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.