Tag Archives: Portobello

Merged and mixed up in a quadruple existence

Posted on May 20, 2014 by mafalda

RLS’s cousin and friend, Bob (Robert Alan Mowbray Stevenson, 1847-1900), painter and art critic, is recovering at Swanston, staying there with his sisters Katharine and Dora (the ‘two cousins from Portobello’) and another cousin of RLS’s (on mother’s side), Maggie. … Continue reading →

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Posted in Letters, Robert Louis Stevenson | Tagged afternoon, birds, black, blue, Bob, brown, cheer, clouds, conscious, convalescence, cousins, creation, darkness, depression, disquiet, evergreens, existence, Fanny Siywell, fern, flowers, foliage, French, friend, garden, gauze, glad and sad, god, golden, green, grief, happiness, health, heavens, hills, honey-dew, humour, individuality, insects, Katharine, knowledge, leaves, loud, Maggie, mist, mood, moon, night, noise, peace, Portobello, quadruple, rain, reverses, Robert Louis Stevenson, shadows, shawl, shore, silence, sky, soil, sunlight, surf, thorns, trees, umbrella, valleys, warm, weary, weather, west, white, wind, youth | 1 Comment

I look forward confidently; I have faith after all!

Posted on May 18, 2014 by mafalda

[Dots between square brackets indicate cuts made by Sir Sidney Colvin. For full, correct and critical edition of this letter, see Mehew 2, 276]. To Fanny Sitwell [Colvin 1912, pp. 74-78] [Swanston, June, 1874], Wednesday. […] news reaches me that … Continue reading →

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Posted in Letters, Robert Louis Stevenson | Tagged apologise, apple-blosson, back, bird, black dog, Bob, clay, clods, clouds, consciousness, Consuelo, country, cruelty, cry, daisies, death, dinner-table, diphtheria, faith, Fanny Sitwell, fever, flowers, French, furze, ganglia, garden, gentlemanm, George Sand, god, grass, green, grey, happiness, hedge, hills, indemnity, landscape, leaves, letters, life, light, London, majesty, matter, meditation, modesty, pains, playthings, pleasures, Portobello, rain, Robert Louis Stevenson, rude, Rudolstadt Comtesse de, scent, servants, shadow, sky, sleep, Summer, sun, sunshine, surf, Swanston, sympathy, tempest, thoughts, tired, toothache, trees, Victor Hugo, voluptuousness, white, wind, woman, yew | Leave a comment

‘O could I fly, I’d fly with thee!’

Posted on March 15, 2014 by mafalda

On the question of the authorship of the Ode to the Cuckoo, which Edmund Burke thought the most beautiful lyric in the English language, the debate is between the claims of John Logan (1748-1788), minister of South Leith, and his … Continue reading →

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Posted in Letters, Robert Louis Stevenson | Tagged Adam Smith, arise shine, Arthur's Seat, bettering, castle, Charles Baxter, church, Edinburgh, Fanny Sitwell, French, hills, Hume, humour, Leith, Logan, minister, moonlight, mother, night, Ode_to_the_Cuckoo, open-air_vendors, poor_woman, Portobello, Princes_Street, rain, Robert Louis Stevenson, sermon, shops, sky, sun, sunset, sunshine, trees, two_men, weather, Whitman, wind, winter, work, writing | Leave a comment

And yet it burns cheerily

Posted on March 9, 2014 by mafalda

Written after an outpouring about difficulties at home. Portobello is the beach resort 3 miles east of Edinburgh. The ‘Spec’ is the Speculative Society, the literary and debating society founded in 1764 at Edinburgh University. The German quotes are taken … Continue reading →

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Posted in Letters, Robert Louis Stevenson | Tagged Adelaide, artisan, bailies, Beethoven, Burns, church, churchyard, Cleishbotham, Covenanters, Dame Quickly, Dumfries, Edinburgh, Falstaff, Fanny Sitwell, German, Glasgow. Margaret Isabella Stevenson, grave, gulls, gusts, halberts, Heart of Midlothian, Holywood kirk, Irongray, kirk, kirkyard, landscape, lantern, Lincluden, Madonna, Nith, oakwood, one-eyed, poors, Portobello, provost, rain, river, Robert Louis Stevenson, ruins, Schubert, Scott, Speculative Society, Sudbury, third class, Thomas Stevenson, tomb, train, trees, weather, weight, wind | Leave a comment

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Tag Archives: Portobello

Merged and mixed up in a quadruple existence

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I look forward confidently; I have faith after all!

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‘O could I fly, I’d fly with thee!’

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And yet it burns cheerily

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