to Thomas Stevenson

Bonallie Towers, Bournemouth, November 1884.

MY DEAR FATHER,—I have no hesitation in recommending you to let your name go up; please yourself about an address; though I think, if we could meet, we could arrange something suitable.  What you propose would be well enough in a way, but so modest as to suggest a whine.  From that point of view it would be better to change a little; but this, whether we meet or not, we must discuss.  Tait, Chrystal, the Royal Society, and I, all think you amply deserve this honour and far more; it is not the True Blue to call this serious compliment a ‘trial’; you should be glad of this recognition.  As for resigning, that is easy enough if found necessary; but to refuse would be husky and unsatisfactory.  Sic subs.

R. L. S.

My cold is still very heavy; but I carry it well.  Fanny is very very much out of sorts, principally through perpetual misery with me.  I fear I have been a little in the dumps, which, as you know, sir, is a very great sin.  I must try to be more cheerful; but my cough is so severe that I have sometimes most exhausting nights and very peevish wakenings.  However, this shall be remedied, and last night I was distinctly better than the night before.  There is, my dear Mr. Stevenson (so I moralise blandly as we sit together on the devil’s garden-wall), no more abominable sin than this gloom, this plaguey peevishness; why (say I) what matters it if we be a little uncomfortable—that is no reason for mangling our unhappy wives.  And then I turn and girn on the unfortunate Cassandra.—Your fellow culprit,

R. L. S.