house, and showed me the bathing place, a deep pool in the stream which flowed under Vaea Mountain. He explained to me that it was after the three streams which met hard by that the estate was named, but that the word for 'three waters' not being euphonious, Vailima, which means 'four waters,' had been substituted, a poetic license which he thought permissible. After my experience of the heat of the previous day, the extreme cold of the water was a surprise, and at that time in the morning the air was so fresh and invigorating that it was difficult to believe that you were in the tropics; indeed, for Stevenson the cold of the stream was too severe, and he had to be content with a tub indoors.

After bathing, the subsequent order of the day was as follows: We breakfasted at seven, clothed in flannels and barefooted, for no one at Vailima wore shoes until dinner time. After breakfast, I believe, Stevenson was in the habit of working up to lunch time; but for the week I was with him he almost entirely abandoned work; and no one was sorry for this, for he had been working over-hard, and rest and conversation, with one who knew many of his old friends, did him good. I was, indeed, a gainer by his abstention, for I had, for long hours daily, the most wonderful of comrades: his spirits never flagged, his talk was always inspiriting, his point of view always original. There was nothing of the invalid, no suggestion of failing strength about him; he had a zest for life, he 'cherished it in every fibre'; there was a gift of light in him which seemed to radiate and make bright every topic he touched.

During these conversations he talked often of home and old friends, much of literature and of his own work, especially Weir of Hermiston. I can see him now, sitting on the side of his

camp-bed in the little room in which he did most of his work and reading to me the first chapters of that great book; I can hear the tone of his voice and see the changing expression of his face as he read; for he was in love with the work, happier in it, perhaps, than in anything he had ever done, and his reading showed his interest. He had no more false modesty in praising his own work when it pleased him than contempt in condemning it when he disapproved. 'Now, is n't that confoundedly good?' he said to me after finishing one of the chapters in Weir. He expressed to me, as I believe he wrote to Sir Sidney Colvin, his opinion that in this story he had touched his high-water mark; he told me something of its outline, and as in one, and that an important, point it differed from the notes furnished by Mrs. Strong, it will be heard with interest. The strongest scene in the book, he said, the strongest scene he had ever conceived or would ever write,- was one in which the younger Kirstie came to her lover when he was in prison and confessed to him that she was with child by the man he had murdered. His eyes flashed with emotion as he spoke about it, and I cannot think that he had abandoned this climax. It is a climax, too, which would seem to be much more in harmony with the genius and conception of the story and characters than the ending sketched in the notes, which was no doubt an alternative with which he coquetted.

The other reading which I remember with greatest pleasure was of poems afterwards published among the Songs of Travel. We had had much discussion about rhythm, especially as to a tendency toward subtler and less regular rhythmical effects. He was disposed to think that in English verse the career of the regular and well-marked metres was almost complete, and that

the poetry of the future would find expression in more complex harmonies. He cited the work of Mr. W. B. Yeats (whose poem 'The Lake Isle of Innesfree' was then a notable instance of the case in point) as an achievement in this direction, and he admitted that he had been attempting to tread the same path in some of his own later verse. Such were the second of the poems entitled 'Youth and Love," "To the heart of youth the world is a highway side,'

and that beginning 'In the highlands in the country places,' and perhaps also that most beautiful of all his poems, 'Home no more home to me,' where the music depends no less on the actual rhythm than on the right emphasis and sympathetic pause. Indeed, I believe that if I had not heard him read it I should have missed much of its rhythmical beauty. His aim was toward a greater subtlety of rhythm, a very different thing from the abandonment of metrical restriction which marks so many horrible productions in vers libre.

In a conversation on his own writings I alluded, perhaps injudiciously, to a fear expressed by George Meredith that his banishment from the great world of men, his inabi ity to keep in close touch with the social development of the time, might be a disadvantage to his work. He showed in reply an unexpected warmth which suggested that he really felt the burden of his exile but refused to admit it. 'It is all the better for a man's work if he wants it to be good and not merely popular,' he said, 'to be removed from these London influences. Human nature is always the same, and you see and understand it better when you are standing outside the crowd.'

Meredith thought otherwise, and defended his contention on hearing from me of Stevenson's comment. 'Human nature is not always the

.same,' he replied. 'The same forces may be always at work, but they find different expression in every generation, and it is the expression that chiefly concerns the writer of fiction.' It is an interesting subject for reflection, the more so that it produced such a divergence of opinion between two of the most distinguished writers of our time.

At the time of Stevenson's death I read some reports in the papers that he had grown despondent latterly about his own work, and believed that he was losing ground with his public. I believe these to have had no foundation. It struck me from all he said that he believed his best work was yet within him and that he was only beginning to get it outside him in Weir of Hermiston. Nor was there the slightest trace of despondency in his tone, either in reference to his work or his circumstances. The nearest approach to regret in anything he said about his work was a remark to the effect that he had fewer inspirations than when he was a younger man; but he suggested that he knew better how to entertain the inspirations when they came. And as to his surroundings, he was undoubtedly not discontented. His banishment from his friends at home was, of course, keenly felt; but he knew that it was inevitable and made the best of it, alluding rather to those expressions of old affection and new sympathy which every mail brought him from home than to the deprivations of his exile. The hope of seeing many of his friends as his guests at Vailima in the future was also constantly with him, and he never tired of speaking of old days and old friends; of Edinburgh, of the British Museum, of the Savile Club, of Box Hill, most frequently.

Much of our time was passed in conversation and reading, remaining indoors or on the veranda during the hot

ter hours of the day, and once or twice, when it grew cooler, walking or riding down to Apia. His appearance on horseback was amusing-dressed in white, with riding boots and a French peaked cap; chivalrous in his bearing, but mounted on a horse which would not have been owned by any selfrespecting English costermonger, he almost suggested a South Sea Don Quixote. But in spite of appearances his horse was not an unserviceable beast, and perhaps few better could be found on the island.

At dinner in the evening, when all the household was assembled, Mrs. Stevenson and Mrs. Strong, Lloyd Osborne and Count Wurmbrand, a charming and cultivated Austrian soldier acting at the time as chief cowherd on he Stevenson farm, with the addition, on one or two occasions, of M. de Lautreppe, a French naturalist on a visit to the island, a delightful companion, we were a merry and oddlooking party. The evening dress of the island is of white drill for men, and generally white of some other material for ladies, but there is no very strict insistence on detail. But one rule was recognized by all of us, and that was the wearing of shoes and socks, which had been dispensed with during the day. Stevenson's costumes were remarkable, and it struck me that, though quite free from vanity, he found a curious pleasure in dressing, or as children say, 'in dressing up.' On one evening at dinner, I remember, he wore an Indian costume, an embroidered thing folded and crossed upon his chest. The dinner itself was always excellent, abounding in strange dishes of the Island, chiefly vegetable, and, in spite of the absence at the war of the head cook, admirably served. And the wine was a surprise: one does not expect to find good wine in the South Sea Islands, but here was of the

best. Stevenson's artistic tastes and instincts included wine, and the Burgundy laid down in the Vailima cellar was worthy of its destination.

Tusitala had not only the art of conversation, but the art of making others talk their best and of establishing general conversation; and, with Mrs. Stevenson, herself one of the most brilliant of talkers, also present, the guests who did not find good cheer at table deserved to spend the rest of their lives in solitude and fasting. The music which followed dinner was perhaps the worst ever heard; it was not native music, which is beautiful, but was produced by Count Wurmbrand and myself. Every evening the count sang the 'Cruiskeen Lawn,' which he had learned in broken Irish at Vailima and sang to a tune of his own, and I played, with improprieties which were hardly noticed, so much out of tune was the piano, Scotch and Irish reels and jigs. Then arose Tusitala and, placing Teuila (Mrs. Strong) opposite to him, danced on the polished floor with a vigor seldom matched and a delight splendid to see.

It was usually between eleven and twelve o'clock when we went to bed, and, as we never rose later than six in the morning, the day must have been a long one, though it did not seem so at the time. My host was in the habit of conducting me to my room each night,- for he was punctual in the observation of courtesies,—and on our way thither we generally lingered on the veranda. Out over the great plain of the Pacific was a sky of such starlight as we do not see at home; the tropical forest all about us was profoundly silent, and from far away came the unvarying sound of the waters breaking on the coral reefs. He reveled in the beauty of the scene, but he admitted that he would gladly have exchanged it for the mist-enfolded

coasts of the little islands he had left far away in the wintry seas.

My stay with him was too short: it would have been longer if I had known that I was not to see him again, and it was my own fault that it was not prolonged; but in one week he allowed me to know him intimately, and he was one of those whom to know is to love. He had the power of winning affection as well as admiration, by his writings, from people who had never met him,

The Times

and all that personal charm which shines through his work was found in a more marked degree in himself. It is difficult to write of him critically or without enthusiasm. He seemed to me to be the most inspiring comrade who ever put hope into his fellows, the most courteous gentleman who ever conferred a favor while seeming to ask one, and the most heroic spirit that ever fought and fought to win with a good heart against desperate odds.

THERE is no doubt whatever about the need for it. Search high or low in our social world, you will find it full of laments and dissatisfaction. In the services commanding officers complain that their subalterns, even though they have been through the classical course at public schools and universities, cannot write a clear report. Headquarters themselves issue their orders and regulations in barbarous, unintelligible jargon. Government departments, manned by Greatsmen, wrap themselves in phrases of pompous obscurity, and cabinet ministers couch their decisions or agreements in terms of such ambiguity as to leave nobody certain of their meaning.

It would, however, be unjust to attribute bad English entirely to upperclass education, classical or modern. The business man in his 'esteemed favors,' though he may be more terse and polite, is not always able to convey what he intends. He lays the blame,

when he fails to do so, upon the faulty education of his clerks and stenographers. The masses of the public too often show in practice that they simply cannot understand printed rules and directions. It is naturally too much to expect a universal diffusion of taste or elegance in the use of our language; but even when we feel the need of fine words to express deep feeling we choose for an obituary lines like these:

There's a lonely grave somewhere,

Where our dear and brave boy sleeps; There's a little home in England, Where mother and all of us weep.

or these:

Who knew that when he went away,
Departing from his door,
How or when he would come back,
Or whether never more?
For he who went away in health,

In battle soon waylaid,

Which took him in the prime of life. To lie in a distant grave.

No, there is little doubt of the need for teaching clearness and improving taste. As for correct and grammatical writing, one week's study of a popular daily newspaper yielded the following excerpts from a collection of two

score:

In the last resort we have to depend upon a jury drawn from the people to convict the scoundrel who has tainted our public life, and unless that jury does not do its duty, unless it is backed by the public sentiment of the people.

The accused was ordered to pay £3, or a month's imprisonment in default.

At Paignton, in Devon, a gigantic plum pudding is made and distributed to the poor, which in 1897 weighed 250 pounds. the officers closed on him. In throwing him to the ground the revolver dropped from his hand.

The charge is 50 per cent higher than the same sheet may be bought in the street just outside. But what is a penny to an American?

had an unfortunate experience. While seated in his greenhouse it was wrecked by the wind, and on being extricated it was ascertained that, both his legs were broken above the knee, necessitating his removal to the infirmary.

Provocation has been given by the hostile and shifty conduct of the Tibetan authorities, since the signing of the Treaty of 1890, which would have justified earlier punishment.

While riding in a hansom at Southport a runaway horse dashed into the conveyance, and the shaft of the trap penetrated her body, pinning her to the hansom, and causing almost instantaneous death.

But if you come to estimate a day's work even in foot-pounds the woman who cleans, bakes, washes, and takes to school six children, carries water and tramps upstairs and down for sixteen hours a day, need not fear comparison as to kinetic energy even with a miner working eight hours.

What is the schoolmaster doing about it? He is teaching a great variety of languages, ancient and foreign, sciences, arts and crafts, and among other things he is believed to teach English.' He has found out

that it does not come by nature, and that a mastery of the English language cannot be assured by teaching something quite different. But as to the best method of teaching boys and girls to write, read, and appreciate good English there is a controversy. Just as in most other branches of education there is a traditional method and a reformed method. Upon the latter some of us build hopes of extraordinarily great achievements, and if these hopes lead us into impatience we must ask for pardon.

Though Mr. Mais* justly claims credit for originality in departing occasionally from the fixed lines of English teaching as it is practised in the public schools, his 'Course' mainly follows the traditional modes and is directed to the preparation of pupils for the orthodox type of examination.

The nature of the course is indicated by the chapter headings; for example: 'Grammar and Syntax-Analysis, Parsing, and Synthesis - Punctuation Vocabulary-Letter Writing - Reproduction - Paraphrase - Dictation Précis Prosody Figures of Speech Indirect Speech-Essay Writing Examination Papers.' There are, beside these thoroughly normal chapters, six pages on Elocution, Debating, Lecturing, Acting, etc., a useful list of cheap books for a home library, more than fifty critical pages on Shakespeare, and a regrettablet twenty-page chapter entitled 'Short History of English Literature.'

I think the author is trying to shake off a yoke which is not entirely congenial to him. But if he will make boys write essays on Scandinavia, explain Synecdoche, paraphrase Keats,

An English Course for Schools. By S. B. P. Mais, Assistant Master at Tonbridge School and Examiner in English to the University of London. Grant Richards Ltd.; 6s. net,

te. g. R. L. Stevenson represents the incur ably romantic and is followed by Kipling and Conrad.'