New-York tribune., 1901-11-26


thing somebody other did not like. was dis
seated. cast into outer darkness. and not so
much as named-(such is the Anxious Egot1sto
among the innumerabe doctors who figure,
with DR. Scott, of BournemOuth. at the head OF
them. in the dedication Of one Of SteVensons
books With what instancy the circum-
stances Of that dispatch-the how, the when.
the whence-leap 20 my pens end as l write!
For the moment I forget myself; and It's some
thing of an effort TO recall that Stevenson is
dead but Z" is yet in complete and cheer
full activity, recking naught of his exclusion
from Stevenson's list and doing his best for
low and high, he was doing 1t when he
came into my life these some and twenty years
ago.
Treating of the movement Of Stevenson's mind.
his friend indicates that il not always con-
summately swift When one jolly creature
greeted him with the words, Here comes the
Gifted Boy he at a loss to retort Pursu-
ing this point. Mr.. Henley says:
Was he what the world calls "a wit? do
not think he was. After all, wit is a man Of
phrases: consciously, sometimes, he waits, ne
thinks, he condenses his thought ana out comes
his witticismi or he waits not, nor THINKS nor
condenses, but says something, and by no sort
OF effort he retorts in the only possible way
Mr. Thackeray has noted the difference between
old Mr.. Congreve inventing his epigrams in a
corner, and young Mr.. Harry Fielding, who
nours out everything he has in his heart, and
is, in effect, as brilliant, as engaging, and as
arresting a talker Colonel Esmond has
known. In print Stevenson was now and then
enough for
was not Congreve's. but Harry Fieldfng's. No;
he was certainly not wit, in the sense that
CongreYe wit.
Turning to the works. Mr.. Henley is even
mere inconsiderate of the Stevensonians than
when writing of the man. He goes straight TO
the point, follows:
To tell the truth his books are none of mine:
I mean that if l want reading I do go for
it to the Edinburgh Edition I am not inter
ested in remarks about morals; in and out Of
letters I have lived a full and varied life, and
my opinions are my own So. If / crave the en-
chantment of romance l ask it of bigger men
than he, and of bigger books than ms: or Es-
mond' (say) and Great Expectations, of
"Redgauntlet'' and "Old Mortality Of La
RENE Margot' and BRA gelonne.' Of David
Copperfeld' and "A Tale of Two Cities: while
If good writing and some other things be in my
appetite are there not always HaZlftt and Lamb
to say nothing of that globe of miraculous
continents" which is known to US as Shakes
peare? There is his style. you will say: and it
is fact that it is rare, and in the last times
better, because much simpler, than in the first
But after all, his style is so perfectly achieved
that the achievement gets obvious: and when
achievement gets obvious, is 1t by way of
becoming unnteresting? And is there not
something to be said for the person who wrote
that Stevenson always reminded him of young
man dressed the best he ever for the Bur
lington Arcade? Stevensons work in letters
does not take me much. and I decline to en-
ter the question Of its immortality; since that
despite what any can say, VIII get itself settled
soon or late, for all time. No. when 1 care to
think of Stevenson it is not OF "R. L. S.: r. L.
S the renowned the accomplished, executing
his difficult solo: but of the Lewis that
knew, and loved, and wrought for, and worked
for so long. The successful of letters does
not greatly interest l read his careful
prayers. and pass on, with the certainty that
well as they read, they were not written for
print: 1 learn of his nameless prodigalities-and
recall some instances Of conduct in another
vein. I remember, rather, the unmarried and
irresponsible Lewis: the friend, the comrade,
the charneur Truly, that last word, French as
- Sc ha py1lx- Ay,a hat Sc Inv Of
shall ever remember him that The impress
sion of his writings disappears the impress
sion Of himself and his talk is ever possession.
A last word. 1 have everywhere read that we
must praise him now and always for that, being
a stricken man he would live out his life Are
we not ali stricken men, and do all do
that? And why, because he wrote better than
anv one should he have praise and fame for
doing that which many poor consumptive
sempstress does: cheerfully, faithfully, with no
eloquent appeals to God, much para
graph in the evening papers? That a man
writes well at deaths door is sure no reason for
making him hero; for, after all, there is as
much virtue in making shirt. finishing a
gross of matchboXeS, In the very act OF mortal
ity as there is in polishing a verse, or COM
pleting a chapter in novel. AS much, 1 say;
but is there not an immense deal more? In the
one case, the sufferer does the thing he loves
best in life. In the other, well-who that has
not made shirts. or finished matchboxes, shall
speak? Stevenson, for all his vocalizngs was
q brave man, "itn g fine, buoyant spirit: and
he took the mystery of life and time and death
seemed best TO him. But mortals all;
and. far l have scen there few of us
but strive to keep a decent face for the Arch
DiscomfnrtSr. There is no doubt that Steven
son wrote his best in the shadow of the Shade:
for writing his best was very life to him. Why,
then. all this crawling astonshment-this
voluble admiration? If it meant anything il
would mean that We have forgotten how to live
and that Of us is prepared to die; and that
were outrage on the innumerabe unstoried
martyrdoms Of humanity. Let this be said of
him. once for all: He was good man. good at
many things, and this also he has attained
| to- TO be at rest This covers Sophocles and
| Shakespeare. Marlborough and Bonaparte. Let
1t serve for Stevenson; and. for ourselves let US
| live and die uninsulted, we lived and died
| before his books began to sell and his person
ality a marketable thing.