The Silverado Squatters(Illustrated) E-Book

Robert Louis Stevenson

• Herausgeber: Swish
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

• Includes 20 unique illustrations that bring the adventures of Stevenson to life
• Contains a detailed summary of the book
• Features a complete character list for easy reference
• Includes a biography of Robert Louis Stevenson

The Silverado Squatters is Robert Louis Stevenson’s enthralling travel memoir, capturing his brief but unforgettable stay in the remote mountains of California’s Napa Valley. Newly married, Stevenson and his family set out on an adventure to live in an abandoned silver mine, embracing the rugged frontier life of the American West.
With his trademark wit and rich, vivid descriptions, Stevenson paints a lively picture of the untamed wilderness, local characters, and the remnants of California's gold rush era. From encounters with eccentric miners to peaceful moments in nature, this story combines humor, adventure, and introspection as the author explores the beauty and harshness of his surroundings.
This special illustrated edition breathes new life into Stevenson’s narrative with 20 stunning illustrations that visualize key moments from the book, drawing readers into the very heart of Napa Valley’s rugged landscape. Alongside the illustrations, this edition offers added features, including a summary of the story, a character list to guide readers through the book’s colorful cast, and a biography of Stevenson himself.
Perfect for fans of travel literature and adventure, The Silverado Squatters is a timeless classic that continues to inspire with its themes of exploration, resilience, and the search for freedom.







 

Leseprobe

The Silverado Squatters                                                                          by                                                                                                   Robert Louis Stevenson

ABOUT STEVENSON

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) was a Scottish novelist, poet, essayist, and travel writer, celebrated for his vivid storytelling and adventurous spirit. Born in Edinburgh into a family of lighthouse engineers, Stevenson was expected to follow in their footsteps but chose instead to pursue his passion for literature. His frail health, marked by frequent bouts of tuberculosis, shaped much of his life, compelling him to seek warmer climates and influencing the wanderlust that permeates his works.

Stevenson’s literary career blossomed with the publication of Treasure Island (1883), a swashbuckling tale of pirates, treasure maps, and moral ambiguity. This novel not only became an enduring classic of children’s literature but also established many tropes that are still central to pirate lore today. His versatility as a writer was further demonstrated with The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886), a dark exploration of duality, identity, and the human psyche that continues to captivate readers with its psychological depth and Gothic atmosphere.

Stevenson was also a keen observer of human nature, which shone through in his essays and travel writings. Works such as Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes (1879) and The Silverado Squatters (1883) chronicled his journeys, blending vivid descriptions of landscapes with reflections on solitude, society, and personal freedom. Despite the challenges of his health, Stevenson maintained a restless, adventurous life, eventually settling in the South Pacific, where he became a beloved figure among the Samoan people.

His final years were spent in Samoa, where he built a home at Vailima and wrote prolifically until his untimely death at age 44. Stevenson’s literary legacy is marked by his ability to fuse thrilling adventure with deep philosophical inquiry, leaving an indelible mark on English literature. His works continue to resonate with readers, inspiring generations with themes of exploration, morality, and the complexities of human nature.

SUMMARY

The Silverado Squatters is Robert Louis Stevenson’s captivating account of his adventurous sojourn in California’s Napa Valley in 1880. Set against the backdrop of the rugged American West, the book chronicles Stevenson’s time living in an abandoned silver mine with his new bride, Fanny, and her son. Far from a simple travel memoir, the work offers a vivid portrait of the landscape, local people, and pioneer spirit of the time.

Stevenson’s sharp observations blend humor, wit, and lyrical prose as he reflects on the beauty of the wilderness, the struggles of squatters, and the remains of the gold rush era. His encounters with colorful characters, from rough miners to eccentric locals, enrich the narrative with a sense of the untamed freedom that defined the American frontier. Amidst this, he contrasts the simple pleasures of a makeshift home with the wildness of nature and the lingering remnants of the area's once-prosperous past.

Through The Silverado Squatters, Stevenson paints a lively and romanticized picture of a bygone era, infusing his signature charm into a narrative that is both a love letter to the natural world and a testament to his adventurous spirit. This book is an engaging exploration of the human desire for freedom, discovery, and the quest for meaning amidst nature's raw beauty.

CHARACTERS LIST

Robert Louis Stevenson –The narrator and central figure of the book. Stevenson shares his personal experiences and observations while squatting in an abandoned silver mine in California with his new wife. His perspective as a traveler and writer provides the lens through which readers explore the landscape and people of the region.

Fanny Van de Grift Stevenson –Stevenson’s wife, who accompanies him during their stay in the Silverado mine. Fanny is a steady presence throughout the narrative, and her companionship offers warmth and support during their rustic adventure.

Lloyd Osbourne –Fanny’s son from her first marriage, who also joins the couple in their stay at the mine. Lloyd is a youthful and energetic presence, adding a touch of family life to the otherwise rough and pioneering setting.

Kelmar –One of the miners in the area whom Stevenson befriends. Kelmar represents the hardy, independent spirit of the frontier, and his interactions with Stevenson provide insight into the mining community’s daily struggles and resilience.

The Solitary –A reclusive miner whom Stevenson and his party encounter. The Solitary, as his nickname implies, is a loner who prefers isolation, living off the land with little contact with others. He adds an air of mystery and self-reliance to the story.

The Scribbler –A quirky and eccentric local character known for his idiosyncratic behavior and passionate engagement in various odd jobs. He brings a bit of comic relief to the book’s exploration of Napa Valley’s frontier life.

While The Silverado Squatters is more memoir than novel, the people Stevenson meets during his stay provide rich character sketches that bring to life the untamed and adventurous spirit of the California frontier. Each of these individuals plays a part in shaping Stevenson’s unique view of this rugged region.

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.