_[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 yesterday--1
+ 4 + 7-1/2 = 12-1/2 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 mechante.--Yours affectionately,