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MacDonald, George, 1824-1905

"Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood"

He took it as a matter
of course, and did not even thank me. When the doctor came, we got a
mattress from a neighbouring house, laid it on the wagon, lifted
Scroggie on the top, and dragged him up the hill and home to his
mother.
I have said a little, but only a little, concerning our master, Mr.
Wilson. At the last examination I had, in compliance with the request
of one of the clergymen, read aloud a metrical composition of my own,
sent in by way of essay on the given subject, _Patriotism_, and after
this he had shown me a great increase of favour. Perhaps he recognized
in me some germ of a literary faculty--I cannot tell: it has never
come to much if he did, and he must be greatly disappointed in me,
seeing I labour not in living words, but in dead stones. I am certain,
though, that whether I build good or bad houses, I should have built
worse had I not had the insight he gave me into literature and the
nature of literary utterance. I read Virgil and Horace with him, and
scanned every doubtful line we came across. I sometimes think now,
that what certain successful men want to make them real artists, is
simply a knowledge of the literature--which is the essence of the
possible art--of the country.
My brother Tom had left the school, and gone to the county town, to
receive some final preparation for the University; consequently, so
far as the school was concerned, I was no longer in the position of a
younger brother.


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