? I did, and
_ca-y-est_.

TO TREVOR HADDON

_17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh [June 1882]._

MY DEAR SIR,--I see nothing "cheekie" in anything you have done. Your
letters have naturally given me much pleasure, for it seems to me you
are a pretty good young fellow, as young fellows go; and if I add that
you remind me of myself, you need not accuse me of retrospective vanity.

You now know an address which will always find me; you might let me have
your address in London; I do not promise anything--for I am always
overworked in London--but I shall, if I can arrange it, try to see you.

I am afraid I am not so rigid on chastity: you are probably right in
your view; but this seems to me a dilemma with two horns, the real curse
of a man's life in our state of society--and a woman's too, although,
for many reasons, it appears somewhat differently with the enslaved sex.
By your "fate" I believe I meant your marriage, or that love at least
which may befall any one of us at the shortest notice and overthrow the
most settled habits and opinions. I call that your fate, because then,
if not before, you can no longer hang back, but must stride out into
life and act.--Believe me, yours sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO EDMUND GOSSE

Mr. Gosse had mistaken the name of the Peeblesshire manse, and is
reproached accordingly. "Gray" is Mr. Gosse's volume on that poet in
Mr. Morley's series of _English Men of Letters_.

_Stobo Manse, Peeblesshire [July 1882]._

I would shoot you, but I have no bow:
The place is not called Stobs, but Stobo.
As Gallic Kids complain of "Bobo,"
I mourn for your mistake of Stobo.

First, we shall be gone in September. But if you think of coming in
August, my mother will hunt for you with pleasure. We should all be
overjoyed--though Stobo it could not be, as it is but a kirk and manse,
but possibly somewhere within reach. Let us know.

Second, I have read your Gray with care. A more difficult subject I can
scarce fancy; it is crushing; yet I think you have managed to shadow
forth a man, and a good man too; and honestly, I doubt if I could have
done the same. This may seem egoistic; but you are not such a fool as to
think so. It is the natural expression of real praise. The book as a
whole is readable; your subject peeps every here and there out of the
crannies like a shy violet--he could do no more--and his aroma hangs
there.

I write to catch a min