This be the verse you grave for me : * Here he lies where he longed to be, Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter, home from the hill.' & Whom the gods love, die young.' And in this, at least, they were kind to Robert Louis Stevenson. It was the end which he himself had most desired. 4 To the English-speaking world/ says Sir Sidney Colvin, ; he left behind a treasure which it would be vain as yet to attempt to estimate ; to the profession of letters, one of the most noble and inspiring of examples ; and to his friends, an image of the memory more vivid and more dear than are the presences of almost any of the living.' II What will be the permanent place of Stevenson in Victorian literature? The question is a fascinating one, and though thirty years have now elapsed since Robert Louis Stevenson passed away from our midst, it is still unanswered. The Victorian age was rich in prose-writers, richer, perhaps, than any period in our history. There were giants in those days. A moment's reflection, and the great names come surging up to the memory—Carlyle ^nd Ruskin, Froude and Macaulay, Thackeray and Dickens and George Eliot, Meredith and Thomas Hardy, to say nothing of a host of lesser luminaries—less only by comparison—Matthew Arnold and Walter Pater, Huxley and Leslie Stephen and Bagehot and Morley, Austin Dohson and Oscar Wilde. And it is with the latter, rather than with the intellectual giants of his generation, that btevenson will be ultimately classed. In his own days and shortly after his death, Stevenson undoubtedly suffered nt the hands of enthusiastic hero-worshippers^ and the resulting reaction was inevitable. His contemporaries were fascinated by the man himself, his romantic life in his distant tropical home and his untimely death. The least scrap of his writing brought before their eyes vivid memories of the tall, thin, restless figure, with its picturesque, unconventional garments and wonderful brown.