The Evening Star: WITH WHICH ARE INCORPORATED The Evening News, Morning News, and Echo. MONDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1894.

Auckland Star, Volume XXV, Issue 300, 17 December 1894, Page 2

The Evening Star: WITH WHICH ARE INCORPORATED The Evening News, Morning News, and Echo.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1894.

For the cause that lacis assistance, lor the trrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance. Aad the eood that ire tan d«.

Mr Robert Louis Stevknson is dead i n his island homo in Samoa. It is with doep regret thab we record the decease of the celebrated novelist and man of letters, the news of which was brought to us by the Upolu this morning. In that regret every roader of his charming books here in New Zealand will share : and it is not too much to say that when the sad intelligence jg flashed from this city over the eiviliced world, as it will be in a few hoars, the gaiety of the novel reading public will be eclipsed for a season. For he was an universal favourite, a master of English the world would not willingly let die, a master of fiction we could ill afford to lose in these hard matter-of-fact days. Since he rose into prominence a dozen years ago, and took hia place among the greater lights of the literary firmament, other stars have arisen, but they have nob diminished his lustre. His " Treasure Island," his 'J Kidnapped," his "Catriona," hold their own against all competitors, and will hold their own among all who can distinguish true art from the counterfeit which is so much to be deplored in a great deal of our contemporary fiction. The lovers of true literary art are certainly nob in the majority at present. The success of many wretched novels is evidence of this. But they are an everincreasing number; and we are sure, for that reason, thab in the future Stevenson will hare an even wider circle of admirers than ha now has. He has given us pure, healthy, and elegant fiction, having all the simple charm of the old school wedded to the best features of the new.

Aa everyone is aware, a constitutional delicacy compelled the novelist some four years ago to take up his residence in Samoa. The moist warmth of the islands eeema to have suited his complaint, and since hia stay there, though by no means strong, he war sufficiently so to inspire his friends with the hope that he might live for many years to enrich the world with his writings. Bub that hope has been defeated, and now at the comparatively early age of 49 that brain which has delighted us all with its rich and vivid imaginings is at rest. From the suddenness .of his death it would seem that ho must have been in a much frailer condition than was supposed, or than his literary activity would have led one to conclude. That activity may nob have been bo marked during the lust three yeara as it formerly was, but still the issue of more than one book from cho Island brought their author ever freahly bofore the world, and gave countenance to the idea that he had a long lease of life before him,

When one considers what his actual state must have been, the energy he displayed both in the style and volume of his works is remarkable. Excessively delicate from his youth his life is an example of how much can be accomplished in the way of work by persistent effort. He himself was wont to ascribe all his success to this talent for trying again,,and to dwell with a too great modesty, we think, on the smallness of his natural literary talent. In one of his writings he says that he does not believe that tbere is anyone who has done more than himself with the small talent Heaven endowed him with. It is certainly comforting to the novice in fiction to know that this master of.the art found novel writing anything bub an easy task. He had none of the fluency of Scott or Dickens, but had almost to swear to write a line. According to his own account he made many attempts in novel writing before he gob any success, and the book that brought him fame,

"Treasure Island," was almosb thrown despairingly aside when he had only: half completed it.

The history of his life is that of a singii•iarly genial man, and,; if we conßidw che

physical difficulties be laboured under, a very hard-working writer. There is aboub his death a certain abrange and romantic environment thab we seldom look for in connection with those whose repubation is made among the busy haunts of men. The scene ab his home atber his deabh irresistibly calls up toour minds "Treasure leland." Far away from streaming London's central roar, where bhe advenb of a new book from his pen was hailed with delight, in a litble tropic island in mid Pacific, he has breathed his lasb in peace, surrounded by a semisavage people, who Borrowed the loss of one to whom they had become devoted.