ees, so that when I climb a paling, of which we have many, I
feel as precarious and nutatory as a man of ninety. Under this I grind;
but I believe the place will suit me. Must stop.--Ever affectionately,

R. L. S.

TO HENRY JAMES

The "dear Alexander" mentioned below is Mr. J. W. Alexander, the
well-known American artist, who had been a welcome visitor to
Stevenson at Bournemouth, and had drawn his portrait there. The
humorous romance proceeding from Mr. Osbourne's typewriter was the
first draft of _The Wrong Box_; or, as it was originally called, _The
Finsbury Tontine_, or _The Game of Bluff_. The article by Mr. Henry
James referred to in the last paragraph is one on R. L. S. which had
appeared in the Century Magazine for October, and was reprinted in
_Partial Portraits_.

[_Saranac Lake, October 1887_.] I know not the day; but the month
it is the drear October by the
ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,--This is to say _First_, the voyage was a huge
success. We all enjoyed it (bar my wife) to the ground: sixteen days at
sea with a cargo of hay, matches, stallions, and monkeys, and in a ship
with no style on, and plenty of sailors to talk to, and the endless
pleasures of the sea--the romance of it, the sport of the scratch dinner
and the smashing crockery, the pleasure--an endless pleasure--of
balancing to the swell: well, it's over.

_Second_, I had a fine time, rather a troubled one, at Newport and New
York; saw much of and liked hugely the Fairchilds, St. Gaudens the
sculptor, Gilder of the Century--just saw the dear Alexander--saw a lot
of my old and admirable friend Will Low, whom I wish you knew and
appreciated--was medallioned by St. Gaudens, and at last escaped to

_Third_, Saranac Lake, where we now are, and which I believe we mean to
like and pass the winter at. Our house--emphatically "Baker's"--is on a
hill, and has a sight of a stream turning a corner in the valley--bless
the face of running water!--and sees some hills too, and the paganly
prosaic roofs of Saranac itself; the Lake it does not see, nor do I
regret that; I like water (fresh water I mean) either running swiftly
among stones, or else largely qualified with whisky. As I write, the sun
(which has been long a stranger) shines in at my shoulder; from the next
room, the bell of Lloyd's typewriter makes a