w. Great black chasms, huge black cliffs, rugged and over-hung
gullies, natural arches, and deep green pools below them, almost too
deep to let you see the gleam of sand among the darker weed: there are
deep caves too. In one of these lives a tribe of gipsies. The men are
_always_ drunk, simply and truthfully always. From morning to evening
the great villainous-looking fellows are either sleeping off the last
debauch, or hulking about the cove "in the horrors." The cave is deep,
high, and airy, and might be made comfortable enough. But they just live
among heaped boulders, damp with continual droppings from above, with no
more furniture than two or three tin pans, a truss of rotten straw, and
a few ragged cloaks. In winter the surf bursts into the mouth and often
forces them to abandon it.

An _emeute_ of disappointed fishers was feared, and two ships of war are
in the bay to render assistance to the municipal authorities. This is
the ides; and, to all intents and purposes, said ides are passed. Still
there is a good deal of disturbance, many drunk men, and a double supply
of police. I saw them sent for by some people and enter an inn, in a
pretty good hurry: what it was for I do not know.

You would see by papa's letter about the carpenter who fell off the
staging: I don't think I was ever so much excited in my life. The man
was back at his work, and I asked him how he was; but he was a
Highlander, and--need I add it?--dickens a word could I understand of
his answer. What is still worse, I find the people here-about--that is
to say, the Highlanders, not the northmen--don't understand _me_.

I have lost a shilling's worth of postage stamps, which has damped my
ardour for buying big lots of 'em: I'll buy them one at a time as I want
'em for the future.

The Free Church minister and I got quite thick. He left last night about
two in the morning, when I went to turn in. He gave me the enclosed.--I
remain your affectionate son,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON

_Wick, September 5, 1868. Monday._

MY DEAR MAMMA,--This morning I got a delightful haul: your letter of the
fourth (surely mis-dated); papa's of same day; Virgil's _Bucolics_,
very thankfully received; and Aikman's _Annals_,[5] a precious and most
acceptable donation, for which I tender my most ebullient thanksgivings.
I almost forgot to drink my tea and eat mine egg.

It contains more detailed accounts than anything I ever saw