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This lust for hunting out our favourite author's footsteps even led one of the pair to a place perhaps never visited by any other Stevensonian pilgrim old Cockfield Rectory, in Suffolk, where Mrs. Sitwell and Sidney Colvin first met the bright-eyed Scotch boy in 1873.
Stevenson was hard on Scott, who wrote much as he himself did in boyhood. "I forgot to say," remarks the early Stevensonian hero, after describing a day full of adventures with Red Indians, "that I had made love to a beautiful girl."
The only thing which can keep journalism alive journalism, which is born of the moment, serves the moment, and, as a rule, dies with the moment is again the Stevensonian secret! charm. Diderot, the prince of journalists, is the great instance of it in literature; the phrase "sous le charme" is of his own invention. But Mr.
'The Peerless Pool' has a Stevensonian sound. It was a dangerous pond behind Old Street, long known as 'The Parlous or Perilous Pond' 'because divers youth by swimming therein have been drowned. In 1743 a London jeweller called Kemp took it in hand, turned it into a pleasure bath, and renamed it, happily enough, 'The Peerless Pool. It was a fine open-air bath, 170 feet long, more than 100 feet broad, and from 3 to 5 feet deep.
This peculiarity renders it probably the most convenient place in the world for the establishment of a Suicide Club on the Stevensonian model.
There is no need, for our immediate purpose, to linger over these occurrences, inviting as they are, with a glint of Stevensonian romance in the bare facts, and all the pathos that attaches to the case of a brave and blameless man thwarted and ruined by perversity and malignity.
Some moderate wit had said of him at college that he was himself only twice a day when he got up in the morning and when he went to bed at night. This Stevensonian theory was not quite true, for a chameleon does not cease to be a chameleon because it changes its colour.
"And you," she asked, "did you think it had the Stevensonian touch?" "No," he answered, "it seemed to me to have more of your touch." "What's that like?" she demanded. "They couldn't suppress you," he explained. "Sir Thomas More with his head under his arm, bloody old Bluebeard, grim Queen Bess, snarling old Swift, Pope, Addison, Carlyle the whole grisly crowd of them!
The earlier books were excellent story-telling, though without any Stevensonian distinction; Kipps was almost a masterpiece; Tono-Bungay a piece of admirable fooling, enriched with some real character-creation, a thing extremely rare in Mr. Wells's books; while Mr.
I have never known a more truly romantic figure than a certain tin-pedler in Connecticut who, in response to the question, "Do you do a good business?" made this perfectly Stevensonian reply: "Well, I make a living selling crockery and tinware, but my business is the propagation of truth." This wandering idealist may serve to remind us again of the difference between romance and romanticism.
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