d to distinguish
at first--they are easier than Russian by many degrees--yet the
difficulty vanishes as you read the _Song of Rahero_, or the _Footnote
to History_. And if it comes to habits, customs, scenery, etc., I
protest a man must be exacting who can find no romance in these while
reading Melville's _Typee_. No, the story itself is to blame.

But what is the human problem in _The Bottle Imp_? (Imagine
Scheherazade with a human problem!) Nothing less, if you please than
the problem of Alcestis--nothing less and even something more; for in
this case when the wife has made her great sacrifice of self, it is no
fortuitous god but her own husband who wins her release, and at a
price no less fearful than she herself has paid. Keawe being in
possession of a bottle which must infallibly bring him to hell-flames
unless he can dispose of it at a certain price, Kokua his wife by a
stratagem purchases the bottle from him, and stands committed to the
doom he has escaped. She does her best to hide this from Keawe, but
he, by accident discovering the truth, by another stratagem wins back
the curse upon his own head, and is only rescued by a _deus ex
machina_ in the shape of a drunken boatswain.

Two or three reviewers have already given utterance upon this volume;
and they seem strangely unable to determine which is the best of its
three tales. I vote for _The Bottle Imp_ without a second's doubt;
and, if asked my reasons, must answer (1), that it deals with a high
and universal problem, whereas in _The Isle of Voices_ there is no
problem at all, and in the _Beach of Falesa_ the problem is less
momentous and perhaps (though of this I won't be sure) more closely
restricted by the accidents of circumstance and individual character;
(2) as I have hinted, the _Beach of Falesa_ has faults of
construction, one of which is serious, if not vital, while _The Isle
of Voices_, though beautifully composed, is tied down by the
triviality of its subject. But _The Bottle Imp_ is perfectly
constructed: the last page ends the tale, and the tale is told with a
light grace, sportive within restraint, that takes nothing from the
seriousness of the subject. Some may think this extravagant praise for
a little story which, after all (they will say), is flimsy as a soap
bubble. But let them sit down and tick off on their fingers the names
of living authors who could have written it, and it may begin to dawn
on them that a story has other dimensions t