weak point is Secundra Dass, that Indian of unknown nationality; for
surely his name marks him as no Hindoo. The Master could not have
brought him, shivering like Jos Sedley's black servant, to Scotland.
As in America, this alien would have found it "too dam cold." My
power of belief (which verges on credulity) is staggered by the
ghastly attempt to reanimate the buried Master. Here, at least to
my taste, the freakish changeling has got the better of Mr.
Stevenson, and has brought in an element out of keeping with the
steady lurid tragedy of fraternal hatred. For all the rest, it were
a hard judge that had anything but praise. The brilliant
blackguardism of the Master; his touch of sentiment as he leaves
Durisdeer for the last time, with a sad old song on his lips; his
fascination; his ruthlessness; his irony;--all are perfect. It is
not very easy to understand the Chevalier Bourke, that Barry Lyndon,
with no head and with a good heart, that creature of a bewildered
kindly conscience; but it is easy to like him. How admirable is his
undeflected belief in and affection for the Master! How excellent
and how Irish he is, when he buffoons himself out of his perils with
the pirates! The scenes are brilliant and living, as when the
Master throws the guinea through the Hall window, or as in the
darkling duel in the garden. It needed an austere artistic
conscience to make Henry, the younger brother, so unlovable with all
his excellence, and to keep the lady so true, yet so much in shadow.
This is the best woman among Mr. Stevenson's few women; but even she
is almost always reserved, veiled as it were.

The old Lord, again, is a portrait as lifelike as Scott could have
drawn, and more delicately touched than Scott would have cared to
draw it: a French companion picture to the Baron Bradwardine. The
whole piece reads as if Mr. Stevenson had engaged in a struggle with