hardihood of nature, a tenacious independence of spirit, a straightforward bluntness of mauner, a marvellous adaptability of character, all dominated by a substratum of thrifty enterprise-a trait which, perhaps more than any other in his character, is accountable for his success as a colonist.

It has been pointed out that Scotsmen think better than they can speak, and can speak better than they can write. If this is the case it ought to carry with it no discouragement, for, with some reservation, it means that we excel in what nature gives, and are deficient in that which an enlarged experience and a careful training should supply.

The mind of the Anglo-Saxon is large and wide, and its sympathies partake of the same character ; the Scottish mind is deep and narrow, working in a more limited circumference, but it sees more deeply, and feels more intensely than the English. Hence Scot

land is distinguished above all other countries for its strength and power in the personal and domestic affections. Hence, also, it is that our poets of the past as well as of the present have produced little poetry that does not bear or impinge on this relation, and that is not necessarily of the personal or lyrical description.

It is said of Sir Walter Scott that he loved no music but the music of his own land, and it moved his great spirit. Young says that once when listening to his favourite daughter, Mrs Lockhart, singing "Charlie is my Darling," his light blue eyes kindled, the blood mantled in his cheek, his nostril quivered, his big chest heaved, until, unable any longer to suppress the emotions evoked by his native melodies in favour of a ruined cause, he sprang from his chair, limped across the room, and, to the peril of those within his reach, brandishing his crutch as if it had

been a brand of steel, shouted out with more of vigour than melody—

An' as the folk cam' rinnin' oot

To greet the Chevalier

Oh Charlie is my darling!

At a recent social gathering of Scotsmen in Jamaica, the chairman, in proposing the toast of "Scotia and Scotsmen," said the Scottish people differed in one important respect from other races, and that was "in the intensity of the personal affection they entertained towards their native country as a country. Other nations were very proud of their country, but, as a rule, this feeling of affection on the part of most other races was mixed up with some other sort of feeling. For example-The emigrant sings of Ireland, but as he does so he calls up in his mind memories of some blue-eyed Bridget or Kathleen Mavourneen. The Englishman was very proud of England, and he sang of England, but in his mind that dear name was associated with wooden walls, or, perhaps, with roast beef. But it was only in the Scottish song that they found people pouring out their hearts in adoration of Scotland, simply because it was Scotland."

Thou art dearest to me ever,
From my bosom banish never;
Naught but death will e'er us sever,
Bonnie, bonnie Scotland.

Scotland, it has been said, under her many namesher wild and najestic mountains, her bounie banks and braes, her wimplin burns and flowing rivers, all that we mean when we say Scotland-has called forth from the heart of her sons and daughters an ardent love expressed in simple poetry which has been equalled in no other country. What a number could be mentioned who have added to our literature perhaps only one or two songs or short poems, but these of the

richest and best kind.. All that many of them have done, of the very highest beauty, might be printed and framed like a picture, but the frame should be of pure gold.

If you once win your way to a Scotsman's heart nothing is too good for you, and the generosity of Scottish hospitality is probably unequalled anywhere. The ties of relationship are sacredly observed, although sometimes this clannishness finds a quaint expression. A story is told of a beggar-woman who had wandered into a Scottish hamlet asking alms, but asking in vain. At last, in despair, she exclaimed, "Is there no a Christian in this village ?" "Na, na," was the reply, "we're a' Johnstones and Jardines here."

On almost every conceivable and inconceivable subject the Scottish writers have allowed full play to their imagination, and the result has been made apparent in the beautifully-woven words of song, full of that something which grasps and holds by the subtlety of its tender spell that part of man's being where lie the mainsprings of life. Everyone knows that every glen, mountaiu, aud moor in Scotland is celebrated in touching, heart-felt, and heroic song. These artless effusions have, of old, been handed down from generation to generation, and in the long winter evenings their recital were an ever ready source of instruction and amusement. No doubt, since printing became so general, the custom has now in a great measure died out. The mother of James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, in a conversation with Sir Walter Scott in regard to this, thus speaks :"There was never ane o' my sangs printit till ye printit them yoursel', an' ye hae spoilt them awthegither. They were made for singing and no for reading, but ye hae broken the charm now, and they'll never be sung mair. And the worst thing o' a', they're neither right spelled nor right setten down."

With respect to Scotland and the sister country, it is a strange fact that Scotland has produced more genuine lyrical poets than any other nation, ancient or moderu, and that England has produced fewer. one can deny that England has her ballads, and otherwise she has produced some of the highest poetry, but she has only to a very limited extent succeeded in cultivating that terse, condensed form of poem which merely reflects the feelings, sentiments, interests, or opinions of the individual. In the strict lyric, intellectually, the field of view is narrow, but there is always depth under the surface.

The Scottish dialect, so simple, touching, and pawky, lends itself so naturally to song that the feelings of the illiterate as well as of the educated seem to flow more copiously into lyrical expression than is the case in other countries. We give many bright examples of the fact that the "Doric phrase is still known- is still spoken and written in all its expressive purity and touching tenderness. As its

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hamely worth and couthie speech" are endeared by many kindly associations of the past, and by many beauties and poetical graces of its own, and as our songs are said to be the richest gems in Scotia's literary diadem, let every true son of Scotland cherish and defend the brave words of the late Janet Hamilton

Na, na, I winna pairt wi' that,
I downa gi'e it up;

O' Scotlan's haniely mither tongue
I canna quat the grup.

It's 'bedded in my very heart,

Ye needna rive an' rug;

It's in my e'en an' on my tongue,
An' singin' in my lug.

For, oh, the meltin' Doric lay,

In cot or clachan sung,

The words that drap like hinny dew

Frae mither Scotia's tongue,
Ha'e power to thrill the youthfu' heart
An' fire the patriot's min';
To saften grief in ilka form,

It comes to human kin'.

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We need not here enter on the vexed question of the official and too general obliteration of the proper title Britain," and the substitution of England." This is a subject of ever-recurring interest, and it has been threshed and discussed to such an extent that everyone knows it by heart. We can only see that one advantage accrues from the impropriety-"England" is held responsible throughout the world for everything done that has wounded or displeased other nations; and so, as a patriotic speaker lately said, "it is a most convenient thing always to have a wicked partner in the firm."

In this busy world it is sometimes good to look backward, and beneficial to have the shield of our nationality occasionally burnished. It stirs our nobler feeling, and inspires us for fresh effort. It is this that has made Scotsmen what they are. As Lord Rosebery recently said in one of his speeches on Burns-We rejoice to find that Scotland, which has always been the foe of the oppressor, the friend and shelter of the oppressed, is unchanged and unchangeable. "The Psalms of David and the songs of Burns-but the Psalmist first," were the last words of Professor Blackie, and they contain the secret of many a Scottish character. Strangers wonder at our worship, but they do not understand the enthusiasm exerted by a sympathy that survives time and the grave, or the pride that cherishes a national and immortal heirloom.

In conclusion, we would express the hope that it will be found that our original design has been in some