ings of his narrative. Sir Daniel is a perjured villain; but it is with no stern sense of just retribution that we see him fall under the fatal arrow. Master Dick is a stout young soldier; but where is the breathless attention with which we pursue every step of another young soldier, equally brave and quick-witted, Quentin Durward of Glen-houlakin? Even Joan in her doublet and hose—a device dear to the heart of the romanticist—is almost as uninteresting as Joan in her petticoats; though perhaps the most striking scene in the book is that in which Dick endeavors with hearty good will to administer a little well-deserved chastisement to the supposed boy, and finds himself withheld by some subtle apprehension of a secret he is far from suspecting. To compare The Black Arrow with Ivanhoe or Quentin Durward is manifestly unjust. It is no shame to any man to be surpassed by Scott. But when we remember the admirable and satisfying events in Treasure Island, or the well-sustained interest of Kidnapped, it seems incredible that Mr. Stevenson, of all novelists,
