any notes and notikins of mine--here goes again. I am now all alone
in Monterey, a real inhabitant, with a box of my own at the P. O. I have
splendid rooms at the doctor's, where I get coffee in the morning (the
doctor is French), and I mess with another jolly old Frenchman, the
stranded fifty-eight-year-old wreck of a good-hearted, dissipated, and
once wealthy Nantais tradesman. My health goes on better; as for work,
the draft of my book was laid aside at p. 68 or so; and I have now, by
way of change, more than seventy pages of a novel, a one-volume novel,
alas! to be called either _A Chapter in the Experience of Arizona_
_Breckonridge_ or _A Vendetta in the West_, or a combination of the
two. The scene from Chapter IV. to the end lies in Monterey and the
adjacent country; of course, with my usual luck, the plot of the story
is somewhat scandalous, containing an illegitimate father for piece of
resistance.... Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO P.G. HAMERTON

The following refers to Mr. Hamerton's candidature, which was not
successful, for the Professorship of Fine Art at Edinburgh:--

_Monterey [November 1879]._

MY DEAR MR. HAMERTON,--Your letter to my father was forwarded to me by
mistake, and by mistake I opened it. The letter to myself has not yet
reached me. This must explain my own and my father's silence. I shall
write by this or next post to the only friends I have who, I think,
would have an influence, as they are both professors. I regret
exceedingly that I am not in Edinburgh, as I could perhaps have done
more, and I need not tell you that what I might do for you in the matter
of the election is neither from friendship nor gratitude, but because
you are the only man (I beg your pardon) worth a damn. I shall write to
a third friend, now I think of it, whose father will have great
influence.

I find here (of all places in the world) your _Essays on Art_, which I
have read with signal interest. I believe I shall dig an essay of my own
out of one of them, for it set me thinking; if mine could only produce
yet another in reply, we could have the marrow out between us.

I hope, my dear sir, you will not think badly of me for my long silence.
My head has scarce been on my shoulders. I had scarce recovered from a
long fit of useless ill-health than I was whirled over here double-quick
time and by cheapest conveyance.

I have been since pretty ill, but pick up, though still somewhat of a
mos