to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson

[Skerryvore, Bournemouth], January 1st, 1886.

MY DEAR PEOPLE,—Many happy returns of the day to you all; I am fairly well and in good spirits; and much and hopefully occupied with dear Jenkin’s life.  The inquiry in every detail, every letter that I read, makes me think of him more nobly.  I cannot imagine how I got his friendship; I did not deserve it.  I believe the notice will be interesting and useful.

My father’s last letter, owing to the use of a quill pen and the neglect of blotting-paper, was hopelessly illegible.  Every one tried, and every one failed to decipher an important word on which the interest of one whole clause (and the letter consisted of two) depended.

I find I can make little more of this; but I’ll spare the blots.—Dear people, ever your loving son,

R. L. S.

I will try again, being a giant refreshed by the house being empty.  The presence of people is the great obstacle to letter-writing.  I deny that letters should contain news (I mean mine; those of other people should).  But mine should contain appropriate sentiments and humorous nonsense, or nonsense without the humour.  When the house is empty, the mind is seized with a desire—no, that is too strong—a willingness to pour forth unmitigated rot, which constitutes (in me) the true spirit of correspondence.  When I have no remarks to offer (and nobody to offer them to), my pen flies, and you see the remarkable consequence of a page literally covered with words and genuinely devoid of sense.  I can always do that, if quite alone, and I like doing it; but I have yet to learn that it is beloved by correspondents.  The deuce of it is, that there is no end possible but the end of the paper; and as there is very little left of that—if I cannot stop writing—suppose you give up reading.  It would all come to the same thing; and I think we should all be happier . . .