Two or three reviewers have already given utterance upon this volume; and they seem strangely unable to determine which is the best of its three tales. I vote for _The Bottle Imp_ without a second's doubt; and, if asked my reasons, must answer (1), that it deals with a high and universal problem, whereas in _The Isle of Voices_ there is no problem at all, and in the _Beach of Falesá_ the problem is less momentous and perhaps (though of this I won't be sure) more closely restricted by the accidents of circumstance and individual character; (2) as I have hinted, the _Beach of Falesá_ has faults of construction, one of which is serious, if not vital, while _The Isle of Voices_, though beautifully composed, is tied down by the triviality of its subject. But _The Bottle Imp_ is perfectly constructed: the last page ends the tale, and the tale is told with a light grace, sportive within restraint, that takes nothing from the seriousness of the subject. Some may think this extravagant praise for a little story which, after all (they will say), is flimsy as a soap bubble. But let them sit down and tick off on their fingers the names of living authors who could have written it, and it may begin to dawn on them that a story has other dimensions than length and thickness. * * * * * Sept. 9, 1893. First thoughts on "Catriona." Some while ago Mr. Barrie put together in a little volume eleven sketches of eleven men whose fame has travelled far beyond the University of Edinburgh. For this reason, I believe, he called them "An Edinburgh Eleven"--as fond admirers speak of Mr. Arthur Shrewsbury (upon whose renown it is notorious that the sun never sets) as "the Notts Professional," and of a yet more illustrious cricketer by his paltry title of "Doctor"-- "Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be." Of the Eleven referred to, Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson was sent in at eighth wicket down to face this cunning "delivery":--"He experiments too long; he is still a boy wondering what he is going to be. With Cowley's candor he tells us that he wants to write something by which he may be for ever known. His attempts in this direction have been in the nature of trying different ways, and he always starts off whistling. Having gone so far without losing himself, he turns back to try another road. Does his heart fail him, despite his jaunty bearing, _or is it because there is no hurry?_ ... But it is quite time the great work was begun."