There is much more that might be said as to Stevenson’s peculiar and original methods in fiction.  As a minor point, it might be remarked that he is the inventor of what may be called the mutilated villain.  It is true that Mr. Wilkie Collins has described one gentleman who had not only been deprived of all his limbs, but was further afflicted by the insupportable name of Miserrimus Dexter.  Stevenson, however, has used the effect so often, and with such telling results, that he may be said to have made it his own.  To say nothing of Hyde, who was the very impersonation of deformity, there is the horrid blind Pew, Black Dog with two fingers missing, Long John with his one leg, and the sinister catechist who is blind but shoots by ear, and smites about him with his staff.  In “The Black Arrow,” too, there is another dreadful creature who comes tapping along with a stick.  Often as he has used the device, he handles it so artistically that it never fails to produce its effect.

Is Stevenson a classic?  Well, it is a large word that.  You mean by a classic a piece of work which passes into the permanent literature of the country.  As a rule, you only know your classics when they are in their graves.  Who guessed it of Poe, and who of Borrow?  The Roman Catholics only canonize their saints a century after their death.  So with our classics.  The choice lies with our grandchildren.  But I can hardly think that healthy boys will ever let Stevenson’s books of adventure die, nor do I think that such a short tale as “The Pavilion on the Links” nor so magnificent a parable as “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” will ever cease to be esteemed.  How well I remember the eagerness, the delight with which I read those early tales in “Cornhill” away back in the late seventies and early eighties.  They were unsigned, after the old unfair fashion, but no man with any sense of prose could fail to know that they were all by the same author.  Only years afterwards did I learn who that author was.

I have Stevenson’s collected poems over yonder in the small cabinet.  Would that he had given us more!  Most of them are the merest playful sallies of a freakish mind.  But one should, indeed, be a classic, for it is in my judgment by all odds the best narrative ballad of the last century—­that is if I am right in supposing that “The Ancient Mariner” appeared at the very end of the eighteenth.  I would put Coleridge’s tour de force of grim fancy first, but I know none other to compare in glamour and phrase and easy power with “Ticonderoga.”  Then there is his immortal epitaph.  The two pieces alone give him a niche of his own in our poetical literature, just as his character gives him a niche of his own in our affections.  No, I never met him.  But among my most prized possessions are several letters which I received from Samoa.  From that distant tower he kept a surprisingly close watch upon what was doing among the bookmen, and it was his hand which was among the first held out to the striver, for he had quick appreciation and keen sympathies which met another man’s work half-way, and wove into it a beauty from his own mind.