" In a corridor in the Parliament House, where the men
called to the Bar keep open-mouthed boxes for documents to be
slipped in, one bore on its plate the inscription R. L. Stevenson.
When that alien-looking advocate with unsuspected gifts had cast off
the wig and gown, and had busied himself for years filling up reams
of paper with his thoughts and studies on people, places, and
things, sightseers going through the Courts would be shown this
unused box, which remained so empty while those around it of his old
rivals at the Spec, were full, as they were scaling the heights
which lead to titles and the Bench.
Stevenson wrote of Edinburgh and her climate in a carping spirit,
nevertheless he accorded due praise to her unsurpassed beauty. "No
place so brands a man," he declared; and, in his turn, Stevenson
left his brand on the romantic city of his birth, for now no book on
Scotland's capital is written without mention of the haunts and
homes of that changeling-looking son of hers. The door-plate of 17
Heriot Row bore the inscription of R.
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