If I survive, I shall have Clinton to dinner: it is plain I must make
hay while the sun shines; I shall not long keep a footing in the world
of penny writers, or call them obolists. It is a world full of
surprises, a romantic world. Weg, I was known there; even I. The
obolists, then, sometimes peruse our works. It is only fair; since I so
much batten upon theirs. Talking of which, in Heaven's name, get _The
Bondage of Brandon_ (3 vols.) by Bracebridge Hemming. It's the devil and
all for drollery. There is a Superior (sic) of the Jesuits, straight out
of Skelt.
And now look here, I had three points: Clinton--disposed of--(2nd) Benj.
Franklin--do you want him? (3rd) A radiant notion begot this morning
over an atlas: why not, you who know the lingo, give us a good legendary
and historical book on Iceland? It would, or should, be as romantic as a
book of Scott's; as strange and stirring as a dream. Think on't. My wife
screamed with joy at the idea; and the little Lloyd clapped his hands;
so I offer you three readers on the spot.
Fanny and I have both been in bed, tended by the hired sick nurse; Lloyd
has a broken finger (so he did not clap his hands literally); Wogg has
had an abscess in his ear; our servant is a devil.--I am yours ever,
with both of our best regards to Mrs. Gosse,
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,
The Rejected Obolist.