"It seems to me to tak' a' the poetry oot o' us, Mr. Sutherland."

"Well, well," said Hugh, with a smile, "you must just go to
Wordsworth to put it in again; or to set you again up after Dr.
Abercrombie has demolished you."

"Na, na, sir, he sanna demolish me: nor I winna trouble Mr.
Wordsworth to put the poetry into me again. A' the power on earth
shanna tak' that oot o' me, gin it be God's will; for it's his ain
gift, Mr. Sutherland, ye ken."

"Of course, of course," replied Hugh, who very likely thought this
too serious a way of speaking of poetry, and therefore, perhaps,
rather an irreverent way of speaking of God; for he saw neither the
divine in poetry, nor the human in God. Could he be said to believe
that God made man, when he did not believe that God created
poetry--and yet loved it as he did? It was to him only a grand
invention of humanity in its loftiest development. In this
development, then, he must have considered humanity as farthest from
its origin; and God as the creator of savages, caring nothing for
poets or their work.

They turned, as by common consent, to go down the hill together.

"Shall I take charge of the offending volume? You will not care to
finish it, I fear," said Hugh.

"No, sir, if you please. I never like to leave onything unfinished.
I'll read ilka word in't. I fancy the thing 'at sets me against
it, is mostly this; that, readin' it alang wi' Euclid, I canna help