* * * * *
Oct. 28th, 1885.
MY DEAREST FATHER,—Get the November number of _Time_, and you will see
a review of me by a very clever fellow, who is quite furious at bottom
because I am too orthodox, just as Purcell was savage because I am not
orthodox enough. I fall between two stools. It is odd, too, to see how
this man thinks me a full-blooded foxhunter, and tells me my philosophy
would fail if I lost my health or had to give up exercise!
An illustrated _Treasure Island_ will be out next month. I have had an
early copy, and the French pictures are admirable. The artist has got
his types up in Hogarth; he is full of fire and spirit, can draw and
can compose, and has understood the book as I meant it, all but one or
two little accidents, such as making the _Hispaniola_ a brig. I would
send you my copy, _but I cannot_: it is my new toy, and I cannot divorce
myself from this enjoyment.
I am keeping really better, and have been out about every second day,
though the weather is cold and very wild.
I was delighted to hear you were keeping better; you and Archer would
agree, more shame to you! (Archer is my pessimist critic.) Good-bye to all
of you, with my best love. We had a dreadful overhauling of my conduct as
a son the other night; and my wife stripped me of my illusions and made
me admit I had been a detestable bad one. Of one thing in particular she
convicted me in my own eyes: I mean, a most unkind reticence, which hung
on me then, and I confess still hangs on me now, when I try to assure
you that I do love you.—Ever your bad son,