they supposed to be--the fashion. Indeed, it was hard to understand how
Hector came ever to be born of such a woman, although in truth she was
of as pure Celtic origin as her husband--only blood is not spirit, and
that is often clearly manifest. His father, on the other hand, was not
without some signs of an imagination--quite undeveloped, indeed, and,
I believe, suppressed by the requirements of his business relations.
At the same time, Hector knew that he cherished not a little indignation
against the insolence of the good Dr. Johnson in regard to both Ossian
and his humble translator, Macpherson, upholding the genuineness of
both, although unable to enter into and set forth the points of the
argument on either side. As to Hector, he reveled in the ancient
traditions of his family, and not unfrequently in his earlier youth had
made an attempt to re-embody some of its legends into English, vain as
regarded the retention of the special airiness and suggestiveness of
their vaguely showing symbolism, for often he dropped his pen with a
sigh of despair at the illusiveness of the special aroma of the Celtic
imagination. For the rest, he had had as good an education as Scotland
could in those days afford him, one of whose best features was the
negative one that it did not at all interfere with the natural course of
his inborn tendencies, and merely developed the power of expressing
himself in what manner he might think fit. Let me add that he had a good
conscience--I mean, a conscience ready to give him warning of the least
tendency to overstep any line of prohibition; and that, as yet, he had
never consciously refused to attend to such warning.

Another thing I must mention is that, although his mind was constantly
haunted by imaginary forms of loveliness, he had never yet been what is
called _in love_. For he had never yet seen anyone who even
approached his idea of spiritual at once and physical attraction. He was
content to live and wait, without even the notion that he was waiting