n
Rutherford, ay, or in Peden, truth struggles, or it would not so deform
them. The man has not a devil; it is an angel that tears and blinds him.
But Morison's is an old, almost a venerable seraph, with whom I dealt
before I was twenty, and had done before I was twenty-five.

Behold how the voices of dead preachers speak hollowly (and lengthily)
within me!--Yours ever--and rather better---not much,

R. L. S.

TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM

_Skerryvore, April 16th, 1887._

MY DEAREST CUMMY,--As usual, I have been a dreary bad fellow and not
written for ages; but you must just try to forgive me, to believe (what
is the truth) that the number of my letters is no measure of the number
of times I think of you, and to remember how much writing I have to do.
The weather is bright, but still cold; and my father, I'm afraid, feels
it sharply. He has had--still has, rather--a most obstinate jaundice,
which has reduced him cruelly in strength, and really upset him
altogether. I hope, or think, he is perhaps a little better; but he
suffers much, cannot sleep at night, and gives John and my mother a
severe life of it to wait upon him. My wife is, I think, a little
better, but no great shakes. I keep mightily respectable myself.

Coolin's Tombstone is now built into the front wall of Skerryvore, and
poor Bogie's (with a Latin inscription also) is set just above it.
Poor, unhappy wee man, he died, as you must have heard, in fight, which
was what he would have chosen; for military glory was more in his line
than the domestic virtues. I believe this is about all my news, except
that, as I write, there is a blackbird singing in our garden trees, as
it were at Swanston. I would like fine to go up the burnside a bit, and
sit by the pool and be young again--or no, be what I am still, only
there instead of here, for just a little. Did you see that I had written
about John Todd? In this month's Longman it was; if you have not seen
it, I will try and send it you. Some day climb as high as Halkerside for
me (I am never likely to do it for myself), and sprinkle some of the
well water on the turf. I am afraid it is a pagan rite, but quite
harmless, and _ye can sain it wi' a bit prayer_. Tell the Peewies that I
mind their forbears well. My heart is sometimes heavy and sometimes glad
to mind it all. But for what we have received, the Lord make us truly
thankful. Don't forget to sprinkle the water, and do it in my name; I
feel a chi