y end by trying to do it by the pen
only: I shall not love myself if I do; and is it ever a good thing to do
a thing for which you despise yourself?--even in the doing? And if the
thing you do is to call upon others to do the thing you neglect? I have
never dared to say what I feel about men's lives, because my own was in
the wrong: shall I dare to send them to death? The physician must heal
himself; he must honestly _try_ the path he recommends: if he does not
even try, should he not be silent?

I thank you very heartily for your letter, and for the seriousness you
brought to it. You know, I think when a serious thing is your own, you
keep a saner man by laughing at it and yourself as you go. So I do not
write possibly with all the really somewhat sickened gravity I feel. And
indeed, what with the book, and this business to which I referred, and
Ireland, I am scarcely in an enviable state. Well, I ought to be glad,
after ten years of the worst training on earth--valetudinarianism--that
I can still be troubled by a duty. You shall hear more in time; so far,
I am at least decided: I will go and see Balfour when I get to London.

We have all had a great pleasure: a Mrs. Rawlinson came and brought with
her a nineteen-year-old daughter, simple, human, as beautiful
as--herself; I never admired a girl before, you know it was my weakness:
we are all three dead in love with her. How nice to be able to do so
much good to harassed people by--yourself!--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO MISS RAWLINSON

Here follows a compliment in verse to the young lady last mentioned,
whose Christian name was May.

[_Skerryvore, Bournemouth, April 1887._]

Of the many flowers you brought me,
Only some were meant to stay,
And the flower I thought the sweetest
Was the flower that went away.

Of the many flowers you brought me,
All were fair and fresh and gay,
But the flower I thought the sweetest
Was the blossom of the May.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

Within a fortnight after the date of the above Stevenson went
himself, and for the last time, to Scotland, and was present, too
late for recognition, at the death of his father (May 8, 1887).
Business detained him for some weeks, and the following was written
just before his return to Bournemouth.

[_Edinburgh, June 1887._]

MY DEAR S. C.,--At last I can write a word to you. Your little note in