never for a moment was he a poseur. Whatever character he assumed was absolutely sincere, and he dressed the part without a touch of mummery. One of his fondest superstitions was that he belonged to a low race of men-that he was, as a friend dubbed him, "an Iberian, a shy-trafficker." Thus he would point to the shape of his head as a final proof of his origin; thus he would assert that the tribe, of which he came, was only fit to play the harp and to multiply, and he would involve in his own smiling condemnation half the company. It is not strange, therefore, that he found the common pursuits of middle-class life wholly distasteful, that he feared all those who belonged to the more prosperous professions. His imagination persuaded him that policemen, bankers, and editors were the sworn foes of the human (or humane) race. We believe that he never entered a bank without a feeling of discomfort, and we know that an editor was in his regard a monster with the evil eye. And though the phases of character through which he passed were presently forgotten, there was not one which did not leave its trace upon him. Once upon a time he was an undergraduate at Cambridge, and if you would have understood him, you were forced to remember that he kept one corner of his heart undergraduate still. In certain moods he remained the athletic, mischievous, sporting Cambridge man, who would tell you with a justified glee that he took his degree in the Botany Special, that he spent most of his time in Jackson's gymnasium, and that he was in his day a famous waterman. And every syllable was true. Athleticism was in his blood; he could not bear to think that he was losing his strength; his pride was still in the pole-jumping, of which he once was champion; the undergraduate who had explored the Cam and the Ouse and all their tributaries declared that he was as accomplished as ever in the paddling of a canoe; and it is not unlikely that feats of swimming hastened his end.

Undergraduate and student of art.

To the undergraduate succeeded the student of art, and it was with enthusiasm that he went to France, where, in his own phrase, he would "wield the pencil of Vandyke." And the art-student that was in him survived with the undergraduate. Many fanciful years he wandered in the forest of Fontainebleau, in some of whose villages he is still a superstition, which easily eclipses the memory of his more famous cousin. And this was, no doubt, the happiest, most fruitful period of his career. A return to France was for him a return to youth, to that far-off day when he helped to launch the celebrated house-boat-The Eleven Thousand Virgins of Cologneat the Quai des Grands Augustins. Maybe the studios gave him more theory than practice; but his brain was essentially analytic, and he brought back from France theories on the conduct of life, as well as upon all the arts. For he was always a profound philosopher: he laughed at most things, and understood them all. His hard intelligence pierced every obscurity, and no man ever looked at life in a juster relation. Metaphysics had taken the place which theology sometimes fills in the Scot's brain, and he always intended to return to their study, which, said he, was the proper pursuit of a leisured gentleman. But, above all, he was an artist in talk; it was to talk that he gave the best of his life, and those who knew him have suffered a supreme loss. Never did he spare himself or his fancy. He spoke of all things with incomparable courage and invention. Now he would dazzle you with the fireworks of paradox, now he would speak with the daring of Rabelais and a mercurial gaiety which was all his own. Or he would sketch you odes in the manner of Wordsworth, or he would build you up a romance about a phrase, an aspect, or a casual visitor.

Robert Louis Stevenson, in his essay on "Talk and Talkers," has dubbed him "Spring-heeled Jack," and

E

the name does not seem perfectly appropriate.

beeled Jack."

Quick,

vivacious, alert he always was; but though "Spring he might change his method of attack or defence, he never changed his ground. Behind his swift thought and delightful levity there was a solid wall of principle-principle in art, principle in thought, principle in life. Iberian though he called himself, he was the sternest classic of his time. A reactionary, who had passed through the school of anarchy, he could not endure any violation of moral or artistic law. Milton and Wordsworth were still in his eyes exemplars to be cherished. Possibly he would have put the choruses in "Samson" by the side of Virgil, and it is not surprising that he worshipped Handel in music, and delighted in the solemn, grandiose motives of Poussin. Whatever view he held he would urge with a fiery eloquence. For despite his fear of banks and other solemnities, he was always gifted with intellectual courage. If opinions were discussed, the strange timidity with which life sometimes worried him instantly disappeared, and he would have his way against the world. To say that he was magnanimous and upright is to pay a compliment that no gentleman needs to hear. Yet we should do him less than justice if we did not record one effect of his influence. Those who knew him valued his approval above all things. Would Stevenson have done that? they would ask in the face of an artistic enterprise. Would Stevenson have thought that? they demanded before a new opinion. And we doubt whether a higher tribute than this can be paid to any man.

And he is dead, this miracle of fancy and eloquencedead, and no more, no less than a memory. Truly they write their name in water whose wisdom is prodigally poured forth in talk. Yet Stevenson esteemed life more highly than fame, and no man of our time has had a larger share of the good things which the world may give us laughter, joyousness, art, affection. Above all,

as he lived his own life, so he will go on living in the impulse and energy which he imparted to others. And we rejoice to remember him as a man with no sharp edges, whose noblest traits, whose austerest principle, still had a margin to embroider with the flowers of fancy.

JULY.

A YOUNG poet, burning with enthusiasm and new ideas, once complained that he had not yet found a means of expression. "Je cherche une formule," said he, and if only his search had not been vain, he might have given a fresh shape to an ancient truth. Now, as we looked for the first time upon the French Exhibition, The Paris Exhibition. we too confessed that we lacked a formula, which might help us to describe so vast an assemblage of facts. There, within a single enclosure, which seems to cover half a town, are gathered together the spoils of the whole world. A Boer farm jostles the temple of a Cambodian god, an English manor-house frowns coldly down upon an imitation of Milan Cathedral; yet out of these diverse elements there emerges a sort of harmony, and although the parts quarrel bitterly enough in the broad light of day, it is still possible to view them as parts of a single whole-to find, in brief, such a formula as may express the biggest fair the world has ever seen.

The formula, then, which expresses the effect is taste, -taste, above all, of arrangement. The materials, diverse and even clumsy as they seem in detail, are so cunningly set as to give an impression of a reasoned and absolute design, which is the fruit of France's logical taste and exquisite fancy. To enclose such a space as is measured from the Trocadero to the Champ de Mars, or from the Champs Elysées to the Invalides, is at first sight a merely grandiose enterprise. But the French genius has evolved from this grandiose enterprise a delicate beauty,