s horse if he had the permission.
He did not hesitate about trifles, as we know; but he was a very
truth-telling and honorable soldier: and as for heroic rank and
statuesque dignity, I would wager a dozen of '20 port against a bottle
of pure and sound Bordeaux, at 18s. per dozen (bottles included), that
he never would think of claiming any such absurd distinction. They have
got a statue of Thomas Moore at Dublin, I hear. Is he on horseback? Some
men should have, say, a fifty years' lease of glory. After a while some
gentlemen now in brass should go to the melting furnace, and reappear in
some other gentleman's shape. Lately I saw that Melville column rising
over Edinburgh; 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 il