ESSAYS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
SELECTED AND EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY WILLIAM LYON
PHELPS M.A.(HARVARD) PH.D.(YALE)
PREFACE
The text of the following essays is taken from the Thistle Edition of
Stevenson's _Works_, published by Charles Scribner's Sons, in New
York. I have refrained from selecting any of Stevenson's formal essays
in literary criticism, and have chosen only those that, while ranking
among his masterpieces in style, reveal his personality, character,
opinions, philosophy, and faith. In the _Introduction_, I have
endeavoured to be as brief as possible, merely giving a sketch of his
life, and indicating some of the more notable sides of his literary
achievement; pointing out also the literary school to which these
Essays belong. A lengthy critical Introduction to a book of this kind
would be an impertinence to the general reader, and a nuisance to a
teacher. In the _Notes_, I have aimed at simple explanation and some
extended literary comment. It is hoped that the general recognition of
Stevenson as an English classic may make this volume useful in school
and college courses, while it is not too much like a textbook to repel
the average reader. I am indebted to Professor Catterall of Cornell
and to Professor Cross of Yale, and to my brother the Rev. Dryden W.
Phelps, for some assistance in locating references. W.L.P., YALE
UNIVERSITY, _13 February 1906_.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
BIBLIOGRAPHY
I ON THE ENJOYMENT OF UNPLEASANT PLACES
NOTES
II AN APOLOGY FOR IDLERS
NOTES
III AES TRIPLEX
NOTES
IV TALK AND TALKERS
NOTES
V A GOSSIP ON ROMANCE
NOTES
VI THE CHARACTER OF DOGS
NOTES
VII A COLLEGE MAGAZINE
NOTES
VIII BOOKS WHICH HAVE INFLUENCED ME
NOTES
IX PULVIS ET UMBRA
NOTES
INTRODUCTION
I
LIFE OF STEVENSON
Robert Louis Stevenson[1] was born at Edinburgh on the 13 November
1850. His father, Thomas, and his grandfather, Robert, were both
distinguished light-house engineers; and the maternal grandfather,
Balfour, was a Professor of Moral Philosophy, who lived to be ninety
years old. There was, therefore, a combination of _Lux et Veritas_ in
the blood of young Louis Stevenson, which in _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_
took the form of a luminous portrayal of a great moral idea.
In the language of Pope, Stevenson's life was a long disease. Even as
a child, his weak lungs caused great anxiety to all the family except
himself; but although Death loves a shining mark, it took over forty
years of continuous practice for the grim archer to send the black
arrow home. It is perhaps fortunate for English literature that his
health was no better; for the boy craved an active life, and would
doubtless have become an engineer. He made a brave attempt to pursue
this calling, but it was soon evident that his constitution made it
impossible. After desultory schooling, and an immense amount of
general reading, he entered the University of Edinburgh, and then
tried the study of law. Although the thought of this profession became
more and more repugnant, and finally intolerable, he passed his final
examinations satisfactorily. This was in 1875.
He had already begun a series of excursions to the south of France and
other places, in search of a climate more favorable to his incipient
malady; and every return to Edinburgh proved more and more
conclusively that he could not live in Scotch mists. He had made the
acquaintance of a number of literary men, and he was consumed with a
burning ambition to become a writer. Like Ibsen's _Master-Builder_,
there was a troll in his blood, which drew him away to the continent
on inland voyages with a canoe and lonely tramps with a donkey; these
gave him material for books full of brilliant pictures, shrewd
observations, and irrepressible humour. He contributed various
articles to magazines, which were immediately recognised by critics
like Leslie Stephen as bearing the unmistakable mark of literary
genius; but they attracted almost no attention from the general
reading public, and their author had only the consciousness of good
work for his reward. In 1880 he was married.
Stevenson's first successful work was _Treasure Island_, which was
published in book form in 1883, and has already become a classic. This
did not, however, bring him either a good income or general fame. His
great reputation dates from the publication of the _Strange Case of
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,_ which appeared in 1886. That work had an
instant and unqualified success, especially in America, and made its
author's name known to the whole English-speaking world. _Kidnapped_
was published the same year, and another masterpiece, _The Master of
Ballantrae_, in 1889.
After various experiments with different climates, including that of
Switzerland, Stevenson sailed for America in August 1887. The winter
of 1887-88 he spent at Saranac Lake, under the care of Dr. Trudeau,
who became one of his best friends. In 1890 he settled at Samoa in the
Pacific. Here he entered upon a career of intense literary activity,
and yet found time to take an active part in the politics of the
island, and to give valuable assistance in internal improvements.
The end came suddenly, exactly as he would have wished it, and
precisely as he had unconsciously predicted in the last radiant,
triumphant sentences of his great essay, _Aes Triplex_. He had been at
work on a novel, _St. Ives_, one of his poorer efforts, and whose
composition grew steadily more and more distasteful, until he found
that he was actually writing against the grain. He threw this aside
impatiently, and with extraordinary energy and enthusiasm began a new
story, _Weir of Hermiston_, which would undoubtedly have been his
masterpiece, had he lived to complete it. In luminosity of style, in
nobleness of conception, in the almost infallible choice of words,
this astonishing fragment easily takes first place in Stevenson's
productions. At the end of a day spent in almost feverish dictation,
the third of December 1894, he suddenly fainted, and died without
regaining consciousness. "Death had not been suffered to take so much
as an illusion from his heart. In the hot-fit of life, a-tiptoe on the
highest point of being, he passed at a bound on to the other side. The
noise of the mallet and chisel was scarcely quenched, the trumpets
were hardly done blowing, when, trailing with him clouds of glory,
this happy-starred, full-blooded spirit shot into the spiritual land."
He was buried at the summit of a mountain, the body being carried on
the shoulders of faithful Samoans, who might have sung Browning's
noble hymn,
"Let us begin and carry up this corpse,
Singing together!
Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes
Each in its tether
Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain...
That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought,
Rarer, intenser,
Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought,
Chafes in the censer.
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop;
Seek we sepulture
On a tall mountain...
Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights:
Wait ye the warning!
Our low life was the level's and the night's;
He's for the morning.
Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head,
'Ware the beholders!
This is our master, famous, calm and dead,
Borne on our shoulders...
Here--here's his place, where meteors shoot clouds form,
Lightnings are loosened,
Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,
Peace let the dew send!
Lofty designs must close in like effects
Loftily lying,
Leave him--still loftier than the world suspects,
Living and dying."
II
PERSONALITY AND CHARACTER
Stevenson had a motley personality, which is sufficiently evident in
his portraits. There was in him the Puritan, the man of the world, and
the vagabond. There was something too of the obsolete soldier of
fortune, with the cocked and feathered hat, worn audaciously on one
side. There was also a touch of the elfin, the uncanny--the mysterious
charm that belongs to the borderland between the real and the unreal
world--the element so conspicuous and so indefinable in the art of
Hawthorne. Writers so different as Defoe, Cooper, Poe, and Sir Thomas
Browne, are seen with varying degrees of emphasis in his literary
temperament. He was whimsical as an imaginative child; and everyone
has noticed that he never grew old. His buoyant optimism was based on
a chronic experience of physical pain, for pessimists like
Schopenhauer are usually men in comfortable circumstances, and of
excellent bodily health. His courage and cheerfulness under depressing
circumstances are so splendid to contemplate that some critics believe
that in time his _Letters_ may be regarded as his greatest literary
work, for they are priceless in their unconscious revelation of a
beautiful soul.
Great as Stevenson was as a writer, he was still greater as a Man. So
many admirable books have been written by men whose character will not
bear examination, that it is refreshing to find one Master-Artist
whose daily life was so full of the fruits of the spirit. As his
romances have brought pleasure to thousands of readers, so the
spectacle of his cheerful march through the Valley of the Shadow of
Death is a constant source of comfort and inspiration. One feels
ashamed of cowardice and petty irritation after witnessing the steady
courage of this man. His philosophy of life is totally different from
that of Stoicism; for the Stoic says, "Grin and bear it," and usually
succeeds in doing neither. Stevenson seems to say, "Laugh and forget
it," and he showed us how to do both.
Stevenson had the rather unusual combination of the Artist and the
Moralist, both elements being marked in his writings to a very high
degree. The famous and oft-quoted sonnet by his friend, the late Mr.
Henley, gives a vivid picture:
"Thin-legged, thin-chested, slight unspeakably,
Neat-footed and weak-fingered: in his face--
Lean, large-honed, curved of beak, and touched with race,
Bold-lipped, rich-tinted, mutable as the sea,
The brown eyes radiant with vivacity--
There shown a brilliant and romantic grace,
A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace
Of passion, impudence, and energy.
Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck,
Most vain, most generous, sternly critical,
Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist;
A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck,
Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all,
And something of the Shorter Catechist."
He was not primarily a moral teacher, like Socrates or Thomas Carlyle;
nor did he feel within him the voice of a prophetic mission. The
virtue of his writings consists in their wholesome ethical quality, in
their solid health. Fresh air is often better for the soul than the
swinging of the priest's censer. At a time when the school of Zola was
at its climax, Stevenson opened the windows and let in the pleasant
breeze. For the morbid and unhealthy period of adolescence, his books
are more healthful than many serious moral works. He purges the mind
of uncleanness, just as he purged contemporary fiction.
As Stevenson's correspondence with his friends like Sidney Colvin and
William Archer reveals the social side of his nature, so his
correspondence with the Unseen Power in which he believed shows that
his character was essentially religious. A man's letters are often a
truer picture of his mind than a photograph; and when these epistles
are directed not to men and women, but to the Supreme Intelligence,
they form a real revelation of their writer's heart. Nothing betrays
the personality of a man more clearly than his prayers, and the
following petition that Stevenson composed for the use of his
household at Vailima, bears the stamp of its author.
"At Morning. The day returns and brings us the petty round of
irritating concerns and duties. Help us to play the man, help us to
perform them with laughter and kind faces, let cheerfulness abound
with industry. Give us to go blithely on our business all this day,
bring us to our resting beds weary and content and undishonoured,
and grant us in the end the gift of sleep."
III
STEVENSON'S VERSATILITY
Stevenson was a poet, a dramatist, an essayist, and a novelist,
besides writing many political, geographical, and biographical
sketches. As a poet, his fame is steadily waning. The tendency at
first was to rank him too high, owing to the undeniable charm of many
of the poems in the _Child's Garden of Verses_. The child's view of
the world, as set forth in these songs, is often originally and
gracefully expressed; but there is little in Stevenson's poetry that
is of permanent value, and it is probable that most of it will be
forgotten. This fact is in a way a tribute to his genius; for his
greatness as a prose writer has simply eclipsed his reputation as a
poet.
His plays were failures. They illustrate the familiar truth that a man
may have positive genius as a dramatic writer, and yet fail as a
dramatist. There are laws that govern the stage which must be obeyed;
play-writing is a great art in itself, entirely distinct from literary
composition. Even Browning, the most intensely dramatic poet of the
nineteenth century, was not nearly so successful in his dramas as in
his dramatic lyrics and romances.
His essays attracted at first very little attention; they were too
fine and too subtle to awaken popular enthusiasm. It was the success
of his novels that drew readers back to the essays, just as it was the
vogue of Sudermann's plays that made his earlier novels popular. One
has only to read such essays, however, as those printed in this volume
to realise not only their spirit and charm, but to feel instinctively
that one is reading English Literature. They are exquisite works of
art, written in an almost impeccable style. By many judicious readers,
they are placed above his works of fiction. They certainly constitute
the most original portion of his entire literary output. It is
astonishing that this young Scotchman should have been able to make so
many actually new observations on a game so old as Life. There is a
shrewd insight into the motives of human conduct that makes some of
these graceful sketches belong to the literature of philosophy, using
the word philosophy in its deepest and broadest sense. The essays are
filled with whimsical paradoxes, keen and witty as those of Bernard
Shaw, without having any of the latter's cynicism, iconoclasm, and
sinister attitude toward morality. For the real foundation of even the
lightest of Stevenson's works is invariably ethical.
His fame as a writer of prose romances grows brighter every year. His
supreme achievement was to show that a book might be crammed with the
most wildly exciting incidents, and yet reveal profound and acute
analysis of character, and be written with consummate art. His tales
have all the fertility of invention and breathless suspense of Scott
and Cooper, while in literary style they immeasurably surpass the
finest work of these two great masters.
His best complete story, is, I think, _Treasure Island_. There is a
peculiar brightness about this book which even the most notable of the
later works failed to equal. Nor was it a trifling feat to make a
blind man and a one-legged man so formidable that even the reader is
afraid of them. Those who complain that this is merely a pirate story
forget that in art the subject is of comparatively little importance,
whereas the treatment is everything. To say, as some do, that there is
no difference between _Treasure Island_ and a cheap tale of blood and
thunder, is equivalent to saying that there is no difference between
the Sistine Madonna and a chromo Virgin.
IV
THE PERSONAL ESSAY
The Personal Essay is a peculiar form of literature, entirely
different from critical essays like those of Matthew Arnold and from
purely reflective essays, like those of Bacon. It is a species of
writing somewhat akin to autobiography or firelight conversation;
where the writer takes the reader entirely into his confidence, and
chats pleasantly with him on topics that may be as widely apart as the
immortality of the soul and the proper colour of a necktie. The first
and supreme master of this manner of writing was Montaigne, who
belongs in the front rank of the world's greatest writers of prose.
Montaigne talks endlessly on the most trivial subjects without ever
becoming trivial. To those who really love reading and have some
sympathy with humanity, Montaigne's _Essays_ are a "perpetual refuge
and delight," and it is interesting to reflect how far in literary
fame this man, who talked about his meals, his horse, and his cat,
outshines thousands of scholarly and talented writers, who discussed
only the most serious themes in politics and religion. The great
English prose writers in the field of the personal essay during the
seventeenth century were Sir Thomas Browne, Thomas Fuller, and Abraham
Cowley, though Walton's _Compleat Angler_ is a kindred work. Browne's
_Religio Medici_, and his delightful _Garden of Cyrus_, old Tom
Fuller's quaint _Good Thoughts in Bad Times_ and Cowley's charming
_Essays_ are admirable examples of this school of composition.
Burton's wonderful _Anatomy of Melancholy_ is a colossal personal
essay. Some of the papers of Steele and Addison in the _Tatler_,
_Guardian,_ and the _Spectator_ are of course notable; but it was not
until the appearance of Charles Lamb that the personal essay reached
its climax in English literature. Over the pages of the _Essays of
Elia_ hovers an immortal charm--the charm of a nature inexhaustible in
its humour and kindly sympathy for humanity. Thackeray was another
great master of the literary easy-chair, and is to some readers more
attractive in this attitude than as a novelist. In America we have had
a few writers who have reached eminence in this form, beginning with
Washington Irving, and including Donald G. Mitchell, whose _Reveries
of a Bachelor_ has been read by thousands of people for over fifty
years.
As a personal essayist Stevenson seems already to belong to the first
rank. He is both eclectic and individual. He brought to his pen the
reminiscences of varied reading, and a wholly original touch of
fantasy. He was literally steeped in the gorgeous Gothic diction of
the seventeenth century, but he realised that such a prose style as
illumines the pages of William Drummond's _Cypress Grove_ and Browne's
_Urn Burial_ was a lost art. He attempted to imitate such writing only
in his youthful exercises, for his own genius was forced to express
itself in an original way. All of his personal essays have that air of
distinction which attracts and holds one's attention as powerfully in
a book as it does in social intercourse. Everything that he has to say
seems immediately worth saying, and worth hearing, for he was one of
those rare men who had an interesting mind. There are some literary
artists who have style and nothing else, just as there are some great
singers who have nothing but a voice. The true test of a book, like
that of an individual, is whether or not it improves upon
acquaintance. Stevenson's essays reflect a personality that becomes
brighter as we draw nearer. This fact makes his essays not merely
entertaining reading, but worthy of serious and prolonged study.
[Note 1: His name was originally Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson. He
later dropped the "Balfour" and changed the spelling of "Lewis" to
"Louis," but the name was always pronounced "Lewis."]
BIBLIOGRAPHY
The following information is taken from Col. Prideaux's admirable
_Bibliography_ of Stevenson, London, 1903. I have given the titles and
dates of only the more important publications in book form; and of the
critical works on Stevenson, I have included only a few of those that
seem especially useful to the student and general reader. The detailed
facts about the separate publications of each essay included in the
present volume are fully given in my notes.
WORKS
1878. An Inland Voyage.
1879. Travels with a Donkey.
1881. Virginibus Puerisque.
1882. Familiar Studies of Men and Books.
1882. New Arabian Nights.
1883. Treasure Island.
1885. Prince Otto.
1885. A Child's Garden of Verses.
1885. More New Arabian Nights. The Dynamiter.
1886. Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
1886. Kidnapped.
1887. The Merry Men.
1887. Memories and Portraits.
1888. The Black Arrow.
1889. The Master of Ballantrae. (A few copies privately printed in
1888.)
1889. The Wrong Box.
1890. Father Damien.
1892. Across the Plains.
1892. The Wrecker.
1893. Island Nights' Entertainments.
1893. Catriona.
1894. The Ebb Tide.
1895. Vailima Letters.
1896. Weir of Hermiston.
1898. St. Ives.
1899. Letters, Two Volumes.
NOTE. The _Edinburgh Edition_ of the _works_, in twenty-eight volumes,
is often referred to by bibliographers; it can now be obtained only at
second-hand bookshops, or at auction sales. The best complete edition
on the market is the _Thistle Edition_, in twenty-six volumes,
including the _Life_ and the _Letters_, published by Charles
Scribner's Sons, New York.
WORKS ON STEVENSON
_Life of Robert Louis Stevenson_, by Graham Balfour. 1901. Two
Volumes. _This is the standard Life, and indispensable._
_Robert Louis Stevenson_, by Henry James, in _Partial Portraits,_
1894. _Admirable criticism_.
_Robert Louis Stevenson_, by Walter Raleigh. 1895. _An excellent
appreciation of his character and work._
_Robert Louis Stevenson: Personal Memories_, by Edmund Gosse, in
_Critical Kit-Kats,_ 1896. _Entertaining gossip._
_Stevenson's Shrine, The Record of a Pilgrimage_, by Laura Stubbs.
1903. _Very interesting full-page illustrations._
_(For further critical books and articles, which are numerous, consult
Prideaux.)_
ESSAYS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
I
ON THE ENJOYMENT OF UNPLEASANT PLACES
It is a difficult matter[1] to make the most of any given place, and
we have much in our own power. Things looked at patiently from one
side after another generally end by showing a side that is beautiful.
A few months ago some words were said in the _Portfolio_ as to an
"austere regimen in scenery"; and such a discipline was then
recommended as "healthful and strengthening to the taste." That is the
text, so to speak, of the present essay. This discipline in
scenery,[2] it must be understood, is something more than a mere walk
before breakfast to whet the appetite. For when we are put down in
some unsightly neighborhood, and especially if we have come to be more
or less dependent on what we see, we must set ourselves to hunt out
beautiful things with all the ardour and patience of a botanist after
a rare plant. Day by day we perfect ourselves in the art of seeing
nature more favourably. We learn to live with her, as people learn to
live with fretful or violent spouses: to dwell lovingly on what is
good, and shut our eyes against all that is bleak or inharmonious. We
learn, also, to come to each place in the right spirit. The traveller,
as BrantГґme quaintly tells us, "_fait des discours en soi pour se
soutenir en chemin_";[3] and into these discourses he weaves something
out of all that he sees and suffers by the way; they take their tone
greatly from the varying character of the scene; a sharp ascent brings
different thoughts from a level road; and the man's fancies grow
lighter as he comes out of the wood into a clearing. Nor does the
scenery any more affect the thoughts than the thoughts affect the
scenery. We see places through our humours as though differently
colored glasses. We are ourselves a term in the equation, a note of
the chord, and make discord or harmony almost at will. There is no
fear for the result, if we can but surrender ourselves sufficiently to
the country that surrounds and follows us, so that we are ever
thinking suitable thoughts or telling ourselves some suitable sort of
story as we go. We become thus, in some sense, a centre of beauty; we
are provocative of beauty,[4] much as a gentle and sincere character
is provocative of sincerity and gentleness in others. And even where
there is no harmony to be elicited by the quickest and most obedient
of spirits, we may still embellish a place with some attraction of
romance. We may learn to go far afield for associations, and handle
them lightly when we have found them. Sometimes an old print comes to
our aid; I have seen many a spot lit up at once with picturesque
imaginations, by a reminiscence of Callot, or Sadeler, or Paul
Brill.[5] Dick Turpin[6] has been my lay figure for many an English
lane. And I suppose the Trossachs would hardly be the Trossachs[7] for
most tourists if a man of admirable romantic instinct had not peopled
it for them with harmonious figures, and brought them thither their
minds rightly prepared for the impression. There is half the battle in
this preparation. For instance: I have rarely been able to visit, in
the proper spirit, the wild and inhospitable places of our own
Highlands. I am happier where it is tame and fertile, and not readily
pleased without trees.[8] I understand that there are some phases of
mental trouble that harmonise well with such surroundings, and that
some persons, by the dispensing power of the imagination, can go back
several centuries in spirit, and put themselves into sympathy with the
hunted, houseless, unsociable way of life that was in its place upon
these savage hills. Now, when I am sad, I like nature to charm me out
of my sadness, like David before Saul;[9] and the thought of these
past ages strikes nothing in me but an unpleasant pity; so that I can
never hit on the right humour for this sort of landscape, and lose
much pleasure in consequence. Still, even here, if I were only let
alone, and time enough were given, I should have all manner of
pleasure, and take many clear and beautiful images away with me when I
left. When we cannot think ourselves into sympathy with the great
features of a country, we learn to ignore them, and put our head among
the grass for flowers, or pore, for long times together, over the
changeful current of a stream. We come down to the sermon in
stones,[10] when we are shut out from any poem in the spread
landscape. We begin to peep and botanise, we take an interest in birds
and insects, we find many things beautiful in miniature. The reader
will recollect the little summer scene in _Wuthering Heights_[11]--the
one warm scene, perhaps, in all that powerful, miserable novel--and
the great feature that is made therein by grasses and flowers and a
little sunshine: this is in the spirit of which I now speak. And,
lastly, we can go indoors; interiors are sometimes as beautiful, often
more picturesque, than the shows of the open air, and they have that
quality of shelter of which I shall presently have more to say.
With all this in mind, I have often been tempted to put forth the
paradox that any place is good enough to live a life in, while it is
only in a few, and those highly favoured, that we can pass a few hours
agreeably. For, if we only stay long enough, we become at home in the
neighbourhood. Reminiscences spring up, like flowers, about
uninteresting corners. We forget to some degree the superior
loveliness of other places, and fall into a tolerant and sympathetic
spirit which is its own reward and justification. Looking back the
other day on some recollections of my own, I was astonished to find
how much I owed to such a residence; six weeks in one unpleasant
country-side had done more, it seemed, to quicken and educate my
sensibilities than many years in places that jumped more nearly with
my inclination.
The country to which I refer was a level and treeless plateau, over
which the winds cut like a whip. For miles on miles it was the same. A
river, indeed, fell into the sea near the town where I resided; but
the valley of the river was shallow and bald, for as far up as ever I
had the heart to follow it. There were roads, certainly, but roads
that had no beauty or interest; for, as there was no timber, and but
little irregularity of surface, you saw your whole walk exposed to you
from the beginning: there was nothing left to fancy, nothing to
expect, nothing to see by the wayside, save here and there an
unhomely-looking homestead, and here and there a solitary, spectacled
stone-breaker;[12] and you were only accompanied, as you went doggedly
forward by the gaunt telegraph-posts and the hum of the resonant wires
in the keen sea-wind. To one who has learned to know their song in
warm pleasant places by the Mediterranean, it seemed to taunt the
country, and make it still bleaker by suggested contrast. Even the
waste places by the side of the road were not, as Hawthorne liked to
put it, "taken back to Nature" by any decent covering of vegetation.
Wherever the land had the chance, it seemed to lie fallow. There is a
certain tawny nudity of the South, bare sunburnt plains, coloured like
a lion, and hills clothed only in the blue transparent air; but this
was of another description--this was the nakedness of the North; the
earth seemed to know that it was naked, and was ashamed and cold.[13]
It seemed to be always blowing on that coast. Indeed, this had passed
into the speech of the inhabitants, and they saluted each other when
they met with "Breezy, breezy," instead of the customary "Fine day" of
farther south. These continual winds were not like the harvest breeze,
that just keeps an equable pressure against your face as you walk, and
serves to set all the trees talking over your head, or bring round you
the smell of the wet surface of the country after a shower. They were
of the bitter, hard, persistent sort, that interferes with sight and
respiration, and makes the eyes sore. Even such winds as these have
their own merit in proper time and place. It is pleasant to see them
brandish great masses of shadow. And what a power they have over the
colour of the world! How they ruffle the solid woodlands in their
passage, and make them shudder and whiten like a single willow! There
is nothing more vertiginous than a wind like this among the woods,
with all its sights and noises; and the effect gets between some
painters and their sober eyesight, so that, even when the rest of
their picture is calm, the foliage is coloured like foliage in a
gale.[14] There was nothing, however, of this sort to be noticed in a
country where there were no trees and hardly any shadows, save the
passive shadows and clouds or those of rigid houses and walls. But the
wind was nevertheless an occasion of pleasure; for nowhere could you
taste more fully the pleasure of a sudden lull, or a place of
opportune shelter. The reader knows what I mean; he must remember how,
when he has sat himself down behind a dyke on a hill-side, he
delighted to hear the wind hiss vainly through the crannies at his
back; how his body tingled all over with warmth, and it began to dawn
upon him, with a sort of slow surprise, that the country was
beautiful, the heather purple, and the faraway hills all marbled with
sun and shadow. Wordsworth, in a beautiful passage[15] of the
"Prelude," has used this as a figure for the feeling struck in us by
the quiet by-streets of London after the uproar of the great
thoroughfares; and the comparison may be turned the other way with as
good effect:
"Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length,
Escaped as from an enemy we turn,
Abruptly into some sequestered nook,
Still as a shelter'd place when winds blow loud!"
I remember meeting a man once, in a train, who told me of what must
have been quite the most perfect instance of this pleasure of escape.
He had gone up, one sunny, windy morning, to the top of a great
cathedral somewhere abroad; I think it was Cologne Cathedral, the
great unfinished marvel by the Rhine;[16] and after a long while in
dark stairways, he issued at last into the sunshine, on a platform
high above the town. At that elevation it was quite still and warm;
the gale was only in the lower strata of the air, and he had forgotten
it in the quiet interior of the church and during his long ascent; and
so you may judge of his surprise when, resting his arms on the sunlit
balustrade and looking over into the _Place_ far below him, he saw the
good people holding on their hats and leaning hard against the wind as
they walked. There is something, to my fancy, quite perfect in this
little experience of my fellow-traveller's. The ways of men seem
always very trivial to us when we find ourselves alone on a
church-top, with the blue sky and a few tall pinnacles, and see far
below us the steep roofs and foreshortened buttresses, and the silent
activity of the city streets; but how much more must they not have
seemed so to him as he stood, not only above other men's business, but
above other men's climate, in a golden zone like Apollo's![17]
This was the sort of pleasure I found in the country of which I write.
The pleasure was to be out of the wind, and to keep it in memory all
the time, and hug oneself upon the shelter. And it was only by the sea
that any such sheltered places were to be found. Between the black
worm-eaten headlands there are little bights and havens, well screened
from the wind and the commotion of the external sea, where the sand
and weeds look up into the gazer's face from a depth of tranquil
water, and the sea-birds, screaming and flickering from the ruined
crags, alone disturb the silence and the sunshine. One such place has
impressed itself on my memory beyond all others. On a rock by the
water's edge, old fighting men of the Norse breed had planted a double
castle; the two stood wall to wall like semi-detached villas; and yet
feud had run so high between their owners, that one, from out of a
window, shot the other as he stood in his own doorway. There is
something in the juxtaposition of these two enemies full of tragic
irony. It is grim to think of bearded men and bitter women taking
hateful counsel together about the two hall-fires at night,[18] when
the sea boomed against the foundations and the wild winter wind was
loose over the battlements. And in the study we may reconstruct for
ourselves some pale figure of what life then was. Not so when we are
there; when we are there such thoughts come to us only to intensify a
contrary impression, and association is turned against itself.[19] I
remember walking thither three afternoons in succession, my eyes weary
with being set against the wind, and how, dropping suddenly over the
edge of the down, I found myself in a new world of warmth and shelter.
The wind, from which I had escaped, "as from an enemy,"[20] was
seemingly quite local. It carried no clouds with it, and came from
such a quarter that it did not trouble the sea within view. The two
castles, black and ruinous as the rocks about them, were still
distinguishable from these by something more insecure and fantastic in
the outline, something that the last storm had left imminent and the
next would demolish entirely. It would be difficult to render in words
the sense of peace that took possession of me on these three
afternoons. It was helped out, as I have said, by the contrast. The
shore was battered and bemauled by previous tempests; I had the memory
at heart of the insane strife of the pigmies who had erected these two
castles and lived in them in mutual distrust and enmity, and knew I
had only to put my head out of this little cup of shelter to find the
hard wind blowing in my eyes; and yet there were the two great tracts
of motionless blue air and peaceful sea looking on, unconcerned and
apart, at the turmoil of the present moment and the memorials of the
precarious past. There is ever something transitory and fretful in the
impression of a high wind under a cloudless sky; it seems to have no
root in the constitution of things; it must speedily begin to faint
and wither away like a cut flower. And on those days the thought of
the wind and the thought of human life came very near together in my
mind. Our noisy years did indeed seem moments[21] in the being of the
eternal silence: and the wind, in the face of that great field of
stationary blue, was as the wind of a butterfly's wing. The placidity
of the sea was a thing likewise to be remembered. Shelley speaks of
the sea as "hungering for calm,"[22] and in this place one learned to
understand the phrase. Looking down into these green waters from the
broken edge of the rock, or swimming leisurely in the sunshine, it
seemed to me that they were enjoying their own tranquillity; and when
now and again it was disturbed by a wind ripple on the surface, or the
quick black passage of a fish far below, they settled back again (one
could fancy) with relief.
On shore, too, in the little nook of shelter, everything was so
subdued and still that the least particular struck in me a pleasurable
surprise. The desultory crackling of the whin-pods[23] in the
afternoon sun usurped the ear. The hot, sweet breath of the bank, that
had been saturated all day long with sunshine, and now exhaled it into
my face, was like the breath of a fellow-creature. I remember that I
was haunted by two lines of French verse; in some dumb way they seemed
to fit my surroundings and give expression to the contentment that was
in me, and I kept repeating to myself--
"Mon coeur est un luth suspendu,[24]
SitГґt qu'on le touche, il rГ©sonne."
I can give no reason why these lines came to me at this time; and for
that very cause I repeat them here. For all I know, they may serve to
complete the impression in the mind of the reader, as they were
certainly a part of it for me.
And this happened to me in the place of all others where I liked least
to stay. When I think of it I grow ashamed of my own ingratitude. "Out
of the strong came forth sweetness."[25] There, in the bleak and gusty
North, I received, perhaps, my strongest impression of peace. I saw
the sea to be great and calm; and the earth, in that little corner,
was all alive and friendly to me. So, wherever a man is, he will find
something to please and pacify him: in the town he will meet pleasant
faces of men and women, and see beautiful flowers at a window, or hear
a cage-bird singing at the corner of the gloomiest street; and for the
country, there is no country without some amenity--let him only look
for it in the right spirit, and he will surely find.
NOTES
This article first appeared in the _Portfolio_, for November 1874, and
was not reprinted until two years after Stevenson's death, in 1896,
when it was included in the _Miscellanies_ (Edinburgh Edition,
_Miscellanies_, Vol. IV, pp. 131-142). The editor of the _Portfolio_
was the well-known art critic, Philip Gilbert Hamerton (1834-1894),
author of the _Intellectual Life_ (1873). Just one year before,
Stevenson had had printed in the _Portfolio_ his first contribution to
any periodical, _Roads_. Although _The Enjoyment of Unpleasant Places_
attracted scarcely any attention on its first appearance, and has
since become practically forgotten, there is perhaps no better essay
among his earlier works with which to begin a study of his
personality, temperament, and style. In its cheerful optimism this
article is particularly characteristic of its author. It should be
remembered that when this essay was first printed, Stevenson was only
twenty-four years old.
[Note 1: _It is a difficult matter_, etc. The appreciation of nature
is a quite modern taste, for although people have always loved the
scenery which reminds them of home, it was not at all fashionable in
England to love nature for its own sake before 1740. Thomas Gray was
the first person in Europe who seems to have exhibited a real love of
mountains (see his _Letters_). A study of the development of the
appreciation of nature before and after Wordsworth (England's greatest
nature poet) is exceedingly interesting. See Myra Reynolds, _The
Treatment of Nature in English Poetry between Pope and Wordsworth_
(1896).]
[Note 2: _This discipline in scenery._ Note what is said on this
subject in Browning's extraordinary poem, _Fra Lippo Lippi_, vs.
300-302.
"For, don't you mark? We're made so that we love
First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see."]
[Note 3: _BrantГґme quaintly tells us, "fait des discours en soi pour
se soutenir en chemin."_ Freely translated, "the traveller talks to
himself to keep up his courage on the road." Pierre de Bourdeille,
AbbГ© de BrantГґme, (cir. 1534-1614), travelled all over Europe. His
works were not published till long after his death, in 1665. Several
complete editions of his writings in numerous volumes have appeared in
the nineteenth century, one edited by the famous writer, Prosper
MГ©rimГ©e.]
[Note 4: _We are provocative of beauty._ Compare again, _Fra Lippo
Lippi_, vs. 215 et seq.
"Or say there's beauty with no soul at all--
(I never saw it--put the case the same--)
If you get simple beauty and nought else,
You get about the best thing God invents:
That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed,
Within yourself, when you return him thanks."]
[Note 5: _Callot, or Sadeler, or Paul Brill._ Jacques Callot was an
eminent French artist of the XVII century, born at Nancy in 1592, died
1635. Matthaeus and Paul Brill were two celebrated Dutch painters.
Paul, the younger brother of Matthaeus, was born about 1555, and died
in 1626. His development in landscape-painting was remarkable. Gilles
Sadeler, born at Antwerp 1570, died at Prague 1629, a famous artist,
and nephew of two well-known engravers. He was called the "Phoenix of
Engraving."]
[Note 6: _Dick Turpin_. Dick Turpin was born in Essex, England, and
was originally a butcher. Afterwards he became a notorious highwayman,
and was finally executed for horse-stealing, 10 April 1739. He and his
steed Black Bess are well described in W. H. Ainsworth's _Rookwood_,
and in his _Ballads_.]
[Note 7: _The Trossachs_. The word means literally, "bristling
country." A beautifully romantic tract, beginning immediately to the
east of Loch Katrine in Perth, Scotland. Stevenson's statement, "if a
man of admirable romantic instinct had not peopled it for them with
harmonious figures," refers to Walter Scott, and more particularly to
the _Lady of the Lake_ (1810).]
[Note 8: _I am happier where it is tame and fertile, and not readily
pleased without trees_. Notice the kind of country he begins to
describe in the next paragraph. Is there really any contradiction in
his statements?]
[Note 9: _Like David before Saul_. David charmed Saul out of his
sadness, according to the Biblical story, not with nature, but with
music. See I _Samuel_ XVI. 14-23. But in Browning's splendid poem,
_Saul_ (1845), nature and music are combined in David's inspired
playing.
"And I first played the tune all our sheep know," etc.]
[Note 10: _The sermon in stones_. See the beginning of the second act
of _As You Like It_, where the exiled Duke says,
"And this our life exempt from public haunt
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones and good in everything."
It is not at all certain that Shakspere used the word "sermons" here
in the modern sense; he very likely meant merely discourses,
conversations.]
[Note 11: _Wuthering Heights_. The well-known novel (1847) by Emily
Bronte (1818-1848) sister of the more famous Charlotte Bronte. The
"little summer scene" Stevenson mentions, is in Chapter XXIV.]
[Note 12: _A solitary, spectacled stone-breaker_. To the pedestrian or
cyclist, no difference between Europe and America is more striking
than the comparative excellence of the country roads. The roads in
Europe, even in lonely and remote districts, where one may travel for
hours without seeing a house, are usually in perfect condition, hard,
white and absolutely smooth. The slightest defect or abrasion is
immediately repaired by one of these stone-breakers Stevenson
mentions, a solitary individual, his eyes concealed behind large green
goggles, to protect them from the glare and the flying bits of stone.]
[Note 13: _Ashamed and cold_. An excellent example of what Ruskin
called "the pathetic fallacy."]
[Note 14: _The foliage is coloured like foliage in a gale_. Cf.
Tennyson, _In Memoriam_, LXXII:--
"With blasts that blow the poplar white."]
[Note 15: _Wordsworth, in a beautiful passage_. The passage Stevenson
quotes is in Book VII of _The Prelude_, called _Residence in London_.]
[Note 16: _Cologne Cathedral, the great unfinished marvel by the
Rhine_. This great cathedral, generally regarded as the most perfect
Gothic church in the world, was begun in 1248, and was not completed
until 1880, seven years after Stevenson wrote this essay.]
[Note 17: _In a golden zone like Apollo's._ The Greek God Apollo,
later identified with Helios, the Sun-god. The twin towers of Cologne
Cathedral are over 500 feet high, so that the experience described
here is quite possible.]
[Note 18: _The two hall-fires at night_. In mediaeval castles, the
hall was the general living-room, used regularly for meals, for
assemblies, and for all social requirements. The modern word
"dining-hall" preserves the old significance of the word. The familiar
expression, "bower and hall," is simply, in plain prose, bedroom and
sitting-room.]
[Note 19: _Association is turned against itself_. It is seldom that
Stevenson uses an expression that is not instantly transparently
clear. Exactly what does he mean by this phrase?]
[Note 20: "_As from an enemy_." Alluding to the passage Stevenson has
quoted above, from Wordsworth's _Prelude_.]
[Note 21: _Our noisy years did indeed seem moments_. A favorite
reflection of Stevenson's, occurring in nearly all his serious
essays.]
[Note 22: _Shelley speaks of the sea as "hungering for calm."_ This
passage occurs in the poem _Prometheus Unbound_, Act III, end of Scene
2.
"Behold the Nereids under the green sea--
Their wavering limbs borne on the wind like stream,
Their white arms lifted o'er their streaming hair,
With garlands pied and starry sea-flower crowns,--
Hastening to grace their mighty Sister's joy.
It is the unpastured sea hungering for calm."]
[Note 23: _Whin-pods._ "Whin" is from the Welsh _Г§wyn_, meaning
"weed." Whin is gorse or furze, and the sound Stevenson alludes to is
frequently heard in Scotland.]
[Note 24: "_Mon coeur est un luth suspendu_." These beautiful words
are from the poet BГ©ranger (1780-1857). It is probable that Stevenson
found them first not in the original, but in reading the tales of Poe,
for the "two lines of French verse" that "haunted" Stevenson are
quoted by Poe at the beginning of one of his most famous pieces, _The
Fall of the House of Usher_, where, however, the third, and not the
first person is used:--
"_Son_ coeur est un luth suspendu;
SitГґt qu'on le touche il rГ©sonne."]
[Note 25: "_Out of the strong came forth sweetness_." Alluding to the
riddle propounded by Samson. See the book of _Judges_, Chapter XIV.]
II
AN APOLOGY FOR IDLERS
BOSWELL: "We grow weary when idle."
JOHNSON: "That is, sir, because others being busy, we want company;
but if we were idle, there would be no growing weary; we should all
entertain one another."[1]
Just now, when every one is bound, under pain of a decree in absence
convicting them of _lГЁse_-respectability,[2] to enter on some
lucrative profession, and labour therein with something not far short
of enthusiasm, a cry from the opposite party who are content when they
have enough, and like to look on and enjoy in the meanwhile, savours a
little of bravado and gasconade.[3] And yet this should not be.
Idleness so called, which does not consist in doing nothing, but in
doing a great deal not recognised in the dogmatic formularies of the
ruling class, has as good a right to state its position as industry
itself. It is admitted that the presence of people who refuse to enter
in the great handicap race for sixpenny pieces, is at once an insult
and a disenchantment for those who do. A fine fellow (as we see so
many) takes his determination, votes for the sixpences, and in the
emphatic Americanism, "goes for" them.[4] And while such an one is
ploughing distressfully up the road, it is not hard to understand his
resentment, when he perceives cool persons in the meadows by the
wayside, lying with a handkerchief over their ears and a glass at
their elbow. Alexander is touched in a very delicate place by the
disregard of Diogenes.[5] Where was the glory of having taken Rome[6]
for these tumultuous barbarians, who poured into the Senate house, and
found the Fathers sitting silent and unmoved by their success? It is a
sore thing to have laboured along and scaled the arduous hilltops, and
when all is done, find humanity indifferent to your achievement. Hence
physicists condemn the unphysical; financiers have only a superficial
toleration for those who know little of stocks; literary persons
despise the unlettered; and people of all pursuits combine to
disparage those who have none.
But though this is one difficulty of the subject, it is not the
greatest. You could not be put in prison for speaking against
industry, but you can be sent to Coventry[7] for speaking like a fool.
The greatest difficulty with most subjects is to do them well;
therefore, please to remember this is an apology. It is certain that
much may be judiciously argued in favour of diligence; only there is
something to be said against it, and that is what, on the present
occasion, I have to say. To state one argument is not necessarily to
be deaf to all others, and that a man has written a book of travels in
Montenegro, is no reason why he should never have been to Richmond.[8]
It is surely beyond a doubt that people should be a good deal idle in
youth. For though here and there a Lord Macaulay may escape from
school honours[9] with all his wits about him, most boys pay so dear
for their medals that they never afterwards have a shot in their
locker, "and begin the world bankrupt." And the same holds true during
all the time a lad is educating himself, or suffering others to
educate him. It must have been a very foolish old gentleman who
addressed Johnson at Oxford in these words: "Young man, ply your book
diligently now, and acquire a stock of knowledge; for when years come
upon you, you will find that poring upon books will be but an irksome
task." The old gentleman seems to have been unaware that many other
things besides reading grow irksome, and not a few become impossible,
by the time a man has to use spectacles and cannot walk without a
stick. Books are good enough in their own way, but they are a mighty
bloodless substitute for life. It seems a pity to sit, like the Lady
of Shalott,[10] peering into a mirror, with your back turned on all
the bustle and glamour of reality. And if a man reads very hard, as
the old anecdote reminds us, he will have little time for thoughts.
