[_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _February_ 1887.]
MY DEAR JAMES,—My health has played me it in once more in the absurdest
fashion, and the creature who now addresses you is but a stringy and
white-faced _bouilli_ out of the pot of fever, with the devil to pay in
every corner of his economy. I suppose (to judge by your letter) I need
not send you these sheets, which came during my collapse by the rush. I
am on the start with three volumes, that one of tales, {48a} a second one
of essays, {48b} and one of—ahem—verse. {48c} This is a great order, is
it not? After that I shall have empty lockers. All new work stands
still; I was getting on well with Jenkin when this blessed malady
unhorsed me, and sent me back to the dung-collecting trade of the
republisher. I shall re-issue _Virg. Puer._ as Vol. I. of _Essays_, and
the new vol. as Vol. II. of ditto; to be sold, however, separately. This
is but a dry maundering; however, I am quite unfit—‘I am for action quite
unfit Either of exercise or wit.’ My father is in a variable state; many
sorrows and perplexities environ the house of Stevenson; my mother shoots
north at this hour on business of a distinctly rancid character; my
father (under my wife’s tutorage) proceeds to-morrow to Salisbury; I
remain here in my bed and whistle; in no quarter of heaven is anything
encouraging apparent, except that the good Colvin comes to the hotel here
on a visit. This dreary view of life is somewhat blackened by the fact
that my head aches, which I always regard as a liberty on the part of the
powers that be. This is also my first letter since my recovery. God
speed your laudatory pen!
My wife joins in all warm messages.—Yours,