smooth
oval face, brown hair worn at greater length than is common, large lucid
eyes, but whether blue or brown I cannot remember, if brown, certainly
light brown. On appealing to the authority of a lady, I learn that brown
_was_ the hue. His colour was a trifle hectic, as is not unusual at
Mentone, but he seemed, under his big blue cloak, to be of slender, yet
agile frame. He was like nobody else whom I ever met. There was a sort
of uncommon celerity in changing expression, in thought and speech. His
cloak and Tyrolese hat (he would admit the innocent impeachment) were
decidedly dear to him. On the frontier of Italy, why should he not do as
the Italians do? It would have been well for me if I could have imitated
the wearing of the cloak!

I shall not deny that my first impression was not wholly favourable.
"Here," I thought, "is one of your aesthetic young men, though a very
clever one." What the talk was about, I do not remember; probably of
books. Mr. Stevenson afterwards told me that I had spoken of Monsieur
Paul de St. Victor, as a fine writer, but added that "he was not a
British sportsman." Mr. Stevenson himself, to my surprise, was unable to
walk beyond a very short distance, and, as it soon appeared, he thought
his thread of life was nearly spun. He had just written his essay,
"Ordered South," the first of his published works, for his "Pentland
Rising" pamphlet was unknown, a boy's performance. On reading "Ordered
South," I saw, at once, that here was a new writer, a writer indeed; one
who could do what none of us, _nous autres_, could rival, or approach. I
was instantly "sealed of the Tribe of Louis," an admirer, a devotee, a
fanatic, if you please. At least my taste has never altered. From this
essay it is plain enough that the author (as is so common in youth, but
with better reason than many have) thought himself doomed. Most of us
have gone through that, the Millevoye phase, but who else has shown such
a wise and gay acceptance of the apparently inevitable? We parted; I
remember little of our converse, except a shrewd and hearty piece of
encouragement given me by my junior, who already knew so much more of
life than his senior will ever do. For he ran forth to embrace life like
a lover: _his_ motto was never Lucy Ashton's--

"Vacant heart, and hand, and eye,
Easy live and quiet die."

Mr. Stevenson came presently to visit me at Oxford. I make no hand of
reminiscences; I remembe