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 _noctes coenaeque deum_ I was never a partaker. In many topics,
such as angling, golf, cricket, whereon I am willingly diffuse, Mr.
Stevenson took no interest. He was very fond of boating and sailing in
every kind; he hazarded his health by long expeditions among the fairy
isles of ocean, but he "was not a British sportsman," though for his
measure of strength a good pedestrian, a friend of the open air, and of
all who live and toil therein.
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