parents had taken a house in Bournemouth for the winter, that Mr. Stevenson might have the companionship of his son. In February the father was taken by his wife to Torquay, but came back to Bournemouth on the first of April. By the twenty-first he was so ill that it was thought better to bring him home, and he returned to Edinburgh. The accounts of him grew so alarming, that Louis followed on the sixth of May, but was too late for his coming to be of any use, and on the eighth all was over.

Of the son's affection, and of his appreciation for his father, enough has been said to show how great the sense of his loss must have been. The shock of having found his father no longer able to recognise him preyed upon his mind, and for some time to come he was haunted day and night with "ugly images of sickness, decline, and impaired reason," which increased yet further his sadness and the physical depression that weighed him down.

In the meantime he took cold, was not allowed to attend the funeral, and never left the house until, at the end of May, he was able to return to Bournemouth, and quitted Scotland for the last time.

CHAPTER XII

THE UNITED STATES-1887-88

"But, indeed, I think we all belong to many countries. am a Scotchman, touch me and you will find the thistle; I ar a Briton, and live and move and have my being in the greatness of our national achievements; but am I to forget the long hospitality of that beautiful and kind country, France? Or has not America done me favours to confound my gratitude? Nay, they are all my relatives; I love them all dearly; and should they fall out among themselves (which God in his mercy forbid!), I believe I should be driven mad with their conflicting claims upon my heart."

R. L. S., Ms. of The Silverado Squatters.

HE chief link which bound Stevenson to this country was now broken, for his mother was

TH

free to follow him and his wife to whatever climate the advice of the doctors might send him. Year after year the struggle with ill-health was becoming more painful; "an enemy who was exciting at first, but has now, by the iteration of his strokes, become merely annoying and inexpressibly irksome." He seemed condemned to a life in the sickroom, and even there, to be steadily losing ground. Under the altered circumstances, his uncle, Dr. George Balfour, peremptorily insisted on a complete change of climate for a year, suggesting a trial of either one of the Indian hill-stations or Colorado; this advice was reinforced by his Bournemouth physician, Dr. Scott, and, for several obvious reasons, America was

preferred. As soon as his mother's promise to accompany the party was obtained, Skerryvore was let, and by the middle of July their tickets were taken for New York.

Early in the same month he had written to his mother: "... I can let you have a cheque for £100 to-morrow, which is certainly a pleasant thing to be able to say. I wish it had happened while my father was still here; I should have liked to help him once-perhaps even from a mean reason; that he might see I had not been wrong in taking to letters. But all this, I dare say, he observes, or, in some other way, feels. And he, at least, is out of his warfare, as I could sometimes wish I were out of mine. The mind of the survivor is mean; it sees the loss, it does not always feel the deliverance. Yet, about our loss, I feel it more than I can say-every day more-that it is a happy thing that he is now at peace.

But the invalid was not to escape from England without another illness; worn as he was by his recent experiences, he once more broke down, and was laid up again with hemorrhage.

On the 20th August, however, he left Bournemouth for London, and spent Sunday in the City, at Armfield's Hotel. Here, those of his closest friends who at that season were within reach came to bid him farewell, a last good-bye as it proved for all, since he never saw any one of them again. "In one way or another," he had written, "life forces men apart and breaks up the goodly fellowships for ever," and he himself was now to become "no more than a name,

a reminiscence, and an occasional crossed letter very laborious to read."

As Sidney Colvin had been the first to welcome him on his return from America, so he was the last to take leave of him the next day, when the party of five -for Valentine Roch accompanied them-embarked on the steamship Ludgate Hill.

...

The beginning of their voyage was an unpleasant surprise, for their passages had been taken in ignorance that the ship was used as a cattle-boat, and it was only when the family came on board that they learned that they were going to put in at Havre for their cargo before sailing for America. But Stevenson, ill as he was, did not allow mere discomfort to affect him. His mother's diary contains an entry highly characteristic both of herself and of her son: "We discover that it is a cattle-ship, and that we are going to Havre to take in horses. We agree to look upon it as an adventure and make the best of it. It is very amusing and like a circus to see the horses come on board." Not only was there a shipload of horses, but the vessel resembled the fleet of Ophir at least in this, that she carried a consignment of apes; of which "the big monkey, Jacko, scoured about the ship," and took a special fancy to Stevenson. The other passengers were not unentertaining, and the voyage itself was to him a pure delight, until they came to the Banks off Newfoundland, where he again caught cold. "I was so happy on board that ship," he wrote to his cousin Bob; "I could not have believed it possible. We had the beastliest weather, and many discomforts; but the mere fact of its being

a tramp-ship gave us many comforts; we could cut about with the men and officers, stay in the wheelhouse, discuss all manner of things, and really be a little at sea. And truly there is nothing else. I had literally forgotten what happiness was, and the full mind-full of external and physical things, not full of cares and labours and rot about a fellow's behaviour. My heart literally sang; I truly care for nothing so much as for that."

By this time his reputation had crossed the Atlantic, and, chiefly by means of Jekyll and Hyde, had spread there to an extent which he had probably not yet realised. The first indication reached him, however, before he had sighted the coast-line of the States, for, on September 6th, when the pilot came on board, it turned out that he was known on his boat as Hyde, while his better-tempered partner was called Jekyll.

The next day the Ludgate Hill arrived at New York, where Stevenson was met by a crowd of reporters, and-what was more to his taste-by his old friend, Mr. Will H. Low. He was forthwith carried off to an hotel where Mr. and Mrs. Charles Fairchild had made all arrangements for his reception, and the next day he proceeded to their house at Newport. But on the journey he caught fresh cold, and spent a fortnight there chiefly in bed.

On his return to New York he saw a few people, mostly old friends like Mr. Low and his wife, and first made the personal acquaintance of Mr. Charles Scribner and Mr. E. L. Burlingame. Augustus St. Gaudens, the eminent American sculptor, now began to make the necessary studies for the large medallion,