ions read Scott at all? Do
they know the scene of the hidden and revealed forces in the Trossach
glen--the carriage of the Fiery Cross--the sentence on the erring nun
--the last fight of her betrayer? Do they know the story of Jeannie
Deans? But it is useless to ask these questions or to multiply these
instances. Scott is placed. Master of laughter, master of tears, giant
of swiftness; crowned king, without one all-round rival.

One of those astonishing and yet natural things which sometimes startle
us is the value some minds attach to mere modernity in art. An old thing
is tossed up in a new way, and there are those who attach more value
to the way than the thing, and are instantly agape with admiration of
originality. But originality and modishness are different things. People
who have a right to guide public opinion discern the difference.

The absurd and damaging comparison between Scott and Stevenson has been
gravely offered by the latter's friends. They are doing a beautiful
artist a serious injustice, You could place Stevenson's ravishing
assortment of cameos in any chamber of Scott's feudal castle. It is
an intaglio beside a cathedral, a humming-bird beside an eagle. It is
anything exquisite beside anything nobly huge.

Let any man, who may be strongly of opinion that I am mistaken, conceive
Scott and Stevenson living in the same age and working in complete
ignorance of each other. Scott would still have set the world on fire.
Stevenson with his deft, swift, adaptive spirit, and his not easily
over-praised perfection in his craft, would have still done something;
but he would have missed his loftiest inspiration, his style would have
been far other than it is.

As a bit of pure literary enjoyment there are not many things better
than to turn from Stevenson's more recent pages to Scott's letters in
Lockhart's 'Life,' and to see where the modern found the staple of his
best and latest style.

The comparison, which has been urged so often, will not stand a moment's
examination. Stevenson is not a great creative artist. He is not an
epoch maker. He cannot be set shoulder to shoulder with any of the
giants. It is no defect in him which prompts this protest. Except in
the sense in which his example of purity, delicacy, and finish in verbal
work will inspire other artists, Stevenson will have no imitators, as
original men always have. He has 'done delicious things,' but he has
done nothing new. He has with astonis