CHAPTER II.

MUSIC, SPEECHES, AND LITERATURE.

Scotch a reading nation--Hardships of students in old

days--Homer in Scalloway--When education ends--Objects of

chapter--Music--M.P.'s--Rural depopulation--Its

causes--Emigration--Village halls--The moon--A lecture in

Islay--Mental and material wealth--Real greatness--A Highland

laird on literature--Varieties of chairmen--"Coming to the

point"--Moral obligation--Compliment to Paisley--Oratory at

Salen--Lecture in a dungeon--Surprises--A visit to the

Borders--Tarbolton--Scotch language--Choice books--The

essayists--A Banff theory--Goldsmith in Gaelic--_Biblia

abiblia_--Favourites for the road--Horace--Shakespeare's

Sonnets--Xenophon--French literature and journalism--Romance and

Augustanism--Victorian writers--Celt and Saxon.

SCOTCH A READING NATION.

I think it was Mr. Holyoake, the veteran lecturer, who, in a volume of

reminiscences, declared he found the audiences in Scotland more

intelligent than elsewhere. I cannot draw such comparisons, for I have

not spoken often south of the Tweed; this I can say with assurance,

however, that no one need hesitate to address an audience of Scotch

peasants on a topic of literary interest. Predestination and such

religious trifles may stir them to disrespectful heat, but pure

literature invariably draws forth their cool and critical attention.

Probably no nation has ever devoted so much attention to books, and, as

the result of this characteristic, Scotland, considering its size and

population, has produced far more than its proportion of eminent men. At

the Reformation epoch, when the comforts of a Lowland cottage would be

little in advance of those in a present-day Uist croft, writers like

George Buchanan and his fellows of the _Deliciæ Poetarum Scotorum_ made

the excellence of Scotch scholarship known in every university of

Europe. Buchanan was really a typical Caledonian man of

genius--open-eyed, sagacious, patriotic, and cosmopolitan--and I can

strongly recommend the occasional perusal of his Latin Psalms to all

modern readers who wish to keep their feelings of reverence fresh and

prevent their Latin quantities from getting amorphous.

HARDSHIPS OF STUDENTS IN OLD DAYS.

Those who think highly of the Scotch intellect, point with pride to the

fact that for many a year the Prime Minister, the leader of the

Opposition, and the Archbishop of Canterbury all hailed from the North.

For my own part, I am chiefly interested in cases where eminence has

resulted from the cultivation of literature on a little oatmeal. A few

months ago, I had the pleasure of chatting, over a cup of tea, with the

suave old gentleman who combines the postmastership of Dunvegan with the

office of factor to the Macleod of Macleod. He held me spell-bound for

an afternoon as he narrated in graphic language the hardships of the

Skye students in former times. Many a Skye youth, I was told, bent on

studying the humanities at Aberdeen, would mount his sheltie, traverse

thereon the rough roads of his misty island as far as Kyleakin, cross

the ferry there, ride on east through the ben-shadowed track of Glen

Moriston, and finally bear down on the streets of the Granite City.

There the o'erlaboured sheltie would be sold to pay the matriculation

fees.

HOMER IN SCALLOWAY.

Many little out-of-the-way townships in insular Scotland contain

scholars who would find themselves quite at home among a set of college

dons. In the course of my travels in Shetland I came to the tiny village

of Scalloway, and while standing on the pier gazing alternately at the

confusion of sea and island, and at the grim old ruined castle where

Earl Patrick, the wicked viceroy, once resided, I heard a conversation

on geology being carried on between a tall and brawny shopman and some

sailors. The latter, who were on board a ship, shouted their replies

over a few yards of water to the shopman, who was on the pier near me. I

was interested in the men's talk, which had to do with the subsidence of

the land at this part of the coast. One of the sailors alleged that his

grandmother's cabbage-patch was now covered by the water on which his

boat was floating. The big shopman, turning to me, quoted the well-known

passage of Tennyson (everyone can repeat it) of the sea flowing where

the tree used to grow. "O Earth, what changes thou hast seen." This

quotation led to a literary talk in which he remarked that of all poets

he preferred Homer. "What translator do you like best?" I enquired.

"Blackie's," he replied, "as being the most faithful to the original.

But I rarely read a translation, '_I prefer Homer in his own Greek._'"

This remark made by one whose fingers were glistening with

herring-scales, came to me as a pleasant surprise. Later on in the day,

I visited his house and saw his fine library and his splendid selection

of classical books. Not many teachers of my acquaintance have a better

array of the editions of Homer. He was not one of your ignorant

collectors who know only the outside of what they buy. He had read over

the whole forty-eight books of the text again and again, and could

discuss knotty passages in most interesting and original fashion. His

memory was evidently an excellent one. He informed me that most of his

reading was done in the early morning, and that he found five hours'

sleep quite adequate. I have a most agreeable recollection of my

interview with this self-taught scholar. I believe there are many like

him in not a few outlandish nooks of Scotland,--men who read books not

for any material advantages that result from their studies, but simply

and solely for the intense pleasure that comes from communion with the

masterminds of bygone generations.

Travel in remote districts of Britain reveals the fact that our

provincials, whenever they have the chance, are a studious and

thoughtful race. The isolation and monotony of life in many parts are

bound to drive men to study and reflection if the means for these are at

hand. Sisyphus himself had hardly less variety of occupation than some

of our shepherds whose work on the hills involves long absences from

social intercourse. To such men (whose life is suggestive of a repeating

decimal) the access to an ell or two of good books often means mental

salvation. Nothing is so melancholy as to find a countryman of brains

who has never had the opportunity of cultivating his mind in such a way

as to eliminate prejudice and widen the range of interest.

WHEN EDUCATION ENDS.

I am sometimes inclined to think that many of our rural clergymen,

intent on shielding their congregations from pestilent doctrine and

latitudinarism, are actuated by much the same spirit as the Sultan Omar

when he set fire to the great Library at Alexandria. The Bible is no

doubt the best of books, and it may be that the Confession of Faith

comes next: but when these have got their share, there still remains the

religious duty of educating the intellect by a wide perusal of the

inspired apostles of secular literature. A Highland teacher, who

presided at one of the lectures in the north, expressed himself very

appositely thus on the subject of education: "The supposition that

education is over when a boy leaves school, is far too prevalent," he

said. "Education properly considered comes to an end when the last

breath of life is drawn. Edward Young in his _Night Thoughts_ says:

'Were man to live coeval with the sun, the patriarch-pupil would be

learning still.' Young was undoubtedly right: some of the most forceful

and penetrating lessons of life are given to us long after we have cast

our text-books into some dusty corner, never to be opened more. In our

early days, we cannot choose our own teachers, and there is often a good

deal of force and constraint. The delightful thing about our education

in mature life is that we have the selection of our own masters. There

is no compulsion whatever. I am convinced that for everyone of us there

is some one author whose works will act as medicine for the mind and be

an unfailing tonic in all conditions of the soul."

OBJECT OF CHAPTER.

I intend to devote this chapter to a description of a few of the

speeches delivered by some of the speakers at such literary evenings in

various parts of the country. After I had said my say, I sometimes

invited an expression of opinion. Almost invariably someone responded to

the invitation, with the object of asking a question, expressing

dissent, or intimating concurrence. I do not recollect a single meeting

out of hundreds that could be called monotonous. It did not in the

slightest detract from the interest of a meeting that many of the

remarks erred on the score of irrelevancy. The attention never flagged

from first to last, and it was no uncommon thing for the proceedings to

last for over three hours. In giving typical speeches delivered by

crofters, lairds, tradesmen, and clergymen, I mean to indicate to the

reader _the subjects that are of interest to our provincial population,

their attitude to questions of literature and social life, and

incidentally the great amount of humour that still exists in the world_.

MUSIC.

The free and unconventional character of these meetings was perhaps seen

best of all in the musical part of the proceedings, which was always

arranged locally. Usually the songs were well-known Highland or Lowland

airs, in many cases so exquisitely rendered that it was quite evident

there had been much previous preparation. When my opinion was asked

beforehand, I invariably recommended national melodies. It was always a

treat to get a Gaelic song or two well rendered. At Acharacle (a little

place at the far end of Lochshiel) Mr. Rudd's piper gave some fine

Highland tunes, which evoked great enthusiasm. Personally I prefer the

pipes to every other instrument, for this reason, that even if I don't

understand all the music, I can appreciate the scenic effects. The

Acharacle piper was a fine specimen of the Celt, and his get-up was

glorious:

"He screwed his pipes and gart them skirl

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl."

Sometimes the phonograph formed part of the musical programme. I do not

approve of this demoralising instrument except to a very limited extent.

The cylinders usually gyrate with records of fatuous music-hall songs,

unedifying coster-airs and farcical speeches. The _vox humana_

interpreting national melodies is infinitely better. What vigour and

illustrative expression the islanders can throw into their songs! I have

but to shut my eyes to see the policeman of Staffin interpreting "The

Bonnie House o' Airlie." When his big, manly voice threw out the

terrible threat, "_I'll no' leave a staunin' stane in Airlie_," his eyes

shot fire, his teeth gleamed, and his ponderous fist came thundering

down on the table in front of him.

I still remember with infinite pleasure the strains of Mr. Cameron's

Poolewe Choir, heard in Gairloch school-house. That energetic and

complaisant conductor brought his clear-throated minstrels over to the

meeting in a brake. It was a luxury to see them with their white robes

and tartan sashes, while in front of them stood their genial leader clad

in kilts. The Gaelic _Mod_, which is now a regular institution in the

land, is bound to do splendid service towards keeping alive the fine old

music of the North. The Poolewe Choir, I am happy to say, won much

distinction at the _Mods_ of both Inverness and Greenock. _There is

great need for choirs, and great need, also, for innocent songs of a

secular character._ Before I spoke to the people of Eigg, I requested

the teacher to arrange, if possible, for a musical programme. The reply

staggered me: "No man, woman, or child in this island would for a moment

even dream of singing a worldly song. We are all converted here, except

a few benighted Catholics. The vain, fleeting joys of this world are as

dross to us. The missionary has a modulator, and he trains the young men

and women in the sol-fa so that they may sing Sankey's hymns in all the

parts." I was dreadfully floored by this answer, and could only mutter

mechanically, "_Dross_," "_Missionary_,'" "_Modulator_," in a vain

effort to seize the situation. Conversion I understood and approved of,

but where, in the wee island of Eigg, were the vain, fleeting joys?

There is no public-house in the place, and little temptation of any

kind. The most disquieting item of all was the modulator: I have not

seen one for a long time, and am not sorry, for there is nothing which

so spoils the appearance of a wall nor anything so dismal as practising

scales. A compromise was come to, and it was arranged that some Gaelic

readings, containing a dash of religion, should take the place of songs,

and give some variety to the evening's proceedings.

At some of the meetings there was perhaps an _excess of realism_.

Bottom, in "A Midsummer Night's Dream," wishing to avoid excitement and

fear among the ladies when he is acting the part of Pyramus, says:

"Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to say, we will do no

harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and for the

more better assurance tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but

Bottom the weaver: this will put them out of fear." I thought of

Bottom's extreme delicacy when I was present at a meeting in Tomatin not

long ago. An outstanding feature of the evening's proceedings was the

vividly dramatic rendering of the song, "Macpherson swore a feud," by

the local postman. The latter, a big, burly man, was extremely

formidable in his Highland attire. When he came to the verse dealing

with the untimely decease of Macpherson, he whipped the dagger out of

its sheath, flourished it as in act to kill, and terrified some of the

lady visitors by his vivid suiting of the action to the word. They were

as much astonished at the flash of the _skian dhu_ as the Commons were

when Burke threw a dagger on the floor of the House.

A musical treat is sometimes got in the most unexpected places. I was

particularly struck with a children's glee-party in Jura (a rough island

known chiefly for its sterile Paps). The bairns admirably rendered Ben

Jonson's delightful ditty, "Drink to me only with thine eyes," and the

Shakespearian song, "Where the bee sucks, there suck I." In such islands

a musical teacher is a valuable asset. Let me add that all the libraries

have been gratuitously supplied with fine collections of Scottish music.

At Acha, in the island of Coll, four sturdy farm-maidens, ruddy with

health and robed in white, gave various English and Gaelic airs in

admirable style. A divinity student sang a _coster song_ (think of this

in an island of craggy shores, gulls, wild-swans, and curlews!), and on

being encored, he gave a "Cradle Lullaby," and by gently swaying a chair

backwards and forwards on the platform, he strove to illustrate the

movements of childhood's earliest receptacle.

A military gentleman--an ex-major--in proposing a vote of thanks, one

evening, to the singers, said he had sung a song but once in his life,

the occasion being his admission to the Royal Engineers, thirty years

before. It was a standing law in that body that every novice should sing

a song or drink a mixture consisting of whisky, ink, and cayenne pepper.

He chose the former alternative, and at the end of the first verse the

Royal Engineers had all left the room in a demoralised condition!

M.P.'s.

At one of the meetings in Argyleshire, I had the joy of speaking under

the chairmanship of the glib and able Mr. Ainsworth, M.P. for that

county. Among the votes of thanks was one for the chairman: it made a

profound impression upon me, as much by its form as by its substance: "I

hope, Mr. Ainsworth, that you will take better care of your health in

future (hear, hear). No, no, you are not taking care of your health at

all (laughter). We all expect you to be Prime Minister, and that is the

reason we would like you not to roam about so much and undermine your

constitution (cheers). You are always travelling. You are like the

Wandering Jew. No! you are like a little bird on a bough. To-day, we see

you on a tree near the door; to-morrow, we see you on a tree a hundred

miles away" (great cheering). Mr. Ainsworth kindly promised that, in

view of his destiny, he would cease to range around the country so

indiscriminately.

Unfortunately, I have never met Mr. Galloway Weir, but I have heard much

of the zeal of himself and his agents. The following story hinges on the

fact that _Weir_ and _wire_ have the same pronunciation in Lewis. An old

illiterate crofter came to record his vote by word of mouth, and told

the polling sheriff: "I will vote for the right man, yes, yes, it's the

right man I will be voting for this time." "That may be," said the

sheriff, "but unless you will tell me his name, you can't vote." "Well,

if you must know," said the old man, handing the sheriff a

stocking-wire, "_I will be voting for the man that has the same name as

that_."

RURAL DEPOPULATION.

The mention of that eminent politician brings to my mind the frequent

references made at these meetings to the painful subject of rural

depopulation. Everyone regrets the exodus of young men from the country

to the town, a practice which depletes the rural villages and deprives

the land of the strong arms that should find employment in working it.

The ministers are not without hope that the rush city-wards may be

checked by improving the conditions of country life, rendering it more

attractive to the young, and enlisting the aid of Government in the

scheme of small-holdings. Motives of health, morality, and patriotism,

are all concerned in the fostering of a hardy peasantry. Everything that

makes country life attractive to young men must operate to make them

regret to quit it. I wish I could reproduce textually all the strong and

astounding speeches I have heard in the Highlands on this subject of

depopulation.

"We often hear," said a farmer, "that it's healthy men and women that

make up the true wealth of a country, and if that is true, Scotland, for

all its increase of riches, is every year growing poorer. How can the

people left in the glens continue to propagate a hardy race, if all the

young healthy bloods leave for the cities and settle there? I am afraid

that both brain and brawn will continue to get feebler among us, unless

the Government give some kind of inducement for the peopling of the land

with bien, self-respecting men _that have a bit land of their own_. It's

impossible to get farm-hands round Tayside nowadays, and it's not to be

wondered at. Suppose a young man stays here, what prospect has he, what

incentive has he to work? At the age of seventeen he has earned the

highest wage he will ever earn. Thereafter his life is a slow,

monotonous serfdom; he has no hope whatever of rising, he is doomed to

live from hand to mouth all the years of his existence. But put before

that young man the hope that he can _become the owner_ of a morsel of

land, however small, and you put life and pride into him. He will work

in that case with intelligent purpose, knowing that every penny he saves

is to be employed in making him a landed proprietor, and every detail of

experience he gains will tell in the future for his direct benefit. Our

young fellows don't really want to leave the land and go to die

prematurely (as a great many of them do) in the slums of Glasgow and

Edinburgh. They go to the cities because there is at least _a chance_ of

bettering their lot there, a chance which is entirely lacking at home.

Some of them go away to the colonies and thrive as farmers there. I

rejoice to hear of such success; but I rejoice with trembling when I

think how much of Britain's best manhood has to leave her shores to till

Transatlantic fields, while so much land at home remains unoccupied. By

and by, if you want to see a good specimen of the Highlander, you will

have to go to Canada. Sooner or later, and the sooner the better, the

vigorous action of Government will be demanded to remedy the present

iniquities of land-tenure, and to put a stop to the compulsory

degradation of those who till the soil."

ITS CAUSES.

The present seems to be an opportune time for directing public attention

to some remarkable changes that are taking place in the population of

the rural districts of Scotland. A great deal of speaking and writing

has been expended of late years in lamenting the depopulation of the

country. Young fellows do not like the monotony of village and farm

life: they prefer the stir and excitement of the cities. Such things are

not to be wondered at. Town life has always had an attraction for those

whose energy requires a wide scene of action. Energy and ambition go

together, and it is the possessor of such qualities that makes the

successful city man. The country does not give scope enough for their

adequate display.

The railway train and the inventions of modern times are both answerable

for a certain amount of depopulation. I believe the condition of

farm-hands has been markedly improved of late years. They have now a

shorter day, higher wages, better food, and superior house

accommodation. Mechanical appliances have made farm-work lighter and

more agreeable. The drudgery of the threshing flail is now unknown; the

hook and the scythe have given way to the reaping-machine: in every way

hand labour has been lightened. But it is precisely this machinery that

lessens the need for large numbers of agricultural labourers. It is also

notorious that shoemakers, tailors, and blacksmiths, are not so much

required in the country as they used to be. Ready-made shoes and clothes

are brought by rail from the city, and local tradesmen are reduced in

numbers.

EMIGRATION.

There seems to be in our day a competition among the Governments of the

New World, which of them can lure away the greatest number of our

peasantry. The latest candidate for our rural youth is the State of

Virginia, the legislature of which has voted a large sum of money to

pay the expenses of two delegates, who are at work in the East of

Scotland, hunting for likely emigrants. These Virginian delegates--Mr.

Koiner and Col. Talliafer--paid the passage-money of over a hundred

stalwart lads from Lochtayside in the autumn of 1906.

No one who has the opportunity of travelling through Scotland can fail

to be struck by the absolute frenzy for emigration that exists

everywhere. There is a constant stream of emigrants from all our

agricultural counties to the wide plains of Canada. That great colony is

being "boomed" in a most energetic way. In Sutherlandshire, I saw a

large van, with placards and specimens of Canadian produce, being driven

through Strath Halladale, to tempt the crofters over the deep. I have

also, at the railway stations in the North, beheld heart-rending scenes

of parting as the young fellows said good-bye to their parents and

friends:

"Who could guess

If ever more should meet these mutual eyes."[9]

[9] Such emigration has, of course, nothing to do with the

systematic work instituted by Mr. William Quarrier of Bridge of

Weir. That devout philanthropist occupied himself with the waifs

and strays of Glasgow, taught them trades, and sent large numbers

of them to the colonies to learn farming. One Saturday, in 1907,

I saw a hundred and twenty of these lads, who were on Bridge of

Weir platform waiting for the train. The scene was pathetic in

the extreme--enough to melt a heart of nether millstone. Many of

the lads were in tears as they answered the roll-call for the

last time. In the afternoon they (and over two thousand

emigrants) left the Clyde, amid sobs, cheers, and the waving of

multitudinous handkerchiefs. These boys go, in the first

instance, to Brockville, in the province of Ontario, whence they

are distributed out among the Canadian farmers.

VILLAGE HALLS.

In most of the places I have visited, the school-house is the only

available hall for public meetings. Now, a school-room, with its small,

cramped seats, its lack of platform, and its defective ventilation, is

not well adapted for large gatherings. No man likes to speak _up to the

waist in audience_, under a low roof, and in stifling air. If less money

were spent on needless church-building, every district in the Highlands

might have its hall for purposes of recreation, reading, and lecturing.

As it is, the churches should everywhere be used far more than they are

for secular gatherings of an elevating kind. Religion suffers greatly

from the closing of churches to concerts and lectures.

The kindness of local lairds is nowhere more pleasantly shown than in

the giving of funds towards the creation of village halls and recreation

rooms. The little village of Alness has a splendid Working Men's Club,

furnished with everything requisite for pleasure and

profit--smoking-room, billiard-room, and reading-room. This Club owes

its existence to the generosity of Mr. Perrins--known everywhere for the

excellence of his famous condiment--who has an estate in the vicinity.

Kiltarlity and Beauly have, for similar instances of discreet bounty,

permanent reason for blessing the name of Mr. Phipps. Other instances

that occur to me are the spacious Dunbar Hall in Auldearn, due to the

kindness of the family of which the genial Sir Frederick Dunbar, Bart.,

is the present representative, and the Astley Hall in Arisaig, named

after the family so long associated with that charming West Highland

village.

It must not be supposed that the natives do not thankfully welcome such

work on their behalf. Many of the townships, it is true, have had

libraries and halls for many a year, and have established these entirely

on their own initiative; but outside help and enterprise stimulate local

effort in a way often impossible otherwise, as the natives themselves

admit. At Nethy Bridge, a fine hall, with club-room, has been recently

erected, largely owing to the enthusiasm of a London lady resident in

the vicinity. She was distressed to see the young fellows of the place

loafing aimlessly about at night, and proceeded to organise some

rational amusement for them. Her philanthropy has been greatly

appreciated. At Kilmartin, the jubilee of Queen Victoria was signalized

by the erection of the Poltalloch Victoria Hall--an enterprise in which

laird and crofter alike willingly co-operated. It is in this hall that

the Library is established. Mr. Dixon, the erudite historian of

Gairloch, set aside the profits of his book to help in furnishing the

reading-room at Poolewe, in Wester Ross.

When a rural community has a library and a place to meet in, a literary

society is, as a rule, soon formed. Such a society, founded for an

elevating and educational purpose, forms a common meeting-ground for all

sects, schisms, and parties. I am aware that in most towns of any size

there are such societies in connection with the special churches. In the

Highlands it is better to eliminate the denominational element, for the

very good reason that, the population being small, no one of the too

numerous churches would furnish a representative enough roll of

members. I was charmed to find that the little town of Portree, of which

the population is not much more than eight hundred, has a fine literary

society, established on the broad and rational lines I have indicated.

As might be expected from the intellectual advancement and strong

literary bent of the inhabitants, the lectures given and the subjects

discussed at the meetings of the Portree society are of a more erudite

nature than anywhere else in the West Highlands. Most of the Portree

clergymen and professional men are on the list of members.

THE MOON.

Very few city people pay much attention to the moon: in the country that

luminary has to be constantly deferred to when arrangements are being

made for social meetings, dances, or lectures. When many of the audience

have to come six, or even ten miles by land or water, light is needed,

and light from above is best. It increases a lecturer's pride to be told

that the plashing of oars over there on the argent face of the waters is

an indication that some of his audience are coming from the other side

of the loch. At the conclusion of many of the lectures, I have seen half

a dozen traps, boats, and bicycles speeding away merrily in different

directions. But for the bright moon, the audience would have been

limited to the immediate neighbourhood of the place of meeting.

It has often happened that my hotel was as much as seven miles from the

lecture hall. As closed carriages are rare in certain districts, and as

it frequently rains--when it is not snowing--in the West and North of

Scotland, I had many good opportunities for gauging my powers of

endurance. The road from Killin to Ardeonaig is a fair example of a

Highland highway:--

"Rough, hilly roads, that stain the spokes with mire;

Thick folds of ebon night on loch and law;

The moan of breezes wailing through the shaw

Like the weird plaints of an Æolian lyre:

And intermittently through the clouds, the fire

Of lightning streaks the night with glitter and awe,

And lapses swiftly in the dismal maw

Of darkness, 'mid the din of thunder dire.

But to relieve the sad night's sullenness,

And clear the heavens for the timid moon,

The straight-descending rain riots like hail

For a fierce hour, in prodigal excess;

Anon the clouds unmuffle, and the pale,

Thin crescent of Diana gilds night's noon."

The place of meeting at Ardeonaig was on the shores of Loch Tay, and the

main road from Killin is high up and does not go near the water at this

point. After alighting from the machine, I had to descend to the

loch-side by a steep, miry, and circuitous road through a wood. As the

"thin crescent of Diana," alluded to above, was not adequate to light my

footsteps here, I struck some futile vestas, which the dripping leaves

at once extinguished. Two elders, swinging lanterns and calling me by

name, by and by divided the night in my vicinity. Their appearance was

welcome, for the torrential rain had made the track one continuous

slippery quagmire. The hospitality of the Ardeonaig minister speedily

banished all recollection of the "sad night's sullenness."[10]

A more trying, because a longer, drive is that from Kilmun to Strachur,

by way of Loch Eck. In the leafy month of June, nothing could be finer;

but in a winter blizzard, one's appreciation of the glory of nature is

somewhat less than rapturous. I mention the Strachur meeting because it

was graced by the presence of a large contingent of local volunteers in

civilian attire. The War Office ought to know that the inclement weather

prevented these warriors appearing in their uniform.

[10] It is not often possible, in the _islands_, to get anything

but a trap or open coach. In Lochranza, on a day of dreary,

disheartening rain, I found on enquiry that there was no covered

vehicle to be had except the _hearse_.

A LECTURE IN ISLAY.

The westerly leg of Islay contains one or two places that have public

libraries sent from Paisley: Portnahaven and Port Charlotte on the sea,

and Gruinart inland and more to the north. It is a weird experience to

drive along the shore road from Bridgend on a night of pitiless rain,

and see the heavy mists broken every now and then by the far-reaching

flash of the Portnahaven lighthouse. Equally weird is it to lecture in a

school with no lamps (as happened at Port Charlotte). At eight o'clock I

could see the faces of the audience well enough, but by and by the room

became quite dark, and I seemed to be addressing an audience of silent

and attentive ghosts. After I had finished, a Phantom arose in the far

corner of the room and proposed a vote of thanks; and thereafter a Voice

somewhere pronounced the benediction. Then there was a movement of feet,

and the shadowy spectres trooped out into the night. The foolish virgins

had no oil in their lamps; in Port Charlotte, there was neither oil

_nor_ lamps.[11]

[11] Islay is yearly becoming better known. It is an undulating

island, covered with rich meadow-land, the home of horses, sheep,

and cattle. There should not be a hungry man within its

circumference. Under the old lairds--the Campbells--there were

14,000 inhabitants, now there are 6000.

SOME SPEECHES.

MENTAL AND MATERIAL WEALTH.

I never heard the difference between mental and material wealth more

forcibly expressed than by an old Perthshire shoemaker. "Supposing,"

said he, "that I had fifty pounds in my pocket at the present moment.

What a wild supposition, but good enough for an illustration! What

inference would you draw from me having that sum of money? This, namely,

that no other person in the universe has the same fifty pounds. The same

pair of boots cannot be worn by two persons at the same time. The same

guinea cannot be twice spent by the same man. It is different with

spiritual things, and with works of art. Scores of people can

simultaneously enjoy a great painting or a fine piece of music: _my_

enjoyment does not interfere with _yours_, indeed, it is more than

likely that my enjoyment will be greatly increased from knowing that

other people are enjoying it as I am. Then again, you can't eat the same

loaf of bread twice: but you can return a hundred times to the same

song, poem, or picture, and like them better the hundredth time than the

first. A pathetic old tune does not lose anything in being sung by

generation after generation. It is always as good as new. Like the

widow's cruise of oil, it can be used without being consumed. These

facts show that works of art--good books, good poems, good music--are,

in a certain sense, immortal and divine. A hundred years ago, our

ancestors sang 'Bonnie Doon'; we, to-day, sing it with undiminished

fervour; a hundred years after this, the song will be fresh. Aye, and a

humorous American writer thinks some of us will hanker for it in heaven:

'Perhaps in that refulgent sphere

That knows not sun or moon,

An earth-born saint would long to hear

One verse of Bonnie Doon.'"

REAL GREATNESS.

The Rev. Chairman of this meeting emphasised the shoemaker's remarks in

the following admirable words: "I often wonder what is really the

greatest thing ever done by a citizen of this country of ours, by a man

of English speech. If we agree with our worthy shoemaker and his way of

thinking, we shall not look at the big accumulation of guineas as an

indication of greatness. Certain commercial men (who ought to know

better) seem to think God has sent us into this lovely world for the

sole purpose of piling up as much money as possible, and then, by death,

leaving it to others to spend. _That_ can hardly be considered our

reasonable service. Life is not so low-pitched as that. The best work of

man does not admit of being put into an equation with cash. The greatest

feat, to my mind, an Englishman ever performed was the writing of

_Paradise Lost_. How much did John Milton get in money for his

incomparable epic during his lifetime? _Five Pounds_: and if he had got

five million pounds, the recompense would have been absolutely

inadequate. History, however, has indemnified Milton for the neglect and

poverty he endured. He has shot up into stature while those of his

contemporaries who bulked largest in the eyes of the world have dwindled

and shrunk into insignificance in comparison with him. The witty,

dissolute king, Charles II., is now seen to be a wretched pigmy: Milton,

who died in blindness and political disgrace, is the real king of that

era, overtopping all the rulers, cabals, and intriguers. So, too, in

Scotland, Burns is the giant of _his_ period. During Burns's life, the

Earl of Dundas was to all intents and purposes king of the country. He

could say to whomsoever he pleased, '_Friend, come up higher; be you a

Sheriff, or Lord-Lieutenant, or Justice of the Peace_.' Dundas is pretty

well forgotten by this time: probably he will by and by be remembered

solely by Burns's description of him: _That slee, auld-farrant chiel

Dundas._ Kings and men of temporary renown do well to keep on good terms

with the men of letters."

It is always a great treat to hear a working-man who has the power of

utterance deliver a speech in a straightforward and unrhetorical way.

There is _always_ a pith and vigour about such deliverances quite

unattainable in a formal harangue. The magnates of the little Fife

villages are specially notorious for their gift of the gab: when Bailie

M'Scales or Provost Cleaver gets up to speak, no one has any inclination

to fall asleep.

A HIGHLAND LAIRD ON LITERATURE.

Max O'Rell has told us that his chairmen sometimes took advantage of

their position to push their claims for the Town Council. I have not had

the time at my disposal curtailed by any such municipal oratory, though,

occasionally, my remarks on literature have seemed to the chairmen to

stand in need of supplementing. One gentleman, in proposing a vote of

thanks, pulled a copy of Bacon out of his pocket and read the whole of

the famous essay on _Studies_. Another managed to bring in a lengthy

dissertation on radium! The following speech, delivered by a Highland

laird of a poetical turn, is noteworthy: "I am very fond of poetry," he

said, "and yet I turn with a very languid interest to the writings of

modern poets like Watson and Davidson. The verses of these gifted

singers are for others, not for me. The truth is, I don't want any more

lyrics and such like sugar pellets. My brain is already stocked with a

plenteous supply on which I browse in weal and woe, which I almost think

I personally composed, and to which I have attached a great many

emotions and extraneous incidents known to nobody but myself. My old

poetic favourites have been lying in various corners of my brain for

forty or fifty years; I know every turn, rhyme and rhythm of them; and

as they have served my need and alleviated my sorrow so long, I do not

intend to give them many fellow-lodgers more. I do not know at what

particular time literary nausea sets in, but Solomon had it when he said

that of the making of books there was no end. No doubt his father David

had primed him well in boyhood in the Psalms, and Solomon, feeling (like

many others since) that the paternal psaltery met all his need of

literary stimulus, would turn wearily from the heaps of presentation

copies of new verse sent by the rising poets of Judæa for their

sovereign's inspection. When a new book came out, Charles Lamb re-read

an old one,--an excellent practice and one which has the additional

recommendation of economy. It is not an unpleasant thing to find

yourself falling back on old favourites and losing interest in the

current hour. I knew a happy old gentleman whose reading was confined to

Walter Scott. Every evening the lamp was lighted in the trim snuggery,

and the appropriate _Waverley_ taken down from the shelf. For such a man

to begin a new novel would have been as irksome as travelling in a

foreign land."

I am bound to say that I have great sympathy with the sentiments I have

quoted from the speech of this kilted critic. If it were possible to

retain the elasticity and adjustableness of the mind till the end of

life, new authors would perhaps fix our attention as much as the old.

But only a limited number of articulate-speaking men, such as the

omnivorous Professor Saintsbury of Edinburgh, preserve their appetite

tireless and intact. The Professor, like a literary Livingstone, can

grapple with the most arid and dusty libraries, and is the envy of all

scholars; but, alas! the majority of us have to take something less than

the whole of knowledge for our province.

It must not be supposed that all the remarks made at these meetings were

like those I have quoted. An airy irrelevancy was quite as common as the

serious note.

VARIETIES OF CHAIRMEN.

I have had experience of hundreds of chairmen, and admired most of them.

It is rather a painful thing to have one who is utterly unversed in

speaking. I remember being introduced in the ante-room to the chairman

of the evening, and, big bucolic giant as he was, he seemed fearfully

perturbed. His hand trembled, his lips were ashy-gray, and his laugh was

a nervous grin. "I am not much used to this sort of thing," said he,

with a poor attempt at mirth and a furtive movement of his hand to his

waistcoat pocket, where he had his introductory speech. "All you have to

do is to introduce me," I hinted; "you needn't say much." On the

platform he shook so much that the whole structure quivered. He rose,

and was received with loud applause. Happily he did not read his speech,

but simply pointed to me and said, "G-g-go on." He sank in his chair,

while runnels of sweat coursed down his cheeks. I admired that chairman

more than one in Caithness, who, after angling for the honour of taking

the chair, grew so terrified towards the hour of meeting, that he went

to bed and sent word he couldn't be present owing to flying pains in his

leg! In country districts, reluctance to take the chair arises from a

man's fear of making himself ridiculous; once he cuts a poor figure in

public, discredit is for ever attached to his name.

Highlanders as a rule make excellent chairmen. The superior gifts of the

Celtic mind, in imagination and wealth of florid expression, nowhere

show themselves to better purpose than when compliments have to be paid.

Then again, the kilt is very impressive on a brawny chairman's legs: it

commands attention and respect at once. I have little knowledge of

colloquial Gaelic, though I have studied the grammar, and have some

skill in reading. A little Gaelic goes a long way in stirring the soul

of a Highland audience. Often I have heard a kilted chairman quitting

his English for a little and giving the audience a mellifluous Ossianic

sentence or two. The effect was electric: eyes gleamed, breath came

quick and fast, the souls of the hearers seemed to have tasted a tonic.

Spoken Gaelic is akin to the elements: it has a mystic affinity with the

winds that sough around the flanks of the mountains and along the

surface of the lonely lochs. There is perhaps not much business

precision about it, but for preaching, praying, and poetry, it is a

splendid medium.

In Arran, a jovial chairman thus introduced me: "Before I left home, I

thought of a great many nice things to say as a preface to the remarks

of our friend from Paisley. (Here he coughed violently.) Unfortunately,

I am unable to bestow these tit-bits on the audience owing to a

_kittlin'_ in my throat. Instead of saying what I meant to say, I think

I had better tell you a story. A minister one Sunday had occasion to be

highly displeased with the precentor, who broke down twice in quite a

simple psalm-tune. 'Excuse me, minister,' said the precentor, 'but I've

got a kittlin' in my throat this morning.' '_Kittlin'!_' hissed the holy

man in scornful wrath: '_it's mair like a big tom-cat_.' Ladies and

gentlemen, after these few and decidedly imperfect remarks, I resume my

seat, merely expressing the hope that our friend will feel himself as

much at home here as the deil did in the Court of Session."

Another chairman in an adjoining island, while engaged in tremulously

reading his introductory speech, came to a sudden stop. An irreverent

youth shouted, "_Is that a blot?_" After the laughter provoked by this

query had subsided, the chairman said: "I feel to-night like a square

pin in a round hole, or rather, like the Irishman who, when asked if he

was dead, replied, '_No, I'm not dead, I'm only spacheless._'" Having

said these words with a weird attempt at mirth, the chairman sat down

too hurriedly, and struck his head so violently against the back of his

chair, that the noise of the impact was heard in every part of the hall.

I may hint to anyone who lectures or preaches in the Highlands, not to

adopt a patronising attitude or make it appear that he is talking down

to the audience. Such a feature would be at once detected and deeply

resented. A well-known Professor lectured to a Bute audience on

Electricity, and out of ignorance, spoke in a very elementary way to the

audience, defining the simplest terms, and interspersing a great many

"_you know's_" and "_you see's_." The chairman, in proposing a vote of

thanks, slyly remarked: "We have listened to-night to a very good

discourse, and I'm only sorry there are so few young people here. Next

time the Professor comes to speak to us, I hope to see all the

school-children in the hall, for the lecture to-night was admirably

adapted to their capacity."

COMING TO THE POINT.

A very loquacious lawyer proposed a vote of thanks to the chairman in

the following fashion: "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "it is often a

very difficult thing to come to the point. When I was at College, I

consented once to write an essay on 'The Progress of America,' the

subject being one of my own choosing. I wrote twenty-five pages of

preliminary matter, and at the end of my writing, I found that Columbus

was not landed. As my essay was to bring my hearers up-to-date on

American progress, I became nettled at my failure to _get Columbus

ashore_ and went round canvassing among my friends to secure a

substitute. No one would relieve me, so I was forced to slaughter an

aunt. I was wired for, by arrangement, on the day before the meeting,

and responded with great alacrity, knowing that there would be no

funeral. Without wasting more words let me on _this_ occasion come to

the point, and ask you to accord to our worthy chairman a very hearty

vote of thanks for the brilliant way in which he has kept us all in

order this evening."

MORAL OBLIGATION.

A minister of a western parish thought it his duty, in the course of his

introductory speech, to make some jovial remarks on the subject of

conscience and moral obligation. "A student of my acquaintance," said

he, "went to Arrochar on Loch Long by excursion steamer. At mid-day,

being thirsty, he _drifted thoughtlessly_ into the hotel and asked for a

cup of tea. With this beverage he washed over some dry biscuits he had

brought with him from home. Imagine his surprise on being told that the

cup of tea would cost him two shillings. Bang went not one sixpence but

four! He looked at the maid and his breath came quick and fast; but he

counted out the money nevertheless. Having occasion to visit the

bathroom to cool his throbbing brow, he perceived a razor on a little

shelf near the mirror there. At once he pocketed this razor and made

off, whistling _Scots Wha Hae_. He had recouped himself for the

overcharge on the cup of tea. Strange to say, every time he shaved with

the stolen razor he feared some impending calamity. He knew enough Greek

to be aware that Ajax committed suicide with the very sword that hero

got from the enemy. Whenever the student disfigured his chin and

reddened the lather with a new-made gash, he felt in his inmost soul

that a Nemesis was being wrought out. _By this simple tale, my friends,

one may see the sovereign power of conscience, which, though dormant for

a time, invariably asserts itself and flogs the culprit._"

COMPLIMENT TO PAISLEY.

The following remarks made by a speaker at one of the meetings are worth

citing: "I do not wish our Paisley friend," he said, "to go back to the

banks of the Cart under the impression that we are not a very literary

people up here in Ross-shire. On the contrary, we are clean gone on

literature. Just look at our syllabus! One night we have a discussion on

Shakespeare. Eh? What do you think of that? Shakespeare no less! Next

night we deal with _an equally great poet--Tannahill_." (No doubt the

speaker meant to compliment Paisley in thus comparing the author of

_Lear_ and _Hamlet_ with the poet-laureate of the loom.) I have heard

Milton's _Paradise Lost_ and Pollok's _Course of Time_ clashed together

in the same ludicrous way. I was dreadfully nonplussed on one occasion

by hearing a speaker strongly recommend the audience to give their days

and nights to the study of Bunyan and M'Cheyne. "Bunyan by all means,"

said I to myself, "but who is M'Cheyne that one should be mindful of him

and put him for importance alongside of the immortal tinker?"

ORATORY AT SALEN.

I shall never forget a vote of thanks proposed in my hearing by the

excellent doctor of Salen, a pleasant little place situated on a

V-shaped creek of Loch Sunart. I never expect to meet a more genial or

more humorous man than the doctor, on this side of eternity. He knows

the roads of gusty Ardnamurchan better than any other living man, and,

night and day, by sun and by moon, in weather of clear blue, and under

the eddying blinding flakes, he is ever on the move. He found time to

come to the meeting and propose a vote of thanks to the donor of the

library. Everyone listened intently to him as he stood there in his

professional frock-coat,--a thin, wiry, twinkling-eyed gentleman. "If

the donor by any chance," said he, looking at me, "should ever sail up

Loch Sunart in his yacht, and land among the people of Salen, to whom

his books have given such pleasure, I should advise him not to stand too

near the edge of the pier, for fear some of the grateful natives might

push him over into the loch, _in order to have the pleasure of saving

his life!_" This unexpected sally convulsed the audience, and gave a gay

and rollicking touch to the speeches that came after. Mr. M'Gregor, a

farmer from Resipol, broad and brawny, rose to make a few remarks. The

schoolhouse was very hot and close, but he disdained to throw off the

thick and ample Highland cloak which he had on, and which he had worn

all day at the Oban Cattle Show, and on the deck of the boat that had

brought him thence. Mr. M'Gregor had been much struck by my remarks on

the knights of King Arthur, and their custom of sitting at the Round

Table, to avoid questions of precedence. He spoke to this effect: "I do

not wish the lecturer to go back to Paisley under the impression that

Salen is not a very bye-ordinary and consequential place. We have a

fleet of yachts out there, the like of which is not to be seen _between

this and Manch-oo-ria_. We have a blacksmith that can preach and quote

Scripture as well as any D.D. in the land; my friend the grocer over

there, will give you such bargains as you could never get in

Sauchie-_hall_ Street; and we have a choir here that might give the

angels singing-lessons. I am a very modest man, but I would like to say

just a word about this Round Table business. The lecturer says the Table

was round so that every knight might be at the head of it. That's the

theory, but what's the fact? I'll tell you. _One of King Arthur's

knights was an ancestor of mine, and his name was M'Greegor._[12] Now,

wherever M'Greegor sat, that was always considered the head of the

table." This contribution to Arthurian criticism was delivered with such

force, faith, and genial glee, that no one, considering the powerful

muscles of the speaker, was disposed to question it. (Mr. M'Gregor's

eulogy of Salen did not comprise a reference to the local hotel, which

is conducted on the Gothenburg system. It is comfortable and snug, but

not whole-heartedly patronised by some of the natives, as they consider

the system is an un-Celtic innovation, and believe further that every

drink they take is written down in a big book with an alphabet on the

edge of the leaves to facilitate reference).

[12] Judging from the number of clans that make a similar claim,

we might fancy that all King Arthur's knights

"Gartened low their leg,

And rowed their hurdies in a philabeg."

LECTURE IN A DUNGEON, ETC.

I have an agreeable recollection of my stay in Saddell, on the coast of

Kintyre, as the guest of Colonel Macleod, son of the never-to-be-forgotten

Dr. Norman Macleod. The Colonel was born in 1820, was present at the

Eglinton Tournament, and is, to-day, in spite of his eighty-eight

years, hale in body, sound of wind, and perfectly clear in the

intellect. He is a walking encyclopædia of all the social and political

changes that have come about since the accession of Victoria. He is also

an authority on live stock, and it is intensely amusing to see his

horses scampering from the far-end of the field when they see him, in

the hope of getting some of the bits of sugar he always carries in his

pocket for their benefit.

The school-house being badly situated for the convenience of the people,

the meeting was held in the _dungeon of the old castle_, a spacious and

airy place quite near the beach. Altogether, I reckon this meeting as

the drollest in all my experience. There were no windows in the

overhanging vaulted roof, and the long stone stair leading to the ground

above, was filled with the audience that could not get accommodation

below. The aged Colonel presided over about one hundred prisoners, and

humorously remarked that the table at which he was standing, was really

a _patent incubating apparatus_, under which four dozen of Mrs.

Macleod's chickens were coming to maturity. He hoped these embryo fowls

would not interrupt the lecture by any unseemly remarks. At the risk of

wearying the chickens, I spoke for an hour and a half, dealing in the

course of my remarks (to be as apposite as possible) with the dungeon

scene in "The Legend of Montrose," where Dugald Dalgetty squeezes the

windpipe of the Duke of Argyll.

In one little village hall in Kintyre, I was much perturbed by some of

the placards that had been placed on the walls. The hall had been used

for evangelical purposes, and there, facing me, in yard-long type, was

the dreadful command, _Get right with God_. To speak on Hood and his

puns with those colossal letters burning their message into your soul,

would need nerves of steel. I have not nerves of steel, and I felt

dreadfully incommoded by the bill. For the space of five minutes I might

occasionally forget it, and then, in the midst of some light and

skittish quotation, my eye would light upon it, and the verses would

come feebly and falteringly off the tongue. _Vox faucibus haesit._

SURPRISES.

My narrative would be lacking in completeness if I did not frankly

confess that I have sometimes met with humiliations of a kind to wring

the heart and call forth a sigh. In one nook of the north I stayed in

the manse of an excellent clergyman, an eloquent preacher, but austere

and extremely devout. He took the chair at the lecture, which was very

well attended. Before the meeting began I was told that a local

gentleman wished to ask me _an important question_. This was good news

for me, as I thought the inquirer might have some literary difficulty

which it would be profitable to handle in the course of my remarks. The

anxious enquirer proved to be the local hotel-keeper, who, in a deadly

earnest whisper made the following request: "You have a big meeting," he

said, "and it's not likely there will be such a number of people so near

my hotel for many a long day. _Would it be asking too much of you to

finish up about half-past nine and give the audience time to sample

some of my commodities before departing homewards?_ It's chiefly the

minister I have to fear; for if he suspects I wish to do business, he'll

prolong the vote of thanks till after the stroke of ten."

One of my compensations in wandering Scotland thorough has been the

heartfelt but rather naïve way in which some of the provincials have

expressed their gratitude. "_I've paid half-a-crown for worse_," said an

old man of Ross to me, shaking me warmly by the hand and believing he

was uttering a most delicate and hyperbolical compliment. (Now, during

my remarks, I had noticed this man taking copious pinches of snuff to

enable him, as I suspected, to sit out the meeting.) Another rustic,

this time an Aberdonian, was impressed by the number of authors

mentioned and the copious citations from their works. "Heavens!" he

cried, "what a memory that man has! That's the kind of partner I should

like to have at whist: he would never forget the cards that were out."

I know not whether to laugh or weep when I think of the occasion on

which the following charmingly irrelevant remarks were made to me: "We

are all proud of our village library and _even prouder of the feeling

that prompted such a gift_. I am reminded," the speaker went on to say,

"of a cousin of mine who got a present of exquisite fruit (preserved in

wine) from a friend in a distant part of the country. He wrote to the

donor saying, 'Your fruit is delicious: I like it very much; but I like

even more _the spirit in which it has been sent_.'"

A VISIT TO THE BORDERS.

In order that these pages may fitly represent all the districts of

Caledonia that I have traversed as an uncommercial traveller, I should

like to give a short sketch of how I reached Tweedside by way of Lanark,

at a season when the Glasgow people were beginning their Fair holidays.

Winter, as I remarked, is the time I prefer for travelling, but untoward

circumstances have now and again compelled me to be on the move when

"mid-summer, like an army with banners, was marching through the

mid-heavens."

I may say at once that it is a great trial to leave Glasgow at that

particular date. The city pours forth its myriads at such a time. The

stations are surging and heaving with throngs of men, women, and

children, all in a hurry and all impatient. Families by tens and dozens

are swarming about. How pathetic it is to see the father with one child

in his arms and two clinging to his coat-tails, while the mother (poor

bedraggled soul) is vainly striving to quieten a squalling fourth! Some

children have lost their parents, and grope about underneath, nipping

the legs of tourists to attract attention and get hold of the right

father; others fall among bales of strawberries that were pulled

yesterday in the fresh country air, but are now being trampled into gory

pulp. Even in the fetid and dust-laden air, rendered almost unbearable

by the hot sunlight that blazes through the overarching glass of the

station roof, Cupid twangs his arrows, and soft eyes speak love to eyes

that speak again. Suddenly the train arrives, and on the already

crowded platform lands the human freight of twenty carriages--a fresh

addition to the welter and confusion worse confounded. What a wealth of

language one hears! Cyclists tinkle with bell and horn to secure the

needed lane of passage. Porters, in desperate madness, throw wooden

boxes down and rope-tied trunks of tin with little sympathy for injured

knees and fiery corns. The train just in will shortly leave with a new

load of passengers. A rush is made for the vacated seats: in tumbles the

surging crowd without regard for the class of ticket they have

purchased. A score of occupants per carriage is about the average; many

swarm into the guard's van, where they are regaled with pandemoniac

odours of ancient fish and decaying vegetables. The heavy train at

length steams out into the open, and in an hour's time Lanark is

reached. "_God made the country and man made the town_" is the

involuntary reflection of the city man as he steps out of the train and

breathes the fresh air of the hills.

From Lanark to Peebles, by road, is thirty miles. The track is

excellent, and if the wind is not adversely strong the joy of cycling

the distance is difficult to parallel.

On this route, no lumbering vehicles, laden with heavy merchandise, tear

up the soil into ruts. No cab-drivers cast sarcastic remarks at you from

their high perch. The only annoyance comes from the cast-off nail of a

horse-shoe or the sharp splinter of a macadamised stone. The air is as

fresh as on Creation's morn. Up hill and down again one can hurry on

without ever touching the brake. For the first ten miles, the stately

bulk of Tinto dominates the landscape. What a splendid range of scenery

the eye could grasp from the high vantage-ground of its summit in clear

weather! As one approaches the base of the big hill, the road turns

sharply to the east, and you feel about your ears innumerable breezes

that blow along from the little glens leading down from Tinto's breast.

By and by, the clean, trim, little town of Biggar appears. (The

inhabitants are proud of the fact that John Brown, author of the

beautiful story, _Rab and his Frien's_, was a native of the town.) One

notices the name of Gladstone prominent above the shops, and it is a

fact that the ancestors of the Grand Old Man were, in the days of yore,

denizens of those quiet hamlets. After a short rest here, we (for you

are with me, _ami lecteur_) shoot on and pass the sleepy street of

Broughton, lying clear and radiant in the slanting rays of the sun. Here

is the ideal spot for a country clergyman in love with Hebrew roots and

gardening and quiet contemplation. Soon we strike the tiny waters of the

infant Tweed, prattling and gushing up and bubbling clear over its

snow-white pebbles. Now the breeze of gloaming blows more snell. Away

low in the west the sun begins to gather golden clouds in pomp around

his setting. A gorgeous glimmer, gold and red, is thrown over the whole

sky. Keeping close beside the ever-widening stream, we dash through

little clachans on the bank, beneath long, over-arching avenues of

trees, and past the gates of ivy-mantled homes of blessed outlook. Here

a croquet party stops playing, for the grass is getting wet with

evening dew, and there, in the river, and up to the knees in it, are

half a dozen anglers sweeping the wave with their spurious fly. Peebles

is not far off, and the quiet nooks of the high road are filled with

pedestrians. The entrance to Peebles is exquisite. The long rows of

trees, the situation of the road high above the river in the dell,

combine to make an eerie blend of sound from sighing leaves and gurgling

waters. An old Border peel, Needpath Castle, stands near the straggling

outskirts of the town, and proves, by its choice situation on the knoll,

that our cattle-reiving ancestors were quite alive to the advantages of

a good view. It was a stirring quarter here in the days of the old

Scotch kings. The deadly thrust of lance has reddened every burn in the

wide Borderland. Every brae has had its gory bicker.

On this _tournée_ I had the pleasure of giving a lecture on "Scotch

Ballads," at a little village not more than half a mile from the

birthplace of Dandie Dinmont. The place was full of sturdy, firm-knit

Borderers, descendants of the dare-devil troopers who wrought such

devastation along the Marches when the Stuarts reigned in Holyrood.

Fresh, ruddy faces, coloured by breeze and sun; hard, keen, inquisitive

looks; intelligence such as comes from knowledge of nature, hereditary

quickness and good circulation of blood: all these could be instantly

seen by glancing round the audience. (How insignificant a mere bookworm

or scholar feels among a company of brawny Liddesdale farmers!) During

the lecture, it was easy to note by the grim smile on their faces, their

flashing eyes and the way they gripped their big sticks, that the old

stirring rhymes of fight struck a sympathetic chord in their hearts. Now

and again, during the address, one could see the lips of the listeners

moving in soft repetition of the lines, as some typical quotations were

being made.

It is not likely that there has been much change or influx of population

in these districts for centuries. The alertness and intelligence of the

natives must be to some extent an inheritance from the generations of

strenuous clansmen whose blood flows in their veins. Life in a

historical district is bound to have an ennobling effect on a man,

especially if he feels knit to the past by lineal descent from the

historical actors. A glamour of romance clings to hill and glen. The

dalesman you meet on the highway can tell you all the lore of his

parish, giving dates and citing illustrative lays. It is pleasant to

find that the stories of the Borderland are still known where they first

took birth, and that the local names, which to students instantly

suggest delightful bits of rhyme, have also to those who dwell near

them, a romance that is borrowed from the olden time.[13]

Anyone who has travelled in the shires that run along the Cheviots and

the Tweed, will conclude that poetry and romance may ever find a home

there. The hills, with their green pastoral slopes and abundant leafage,

are a delight to the eye in fresh spring and tinted fall. The sound of

the streams, as Ruskin has pointed out, is sweet and rhythmic to an

extraordinary degree, combining with the sough of the winds to form an

undersong of Nature's own melody. As the traveller drives or cycles

along the roads, he now and again gets such impressive vistas of

long-stretching waterways, wooded to the brink with graceful trees, as

grave themselves on the memory for evermore. For rock, crag, and dashing

linn, the northern Highlands are supreme; but in the green Borderland,

there is a more sedate and proportioned beauty. Nature is none the less

attractive for losing somewhat of her wildness and austerity.

[13] A favourite and appropriate book in this part of Scotland is

Wilson's _Tales of the Borders_. There are not many farm-houses

in the Lowlands of Scotland in which one does not find old

copies, bound and unbound, of Wilson's _Tales_. Usually they show

unmistakable evidence of having been frequently perused. One is

bound to admit that the modern reader, if he spends an evening

turning over these old pages, will find little reason to pride

himself on the superiority of the popular reading of to-day. The

short story, now in vogue, may be finely illustrated, and highly

sensational, but its matter is certainly inferior, as a rule, to

the general run of Wilson's stories. Wilson, in his humble way,

was a gleaner in the field so richly harvested by Sir Walter

Scott. _The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_ had called

attention to the great stores of poetry and romance lingering

among the peasantry of the Debateable Land. Wilson's _Tales_

showed how much of the old spirit remained more than two

centuries after the Union, and, in spite of all Christianity and

an orderly Government had done for the softening of manners.

Hogg, in speaking of his own countryside, said: "The poor people

of these glens know no other entertainment in the long winter

nights than repeating and listening to the feats of their

ancestors recorded in songs which I believe to have been handed

down from father to son for many generations." Wilson and his

successors gathered up as much of the romantic material as they

found available, and printed it for the delight of their

generation.

TARBOLTON.

In the agricultural lowlands of Scotland it is not rare to come upon

little villages that seem entirely left behind by modern progress. Not

long ago my work took me to Tarbolton, a quiet, uneven village in the

heart of the queenly shire of Ayr. The railway company has treated the

place very badly: a full fifteen minutes' drive is needed to reach the

town from the station. It is as if the company said: "Make what you can

of our line, ye insignificant Tarboltonians; our trains are in a hurry

to get from Ayr to Muirkirk; be thankful if we set you down only three

miles from your home." If it is not wet, the drive is a grand one. Five

miles to the right, Mauchline shows its red complexion on the green

hillside, and awakens lyric memories of Burns's imperishable mouse and

share-torn gowan. Over the pasture lands on the right come freshening

winds that hint of the heaving Firth not far away. The road pursued by

the coach meanders among all that is best of rural and pastoral scenery,

for coaly Annbank, defaced by the exhumed entrails of the earth, is

happily on the rear. At a turn of the road, a majestic spire, that of

Tarbolton Parish Church, suddenly stands before the view of the

traveller, and suggests Eternity even when tolling the hours of Time.

Soon the village is reached, and one is in a position to form an idea of

eighteenth century Scotland. The main street is built with that

irregularity so charmingly illustrative of the evolution of the

builder's art. Old cots roofed with thatch take the mind back to the

time when George I. was defending the faith and maltreating his wife.

Side by side with such are trim two-storey houses with all modern

elegancies.

I have a pleasant recollection of this interesting village, not merely

from its associations with Burns (which Mr. T.F. Henderson in a dainty

little book has recently recounted anew), but also from the fact that

the natives keep alive the literary traditions of the place in quite a

worthy way. The local baker has written a fluent volume of Essays

dealing with village incidents and worthies, which proves, as Mr. Barrie

says, that life in every stage, if truthfully portrayed, is intensely

interesting, and that every window-blind is the curtain for some tragedy

or comedy.

THE SCOTCH LANGUAGE.

Very fine Scotch is still spoken in the rural districts of Ayrshire, and

most of Burns's dialect words are in daily use, at least by the older

generation. The Education Department has most wisely given encouragement

to the study of Lowland Scotch, and I do not see why a special grant

should not be given for special excellence in that department. Some

national movement for a complete Dictionary of Modern Scotch with

explanations in up-to-date philology ought to be organised.

During the lifetime of Sir Walter Scott, Dr. Jamieson published the

famous _Scottish Dictionary_, which still holds the field as the most

elaborate compendium of the Lowland dialects. Looked at in the light of

modern science, the derivations are often absurd and fanciful.

Jamieson's love for Gothic parallels led him constantly astray.

Nevertheless, his dictionary, as amended by various revisers, remains a

stately monument of industry and a necessary adjunct in the study of the

Scotch language.

In our own day, Dr. Murray of Oxford has compiled an illuminating

grammar of the language, indicating the various dialects of the Lowlands

and their geographical areas. Local antiquarians have also written out

lists of words special to particular counties. Dialect books, such as

the entertaining _Johnnie Gibb of Gushetneuk_, as well as Mr. Barrie's

delightful sketches, have put excellent specimens of provincial speech

within the hands of a wide circle of readers. A good dictionary of

modern Scotch, dealing with what has been written during the last two

centuries, would be a very useful and a very interesting compendium. It

would show that a great many expressive words employed by thirteenth

century English writers are still in use on the Scotch side of the

Border.

There is no denying the fact that book-English will soon push out the

relics of the old Scotch tongue. Burns will soon be read by lexicon,

even in the shire of Ayr. Men now write poetry in Scotch as boys at Eton

and Harrow write Latin verses, the result in both cases being, as a

rule, hideous and artificial doggrel. The little book, _Wee Macgregor_,

written in what may be called the Scotch Cockney dialect, was a brave

and amusing attempt to phonograph the talk of a Glasgow boy of the lower

middle class. The unlovely speech employed by the author is, happily,

quite unlike the careful and deliberate speech of the educated citizen

of Glasgow or Paisley. The main differences between the educated Scot

and the educated Englishman are that the vowel sounds of the former are

pure and that _r_ and _h_ have a real value in most words where these

letters occur.

It seems to me a _very undesirable_ thing that a uniform system of

pronunciation should be aimed at in every country of the British Isles.

So long as clear and expressive enunciation of English is attained,

intelligible differences of vocalisation, pitch, and even of vocabulary,

are allowable, and at times positively charming. Monotony is the bane of

life.

CHOICE BOOKS.

"Whether the books are borrowed books or no

That show their varied stature row on row

Along your walls, there will I truly find

The image of your character and mind.

Light, flimsy novels suit the flying train

Or _Western Isle_ excursions of Macbrayne,

Where, dazed by gleaming firths of visible heat,

The torpid soul disdains substantial meat;

But oft-read volumes, to which men recur

The whole year round, bespeak the character."

The above lines, written by some unknown poetaster, indicate that it is

the book we read over and over again that has the greatest potency in

our education. I quite agree with the author, and I love to behold the

well-thumbed pocket-edition that speaks to the eye of much handling and

frequent perusal. There are very few books _worth_ reading once that are

not worth reading oftener. Hobbes used to say that if he had read as

much literature as the majority of men, he would have been as ignorant

as they. In that remark what depths of meaning lie! The sage of

Malmesbury attributed his success in philosophy to his habit of

judicious selection--to the fact that he concentrated his attention on

those authors who were likely to help the development of his powers.

Selection is more required now than in Hobbes's time. Few men would care

to read more than a hundred books through in a year, and yet there are

twenty thousand volumes added annually to the shelves of the British

Museum.

THE ESSAYISTS.

It has been my privilege, during the last three or four years, to

examine with more or less care something like four hundred bookcases,

containing works on all departments of literature. _I am inclined to

turn away in disgust if the Essayists are not patronised._

Those delightful Essayists! Happy is the man who has his shelves full of

them--writers who talk sense with wanton heed and giddy cunning, who

spread their souls out on paper, who disarm hostility by taking you

completely into their confidence. Addison, with the roguish gleam in his

eye as he is calculating the number of sponges in the cost of a lady's

finery; Goldsmith, in his London garret, talking of the ludicrous

escapades of the Man in Black; Lamb luxuriating in reminiscences of Old

Benchers. All these splendid, unsystematic delights, mingled with the

breezes of byegone summers and the sunsets of long ago! Old ghosts

whisper you their secrets; you hear the brush of sweeping garments that

have been moth-eaten these hundred years. Crowded streets of people

appear before the eye of fancy--London in the days of Anne and the

Georges. In the company of such wits, there are no slow-moving hours:

you have in them friends who never need tire you, for should the

slightest tedium intervene, you may, without offence, stop their flow of

conversation. Our living intimates are prone to drynesses and huffs; but

these old prattling wits ever welcome us with a smile of affability.

A BANFF THEORY.

While speaking of Essayists, I ought to mention a peculiar Banffshire

theorist who addressed me in the following words: "Give me an old set of

_Blackwood_ in the Kit North days, and I can easily forego your

pinchbeck stories and propagandist novels of to-day. I put the most

interesting period for reading at _sixty years ago_, and I think Scott

must have known the charm of that number when he gave the alternative

title to _Waverley_. It is pleasant to know how the world wagged when

your grandfather was a ruddy egg-purloining rogue of five. When I read

farther back than a century, I feel imagination flagging--the Merry

Monarch is not much more to me than John the Baptist. But the men of the

forties stand out clear and distinct. If I have never seen an

out-and-out fiery Chartist, I have at least seen some smouldering

specimens--men with much of the eloquence and a little of the enterprise

of the original five-pointers. It may be that as I grow older, my most

interesting historical period will move with me, keeping always at a

distance of sixty years from the present, until, when I get within hail

of the Psalmist's stint, I shall be most interested in childish things."

These words rather staggered me, and set me thinking of geometrical

_loci_. A man holding such views would find it difficult to obtain a

bird's-eye view of history.

GOLDSMITH IN GAELIC.

If I had an adequate knowledge of Gaelic, combined with plenty of money

and leisure, I should set myself the task of translating the whole of

Goldsmith's Essays and Tales into that language, for the benefit of

those who had no English. It would be a great feat if one could impress

on the modern Celtic mind the conviction that piety and diversion are by

no means incompatible. Goldsmith's _Auburn_ introduces us to the most

delightful prospect on earth: a simple village community, unacquainted

with luxury and uncorrupted by vice. The inhabitants are full of health

and joy--they till the soil and gain ample satisfaction for their

unambitious wants. Life passes along bringing a pleasant succession of

happy hours. After the labours of the day, the young people dance

merrily on the green, and the old folk look on and regret that their own

legs are too stiff to keep time to the fiddles. Certain Highland

landlords might also read with advantage the exquisitely pathetic lines

in which the poet pictures the desolation and ruin of the rural

paradise, and perhaps conclude therefrom that, when glen and strath are

depleted of their inhabitants, and these latter driven over the seas to

seek a foothold in strange lands, it is the very heart's blood of

Britain that is being drained away.

On the whole, probably no English writer has given such genuine delight

as Goldsmith, and such genuine instruction too. Ineradicably frivolous,

culpably negligent of the morrow, whimsically vain and living all his

days from hand to mouth, he had the faculty of drawing upon himself the

pity, and even the contempt, of his associates. But in the eyes of

posterity, his happy-go-lucky life is amply redeemed by the work he has

left behind him, for _it_ is pure and good. His river of speech flows

ever on shining like molten gold. No man of his time possessed the

adroit knack of bright writing in a more eminent degree. The pawky

humour of his side-hits, the blending of light and shade in the process

of the narrative, the beauty and melody that can be noted even in the

sound of the sentences, combine to delight the judgment, the ear, and

the fancy. Though the _Vicar of Wakefield_ is a prose production, it

produces all the effect of a poem on the affections of the heart. Of

wit, properly speaking, it is as full as any volume of _The Spectator_;

with humour it is flooded from beginning to end; and in those pathetic

delineations of life which no one can read without being profoundly

touched, there are few poems so rich.

BIBLIA ABIBLIA.

In many (indeed most) houses I have visited, I see in the bookcase large

publications in six or seven well-bound parts and as good as new,

dealing with subjects of little interest to anyone who breathes the

vital air of heaven. Such titles as _Science for All_, _The Thames from

its Source to the Sea_, _The Queens of England_ are among the commonest

on the boards of the books I allude to. The presence of these editions

indicates that the possessor at a certain period of his life was shy and

could not say _no_ to that limb of the Evil One--the book-canvasser. The

latter individual is the forerunner of the colporteur, who will bring

you, if you wish poetry, an edition of the works of Shakespeare which is

peculiarly ill-adapted for holding in the hand and reading. The print is

large, the page is in size like a miniature wall-map, and the

illustrations are got up with an easy defiance of archeology. The

annotations, though stolen, are distinguished for extreme futility.

After you have begun the purchase of such a book, shame and chagrin

drive you to attempt the study of it; but it is of no use, and on each

occasion of the very regular advent of the colporteur, you are inclined

to swear horribly, after which a period of extreme dejection supervenes

when you recollect the many fine things you could purchase for the

half-guinea periodically expended. The knowledge of human nature

displayed by the man who books the order surpasses anything in the works

of the analytical philosophers. Every artifice of attack is his, and he

knows how to play on all the emotions so ably and exhaustively

catalogued in the manuals of Professor Bain. I believe a gay and

chaffing rejoinder is what he can least overcome. Suggest to him that

you are far gone in poverty and offer to _sell_ him a few of your own

books. Frequent exercise will confirm your principles, until finally,

when you see one of the book-canvassing tribe, you will foresee half an

hour's innocent amusement.

Certain of the points he so feelingly brings before you may no doubt

awaken a responsive echo in your own bosom. You are well aware, for

example, that your knowledge of the Queens of England is culpably

imperfect. You know you are never likely to go in steadily for the study

of constitutional developments, and so are led to admit the

reasonableness of tackling history from a lighter and more entertaining

point of view. Again, as to the River Thames, one must really grant that

a considerable amount of self-complacency and internal sunniness would

result from the ability to contradict your friends as to the length in

miles of some of its minor tributaries. In science, too, you are no

Kepler or Linnaeus, and there is something satisfactory when pedants

talk of orbits, planes, bulbs, or beetles, in being able to say that

_you have a big book at home that tells all about those things_.

Many people buy books, not because they have a present need for them,

but on the chance that at some time in the future such volumes as they

see for sale will solve a doubt or answer a need. The precise doubt or

the pressing need rarely arises. I met a Celt who had bought a copy of

Josephus in most irritating type, in the hope that it would help him to

confute a Roman Catholic on the Power of the Keys. Then again, people of

a wavering and bird-witted type of mind are constantly changing the

subject of their interest: this month they are attacked by the _furor

poeticus_, next month it will be a _furor botanicus_ or _politicus_.

Each separate frenzy means expenditure. When Browning is the temporary

subject of the mania, a host of expository books on that poet have to be

purchased, all of which are duly consigned to the topmost shelves when

the soreness of the fit is past. There is also a tendency to purchase,

because on the chance opening of a book you light on something that

pleases the whim of the moment. It is a thousand to one that when you

have bought the book you will not find another item worth perusing in

the entire contents. This tendency to buy a book in a panic may be

neutralised by remembering the story (whether true or not) of Defoe, who

is said to have boomed the languid sale of the dreary _Drelincourt on

Death_ by means of a spicy little ghost story as introduction! Buy in

haste, repent at leisure.

SECOND-HAND BOOKS.

It is a much pleasanter sight to my eyes to see a bookcase with

second-hand books in it, for these are almost always bought to be read.

In a teacher's house near Elgin, I recently saw a most remarkable

collection--a veritable ragged regiment of books: single volumes of

Plutarch, unexpurgated plays by Farquhar and Mrs. Behn, Civil War

pamphlets, and rows of oddities. Mr. Forbes (the owner) was at one

period of his life assistant in Falkirk, and every Saturday morning,

rain or shine, he proceeded to the city of Glasgow, for no purpose but

to roam through the dusty byeways and side streets in quest of

bookstalls. He knew all the dealers by name, and they welcomed him, for

he never left them without a purchase, however slight. It was a saying

of his that while it took half-a-crown to purchase you two hours'

amusement at a theatre, for a couple of shillings, or even less, you

might divide out a whole Saturday most enjoyably in the old book-shops.

He simply rioted in haggling over a threepenny piece. Even old Henderson

feared him. This Henderson was a thirsty old bookseller who kept a shop

at the corner of Cowcaddens and Ingram Street, and whose leading

speciality was second-hand family Bibles, with the former genealogical

leaf riven out and replaced by a clean sheet pasted in for the family of

the next purchaser. To him, sitting enthroned on a pile of Bibles,

Forbes, entering, spake: "Have you a copy of the _Lives of the Twelve

Cæsars_?" "Aye, aye," said old Henderson, with a gracious smile;

"_thirteen_ if you like." The copy of Suetonius was produced, and "How

much do you want for Suet.?" queried Forbes. "Half-a-crown," said old

Henderson. "I'll give you ninepence," said Forbes. "Make it

one-and-six," said the bookseller, rising from his Biblical throne, "and

the book's yours." "I'll give you a shilling and a half of whisky,"

retorted Forbes. "Say a whole glass and the shilling, and we'll do

business," quoth the vendor of volumes. This was agreed upon, and the

two retired into the nearest dram-shop to conclude the bargain. Every

Saturday evening, Forbes came home by the last train, carrying his

bundle of volumes. He was careful to fumigate them for the purpose of

destroying any microbes, and finally would sprinkle them with _eau de

Cologne_ to make them tolerable to the nose. On Sunday, he enjoyed the

luxury of desultory reading.

Like Mr. Forbes, I enjoy a ramble among these old shops, and can say, as

he said to me at parting:--

"I love the trundling stall

Where ragged authors wait the buyer's call,

Where, for the tariff of a modest supper,

You'll buy a twelvemonth's moral feast in Tupper;

Where Virgil's tome is labelled at a groat,

And twopence buys what tittering Flaccus wrote;

Where lie the quips of Addison and Steele,

And the thrice-blessed songs of Rob Mossgiel;

And some that resurrection seek in vain

From the swart dust that chokes the lumbering wain."

FAVOURITES.

I have often been asked: "You who are so much on the move, who have had

so much train-travelling to do, what books would you recommend for a

long railway journey?" I do not know that one man's likes and dislikes

in reading are of value save as showing his own limitations, yet there

are certain books of which I never tire. I never leave home without the

following books handy for perusal: (i.) The _Odes of Horace_, (ii.) The

_Sonnets of Shakespeare_, (iii.) A French novel and a few copies of the

Paris _Matin_, (iv.) A Greek book of some kind, (v.) Pope or Addison,

(vi.) Some Victorian classic. The list is varied enough, and has

furnished me with much of the material for my speaking.

HORACE.

The pleasant thing about Horace is that his odes are so short: you can

read one in a few minutes--shut your eyes and enjoy the mental taste of

it--try to repeat it, and, if you fail, consult the original--then,

finally (as Pope and many others have done), endeavour to find modern

parallels. Suppose, _e.g._, you are reading, as is likely, the first Ode

of the first Book, you might find present-day resemblances like the

following:--

_Curriculo pulverem._

What mad attractions sway the world!

Some are unhappy save when whirled

In motor cars that madly race,

To leave a stench in every place,

And maim those foolish folk that stray

Abroad upon the king's highway.

_Tergeminis honoribus._

Yon babbling wight, of sense forlorn,

Who thinks himself a Gladstone born,

Although a bailie, still must strain

To gain himself a Provost's chain.

And, after that, the worthy prater

Aspires to be a legislator;

Dreams of St. Stephen's, where he sees

Himself hobnobbing with M.P.'s.

_Patrios agros._

But Farmer Bob is somewhat saner--

He minds his stock and is the gainer;

Content to pass his life amid

The scenes that his old father did.

With hose in hand he cleans the byre,

And saves himself a menial's hire;

But gives his girls an education

That may unfit them for their station.

But don't ask Bob to tempt the tide,

Even on a turbine down the Clyde;

Neptune and Ceres don't agree,

And farmers hate the name of sea.

_Mox reficit rates._

When Skipper Smith (whose usual goal

Is Campbeltown with Ayrshire coal)

Is labouring thro' Kilbrannan Sound,

He sighs for Troon and solid ground,

And swears, if he were safe on shore,

He'd never be a sailor more.

But once on shore--he thinks it dull,

And soon begins to tar the hull

And caulk the timbers of his ship:

"I'll try," he says, "another trip."

_Lene Caput._

Some love to mangle turf: I see

Them drive their balls from sandy tee,

And think their day's delight begins

When they are up among the whins.

Some elders, full of godly zeal,

Turn crazy about rod and reel;

And ministers, reputed wise,

Take service with the Lord of Flies

(Beelzebub), and like the work

Better than prosing in a kirk.

_Conjugis immemor._

Sir Samuel Croesus (noble wight!

Who paid so dear to be a knight)

Forsakes his lady for the hills,

And aims at birds he never kills.

Too late in life he shouldered gun,

Breathless he toils beneath the sun,

Sips whisky every other minute,

Until his flask has nothing in it;

Then, at the end of strength and tether,

Falls tipsy in the blooming heather.

_Praemia frontium._

But as for me, my wants are few:

£3,000 a year would do;

A villa built upon a height,

With ample view to left and right;

A garden with a sunny seat,

A grassy lawn with borders neat.

Inside, a study furnished well

(Like a true scholar's citadel)

With books and pipes and easy chairs;

Here, in despite of worldly cares,

If I should write a verse or two--

A lyric that a _judge_ like you

Could read, without once yawning, through--

I'd be as proud as any man

That scribbled since the world began.

Horace is thus fit for all times and conjunctures, and is the most

modern of all the Latin writers--

"Horace still charms with pleasing negligence,

And without method talks us into sense."

The translation of Horace's Odes into modern speech is generally

admitted to be one of the most difficult tasks to which a versifier can

apply himself. And yet there is no task so often essayed. It is a common

saying in France that, when a lawyer quits the bar and retires, he is

certain to publish a new translation of Horace after a year or two's

studious ease. M. Loubet, we know, is a zealous devotee of the Sabine

bard. Not the least droll of Mr. Gladstone's many feats was the

publication, shortly before his death, of a translation of Horace's

Odes, a translation wholly worthless indeed, in spite of the writer's

immense scholarship, but valuable as showing the fascination exercised

by Horace over the most austere and ecclesiastical of minds. It seemed

strange indeed to see the great statesman turn aside from his study of

Butler and the Fathers of the Church, in order to put into English verse

the gay, and often scandalous odes, of an old Pagan epicure. Mr. Morley,

who revised the translation, must have smiled as he read the old man's

rendering of--

"_Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa._"

It is a fact, I suppose, that poetic translations of Horace are rarely

read, save by scholars, and the verdict is almost always unkind. Yet an

excellent anthology could be compiled by selecting the happiest

renderings of the most talented translators. Dryden's paraphrase of

III., 29, has been uniformly praised, and was a great favourite of

Thackeray's. Cowper's nimble wit and classic taste are seen in his

translation of II., 10, an ode beautifully rendered also by Mr. William

Watson. Sir Theodore Martin and Connington are always readable, Francis

is uniformly insipid, and Professor Newman, with his metrical capers,

absolutely absurd. Pope's "Imitations of Horace" are so brilliant, that

no student of English literature can afford to neglect them. Pope's

method of replacing ancient allusions by modern ones, was employed by

Johnson in some magnificent renderings of Juvenal, and no doubt

suggested to our Scotch vernacular poets a mode (still popular) of

translating Horace into Doric speech. Our Scotch bards preferred, as a

rule, to work on the Odes, and they succeeded best when they departed

most widely from the Latin text.

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS.

The same blessed quality of brevity that attracts one in Horace is to me

one of the recommendations of Shakespeare's Sonnets. I am glad the

mystery of them is never likely to be discovered. From frequent perusal

of them in the train, I know the majority by heart, but despair of

finding any cryptogram in them.

The cord on which these exquisite beads of poetry are strung is of the

most flimsy and frayed character. In other words, the characters are all

bad, and the verses that laud them are of the utmost brilliancy and

fascination. The poet himself supplies material that would justify us in

stigmatising his friend as a heartless and dissipated rogue. He also

lets us know that the pale-faced lady was an unwholesome and treacherous

minx. Yet he addresses the one in language that would be too laudatory

for Sir Galahad, and the other he idolises and insults by turns.

How strange it is that the poet, while lingering fondly over the doings

of these two un-moral persons, should give utterance to some of the most

impressive lines in English literature! Certain of the sonnets pierce

the heart as with an arrow: such are those that deal, in broad and

pathetic fashion, with the ceaseless flux of all things human, the grim

realities of the grave, the ruthless sequence of earthly events, and the

measureless melancholy of the reflecting mind. The effect produced is

often like what we experience in reading Ecclesiastes or Omar Khayyam.

"Golden lads and lasses must, like chimney-sweepers, turn to dust."

Though Shakespeare is dolefully impressed by the decay and destruction

of all material things and by the evanescent nature of beauty, he has no

doubt whatever of the immortality of the verses he is writing. He vaunts

as boldly as ever Horace did--indeed, in words that suggest the _Exegi

monumentum_ ode--that his verses will outlast the proudest works of man.

It is a sorry anti-climax to such a boast that the poet harps on the

immortality of the dissolute youth as a consequence of the sonnets

having an eternity of renown. Was there ever such a puzzling and

unworthy association of ideas? The puzzle is rendered more perplexing

still by the fact that Shakespeare took no pains to enlighten posterity

as to the identity of the youth he praises, or even to supervise the

publication of the sonnets. Thorpe's piratical edition was full of

misprints, but Shakespeare, so far as we know, took no notice of it, and

made no attempt, by giving the world a correct and authentic version, to

secure what his verses declare him to be anxious to bring about, viz.,

the renown of his friend among generations to come. For us the youth

still exists, no doubt, but not as an historical character. _He takes

his place among the creatures of the poets imagination, and is far more

of a shadow or phantom than any one of them._[14]

_If we suppose_ the sonnets to be connected with real life, it is not

easy to understand why the radiant youth, "the world's fresh ornament,"

"only herald to the gaudy spring," etc., should need such an amount of

persuasion to marry. Seventeen sonnets of great poetical beauty and

felicitous language are devoted to this object. It is an exquisite treat

to read them as works of art, but taken literally they are unspeakably

absurd. No sane man would draw out such lengths of linked sweetness for

the purpose named; nor would any youth, however credulous, _take the

sonnets at their face value_. Shakespeare is merely practising his art,

and we may be perfectly sure that these "sugared" sonnets (as Meres

calls them), if they did circulate among the poet's private friends,

were regarded as rhetorical exercises. They are intensely interesting,

as showing the overpoweringly dramatic nature of Shakespeare's genius.

Being impressed with the desirability of perpetuating beauty, he is

driven to express the idea in the conventional form of a

sonnet-sequence. The result is an exhaustiveness of treatment, a wealth

of imaginative ornament, and a dramatic vividness of presentation that

makes the reader marvel how so much could be made out of so little.

[14] Mr. Lee has collected an amount of evidence which seems to

prove that T. T., _i.e._, Thomas Thorpe, who wrote the

dedication, was not only a piratical publisher, but also a

humourist. The dedication, read in the light of these

observations, acquires a character of jocularity, and _begetter_

means _procurer_ or _getter_. Thorpe thus becomes what we know

Curll to have been a century later, a printer of stolen copy,

with a turn for cynical waggery. Mr. W. H., the begetter,

accordingly, is not a glittering aristocrat, but an unscrupulous

go-between, who has made free with somebody's escritoire, and

handed the sonnets over to the gay T. T.!

XENOPHON.

There is one Greek book, of which I have gone through three or four

copies by carrying it about in the pocket for my _moments perdus_. I

refer to the _Economist_ of Xenophon, a gem of a book, and one on which

I have often lectured. The title is not an attractive one, but the body

of the work is charming in the highest degree, and gives a better notion

of ancient Greek life than any other book in existence. Ruskin, who had

an unerring instinct for good literature, got two of his disciples to

put the book into English, himself furnishing a preface of

characteristic insight and brilliancy. He might well do such homage to

the old Greek soldier, for the _Economist_ contains teaching remarkably

like what is to be found in certain of the chapters of _Unto This Last_.

A reader cannot fail to be struck by the wonderful modernness of

Xenophon's writing, his love for the country, his simple and genuine

piety, his soldierly directness, and his practical common sense. Here is

a delightful sidelight on Greek family life, written twenty-three

centuries ago, but which might have been spoken yesterday: "_My wife_,"

says one of the characters, "_often puts me on trial and takes me to

task--When I am candid and tell her everything, I get on well enough,

but if I hide or disguise anything, it goes hard with me, for I cannot

make black seem white to her._"

The _Economist_ is an ideal volume for the country calm: it will not

deliver up its best to you in the city; but if it is leisurely perused

while hayrick fragrances are in the air, while butterflies are

fluttering round the lawns, and while the flow of a clear-gushing brook

chimes with your fancy and the quiet tone of the old Greek's musings,

then (be sure) the mellow sweetness of the "Attic Bee" will be

adequately enjoyed.

It is a great pity that life is so short, that there are only

twenty-four hours in the day, and that, owing to the general scarcity of

money among the intellectual portion of the community, the possession of

free-will is a pathetic fallacy. Nobody, in these bonds of time and

space, can do precisely what he would like to do. Mr. T. P. O'Connor

once said that, if he were master of his fate, and his feet in every way

clear, he would at once proceed to Athens and learn Greek. I can

conceive no keener or greater joy than that: it is the wish of a genuine

lover of letters. At the age of ten, I came upon an old copy of Pope's

_Homer_, and have been in love with Greek literature ever since. The

cares of this world, including rates and taxes, prevent me likewise from

proceeding to the City of the Violet Crown, but there are plenty of

cheap copies of Homer to be had in Scotland, and it is no disadvantage

that some of them have the translation printed on the opposite page.

So many things have to be learned at school now, that Greek is being

pushed out. In future, it will be a University subject solely. That is a

great pity, for although there are fine translations of the Greek

authors in English, these are not so much read as they ought to be.

Greek itself would be much easier to learn if editors would write fewer

and shorter notes.[15]

[15] Penalties of a really deterrent kind might at least be laid

upon those gentlemen who write _more than three_ pages of notes

to one of the author's text:

O that the Kaiser showing sense for once

Would loose his fury on each learned dunce,

And visit with his summary proceedings

The rogues who tease us with their _variant readings_.

FRENCH LITERATURE AND JOURNALISM.

I am always delighted to see French books on the shelves of a rural

library. I notice Dowden's _French Literature_ in many a Highland

bookcase; and I am sure it will please that erudite and most excellent

professor to know he has hundreds of students who never saw his face.

Everybody should learn the French language: I don't know a better

intellectual investment. French is rich in precisely those qualities

that English lacks. It is not necessary, for proof of that statement, to

read Gautier, Bourget, or Hugo. A daily paper from Paris supplies all

the proof required.

I freely admit that the French newspaper seems, on first acquaintance,

to be a wonderful and puzzling affair. It is never dull or tiresome, or

glum. You may have your dearest susceptibilities wounded by it, but you

won't fall asleep as you read its columns. Humour trickles from

paragraph to paragraph; wit coruscates in the accounts of the most

ordinary police cases; and abundant of dexterous literary workmanship is

to be found in the leading articles. In spite of such admirable

qualities, there is an element of frivolity, a lack of seriousness (I

speak of the typical Boulevard sheet) that is at first rather shocking

to a British reader. He finds grave subjects treated with a fineness of

touch and a lucidity of reasoning at once charming and full of

edification: but, lo! a pun trails accidentally off the journalist's

pen, or an odd collocation of ideas jostle each other in his brain: the

writer at once stops his instructive reasoning; he goes off the main

line and careers bounding down some devious side-path of entertaining

nonsense. Our home papers are almost uniformly staid; they are written

conscientiously, laboriously, commendably. But, after all, the French

are right in trying to inject as much entertainment as possible into the

daily record of mundane things.

I regret to say that the majority of French newspapers do not give their

readers a quite fair or accurate account of events happening outside of

France. French topics, as is right, have the bulk of the space, and

foreign events are usually treated in a very prejudiced and perfunctory

way. The Frenchman's enthusiasm for home politics does not leave him

much emotion to spare for the rest of the world. Political life with him

is always more or less in a state of turmoil. There is usually some

scandalous _affaire_ afoot or impending, to which political import can

easily be given. Many of the most talented editors, being members of the

Chamber, import into their articles much of the heat and unreasoning

vehemence engendered by the violence of direct debate. There has always

been a feeling since the _great_ Revolution that _others_ might follow,

and that one or other of the royal gentlemen of this or that

disestablished race might, by some cyclone of popular or military

sympathy, be blown back to power in Paris. Unluckily, there are far too

many parties in France, far too many nicknames, badges, and shibboleths.

The language of political discussion is bitter, and heated beyond

anything the cooler Anglo-Saxon would tolerate. And yet, amid all such

electric discharges of wordy rancour, the French nation goes on its way

rejoicing, not a penny the worse, making wines, silks, and fashions, for

an ungrateful world.

There is now, and always has been, a strange sympathy between France and

Scotland. A Scot learns French, as a rule, easily. One of the striking

differences between dialect Scotch and book English is precisely the

peculiar French ingredients in the former. For three hundred years the

two countries were allies, and the advantages to England may be gathered

from the remark of King Henry V. in Shakespeare's play--

"For you shall read that my great-grandfather

Never went with his forces into France,

But that the Scot on his unfurnished kingdom,

Came rolling like the tide into the breach."

GIL BLAS.

One French book that has solaced my leisure (in train, steamer, and

trap), is that altogether delectable volume _Gil Blas_. It would be

worth learning French to be able to read the book in the original. The

characters are non-moral reprobates who lie, rob, and drink with the

most unaffected sincerity. Vice loses all its grossness, and becomes

intensely entertaining. The tone of the confessions is at once subtle

and naïve, tragic and trivial, comic and pathetic. The humour is

absolutely colossal: many English books, alleged to be humorous, do not

contain, in their entire bulk, as much humour as a single chapter of

this great work. For brilliancy of style it stands very high, and few

authors, either in France or elsewhere, have attained such admirable

clearness, precision, and pith. Read _Gil Bias_, say I, if you wish to

appreciate the possibilities of the French tongue, and taste all the

delicate flavour of its racy idiom.

ROMANCE AND AUGUSTANISM.

There is a well-known text of Scripture, "In my father's house are many

mansions" which, with a slight turn, might be applied to the House of

Literature. There is room there for every pure and beautiful expression

of human thought and emotion. Romance and Augustanism have both the

right of entry.

I am glad to see that Alexander Pope, the cleverest of our English

bards, is still a popular favourite wherever I go. It would be a pity if

this were not so, for he is head of the guild of Queen Anne wits, and

no one of them can rival his instinctive delicacy, careful workmanship,

and crystalline lucidity. His skill in the coining of impressive

aphoristic couplets is unrivalled: it is almost as good as a novel

addition to truth to find an old maxim supplied with the winged words of

such a consummate verbal artist. Pope is a writer who appeals directly

to all readers, for he never hides poverty of thought in a cloud of

vague words.

In Pope and his fellows we miss the lavish magnificence and unchartered

freedom of the spacious times of great Elizabeth. Instead of Spenser's

amazing luxuriance of matter and metre, we have a neat uniformity and

trim array of couplets, which suggest the constant supervision of the

pruning craftsman. Compared with the Elizabethans, Pope's time has less

wealth but more careful mintage, less power but more husbanding of

strength, fewer flights of imagination but finer flutterings of fancy,

little humour but abundance of clear and sparkling wit. _It is not a

difficult task, by means of suitable selections, to bring home to an

audience of crofters the salient differences between the poetry of Pope

and of Spenser._

It is also easy to show to any audience that the quality which pleases

to such a high degree in poems like the _Highland Lass_ and _Yarrow

Revisited_, there is a romantic charm and thrilling magic which Pope

never could produce. A line or two from one of the poems cited has a far

more potent effect over the affections of the heart than the gorgeous

declamatory rhetoric of _Eloisa and Abelard_. But it would be foolish

to suppose that because Pope has not the passion for nature nor the glow

of self-oblivious benevolence, he has not highly educative and estimable

features. He should not be censured for what he never meant to supply:

we should rather strive to cultivate catholicity of taste by extracting

from his poems the information and enjoyment they are so well able to

furnish.

The Prologue of Pope's _Satires_ is, of course, the best introduction to

a systematic study of the works of this writer. That poem is the

masterpiece of Pope's volume, and exemplifies better than any other

piece the striking and brilliant qualities for which he is so famous. In

perusing it, the reader soon discovers that he is in presence of a work

which is the result of incessant and prolonged labour, and which,

consequently, deserves patient study. The works of a great technical

artist require such elaborate treatment if the force of their genius is

to be adequately felt.

VICTORIAN WRITERS.

If any man proposes to stay a month among scenery of hill, mountain, and

lake, I should advise him to slip a copy of Wordsworth into his pocket,

and read therefrom an hour daily; not hurrying over the pages, but

turning aside, now and again, to take in the glory of pinewood, heather,

and linn. In no volume, ancient or modern, can a tired man find such

soft and genial balm for his weariness as in the calm pages of the Rydal

singer. The poet is at his best in the broad region of natural religion.

He looks round on the beauties of the world with that solemn awe a man

feels in the hallowed precincts of a mediæval temple. The grandeur and

mystery of the world throw him into a kind of enchantment: his own soul

and that of the universe touch and commune with each other. In his rapt

verses we feel some of that mystic thrill felt by a devotee in the open

sanctuary of the Almighty. No man ever interpreted Nature in such

inspired strains as William Wordsworth. What supremely delights the

lover of scenery is that this poet's muse can overwrap the exact and

detailed knowledge of Nature with a superb mantle of idealistic glory.

He saw and understood the harmony of Nature's forms and colours through

all the seasons: at the quiet ingleside he meditated on what he had seen

and heard, enshrined these in verse, and added to them the warmth of his

own devout and sensitive soul. There is no exaggeration in Arnold's

tribute:--

"He laid us, as we lay at birth,

On the cool, flowery lap of earth,

Smiles broke from us, and we had ease;

The hills were round us, and the breeze

Went o'er the sunlit fields again.

Our foreheads felt the wind and rain,

Our youth returned; for there was shed

On spirits that had long been dead--

Spirits dried up and closely furled--

The freshness of the early world."

Of Wordsworth and his successor, Tennyson, it is impossible to speak

save in terms of affectionate gratitude. God looked kindly on Britain

when he sent two such men to minister to us. Tennyson did more than all

the bishops of the Church of England to stifle crude infidelity and

equally crude religious bigotry. There is not a single line he ever

wrote of which in his last days he had need, from the point of view of

truth and morality, to be ashamed. He increased the world's stock of

happiness by poems which have been the solace of men and women in the

hours of darkness and doubt, which have led men to rise to nobler things

on the stepping-stones of their dead selves, and which, I am certain,

his grateful fellow-countrymen will not willingly let die.

It is not the least of Tennyson's claims to our gratitude that his

genius was sensitive alike to the beauties of Celtic and of Anglo-Saxon

verse. It would be difficult to overpraise his masterly rendering of the

"Battle of Brunanburh," a vigorous old poem he found in the _Saxon

Chronicle_. Equally fine is his "Voyage of Maeldune," founded on a

Celtic legend of the seventh century. Those who wish to know what is

meant by Celtic glamour should read the last-named poem without delay.

CELT AND SAXON.

Between the literatures of the Celt and the Saxon there are, indeed,

well-marked differences. The Anglo-Saxons were a set of enterprising

pirates, who drove their keels over the misty ocean, came to Britain and

took forcible possession of it, dispersing or enslaving the original

possessors. They left a literature which is, in many respects, highly

interesting, but is in the main devoid of sunshine, humour, and

sprightliness. The old poem of "Beowulf," with its rough and sturdy

verses, all splashed with brine, contains very few figures of speech: it

is a poem, but not markedly poetical; it is solid and impressive, but

not beautiful. Now, no one can read Celtic poetry, even in translation,

without being powerfully struck by its refined beauty and mystic

romance. The metaphors and similes are somewhat too abundant. The

typical Anglo-Saxon has a firm grip of the world, but is not poetical

enough; the Celt, on the other hand, is probably too much of a dreamer

and a poet--he sits on the hill-side (forgetting sometimes to till it)

and muses on fairies, second-sight, and enchantments. St. Paul used the

right word in speaking to the old world Gaels, _i.e._, Galatians: "O

foolish Galatians, who hath _bewitched_ you?" ([Greek: tis humas

ebaskane?])

Combine these two races in the right proportion, and you get an

admirable blend. It is not for me to say where the just man made perfect

is to be found, the man in whom the elements--practical and

poetical--are mixed in such exquisite proportion, that Nature might

stand up and say, "_There is a man_." What is certain, is that there is

a very pronounced strain of Celtic blood coursing through the veins of

the average Scotch Lowlander. Few Scots have to rummage far among their

ancestry before they find a piece of tartan: such mixture of genealogy

probably accounts for much that is best in their composition.

The supposition that the Scotch race-combination is Celt and Saxon, and

only that, is of course erroneous. There is a very marked Scandinavian

element both in the east and the west of the country. In the year 1600

A.D., the Norse tongue was spoken all over the Long Island from the Butt

of Lewis to Barra. Certainly, in Lewis and Skye, an enormous number of

the place-names are Scandinavian, and date from a time when the

sea-kings had dominion over the islands of the West. Many fascinating

problems of ethnology continue to occupy the attention of investigators,

and are not likely to be settled for a long time to come. One thing is

abundantly clear, viz., that purity of race and speech does not exist in

any county of Scotland: everywhere there is a mixture of blood and

language.[16]

[16] Mr. Tocher, a Peterhead gentleman, has adopted a special

line of investigation. He has sent out schedules to every school

in Scotland asking for detailed information as to the colour of

the eyes and hair of the boys and girls. His desire is to

connect _pigmentation_ and race-origin. He believes it is still

possible to get definite information, by such means, of the

settlement and blending of Picts, Celts, Norsemen, and

Anglo-Saxons.