_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; rarelier 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._ BOOK I IN ENGLISH UNDERWOODS I ENVOY Go, little book, and wish to all Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall, A bin of wine, a spice of wit, A house with lawns enclosing it, A living river by the door, A nightingale in the sycamore! II A SONG OF THE ROAD