to Sidney Colvin

Kinnaird Cottage, Pitlochry, [July 1881].

MY DEAR COLVIN,—I do believe I am better, mind and body; I am tired just now, for I have just been up the burn with Wogg, daily growing better and boo’f’ler; so do not judge my state by my style in this.  I am working steady, four Cornhill pages scrolled every day, besides the correspondence about this chair, which is heavy in itself.  My first story, ‘Thrawn Janet,’ all in Scotch, is accepted by Stephen; my second, ‘The Body Snatchers,’ is laid aside in a justifiable disgust, the tale being horrid; my third, ‘The Merry Men,’ I am more than half through, and think real well of.  It is a fantastic sonata about the sea and wrecks; and I like it much above all my other attempts at story-telling; I think it is strange; if ever I shall make a hit, I have the line now, as I believe.

Fanny has finished one of hers, ‘The Shadow on the Bed,’ and is now hammering at a second, for which we have ‘no name’ as yet—not by Wilkie Collins.

Tales for Winter Nights.  Yes, that, I think, we will call the lot of them when republished.

Why have you not sent me a testimonial?  Everybody else but you has responded, and Symonds, but I’m afraid he’s ill.  Do think, too, if anybody else would write me a testimonial.  I am told quantity goes far.  I have good ones from Rev. Professor Campbell, Professor Meiklejohn, Leslie Stephen, Lang, Gosse, and a very shaky one from Hamerton.

Grant is an elector, so can’t, but has written me kindly.  From Tulloch I have not yet heard.  Do help me with suggestions.  This old chair, with its £250 and its light work, would make me.

It looks as if we should take Cater’s chalet [210] after all; but O! to go back to that place, it seems cruel.  I have not yet received the Landor; but it may be at home, detained by my mother, who returns to-morrow.

Believe me, dear Colvin, ever yours,

R. L. S.

Yours came; the class is in summer; many thanks for the testimonial, it is bully; arrived along with it another from Symonds, also bully; he is ill, but not lungs, thank God—fever got in Italy.  We have taken Cater’s chalet; so we are now the aristo.’s of the valley.  There is no hope for me, but if there were, you would hear sweetness and light streaming from my lips.

‘The Merry Men’