d that such a song made too brutal an assault upon
a man's tenderest feelings, and believed it to be a much greater
triumph for a writer to bring a smile to his readers than a
tear--partly, perhaps, because it is a more difficult achievement.

Here the scene changes again, this time to San Francisco, the city of
many hills, of drifting summer fogs, and sparkling winter sunshine,
the old city that now lives only in the memories of those who knew it
in the days when Stevenson climbed the steep ways of its streets.
Although he had something about him of the _ennui_ of the
much-travelled man, and complained that

"There's nothing under heaven so blue,
That's fairly worth the travelling to,"

yet no attraction was lost on him, and the Far Western flavour of San
Francisco, with its added tang of the Orient, and the feeling of
adventure blowing in on its salt sea-breezes, was much to his liking.
My especial memory here is of many walks taken with him up Telegraph
Hill, where the streets were grass-grown because no horse could climb
them, and the sidewalks were provided with steps or cleats for the
assistance of foot-passengers. This hill, formerly called "Signal
Hill," was used in earlier days, on account of its commanding outlook
over the sea, as a signal-station to indicate the approach of vessels
and give their class, and possibly their names as they neared the
city. When we took our laborious walks up its precipitous paths it
was, as now, the especial home of Italians and other Latin people. Mr.
Stevenson wondered much at the happy-go-lucky confidence, or perhaps
it was their simple trust in God, with which these people had built
their houses in the most alarmingly insecure places, sometimes hanging
on the very edge of a sheer precipice, sometimes with the several
stories built on different levels, climbing the hill like steps. About
them there was a pleasant air of foreign quaintness--little railed
balconies across the fronts, outside stairways leading up to the
second stories, and green blinds to give a look of Latin seclusion.

In stories of his San Francisco days there is much talk of the
restaurants where he took his meals. The one that I particularly
remember was a place kept by Frank Garcia, familiarly known as
"Frank's." This place, being moderately expensive, was probably only
frequented by him on special occasions, when fortune was in one of her
smiling moods. Food was good and cheap and in large v