The clever
deevil had his entrails in his breest and his hert in his belly, and
regairdet neither God nor his ain mither. His lauchter's no like the
cracklin' o' thorns unner a pot, but like the nicherin' o' a deil ahin'
the wainscot. Lat him sit and rot there!"
Asking him another day what sort of poet Shelley was, Alec received the
answer:
"A bonny cratur, wi' mair thochts nor there was room for i' the bit
heid o' 'm. Consequently he gaed staiggerin' aboot as gin he had been
tied to the tail o' an inveesible balloon. Unco licht heidit, but no
muckle hairm in him by natur'."
He never would remain in the library after the day began to ebb. The
moment he became aware that the first filmy shadow had fallen from the
coming twilight, he caught up his hat, locked the door, gave the key to
the sacrist, and hurried away.
The friendly relation between the two struck its roots deeper and
deeper during the session, and Alec bade him good-bye with regret.
Mr Cupples was a baffled poet trying to be a humourist--baffled--not by
the booksellers or the public--for such baffling one need not have a
profound sympathy--but baffled by his own weakness, his incapacity for
assimilating sorrow, his inability to find or invent a theory of the
universe which should show it still beautiful despite of passing pain,
of checked aspiration, of the ruthless storms that lay waste the Edens
of men, and dissolve the high triumph of their rainbows.
Pages:
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337