e low on the hill. The birds are
twittering to each other about the indifferent season. O, here's a gem
for you. An old godly woman predicted the end of the world, because the
seasons were becoming indistinguishable; my cousin Dora objected that
last winter had been pretty well marked. "Yes, my dear," replied the
soothsayeress; "but I think you'll find the summer will be rather
co-amplicated."--Ever your faithful

R. L. S.

TO MRS. SITWELL

The rehearsals were those of Shakespeare's _Twelfth Night_ for
amateur theatricals at Professor Fleeming Jenkin's, in which
Stevenson played the part of Orsino.

_[Edinburgh, April 1875] Saturday._

I am getting on with my rehearsals, but I find the part very hard. I
rehearsed yesterday from a quarter to seven, and to-day from four (with
interval for dinner) to eleven. You see the sad strait I am in for
ink.--_A demain._

_Sunday._--This is the third ink-bottle I have tried, and still it's
nothing to boast of. My journey went off all right, and I have kept ever
in good spirits. Last night, indeed, I did think my little bit of gaiety
was going away down the wind like a whiff of tobacco smoke, but to-day
it has come back to me a little. The influence of this place is
assuredly all that can be worst against one; _mais il faut lutter_. I
was haunted last night when I was in bed by the most cold, desolate
recollections of my past life here; I was glad to try and think of the
forest, and warm my hands at the thought of it. O the quiet, grey
thickets, and the yellow butterflies, and the woodpeckers, and the
outlook over the plain as it were over a sea! O for the good, fleshly
stupidity of the woods, the body conscious of itself all over and the
mind forgotten, the clean air nestling next your skin as though your
clothes were gossamer, the eye filled and content, the whole MAN HAPPY!
Whereas here it takes a pull to hold yourself together; it needs both
hands, and a book of stoical maxims, and a sort of bitterness at the
heart by way of armour.--Ever your faithful R. L. S.

_Wednesday._--I am so played out with a cold in my eye that I cannot see
to write or read without difficulty. It is swollen _horrible_; so how I
shall look as Orsino, God knows! I have my fine clothes tho'. Henley's
sonnets have been taken for the Cornhill. He is out of hospital now, and
dressed, but still not too much to brag of in health, poor fellow, I am
afraid.

_Sunday._--So. I h