tevenson heard a Frenchman say
the English were cowards. He got up and slapped the man's face.

"_Monsieur, vous m'avez frappe_!" said the Gaul.

"_A ce qu'il parait_," said the Scot, and there it ended. He also told
me that years ago he was present at a play, I forget what play, in Paris,
where the moral hero exposes a woman "with a history." He got up and
went out, saying to himself:

"What a play! what a people!"

"_Ah, Monsieur, vous etes bien jeune_!" said an old French gentleman.

Like a right Scot, Mr. Stevenson was fond of "our auld ally of France,"
to whom our country and our exiled kings owed so much.

I rather vaguely remember another anecdote. He missed his train from
Edinburgh to London, and his sole portable property was a return ticket,
a meerschaum pipe, and a volume of Mr. Swinburne's poems. The last he
found unmarketable; the pipe, I think, he made merchandise of, but
somehow his provender for the day's journey consisted in one bath bun,
which he could not finish.

These trivial tales illustrate a period in his life and adventures which
I only know by rumour. Our own acquaintance was, to a great degree,
literary and bookish. Perhaps it began "with a slight aversion," but it
seemed, like madeira, to be ripened and improved by his long sea voyage;
and the news of his death taught me, at least, the true nature of the
affection which he was destined to win. Indeed, our acquaintance was
like the friendship of a wild singing bird and of a punctual,
domesticated barn-door fowl, laying its daily "article" for the breakfast-
table of the citizens. He often wrote to me from Samoa, sometimes with
news of native manners and folklore. He sent me a devil-box, the "luck"
of some strange island, which he bought at a great price. After parting
with its "luck," or fetish (a shell in a curious wooden box), the island
was unfortunate, and was ravaged by measles.

I occasionally sent out books needed for Mr. Stevenson's studies, of
which more will be said. But I must make it plain that, in the body, we
met but rarely. His really intimate friends were Mr. Colvin and Mr.
Baxter (who managed the practical side of his literary business between
them); Mr. Henley (in partnership with whom he wrote several plays); his
cousin, Mr. R. A. M. Stevenson; and, among other _literati_, Mr. Gosse,
Mr. Austin Dobson, Mr. Saintsbury, Mr Walter Pollock, knew him well. The
best portrait of Mr. Stevenson that I know is by