nothing but play patience and write verse, the true sign of my decadence." But much the greater part of the present volume, and most of the first of the two Bibliophile volumes of 1916, must be assigned to the decade preceding the breakdown on the Riviera, and the verses they contain suggest "storm and stress" more than they do valetudinarianism.
It seems plain therefore that, although no longer than five years ago it might have been permissible to regard Stevenson as an exception to the rule that successful writers of prose often begin their careers with verse-writing which they later abandon, it is now necessary—and pleasant—to believe that in this respect, as in not a few others, the lines of his development run parallel with those followed in the case of many a distinguished predecessor. This is fortunate, since wider and more permanent fame is the portion of those who keep steadily to the broad highways of literature than seems to come to those who to any appreciable extent are diverted into its by-ways. The more Stevenson's career as a man of letters is studied, the less, it is to be hoped, will it appear eccentric. As poet,
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