I am all at a standstill; as idle as a painted ship, but not so pretty. My romance, which has so nearly butchered me in the writing, not even finished; though so near, thank God, that a few days of tolerable strength will see the roof upon that structure. I have worked very hard at it, and so do not expect any great public favour. _In moments of effort, one learns to do the easy things that people like._ There is the golden maxim; thus one should strain and then play, strain again and play again. The strain is for us, it educates; the play is for the reader, and pleases. Do you not feel so? We are ever threatened by two contrary faults: both deadly. To sink into what my forefathers would have called "rank conformity," and to pour forth cheap replicas, upon the one hand; upon the other, and still more insidiously present, to forget that art is a diversion and a decoration, that no triumph or effort is of value, nor anything worth reaching except charm.--Yours affectionately, R. L. S. TO MISS FERRIER Soon after the date of the following letter Miss Ferrier went out to her friends and stayed with them through the trying weeks which followed. _La Solitude, Hyeres_ [_March_ 22, 1884]. MY DEAR MISS FERRIER,--Are you really going to fail us? This seems a dreadful thing. My poor wife, who is not well off for friends on this bare coast, has been promising herself, and I have been promising her, a rare acquisition. And now Miss Burn has failed, and you utter a very doubtful note. You do not know how delightful this place is, nor how anxious we are for a visit. Look at the names: "The Solitude"--is that romantic? The palm-trees?--how is that for the gorgeous East? "Var"? the name of a river--"the quiet waters by"! 'Tis true, they are in another department, and consist of stones and a biennial spate; but what a music, what a plash of brooks, for the imagination! We have hills; we have skies; the roses are putting forth, as yet sparsely; the meadows by the sea are one sheet of jonquils; the birds sing as in an English May--for, considering we are in France and serve up our song-birds, I am ashamed to say, on a little field of toast and with a sprig of thyme (my own receipt) in their most innocent and now unvocal bellies--considering all this, we have a wonderfully fair wood-music round this Solitude of ours. What can I say more?--All this awaits you. _Kennst du das Land_, in short.--Your sincere friend, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO W. H. LOW The verses enclosed were the set entitled "The Canoe Speaks," afterwards printed in _Underwoods_. Stevenson was suffering at this time from a temporary weakness of the eyesight. _La Solitude, Hyeres [April 1884]._ MY DEAR LOW,--The blind man in these sprawled lines sends greeting. I have been ill, as perhaps the papers told you. The news--"great news--glorious news--sec-ond ed-ition!"--went the round in England.