Scribner´s Magazine, Vol. 74
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| Stand: | 2015-08-04 03:50:33 |
Produktbeschreibung
Excerpt from Scribner´s Magazine, Vol. 74: Published Monthly With Illustrations; July December Stevenson was less than most of us a man of habits, although one master habit he had, as all the world knows, and would let nothing shake it; namely, that of literary industry under circumstances and conditions no matter how trying. Another usage of his which amounted, at least in youth, almost to a habit, although a negative one, was that of neglecting to date his letters. The day of the week he would generally give, but the month and year almost never; so that in the task of editing his early correspondence I have constantly been confronted by problems hard to solve, and may often have solved them wrong. In printing the present selections from his youthful letters to my wife - selections supplementary to the correspondence as hitherto published - I have not spared pains in trying to get order and date as nearly right as I could; but approximation is all that has been possible. Stevenson had now, in the late spring of 1874, returned from the Riviera and taken up his life in Scotland again with his family, staying sometimes in Edinburgh and sometimes at Swanston Cottage. Absence had done much to heal his temporary estrangement from the father whom he justly loved and respected; matters of religious difference were for the most part tacitly avoided between them; and he lived on affectionate terms with both his parents, but could not always well control his longings for a milder air and for the company of his London friends. Swanston, [May, 1874,] Friday. Again very cold. I have been out walking in a sheltered bit of the garden, in a sun-blink. When there is wind, here, it makes a wonderful noise in the trees, that fills the ear agreeably; and to-day this was broken up and accentuated with the most delightful love songs from all sorts of birds, the blackbird supreme, of course. It was delightful; one seemed to hear the whole air full of the rustle of the wings of Spring. Only it was strange it should be so cold. I find I must write to you pretty often for dear life. I am not so strong as I thought I was and - Saturday. So far, had I written yesterday and the best thing I can do this morning is just to continue - and I require to keep always present to my mind that there are other people, not here in Edinburgh, and that I have another life to lead all over. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.
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