books that reads like the meditations of an invalid. He has the
readiest sympathy for all exhibitions of impulsive energy; his
heart goes out to a sailor, and leaps into ecstasy over a generous
adventurer or buccaneer. Of one of his earlier books he says:
'From the negative point of view I flatter myself this volume has a
certain stamp. Although it runs to considerably upwards of two
hundred pages, it contains not a single reference to the imbecility
of God's universe, nor so much as a single hint that I could have
made a better one myself.' And this was an omission that he never
remedied in his later works. Indeed, his zest in life, whether
lived in the back gardens of a town or on the high seas, was so
great that it seems probable the writer would have been lost had
the man been dowered with better health.


'Whereas my birth and spirit rather took
The way that takes the town,
Thou didst betray me to a ling'ring book,
And wrap me in a gown,'


says George Herbert, who, in his earlier ambitions, would fain have
ruffled it with the best at the court of King James. But from
Stevenson, although not only the town, but oceans and continents,
beckoned him to deeds, no such wail escaped. His indomitable
cheerfulness was never embarked in the cock-boat of his own
prosperity. A high and simple courage shines through all his
writings. It is supposed to be a normal human feeling for those
who are hale to sympathize with others who are in pain. Stevenson
reversed the position, and there is no braver spectacle in