Friend Mac Donald

CHAPTER XXI

The Dance in Scotland. – Reels and Highland Schottische. – Is Dancing a Sin? – Dances of Antiquity. – There is no Dancing now.

People do not dance now – in drawing-rooms at least – they walk, says M. Ratisbonne.

In Scotland, however, people still dance.

The Scotch have preserved the primitive, innocent, pastoral character of this exercise.

Nothing is more graceful than the reel and schottische of the Highlands.

The reel demands great agility. Two swords are placed crosswise on the ground and, to the sound of bagpipes, Donald executes double and triple pirouettes in and out, carefully avoiding the weapons.

Ask me how Society dances in Scotland and I will answer: just as it does elsewhere, but with a gravity that would do honour to our senators.

The Scotch are not all agreed as to whether dancing is sinful or not.

Certain dwellers in the Highlands look on it as the eighth deadly sin; the Shakers, on the contrary, consider it as the most edifying of religious exercises.

Between the two, the margin is wide.

Socrates, the wisest of men in the eyes of Apollo, admired this exercise and learned dancing in his old age. Homer speaks of Merion as a good dancer, and adds that the grace and agility he had acquired in dancing rendered him superior to all the Greek and Trojan warriors.

Dancing was among the religious acts of the Hebrews, Greeks, and Egyptians. The early Fathers of the Church led the dance of the children at solemn festivals.

The holy king David danced in front of the Ark, as we know by the Scriptures.

Real virtue is amiable, and tolerance and gaiety are its distinguishing marks.

For my part, I know no more charming sight than those village dances, becoming, alas! more and more rare. Boys and girls gave themselves up to mirthful pleasure without thought of harm, and these pastoral fêtes kept alive joy and innocence in the hearts of our villagers. We are growing too serious, the railways and telegraph have upset us and enervated us, we are getting languid and dull.

If I am to believe the Scotch, with whom I have talked on the subject, it is not dancing that they object to, it is the fashion in which people dance nowadays. They admire the contre-dance and minuet, but consider it improper that a man should whirl round a room with a half-dressed lady in his arms.

CHAPTER XXII

The Wisdom of Scotland. – Proverbs. – Morals in Words and Morals in Deeds. – Maxims. – The Scot is a Judge of Human Nature. – Scotch and Norman Proverbs compared. – Practical Interpretation of a Passage of the Bible.

In a country where everyone moralises, one may expect to find a great number of proverbs, those time-honoured oracles of the wisdom of nations.

And, indeed, Scotland, the home of moral phrases par excellence, owns more than three thousand proverbs.

These proverbs show up all the characteristics of the Scotch people, their prudence, caution, sagacity, self-confidence, and knowledge of human nature.

Several of them are not exclusively Scotch, whatever the Scotch people may say. We have, in Normandy, many which may differ slightly in the wording, but which express the same ideas, a fact which shows once more how many traits of character the Scot has in common with the Norman.

Here are a few:

Mony smas mak a muckle. The French say "Little streams make big rivers."

Anes payit never cravit (no more debts, no more bothers). The French go further when they say: "A man is the richer for paying his debts." I am afraid the truth of this adage might fail to strike the Scotchman at first sight. The only privilege of a proverb is to be incontestable. This French proverb smacks of the sermon, it oversteps the mark.

A cat may look at a king. One man is as good as another. This illustrates the independence of the Scotch character.

Be a frien' to yoursel', an sae will ithers. "Help yourself and Heaven will help you."

We'll bark oursels ere we buy dogs sae dear. A good maxim of political economy: "Don't pay others to do what you can do for yourself."

A' Stuarts are na sib to the King: All Stuarts are not related to the King. The French say: "The frock does not make the monk."

Guid folk are scarce, tak care o' me. The Normans say: "Good folks are scarce in the parish, take care of me."

He that cheats me ance, shame fa' him; he that cheats me twice, shame fa' me. A proverb that well illustrates Scotch caution.

The fear of the devil has inspired many Scotch proverbs, which are in constant use still.

The de'il's nae sae ill as he's caaed. A delicate little compliment to his Satanic Majesty: the Scot is right, one never knows what may happen, it is as well to make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness. A personage who receives so few compliments is likely to remember with pleasure the folks who pay them.

The same neat spirit of flattery is visible in the following proverb:

It's a sin to lee on the de'il.

The de'il's bairns hae de'il's luck, and the de'il's aye gude to his ain, are used to hurl at people who excite jealousy by their success.

Scotch sarcasm is well illustrated in such a proverb as:

Ye wad do little for God gin the de'il war deid. This is reducing the unco' guid to the level of devil dodgers.

It's ill to wauken sleepin' dogs. This is rather hard on the dog, who certainly cannot be considered the emblem of wickedness and hypocrisy. In France we say: "Do not waken the sleeping cat," and I think with more show of reason.

The following is full of poetry:

The evening bring a' hame. The evening brings the family together around the hearth, and in the evening of life man turns his thoughts homewards, forgets the faults of his neighbours, and lays aside disputes and strivings.

Let him tak a spring on his ain fiddle, says a proverb that illustrates the coolness with which Donald will bide his time. A lawyer, who had to listen to an eloquent tirade of an opponent in court, contented himself with remarking: "Aweel, aweel, sir, you're welcome to a tune on your ain fiddle; but see if I dinna gar ye dance till't afore it's dune."

The same idea occurs in:

Ne'er let on but laugh i' your ain sleeve.

A travelled man has leave to lee: Folks will not go to far countries to prove his words. O Tartarin de Tarascon!

Better learn by your neighbour's skaith than your ain skin. So might Cleopatra have said when she tried the effect of poisons on her slaves before making her own choice.

Drink little that ye may drink lang, is a piece of advice Donald has well laid to heart, only he has modified the first part considerably.

I think I have quoted enough proverbs to prove that the Scot has the measure of his neighbour, and knows how to make use of him.

Most of them have a smack of realism which shows that Donald has a serious aim in life, that of being a successful man.

Even the use he makes of the precepts of the Bible proves it. He uses his Bible, but adapts to his purpose the lessons he finds therein.

The Bible is his servant rather than his master, and has this good about it, that with a little cleverness it can be made to prove anything.

If he sometimes come across a precept which is perfectly clear and irrefutable, Donald does not scruple to ignore it.

I was talking with a Scotchman one evening about the different religions of the world, and I remarked to him that when the Mussulmans call us "dogs of Christians," it is not because we are Christians, for they are admirers of the Christian religion, but simply because we do not follow the precepts of Christianity.

"The Mussulmans are quite right," I said, "Christianity is the grandest thing in the world; but Christians are mostly 'Pharisees and hypocrites' who believe little in their religion and act up to it still less."

He, on the contrary, maintained that Christians were no less admirable than their faith, that they followed the precepts contained in the Sermon on the Mount to the letter, and finally that of all Christians the Scotch were the cream.

We argued long without either of us convincing the other, and I must admit that my host, who was a much cleverer theologian than myself, had the last word.

In taking leave of him that night, I was bold enough to return to the charge. "Come, my dear sir," I began, "if we receive a blow on our right cheek, the Scriptures command us to offer our left also. If a man struck you on the right cheek, now what would you do?"

"What would I do?" he said after drawing a great whiff at his pipe. "What would I do? By Jove, I'd give him two that he wouldn't soon forget, I can tell you!"

I shook hands with my host, and retired in triumph.

CHAPTER XXIII

Massacre of the English Tongue. – Donald the Friend of France. – Scotch Anecdotes again. – Reason of their Drollery. – Picturesque Dialect. – Dry Old Faces. – A Scotch Chambermaid. – Oddly-placed Moustachios. – My Chimney smokes. – Sarcastic Spirit. – A good Chance of entering Paradise thrown away. – Robbie Burns and the Greenock Shopkeeper.

The Scotch may be recognised at the first word by the very strong,6 sonorous accent with which they speak English. It is like a German accent with the r's of the Normans. In the North of Scotland, the accent is so Teutonic that one seems to be listening to Germans talking English. The letters b, d, and v are changed into p, t, and f. The ch is perfectly German at the end of a word, such as loch. Ght becomes cht, and is pronounced as in the German word nacht.

Certainly there is nothing insurmountably difficult to understand in all this; but that rogue of a Donald has a way of eating the ends of many of his words, of running the mutilated remains in together with such bewildering rapidity, and accompanying the whole with such a tremendous rolling of r's, that the stranger is completely staggered until his ear grows accustomed to the jargon.

The English language is composed of about forty-three thousand words, out of which fourteen thousand are of Germanic origin, and twenty-nine thousand have come into it from the Latin through the Norman dialect. But in Scotland you will hear the people using numbers of modern French words, which are no part of the English vocabulary. These words are remnants of the close relations that existed between France and Scotland in the sixteenth century. They are mostly heard now in the mouths of the older inhabitants.

For nearly a hundred years past the English have been continually borrowing words from us (a loan which we return with interest), but they are words which will only be found in use among the upper classes. The case is different in Scotland. There the French words were adopted by the people, and it is the people that still use them, and not the better educated classes, for these latter avoid them as vulgar. In a hundred years they will probably have fallen into disuse. It may not therefore be out of place to give here a list, which I think is pretty complete, of the French words that form the last trace of an alliance which has left to this day a very pronounced sentiment of affection for France in the hearts of the Scotch.

There were doubtless many others in use formerly, but I have collected only those which may still be heard in everyday use among the Scotch populace:

These are not, as may be seen, words borrowed from our milliners and dressmakers; they are terms that express the necessaries of life, and which the Scotch housewives have not yet forgotten. They prove in an irrefutable manner that the two nations mixed and knew each other intimately.

The language spoken by the Scotch lends itself to humour. Their picturesque pronunciation gives their conversation a piquancy which defies imitation. A Scotch anecdote told in Scotch language never misses its effect. Tell it in English, or any other language, and it loses all its raciness.

As I have already remarked, the Scot does not seek to appear witty, still less amusing, and there lies the charm. His remarks are not intended to be quaint, but are intensely so. Their drollery lies in the dialect and the combination of ideas. The Scotch are quick to seize the humorous side of things, and that without being aware of it. Their remarks are made with an imperturbable gravity, without a gesture, or the movement of a muscle.

I fancy I see still the old Scotch servant with whom I was speaking on the subject of a fire which would not burn in my room at a hotel. All at once she interrupted the conversation; she had just perceived, on the top of my head, a somewhat solitary lock of hair.

"Are ye growin' a moustache on the top o' your heid?" she exclaimed without a smile.

My first impulse was to bid her mind her business, and make my fire draw. But though I disliked the familiarity, I saw immediately that the good creature, a bony Scotchwoman of at least fifty summers, had not had the least intention of joking me, still less of vexing me. Her stolid expression, her quaint accent, to say nothing of the incongruous idea that had come to her lips, it all diverted me intensely, and I laughed well over it to the great astonishment of the worthy woman, who went away grumbling at the fire which had proved very obdurate.

The chimney continued to smoke horribly, and presently I rang the bell again.

The woman reappeared.

"This chimney smokes atrociously still," I said.

You should have seen her dry old face as she simply remarked:

"Eh, mony a ane has complained o' that chimney."

The familiarity of the Scotch servant is an old theme. The good humour of the master in Scotland encourages familiarity in the servant, and the fidelity of the latter causes it to be overlooked.

I remember the dinner-gong had been sounded in a house where I was one day visiting, and not being quite ready, I was still in my room. Someone knocked at my door. It was an old servant. "Noo," said she, "it's time to come doun to your dinner."

Scotch wit is cutting, there is often a sarcastic thrust in it, sometimes even a little spice of malice.

You hear none of those good broad bulls, brimming over with innocence, that are so amusing in the Irish; the Scotch witticisms are sharp strokes that penetrate and strike home.

Lunardi, the aeronaut, having made an ascent in his balloon at Edinburgh, came down on the property of a Presbyterian minister in the neighbourhood of Cupar.

"We have been up a prodigious way," said the aeronaut to the minister; "I really believe we must have been close to the gates of Paradise."

"What a pity you did not go in!" replied the Scotchman, "you may never be so near again."

I might give numerous examples of this sarcastic wit that so often underlies Scotch anecdotes. I will only cite one more. This time we have Robert Burns for hero, and I extract the story from his biography:

The celebrated poet was one day walking on Greenock pier, when a rich tradesman, who happened to be there also, slipped and fell in the water. Being unable to swim, he would have been drowned but for the bravery of a sailor who threw himself, all dressed as he was, into the water, and brought him to land.

When the tradesman had regained consciousness and recovered from his fright, he bethought himself that he ought to reward his rescuer. Putting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a shilling, which he generously presented to the brave sailor.

The crowd that had gathered round in admiration of the sailor's heroic act could not restrain its indignation. Protestations were followed by hoots, and the object of their scorn came very near being returned to the water – to learn his way about.

Robbie Burns, however, succeeded in appeasing their wrath.

"Calm yourselves," said he; "this gentleman is certainly a better judge of his own value than you can be."

CHAPTER XXIV

The Staff of Life in Scotland. – Money is round and flat. – Cheap Restaurants. – Democratic Bill of Fare. – Caution to the Public.– "Parritch!" —The Secret of Scotland's Success. – The National Drink of Scotland. – Scotch and Irish Whiskies. – Whisky a very slow Poison. – Dean Ramsay's best Anecdote.

In Scotland, the staff of life is porridge, pronounced parritch by the natives.

Porridge is served at breakfast in every Scotch home, from the castle to the cottage. It is the first dish at breakfast, or the only one, according to the income.

Porridge is a food which satisfies and strengthens, and which, it seems, is rich in bone-forming matter.

Many a brave young Scotch undergraduate, with rubicund face and meagre purse, breakfasts off a plate of porridge which he prepares for himself, while ces messieurs of Oxford breakfast like princes.

I saw a labourer near Dumfries, who, on his wages of twelve shillings a week, was bringing up a family of eight children, all of them robust and radiant with health, thanks to porridge. The eldest, a fine fellow of eighteen, had carried off a scholarship at Aberdeen University. In England, no professional career would have been open to him.

Few of the lower class English people will condescend to eat porridge; they will have animal food twice a day, if they can get it, and beer or other stimulants. Twenty years of prosperity and high wages have spoiled, ruined the working class in England. Now wages have fallen, or rather work has become scarce, and these people, who never thought of saving anything in the days of their splendour, are plenty of them lacking bread. They are not cured for all that. If you offered them porridge, they would feel insulted. "It is workhouse food," they will tell you.

When the Scotch maidservant receives her wages, she goes and puts part in the Savings Bank, like the French bonne of the provinces. When the English servant takes up hers, she straightway goes and buys a new hat to get photographed in it. Money burns her pockets.

Money is round, say the English, it was meant to roll; money is flat, say the Scotch and the Normans, it was meant to be piled up.

When he is in work, the workman of London, Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, will spend three or four shillings a day on his keep; when he is out of work, he stands about the tavern-door and whines for help.

I visited one day, in Aberdeen, a restaurant where a copious repast was being served for the modest sum of two pence a head. The room was full of healthy-looking workmen, tidily dressed and busily doing honour to the porridge and other items on the menu.

The bill of fare for the week was posted up at the door. Here is a copy of it:

"Monday– Porridge, sausage and potato.

"Tuesday– Scotch broth, beef pie.

"Wednesday– Peasoup and ham.

"Thursday– Porridge, sausage and potato.

"Friday– Fish and potato.

"Saturday– Porridge, sausage and potato."

A trifle monotonous, perhaps, this bill of fare, I own; but, at all events, you will admit that for twopence the Aberdeen workman can have a good square meal.

What would the Parisians have given for this fare during the siege!

On the walls, I observed the following notice:

"The public are respectfully requested to pay in advance, so as to avoid mistakes."

"To avoid mistakes!" Thoroughly Scotch this little caution!

I had always seen porridge eaten before the other food. So seeing a worthy fellow ask that his porridge might be brought to him after his sausage and potato, I made bold to ask him the explanation of it.

"Do you take your porridge after your meat?" I enquired.

"Ay, mon," he replied, "it's to chock up the chinks."

Ask a Scotch rustic what he takes for breakfast, and he will answer proudly:

"Parritch, mon!"

And for dinner?

"Parrritch!!"

And for supper?

"Parrrritch!!!"

If he took a fourth meal, he would roll in another r; it is his way of expressing his sentiments.

I like people who roll their r's: there is backbone in them.

Robert Burns, who has sung of the haggis and the whisky of his native land, has only made indirect mention of porridge. He ought to have consecrated to it an ode in several cantos.