come, good men and true, don’t you feel a little awkward and uneasy when you walk under it?  Who was this to stand in heroic places? and is yon the man whom Scotchmen most delight to honor?  I must own deferentially that there is a tendency in North Britain to over-esteem its heroes.  Scotch ale is very good and strong, but it is not stronger than all the other beer in the world, as some Scottish patriots would insist.  When there has been a war, and stout old Sandy Sansculotte returns home from India or Crimea, what a bagpiping, shouting, hurraying, and self-glorification takes place round about him!  You would fancy, to hear McOrator after dinner, that the Scotch had fought all the battles, killed all the Russians, Indian rebels, or what not.  In Cupar-Fife, there’s a little inn called the “Battle of Waterloo,” and what do you think the sign is? (I sketch from memory, to be sure.)* “The Battle of Waterloo” is one broad Scotchman laying about him with a broadsword.  Yes, yes, my dear Mac, you are wise, you are good, you are clever, you are handsome, you are brave, you are rich, &c.; but so is Jones over the border.  Scotch salmon is good, but there are other good fish in the sea.  I once heard a Scotchman lecture on poetry in London.  Of course the pieces he selected were chiefly by Scottish authors, and Walter Scott was his favorite poet.  I whispered to my neighbor, who was a Scotchman (by the way, the audience were almost all Scotch, and the room was All-Mac’s—­I beg your pardon, but I couldn’t help it, I really couldn’t help it)—­“The professor has said the best poet was a Scotchman:  I wager that he will say the worst poet was a Scotchman, too.”  And sure enough that worst poet, when he made his appearance, was a Northern Briton.

     * This refers to an illustrated edition of the work.

And as we are talking of bragging, and I am on my travels, can I forget one mighty republic—­one—­two mighty republics, where people are notoriously fond of passing off their claret for port?  I am very glad, for the sake of a kind friend, that there is a great and influential party in the United, and, I trust, in the Confederate States,* who believe that Catawba wine is better than the best Champagne.  Opposite that famous old White House at Washington, whereof I shall ever have a grateful memory, they have set up an equestrian statue of General Jackson, by a self-taught American artist of no inconsiderable genius and skill.  At an evening-party a member of Congress seized me in a corner of the room, and asked me if I did not think this was the finest equestrian statue in the world?  How was I to deal with this plain question, put to me in a corner?  I was bound to reply, and accordingly said that I did not think it was the finest statue in the world.  “Well, sir,” says the Member of Congress, “but you must remember that Mr. M——­ had never seen a statue when he made this!” I suggested that to see