an excellent institution) for the luxury in
which he lives? And can you believe that, though it is gaily expressed,
the thought is hag and skeleton in every moment of vacuity or
depression? Can you conceive how profoundly I am irritated by the
opposite affectation to my own, when I see strong men and rich men
bleating about their sorrows and the burthen of life, in a world full of
"cancerous paupers," and poor sick children, and the fatally bereaved,
ay, and down even to such happy creatures as myself, who has yet been
obliged to strip himself, one after another, of all the pleasures that
he had chosen except smoking (and the days of that I know in my heart
ought to be over), I forgot eating, which I still enjoy, and who sees
the circle of impotence closing very slowly but quite steadily around
him? In my view, one dank, dispirited word is harmful, a crime of
_lese-humanite_, a piece of acquired evil; every gay, every bright word
or picture, like every pleasant air of music, is a piece of pleasure set
afloat; the reader catches it, and, if he be healthy, goes on his way
rejoicing; and it is the business of art so to send him, as often as
possible.

For what you say, so kindly, so prettily, so precisely, of my style, I
must in particular thank you; though even here, I am vexed you should
not have remarked on my attempted change of manner: seemingly this
attempt is still quite unsuccessful! Well, we shall fight it out on
this line if it takes all summer.

And now for my last word: Mrs. Stevenson is very anxious that you should
see me, and that she should see you, in the flesh. If you at all share
in these views, I am a fixture. Write or telegraph (giving us time,
however, to telegraph in reply, lest the day be impossible), and come
down here to a bed and a dinner. What do you say, my dear critic? I
shall be truly pleased to see you; and to explain at greater length what
I meant by saying narrative was the most characteristic mood of
literature, on which point I have great hopes I shall persuade
you.--Yours truly,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_P.S._--My opinion about Thoreau, and the passage in The Week, is
perhaps a fad, but it is sincere and stable. I am still of the same mind
five years later; did you observe that I had said "modern" authors? and
will you observe again that this passage touches the very joint of our
division? It is one that appeals to me, deals with that part of life
that I think the most impo