[The Wondrous Tale referred to in the following is Stevenson's _Black
Arrow_, which had been through Mr. Archer's hands in proof.]
SARANAC LAKE, October, 1887.
DEAR ARCHER,—Many thanks for the Wondrous Tale. It is scarcely
a work of genius, as I believe you felt. Thanks also for your
pencillings; though I defend 'shrew,' or at least many of the
shrews.
We are here (I suppose) for the winter in the Adirondacks,
a hill and forest country on the Canadian border of New York
State, very unsettled and primitive and cold, and healthful,
or we are the more bitterly deceived. I believe it will do
well for me; but must not boast.
My wife is away to Indiana to see her family; my mother,
Lloyd, and I remain here in the cold, which has been exceeding
sharp, and the hill air, which is inimitably fine. We all eat
bravely, and sleep well, and make great fires, and get along
like one o'clock.
I am now a salaried party; I am a _bourgeois_ now; I am to
write a monthly paper for Scribner's, at a scale of payment
which makes my teeth ache for shame and diffidence. The
editor is, I believe, to apply to you; for we were talking
over likely men, and when I instanced you, he said he had had
his eye upon you from the first. It is worth while, perhaps,
to get in tow with the Scribners; they are such thorough
gentle-folk in all ways that it is always a pleasure to deal
with them. I am like to be a millionaire if this goes on, and
be publicly hanged at the social revolution; well, I would
prefer that to dying in my bed; and it would be a godsend to
my biographer, if ever I have one. What are you about? I hope
you are all well and in good case and spirits, as I am now,
after a most nefast experience of despondency before I left;
but indeed I was quite run down. Remember me to Mrs. Archer,
and give my respects to Tom—Yours very truly,