Friend Mac Donald

The following little scene, of which I was a witness, proved to me that in the Scotchman the practical spirit is bound to assert itself. No matter whether it is Sunday: if he does evil on the Sabbath, he must do it well.

It was one Sunday afternoon in Edinburgh.

Several children were amusing themselves (proh pudor!), in a corner of Calton Hill Park, by piling up a heap of stones.

When the heap was a few inches high, the children retreated two or three yards and, each armed with a stone, began to try and knock down their little construction.

Up came a gentleman, indignant.

"Little scamps!" he began, "are you not ashamed of yourselves? Don't you know you are breaking the Sabbath?"

This impressive exhortation produced small effect upon the little arabs, who went on aiming at the heap, but without success, however.

By the movements of the man every time a stone missed its aim, I could see that if the worthy Scot was indignant at the scandalous conduct of the boys, their awkwardness inspired him with the most profound contempt.

Stone followed stone, but the heap remained intact.

The Scotchman could bear it no longer.

"Duffers!" he cried.

And picking up a stone, he aimed it at the heap, scattering it in all directions; then, with a last pitying glance at the young admiring troop, quietly resumed his walk.

Scotch moral.– Don't play at knocking down stones on the blessed Sabbath, it is a sin; however, if you do not fear to commit this sin, knock down the stones. Don't miss your aim, it is a crime.

This practical spirit shows itself on Sundays in many of the large towns in Great Britain.

In London, for instance, certain tramway companies double the tram-fares on Sundays. The Pharisees at the head of these companies say to themselves:

"We commit a sin in working on Sundays; let the sin be at least a remunerative one."

In France, our public gardens, such as the Jardin d'Acclimation and many others, reduce the price of admission on Sundays, in order to allow the working-people and their children to take a day of cheap and healthful recreation.

For a penny, I can any day of the week get taken by tram close to the magnificent Kew Gardens. The poor workman, who would like to go there on Sunday, is obliged to pay twopence to the company – one penny for his place, and another to appease the consciences of the shareholders.

CHAPTER XII

Scotch Bonhomie. – Humour and Quick-Wittedness. – Reminiscences of a Lecturer. – How the Author was once taken for an Englishman.

It seems strange that in this country, so religious as it is, most of the anecdotes which the people are fond of relating should refer to religion, and that the hero of them should generally be the minister. All that joking at the Scriptures, that parodying of the Bible, those little comic scenes at the poor minister's expense, seem at first sight to be in direct opposition with the national character. It is nothing of the kind, however. These anecdotes, which after all have in reality nothing irreverent in them, prove but one thing to us, and that is, that the Scotch are steeped over head and ears in Bible, and are not sorry to get a laugh out of it now and then: it does them good, it is a little relief to them, and – if I may believe Dean Ramsay, the great authority on Scotch anecdotes – the ministers are the first to set the example.

Those anecdotes, I repeat, are not irreverent: I have heard them told by Scotchmen who would not think of shaving on a Sunday for fear of giving the cook extra work to boil water early. (And do not smile if I add that in the evening, after supper, there was hot water on the table for the toddy. At that hour the water had had time to boil without occasioning any extra labour. At all events, this is how I accounted for the phenomenon.)

Their anecdotes, in a word, prove that the Scotch see a subtle, pithy point more easily than the English, whatever these latter may say, and that they are not so intolerant in matters religious as they are often represented to be.

The further north you go in Great Britain, the more quick-wittedness and humour you find. For quickness in seizing the signification of a gesture, a glance, a tone, I do not hesitate, if my opinion have the slightest value, to give the palm to the Scotch.

When, for instance, in lecturing, I remind my audience that the English have given the British Isles the name of "United Kingdom," the Scotch shake with laughter: the little point of sarcasm does not escape their intelligence. In England, I am generally obliged to pause on it and give them time to reflect; and once or twice, in the south, I was seized with a great temptation to cry out, à la Mark Twain, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a joke."

I have found all my audiences sympathetic and indulgent; but that which provokes a laugh in the north, often leaves the south indifferent. In Birmingham, Yorkshire, Lancashire, in all these great centres of British activity, and in Scotland, that which is appreciated in a humorous lecture is a bit of covert satire – a pleasantry accompanied by an imperturble look: the kind of fun that the English themselves call "dry and quiet." In the south, you often regret to see that a broad joke brings you a roar of applause; while some of your pet points, those that you are proudest of, will pass almost unnoticed.

Let me give you an idea of that which the lecturer has to swallow sometimes.

In a room, a few miles out of London, I had just given a lecture to the members of a literary Society.

In this lecture, wishing to show to my audience that enlightened and intelligent French people know how to appreciate British virtues, I had recited almost in its entirety that scene in the Prise de Pèkin, in which the hero, a Times correspondent, walks to execution with a firm step, defying the Emperor of China and his mandarins with the words, "La Hangleterre il était le première nation du monde."

The lecture over, I had retired with the chairman to the committee-room. Immediately after, a lady presented herself at the door and asked the chairman to introduce me to her.

After the usual salutations and compliments, the worthy lady said to me pointblank:

"You are not a Frenchman; I knew you were an Englishman."

"I am afraid the compliment is a little exaggerated," I responded; "certainly you cannot make me believe that I speak English so well as to pass for an Englishman."

"Oh! that is not it," she said; "but at the end of your lecture you gave us a French quotation with a very strong English accent."

I begged the lady to excuse me, as "I had a train to catch."

CHAPTER XIII

Drollery of Scotch Phraseology. – A Scotchman who Lost his Head. – Two Severe Wounds. – Premature Death. – A Neat Comparison. – Cold Comfort.

I have spoken in a preceding chapter of the picturesque manner in which the Scotch people of the old school express themselves. Here are two or three examples which will well illustrate what I mean.

I one day made the acquaintance of an old Scotch soldier. He had been present at the battle of Waterloo, and was fond of talking about the Napoleonic wars.

I started his favourite topic.

He described the battle of Waterloo to me with the most remarkable clearness. It was even touching to hear him give the details of the death of one of his comrades whose head had been shot off by a cannon-ball.

"Poor fellow," he added, "he will have to appear at the Last Day with his head under his arm."

"Were you ever wounded, yourself?" I asked.

"Yes," replied the old Scot with an imperturbable seriousness which made it impossible to suppose that he intended a joke; "I received two wounds – one at Quatre-Bras and the other in the right leg."

I once had a long conversation with an old lady of eighty-two, whose grandfather had served, in his youth, under Bonnie Prince Charlie. She related to me all the wonderful adventures of her ancestor, and when she had come to the end, added, with a gravity that was sublime:

"He's deed noo."

The conversation of these Scots of the old school is full of surprises. You must be ready for anything. In the very middle of the most pathetic story, out will come a remark that will make you shake with laughter. This drollery has all the more hold over you, because it is natural. The Scot is too natural to aim at being amusing, and it is just this simplicity, this naturalness, which disarms and overcomes you.

Donald has a way of looking at things which gives his remarks a piquancy that is irresistible: it almost takes your breath away sometimes, you feel quite floored.

A Scotch pastor was trying to give a farmer of his parish an idea of the delights which await us in Paradise.

"Yes, Donald," he cried, "it is a perpetual concert. There's Raphael singing, Gabriel accompanying him on the harp, and all the angels flapping their wings to express their joy. Oh, Donald, what a sublime sight! You cannot imagine anything like it."