Stevenson was a poet, a dramatist, an essayist, and a novelist,
besides writing many political, geographical, and biographical
sketches. As a poet, his fame is steadily waning. The tendency at
first was to rank him too high, owing to the undeniable charm of many
of the poems in the _Child's Garden of Verses_. The child's view of
the world, as set forth in these songs, is often originally and
gracefully expressed; but there is little in Stevenson's poetry that
is of permanent value, and it is probable that most of it will be
forgotten. This fact is in a way a tribute to his genius; for his
greatness as a prose writer has simply eclipsed his reputation as a
poet.
His plays were failures. They illustrate the familiar truth that a man
may have positive genius as a dramatic writer, and yet fail as a
dramatist. There are laws that govern the stage which must be obeyed;
play-writing is a great art in itself, entirely distinct from literary
composition. Even Browning, the most intensely dramatic poet of the
nineteenth century, was not nearly so successful in his dramas as in
his dramatic lyrics and romances.
His essays attracted at first very little attention; they were too
fine and too subtle to awaken popular enthusiasm. It was the success
of his novels that drew readers back to the essays, just as it was the
vogue of Sudermann's plays that made his earlier novels popular. One
has only to read such essays, however, as those printed in this volume
to realise not only their spirit and charm, but to feel instinctively
that one is reading English Literature. They are exquisite works of
art, written in an almost impeccable style. By many judicious readers,
they are placed above his works of fiction. They certainly constitute
the most original portion of his entire literary output. It is
astonishing that this young Scotchman should have been able to make so
many actually new observations on a game so old as Life. There is a
shrewd insight into the motives of human conduct that makes some of
these graceful sketches belong to the literature of philosophy, using
the word philosophy in its deepest and broadest sense. The essays are
filled with whimsical paradoxes, keen and witty as those of Bernard
Shaw, without having any of the latter's cynicism, iconoclasm, and
sinister attitude toward morality. For the real foundation of even the
lightest of Stevenson's works is invariably ethical.
His fame as a writer of prose romances grows brighter every year. His
supreme achievement was to show that a book might be crammed with the
most wildly exciting incidents, and yet reveal profound and acute
analysis of character, and be written with consummate art. His tales
have all the fertility of invention and breathless suspense of Scott
and Cooper, while in literary style they immeasurably surpass the
finest work of these two great masters.
His best complete story, is, I think, _Treasure Island_. There is a
peculiar brightness about this book which even the most notable of the
later works failed to equal. Nor was it a trifling feat to make a
blind man and a one-legged man so formidable that even the reader is
afraid of them. Those who complain that this is merely a pirate story
forget that in art the subject is of comparatively little importance,
whereas the treatment is everything. To say, as some do, that there is
no difference between _Treasure Island_ and a cheap tale of blood and
thunder, is equivalent to saying that there is no difference between
the Sistine Madonna and a chromo Virgin.