I fear I was born a parson; but I live very near upon the margin (though, by your leave, I may outlive you all!), and too much rigour in these daily things sounds to me like clatter on the kitchen dishes. If it might be--could it not be smoothed? This very day my father writes me he has gone to see, upon his deathbed, an old friend to whom for years he has not spoken or written. On his deathbed; no picking up of the lost stitches; merely to say: my little fury, my spotted uprightness, after having split our lives, have not a word of quarrel to say more. And the same post brings me the news of another--War! Things in this troubled medium are not so clear, dear Henley; there 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.