THE SILVERADO SQUATTERS(Illustrated) E-Book

Robert Louis Stevenson

• Herausgeber: Micheal Smith
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

• Illustrated Edition: Includes 19 unique illustrations, each capturing the essence of the chapters.
• Comprehensive Summary: A detailed summary that encapsulates the spirit and adventure of the journey.
• Characters List: An informative list of real-life characters encountered by Stevenson in his travels.
• Author Biography: An insightful biography of Robert Louis Stevenson, providing context to his literary work.

Immerse yourself in the captivating world of "The Silverado Squatters," an illustrated edition of Robert Louis Stevenson's classic travel memoir. This unique edition brings to life Stevenson's adventure with 20 stunning illustrations, each artfully depicting key moments from his journey.
More than merely a travelogue, "The Silverado Squatters" vividly recounts Stevenson's two months of honeymoon in the deserted mining settlement of Silverado, which is tucked away in the Napa Valley of California. This memoir shows evidence of Stevenson's acute observational abilities, his capacity to find beauty in the untamed outdoors, and his profound respect for the variety of people he meets.
In this edition, you'll find not only the complete text of Stevenson's journey but also a comprehensive summary that guides you through the highs and lows of his adventures. Discover the real-life characters who bring color and depth to Stevenson's narrative through an informative characters list.
Additionally, delve into the life of the author himself with an insightful biography of Robert Louis Stevenson. Understand the man behind the memoir, his inspirations, and how his travels influenced his later works.
Perfect for fans of classic literature, travel enthusiasts, and admirers of Stevenson's work, this illustrated edition of "The Silverado Squatters" is a treasure trove of adventure, reflection, and natural beauty. Embark on this journey with Stevenson and experience the enchanting world of Silverado like never before.

 

Leseprobe

            THE SILVERADO SQUATTERS                                            

                                             BY                                                                                    

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

ABOUT STEVENSON

Robert Louis Stevenson, born on November 13, 1850, in Edinburgh, Scotland, was a literary figure whose life was as fascinating as his works. From an early age, Stevenson showed a proclivity for writing, yet he initially followed in his family's footsteps by studying engineering and then law at the University of Edinburgh. Despite qualifying as a lawyer, he never practiced; his passion for writing was too strong.

Stevenson's health was fragile throughout his life, suffering from respiratory illnesses. This ailment, however, fueled his wanderlust, as he often traveled in search of healthier climates. His journeys became a vital part of his literary inspiration.

In 1879, Stevenson embarked on a pivotal journey to California, a daring and arduous trip given his health, to marry Fanny Van de Grift Osbourne, an American woman he had met in France. This adventurous spirit is reflected in his most famous works, such as "Treasure Island" (1883), a classic of pirate adventures, and "Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" (1886), a profound exploration of dual personalities and Victorian morality.

Stevenson's literary output was diverse, ranging from travel writings, such as "Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes" (1879), to children's poems in "A Child's Garden of Verses" (1885). His works were characterized by vivid imagination, psychological depth, and a flair for storytelling that appealed to both children and adults.

In search of a healthier environment for his health, Stevenson relocated to the South Seas in 1888 along with his family. He made his home in Samoa, where the locals called him "Tusitala," or "Teller of Tales." He wrote novels, short stories, and articles throughout his fruitful final years in Samoa.

Robert Louis Stevenson died on December 3, 1894, in Samoa. He was 44 years old. His legacy is not just in his varied and rich body of work, but also in his adventurous spirit and his enduring influence on the adventure and horror genres in literature. His life, much like his novels, was a testament to the power of imagination and the allure of the unknown.

SUMMARY

"The Silverado Squatters" is an engaging travel memoir by Robert Louis Stevenson, recounting his two-month honeymoon trip with his wife, Fanny, in 1880. Set in the abandoned mining town of Silverado, California, the book offers a vivid portrayal of post-Gold Rush life in the Napa Valley.

Stevenson's story weaves together observations and adventures from history with breathtaking natural scenery. He has an eye for detail and a gift for telling tales as he portrays the untamed terrain, the run-down mining town, and the everyday lives of the few residents. His writing perfectly conveys the spirit of the California wilderness, emphasizing its immensity, splendor, and sense of liberation.

Beyond mere travelogue, the book explores themes of love, resilience, and the human connection to the land. Stevenson's observations of the people he encounters — miners, winegrowers, and fellow travelers — provide a glimpse into the diverse and pioneering spirit of the American West.

"The Silverado Squatters" stands out for its descriptive power, wit, and Stevenson's characteristic charm. It's not just a journey through the American landscape, but also a journey of personal discovery, love, and companionship, making it a captivating read for those who cherish adventure and exploration.

CHARACTERS LIST

"The Silverado Squatters" by Robert Louis Stevenson is a travel memoir rather than a novel, so it doesn't have a traditional cast of characters. Instead, it features Stevenson himself, his wife Fanny, and various real-life individuals they encounter during their stay in the Napa Valley. Here's a list of the notable figures in the book:

Robert Louis Stevenson - The author and narrator of the memoir, Stevenson chronicles his experiences and observations during his honeymoon stay in the abandoned mining camp of Silverado.

Fanny Van de Grift Stevenson - Stevenson's wife, who accompanies him on this adventurous honeymoon. Her presence and interactions add depth to their travel experiences.

Samuel Lloyd Osbourne - Fanny's son from her first marriage, often referred to as 'Lloyd' in Stevenson's writings. While not a central figure in this particular memoir, his presence is part of Stevenson’s family life.

Local Inhabitants - Stevenson encounters various local residents and workers in the Napa Valley region. These individuals, including miners, winegrowers, and ranchers, contribute to the rich tapestry of life and culture that Stevenson observes and describes.

Travelers and Other Visitors - The memoir occasionally mentions other travelers and visitors whom Stevenson and his wife meet during their journey and stay in Silverado.

The essence of "The Silverado Squatters" lies more in the interactions, experiences, and reflections of the author and his wife in the unique setting of the California wilderness, rather than in traditional character development.

Contents

The Silverado Squatters

Calistoga

The Petrified Forest

Napa Wine

The Scot Abroad

To Introduce Mr. Kelmar

First Impressions Of Silverado

The Return

The Act Of Squatting

The Hunter’s Family

The Sea Fogs

The Toll House

A Starry Drive

Episodes In The Story Of A Mine

Toils And Pleasures

The Silverado Squatters

The scene of this little book is on a high mountain.  There are, indeed, many higher; there are many of a nobler outline.  It is no place of pilgrimage for the summary globe-trotter; but to one who lives upon its sides, Mount Saint Helena soon becomes a centre of interest.  It is the Mont Blanc of one section of the Californian Coast Range, none of its near neighbours rising to one-half its altitude.  It looks down on much green, intricate country.  It feeds in the spring-time many splashing brooks.  From its summit you must have an excellent lesson of geography: seeing, to the south, San Francisco Bay, with Tamalpais on the one hand and Monte Diablo on the other; to the west and thirty miles away, the open ocean; eastward, across the corn-lands and thick tule swamps of Sacramento Valley, to where the Central Pacific railroad begins to climb the sides of the Sierras; and northward, for what I know, the white head of Shasta looking down on Oregon.  Three counties, Napa County, Lake County, and Sonoma County, march across its cliffy shoulders.  Its naked peak stands nearly four thousand five hundred feet above the sea; its sides are fringed with forest; and the soil, where it is bare, glows warm with cinnabar. 

Life in its shadow goes rustically forward.  Bucks, and bears, and rattlesnakes, and former mining operations, are the staple of men’s talk.  Agriculture has only begun to mount above the valley.  And though in a few years from now the whole district may be smiling with farms, passing trains shaking the mountain to the heart, many-windowed hotels lighting up the night like factories, and a prosperous city occupying the site of sleepy Calistoga; yet in the mean time, around the foot of that mountain the silence of nature reigns in a great measure unbroken, and the people of hill and valley go sauntering about their business as in the days before the flood. 

To reach Mount Saint Helena from San Francisco, the traveller has twice to cross the bay: once by the busy Oakland Ferry, and again, after an hour or so of the railway, from Vallejo junction to Vallejo.  Thence he takes rail once more to mount the long green strath of Napa Valley. 

In all the contractions and expansions of that inland sea, the Bay of San Francisco, there can be few drearier scenes than the Vallejo Ferry.  Bald shores and a low, bald islet inclose the sea; through the narrows the tide bubbles, muddy like a river.  When we made the passage (bound, although yet we knew it not, for Silverado) the steamer jumped, and the black buoys were dancing in the jabble; the ocean breeze blew killing chill; and, although the upper sky was still unflecked with vapour, the sea fogs were pouring in from seaward, over the hilltops of Marin county, in one great, shapeless, silver cloud. 

South Vallejo is typical of many Californian towns.  It was a blunder; the site has proved untenable; and, although it is still such a young place by the scale of Europe, it has already begun to be deserted for its neighbour and namesake, North Vallejo.  A long pier, a number of drinking saloons, a hotel of a great size, marshy pools where the frogs keep up their croaking, and even at high noon the entire absence of any human face or voice—these are the marks of South Vallejo. 

Yet there was a tall building beside the pier, labelled the Star Flour Mills; and sea-going, full-rigged ships lay close along shore, waiting for their cargo.  Soon these would be plunging round the Horn, soon the flour from the Star Flour Mills would be landed on the wharves of Liverpool.  For that, too, is one of England’s outposts; thither, to this gaunt mill, across the Atlantic and Pacific deeps and round about the icy Horn, this crowd of great, three-masted, deep-sea ships come, bringing nothing, and return with bread. 

The Frisby House, for that was the name of the hotel, was a place of fallen fortunes, like the town.  It was now given up to labourers, and partly ruinous.  At dinner there was the ordinary display of what is called in the west a two-bit house: the tablecloth checked red and white, the plague of flies, the wire hencoops over the dishes, the great variety and invariable vileness of the food and the rough coatless men devoting it in silence.  In our bedroom, the stove would not burn, though it would smoke; and while one window would not open, the other would not shut.  There was a view on a bit of empty road, a few dark houses, a donkey wandering with its shadow on a slope, and a blink of sea, with a tall ship lying anchored in the moonlight.  All about that dreary inn frogs sang their ungainly chorus. 

Early the next morning we mounted the hill along a wooden footway, bridging one marish spot after another.  Here and there, as we ascended, we passed a house embowered in white roses.  More of the bay became apparent, and soon the blue peak of Tamalpais rose above the green level of the island opposite.  It told us we were still but a little way from the city of the Golden Gates, already, at that hour, beginning to awake among the sand-hills.  It called to us over the waters as with the voice of a bird.  Its stately head, blue as a sapphire on the paler azure of the sky, spoke to us of wider outlooks and the bright Pacific.  For Tamalpais stands sentry, like a lighthouse, over the Golden Gates, between the bay and the open ocean, and looks down indifferently on both.  Even as we saw and hailed it from Vallejo, seamen, far out at sea, were scanning it with shaded eyes; and, as if to answer to the thought, one of the great ships below began silently to clothe herself with white sails, homeward bound for England. 

For some way beyond Vallejo the railway led us through bald green pastures.  On the west the rough highlands of Marin shut off the ocean; in the midst, in long, straggling, gleaming arms, the bay died out among the grass; there were few trees and few enclosures; the sun shone wide over open uplands, the displumed hills stood clear against the sky.  But by-and-by these hills began to draw nearer on either hand, and first thicket and then wood began to clothe their sides; and soon we were away from all signs of the sea’s neighbourhood, mounting an inland, irrigated valley.  A great variety of oaks stood, now severally, now in a becoming grove, among the fields and vineyards.  The towns were compact, in about equal proportions, of bright, new wooden houses and great and growing forest trees; and the chapel bell on the engine sounded most festally that sunny Sunday, as we drew up at one green town after another, with the townsfolk trooping in their Sunday’s best to see the strangers, with the sun sparkling on the clean houses, and great domes of foliage humming overhead in the breeze. 

This pleasant Napa Valley is, at its north end, blockaded by our mountain.  There, at Calistoga, the railroad ceases, and the traveller who intends faring farther, to the Geysers or to the springs in Lake County, must cross the spurs of the mountain by stage.  Thus, Mount Saint Helena is not only a summit, but a frontier; and, up to the time of writing, it has stayed the progress of the iron horse.