g me a little nearer to what I think you would like me to
be. 'Tis a strange world, indeed, but there is a manifest God for those
who care to look for him.

This is a very solemn letter for my surroundings in this busy cafe; but
I had it on my heart to write it; and, indeed, I was out of the humour
for anything lighter.--Ever your affectionate son,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_P.S._--While I am writing gravely, let me say one word more. I have
taken a step towards more intimate relations with you. But don't expect
too much of me. Try to take me as I am. This is a rare moment, and I
have profited by it; but take it as a rare moment. Usually I hate to
speak of what I really feel, to that extent that when I find myself
_cornered_, I have a tendency to say the reverse.

R. L. S.

TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON

_Paris, 44 Bd. Haussmann, Friday, February 21, 1878._

MY DEAR PEOPLE,--Do you know who is my favourite author just now? How
are the mighty fallen! Anthony Trollope. I batten on him; he is so
nearly wearying you, and yet he never does; or rather, he never does,
until he gets near the end, when he begins to wean you from him, so that
you're as pleased to be done with him as you thought you would be sorry.
I wonder if it's old age? It is a little, I am sure. A young person
would get sickened by the dead level of meanness and cowardliness; you
require to be a little spoiled and cynical before you can enjoy it. I
have just finished the _Way of the World_; there is only one person in
it--no, there are three--who are nice: the wild American woman, and two
of the dissipated young men, Dolly and Lord Nidderdale. All the heroes
and heroines are just ghastly. But what a triumph is Lady Carbury! That
is real, sound, strong, genuine work: the man who could do that, if he
had had courage, might have written a fine book; he has preferred to
write many readable ones. I meant to write such a long, nice letter, but
I cannot hold the pen.

R. L. S.

TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON

The following refers to the newspaper criticisms on the _Inland
Vogage_:--

_Hotel du Val de Grace, Rue St. Jacques, Paris, Sunday [June 1878]._

MY DEAR MOTHER,--About criticisms, I was more surprised at the tone of
the critics than I suppose any one else. And the effect it has produced
in me is one of shame. If they liked that so much, I ought to have given
them something better, that's all. And I sha