nce on his
friend and counsellor of the last two years; to take his life more into
his own hands; and to intermit the regularity of his correspondence with
her. A few new correspondents appear; but to none of us in these days
did he write more than scantily. Partly his growing absorption by the
complications of his life and the interests of his work left him little
time or inclination for letter-writing; partly his greater freedom of
movement made it unnecessary. On his way backwards and forwards between
Scotland and France, his friends in London had the chance of seeing him
much more frequently than of yore. He avoided formal and dress-coated
society; but in the company of congenial friends, whether men or women,
and in places like the Savile Club (his favourite haunt), he was as
brilliant and stimulating as ever, and however acute his inward
preoccupations, his visits were always a delight.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

[_Edinburgh, end of July 1875._]

MY DEAR COLVIN,--Herewith you receive the rest of Henley's hospital
work. He was much pleased by what you said of him, and asked me to
forward these to you for your opinion. One poem, the _Spring Sorrow_,
seems to me the most beautiful. I thank God for this _petit bout de
consolation_, that by Henley's own account, this one more lovely thing
in the world is not altogether without some trace of my influence: let
me say that I have been something sympathetic which the mother found and
contemplated while she yet carried it in her womb. This, in my profound
discouragement, is a great thing for me; if I cannot do good with
myself, at least, it seems, I can help others better inspired; I am at
least a skilful accoucheur. My discouragement is from many causes: among
others the re-reading of my Italian story. Forgive me, Colvin, but I
cannot agree with you; it seems green fruit to me, if not really
unwholesome; it is profoundly feeble, damn its weakness! Moreover I
stick over my _Fontainebleau_, it presents difficulties to me that I
surmount slowly.

I am very busy with Beranger for the Britannica. Shall be up in town on
Friday or Saturday.--Ever yours,

R. L. S., _Advocate_.

TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON

[_Chez Siron, Barbizon, Seine et Marne, August 1875._]

MY DEAR MOTHER,--I have been three days at a place called Grez, a pretty
and very melancholy village on the plain. A low bridge of many arches
choked with sedge; great fields of white and yello