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    Underwoods
    Underwoods
    Underwoods
    Ebook75 pages47 minutes

    Underwoods

    By Robert Louis Stevenson

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    About this ebook

    Robert Louis Stevenson was a Scottish author who is considered to be one of the greatest writers of the nineteenth century.  With classics such as Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Stevenson is still one of the most widely read authors today.  This edition of Underwoods includes a table of contents.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCharles River Editors
    Release dateMar 22, 2018
    ISBN9781531288174
    Underwoods
    Author

    Robert Louis Stevenson

    Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894) was a Scottish novelist, travel writer, poet, and children’s author. Plagued by poor health his entire life, he was nevertheless an amazingly prolific writer, and created some of the most influential and entertaining fiction of the nineteenth century, including Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

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      Book preview

      Underwoods - Robert Louis Stevenson

      THE MERRY MEN AND OTHER TALES

      ..................

      Robert Louis Stevenson

      KYPROS PRESS

      Thank you for reading. If you enjoy this book, please leave a review or connect with the author.

      All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

      Copyright © 2016 by Robert Louis Stevenson

      Interior design by Pronoun

      Distribution by Pronoun

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      Underwoods

      Dedication

      Note

      Book I. In English

      Book II. — In Scots

      UNDERWOODS

      ..................

      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

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