_Saranac Lake_, _Adirondacks_,
_New York_, _U.S.A._, _Spring_ 1888.
MY DEAR DR. CHARTERIS,—The funeral letter, your notes, and many other
things, are reserved for a book, _Memorials of a Scottish Family_, if
ever I can find time and opportunity. I wish I could throw off all else
and sit down to it to-day. Yes, my father was a ‘distinctly religious
man,’ but not a pious. The distinction painfully and pleasurably recalls
old conflicts; it used to be my great gun—and you, who suffered for the
whole Church, know how needful it was to have some reserve artillery!
His sentiments were tragic; he was a tragic thinker. Now, granted that
life is tragic to the marrow, it seems the proper function of religion to
make us accept and serve in that tragedy, as officers in that other and
comparable one of war. Service is the word, active service, in the
military sense; and the religious man—I beg pardon, the pious man—is he
who has a military joy in duty—not he who weeps over the wounded. We can
do no more than try to do our best. Really, I am the grandson of the
manse—I preach you a kind of sermon. Box the brat’s ears!
My mother—to pass to matters more within my competence—finely enjoys
herself. The new country, some new friends we have made, the interesting
experiment of this climate-which (at least) is tragic—all have done her
good. I have myself passed a better winter than for years, and now that
it is nearly over have some diffident hopes of doing well in the summer
and ‘eating a little more air’ than usual.
I thank you for the trouble you are taking, and my mother joins with me
in kindest regards to yourself and Mrs. Charteris.—Yours very truly,