He is a bit of a pagan, old
McQuhatty, in spite of Calvin and the Shorter Catechism. I
should not wonder if he were the original of the story of the
minister who prayed for the "puir Deil." He planted a rowan tree
by his porch when he was first inducted into the manse, and it
has grown up with him and he loves it as if it were a human
being. He has had many bonny arguments with it, he says, on
points of doctrine, and it has brought comfort to him in times of
doubt by shivering its delicate leaves and whispering, "Dinna
fash yoursel, McQuhatty. The Lord God is a sensible body." He
declares that the words are articulate, and I suspect that in the
depths of his heart he believes that there are tongues in trees
and books in the running brooks, just as he is convinced that
there is good in everything.
He is a ripe and whimsical scholar, and his talk, even in infirm
old age, is marked by a Doric virility which has rendered his
companionship for these five days as stimulating as the moorland
air. How few men have this gift of discharging intellectual
invigoration.
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