“Take care,” said Mr. S.; “don’t get too much excited.”

“Ah,” said I, “this is a thing that comes only once in a lifetime; do let us have the comfort of it.  We shall never come into Scotland for the first time again.”

“Ah,” said another, “how I wish Walter Scott was alive!”

While we were thus at the fusion point of enthusiasm, the cars stopped at Lockerby, where the real Old Mortality is buried.  All was dim and dark outside, but we soon became conscious that there was quite a number collected, peering into the window, and, with a strange kind of thrill, I heard my name inquired for in the Scottish accent.  I went to the window; there were men, women, and children there, and hand after hand was presented, with the words, “Ye’re welcome to Scotland!”

Then they inquired for, and shook hands with, all the party, having in some mysterious manner got the knowledge of who they were, even down to little G——­, whom they took to be my son.  Was it not pleasant, when I had a heart so warm for this old country?  I shall never forget the thrill of those words, “Ye’re welcome to Scotland,” nor the “Gude night.”

After that we found similar welcomes in many succeeding stopping-places; and though I did wave a towel out of the window, instead of a pocket handkerchief, and commit other awkwardnesses, from not knowing how to play my part, yet I fancied, after all, that Scotland and we were coming on well together.  Who the good souls were that were thus watching for us through the night, I am sure I do not know; but that they were of the “one blood,” which unites all the families of the earth, I felt.

As we came towards Glasgow, we saw, upon a high hill, what we supposed to be a castle on fire—­great volumes of smoke rolling up, and fire looking out of arched windows.

“Dear me, what a conflagration!” we all exclaimed.  We had not gone very far before we saw another, and then, on the opposite side of the car, another still.

“Why, it seems to me the country is all on fire.”

“I should think,” said Mr. S., “if it was in old times, that there had been a raid from the Highlands, and set all the houses on fire.”

“Or they might be beacons,” suggested C.

To this some one answered out of the Lay of the Last Minstrel,—­

  “Sweet Teviot, by thy silver tide
  The glaring bale-fires blaze no more.”

As we drew near to Glasgow these illuminations increased, till the whole air was red with the glare of them.

“What can they be?”

“Dear me,” said Mr. S., in a tone of sudden recollection, “it’s the iron works!  Don’t you know Glasgow is celebrated for its iron works?”

So, after all, in these peaceful fires of the iron works, we got an idea how the country might have looked in the old picturesque times, when the Highlanders came down and set the Lowlands on fire; such scenes as are commemorated in the words of Roderick Dhu’s song:—­