n
illustration (coloured) of the negro pursuing the wicked uncle (in the
philabeg) over the crests of Ben Mor, Mull.

Descending from these heights, Stevenson, like every bookish Scot,
"ettled at" a professorial chair--that of "History and Constitutional
Law," in the University of Edinburgh.

The election was in the winter, the legist and historian occupied the
autumn in composing the first half of "Treasure Island" (originally "The
Sea Cook").

Everyone knows the story: how, playing with his stepson, Stevenson drew
a map of an island--an island like a _dragon seyant_; considered the
caves and hills and streams, and thought of the place as a haunt of
these serviceable pirates, who always dumped down their hard-earned swag
on distant and on deadly shores, which they carefully abstained from
revisiting. The legends of Captain Kidd's _caches_ have long haunted the
imagination; the idea of Hidden Treasure has its eternal charm, and the
story thereof was told, once for all, by Poe. Soon after "Treasure
Island" appeared there was a real treasure hunt. The deposit, so I was
informed, was "put down by a Fin," and Mr. Rider Haggard and I were
actually paying (at least Mr. Haggard sent me a cheque) for shares in
this alluring enterprise, when I learned that the Fin (or Finn? a native
of Finland), had looted the church plate of some Spanish cathedral in
America. Knowing this, I returned his cheque to Mr. Haggard; happily,
for the isle was the playroom of young earthquakes, which had upset the
soil and the landmarks to such a degree that the gentleman adventurer
returned--_bredouille_! I hope Stevenson had nothing on.

In the Highland cottage, during the rain eternal, he amused himself with
writing his story, as Shelley, Byron, Polidori, and Mary Godwin had
diverted themselves in Swiss wet weather, with their ghost stories,
"Frankenstein," and Byron's good opening of a romance of a vampire.

Visitors came--Mr. Colvin, Mr. Gosse, and Dr. Japp--they liked the tale
as chapter by chapter was read aloud, and it was offered to a penny
periodical for boys. A much better market might easily have been found;
indeed, Stevenson "wasted his mercies." He was paid like the humblest of
unknown scribblers; not even illustrations were given to the obscure
romance running in dim inner pages of the periodical, and it appears
that, as Theophile Gautier's editor said about one of _his_ narratives,
"the _abonne_ was bored with the style."

It was