Indeed, I only know old McQuhatty who has it, and
a sportive Providence has carefully excluded mankind from its
benefits for half a century. Stay: it once fostered a genius who
arose in Campsie, and sent him strung with tonic to Edinburgh to
become a poet. But the poor lad drank whisky for two years
without cessation, so that he died, and McQuhatty's inspiration
was wasted. What intellectual stimulus can he afford, for
instance, to Sandy McGrath, an elder of the kirk whom I saw
coming up the brae on Sunday? An old ram stood in the path and,
as obstinate as he, refused to budge. And as they looked dourly
at each other, I wondered if the ram were dressed in black
broadcloth and McGrath in wool, whether either of their mothers
would notice the metamorphosis. Yet my host declares that I see
with the eyes of a Southron; that the Scotch peasant when he is
not drunk is intellectual, and that there is no occasion on which
he is not ready for theological disputation.
"But I dinna mind telling you," he added, "that I'd as lief talk
with my rowan tree.
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