[Miss Boodle had made Mr. Stevenson a present of a paper-cutter when he
left Bournemouth; and it is in the character of the paper-cutter that
he now writes to her:]
TAITI, October 10th, 1888.
DEAR GIVER,—I am at a loss to conceive your object in giving me to a
person so locomotory as my proprietor. The number of thousand miles
that I have travelled, the strange bed-fellows with which I have been
made acquainted, I lack the requisite literary talent to make clear to
your imagination. I speak of bed-fellows; pocket-fellows would be a more
exact expression, for the place of my abode is in my master's right-hand
trouser-pocket; and there, as he waded on the resounding beaches of
Nukahiva, or in the shallow tepid water on the reef of Fakarava, I have
been overwhelmed by and buried among all manner of abominable South Sea
shells, beautiful enough in their way, I make no doubt, but singular
company for any self-respecting paper-cutter. He, my master—or as I more
justly call him, my bearer; for although I occasionally serve him, does
not he serve me daily and all day long, carrying me like an African
potentate on my subject's legs?—_he_ is delighted with these isles,
and this climate, and these savages, and a variety of other things. He
now blows a flageolet with singular effects; sometimes the poor thing
appears stifled with shame, sometimes it screams with agony; he pursues
his career with truculent insensibility. Health appears to reign in
the party. I was very nearly sunk in a squall. I am sorry I ever left
England, for here there are no books to be had, and without books there
is no stable situation for, dear Giver, your affectionate