Stevenson is one of the very few authors in our literary history
who have been honoured during their lifetime by the appearance of
such an edition; the best of his public, it would seem, do not only
wish to read his works, but to possess them, and all of them, at
the cost of many pounds, in library form. It would be easy to
mention more voluminous and more popular authors than Stevenson
whose publishers could not find five subscribers for an adventure
like this. He has made a brave beginning in that race against Time
which all must lose.

It is not in the least necessary, after all, to fortify ourselves
with the presumed consent of our poor descendants, who may have a
world of other business to attend to, in order to establish
Stevenson in the position of a great writer. Let us leave that
foolish trick to the politicians, who never claim that they are
right - merely that they will win at the next elections. Literary
criticism has standards other than the suffrage; it is possible
enough to say something of the literary quality of a work that
appeared yesterday. Stevenson himself was singularly free from the
vanity of fame; 'the best artist,' he says truly, 'is not the man
who fixes his eye on posterity, but the one who loves the practice
of his art.' He loved, if ever man did, the practice of his art;
and those who find meat and drink in the delight of watching and
appreciating the skilful practice of the literary art, will abandon
themselves to the enjoyment of his masterstrokes without teasing
their unborn and possibly illiterate posterity to answer solemn
questions. Will a book live? Will a cricket match live? Perhaps
not, and yet both be fine achievements.

It is not easy to estimate the loss to letters by his early death.