[_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_], _August_ 1887.
DEAR LAD,—I write to inform you that Mr. Stevenson’s well-known work,
_Virginibus Puerisque_, is about to be reprinted. At the same time a
second volume called _Memories and Portraits_ will issue from the roaring
loom. Its interest will be largely autobiographical, Mr. S. having
sketched there the lineaments of many departed friends, and dwelt fondly,
and with a m’istened eye, upon byegone pleasures. The two will be issued
under the common title of _Familiar Essays_; but the volumes will be
vended separately to those who are mean enough not to hawk at both.
The blood is at last stopped: only yesterday. I began to think I should
not get away. However, I hope—I hope—remark the word—no boasting—I hope
I may luff up a bit now. Dobell, whom I saw, gave as usual a good
account of my lungs, and expressed himself, like his neighbours,
hopefully about the trip. He says, my uncle says, Scott says, Brown
says—they all say—You ought not to be in such a state of health; you
should recover. Well, then, I mean to. My spirits are rising again
after three months of black depression: I almost begin to feel as if I
should care to live: I would, by God! And so I believe I shall.—Yours,