Here is the offending passage:
"A young literary Scotchman of my acquaintance generally passes a month once a year in the house of his father on the outskirts of Edinburgh. His father is a Presbyterian minister in a very enviable position. On the day of his departure, my friend invariably finds beside his plate at breakfast, a little paper carefully folded: it is the detailed account of the repasts he has taken during his stay under the paternal roof; in other words, his bill."
I never pretended to say that this kind of father was common in Scotland. I did not say I knew of two such fathers, I said I knew of one.
The Scotch have not yet digested my delicious Papa. In all parts of Scotland I was taken to task in the same manner.
"Come, come, my dear sir, own that it was not true, confess that it was a little bit of your own invention."
"His name, what is his name?" cried a few indiscreet ones.
I convinced a few, a few remained undecided; I even saw two or three go away still firmly believing the story was a creation of my brain.
I can only say that my friend did not appear to grumble at his father's treatment, for he finished by adding:
"On the whole, I do not complain, the bill is always very reasonable."
For that matter, I have come across a better case still.