King Robert the Bruce never got justice from my cousin or myself in childhood.  It was enough for us that he was a king while Wallace was the man of the people.  Sir John Graham was our second.  The intensity of a Scottish boy’s patriotism, reared as I was, constitutes a real force in his life to the very end.  If the source of my stock of that prime article—­courage—­were studied, I am sure the final analysis would find it founded upon Wallace, the hero of Scotland.  It is a tower of strength for a boy to have a hero.

It gave me a pang to find when I reached America that there was any other country which pretended to have anything to be proud of.  What was a country without Wallace, Bruce, and Burns?  I find in the untraveled Scotsman of to-day something still of this feeling.  It remains for maturer years and wider knowledge to tell us that every nation has its heroes, its romance, its traditions, and its achievements; and while the true Scotsman will not find reason in after years to lower the estimate he has formed of his own country and of its position even among the larger nations of the earth, he will find ample reason to raise his opinion of other nations because they all have much to be proud of—­quite enough to stimulate their sons so to act their parts as not to disgrace the land that gave them birth.

It was years before I could feel that the new land could be anything but a temporary abode.  My heart was in Scotland.  I resembled Principal Peterson’s little boy who, when in Canada, in reply to a question, said he liked Canada “very well for a visit, but he could never live so far away from the remains of Bruce and Wallace.”

CHAPTER II

DUNFERMLINE AND AMERICA

My good Uncle Lauder justly set great value upon recitation in education, and many were the pennies which Dod and I received for this.  In our little frocks or shirts, our sleeves rolled up, paper helmets and blackened faces, with laths for swords, my cousin and myself were kept constantly reciting Norval and Glenalvon, Roderick Dhu and James Fitz-James to our schoolmates and often to the older people.

I remember distinctly that in the celebrated dialogue between Norval and Glenalvon we had some qualms about repeating the phrase,—­“and false as hell.”  At first we made a slight cough over the objectionable word which always created amusement among the spectators.  It was a great day for us when my uncle persuaded us that we could say “hell” without swearing.  I am afraid we practiced it very often.  I always played the part of Glenalvon and made a great mouthful of the word.  It had for me the wonderful fascination attributed to forbidden fruit.  I can well understand the story of Marjory Fleming, who being cross one morning when Walter Scott called and asked how she was, answered: 

“I am very cross this morning, Mr. Scott.  I just want to say ‘damn’ [with a swing], but I winna.”