CHAPTER X.

"O Paradise, O Paradise!'Tis weary waiting here;I long to be where Jesus is,To feel, to see him near.O Paradise, O Paradise!I greatly long to seeThe special place my dearest LordIn love prepares for me!"

"Ah! my dear Caledonians," thought I, seeing them in such a hurry, "it is better to suffer, even in Glasgow, than to die!"

Mieux vaut souffrir que mourirC'est la devise des hommes.

By the bye, dear reader, how do you like the expressionspecial place? Did I exaggerate when I told you the Scotch expect to find places specially reserved for them in Heaven?

This is how I learned by experience never to enter into theological discussions with the Scotch.

I had been to morning service in an Edinburgh church with a Scotchman, and there again had heard a sermon on the worthlessness of riches. The minister had preached from the text, "And again I say unto you: it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of Heaven."

In my innocence, or rather in my ignorance, I had always seen in these words of our Lord a condemnation of riches—a condemnation without appeal, and looked upon the man who sought to be rich, and the man who did not scatter his wealth, as persons who willingly forfeited all chance of entering Heaven.

On leaving the church, my companion and I began to talk of the sermon. The Scotch discuss a sermon on their way home from church, as we French people discuss the merits of a new playthat we have just seen at the theatre. As we went along, I communicated my views to my friend. He turned on me a glance full of compassion.

"It is easy to see, my dear sir," he said, "that you have been brought up in a religion that does not encourage discussion. The result is that you swallow without resistance theories which would make our children start with indignation. If Christ's phrase could be interpreted in your fashion, it would be neither more nor less than an absurdity. He meant to say that it was more difficult for a rich man than a poor one to be saved, but not that it was impossible."

"But," I began, "it is impossible for a camel to go through the eye of a needle."

Here my companion's smile became more sarcastic. I foresaw that his explanation was going to stagger me, and so it did.

"You seem to be in earnest," said he; "let me enlighten you. There existed at Jerusalem, in our Saviour's time, a gateway called theNeedle's Eye. Although one of the principal entrances to the city, this gateway was so narrow that a camel could only get through it with difficulty. So Christ meant to say——"

"Enough," I cried, "my ignorance is terrible. I never felt it so much as at this moment."

"You see," he added in a rather bantering tone, "in Scotch churches there is no incense ... but there is common sense."

Nothing mystic in the religion of the Scotch. The Old and New Testaments are submitted to the finest sifting. Every passage is explained. They are served up as an intellectual food.

Here people do not see because they believe; they believe because they see. Faith is based upon reason.

It is easy to understand why the Scotchman, still more than the Englishman, is common sense personified.

You will see young fellows, scarcely come to manhood, meet together, and discuss the most subtle questions of theology with all the earnestness of doctors of divinity.

It is a powerful school. Reason ripens in the open air of discussion.

Very practical this religion of the Scotch!

I extract the following passage from the letter of a young Scotchman, magistrate in India:—

"Time passes tolerably here. For that matter, we are too busy to be much bored. Week follows week, and each is rather like the one that went before; but all are well filled up. Last Monday, I condemned an Indian to six months' imprisonment and held three inquests. On Tuesday, I presided at a meeting called for the purpose of hearing the report of the Zanana Missions. On Wednesday, I went to races and won £25. Everyone had bet on Mignonne, who was backed at two to one; butseeing that the ground was damp and slippery, I chose Phœbus, a heavier horse, backed at ten to one. I was lucky in my choice. On Thursday, after the work of the day, I went to see the Nautch girls dance. It is a littlerisqué; but I have often heard you say that a man should see everything, so as to be able to judge between good and evil. There was a regatta on Friday. I went in for one race, but only came in second. On Saturday, I had to make out over a hundred summonses, and try several petty offences. An uninteresting day. It is with a feeling of apprehension that I always await Saturday. I have one more examination to pass before I can sentence the natives to more than one year's imprisonment, and two before I can send them to the gibbet. On Sunday, I read the lessons in church. In the afternoon I addressed a congregation out of doors. They seemed greatly impressed, and I count on several conversions."

You must admit that this was a well-filled week. I thought the mixture of sacred and profane quite delicious.

In Scotland, as in England, open-air services are very common. They are conducted by good folks, not over afflicted with modesty, who believe that they were chosen by Heaven to go and convert their fellow creatures—would-be St. Paul's, operating in the Athens of the North, and elsewhere.

Following the advice of Horace, these apostles plunge straight into their subject. They will attack you with the question, whether you are not too fond of the things of this world? or else, whether you have made your peace with God?

The utter conceit of these amateur clergy is matchless. They are either hypocrites of the worst stamp, or fanatics of the first water, "airing their self-righteousness at the corners of the streets." The monotony of their tunes, the commonplaces of their would-be sermons, their long visages, and their grimaces as they pray—all this is the reverse of attractive.

I prefer the soldiers of the Salvation Army. They are rough, but they do not banish cheerfulness from their services. They are lively, and break the awful silence of the British Sabbath. Their services at first struck everyone as blasphemous; but one gets used to everything in this country.

I must not pass over the open-air orator, who, to excuse his faults of grammar, said to his hearers, of whom I was one: "My dear friends, I have had no education, and I know very well I am not a gentleman; but that does not prevent me from accepting the mission that I have received from Heaven to come and preach the Gospel to you. Jesus Christ was not a gentleman—He was a carpenter. The Apostles were not gentlemen either—they were fishermen."

Modest, is it not?

There are Scots so sure of their salvation that they pray but to thank God that they are not as other men are. These Christians, whom Burns has named theunco' guid, are charitable: they pray for their neighbours. There are, on the west of Scotland, two small islands inhabited by a race whose piety is really touching. Every Sunday, in their churches, they commend to God's care the poor inhabitants of the adjacent islands of England, Scotland, and Ireland!

They have their own future safety assured, and, in their charity, think of their neighbours.

Donald presenting Paddy and John Bull to the Lord! The scene is as touching as it is amusing.

Donald's Relations with the Divinity.—Prayers and Sermons.—Signification of the Word "Receptivity."—Requests and Thanksgivings.—"Repose in Peace."—"Thou Excelledst them all."—Explanation of Miracles.—Pulpit Advertisements.—Pictures of the Last Judgment.—One of the Elect Belated.—An Urchin Preacher.—A Considerate Beggar.

Donald is still more religious than John Bull—that is to say, he is still more theological and church-going; but the fashion in which he keeps up relations with the Divinity is very different.

The Englishman entertains the Jewish notionof God—a Deity terrible and avenging, whose very name strikes awe, and is not to be lightly pronounced without drawing down celestial vengeance.

The Scot has a way of treating his Creator very much as if He were the next-door neighbour. He tells Him all his little needs, and will go so far as to gently reproach Him if they are not supplied.

If he has dined well, he is lavish in returning thanks to the Lord for His infinite favours; his gratitude is boundless. If he has had a meagre repast, he thanks Him for the least of His mercies. The thanks are not omitted, but at the same time Donald gives the Lord to understand that he has made a poor dinner.

The following anecdote was told me in Scotland. The first part of it is given by Dr. Ramsay in hisReminiscences, I find. As to the second, I leave the responsibility of it to my host who related the story to me.Se non e vera, e ben trovata.

A Presbyterian minister had just cut his hay, and the weather not being very propitious for making it, he knelt near his open window and addressed to Heaven the following prayer:

"O Lord, send us wind for the hay; no a rantin', tantin', tearin' wind, but a noughin', soughin', winnin' wind...."

His prayer was here interrupted by a puff of wind that made the panes rattle, and scattered in all directions the papers lying on his table.

The minister straightway got up and closed his window, exclaiming:

"Now, Lord, that's ridik'lous!"

If this ending of the anecdote is not authentic, I feel quite sure that none but a Scotchman could have invented it.

Donald's prayers are sermons, just as the sermons of his ministers are prayers.

In these daily litanies the Scotchman enters into the most trifling details with careful forethought: the list of favours he has received, and for which he has to return thanks; the list of the blessings he wishes for, and will certainly receive, for God cannot refuse him anything,—all this is present to his prodigious memory. He dots his i's, as we say in France; and if by chance he should happen to employ a rather far-fetched expression, he explains it to the Lord, so that there shall be no danger of misunderstanding, no pretext for not according him what he asks for—he corners Him.

Thus I was one day present at evening prayers in a Scotch family, and heard the master of the house, among a thousand other supplications, make the following:

"O Lord, give us receptivity; that is to say, O Lord, the power of receiving impressions."

The entire Scotch character is there.

What forethought! what cleverness! what a business-like talent! To explain to God the signification of the far-fetched wordreceptivity, sothat He should not be able to say: "There is a worthy Scotchman who uses outlandish words; I do not know what it is he wants."

Would not one think that this excellent Caledonian imagined that God had been made in his image?

As gratitude is pretty generally everywhere—but especially in Great Britain—a sense of favours to come, this same Scot, before making known to the Lord the blessings which he expected from Him, had been careful to thank Him for past favours. Here, too, he had been sublime. Judge for yourself.

With the lady who was his third wife in the room, he thus expressed himself:

"Lord, I thank Thee for the pleasure and the comfort that I derived from the company of Jane" (his first wife); "I thank Thee also for the pleasure and comfort that I derived from the company of Mary" (his second wife).

The third wife was there, at the other end of the table, silent and solemn, apparently plunged in profound meditation, and thanking Heaven for the pleasure and comfort that the society of Jane and Mary had given her husband.

When would her turn come to play her part in these thanksgivings?

Her husband is but sixty-five, and I can assure you has no idea of going yet.

Another episode of the same kind came under my notice in a Catholic family; but in this case the same Scotch characteristic showed itself under a different form—a form suggested by belief in purgatory.

Here, too, the master of the house was a widower remarried, but who had only got as far as his second wife. Before this dutiful lady and the rest of his family, which was composed of several big sons and three grown-up daughters, he prayed for the repose of the soul of his first wife, reminding the Lord, in case He should have forgotten it, what an angel on earth this incomparable spouse had been.

"Remember, O Lord," he cried, "how discreet, faithful, wise, careful, and obedient she was!"

This prayer, in my opinion, was meant to serve two ends, for the Scotchman never loses sight of the practical side of things. While it solicited the admission of the first wife into Paradise, it reminded the second of her duty towards her husband and the virtues he expected of her.

Upstairs I saw that which confirmed me in my little theory.

In the bedroom I occupied hung a portrait of Mrs. X. (No. 1). Underneath the portrait a card, illuminated with a garland of roses and foliage, and bearing the inscription "Rest in Peace," announced to the stranger that the original was no longer of this world.

One evening, on opening a drawer of the dressing-table, I beheld a card exactly similar to that underneath the portrait, but with the inscription:

"Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excelledst them all."

There it was, all ready to replace the other card, should Mrs. X. (No. 2) cease to be "discreet, wise, careful, and obedient." I wonder if it has seen the light yet!

No liturgy, no formulas for Donald, when he prays. He will not be dictated to as to what he shall say. He knows his own wants, and communicates them to his Maker without reserve or restraint.

The Scotch tell of a Presbyterian minister, of the time of George III., who used to officiate in a church in Edinburgh, and prayed for the Town Council thus:

"O Lord, have mercy on all fools and idiots, and the members of the Town Council of Edinburgh."

What a pity that in Paris churches it is not possible to put up a similar petition!

Here is a prayer of an old farmer who lived in the North of Scotland, and was well known for his long and forcible addresses to Heaven.

"We thank Thee, Lord, for Thy great goodness to Meg, and that it ever cam into thy heid to tak' ony thocht o' sic a useless baw-waw as her. ForThy mercy's sake, and for the sake o' Thy poor sinfu' servants that are now addressin' Thee in their ain shilly-shally way, hae mercy on Rob. Ye ken yersel' he is a wild, mischievous callant, and thinks nae mair o' committing sin than a dog does o' lickin' a dish; but put Thy hook in his nose, an' Thy bridle in his gab, an' gar him come back to Thee with a jerk that he'll ne'er forget the langest day he has to leeve.

"We're a' like hawks, we're a' like snails, we're a' like sloggie riddles: like hawks to do evil, like snails to do guid, and like sloggie riddles that let through a' the guid and keep a' the bad.

"Bring doon the tyrant and his lang neb, for he has done muckle ill the year; gie him a cup o' Thy wraith, an' 'gin he winna tak that, gie himkelty" (two cups, a double dose).

The finest and most characteristic prayer that it has been my good luck to come across is the following, which I have kept for abonne bouche. The good folks of Dumbarton used it in the year 1804, when the inhabitants of Scotland firmly believed that Napoleon had resolved to invade Great Britain:

"Lord, bless this house and a' that's in this house, and a' within twa miles ilka side this house. O bless the coo and the meal and the kail-yard and the muckle toun o' Dumbarton.

"O Lord, preserve us frae a' witches and warlocks, and a' lang nebbet beasties that gang through the heather.

"O build a strong dyke between us and the muckle French. Put a pair o' branks about the neck of the French Emperor; gie me the helter in my ain hand, that I may lead him about when I like: for Thy name's sake. Amen."

To this day you will hear, in any country church in Scotland, these interminable litanies. It is the minister's work to watch over the interests of his flock; he knows their wants and their wishes, and he expresses them in his prayers. That does not prevent Donald from going through the same process again at home; it is always well to know how to conduct one's own affairs.

Every Scot is a born preacher. Even his conversation has a certain smack of the pulpit. By dint of preaching and listening to preachers, his conversation gets a sermonising turn.

That familiarity with which Donald keeps up his relations with his Maker—a familiarity which comes from the good-humoured frankness of the Scotch character—shows itself above all in the ministers of the various religious sects of the country.

Thus a pastor of the Free Church, wishing to explain how Jesus had performed a miracle in walking across the waves to join His disciples, hit upon this forcible way of bringing it home to his hearers:

"My dear brethren, to walk on the sea is a verywonderful thing: you would find it just as difficult as to walk across this ceiling with your head downwards."

Another, wishing to illustrate how God is everywhere and sees everything, told his congregation:

"The Lord is like a moose in a dry stane dyke, aye keekin' out at us frae holes and crannies, and we canna see Him."

The Scotch preachers of the old school knew how to recommend their parishioners to the care of Heaven—and occasionally to the shop of a friend.

A Scotchman told me that he remembered to have heard, when a boy, a Free Church minister thus express himself in the pulpit:

"Lord, protect us from the cholera, at this time making such terrible ravages in Glasgow; endow the doctors of this town with wisdom; give them also health, especially to James Macpherson, who is getting old and cannot afford to pay a substitute. And you, my dear friends, be prudent: keep yourselves warm, that is the essential thing; wear flannel clothing. If you have none at home, lose no time in going to Donald Anderson. He has just received from London a large stock of the best flannels, which he is selling very cheap. I bought some of him at a shilling a yard, and I am perfectly satisfied with it. Donald Anderson lives at 22 Lanark Street; don't go elsewhere."

If the Englishman has, as I said elsewhere, knocked down to himself the kingdom of Heaven, which he looks upon as a British possession, the Scotchman has discerned to himself all the best places therein.

A few months ago an amiable Scotchman offered me his hospitality in the environs of Edinburgh. On entering my bedroom, I saw a picture of the Last Judgment. It quite took my breath away, the sight of that picture. And no wonder! At God's right hand came—first, John Knox; next, Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott; then an immense crowd of good folk, who, if they had been in complete attire, would have had kilts and plaids; and then next, but at some distance, John Wesley and a number of other well-known English divines; and beyond them—no one. But that is not all. On the left hand were a good sprinkling of popes, among people of all sorts and conditions, but all foreigners.

I called my host quickly.

"Well," I said, "what have you been up to in this country? What! Without giving anybody warning, without a 'by your leave,' you install yourselves in the best seats to the exclusion of the poor outside world! My dear sir, it looks to me as if, when all your Britannic subjects are supplied with places, there will be room for no one else."

It was enough to make a Frenchman cry, "Stop thief!"

I was fain to console myself, however, with the thought that in France we can draw pictures of the Last Judgment too, but with a decided improvement on this arrangement of figures. To look for John Knox in ours would be sheer waste of time.

As to Robert Burns, who certainly was no saint, far from it, I do not remember to have seen him, but I guarantee that he is to be found in the midst of the angels, beside Beethoven, Shakespeare, Raphael, Victor Hugo, and kindred spirits.

The following anecdote, told me in Scotland, will perhaps tend to prove that even the libations of overnight do not hinder a true-born Scot from believing himself in Paradise the following morning.

Donald had imbibed whisky freely in the house of a friend, and towards two in the morning set out for home, describing wonderful zigzags as he went.

It suddenly occurred to him, in one of those lucid moments which the tipsiest man will occasionally have, that the cemetery of Kirkcaldy formed a short cut to his house. He steered for the place, but had not gone far when an open grave arrested his progress. He tried to jump, his foot caught, he slipped, and the next moment was lying full length in the improvised bed. Here he soon fell fast asleep. About six in the morningthe Kirkcaldy coach came speeding past, the coachman making the air ring with a shrill trumpet blast. Donald awakes, rubs his eyes, and, taking it to be the Last Trump calling the elect from their tombs, arises awe-stricken. He looks around him. No one; not a soul!

"Weel, weel," cries Donald; "weel, weel, this is a fery puir show for Kirkcaldy!!!"

The French beggar accosts one with a "God bless you." If he is blind, he plays the flute. The Scotch beggar's stock-in-trade is generally a Bible. For a penny he will recite you a chapter; Old and New Testament are equally familiar to him. If he is blind, he does the same as his Englishconfrère: he reads aloud from a Bible printed in raised characters.

Those who can get enough to invest in an organ or adiscordeonabandon the Bible business, which is not lucrative. Besides, turning the handle is easy work; whereas learning the Bible by heart demands study.

The beggar reciting the Bible to fill his pocket is very well; but he does not come up to the preaching street arab.

A learned professor at the University of Aberdeen told me, last February, that he was one day accosted by a beggar-boy of about ten, who asked him for a penny.

"A penny! What are you going to do to earn it?" asked the professor.

"Shall I sing?" replied the boy.

"No."

"Shall I dance?"

"No."

"Shall I preach?"

The professor pulled out his penny without "asking for further change."

I cannot take leave of performing beggars without relating a little incident that I was a witness of in Edinburgh:

A beggar came up to me, asking for alms.

"You have a violin there," I said to him; "but you do not play it. How is that?"

"Oh, sir!" he replied; "give me a penny, and don't make me play. I assure you you won't regret it."

I understood his delicacy, and to show him that I appreciated it launched out my penny.

"But," I added, "do you never use your violin?"

"Yes, sir, sometimes," he said, lowering his voice, "as a threat."

I lost my penny, but saved my ears.

The Scotch Sabbath.—The Saviour in the Cornfield.—A good Advertisement.—Difference between the Inside and the Outside of a Tramcar.—How useful it is to be able to speak Scotch in Scotland.—Sermon and Lesson on Balistics at Edinburgh.—If you do Evil on the Sabbath, do it well.

he Lord's day is not called Sunday in Scotland, but the Sabbath, which is more biblical.

The Scotch Sabbath beats the English Sunday into fits.

I thought, in my innocence, that the English Sunday was not to be matched.

Delusion on my part.

How hope to give a description of the Scotch Sabbath? It is an undertaking that might frighten a far more clever pen than mine.

Happily, in this also, the Scotch anecdote comes to my rescue.

Here is one, to begin with, which will show once more how difficult it is to trip up a Scotchman. Nothing is sacred for him when he wants to get himself out of a difficulty.

A Free Kirk minister met a member of his congregation, and thus addressed her:

"Mary, I am glad to have met you; for I havesomething on my mind that I have been anxious to speak to you of for a long while. I have heard—but it surely cannot be—I have heard that you sometimes go for a walk on the blessed Sabbath."

"Ay, meenister, it is quite true; but I read in the Bible that Our Lord walked through the cornfields on the Sabbath day."

"I do not deny it," replied the good man, a little disconcerted; "but," he added, recovering his self-possession, "let me tell you that if the Saviour did take a walk on the Sabbath, I dinna think the more of Him for 't."

I one day read, in an Edinburgh paper, the following letter, addressed to the editor of the paper by a Scotch minister. This minister had been accused by his antagonist of having been seen taking a walk through one of the parks on the Sabbath.

What an advertisement that letter was!

This is how it ran:

"Certain malevolent and unscrupulous persons have dared to set afloat the rumour that I was seen in the Queen's Park on the Sabbath. I utterly deny the accusation. I never take walks on the Sabbath. Allow me also to add that, though by going through the park I should considerably shorten the walk from my house to the church, I avoid doing so. Let my enemies watch me, if they feel inclined, and they will see that I go round."

It seems impossible to beat that; but what do you think of the following, which at all events runs it close?

The little scene happened at Edinburgh one Sunday.

My host and I were going to hear a preacher at some distance from the centre of the town.

In Princes Street we hailed an omnibus.

I, in my simplicity, prepared to mount on the top, when I felt someone pulling at my coat-tails. It was my companion, who was going inside, and who made a sign to me to follow.

"What! you ride inside on such a lovely day!" I exclaimed, taking my seat at his side.

"On week-days it is all very well to go outside, but on the Sabbath the interior is more respectable."

The following little anecdote, which was told me in the north of Scotland, proves that the Highlander knows how to reconcile his scruples with his interests, even on the Holy Sabbath day:

My friend, walking one day in the neighbourhood of Braemar, all at once perceived that he had lost his way.

Meeting a peasant, he asked him to put him on the right track.

"Eh!" said the rustic, "you are breaking the Sawbath, and you are served richt. The Lord is punishin' ye...."

This little sermon bid fair to last some time.My friend slipped a shilling into the peasant's hand.

The effect was magical.

"Straight on till ye come to the crossroads, then the second turnin' to the richt, and there ye are."

There is nothing like knowing how to speak Scotch when you go to Scotland.

Yet, the real old Scotch Sabbath is almost passing away.

Some lament it, others rejoice at it; but all the Scotch admit that their forefathers would be horrified at the things that pass in these days.

And indeed things must have greatly changed.

Now there are those who take walks on the Sabbath. What do I say, walks? There are those who ride velocipedes—Heaven forgive them! There are to be seen—no offence to my worthy host—there are to be seen poor harmless folk degenerate enough to go and sniff the fresh air on the top of an omnibus. They are not theunco' guid, but still they are Scotch.

Where is the time when Scotch cooks refused to use a roasting-jack on Sunday because it worked and made a noise?

Where is the time when a Scotchman almost found fault with his hens for laying eggs on the Sabbath?

Where are the days when Donald considered it shocking to introduce music into divine service?

The following little scene, of which I was a witness, proved to me that in the Scotchman the practical spirit is bound to assert itself. No matter whether it is Sunday: if he does evil on the Sabbath, he must do it well.

It was one Sunday afternoon in Edinburgh.

Several children were amusing themselves (proh pudor!), in a corner of Calton Hill Park, by piling up a heap of stones.

When the heap was a few inches high, the children retreated two or three yards and, each armed with a stone, began to try and knock down their little construction.

Up came a gentleman, indignant.

"Little scamps!" he began, "are you not ashamed of yourselves? Don't you know you are breaking the Sabbath?"

This impressive exhortation produced small effect upon the little arabs, who went on aiming at the heap, but without success, however.

By the movements of the man every time a stone missed its aim, I could see that if the worthy Scot was indignant at the scandalous conduct of the boys, their awkwardness inspired him with the most profound contempt.

Stone followed stone, but the heap remained intact.

The Scotchman could bear it no longer.

"Duffers!" he cried.

And picking up a stone, he aimed it at the heap, scattering it in all directions; then, witha last pitying glance at the young admiring troop, quietly resumed his walk.

Scotch moral.—Don't play at knocking down stones on the blessed Sabbath, it is a sin; however, if you do not fear to commit this sin, knock down the stones. Don't miss your aim, it is a crime.

This practical spirit shows itself on Sundays in many of the large towns in Great Britain.

In London, for instance, certain tramway companies double the tram-fares on Sundays. The Pharisees at the head of these companies say to themselves:

"We commit a sin in working on Sundays; let the sin be at least a remunerative one."

In France, our public gardens, such as theJardin d'Acclimationand many others, reduce the price of admission on Sundays, in order to allow the working-people and their children to take a day of cheap and healthful recreation.

For a penny, I can any day of the week get taken by tram close to the magnificent Kew Gardens. The poor workman, who would like to go there on Sunday, is obliged to pay twopence to the company—one penny for his place, and another to appease the consciences of the shareholders.

Scotch Bonhomie.—Humour and Quick-Wittedness.—Reminiscences of a Lecturer.—How the Author was once taken for an Englishman.

t seems strange that in this country, so religious as it is, most of the anecdotes which the people are fond of relating should refer to religion, and that the hero of them should generally be the minister. All that joking at the Scriptures, that parodying of the Bible, those little comic scenes at the poor minister's expense, seem at first sight to be in direct opposition with the national character. It is nothing of the kind, however. These anecdotes, which after all have in reality nothing irreverent in them, prove but one thing to us, and that is, that the Scotch are steeped over head and ears in Bible, and are not sorry to get a laugh out of it now and then: it does them good, it is a little relief to them, and—if I may believe Dean Ramsay, the great authority on Scotch anecdotes—the ministers are the first to set the example.

Those anecdotes, I repeat, are not irreverent: I have heard them told by Scotchmen who would not think of shaving on a Sunday for fear of giving the cook extra work to boil water early. (And do not smile if I add that in the evening, after supper,there was hot water on the table for thetoddy. At that hour the water had had time to boil without occasioning any extra labour. At all events, this is how I accounted for the phenomenon.)

Their anecdotes, in a word, prove that the Scotch see a subtle, pithy point more easily than the English, whatever these latter may say, and that they are not so intolerant in matters religious as they are often represented to be.

The further north you go in Great Britain, the more quick-wittedness and humour you find. For quickness in seizing the signification of a gesture, a glance, a tone, I do not hesitate, if my opinion have the slightest value, to give the palm to the Scotch.

When, for instance, in lecturing, I remind my audience that the English have given the British Isles the name of "UnitedKingdom," the Scotch shake with laughter: the little point of sarcasm does not escape their intelligence. In England, I am generally obliged to pause on it and give them time to reflect; and once or twice, in the south, I was seized with a great temptation to cry out,à laMark Twain, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a joke."

I have found all my audiences sympathetic and indulgent; but that which provokes a laugh in the north, often leaves the south indifferent. In Birmingham, Yorkshire, Lancashire, in all these great centres of British activity, and in Scotland, that which is appreciated in a humorous lectureis a bit of covert satire—a pleasantry accompanied by an imperturble look: the kind of fun that the English themselves call "dry and quiet." In the south, you often regret to see that a broad joke brings you a roar of applause; while some of your pet points, those that you are proudest of, will pass almost unnoticed.

Let me give you an idea of that which the lecturer has to swallow sometimes.

In a room, a few miles out of London, I had just given a lecture to the members of a literary Society.

In this lecture, wishing to show to my audience that enlightened and intelligent French people know how to appreciate British virtues, I had recited almost in its entirety that scene in thePrise de Pèkin, in which the hero, aTimescorrespondent, walks to execution with a firm step, defying the Emperor of China and his mandarins with the words, "La Hangleterre il était le première nation du monde."

The lecture over, I had retired with the chairman to the committee-room. Immediately after, a lady presented herself at the door and asked the chairman to introduce me to her.

After the usual salutations and compliments, the worthy lady said to me pointblank:

"You are not a Frenchman; I knew you were an Englishman."

"I am afraid the compliment is a little exaggerated," I responded; "certainly you cannotmake me believe that I speak English so well as to pass for an Englishman."

"Oh! that is not it," she said; "but at the end of your lecture you gave us a French quotation with a very strong English accent."

I begged the lady to excuse me, as "I had a train to catch."

Drollery of Scotch Phraseology.—A Scotchman who Lost his Head.—Two Severe Wounds.—Premature Death.—A Neat Comparison.—Cold Comfort.

have spoken in a preceding chapter of the picturesque manner in which the Scotch people of the old school express themselves. Here are two or three examples which will well illustrate what I mean.

I one day made the acquaintance of an old Scotch soldier. He had been present at the battle of Waterloo, and was fond of talking about the Napoleonic wars.

I started his favourite topic.

He described the battle of Waterloo to me with the most remarkable clearness. It was even touching to hear him give the details of the death of one of his comrades whose head had been shot off by a cannon-ball.

"Poor fellow," he added, "he will have toappear at the Last Day with his head under his arm."

"Were you ever wounded, yourself?" I asked.

"Yes," replied the old Scot with an imperturbable seriousness which made it impossible to suppose that he intended a joke; "I received two wounds—one at Quatre-Bras and the other in the right leg."

I once had a long conversation with an old lady of eighty-two, whose grandfather had served, in his youth, under Bonnie Prince Charlie. She related to me all the wonderful adventures of her ancestor, and when she had come to the end, added, with a gravity that was sublime:

"He's deed noo."

The conversation of these Scots of the old school is full of surprises. You must be ready for anything. In the very middle of the most pathetic story, out will come a remark that will make you shake with laughter. This drollery has all the more hold over you, because it is natural. The Scot is too natural to aim at being amusing, and it is just this simplicity, thisnaturalness, which disarms and overcomes you.

Donald has a way of looking at things which gives his remarks a piquancy that is irresistible: it almost takes your breath away sometimes, you feel quite floored.

A Scotch pastor was trying to give a farmer of his parish an idea of the delights which await us in Paradise.

"Yes, Donald," he cried, "it is a perpetual concert. There's Raphael singing, Gabriel accompanying him on the harp, and all the angels flapping their wings to express their joy. Oh, Donald, what a sublime sight! You cannot imagine anything like it."

"Ay, ay, but I can," interrupted Donald. "It is just like the geese flap their wings when we have had a lang droot, an' they see the rain a comin'."

In making this remark, nothing is further from Donald's intention than to make a joke, or be irreverent. He says it in all seriousness. It is in this that a great charm of the Scotch phraseology lies.

A friend of mine told me that he was once walking through a churchyard with a Scotchman, and feeling a fit of sneezing coming on, he remarked to his companion that he feared he had taken a cold.

"That's bad," replied the Scotchman, "but there's mony a ane here who wad be glad o 't."

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