[Edinburgh, June 1874], Friday.
MY DEAR COLVIN,—I am seedy—very seedy, I may say. I am quite unfit for any work or any pleasure; and generally very sick. I am going away next week on Wednesday for my cruise which I hope will set me up again. I should like a proof here up to Wednesday morning, or at Greenock, Tontine Hotel, up to Friday morning, as I don’t quite know my future address. I hope you are better, and that it was not that spell of work you had that did the harm. It is to my spurt of work that I am redevable for my harm. Walt Whitman is at the bottom of it all, ’cré nom! What a pen I have!—a new pen, God be praised, how smoothly it functions! Would that I could work as well. Chorus—Would that both of us could work as well—would that all of us could work as well!—Ever yours,
Robert Louis Stevenson.
P.S.—Bob is better; but he might be better yet. All goes smoothly except my murrained health.
To Mrs. Sitwell
Swanston [Summer 1874].
MY DEAR FRIEND,—I am back again here, as brown as a berry with sun, and in good form. I have been and gone and lost my portmanteau, with Walt Whitman in it and a lot of notes. This is a nuisance. However, I am pretty happy, only wearying for news of you and for your address.
Friday.—À la bonne heure! I hear where you are and that you are apparently fairish well. That is good at least. I am full of Reformation work; up to the eyes in it; and begin to feel learned. A beautiful day outside, though something cold.
R. L. S.