Only genius could
have invented John Silver, that terribly smooth-spoken mariner.
Nothing but genius could have drawn that simple yokel on the island,
with his craving for cheese as a Christian dainty. The blustering
Billy Bones is a little masterpiece: the blind Pew, with his
tapping stick (there are three such blind tappers in Mr. Stevenson's
books), strikes terror into the boldest. Then, the treasure is
thoroughly satisfactory in kind, and there is plenty of it. The
landscape, as in the feverish, fog-smothered flat, is gallantly
painted. And there are no interfering petticoats in the story.
As for the "Black Arrow," I confess to sharing the disabilities of
the "Critic on the Hearth," to whom it is dedicated. "Kidnapped" is
less a story than a fragment; but it is a noble fragment. Setting
aside the wicked old uncle, who in his later behaviour is of the
house of Ralph Nickleby, "Kidnapped" is all excellent--perhaps Mr.
Stevenson's masterpiece. Perhaps, too, only a Scotchman knows how
good it is, and only a Lowland Scot knows how admirable a character
is the dour, brave, conceited David Balfour. It is like being in
Scotland again to come on "the green drive-road running wide through
the heather," where David "took his last look of Kirk Essendean, the
trees about the manse, and the big rowans in the kirkyard, where his
father and mother lay." Perfectly Scotch, too, is the mouldering,
empty house of the Miser, with the stamped leather on the walls.
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