[Illustration: The Cottage at Saranac Occupied by Robert Louis
Stevenson.
Drawn from a photograph by Jules Guérin.]
[NEWPORT, U. S. A., September, 1887.]
MY DEAR JAMES,—Here we are at Newport in the house of the
good Fairchilds; and a sad burthen we have laid upon their
shoulders. I have been in bed practically ever since I came.
I caught a cold on the Banks after having had the finest
time conceivable, and enjoyed myself more than I could have
hoped on board our strange floating menagerie; stallions and
monkeys and matches made our cargo; and the vast continent of
these incongruities rolled the while like a haystack; and the
stallions stood hypnotised by the motion, looking through the
ports at our dinner-table, and winked when the crockery was
broken; and the little monkeys stared at each other in their
cages, and were thrown overboard like little bluish babies;
and the big monkey, Jacko, scoured about the ship and rested
willingly in my arms, to the ruin of my clothing; and the man
of the stallions made a bower of the black tarpaulin, and sat
therein at the feet of a raddled divinity, like a picture on
a box of chocolates; and the other passengers, when they were
not sick, looked on and laughed. Take all this picture, and
make it roll till the bell shall sound unexpected notes and
the fittings shall break loose in our stateroom, and you have
the voyage of the _Ludgate Hill_. She arrived in the port of
New York, without beer, porter, soda-water, curaçoa, fresh
meat, or fresh water; and yet we lived, and we regret her.
My wife is a good deal run down, and I am no great shakes.
America is, as I remarked, a fine place to eat in, and a
great place for kindness; but, Lord, what a silly thing is
popularity; I envy the cool obscurity of Skerryvore. If it
even paid, said Meanness! and was abashed at himself.—Yours
most sincerely,