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or is needed for these lengthy and well-worded "testimonies."

Now-a-days, when the excessive division of labour is only counterbalanced by the intercommunication of ideas, shrewd Scotsmen are alive to the fact that to draw a cordon round one little corner of the earth would be what has been called an act of suicidal quarantine. They recognise that the world was made wide, and they travel by an instinct of intellectual preservation.


When once planted down, even in a barren land, a peculiarity of the thistle as a typically northern production is its power of getting on in the world, and of flourishing and multiplying in circumstances where other and ordinary plants would starve. George Eliot somewhere remarks that nettle-seed needs no digging. It would be equally correct to say that thistle-seed needs no sowing. Like its dandelion neighbours, the thistle sends off its seeds as wind-borne specks. seeds are distributed far and near, and the race soon spreads in a kind of geometrical ratio. It is therefore no light thing to bring even one thistle-head into a new country, for the plant is an enterprising colonist. As has been remarked, "wherever the battles of the Empire are to be fought, wherever the greatness of the Empire is to be advanced, or the work of the Empire to be done, Scotsmen are there in the van to do it."

Lord Roberts, speaking in his "Forty-One Yearsin India" of the first breach made in the walls of Lucknow during the mutiny, tells us that a Highlander reached the goal first, and was immediately shot dead -"A drummer boy of the 93rd must have been one of the first to pass that grim boundary between life and death, for when I got in I found him just inside the breach, lying on his back, quite dead-a pretty, innocent-looking, fair-haired lad, not more than

fourteen years of age." With regard to his return south after the successful completion of the Afghan campaign, the gallant General, in another portion of the volume referred to, says :-" Riding through the Bolan Pass, I overtook most of the regiments marching towards Sibi, thence to disperse to their respective destinations. As I parted with each corps in turn, its band played Auld Lang Syne,' and I have never since heard that memory-stirring air without its bringing before my mind's eye the last view I had of the Kabul-Kandahar Field Force. I fancy I hear the martial beat of drums and plaintive music of the pipes. I shall never forget the feeling of sadness with which I said good-bye to the men who had done so much for me.'

In spite of their different origin and different languages Highlanders and Lowland Scotch have long been at unity in regard to national feeling. Both are intensely patriotic. As Buckle said, "the chief glory of the Scotch was that, next to their God, they loved their country. At the same time the Scotch were the most ubiquitous and cosmopolitan of people." It has indeed been said that a Scotchman was never more at home than when he was abroad. A well-known story is told of an English interpreter with a Turkish army who was expressing his dislike of the Scotch when one of the Turkish soldiers broke out-" Gin ye dare abuse my countrymen I'll gae ye a clout on the lug that ye'll no forget till Hallowe'en, for I'm Willie Forbes o' the Gorbals." Soon after this a Russian prisoner was brought in, and to the surprise of the interpreter, he and William Forbes turned out to be countrymen, and soon joined hands in singing "Auld Lang Syne."


The Scotsman is thus an ubiquitous creature. where you will you cannot entirely free yourself from his presence, or escape from the circle of his influence.

"The prophetic insinuation has been advanced," said an American at a "Caledonian meeting recently, "that if ever success should crown the hardy explorer's search for the North Pole, an Irishman will be found complacently enjoying a smoke on the top of it. We are prepared to stake our bottom dollar that if Pat hasn't the company of a Scotsman in his smoke, it's only because the Scot will have gone to investigate the nature of his surroundings."

In the field, in the council, in science and art,
With valour, with wisdom, and genius, thy part
Thou actest; and earth has no kingdom or clime,
Where thy sons do not further the promised good time.

"Go where you will," said Lord Tweedmouth recently at a St Andrew's banquet, "you will find a Scot, and generally you will find him somewhere on the surface. He is a settler in the backwoods of Canada, a squatter in the Australian bush, a tea planter in Ceylon, and the burr of his Doric is predominant in the South Sea Islands. He is a mining engineer on the golden Rand, and runs a coffee plantation in the wilds of Central Africa. How many Scotch engineers of the Macandrews type, immortalised by Kipling, are scattered over the globe, no one knows. The average Scot will go anywhere, and do anything, even to the length of commanding an army.' To every corner of the habitable globe the Scotsman has thus penetrated, and wherever he has gone he has upheld the traditions of the race to which he belongs, and, by indomitable pluck and perseverance the birthright of his country -fought his way to the front.

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My loved Caledonia! still in the van,

For the faith of the Christian, the rights of the man,
Thy sons have been found, they have blazoned thy name,
And placed it on high in the temple of fame.

The word "Scotland" is synonymous with a steri

hardihood of nature, a tenacious independence of spirit, a straightforward bluntness of manner, 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 names— her wild and majestic mountains, her bonnie 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

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