it is that causes his work occasionally to
seem somewhat freakish. Thus, in the fogs and horrors of London, he
plays at being an Arabian tale-teller, and his "New Arabian Nights" are a
new kind of romanticism--Oriental, freakish, like the work of a
changeling. Indeed, this curious genius, springing from a family of
Scottish engineers, resembles nothing so much as one of the fairy
children, whom the ladies of Queen Proserpina's court used to leave in
the cradles of Border keeps or of peasants' cottages. Of the Scot he has
little but the power of touching us with a sense of the supernatural, and
a decided habit of moralising; for no Scot of genius has been more
austere with Robert Burns. On the other hand, one element of Mr.
Stevenson's ethical disquisitions is derived from his dramatic habit. His
optimism, his gay courage, his habit of accepting the world as very well
worth living in and looking at, persuaded one of his critics that he was
a hard-hearted young athlete of iron frame. Now, of the athlete he has
nothing but his love of the open air: it is the eternal child that drives
him to seek adventures and to sojourn among beach-combers and savages.
Thus, an admiring but far from optimistic critic may doubt whether Mr.
Stevenson's content with the world is not "only his fun," as Lamb said of
Coleridge's preaching; whether he is but playing at being the happy
warrior in life; whether he is not acting that part, himself to himself.
At least, it is a part fortunately conceived and admirably sustained: a
difficult part too, whereas that of the pessimist is as easy as whining.

Mr. Stevenson's work has been very much written about, as it has engaged
and delighted readers of every age, station, and character. Boys, of
course, have been specially addressed in the books of adventure, children
in "A Child's Garden of Verse," young men and maidens in "Virginibus
Puerisque,"--all ages in all the curiously varied series of volumes.
"Kidnapped" was one of the last books which the late Lord Iddesleigh
read; and I trust there is no harm in mentioning the pleasure which Mr.
Matthew Arnold took in the same story. Critics of every sort have been
kind to Mr. Stevenson, in spite of the fact that the few who first became
acquainted with his 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