tmanteau with a batch of his writings. Alas, that he should have lost
or burned anything! "King's chaff," says our country proverb, "is better
than other folk's corn."

I have remembered very little, or very little that I can write, and about
our last meeting, when he was so near death, in appearance, and so full
of courage--how can I speak? His courage was a strong rock, not to be
taken or subdued. When unable to utter a single word, his pencilled
remarks to his attendants were pithy and extremely characteristic. This
courage and spiritual vitality made one hope that he would, if he desired
it, live as long as Voltaire, that reed among oaks. There were of
course, in so rare a combination of characteristics, some which were not
equally to the liking of all. He was highly original in costume, but, as
his photographs are familiar, the point does not need elucidation. Life
was a drama to him, and he delighted, like his own British admirals, to
do things with a certain air. He observed himself, I used to think, as
he observed others, and "saw himself" in every part he played. There was
nothing of the _cabotin_ in this self-consciousness; it was the
unextinguished childish passion for "playing at things" which remained
with him. I have a theory that all children possess genius, and that it
dies out in the generality of mortals, abiding only with people whose
genius the world is forced to recognise. Mr. Stevenson illustrates, and
perhaps partly suggested, this private philosophy of mine.

I have said very little; I have no skill in reminiscences, no art to
bring the living aspect of the man before those who never knew him. I
faintly seem to see the eager face, the light nervous figure, the fingers
busy with rolling cigarettes; Mr. Stevenson talking, listening, often
rising from his seat, standing, walking to and fro, always full of vivid
intelligence, wearing a mysterious smile. I remember one pleasant dark
afternoon, when he told me many tales of strange adventures, narratives
which he had heard about a murderous lonely inn, somewhere in the States.
He was as good to hear as to read. I do not recollect much of that
delight in discussion, in controversy, which he shows in his essay on
conversation, where he describes, I believe, Mr. Henley as "Burley," and
Mr. Symonds as "Opalstein." He had great pleasure in the talk of the
late Professor Fleeming Jenkin, which was both various and copious. But
in these _noct