rriage brought to
him. The great principles by which he lived influenced those who did not
know him personally, through his gift of writing. He always maintained
that it was not a gift but an achievement, and that any one could write
as well as he by taking as much pains. We may well doubt the soundness
of this theory, but we cannot doubt the spiritual attitude from which it
came. It came from no mock humility, but from a feeling that nothing was
creditable to him except what he did. He asked no credit for the talents
committed to his charge. He asked credit only for the use be made of the
talents.

Stevenson was married May 19, 1880. His health, which had delayed the
marriage, determined the character of the honeymoon. He must get away
from the coast and its fogs. His honeymoon experiences are recorded
in one of the most delightful of his minor writings, "The Silverado
Squatters." He went, with his wife, his stepson and a dog, to squat
on the eastern shoulder of Mount Saint Helena, a noble mountain which
closes and dominates the Napa Valley, a wonderful and fertile valley,
running northward from the bay of San Francisco. Silverado was a
deserted mining-camp. Stevenson has intimated that there are more ruined
cities in California than in the land of Bashan, and in one of these he
took up his residence for about two months, "camping" in the deserted
quarters of the extinct mining company. Had he gone a little beyond the
toll-house, just over the shoulder of the mountain, he would probably
never have seen the glory of "the sea fogs." It would have been better
for his health but worse for English literature.

My first knowledge of that glory came to me twenty years ago. I had come
to California to care for one dearly beloved by me, who was fighting the
same fight that Stevenson fought, and against the same enemy, and who
was fighting it just as bravely. I took him to the summit of the Santa
Cruz Mountains in the hope that we might escape the fogs. As I watched
on the porch of the little cottage where he lay, I saw night after night
what I believe to be the most beautiful of all natural phenomena, the
sea fog of the Pacific, seen from above. Under the full moon, or under
the early sun which slowly withers it away, the great silver sea with
its dark islands of redwood seemed to me the most wonderful of things.
With my wonder and delight, perhaps making them more poignant, was the
fear lest the glory should mount too high, a