to Charles Baxter

19th July ’93.

. . . We are in the thick of war—see Illustrated London News—we have only two outside boys left to us.  Nothing is doing, and per contra little paying. . .  My life here is dear; but I can live within my income for a time at least—so long as my prices keep up—and it seems a clear duty to waste none of it on gadding about. . . .  My life of my family fills up intervals, and should be an excellent book when it is done, but big, damnably big.

My dear old man, I perceive by a thousand signs that we grow old, and are soon to pass away!  I hope with dignity; if not, with courage at least.  I am myself very ready; or would be—will be—when I have made a little money for my folks.  The blows that have fallen upon you are truly terrifying; I wish you strength to bear them.  It is strange, I must seem to you to blaze in a Birmingham prosperity and happiness; and to myself I seem a failure.  The truth is, I have never got over the last influenza yet, and am miserably out of heart and out of kilter.  Lungs pretty right, stomach nowhere, spirits a good deal overshadowed; but we’ll come through it yet, and cock our bonnets.  (I confess with sorrow that I am not yet quite sure about the intellects; but I hope it is only one of my usual periods of non-work.  They are more unbearable now, because I cannot rest.  No rest but the grave for Sir Walter!  O the words ring in a man’s head.)

R. L. S.