Northern Weekly Gazette. — 1915-03-06 (Stockton-on-Tees, Cleveland, England)

MORAL TONIC.  The world is so full of number of things. I think we should all be as happy as King 6  These words :I.l* not merely a stretch of the imagination—a ring of mock optimism front one whose life was a bed of roses. But they come from a chronic invalid a deep philosopher of human nature—a man of letters and a mater of literature. One, whose name will only perish when Charles Lamb is forgotten. All men of letters owned hir• their chief, and every man who used a pen, drove it at one time or another in praise of "Robert Louis Stevenson."  Emerson has said, "It 'i6 natural to believe in great men, the world is upheld by them, they make thi. earth wholesome, and they who live with them find life glad and nutritious." He says further, "1 count him a great man—who inhabits a higher sphere of thought, into which other men rise with labour and difficulty; he has but to open his eyes to see things in their true light, and in large relations, whilst they must make painful corrections, and keep a vigilant eye on many sources of error." If that be a type of greatness, then surely, here is a great man. To read one of his books is really to have a personal chat with its author. Did ever a man describe a storm at sea, the murder of a man, a child in a perambulator, or a pretiy girl at church so graphically. He could paint a Scotch moor till you could smell it, and -a sea storm till your lips tasted its brine. Look at his wonderful story, "Dr. Jekeli and Mr -Hyde," where he Preaches his awful sermon on " Dual Personality," so terrific in its psychological ' accuracy. Much might be said of his abilities and aohieveinen:•s, but the present writer is absorbed and strengthened ratler in his grave attitude, and his indomitable courage. Imagine, again, the lines—coining from the lips o a rinui who never had a day's health in his life, and who hunted the world for a. climate in which he could breathe—  The world is ao full of a number of things, I think we should all be as happy as kings.  okulted in life, yet was a chronic invalifl Listen to him in his poem, the Celestial Eurgeon," and even this, he cries from his sick bed: If I have faltered more or lees In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no smiling morning face: If beams from happy human eyes I lave moved Inc not, if morning skies, Books and my food, and eummer rain; Knocked on my sullen heart in vain; Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take. And stab my spirit broad awake.  That was the task set before us all, he believed the task and duty of being happy, but not for selfish reasons. but happy for the sake of others. " This man was happy ID his sickness, but this was not all. It might he said of him, On he went up the great staircase of duty, uncheered and undepressed." Live while you live, was his incessant cry; life to him was a journey, a jou.rney whose value lay in the road, rather than in the destine,. tion. He used to say, I don't go to travel any. where, but to go. What a splendid view of life, a view that always meant energy, immediaey, fur. ward pushing, gay, sweeping strides. h you, roy reader, wants a clearer view of the great character and personality of It. L. Stevenson, then listen to , the words of his own oftleial biographer on his last  "Recovery was very slow. The dust of the street refuse gave him Egyptian ophthalmia, and sciatic caused Lim more pain, and he was already suffer. ing from restlessness. In silence and the ciark, and in acute suffering he 'NIS still cheery and un. daunted. When the doctor announced his diagnosis Mrs Etevenson, fe,eling flier burden greater than she coul d bear, went alone into another