ries and the delineation of
character, I begin to lament. Of course, I am not so dull as to ask you
to desert your walk; but could you not, in one novel, to oblige a
sincere admirer, and to enrich his shelves with a beloved volume, could
you not, and might you not, cast your characters in a mould a little
more abstract and academic (dear Mrs. Pennyman had already, among your
other work, a taste of what I mean), and pitch the incidents, I do not
say in any stronger, but in a slightly more emphatic key--as it were an
episode from one of the old (so-called) novels of adventure? I fear you
will not; and I suppose I must sighingly admit you to be right. And yet,
when I see, as it were, a book of Tom Jones handled with your exquisite
precision and shot through with those side-lights of reflection in which
you excel, I relinquish the dear vision with regret. Think upon it.

As you know, I belong to that besotted class of man, the invalid: this
puts me to a stand in the way of visits. But it is possible that some
day you may feel that a day near the sea and among pinewoods would be a
pleasant change from town. If so, please let us know; and my wife and I
will be delighted to put you up, and give you what we can to eat and
drink (I have a fair bottle of claret).--On the back of which, believe
me, yours sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

_P.S._--I reopen this to say that I have re-read my paper, and cannot
think I have at all succeeded in being either veracious or polite. I
knew, of course, that I took your paper merely as a pin to hang my own
remarks upon; but, alas! what a thing is any paper! What fine remarks
can you not hang on mine! How I have sinned against proportion, and with
every effort to the contrary, against the merest rudiments of courtesy
to you! You are indeed a very acute reader to have divined the real
attitude of my mind; and I can only conclude, not without closed eyes
and shrinking shoulders, in the well-worn words,

Lay on, Macduff!

TO MR. AND MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON

_Bonallie Towers, Bournemouth, December 9, 1884._

MY DEAR PEOPLE,--The dreadful tragedy of the Pall Mall has come to a
happy but ludicrous ending: I am to keep the money, the tale writ for
them is to be buried certain fathoms deep, and they are to flash out
before the world with our old friend of Kinnaird, _The Body Snatcher_.
When you come, please to bring--

(1) My Montaigne, or, at least, the two last volum