale. Society: A Novel R. L. S. TO THE REV. PROFESSOR LEWIS CAMPBELL [_Wensleydale_, _Bournemouth_, _November_ 1884.] MY DEAR CAMPBELL,—The books came duly to hand. My wife has occupied the translation {330} ever since, nor have I yet been able to dislodge her. As for the primer, I have read it with a very strange result: that I find no fault. If you knew how, dogmatic and pugnacious, I stand warden on the literary art, you would the more appreciate your success and my—well, I will own it—disappointment. For I love to put people right (or wrong) about the arts. But what you say of Tragedy and of Sophocles very amply satisfies me; it is well felt and well said; a little less technically than it is my weakness to desire to see it put, but clear and adequate. You are very right to express your admiration for the resource displayed in Œdipus King; it is a miracle. Would it not have been well to mention Voltaire’s interesting onslaught, a thing which gives the best lesson of the difference of neighbour arts?—since all his criticisms, which had been fatal to a narrative, do not amount among them to exhibit one flaw in this masterpiece of drama. For the drama, it is perfect; though such a fable in a romance might make the reader crack his sides, so imperfect, so ethereally slight is the verisimilitude required of these conventional, rigid, and egg-dancing arts. I was sorry to see no more of you; but shall conclude by hoping for better luck next time. My wife begs to be remembered to both of you.—Yours sincerely, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO ANDREW CHATTO _Wensleydale_, _Bournemouth_, _October_ 3, 1884.