in spite of all precaution, to die young, and in the face
of that stern fact genially and unconquerably brave, he extorted love.
Let the whole virtue of this truth be acknowledged, and let it stand
in excuse for praises which have been carried beyond the limits of
absurdity. It is hard to exercise a sober judgment where the emotions
are brought strongly into play. The inevitable tragedy of Stevenson's
fate, the unescapable assurance that he would not live to do all which
such a spirit in a sounder frame would have done for an art he loved so
fondly, the magnetism of his friendship, his downright incapacity for
envy, his genuine humility with regard to his own work and reputation,
his unboastful and untiring courage, made a profound impression upon
many of his contemporaries. It is, perhaps, small wonder if critical
opinion were in part moulded by such influences as these. Errors of
judgment thus induced are easily condoned. They are at least a million
times more respectable than the mendacities of the publisher's tout, or
the mutual ecstasies of the rollers of logs and the grinders of axes.

The curious ease with which, nowadays, every puny whipster gets the
sword of Sir Walter has already been remarked. If any Tom o' Bedlam
chooses to tell the world that all the New Scottish novelists are Sir
Walter's masters, what does it matter to anybody? It is shamelessly
silly and impertinent, of course, and it brings newspaper criticism into
contempt, but there is an end of it. If the writers who are thus made
ridiculous choose to pluck the straws out of their critics' hair and
stick them in their own, they are poorer creatures than I take them for.
The thing makes us laugh, or makes us mourn, just as it happens to hit
our humour; but it really matters very little. It establishes one of two
things--the critic is hopelessly incapable or hopelessly dishonest. The
dilemma is absolute. The peccant gentleman may choose his horn, and no
honest and capable reader cares one copper which he takes.

But with regard to Stevenson the case is very different. Stevenson
has made a bid for lasting fame. He is formally entered in the list of
starters for the great prize of literary immortality. No man alive can
say with certainty whether he will get it. Every forced eulogy handicaps
his chances. Every exaggeration of his merits will tend to obscure them.
The pendulum of taste is remorseless. Swing it too far on one side, it
will swing itself too