Robert Louis Stevenson | Page 9

be shown this unused box, which remained so empty while those around it of his old rivals at the Spec, were full, as they were scaling the heights which lead to titles and the Bench.
Stevenson wrote of Edinburgh and her climate in a carping spirit, nevertheless he accorded due praise to her unsurpassed beauty. "No place so brands a man," he declared; and, in his turn, Stevenson left his brand on the romantic city of his birth, for now no book on Scotland's capital is written without mention of the haunts and homes of that changeling-looking son of hers. The door-plate of 17 Heriot Row bore the inscription of R. L. Stevenson, Advocate. No blue-bag laden clerk dropped briefs then into its letter-box. In one of its sun-facing drawing-room windows there stood a big Australian vine, carefully tended and trained. It was behind it, in the far window, the eighteen-year-old lad sat when, in the winter's gloamin', Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin, calling on his mother, was startled by his voice joining in the conversation. The visitor says, "I listened in perplexity and arnasement. Who was this son who talked as Charles Lamb wrote? this young Heine with the Scotch accent? When I came away the unseen converser came down with me to the front door to let me out. As he opened it, the light of the gas lamp outside ('For we are very lucky with a lamp before the door,' he says) fell on him, and I saw a slender, brown, long-haired lad, with great dark eyes, a brilliant smile, and a gentle, deprecating bend of the head. I asked him to come and see us. He said, 'Shall I come to-morrow?'" He called next day, for Louis grasped at anything or any person that he felt drawn to. He took part in their theatricals, but otherwise eschewed social functions in Edinburgh. An old friend of his father's asked him to come to fill a gap at his table, though his own son had informed him Louis never went to prearranged feasts. Louis himself replied to this invitation: "C. is textually correct, only there are exceptions everywhere to prove the rule. I do not hate dining at your house. At seven, on Wednesday, his temples wreathed with some appropriate garland, you will behold the victim come smiling to the altar." The last words are characteristic of his attitude when he was lured into society,--he went a willing victim, with no affectation of martyrdom. The few who met him in Edinburgh drawing-rooms found him prodigal of tongue, somewhat puzzling with his wholesale enthusiasms, absurd flights of fancy, theories he had to propound, and ever ready to change like a chameleon to tone with his surroundings. The spritish, fantastic youth impressed those he encountered, even when he was one of the unfledged eaglets hatched in the ancient eyrie of his precipitous city, whom Browning tells us are not counted "till there is a rush of wings, and lo! they are flown," "What was so taking in him, and how is one to analyse that dazzling surface of pleasantry, that changeful, shining humour, wit, wisdom, recklessness, beneath which beat the most kind and tolerant of hearts?" asks Andrew Lang. But not only through the magnetism of his personal presence did he attract even strangers, but through his pen has he held in thrall all the reading public who liked his work. "He has put into his books a great deal of all that went to the making of his life," wrote his cousin, "though he had the art of confiding a good deal, but not telling everything." It would have been interesting to see, if Stevenson had taken it into his elfin- locked head to learn to shine in debate, and, instead of incubating a budding Scott, as he said, "the Spec." had trained an able advocate, if the glamour of his personality would have extended to the judges, and made him, with his well-chosen words, a successful pleader. The boards of the Parliament House were too well worn a road for so tramp-blooded a man. The tune "Over the Hills and Far Away" was for ever humming in his head. He left the venerable city of his birth, which he vowed he must always think of as home, and steered a course on his way to fame "far ayont the muckle sea" which led him from the Bar to Burial.

ACROSS THE SEAS
As an advocate, Stevenson found ample time to pursue his chosen profession of letters, for, during the winters in Edinburgh, he wrote much, and gradually his essays, etc., appeared in magazines, and are now gathered into happily named volumes. He spent the long vacations, when the Courts had risen, abroad, mostly frequenting an artist-colony in Fontainebleau. At that time he was