The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1895-10-30

when the article was published, under
meath the picture appeared the words,
Mrs. Stevenson, copying for her hus-
band. This, however, was nothing to
other annoyances we have had. Private
letters have been sold by people whom
we deemed our friends.
''Tt has seemed with long drawn
sigh and tightening of the hands on
che arms of the chair, as if the whole
writing world had tried to make money
out of the death of my husband.
"What do you consider MIR. Steven
son S greatest work."
81 think the story he was writing
when he died, Weir Of Hermistoun,
the strongest thing he ever wrote. 1t is
great loss to the world of romance. He
read me chapter that last day-just
before he died"- Mrs. Stevenson
paused abruptly.
Is it true that some one-Mr. o.
borne perhaps-win finish it?''
"Oh, no!'' very mournfully. "No
one could finish it.
ST have repeatedly seen it stated that
your son would finish the works Mr..
Stevenson left uncompleted.
THAT is not true, and you will obige
me by contradicting such statements. I
repeat that the whole writing world has
appeared to league together to make
material out of Mr.. Stevenson death.
Perhaps said the lady, rising,
''you might like to see one of the mats
which the natives brought to cover my
husband as he lay on his bed after he
died. They came in and knelt down
and tenderly spread these mats over
their 'Tusitala,' as they named him. !"
Mrs. Stevenson brought forward one
of these rugs. 1t was as large as bed
cover, made Of the bark of tree and
| decorated with fringes and borders Of
tiny scarlet feathers.
Chow did these people know that
Mr.. Stevenson wrote stories?"
ooh, they find cut everythingi They
are very quick, very clever. very digni-
fed and naughty. But they loved my
| husband and mourned him sincerely.
Nor did one of thom find any fault with
| the manner of his death. y
''What do you mean by that, Mrs.
Stevenson"
II understand she said, with sup
pressed emotion, but with an ominons
glitter in her eyes, that Mrs. Oliphant
has written an article in which she says
! OA4rtS S41O OOJSOlS W l1O I'll
matte manner in which Mr.. Stevenson
died. 1 consider that''-very slowly
and coldly-"very brutal of Mrs Oil
plant. You can see how have been
tortured. As if my husband could choose
the manner of his death.
The Great Romancer's Simplicity.
f'Mr. Stevenson, - she went on, ''was
as simple and childhke as possible
Tho least thing amused and interested
him. He was like boy. He was ten
der, sympathetic and charitable to de-
gree, never speaking an unkind word of
any one. And he enjoyed life so much
loved it. He taught me how to live. "
For one instant the brave voice fall
tiers, the marvellous eyes suffuse with
tears, but there is only quick upward
glance, as if seeking help; then the
woman becomes the sphinx again.
''Mrs. Stevenson. do you believe"-
81 believe nothing, . she quickly in
terrupts me. do not ask me what be-
lieve, for do not know. I only know
that everything, that everybody, is a
miracle. It is miracle that you should
sit there, living, breathing creature,
and look at Inc, talk to me. We think
and wonder and dream, but we know
nothing"
81 was only going to ask you if you
believed in the modern, the advanced,
the new woman. -
'Tell me first, Mrs. Stevenson said,
fixing her dark eyes more gravely upon
me, ''what do you mean by the modern,
the advanced, the new woman?'"
1.-THE person who wears bloomers,
rolls cigarette on the piazza of hotel,
swears, wishes to vote and writes smart,
brackish novels"
A View of the Now Woman.
''My father used to say Mrs. Ste
venson thoughtfully replies, THAT no
one has right to make himself hideous.
But women may make themselves hid
eous, unwomanly and coarse, if they
wish, SO long as they do not make them
selves hideous, coarse and unwomanly
in literature. What they may do in the
streets, or, in fact, anywhere in public,
do not care. But when they offend me
in literature, then protest. Literature
is food. 1t should be clearly and whole
some. I am Mortified at many of the
novels written by the modern woman.
My son has brought in from time to
time an armful of these novels. I have
taken them up and glanced over them,
and I assure you l have been ashamed to
think that have read the little I have,
caught here and there at random, in the
room with my children. And am not
overparticular either. But when eat
want food, nutritious and wholesome.
I do not want garbage. Take that
novel;" mentioning one of the most IA
nous of the recently established school
Of stupidity and smut. ''what purpose
does it serve? It is not a romance. 1t
teaches no philosophy. If it was intend
ed as textbook for the hospital, it is a
failure. So it is neither fish, flesh nor
fowl. It is purposeless. 1t makes no one
happier Or wiser or better. To what end