“The Master of Ballantrae,” for one illustration; the interplay of motive and act as it affects a group of human beings is so conducted that plot becomes a mere framework, within which we are permitted to see a typical tragedy of kinship.  This receives curious corroboration in the fact that when, towards the close of the story, the scene shifts to America and the main motive—­the unfolding of the fraternal fortunes of the tragic brothers, is made minor to a series of gruesome adventures (however entertaining and well done) the reader, even if uncritical, has an uneasy sense of disharmony:  and rightly, since the strict character romance has changed to the romance of action.

It has been stated that the finer qualities of Stevenson are called out by the psychological romance on native soil.  He did some brilliant and engaging work of foreign setting and motive.  “The Island Nights’ Entertainments” is as good in its way as the earlier “New Arabian Nights”—­far superior to it, indeed, for finesse and the deft command of exotic material.  Judged as art, “The Bottle Imp” and “The Beach of Falesa” are among the triumphs of ethnic interpretation, let alone their more external charms of story.  And another masterpiece of foreign setting, “A Lodging for The Night,” is further proof of Stevenson’s ability to use other than Scotch motives for the materials of his art.  “Ebb-Tide,” again, grim as it is, must always be singled out as a marvel of tone and proportion, yet seems born out of an existence utterly removed as to conditions and incentives from the land of his birth.  But when, in his own words: 

“The tropics vanish, and meseems that I,
From Halkerside, from topmost Allermuir,
Or steep Caerketton, dreaming gaze again.”

then, as if vitalized by mother-earth, Stevenson shows a breadth, a vigor, a racy idiosyncrasy, that best justify a comparison with Scott.  It means a quality that is easier felt than expressed; of the very warp and woof of his work.  If the elder novelist seems greater in scope, spontaneity and substance, the younger surpasses him in the elegancies and niceties of his art.  And it is only a just recognition of the difference of Time as well as of personality to say that the psychology of Stevenson is far more profound and searching.  Nor may it be denied that Sir Walter nods, that there are flat, uninteresting stretches in his heroic panorama, while of Stevenson at the worst, we may confidently assert that he is never tedious.  He fails in the comparison if anywhere in largeness of personality, not in the perfectness of the art of his fiction.  In the technical demands of his profession he is never wanting.  He always has a story to tell, tells it with the skill which means constructive development and a sense of situation; he creates characters who live, interest and do not easily fade from memory:  he has exceptional power in so filling in backgrounds as to produce the illusion of atmosphere; and finally, he has, whether in dialogue