It is not uncomplimentary to the Celtic spirit, I hope, to say that the Celtic spirit is a little impracticable. ‘They don't know what they want, and they won't be satisfied till they get it,’ said an Irish orator of his own countrymen. This is the aspiring temper, incapable of yielding to circumstances, which Mr. Matthew Arnold calls ‘Titanic’ when it exhibits itself in literature. The ancient Celts had a law, it appears, which punished a man who, when arrayed in line of battle, ‘stuck out too much in front.’ This contempt of circumstances, which made the Celts of old decline to be frightened even by earthquakes, displays itself in the whole Celtic land difficulty. Land cultivated in a certain fashion, that is in small lots, does not pay in some places. A Teuton would therefore give up his farm. But the Celt won't; he just stops there.

A few weeks ago I had the chance to see a very wretched sight, a Highland eviction, which illustrated these Titanic Celtic qualities.

It was a very wet afternoon, and I was walking along Strathwhacket (let us call it), in conversation with a charming old Highlander. He carried my rod and creel (empty), but his conversation was as good as any one is likely to find anywhere. He spoke of Montrose's wars, and was not on the side of the Argyles. He spoke of the Taishtaragh (I think he called it) or second sight. ‘Every man sees three sights in his lifetime they say,’ he remarked, and confessed that he had not even seen one ‘sight’ yet. ‘But there is a man at Fort William who sees everything that is going to happen.’ I suggested that this gentleman might make a rapid fortune if he would turn his inspired gaze on the British Turf, but at that moment we noticed a great brown smoke hanging in the wet air. It was an eviction. The ‘sight’ was not of the supernatural kind which the gillie spoke of, but it was fit to make a mark on the memory. Beyond the river there was a high, wooded hill, all blue in the rain.