- 22^> University of California • Berkeley From the Library of Charles Erskine Scott Wood and his Wife Sara Bard Field Given in Memory of JAMES R.CALDWELL PROSE PIECES BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Hitherto Unpublished Copyright, 1921, by THE BIBLIOPHILE SOCIETY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED THE STEVENSON MANUSCRIPTS At the time when the great mass of manu- scripts, books, and other personal belongings of Robert Louis Stevenson were dispersed through a New York auction room in Novem- ber 1914, and January 1915, the whole of civilization was being shaken to its very foun- dations, and the exigencies of the times were such that people were concerned with more important matters than the acquisition of manuscripts and relics. Therefore the sale, which in ordinary times would have attracted widespread attention among editors, critics, publishers and collectors, went comparatively unnoticed amid the general clamor and ap- prehension of the time. There was, however, one vigilant Stevenson collector, in the person of Mr. Francis S. Peabody, who bought a large part of the unpublished manuscripts at the sale, and has since acquired most of [ i ] the remainder which went chiefly to various dealers. Mr. Peabody has generously offered to share the enjoyment of his Stevenson treas- ures with his fellow bibliophiles, and we are indebted to him for the privilege of issuing the first printed edition of many precious items, without which no collection of Steven- soniana can ever be regarded as being com- plete. It will be remembered that the last years of Stevenson's life were spent at Samoa, which became the only permanent home of his married life, where he kept his great col- lection of manuscripts and note books, the accumulation of his twenty-odd years of work; and where, being far removed from the centers of civilization, he came very little in contact with editors or publishers who, dur- ing his lifetime or subsequently, would have been interested in ransacking his chests for new material. When his personal effects were finally packed up and shipped to the United States they were sent to the auction room and disposed of for ready cash, and thereafter it became impossible for publishers to acquire either the possession or the publication rights [ii ] of the manuscript without great expense and inconvenience. From events that have transpired since the publication in 191 6 of the two-volume Bib- liophile edition of Stevenson's unpublished poems, we are led to believe that the literary importance of the manuscripts was not appre- ciated by the Stevenson heirs. It is neither necesssary nor advisable to comment or specu- late further upon the circumstances which led to the sale of the manuscripts before being published ; whatever they may have been, they are of far less importance to the public than the established fact that the manuscripts were dispersed before being transcribed or pub- lished, and the further fact that they ulti- mately came into the possession of an owner who now permits them to be printed. If it be regrettable that the distribution of the present edition, in which there is des- tined to be a world-wide interest, is confined to the relatively limited membership of a book club, the circumstances are made inevitable by certain fundamental rules, without which no cohesive body of booklovers can long exist. And these restrictive measures are not in- [ itf ] spired by selfish motives, but purely as a matter of necessity in preserving the organ- ization. Some of the manuscripts printed in the four separate volumes now issued were not avail- able at the time when the two-volume edition was brought out by The Bibliophile Society in 1 916, and it was thought best to defer their publication until such time as we could bring together the major part of the remaining in- edited material, which we believe has now been accomplished. The notes in this volume signed G. S. H. are by Mr. George S. Hellman. The remainder are by the editor. H. H. H. [ iv] ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON There is probably not a more universally interesting figure among recent men of letters than Robert Louis Stevenson. It is certain that no classic writer of modern times has made a more direct appeal to the hearts of his readers. He was a logical thinker, an alert, wide-range observer, an extensive traveler, a sympathetic, warm-hearted friend of human- ity, a genial host, a thorough master of English composition, and a prodigious worker. [7] He wrote poetry, novels, short stories, technical and ethical essays, dramas, fables, prayers, ser- mons, tales of adventure, literary criticism, history and biography; and he was withal one of the most entertaining and self-revealing let- ter-writers of the nineteenth century. And if in any or all of these branches of literature he failed to attain the greatest heights he at least wrote with exceptional vividness and compre- hension. Indeed his collected works cover such a wide range of subject-matter that they constitute a veritable library in themselves, suited equally to man, woman or child, of whatever creed, nationality or station in life. Little wonder that within a few years from the time when he passed quietly away in his Samoan retreat his name became a household word wherever the English language is known. For more than twenty years it has been one of the foremost ambitions of college freshmen to acquire a set of "Stevenson," and in thousands of dormitories throughout the land his works are to be found reposing in a little bookcase conveniently near the reading lamp. It is safe to say that in this way Steven- son's writings have formed the nucleus of [8] more private libraries than have the works of any other writer of modern times. Stevenson, although of spare physique, — and an invalid nearly all his days, from early childhood, — was widely famed for his mag- netic personality, with which he at once cap- tivated nearly everyone with whom he came in contact; and his wide and ever increasing circle of admirers is in large measure due to his remarkable faculty for transmitting his engaging personality to the reader through the medium of his writings. To be endowed with a nature of such singular charm and forceful- ness, in combination with a marked aptitude for instilling it into his works, as if the very blood from his veins flowed in the ink from his pen, is an attribute with which but few writers are gifted ; yet Stevenson possessed this in such an eminent degree that his readers come to know and esteem the man no less than they do his works, — not because of any in- spired sympathy for his emaciated physical condition, but because of his mental vigor, his cheerfulness, and his undauntable heroism in battling with life's adversities. His body and mind were continually racked [9] and torn by hemorrhages, prolonged fits of coughing, internal congestions, fever, chills and ague, indigestion, influenza, insomnia, nightmares and other attendant and constantly recurrent ills, and work begun during short intermissions of convalescence or temporarily restored health was oftentimes broken off abruptly by another long period of physical prostration. With some one, or more, of these ailments almost constantly besetting him it is not to be wondered at, that at the age of thirty- seven he wrote that "old age with his stealing steps seems to have clawed me in his clutch to some tune," and that he considered himself an old man at forty. Literally dozens of times he had hung over the brink of the great abysmal beyond, with only a wavering spark of vitality connecting his soul with his bodily form. But each successive time when he struggled back he again took up his burdens and pushed cheerily on, determined to discharge his obli- gations to his Maker and to mankind. Once he wrote to a friend, — "The good lady, the dear, kind lady, the sweet, excellent lady, Nemesis, whom alone I adore, has fixed her wooden eye upon me." And again, later in [10] life, shortly before his death, he wrote to an- other: "For fourteen years I have not had a day's real health; I have wakened sick and gone to bed weary ; and I have done rny work un- flinchingly. I have written in bed, and writ- ten out of it, written in hemorrhages, written in sickness, written torn by coughing, written when my head swam for weakness; and for so long, it seems to me I have won my wager and recovered my glove." And yet courage, hope and manly vigor form the keynote of all his writings. How, under such a constant handicap, he managed to keep up his spirits and turn out the tre- mendous amount of work that stands to his credit is a marvel that baffles human compre- hension. A whole volume might be written about his patient and uncomplaining physical martyrdom, but to prolong narrations of mis- ery and misfortune was not Stevenson's idea of entertaining his readers; it is neither con- ducive to anyone's comfort, nor consonant with the purpose of the present article. Stevenson's steadfast hope was expressed in ["] the following lines written in 1872, and never before published: Tho' day by day old hopes depart, Yet other hopes arise If still we bear the hopeful heart And forward-looking eyes. And still, flush-faced, new goals I see, New finger-posts I find, And still through rain and wind A troop of shouting hopes keep step with me. If any one quality of Stevenson's mind tran- scended all others, it was his innate tenderness and his constant thoughtfulness for the unfor- tunate. He did not parade his charitable instincts before the public, nor did he go out hunting for misery with fife and drum; but his eye and his mind were ever alert, and through the agency of his quiet, unobtrusive methods a vast number of afflicted souls have felt the tender hand of charity and mercy extended to them, as it were, from out the dark. A single incident that occurred during his student days will illustrate far better than words. On a hot July day while he was strolling through the park, he came upon a poor ragged urchin [12] lying on the grass, perhaps asleep. The for- lorn appearance of the lad arrested his atten- tion, and set his mind to speculating on what he could do for him. He thought over the things that had given him the greatest joy in his boyhood, and it instantly recurred to him that scarcely anything had ever exceeded the pleasure he had experienced on finding a coin in the pocket of some old cast-off garment, or in some remote place where he had long ago hidden it with a view to surprising himself when he should come upon it unexpectedly. So stealthily approaching the boy he slipped a coin into one of his pockets, then stole quietly away, chuckling to himself over the surprise and delight that were in store for the little fellow. If it was excessively hot, his heart went out to those who sweltered in the close, stuffy quarters in the smoky, densely populated cities ; if it was excessively cold he pitied those who shivered in unheated hovels, — without fuel, bread or warm clothing. We can imag- ine that it was on a bitter cold night (in 1872) that he wrote — [13] And first on Thee I call For bread, O God of might 1 Enough of bread for all, — That through the famished town Cold hunger may lie down With none tonight. One might go on indefinitely with similar examples. As to the biographies of Stevenson, it may be said that those who have read his writings, especially the published letters and poems, have but little need for any further biograph- ical data, for his life has been pretty clearly written into his works — especially his letters and poems, — so much so that his best biog- raphy is made up largely of extracts from his own pen. In the extant biographies his genius, his virtues, his wanderings in quest of health, his individualism, and particularly his ancestry, have all been set forth with painstak- ing perspicuity; but after reading what has been written about him we somehow feel as if we had been introduced to "little Bobby" all dressed for Sunday school, when we should have preferred to play with him in his more easy-fitting every-day-garments. If Stevenson [14] was anything, aside from being an accom- plished writer, he was human to the core; and perhaps we should admire him none the less for knowing that he shared with the rest of us some of the normal imperfections that gener- ally characterize human nature. We do not like to look upon those we love as being set apart from us, wholly destitute of human frailties, — as if they were in a state of pre- paredness for being wafted into the next world ; but rather would we have them share with us the qualities that unite us on a common plane. It is sufficient to say that so far as we can learn from those who knew and loved Stevenson best, he was never, in his early life at least, ostracized by his friends for his spot- less and unworldly purity. From the smoothness and spontaneity of Stevenson's style one may be led to suppose that his works fell from his pen with unla- bored ease; but this is far from being true. On the contrary, he had great difficulty in pre- paring his manuscripts, which he often revised and rewrote half a dozen times or more. The art of writing is not born full-grown, any more than a man is born into the world with his [iS] mental faculties and physical strength fully developed ; nor is it a transmissible gift of any god or goddess. No one, however gifted, ever learned to play the piano, or dance, or skate, or swim, or play cards, or even to make love, without actual practice. Stevenson, like every other successful artisan, first learned the rudi- mentary principles of his art, then practiced incessantly. Even as late as 1893, tne Y ear previous to his death, he wrote to a friend: "I sit here and smoke and write, and rewrite and destroy, and rage at my own impotence, from six in the morning till eight at night, with trifling, and not always agreeable, inter- vals for meals. "Be it known to this fluent generation that I, R. L. S., in the forty-third [year] of my age, and the twentieth of my professional life, wrote twenty-four pages in twenty-one days!" He was his own severest critic, and even in his latter years, when he had become widely rec- ognized as a master of his art, he continued his practice of revision, and was prone to find fault with nearly everything he wrote. One of his biographers called him a "natural born genius ;" but those who are familiar with his [16] early work will doubtless agree that it would be more proper to say that he was born to become a genius. He was no more a born literary genius than a man is a born physician, or a born lawyer, or a born football player. He was born with a good brain, which he developed and used to good advantage, as a workman uses his tools in his trade. He had an abundance of good common sense; he was industrious ; he had an indomitable will ; and, health permitting, he would have made a good lawyer, a good preacher or a good anything that he set his mind to, — anything in which physical strength was not an important requi- site. It is undoubtedly true that certain writers, notably of the poet class, have been gifted with an innate genius that became more or less apparent in their early writings, just as others have shown early adaptability in other callings; but Stevenson was not among those singularly inspired mortals whom genius pre- ordains as her own, and over whose destinies she presides with unfaltering vigilance and solicitude. That he had genius is not to be doubted ; but it was of the tender species that required cul- [17] tivation. It emerged from its embryonic state rather reluctantly, and it eventually came into full bloom only as the reward of hard work, of fixed determination, of inexhaustible patience, and singleness of purpose. To call a man a natural born literary genius is to pay him a dubious compliment — as if great works, de- spite a total lack of endeavor, flowed from his pen with the same natural ease that water flows over a dam. We do not compliment a man by saying that he was "born rich;" but rather, that he is a "self-made" man; or if he has inherited wealth, that he uses it to benefit his friends, or perhaps humanity at large. Stevenson was not conspicuously preco- cious, and even after long years of practice and assiduous study he still found it difficult to form his compositions either to his own liking or that of editors, publishers or readers. His early determination to become a writer, the resultant controversies with his parents, — who with native tenacity adhered to their own predilections, — his perennial battle against the Grim Reaper, whose spectral shadow always hovered about him wherever he went; his school and college days, his uncongenial [18] studies in law and in civil engineering, all are matters with which every reader of his Letters or his Life is already familiar. An outstanding feature of Stevenson's char- acter is, that whatever he undertook to do he brooked no interference with his resolve, and suffered nothing to dissuade him from his determination to do it well. The three fond- est wishes of his life, according to his own statement, were: first, good health; secondly, a small competence; and thirdly, friends. Only the latter two were ever gratified. But in accomplishing the three paramount resolu- tions of his life he was more successful. He resolved: first,, to become a writer; second, to marry the woman of his choice; and third, to compel the world to recognize his hard- earned literary genius. In the first instance he found himself rigor- ously opposed by the uncompromising will of his parents. To surmount this barrier he was obliged to employ considerable finesse; for, being penniless, he felt the need of their pecuniary aid. He therefore made a feigned compliance with their wishes by undertaking the study of their chosen profession, that of [19] civil engineering; but all the while he read and practiced industriously at his self-ap- pointed calling. At length he succeeded in persuading his parents into a compromise on the legal profession, he figuring perhaps that it afforded an excellent stepping-stone to his chosen vocation. By the time he was admitted to the bar he had advanced so far in his own favorite occupation that his parents, consider- ing the state of his health, and recognizing his budding genius, capitulated entirely and per- mitted him to become the master of his own destiny, pledging their continued financial support. No sooner had he successfully carried out his first resolution, than he came face to face with the obstacles of the second, — which was to marry an American woman — an art stu- dent — he had met while traveling in France, and with whom he had promptly fallen in love — without consulting his parents. It must be admitted that the impediments here were so manifold and apparently insurmountable that they most certainly would have dampened the ardour of a less determined suitor. The woman was married, and had two children, of [20] whose father she was still the lawful wife ; she was a foreigner (residing in California) and entirely unknown to his family or friends; the date of her prospective legal separation from her husband was remote and uncertain. For an invalid young man bent on literary pur- suits, with no assured income, to break with his family and undertake the support of a dowerless wife and two children, would, to the average rational mind, seem little short of sheer madness. But not so to the impulsive, romantic young writer; he had made up his mind to take the plunge, and not even the trip across the Atlantic and "on towards the west" to California (whither his wife-to-be had preceded him) could chill the warmth of his passion. The arguments and dissuasions of all his friends fell upon deaf ears, and after managing somehow to get together the neces- sary funds for passage he packed his bag and set out for America, without even exchanging the customary adieus with either family or friends. It requires no wide range of fancy to picture what the attitude of his parents would have been toward this adventure, had he pro- posed it to them (which he did not) ; but to [21] imagine their surprise and chagrin on discov- ering that he had gone would not be so easy. Ill-health pursued him, as usual, wherever he went, and on arriving in San Francisco he wrote the exquisite and touching lines first printed in the two-volume Bibliophile edition of 1916, beginning — It's forth across the roaring foam, and on towards the west, It's many a lonely league from home, o'er many a mountain crest, From where the dogs of Scotland call the sheep around the fold To where the flags are flying beside the Gates of Gold. It's there that I was sick and sad, alone and poor and cold, In yon distressful city beside the Gates of Gold. There are some who can draw upon their own experiences as a testimony to the cheer- lessness of being bedridden in a strange land, without friends or congenial companions; and perhaps with the aid of a little imagination we might visualize the added discomforts of be- ing "poor and cold." But to this array of [22] discouragements add Stevenson's dishearten- ing experience of being desperately in love with a married woman (who also was ill at that time), and we shall not be surprised to know that his hitherto unfailing nerve desert- ed him for a moment, when he wrote privately to a friend, — "For four days I have spoken to no one but my landlady or landlord, or to restaurant waiters. This is not a gay way to pass Christmas, is it? And I must own the guts are a little knocked out of me. If I could work, I could worry through better." 1 He afterwards accepted a job as a reporter on the Monterey Calif ornian at two dollars a week! Mr. Balfour says that "His father, being im- perfectly informed as to his motives and plans, naturally took that dark view of his son's con- duct to which his temperament predisposed him." His parental devotion was, however, apparently unaltered, for on hearing of his 1 The first part of this letter was quoted by Balfour in his Life of Stevenson, but the last twenty-two words here were omitted, and in their stead he substituted the following, which, if it was not invented, must have been taken from some other source, for it does not appear in the letter: "After weeks in this city I know only a few neighboring streets. I seem to be cured of all my adventurous whims, and even human curiosity." [23] son's illness he sent him money, — with the promise of an annual allowance, — though neither the welcome news nor the money reached him until after he had suffered the severest privations. In short, within nine months and some odd days from the time of leaving home he mar- ried the woman for whom he had exiled him- self from home and friends, and on the 7th of August, 1880, exactly one year from the date he sailed from England, he and his wife em- barked for home, where they found family and friends at the Liverpool dock, with eager, open arms to receive them. He had now triumphed in his second resolution, and the wisdom of his choice was exemplified in the ideal relationship that ensued between himself and his wife, who not only won her way instantly into the hearts of his family, but remained his constant and devoted helpmate and companion throughout the remainder of his life. But in successfully carrying out the first two of his three great purposes in life Stevenson had still before him the all-important prob- lem, — how to earn a living competence (for [24] he could not expect his parents to support himself and his wife indefinitely) and still maintain the dignified position he aspired to in literature. The mere act of selecting a pro- fession is in itself no very difficult task; nor does it, as a rule, involve a heavy draft upon one's mental resources to fall in love and get married. But for a young author to win the favor of the publishers and the public is quite another and more difficult matter. Publishers are notoriously shy of aspiring young writ- ers — much more so than women are of young swains — and Stevenson soon discovered that the highway to success in literature was a lonely, sinuous path, uphill all the way, with no sign-boards to indicate the distance to the summit. At the time when he cut himself adrift from his parents and went to California, he had already been successful in getting a number of articles and essays into the magazines, and he doubtless supposed — if indeed he supposed at all while the raging love fever was upon him — that in America he could earn his own way with his pen ; but he soon discovered that the light from his flickering torch of fame [*S] had not penetrated beyond the Atlantic, and the small foot-hold that he had secured at home as a magazine writer availed him noth- ing in this strange land. But far from being dismayed, he continued to write all the while, though he was only adding to his already ample store of unpublished, and unsalable, manuscripts. It would be interesting to know if in this period of obscurity he ever dreamed that inside of forty years a little scrap of his manuscript would find a ready market for a sum that would have kept him in comparative opulence for a whole year ! Like the Prodigal Son, he was glad to return home and find his father's house (as also his purse) still open to him. It may, by way of passing comment, be ob- served that although the pursuit of literature as a pastime is supposed to be both honorable and pleasant, yet when adopted seriously as a bread-winning trade there are comparatively few who ever get beyond the stage of appren- ticeship. To gain any considerable success requires more talents, industry, persistence and time than most people can afford to invest in a profession, without other concurrent [26] means of support. Even the optimistic, hard- working Stevenson was supported by his father until he was thirty-three. Those who contemplate embarking in this uncertain craft would do well to read what Byron says on the subject, and to keep constantly in mind the old Biblical saying, to the effect that "Many are called, but few are chosen." While Stevenson was at home living on his father's bounty during his student days, he probably looked upon his literary work merely as an essential part of his education, and although he stuck to it with bulldog pertinacity, it was more in the nature of a con- genial apprenticeship than an irksome task, such as he found his other studies to be. Be- fore he left on his initial trip to America his first book, An Inland Voyage, was published, and he seems to have regarded it as a sort of joke that he should receive twenty pounds for it. In the back of the MS. notebook contain- ing the original account of the voyage — which he afterwards altered and extended — he wrote the following facetious lines, which for some reason appear never to have got into print until now: [27] Who would think, herein to look, That from these exiguous bounds, I have dug a printed book And a cheque for twenty pounds? Thus do those who trust the Lord Go rejoicing on their way And receive a great reward For having been so kind as play. Yes, I wrote the book; I own the fact; It was perhaps, sir, an unworthy act. Have you perused it, sir? — You have — indeed ! Then between you and me there no debate is. I did a silly act, but I was fee'd; You did a sillier, and you did it gratis ! Apparently the public also considered it a joke, for no one took it seriously (save the pub- lisher who paid twenty pounds for it), and nobody in particular paid any attention to it, except that two or three sneering critics deigned to notice it. The Travels with a Donkey appeared the following year, and although a better book, it met with the same indifferent reception ; its title was paraphrased by some unfeeling wag as the "Travels of a Donkey I" Treasure Island (in its original [28] draft), which first appeared in serial form in 1 88 1, was perhaps more widely read, hence more widely scoffed at. Mr. Balfour says that "it ran an obscure career in the pages of a magazine, and was openly mocked at by more than one indignant reader." This contuma- cious attitude of the public must have shaken Stevenson's faith, temporarily at least, in his ability ever to win popular favor. Once he wrote, — "At times I get terribly frightened about my work, which seems to advance too slowly." But the louder the critics railed at him the harder he worked, and the more stub- born became his determination to succeed, — not alone for the fame and emoluments that success would bring, but that he might prove to his parents that he had chosen wisely in his profession. Then, too, he may have felt a trifle piqued, that at the age of thirty-one he and his wife were still dependent upon his father, who continued to provide as liberally for them as his means would allow. Steven- son's position may be compared to that of a soldier storming the enemy's heights; if he reaches the summit, glory awaits him; if he turns back, dishonor awaits him. Having [29] entered the fray, there is no alternative but to fight it through, no matter how thick the mis- siles may fly. And so it was with Stevenson. The lives of soldiers and writers are analogous in at least one other respect, in that their fame usually begins where life leaves off. While Stevenson was struggling for recog- nition in the world of letters he wrote and rewrote, again and again, literally thousands of pages of manuscript, all under the most trying conditions, with but small hope that his work would ever be printed. And it is worthy of remark that during that period he wrote much, especially in verse, that he never sur- passed in his maturer years. His manuscript of "Some Portraits by Raeburn," was thrice rejected, — by the Cornhill, the Pall Mall Gazette, and by Blackwood's. Yet he went on rewriting, revising, and writing more. It must require a stout heart and a large measure of self-confidence to continue thus to labor over the rejected children of one's brain with the vague hope of improving their dis- torted forms. And in the performance of this melancholy task a man must often wonder if, after all, he has not missed his calling, — if he [30] had not better been a "ditcher," as Byron said. In most professions or avocations a well- poised man is usually competent to set a fairly accurate estimate upon his talent, genius or adaptability; he may avow that he is a great financier because, having begun with nothing, he has amassed a fortune ; or a great physician because he has effected miraculous cures; or a great philanthropist because he has erected hospitals and given away vast sums of money to worthy charities; but who shall say, or even honestly feel, that he is a great writer, or a great painter, or a great actor, when his work is unequivocally damned by the verdict of the public! A certain measure of modesty being one of the usual concomitants of greatness, it is not to be doubted that the tardiness of the public in recognizing genius has driven many a talented and unrewarded craftsman to his grave with a sadly underestimated value of his life work. In the instance of Burns, Byron, Shelley, Keats and Poe, and many others, we find striking examples of this truth. While all of those named had greater confidence in the merit of their work than the contemporary critics and the public had yet manifested, they [31] could scarcely have been so sanguine as to have rated it at its present estimated worth. Even Byron, who after having been made a popular idol was practically driven into exile, could hardly have dreamed what a great poet he was to become in the estimation of those who so roundly abused both him and his work. Stevenson was more fortunate than most of his fellow-bards, in having lived to reap a rel- atively larger part of his own sowing; but in literature, alas, the ripened grain is too often harvested by hands that had no part in the planting. In 1883, at the age of thirty-three, Steven- son's long and vigorous pounding at the doors of the goddess of Fame began to attract that reluctant lady's attention and caused her to bestir herself and open the door of her ex- clusive sanctuary wide enough to give him an initial peep within. In that year his revised manuscript of Treasure Island was accepted by Cassell & Co., and he nearly went wild with delight. In his characteristic boyish enthusiasm — he was always more or less of a boy — he wrote home to his folks, — "There has been offered for Treasure Island — what [32] do you suppose? I believe it would be an excellent jest to keep the answer till my next letter. For two cents I would do so. Shall I? Anyway, I'll turn the page first. No — well — a hundred pounds, all alive, Ol A hundred jingling, tingling, golden, minted quid! Is not this wonderful?" And, what was far more gratifying, the book when published had a wild-fire success. In a short time everybody was reading it, talk- ing about it, and praising its author. It was hailed as the best book that had appeared since Robinson Crusoe. In the same year the Cen- tury Magazine took notice of him, and Editor Gilder accepted his Silverado Squatters at a good figure. He also printed a flattering notice about the brilliant young author. At last Stevenson had gained the coveted foothold in America, which, added to his other suc- cesses of the year — netting him nearly four hundred pounds — almost prostrated him with joy. In January of the next year he wrote to his mother, — "When I think of how last year began, after four months of sickness and idle- ness, — all my plans gone to water, myself starting alone, a kind of spectre, for Nice — [33] should I not be grateful? Come, let us sing unto the Lord!" The next three years marked a series of noteworthy successes, including A Child's Garden of Verses, Kidnapped, and the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde] and their author, on his second visit to Amer- ica in 1887, was received with wide acclaim. The unheralded and unknown lovelorn immi- grant of eight years before had, as if by the intervention of magic, become the popular literary hero of the day, and from this time on editors and publishers besieged him with ap- peals for stories, essays, books or anything he had a mind to send them. One magazine paid him $3500 for twelve articles, another offered him $8000 for the serial rights of his next story, and a leading New York paper offered him $10,000 to write an article once a week for a year. He was so overcome by this sudden outburst of munificence that he com- plained to one of the editors, saying that he was being demoralized by the fabulous prices paid him in America; that he didn't want such sums — all he wanted was a moderate competency. Henceforward his fame rose [34] steadily, nor did it ever suffer the slightest diminution. And it is worthy of note that with his increasing popularity he felt a corre- spondingly augmented responsibility, which prompted him to become more and more self- exacting in the quality of his work. It is doubtful if any man ever bore his literary honors with more becoming modesty, or with a keener sense of gratitude and personal obli- gation toward those who bestowed them. He never permitted his standards to trail in the dust of commonplaceness, he never wrote him- self out, he never bartered on his reputation, and he never exalted himself above his strug- gling fellow-craftsmen. His contribution to the world was large; he wrote good wholesome, entertaining stories and essays, and his poems — many of which are in the nature of personal documents — are resonant with human feeling. In his own life, moreover, he furnished a conspicuous example of perseverance, hopefulness and manly forti- tude, worthy of study and emulation, for both young and old. He gave to the world the best fruits of his well tilled vineyard, for which he took far less in exchange ; and he left to man- [35] kind a useful heritage that will outlive all the contemporary monuments in Christendom. With mournful dirge or sad refrains No page he e'er inscribed; His choicest wine the world retains, While he the dregs imbibed. Though tossed and torn by many a gale, Though scarred by many a reef, His fragile bark, with unfurled sail, Returned unto its Chief. Henry H. Harper [36] AN INLAND VOYAGE In Stevenson's earliest draft of An Inland Voyage (the first of his MSS. to appear in book form) the first five consecutive pages of the manuscript were omitted in the printed editions. Whether these initial pages (the first of which appears herein in facsimile) were included in his final draft, and struck out by publishers, or accidentally omitted by the printer, or whether they were left out by the author himself, it is impossible to say; but the reader is now given the opportunity of judging for himself as to whether or not the opening chapter did not suffer a more or less serious impairment by the excision. In addi- tion there are in the original MS. two little autobiographical touches that were excluded, — by whom, or for what reason, is left for the reader to conjecture. In his enthusiasm the youthful writer seems to have desired to give an honest account of all that occurred, but it may be that on more calm deliberation he de- cided to omit the parts relating to his embar- rassment in the men's dressing room, and later his boyish obstinacy in stoutly refusing to show his passport, because he was an English [37] subject; which fact alone he regarded as a suf- ficient mark of identification. Or it may be that the publisher, not being gifted with ade- quate prophetic endowments, was unable to foresee his young author's future importance, and therefore eliminated the two intimate passages on the ground that they would neither instruct nor amuse contemporary read- ers. In the study of a popular author and his works, the public is entitled to all the existent facts, and however much or however little these suppressed passages may be worth as lit- erature they are assuredly interesting as a sidelight upon Stevenson's first printed book. Their apparent amateurishness becomes a fea- ture of additional interest when we consider the heights to which the author of An Inland Voyage afterwards attained as a master of rhetoric. At the end of the five pages of unpublished matter in the MS. note book there appears a little pen and ink sketch, of which the accom- panying is a photographic reproduction. The grassy banks, the water, the boats and the lighthouse are all understandable; but what the author had in mind when he drew the ob- [38] BlJWfltjwmwIllii # I I W BjiMMMsMIBWWMMHM i* v WvL^ WwJs { t$**o- tve^el^ iwK, . c , n 3 » v. H?^i_ tee AJLJX" ^Afe. UJ£> WW* CvwtA_ Vu~*_ Wvd^V "* ^-vtvvvv ject farther up on the page — unless it was the Rajah's diamond — is left for the reader to determine for himself. On the last page of the note book Stevenson wrote the following lines, which do not ap- pear ever to have been printed, though the quatrain shown in the center of the facsimile page has been somewhere put in type : — Who would think, herein to look, That from these exiguous bounds, I have dug a printed book And a cheque for twenty pounds ? Thus do those who trust the Lord Go rejoicing on their way And receive a great reward For having been so kind as play. Yes, sir, I wrote the book; I own the fact; It was perhaps, sir, an unworthy act. Have you perused it, sir? — You have? — indeed! Then between you and me there no debate is. I did a silly act, but I was fee'd; You did a sillier, and you did it gratis ! [39] AN INLAND VOYAGE The two canoes had been baking all day long upon a stack of cotton bales, in a fine warping summer sun. It was about a quarter past one when I (the crew of the Arethusa) stole out of the Hawk with my waterproof bag on my shoulder and set myself to mount the stack. A Flemish custom officer with a long spike in his hand to assure himself there were no articles of contraband in cotton bales, and (as one thought grislily) in human stom- achs, and with as much French as was neces- sary for his own vainglory, but not for the in- struction of his neighbors, laid hold upon me and insisted on examining my bag. As it had been examined already in one of the outer un- known hours which precede eight o'clock and the dawn of civilized existence, I was dissatis- fied, and expressed my dissatisfaction so roundly that he made a feint of examination and retired into the second plane in a flourish of official cap. So soon as I was up on the top of the bale, I began to form an object in the burnt-up emp- ty quay. Several Flemish loungers came below and daintily handled the prow of the [40] fc W^W-tfv^w. yV-go^A^? 4Ua1c/L_ ^v^^i^J^- ^a-<^^ C^wvl/L C^^V^ Arethusa, which somewhat projected beyond the stack; while the mate of the Hawk and four or five seamen sate them down beside me and watched my movements with ironical gravity. Sometimes they spoke to each other in tones which it would have been impolite to overhear. Sometimes one of the more youth- ful Flemings would displace something I had already arranged, by way of lending a hand. It was the business of the crew of the Arethusa to pretend complete unconsciousness of his surroundings; the least encouragement to the youthful Flemings would be fatal; the most humiliating advances would not move the men from the Hawk to cordiality; in the midst of all these curious eyes and pointing and meddling fingers, on the top of a stack of cot- ton bales in Antwerp Docks, the crew of the Arethusa must conduct himself after the pat- tern of a solitary Hermit in the Thebaid. Hereupon arrived the crew of the Ciga- rette. He looked hot and vexed ; he found the crew of the Arethusa up beside the bubbling varnish, looking hot and vexed. However, he brought good news. He had made the ac- [41] quaintance of one who called himself a steve- dore. "What is a Stevedore?" asked the Arethusa. "Head of a gang of porters, fellow," ans- wered the Cigarette. "What's the derivation?" "O don't bother!" answered the Cigarette, looking hotter, and then he went on. The stevedore had agreed to take the two canoes down to the slip, which alas! was a good dis- tance hence; nay, here the stevedore was with a proper following. And the canoes are al- ready shouldered and the teams beginning to step out, when the customhouse officer with the spike, steps in as a Diabolus ex Machina, and orders all these proceedings to cease. "Nothing can leave the dock before two o'clock," he explains, and adds, with malice, that we seem very ill-informed, and that we shall certainly find we have ten or twelve per cent, to pay upon the value. Thereupon, hav- ing done his worst, the customhouse officer once more retires into the immediate distance where he prowls watchfully, steel spike in hand. I suspect the two crews, as they sat on a semi-molten tarpaulin waiting two o'clock, [42] discussed the value of their gallant ships. One of them had never been in the water be- fore, it was true, and was not yet paid for: — 77 etait un petit navire Qui n' avait ja-ja — jamais navigue; and the other was not entirely venerable; but the smallest circumstance, the least adventure, such as this voyage on the Hawk just happily accomplished — nay, and even the change of hands — diminishes the values of such fragile articles so disproportionately, that half-price would be an absurdly honest return. Pardon these old tars, if you please; they were not much sophisticated; the niceties of naval ques- tions were not clear to their blunt honesty; and the gauger with the spike lurked always in the middle distance. At two o'clock, the crew of the Cigarette went in a deputation to the Custom House. Here, by his own account, he sustained a legal reputation, already of some standing, against all the Custom House Intelligence of Ant- werp. He explained it was no more just to charge for a canoe than for a portmanteau, an umbrella, or a hat; and having thus reduced the official proposition ad absurdum, he stood [43] and perspired defiantly, while they consulted together behind their pen and sought new arguments for extortion. Finally, he was sent before a person of more standing, who was a gentleman, and quietly pooh-poohed the whole affair. [At this point the published text of the Voyage begins.] [At page twenty-three of the MS. where Stevenson relates that he and his companion were enjoying the hospitality of the Royal Sport Nautique, he says, in an unprinted pas- sage:—] We were led up stairs to a lavatory, water and soap were set before us, many hands help- ed to undo our bags. The Arethusa is not built like a rowing man, and it was with con- siderable delicacy and a sense of natural hu- miliation, that he stripped under the gaze of all these Belgian oarsmen. He thought he could detect a distinct lessening of interest after he had disclosed himself; and waited with impatience for the moment when the de- liberate Cigarette should retrieve the honour of Britain by displaying his biceps and vermi- forms. [44] [In Chapter IV of the MS. note book where Stevenson, assuming the character of "Arethusa," laments his luckless fate, he says that "if he goes without his passport he is cast into noisome dungeons; if his papers are in order he is suffered to go his way, humiliat- ed by a general incredulity. He is a born British subject, yet he has never succeeded in persuading a single official of his national- ity. He flatters himself he is indifferent hon- est, yet he is rarely taken for anything better than a spy; and there is no absurd and disre- spectable means of livelihood that has not been attributed to him in some flash of official or popular suspicion." After this the follow- ing episode was omitted in the printed text :— ] On the present occasion, his usual fortune followed him; and when the Cigarette, who followed as usual a little behind, arrived on the scene of action, he found his companion, put aside behind the barrier, with a spot of dirty white on each cheek bone, indicating the highest transport of unchristian feeling, U5] and protesting in strained and trembling tones that he would not exhibit his papers. "But, man, show them and be done with it," said the Cigarette quietly, "You know they like playing at being officers and that kind of thing, but humour them." "I'll be damned if I do," answered the Arethusa. "What's the good of treaties? You have no Union Jackery about you; and mind you, it's a most fundamental part of my character — the Union Jack and 'one English- man worth a dozen French fellows,' and all that." Reason prevailed, and the Arethusa handed over his passport with a "Voila Monsieur, man remarquez bien, je protested The officer who was a very good looking chap, I must admit, was reduced by this protest to a con- dition nearly as abject as that of his adver- sary, and during the rest of the time they exchanged glances of contemptuous enmity and threw themselves into gracefully aggres- sive attitudes whenever their eyes met. Nay, when it was all over and the crews were seated again in the railway carriage, the officer came forth, lit a cigarette and strolled up and down [46] the platform before their window with an absurd affectation of calm. Nor was the Are- thusa any less ridiculous. Two cocks in a farmyard are not more [so]. [47] THE OPENING AND THE CLOSE OF "LAY MORALS" Accompanying the posthumously printed edition of Stevenson's "Lay Morals" there is a short editorial note in which it is stated that the chapters were drafted in Edinburgh in the spring of 1879; that "they were unrevised and must not be taken as representing, either as to matter or form, their author's final thoughts." In thus apologetically referring to the work as being "unrevised" the editor was doubtless not aware that there are at least three distinctly separate drafts of the MS. now in existence; for in Mr. Peabody's collection there are two, — both of which differ from the printed ver- sion to such an extent as to remove all doubt that the text was taken from still another draft, or rather a partial draft. One of Mr. Pea- body's MSS. appears to be the first tentative draft, — possibly the one Stevenson made in 1879, — while the other is much longer and seems to have been written later, — possibly in the fall of 1883, when he wrote to his father: "I have come for the moment, to a pause in my moral works, for I have many irons in the fire .... It is a most difficult work; [49] a touch of the parson will drive off those I hope to influence; a touch of overstrained laxity, besides disgusting, like a grimace, may do harm. Nothing that I have ever seen yet, speaks directly and efficaciously to young men, and I do hope I may find wit and wisdom to fill up the gap." In one of Mr. Peabody's MSS. there is a highly important introductory chapter that does not appear in the printed fragment, which begins rather abruptly and ends more abrupt- ly. The first of the two facsimiles herein shows the beginning of this introductory chap- ter, and the second shows the unpublished ending, which proves conclusively that Stev- enson did finish the essay; whereas in the most complete edition of Stevenson's works the printed text ends incompletely with the words, "they must accept and deal with this money . . . ." and the reader is left in darkness, not knowing whether the author ever finished his work, or how, or where, he was to end it, if at all. In the later "Bio- graphical Edition" of 191 1 it is even less com- plete, — the last two sentences of the text in the previous edition having been dropped. It is [50] quite probable that at least the first chapters of the piece were written while the author's thoughts on the subject were in a state of em- bryo, for his outlook on life was based upon theory rather than experience. But this de- tracts nothing from the interest of the work as an introspective study. What he would have said had he written it late in life is no more to the point than it would be to speculate on what changes he might have made in any other work had he rewritten it in after life. What concerns us is what he actually did write ; and the fact that he did not destroy the MSS., as he did many others, would indicate that he was willing to have the essay publish- ed after his death. There is nothing to war- rant an assumption that he intended to revise the essay again or make it longer than it is, except that in the opening chapter he refers to it as a book, rather than as an essay. The two top lines of manuscript in the sec- ond photographic reproduction are identical with the ending of the more complete printed text; and it will be seen that immediately fol- lowing, on the same page of manuscript there is an unprinted recapitulation, in seven short [51] paragraphs, which apparently did not appear in the draft used by the printer. What the author's "final thoughts" were — if he contemplated any further revision — it is of course impossible to say; but it is at least certain that he devoted a great deal of thought to the subject, and it is likely that he ultimate- ly succeeded in rounding it out about as he wanted it. The fourth (which is the final) chapter is by far the most important, and seems to have bothered him more than any other, for he rewrote that part repeatedly, changing it slightly each time. In one of the short suppressed passages he says: "There is no such word as belong in Morals. However much a man may seem pressed by great he- reditary fortunes, there is nothing in life for an honest man but exchange of service. Nei- ther the existence of great hereditary fortunes in the hands of others, nor the possession of one for himself, can confuse the appreciation of an honest and thoughtful soul ; he will see a reciprocity of services, and nothing more. He is one of mankind's stewards. He but holds [his fortune] in trust for mankind, and to mankind it must return." [5*] But in rewriting the manuscript Stevenson omitted this, probably because he had repeat- ed the substance of it elsewhere in the essay. There are also a few other short passages that were omitted, either for the same reason, or else because he considered them too abstruse, even for a didactical theme. The text as printed, without the introduc- tory part, fails to indicate what Stevenson par- ticularly specified, both in the opening sentence and in the letter to his father, — namely, that the essay was addressed to young men. The complete work is not given here, for the reason that the portion already printed is protected by copyright, and Mr. Peabody's MS. covering that part does not differ suffi- ciently to warrant us in printing it without infringement on the publisher's rights. It is unfortunate that so important a piece as this — to which Stevenson probably gave more serious thought than to any other essay he ever wrote — should have been given to the world as an "unrevised" and unfinished fragment, whereas the author not only revised it repeat- edly, but finished it, as shown by his summing up at the end. [53] The possessor of one of these volumes may perhaps find some amusement in making for himself a complete copy of the essay by join- ing together the parts here printed with those already published; and against such an act no copyright injunction would hold. The following is the hitherto unpublished introductory chapter to "Lay Morals." [54] «««&*- ; *--•<. *«. m S^LsttLtLffc i^w^ cLJJ- A — */. £m~*+A*U' %ts^~4 U^o aMy. c+^j, t & 4tUX*^o Aa. - 4w»-6/, . fit. .'-. a — 7u*n » «j . Ga^a/:«>Cc ^V^*- rv***>+'t' C*.t£* a^—el 4<^£^**~e~«-Cw-/-(^J , Uy,, W 61 ^---A/U»^C *~ P*< ^W*/' w.^/^} ^^Zc, WL J-**-v— * 4 /Cwvw J 0*~4~ U* tfcs* t*~sJ\,U. £a*>a*A-<,. . , ^^ < ^ . ^ ' .' ~j\-Ksl-sLe^ /(^*^#^i-» Ux*s^£6*~cA*. . -^A<-t<_ A~«. Ao Aft- ^ \^ci£s* Us U i<_ / A— -* /ti^O^— ^C t* i^-^Jldu^ejL- «J -^€ /C*^k~ fi^U^a n~~&L-. l+Myss.**. J2T, 0-Zf a~t/t~ j <$6>Ko^vc^C . /(, *"^ ; .•a>-» , iy^/^/*UL £L e^XL XTkLa hxA^C; u. La«uA~ £4stfi*~AX'~ " t~<- & — «_ ~tLu^> iK-~cL. hM~,. /~r*~s±*£V VClfc. G~*l. *fj*. ^IUmX A^i^-U. fiMNMit , ^* t <-~m.Xu c-f ifa, vv/K, rwvrv^i. 4*{ Tfc~* hA^) Ittsso lis U*sx*l~s/ Us ~tX-t^o>^>-» />^t«~£v*~ A^Yvt^vJt ; /n^/ f-w» Lr»s*.,iZ%-AdU. U*-4^*^ f 1 tti ^^-ICl-c^ ( U^^VO iw Aa^Cv NOTE TO "THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE" An account of how a story arose in the writer's mind, from and towards what points the course of invention travelled, what facts were utilized, what were easy and what hard, and how the finished work looks in the eyes of its begetter, has always seemed to me excel- lent reading for the curious. Placed in front, I should be inclined to judge it an imperti- nence; placed as a rear guard to the volume, it may serve a useful purpose on occasion. The story may be read, and it may lack yet half an hour of your accustomed bedtime; or you may have bought the volume to beguile the tedium of a journey, and have come to the last page some way short of your expected destination; at such time no one would care to embark on matter entirely new, and yet he might be ready enough to dwell a little long- er from a new standpoint on the same train of thought which he has been following so long. The magician after he has prepared his sleight of hand will sometimes afford a second, and a fresh, pleasure by explaining the method of his dexterity. As some such afterpiece, for [65] an empty moment, it is hoped this note may be regarded. [At this point the printed text begins with "I was walking one night on the verandah of a small house in which I lived, outside the hamlet of Saranac," — (this being the winter that Stevenson spent at Saranac Lake, N. Y.), and runs along substantially the same as the manuscript, except that the following import- ant passage was omitted : — ] It was the case of Marquis of Tallibardine that first struck me; the situation of a younger brother succeeding in this underhand, irregu- lar fashion, and under an implied contract of seniority, to his elder's place and future, struck me as so full of bitterness, and the men- tal relations of a family thus circumstanced so fruitful of misjudgment and domestic ani- mosity, it took my fancy then as a drama in a nutshell, to be solved between four persons and within four walls ; with my new incident and with my new aim, I saw myself, and re- joiced to be, committed to great spaces and voyages, and a long evolution of time. But [66] in the matter of the characters involved, I de- termined to adhere to the original four actors. With four characters — two brothers, a father, and a heroine (all nameless but in a deter- mined relation) I was to carry the reader to and fro in space over a good half of the world, and sustain his interest in time through the ex- tent of a generation. [The printed fragment ends with this sen- tence: "I know not if I have done him [the Chevalier Burke] well, though his moral dis- sertations always highly entertained me; but I own I have been surprised to find that he re- minded some critics of Barry Lyndon after all. ..." Then from this point the un- printed MS. runs on as follows: — ] Surely, beyond the worsted lace of his gen- tility, and a trick of Celtic boastfulness, my poor chevalier, eminently proud of his degra- dation, unaffectedly unconscious of his gen- uine merit, is a creature utterly distinct, in the essential part of him, from the brute whom Thackeray disinterred out of the Newgate [67] Calendar and set re-existing, for the time of the duration of the English language. The need of a confidant for Mr. Henry led to the introduction of Mackellar, for it was only to a servant that a man such as I con- ceived Mr. Henry, could unbosom; and no sooner had he begun to take on lineament, than I perceived the uses of the character, and was at once tempted to intrust to him the part of spokesman. Nothing more pleases me than for one of my puppets to display himself in his own language; in no other way than this of the dramatic monologue, are humorous and incongruous traits so persuasively presented. The narration, put in the mouth of the land steward, would supply, as if by the way and accidentally, a certain subdued element of comedy, much to be desired, and scarce other- wise, except by violence, to be introduced. Besides which, the device enabled me to view my heroine from the outside, which was doub- ly desirable. First, and generally, because I am always afraid of my women, which are not ad- mired in my home circle; second, and partic- ularly, because I should be thus enabled to pass over without realization an ugly and del- [68] icate business, — the master's courtship of his brother's wife. Accordingly, and perfectly satisfied with myself, I hastily wrote and re- wrote the first half of my story, down to the end of the duel, through the eyes and in the words of the good Ephraim. Cowardice is always punished; I had no sooner got this length, I had no sooner learned to appreciate the advantages of my method, than I was brought face to face with its defects and fell into a panic fear of the conclusion. How, with a narrator like Mackellar, should I transact the melodrama in the wilderness. How, with his style, so full of disabilities, at- tack a passage which must be either altogether seizing or altogether silly and absurd? The first half was already in type, when I made up my mind to have it thus done, and recom- mence the tale in the third person. Friends advised, one this way, one that; my publishers were afraid of the delay; indolence had doubtless a voice; I had besides a natural love for the documentary method in narration; and I ended by committing myself to the imper- sonation of Mackellar, and suffering the pub- lication to proceed. [6 9 ] I was doubtless right and wrong; the book has suffered and has gained in consequence; gained in relief and verisimilitude, suffered in fire, force and (as one of my critics has well said) in "large dramatic rhythm." The same astute and kindly judge complains of "the dredging machine of Mr. Mackellar's mem- ory, shooting out the facts bucketful by buck- etful;" and I understand the ground of his complaint, although my sense is otherwise. The realism I love is that of method ; not only that all in a story may possibly have come to pass, but that all might naturally be recorded — a realism that justifies the book itself as well as the fable it commemorates. [70] THE MERRY MEN, ETC. The following Preface, although entitled "The Merry Men," really has more to do with the volume as a whole than with the title-story, and deals particularly with the three stories, "Will o' the Mill," "Thrawn Janet," and "Markheim," printed in the collection. In view of the fact that Stevenson was more prone to find fault with his stories than to praise them, it will interest his readers to know that he "very much admired" these three. The piece certainly reads very smooth- ly and entertainingly, and it seems queer that it never got into print. It ends rather abrupt- ly, but there is nothing, so far as known, to in- dicate that Stevenson ever extended it any farther. In fact the manner of its ending — in about the middle of the page — would sig- nify that he did not. The photographic re- production of the first page of the MS. shows that he had considerable difficulty in getting it to suit him, and some entertainment may be found in deciphering the cancelled passages and following the irregular course of his ini- tial thoughts. [71] If there was any one branch of Stevenson's profession in which he delighted, above all others, it appears to have been that of writing prefaces. In this congenial occupation he was always in his happiest mood. Indeed his short, good-humored Preface to An Inland Voyage is thought by some to be one of the most enjoyable parts of that book. "A pre- face," he says, "is more than an author can re- sist, for it is the reward of his labors." [72] .) t^ — Y- I ffS^*- w> RSrs ^U_ k*l .jC*-V ^■"V^ p i — . t \\y — (^ , cx~-A o.^-^. h . Vy^^- £A\*AaAO 1 Vn^-C>^*- \ W^A^t-~ '\A^A ^ s ^ £J^ La-; (^ 1 I -W-, TU1 \ i r-^XJ ^-^ft. * \ I PRAYERS AT VAILIMA I O God, who throughout life hast pursued us with thy mercies and thy judgments, and in love and anger led us daily forward, as thou hast not been weary in the past, be not weary yet awhile. Pardon our dull spirits, and whether with mercy or with judgment, call us up from slumber. For as we kneel together, in this cruel state, weak folk, with many weaker depending on our help, sinful folk, with the whole earth ministering temptations, we would desire to remember equally our need and thy power. Save us, O Lord, from ourselves. The prayer that-we lifelessly repeat, hear, Lord, and make it live, and answer it in mercy. Let us not judge amiss, let us not speak with cruelty; our kindness to others, suffer it not to weary. May we grow merciful by tribula- tions, liberal by mercies. Thou who sendest thy rain upon the just and the unjust, help us to pardon, help us to love, our fellow-sinners. [i93] II O God, who hast brought us to the end of another day, of use or of uselessness, pardon, as is thy wont, the manifold sins and short- comings of our practise, the discontent and envy of our thoughts; enable us this night to enjoy the repose of slumber and waken us again tomorrow, with better thoughts and a greater courage, to resume the task of life. Bless to us the pleasures, bless to us the pains of our existence. Suffer us not to forget the bonds of our humanity; give us strength, give us the spirit of mercy, give us the power to endure. Leave us not indifferent, O God, but pierce our hearts to resolve and enable our hands to perform, as before thy face in the sight of the eternal. Watch upon our eyes, ears, thoughts, tongues and hands, that we may neither think unkindly, speak unwisely or act unrighteously. Guide us, thou who didst guide our fathers; and upon this day more especially set apart for prayer, receive our penitent and grateful thoughts; and hear us, when we pray for oth- ers and ourselves; that they may be blessed and we be helpful; and give us, beyond our [194] C-UV-*-~* CyQ ^* I \ I UuJCa M AJU*V>***^ I— Jv^ w^s M*/J^vX ^yUJi «Jb^#^JC t 1 \ \-i-N. w«k v^ fcr „ v>~ .%mK J3i j .t>^4<& m ****** W-- JO k *— "— ^V^k I t-N. U, li \ m -Li lv~o (^vf U. y-U w^v ^^ — * deserts to receive, beyond our imaginations to expect, the grace to die daily to our evil, and to live ever the more and ever the more wholly to Thee and to our fellow-sufferers. Hear us for His sake, in whose name we would further say: [Here he doubtless in- tended to repeat the Lord's Prayer.] ['95]