STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS BALFOUR. An eminent poet, novelist,
essayist, and miscellaneous writer; born in Edinburgh, November 13,
1850; died at Samoa, December 4, 1894. His father and grandfather
were famous lighthouse engineers and he was at first intended for
the family profession. But he soon gave up the idea and turned to
law. After duly qualifying for this calling he was admitted to the
bar, but his career as a lawyer was short. Soon he found his true
calling in the craft of letters and rapidly found his way into the
front rank of contemporary writers, by the beauty and perfection of
his style, no less than by a most charming personality, which shone
through all he wrote. Some experiences which supplied impulse and
material were leisurely trips through Europe by canoe and on foot,
a voyage across the Atlantic in an emigrant ship, and, following
this, a journey across the American continent in an emigrant train.
Four masterpieces of English style followed these
experiences--_Travels with a Donkey_, _An Inland Voyage_, _The
Amateur Emigrant_ and _Across the Plains_. They are all models of
graceful and perfect English. From his childhood, he had drunk deep
at the richest wells of English, and from the first his writings
showed a distinct individuality and a most subtle art. From early
childhood his health was precarious, and having married an American
lady (Mrs. Osborne), and sojourned in the Adirondack mountains a
year or so in the hope of improving his health, he set sail with
his wife and two stepchildren for an extended voyage in the
tropical seas. After cruising about for some time, he finally
settled in the island of Samoa, where he lived in great happiness
and comparative health for five years. Here, among the simple
natives who had grown to worship him, and who called him TUSITALA,
which, in their language, meant "teller of tales," the greatest
writer of his time, and one of the greatest of all time, died on
the fourth of December, 1894, in the forty-fifth year of his age.
But his books live. And through them shines one of the most
winning personalities that mankind has known. If ever a writer was
loved, that writer is Stevenson. If ever there was a literary model
for young writers to study and emulate, that model is Stevenson.
His work stands alone in literature as an illustration of what
genius can do when reinforced by infinite pains. Money could not
tempt him to write anything commonplace. He did not depend too much
on his genius. He was a master of pathos but, like the true
literary artist he was, he used it sparingly. There was something
about his books which endeared their author to the world. This
cannot be explained nor described. When you read _Treasure Island_
or _Kidnapped_, you are amazed that you can so love an author whom
you have never seen. And when you read _Will o' the Mill_, which is
given here, you will feel the same way. Many have not the taste and
training to appreciate Stevenson's technique, and to understand and
be able to explain why he was such a master. These things can be
left to the critics. But one does not need to know much of
architecture to appreciate the beauty of a cathedral. And the
general run of readers find the greatness of Stevenson in his
personal charm. They care but little for the tools he used, and
only see the structure which he reared. And leaving aside the
question of "style," is it not wonderful that a sick man, far off
in some savage island of the south Pacific ocean, could make the
whole world love him and feel a personal bereavement in his loss?