DEAR CHARLES,--Thanks for your good letter. It is true, man, God's trueth, what ye say about the body Stevison. The deil himsel, it's my belief, couldnae get the soul harled oot o' the creature's wame, or he had seen the hinder end o' they proofs. Ye crack o' Maecenas, he's naebody by you! He gied the lad Horace a rax forrit by all accounts; but he never gied him proofs like yon. Horace may hae been a better hand at the clink than Stevison--mind, I'm no sayin' 't--but onyway he was never sae weel prentit. Damned, but it's bonny! Hoo mony pages will there be, think ye? Stevison maun hae sent ye the feck o' twenty sangs--fifteen I'se warrant. Weel, that'll can make thretty pages, gin ye were to prent on ae side only, whilk wad be perhaps what a man o' your _great_ idees would be ettlin' at, man Johnson. Then there wad be the Pre-face, an' prose ye ken prents oot langer than po'try at the hinder end, for ye hae to say things in't. An' then there'll be a title-page and a dedication and an index wi' the first lines like, and the deil an' a'. Man, it'll be grand. Nae copies to be given to the Liberys. I am alane myself, in Nice, they ca't, but damned, I think they micht as well ca't Nesty. The Pile-on,[2] 's they ca't, 's aboot as big as the river Tay at Perth; and it's rainin' maist like Greenock. Dod, I've seen 's had mair o' what they ca' the I-talian at Muttonhole. I-talian! I haenae seen the sun for eicht and forty hours. Thomson's better, I believe. But the body's fair attenyated. He's doon to seeven stane eleeven, an' he sooks awa' at cod liver ile, till it's a fair disgrace. Ye see he tak's it on a drap brandy; and it's my belief, it's just an excuse for a dram. He an' Stevison gang aboot their lane, maistly; they're company to either, like, an' whiles they'll speak o' Johnson. But _he's_ far awa', losh me! Stevison's last book 's in a third edeetion; an' it's bein' translated (like the psaulms of David, nae less) into French; and an eediot they ca' Asher--a kind o' rival of Tauchnitz--is bringin' him oot in a paper book for the Frenchies and the German folk in twa volumes. Sae he's in luck, ye see.--Yours, THOMSON. TO SIDNEY COLVIN Stevenson here narrates in his own fashion by what generalship he at last got rid of the Campagne Defli without having to pay compensation as his wife expected. _Hotel du Petit Louvre, Marseille, 15 Feb. 1883._ DEAR SIR,--This is to intimate to you that Mr. and Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson were yesterday safely delivered of a Campagne. The parents are both doing much better than could be expected; particularly the dear papa.