to Edmund Gosse

[Edinburgh] Sunday [June 1882].

. . . Note turned up, but no gray opuscule, which, however, will probably turn up to-morrow in time to go out with me to Stobo Manse, Peeblesshire, where, if you can make it out, you will be a good soul to pay a visit.  I shall write again about the opuscule; and about Stobo, which I have not seen since I was thirteen, though my memory speaks delightfully of it.

I have been very tired and seedy, or I should have written before, inter alia, to tell you that I had visited my murder place and found living traditions not yet in any printed book; most startling.  I also got photographs taken, but the negatives have not yet turned up.  I lie on the sofa to write this, whence the pencil; having slept yesterdays—1 + 4 + 7½ = 12½ hours and being (9 A.M.) very anxious to sleep again.  The arms of Porpus, quoi!  A poppy gules, etc.

From Stobo you can conquer Peebles and Selkirk, or to give them their old decent names, Tweeddale and Ettrick.  Think of having been called Tweeddale, and being called Peebles!  Did I ever tell you my skit on my own travel books?  We understand that Mr. Stevenson has in the press another volume of unconventional travels: Personal Adventures in Peeblesshire.  Je la trouve méchante.—Yours affectionately,

R. L. S.

—Did I say I had seen a verse on two of the Buccaneers?  I did, and ça-y-est.