Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great | Page 2

John Libbel, the man
who made pawnbrokers possible, the universal client of the craft. "You
mean patient, not client," interposed Bob.
Then they invented the word libbelian, meaning one with pawnbroker
inclinations. Libbelattos meant the children of John Libbel, and so it
went.
The boys had an old font of type, and they busied themselves printing
cards for John Libbel, giving his name and supposed business and
address. These they gave out on the street, slipped under doors, or
placed mysteriously in the hands of fussy old gentlemen.
Finally the boys got to ringing doorbells and asking if John Libbel lived
within. They sought Libbel at hotels, stopped men on the street and
asked them if their name wasn't John Libbel, and when told no,
apologized profusely and declared the resemblance most remarkable.
They tied up packages of ashes or sawdust, very neatly labeled,
"Compliments of John Libbel," and dropped them on the street. This
was later improved on by sealing the package and marking it, "Gold
Dust, for Assayer's Office, from John Libbel." These packages would
be placed along the street, and the youthful jokers would watch from
doorways and see the packages slyly slipped into pockets, or if the
finder were honest he would hurry away to the Assayer's Office with

his precious find to claim a reward.
The end of this particular kind of fun came when the two boys walked
into a shop and asked for John Libbel. The clerk burst out laughing and
said, "You are the Stevenson boys who have fooled the town!" Jokes
explained cease to be jokes, and the young men sorrowfully admitted
that Libbel was dead and should be buried.
* * * * *
Robert Louis was an only son, and alternately was disciplined and then
humored, as only sons usually are.
His father was a civil engineer in the employ of the Northern Lights
Company, and it was his business to build and inspect lighthouses. At
his office used to congregate a motley collection of lighthouse-keepers,
retired sea-captains, mates out of a job--and with these sad dogs of the
sea little Robert used to make close and confidential friendships.
While he was yet a child he made the trip to Italy with his mother, and
brought back from Rome and from Venice sundry crucifixes,
tear-bottles and "Saint Josephs," all duly blessed, and these he sold to
his companions at so many whacks apiece. That is to say, the purchaser
had to pay for the gift by accepting on his bare hand a certain number
of whacks with a leather strap. If the recipient winced, he forfeited the
present.
The boy was flat-chested and spindle-shanked and used to bank on his
physical weakness when lessons were to be evaded. He was two years
at the Edinburgh Academy, where he reduced the cutting of lectures
and recitations to a system, and substituted Dumas and Scott for more
learned men who prepared books for the sole purpose of confounding
boys.
As for making an engineer of the young man, the stern, practical father
grew utterly discouraged when he saw mathematics shelved for
Smollett. Robert was then put to studying law with a worthy barrister.

Law is business, and to suppose that a young man who religiously
spent his month's allowance the day it was received, could make a
success at the bar shows the vain delusion that often fills the parental
head.
Stevenson's essay, "A Defense of Idlers," shows how no time is
actually lost, not even that which is idled away. But this is a point that
is very hard to explain to ambitious parents.
The traditional throwing overboard of the son the day he is twenty-one,
allowing him to sink or swim, survive or perish, did not prevail with
the Stevensons. At twenty-two Robert Louis still had his one guinea a
month, besides what he could cajole, beg or borrow from his father and
mother. He grew to watch the mood of his mother, and has recorded
that he never asked favors of his father before dinner.
At twenty-three he sold an essay for two pounds, and referred gaily to
himself as "one of the most popular and successful essayists in Great
Britain." He was still a child in spirit, dependent upon others for
support. He looked like a girl with his big wide-open eyes and long hair.
As for society, in the society sense, he abhorred it and would have
despised it if he had despised anything. The soft platitudes of people
who win distinction by being nothing, doing nothing, and saying
nothing except what has been said before, moved him to mocking mirth.
From childhood he was a society rebel. He wore his hair long, because
society men had theirs cut close.
His short velvet coat, negligee shirt and wide-awake