_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _July_ 7_th_, 1886.
MY DEAR PEOPLE,—It is probably my fault, and not yours, that I did not
understand. I think it would be well worth trying the winter in
Bournemouth; but I would only take the house by the month—this after
mature discussion. My leakage still pursues its course; if I were only
well, I have a notion to go north and get in (if I could) at the inn at
Kirkmichael, which has always smiled upon me much. If I did well there,
we might then meet and do what should most smile at the time.
Meanwhile, of course, I must not move, and am in a rancid box here,
feeling the heat a great deal, and pretty tired of things. Alexander did
a good thing of me at last; it looks like a mixture of an aztec idol, a
lion, an Indian Rajah, and a woman; and certainly represents a mighty
comic figure. F. and Lloyd both think it is the best thing that has been
done of me up to now.
You should hear Lloyd on the penny whistle, and me on the piano! Dear
powers, what a concerto! I now live entirely for the piano, he for the
whistle; the neighbours, in a radius of a furlong and a half, are packing
up in quest of brighter climes.—Ever yours,