th her than just my ill-health, and consequent anxiety and
labour; but the deuce of it is, that the cause continues. I am about
knocked out of time now: a miserable, snuffling, shivering,
fever-stricken, nightmare-ridden, knee-jottering, hoast-hoast-hoasting
shadow and remains of man. But we'll no gie ower jist yet a bittie.
We've seen waur; and dod, mem, it's my belief that we'll see better. I
dinna ken 'at I've muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but
jist here's guid-fallowship, guid health, and the wale o' guid fortune
to your bonny sel'; and my respecs to the Perfessor and his wife, and
the Prinshiple, an' the Bell Rock, an' ony ither public chara'ters that
I'm acquaunt wi'.

R. L. S.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

[_Bournemouth, November 13, 1884._]

MY DEAR THOMSON,--It's a maist remarkable fac', but nae shuener had I
written yon braggin', blawin' letter aboot ma business habits, when
bang! that very day, ma hoast[10] begude in the aifternune. It is really
remaurkable; it's providenshle, I believe. The ink wasnae fair dry, the
words werenae weel ooten ma mouth, when bang, I got the lee. The mair ye
think o't, Thomson, the less ye'll like the looks o't. Proavidence (I'm
no' sayin') is all verra weel _in its place_; but if Proavidence has
nae mainners, wha's to learn't? Proavidence is a fine thing, but hoo
would you like Proavidence to keep your till for ye? The richt place for
Proavidence is in the kirk; it has naething to do wi' private
correspondence between twa gentlemen, nor freendly cracks, nor a wee bit
word of sculduddery[11] ahint the door, nor, in shoart, wi' ony
_hole-and-corner wark_, what I would call. I'm pairfec'ly willin' to
meet in wi' Proavidence, I'll be prood to meet in wi' him, when my
time's come and I cannae dae nae better; but if he's to come skulking
aboot my stair-fit, damned, I micht as weel be deid for a' the comfort
I'll can get in life. Cannae he no be made to understand that it's
beneath him? Gosh, if I was in his business, I wouldnae steir my heid
for a plain, auld ex-elder that, tak him the way he taks himsel', 's
just aboot as honest as he can weel afford, an' but for a wheen auld
scandals, near forgotten noo, is a pairfec'ly respectable and thoroughly
decent man. Or if I fashed wi' him ava', it wad be kind o' handsome
like; a pun'-note under his stair door, or a bottle o' auld, blended
malt to his bit marnin', as a teshtymonial like yon ye ken sae weel
aboot