I think of the delicacy and perfection of much of R. L.
Stevenson’s work--just the kind of writing which a man might
plead could not be done except in moments of inspiration and in
favorable conditions. Then I remember how that delicate style
was attained by years of severe drill, and when the instrument
had been perfected, it was used with conscientious diligence in
face of every conceivable hindrance. When, after hemorrhage, his
right hand is in a sling, he writes some of his “Child’s Garden
of Verses” with his left hand; when the hemorrhage has been so
bad that he may not even speak, he dictates a novel in the deaf
and dumb alphabet. He writes to George Meredith: “For fourteen
years I have not had a day’s real health. I have written in
bed, written in hemorrhages, written in sickness, written torn
by coughing, written when my head swam for weakness; and for
so long, it seems to me, I have won my wager and recovered my
glove. The battle goes on--ill or well is a trifle, so as it
goes. I was made for contest, and the powers have so willed
that my battle-field should be this dingy, inglorious one of
the bed and the physic-bottle.” No wonder that he could say: “I
frankly believe (thanks to my dire industry) I have done more
with smaller gifts than almost any man of letters in the world.”
And yet this man declared that he labored only for art, and
that the end of art was to give pleasure! If such a motive can
command such devotion, what is not possible for us who serve
the Savior, for us whose end is the salvation of men and the
redemption of the world!--W. W. B. EMERY, _Christian
World Pulpit_.
(266)
=Body, The, as a House=--See HOUSE OF THE SOUL.