t the station as though you had stepped from the cars; you
would then comfortably enter Walter's waggon (the sun has just gone
down, the moon beginning to throw shadows, you hear the surf rolling,
and smell the sea and the pines). That shall deposit you at Sanchez's
saloon, where we take a drink; you are introduced to Bronson, the local
editor ("I have no brain music," he says; "I'm a mechanic, you see," but
he's a nice fellow); to Adolpho Sanchez, who is delightful. Meantime I
go to the P. O. for my mail; thence we walk up Alvarado Street together,
you now floundering in the sand, now merrily stumping on the wooden
side-walks; I call at Hadsell's for my paper; at length behold us
installed in Simoneau's little white-washed back-room, round a dirty
tablecloth, with Francois the baker, perhaps an Italian fisherman,
perhaps Augustin Dutra, and Simoneau himself. Simoneau, Francois, and I
are the three sure cards; the others mere waifs. Then home to my great
airy rooms with five windows opening on a balcony; I sleep on the floor
in my camp blankets; you instal yourself abed; in the morning coffee
with the little doctor and his little wife; we hire a waggon and make a
day of it; and by night, I should let you up again into the air, to be
returned to Mrs. Henley in the forenoon following. By God, you would
enjoy yourself. So should I. I have tales enough to keep you going till
five in the morning, and then they would not be at an end. I forget if
you asked me any questions, and I sent your letter up to the city to one
who will like to read it. I expect other letters now steadily. If I have
to wait another two months, I shall begin to be happy. Will you remember
me most affectionately to your wife? Shake hands with Anthony from me;
and God bless your mother.

God bless Stephen! Does he not know that I am a man, and cannot live by
bread alone, but must have guineas into the bargain. _Burns_, I believe,
in my own mind, is one of my high-water marks; Meiklejohn flames me a
letter about it, which is so complimentary that I must keep it or get it
published in the Monterey Californian. Some of these days I shall send
an exemplaire of that paper; it is huge.--Ever your affectionate friend,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_Monterey, 21st October [1879]._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--Although you have absolutely disregarded my plaintive
appeals for correspondence, and written only once as against God knows
how m