nds Reward!

WHEREAS Sidney Colvin, more generally known as the Guardian Angel, has
vanished from the gaze of Mr. R. L. Stevenson, the above reward is
offered as a means to discover the whereabouts of the misguided
gentleman. He was known as a man of irregular habits, and his rowdy
exterior would readily attract attention in a crowd. He was never known
to resist a drink; whisky was his favourite dish. If any one will bring
him to Mr. Stevenson's back area door, dead or alive, the greatest
rejoicing will be felt by a bereaved and uneasy family.

Also, wherefore not a word, dear Colvin? My news is: splendid health;
great success of the _Black Arrow_; another tale demanded, readers this
time (the Lord lighten them!) pleased; a great variety of small ships
launched or still upon the stocks--(also, why not send the annotated
proof of _Fontainebleau_? ce n'est pas d'un bon camarade); a paper on
dogs for Carr;[7] a paper called _Old Mortality_, a paper called _A
Misadventure in France_, a tale entituled _The Travelling Companion_;
_Otto_ arrested one foot in air; and last and not least, a great demand
for news of Sidney Colvin and others. Herewith I pause, for why should I
cast pearls before swine?

A word, Guardian Angel. You are much loved in this house, not by me
only, but by the wife. The Wogg himself is anxious.--Ever yours
affectionately,

R. L. S.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_La Solitude, Hyeres [November 1883]._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--I have been bad, but as you were worse, I feel no
shame. I raise a blooming countenance, not the evidence of a
self-righteous spirit.

I continue my uphill fight with the twin spirits of bankruptcy and
indigestion. Duns rage about my portal, at least to fancy's ear.

I suppose you heard of Ferrier's death: my oldest friend, except Bob. It
has much upset me. I did not fancy how much. I am strangely concerned
about it.

My house is the loveliest spot in the universe; the moonlight nights we
have are incredible; love, poetry and music, and the Arabian Nights,
inhabit just my corner of the world--nest there like mavises.

Here lies
The carcase
of
Robert Louis Stevenson,
An active, austere, and not inelegant
writer,
who,
at the termination of a long career,
wealthy, wise, benevolent, and honoured by
the attention of two hemispher