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.  And having done this, be so good as to perceive how paltry are the objections you raised against the two volumes when you took them separately.  Let me raise again one or two of them.

(1.) Catriona is just two stories loosely hitched together—­the one of David’s vain attempt to save James Stewart, the other of the loves of David and Catriona:  and in case the critic should be too stupid to detect this, Mr. Stevenson has been at the pains to divide his book into Part I. and Part II.  Now this, which is a real fault in a book called Catriona, is no fault at all in The Memoirs of David Balfour, which by its very title claims to be constructed loosely.  In an Odyssey the road taken by the wanderer is all the nexus required; and the continuity of his presence (if the author know his business) is warrant enough for the continuity of our interest in his adventures.  That the history of Gil Blas of Santillane consists chiefly of episodes is not a serious criticism upon Lesage’s novel.

(2.) In Catriona more than a few of the characters are suffered to drop out of sight just as we have begun to take an interest in them.  There is Mr. Rankeillor, for instance, whose company in the concluding chapter of Kidnapped was too good to be spared very easily; and there is Lady Allardyce—­a wonderfully clever portrait; and Captain Hoseason—­we tread for a moment on the verge of re-acquaintance, but are disappointed; and Balfour of Pilrig; and at the end of Part I. away into darkness goes the Lord Advocate Preston-grange, with his charming womenkind.

Well, if this be an objection to the tale, it is one urged pretty often against life itself—­that we scarce see enough of the men and women we like.  And here again that which may be a fault in Catriona is no fault at all in The Memoirs of David Balfour.  Though novelists may profess in everything they write to hold a mirror up to life, the reflection must needs be more artificial in a small book than in a large.  In the one, for very clearness, they must isolate a few human beings and cut off the currents (so to speak) bearing upon them from the outside world:  in the other, with a larger canvas they are able to deal with life more frankly.  Were the Odyssey cut down to one episode—­say that of Nausicaea—­we must round it off and have everyone on the stage and provided with his just portion of good and evil before we ring the curtain down.  As it is, Nausicaea goes her way.  And as it is, Barbara Grant must go her way at the end of Chapter XX.; and the pang we feel at parting with her is anything rather than a reproach against the author.