e are faults upon all hands;
and the end comes, and Ferrier's grave gapes for us all.

THE PROSY PREACHER

(But written in deep dejection, my dear man).

Suppose they _are_ wrong? Well, am I not tolerated, are you not
tolerated?--we and _our_ faults?

TO W. H. LOW

_La Solitude, Hyeres, Var, 13th December 1883._

MY DEAR LOW,-- ... I was much pleased with what you said about my work.
Ill-health is a great handicapper in the race. I have never at command
that press of spirits that are necessary to strike out a thing red-hot.
_Silverado_ is an example of stuff worried and pawed about, God knows
how often, in poor health, and you can see for yourself the result: good
pages, an imperfect fusion, a certain languor of the whole. Not, in
short, art. I have told Roberts to send you a copy of the book when it
appears, where there are some fair passages that will be new to you. My
brief romance, _Prince Otto_--far my most difficult adventure up to
now--is near an end. I have still one chapter to write _de fond en
comble_, and three or four to strengthen or recast. The rest is done. I
do not know if I have made a spoon, or only spoiled a horn; but I am
tempted to hope the first. If the present bargain hold, it will not see
the light of day for some thirteen months. Then I shall be glad to know
how it strikes you. There is a good deal of stuff in it, both dramatic
and, I think, poetic; and the story is not like these purposeless fables
of to-day, but is, at least, intended to stand firm upon a base of
philosophy--or morals--as you please. It has been long gestated, and is
wrought with care. _Enfin, nous verrons._ My labours have this year for
the first time been rewarded with upwards of L350; that of itself, so
base we are! encourages me; and the better tenor of my health yet
more.--Remember me to Mrs. Low, and believe me, yours most sincerely,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO THOMAS STEVENSON

_La Solitude, December 20, 1883._

MY DEAR FATHER,--I do not know which of us is to blame; I suspect it is
you this time. The last accounts of you were pretty good, I was pleased
to see; I am, on the whole, very well--suffering a little still from my
fever and liver complications, but better.

I have just finished re-reading a book, which I counsel you above all
things _not_ to read, as it has made me very ill, and would make you
worse--Lockhart's _Scott_. It is worth reading, as all things are