[_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _January_ 25, 1886.]
MY DEAR FATHER,—Many thanks for a letter quite like yourself. I quite
agree with you, and had already planned a scene of religion in _Balfour_;
the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge furnishes me with
a catechist whom I shall try to make the man. I have another catechist,
the blind, pistol-carrying highway robber, whom I have transferred from
the Long Island to Mull. I find it a most picturesque period, and wonder
Scott let it escape. The _Covenant_ is lost on one of the Tarrans, and
David is cast on Earraid, where (being from inland) he is nearly starved
before he finds out the island is tidal; then he crosses Mull to
Toronsay, meeting the blind catechist by the way; then crosses Morven
from Kinlochaline to Kingairloch, where he stays the night with the good
catechist; that is where I am; next day he is to be put ashore in Appin,
and be present at Colin Campbell’s death. To-day I rest, being a little
run down. Strange how liable we are to brain fag in this scooty family!
But as far as I have got, all but the last chapter, I think David is on
his feet, and (to my mind) a far better story and far sounder at heart
than _Treasure Island_.
I have no earthly news, living entirely in my story, and only coming out
of it to play patience. The Shelleys are gone; the Taylors kinder than
can be imagined. The other day, Lady Taylor drove over and called on me;
she is a delightful old lady, and great fun. I mentioned a story about
the Duchess of Wellington which I had heard Sir Henry tell; and though he
was very tired, he looked it up and copied it out for me in his own
hand.—Your most affectionate son,