ss.

I have already been a visitor at the Club for a fortnight; but that's
over, and I don't much care to renew the period. I want to be married,
not to belong to all the Clubs in Christendie.... I half think of
writing up the Sand-lot agitation for Morley; it is a curious business;
were I stronger, I should try to sugar in with some of the leaders: a
chield amang 'em takin' notes; one, who kept a brothel, I reckon, before
she started socialist, particularly interests me. If I am right as to
her early industry, you know she would be sure to adore me. I have been
all my days a dead hand at a harridan, I never saw the one yet that
could resist me. When I die of consumption, you can put that upon my
tomb.

* * * * *

Sketch of my tomb follows:--

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

born 1850, of a family of engineers,
died ...

"Nitor aquis."
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

You, who pass this grave, put aside hatred; love kindness; be all
services remembered in your heart and all offences pardoned; and as you
go down again among the living, let this be your question: can I make
some one happier this day before I lie down to sleep? Thus the dead man
speaks to you from the dust: you will hear no more from him.

Who knows, Colvin, but I may thus be of more use when I am buried than
ever when I was alive? The more I think of it, the more earnestly do I
desire this. I may perhaps try to write it better some day; but that is
what I want in sense. The verses are from a beayootiful poem by me.

R. L. S.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_608 Bush Street, San Francisco [March 1880]._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--My landlord and landlady's little four-year-old child
is dying in the house; and O, what he has suffered! It has really
affected my health. O never, never any family for me! I am cured of
that.

I have taken a long holiday--have not worked for three days, and will
not for a week; for I was really weary. Excuse this scratch; for the
child weighs on me, dear Colvin. I did all I could to help; but all
seems little, to the point of crime, when one of these poor innocents
lies in such misery.--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO J. W. FERRIER

In the interval between this letter and the last, the writer had been
down with an acute and dangerous illness. _Forester_, here mentioned,
was an autobiographical paper