have been unable to locate. One of these appeared not long after his death in an American or Australian paper, it contained a graphic description of the life Stevenson lived at Butaritari, one of the Gilbert Group, during the summer and autumn of 1889, when staying with Captain and Mrs. Rick. This episode in Stevenson's life was only ightly touched upon in his letters from the South Seas.
The critical articles are interesting on account of their writers, for no one has graduated in letters who has not taken Stevenson for his theme.
'Of all the dresses I select Haidée's,'
and if one must own to a preference, I am compelled to express the pleasure which a perusal of Sir Leslie Stephen's paper in The National Review gave me. A fellow-feeling is not without its influence in these cases. 'I am hopelessly unable to appreciate Walt Whitman, and Treasure Island is the one story which I can admire without the least qualificaion or reserve.' But while thankful for the illumination thrown on the subject by so many lights, I still feel that the last word remains to be said. A writer of exactly similar temperament to Stevenson does not often arise, but until such a writer takes him in hand, I doubt if his character will be understood to the depths. We want some one who will treat him as Baudelaire treated Poe, or as Stevenson might have treated Baudelaire. It is a pity that the petits poëmes en prose, which according to Mr. Sidney Colvin were attempts
