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My dear Mr. Symonds,—I send you a little book; differentfrom the many volumes, plump with documents and the dignityof History, which I intended for you long ago. But, since I haveno better thing to offer, take—dear Master—these rough andscattered pages. For to whom, if not to you, should I dedicatethe book? When I look back, I see you at my side in all mystudies; for the last ten years, there is not one of them whichhas not been confided to you, and, most of all, my dreams ofHistory. So that whatever I write belongs in some sort toyou; but especially this little volume of which we talked somuch in your study at Davos two years ago. Do you rememberhow you guided me through the innumerable pages ofLitta and of Muratori in quest of the secret of the FrenchClaim to Milan? We did not find much of that, but we foundso many better things; and, best of all, the happy hours whichyou illuminated! Hours in which you evoked for me, as weplunged deeper and deeper into your Chronicles, the greatfigures of the Past. At first they rose before me, pale andmute—silent and immaculate as the white recesses of yourAlps; but, at the touch of your wand, they assumed theirancient colour and consistence—the very smile, the gait, theaccent, the passions, that had moved them once beneath thissun that has survived them; their voices magically issued outof the silent yellow pages; the sound of their