The times., 1899-12-03

and seal this nineteenth day OF June. in the year
of grace, eighteen hundred and nnety-ene
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Witness, Lloyd OsbouTue.
Witucas, Harold Watts
Another characteristic which comes out
plainly in these letters is the large mind
edness of the man. Stevenson was always
most generous in his appreciation of the
good work Of others. There was no petit
ness, no jealousy in him. To Barrie he
says:
Jcss is beyond my frontier line; I could not
touch her skirt; l have no such glamour of twi-
light on my pen. ! am capable artist, but IT
begins To look 20 me as if you were a man OF
genius. Take care ~ yourself for my sake II .
a deyI>h hard thing for man who writes as
many novels as ! do, that should get so few TO
read. And can read yours and love them.
Again, he writes TO ". B. Yates:
It may interest you to hear that l have a third
time fallen in slavery; this is to your poem
called the Lake Isle of Inaisuae.' Ii Is q4aIHJ
and airy, simple ar1fui and eloquent 20 the heart
but I seek words iU vain Enough that always
night and day ! hear lake wafer tapping with
low sounds on the shore, and ann yours CRATE
fully, ROBERT louis STEVENSON
Was there ever prettier compliment?
There is a dainty bit of verse, written to
a lady who asked leave to print some Of
Stevenson's work in Braille type for the
blind The novelist wrote her a graceful
note. giving the desired permission, and
enclosing the following stanzas:
] was barren tree before,
] blew queuCh"d coal
] could not on their midnight shore,
The lonely blind console.
moment, lend your hand I bring
My sHGat Tor you TO bind,
And YOU can teach my words TO sing
In the darkness OF the blind.
Not the least interesting chapter in the
book is the last, in which Mr.. Colviu tells
simply but graphically the story of the
death of ''Tusitala" among his Samoan
friends. There is no need to spoil the
completeness of this sketch by a broken
quotation; but one more selection may
well be made from the Letters, words
written month or two before the author 5
death:
have had hard lines; I have been so long wait
ing for death; have unwrapped my thoughts
from about life so long, that l have not fla
ment left 70 hold by; | have done my fddling SO
long under Nesuvius. that ] have almost for
gotten TO play, and can only wait for the eTup-
tion. and think it long Of coming Literally,
no man has more wholly OUtliyed life than /.
And still its good fun.
Brave words are these, full of the stern
courage and cynical gayety Of the Scot who
if he jests, does so grimly with an under
tone of sadness. StevensOn's life was like
one of those old Scottish tunes which seem
made for the voice OF the bagpipe-airs of
an ellin wiidness, of heartbreaking pathos,
of mad carousal, all mingled in few
few strains of mysteriously simple con-
struction. He was of his people, from the
beginning 10 the end; yet he belonged to
the world. Wherever his books have gone
Stevenson will be loved and remembered;
and thousands of people will read these
letters as if they were from a personal
friend as indeed they are; for the writer
who says for US what we cannot express
for ourselves is, after ALL as close friend
as can be found in the commonplace con-
tact of daily life. (New York: Charles
Scribner's Sons. 5000