n a
desolation--crying out like a burnt child, and yet always wisely and
beautifully--how can that end, as a piece of reading, even to the
strong--but on the brink of the most cruel kind of weeping? I observe
the old man's style is stronger on me than ever it was, and by rights,
too, since I have just laid down his most attaching book. God rest the
baith o' them I But even if they do not meet again, how we should all be
strengthened to be kind, and not only in act, in speech also, that so
much more important part. See what this apostle of silence most regrets,
not speaking out his heart.

I was struck as you were by the admirable, sudden, clear sunshine upon
Southey--even on his works. Symonds, to whom I repeated it, remarked at
once, a man who was thus respected by both Carlyle and Landor must have
had more in him than we can trace. So I feel with true humility.

It was to save my brain that Symonds proposed reviewing. He and, it
appears, Leslie Stephen fear a little some eclipse: I am not quite
without sharing the fear. I know my own languor as no one else does; it
is a dead down-draught, a heavy fardel. Yet if I could shake off the
wolverine aforesaid, and his fangs are lighter, though perhaps I feel
them more, I believe I could be myself again a while. I have not written
any letter for a great time; none saying what I feel, since you were
here, I fancy. Be duly obliged for it, and take my most earnest thanks
not only for the books but for your letter.--Your affectionate,

R. L. S.

The effect of reading this on Fanny shows me I must tell you I am very
happy, peaceful, and jolly, except for questions of work and the states
of other people.

Woggin sends his love.

TO HORATIO F. BROWN

A close intimate of J. A. Symonds, and frequent visitor at Davos, was
Mr. Horatio F. Brown, author of _Life on the Lagoons_, etc. He took
warmly, as did every one, to Stevenson. The following two notes are
from a copy of Penn's _Fruits of Solitude_, printed at Philadelphia,
which Stevenson sent him as a gift this winter after his return to
Venice.

_Hotel Belvedere, Davos, [February 1881]._

MY DEAR BROWN,--Here it is, with the mark of a San Francisco
_bouquiniste_. And if ever in all my "human conduct" I have done a
better thing to any fellow-creature than handing on to you this sweet,
dignified, and wholesome book, I know I shall hear of it on the last
day. To write a book like this were