Very often, as he observed the pleasure I took in
conversing with the country people, he would manage
to fix our place of rest near a cottage where
there was some old Gael, whose broadsword had
blazed at Falkirk or Preston, and who seemed the
frail yet faithful record of times which had passed
away. Or he would contrive to quarter us, as far
as a cup of tea went, upon the hospitality of some
parish minister of worth and intelligence, or some
country family of the better class, who mingled
with the wild simplicity of their original manners,
and their ready and hospitable welcome, a sort of
courtesy belonging to a people, the lowest of whom
are accustomed to consider themselves as being,
according to the Spanish phrase, ``as good gentlemen
as the king, only not quite so rich.''
To all such persons Donald MacLeish was well
known, and his introduction passed as current as
if we had brought letters from some high chief of
the country.
Sometimes it happened that the Highland hospitality,
which welcomed us with all the variety of
mountain fare, preparations of milk and eggs, and
girdle-cakes of various kinds, as well as more substantial
dainties, according to the inhabitant's
means of regaling the passenger, descended rather
too exuberantly on Donald MacLeish in the shape
of mountain dew.
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