Such heroic self-forgetfulness is not the exclusive possession of men of
action; it lies within the reach of any man who is strong enough to grasp
it. Two writers of our time have nobly worn this jewel of courage in the
eyes of the world. John Addington Symonds was for many years an invalid
whose life hung on a thread. He had youth, gifts of a high order, culture,
ambition, but a desolating shadow blackened the landscape of his life; he
might have yielded to the lassitude which came with his disease; he might
have become embittered and poured his sorrows into the ear of the world,
as too many less burdened men and women have done in these recent decades.
Instead of accepting these weak alternatives and wasting his brief years
in useless complainings, he plucked opportunity out of the very jaws of
death; found in the high Alps the conditions most favourable for activity,
and poured his life out in work of such sustained interest and value that
he laid the English-reading peoples under lasting obligations. In spite of
his invalidism he achieved more than most men who live out the full period
of life in complete possession of their powers.

In like manner disease touched Robert Louis Stevenson in his early prime,
and would have daunted a spirit less gallant than his. He bore himself in
the presence of death as a dashing leader bears himself in the presence of
an overwhelming foe; he was intrepid, but he was also wise. He sought such
alleviations as climates afforded a man in his condition, and then gave
himself to his work with a kind of passionate ardour, as if he would pluck
the very heart out of time and toil before the night fell. Neither of
these men was blind to his condition; neither was indifferent; both loved
life and both had their moments of revolt and depression; but both found
in work resource from despair, and both made the world richer not only by
the fruits of self-conquest, but by the contagious power of heroic
example. Such careers put to shame the self-centred, egotistic, morbid