only the Waverley Novels, but the biography of good Sir Walter. "His life," he affirmed, "was perhaps more unique than his work," and that remark applies to R. L. S. himself, as well as to his great predecessor. Having burned his immature efforts when he was following his own "private determination to be an author," when ostensibly studying engineering, there are but two pamphlets, printed in his boyhood, which are not written when he had acquired his finished style. Louis' last creation, Weir of Hermiston, he himself thought was his master-piece, and he was always his own surest and severest critic. The portrait of the judge on whom he modelled Hermiston, i.e., Braxfield, was not in Stevenson's advocate days bequeathed to the Parliament House, but he had seen it in a Raeburn Exhibition he reviewed. He recollected the outward semblance of the man in his receptive memory till he resurrected Braxfield as Hermiston. The half-told tale is in itself a monument which, unfinished though it be, shows us how clever an artificer Louis had become.

And what manner of man to the outward eye was this gypsily-inclined descendant of square-headed Scottish engineers? With his dark eyes looking as if they had drunk in the sunshine in some southern land, his uncut hair, his odd, shabby clothes clinging to his attenuated frame, his elaborate manners and habit of gesticulating as he spoke, he was often mistaken for a starving musician or foreign mountebank. It is not surprising that continental officials doubted his passport's statement that he was a Briton. In France he was imprisoned, and he complains he could not pass a frontier or visit a bank without suspicion. "A slender, boyish presence, with a graceful, somewhat fantastic bearing, and a singular power of attraction in the eyes and a smile were the first things that impressed you," says his biographer. Like his mother, he remained to the end of his life perennially young in appearance and spirits. The burden of years never weighed him down or dimmed his outlook. His face kindled and flushed with pleasure when he heard of a doughty deed, a spice of wit, or some tale to his liking. Few drew him on canvas in his lifetime, though he summered among artists. Sargent, in 1885, did a small full-length portrait of him, which "is said to verge on caricature, and is in Boston. W. B. Richmond, R. A., about the same time, at Bournemouth, began another in oils, not much more than laid in in two sittings." Louis sat to an Italian, Count Nerli, in Samoa; but in this last portrait he looks painfully haggard, reminding us of his own words, "the practice of letters is miserably harassing." Because of the too brilliant light elsewhere in Vailima, he was painted in a room which was close, and the air fatigued him. While sitting, he wiled away an hour by making doggerel lines all to rhyme with the artist's name, Nerli. The portrait was bought by a Scotch-woman travelling in New Zeal and, where, after the author's death, it had remained unsold. His mother, on returning to Scotland when bereft of her boy, asked to see the picture again. She had disapproved of it in Samoa, as it was over true a likeness, representing him sadly emaciated. Seeing it again, she revoked her former judgment, and wished to possess it, but the purchaser also had grown to prize it. So it hangs in her drawing-room, near by where the Eildons stand sentinel over Scott's resting-place. This picture of him who lies on Vaea's crest looks down with a slightly quizzical expression, as if amused at finding himself ensconced in a place of honour in the house of strangers on Tweedside. Photographs there are in plenty of Stevenson, and one snapshot, enlarged in the Edinburgh Edition, recalls him looking up with "long, hatchet face, black hair, and haunting gaze, that follows as you move about the room." But his likeness was as difficult for the photographer, or the sun, to catch, as for the painter to put on canvas, for the peculiar fascination of the living man lay in himself, in the elusive charm of his smile, and in his manner of speech. However, his contemporaries have left their printed records of his appearance and his peculiar personality. Henley's perfect description in verse is too well known to need quotation. Ugly, Stevenson called himself, but this was not so. He was original in looks and mind, his lank brown hair straggled over his high forehead, and framed his thin, high-cheeked, sallow, oval face. His brown eyes and full red lips gave a dash of colour to his features. His schoolmate, Mr. Baildon, says truly, "his eyes were always genial, however gaily the lights danced in them; but about the mouth there was something of trickery and mocking, as of a spirit that had already peeped behind the scenes of Life's pageant, and more than guessed its unrealities."

Repose he never tasted of, for his zest in life, his adventurous inclination to explore, his insatiable curiosity, kept him ever moving at topmost speed. To understand the mainspring which affected the man's character—the machinery that supplied him with an inexhaustible nerve force and vitality—Mr Colvin explains, "besides humour, which kept wholesome laughter always ready at his lips, was a perfectly warm, loyal, and tender heart, which, through all his experiments and agitations, made the law of kindness the one ruling law of his life." He marvelled, on his way through the Pilgrim's Progress, why the man with the muck-rake grovelled in straws and dust, and never looked up to the glittering crown held out for his acceptance. This mulish blindness puzzled the boy, and when he grew up, he opened the eyes, and illumined by his work and his example the dreary-hearted who wasted their opportunities, not seeing the number of beautiful things which made the world into a royal pleasance. With tuneful words he persuaded those who plodded with dusty feet along the high-road to pause for a while and saunter among the greener fields of earth, and through the stimulating courage that shone through every chapter he wrote, he, like his sires, "the ready and the strong of word," has, by his works, left lights to shine upon the paths of men.