gested by them to his vivid, well-nigh rampant imagination painted life for him. in the most brilliant and fascinating col

ors.

It is hardly possible that the varied and romantic scenery of the old town of Edinburgh, its semi-cosmopolitan character, the frequent yet strange appearance of the tall, lank, stern Highlander wrapped in his gaudy plaid, could have failed to impress the imaginative lad and early to develop his innate love for the unusual and pictorial. "Picturesque Edinburgh" is Stevenson's tribute to his native city. It was there that he was educated at private schools, and later at the University.

Many of the essays in "Memories and Portraits" tell of his child life in the quaint old town,-such little things as "A Penny Plain and Twopence Colored." Others are full of reminiscences of his university days, of his truant habits and vagabond life, of the long lonely walks with two books in his pocket, one to read from, the other to write in. I will not quote the "sedulous ape"; the phrase is fast becoming hackneyed; suffice it to say that at the very outset Stevenson determined to devote himself to

literary work and set about preparing

himself for it.

He was to have studied for his father's calling, but, as that was distasteful to him in many ways, he finally compromised on the law and qualified for the Scots bar. His ill-health, however, prevented him from following this profession, and drove him to the south of France.

Say not of me that weakly I declined
The labors of my sires, and fled the sea,
The towers we founded and the lamps we lit,
To play at home witn paper like a child.
But rather say: In the afternoon of time
A strenuous family dusted from its hands
The sand of granite, and beholding far
Along the sounding coast its pyramids
And tall memorials catch the dying sun,
Smiled with content, and to this childish task
Around the fire addressed the evening hours.

It was at this time that Stevenson wrote "Ordered South," one of the few things that even indirectly tell of his invalid life. In it there is a touch almost of impatient sadness, rare, indeed almost unparalleled in Stevenson. "Many a white town that sits far out on the pro

montory, many a comely fold of wood on the mountain side, beckons and allures his imagination day after day, and is yet as inaccessible to his feet as the clefts and gorges of the clouds. . . He will pray for Medea: when she comes let her either rejuvenate or slay."

But this feeling of despondency did. not last long. His health improved and so did his spirits, lending a more cheerful tone to his first two books, "An Inland Voyage" and "Travels with a Donkey in Cevennes," such vivacious and joyous accounts of his wanderings that it seems incredible for them to have come from the pen of a confirmed invalid.

During these travels, and for the next four years, when he was often obliged to leave home for some more congenial climate, Stevenson wrote voluminously, though little of his work was published. But the few things he did publish attracted considerable attention. His account of his travels struck a new note, and the delightful, little idyl, "Will o' the Mill," puzzled and interested everybody.

From the time when Stevenson first left Scotland in 1873 until he landed at Samoa in 1888, he was forced continually to move from one place to another in search of health. In 1879 he came to the United States under rather peculiar and interesting circumstances. His family and friends all wished him to go again to the Continent, but Stevenson had determined to cross the Atlantic and nothing could move him. He was not overpowered even when a considerable part of his income was cut off, but embarked second class for New York. As the second cabin was in reality merely the more comfortable part of the steerage, Stevenson was thrown into the company of the ordinary emigrants. He recounts some of his experiences and impressions in a volume called "The Amateur Emigrant," one of the most interesting and human. of his essays. One hardly gives Stevenson credit for much true sympathy, I think, until one has read "The Amateur Emigrant" and its continuation "Across the Plains." It is amazing to find what knowledge of character he gained from

sources where less observing men would have found nothing. He seemed to have the knack of drawing out the best that was in everyone, and so to crystallize the thoughts that the attraction is irresistable.

Not only was the ocean voyage that of the ordinary emigrant, but it was in an emigrant train that Stevenson crossed the country from New York to San Francisco-the journey that furnished. the material for "Across the Plains." In California Stevenson married Mrs. Osbourne, in spite of the anti-matrimonial views he set forth in "Virginibus Puerisque." For some time after their marriage they remained in and about Monterey, the beautiful region described in "The Silverado Squatters."

From this time on we have little direct autobiographical material, except in Stevenson's letters. His literary productions were mostly novels, affording of course small opportunity for the confidences so freely given by him in his essays. No doubt there is much that is reminiscent in his stories, such as the Parisian episodes in "The Wrecker," but, without Stevenson's letters to guide us, it would be difficult to patch up the tale of his life. These letters, however, are remarkably full, so that the story goes on without a break.

Stevenson remained but a short time in the new land. There was something strange and not altogether pleasant about it for him. Even the sunrise, beautiful as it was, had not the soft yet brilliant coloring of the English dawn. The love for the old country was still strong in him, and before long he had returned to England, only, however, to be driven again to France. He made one last attempt to brave the British climate in 1885, and established himself at Bournemouth, where he called his house. "Skerryvore.

For love of lovely words, and for the sake
Of those, my kinsmen and my countrymen,
Who early and late in the windy ocean toiled
To plant a star for seamen where was then
The surfy haunt of seals and cormorants,
I on the lintel of this cot inscribe
The name of a strong tower.

It soon became evident, however, that Stevenson's frail constitution could never

endure the climate. Again he went to the United States, and, after spending some time in the Adirondacks, made a second visit to California. In the summer of 1888, while making a yachting cruise among the Pacific Islands, he became interested in the island of Samoa. The climate seemed to agree with him, and there he made his home for the rest of his life. With his love for names, Stevenson christened his new home "Vailima," the Samoan word for "five streams."

Thus from "A Child's Garden of Verses" through the "Vailima Letters" runs the tale of Stevenson's life. And by this I do not mean a mere conglomeration of dates and facts such as one finds in encyclopedias and works on English Literature, but something far more vital and interesting-a notion of what distinguishes this man from all others, his aims, his ideas, his manner, thoughts, and experiences, in short, all that goes to make up and to influence what is termed his personality.

It is the charm of this personality that has invaded everything Stevenson has written and made it indisputably "Stevenson's." And perhaps the most striking things about it are its frank optimism and its curiosity.

"To be good and to make others happy" was Stevenson's motto, and, if he has even in a small measure accomplished his purpose, surely we should not complain. It seems little less than a miracle that a man whose life was a continual struggle for existence should have kept his youthful, happy spirit to the end. Yet, paradoxical as it may seem, it was this very ill-health, I think, that made Stevenson look on the bright side of things. He watched the drama of the world from afar, eager yet unable to take his place among the actors, but, by this very separation, seeing all that was best and brightest in the pageant, and spared the dingy gloom behind the scenes.

To be sure, as time went on and some of the glamour wore away, the dark side of life thrust itself upon his notice. But, though he was conscious of all the darkness, he never ceased to be the apostle

of light, for "it is a shaggy world and yet studded with gardens.'

"And as we dwell, living things, in our isle of terror and under the imminent hand of death, God forbid it should be the man erected, the reasoner, the wise in his own eyes-God forbid it should be the man that wearies in welldoing, that despairs of unrewarded effort, or utters the language of complaint. Let it be enough for faith that the whole creation groans in mortal frailty, strives with unconquerable constancy-surely not all in vain.”

In the drawing of his evil characters Stevenson exemplified his tendency toward an optimistic view of life. Even his worst characters have their better side. It is for this reason that the people in his novels, wicked as they may be, rarely arouse hatred. He judges a man not so much by his acts as by his motives, usually so much better; and unconsciously his readers do likewise. There is something in the dashing courage and ambition of the handsome Master of Ballantrae that partly atones for his evil deeds. One feels that if the spinning of the coin had but ordered things differently, and had not sent him to Prince Charlie's aid, the Master might not have been the villain after all.

For his own part, Stevenson does not at all find it a task to be happy. "To be truly happy," he says, "is a question of how we begin, and not of how we end; of what we want, and not of what we have. An aspiration is a joy forever, a possession as solid as a landed estate, a future which we can never exhaust, and which gives us year by year a revenue of pleasurable activity. To have many of these is to be spiritually rich.

Desire and curiosity are the two eyes through which he sees the world in the most enchanted colors; it is they that make women beautiful or fossils interesting; and the man may squander his estate and come to beggary, but if he keeps these two amulets, he is still rich in the possibilities of pleasure."

It seems as if Stevenson started out with this idea in mind when he wrote his stories. If "desire and curiosity" are the

means of obtaining happiness, he has certainly furnished plenty of material for these in his own works. Who has not wondered what it was that Billy Bones had done, what were the crimes of the mysterious Captain Flint, what became of Long John, the one-legged cook, and the weak yet interesting Herrick? What strange feats would Secundra Dass and Attwater perform in years to come? If Treasure Island and the pearl-fisheries are ever found, what new tales will they tell? It is what Stevenson does not say rather than what he tells us that makes his novels so interesting.

If, then, "to make others happy" was Stevenson's aim in life, and "desire and curiosity" are the means to happiness, surely no one can say that he did not at least live up to his ideal. That ideal may not be the highest; but it surely is not the lowest, and, to use his own words, it is something to "live for an ideal, however misconceived."

When we bear this in mind, it is unfair, I think, to say that Stevenson gave all his attention to style and cared nothing for his subject matter. Perhaps he has laid himself open to the criticism because of the striking peculiarities of his style. For it is a peculiarity to be able to use words with as great accuracy and fitness, both in meaning and sound, as did Robert Louis Stevenson. But beyond this, there is little that can be said for his style, unless it be that the sentences are rhythmical, so rhythmical, indeed, that everything else is frequently sacrificed to rhythm. It was the sound of a word, phrase, or sentence that Stevenson cared for; and it was sound that guided him in choice and arrangement.

His plots are often carelessly, badly made, but the single scene that is small enough to catch the eye receives the same careful attention as the words. Seemingly fearful that some of its force may be lost if the reader is not prepared beforehand, Stevenson frequently prefaces a vivid scene with remarks of this sort: "A few days after, there befell an accident which had nearly hanged us all."

"We were come to the most critical portion of our course, where we might

equally expect to fall into the hands of French or English, when a terrible calamity befell us."

"The mention of these rambles brings me to a strange scene, of which I was witness"-a frankness that would be a blemish in most styles.

The separate scenes, I have said, are vivid; such things as the duel between the Durie brothers in "The Master of Ballantrae" and the defense of the round-house in "Kidnapped." And on the face of things, Stevenson has endeavored in every way to make them so; one can almost see him pull the wires. But his skill in drawing character, is, I think, far greater. The thing is done so cleverly that one cannot lay his hand on anything and say: "This was written to show his bravery and conceit." Our attention is all occupied with the story, and we forget the actors. Yet the mere mention of the Master of Ballantrae, or Attwater, Secundra Dass, John Silver, Herrick, or Captain Davis, brings up a host of memories, ofttentimes indistinct, to be sure, but nevertheless creating an atmosphere from which that name can never be separated. And Stevenson's powers in this line were stronger in writing his last published work, "The Ebb-Tide," than at any previous time. In this book all the actors, Herrick, Hurst, Davis, and Attwater are alike distinct and perfect characters in their way.

Indeed, it is safe to say that Stevenson at the time of his death had in no way done the best work of which he was capable. Up to the very end there was a steady improvement in his work. The last of the imitation, that began in university days, dies away in "Treasure Island," and from that time on he is distinctly Stevenson, and nothing else; his imagination was gradually brought down from heaven to earth, and from distant and romantic times and places to the present day; he had by degrees learned to blend the novels of incident

and character, still distinct in "The Wrecker" but closely united in "The Ebb-Tide." There is no backward step, and it is hard to feel that literature has not lost much by Stevenson's early death.

The end came suddenly, carrying him off from the midst of his work. He was buried on the top of a mountain, on the island of Samoa, far away from his native land, whither he had hoped in time to return.

Blows the wind today, and the sun and the rain are flying

Blows the wind on the moors today and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,

My heart remembers how!

Gray recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant, wine-red

moor,

Hills of sheep, and the houses of the silent vanished races

And winds austere and pure!

Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying,

Hills of home! and to hear again the call-
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the
peewees crying,
And hear no more at all!

But if we are to follow Stevenson's teaching, we must look on the bright side of things, and it is well to remember that his death was such a one as he himself praises in "Aes Triplex":

"Does not life go down with a better grace foaming in full body over a precipice, than miserably struggling to an end in sandy deltas? When the Greeks made their fine saying that those whom the Gods love die young, I cannot help believing they had this sort of death also in their eye. Death has not been suffered to take so much as an illusion from his heart. In the hotfit of life, a-tip-toe on the highest point of being, he passes at a bound on to the other side. The noise of the mallet and chisel is scarcely quenched, and the trumpets are hardly done blowing, when, trailing with him clouds of glory, this happy-starred, fullblooded spirit shoots into the spiritual world."

I. HANDS OF A WOMAN.

A sentimentalist has said that the most beautiful thoughts have never been expressed in words. This is almost a platitude to a large group of aspiring poets with tendencies towards hirsuteness, but it is a very sad reality to another unfortunate class of persons. Surely mutes who are unable to indulge in the verbal idiosyncrasies of a modern language feel the handicap of silence, for no thought of theirs is ever tinged with poetic inflection. Love, according to youth and other minor authorities, is a joy forever, or in other words, a thing of beauty. In its early stage half of the joy in those cooing, sentimental skirmish words, and later the other half of the beauty is in the actual wooing. Hence, think of a mute's dilemma when love trembles on his lips and the words won't fall off. Of course, the hypersensitive critic will say that the mute is not so unfortunate after all, as he has his hands. And it must be confessed here, that with a little experience or exercise, he may gesticulate a passionate plea with all the savoir-faire of the most careless summer man. But all such unnatural things have peculiar results and even this wooing a la main has its disadvantages. And there are records of this.

Of

If silence is golden then Frederick Paulson was wealthy; you see, he was a mute. Frederick was young and handsome; he was also a slave to the demands of a poetic temperament. course he expected to be emancipated some time and so sought to earn his freedom by writing, in his younger days, sonnets and other less difficult verse to imaginary goddesses. However, it was only natural that later, he wished these. parcels of feminity to be cousins, often removed, or memorial columns by which he should trace the development of his taste. But after having been tickled frequently by feminine caprice and in all probability by his own vanity, his heart,

following the economic trend of the day, began a centralization policy. It was not strange then that at the age of six and twenty this tall young man should fall deeply in love with a woman. Of course, in this respect he was doing nothing startling or original; he had only followed the fashion of sundry other gentlemen. This particular young lady instantly became his ideal; but history says he never described her in spoken words. Still Rumor, our own most worshipped feminine authority, gave her brown hair, languid eyes, a pink complexion and a pale name. But Lillian White, fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader may judge, was also a mute.

Never before or since has Rumor been so distressed; for while she eagerly followed their footsteps, she was unable to echo forth any quarrels during the days before Frederick hesitated to gesticulate. Indeed those days were quiet and peaceful, spent together on the sands of the ocean city. But though poets tell us of the unspoken love that sparkles in the eye, yet every girl expects a verbal proposal. Lillian was like other girls in this respect, and while she never hoped to hear his love, yet she did expect to see it on his fingers' ends. At last that eventful evening came. They had been out walking on the board-walk, when a convenient if somewhat sudden shower sent them home. Lillian found that her parents had retired early, so she and Frederick were sure of no interruption in the cottage parlor. They entered and sat down on separate chairs, for the faint light of a single kerosene lamp disclosed the absence of the proverbial sofa.

Like other proposals there was silence for a few minutes, then her hands began to be nervous, and she naively figured the conventional question

"The weather is very bad tonight, isn't it?"

"Yes," was his reply laconic-after a poetic pause. Then by the way of em