t disturbed. But suppose you were to take
out _Kidnapped_, or _Treasure Island_, or _The Master of Ballantrae_,
the loss would be felt at once and seriously. And unless he has left
behind him, hidden away among his loose papers, some rare and perfect
sketch, some letter to posterity which shall be to his reputation what
Neil Paraday's lost novel in _The Death of the Lion_ might have been
to his, _St. Ives_ may be regarded as the epilogue.

Stevenson's death and the publication of this last effort of his fine
genius may tend to draw away a measure of public interest from that
type of novel which he, his imitators, and his rivals have so
abundantly produced. This may be the close of a 'period' such as we
read about in histories of literature.

If the truth be told, has not our generation had enough of duels,
hair-breadth escapes, post-chaises, and highwaymen, mysterious
strangers muffled in great-coats, and pistols which always miss fire
when they shouldn't? To say positively that we _have_ done with all
this might appear extravagant in the light of the popularity of
certain modern heroic novels. But it might not be too radical a view
if one were to maintain that these books are the expression of
something temporary and accidental, that they sustain a chronological
relation to modern literature rather than an essential one.

Matthew Arnold spoke of Heine as a sardonic smile on the face of the
Zeitgeist. Let us say that these modern stories in the heroic vein are
a mere heightening of color on the cheeks of that interesting young
lady, the Genius of the modern novel--a heightening of color _on_ the
cheeks, for the color comes from without and not from within. It is a
matter of no moment. Artificial red does no harm for once, and looks
well under gaslight.

These novels of adventure which we buy so cheerfully, read with such
pleasure, and make such a good-natured fuss over, are for the greater
part an expression of something altogether foreign to the deeper
spirit of modern fiction. Surely the true modern novel is the one
which reflects the life of to-day. And life to-day is easy, familiar,
rich in material comforts, and on the whole without painfully striking
contrasts and thrilling episodes. People have enough to eat,
reasonable liberty, and a degree of patience with one another which
suggests indifference. A man may shout aloud in the market-place the
most revolutionary opinions, and hardly be taken to task for it; a