breathes no man of
letters more inspired by kindness and generosity to his brethren of the
profession, and, to put an end to any possibility of error, I may be
allowed to add that I often have recourse, and that I had recourse once
more but a few weeks ago, to the valuable practical help which he makes
it his pleasure to extend to younger men.

I send a duplicate of this letter to a London weekly; for the mistake,
first set forth in your columns, has already reached England, and my
wanderings have made me perhaps last of the persons interested to hear a
word of it.--I am, etc.,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO R. A. M. STEVENSON

_Terminus Hotel, Marseille_, _Saturday_ [_October 1882_].

MY DEAR BOB,--We have found a house!--at Saint Marcel, Banlieue de
Marseille. In a lovely valley between hills part wooded, part white
cliffs; a house of a dining-room, of a fine salon--one side lined with a
long divan--three good bedrooms (two of them with dressing-rooms), three
small rooms (chambers of _bonne_ and sich), a large kitchen, a lumber
room, many cupboards, a back court, a large olive yard, cultivated by a
resident _paysan_, a well, a berceau, a good deal of rockery, a little
pine shrubbery, a railway station in front, two lines of omnibus to
Marseille.

L48 per annum.

It is called Campagne Defli! query Campagne Debug? The Campagne
Demosquito goes on here nightly, and is very deadly. Ere we can get
installed, we shall be beggared to the door, I see.

I vote for separations; F.'s arrival here, after our separation, was
better fun to me than being married was by far. A separation completed
is a most valuable property; worth piles.--Ever your affectionate
cousin,

R. L. S.

TO THOMAS STEVENSON

_Terminus Hotel, Marseille, le 17th October 1882._

MY DEAR FATHER,--We grow, every time we see it, more delighted with our
house. It is five miles out of Marseilles, in a lovely spot, among
lovely wooded and cliffy hills--most mountainous in line--far lovelier,
to my eyes, than any Alps. To-day we have been out inventorying; and
though a mistral blew, it was delightful in an open cab, and our house
with the windows open was heavenly, soft, dry, sunny, southern. I fear
there are fleas--it is called Campagne Defli--and I look forward to tons
of insecticide being employed.

I have had to write a letter to the New York Tribune and the Athenaeum.
Payn was accused of stealing my stories! I