by J. W. F. on his own boyhood.

_P.O. San Francisco, April 8th, 1880._

MY DEAR FERRIER,--Many thanks for your letter, and the instalment of
_Forester_ which accompanied it, and which I read with amusement and
pleasure. I fear Somerset's letter must wait; for my dear boy, I have
been very nearly on a longer voyage than usual; I am fresh from giving
Charon a quid instead of an obolus: but he, having accepted the payment,
scorned me, and I had to make the best of my way backward through the
mallow-wood, with nothing to show for this displacement but the fatigue
of the journey. As soon as I feel fit, you shall have the letter, trust
me. But just now even a note such as I am now writing takes it out of
me. I have, truly, been very sick; I fear I am a vain man, for I thought
it a pity I should die. I could not help thinking that a good many would
be disappointed; but for myself, although I still think life a business
full of agreeable features I was not entirely unwilling to give it up.
It is so difficult to behave well; and in that matter, I get more
dissatisfied with myself, because more exigent, every day. I shall be
pleased to hear again from you soon. I shall be married early in May and
then go to the mountains, a very withered bridegroom. I think your MS.
Bible, if that were a specimen, would be a credit to humanity. Between
whiles, collect such thoughts both from yourself and others: I somehow
believe every man should leave a Bible behind him,--if he is unable to
leave a jest book. I feel fit to leave nothing but my benediction. It is
a strange thing how, do what you will, nothing seems accomplished. I
feel as far from having paid humanity my board and lodging as I did six
years ago when I was sick at Mentone. But I dare say the devil would
keep telling me so, if I had moved mountains, and at least I have been
very happy on many different occasions, and that is always something. I
can read nothing, write nothing; but a little while ago and I could eat
nothing either; but now that is changed. This is a long letter for me;
rub your hands, boy, for 'tis an honour.--Yours, from Charon's strand,

R. L. S.

TO EDMUND GOSSE

A poetical counterpart to this letter will be found in the piece
beginning 'Not yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert,' which was
composed at the same time and is printed in _Underwoods_.

_San Francisco, April 16 [1880]._

MY DEAR GOSSE,--You have not answere