e avocation, we have named him "the
W.S." to give a flavour of respectability to the street.

Enough of the Gasse. The weather is here much colder. It rained a good
deal yesterday; and though it is fair and sunshiny again to-day, and we
can still sit, of course, with our windows open, yet there is no more
excuse for the siesta; and the bathe in the river, except for
cleanliness, is no longer a necessity of life. The Main is very swift.
In one part of the baths it is next door to impossible to swim against
it, and I suspect that, out in the open, it would be quite
impossible.--Adieu, my dear mother, and believe me, ever your
affectionate son,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
(_Rentier_).

TO CHARLES BAXTER

On the way home with Sir Walter Simpson from Germany. The L.J.R.
herein mentioned was a short-lived Essay Club of only six members;
its meetings were held in a public-house in Advocate's Close; the
meaning of its initials (as recently divulged by Mr. Baxter) was
Liberty, Justice, Reverence; no doubt understood by the members in
some fresh and esoteric sense of their own.

_Boulogne Sur Mer, Wednesday, 3rd or 4th September 1872._

Blame me not that this epistle
Is the first you have from me.
Idleness has held me fettered,
But at last the times are bettered
And once more I wet my whistle
Here, in France beside the sea.

All the green and idle weather
I have had in sun and shower,
Such an easy warm subsistence,
Such an indolent existence
I should find it hard to sever
Day from day and hour from hour.

Many a tract-provided ranter
May upbraid me, dark and sour,
Many a bland Utilitarian
Or excited Millenarian,
--"_Pereunt et imputantur_
You must speak to every hour."

But (the very term's deceptive)
You at least, my friend, will see,
That in sunny grassy meadows
Trailed across by moving shadows
To be actively receptive
Is as much as man can be.

He that all the winter grapples
Difficulties, thrust and ward--
Needs to cheer him thro' his duty
Memories of sun and beauty
Orchards with the russet apples
Lying scattered on the sward.

Many such I keep in prison,
Keep them here at heart unseen,
Till my muse again rehearses
Long years hence, and in my verses
You shall meet them rearisen
Ever comely, ever green.

You kno