rite; it is the third I have tried.

About coming up, no, that's impossible; for I am worse than a bankrupt.
I have at the present six shillings and a penny; I have a sounding lot
of bills for Christmas; new dress suit, for instance, the old one having
gone for Parliament House; and new white shirts to live up to my new
profession; I'm as gay and swell and gummy as can be; only all my boots
leak; one pair water, and the other two simple black mud; so that my rig
is more for the eye than a very solid comfort to myself. That is my
budget. Dismal enough, and no prospect of any coin coming in; at least
for months. So that here I am, I almost fear, for the winter; certainly
till after Christmas, and then it depends on how my bills "turn out"
whether it shall not be till spring. So, meantime, I must whistle in my
cage. My cage is better by one thing; I am an Advocate now. If you ask
me why that makes it better, I would remind you that in the most
distressing circumstances a little consequence goes a long way, and even
bereaved relatives stand on precedence round the coffin. I idle finely.
I read Boswell's _Life of Johnson_, Martin's _History of France_, _Allan
Ramsay_, _Olivier Basselin_, all sorts of rubbish _apropos_ of _Burns_,
_Commines_, _Juvenal des Ursins_, etc. I walk about the Parliament House
five forenoons a week, in wig and gown; I have either a five or six mile
walk, or an hour or two hard skating on the rink, every afternoon,
without fail.

I have not written much; but, like the seaman's parrot in the tale, I
have thought a deal. You have never, by the way, returned me either
_Spring_ or _Beranger_, which is certainly a d----d shame. I always
comforted myself with that when my conscience pricked me about a letter
to you. "Thus conscience"--O no, that's not appropriate in this
connection.--Ever yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

I say, is there any chance of your coming north this year? Mind you that
promise is now more respectable for age than is becoming.

R. L. S.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

The following epistle in verse, with its mixed flavour of Burns and
Horace, gives a lively picture of winter forenoons spent in the
Parliament House:--

[_Edinburgh, October 1875._]

Noo lyart leaves blaw ower the green,
Red are the bonny woods o' Dean,
An' here we're back in Embro, freen',
To pass the winter.
Whilk noo, wi' frosts afore, draws in,
An' snaws ahint he