THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE
Fifty years ago native opinion generally would, I believe, have
corroborated the statement of the inspired _Shepherd_ of the “Noctes,”
that “the Englishers are the noblest race o’ leevin’ men—except the
Scotch.” That very decided compliment, notwithstanding, however; and
even although nowadays so many Scotchmen are fain to emulate the
Cockney speech and fashion in all things, it is putting the case in the
mildest terms to say that, up to and even beyond the period indicated,
there had never been much love lost between the denizens of the sister
nations, Scotland and England. On all pre-eminent occasions, subsequent
to the Union, to the credit of both be it often told, their cherished
antipathies—trifles mayhap at the best—have magnanimously been allowed
to lapse for the time being, and “shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee,”
John Bull and Sandy Cawmil, aided and abetted at all times by their
brow-beaten half-brother Paddy, have presented a brave and unbroken front
of steel to the enemies of their United Kingdoms. But, the conflicts
over—the sword sheathed—the old animosity, the chronic jealousy, has
again and again manifested itself between the Thistle and the Rose.
Into the causes of this little estrangement in friendly feeling which
so long obtained, but has now almost entirely disappeared, though some
of them are obvious, we shall not trouble ourselves here particularly
to inquire, but will rather review some of their effects as they are
illustrated in the records of the many witty skirmishes which have taken
place here and there between them, and in which the Thistle has fairly
justified its popular motto of “_Nemo me impune lacessit_!” Yes! and
surely it is remarkable—is an extraordinary circumstance, indeed, when
viewed in the light of the fact that the English deny to the Scotch any
idea of wit—that in nearly every witty encounter that has taken place
between them Sandy has had the best of it. They are “a noble race o’
leevin’ men,” as the _Shepherd_ averred. But, no, blustering John Bull
is no match for canny Sandy Cawmil. He would have delighted in coercing
him—would have given his right hand to have been able to say, “Sandy,
_you must_.” But, as the late David Kennedy, the Scottish singer, used
to put it, when introducing the song of “Scots wha hae,” “_must_ was
buried at Bannockburn.” And thenceforth, whilst strife with the sword
had ceased between them, “a wordy war”—a war of wit and ridicule—long
obtained instead. It has been a favourite sarcasm of John that the finest
view in all Scotland to the eye of the Scot is the road that leads from
it into England. To which Sandy has made the withering reply, “There’s
nae doot, John, a hantle o’ us hae fund oor way to Lunnon, but it’s
been gude for you as it’s been gude for us, for everybody kens ye wad
be _puir things withoot’s_.” Notable features in the characteristics of
the two are these, that each has been inclined to over-estimate himself
and to under-estimate his neighbour. In the opinion of many a living
London Cockney, a Scotsman is a being only slightly superior to a Red
Indian savage. ’Arry entertains in all seriousness the conviction that
every home-bred Scotsman is red-headed; and that we all wear kilts, play
on the bagpipes, drink whisky _ad lib._, snuff, and feed exclusively on
kail-brose and bannocks of barley meal. Sandy, on the other hand, has
regarded himself individually as the ideal _man_—the noblest work of
his Creator—and has declared the English to be “maybe no sae very bad
considerin’, but even at the best neither mair nor less than a parcel
o’ upsettin’, ignorant, pock-puddin’s.” It has been English money in
general, but Scotch brains in particular, he has asserted time and
again, that have made London what it is. “All the brightest intellectual
luminaries of your London firmament,” he has told John Bull, “have been
nursed and reared amid the hills o’ Bonnie Scotland.”
“What of Shakespeare?” John has asked. “You don’t claim him as a
Scotchman, do you?”
“No; oh no,” Sandy has replied, “I’ll no say that Shakespeare was a
Scotchman; although the way ye brag o’ him ye seem to think he was maist
clever eneuch to be ane.”
And as in the opinion of the typical Scotsman there is no man to equal a
Scotsman, so there is to his mind no land on earth like his own Scotland.
He may have wandered far away from it, but distance only made his heart
grow fonder, and lent enchantment to the view. And, as almost every
Scotsman is a poet, if he took to sing its praises he would do so with
such enthusiasm as is revealed in these lines:—
“Land of chivalry and of freedom,
Land of old traditional fame,
May thy noble sons and daughters
Long uphold thy honoured name.
Land where foreign foe ne’er ventured,
Land where tyrant never trod,
Land whose sons are ever foremost,
Treading nobly life’s high road.
Land of simple-hearted kindness,
Land of patriotic worth,
May thy virtues ever flourish,
Hardy clansmen of the North!
Land where rest in silent chambers
Ashes of our honoured sires,
May their memories long be cherished
Round our humble cottage fires.”
To the critical eye of John Bull the scene would appear different; and
could he have sung as pithily in the vernacular speech of Auld Scotland,
his vocal description would have been thus severely censorious—
“Land of ancient bloody tyrants,
Sneaking traitors deep and sly;
Land of thieving ‘Heclan’ teevils,’
Kilted rogues and stolen kye.
Land o’ bribes and kirks and bastards,
Saints and lasses awfu’ frail.
Drunkards, shebeens, godly deacons,
Parritch, thistles, brose, and kail.
Land o’ canny, carefu’ bodies—
Foes to a’ ungodly fun;
Those wha sum up man’s whole duty—
Heaven, hell, and _number one_.
Land of droning psalms and sermons,
Pauky wit and snuffy bores;
Fair fa’n chields so fond o’ country
That they leave it fast in scores.”
And when each had had his fling the true account would be found about
midway between the two. But, oh! John did like to get a hair in Sandy’s
neck; and does so still. Nothing delighted Dr. Johnson, the eminent
lexicographer, more. He had the meanest opinion of the Scotch, it is well
known, and never missed an opportunity of casting ridicule upon them.
Thus, when compiling his famous Dictionary, he defined the word _oats_
as “food for men in Scotland and for horses in England.” The definition
afforded unmixed delight to the English mind, until, by and by, it was
“cast in the teeth” of a witty Scottish Lord, who retorted with—
“Yes; and where will you find such men and such horses?”
Since then, the fun of it has not been quite so apparent. But the Doctor
frequently met his match, and got paid back in his own coin. Soon after
his return from Scotland to London, a Scotch lady resident in the capital
invited him to dinner, and in compliment to her distinguished guest
ordered a dish of hotch-potch. When the great man had tasted it, she
asked him if it was good, to which he replied, with his usual gruffness,
“Very good for hogs, I believe!”
“Then, pray,” said the lady, “let me help you to a little more;” and she
did.
Of course John Bull had never been loquacious to any great extent on the
subject of Bannockburn; and Sandy, I suppose, remembering Flodden, has
not reminded him too frequently of the incident. Occasions have arisen,
however, when enlightenment was necessary. Thus, when, many years ago, a
little company of Englishmen were travelling by railway between Glasgow
and Stirling, having an old Scotchman and his wife as fellow-travellers,
the weather being wet, they abused the Scottish climate, “the doocid
weathaw, you know,” and everything Scotch to their hearts’ content.
Latterly one of them asserted that “no Englishman could ever settle down
in such a region.” By this time the train was emerging from Larbert
station, and—
“Nae Englishman sattle doon in this region?” echoed the old Scotsman, who
had hitherto not spoken. “Toots, man, ye’re haiverin’ nonsense. I’ll let
ye see a pairt alang the line-side a bit here, whaur a gey wheen o’ yer
countrymen cam’ mair than five hunder year syne, and they’re no thinkin’
o’ leavin’t yet, tho’ they maun be gey weel _sattled doon_ by this time.”
“Where is that?” asked several of the Englishmen at once.
“Bannockburn!” replied the Scot, and “silence deep as death” fell on the
little company.
A similar reminder was more delicately given when two English tourists
a few years ago visited the scene of what has been aptly termed “the
best day’s work ever performed in Scotland.” A local cartwright pointed
out with intelligence the positions of the contending armies; the stone
where Bruce’s standard was fixed, and other features of interest; and the
visitors before leaving pressed their informant’s acceptance of a small
money gratuity.
“Na, na,” replied the native with noticeable pride, “put up yer siller,
I’ll hae nane o’t. _It’s cost ye eneuch already._”
Speaking of Flodden, Sir Walter Scott was wont to tell a good story of a
Scotch blacksmith whom he had formerly known as a horse doctor, and whom
he found at a small country town South of the Border, practising medicine
among the natives, with a reckless use of “lowdomar and calomy,” and who
apologised for the mischief he might do by the assurance that it “would
be a lang time afore it _made up for Flodden_!”
Nothing galls the national pride of the true-blue Scot more than the
liberties that have been taken with that article of the Union which
expressly declared that Britain should be the only recognised designation
of the United Kingdoms of Scotland and England. The Queen of England,
the English Ambassador, the English army, the English fleet, and similar
expressions still in common use, despite the courageous and persistent
protests of the Rev. David Macrae, and others, are therefore terms
particularly offensive to a sensitive Scottish ear. A striking instance
of this feeling occurred at the Battle of Trafalgar. Two Scotsmen,
messmates and bosom cronies, from the same little clachan, happened to be
stationed near each other when the now celebrated signal was given from
the Admiral’s ship—_England expects every man to do his duty_.
“No a word o’ puir Auld Scotland on this occasion,” dolefully remarked
Geordie to Jock.
Jock cocked his eye a moment, and turning to his companion—
“Man, Geordie,” said he, “Scotland kens weel eneuch that nae bairn
o’ hers needs to be tell’t to do his duty—_that’s just a hint to the
Englishers_.”
A North country drover once, returning homewards, after a somewhat
unsuccessful journey to the South, was, in consequence, not in very
good humour with the “Englishers.” On reaching Carlisle he saw a notice
stuck up offering a certain sum to any one who could do a piece of
service to the community by officiating as executioner of the law on a
noted criminal then under sentence of death. Sandy herein perceived an
opportunity of making up for his bad market; and comforted and encouraged
that he was a perfect stranger in the town, he undertook the office,
hanged the rogue, and got the fee. When moving off with the money, he
was twitted with being a mean, beggarly Scot, doing for money what no
Englishman would.
“’Deed,” replied Sandy, with a wicked leer in his eye, “I would hang ye
a’ at the same price.”
A Scotch family lately removed to London, wished to have a sheep’s head
prepared as they were accustomed to it at home, and sent a servant to the
butcher’s to procure one. She was a Scotch lassie, and on entering the
shop—
“My gude man,” said she to the butcher, “I want a sheep’s head.”
“There’s plenty of them there,” said he; “choose which you will.”
“Na,” said she, “but there’s nane o’ thae that will do; I want a sheep’s
head that will sing” (singe).
“Go, you idiot,” said the butcher, “who ever heard of a sheep’s head that
could sing?”
“Why,” replied the girl in wrath, “an’ it’s you it’s the eedyit, I’m
thinkin’; for ony sheep’s head in Scotland can sing; but I jalouse yer
English sheep are just as grit fules as their owners, and they can do
naething as they ocht.”
A Scotch gentleman, visiting some friends in England, displayed in
conversation such contempt for the memory of England’s most illustrious
sons that one of the family resolved to pay him off in his own coin. He
therefore took down a steel engraving of John Knox, which adorned the
dining-room wall, and hung it up in a lumber room. The Scotsman, missing
the picture, asked what had become of it. “We no longer consider your
Reformer worthy of a place here,” said his friend, “therefore we have
hung him up in a dark closet.”
“You could not have done better,” said the Scotsman. “I consider the
situation very appropriate; for if ever a man could throw light on a dark
subject, that was the man.”
Another Scot being in England at the time the nightingales were in song,
was invited by his host one evening to come and hear one singing. As
the nightingale is never heard in Scotland it was considered this would
prove a rare treat to the Scotsman. After listening for a considerable
time to the beautiful melody, and becoming somewhat impatient at hearing
no expression of surprise or pleasure from his Scottish guest, the
Englishman asked if he was not delighted. “It’s a’ very gude,” replied
the canny Scot, “but I wadna gie the _wheeple o’ a whaup_ for a’ the
nightingales that ever sang!”
Shortly after the accession of James I., when Scotch gentlemen were
beginning to feel a little more at home than formerly in London, Lord
Harewood gave a dinner party, to which there were invited a large number
of courtiers and officers—both civil and military. The feast was ended,
and with the flow of wine the company prepared for a corresponding flow
of wit and jollity. After the bottle had circulated a few times, and the
spirits of the assembly had begun to rise, General S⸺, an English trooper
of fame, and a reckless _bon vivant_, arose and said, “Gentlemen, when I
am in my cups, and the generous wine begins to warm my blood, I have an
absurd custom of railing against the Scotch. Knowing my weakness, I hope
no gentleman of the company will take it amiss.”
He sat down, and a Highland chief, Sir Robert Bleakie, of Blair Athol,
presenting a front like an old battle-worn tower, quietly arose in
his place, and with the utmost simplicity and good-nature remarked,
“Gentlemen, I, when I am in my cups, and the generous wine begins to warm
my blood, if I hear a man rail against the Scotch, have an absurd custom
of kicking him at once out of the company. Knowing my weakness, I hope no
gentleman of the company will take it amiss.”
It need scarcely be added that General S⸺ did not on that occasion suffer
himself to follow his usual custom.
And despite the heavy odds against him there have yet been times when
Sandy stood in high favour in high quarters in the English capital. Thus
in the year 1797, when the Democratic notions ran high, the King’s coach
was attacked as His Majesty was going to the House of Peers. A gigantic
Hibernian on that occasion was conspicuously loyal in repelling the
mob. Soon after, to his no small surprise, he received a message from
Mr. Dundas to attend at his office. He went, and met with a gracious
reception from the great man, who, after passing a few encomiums on his
active loyalty, desired him to point out any way in which he would wish
to be advanced, His Majesty having particularly noticed his courageous
conduct, and being desirous to reward it. Pat scratched and scraped for a
while, as if thunderstruck—
“The devil take me if I know what I’m fit for.”
“Nay, my good fellow,” cried Henry, “think a moment, and do not throw
yourself out of the way of fortune.”
Pat hesitated another moment, then smirking as if some odd idea had taken
hold of his noddle, he said—“I tell yez what, mister, make a Scotchman of
me, and, by St. Patrick, there’ll be no fear of my getting on.”
The Minister gazed a while at the _mal-apropos_ wit—“Make a Scotsman of
you, sir, that is impossible, for I cannot give you prudence.”
Prudence is just what Paddy has always lacked, and what to all appearance
he is never to learn. Had it been a special characteristic of John
Bull, it would have saved him from many a _coup_ he has received at the
instance of his cautious and calculating brother Sandy, the following
among the rest. A stout English visitor to one of the fashionable
watering-places on the West Coast some years ago was in the habit of
conversing familiarly with Donald Fraser, a character of the place, who
took delight in talking boastfully of his great relations, who existed
only, the stranger suspected, in the Highlander’s own lively imagination.
One day, as the Englishman was seated at the door of his lodging, Donald
came up driving a big fat boar.
“One of your relations, I suppose, Donald?” exclaimed the visitor,
chuckling, and nodding his head in the direction of the “porker.”
“No,” quietly retorted Donald, surveying the proportions of his
interlocutor, “no relation at all, sir, but just an acquaintance, _like
yoursel’_.”
“My late esteemed friend, Mr. John Mackie, M.P. for Kirkcudbrightshire,”
writes the garrulous and entertaining author of _Reminiscences of Fifty
Years_, “used to describe an extensive view which one of his friend’s
hills commanded. This he never failed to call to the attention of his
English visitors when the weather was clear. Willy the shepherd was
always the guide on such occasions, as he knew precisely the weather that
would suit.
“One forenoon an English friend was placed under Willy’s charge to mount
the hill in order to enjoy the glorious view. ‘I am told, shepherd, you
are going to show me a wonderful view.’ ‘That’s quite true, sir.’ ‘What
shall I see?’ ‘Weel, ye’ll see a feck o’ kingdoms—the best o’ sax, sir.’
‘What the deuce do you mean, shepherd?’ ‘Weel, sir, I mean what I say.’
‘But tell me all about it.’ ‘I’ll tell you naething mair, sir, until
we’re at the tap o’ the hill.’ The top reached, Willy found everything
he could desire in regard to a clear atmosphere. ‘Noo, sir, I houp ye’ve
got guid een?’ ‘Oh, my eyes are excellent.’ ‘Then, that’s a’ richt, sir.
Noo, div you see yon hills awa’ yonder?’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘Weel, sir, those
are the hills o’ Cumberland, and Cumberland’s in the kingdom o’ England;
that’s a’e kingdom. Noo, sir, please keep coont. Then, sir, I maun noo
trouble you to look ower yonder. Div ye see what I mean?’ ‘I do.’ ‘That’s
a’ richt. That’s the Isle o’ Man, and that was a kingdom and sovereignty
in the families of the Earls o’ Derby and the Dukes o’ Athol frae the
days o’ King David o’ Scotland, if ye ken onything o’ Scotch history.’
‘You are quite right, shepherd.’ ‘Quite richt, did you say; I wadna ha’e
brocht ye here, sir, if I was to be wrang. Weel, that’s twa kingdoms.
Be sure, sir, to keep coont. Noo, turn awee aboot. Div ye see yon land
yonder? It’s a bit farrer, but never mind that, sae lang as ye see it.’
‘I see it distinctly.’ ‘Weel, that’s a’ I care aboot. Noo, sir, keep
coont, for that’s Ireland, and mak’s three kingdoms; but there’s nae
trouble aboot the neist, for ye’re stannin’ on’t—I mean Scotland. Weel,
that mak’s four kingdoms; div you admit that, sir?’ ‘Yes, that makes
four, and you have two yet to show me.’ ‘That’s true, sir, but dinna be
in sic a hurry. Weel, sir, just look up aboon yer head, and this is by
far the best o’ a’ the Kingdoms: that, sir, aboon, is Heaven. That’s
five: and the saxth kingdom is that doon below yer feet, to which, sir, I
houp ye’ll never gang; but that’s a point on which I canna speak wi’ ony
certainty.’”
I have said that the Scotch and English are each inclined to
over-estimate themselves and under-estimate their neighbours; but to
this should be added the fact, that the canny craftiness of Sandy—his
characteristic prudence—has shown him how much he might gain by
familiarising himself with all John’s ways, and this he has done, whereas
John has thought it sufficient to assume a knowledge of Sandy’s affairs,
even although he possessed it not. And this contemptuous assumption of
knowledge has led to some sublime blundering on John’s part. We scarcely
expect our Cockney brethren to be familiar with our Northern tongue, or
even to have very much sympathy with it. Yet, while they actually do not
know it, and readily express contempt for it, they still continue to
affect a knowledge, and so, to apply a well-known Irishism, “seldom open
their mouth on the subject but they put their foot in it.” Thus, not very
long ago, one Cockney told another that he had learned a beautiful Scotch
song, and would write out for him a copy of the words. The song was, “The
Lass o’ Gowrie,” and the first two lines came from his pen as follows:—
“’Twas on a summer’s afternoon,
A _week_ before the sun went doon.”
The prospect of such a long continued spell of daylight in Scotland
proved too much for the risible susceptibilities of the party who looked
over the writer’s shoulder, and the pen had to be thrown aside, amid a
roar of laughter. Not many years ago I myself saw the printed programme
of a London Scottish concert, an item in which appeared as
“Ye Banks and _Brays_ of Bonnie Doon,”
and I thought what an _ass_ he must have been who prepared the “copy”!
_Punch_—I think it was _Punch_—once made one Scotsman threaten to give
another “A richt gude Willie-waucht in the side o’ the head.” Great
dubiety existed in the London journalistic mind some time ago about
the signification of the phrase, “The Land o’ the Leal,”—was it the
poetical designation of Scotland, or Heaven? “Old long since ago,” and
“Scots with him” are Anglicised Scotticisms as familiar as proverbs. But
surely the very funniest results from Cockney intermeddling with things
Scotch that ever appeared are to be found in a cheap edition of Burns’s
poems, which was issued some time since by John Dicks, the well-known
Strand publisher. From this copy it is made apparent that Tam o’ Shanter
was not the hero of Burns’s humorous masterpiece at all, but one Tam
Skelpit—_vide_ the following lines:—
“Tam Skelpit on through mud and mire,
Despising wind and rain and fire.”
Then the family name of the householder immortalised in the “Cottar’s
Saturday night,” according to this Cockney edition, was not Burns, as is
popularly believed in Scotland, but _Hafflins_. The revelation appears in
these lines:—
“The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e and flush her cheek,
Wi’ heart-struck anxious care inquires his name;
While Jenny Hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel pleased the mother hears it’s nae wild, worthless rake.”
Tam Skelpit and Jenny Hafflins! My conscience! What next? Well, a cursory
glance finds such improved readings as these (I will italicise the
improvements):—
“The heapit _happier’s_ ebbing still.”
“I held _awe_ to Annie.”
“They reeled, they set, they crossed, they _cleckit_.”
“And _well_ tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet.”
“Or wake the bosom-_smelting_ throe.”
And there are many other blunders quite as ludicrous. Experience is a
severe school, and when the Scotch becomes the universal tongue John Bull
will perceive this; but perhaps not before.
A very humorous instance of the almost incomprehensibility of things
Scotch by the English mind occurred during one of the earlier visits
of the Royal Family to Balmoral. The late Prince Consort, dressed in a
simple manner, was crossing one of the Scottish lochs in a steamer, and
was curious to note everything relating to the management of the vessel,
and, among other things, the cooking. Approaching the galley, where a
brawny Scot was attending to the culinary matters, he was attracted by
the savoury odours of a dish of hotch-potch which Sandy was preparing.
“What is that?” asked the Prince, who was not known to the cook.
“Hotch-potch, sir,” was the reply.
“How is it made?” was the next question.
“Weel, there’s mutton intill’t, and neeps intill’t, and carrots intill’t,
and——”
“Yes, yes,” said the Prince, “but _what_ is intill’t?”
“Weel, there’s mutton intill’t, and neeps intill’t, and——”
“Yes, I see; but what _is_ intill’t?”
The man looked at him, and, seeing that the Prince was serious he replied—
“There’s mutton intill’t, and neeps intill’t, and——”
“Yes, certainly, I know,” still argued the Prince; “but what is
_intill’t_—_intill’t_?”
“Gudesake, man,” yelled the Scotsman, brandishing his big ladle, “am I no
thrang tellin’ ye what’s intill’t? There’s mutton intill’t, and——”
Here the interview was brought to a close by one of the Prince’s suite,
who fortunately was passing, explaining to His Royal Highness that
“intill’t” simply meant “into it,” and nothing more!
An incident of a somewhat similar nature, and even more humoursome than
the above, which was happily paraphrased by the late Robert Leighton,
the Scottish poet, under the title of “Scotch Words,” occurred to an
English gentlewoman, a number of years ago, in the course of a brief
tour “here awa’.” One night she rested at a respectable inn in a country
village, and on being shown to her bedroom by the rustic chambermaid, the
question was put to her—
“Would you like to have a het crock in your bed this cauld nicht, mem?”
“A what?” asked the lady.
“A pig, mem. Shall I put a pig in your bed to keep you warm?”
“Leave the room, young woman!” was the indignant response, “your mistress
shall hear of your insolence.”
“Nae offence, mem,” insisted the lassie, “it was my mistress that bad me
speir: and I’m sure she meant it a’ in kindness.”
The lady looked in the girl’s face, and now satisfied that no insult was
intended, said, in a milder tone, “Is it common in this country, my girl,
for ladies to have pigs in their beds?”
“Ay, and gentlemen ha’e them too, mem, when the weather’s cauld.”
“But you would not surely put the pig between the sheets?”
“If you please, mem, it would do maist gude there.”
“Between the sheets? It would dirty them, girl. I could never sleep with
a pig between the sheets.”
“Nae fear o’ that, mem! You’ll sleep far mair comfortable. I’ll steek
the mouth o’t tightly, and tie it up in a poke.”
“Do you sleep with a pig yourself in cold weather?”
“Na, mem, pigs are only for gentry like yersel’ wha lie on feather beds.”
“How do you sleep, then?”
“My neebor lass and I just sleep on cauf.”
“What! you sleep with a calf between you?”
“Ou, no, mem, ye’re jokin’ noo. We lie on the tap o’t.”
When the two came to perfectly understand each other history deponeth not.
Dean Ramsay tells an amusing story of a Stirlingshire farmer’s visit to a
son, engaged in business in Liverpool. The son finding the father rather
_de trop_ in his office, one day, persuaded him to cross the ferry over
the Mersey, and inspect the harvesting, then in full operation, on the
Cheshire side. On landing, he approached a young woman reaping with the
sickle in a field of oats, when the following dialogue ensued:—
_Farmer_—“Lassie, are yer aits muckle bookit the year?”
_Reaper_—“Sir?”
_Farmer_—“I am speirin’ gif yer aits are muckle bookit the year?”
_Reaper_ (in amazement)—“I really don’t know what you are saying, sir.”
_Farmer_ (in equal astonishment)—“Gude—save—us—do ye no understand gude
plain English? Are—yer—aits—muckle—bookit?”
He might as well have asked the road to Stronachlacher, Auchtermuchty,
Ecclefechan, or Ponfeigh. The reaper decamped to her nearest companion
declaring him a madman; while the farmer shouted in great wrath, “They
are naething else than a set o’ ignorant pock-puddin’s.”
“My girl,” enquired a Cockney tourist of a Scotch lassie whom he met
tripping lightly barefoot, “is it the custom for girls to go barefooted
in these parts?”
“Pairtly they do,” she replied, “and pairtly they mind their ain
business.”
[Illustration: “My girl,” enquired a Cockney tourist of a Scotch lassie
whom he met tripping lightly barefoot, “is it the custom for girls to go
barefooted in these parts?” “Pairtly they do,” she replied, “and pairtly
they mind their ain business.”—_Page 215._]
The dour, plodding, persevering nature of the Scot, by virtue of which
he has often prevailed over his less crafty English brother, is well
exemplified in the following little narrative, which humorously describes
the opening of a large mercantile business between the West of Scotland
and the English capital:—
A West country Scot, who had engaged in the manufacture of a certain
description of goods, then recently introduced into that part of the
country, found it necessary, or conjectured it might be profitable, to
establish a permanent connection with some respectable house in London.
With this design he packed up a quantity of goods, equipped himself for
the journey, and departed. Upon his arrival he made diligent enquiry as
to those who were likely to prove his best customers, and accordingly
proceeded to call upon one of the most opulent drapers, with whom he
resolved to establish a regular correspondence. When Saunders entered the
shop in question he found it crowded with customers, and the salesmen all
bustling about making sales, and displaying their wares to prospective
purchasers. Saunders waited what he considered a reasonable time, then in
a lull of the business, laid down his pack, his bonnet, and staff, upon
the counter, and enquired for “the head o’ the hoose.”
One of the clerks asked him what he wanted.
“I’m wantin’ to see gin he wants ocht in my line,” was the answer.
“No!” shouted the foreman.
“Will ye no tak’ a look o’ the gudes, sir?” inquired Saunders.
“No, not at all; I have not time. Take them away.”
“Ye’ll maybe find them worth your while; and I dootna but ye’ll buy,”
said Saunders, as he coolly proceeded to untie his pack.
“Go away, go away!” was reiterated half a dozen times with great
impatience, but the persevering Scotsman still persisted.
“Get along, you old Scotch fool,” cried the foreman, completely out of
temper, as he pushed the already exposed contents of the pack off the
counter. “Get along!”
Saunders looked up in the individual’s face with a wide mouth and
enlarged pair of eyes, then looked down to his estate that lay scattered
among his feet, looked up again, and exclaimed—“And will ye no buy
ocht? But ye dinna ken, for ye haena seen the gudes,” and so saying he
proceeded to replace them on the counter.
“Get out of the shop, sir!” was the peremptory and angry command which
followed this third appeal.
Saunders, with great gravity and self-possession, said—“Are ye in
earnest, freend?”
“Yes, certainly,” was the reply, which was succeeded by an unequivocal
proof of sincerity on the part of the person who made it, when he picked
up Saunders’s bonnet and whirled it into the street. The cool Scotsman
stalked deliberately and gravely in quest of his Kilmarnock headgear, and
after giving it two or three hearty slaps upon the wall outside the door,
he re-entered very composedly, wringing the muddy moisture out of it,
looked over to the person who had served him so meanly, and said, with a
genuine Scotch smile—“Man, yon was an ill-faured turn; you’ll surely tak’
a look o’ the gudes noo?”
The master draper himself, who was standing all the while in the shop
admiring the patience and perseverance of the old man, and feeling a
little compunction for the unceremonious manner in which he had been
treated, came now forward, examined the contents of the pack; found
them to be articles he stood in need of; purchased them; ordered an
additional regular supply; and thus laid the foundation of an opulent
mercantile house that has now flourished for several generations.
The subjoined well-known and diverting story may not inappropriately
conclude this chapter—
THE PROFESSOR OF SIGNS, OR TWO WAYS OF TELLING A STORY.
King James the Sixth, on removing to London, was waited upon by the
Spanish ambassador, a man of erudition, but who had an eccentric idea in
his head that every country should have a Professor of Signs to enable
men of all languages to understand each other without the aid of speech.
The ambassador lamenting one day, before the king, this great desideratum
throughout all Europe, the king, who was an _outré_ character, said to
him, “I have a Professor of Signs in the most northern college in my
dominions, viz., at Aberdeen; but it is a great way off—perhaps 600
miles.”
“Were it 10,000 leagues off, I shall see him,” said the ambassador, and
expressed determination to set out _instanter_, in order to have an
interview with the Scottish Professor of Signs.
The king, perceiving he had committed himself, wrote, or caused to be
written, an intimation to the University of Aberdeen, stating the case,
and desiring the professors to put him off, or make the best of him they
could. The ambassador arrived, and was received with great solemnity.
He immediately inquired which of them had the honour to be Professor of
Signs, but was told that the professor was absent in the Highlands, and
would return nobody could say when.
“I will,” said he, “wait his return though it were for twelve months.”
The professors, seeing that this would not do, contrived the following
stratagem:—there was in the city one, Geordie, a butcher, blind of an
eye—a droll fellow with much wit and roguery about him. The butcher was
put up to the story, and instructed how to comport himself in his new
situation of “Professor of Signs,” but he was enjoined on no account to
utter a syllable. Geordie willingly undertook the office for a small
bribe. The ambassador was then told, to his infinite satisfaction, that
the Professor of Signs would be at home next day. Everything being
prepared, Geordie was gowned, wigged, and placed in a chair of state, in
a room in the college, all the professors and the ambassador being in
an adjoining room. The Spaniard was then shown into Geordie’s room, and
left to converse with him as best he could, the whole of the professors
waiting the issue with considerable anxiety. Then commenced the scene.
The ambassador held up one of his fingers to Geordie; Geordie held up
two of his. The ambassador held up three; Geordie clenched his fist and
looked stern. The ambassador then took an orange from his pocket, and
showed it to the new-fangled professor; Geordie in return pulled out
a piece of barley cake from his pocket, and exhibited it in a similar
manner. The ambassador then bowed to him, and retired to the other
professors, who anxiously inquired his opinion of their brother.
“He is a perfect miracle,” said the ambassador, “I would not give him for
the wealth of the Indies.”
“Well,” exclaimed one of the professors, “to descend to particulars, how
has he edified you?”
“Why,” said the ambassador, “I first held up one finger, denoting that
there is one God; he held up two, signifying that there are the Father
and Son. I held up three, meaning Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; he
clenched his fist to say that these three are one. I then took out an
orange signifying the goodness of God, who gives His creatures not only
necessaries, but the luxuries of life; upon which the wonderful man
presented a piece of bread, showing that it was the staff of life, and
preferable to every luxury.”
The professors were glad that matters had turned out so well; and having
got quit of the ambassador, they called in Geordie to hear his version of
the affair.
“Well, Geordie, how have you come on, and what do you think of yon man?”
“The scoundrel,” exclaimed the butcher, “what did he do first, think ye?
He held up a’e finger, as muckle as to say, you have only a’e e’e! Then
I held up twa, meaning that my ane was as gude as his twa. Then the
fellow held up three o’ his fingers, to say that there were but three
een between us; and then I was so mad at the scoundrel that I steeked
my neive, and was gaun to gi’e him a whack on the side o’ his head, and
would hae done’t too, but for your sakes. He didna stop here wi’ his
provocation; but, forsooth, he took out an orange, as much as to say,
your puir, beggarly, cauld country canna produce that! I showed him a
whang of a bere bannock, meaning that I didna care a farthing for him
nor his trash either as lang as I had this! But, by a’ that’s gude,”
concluded Geordie, “I’m angry yet that I didna break every bane in his
sun-singit, ill-shapen body.”
Two sides of a story could not be more opposed to each other, and nothing
could better illustrate the burly innocent humour of the Scottish
character.