lities between England and Scotland.
The deed has been consummated. The valor and patriotism of Wallace
and Bruce could not prevent it. The sheep of English and Scotch
shepherds feed side by side on these mountain heights, in spite of
Stirling and Bannockburn, of Flodden and Falkirk. The Iron Horse,
bearing the blended arms of the two realms on his shield, walks over
those battle-fields by night and day, treading their memories deeper
and deeper in the dust. The lambs are playing in the sun on the
boundary line of the two dominions. Does a Scot of to-day love his
native land less than the Campbell clansman or clan-chief in Bruce's
time? Not a whit. He carries a heartful of its choicest memories
with him into all countries of his sojourning. But there is a
larger sentiment that includes all these filial feelings towards his
motherland, while it draws additional warmth and strength from them.
It is the sentiment of Imperial Nationality; the feeling of a
Briton, that does not extinguish nor absorb, nor compete with, the
Scot in his heart;--the feeling that he is a political constituent
of a mighty nation, whose feet stand upon all the continents of the
earth, while it holds the best islands of the sea in its hands;--the
feeling with which he says _We_ with all the millions of a dominion
on which the sun never sets, and _Our_, when he speaks of its grand
and common histories, its hopes, prospects, progress, power and
aspirations.

There was a Border-land, dark and bloody, between Saxon England and
Celtic Wales. For centuries the red foot-marks of savage conflict
scarred and covered its wild waste. Never before did so small a
people make so stout, and desperate and protracted struggle for
local independence and isolation. Never did one produce a more
strong-hearted and blind-eyed patriotism, or patriotism more poets
to thrill the listeners to their lays with the intoxicating
fanaticism of a national sentiment. On that Border-land the white
lambs now lie in the sun. The Welsh sentiment is as strong as ever
in the Snowdon shepherd, and he may not speak a dozen words of the
English tongue. But the Briton lives in his breast. The feeling of
its great meaning surrounds and illumines the inner circles of his
local attachment. He may never have seen a map of the Globe, and
never have been outside the wall of the Welsh mountains; but he
knows, without geography, who and what Queen Victoria is among the
earth's sove