Probably he had
looked at the stories of adventure in penny papers which only boys read,
and he determined sportively to compete with their unknown authors.
"Treasure Island" came out in such a periodical, with the emphatic
woodcuts which adorn them. It is said that the puerile public was not
greatly stirred. A story is a story, and they rather preferred the
regular purveyors. The very faint archaism of the style may have
alienated them. But, when "Treasure Island" appeared as a real book,
then every one who had a smack of youth left was a boy again for some
happy hours. Mr. Stevenson had entered into another province of his
realm: the king had come to his own again.

They say the seamanship is inaccurate; I care no more than I do for the
year 30. They say too many people are killed. They all died in fair
fight, except a victim of John Silver's. The conclusion is a little too
like part of Poe's most celebrated tale, but nobody has bellowed
"Plagiarist!" Some people may not look over a fence: Mr. Stevenson, if
he liked, might steal a horse,--the animal in this case is only a
skeleton. A very sober student might add that the hero is impossibly
clever; but, then, the hero is a boy, and this is a boy's book. For the
rest, the characters live. 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 r