models of business sense and kindly feeling. As a result the attendance is large and the interest enthusiastic, while the steadily increasing membership bears ample testimony to the growing popularity of the clan.

Mr. Watt has resided in Brooklyn for many years, and has occupied positions where his skill as a mechanical engineer has been warmly appreciated. Mr. Watt belongs to what may be called the old Scottish school of engineers, whose education and training not only familiarized them with every detail of mechanical appliances under construction, but who were taught to fit and finish every part of the most intricate machine. In these days of improved machinery and specialists in branches of engineering, it is gratifying to know that many of the thoroughly trained Scottish engineers are still in the front rank, and among them the subject of our sketch holds a worthy place.

Davis & Sanford, Photo.

PETER WATT,

Chief of Clan Macdonald, Brooklyn. The Order of Scottish Clans has been the means of bringing into prominence many of our countrymen whose acquaintance it is a pleasure to have, and whose friendship it is an honor to enjoy. Peter Watt, the honored Chief of Clan Macdonald, of Brooklyn, is a happy illustration of this fact. Of a modest and unassuming manner, Mr. Watt has endeared himself to the members of the order by his earnest and painstaking work on important committees, and his brother members showed their good sense by electing him to the Chiefship, which position he is filling for the second term with great credit to himself and with the warm approval of his fellow-members. In the conduct of the business of the clan, the Macdonalds, under Chief Watt, are

DONALD ROSS,

President New York Scottish Celtic Scciety.

The Scottish Celtic Society of New York was organized in 1892, and has a membership of over 200. Its monthly meetings are held in Caledonian Hall, and are among the most enjoyable gatherings of a Scottish kind in the metropolis. Mr. Donald Ross, the worthy President, is an enthusiastic and warm-hearted Celt, who has not forgotten his mother tongue, or the early teachings of his Presbyterian ancestry. He has resided in New York over twenty years, and occupies a position as manager in one of the largest building firms in the city. Mr. Ross entered the employ of the company as a carpenter, and was gradually promoted till he

reached his present responsible position. Mr. Ross has been an active member of several of the Scottish societies, and is one of the founders of the Celtic Society. He is a capable and gentlemanly presiding officer, and has the happy faculty of bringing out the best that is in a meeting in the way of agreeable entertainment. Under his kindly guidance the meetings of the Celtic Society take the form of a literary and musical entertainment, where original papers on interesting Celtic subjects are read and discussed,

and where musical selections of a vocal and instrumental kind are rendered with marked ability.

It is pleasing to observe that, like President Roosevelt, Mr. Ross is no believer in small families. We sincerely hope that the young generation will grow up to be worthy followers in the footsteps of their esteemed father, who is, in every sense of the word, a worthy descendant of a noble Celtic race, and an example of the best type of American citizenship.

In all the brilliant array of officers whom Lord Raglan led to the Crimea there was among them no better, no braver, soldier than Sir Colin Campbell. A great master in war, stout-hearted as a lion, deeply experienced in the modes of warfare practiced both in the East and West, he could read the dispositions of a battlefield as an enthusiast might the figures on a chessboard. He "was not the slave, he was the master of his calling." His rank was that of a Colonel, his command that of a brigade. He was a strong link between the past and the present. His head was white with the snows, and his face marked with the lines, of sixty years. While but a boy of 16 he had been under fire at Vimiera. There his batallion was formed in open column of companies, and his captain took the young ensign by the hand, led him in front of the first company, and slowly walked with him for several minutes under fire.

The object was to give the youth confidence, and writing of it long years afterwards, Campbell said: "It was the greatest kindness that could have been shown me at such a time." As the youth passed from boyhood to manhood, he was a "partaker in the great transactions which were then beginning to work out the liberation of Europe." He had seen the wane of Napoleon's and the rise of Wellington's star. He had fought at Corunna, he had gone through the Walcheren expedition. He was in the fight at Barossa, helped to defend Tarifa and relieve Taragona; took part in the combats of Malaga and Osma, and had the rare courage to lead a forlorn hope at the assault on San Sebastian. Two wounds proved the fierceness of the combat. At Vittoria, at the passage of the Bidasso, in the American war of 1814, in the West Indies, in the Chinese war of 1842, he had served his country and learned the

science of war. As the years grew upon him the maturity of his experience proved him no less capable a leader than youth had shown him to be full of dash and valor. At Chilianwallah he made the supreme movement of the day, and if he did not effect a triumph of arms, he received his fourth wound in the battle. He commanded a division at Goojerat, and so pressed the enemy's retreat that they left 158 guns behind. Subsequently he forced the Kobat Pass, and closed a great tribal war by forcing 8,000 men beyond the Indus to lay down their arms. Such was the record of this old brigadier, whose only honor up till now had been the Knighthood bestowed for services at Chilianwallah. No man with an equal record stood on the field in all Raglan's grand array, no man present loved war with such deep, fierce passion as he, and no rugged face lit up with such uncontrollable joy at the prospect of battle.

But, as we have said, Sir Colon took the field with the rank of brigadier, and his star was soon to be in the ascendant. In command of a brigade! And such a brigade! His time had come when, ranged in order of battle, his three batallions of plumed and plaided Highlanders stood waiting his command. His heart swelled with pride as he glanced along these stately ranks. The men were of his own race the Highland warrior blood coursed in all their veins; and their perfect discipline, their splendid physique, and eager look had in them the promise of heroic achievement. They were regiments with a past-the Black Watch led by Duncan, the son of his old chief, Sir John Cameron; the 79th Cameron Highlanders, led by John, the son of his Peninsular comrade, Sir Neil Douglas; and the 93d, led by gallant Colonel Ainslie.

The two former regiments had a record for brilliant service second to none in the army, and the 93d was unsurpassed in the Crimea for its dash and fire-eating temper-a temper which was only restrained by the iron will of the brigadier.

His advent at the Alma was dramatic. His command occupied the extreme left of the Allied line, and the tide of battle rolled from right to left. The brigade of guards forming the other part of the First Division had crossed the river, and met the enemy on the further slopes of Alma side. The fighting was close and fierce, but the weight of the Russian batallions told against the slender lines of British infantry. The Fusilier Guards, the Coldstreams, the Welsh Fusiliers had in turn tried to secure a footing in the great redoubt which faced them; but they were again and again driven out and down the slope now strewn with dead and slippery with blood. The the shrill war notes of the pibroch pealed forth as the dark tartan of the Black Watch bounded forward, and Sir Colin alone rode on in advance to read the map of the theater of action. His horse was shot under him; he remounted speedily; he gained the height, and then he saw his work before him. His three regiments were advancing against twelve, and these the flower of the Czar's batallions. We need not tell again the story of how the Highland regiments in succession bounded up the slope; how the old man steadied and dressed them for action; how each chose its foe, and enveloped him in his fire; how men watching the advance and charge saw that the result of the battle was no longer doubtful; how the struggling Russians, caught in the toils and exposed to the merciless pressure of Highland valor, wavered, burst into moans of despair,

became confused, then turned and fled; how the old brigadier raised his hand in signal, and the cheer of triumph rang out on the hillside, and accelerated the flight of the discomfited Muscovites; how Lord Raglan rode up to Sir Colin with eyes filling and lips quivering, and silently grasped his hand; and how he promised the victorious brigadier that he should have a Highland bonnet in celebration of his achievement.

The next episode in Sir Colin's history was that in which he matched the "thin red line" of Sutherland Highlanders against Liprandi's horse at Balaclava. With the rank of major-general, Sir Colin had been appointed Governor of Balaclava, and he suddenly found himself called upon to meet the Russian attack with the only regiment-550 strongthat lay between them and his valuable charge. He did not throw his men into square. Upon the cool courage of the 93d in slender two-deep line he staked his chances, and they were very unpromising. He rode down the ranks. "Now, men," he said, "remember there is no retreat from here. You must die where you stand!" The response was decided and cheerful, and quickly became impetuous: "Ay, ay, Sir Colon; an' need be, we'll do that!" It is worthy of record that the speaker was John Scott, the right-hand man of No. 6 Company. He advanced the line to the crest of a slope, he steadied its eagerness in language which lacked politeness rather than 'force; and then, Liprandi's squadrons-in brave and glittering show-rode on to their doom. One withering volley which emptied scores of saddles, a pause to reload, during which the thunder of the galloping hoofs fell ominously on the ear, then another line of leveled muskets, a spurt

ing of fire from flank to flank, and riders and men were rolling on the plain. A moment, and those who could were riding back in full flight, and a great victory had

been won.

IN AN ARRAN GLEN. BY ALEXANDER LAMONT. A deep and cool sequestered nook, Beneath the fresh, green hazel trees; New pages turned of Nature's book In every rustle from the breeze. The lonely, moss-encompassed linn, The solitary curlew's calls; The ceaseless, unobtrusive din

Of sparkling, soothing waterfalls.

The trout's swift gleaming in the stream,
The mosses on the rocky ledge;
The ferns asleep in noonday dream

Along the banks' enameled edge.
The silent rocks, with patient gaze,

Living their place in God's dear will; The thrush that, through the sunny days, Comes down and drinks, then pipes his fill. The tender, far-off glitterings,

Where waters pass the sunlit glade;
The glow of shining, gladsome wings,
Ere yet they seek the solemn shade.
The lark which sings its silvery song
From feathered throat and heart of praise;
The vagrant bee that hums along

With busy wing and eager gaze,
The light that all the spirit fills;
The shade that compasseth the soul;
The bleating lambs upon the hills;

The shining stream's melodious roll.
The flowers that through the summer day
Woo their own shadows in the stream.
Then droop and clasp and float away-
The wooed and wooer in a dream.

The lullaby, all sweet and soft,

Of waters, to the grateful ear; The friends we think of now so oft,

Who never more can meet us here. The bright glare of the setting sun, The cloud-bars in the amber West; The hours that we have yet to run, The souls who now have reached their rest!

In these days of great plans and great achievements, with wonderful resources at our command, we naturally long for something more and better than we possess; we desire to find out the secret of a successful life, and the study of such a life with its struggles, disappointments and final success, due to persistent efforts, is a great inspiration.

There are thousands who have received invaluable help from the Hammond Typewriter, and are grateful for this useful invention, who have never heard of the years of toil and painstaking effort that led to the final triumph.

James Bartlett Hammond, the inventor of the typewriter, and president of the

company, is a man still in the prime of life, though his machine has been before the public over twenty years. He was born in Boston, April, 1839, and his ancestors on both sides were among the first colonists of Massachusetts, and were identified with the first Puritan Church in Boston, as early as 1639. Mr. Hammond was a good student, and showed his ability by winning the Franklin medal at the Mother School when only 12 years of age. He attended the Boston High School, and is a graduate of Phillips Academy at Andover, where his name is enrolled among other distinguished scholars and great inventors. He was graduated from the University of Vermont with honors in