Two small complaints I have to make.  The first is of the rather inartistically high level of profanity maintained by the speech of Davis and Huish.  It is natural enough, of course; but that is no excuse if the frequency of the swearing prevent its making its proper impression in the right place.  And the name “Robert Herrick,” bestowed on one of the three beach-loafers, might have been shunned.  You may call an ordinary negro “Julius Caesar”:  for out of such extremes you get the legitimately grotesque.  But the Robert Herrick, loose writer of the lovely Hesperides, and the Robert Herrick, shameful haunter of Papeete beach, are not extremes:  and it was so very easy to avoid the association of ideas.

* * * * *

Dec. 22, 1894.  R.L.S.  In Memorium.

The Editor asks me to speak of Stevenson this week:  because, since the foundation of THE SPEAKER, as each new book of Stevenson’s appeared, I have had the privilege of writing about it here.  So this column, too, shall be filled; at what cost ripe journalists will understand, and any fellow-cadet of letters may guess.

For when the telegram came, early on Monday morning, what was our first thought, as soon as the immediate numbness of sorrow passed and the selfish instinct began to reassert itself (as it always does) and whisper “What have I lost?  What is the difference to me?” Was it not something like this—­“Put away books and paper and pen.  Stevenson is dead.  Stevenson is dead, and now there is nobody left to write for.”  Our children and grandchildren shall rejoice in his books; but we of this generation possessed in the living man something that they will not know.  So long as he lived, though it were far from Britain—­though we had never spoken to him and he, perhaps, had barely heard our names—­we always wrote our best for Stevenson.  To him each writer amongst us—­small or more than small—­had been proud to have carried his best.  That best might be poor enough.  So long as it was not slipshod, Stevenson could forgive.  While he lived, he moved men to put their utmost even into writings that quite certainly would never meet his eye.  Surely another age will wonder over this curiosity of letters—­that for five years the needle of literary endeavor in Great Britain has quivered towards a little island in the South Pacific, as to its magnetic pole.

Yet he founded no school, though most of us from time to time have poorly tried to copy him.  He remained altogether inimitable, yet never seemed conscious of his greatness.  It was native in him to rejoice in the successes of other men at least as much as in his own triumphs.  One almost felt that, so long as good books were written, it was no great concern to him whether he or others wrote them.  Born with an artist’s craving for beauty of expression, he achieved that beauty with infinite pains.  Confident in romance and in the beneficence of joy,