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 morbidity. He took us out into the open air and made us care for the common life and adventures of men. If young gentlemen nowadays find it more profitable to write second-rate imitations of Dumas than to become Cabinet ministers, they owe it to Stevenson; but for him they might have been Howells and James young men.

Of Treasure Island itself one finds it difficult to speak the unexaggerated word. That the subject itself and many of its details were reminiscential with Stevenson matters not. It is the unique fusion of incident and character interest that makes the book so remarkable. It is action, action, action, from the first sentence to the last. Yet every one who plays his part in the action is as deeply characterised as if he were the centre of an introspective novel. It is not alone the sea cook himself; there is not a single person whose name is given in the book whose character we do not know almost as well, if not as thoroughly, as that versatile villain. From Billy Jones to George Merry they are characterised with a firmness of touch and certainty of vision equal to Phil May's.

Much the same may be said of Kidnapped. But though the plot lacks the epic unity of the other, yet the characterisation here touches profounder depths. Stevenson was