interests of my health. Here I met Mr. Sidney Colvin, now of the British
Museum, and, with Mr. Colvin, Stevenson. He looked as, in my eyes, he
always did look, more like a lass than a lad, with a rather long, smooth
oval face, brown hair worn at greater length than is common, large lucid
eyes, but whether blue or brown I cannot remember, if brown, certainly
light brown. On appealing to the authority of a lady, I learn that brown
_was_ the hue. His colour was a trifle hectic, as is not unusual at
Mentone, but he seemed, under his big blue cloak, to be of slender, yet
agile frame. He was like nobody else whom I ever met. There was a sort
of uncommon celerity in changing expression, in thought and speech. His
cloak and Tyrolese hat (he would admit the innocent impeachment) were
decidedly dear to him. On the frontier of Italy, why should he not do as
the Italians do? It would have been well for me if I could have imitated
the wearing of the cloak!

I shall not deny that my first impression was not wholly favourable.
"Here," I thought, "is one of your aesthetic young men, though a very
clever one." What the talk was about, I do not remember; probably of
books. Mr. Stevenson afterwards told me that I had spoken of Monsieur
Paul de St. Victor, as a fine writer, but added that "he was not a
British sportsman." Mr. Stevenson himself, to my surprise, was unable to
walk beyond a very short distance, and, as it soon appeared, he thought
his thread of life was nearly spun. He had just written his essay,
"Ordered South," the first of his published works, for his "Pentland
Rising" pamphlet was unknown, a boy's performance. On reading "Ordered
South," I saw, at once, that here was a new writer, a writer indeed; one
who could do what none of us, _nous autres_, could rival, or approach. I
was instantly "sealed of the Tribe of Louis," an admirer, a devotee, a
fanatic, if you please. At least my taste has never altered. From this
essay it is plain enough that the author (as is so common in youth, but