urse; but
then he looks so unassuming in his open landau! If all the world dined
at one table this philosophy would meet with some rude knocks.'

In the three years since Stevenson's death many additions have been
made to the body of literature by him and about him. There are
letters, finished and unfinished novels, and recollections by the
heaping handful. Critics are considerably exercised over the question
whether any, or all, or only two or three of his books are to last.
The matter has, I believe, been definitely decided so that posterity,
whatever other responsibilities it has, will at least not have that
one; and anything that we can do to relieve the future of its burdens
is altruism worthy the name.

Stevenson was one of the best tempered men that ever lived. He never
prated about goodness, but was unaffectedly good and sunny-hearted as
long as he lived. Of how many men can it be said, as it _can_ be said
of him, that he was sick all his days and never uttered a whimper?
What rare health of mind was this which went with such poor health of
body! I've known men to complain more over toothache than Stevenson
thought it worth while to do with death staring him in the face. He
did not, like Will o' the Mill, live until the snow began to thicken
on his head. He never knew that which we call middle age.

He worked harder than a man in his condition should have done. At
times he felt the need to write for money; and this was hostile to his
theory of literature. He wrote to his friend Colvin: 'I sometimes sit
and yearn for anything in the nature of an income that would come
in--mine has all got to be gone and fished for with the immortal mind
of man. What I want is an income that really comes in of itself while
all you have to do is just to blossom and exist and sit on chairs.'

I wish he might have had it; I can think of no other man whose
indolence would have been so profitable to the world.

STEVENSON'S ST. IVES

With the publication of _St. Ives_ the catalogue of Stevenson's
important writings has closed. In truth it closed several years
ago,--in 1891, to be exact,--when _Catriona_ was published. Nothing
which has appeared since that date can modify to any great extent the
best critical estimate of his novels. Neither _Weir of Hermiston_ nor
_St. Ives_ affects the matter. You may throw them into the scales with
his other works, and then you may take them out; beyond a mere
trembling the balance is no