genius praised it with all the warmth of which they were masters.
Thus he has become a kind of classic in his own day, for an
undisputed reputation makes a classic while it lasts. But was ever
so much fame won by writings which might be called scrappy and
desultory by the advocatus diaboli? It is a most miscellaneous
literary baggage that Mr. Stevenson carries. First, a few magazine
articles; then two little books of sentimental journeyings, which
convince the reader that Mr. Stevenson is as good company to himself
as his books are to others. Then came a volume or two of essays,
literary and social, on books and life. By this time there could be
no doubt that Mr. Stevenson had a style of his own, modelled to some
extent on the essayists of the last century, but with touches of
Thackeray; with original breaks and turns, with a delicate
freakishness, in short, and a determined love of saying things as
the newspapers do not say them. All this work undoubtedly smelt a
trifle of the lamp, and was therefore dear to some, and an offence
to others. For my part, I had delighted in the essays, from the
first that appeared in Macmillan's Magazine, shortly after the
Franco-German war. In this little study, "Ordered South," Mr.
Stevenson was employing himself in extracting all the melancholy
pleasure which the Riviera can give to a wearied body and a mind
resisting the clouds of early malady,


"Alas, the worn and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strained and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill,