ornaments, the bourgeois (_quorum pars_), and their cowardly dislike of dying and killing, it is merely one symptom of a thousand how utterly they have got out of touch of life. Their dislike of capital punishment and their treatment of their domestic servants are for me the two flaunting emblems of their hollowness. God knows where I am driving to. But here comes my lunch. Which interruption, happily for you, seems to have stayed the issue. I have now nothing to say, that had formerly such a pressure of twaddle. Pray don’t fail to come this summer. It will be a great disappointment, now it has been spoken of, if you do.—Yours ever, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON TO W. H. LOW [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _March_ 1886.] MY DEAR LOW,—This is the most enchanting picture. Now understand my state: I am really an invalid, but of a mysterious order. I might be a _malade imaginaire_, but for one too tangible symptom, my tendency to bleed from the lungs. If we could go, (1_st_) We must have money enough to travel with _leisure and comfort_—especially the first. (_2nd_) You must be prepared for a comrade who would go to bed some part of every day and often stay silent (3_rd_) You would have to play the part of a thoughtful courier, sparing me fatigue, looking out that my bed was warmed, etc. (4_th_) If you are very nervous, you must recollect a bad hæmorrhage is always on the cards, with its concomitants of anxiety and horror for those who are beside me. Do you blench? If so, let us say no more about it. If you are still unafraid, and the money were forthcoming, I believe the trip might do me good, and I feel sure that, working together, we might produce a fine book. The Rhone is the river of Angels. I adore it: have adored it since I was twelve, and first saw it from the train. Lastly, it would depend on how I keep from now on. I have stood the winter hitherto with some credit, but the dreadful weather still continues, and I cannot holloa till I am through the wood. Subject to these numerous and gloomy provisos, I embrace the prospect with glorious feelings. I write this from bed, snow pouring without, and no circumstance of pleasure except your letter. That, however, counts for much. I am glad you liked the doggerel: I have already had a liberal cheque, over which I licked my fingers with a sound conscience. I had not meant to make money by these stumbling feet, but if it comes, it is only too welcome in my handsome but impecunious house. Let me know soon what is to be expected—as far as it does not hang by that inconstant quantity, my want of health. Remember me to Madam with the best thanks and wishes; and believe me your friend, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN [_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _April_ 1886.]