MY DEAR JAMES,--My health has played me it in once more in the absurdest fashion, and the creature who now addresses you is but a stringy and white-faced _bouilli_ out of the pot of fever, with the devil to pay in every corner of his economy. I suppose (to judge by your letter) I need not send you these sheets, which came during my collapse by the rush. I am on the start with three volumes, that one of tales, a second one of essays, and one of--ahem--verse. This is a great order, is it not? After that I shall have empty lockers. All new work stands still; I was getting on well with Jenkin when this blessed malady unhorsed me, and sent me back to the dung-collecting trade of the republisher. I shall re-issue _Virg. Puer._ as vol. I. of _Essays_, and the new vol. as vol. II. of ditto; to be sold, however, separately. This is but a dry maundering; however, I am quite unfit--"I am for action quite unfit Either of exercise or wit." My father is in a variable state; many sorrows and perplexities environ the house of Stevenson; my mother shoots north at this hour on business of a distinctly rancid character; my father (under my wife's tutorage) proceeds to-morrow to Salisbury; I remain here in my bed and whistle; in no quarter of heaven is anything encouraging apparent, except that the good Colvin comes to the hotel here on a visit. This dreary view of life is somewhat blackened by the fact that my head aches, which I always regard as a liberty on the part of the powers that be. This is also my first letter since my recovery. God speed your laudatory pen! My wife joins in all warm messages.--Yours, R. L. S. TO AUGUSTE RODIN _Skerryvore, Bournemouth, February 1887._ MON CHER AMI,--Je vous neglige, et cependant ce n'est veritablement pas de ma faute. J'ai fait encore une maladie; et je puis dire que je l'ai royalement bien faite. Que cela vous aide a me pardonner. Certes je ne vous oublie pas; et je puis dire que je ne vous oublierai jamais. Si je n'ecris pas, dites que je suis malade--c'est trop souvent vrai, dites que je suis las d'ecrivailler--ce sera toujours vrai; mais ne dites pas, et ne pensez pas, que je deviens indifferent. J'ai devant moi votre portrait tire d'un journal anglais (et encadre a mes frais), et je le regarde avec amitie, je le regarde meme avec une certaine complaisance--dirai-je, de faux aloi? comme un certificat de jeunesse. Je me croyais trop vieux--au moins trop quarante-ans--pour faire de nouveaux amis; et quand je regarde votre portrait, et quand je pense au plaisir de vous revoir, je sens que je m'etais trompe. Ecrivez-moi donc un petit mot, pour me dire que vous ne gardez pas rancune de mon silence, et que vous comptez bientot venir en Angleterre. Si vous tardez beaucoup, ce sera moi qui irai vous relancer.--Bien a vous, mon cher ami, R. L. STEVENSON. TO W. H. LOW