in which I was not disappointed. The Scotch moor, which is something
between a barren field and a swamp, will raise nothing else, and most
of Scotland is moor. Heather is like a weed cedar, if there could be
such a thing, and at this season, when it is in bloom, covers the
ground with a mat of blue. There is also a white heather, which is rare
and to find which is good luck. I was very fortunate, for I picked a
bunch of white heather the first attempt. I picked it from a lad for
a penny, and I recommend that way of hunting for the white kind. But
the blue heather is everywhere, as buffalo-grass used to be on western
prairies. Heather is good for nothing, except as a flower, and it will
not grow anywhere but in Scotland. It is like the hills and woods and
lakes of this country-fair to look upon but not convertible into cash.
It is worn by the people, and a man is hardly dressed up unless he
has a bunch in his cap or his button-hole. The shamrock will not grow
except in Ireland and the heather only in Scotland, and each is held in
loving affection by the people of the country because of its constancy
and patriotism.
* * * * *
The Scotch have a way of making oatmeal porridge that justifies its
reputation. But I tried the “haggis,” and once was enough. I do not
know what the component elements of Scotch “haggis” may be, but I
suspect that they are the remnants of the last meal minced together,
with oatmeal and sheep-blood added to make them palatable. The Scotch
people are not high livers. Whatever cannot be made out of oats and
mutton is too high-priced for the ordinary citizen. The farm-house is
generally divided by a solid wall, the family on one side and the cows
and sheep on the other. The people of Scotland always have been poor,
and they are not ashamed of it; but they consider it disgraceful to be
ignorant or irreligious, so they have as good schools and churches as
can be found anywhere outside of America. The men no longer go around
with guns and plaids, calling themselves by the names of their clans,
but there is much family pride, and the traditions of the good old
times of murder and robbery are kept in mind. The English language has
taken the place of the old Gaelic for general use, but the English as
spoken in Scotland is only about second cousin to the English language
as known in Kansas.
Walter Scott wrote the history of Scotland for the world, and it is
very fortunate for the clansmen that he did. Scott had a picturesque
way of dressing up the costume and character of a dirty highwayman
so that he would appear to be the soul of honor and the pride of
chivalry. He has given some of the kings and dukes, who committed
every crime from arson to murder, the reputation and standing of good
and respectable citizens. His historical novels, in so far as their
description of royal character is concerned, have the merit of beauty
and interest, but not of truth. The Scots were fierce fighters, and
in the days when war meant conquest and conquest meant pillage the
Scots were unexcelled in all lines. Now that the world is putting
up a different standard for success we find the Scotchmen adapting
themselves to modern ideas; and in science, invention, law and commerce
they can show down with any lot of people twice their size on earth.
They are proud of their country, and can recite its legends and
its poems of Burns even if they are so poor that they don’t have a
square meal a day. They love to argue, state their views positively,
contradict flatly, and do not object to taking as good as they send.
They are not polite like the Germans, insinuating like the French, or
reserved like the English. They are abrupt and inconsiderate, though
kind-hearted and helpful, proud and poor, quick-witted and industrious.
If they had any other country’s natural advantages they would own the
earth.
The Land of Burns
AYR, SCOTLAND, September 9.
Today we have spent in Ayr, the village which bases a claim on fame
because in a humble little cottage, just outside its limits, Robert
Burns, the great Scottish poet, was born. I call Burns “the great
Scottish poet” because it is right that his beloved country should be
linked with his name, but, as a matter of fact, Burns is the poet of
humanity in every land and every clime. His writings jingle like a
familiar song, his thoughts are the thoughts we all think but cannot
express, and his music touches the heartstrings like recollections of
childhood, a letter from home, or the memory of those who are dear
and away. Burns wrote in rhyme the thoughts that came themselves and
not thoughts he had worked up for the occasion. A child of poverty
himself, he was neither blinded to its troubles nor overcome by its
restrictions, and he tells us of the joys and pleasures, the griefs and
sorrows of the people. He puts epigrams into verse and he tells of
things as they are, looking through the shams and deceits and making
good-natured fun of weakness and folly. He never gets away from the
human interest and he never fails in knowledge of human nature.
* * * * *
Burns’s father was a farmer, and not a very successful one. He spelled
his name Burness, but for some unknown reason the poet shortened it.
The father was an honest and religious man who was highly respected,
but never made good in a business way. His mother was brighter, and
used to sing Scotch songs and ballads, and if there is anything in
heredity Robert got his poetic instincts from that side of the house.
They were trying to make a nursery pay when Robert was born, and I
visited the cottage where that event took place. One end of the shanty
with three rooms was for the family and the other with two rooms was
for the cattle. The Burnses failed in the nursery business, and rented
a small farm near by, on which Robert spent his boyhood days, not far
from the taverns in Ayr and Irvine, where he learned how to be a
“good fellow” and thus shortened his life. He was 15 years old when
he wrote his first verses, and was helping on the farm and going to
school. After the father died Robert and his brother tried to run the
farm, but the poet got discouraged, and decided to emigrate to Jamaica.
A publisher printed his poems, and he intended to take the money he
received for them to pay his passage. But the book made a hit from the
start, a second edition was called for, and Burns at once attained
great popularity. He gave up the idea of leaving Scotland, and put in
most of the remainder of his days writing, besides holding a small job
which his friends got for him, in the revenue service. He bought a farm
near Dumfries, and lived there and in the town the rest of his short
life, for he died in 1796, when he was only 37 years of age.
Burns not only enjoyed popularity in his own generation, but in the
more than a century since he wrote his fame has grown steadily and his
genius and talent are appreciated in every part of the world. There
are statues and monuments to Burns all over Scotland, but the greatest
memorial is in the hearts of the people of his own country and of
all others into which his songs have gone. Wherever there is a son or
daughter of Scotland there is a lover of “Bobby Burns.”
* * * * *
It was a little thrilling to be shown the inn where “Tam O’Shanter”
loitered that stormy night in Ayr--
“Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses.”
It will be remembered that Tam and his crony, Souter Johnny, (both
honored by statues now,) had spent the evening most merrily, and it
came time for Tam to go home to his wife, who had frequently told
Tam what would happen to him after one of those sprees. And the poet
philosophizes:
“Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen’d sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!”
Tam started for home on his good gray mare, Meg, but when he reached
old Alloway Church he saw lights, and, made brave by the Scotch whisky,
he boldly looked in. He saw the witches dancing, the devil playing the
fifes, and a young woman he knew was in the carousal. Tam foolishly
called, the lights went out, and it was up to Meg to get away from the
swarm of witches who came in hot pursuit. The leading lady of the gang
was right upon poor Tam when he came to the bridge, his hope of escape,
for witches cannot cross running water. With one great jump Meg saved
her master.
“Ane spring brought off her master, hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail;
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.”
I have seen the tavern, the church, the bridge, the statue of Tam, but
a grateful public has forgotten to properly commemorate the services of
Meg and the sacrifice of the tail.
Across the river Ayr are “the auld brig” and “the new brig” which
held a joint debate as reported by Burns’s muse. The city council was
recently about to take down the auld brig because it was unsafe, but
a general howl went up, and the bridge is to be preserved. All of the
relics of Burns are being taken care of, and so far as possible the
old cottage and other places connected with his life are restored to
the condition they were in when Burns was plowing and quit work to
write poetry to a mouse he had stirred out of its nest. I can readily
understand why Burns did not make a success as a farmer, for like other
poets he did not like to work. However, the dislike for work is not
confined to poets, who have more of an excuse for this fault than the
rest of us.
* * * * *
I have not yet found a Scotchman who cannot quote Burns’s poetry by the
yard. It is all I can do to read most of Burns’s lines, and the words I
skip often look rough and jagged. But when a Scotchman recites Burns,
the dialect and the broad accent make the rhymes sound like music. The
strange syllables fit together in harmony so that one can understand
that Burns knew what he was about when he used the local phrases and
words in so much of his writing. Burns was a good scholar, and could
and did write the purest of English, but he took the homely phrases of
the Scottish life to make the common things he writes about ring clear
and right.
* * * * *
Ayr is about forty miles from Glasgow. As soon as you leave the Burns
neighborhood you get into a country of coal mines, factories, and golf
links. There are miles of golf grounds on the moors along the road.
Most of the land is only fit to raise heather and lose golf balls. No
wonder Burns’s father failed and Robert was going to emigrate. The
more I see of Scottish soil the more I take off my hat to the Scotch
farmers, who must be the bravest men in the world.
* * * * *
About fifty years ago Andrew Carnegie, then a lad of a half-dozen
years, took his father by the hand and led him onto the ship at Glasgow
which brought them to America. In all the Scotch towns there are
Carnegie libraries and other benefactions from the Scotch boy. His
shrewdness and industry are the result of Scotch character when given
full play in an open field. On the other hand, Burns with his talent
and his weakness exhibits another result of the sentimental yet canny
Scot who sees through humanity and analyzes it.
To read the poetry of Robert Burns is to be wiser, better and happier.
The day spent in this little nook in which he began his life has
brought much of Burns’s surroundings vividly to my mind. The little
hovel in which he was born contrasts with the great monument reared by
a grateful country, and proves his words if they needed proof:
“A king can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that,
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their dignities and a’ that,
The pith of sense and pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank, than a’ that.”
The Journey’s End
STEAMSHIP CAMERONIA, September 21.
For some unexplainable reason the ship homeward-bound is always slow.
When one leaves his own country on a journey to other lands he is in
no hurry. The new pictures that constantly present themselves, the new
objects and the talk that suggests new ideas, hopes and plans, make
the days go swiftly by and the voyage is never too long or tiresome.
But when months of travel have exhausted the appetite for sights, and
the occurrence of the strange no longer starts a thrill, the thoughts
of the traveler far exceed the speed of the ship and the fastest boat
that crosses the Atlantic is too slow. This is the only excuse I can
find for the Cameronia, which sailed four days later than scheduled,
and has developed no traits which will be affectionately remembered by
the present passengers. She is a new ship, and not finished. I suppose
the Anchor line needed the money or it would not have started a vessel
across the ocean with so many things not completed and untried. And
then the Cameronia has shown great ability as a pitcher, also as a
roller, and if a contest is begun as to what ship can pitch and roll,
kick and buck and snort the best, I will back the Cameronia against the
field.
* * * * *
The ocean along the northern coast of Ireland has a habit of being
busy. The currents from the south and the Arctic meet the turbulent
waves from the Irish Sea, and a watery Donnybrook fair is the result.
The Cameronia enjoyed the opportunity, and although the passengers
generally took their evening meal a majority of them went dinnerless
to bed, and they went early and with much haste. There is no known
remedy for seasickness. The Rockefeller foundation which is discovering
wonderful germs, on which every other ill can be laid, has not found
the bacillus which started the trouble on the Cameronia. The ship’s
doctor calmly advises you to put your finger down your throat and aid
nature in her work. He assures you that the disease is not fatal,
although you may wish it were, and he encourages you in the faith that
every minute will be your next. The seasick ones lose temporarily any
other trouble or ailments, and often forget their own names, imagining
probably that these have gone with the rest. The story is told of a
time like the one in question, that a sympathizing officer came to a
man and woman who were leaning against each other with a common misery.
“Is your husband very sick?” he inquired of the evidently cultured and
modest lady. “He’s not my husband,” she faintly answered, as she leaned
on her companion once again. “Your brother?” continued the butter-in.
“I never saw him before,” she murmured, clasping again at the wobbly
supporter under discussion.
* * * * *
This is a Scotch boat, and she has some Scotch traits. The Scotch
people are wonderful. In a land which is nearly all poor pasture and
good golf links, they have developed a citizenship which intellectually
leads the world. But they are not given to covering up unpleasant spots
and they do not go too strong for things of mere beauty or comfort.
There is no blarney-stone in the Highlands. The Scotch are probably
the poorest hotel managers in the world. The graces and the pleasantry
of the continent are despised, and everything coming to a Scotchman is
expected on the day it is due. This habit of thrift is necessary in a
land where it has always been a fight for man to get a result in the
way of bread or meat or porridge. There is little humor in the Scotch
nature, and every action is based on serious thought. The Cameronia is
getting us across just as was promised, but with no frills or furbelows
in the way of personal attention or entertainment.
* * * * *
Of course there is a great deal in their viewpoint, and what seems
right and proper in one country is often looked upon with horror in
another. Sunday on the Cameronia was Sunday as it is in Glasgow. The
Anchor line would no more sail a ship without divine service than it
would without a rudder. It would no more permit the pianist to play
secular music like “America” or “Swanee River” on Sunday than it would
allow a passenger to take the captain’s place. But all the Sabbath
Day the Anchor line sells booze openly and without a compunction of
conscience. A compulsorily closed piano and an open bar look strange
from the viewpoint of a traveler from Kansas.
* * * * *
I do not want to seem to be faultfinding, so I will only say that
the grand concert on the Cameronia was not much worse than is usual
on shipboard. Everybody knows that during a voyage some night is
designated as concert night, a program is given by the passengers,
and a collection taken for the benefit of the Sailors’ Home or some
such charitable object. But only those who have actually made the trip
and attended a concert realize the painful nature of the operation.
A notice is posted on the bulletin board asking for volunteers for
the program, and aspiring genius directly or through friends offers
itself for the entertainment. A dignified gentleman who can’t tell a
funny story but thinks he can is selected for chairman. Sometimes a
really good musician or entertainer is inadvertently included in the
program, but this is not often. No mistake is made in the choice of
pretty girls who take up the collection. Our concert was opened by a
bass solo, the guilty party being a man with his name parted in the
middle and old enough to know better. He rendered (that’s the proper
word) the old Roman favorite, “Only a Pansy Blossom.” When he came to
the chorus about a faded flower he waved a yellow chrysanthemum in
the air to a tremulo accompaniment. This was not a comic song, but
a serious, sentimental selection, and the singer was an Englishman.
The Scotch and English in the room heaved sighs and said to each
other, “How beautiful!” The Americans poked each other in the ribs and
almost wept in the effort to restrain their laughter. Of course he
was encored, and he rendered again. This time it was a ballad about
the golden tress of my darling, and in the touchiest of the touching
lines he drew forth from his vest a piece of female switch, peroxide
in color and horsetailish in effect. It was a great effort, and the
serious fellow-country-men heaved more sighs of appreciation, while
an American girl at my right whispered out of her handerchief, “I
know I’m going to scream!” Then a Scotchman sang an Irish song. Now a
Scotchman can’t get the Irish brogue any more than he can understand
an American joke. He was enthusiastically encored, and responded with
a French dialect story, in broad Scotch. It was funnier than he knew.
An amateur violinist contributed an execution of a sonata or a nocturne
or a cordial of some kind. A famous story-teller recited a few choice
bits from the column of some London magazine, on which the American
copyright expired many years ago. The chairman in a few touching words
then explained the object of the charity for which the fund was to be
collected, and the touching was completed by the young ladies with
pleasant smiles.
Such is a ship’s concert, and with slight variations it is one of the
features of every ocean voyage.
* * * * *
[Illustration: INTRODUCING A JOKE TO OUR BRITISH COUSINS]
I have alluded to the lack of humor in Great Britain, from the American
viewpoint. I heard a good joke on the Scotch, and told it to a small
crowd in the smoking-room. The story was of the boy who asked his
father why there was such a coin as a farthing, the fourth part
of a penny. The father replied that it was to enable the Scotch to
be charitable. Nobody laughed, and I resumed a discussion of the
weather. About five minutes afterward an Englishman roared with mirth,
and shouted to me, “I follow you! I follow you!” I didn’t understand
why he was following me until he began my story, which he repeated
with explanations and reminders of the proverbial Scotch thrift. Then
he told it again and laughed loudly. The others smiled courteously
and then face after face broadened, they all “followed,” and nobody
appreciated the joke more than the Scotchmen. They told the story to
each other and laughed, then hunted up friends and told it until the
friends “followed,” and I was pointed out as a humorist. But it was a
long and painful operation, and I did not have the courage to try it
again. These British cousins are not devoid of humor but their speed
limit is far below ours.
* * * * *
The harbor of New York is in sight and the pilot just came aboard. I
witnessed an affecting scene. A fellow-passenger shouted vigorously
to get the attention of a man who was sitting in the pilot boat. The
man looked up, and I could tell the passenger was nervously preparing
to ask for important news, perhaps of the strike, or the English
elections. He called, “Who’s ahead in the National League?”
* * * * *
No coast looks as beautiful as the shore of home. Even New Jersey looms
magnificently at such a time. The passengers are all on deck except
those who are hiding articles from the customs officer. The returning
Americans are full of enthusiasm. They have seen enough of other
lands to know that there is none to compare with the United States,
none which comes nearer to giving a man a chance. The foreigners in
the first cabin watch the approaching scene with quiet interest. Over
in the steerage hundreds of would-be Americans gaze eagerly at the
land of hope and promise. Soon they will be welcomed by the Statue of
Liberty which holds out the torch of citizenship to every alien with
ten dollars in cash and a certificate of health. The American flag
appears on passing boats, and it is the most beautiful as it is the
most meaning of all the ensigns of all the nations. A man with a German
accent tells me how forty years ago, when a mere boy, he came from
the fatherland to try his fortune in the New World. This year he went
back for a visit, but he had a stateroom and was not in the steerage.
He saw the struggle and the lack of opportunity in the country of his
birth. Now he is homeward-bound, satisfied that in spite of trusts
and politics and coon songs, this is really the land of the free, the
nation of opportunity; and as the pilot took charge and the American
flag went to the top of the Cameronia’s mast, a tear trickled down his
cheek, telling of the joy in his heart.
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Hyphenation has been standardised.
A Table of Illustrations has been created by the Transcriber and is
placed in the Public Domain.
Page 61 — protraying changed to portraying.
Page 113 — commerical changed to commercial.
Page 121 — slipping changed to sipping.
Page 141 — langauges changed to languages.
Page 163 — Boulougne changed to Boulogne.
Page 169 — 1060 changed to 1066.