and indeed I am home here just now against the doctor's orders,
and must soon be back again to that unkindly haunt "upon the mountains
visitant"--there goes no angel there but the angel of death.[37] The
deaths of last winter are still sore spots to me.... So, you see, I am
not very likely to go on a "wild expedition," cis-Stygian at least. The
truth is, I am scarce justified in standing for the chair, though I hope
you will not mention this; and yet my health is one of my reasons, for
the class is in summer.

I hope this statement of my case will make my long neglect appear less
unkind. It was certainly not because I ever forgot you, or your unwonted
kindness; and it was not because I was in any sense rioting in
pleasures.

I am glad to hear the catamaran is on her legs again; you have my
warmest wishes for a good cruise down the Saone; and yet there comes
some envy to that wish, for when shall I go cruising? Here a sheer hulk,
alas! lies R. L. S. But I will continue to hope for a better time,
canoes that will sail better to the wind, and a river grander than the
Saone.

I heard, by the way, in a letter of counsel from a well-wisher, one
reason of my town's absurdity about the chair of Art:[38] I fear it is
characteristic of her manners. It was because you did not call upon the
electors!

Will you remember me to Mrs. Hamerton and your son?--And believe me,
etc., etc.,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry [July 1881]._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--I do believe I am better, mind and body; I am tired
just now, for I have just been up the burn with Wogg, daily growing
better and boo'f'ler; so do not judge my state by my style in this. I am
working steady, four Cornhill pages scrolled every day, besides the
correspondence about this chair, which is heavy in itself. My first
story, _Thrawn Janet_, all in Scotch, is accepted by Stephen; my second,
_The Body Snatchers_, is laid aside in a justifiable disgust, the tale
being horrid; my third, _The Merry Men_, I am more than half through,
and think real well of. It is a fantastic sonata about the sea and
wrecks; and I like it much above all my other attempts at story-telling;
I think it is strange; if ever I shall make a hit, I have the line now,
as I believe.

Fanny has finished one of hers, _The Shadow on the Bed_, and is now
hammering at a second, for which we have "no name" as yet--not by Wilkie
Collins.

_Tales for W