—Did I say I had seen a verse on two of the Buccaneers? I did, and _ça-y-est_. TO EDMUND GOSSE _Stobo Manse_, _Peeblesshire_ [_July_ 1882]. I would shoot you, but I have no bow: The place is not called Stobs, but Stobo. As Gallic Kids complain of ‘Bobo,’ I mourn for your mistake of Stobo. First, we shall be gone in September. But if you think of coming in August, my mother will hunt for you with pleasure. We should all be overjoyed—though Stobo it could not be, as it is but a kirk and manse, but possibly somewhere within reach. Let us know. Second, I have read your Gray with care. A more difficult subject I can scarce fancy; it is crushing; yet I think you have managed to shadow forth a man, and a good man too; and honestly, I doubt if I could have done the same. This may seem egoistic; but you are not such a fool as to think so. It is the natural expression of real praise. The book as a whole is readable; your subject peeps every here and there out of the crannies like a shy violet—he could do no more—and his aroma hangs there. I write to catch a minion of the post. Hence brevity. Answer about the house.—Yours affectionately, R. L S. TO W. E. HENLEY [_Stobo Manse_, _July_ 1882.] DEAR HENLEY, . . . I am not worth an old damn. I am also crushed by bad news of Symonds; his good lung going; I cannot help reading it as a personal hint; God help us all! Really I am not very fit for work; but I try, try, and nothing comes of it. I believe we shall have to leave this place; it is low, damp, and _mauchy_; the rain it raineth every day; and the glass goes tol-de-rol-de riddle. Yet it’s a bonny bit; I wish I could live in it, but doubt. I wish I was well away somewhere else. I feel like flight some days; honour bright.