ated _Canterbury
Pilgrimage_.

[_Skerryvore, Bournemouth, Summer 1885._]

DEAR SIR AND MADAM,--This horrible delay must be forgiven me. It was not
caused by any want of gratitude; but by the desire to acknowledge the
dedication more suitably (and to display my wit) in a copy of verses.
Well, now I give that up, and tell you in plain prose, that you have
given me much pleasure by the dedication of your graceful book.

As I was writing the above, I received a visit from Lady Shelley, who
mentioned to me that she was reading Mrs. Pennell's _Mary
Wollstonecraft_ with pleasure. It is odd how streams cross. Mr.
Pennell's work I have, of course, long known and admired: and I believe
there was once some talk, on the part of Mr. Gilder, that we should work
together; but the scheme fell through from my rapacity; and since then
has been finally rendered impossible (or so I fear) by my health.

I should say that when I received the _Pilgrimage_, I was in a state
(not at all common with me) of depression; and the pleasant testimony
that my work had not all been in vain did much to set me up again. You
will therefore understand, late as is the hour, with what sincerity I am
able to sign myself--Gratefully yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

MR. AND MRS. PENNELL,--I see I should explain that this is all in my own
hand, I have not fobbed you off with an amanuensis; but as I have two
handwritings (both equally bad in these days) I might lead you to think
so.

R. L. S.

TO MRS. FLEEMING JENKIN

On the death of Professor Fleeming Jenkin, who in Stevenson's early
student days at Edinburgh had been both the warmest and the wisest of
his elder friends (died June 12, 1885).

[_Skerryvore, Bournemouth, June 1885._]

MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,--You know how much and for how long I have loved,
respected, and admired him; I am only able to feel a little with you.
But I know how he would have wished us to feel. I never knew a better
man, nor one to me more lovable; we shall all feel the loss more greatly
as time goes on. It scarce seems life to me; what must it be to you? Yet
one of the last things that he said to me was, that from all these sad
bereavements of yours he had learned only more than ever to feel the
goodness and what we, in our feebleness, call the support of God; he had
been ripening so much--to other eyes than ours, we must suppose he was
ripe, and try to feel it. I feel it is better n