Then the love of what is foreign
is a great friend to us; this love is chiefly confined to the middle and
upper classes. Some admire the French, and imitate them; others must
needs be Spaniards, dress themselves up in a zamarra, stick a cigar in
their mouths, and say, 'Carajo.' Others would pass for Germans; he! he!
the idea of any one wishing to pass for a German! but what has done us
more service than anything else in these regions--I mean amidst the
middle classes--has been the novel, the Scotch novel. The good folks,
since they have read the novels, have become Jacobites; and, because all
the Jacobs were Papists, the good folks must become Papists also, or, at
least, papistically inclined. The very Scotch Presbyterians, since they
have read the novels, are become all but Papists; I speak advisedly,
having lately been amongst them. There's a trumpery bit of a half papist
sect, called the Scotch Episcopalian Church, which lay dormant and nearly
forgotten for upwards of a hundred years, which has of late got
wonderfully into fashion in Scotland, because, forsooth, some of the long-
haired gentry of the novels were said to belong to it, such as Montrose
and Dundee; and to this the Presbyterians are going over in throngs,
traducing and vilifying their own forefathers, or denying them
altogether, and calling themselves descendants of--ho! ho! ho!--Scottish
Cavaliers!!! I have heard them myself repeating snatches of Jacobite
ditties about 'Bonnie Dundee,' and--

"'Come, fill up my cup, and fill up my can,
And saddle my horse, and call up my man.'

There's stuff for you! Not that I object to the first part of the ditty.
It is natural enough that a Scotchman should cry, 'Come, fill up my cup!'
more especially if he's drinking at another person's expense--all
Scotchmen being fond of liquor at free cost: but 'Saddle his
horse!!!'--for what purpose I would ask? Where is the use of saddling a
horse, unless you can ride him? and where was there ever a Scotchman who
could ride?"

"Of course you have not a drop of Scotch blood in your veins," said I,
"otherwise you would never have uttered that last sentence."

"Don't be too sure of that," said the man in black; "you know little of
Popery if you imagine that it cannot extinguish love of country, even in
a Scotchman. A thorough-going Papist--and who more thorough-going than
myself--cares nothing for his country; and why should he? he belongs to a
system, and not