a yoong airthquack!--losh! to think o' 't growin' an auld airthquack!--haith, to me it's no up till a deuk-quack!--sic a poet micht weel, I grant ye, be he ever sic a guid poet whan he tuik heed to what he said, he micht weel, I say, blether nonsense aboot the sea warrin' again' the rocks, an' sic stuff.""But don't you see them?" said Fergus, pointing to a great billow that fell back at the moment, and lay churning in the gulf beneath them."Are they not in fact wasting the rocks away by slow degrees?""What comes o' yer seemile than, anent the vainity o' their endeevour? But that's no what I'm carin' aboot.What I mainteen is, 'at though they div weir awa' the rocks, that's nae mair their design nor it's the design o' a yewky owse to kill the tree whan he rubs hit's skin an' his ain aff thegither.""Tut! nobody ever means, when he personifies the powers of nature, that they know what they are about.""The mair necessar' till attreebute till them naething but their rale design.""If they don't know what they are about, how can you he so foolish as talk of their design?""Ilka thing has a design,--an' gien it dinna ken't itsel', that's jist whaur yer true an' lawfu' personification comes in.There's no rizon 'at a poet sudna attreebute till a thing as a conscious design that which lies at the verra heart o' 'ts bein', the design for which it's there.That an' no ither sud determine the personification ye gie a thing--for that's the trowth o' the thing.
Eh, man, Fergus! the jaws is fechtin' wi' nae rocks.They're jist at their pairt in a gran' cleansin' hermony.They're at their hoosemaid's wark, day an' nicht, to haud the warl' clean, an' gran'
an' bonnie they sing at it.Gien I was you, I wadna tell fowk any sic nonsense as yon; I wad tell them 'at ilk ane 'at disna dee his wark i' the warl', an' dee 't the richt gait, 's no the worth o' a minnin, no to say a whaul, for ilk ane o' thae wee craturs dis the wull o' him 'at made 'im wi' ilka whisk o' his bit tailie, fa'in' in wi' a' the jabble o' the jaws again' the rocks, for it's a' ae thing--an' a' to haud the muckle sea clean.An' sae whan I lie i'
my bed, an' a' at ance there comes a wee soughie o' win' i' my face, an' I luik up an' see it was naething but the wings o' a flittin'
flee, I think wi' mysel' hoo a' the curses are but blessin's 'at ye dinna see intill, an' hoo ilka midge, an' flee, an' muckle dronin'
thing 'at gangs aboot singin' bass, no to mention the doos an' the mairtins an' the craws an' the kites an' the oolets an' the muckle aigles an' the butterflees, is a' jist haudin' the air gauin' 'at ilka defilin' thing may be weel turnt ower, an' brunt clean.That's the best I got oot o' my cheemistry last session.An' fain wad Ihaud air an' watter in motion aboot me, an' sae serve my en'--whether by waggin' wi' my wings or whiskin' wi' my tail.Eh!
it's jist won'erfu'.Its a' ae gran' consortit confusion o' hermony an' order; an' what maks the confusion is only jist 'at a' thing's workin' an' naething sits idle.But awa! wi' the nonsense o' ae thing worryin' an' fechtin' at anither!--no till ye come to beasts an' fowk, an' syne ye hae eneuch o' 't."All the time Fergus had been poking the point of his stick into the ground, a smile of superiority curling his lip.
"I hope, ladies, our wits are not quite swept away in this flood of Doric," he said.
"You have a poor opinion of the stability of our brains, Mr.Duff,"said Mrs.Sclater.
"I was only judging by myself," he replied, a little put out."Ican't say I understood our friend here.Did you?""Perfectly," answered Mrs.Sclater.
At that moment came a thunderous wave with a great bowff into the hollow at the end of the gully on whose edge they stood.
"There's your housemaid's broom, Donal!" said Ginevra.
They all laughed.
"Everything depends on how you look at a thing," said Fergus, and said no more--inwardly resolving, however, to omit from his sermon a certain sentence about the idle waves dashing themselves to ruin on the rocks they would destroy, and to work in something instead about the winds of the winter tossing the snow.A pause followed.
"Well, this is Saturday, and tomorrow is my work-day, you know, ladies," he said."If you would oblige me with your address, Miss Galbraith, I should do myself the honour of calling on Mr.
Galbraith."
Ginevra told him where they lived, but added she was afraid he must not expect to see her father, for he had been out of health lately, and would see nobody.
"At all events I shall give myself the chance," he rejoined, and bidding the ladies good-bye, and nodding to the youths, turned and walked away.
For some time there was silence.At length Donal spoke.
"Poor Fergus!" he said with a little sigh."He's a good-natured creature, and was a great help to me; but when I think of him a preacher, I seem to see an Egyptian priest standing on the threshold of the great door at Ipsambul, blowing with all his might to keep out the Libyan desert; and the four great stone gods, sitting behind the altar, far back in the gloom, laughing at him."Then Ginevra asked him something which led to a good deal of talk about the true and false in poetry, and made Mrs.Sclater feel it was not for nothing she had befriended the lad from the hills in the strange garments.And she began to think whether her husband might not be brought to take a higher view of his calling.
