Robert Louis Stevenson | Page 4

if a tart American
wild-apple had been grafted on an English pippin, and produced a
wholly new kind with the flavours of both; and here wild America and
England kissed each other mouth to mouth.
The direct result was the essay in THE CORNHILL, but the indirect
results were many and less easily assessed, as Stevenson himself, as we
shall see, was ever ready to admit. The essay on Thoreau was written in
America, which further, perhaps, bears out my point.
One of the authorities, quoted by Mr Hammerton, in
STEVENSONIANA says of the circumstances in which he found our
author, when he was busily engaged on that bit of work:
"I have visited him in a lonely lodging in California, it was previous to
his happy marriage, and found him submerged in billows of
bed-clothes; about him floated the scattered volumes of a complete set
of Thoreau; he was preparing an essay on that worthy, and he looked at

the moment like a half-drowned man, yet he was not cast down. His
work, an endless task, was better than a straw to him. It was to become
his life-preserver and to prolong his years. I feel convinced that without
it he must have surrendered long since. I found Stevenson a man of the
frailest physique, though most unaccountably tenacious of life; a man
whose pen was indefatigable, whose brain was never at rest, who, as far
as I am able to judge, looked upon everybody and everything from a
supremely intellectual point of view." (1)
We remember the common belief in Yorkshire and other parts that a
man could not die so long as he could stand up - a belief on which poor
Branwell Bronte was fain to act and to illustrate, but R. L. Stevenson
illustrated it, as this writer shows, in a better, calmer, and healthier way,
despite his lack of health.
On some little points of fact, however, Stevenson was wrong; and I
wrote to the Editor of THE SPECTATOR a letter, titled, I think,
"Thoreau's Pity and Humour," which he inserted. This brought me a
private letter from Stevenson, who expressed the wish to see me, and
have some talk with me on that and other matters. To this letter I at
once replied, directing to 17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, saying that, as I
was soon to be in that City, it might be possible for me to see him there.
In reply to this letter Mr Stevenson wrote:
"THE COTTAGE, CASTLETON OF BRAEMAR, SUNDAY,
AUGUST (? TH), 1881.
"MY DEAR SIR, - I should long ago have written to thank you for
your kind and frank letter; but, in my state of health, papers are apt to
get mislaid, and your letter has been vainly hunted for until this
(Sunday) morning.
"I must first say a word as to not quoting your book by name. It was the
consciousness that we disagreed which led me, I daresay, wrongly, to
suppress ALL references throughout the paper. But you may be certain
a proper reference will now be introduced.
"I regret I shall not be able to see you in Edinburgh: one visit to
Edinburgh has already cost me too dear in that invaluable particular,
health; but if it should be at all possible for you to pass by Braemar, I
believe you would find an attentive listener, and I can offer you a bed, a
drive, and necessary food.
"If, however, you should not be able to come thus far, I can promise

two things. First, I shall religiously revise what I have written, and
bring out more clearly the point of view from which I regarded Thoreau.
Second, I shall in the preface record your objection.
"The point of view (and I must ask you not to forget that any such short
paper is essentially only a SECTION THROUGH a man) was this: I
desired to look at the man through his books. Thus, for instance, when I
mentioned his return to the pencil-making, I did it only in passing
(perhaps I was wrong), because it seemed to me not an illustration of
his principles, but a brave departure from them. Thousands of such
there were I do not doubt; still they might be hardly to my purpose;
though, as you say so, I suppose some of them would be.
"Our difference as to 'pity,' I suspect, was a logomachy of my making.
No pitiful acts, on his part, would surprise me: I know he would be
more pitiful in practice than most of the whiners; but the spirit of that
practice would still seem to me to be unjustly described by the word
pity.
"When I try to be measured, I find myself usually suspected of a
sneaking unkindness for my subject, but you