no inconsiderable part) be abolished even from the
history of man ! For a fool of this monstrosity of
dulness there can be no salvation.' This is fairly
hard upon the circulating library and comfortable
parlour readers. But Stevenson does not mince
matters in the least. You may take him in his
humour or leave him, just as you please. And some-
how or other the public, dull as it is, prefers to take
him. But these pungent passages, which by stretch
of phrase might be called didactic, are extremely rare. The ' Brownies,' who have no morals,^ have after all the main part of the work. The waking author who, he says, ' worse luck, does most of the morality,' must have enjoyed a holiday while the Brownies were doing, for example. The New Arabian Nights. Like the young man with the cream tarts, Stevenson ' is not here to expound his system of philosophy.'
It is indeed questionable whether or no he has a system. Though one may be inferred from his delightful and unequal sketches, none is expressed there. His attractive power, hard as it is to define, consists perhaps in the possession of what may be called the trick of investing humoui-s, which in other people would be regarded as only half sane, with an atmosphere of wit and of apparent sanity. If any one rashly imagines that the trick is easily done, or that the performance is an inconsiderable trifle, let him try to do it. To the bald elements to which a curious analyst might reduce Stevenson's style there is added one which is his own secret, and the use of which is more secure from invasion than if it were protected by copyright laws of unexampled stringency. It has been assumed that Stevenson's chief value lies in his style, in the picturesque liumour of his phrases ; but there is something else. He has given us some characterisations of undoubted aptness and happiness. He has given us Prince Florizel of Bohemia, alias Mr. Godall. He has given us Will o' the Mill and Alan Breck. He has given us Long John Silver, and has made FranCjOis Villon live and walk in the flesh. How succinct is Villon's autobiography in ' A Lodging for a Night' ! — ' " I am called Francois Villon, a poor Master of Arts of this University. I know some Latin, and a deal of vice. I can make chansons, ballades, lais, virelais, and roundels, and I am very fond of wine. I was born in a garret, and I shall not improbably die upon the gallows." ..." Tell me one thing," said the old man, " are you really a tliief .? " " I claim the sacred riglits of hospitahty," returned the poet ; " my lord, I am.'" In the painting of such 'ignettes, Stevenson is a past master. His books are full of them. The Fair Cuban, with her multiple personality, the ' 'A Chapter on Dreams,' Scribner's Magazine, Jan. 1888. ' Spirited old lady ' of ' The Superfluous Mansion,' the nameless personages in the outline tale in ' A Chapter on Dreams,' need no bush to tell that they are of choice vintage. The limitations of Stevenson's genius have perhaps been sufficiently indicated ; and besides it were as ungracious as unprofitable to search among so much that is excellent for obscure faults. There are, though, various dangers ahead for versatile and facile writers. For though doubtless learned with infinite labour, a trick once thoroughly mastered can be repeated almost to command. Even Hawthorne dis- appoints one frequently by the tenuity of his viot'ifh. The trick may be overdone. In the ' Dynamiter,' for example, ' the Destroying Angel' is self-destructive in the disproportionate length of its passage, and there is also an element, commercially advantageous, no doubt, but not free from suspicion of audacious tweaking of the public nose, in the republication under new titles of early and unregarded writings. The chief danger is that of the temptation to pro- duce much and fast, to write because the public wait, and to write, therefore, far below the level of the best work. Take, for example, the early papers of the recent Scrihner series ; there is no forcing of jaded powers. The January paper, that on dreams, is as ffood as the best of his work ; but each succeeding paper is weaker than its predecessor, until in ' Gentlemen ' and ' Gentlemen in Fiction ' there is the lowest deep from which some return to clear upper air may perhaps be expected. Not only do these papers detlirone certain gods, which is not too grievous to be borne, but in utter wantonness they offer the crudest of judgments on the slenderest of evidence. There is some need for a clear definition of 'gentleman' if Byron was 'a cad' and 'an unmatched vulgarian,' and patriotic partiality must be oppressively dominant when it decrees that Napoleon was 'a cad' and Wellington a gentleman. There is an odd humour, but nothing more solid, in the idea that the type of gentlemanliness is a footman in livery, and the type of caddishness the same footman out of it. This clotlies philosophy is a trifle threadbare. It were better that our author confined himself to the creatures of his imagination. They cohere well enough, largely because they are not very complex creations. The complexity of historical characters is a different affair, and one which, without undue severity, one may feel to be beyond the range of Stevenson's powers. With what he has given us of the offspring of his imagination, and for the service he renders to the cause of letters pure and simple, it is well to be content, and in this contentment, when the devil's advocate has been fully heard, there is enormous gain. J. M.
