Our Story : Robert Louis Stevenson

On May 19, 1880, recently divorced Fanny Osbourne, of East Oakland, California, and Robert Louis Stevenson of Edinburgh, Scotland, were married at the San Francisco home of a Presbyterian minister. Stevenson had suffered from tuberculosis since childhood, so the couple decided to honeymoon north of the bay fog in Calistoga, in an abandoned shack on the Silverado mine site in California’s developing wine country. Stevenson describes traveling by ferries, trains, and carts to Calistoga, where he meets a curious collection of characters who had remained in the region after the shutdown of the unprofitable mine. He describes an area full of eagles, grizzly bears, rattlesnakes, and, of course, Schramsberg, where he admitted to having tasted eighteen different wines. Stevenson's journal from this time formed the basis for his book, The Silverado Squatters.

"I was interested in California wine. Indeed, I am interested in all wines and have have been all my life, from the raisin wine that a school-fellow kept secreted in his play-box up to my last discovery, those notable Valtellines that once shone upon the board of Caesar... A California vineyard, one of man's outposts in the wilderness, has features of its own. There is nothing here to remind you of the Rhine or Rhone, of the low cote d'or or the infamous and scabby deserts of Champagne; but all is green, solitary, covert. We visited two of them, Mr. Schram's and Mr. McEachran's, sharing the same glen..." (from The Silverado Squatters, 1883)

Stevenson paints an interesting portrait of California during the late 19th century in The Silverado Squatters. He describes the California wine business as an “experimental” enterprise at the time. During his stay, he meets a number of wine growers in Napa Valley, and comments on how some growers would mis-label the bottles as originating from Spain in order to get Americans – skeptical consumers – to buy their products. He recounts his visit to the oldest wine grower in the valley, Jacob Schram, who had been "experimenting" for 18 years at his Schramsberg Winery, and had recently expanded the wine cellar in his backyard:

"Mr. Schram's, on the other hand, is the oldest vineyard in the valley, eighteen years old I think; yet he began a penniless barber, and even after he had broken ground up here with his black malvoisies, continued for long to tramp the valley with his razor. Now, his place is the picture of prosperity: stuffed birds on the verandah, cellars far dug into the hillside, and resting on pillars like a bandit's cave: all trimness, varnish, flowers, and sunshine, among the tangled wildwood. Stout, smiling Mrs. Schram, who has been to Europe and apparently all about the States for pleasure, entertained Fanny in the verandah, while I was tasting wines in the cellar. To Mr. Schram this was a solemn office; his serious gusto warmed my heart; prosperity had not yet wholly banished a certain neophyte and girlish trepidation, and he followed every sip and read my face with proud anxiety. I tasted all. I tasted every variety and shade of Schramberger, red and white Schramberger, Burgundy Schramberger, Schramberger Hock, Schramberger Golden Chasselas, the latter with a notable bouquet, and I fear to think how many more. Much of it goes to London - most, I think; and Mr. Schram has a great notion of the English taste.

In this wild spot, I did not feel the sacredness of ancient cultivation. It was still raw, it was no Marathon, and no Johannesburg; yet the stirring sunlight, and the growing vines, and the vats and bottles in the cavern, made a pleasant music for the mind. Here, also, earth's cream was being skimmed and garnered: and the customers can taste, such as it is, the tang of the earth in this green valley. So local, so quintessential is a wine, that it seems the very birds in the verandah might communicate a flavor, and that romantic cellar influence the bottle next to be uncorked in Pimlico, and the smile of jolly Mr. Schram might mantle in the glass.

But these are but experiments. All things in this new land are moving farther on: the wine-vats and the miner's blasting tools but picket for a night, like Bedouin pavilions; and tomorrow, to fresh woods! This stir of change and these perpetual echoes of the moving footfall, haunt the land. Men move eternally, still chasing fortune; and fortune found, still wander. As we drove back to Calistoga the road lay empty of mere passengers, but its green side was dotted the camps of traveling families: one cumbered with a great wagon full of household stuff, settlers going to occupy a ranch they had taken up in Mendocino, or perhaps Tehama County; another, a party in dust-coats, men and women, whom we found camped in a grove on the roadside, all on pleasure bent, with a Chinaman to cook for them, and who waved their hands to us as we drove by."

Stevenson’s experiences at Silverado were kept in a journal he called Silverado Sketches. He incorporated elements of these sketches with other tales, such as those that appeared in Essays of Travel and Across the Plains, into The Silverado Squatters in 1883. Many of his notes of the scenery around him later provided much of the descriptive detail for Treasure Island. The Robert Louis Stevenson State Park now encompasses the area where he stayed. The entrance to Silverado is at the summit of Highway 29. A new trail has been constructed in recent years. The "Silverado Museum" in St. Helena, California is dedicated to Robert Louis Stevenson.

Additional References
The Silverado Squatters, ISBN 1562790978, 1996 paperback in-print. Also available in many out if print editions and compilations.

The Silverado Squatters, HTML version from the University of Virginia: Click here.

The Silverado Squatters at Project Gutenberg The Silverado Squatters, HTML version with scanned images, from the
Library of Congress.

Silverado Museum in St. Helena, California, devoted to Robert Louis Stevenson: Click here.

The Silverado Squatters, audiobook, Blue Pylon Creative (2005). ISBN 0976576503 Available at the Schramsberg Vineyards Visitor Center: (800) 877-3623.