ing I find out something I have not measured, or, having measured,
have not noted, or, having noted, cannot find; and so I have to trudge
to the pier again ere I can go farther with my noble design.

Love to all.--Your affectionate son,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON

_'Kenzie House, Anstruther [later in July, 1868]._

MY DEAR MOTHER,--To-night I went with the youngest M. to see a strolling
band of players in the townhall. A large table placed below the gallery
with a print curtain on either side of the most limited dimensions was
at once the scenery and the proscenium. The manager told us that his
scenes were sixteen by sixty-four, and so could not be got in. Though I
knew, or at least felt sure, that there were no such scenes in the poor
man's possession, I could not laugh, as did the major part of the
audience, at this shift to escape criticism. We saw a wretched farce,
and some comic songs were sung. The manager sang one, but it came grimly
from his throat. The whole receipt of the evening was 5s. and 3d., out
of which had to come room, gas, and town drummer. We left soon; and I
must say came out as sad as I have been for ever so long: I think that
manager had a soul above comic songs. I said this to young M., who is a
"Phillistine" (Matthew Arnold's Philistine you understand), and he
replied, "How much happier would he be as a common working-man!" I told
him I thought he would be less happy earning a comfortable living as a
shoemaker than he was starving as an actor, with such artistic work as
he had to do. But the Phillistine wouldn't see it. You observe that I
spell Philistine time about with one and two l's.

As we went home we heard singing, and went into the porch of the
schoolhouse to listen. A fisherman entered and told us to go in. It was
a psalmody class. One of the girls had a glorious voice. We stayed for
half an hour.

_Tuesday._--I am utterly sick of this grey, grim, sea-beaten hole. I
have a little cold in my head, which makes my eyes sore; and you can't
tell how utterly sick I am, and how anxious to get back among trees and
flowers and something less meaningless than this bleak fertility.

Papa need not imagine that I have a bad cold or am stone-blind from this
description, which is the whole truth.

Last night Mr. and Mrs. Fortune called in a dog-cart, Fortune's beard
and Mrs. F.'s brow glittering with mist-drops, to ask me to come next
Saturday. Conditionall