Little Sketches of Family Life in Scotland. -- The Scotchman of
"John Bull and his Island." -- Painful Explanations. -- As a
Father I love you, as a Customer I take you in. -- A Good
Investment. -- Killing two Birds with one Stone. -- A Young Man
in a Hurry.
What letters of recrimination I received on the subject of a certain
Scotchman presented to the readers of _John Bull and His Island_! What
downpours!
Some accused me of caricaturing, some of imposture. Others, with more
delicacy, hinted that I should do better at novel writing than at
_impressions de voyage_.
For a month my letter-box was besieged, and at each _rat-tat_ of the
postman I used to say to myself: "One more indignant Scotchman."
After all, what had I done to draw down such thunders?
Here is the offending passage:
"A young literary Scotchman of my acquaintance generally passes a month
once a year in the house of his father on the outskirts of Edinburgh.
His father is a Presbyterian minister in a very enviable position. On
the day of his departure, my friend invariably finds beside his plate at
breakfast, a little paper carefully folded: it is the detailed account
of the repasts he has taken during his stay under the paternal roof; in
other words, his bill."
I never pretended to say that this kind of father was common in
Scotland. I did not say I knew of two such fathers, I said I knew of
one.
The Scotch have not yet digested my delicious Papa. In all parts of
Scotland I was taken to task in the same manner.
"Come, come, my dear sir, own that it was not true, confess that it was
a little bit of your own invention."
"His name, what is his name?" cried a few indiscreet ones.
I convinced a few, a few remained undecided; I even saw two or three go
away still firmly believing the story was a creation of my brain.
I can only say that my friend did not appear to grumble at his father's
treatment, for he finished by adding:
"On the whole, I do not complain, the bill is always very reasonable."
For that matter, I have come across a better case still.
I know of a Scotch father who bought a house for a thousand pounds and
sold it to his son, six months later, for twelve hundred.
That is not all.
The son had not the money in hand, and it was the father who advanced
the cash--at five per cent.
Considering the price money is at nowadays, it was an investment to be
proud of.
Do not imagine that the father ran the least risk of losing the capital:
he took a mortgage on the house.
The son, seeing that the money had been advanced to him at high
interest, paid off his father as quickly as he could. He is now his own
landlord, and Papa is on the look-out for another good investment.
I should pity the reader, even were he a Scotchman as seen through
Sydney Smith's spectacles, if he took this Caledonian for a typical
portrait of the Scotch father.
At the beginning of this volume, I compared the Scot to the Norman, and
I may say that I have witnessed, in Normandy, little scenes of family
life which are quite a match for those I have just described. But the
actors in them were peasants.
* * * * *
I am indebted to a doctor in the neighbourhood of Aberdeen for the
following anecdote:
"I was one day called to the bedside of an old farmer who was
dangerously ill," said the doctor to me. "On leaving the patient's
room, I took his son aside and told him that it was useless for me to
deceive him as to the state of his father, and that I very much feared
he had not an hour to live, or, at the best, could not outlast the day."
"'Are you quite sure?' said the son, scrutinising me keenly.
"'I am only too sure,' I replied.
"I shook the young man's hands and drove away. I had scarcely been at
home an hour, when a little cart drew up before my door. I saw the young
farmer alight from it and, a minute later, he entered my consulting
room. He held his cap in his hand, twisting it uneasily.
"'Is your father worse?' I asked.
"'No, doctor, just the same. I have come, because I had a little
business in town ... and I wanted to ask you at the same time.... Well,
I thought that perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me Father's certificate
of death now.... As you say it is certain he won't pull through the day,
I suppose you don't mind whether it is to-day or to-morrow that you give
it me, and it will save me the trouble of coming in again on purpose.'
"It was all I could do to make the young fellow understand that I could
not sign the certificate of death of a man who was still alive.
"The old farmer died next morning at nine o'clock.
"At ten, the son came to announce the news and to ask me for the
certificate."