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 sovereigns, and the length and breadth of her sceptre's reach and rule around the world.
There was a Border-land between Britain and Ireland, blackened and scarred by more burning antagonisms than those that once divided the larger island.

The record of several consecutive centuries is graven deep in it by the brand and bayonet, and by the more incisive teeth-marks of hate.

The slumbering antipathies of race and religion even now crop out here and there, over the unfused boundary, in hissing tongues of flame.