the fool present!"

There was no hurry then, as he now sees: and there never was cause to
hurry, I repeat. "But how is this? Is, then, the great book written?"
I am sure I don't know. Probably not: for human experience goes to
show that _The_ Great Book (like _The_ Great American Novel) never
gets written. But that _a_ great story has been written is certain
enough: and one of the curious points about this story is its title.

It is not _Catriona_; nor is it _Kidnapped_. _Kidnapped_ is a taking
title, and _Catriona_ beautiful in sound and suggestion of romance:
and _Kidnapped_ (as everyone knows) is a capital tale, though
imperfect; and _Catriona_ (as the critics began to point out, the day
after its issue) a capital tale with an awkward fissure midway in it.
"It is the fate of sequels"--thus Mr. Stevenson begins his
Dedication--"to disappoint those who have waited for them"; and it is
possible that the boys of Merry England (who, it may be remembered,
thought more of _Treasure Island_ than of _Kidnapped_) will take but
lukewarmly to _Catriona_, having had five years in which to forget its
predecessor. No: the title of the great story is _The Memoirs of David
Balfour_. Catriona has a prettier name than David, and may give it to
the last book of her lover's adventures: but the Odyssey was not
christened after Penelope.

Put _Kidnapped_ and _Catriona_ together within the same covers, with
one title-page, one dedication (here will be the severest loss) and
one table of contents, in which the chapters are numbered straight
away from I. to LX.: and--this above all things--read the tale right
through from David's setting forth from the garden gate at Essendean
to his homeward voyage, by Catriona's side, on the Low Country ship.