Then he showed the book in his hand. "See," he said, "here is
one of your English writings, the greatest book I have ever
happened on." It was a volume of Mr. Fielding. For a little he
talked of books and poets. He admired Mr. Fielding profoundly,
Dr. Smollet somewhat less, Mr. Richardson not at all. But he was
clear that England had a monopoly of good writers, saving only my
friend M. Rousseau, whom he valued, yet with reservations. Of
the Italians he had no opinion. I instanced against him the
plays of Signor Alfieri. He groaned, shook his head, and grew
moody.

"Know you Scotland?" he asked suddenly.

I replied that I had visited Scotch cousins, but had no great
estimation for the country. "It is too poor and jagged," I said,
"for the taste of one who loves colour and sunshine and suave
outlines." He sighed. "It is indeed a bleak land, but a kindly.
When the sun shines at all he shines on the truest hearts in the
world. I love its bleakness too. There is a spirit in the misty
hills and the harsh sea-wind which inspires men to great deeds.
Poverty and courage go often together, and my Scots, if they are
poor, are as untamable as their mountains."

"You know the land, sir?" I asked.

"I have seen it, and I have known many Scots. You will find them
in Paris and Avignon and Rome, with never a plack in their
pockets. I have a feeling for exiles, sir, and I have pitied
these poor people. They gave their all for the cause they