and is not best pleased with us when we
deface and dissemble all that he has given us and put about us to one
common standard of----Highty-Tighty!--when was a jester obliged to
finish his sentence? I cut so strong a pirouette that all my bells
jingle, and come down in an attitude, with one hand upon my hip. The
evening's entertainment is over,--"and if our kyind friends----"

Hurrah! I feel relieved. I have put out my gibber, and if you have read
thus far, you will have taken it in. I wonder if you will ever come this
length. I shall try a trap for you, and insult you here, on this last
page. "O Baxter what a damned humbug you are!" There,--shall this insult
bloom and die unseen, or will you come toward me, when next we meet,
with a face deformed with anger and demand speedy and bloody
satisfaction. _Nous verrons_, which is French.

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

In the winter of 1872-73 Stevenson was out of health again; and by
the beginning of spring there began the trouble which for the next
twelve months clouded his home life. The following shows exactly in
what spirit he took it:--

_17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, Sunday, February 2, 1873._

MY DEAR BAXTER,--The thunderbolt has fallen with a vengeance now. On
Friday night after leaving you, in the course of conversation, my father
put me one or two questions as to beliefs, which I candidly answered. I
really hate all lying so much now--a new found honesty that has somehow
come out of my late illness--that I could not so much as hesitate at the
time; but if I had foreseen the real hell of everything since, I think I
should have lied, as I have done so often before. I so far thought of my
father, but I had forgotten my mother. And now! they are both ill, both
silent, both as down in the mouth as if--I can find no simile. You may
fancy how happy it is for me. If it were not too late, I think I could
almost find it in my heart to retract, but it is too late; and again, am
I to live my whole life as one falsehood? Of course, it is rougher than
hell upon my father, but can I help it? They don't see either that my
game is not the light-hearted scoffer; that I am not (as they call me) a
careless infidel. I believe as much as they do, only generally in the
inverse ratio: I am, I think, as honest as they can be in what I hold. I
have not come hastily to my views. I reserve (as I told them) many
points until I acquire fuller information, a