How few men have this gift of discharging intellectual invigoration.

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.