. I am keeping bravely; getting about
better every day, and hope soon to be in my usual fettle. My books begin
to come; and I fell once more on the Old Bailey session papers. I have
1778, 1784, and 1786. Should you be able to lay hands on any other
volumes, above all a little later, I should be very glad you should buy
them for me. I particularly want _one_ or _two_ during the course of the
Peninsular War. Come to think, I ought rather to have communicated this
want to Bain. Would it bore you to communicate to that effect with the
great man? The sooner I have them, the better for me. 'Tis for _Henry
Shovel_. But _Henry Shovel_ has now turned into a work called _The
Shovels of Newton French: including Memoirs of Henry Shovel, a Private
in the Peninsular War_, which work is to begin in 1664 with the marriage
of Skipper, afterwards Alderman Shovel of Bristol, Henry's
great-great-grandfather, and end about 1832 with his own second marriage
to the daughter of his runaway aunt. Will the public ever stand such an
opus? Gude kens, but it tickles me. Two or three historical personages
will just appear: Judge Jeffreys, Wellington, Colquhoun, Grant, and I
think Townsend the runner. I know the public won't like it; let 'em lump
it then; I mean to make it good; it will be more like a saga.

Adieu.--Yours ever affectionately,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_[Vailima] June 1891._

SIR,--To you, under your portrait, which is, in expression, your true,
breathing self, and up to now saddens me; in time, and soon, I shall be
glad to have it there; it is still only a reminder of your absence.
Fanny wept when we unpacked it, and you know how little she is given to
that mood; I was scarce Roman myself, but that does not count--I lift up
my voice so readily. These are good compliments to the artist.[21] I
write in the midst of a wreck of books, which have just come up, and
have for once defied my labours to get straight. The whole floor is
filled with them, and (what's worse) most of the shelves forbye; and
where they are to go to, and what is to become of the librarian, God
knows. It is hot to-night, and has been airless all day, and I am out of
sorts, and my work sticks, the devil fly away with it and me. We had an
alarm of war since last I wrote my screeds to you, and it blew over, and
is to blow on again, and the rumour goes they are to begin by killing
all the whites. I have no belief in this, and should be i