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Collected Memoirs, Travel Sketches and Island Literature of Robert Louis Stevenson Autobiographical Writings and Essays by the prolific Scottish novelist, poet and travel writer, author of Treasure Island, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Kidnapped & Catriona von Stevenson, Robert Louis (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 10.04.2015
  • Verlag: e-artnow
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Collected Memoirs, Travel Sketches and Island Literature of Robert Louis Stevenson

This carefully crafted ebook: 'Collected Memoirs, Travel Sketches and Island Literature of Robert Louis Stevenson' is formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents. Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894) was a Scottish novelist, poet, essayist, and travel writer. His most famous works are Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. A literary celebrity during his lifetime, Stevenson now ranks among the 26 most translated authors in the world. Table of Contents: An Inland Voyage (1878) Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes (1879) Edinburgh - Picturesque Notes (1879) The Old and New Pacific Capitals (1882) The Amateur Emigrant (1895) Across the Plains (1892) The Silverado Squatters (1883) A Mountain Town in France (1896) The Island Literature: A Footnote to History, Eight Years of Trouble in Samoa (1892) In the South Seas (1896)

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: watermark
    Seitenzahl: 390
    Erscheinungsdatum: 10.04.2015
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9788026833956
    Verlag: e-artnow
    Größe: 2142 kBytes
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Collected Memoirs, Travel Sketches and Island Literature of Robert Louis Stevenson

ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOÎTE - A BY-DAY

Table of Contents

The next day was Sunday, and the church bells had little rest; indeed, I do not think I remember anywhere else so great a choice of services as were here offered to the devout. And while the bells made merry in the sunshine, all the world with his dog was out shooting among the beets and colza.

In the morning a hawker and his wife went down the street at a foot-pace, singing to a very slow, lamentable music, " O France, mes amours. " It brought everybody to the door; and when our landlady called in the man to buy the words, he had not a copy of them left. She was not the first nor the second who had been taken with the song. There is something very pathetic in the love of the French people, since the war, for dismal patriotic music-making. I have watched a forester from Alsace while someone was singing " Les malheurs de la France ," at a baptismal party in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau. He arose from the table and took his son aside, close by where I was standing. "Listen, listen," he said, bearing on the boy's shoulder, "and remember this, my son." A little after he went out into the garden suddenly, and I could hear him sobbing in the darkness.

The humiliation of their arms and the loss of Alsace and Lorraine made a sore pull on the endurance of this sensitive people; and their hearts are still hot, not so much against Germany as against the Empire. In what other country will you find a patriotic ditty bring all the world into the street? But affliction heightens love; and we shall never know we are Englishmen until we have lost India. Independent America is still the cross of my existence; I cannot think of Farmer George without abhorrence; and I never feel more warmly to my own land than when I see the Stars and Stripes, and remember what our empire might have been.

The hawker's little book, which I purchased, was a curious mixture. Side by side with the flippant, rowdy nonsense of the Paris music-halls, there were many pastoral pieces, not without a touch of poetry, I thought, and instinct with the brave independence of the poorer class in France. There you might read how the woodcutter gloried in his axe, and the gardener scorned to be ashamed of his spade. It was not very well written, this poetry of labour, but the pluck of the sentiment redeemed what was weak or wordy in the expression. The martial and the patriotic pieces, on the other hand, were tearful, womanish productions one and all. The poet had passed under the Caudine Forks; he sang for an army visiting the tomb of its old renown, with arms reversed; and sang not of victory, but of death. There was a number in the hawker's collection called "Conscrits Français," which may rank among the most dissuasive war-lyrics on record. It would not be possible to fight at all in such a spirit. The bravest conscript would turn pale if such a ditty were struck up beside him on the morning of battle; and whole regiments would pile their arms to its tune.

If Fletcher of Saltoun is in the right about the influence of national songs, you would say France was come to a poor pass. But the thing will work its own cure, and a sound-hearted and courageous people weary at length of sniveling over their disasters. Already Paul Déroulède has written some manly military verses. There is not much of the trumpet-note in them, perhaps, to stir a man's heart in his bosom; they lack the lyrical elation, and move slowly; but they are written in a grave, honourable, stoical spirit, which should carry soldiers far in a good cause. One feels as if one would like to trust Déroulède with something. It will be happy if he can so far inoculate his fellow-countrymen that they may be trusted with their own future. And in the meantime, here is an antidote to "French Conscripts" and much other doleful versification.

We had left the boats overni

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