Yet still our hearts are true, our hearts are Highland,
And we, in dreams, behold the Hebrides."


And, Highland and Lowland, all our hearts are Scotch.

Only a few days after I had seen M'Eckron, a message reached me in
my cottage. It was a Scotchman who had come down a long way from
the hills to market. He had heard there was a countryman in
Calistoga, and came round to the hotel to see him. We said a few
words to each other; we had not much to say--should never have seen
each other had we stayed at home, separated alike in space and in
society; and then we shook hands, and he went his way again to his
ranche among the hills, and that was all.

Another Scotchman there was, a resident, who for the more love of
the common country, douce, serious, religious man, drove me all
about the valley, and took as much interest in me as if I had been
his son: more, perhaps; for the son has faults too keenly felt,
while the abstract countryman is perfect--like a whiff of peats.

And there was yet another. Upon him I came suddenly, as he was
calmly entering my cottage, his mind quite evidently bent on
plunder: a man of about fifty, filthy, ragged, roguish, with a
chimney-pot hat and a tail coat, and a pursing of his mouth that
might have been envied by an elder of the kirk. He had just such a
face as I have seen a dozen times behind the plate.

"Hullo, sir!" I cried. "Where are you going?"