Lochaber, the Bothie of what-did-he-call-it.
Hopeless of you and of us, of gillies and marquises hopeless,
Weary of ethic and logic, of rhetoric yet more weary,
There shall he, smit by the charm of a lovely potatoe-uprooter,
Study the question of sex in the Bothie of what-did-he-call-it."'--p.18.

The action here becomes divided; and, omitting points of detail, we
must confine ourselves to tracing the development of the idea in
which the subject of the poem consists.

Philip and his companions, losing their road, are received at a farm,
where they stay for three days: and this experience of himself
begins. He comes prepared; and, if he seems to love the
"golden-haired Katie," it is less that she is "the youngest and
comeliest daughter" than because of her position, and that in that
she realises his preconceived wishes. For three days he is with her
and about her; and he remains when his friends leave the farm-house.
But his love is no more than the consequence of his principles; it is
his own will unconsidered and but half understood. And a letter to
Adam tells how it had an end:

"'I was walking along some two miles from the cottage,
Full of my dreamings. A girl went by in a party with others:
She had a cloak on,--was stepping on quickly, for rain was
beginning;
But, as she passed, from the hood I saw her eyes glance at me:--
So quick a glance, so regardless I, that, altho' I felt it,
You couldn't properly say our eyes met; she cast it, and left it.
It was three minutes, perhaps, ere I knew what it was. I had
seen her
Somewhere before, I am sure; but that wasn't it,--not its import.
No; it had seemed to regard me with simple superior insight,
Quietly saying to herself: 'Yes, there he is still in his
fancy......
Doesn't yet see we have here just the things he is used to
elsewhere,
And that the things he likes here, elsewhere he wouldn't have
looked at;
People here, too, are people, and not as fairy-land creatures.
He is in a trance, and possessed,--I wonder how long to continue.
It is a shame and pity,--and no good likely to follow.'--
Something like this; but, indeed, I cannot the least define it.
Only, three hours thence, I was off and away in the moor-land,
Hiding myself from myself, if I could, the arrow within me.'"--p.29.

Philip Hewson has been going on

"Even as cloud passing subtly unseen from mountain to mountain,
Leaving the crest