him after
reading Scott, Dumas, Victor Hugo; or, better still, to peruse these
giants after dallying with Ariel.

We realize then what it is that we had vaguely missed in Stevenson--the
human touch. These men believe in the figments of their imagination, and
make us believe in them.

Stevenson is obviously sceptical as to their reality; we can almost see a
furtive smile upon his lip as he writes. But there is nothing unreal
about the man, whatever we feel of the Artist.

In his critical comments on men and matters, especially when Hamlet and
the Shorter Catechist come into view, we shall find a vigorous sanity, a
shrewd yet genial outlook, that seems to say there is no make-believe
_here_; _here_ I am not merely amusing myself; here, honestly and
heartily admitted, you may find the things that life has taught me.

III

Stevenson had many sides, but there were two especially that reappear
again and again, and were the controlling forces in his nature. One was
the Romantic element, the other the Artistic. It may be thought that
these twain have much in common; but it is not so. In poetry the first
gives us a Blake, a Shelley; the second a Keats, a Tennyson. Variety,
fresh points of view, these are the breath of life to the Romantic. But
for the Artist there is one constant, unchanging ideal. The Romantic
ventures out of sheer love of the venture, the other out of sheer love
for some definite end in view. It is not usual to find them coexisting
as they did in Stevenson, and their dual existence gives an added
piquancy and interest to his work. It is the Vagabond Romantic in him
that leads him into so many byways and secret places, that sends him
airily dancing over the wide fields of literature; ever on the move,
making no tabernacle for himself in any one grove. And it is the Artist
who gives that delicacy of finish, that exquisitive nicety of touch, to
the veriest trifle that he essays. The matter may be beggarly, the
manner is princely.

Mark the high ideal he sets before him: "The Artist works entirely upon
honour. The Public knows little or nothing of those merits in its quest
of which you are condemned to spend the bulk of your endeavours. Merits
of design, the merit of first-hand energy, the merit of a certain cheap
accomplishment, which a man of the artistic temper easily acquires; these
they can recognize, and these they value. But to those more exquisite
refinements of proficiency and