[SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH, MARCH 1886.]

MY DEAR LOW, - This is the most enchanting picture. Now understand
my state: I am really an invalid, but of a mysterious order. I
might be a MALADE IMAGINAIRE, but for one too tangible symptom, my
tendency to bleed from the lungs. If we could go, (1ST) We must
have money enough to travel with LEISURE AND COMFORT - especially
the first. (2ND) You must be prepared for a comrade who would go
to bed some part of every day and often stay silent (3RD) You
would have to play the part of a thoughtful courier, sparing me
fatigue, looking out that my bed was warmed, etc. (4TH) If you are
very nervous, you must recollect a bad haemorrhage is always on the
cards, with its concomitants of anxiety and horror for those who
are beside me.

Do you blench? If so, let us say no more about it.

If you are still unafraid, and the money were forthcoming, I
believe the trip might do me good, and I feel sure that, working
together, we might produce a fine book. The Rhone is the river of
Angels. I adore it: have adored it since I was twelve, and first
saw it from the train.

Lastly, it would depend on how I keep from now on. I have stood
the winter hitherto with some credit, but the dreadful weather
still continues, and I cannot holloa till I am through the wood.

Subject to these numerous and gloomy provisos, I embrace the
prospect with glorious feelings.