More than this, any mind which is daily occupied in
an attempt to grasp some of the true relations governing things as they
are, finds its natural relaxation in the contemplation of things as they
are not,--things as they cannot be. There is probably no one who will
not find himself thoroughly enjoying the fantastic, if he be mentally
fatigued enough. Hence the justification of a whole branch of
Stevenson's work.
After every detraction has been allowed for, there remain certain books
of Stevenson's of an extraordinary and peculiar merit, books which can
hardly be classed as imitations or arabesques,--Kidnapped, Weir of
Hermiston, The Merry Men. These books seem at first blush to have every
element of greatness, except spontaneity. The only trouble is, they are
too perfect.
If, after finishing Kidnapped, or The Merry Men, we take up Guy
Mannering, or The Antiquary, or any of Scott's books which treat of the
peasantry, the first impression we gain is, that we are happy. The
tension is gone; we are in contact with a great, sunny, benign human
being who pours a flood of life out before us and floats us as the sea
floats a chip.
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