Robert Louis Stevenson [85]
I think Stevenson would have felt and said that brother and sister were well worthy of each other; and that the sister was almost as grand and cheery a stoic, with no literary profession of it, as was the brother.
The other thing relates to Stevenson's HUMAN SOUL. I find Mr Symons says, at p. 243, that Stevenson "had something a trifle elfish and uncanny about him, as of a bewitched being who was not actually human - had not actually a human soul" - in which there may be a glimmer of truth viewed from his revelation of artistic curiosities in some aspects, but is hardly true of him otherwise; and this Mr Symons himself seems to have felt, when, at p. 246, he writes: "He is one of those writers who speak TO US ON EASY TERMS, with whom we MAY EXCHANGE AFFECTIONS." How "affections" could be exchanged on easy terms between the normal human being and an elfish creature actually WITHOUT A HUMAN SOUL (seeing that affections are, as Mr Matthew Arnold might have said, at least, three-fourths of soul) is more, I confess, than I can quite see at present; but in this rather MALADROIT contradiction Mr Symons does point at one phase of the problem of Stevenson - this, namely that to all the ordinary happy or pleasure-endings he opposes, as it were of set purpose, gloom, as though to certain things he was quite indifferent, and though, as we have seen, his actual life and practice were quite opposed to this.
I am sorry I CANNOT find the link in Mr Symons' essay, which would quite make these two statements consistently coincide critically. As an enthusiastic, though I hope still a discriminating, Stevensonian, I do wish Mr Symons would help us to it somehow hereafter. It would be well worth his doing, in my opinion.
CHAPTER XXXIV - LETTERS AND POEMS IN TESTIMONY
AMONG many letters received by me in acknowledgment of, or in commentary on, my little tributes to R. L. Stevenson, in various journals and magazines, I find the following, which I give here for reasons purely personal, and because my readers may with me, join in admiration of the fancy, grace and beauty of the poems. I must preface the first poem by a letter, which explains the genesis of the poem, and relates a striking and very touching incident:
"37 ST DONATT'S ROAD, LEWISHAM HIGH ROAD, S.E., 1ST MARCH 1895.
"DEAR SIR, - As you have written so much about your friend, the late Robert Louis Stevenson, and quoted many tributes to his genius from contemporary writers, I take the liberty of sending you herewith some verses of mine which appeared in THE WEEKLY SUN of November last. I sent a copy of these verses to Samoa, but unfortunately the great novelist died before they reached it. I have, however, this week, received a little note from Mrs Strong, which runs as follows:
"'Your poem of "Greeting" came too late. I can only thank you by sending a little moss that I plucked from a tree overhanging his grave on Vaea Mountain.'
"I trust you will appreciate my motive in sending you the poem. I do not wish to obtrude my claims as a verse-writer upon your notice, but I thought the incident I have recited would be interesting to one who is so devoted a collector of Stevensoniana. - Respectfully yours,
F. J. COX."
GREETING
(TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, IN SAMOA)
We, pent in cities, prisoned in the mart, Can know you only as a man apart, But ever-present through your matchless art.
You have exchanged the old, familiar ways For isles, where, through the range of splendid days, Her treasure Nature lavishly displays.
There, by the gracious sweep of ampler seas, That swell responsive to the odorous breeze. You have the wine of Life, and we the lees!
You mark, perchance, within your island bowers, The slow departure of the languorous hours, And breathe the sweetness of the strange wild-flowers.
And everything your soul and sense delights - But in the solemn wonder of your nights, When Peace her message on the landscape writes;
When Ocean scarcely flecks her marge with foam - Your
The other thing relates to Stevenson's HUMAN SOUL. I find Mr Symons says, at p. 243, that Stevenson "had something a trifle elfish and uncanny about him, as of a bewitched being who was not actually human - had not actually a human soul" - in which there may be a glimmer of truth viewed from his revelation of artistic curiosities in some aspects, but is hardly true of him otherwise; and this Mr Symons himself seems to have felt, when, at p. 246, he writes: "He is one of those writers who speak TO US ON EASY TERMS, with whom we MAY EXCHANGE AFFECTIONS." How "affections" could be exchanged on easy terms between the normal human being and an elfish creature actually WITHOUT A HUMAN SOUL (seeing that affections are, as Mr Matthew Arnold might have said, at least, three-fourths of soul) is more, I confess, than I can quite see at present; but in this rather MALADROIT contradiction Mr Symons does point at one phase of the problem of Stevenson - this, namely that to all the ordinary happy or pleasure-endings he opposes, as it were of set purpose, gloom, as though to certain things he was quite indifferent, and though, as we have seen, his actual life and practice were quite opposed to this.
I am sorry I CANNOT find the link in Mr Symons' essay, which would quite make these two statements consistently coincide critically. As an enthusiastic, though I hope still a discriminating, Stevensonian, I do wish Mr Symons would help us to it somehow hereafter. It would be well worth his doing, in my opinion.
CHAPTER XXXIV - LETTERS AND POEMS IN TESTIMONY
AMONG many letters received by me in acknowledgment of, or in commentary on, my little tributes to R. L. Stevenson, in various journals and magazines, I find the following, which I give here for reasons purely personal, and because my readers may with me, join in admiration of the fancy, grace and beauty of the poems. I must preface the first poem by a letter, which explains the genesis of the poem, and relates a striking and very touching incident:
"37 ST DONATT'S ROAD, LEWISHAM HIGH ROAD, S.E., 1ST MARCH 1895.
"DEAR SIR, - As you have written so much about your friend, the late Robert Louis Stevenson, and quoted many tributes to his genius from contemporary writers, I take the liberty of sending you herewith some verses of mine which appeared in THE WEEKLY SUN of November last. I sent a copy of these verses to Samoa, but unfortunately the great novelist died before they reached it. I have, however, this week, received a little note from Mrs Strong, which runs as follows:
"'Your poem of "Greeting" came too late. I can only thank you by sending a little moss that I plucked from a tree overhanging his grave on Vaea Mountain.'
"I trust you will appreciate my motive in sending you the poem. I do not wish to obtrude my claims as a verse-writer upon your notice, but I thought the incident I have recited would be interesting to one who is so devoted a collector of Stevensoniana. - Respectfully yours,
F. J. COX."
GREETING
(TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, IN SAMOA)
We, pent in cities, prisoned in the mart, Can know you only as a man apart, But ever-present through your matchless art.
You have exchanged the old, familiar ways For isles, where, through the range of splendid days, Her treasure Nature lavishly displays.
There, by the gracious sweep of ampler seas, That swell responsive to the odorous breeze. You have the wine of Life, and we the lees!
You mark, perchance, within your island bowers, The slow departure of the languorous hours, And breathe the sweetness of the strange wild-flowers.
And everything your soul and sense delights - But in the solemn wonder of your nights, When Peace her message on the landscape writes;
When Ocean scarcely flecks her marge with foam - Your