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 without asking which line was absolutely best. That will always be a matter of individual taste.

Whatever Stevenson was, he was, I think, a man of genius. I do not mean to bring him under any strict definition. My own conception of genius has been formed by an induction from the very few cases which I have been fortunate enough to observe. I may try to describe one characteristic by perverting the language of one of those instances. The late W. K. Clifford, who had the most unmistakable stamp of genius, held that the universe was composed of 'mindstuff.' I don't know how that may be, but a man has genius, I should say, when he seems to be made of nothing but 'mindstuff.' We of coarser make have a certain infusion of mind; but it is terribly cramped and held down by matter. What we call 'thinking' is often a mechanical process carried on by dead formulæ. We work out results as a phonograph repeats the sound when you insert the diaphragm already impressed with the pattern. The mental processes in the man of genius are still vital instead of being automatic. He has, as Carlyle is fond of repeating about Mirabeau, 'swallowed all formulas,' or rather, he is not the slave but the