inburgh high-school porter, of the
name of Boee, was perhaps of the same blood as a certain Bui, a Northern
Kemp, who distinguished himself at the battle of Horinger Bay. A pretty
matter, forsooth, to excite the ridicule of a Scotchman! Why, is there a
beggar or trumpery fellow in Scotland who does not pretend to be
somebody, or related to somebody? Is not every Scotchman descended from
some king, kemp, or cow-stealer of old, by his own account at least?
Why, the writer would even go so far as to bet a trifle that the poor
creature who ridicules Boee's supposed ancestry has one of his own, at
least, as grand and as apocryphal as old Boee's of the high school.

The same Charlie o'er the water person is mightily indignant that
Lavengro should have spoken disrespectfully of William Wallace; Lavengro,
when he speaks of that personage, being a child of about ten years old,
and repeating merely what he had heard. All the Scotch, by-the-by, for a
great many years past, have been great admirers of William Wallace,
particularly the Charlie o'er the water people, who in their
nonsense-verses about Charlie generally contrive to bring in the name of
William, Willie, or Wullie Wallace. The writer begs leave to say that he
by no means wishes to bear hard against William Wallace, but he cannot
help asking why, if William, Willie, or Wullie Wallace was such a
particularly nice person, did his brother Scots betray him to a certain
renowned southern warrior, called Edward Longshanks, who caused him to be
hanged and cut into four in London, and his quarters to be placed over
the gates of certain towns? They got gold, it is true, and titles, very
nice things no doubt; but surely the life of a patriot is better than all
the gold and titles in the world--at least, Lavengro thinks so; but
Lavengro has lived more with gypsies than Scotchmen, and gypsies do not
betray their brothers. It would be some time before a gypsy would hand
over his brother to the harum-beck, {365} even supposing you would not
only make him a king, but a justice of the peace, and not only give him
the world, but the best farm on the Holkham estate; but gypsies are wild
foxes, and there is certainly a wonderful difference between the way of
thinking of the wild fox who retains his brush, and that of the scurvy
kennel creature who has lost his tail.

Ah! but thousands of Scotch, and particularly the Charlie o'er the water
people, will say: 'We didn't sell Willie Wal