The result is a precious double legacy; first a delightful contribution to the romantic literature of his country and the world; next such an example of courage amid difficulties as must continue to inspire men to remote generations.

In the novelist's outfit many things are essential, but the prime essential is courage, the unwavering, unwearied, unconquerable courage which, like faith, removes mountains. Without it nothing else will avail, not brilliant gifts, nor good fortune, nor any other choice favour of the gods. Art is long; and in the arduous pursuit, the laborious days and "nights devoid of ease", the human spirit is apt to faint and fail. It is the peculiar glory of Stevenson that despite hindrances and obstacles which might well dishearten and dismay, his ardour, his enthusiasm, his determination never abated. The blithe spirit of adventure which was as the breath of life in his nostrils impelled him forward like an informing, animating genius, as in fact it was.

Nor was it the spirit of adventure alone. In all the records of literature there is scarcely an instance of more ardent devotion to an ideal than his, not even with such austere artists as Dante and Milton. The value, the quality of the ideal is another question. Here we are concerned with the fact of its existence, its influence and sustaining power. Stevenson gave to it his whole heart, his whole strength, not grudgingly, not like a coward yielding up what he could not keep, not like a miser doling out alms, but with the joyous ardour of one who, being rich, is eager to give of his riches. In the end he gave his life. And it is because of that dauntless, undeviating valour, which was virtue in action, that the story of his career is so potent to charm and to inspire. To ardent youth lifting its eyes to far horizons aglow with rainbow visions he must long remain a shining avatar. Those who follow him up the glimmering heights will assuredly breathe a rarefied and stimulating air.

In 1901, seven years after Stevenson's death, appeared the "official" or family biography, by his cousin, Mr. Graham Balfour. It is a work of much interest, as it could scarcely fail to be, written with cousinly sympathy, admiration, piety, and a sedulous suppression of the critical spirit. Clearly Mr. Balfour's task was to produce a family portrait which, so to speak, could be hung in the dining room for the adoration and consolation of bereaved affection. Inevitably, therefore, the lights were turned high on certain features and on certain others lowered so that these are softened or obscured to the point of extinction. Independent critics at once discerned the hand of the special pleader in the picture. One eminent critic, whose association with Stevenson at the most crucial stage of his career was one of close personal intimacy, recorded a vehement and damaging protest, declaring explicitly that the "Seraph in Chocolate", the "Barley-sugar Effigy" of Mr. Balfour's biography was not R. L. Stevenson at all, but an imaginary figure of flawless, superhuman virtue, set up, draped and adorned, for blind, unquestioning worship. Whether the destructive criticism of W. E. Henley was just or the reverse will be considered in its place.

The biographer writing while his subject is still, as it were, a vivid part of yesterday, has obviously a delicate and difficult task. The naked truth never was and never can be put into obituaries any more than it can be engraved on monuments and tombstones. When Mr. Balfour wrote his book several members of Stevenson's innermost family circle were still alive. Moreover, it was composed under the eye, under the actual, decisive supervision of Mrs. R. L. Stevenson, a lady of trenchant personality and arbitrary will, whose controlling hand is palpable throughout the narrative, particularly in those parts where a diplomatic reticence might seem the better part of candour. Nor is this at all surprising. Loyalty and affection alike dictated an "In Memoriam" in which the subject should appear with a celestial halo, or at any rate an enviable freedom from common human frailties and follies. The result is the family portrait we possess. . .

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