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it a mystic distance; and it is all glitter and shadow. Arthur
Seat is like some great sea monster stranded near a city of dreams;

from the fog-swathed Firth gleams the white walls of Inchkeith
lighthouse, a mark never missed by Stevenson's father's son; above

Fife rise the twin breasts of the Lomonds. Or turn round and look
across the Esk valley to the Moorfoots; or more westerly, where the

back range of the Pentlands - Caernethy, the Scald, and the knife-
edged Kips - draw a sharp silhouette of Arctic peaks against the

sky. In the cloven hollow between is Glencarse Loch, an ancient
chapel and burying ground hidden under its waters; on the slope

above it, not a couple miles away, is Rullion Green, where, as
Stevenson told in THE PENTLAND RISING (his first printed work)

THE WESTLAND WHIGS WERE SCATTERED
as chaff on the hills. Were "topmost Allermuir," that rises close

beside you, removed from his place, we might see the gap in the
range through which Tom Dalyell and his troopers spurred from

Currie to the fray. The air on these heights is invigorating as
wine; but it is also keen as a razor. Without delaying long yon

plunge down to the "Windy Door Nick"; follow the "nameless trickle
that springs from the green bosom of Allermuir," past the rock and

pool, where, on summer evenings, the poet "loved to sit and make
bad verses"; and cross Halkerside and the Shearers' Knowe, those

"adjacent cantons on a single shoulder of a hill," sometimes
floundering to the neck in the loose snow of a drain, sometimes

scaring the sheep huddling in the wreaths, or putting up a covey of
moorfowl that circle back without a cry to cover in the ling. In

an hour you are at Colinton, whose dell has on one side the manse
garden, where a bright-eyed boy, who was to become famous, spent so

much of his time when he came thither on visits to his stern
Presbyterian grandfather; on the other the old churchyard. The

snow has drawn its cloak of ermine over the sleepers, it has run
its fingers over the worn lettering; and records almost effaced

start out from the stone. In vain these "voices of generations
dead" summon their wandering child, though you might deem that his

spirit would rest more quietly where the cold breeze from Pentland
shakes the ghostly trees in Colinton Dell than "under the flailing

fans and shadows of the palm."
Footnotes:

(1) Professor Charles Warren Stoddard, Professor of English
Literature at the Catholic University of Washington, in KATE

FIELD'S WASHINGTON.
(2) In his portrait-sketch of his father, Stevenson speaks of him

as a "man of somewhat antiquestrain, and with a blended sternness
and softness that was wholly Scottish, and at first sight somewhat

bewildering," as melancholy, and with a keen sense of his
unworthiness, yet humorous in company; shrewd and childish; a

capital adviser.
(3) INFERNO, Canto XV.

(4) Alas, I never was told that remark - when I saw my friend
afterwards there was always too much to talk of else, and I forgot

to ask.
(5) Quoted by Hammerton, pp. 2 and 3.

(6) Tusitala, as the reader must know, is the Samoan for Teller of
Tales.

(7) WISDOM OF GOETHE, p. 38.
(8) THE FOREIGNER AT HOME, in MEMORIES AND PORTRAITS.

(9) A great deal has been made of the "John Bull element" in De
Quincey since his MEMOIR was written by me (see MASSON'S

CONDENSATION, p. 95); so now perhaps a little more may be made of
the rather conceited Calvinistic Scot element in R. L. Stevenson!

(10) It was Mr George Moore who said this.
(11) FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW, October, 1903.

End


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