ed of its charm than ever.

III.--ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

In the scheme of this series, as originally-announced, Thackeray's work
should have formed the subject of the third chapter. But, on reflection,
I have decided that, considering my present purpose, it would be little
more than a useless self-indulgence to do what I at first intended.
There is no sort of dispute about Thackeray. There is no need for any
revision of the general opinion concerning him. It would be to me,
personally, a delightful thing to write such an appreciation as I had in
mind, but this is not the place for it.

Let us pass, then, at once to the consideration of the incomplete and
arrested labours of the charming and accomplished workman whose loss all
lovers of English literature are still lamenting.

I have special and private reasons for thinking warmly of Robert Louis
Stevenson, the man; and these reasons seem to give me some added warrant
for an attempt to do justice to Robert Louis Stevenson, the writer. With
the solitary exception of the unfortunate cancelled letters from Samoa,
which were written whilst he was in ill-health, and suffered a complete
momentary eclipse of style, he has scarcely published a line which may
not afford the most captious reader pleasure. With that sole exception
he was always an artist in his work, and always showed himself alive
to the fingertips. He was in constant conscious search of felicities in
expression, and his taste was exquisitely just. His discernment in the
use of words kept equal pace with his invention--he knew at once how to
be fastidious and daring. It is to be doubted if any writer has laboured
with more constancy to enrich and harden the texture of his style,
and at the last a page of his was like cloth of gold for purity and
solidity.

This is the praise which the future critics of English literature will
award him. But in this age of critical hysteria it is not enough to
yield a man the palm for his own qualities. With regard to Stevenson our
professional guides have gone fairly demented, and it is worth while to
make an effort to give him the place he has honestly earned, before the
inevitable reaction sets in, and unmerited laudations have brought about
an unmerited neglect. His life was arduous. His meagre physical means
and his fervent spirit were pathetically ill-mated. It was impossible to
survey his career without a sympathy which trembled from admiration to
pity. Certain,