t will serve our purpose) then one may
realize how Scott and Borrow followed in the brother's wake; Stevenson
and Poe being drawn rather towards the sister.

In the case of Stevenson it may seem strange that one who wrote stirring
adventures, who delighted boys of all ages with _Treasure Island_ and
_Black Arrow_ (oh, excellent John Silver!), and followed in the steps of
Sir Walter in _The Master of Ballantrae_ and _Catriona_, should not be
associated with the adventurous brother. But Scott and Stevenson have
really nothing in common, beyond a love for the picturesque--and there is
nothing distinctive in that. It is an essential qualification in the
equipment of every Romantic. Adventures, as such, did not appeal to
Stevenson, I think; it was the spice of mystery in them that attracted
him. Watch him and you will find he is not content until he has thrown
clouds of phantasy over his pictures. His longer stories have no
unity--they are disconnected episodes strung lightly together, and this
is why his short stories impress us far more with their power and
brilliance.

_Markheim_ and _Jekyll and Hyde_ do not oppress the imagination in the
same way as do Poe's tales of horror; but they show the same passion for
the dark corners of life, the same fondness for the gargoyles of Art.
This is Romance on its mystic side.

Throughout his writings--I say nothing of his letters, which stand in a
different category--one can hear

"The horns of Elfland faintly blowing."

Sometimes the veil of phantasy is shaken by a peal of impish laughter, as
if he would say, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" but the attitude
that persists--breaks there must be, and gusty moods, or it would not be
Stevenson--is the attitude of the Romantic who loves rather the night
side of things.

II

Much has been written about the eternal boy in Stevenson. I confess that
this does not strike me as a particularly happy criticism. In a
superficial sort of way it is, of course, obvious enough; he was fond of
"make-believe"; took a boyish delight in practical joking; was ever ready
for an adventure. But so complex and diverse his temperament that it is
dangerous to seize on one aspect and say, "There is the real Stevenson."
Ariel, Hamlet, and the Shorter Catechist cross and recross his pages as
we read them. Probably each reader of Stevenson retains most clearly one
special phase. It is the Ariel in Stevenson that outlasts for me the