Robert Louis Stevenson, the author, really does look like the watermelon
portrait of him in one of the magazines. He sat in a Long Branch car on
Tuesday on his way from Manasquan to New York.
He has a long, narrow face, and wears his long brown hair parted in the
middle and combed back. It is just such straight, coarse hair as General
Roger A. Pryor's, but much lighter in color. Stevenson sat in a forward
corner of the car, with his hat off, and the cape of his coat up behind
his head like a monk's cowl. His black velvet coat and vest showed
plainly, and over his legs he wore a black and white checked shawl. His
Byronic collar was soft and untidy, and his shirt was unlaundered, but his
clothes were scrupulously clean. On the long, thin, white fingers of his
left hand he wore two rings, and he kept these fingers busy constantly
pulling his drooping moustache. His face is slightly freckled and a little
hollow at the cheek, but it has a good bit of Scotch color in it.
Mr. Stevenson presented such an odd figure that all in the car stared at
him, particularly when a rumor of who he was ran among the people. But he
seemed unconscious of the interest he aroused. He was reading a book, and
every now and then he would fix a sentence in his mind, close the book on
one finger, look at the ceiling and muse. When a sentence pleased him, he
smiled at it, and then read it again. At the Jersey City depot he threw
off his shawl and stood up, and then the figure he cut was extraordinary,
for his coat proved to be merely a large cape, with a small one above it,
and under both came his extra long legs, or, rather, his long lavender
trousers, for they appeared to have no legs within them.
Mrs. Stevenson was with him, but sat apart studying the scenery. Her
husband looked at her frequently with a whimsical smile, and found great
fun in laughing at her behind his book when a dude of tremendous style
took the seat beside her.--_The Sun, 1887._