Friend Mac Donald

Guid folk are scarce, tak care o' me. The Normans say: "Good folks are scarce in the parish, take care of me."

He that cheats me ance, shame fa' him; he that cheats me twice, shame fa' me. A proverb that well illustrates Scotch caution.

The fear of the devil has inspired many Scotch proverbs, which are in constant use still.

The de'il's nae sae ill as he's caaed. A delicate little compliment to his Satanic Majesty: the Scot is right, one never knows what may happen, it is as well to make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness. A personage who receives so few compliments is likely to remember with pleasure the folks who pay them.

The same neat spirit of flattery is visible in the following proverb:

It's a sin to lee on the de'il.

The de'il's bairns hae de'il's luck, and the de'il's aye gude to his ain, are used to hurl at people who excite jealousy by their success.

Scotch sarcasm is well illustrated in such a proverb as:

Ye wad do little for God gin the de'il war deid. This is reducing the unco' guid to the level of devil dodgers.

It's ill to wauken sleepin' dogs. This is rather hard on the dog, who certainly cannot be considered the emblem of wickedness and hypocrisy. In France we say: "Do not waken the sleeping cat," and I think with more show of reason.

The following is full of poetry:

The evening bring a' hame. The evening brings the family together around the hearth, and in the evening of life man turns his thoughts homewards, forgets the faults of his neighbours, and lays aside disputes and strivings.

Let him tak a spring on his ain fiddle, says a proverb that illustrates the coolness with which Donald will bide his time. A lawyer, who had to listen to an eloquent tirade of an opponent in court, contented himself with remarking: "Aweel, aweel, sir, you're welcome to a tune on your ain fiddle; but see if I dinna gar ye dance till't afore it's dune."

The same idea occurs in:

Ne'er let on but laugh i' your ain sleeve.

A travelled man has leave to lee: Folks will not go to far countries to prove his words. O Tartarin de Tarascon!

Better learn by your neighbour's skaith than your ain skin. So might Cleopatra have said when she tried the effect of poisons on her slaves before making her own choice.

Drink little that ye may drink lang, is a piece of advice Donald has well laid to heart, only he has modified the first part considerably.

I think I have quoted enough proverbs to prove that the Scot has the measure of his neighbour, and knows how to make use of him.

Most of them have a smack of realism which shows that Donald has a serious aim in life, that of being a successful man.

Even the use he makes of the precepts of the Bible proves it. He uses his Bible, but adapts to his purpose the lessons he finds therein.

The Bible is his servant rather than his master, and has this good about it, that with a little cleverness it can be made to prove anything.

If he sometimes come across a precept which is perfectly clear and irrefutable, Donald does not scruple to ignore it.

I was talking with a Scotchman one evening about the different religions of the world, and I remarked to him that when the Mussulmans call us "dogs of Christians," it is not because we are Christians, for they are admirers of the Christian religion, but simply because we do not follow the precepts of Christianity.

"The Mussulmans are quite right," I said, "Christianity is the grandest thing in the world; but Christians are mostly 'Pharisees and hypocrites' who believe little in their religion and act up to it still less."

He, on the contrary, maintained that Christians were no less admirable than their faith, that they followed the precepts contained in the Sermon on the Mount to the letter, and finally that of all Christians the Scotch were the cream.

We argued long without either of us convincing the other, and I must admit that my host, who was a much cleverer theologian than myself, had the last word.

In taking leave of him that night, I was bold enough to return to the charge. "Come, my dear sir," I began, "if we receive a blow on our right cheek, the Scriptures command us to offer our left also. If a man struck you on the right cheek, now what would you do?"

"What would I do?" he said after drawing a great whiff at his pipe. "What would I do? By Jove, I'd give him two that he wouldn't soon forget, I can tell you!"

I shook hands with my host, and retired in triumph.

CHAPTER XXIII

Massacre of the English Tongue. – Donald the Friend of France. – Scotch Anecdotes again. – Reason of their Drollery. – Picturesque Dialect. – Dry Old Faces. – A Scotch Chambermaid. – Oddly-placed Moustachios. – My Chimney smokes. – Sarcastic Spirit. – A good Chance of entering Paradise thrown away. – Robbie Burns and the Greenock Shopkeeper.

The Scotch may be recognised at the first word by the very strong,[6 - The Scotch dialect has sometimes been called the Doric of Great Britain.] sonorous accent with which they speak English. It is like a German accent with the r's of the Normans. In the North of Scotland, the accent is so Teutonic that one seems to be listening to Germans talking English. The letters b, d, and v are changed into p, t, and f. The ch is perfectly German at the end of a word, such as loch. Ght becomes cht, and is pronounced as in the German word nacht.

Certainly there is nothing insurmountably difficult to understand in all this; but that rogue of a Donald has a way of eating the ends of many of his words, of running the mutilated remains in together with such bewildering rapidity, and accompanying the whole with such a tremendous rolling of r's, that the stranger is completely staggered until his ear grows accustomed to the jargon.

The English language is composed of about forty-three thousand words, out of which fourteen thousand are of Germanic origin, and twenty-nine thousand have come into it from the Latin through the Norman dialect. But in Scotland you will hear the people using numbers of modern French words, which are no part of the English vocabulary. These words are remnants of the close relations that existed between France and Scotland in the sixteenth century. They are mostly heard now in the mouths of the older inhabitants.

For nearly a hundred years past the English have been continually borrowing words from us (a loan which we return with interest), but they are words which will only be found in use among the upper classes. The case is different in Scotland. There the French words were adopted by the people, and it is the people that still use them, and not the better educated classes, for these latter avoid them as vulgar. In a hundred years they will probably have fallen into disuse. It may not therefore be out of place to give here a list, which I think is pretty complete, of the French words that form the last trace of an alliance which has left to this day a very pronounced sentiment of affection for France in the hearts of the Scotch.

There were doubtless many others in use formerly, but I have collected only those which may still be heard in everyday use among the Scotch populace:

These are not, as may be seen, words borrowed from our milliners and dressmakers; they are terms that express the necessaries of life, and which the Scotch housewives have not yet forgotten. They prove in an irrefutable manner that the two nations mixed and knew each other intimately.

The language spoken by the Scotch lends itself to humour. Their picturesque pronunciation gives their conversation a piquancy which defies imitation. A Scotch anecdote told in Scotch language never misses its effect. Tell it in English, or any other language, and it loses all its raciness.

As I have already remarked, the Scot does not seek to appear witty, still less amusing, and there lies the charm. His remarks are not intended to be quaint, but are intensely so. Their drollery lies in the dialect and the combination of ideas. The Scotch are quick to seize the humorous side of things, and that without being aware of it. Their remarks are made with an imperturbable gravity, without a gesture, or the movement of a muscle.

I fancy I see still the old Scotch servant with whom I was speaking on the subject of a fire which would not burn in my room at a hotel. All at once she interrupted the conversation; she had just perceived, on the top of my head, a somewhat solitary lock of hair.

"Are ye growin' a moustache on the top o' your heid?" she exclaimed without a smile.

My first impulse was to bid her mind her business, and make my fire draw. But though I disliked the familiarity, I saw immediately that the good creature, a bony Scotchwoman of at least fifty summers, had not had the least intention of joking me, still less of vexing me. Her stolid expression, her quaint accent, to say nothing of the incongruous idea that had come to her lips, it all diverted me intensely, and I laughed well over it to the great astonishment of the worthy woman, who went away grumbling at the fire which had proved very obdurate.

The chimney continued to smoke horribly, and presently I rang the bell again.

The woman reappeared.

"This chimney smokes atrociously still," I said.

You should have seen her dry old face as she simply remarked:

"Eh, mony a ane has complained o' that chimney."

The familiarity of the Scotch servant is an old theme. The good humour of the master in Scotland encourages familiarity in the servant, and the fidelity of the latter causes it to be overlooked.

I remember the dinner-gong had been sounded in a house where I was one day visiting, and not being quite ready, I was still in my room. Someone knocked at my door. It was an old servant. "Noo," said she, "it's time to come doun to your dinner."