Part 12 (2/2)

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 x.x.xIV-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. c.o.x.”

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 thoughts must sometimes from your island roam, To centre on the sober face of Home.

Though many a league of water rolls between The simple beauty of an English scene, From all these wilder charms your love may wean.

Some kindly sprite may bring you as a boon Sweets from the rose that crowns imperial June, Or reminiscence of the throstle's tune;

Yea, gladly grant you, with a generous hand, Far glimpses of the winding, wind-swept strand, The glens and mountains of your native land,

Until you hear the pipes upon the breeze- But wake unto the wild realities The tangled forests and the boundless seas!

For lo! the moonless night has pa.s.sed away, A sudden dawn dispels the shadows grey, The glad sea moves and hails the quickening day.

New life within the arbours of your fief Awakes the blossom, quivers in the leaf, And splendour flames upon the coral reef.

If such a prospect stimulate your art, More than our meadows where the shadows dart, More than the life which throbs in London's heart,

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