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
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.
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