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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, AN IMPRESSION:
BY CHARLOTTE EATON
            T HAD long been my desire to come face to face with
            the author of "Treasure Island." Imagine my de-
            light, then, when Stevenson himself, hearing we were
            in the neighborhood, sent word that he would come
            to see us. And he came accordingly, that same after-
            noon, bringing his wife (Fanny), his mother and his
            stepson, Lloyd Osbourne, with him. This was at
Point Pleasant, New Jersey, a place now much sought after by artists
because of the beauty of its grass-topped dunes, its magnificent sweep
of beaches, its broad meadows bright with sabatia, and'its pinewood,
fragrant and vivifying. Stevenson was visiting Will H. Low, the
artist, and his wife, who had rented a cottage at Point Pleasant for
the season, and it was a merry group of old friends that had gathered
in the quaint little Sanborn house, hard by the Manasquan River,
where we were stopping.
   My husband, Wyatt Eaton, and Stevenson had met years before,
and it was in honor of those student days abroad that I was thus un-
expectedly to come into the realization of my youthful dreams. Of
course, I looked forward to meeting in Stevenson a person who
would in every way fulfil my ideal of a romantic character-and I
was not disappointed. Shall I ever forget the sensation of delight
that thrilled me as he entered the room, tall, emaciated, yet gracious;
his garments loose upon him; the thin straight hair, still glossy with
youth and so long that it lay upon the collar of his coat, throwing
into bold relief his long neck and keenly sensitive face; his exquisite
hands, the fingers slightly stained by cigarette rolling; but chiefest
of all, his voice, clear, gentle and kind, the timbre and intonation of
which became registered in my memory as part of the living attri-
butes of the man.
   This was the summer of eighteen hundred and eighty-eight, when
the great dramatic success of "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" was at
its
heioht. We joked him a good deal on the quality of his conception,
anT on the untoward piling up of the "ducats," to which he replied
very quickly: "That is the worst thing I ever wrote." I liked the
modesty of that remark immensely, it accorded so well with my pre-
conceived idea of him, who, in apologizing for his picture in "Por-
traits and Memories," said, "to me, who find it so difficult to
tell the
little I know."
   Strange as it seemed to us, Stevenson knew every nook and cranny
of the estate, and told us of his many exploits in search of fresh eggs
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