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 Béranger 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 yellow water-lilies; poplars and willows innumerable; and about it all such an atmosphere of sadness and slackness, one could do nothing but get into the boat and out of it again, and yawn for bedtime. Yesterday Bob and I walked home; it came on a very creditable thunderstorm; we were soon wet through; sometimes the rain was so heavy that one could only see by holding the hand over the eyes; and to crown all, we lost our way and wandered all over the place, and into the artillery range, among broken trees, with big shot lying about among the rocks. It was near dinner-time when we got to Barbizon; and it is supposed that we walked from twenty-three to twenty-five miles, which is not bad for the Advocate, who is not tired this morning. I was very glad to be back again in this dear place, and smell the wet forest in the morning. Simpson and the rest drove back in a carriage, and got about as wet as we did. Why don't you write? I have no more to say.--Ever your affectionate son, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. TO MRS. SITWELL At this time Stevenson was much occupied, as were several young writers his contemporaries, with imitating the artificial forms of early French verse. Only one of his attempts, I believe, has been preserved, besides the two contained in this letter. The second is a variation on a theme of Banville's. _Château Renard, Loiret, August 1875._