he mother's _Geld_. I
told them we had no Klosters in Scotland, with a certain feeling of
superiority. No more had they, I was told--"_Hier ist unser Kloster!_"
and the speaker motioned with both arms round the taproom. Although the
first torrent was exhausted, yet the Doctor came up again in all sorts
of ways, and with or without occasion, throughout the whole interview;
as, for example, when one man, taking his pipe out of his mouth and
shaking his head, remarked _apropos_ of nothing and with almost defiant
conviction, "_Er war ein feiner Mann, der Herr Doctor_," and was
answered by another with "_Yaw, yaw, und trank immer rothen Wein_."

Setting aside the Doctor, who had evidently turned the brains of the
entire village, they were intelligent people. One thing in particular
struck me, their honesty in admitting that here they spoke bad German,
and advising me to go to Coburg or Leipsic for German.--"_Sie sprechen
da_ _rein_" (clean), said one; and they all nodded their heads together
like as many mandarins, and repeated _rein, so rein_ in chorus.

Of course we got upon Scotland. The hostess said, "_Die Schottlaender
trinken gern Schnapps_," which may be freely translated, "Scotchmen are
horrid fond of whisky." It was impossible, of course, to combat such a
truism; and so I proceeded to explain the construction of toddy,
interrupted by a cry of horror when I mentioned the _hot_ water; and
thence, as I find is always the case, to the most ghastly romancing
about Scottish scenery and manners, the Highland dress, and everything
national or local that I could lay my hands upon. Now that I have got my
German Burns, I lean a good deal upon him for opening a conversation,
and read a few translations to every yawning audience that I can gather.
I am grown most insufferably national, you see. I fancy it is a
punishment for my want of it at ordinary times. Now, what do you think,
there was a waiter in this very hotel, but, alas! he is now gone, who
sang (from morning to night, as my informant said with a shrug at the
recollection) what but _'s ist lange her_, the German version of Auld
Lang Syne; so you see, madame, the finest lyric ever written _will_ make
its way out of whatsoever corner of patois it found its birth in.

"_Mein Herz ist im Hochland, mein Herz ist nicht hier,
Mein Herz ist im Hochland im gruenen Revier.
Im gruenen Reviere zu jagen das Reh;
Mein Herz ist im Hochland, wo immer ich geh._"

I don't