s gay, mocking his
sorrows with a solemn jest." This treasured only son, worshipped by
his doting parents and his nurse, Alison Cunningham, who was a
second mother to him, reports himself to have been a good child. He
also says he had a covenanting childhood. In the mid-Victorian era,
a stricter discipline reigned over nurseries in Scotland's capital
than now. "The serviceable pause" in the week's work on Sunday was
not without real benefits, for the children of these times, if
sermons were long and the Sabbath devoid of toys, learned to sit
still and to endure, and very useful lessons they were to R. L. S.
and others. Despite being an extra model little soul, "eminently
religious," he says, he was much like other children. His nurse
tells how, during one of the many feverish, wakeful nights he
suffered from, when he lay wearying for the carts coming (a sign to
him of morning), she read to him for hours at his request the Bible.
He fell asleep, soothed by her kind voice, to awake when the sun was
bright on the window pane. Again he commanded, "Read to me, Cummie."
"And what chapter would my laddie like?" she asked. "Why, it's
daylight now," he answered; "I'm not afraid any longer; put away the
Bible, and go on with Ballantyne's story."

"I am one of the few people in the world who do not forget their own
lives," he boasted. His Garden of Verses testifies to the truth of
this statement. When he was a man over thirty, he bridged the gulf
of years, and wrote of the golden days of childhood. Not only do the
little people joy to hear his piping, but those who sit in the
elders' seat hearken to these happy songs of merry cheer coming to
them as echoes from the well-nigh forgotten past. His father often
sat by his sick-bed, and beguiled his small son from fears and pains
by tales "of ship-wreck on outlying iron skerries' pitiless
breakers, and great sea-lights, clothed in language apt, droll and
emphatic." His mother and Cummie read to him day and night. Thus
early the instinct of authorship was fired within him.

One evening the young Stevenson realised that the printed page was
intelligible to him. It was as if a rock that barred his entrance
into the cave of treasure had melted, or swung back at his command.
Till then Louis had been keen, like other youngsters, on adopting
many professions when he grew up. Soldiering, even in the Crimean
War time, did not appeal to the girlishly gentle little chap, for,
as he shrewdly re