Scotch religion is only another chestnut-bur, but then you need not eat the shuck if you fear it will not agree with your inward state.  Nevertheless, if the example of royalty is of value, the fact can be stated that Victoria, Queen of Great Britain and Empress of India, is a Presbyterian.  That is, she is a Presbyterian about one-half the time—­when she is in Scotland, for she is the head of the Scottish Kirk.  When in England, of course she is an Episcopalian.  We have often been told that religion is largely a matter of geography, and here is a bit of something that looks like proof.

Of Scotch whisky I am not competent to speak, so that subject must be left to the experts.  But a Kentucky colonel at my elbow declares that it can not be compared with the Blue-Grass article; though I trust that no one will be prejudiced against it on that account.

Scotch intellect, however, is worthy of our serious consideration.  It is a bold, rocky headland, standing out into the tossing sea of the Unknown.  Assertive?  Yes.  Stubborn?  Most surely.  Proud?  By all means.  Twice as many pilgrims visit the grave of Burns as that of Shakespeare.  Buckle declares Adam Smith’s “Wealth of Nations” has had a greater influence on civilization than any other book ever writ—­save none; and the average Scotchman knows his Carlyle a deal better than the average American knows his Emerson:  in fact, four times as many of Carlyle’s books have been printed.

When Carlyle took time to bring the ponderous machinery of his intellect to bear on a theme, he saw it through and through.  The vividness of his imagination gives us a true insight into times long since gone by; it shows virtue her own feature, vice her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.  In history he goes beyond the political and conventional—­showing us the thought, the hope, the fear, the passion of the soul.

His was the masculine mind.  The divination and subtle intuitions which are to be found scattered through his pages, like violets growing among the rank swale of the prairies—­all these sweet, odorous things came from his wife.  She gave him of her best thought, and he greedily absorbed it and unconsciously wrote it down as his own.

There are those who blame and berate; volumes have been written to show the inconsiderateness of this man toward the gentle lady who was his intellectual comrade.  But they know not life who do this thing.

It is a fact that Carlyle never rushed to pick up Jeannie’s handkerchief.  I admit that he could not bow gracefully; that he could not sing tenor, nor waltz, nor tell funny stories, nor play the mandolin; and if I had been his neighbor I would not have attempted to teach him any of these accomplishments.

Once he took his wife to the theater; and after the performance he accidentally became separated from her in the crowd and trudged off home alone and went to bed forgetting all about her—–­but even for this I do not indict him.  Mrs. Carlyle never upbraided him for this forgetfulness, neither did she relate the incident to any one, and for these things I to her now reverently lift my hat.