( LIBRARY } 
 
 I U).i ...i. OF I 
 
 I CALIhOW.HA I 
 
 I SAM mmo I
 
 eon 
 
 Leslie Stephen 
 From a photograph by Elliott & Fry 
 
 '^M
 
 IRobert %ome Stevcneon 
 
 I Icslic Srepbcn 
 
 "Iftew ^ovk an^ XonSon 
 
 0. IP. putnam'6 Sons 
 
 "Cbe IRnfcftcrbocfter ipresa
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STKVKNSON 
 
 NEARLY thirty years have passed 
 since Stevenson began to attract a 
 circle of appreciative readers. From the 
 first it was clear that the literary appreci- 
 ation coincided with a personal attraction. 
 As his fame extended, the admiration of 
 readers remotest in the flesh had a tinge 
 of friendship, while the inner circle could 
 not distinguish between their enthusiastic 
 affection for the man and their cordial 
 enjoyment of his genius. So far as the 
 biographer is concerned, the identity of 
 the two sentiments is a clear gain. Affec- 
 tion, though not a sufficient, is an almost 
 necessary qualification for a good bio- 
 graphy. It may be doubted, however, 
 3
 
 4 IRobevt Xouis Stevenson 
 
 whether a man's friends are his best 
 critics. The keen eye of the candid out- 
 sider has detected a tacit conspiracy in 
 this case. The circle of friends looks un- 
 pleasantly like a clique, trying to gain a 
 reflex glory from the fame of its hero, or 
 to make a boast of its superior insight. 
 
 The connection, it is true, has other 
 dangers. The tie may be broken, and the 
 rupture, it appears, cancels all obligations 
 to reticence. No one can then lay on the 
 lash like the old friend who knows the 
 weak places and has, or fancies that he 
 has, an injury to resent. The bitterness 
 may be intelligible, and therefore, per- 
 haps, we should excuse a man for reliev- 
 ing his feelings after this peculiar fashion. 
 I cannot say that I think the result edi- 
 fying; but I make no further comment. 
 I would rather observe that fidelity to old 
 ties is not necessarily blinding. No one 
 can read Mr. C.!\i:.'s notes upon his
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 5 
 
 friend's letters without admitting that his 
 friendship has sharpened his insight. To 
 him belongs the credit of having been the 
 first, outside the home circle, to recognise 
 Stevenson's genius and to give encourage- 
 ment when encouragement was most 
 needed. The keen interest enabled him 
 to interpret both the personal and the 
 artistic characteristics of his friend with a 
 clearness which satisfies us of the essential 
 fidelity of the portrait. If we differ from 
 the valuation which he puts upon certain 
 qualities, he gives essential help to per- 
 ceiving them. We often learn more from 
 the partisan than from the candid his- 
 torian; and in criticism, as well as in 
 histor}^, candour may be an alias for in- 
 sensibility. 
 
 It is to Mr. Colvin that I owe what 
 is perhaps m3^ chief claim to such respect 
 as readers of a periodical may concede to 
 an editor. Through his good ofiices,
 
 6 TRobert %ouis Stevenson 
 
 Stevenson became one of my contributors, 
 and I may be allowed to boast that, in his 
 case at least, I did not nip rising genius 
 in the bud — the feat which, according to 
 some young authors, represents the main 
 desire of the editorial mind. Fate, how- 
 ever, withheld from me the privilege of 
 forming such an intimacy as could ma- 
 teriall}^ bias my opinions. So far I have 
 a negative qualification for answering the 
 question which so many people are eager 
 to put: what, namely, will posterity think 
 about Stevenson ? I am content to leave 
 the point to posterity; but in trying to 
 sum up ni}' own impressions, corrected by 
 the judgment of his closer friends and 
 critics, I may contribute to the discussion 
 of the previous question: what was the 
 species, not what was the degree, of praise 
 which he will receive ? Friendly criticism 
 is apt to fail in this direction. Enthusi- 
 asts fancy that to define a man's proper
 
 IRobert %oui6 Stevenson 7 
 
 sphere is to limit his merits; they assume 
 that other sects are necessaril}^ hostile, 
 and that they must remove one bust from 
 Poet's Corner in order to make room for 
 doing honour to their favourite. Such 
 controversies lead to impossible problems, 
 and attempts to find a common measure 
 for disparate qualities. We may surely 
 by this time agree that Tennyson and 
 Browning excelled in different lines with- 
 out asking which line was absolutely best. 
 That will always be a matter of individual 
 taste. 
 
 Whatever Stev^enson was, he was, I 
 think, a man of genius. I do not mean 
 to bring him under any strict definition. 
 My own conception of genius has been 
 formed b}^ an induction from the very few 
 cases which I have been fortunate enough 
 to observe. I may try to describe one 
 characteristic by perverting the language 
 of one of those instances. The late W.
 
 8 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 K. Clifford, who had the most unmistak- 
 able stamp of genius, held that the uni- 
 verse was composed of * ' mindstuff. ' ' I 
 don't know how that may be, but a man 
 has genius, I should say, when he seems 
 to be made of nothing but " mindstuff." 
 We of coarser make have a certain in- 
 fusion of mind; but it is terribl}^ cramped 
 and held down b}^ matter. What we call 
 " thinking " is often a mechanical process 
 carried on by dead formulae. We work 
 out results as a phonograph repeats the 
 sound when you insert the diaphragm 
 already impressed with the pattern. The 
 mental processes in the man of genius are 
 still vital instead of being automatic. He 
 has, as Carlyle is fond of repeating about 
 Mirabeau, "swallowed all formulas," or 
 rather, he is not the slave but the master 
 of those useful intellectual tools. It is 
 this pervading vitality which has marked 
 such geniuses as I have known, though
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 9 
 
 it assumes very various forms. A propo- 
 sition of Euclid such as "coaches" 
 hammer into the head of a dunce to be re- 
 produced by rote developed instantly, 
 when inserted into Clifford's hearer, into 
 whole systems of geometry. Genius of a 
 different tj^pe was shown by the historian 
 J. R. Green. You pointed out a bit of old 
 wall, or a slope of down, and it immedi- 
 ately opened to him a vista of past ages, 
 illustrating bygone social states and the 
 growth of nations. So Stevenson heard 
 an anecdote and it became at once the 
 nucleus of a story, and he was on the spot 
 a hero of romance plunging into a whole 
 series of thrilling adventures. Connected 
 with this, I suppose, is the invincible 
 boyishness so often noticed as a charac- 
 teristic of genius. The mind which re- 
 tains its freshness can sympathise with 
 the child to whom the world is still a 
 novelty. Both Clifford and Green w^ere
 
 lo IRoljert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 conspicuous for this possession of the pre- 
 rogative of genius, and showed it both in 
 being boyish themselves and in their in- 
 tense sympathy with children. Clifford 
 was never happier than in a child's party, 
 and Green sought relief from the dreari- 
 ness of a clergyman's life at the Kast-End 
 by associating with the children of the 
 district. Stevenson's boyishness was not 
 only conspicuous, but was the very main- 
 spring of his best w^ork. That quality 
 cannot be shown in a mathematical dis- 
 sertation or an historical narrative, but it 
 is invaluable for a writer of romances. 
 The singular vivacity of Stevenson's 
 early memories is shown by Mr. Balfour's 
 account of his infancy as it was sufl&ciently 
 revealed in the delightful Child' s Gardeii. 
 It is amusing to note that Stevenson 
 could not even imagine that other men 
 should be without this experience. You 
 are indulging in "wilful paradox," he
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson n 
 
 replied to Mr. Henry James. "If a man 
 have never been ' ' (Mr. James alleged 
 that he had not been) ' ' on a quest for 
 hidden treasure, it can be demonstrated 
 that he has never been a child." His 
 scheme of life, as he puts it in a charming 
 letter to Mr. Monkhouse, was to be alter- 
 nately a pirate and a leader of irregular 
 cavalry "devastating whole valleys." 
 Some of us, I fear, have never been 
 pirates; and if we were anything, were 
 perhaps already preaching infantile ser- 
 mons. In any case, the castle-building 
 propensity is often so weak as not even 
 to leave a trace in memory. Stevenson's 
 most obvious peculiarity was that it only 
 strengthened with life, and, which is 
 rarer, always retained some of the child- 
 ish colouring. 
 
 A common test — for it is surely not the 
 essence — of genius is the proverbial ca- 
 pacity for taking pains. Stevenson again
 
 12 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 illustrates the meaning of the remark. 
 Nothing is easier, says a recent German 
 philosopher, than to give a receipt for 
 making yourself a good novelist. Write 
 a hundred drafts, none of them above two 
 pages long: let each be so expressed that 
 every word is necessar}-: practise putting 
 anecdotes into the most pregnant and 
 effective shapes; and after ten 3'ears de- 
 voted to these and various subsidiary 
 studies, you will have completed your 
 apprenticeship. Few novelists, I sup- 
 pose, carry out this scheme to the letter; 
 but Stevenson might have approved the 
 spirit of the advice. Nobody would adopt 
 it unless he had the passion for the art, 
 which is a presumption of genius, and 
 without genius the labour would be 
 wasted. That, indeed, raises one of 
 those points which are so delightful to 
 discuss because they admit of no precise 
 solution. When people ask whether
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 13 
 
 *'form" or "content," style or matter 
 be the most important, it is like asking 
 whether order or progress should be the 
 aim of a statesman, or whether strength 
 or activity be most needed for an athlete. 
 Both are essential, and neither excellence 
 will supersede necessity for the other. If 
 you have nothing to say, there is no man- 
 ner of saying it well ; and if not well said, 
 your something is as good as nothing. 
 
 For Stevenson, the question of style 
 was the most pressing. His mind was 
 already, as it continued to be, swarming 
 with any number of projects; he was al- 
 ways acting '' some fragment from his 
 dream of human life " ; the storehouse of 
 his imagination was full to overflowing, 
 and the question was not what to say but 
 how to say it. Moreover, a singular deli- 
 cacy of organisation gave him a love of 
 words for their own sake ; the mere sound 
 of ' ' Jehovah Tsidkenu ' ' gave him a thrill
 
 14 IRobcct %o\xi6 Stevenson 
 
 (it does not thrill me!); he was sensitive 
 from childhood to assonance and allitera- 
 tion, and in his later essay upon the 
 Technical Elements of Style shows how 
 a sentence in the Areopagitica involves a 
 cunning use of the letters P V F. Lan- 
 guage, in short, had to him a music in- 
 dependently of its meaning. That, no 
 doubt, is one element of literary effect, 
 though without a fine ear it would be 
 hopeless to decide what pleases; and the 
 finest ear cannot lay down the conditions 
 of pleasing. This precocious sensitive- 
 ness developed into a clear appreciation 
 of various qualities of style. Like other 
 young men, he began by imitating; tak- 
 ing for models such curiously different 
 writers as Hazlitt, Sir Thomas Browne, 
 Defoe, Hawthorne, Montaigne, Beaude- 
 laire, and Ruskin. In the ordinary cases 
 imitation implies that the model is taken 
 as a master. Milton probably meant, in
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevcngon 15 
 
 youth, to be a second Spenser. But the 
 variety of Stevenson's models implies an 
 absence of strict discipleship. He was 
 trying to discover the secret which gave 
 distinction to any particular style; and 
 without adopting the manner would know 
 how to apply it on occasion for any de- 
 sired effect. How impressionable he was 
 is curiously shown by his statement to- 
 wards the end of his life, that he would 
 not read L,ivy for fear of the effect upon 
 his style. He had long before acquired 
 a style of his own so distinctive that such 
 a danger would strike no one else. I will 
 not dwell upon its merits. They have 
 been set forth, far better than I could hope 
 to do, in Professor Raleigh's admirable 
 study. He is a critic who shares the per- 
 ceptiveness of his author. I will only 
 note one point. A *' stylist" sometimes 
 becomes a mannerist; he acquires tricks 
 of speech which intrude themselves inap-
 
 i6 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 propriately. Stevenson's general freedom 
 from this fault implies that hatred to the 
 commonplace formula of which I have 
 spoken. His words are always alive. 
 He came to insist chiefly upon the im- 
 portance of condensation. '' There is 
 but one art," he says, *' the art to omit " ; 
 or, as Pope puts it, perhaps more ac- 
 curately, " the last and greatest art" is 
 ''the art to blot." That is a corollary 
 from the theory of the right word. A 
 writer is an " amateur," says Stevenson, 
 ' ' who says in two sentences what can be 
 said in one." The artist puts his whole 
 meaning into one perfectly accurate line, 
 while a feebler hand tries to correct one 
 error by superposing another, and ends 
 by making a blur of the whole. 
 
 Stevenson, by whatever means, acquired 
 not only a delicate style, but a style of his 
 own. If it sometimes reminds one of 
 models, it does not suggest that he is
 
 IRobert Xoul0 Stevenson 17 
 
 speaking in a feigned voice. I think, in- 
 deed, that this precocious preoccupation 
 with stj^le suggests an excess of self-con- 
 sciousness; a daintiness which does not 
 allow us to forget the presence of the 
 artist. But Stevenson did not yield to 
 other temptations which beset the lover 
 of exquisite form. He was no "aesthete ' ' 
 in the sense which conveys a reproach. 
 He did not sympathise with the doctrine 
 that an artist should wrap up himself in 
 luxurious hedonism and cultivate indiffer- 
 ence to active life. He was too much of 
 a boy. A true boy cannot be "aesthetic." 
 He had " day-dreams," but they were of 
 piracy; tacit aspirations toward stirring 
 adventure and active heroism. He dreams 
 of a future waking. Stevenson's energies 
 had to take the form of writing; and 
 though he talks about his " art " a little 
 more solemnly than one would wish, he 
 betrays a certain hesitation as to its
 
 i8 IRobect Xoui3 Stevenson 
 
 claims. In a late essay, he suggests that 
 a man who has failed in literature should 
 take to some " more manly way of life." 
 To " live by pleasure," he declares, *'is 
 not a high calling"; and he illustrates 
 the proposition b}' speaking of such a life 
 (not quite seriously) as a kind of intel- 
 lectual prostitution. He laments his dis- 
 qualification for active duties. ' ' I think 
 David Balfoicr a nice little book," he 
 says, ' 'and very artistic and just the thing 
 to occup}' the leisure of a busy life; but 
 for the top flower of a man's life it seems 
 to be inadequate. ... I could have 
 wished to be otherwise busy in this 
 world. I ought to have been able to 
 build light houses and write David Bal- 
 four s ioo.'' This may be considered as 
 the legitimate outcome of the boyish 
 mood. It might have indicated a bud- 
 ding Nelson instead of a budding writer 
 of romance.
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 19 
 
 One result was the curious misunder- 
 standing set forth in the interesting let- 
 ters to Mr. William Archer. Mr. Archer 
 had pleased him by an early appreciation; 
 but had — as Stevenson complains — taken 
 him for a '' rosy-gilled sesthetico- aes- 
 thete"; whereas he was really at this 
 time a '' rickety and cloistered spectre." 
 To Mr. Archer Stevenson's optimism 
 had seemed to indicate superabundant 
 health and a want of familiarity with sor- 
 row and sickness. A rheumatic fever, it 
 was suggested, would try his philosophy. 
 Mr. Archer's hypothesis (if fairly re- 
 ported) was of course the reverse of the 
 fact. Stevenson's whole career was a 
 heroic struggle against disease, and it is 
 needless to add that his sympathy with 
 other sufferers was such as became an 
 exquisitely sensitive nature. Neither 
 would he admit that he overlooked the 
 enormous mass of evil in the world. His
 
 20 iRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 view is characteristic. His own position 
 as an invalid, with "the circle of im- 
 potence closing very slowly but quite 
 steadily round him," makes him indig- 
 nant with the affectation of the rich and 
 strong " bleating about their sorrows and 
 the burthen of life." In a world so full 
 of evil " one dank and dispirited word" 
 is harmful, and it is the business of art 
 to present ga}^ and bright pictures which 
 may send the reader on his way rejoicing. 
 Then ingeniously turning the tables, he 
 argues that Mr. Archer's acceptance of 
 pessimism shows him to be a happy man, 
 " raging at the misery of others." Had 
 his critic tried for himself " what unhap- 
 piness was like," he would have found 
 how much compensation it contains. He 
 admits the correctness of one of ,Mr. 
 Archer's remarks, that he has " a volun- 
 tar}^ aversion from the painful sides of 
 life." On the voyage to the leper settle-
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 21 
 
 ment at Molokai he speaks of the Zola 
 view of the human animal; and upon 
 reaching the place sees '' sights that can- 
 not be told and hears stories that cannot 
 be repeated." M. Zola would have man- 
 aged perhaps to tell and repeat. Steven- 
 son is sickened by the spectacle but 
 ** touched to the heart by the sight of 
 lovely and effective virtues in the help- 
 less. ' ' The background of the loathsome 
 is there; but he would rather dwell upon 
 the moral beauty relieved against it. 
 
 Stevenson might certainl}^ claim that 
 his optimism did not imply want of ex- 
 perience or want of sympathy. And, 
 indeed, one is inclined to ask why the 
 question should be raised at all. A man 
 must be a very determined pessimist if he 
 thinks it wrong for an artist to express 
 moods of cheerfulness or the simple joy 
 of eventful living. We may surely be 
 allowed to be sometimes in high spirits.
 
 22 iRobert Xoui6 Stevenson 
 
 It would require some courage to infer 
 from Treasiwe Isla?id that the author held 
 any philosophy. Stevenson, of course, 
 was not a philosopher in such a sense as 
 would have entitled him to succeed to the 
 chair of Sir William Hamilton at Edin- 
 burgh. Yet it is true that he had some 
 ver}^ strong and very characteristic con- 
 victions upon the questions in which phi- 
 losophy touches the conduct of life. The 
 early difficulties, the abandonment of the 
 regular professional careers, the revolt 
 against the yoke of the lesser catechism, 
 the sentence to a life of invalidism en- 
 forced much reflection, some results of 
 which are embodied in various essay's. 
 A curious indication of the progress of 
 thought is given in his account of the 
 ** books which influenced him." It is a 
 strangely miscellaneous list. He begins 
 with Shakespeare, Dumas, and Bunyan; 
 then comes Montaigne, always a favour-
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 23 
 
 ite; next, '' in order of time, " the Gospel 
 according to St. Matthew; and then Walt 
 Whitman. By an odd transition (as he 
 observes elsewhere) Walt Whitman's in- 
 fluence blends with that of Mr. Herbert 
 Spencer. ' ' I should be much of a hound, ' ' 
 he says, " if I lost my gratitude to Herbert 
 Spencer." Next comes Lewes' s Life of 
 Goethe — though there is no one whom he 
 ''less admires than Goethe." Martial, 
 Marcus Aurelius, Wordsworth, and Mr, 
 G. Meredith's Egoist follow, and he notes 
 that an essay of Hazlitt ' ' on the spirit of 
 obligation" formed a "turning-point in 
 his life. ' ' One would have been glad of 
 a comment upon the last, for the essay is 
 one in which Hazlitt shows his most cyn- 
 ical side, and explains how frequently 
 envy and selfishness are concealed under 
 a pretence of conferring obligations. 
 Stevenson, perhaps, took it as he took 
 Mr. Meredith's novel, for an ethical lee-
 
 24 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 ture, revealing the Protean forms of ego- 
 ism more or less common to us all. 
 
 Stevenson clearly was not one of the 
 young gentlemen who get up a subject 
 systematically. He read as chance and 
 curiosity dictated. A new author did not 
 help him to fill up gaps in a theory; but 
 became a personal friend, throwing out 
 pregnant hints and suggesting rapid 
 glances from various points of view into 
 different aspects of life. Each writer in 
 turn carried on a lively and suggestive 
 conversation with him; but he cares little 
 for putting their remarks into the frame- 
 work of an abstract theory. He does not 
 profess to form any judgment of Mr. 
 Spencer's system; he is content to find 
 him " bracing, manly, and honest." He 
 feels the ethical stimulant. He is at- 
 tracted by all writers whose words have 
 the ring of genuine first-hand conviction; 
 who reveal their own souls — with a o:ood
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 25 
 
 many defects, it may be, but at least 
 bring one into contact with a bit of real, 
 unsophisticated human nature. He can 
 forgive Walt Whitman's want of form, 
 and rejoice in the * * barbaric yawp ' ' which 
 utterly rejects and denounces effete con- 
 ventionalism. What he hates above all 
 is the Pharisee. ** Respectability," he 
 says in Lay Mo7'als^ is " the deadliest gag 
 and wet blanket that can be laid on man." 
 He is, that is to say, a Bohemian; but he 
 is a Bohemian who is tempered for good 
 or (as some critics would say) for bad by 
 morality and the lesser catechism. He 
 sympathises with Whitman's combination 
 of egoism and altruism. '* Morality has 
 been ceremoniously extruded at the door 
 (by Whitman) only to be brought in 
 again by the window." So Stevenson's 
 Bohemianism only modifies without ob- 
 literating his moral prejudices. Scots- 
 man as he was to the verge of fanaticism,
 
 26 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 he refused to shut his eyes to the coarser 
 elements in the national idol. The Lay 
 Morals is specially concerned with the 
 danger of debasing the moral currency. 
 In spirit the Christian principles are ab- 
 solutely right; but as soon as they are 
 converted into an outward law, the spirit 
 tends to be superseded by the letter, and 
 the hypocrite finds a convenient shelter 
 under the formula which has parted com- 
 pany from the true purpose. An inter- 
 esting bit of autobiography is made to 
 illustrate the point. *' Thou shalt not 
 steal," he says, is a good rule; but what 
 is stealing ? Something is to be said for 
 the communist theory that property is 
 theft. While his father was supporting 
 him at the University, where he was sur- 
 rounded by fellow-students whose lives 
 were cramped by povert}', he considered 
 that his allowance could be excusable 
 onl}' when regarded as a loan advanced
 
 IRobert TLouls Stevenson 27 
 
 by mankind. He lived as sparingly as 
 he could, grudged himself all but neces- 
 saries, and hoped that in time he might 
 repay the debt by his services. 
 
 No very definite conclusion was to 
 emerge from such speculation. Steven- 
 son was to become a novelist, not a writer 
 of systematic treatises upon ethics or so- 
 ciology. The impulses, however, sur- 
 vived in various forms. They are shown, 
 for example, in the striking essay called 
 Pulvis et Umbra. It is his answer to the 
 pessimistic view of men considered as 
 merely multiplying and struggling units. 
 Everywhere we find that man has yet 
 aspirations and imperfect virtues. " Of 
 all earth's meteors," he says, ''here, at 
 least, is the most strange and consoling; 
 that this ennobled lemur, this hair- 
 crowned bubble of the dust, this inheritor 
 of a few years and sorrows, should yet 
 deny himself his rare delights and add to
 
 28 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 his frequent pains and live for an ideal, 
 however misconceived." This view im- 
 plies his sj^mpathy with the publican as 
 against the Pharisee. We should cherish 
 whatever aspirations may exist, even in 
 the pot-house or the brothel, instead of 
 simply enforcing conformity to the law. 
 We should like the outcast because he is, 
 after all, the really virtuous person. To 
 teach a man blindly to obey public opin- 
 ion is to '* discredit in his eyes the one 
 authoritative voice of his own soul. He 
 may be a docile citizen ; he will never be 
 a man." The sanctity of the individual 
 in this sense explains, perhaps, what was 
 the teaching in which Walt Whitman and 
 Mr. Herbert Spencer seemed to him to 
 coincide. 
 
 The "philosophy" is the man. It is 
 the development of the old boyish senti- 
 ment. Disease and trouble might do 
 their worst; the career of the " pirate,"
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 29 
 
 or even more creditable forms of the ad- 
 venturous, might be impracticable; but 
 at least he could meet life gallantly, find 
 inexhaustible interest even in trifling oc- 
 cupations when thrown upon his back 
 by ill-health, and cheer himself against 
 temptations to pessimistic melancholy by 
 sympathy with every human being who 
 showed a touch of the heroic spirit. His 
 essay upon the old Admirals is character- 
 istic. His heart goes out to Nelson, with 
 his "peerage or Westminster Abbe}^" 
 and even more to the four marines of the 
 Wager ^ abandoned of necessity to a cer- 
 tain death, but who yet, as they watched 
 their comrades pulling away, gave three 
 cheers and cried, "God bless the King! " 
 In Ais Triplex he gives the same moral 
 with a closer application to himself: 
 
 " It is best," he says, " to begin your 
 folio; even if the doctor does not give 
 you a year, even if he hesitates about a
 
 30 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 month, make one brave push, see what 
 can be finished in a week. . . . All 
 who have meant good work with their 
 whole heart have done good work, al- 
 though they may die before they have 
 the time to sign it. . . . Life goes 
 down with a better grace foaming in full 
 tide over a precipice, than miserably 
 struggling to an end in sand}^ deltas." 
 That, he explains, is the true meaning 
 of the saying about those whom the gods 
 love. At whatever age death may come, 
 the man who dies so dies young. 
 
 This gallant spirit, combined with ex- 
 traordinarily quick and vivid sj^mpathy, 
 gives, I think, a main secret of the charm 
 which endeared Stevenson both to friends 
 and readers. His writings showed any- 
 thing but the insensibility to human sor- 
 rows of the jovial, full-blooded athlete. 
 It must be admitted, however, that if he 
 did not ignore the darker side of things.
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 31 
 
 he disliked dwelling upon it or admitting 
 the necessity of surrender to melancholy, 
 or even incorporating such thoughts in 
 your general view of life. In some of 
 his early work, especially in Ordered 
 South, his first published essay, and in 
 Will d' the Mill, a different note of senti- 
 ment is sounded. The invalid ordered 
 south is inclined to console himself by re- 
 flecting that he is '' one too many in the 
 world." This, says Stevenson in a later 
 note, is a '* very youthful view." As 
 prolonged life brings more interests, the 
 thought that we cannot play out our part 
 becomes more, not less, painful. To 
 some of us, I fear, every year that we live 
 only emphasises our insignificance. To 
 Stevenson such resignation savoured of 
 cowardice. Will d the Mill is certainly 
 one of his most finished and exquisite 
 pieces of work. He told Mr. Balfour 
 that it was written as an " experiment."
 
 32 IRobert Uouis Stevenson 
 
 His own favourite doctrine was that "acts 
 may be forgiven, but not even God can 
 forgive the hanger back"; Will o' the 
 Mill w^as written " to see what could be 
 said in support of the opposite theory." 
 The essay suggests the influence of Haw- 
 thorne and shows a similar skill in sym- 
 bolising a certain mood. It implies, no 
 doubt, a capacity for so far assuming the 
 mood as to make it harmonious or self- 
 consistent; but I cannot perceive that it 
 makes it attractive. Translated into 
 vulgar realism. Will would be a stout 
 innkeeper, who will not risk solid comfort 
 by marrying the girl whom he likes. He 
 hardly loves her. He prefers to help his 
 guests to empty his cellar. Will lives in 
 so vague a region that we do not test him 
 as we should in real life; but, after all, 
 the story affects me less as an apology 
 than as a satire. If that be really all 
 that can be said for the prudential view
 
 IRobert %oiii6 Stevenson 33 
 
 of life, it is surely as contemptible as 
 Stevenson thought the corresponding 
 practice. He has a little grudge against 
 Matthew Arnold, whose general merits 
 he acknowledges, for having introduced 
 him to Obermann, for in Obermann he 
 finds only '' inhumanitj^" The contrast 
 is shown, as Professor Raleigh points out, 
 by Arnold's poem on the Grande Char- 
 treuse and Stevenson's Our Lady of the 
 Snows. Arnold is tempted for the time 
 to seek peace among the recluses, though 
 he cannot share their belief. Stevenson 
 " treats them " to a sharp remonstrance. 
 He prefers to be '' up and doing." He 
 warns them that the Lord takes delight 
 in deeds, and approves those who — 
 
 Still with laughter, song and shout. 
 Spin the great wheel of earth about. 
 
 Perhaps," he concludes, 
 3
 
 34 IRobert Xoiiis Stevenson 
 
 Our cheerful general on high 
 "With careless look may pass you by. 
 
 If I had to accept either estimate as 
 complete I should agree with Stevenson. 
 Yet Stevenson's attitude shows his limita- 
 tions. The sentiment which makes men 
 ascetic monks; the conviction of the cor- 
 ruption of mankind, of the futility of all 
 worldly pleasures; the renunciation of 
 the active duties of life ; and the resolute 
 trampling upon the flesh as the deadly 
 enemy of the spirit, may strike us as 
 cowardly and immoral, or at best repre- 
 sents Milton's "fugitive and cloistered 
 virtue." Still it is a mood which has 
 been so conspicuous in mau}^ periods that 
 it is clearly desirable to recognise what- 
 ever appeal it contained to the deeper in- 
 stincts of humanity. Matthew Arnold 
 recurred fondly but provisionally to the 
 peacefulness and harmony of the old 
 order of conception, though he was as
 
 IRobert Xouls Stevenson 35 
 
 convinced as anyone that it rested on a 
 decayed foundation. The enlightenment 
 of the species is, of course, desirable, and 
 may lead ultimately to a more satisfactory 
 .solution ; but for the moment its destruc- 
 tive and materialising tendencies justify 
 a tender treatment of the survival of the 
 old ideal. Stevenson was no bigot, and 
 could most cordially admire the Catholic 
 spirit as embodied in the heroism of a 
 Father Damien. But when it took this 
 form of simple renunciation it did not 
 appeal to him. In fact, it corresponds to 
 the kind of pessimism which was radically 
 uncongenial. Life, for him, is, or can be 
 made, essentially bright and full of inter- 
 est. He agrees with Mr. Herbert Spencer 
 that it is a duty to be happy ; and to be 
 happy not by crushing your instincts but 
 by finding employment for them. Con- 
 fined to his bed and sentenced to silence, 
 he could still preserve his old boyishness;
 
 36 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 even his childish amusements. " We 
 grown people," he says in an essaj^ "can 
 tell ourselves a stor}^, give and take 
 strokes till the bucklers ring, ride far and 
 fast, marry, fall, and die; all the while 
 sitting quietly by the fire or lying prone 
 in bed" — whereas a child must have a 
 toy sword or fight with a bit of furniture. 
 Indeed, he was not above toys in later 
 days. He spent a large part of one 
 winter, as Mr. Balfour tells us, building 
 with toy bricks; and beginning to join in 
 a schoolboy's amusement of tin soldiers, 
 developed an elaborate "war game" 
 which occupied many hours at Davos. 
 
 We can understand wh}' Sj^monds 
 called him "sprite." The amazing 
 vitality which kept him going under the 
 most depressing influences was combined 
 with the "sprite's" capricious and, to most 
 adults, unintelligible modes of spending 
 superfluous energy. Whatever he took
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 37 
 
 up, serious or trifling, — novel writing, 
 childish toys, or even, for a time, political 
 agitation, — he threw his whole soul into 
 it as if it were the sole object of existence. 
 He impressed one at first sight as a man 
 whose nerves were always in a state of 
 over-tension. Baxter says that Cromwell 
 was a man " of such a vivacity, hilarity, 
 and alacrity as another man hath when 
 he hath drunken a cup too much." * 
 Stevenson — not very like Cromwell in 
 other respects — seemed to find excitement 
 a necessity of existence. He speaks to a 
 correspondent of the timidity of j^outh. 
 " I was," he says, '' a particularly brave 
 boy " — ready to plunge into rash adven- 
 tures, but ** in fear of that strange, blind 
 machinery in which I stood. I fear life 
 still," he adds, and ''that terror for an 
 adventurer like nn^self is one of the chief 
 
 * A similar remark was made about Ninon de 
 rEuclos. They make a queer trio.
 
 38 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 joys of living." Terror keeps one wide 
 awake and highly strung. Inextinguish- 
 able playfulness, with extraordinary 
 quickness of sympathy; an impulsive- 
 ness which means accessibility to every 
 generous and heroic nature; and a brave 
 heart in a feeble body, ought to be, as 
 the}^ are, most fascinating qualities. But 
 it is true that they impl}^ a limitation. 
 So versatile a nature, glancing off at 
 every contact, absorbed for the moment 
 by every impulse, has not much time for 
 listening to the "Cherub Contemplation." 
 Stevenson turns from " the painful aspects 
 of life," not from the cowardice which re- 
 fuses to look one in the face, but from the 
 courage which manages not to turn us a 
 counter-irritant. His " view of life," he 
 saj^s, " is essentially the comic and the 
 romanticall}^ comic." He loves, as he 
 explains, the comedy " which keeps the 
 beauty and touches the terrors of life";
 
 TRobert Xouis Stevenson 39 
 
 which tells its story * ' not with the one 
 eye of pity but with the two of pit}^ and 
 mirth." We should arrange our little 
 drama so that, without ignoring the tragic 
 element, the net outcome ma}^ be a state 
 of mind in which the terror becomes, as 
 danger became to Nelson, a source of 
 joyous excitement. 
 
 What I have so far said has more direct 
 application to the essayist than to the 
 novelist ; and to most readers, I suppose, 
 the novelist is the more interesting of the 
 two. As an essayist, however, Stevenson 
 becomes an unconscious critic of the 
 stories. The essays define the point of 
 view adopted by the storj^- teller. One 
 quality is common to all his writings. 
 The irrepressible 3'outhfulness must be 
 remembered to do justice -to the essays. 
 We must not ask for deep thought em- 
 ployed upon long experience; or expect 
 to be impressed, as we are impressed in
 
 40 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 reading Bacon, by aphorisms in which 
 the wisdom of a lifetime seems to be con- 
 centrated. We admire the quick feehng, 
 the dexterity and nimbleness of intellect. 
 The thought of *' Crabbed Age and 
 Youth" is obvious enough, but the per- 
 formance reminds us of Robin Oig in 
 Kidnapped. He repeated the air played 
 by Alan Breck, but ''with such ingenuity 
 and sentiment, with so odd a fanc}'- and 
 so quick a knack in the grace-notes that 
 I was amazed to hear him." Stevenson's 
 " grace- notes " give fresh charm to the 
 old theme. The critical essaj's, again, 
 may not imply a very wide knowledge of 
 literature or familiarity with orthodox 
 standards of judgment. They more than 
 atone for any such defects by the fresh- 
 ness and the genuine ring of youthful 
 enthusiasm. I am hopelessly unable, for 
 example, to appreciate Walt Whitman. 
 Stevenson himself only regretted that he
 
 IRobert Xouls Stevenson 41 
 
 had qualified his enthusiasm by noticing 
 too pointedly some of his author's short- 
 comings. The shortcomings still stick 
 in my throat; but if I cannot catch the 
 enthusiasm my dulness is so far enlight- 
 ened that I can partly understand why 
 Whitman fascinated Stevenson and other 
 good judges. That, at least, is so much 
 clear gain. To read Stevenson's criticisms 
 is like revisiting a familiar country with 
 a young traveller who sees it for the first 
 time. He probably makes some remarks 
 that we have heard before; but he is 
 capable of such a thrill of surprise as 
 Keats received from Chapman's Homer. 
 
 The " love of youth," says Mr. Henry 
 James in an admirable essay, " is the be- 
 ginning and end of Stevenson's message." 
 Mr. James was writing before Stevenson's 
 last publications, and was thinking spe- 
 cially perhaps of Treasure Island. Now 
 to me, I confess, — for I fear that it is a
 
 42 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 confession, — Treasure Island is the one 
 story which I can admire without the 
 least qualification or reserve. The aim 
 may not be the highest, but it is attained 
 with the most thorough success. It may 
 be described as a "message " in the sense 
 that it appeals to the boyish element. 
 Stevenson has described the fit of inspira- 
 tion in which he wrote it. He had a 
 schoolboy for audience; his father be- 
 came a schoolboy to collaborate; and 
 when published it made schoolboys of 
 Gladstone and of the editor of the *' cyn- 
 ical ' ' Satui'day Reviezv. We believe in it 
 as we believe in Robinson Crusoe. My 
 only trouble is that I have always thought 
 that, had I been in command of the His- 
 paniola, I should have adopted a different 
 line of defence against the conspirators. 
 My plan would have spoilt the story, but 
 I regret the error as I regret certain real 
 blunders w'hich were supposed to have
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 43 
 
 changed the course of history. I have 
 always wondered that, after such a proof 
 of his powers of fascination, Stevenson 
 should only have achieved full recognition 
 by Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. That book, 
 we are told, was also written in a fit of 
 inspiration, suggested by dreaming a 
 " fine bogey tale." The public liked it 
 because it became an allegory — a circum- 
 stance, I fear, which does not attract me. 
 But considered as a "bogey tale," able 
 to revive the old thrill of delicious horror 
 in one who does not care for psychical re- 
 search, it has the same power of carrying 
 one away by its imaginative intensity. 
 These masterpieces in their own way sug- 
 gest one remark. Mr. Balfour points out 
 that Stevenson did an enormous quantity 
 of work, considering not only his ill- 
 health, but the fact that he often worked 
 very slowly, that he destroyed many 
 sketches, and that he rewrote some
 
 44 IRobert Xouts Stevenson 
 
 articles as often as seven or eight times. 
 Thanks to his "dire industry," as he 
 said himself, he had " done more with 
 smaller gifts" (one must excuse the 
 modest formula), " than almost any man 
 of letters in the world." This restless 
 energ3% however, did not mean persistent 
 labour upon one task; but a constant 
 alternation of tasks. When inspiration 
 failed him for one book, he took up an- 
 other, and waited for the fit to return. 
 One result is that there is often a want 
 of continuity, when his stories do not, as 
 in Treasure Island, represent a single un- 
 interrupted effort. Kidnapped, for ex- 
 ample, is made up of two different stories, 
 and The Wrecker is a curious example 
 of piecing together heterogeneous frag- 
 ments. Moreover, a good deal of the 
 work is the product of a feebler exercise 
 of the fancy intercalated between the 
 general fits of inspiration. The unde-
 
 IRobcrt Xouis Stevenson 45 
 
 niably successful books, where he has 
 thrown himself thoroughly into the spirit 
 of the story, stand out among a good 
 deal of very inferior merit. I will con- 
 fine myself to speaking of the four Scot- 
 tish novels which appear to be accepted 
 as his best achievements, and to endeav- 
 ouring to point out what was the proper 
 sphere of his genius. 
 
 They represent a development of the 
 Treasure Islajid method. He began Kid- 
 napped as another book for boys, and the 
 later stories may be classed for some 
 purposes with the Waverley series. Ste- 
 venson was fond of discussing the classifi- 
 cation of novels. He contrasts the ' ' novel 
 of adventure," the novel of character, 
 and the dramatic novel. Properly speak- 
 ing, this is not a classification of radically 
 different species, but an indication of the 
 different sources of interest upon which 
 a novelist may draw. ' ' x\dventure ' ' need
 
 46 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 not exclude ' * character. ' ' A perfect 
 novel might accept, with a change of 
 name, Mr. Meredith's title. The Ordeal of 
 Richard Fever el. The facts are interest- 
 ing, because they show character in the 
 crucible; and the character displa3'S itself 
 most forcibly by the resulting action. A 
 complete fusion, however, is no doubt 
 rare, and requires consummate art. 
 Treasui'e Island, of course, is a pure novel 
 of adventure. It satisfies what he some- 
 where describes as the criterion of a good 
 " romance." The writer and his readers 
 throw themselves into the events, enjoy 
 the thrilling excitement, and do not 
 bother themselves with questions of psy- 
 chology. Tj^asure Islaiid^ indeed, con- 
 tains Silver, who, to my mind, is his most 
 successful hero. But Silver incarnates 
 the spirit in which the book is to be read; 
 the state of mind in which we accept 
 genial good humour as a complete apology
 
 IRobert Xoufs Stevenson 47 
 
 for cold-blooded murder. Piracy is for 
 the time to be merely one side of the 
 game; and in a serious picture of human 
 life, which of course is out of our sphere, 
 we should have required a further attempt 
 to reconcile us to the psychological mon- 
 strosity. In the later stories we assume 
 that the adventurers are to be themselves 
 interesting as well as the adventure. 
 Still, the story is to hold the front place. 
 We may come to be attracted to the pro- 
 blems of character presented by the au- 
 thor, but the development of the story 
 must never for a moment be sacrificed to 
 expositions of the sentiments. We must 
 not expect from Stevenson such reflec- 
 tions as Thackeray indulges upon the 
 ''Vanity of Vanities," or a revelation, 
 such as George Kliot gives in The Mill o?i 
 the Floss, of the inner life of the heroine. 
 Either method may be right for its own 
 purpose; and I mean so far only to de-
 
 48 IRobert Xoui4i Stevenson 
 
 fine, not to criticise, Stevenson's purpose. 
 It is not only possible to tell a story in 
 Stevenson's manner, "cutting off the 
 flesh off the bones" of his stories, as he 
 says, and yet to reveal the characters; 
 but critics who object to all intrusions of 
 the author as commentator hold this to 
 be the most legitimate and effective 
 method. Here, however, the limitation 
 means something more than a difference 
 of method. 
 
 I do not think, to speak frankly, that 
 any novelist of power comparable to his 
 has created so few living and attractive 
 characters. Mr. Sidney Colvin confesses 
 to having been for a time blinded to the 
 imaginative force of the Beach of Falesa 
 by his dislike to the three wretched 
 heroes. One is deservedly shot, and the 
 two others, credited with some redeeming 
 points, lose whatever interest they pos- 
 sessed when they accept conversion to
 
 IRobcrt Xouis Stevenson 49 
 
 avoid death from a missionary's revolver. 
 However vivid the scenery, I cannot fol- 
 low the fate of such wretches with a pre- 
 tence of sympathy. There is a similar 
 drawback about the Master of Ballantrae. 
 The younger brother, who is blackmailed 
 by the utterly reprobate Master, ought 
 surely to be interesting instead of being 
 simply sullen and dogged. In the later 
 adventures, we are invited to forgive him 
 on the ground that his brain has been 
 affected; but the impression upon me is 
 that he is sacrificed throughout to the in- 
 terests of the story. He is cramped in 
 character because a man of any real 
 strength would have broken the meshes 
 upon which the adventure depends. The 
 curious exclusion of women is natural in 
 the purely boyish stories, since to a boy 
 woman is simply an incumbrance upon 
 reasonable modes of life. When in Ca- 
 triona Stevenson introduces a love-story,
 
 50 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 it is still unsatisfactory, because David 
 Balfour is so much of the undeveloped 
 animal that his passion is clumsy, and 
 his charm for the girl unintelligible. I 
 cannot feel, to say the truth, that in any 
 of these stories I am really living among 
 human beings with whom, apart from 
 their adventures, I can feel any very 
 lively affection or antipathy. Mr. Bal- 
 four praises Stevenson for his sparing 
 use of the pathetic. That is to apologise 
 for a weakness on the ground that it is 
 not the opposite weakness. It is quite 
 true that an excessive use of pathos is 
 offensive, but it is equally true that a 
 power of appealing to our sympathies by 
 genuine pathos is a mark of the highest 
 power in fiction. The novelist has to 
 make us feel that it is a necessity, not a 
 mere luxury, that he is forced to weep, 
 not weeping to exhibit his sensibility; but 
 to omit it altogether is to abnegate one of
 
 IRobert Xouts Stevenson 51 
 
 his chief functions. That Stevenson's 
 feelings, far from being cold, were ab- 
 normally keen, can be doubted by no 
 one; but his view of fiction keeps him 
 out of the regions in which pathos is ap- 
 propriate. Any way, I feel that there is 
 a whole range of sentiment familiar to 
 other writers which Stevenson rarely en- 
 ters or even touches. 
 
 The character to which I am generally 
 referred as a masterpiece is that of Alan 
 Breck. Mr. Henry James speaks of that 
 excellent Highlander as a psychological 
 triumph, and regards him as a study of 
 the passion for glory. Mr. James speaks 
 with authority; and I will admit that he 
 is a very skilful combination of the hero 
 and the braggart — qualities which are 
 sometimes combined, as they were to 
 some degree in Nelson and Wolfe. 
 Somehow, perhaps because I am not a 
 Gael, I can never feel that he is fully
 
 52 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 alive. He suggests to me the artist's 
 study, not the man who appeals to us be- 
 cause his creator has really thrown him- 
 self unreservedly into the part. When I 
 compare him, for example, with Dugald 
 Dalgetty (I must venture a comparison 
 for once) he seems to illustrate the differ- 
 ence between skilful construction and 
 genial intuition. He may suggest one 
 other point. Scott was for Stevenson the 
 * * King of the Romanticists. ' ' Romance, 
 as understood by Scott, meant among 
 other things the attempt to revive a pic- 
 ture of old social conditions. He was 
 interested, in his own phraseology, in the 
 contrast between ancient and modern 
 manners, and his favourite periods are 
 those in which the feudal ideals came into 
 conflict with the more modern commercial 
 state. This interest often interferes with 
 his art as a story-teller. The hero of 
 Waverley, for example, is a mere walk-
 
 IRobert ILoiiis Stevenson 53 
 
 ing letter of introduction to Fergus Mac- 
 Ivor, the tj^pe of a chief of a clan modified 
 by modern civilisation. The story halts 
 in order to give us a full portrait of the 
 state of things in which a semi-barbarous 
 order was confronted with the opposing 
 forces. Scott, in fact, began from a pro- 
 found interest in the social phenomena 
 (to use a big word) around him. He was 
 full of the legends, the relics of the old 
 customs and ways of thought, but was 
 also a lawyer and a keen politician. His 
 story-telling often represents a subordi- 
 nate aim. Stevenson just reverses the 
 process. He started as an *' artist," ab- 
 normally sensitive to the qualities of style 
 and literary effect to w^hich Scott was au- 
 daciously indifferent. His first interest 
 is in any scene or story which will fit in 
 with his artistic purposes. Life swarmed 
 with themes for romance, as rivers are 
 made to supply canals. The attitude is
 
 54 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 illustrated by his incursions into politics. 
 He was stirred to wrath by Mr. Glad- 
 stone's desertion (as he thought it) of 
 Gordon, and could not afterwards write 
 a letter to the guilty statesman because 
 he would have had to sign himself * ' Your 
 fellow-criminal in the sight of God." 
 He was roused by the boycotting of the 
 Curtin family to such a degree that he 
 could scarcel}^ be withheld from settling 
 on their farm to share their dangers and 
 stir his countrymen to a sense of shame. 
 His righteous indignation in the case of 
 Father Damien, and the zeal with which 
 he threw himself into the Samoan trou- 
 bles, are equally in character. The small 
 scale of the Samoan business made it a 
 personal question. He came to the con- 
 clusion, however, that politics meant 
 " the darkest, most foolish, and most 
 random of human employments," and 
 though he had an aversion to Gladstone,
 
 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 55 
 
 had no definite political creed. Political 
 strife, that is, only touched him when 
 some individual case appealed to the 
 chivalrous sentiment. 
 
 In the same way the story of the clans 
 interests him by its artistic capabilities. 
 The flight of Alan Breck gave an oppor- 
 tunity, seized with admirable skill, for a 
 narrative of exciting adventure; and he 
 takes full advantage of picturesque figures 
 in the history of his time. But one pe- 
 culiarity is significant. The adventure 
 turns upon a murder which, according to 
 him, was not committed, though certainly 
 not disapproved, by Alan Breck. Now, 
 complicity in murder, or, let us say, 
 homicide, is a circumstance of some im- 
 portance. Before landlord-shooting is 
 regarded as a venial or a commendable 
 practice we ought to be placed at the 
 right point of view to appreciate it. We 
 cannot take it as easily as Mr. Silver took
 
 56 IRobert Xouis Stevenson 
 
 piracy. We should see enough of the 
 evictions or of the social state of the 
 clansmen to direct our sympathies. No 
 doubt if Stevenson had insisted upon 
 such things, he would have written a 
 different book. He would have had to 
 digress from the adventures and to intro- 
 duce characters irrelevant in that sense, 
 who might have been types of the classes 
 of a semi -civilised societ3\ Perhaps the 
 pure story of adventure is a better thing. 
 I only say that it involves the omission 
 of a great many aspects of life which 
 have been the main pre-occupation of 
 novelists of a different class. Stevenson 
 once told Mr. Balfour that a novelist 
 might devise a plot and find characters 
 to suit, or he might rev^erse the process; 
 or finally, he might take a certain atmo- 
 sphere and get " both persons and actions 
 to express it. " He wrote the Merry Men 
 as embodying the sentiment caused by a
 
 IRobcrt Xouis Stevenson 57 
 
 sight of a Scottish island. That, indeed, 
 is an explanation of some of his most skil- 
 ful pieces of work, and the South Seas as 
 well as his beloved country gave ma- 
 terials for such " impressionist" pictures. 
 But besides the atmosphere of scenery, 
 there is what may be called the social 
 atmosphere. To reproduce the social at- 
 mosphere of a past epoch is the aim — gen- 
 erally missed — of the historical novelist; 
 but it is the prerogative of the more 
 thoughtful novelist to set before you in 
 concrete types, not only personal charac- 
 ter, but the moral and intellectual idio- 
 syncrasies of the epoch, whether remote 
 or contemporary. The novelist is not to 
 lecture; but the great novels give the 
 very age and body of the time " its form 
 and feature." I will give no instances 
 because they would be superfluous and 
 also because they would suggest a com- 
 parison which I would rather exclude as
 
 58 IRobcrt Xouis Stevenson 
 
 misleading. That is the element which 
 is absent from Stevenson's work. 
 
 The affection which Stevenson inspires 
 needs no justification. The man's extra- 
 ordinary gallantr}^ his tender-hearted- 
 ness, the chivalrous interest so easily- 
 aroused by any touch of heroism, the 
 generosity shown in his hearty apprecia- 
 tion of possible rivals, are beyond praise. 
 His rapid glances at many aspects of life 
 show real insight and singular delicacy, 
 a sensibility of moral instinct, and the 
 thought is expressed or gentl}' indicated 
 with the most admirable literary tact. 
 The praise of versatility again is justified 
 by the variety of themes which he has 
 touched, always with vivacity and often 
 with a masterl}^ handling within certain 
 limits. When panegyrics, dwelling upon 
 these topics, have been most unreservedly 
 accepted, it is a mistake to claim incom- 
 patible merits. The ** Bohemian," —
 
 IRobert %oms Stevenson 59 
 
 taking Stevenson's version of the charac- 
 ter, — the man who looks from the outside 
 upon the ordinary humdrum citizen, may 
 be a very fascinating personage; but he 
 really lacks something. Delighted with 
 the exceptional and the picturesque, he 
 has less insight into the more ordinary 
 and, after all, most important springs of 
 action. The excitable temperament, try- 
 ing to stir every moment of life with some 
 thrill of vivid feeling, and dreaming ad- 
 ventures to fill up every interstice of 
 active occupation, is hardly compatible 
 with much reflection. The writer whose 
 writing is the outcome of long experience, 
 who has brooded long and patiently over 
 the problems of life, who has tried to 
 understand the character of his fellows 
 and to form tenable ideals for himself, 
 may not have accepted any systematic 
 philosophy; but he represents the im- 
 pression made by life upon a thoughtful
 
 6o TRobert Uouis Stevenson 
 
 mind, and has formed some sort of co- 
 herent and often professedly interesting 
 judgment upon its merits. He is some- 
 times a bore, it is true; but sometimes, 
 too, we have experience which is ripe 
 without being mouldy. The rapid, vivid 
 ** sprite," the natural Bohemian imping- 
 ing upon society at a dozen different 
 parts, turning from the painful aspects 
 of life, and from the first considering life 
 as intended to suggest romance rather 
 than romance as reflecting life, could not 
 possibly secrete that kind of wisdom. 
 He had a charm of his own, and I do not 
 inquire whether it was better or worse; I 
 only think that we do him injustice when 
 we claim merits belonging to a different 
 order. His admirers hold that Weir of 
 Hcrmiston would have shown profounder 
 insight founded upon longer experience. 
 I will not argue the point. That it con- 
 tains one very powerful scene is unde-
 
 IRobert Xouls Stevenson 6i 
 
 niable. That it shows power of rivalling 
 on their own ground the great novelists 
 who have moved in a higher sphere is 
 not plain to me. At any rate, the claim 
 seems to be a tacit admission of the ab- 
 sence of certain qualities from the pre- 
 vious work. " He might have " implies 
 " he did not." But I have said enough 
 to indicate what I take to be the right 
 method of appreciating Stevenson without 
 making untenable claims.
 
 5^3- V 3l1 
 
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