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    Underwoods
    Underwoods
    Underwoods
    Ebook131 pages59 minutes

    Underwoods

    By Robert Louis Stevenson

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Underwoods
    Author

    Robert Louis Stevenson

    Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson was born on 13 November 1850, changing his second name to ‘Louis’ at the age of eighteen. He has always been loved and admired by countless readers and critics for ‘the excitement, the fierce joy, the delight in strangeness, the pleasure in deep and dark adventures’ found in his classic stories and, without doubt, he created some of the most horribly unforgettable characters in literature and, above all, Mr. Edward Hyde.

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      Book preview

      Underwoods - Robert Louis Stevenson

      The Project Gutenberg eBook, Underwoods, by Robert Louis Stevenson

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Underwoods

      Author: Robert Louis Stevenson

      Release Date: January 27, 2013  [eBook #438]

      [This file was first posted on January 3, 1996]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)

      ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDERWOODS***

      Transcribed from the 1989 Chatto & Windus edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf

      UNDERWOODS

      BY

      ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

      NINTH EDITION

      LONDON

      CHATTO & WINDUS

      1898

      Of all my verse, like not a single line;

      But like my title, for it is not mine.

      That title from a better man I stole:

      Ah, how much better, had I stol’n the whole!

      DEDICATION

      There are men and classes of men that stand above the common herd: the soldier, the sailor and the shepherd not unfrequently; the artist rarely; rarely still, the clergyman; the physician almost as a rule.  He is the flower (such as it is) of our civilisation; and when that stage of man is done with, and only remembered to be marvelled at in history, he will be thought to have shared as little as any in the defects of the period, and most notably exhibited the virtues of the race.  Generosity he has, such as is possible to those who practise an art, never to those who drive a trade; discretion, tested by a hundred secrets; tact, tried in a thousand embarrassments; and what are more important, Heraclean cheerfulness and courage.  So it is that he brings air and cheer into the sickroom, and often enough, though not so often as he wishes, brings healing.

      Gratitude is but a lame sentiment; thanks, when they are expressed, are often more embarrassing than welcome; and yet I must set forth mine to a few out of many doctors who have brought me comfort and help: to Dr. Willey of San Francisco, whose kindness to a stranger it must be as grateful to him, as it is touching to me, to remember; to Dr. Karl Ruedi of Davos, the good genius of the English in his frosty mountains; to Dr. Herbert of Paris, whom I knew only for a week, and to Dr. Caissot of Montpellier, whom I knew only for ten days, and who have yet written their names deeply in my memory; to Dr. Brandt of Royat; to Dr. Wakefield of Nice; to Dr. Chepmell, whose visits make it a pleasure to be ill; to Dr. Horace Dobell, so wise in counsel; to Sir Andrew Clark, so unwearied in kindness and to that wise youth, my uncle, Dr. Balfour.

      I forget as many as I remember; and I ask both to pardon me, these for silence, those for inadequate speech.  But one name I have kept on purpose to the last, because it is a household word with me, and because if I had not received favours from so many hands and in so many quarters of the world, it should have stood upon this page alone: that of my friend Thomas Bodley Scott of Bournemouth.  Will he accept this, although shared among so many, for a dedication to himself? and when next my ill-fortune (which has thus its pleasant side) brings him hurrying to me when he would fain sit down to meat or lie down to rest, will he care to remember that he takes this trouble for one who is not fool enough to be ungrateful?

      R. L. S.

      Skerryvore,

      Bournemouth.

      NOTE

      The human conscience has fled of late the troublesome domain of conduct for what I should have supposed to be the less congenial field of art: there she may now be said to rage, and with special severity in all that touches dialect; so that in every novel the letters of the alphabet are tortured, and the reader wearied, to commemorate shades of mis-pronunciation.  Now spelling is an art of great difficulty in my eyes, and I am inclined to lean upon the printer, even in common practice, rather than to venture abroad upon new quests.  And the Scots tongue has an orthography of its own, lacking neither authority nor author.  Yet the temptation is great to lend a little guidance to the bewildered Englishman.  Some simple phonetic artifice might defend your verses from barbarous mishandling, and yet not injure any vested interest.  So it seems at first; but there are rocks ahead.  Thus, if I wish the diphthong ou to have its proper value, I may write oor instead of our; many have done so and lived, and the pillars of the universe remained unshaken.  But if I did so, and came presently to doun, which is the classical Scots spelling of the English down, I should begin to feel

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