impossible; at least one can hand it
on--with a wrench--one to another. My wife cries out and my own heart
misgives me, but still here it is. I could scarcely better prove
myself--Yours affectionately,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO HORATIO F. BROWN

_Hotel Belvedere, Davos, [February 1881]._

MY DEAR BROWN,--I hope, if you get thus far, you will know what an
invaluable present I have made you. Even the copy was dear to me,
printed in the colony that Penn established, and carried in my pocket
all about the San Francisco streets, read in street cars and
ferry-boats, when I was sick unto death, and found in all times and
places a peaceful and sweet companion. But I hope, when you shall have
reached this note, my gift will not have been in vain; for while just
now we are so busy and intelligent, there is not the man living, no, nor
recently dead, that could put, with so lovely a spirit, so much honest,
kind wisdom into words.

R. L. S.

TO HORATIO F. BROWN

The following experiment in English alcaics was suggested by
conversations with Mr. Brown and J. A. Symonds on metrical forms,
followed by the despatch of some translations from old Venetian
boat-songs by the former after his return to Venice.

_Hotel Belvedere, Davos, [April 1881]._

MY DEAR BROWN,--Nine years I have conded them.

Brave lads in olden musical centuries
Sang, night by night, adorable choruses,
Sat late by alehouse doors in April
Chaunting in joy as the moon was rising:

Moon-seen and merry, under the trellises,
Flush-faced they played with old polysyllables;
Spring scents inspired,[35] old wine diluted;
Love and Apollo were there to chorus.

Now these, the songs, remain to eternity,
Those, only those, the bountiful choristers
Gone--those are gone, those unremembered
Sleep and are silent in earth for ever.

So man himself appears and evanishes,
So smiles and goes; as wanderers halting at
Some green-embowered house, play their music,
Play and are gone on the windy highway;

Yet dwells the strain enshrined in the memory
Long after they departed eternally,
Forth-faring tow'rd far mountain summits,
Cities of men on the sounding Ocean.

Youth sang the song in years immemorial;
Brave chanticleer, he sang and was beautiful;
Bird-haunted, green tree-tops in springtime
Heard and were pleased by the voice of singing;

Youth g