.
Navigator's Island is the place; absolute balm for the weary.--Ever your
faithful friend,

R. L. S.

TO MRS. SITWELL

The examination for the Bar at Edinburgh was approaching.
_Fontainebleau_ is the paper called _Forest Notes_, afterwards
printed in the Cornhill Magazine. The church is Glencorse Church in
the Pentlands, to the thoughts of which Stevenson reverted in his
last days with so much emotion (see _Weir of Hermiston_, chap. v.).

[_Swanston. End of June 1875._]

_Thursday._--This day fortnight I shall fall or conquer. Outside the
rain still soaks; but now and again the hilltop looks through the mist
vaguely. I am very comfortable, very sleepy, and very much satisfied
with the arrangements of Providence.

_Saturday--no, Sunday_, 12.45.--Just been--not grinding, alas!--I
couldn't--but doing a bit of _Fontainebleau_. I don't think I'll be
plucked. I am not sure though--I am so busy, what with this d----d law,
and this _Fontainebleau_ always at my elbow, and three plays (three,
think of that!) and a story, all crying out to me, "Finish, finish, make
an entire end, make us strong, shapely, viable creatures!" It's enough
to put a man crazy. Moreover, I have my thesis given out now, which is a
fifth (is it fifth? I can't count) incumbrance.

_Sunday._--I've been to church, and am not depressed--a great step. I
was at that beautiful church my _petit poeme en prose_ was about. It is
a little cruciform place, with heavy cornices and string course to
match, and a steep slate roof. The small kirkyard is full of old
gravestones. One of a Frenchman from Dunkerque--I suppose he died
prisoner in the military prison hard by--and one, the most pathetic
memorial I ever saw, a poor school-slate, in a wooden frame, with the
inscription cut into it evidently by the father's own hand. In church,
old Mr. Torrence preached--over eighty, and a relic of times forgotten,
with his black thread gloves and mild old foolish face. One of the
nicest parts of it was to see John Inglis, the greatest man in Scotland,
our Justice-General, and the only born lawyer I ever heard, listening to
the piping old body, as though it had all been a revelation, grave and
respectful.--Ever your faithful

R. L. S.

TO MRS. SITWELL

[_Edinburgh, July 15, 1875._]

PASSED.

Ever your
R.
L.
S.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] _L'Homme qui rit._

[14] This letter, accepting the firs