amp-ship gave us many comforts; we could cut
about with the men and officers, stay in the wheel-house, discuss all
manner of things, and really be a little at sea. And truly there is
nothing else. I had literally forgotten what happiness was, and the full
mind--full of external and physical things, not full of cares and
labours and rot about a fellow's behaviour. My heart literally sang; I
truly care for nothing so much as for that. We took so north a course,
that we saw Newfoundland; no one in the ship had ever seen it before.

It was beyond belief to me how she rolled; in seemingly smooth water,
the bell striking, the fittings bounding out of our state-room. It is
worth having lived these last years, partly because I have written some
better books, which is always pleasant, but chiefly to have had the joy
of this voyage. I have been made a lot of here, and it is sometimes
pleasant, sometimes the reverse; but I could give it all up, and agree
that ---- was the author of my works, for a good seventy ton schooner
and the coins to keep her on. And to think there are parties with yachts
who would make the exchange! I know a little about fame now; it is no
good compared to a yacht; and anyway there is more fame in a yacht, more
genuine fame; to cross the Atlantic and come to anchor in Newport (say)
with the Union Jack, and go ashore for your letters and hang about the
pier, among the holiday yachtsmen--that's fame, that's glory, and nobody
can take it away; they can't say your book is bad; you _have_ crossed
the Atlantic. I should do it south by the West Indies, to avoid the
damned Banks; and probably come home by steamer, and leave the skipper
to bring the yacht home.

Well, if all goes well, we shall maybe sail out of Southampton water
some of these days and take a run to Havre, and try the Baltic, or
somewhere.

Love to you all--Ever your afft.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIR WALTER SIMPSON

It was supposed that Stevenson's letters to this friend, like those
to Professor Fleeming Jenkin, had been destroyed or disappeared
altogether. But besides the two printed above (pp. 117 and 229) here
is a third, preserved by a friend to whom Sir Walter made a present
of it.

[_Saranac Lake, October 1887._]

MY DEAR SIMPSON,

the address is
c/o Charles Scribner's Sons,
243 Broadway, N.Y.,

where I wish you would write and tell us you are better. But the place
of our abode i