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 which conveys a reproach. He did not sympathise with the doctrine that an artist should wrap up himself in luxurious hedonism and cultivate indifference to active life. He was too much of a boy. A true boy cannot be 'æsthetic.' He had 'day-dreams,' but they were of piracy; tacit aspirations towards stirring adventure and active heroism. His dreams were of a future waking. Stevenson's energies had to take the form of writing; and though he talks about his 'art' a little more solemnly than one would wish, he betrays a certain hesitation as to its claims. In a late essay, he suggests that a man who has failed in literature should take to some 'more manly way of life.' To 'live by pleasure,' he declares, 'is not a high calling'; and he illustrates the proposition by speaking of such a life (not quite seriously) as a kind of intellectual prostitution. He laments his disqualification for active duties. 'I think David Balfour a nice little book,' he says, 'and very artistic and just the thing to occupy the leisure of a busy life; but for the top flower of a man's life it seems to be inadequate. &hellip; I could have wished to be otherwise busy in this world. I ought to have been able to build lighthouses and write David Balfours too.' This