. . . HERE is a quaint thing, I have read _Robinson_, _Colonel Jack_, _Moll Flanders_, _Memoirs of a Cavalier_, _History of the Plague_, _History of the Great Storm_, _Scotch Church and Union_. And there my knowledge of Defoe ends—except a book, the name of which I forget, about Peterborough in Spain, which Defoe obviously did not write, and could not have written if he wanted. To which of these does B. J. refer? I guess it must be the history of the Scottish Church. I jest; for, of course, I _know_ it must be a book I have never read, and which this makes me keen to read—I mean _Captain Singleton_. Can it be got and sent to me? If _Treasure Island_ is at all like it, it will be delightful. I was just the other day wondering at my folly in not remembering it, when I was writing _T. I._, as a mine for pirate tips. _T. I._ came out of Kingsley’s _At Last_, where I got the Dead Man’s Chest—and that was the seed—and out of the great Captain Johnson’s _History of Notorious_ _Pirates_. The scenery is Californian in part, and in part _chic._ I was downstairs to-day! So now I am a made man—till the next time. R. L. STEVENSON. If it was _Captain Singleton_, send it to me, won’t you? _Later_.—My life dwindles into a kind of valley of the shadow picnic. I cannot read; so much of the time (as to-day) I must not speak above my breath, that to play patience, or to see my wife play it, is become the be-all and the end-all of my dim career. To add to my gaiety, I may write letters, but there are few to answer. Patience and Poesy are thus my rod and staff; with these I not unpleasantly support my days. I am very dim, dumb, dowie, and damnable. I hate to be silenced; and if to talk by signs is my forte (as I contend), to understand them cannot be my wife’s. Do not think me unhappy; I have not been so for years; but I am blurred, inhabit the debatable frontier of sleep, and have but dim designs upon activity. All is at a standstill; books closed, paper put aside, the voice, the eternal voice of R. L. S., well silenced. Hence this plaint reaches you with no very great meaning, no very great purpose, and written part in slumber by a heavy, dull, somnolent, superannuated son of a bedpost. VII LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH, SEPTEMBER 1884–DECEMBER 1885 TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON _Wensleydale_, _Bournemouth_, _Sunday_, 28_th_ _September_ 1884. MY DEAR PEOPLE,—I keep better, and am to-day downstairs for the first time. I find the lockers entirely empty; not a cent to the front. Will you pray send us some? It blows an equinoctial gale, and has blown for nearly a week. Nimbus Britannicus; piping wind, lashing rain; the sea is a fine colour, and wind-bound ships lie at anchor under the Old Harry rocks, to make one glad to be ashore. The Henleys are gone, and two plays practically done. I hope they may produce some of the ready.—I am, ever affectionate son,