#27, p.1

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.
[Letter written between 1885 and 1887]

I am glad to know that you are still the living pen. I hope this hot weather has done you no harm, though I am fearful of it. I need not say that you will be welcome when you come. The mad party has arrived, Sam, apparently, in bounding health. It is wonderful, the change in him, though he is thin faced. The night of his arrival he had a scuffle with a large strong cab runner, and defeated his enemy almost without losing breath. The man hooked himself to the door posts, and had to be loosened by main force, and then ejected. The Sam of a month ago couldn't have done that. He is a wise youth, Sam; he has chosen a new occupation for which he proposes immediately to put himself. I will tell you when you come. In the meantime, that my reputation for truth may be kept up, I want you to take a cab and go to Hawkes, where you are to be photographed. Or better still, go to Sir Percy who has had the best success as yet.

I **must** have it for Lang. I saw Colvin today. He said "they do curious things there; I wonder if they do the same with the ladies," and with that he made an involuntary gesture. **It has been done!** Whatever happens, I am solemnly promised that the dropsy in my legs is to be cured. My head has begun to have a delightful feeling of cool clarification, so I don't so much mind having the shape changed. I got on the . . . tram one day, Saturday, I think it was, when I was miles in the wrong direction. I told a guard that I believed I was wrong. He asked from what station I had come. I had forgotten. Then, where was I going? I had forgotten. I only knew that the stations were all strange to me. The guard kept saying "I don't really wish to be rude madam," and then burst into fits of laughter.

#27, p.2

I was carried on to the next station, and then had to take a cab for . . . distance. How is my poor dear Joe? As the lady on the Poole road, whose card with address is in the blue card dish at the front door, I told you of her before. An old lady with a daughter. She once got plums from me.

Joe knows. Love to you all, ever yours,

Fanny

#28, p.1

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[Letter written probably at Hyères in 1885]

My dear Louis,

At last I get a word. Yesterday came about six reluctant words
from Bob, which I cast from me in disdain. He said Tree had been with
you, and you say it was Henley. Who was it, and where did they sleep?
Valentine and I are better, but not much to boast of. Valentine's
Spanish pastor says that we were poisoned at Toulon. It suddenly turned
boiling hot and they got frightened about the cholera, and chose that
moment for dredging this harbor. As to what Toulon smells like, no one
can conceive. We had had no dinner, and little lunch, and it was late
in the night when we arrived there, but we were made so sick from the
horrible stench that we couldn't eat. They have dished Toulon, and
Hyères with it, for the summer. Why in the world wait for the hot
weather to begin dredging out that cesspool. I am aching to take the
train at La Gaulin, and avoid being long in the neighborhood of Toulon.
I am stopping now at the place where Coggy was. Coggy's landlady was what
I supposed. The grey man was not her brother, and the reason why he tried
to kill himself was that he was about to marry someone after having drained
this unfortunate creature of every penny, and she told what their relations
were. Powell looks deathly. He is going to England for the summer, live or
die. Wilson looks very ill, even Roy has lost flesh. He is a sweet fellow,
Roy. I have no notion when I can get away, things go so slowly, and we are
both so feeble minded and . . . Valentine is mad to get away. She says she
can never live here again, that the place is killing her; she is getting
quite thin again. She is convinced that she would die here, and is frightened. But it is not what it was when you were here. There is something

#28, p.2

dreadful in the air. I saw my chef de gare at St. Marcel. That
deathliness that used to be there is here now, only exaggerated. The
old residents are already on the wing. Is Tree going to take the play?
Do answer me that. Please do. I saw old Walker. He was just leaving,
so I didn't see his wife. He said that Mrs. Bradshaw Smith at last had
had the operation performed on her eyes with great success, and he had
seen a letter written by her. You should write a note of congratulation.
I have not seen Vidal. I didn't want to see him when I wasn't well. A
dog as big as a lion said that he could not stay in the same room with
me on account of the fumes of Bogue that I carry about on my gown. He
came up quite friendly, but when he smelled my skirt, he bounded back with
a . . . of horror, and had to be dragged away by men. The little dog here
will only stand me in my new red dress. I don't like being branded with
Bogery like that. I've bought a present for you for forty francs. I got
my dear Roy to send to Toulon for it. I also got a second hand present
for Sam's birthday. I gave the little Roch's each a little purse with
five half francs and two or three pennies, in them. [The letter is unsigned].

No. 26, p.l

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[Letter written in London? between 1885 and 1887]

My dear Louis,

I have the address of the Irish lady's house. I send it to you, hoping that you may pass it on to the Taylors, for something has evidently got out of gear in the letter writing part of my machinery. Letters positively _will_ not get themselves written. I saw Cosmo Monkhouse last evening; a very sweet, wholesome, engaging person, I should say. Also Henley's friend Jones; something of the same sort as Pushkin (the cat) and to me quite as engaging. I believe Bob finds him too vulgar. I suppose he is vulgar, I must be, too. I seem to like many people too vulgar for the refined stomachs of my friends. I was more pleased to have Pushkin friendly with me than if it had been the elegant Toby. I _might_ adore Burne Jones (you say I should) but I am glad that Jones likes me. He is to come to Bournemouth as soon as I am back. I don't want to miss him, so he is to wait for me. In the meantime, (we project great things for Skerryvore) he begs that you will do, or have Sam or someone else do certain things with great exactitude. 1st the Skerryvore lighthouse, send the diameter of the glass lantern, 2nd the height of the lantern from the top of the shaft where the glass rests to the inside top of the iron lid. He is then going to make a thing and present it to me that will give a light, without burning more gas than at present, that he promises shall equal an electric light in brilliancy. Next you are to send a drawing to scale of our up stairs bedroom fireplace. If it is too much trouble to do that I suggest (he, I suppose, would despise such makeshifts) that a piece of strong brown paper be pressed down upon the bottom of the grate to get the front bow out, and then the depth, height, width &c could be measured with a tape measure or inch rule. 3d For a speaking tube from the head of your bed (to the kitchen, he proposes, but I thought since to the

No. 26, p.2

dining room would be better) if to the dining room measure the distance from
the side of the head of your bed along around the skirting of the wall behind
the wardrobe, to drop where you like, into the hall, say, to pass into the
corner at the wine cooler. At any rate measure it to where you want it to go,
and send the number of feet. Do not be surprised if strange utensils should
turn up, but store them sacredly for my return. How did Sam make out washing
his trousers? I think it was a bold undertaking. How do you like Sam's friend?
If he comes this way at any time I wish you could send him to call upon me,
I hope he will have a decently pleasant time, and will be induced to return
again. Mrs. Henley is not very well today but is better than in the morning.
Don't forget that you left me a penniless debtor. Jones was very anxious that
we should go somewhere with him on a trip next Saturday. They promised, but I
think I had better coast round Sweden. Before I come home, however, somehow I
am determined to see the river cats that Jones tells about. It sounds incred-
ible. They seem to live in the water like otters, and know about tides and
all sorts of strange things. Please send some of my 14 year old photographs,
I must send some home to my sisters, and hasten to have yours taken. I must
have it. Tell Sam that he is to take you to Hawkes, or A . . . , and submit
proofs to me. I promised them to Andrew Lang for his Mag.

Is Valentine off yet? Love to you all . . . .

Fanny

#29

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[Note perhaps written in Hyères, 1885?]

Have just got your letter. I got no letter at Paris. I got none here for a long time. I have had a note from Bob, a note from you, and this. I don't know about May Ann. You must ask her, you ought to pay her by the week on account of her family's food, the father being away. Everybody's leaving on some kind of scare that I don't understand. The Bennetts came to say that they were off in a couple of days. I _cannot_ go first class, I will explain when I come, but it cannot be done. Do you suppose I _wanted_ to spend a day and night on end shut up with a sick man? The sleeping stuff is no good, now, it just . . . me altogether. Your books have broken my heart & my back, but I think they are well packed. Don't send any more papers, for I shall be off as soon as I can. I am terribly afraid of either Valentine or my falling ill, and not able to go. So is V. I am much better now, but I have been really ill. Valentine always as good as gold, and will not, nor hasn't stayed a night away from me for fear I might want her. I am not going away any more or if I do I won't come back. Hurry up with the Arabs [i.e. New Arabian Nights], for they will blow up the P. of Wales in Ireland. I admire his courage, but it is too late, like anything else. [The note is unsigned]

#30, p.1

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[Letter written in Philadelphia in 1887 or 1888 on stationery of the Hotel Lafayette]

My dearest Louis,

Well, here I am in Philadelphia. The McClures, the Sims and I came on Thursday, today, Friday, the McClures are gone home, having just left. I have been all this time hunting for my cousin Fanny, and have just found her; she had left the address I had two years ago. Be sure and read what follows to Lloyd. The day after I arrived, I was sitting alone when a card was brought to me with the name W. J. Mayne. I asked at once if Mr. Mayne was a reporter. The servant did not know, but I believed he was, never having heard the name before. I refused to see him, but curiosity getting the better of me, I called the man back, and said "Send Mr. Mayne up." There was a knock at the door; when it opened who should I see but Lloyd's old tutor Mr. James, of Locust Grove. "But why are you Mr. Mayne?" I naturally asked. "Well," he said, with much confusion, "because Mayne's my name. I only called myself James." His father, he said had been at the head of the English police, his uncle is an admiral, and his brother is a member of Parliament. I happened to mention that I could not find a lady, and he begged to be allowed to become a private detective, and search for her in that character. He spent all day yesterday at it, and part of today, and finally found her. He is suffering from cancer of the tongue, at least so he has been told, though he doubts it. He is coaching young men here, and says he is doing very well, and is reasonably happy. I imagine from a few things he said that he has become a Plymouth Brother, which is comic to

#30, p.2

think of. His hair is white as snow, and he has the ordinary good looks of a certain sort of Englishman, but there is a wrong expression, somehow. The look one would expect who has changed his name to have. He asked every imaginable question about Lloyd, and told me some very funny stories about myself, which I remembered when he referred to them, though they sound extremely insane. Though I believe he is a good deal of a scamp, I was pleased to see him. I invited him to lunch, and I must say he was the most amusing person I have heard talk for a very long while. Now I will pass on the great Walt. McClure said the usual thing about an editor named Williams, from whom I rather shrank in anticipation. Mr. Williams was to take [me] to see "Walt." I was more agreeably impressed than I had expected by the editor. It is a very old thing, Louis, the number of Americans (Gilder is one) who seem to be a cross in looks and manner between you and Lang. Mr. Williams was one of these. We found Whitman's cottage a pretty forlorn looking spot. It looked like a workingman's cottage in a poor quarter. I believe he is very fond of it. We were shown into a room that looked very much as you like your study to be. Things had grown waist high in piles round the floor. There was a canary, and a parrot in a cage, rather in two different cages, and a dog came to meet us, but was chased back by the woman. We waited a little while for him, Mr. Williams very alert to catch his first footstep. The moment that was heard Mr. W. bounded up the stairs and helped the old man down. He looks like a prophet, with a cloud of beautiful white hair flowing about his head, and a thinnish white beard and mustache. He is only 69, yet he looked much older than Sir Henry Taylor did. Certainly he was a grand sight,--but--. . . It was there,

#30, p.3

and a certain flabby coarseness that must have been horrible in a younger
man, and that . . . did not have. He spoke of having seen things about
you in the papers and reviews, and said he had once received a book of
yours (evidently he had not read it), and desired very much to acknowledge
the receipt of it, but did not know who had sent it. I said that you had,
but that I thought the publisher had not sent it for you in the way you
had ordered them to. He wished me to thank you, and to say that he hoped
you would gain health and strength in the Adirondacks. He asked if you had
had the usual health resorts, and then said that he wished now that he had
been able to travel and see more of the world, that he was sure that every
man ought to get away for some time from his own country if he was to be any
good in the world. He quite took the position of being a swell; I said that
I didn't like to come, that I felt it to be an intrusion. He said it was a
great delight to have people come to him, that they now come from all parts
of the world, especially, however, from England, that actors, especially,
and then painters, came, that Irving came among others. It seemed as though
he cared a great deal for these visits. He said he was very happy. I
couldn't stay any longer then, of course I said all sorts of nice things
for you. He begged us to stay longer (Mrs. McClure was with us) but I could
not so we shook hands with him and came away. His hands were very large and
coarse. I think he has his best looks now. In the evening the Sims went
to Lippencott's to dinner, and the McClures and me to the Williams's.

In his own house Mr. Williams became one of the most fascinating people I
ever met. They had a curious little narrow house with very long rooms, so
that they seemed more like corridors than rooms, but what lovely rooms they
were. Lying on the floor among a lot of skins was a collie. I put my hand

#30, p.4

on his head and he immediately became quite stiff. At the same moment I noticed that Mr. Williams got very close to me, and kept saying in a quiet stern voice "keep quiet Bruce, keep still!" I said "your secret is perfectly safe with me. I'll not tell. I once had a biting dog of my own."
How often I have done the same thing. Bruce, however, was a better fellow than Bogue, for after some fifteen minutes study, he laid his nose in my hand, then offered me one paw, with which, when I took it, he pressed my hand the way Ginger does, and then the other paw, and then languished with his eyes at me with more sentimentality than I had thought a male dog could get into his eyes. No servant appeared but a small black page who was beautifully trained and looked most oriental. The dinner was exquisite, and the wine! I never tasted as good except at George Meredith's. Coffee was made on the table, having been just that minute roasted and ground, in the Turkish fashion . . . out of lovely real Turkish utensils. We were given no sugar, but a delightful sweetmeat to eat with it. I think your mother and Lloyd must come here once before going back to England. I hadn't realized what a difference there was between the custom here and in shoddy New York.
Something was said about Burton [?], and McClure wanted to know who Burton was, and what he did. "One thing," said Mr. W, "is that he can speak Arabic without an accent which seems incredible. I learned Arabic when I was seven, and have been practicing it ever since, and yet I have an accent." He seemed to know all tongues, and all sciences, but you only find it out by accident.
One thing made me feel that I was truly in Philadelphia, and that was to hear a young man like Williams ask a blessing at a dinner party. Continually I was startled by things he said that I felt no one but you could have said. He is, beyond everything, the [most] interesting person I have seen yet. Then today came young Kirk; he had apparently grown to be some seven feet tall, with a

Interrupted and have to stop headlong. Dear love to you all.

F.

#31, p.1

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.
[Letter written in Samoa, in 1890?]

My dear Louis,

I thought I might as well begin a letter to you and add to it as time goes on. Things are going on well, though I have had many tribulations. In the first place, you had no sooner gone than Mr. Hay promptly slackened up work. I was invited to the American consul's to meet the Chief Justice, so went early and saw Mr. Moors. He seemed to be of my opinion, and the next day had an apparently stormy interview with the worthy farmer. The next evening, doubtless to make the scene more impressive, Mr. Hay dressed himself elaborately and came in to see me. He was in a fine rage, and began in a hectoring manner, saying that he threw up the job, and charging me with having complained to Mr. Moors; which I certainly didn't deny. I took no notice of his having "given warning," but very quietly pointed out to him where I thought he should have done better, and then spoke of the responsibility you had left upon my shoulders, which responsibility I gradually shifted to his. The end of it was that he promised to do better, and said I should have nothing further to complain of. Since then the work moves very well. Then I began to have doubts as to the foundation of the house. Mr. Moors came up and thought very badly of it; another row: Bahn furious, and declaring that he knew his business, and the foundation is better than Mr. Moors own which he laid himself. I was near turning Bahn off, but by Mr. Moors' advice sent for Mr. Willis to pass judgment on the work. Willis came and condemned it. I refused to accept it, and Bahn had to back down. The foundation has all been lifted up, and changed according to Willis' advice. It is supposed to be really only ignorance of the part of Bahn. One block of the foundation was actually resting on a root in the ground; of course the root would soon decay, and the foundation would sink. I have

#31, p.2

arranged with Mr. Willis to come up once a week and inspect the work, and
what he condemns I will not accept. Poor Bahn knocks under very readily,
so I don't think I shall have much trouble. But it is as well that I
remained here. I never got to the Consul's party after all, as I could not
cross the river, and every boat was out. I finally begged food from Joe,
and went to the Clarke's who had expected me, but their clock being fast
had given me up. There was a lamp turned down in a bedroom, and when I
got tired I went to bed putting out the light. I suddenly waked from a
sound sleep with the terrible idea that I had gone to the wrong bed. The
light was out and I could find no matches. What I feared was that I might
fall asleep, and the good missionary, not seeing me under the curtains,
might just go to bed. However my fears were groundless, for I was in the
right place. Mrs. Clarke is enchanted with the Chief Justice, but I am
bound to say her description of him sounds pretty sappy. But it may be only
a halo of her own she has thrown over him. Mrs. Claxton rode back with me
next morning, and we had a very pleasant time coming up through the mud.
I am really afraid there is something very bad the matter with Mrs. Claxton.
It sounds almost like cancer to me.

Paul's life has not been altogether a happy one. He complained to me
that you had called him dreadful names, and said that he came of a respectable
family. I asked him how he liked being called dreadful names. "I do not
like it at _all_, Mrs. Stevenson," he said with great emphasis. "Well, Paul,"
returned I, "I didn't like it when your friends called me dreadful names,
either; besides you deserved it, and I didn't." Henry was here at the time,
and stood looking at Paul with round unwinking eyes, in which anger burned
like lamps. One wrong word from Paul, and I think his time would have been
up. Innocent Paul told me that he had gone to the Schmidts to tell them how

#31, p.3

harshly he had been treated, but they had no sympathy for him at all. It seems the men had been there, and Mrs. Schmidt was furious at their conduct. Then it turned out that the three men had been intrusted with valuable goods belonging to Paul, all of which have disappeared. Paul particularly laments the tobacco; his supply of his favorite brand for three months is all gone, and I won't give him an atom of ours. I told him he could stay here, for my convenience, not his, until I could fill his place, but no longer. Did you know that one of the men actually returned with Paul a third time, expecting to stay all night? I trust they had a bad time on board the Lübeck. Paul has, here, I can tell you. He is just crawling in the dust, poor wretch, and performing prodigies of mistaken labor. He is Handy Andy surely. I said "after you put the hens in the new fowl house, take down their nest boxes for them. Put a nest egg in each box, and you had better give them all fresh straw in their nests." I went to look next day, and found he had obeyed literally. The nest eggs were put into the bottoms of the boxes, and the nests made above them. I said "why Paul, there are no nest eggs." "Oh yes, there are," said he; "I did just as you told me. If you'll let me take out all the straw and things I'll show you in the corner of the bottom of each box." And so he did. This is Sunday, and a beautiful day. I am expecting Mr. Moors and Mr. Carruthers. The latter gentleman spent an afternoon with me last week. Poor Lafaele is very unhappy. He came this morning to ask if he might stay here tonight. He was weeping and said that last night he discovered that his beautiful young wife had been unfaithful to him with four Samoans. The girl's mother has given her a terrible beating, but Lafaele refuses to go back. Of course I let him stay. I hear that

#31, p.4

Beni [?] has been very ill all this time, seemingly, as well as I can make out, with rheumatism. Henry is gone to see about him, and ask him to come up here to sleep in the little house. I am sure he is sleeping on the damp ground. I told Henry to tell him to come up here, not to work at all, but to kai kai and rest, and to let me see what I could do for him. I am afraid he won't come, in which case I must go find him, and have something done about it. The whole world here has broken out with boils. Paul has two, and is pretty sure they are going to prove fatal. The bride and bridegroom are also ... tormented. Mrs. Blacklock, Mrs. Hamilton, and Mrs. Gurr came galloping up to the house the other day. Mrs. Hamilton thought I had great courage to stay up here at night alone; she said she would not stop after dark with even a large party. "Why what are you afraid of?" I asked, quite innocently. "'fraid devils!'" said she in quite a belligerent way. "I don't care; me 'fraid devils," she added.

Later--I am told that I can send this in a few days by the Richard [?]. Mr. Hay says that if you buy a cow with a calf a couple of weeks old, and arrange with the ... people they will take care of both, and milk the cows carefully for the use of the milk on board. They did so when we came down. In that case I should get a cow in full flow of milk, and I should be very glad of it, indeed. Pray try and make such an arrangement. Paul has been to the doctor and returns to say that he was rather laughed at for his fears. The doctor says no spirits whatever. Henry saw Paul in town, and immediately rode up to wait in case of the usual occurrence which I took very kindly of Henry. He has not yet been to see Beni, but will go tonight. The doctor and another officer of the ... came to the door today, plainly come out of curiosity to see what I was like. The doctor said he was to have taken me in to dinner at the Consul's. They waited dinner for me over half an hour,

#31, p.5

and kept my chair turned back all the evening. The doctor told Paul he was coming up to see me tomorrow, and would have come before, but he has had an operation on hand. So you see I am well looked after on all sides. Poor Lafaela! is very downcast and sad. He said he did not act ... Samoa, but just said "Tha's all right. You like Samoa man, you go Samoa man, never mind, I go way."

Poor Jack is working away like a good fellow. He has his oats with the chiefs, and I am sure is bursting with pride to be allowed to join the august party in these trips on the Appian Way. It is fatiguing, he says, but the glory is great, and I carry the same number of bags all just as full as theirs. Jack now makes a third in the paddock party. The old mare, alone is left out. I have had dreadful adventures with a bullimacow, but haven't time to tell the story. No harm came of it, though Mr. Hay had his leg grazed by her horn, and was within an ace of getting it through his thigh. "Wild pig dogs" have bitten one of the pig... We thought at first it would die, but it seems to be getting better. Henry caught the biter and brought him to the door carried by two men lashed to a pole as they carry pigs. I knew he should have been killed on the spot, but I hadn't the heart, but sent him home again with a warning. The bullimacow, for which I was responsible destroyed vast numbers of the biters bananas. They demanded payment. I said "you have been paid in pig meat." and so it ended. I turned over the bee hive yesterday and took a look. A lot of beautiful combs, the honey just going in. The box was black with them. They seemed to be very busy at housework, preparing for the queen's family. I hope the new hives may have a bit of glass. I like watching them. The mosquitoes are terrific. I believe that is all, except my dearest love to you, and to whichever of the others you are with. Ever yours,

Fanny

#31, p.6

My dear Belle, you can read this if Louis is gone; but send it after
him immediately. I hope to learn about Austin by this . . . I hope
Louis was there when the operation was performed. We have had a little
very good weather since Louis left, no hurricane yet, but two earthquakes.
Now don't keep this letter one moment.

#32, p.1

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[Letter written in Samoa in 1890]

My dearest Louis,

It seems to me that I have written all there was to send in the way of
news in my former letter. Mr. Willis and Mr. Moors have again inspected
the building and say that it is all right now, and Bahn in his fright is
really making it stronger than necessary, and putting in more work than he
need; but that is a fault on the right side. A lot of letters came by the
W . . . , most of them from Lloyd and your mother whom you will have seen.
One from Colvin with the letters and his criticisms, all, I am pleased to
see, the same as mine, so if I have not the artistic instinct, neither has
he. Parts of it are very fine, but it loses immensely in not being a per-
sonal consecutive narrative. It gives too much the feeling that you had
got your information second hand, and is only convincing in parts. And the
stranger thing is the strong note of egoism, which I would not have expected.
I still think the plan a mistake, but it can't help being a most interesting
book for all that. I'm afraid you will have to work pretty hard to keep up
Lloyd's engagements. In fact, as Mrs. William's servant used to say "jump
into it." A very serious and ugly thing has happened here. Linmann's [?]
wife's brother, a high chief, has been killed and eaten by black boys. We
must keep a sharp eye on Austin when he is here. A German from one of the
plantations pointed to one bush and said, "there are about two hundred of
our boys up there." Paul is behaving very well and in a great state of
alarm about being sent away. He proposed learning to drive the chief but
I did not rise to that notion. And then he intimated that he would learn
gardening. I had to leave him alone with the weeding yesterday, and when

#32, p.2

I returned he had been working like a Trojan and had succeeded in clearing the river bank so that it is on the point of toppling over. Tomorrow Lafselli must re-gather the stones thrown out by Paul and build it up again. His mis-taken zeal is tremendous. You wondered at Lloyd visiting Henley; his letter is full of misery concerning his false position in having to do so. I suppose Lloyd has told you how Henley has broken with all his friends, even that sheep, Bob. And that he says Teddy was never married to Grace at all. That seems very singular after all the outcry about the marriage, and the indignation about Teddy's throwing himself away. It seems curious that she should have lived with old Mrs. Henley under the circumstances, not what is called respectable. Now it is hardly what one would expect that a man should intro-to-duce his brother's mistress/ladies as his brother's wife. I somehow believe she was his wife, and that it is the word bigamy that is the matter. From Haxton's account it seems that Teddy spent his time in San Francisco in running up bills and calling Lloyd names. Why should he hate Lloyd? I don't remember his having done Teddy a service. Now if it were you--but I suppose you got your share. I am glad that we are done with the grimy lot of them. The boxes have come from Oakland; my great grandfather is looking at me from the wall with the one eye that is left him, a very genteel old gentleman, indeed, with a Napoleonic cast of countenance. Mr. Carruthers discovered the other day that I looked like Napoleon. I wish I looked more like my great grandfather. There are lots of books I haven't looked at yet, and the ancient pot found in Southern California. The first book I picked up was one of Belle's schoolbooks when, as a child she went to the public schools. What do you suppose it was? "Historical Course for Schools" beginning at the "origin of the nation" and ending, this volume, with the review [?] of Germany and Italy. So much for your theory, about which you

#32, p.3

wished to write a magazine article, that no history was taught in the
American schools but the United States. This is by Freeman, a special
edition (stolen I suppose that means) for the use of American schools.
Here is the course as given: General Sketch of History; History of England;
History of Scotland; History of Italy; History of Germany; History of France;
History of Greece; History of America bringing up the rear. So furl your
flag, my dear, and rest in peace. The Yankee babes are being taught some-
thing besides the fact that their forefathers fought with the mother country,
though the teaching will probably result in very little learning. Our beauti-
ful weather has broken down and it is raining drearily. It is rather lonesome
today. A wet Sunday and not much to eat, I wonder how Lloyd is going to
stand it fresh from the fleshpots of civilization. There was a very touching
letter from Lady Shelley, and a curious one from Adelaide Boodle enclosing a
note from her mother, clever old lady that she is. Shall I ever forget her
first call? I suppose that is how I appear to people. If you are with your
mother tell her that I am just dying to see her, and I send her oceans of
love. I am sorry I have no more interesting news to send you, but I may
have, for I really do hear strange underground noises. With all love.

Fanny