MY DEAR SIMPSON,--This is a long time I have not acknowledged the Art of Golf, though I read it through within thirty-six hours of its arrival. I have been ill and out of heart, and ill again and again ill, till I am weary of it, and glad indeed to try the pitch-farthing hazard of a trip to Colorado or New Mexico. There we go, if I prove fit for the start, on August 20th. Meanwhile, the Art of Golf. A lot of it is very funny, and I liked the fun very well; but what interested me most was the more serious part, because it turns all the while on a branch of psychology that no one has treated and that interests me much: the psychology of athletics. I had every reason to be interested in it, because I am abnormal: I have no memory in athletics. I have forgotten how to ride and how to skate; and I should not be the least surprised if I had forgotten how to swim. I find I can write no more: it is the first I have tried since I was ill; and I am too weak.--Yours ever, R. L. S. TO W. E. HENLEY During the two months following his father's death Stevenson had suffered much both from his old complaints and from depression of mind. His only work had been in preparing for press the verse collection _Underwoods_, the _Life of Fleeming Jenkin_, and the volume of essays called _Memories and Portraits_. The opinions quoted are those of physicians. _[Skerryvore, Bournemouth] August 1887._ DEAR LAD,--I write to inform you that Mr. Stevenson's well-known work, _Virginibus Puerisque_, is about to be reprinted. At the same time a second volume called _Memories and Portraits_ will issue from the roaring loom. Its interest will be largely autobiographical, Mr. S. having sketched there the lineaments of many departed friends, and dwelt fondly, and with a m'istened eye, upon by-gone pleasures. The two will be issued under the common title of _Familiar Essays_; but the volumes will be vended separately to those who are mean enough not to hawk at both. The blood is at last stopped: only yesterday. I began to think I should not get away. However, I hope--I hope--remark the word--no boasting--I hope I may luff up a bit now. Dobell, whom I saw, gave as usual a good account of my lungs, and expressed himself, like his neighbours, hopefully about the trip. He says, my uncle says, Scott says, Brown says--they all say--You ought not to be in such a state of health; you should recover. Well, then, I mean to. My spirits are rising again after three months of black depression: I almost begin to feel as if I should care to live: I would, by God! And so I believe I shall.--Yours, BULLETIN M'GURDER. How has the _Deacon_ gone? TO W. H. LOW _[Skerryvore, Bournemouth] August 6th, 1887._