All the
Scotch, by the bye, 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, 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.
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