Good old Times. -- A Trick. -- Untying Cravats. -- Bible and
Whisky. -- Evenings in Scotland. -- The Dining-room. -- Scots of
the Old School. -- Departure of the Whisky and Arrival of the
Bible. -- The Nightcap in Scotland. -- Five hours' Rest. -- The
Gong and its Effects. -- Fresh as Larks. -- Iron Stomachs.
Scotchmen still drink hard; but where are the joyous days when the
Scotch host broke the glasses off at the stem, so that his guests should
drink nothing but bumpers?
Scotchmen still drink hard; but where are the good old times, when it
was thought a slight to your host to go to bed without the help of a
couple of servants?
Scotchmen still drink hard; but where is the time when people
recommended a _protege_, who was a candidate for a vacant post, by
adding at the foot of his petition, "He is a trustworthy man--capable,
hard-working, and a fine drinker"?
Lord Cockburn, who was a sober man, mentions how he was once dining in a
friend's house, and towards the end of the dinner was surprised to see
the number of guests around the table diminishing, although no one had
left the room. He set himself to solve the mystery, and soon discovered
that they had rolled under the table, one after the other. A bright idea
occurred to him. There was a bit of ground free near his feet; he would
secure it, and escape from the drink without drawing down on himself the
displeasure of his host.
Feigning to be helplessly drunk, he slid under the table.
Scarcely had he taken his place among the victims of this Scot's
hospitality, when he felt a pair of hands at his throat.
"What is it?" asked he, alarmed.
"All right, sir," said a voice at his ear; "I am the boy as looses the
cravats!"
He submitted to the treatment, and then lay patiently waiting till the
servants came and carried him to bed.
Scotchmen still drink hard; but where is the time when, about eleven in
the evening, the ladies of the house withdrew to their rooms and locked
themselves in, to escape from the drunken humours of the men who, the
next morning, would treat them with all the respect due to their sex?
Yes, Scotchmen still drink hard; and if they only consecrated to Venus
half--nay, one tenth--of the time that they consecrate to Bacchus,
Scotchwomen would be the most envied women in the world.
Donald is theological in his cups: that is to say, the Bible, which
every true Scot is full of, comes up as the whisky goes down; so that
when the said whisky has floated the Bible, the Scotchman begins to
discuss the most subtle biblical questions.
* * * * *
This is how the evening is passed in Scotland.
Dinner is served about seven. After dessert, the ladies retire to the
drawing-room while the gentlemen finish their wine, smoke, and take
coffee. This done, they join the ladies in the drawing-room, where tea
is served, and an hour or so passed in conversation and music. At
eleven, the gentlemen return to the dining-room or go to the library.
Whisky and cigars are brought, and the fete begins. Several times, when
the master of the house beckoned to me to follow him from the
drawing-room, I tried to make him understand that I was very contented
in the company of the ladies; but it was useless. He would generally
take my arm and say:
"Come along!"
As who should say:
"Enough of that; you are a man, are you not? Come and pass the evening
in manly fashion."
There was nothing to do but follow.
I pleaded all kinds of excuses to avoid this part of the entertainment.
"The doctor has forbidden me to drink," I mildly suggested once or
twice, "or I should be very happy, I assure you."
Occasionally I tried to bring to bear more serious reasons--business
reasons--such as:
"Excuse me, I have to lecture almost every day, and I am a little afraid
for my voice."
Much use this! Such an excuse came near rendering me ridiculous in the
eyes of those lusty Scots. They were ready to exclaim,
"What milksops those Frenchmen are!"
For the honour of the French flag, I would mix myself a glass of toddy;
and by just taking a sip every quarter of an hour, make it last out the
sitting, which seldom ended before two in the morning.
By a little after midnight, the tongues seem to tire, and conversation
flags. At regular intervals come the solemn puff, puff, puff, from the
smokers' lips, and the long spiral columns of smoke float noiselessly
upwards. The faces grow long and solemn to match: it is the Bible rising
to the surface. Soon it floats--as I explained just now--and
conversation starts again on theology. Each has his own manner of
interpreting the Scriptures, and burns to explain it to his neighbour.
Then follow the subtlest arguments, the most interminable discussions. I
listen. If I have not many talents, I have at least one--that of being
able to hold my tongue in English, Scotch, and all imaginable languages.
The whisky continues to pass from the bottle to the glasses, and from
the glasses to the throats of the company. The Bible comes up faster
than ever. When the guests are well emptied of theology, everyone takes
his nightcap--the signal for breaking up. The nightcap is generally the
little whisky left in the decanter; to do it honour, it is taken neat.
All get up, shake hands, and say Good-night. As you leave your host, you
ask him at what time breakfast is served, and he replies:
"At eight."
At eight! Can he mean it? Deducting the necessary time for undressing,
and for getting through your morning toilet, there remain scarcely five
hours for sleep. The thought that you must make haste and get to sleep,
in order to have a chance of being able to wake between seven and
half-past, is just enough to prevent you from closing your eyes for the
night. Thank goodness, your host, in his solicitude, has foreseen the
difficulty. At seven o'clock, a horrible din makes you start up in bed
and tremble from head to foot. It is a servant sounding the gong--a sort
of tam-tam of Chinese invention--which fills the house with a noise fit
to make you reproduce all the contortions that manufacturers of
porcelain attribute to the Celestials. You rise, and dress as fast as
you can. Your features look drawn; your head feels upside down; your
eyes seem coming out of your head; you have the hairache: but you
console yourself with the thought of the others. What will they be
like? What a figure they will cut at table!
You were never more mistaken. In they come, the lusty rascals, looking
as bright as the lark. Nothing on their faces betray the libations of
over night, or the scanty measure of sleep they have been able to get.
"What an iron race, these Scots!" I have often exclaimed to myself. "Who
could hope to compete with them?"