whatever.--Yours,

THOMSON,
_alias_ ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Could it be Warminster?

TO MISS MONROE

The play of DEACON BRODIE was at this time being performed at
Chicago, with Mr. E. J. Henley in the title-part.

_Saranac Lake, New York [December 19, 1887]._

DEAR MISS MONROE,--Many thanks for your letter and your good wishes. It
was much my desire to get to Chicago: had I done--or if I yet do--so, I
shall hope to see the original of my photograph, which is one of my show
possessions; but the fates are rather contrary. My wife is far from
well; I myself dread, worse than almost any other imaginable peril, that
miraculous and really insane invention the American Railroad Car.
Heaven help the man--may I add the woman--that sets foot in one! Ah, if
it were only an ocean to cross, it would be a matter of small thought to
me--and great pleasure. But the railroad car--every man has his weak
point; and I fear the railroad car as abjectly as I do an earwig, and,
on the whole, on better grounds. You do not know how bitter it is to
have to make such a confession; for you have not the pretension nor the
weakness of a man. If I do get to Chicago, you will hear of me: so much
can be said. And do you never come east?

I was pleased to recognise a word of my poor old _Deacon_ in your
letter. It would interest me very much to hear how it went and what you
thought of piece and actors; and my collaborator, who knows and respects
the photograph, would be pleased too.--Still in the hope of seeing you,
I am, yours very truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO HENRY JAMES

_Saranac Lake, Winter 1887-88._

MY DEAR HENRY JAMES,--It may please you to know how our family has been
employed. In the silence of the snow the afternoon lamp has lighted an
eager fireside group: my mother reading, Fanny, Lloyd, and I devoted
listeners; and the work was really one of the best works I ever heard;
and its author is to be praised and honoured; and what do you suppose is
the name of it? and have you ever read it yourself? and (I am bound I
will get to the bottom of the page before I blow the gaff, if I have to
fight it out on this line all summer; for if you have not to turn a
leaf, there can be no suspense, the conspectory eye being swift to pick
out proper names; and without suspense, there can be little pleasure in
this world, to my mind at least)--and, in short, the name of it is
_Roderick Hudson_,