screamed with joy at the idea; and the little Lloyd clapped his hands;
so I offer you three readers on the spot.

Fanny and I have both been in bed, tended by the hired sick nurse; Lloyd
has a broken finger (so he did not clap his hands literally); Wogg has
had an abscess in his ear; our servant is a devil.--I am yours ever,
with both of our best regards to Mrs. Gosse,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,
The Rejected Obolist.

TO W. E. HENLEY

This letter speaks of contributions to the Magazine of Art (in these
years edited by Mr. Henley) from J. A. Symonds and from R. L. S.
himself, "Bunyan" meaning the essay on the cuts in Bagster's edition
of the _Pilgrim's Progress_. A toy press had just been set up in the
chalet for the lad Lloyd.

_Davos Printing Office, managed by Samuel Lloyd Osbourne & Co., The
Chalet [Nov. 1881]._

DEAR HENLEY,--I have done better for you than you deserved to hope; the
Venice Medley is withdrawn; and I have a Monte Oliveto (short) for you,
with photographs and sketches. I think you owe luck a candle; for this
no skill could have accomplished without the aid of accident.

How about carving and gilding? I have nearly killed myself over Bunyan;
and am too tired to finish him to-day, as I might otherwise have done.
For his back is broken. For some reason, it proved one of the hardest
things I ever tried to write; perhaps--but no--I have no theory to
offer--it went against the spirit. But as I say I girt my loins up and
nearly died of it.

In five weeks, six at the latest, I should have a complete proof of
_Treasure Island_. It will be from 75 to 80,000 words; and with anything
like half good pictures, it should sell. I suppose I may at least hope
for eight pic's? I aspire after ten or twelve. You had better

--Two days later.

Bunyan skips to-day, pretty bad, always with an official letter. Yours
came last night. I had already spotted your Dickens; very pleasant and
true.

My wife is far from well; quite confined to bed now; drain poisoning. I
keep getting better slowly; appetite dicky; but some days I feel and eat
well. The weather has been hot and heartless and unDavosy.

I shall give Symonds his note in about an hour from now.

Have done so; he will write of Vesalius and of Botticelli's Dante for
you.

Morris's _Sigurd_ is a grrrrreat poem; that is so. I have cried aloud at
this re-reading; he had fine stuff to go on, but he has touched i