Perthshire in bygone days

352 PEBTHSHIEE IN BYGONE DAYS.
eat little. My arm is as thin as that of a child a month old. Yet it
is strange that, with all this illness and weakness, I feel as it were no
pain. My breast, cough, and all have not been so well for years. I
feel no sickness, but as sound and wholesome as ever I did. The
length of time I have been ill and my weakness alone frighten me ;
but whether I am to die or live, is in a wiser hand. I have been so
long ill I grow peevish and discontented sometimes ; but on the whole
I keep up my spirits wonderfully. Alice bears up, and hopes for the
best, as she ought to do. 0, Willie! I wish I had you here for one
day — so much, much have I to say about them all, in case it should
end for the worse. It may not, but we should be prepared. I go
home to Leeds again on Friday.
Thank you for your kind dear letter ; it brought sunshine -to my sick
weariness. I cried over it like a child Sickness has its
pains, but it has likewise its pleasures
You admire my articles : they are written almost in torment.
You will go to Tulliebeltane on Sunday, and read this letter to them.
Tell them all this. I wish my mother to come here immediately to
consult with her. I wish to see her. I think a sight of her would cure
me. I am sure a breath of Scottish air would. Whenever I get well
I could get a dozen editorships in a week, for I have now a name and
a reputation.
My mother must come immediately. Yet I feel regret at leaving
the paper, even for a season. Think on all that you, and I, and
millions more have suffered by the system I live to war against, and
then you will join with me in thinking every hour mis-spent which is
not devoted to the good work.
Dear, dear Willie, give my love to them all — to my parents, to Joe,
to Maggie, to Charlie, to aunt, to grandfather. Write to say when my
mother comes, Write often, often, and never mind postage. I have
filled my paper, and have not said half of what I wished. ... I can
do nothing till I see my mother. I cannot find words to say how I
feel Tait's kindness. Write soon. I have much more to say, but I
am tired writing, This is the most beautiful country you ever saw ;
but I have no heart to enjoy it. — God bless you,
KOBERT NlCOLL.
Hope was dying within the suffering young man, yet
he grasped " the banner with the strange device," and
shouted "Excelsior !" and his energy must not abate, even
in the prospect of death. A better device would have been
"Endurance!" because no domestic government can long
withhold from its people any political privilege which they
have fitted themselves to claim and to enjoy. The freedom
of a people is generally proportioned to what they are
apable of using aright.