w old they all look like
blue-bellied Presbyterian elders. Scotch to the marrow--everybody
and everything seem--bare knees alike on the street and in the
hotel with dress coats on, bagpipes--there's no sense in these
things, yet being Scotch they live forever. The first men I saw
early this morning on the street in front of the hotel were two
weather-beaten old chaps, with gray beards under their chins.
"Guddddd Murrrrninggggg, Andy," said one. "Guddddd murrninggggg,
Sandy," said the other; and they trudged on. They'd dethrone kings
before they'd shave differently or drop their burrs and gutturals
or cover their knees or cease lying about the bagpipe. And you
can't get it out of the blood. Your mother[21] becomes provoked
when I say these things, and I shouldn't wonder if you yourself
resent them and break out quoting Burns. Now the Highlands can't
support a population larger than the mountain counties of Kentucky.
Now your Kentucky feud is a mere disgrace to civilization. But your
Highland feud is celebrated in song and story. Every clan keeps
itself together to this day by its history and by its plaid. At a
turn in the road in the mountains yesterday, there stood a statue
of Rob Roy painted every stripe to life. We saw his sword and purse
in Sir Walter's house at Abbotsford. The King himself wore the kilt
and one of the plaids at the last court ball at Buckingham Palace,
and there is a man who writes his name and is called "The
Macintosh of Macintosh," and that's a prouder title than the
King's. A little handful of sheep-stealing bandits got themselves
immortalized and heroized, and they are now all Presbyterian
elders. They got _their_ church "established" in Scotland, and when
the King comes to Scotland, by Jehoshaphat! he is obliged to become
a Presbyterian. Yet your Kentucky feudist--poor devil--he comes too
late. The Scotchman has pre-empted that particular field of glory.
And all such comparisons make your mother fighting mad. . . .

Affectionately,
W.H.P.

_To the President_

American Embassy, London.
October 25, 1913.

Dear Mr. President:

I am moved once in a while to write you privately, not about any
specific piece of public business, but only, if I can, to transmit
something of the atmosphere of the work her