evangelical piety in that of the reformed slaving captain
who gives his name to the piece.

_Bonallie Towers, Branksome Park, Bournemouth (The three B's)
[November 5, 1884]._

MY DEAR FATHER,--Allow me to say, in a strictly Pickwickian sense, that
you are a silly fellow. I am pained indeed, but how should I be
offended? I think you exaggerate; I cannot forget that you had the same
impression of the _Deacon_; and yet, when you saw it played, were less
revolted than you looked for; and I will still hope that the _Admiral_
also is not so bad as you suppose. There is one point, however, where I
differ from you very frankly. Religion is in the world; I do not think
you are the man to deny the importance of its role; and I have long
decided not to leave it on one side in art. The opposition of the
Admiral and Mr. Pew is not, to my eyes, either horrible or irreverent;
but it may be, and it probably is, very ill done: what then? This is a
failure; better luck next time; more power to the elbow, more
discretion, more wisdom in the design, and the old defeat becomes the
scene of the new victory. Concern yourself about no failure; they do not
cost lives as in engineering; they are the _pierres perdues_ of
successes. Fame is (truly) a vapour; do not think of it; if the writer
means well and tries hard, no failure will injure him, whether with God
or man.

I wish I could hear a brighter account of yourself; but I am inclined to
acquit the _Admiral_ of having a share in the responsibility. My very
heavy cold is, I hope, drawing off; and the change to this charming
house in the forest will, I hope, complete my re-establishment.--With
love to all, believe me, your ever affectionate

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO W. E. HENLEY

_Bonallie Towers, Bournemouth, November 11, 1884._

DEAR BOY,--I have been nearly smashed altogether; fever and chills, with
really very considerable suffering; and to my deep gloom and some fear
about the future, work has had to stop. There was no way out of it;
yesterday and to-day nothing would come, it was a mere waste of tissue,
productive of spoiled paper.

I hope it will not last long; for the bum-baily is panting at my rump,
and when I turn a scared eye across my shoulder, I behold his talons
quivering above my frock-coat tails.

Gosse has writ to offer me L40 for a Christmas number ghost story for
the Pall Mall: eight thousand words. I have, with some conditions,
a