memories, and sadly tell us how we may
be buried in our survivors.' Let us make
sure that our sons will care for Homer
before we pledge a more distant generation
to a newer cult.

Nevertheless, without handling the
prickly question of literary immortality, it
is easy to recognise that the literary repu-
tation of Robert Louis Stevenson is made
of good stuff. His fame has spread, as
lasting fame is wont to do, from the few
to the many. Fifteen years ago his essays
and fanciful books of travel were treasured
by a small and discerning company of
admirers; long before he chanced to fell
the British public with Treasure Island
and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde he had
shown himself a delicate marksman. And
although large editions are nothing,
standard editions, richly furnished and

-8-