As an example of what theBookmanreally can do when it has a mind, let us quote the following review of a book by Mr. Le Gallienne:
“Mr. Le Gallienne is the Dick Whittington of song. His story reminds us of that other Richard, who, one summer morning many hundreds of years ago, sat listening to the bells of distant London. The one carried his little all tied up in a handkerchief slung to the end of a stick; the other came to London to seek his fortune with a sheaf of manuscript poems in his pocket and any number of poems singing in his head. Now, Mr. Le Gallienne is a figure in ‘society,’ and lives in a beautiful house crowded with costlybric-à-bracand valuable books; but I like to think sometimes of the sloping-roofed room, nestling under the gables of one of the most picturesque buildings left in London—quaint old Staple’s Inn—which was his first home in the great city.
“It was in just such a room that one might picture Chatterton—rough-hewn oak beams above, uneven oak flooring below, and in front a ‘magic casement’ ‘opening upon the foam’—not of ‘perilous seas’—but of perilous streets, where the black tides of hurrying human creatures never ceases [sic] to ebb and flow. Here were his bed, his books, and his papers. Here, too, though shillings were probably scarcer than sovereigns are now, were the flowers, which the extravagant tenant of the prophet’s chamber was never too poor to deny himself—the flowers which were the inspiration of many of his songs. And here, on a little stove in a corner, he would himself boil the water with which to brew for his visitor the tea or coffee that he would hand round with the ease and grace of a duke dispensing hospitality in his castle.
“I have been betrayed into this personal reminiscence by reading how ‘Love, a poor poet in need of a room for his bed and his rhymes,’ and ‘Beauty, a little blue-eyed girl who loved him,’ transformed into a seventhheaven a single seventh-story room which they had rented, for surely ‘Love’ stands for Mr. Le Gallienne himself, and ‘Beauty’ for the sweet-faced young wife with dove-like eyes and dove-like voice, whose loss has been the great sorrow of the poet’s life. It was in a beautiful idyll calledA Seventh-Story Heaventhat I read of the transformation, and this brings me to the fact with which I started or ought to have started—that Mr. Le Gallienne has published a new book. In other words, he has set open the door of another House of Welcome on the literary highway. And surely ’twere as hard, on a glaring summer’s noon, for a tired and thirsty traveller to pass by some ancient hostelry, through the ivy-hung porch of which he sees, lying back in cool shadow, a quaint stone-paven nook with a glimpse of green lawn and box-bordered flower beds beyond, as it were for the literary wayfarer to turn aside from a volume titled like Mr. Le Gallienne’s,The Prose Fancies of a Poet! Could a more alluring sign be set aswing before the doors ofany literary House of Refreshment? Nor when we have entered are we disappointed by the bill of fare which is put before us. ‘A Seventh-Story Heaven,’ ‘Spring by Parcel Post,’ ‘A Poet in the City,’ ‘Brown Roses,’ ‘Death and Two Friends,’ ‘A Seaport in the Moon’—here surely is a list which might stir the imagination even of unimaginative folk.
“The score or so of ‘Fancies’ which form the volume are, as was only to be expected, of very varying merit. To the opening idyll, ‘A Seventh-Story Heaven,’ reference has already been made. Mr. Le Gallienne’s friend and neighbour, Mr. Grant Allen, a delightful naturalist and essayist, whom society by her neglect has turned into a thrower into her midst of Nihilistic bombs in the guise of novels, could bear witness to the fact that nests are built in stranger places, but surely never did love-birds find such strange quarters for their home as this eyrie at the top of a building, the ground floor of which was a sailor’s tavern. But dingy and unlovely as the spot may be, it is made beautiful for usin Mr. Le Gallienne’s page as the scene of a love-story so exquisitely told, and so tremulous with tender pathos, that we can only compare it to the work of the gentle Elia.
“I cannot say as much for the second Fancy, whimsically entitled ‘Spring by Parcel Post,’ for it is surely an error of taste which every admirer of Mr. Le Gallienne’s genius must regret. ‘The big Dutch hyacinths,’ he writes, ‘are already shamelesslyenceintewith their buxom waxen blooms, so fat and fragrant—(one is already delivered of a fine blossom. Well, that is a fine baby, to be sure! says [sic] the other hyacinths with babes no less bonny under their own green apron—all waiting for the doctor Sun).’
“I wonder if this offends the taste of my readers as much as it offends mine. Mr. Le Gallienne may quote science and physiology against me, but I must confess that in regard to children and flowers I like to keep my very thoughts free from the smirch of sex, though I concede and contend that the smirch is entirely of man’s, not of God’s making. But inthe passage I have quoted there is a certain coarseness of associations which is painful in connection with the purest and most perfect thing on God’s earth—a flower. It was to me as if hot hands were tampering with the petals of a lily. The air seemed to become close as I read, and it was not until I had had a dip—as into cool spring water—into the flower-poems of Burns and Wordsworth that I could go on with my reading ofProse Fancies.
“Let us turn the page and forget that one of the most delicately-minded of living poets, whose work has hitherto been distinguished for exquisite fancy and excellent taste, should so far have ‘lost himself’ as to have written it.
“Variations upon Whitebaitis a caprice as skilful as Rossetti’s famous sonnet,A Match with the Moon. It is a very curiosity in similes, and though Mr. Le Gallienne will toss you a fresh and apt simile for every fish upon your fork, though he introduce as many variations as a pianist introduces intoHome, Sweet Home, yet the essay is not all variation,but has a pretty story running like the thread of a tune throughout.
“As for the ‘Letter to an Unsuccessful Literary Man,’ I would suggest that it be lithographed in order that the successful author may use it as a form with which to reply to the uninvited correspondent. If only Mr. Le Gallienne could induce amateurs to read this letter instead of writing letters of their own to that most baited of beings, the professional author, what a boon he would confer upon his fellow craftsmen! The essay,On Loving One’s Enemies, is scarcely written in the spirit which its title and its protestations of charity might lead us to suppose. It strikes me as somewhat self-conscious and defiant; butDeath and Two Friendscontains some really signal work. For the gem of the book, however, we must turn toA Seaport in the Moon. This and the opening chapter,A Seventh-Story Heaven, are in themselves worth the modest sum which the publishers ask for the volume.A Seaport in the Moonis an exquisitely beautiful fancy. Mr. LeGallienne was in the right mood when he wrote it, and when he is in the mood he is a magician. His page glows like a painter’s palette with rich colours, and the pictures come and go before us like sunset pageant.”
Apart from the delicious Scotch snobbery which jumps at you from every line of this admirable piece of criticism, and leaving altogether out of the question the downright vulgarity and ineptitude of it, one would like to know what theBookmanwould say if Mr. Le Gallienne published a similar book to-morrow. At the time when this review was published, Mr. Le Gallienne was in the zenith of his somewhat slender and rarefied popularity. He had captured the heart of Kensington with dainty vacuity. His locks were curled and perfumed; he figured prettily and replied to the toast of letters at the dinners of literary clubs, and was the delicate high priest of a little school of hot pressed poetry and vapid prose. TheBookman, of course, was bound to salute him with a chaste appreciation. Since then the world has gone onand left Mr. Le Gallienne somewhat behind it, also Mr. Le Gallienne himself has settled in America and cut off his hair. No more does he publish the booklet that takes the town; no longer does he write of the “Woman’s Third” or sigh over the deception of tender-hearted schoolgirls, who have provided one with a sonnet. In short, his laurel hangs dustily on a nail at the “Bodley Head,” and the raven locks that once bore it have probably by this time gone to help in the making of a mess of honest builders’ mortar. So that theBookmanknows him no more.
From the issue of theBookmanwhich contains the review above quoted I take a couple of “news notes.”
“Mr. J. M. Barrie has finished a book on his mother, which will be entitledMargaret Ogilvy. It is perhaps the most beautiful and exquisite piece of work he has yet accomplished. It is not a biography in the ordinary sense, but gives aspects and incidents of his mother’s life in the style which Mr. Barrie’s readers know, keeping close throughoutto facts. The volume will be published in this country by Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton, and in America by Messrs. Scribner.”
“Mr. S. R. Crockett’s new novel is to be entitledLochinvar. Some eminent critics who have had the privilege of reading the portion already written are enthusiastic in their praise of the work. It is said to be more in the manner ofThe Lilac Sun-Bonnetthan some of Mr. Crockett’s more recently published novels.”
So much for the Scotch journalist.
The Scot abroad, or at any rate the Scot that one knows and loves in London, is a creature so winning and delectable in character that one proceeds to the study of the Scot at home with anticipations of the most pleasurable kind. The best way to study the Scot at home is, of course, to consult the works of those eminent Scottish writers, Dr. J. M. Barrie and Dr. Ian Maclaren, with occasional reference to Dr. S. R. Crockett. Dr. Barrie and Dr. Maclaren (otherwise Watson) have been at pains to portray for us, with what Dr. Nicoll would no doubt call loving and exquisite fidelity, the peoples and manners and customs of two Scotch parishes, named respectively Thrums and Drumtochty.Both, one gathers, are the prettiest, most charitable, and most God-fearing communities to be found upon this globe of sinful continents. Butter will not melt, and ginger is not hot in the mouth either at Thrums or Drumtochty. The various books of the chronicles of that earthly paradise, Thrums, are of formidable number, and I do not profess to have read more than five of them. But I have read enough to know all that I want to know about Thrums. Here, it seems, “twenty years ago, hundreds of weavers lived and died Thoreaus ’ben the hoose without knowing it.” Here also lived “the dear old soul who originally induced me to enter the Auld Licht Kirk” and was “as sweet and pure a woman as I ever knew”; also Tammy Mealmaker, who died a bachelor and “had been soured in his youth by disappointment in love of which he spoke but seldom,” also Tibbie McQuhattay, “at whom you may smile, but, ah! I know what she was at the sick-bedside”; also Whinny Webster, who ate peppermints in church, andwhen detected in the act “gave one wild scream”; and “straightway became a God-fearing man”; also Hendry Munn, “who was the only man in Thrums who did not quake when the minister looked at him”; also Jess McQumpha, who “sat at the window for twenty years or more, looking at the world as through a telescope,” and who “was possessed of a sweet, untarnished soul”; also Leeby, who “died in the back end of the year I have been speaking of”; and Jamie, who did the home-coming, and gaed somebody “sic a look”; and last, but not least, in childishness, the Little Minister and Babbie. For blithering sentiment of the cheapest and most obvious sort, these personages have certainly never been equalled. The whole tone of the Thrums chronicles is as bathotic as it could be made even by a Scotchman, and wherever one turns one finds Mr. Barrie trotting out creatures of a sentiment so slobbery that it would be eschewed even by the scribbling, simpering misses at a seminary. And at Drumtochty,need one say, Dr. Ian Maclaren introduces you to the same set of silly figures. Dr. Maclaren, it is true, put in the front of his show a cunning Scotch farmer whose attempts to cheat his landlord, the worthy doctor,—parson as he is,—would evidently have you smile, but all the rest of his people are rare and radiant pieces of virtue, clothed round in Scotch flesh and sandy hair, and speaking the most uncompromising dialect. For example, there is Mrs. Elspeth Macfadyen. This lady’s claim to greatness is not exactly of a moral kind, being based on the circumstance that she obtained a penny above the market price for her butter. All the farmers’ wives of the Scotch romances invariably do this. Even Dr. Crockett’s lady of the lilac sunbonnet made the best butter in three parishes. The butter woman, however, is not intended to count, so that we will let her go by, and proceed duly to note the heavenly dispositions of the rest of the Drumtochtyans. In the first place, there is Baxter of Burnbrae. Burnbrae, it seems, “hadto make the choice that has been offered to every man since the world began”; in other words, he had to choose between losing his farm and changing his kirk.
“‘Well, Baxter,’ said the factor in his room next day, ‘your offer is all right in the money, and we’ll soon settle the building. By the way, I suppose you’ve thought over that kirk affair, and will give your word to attend the Established Church, eh?’
“‘Ye may be sure that A’ve gien a’ ye said ma best judgment, and there’s naething I wudna dae to be left in Burnbrae, but this thing ye ask A canna grant.’
“‘Why not?’ and the factor, lounging in his chair, eyed Burnbrae contemptuously as he stood erect before him. ‘My groom tells me that there is not a grain of difference between all those kirks in Scotland, and that the whole affair is just downright bad temper, and I believe he’s right.’
“‘A wudna say onything disrespectfu’, sir, but it’s juist possible that naither you nor your groom ken the history o’ the FreeChurch; but ye may be sure sensible men and puir fouk dinna mak’ sic sacrifices for bad temper.’”
Which is exceeding good of Burnbrae, if a little too bad of Dr. Maclaren.
And our excellent Scotch author makes Burnbrae conclude the interview thus: “‘Sir,’ he said, with great solemnity, ‘I pray God you may never have such sorrow as you have sent on my house this day.’” I should very much doubt whether there is a Scotchman in all Scotland who would not have made quite a different ending with much fist-shaking and calling down of curses in it.
Well, in the result, Burnbrae does leave his farm; anyway, there is a sale, or as the Scotch elegantly term it, a roup. And what happens? Why, the neighbours—good, honest bodies—turn up in their thousands and buy in Burnbrae’s farming stock at noble prices, bidding high for everything in order that Burnbrae may at least have a good roup. Meanwhile the minister of the kirk with which Burnbrae scorned to become a memberhas communicated with the owner of the soil, the Earl of Kilspindie to wit, and to Burnbrae Kilspindie writes, “Meet me in Muirtown on Friday.” On Friday, Burnbrae meets the Earl. They crack together of Burnbrae’s son, the sergeant, who, like all the other Scotch sergeants of fiction, has just won the Victoria Cross. “‘There will be no speaking to Mrs. Baxter now after this exploit of the sergeant’s! When I read it on my way home I was as proud as if he had been my own son. It was a gallant deed, and well deserves the Cross. He’ll be getting his commission some day. Lieutenant Baxter! That will stir the Glen, eh?’” Then they touch on the matter of the farm, and the tears come to Burnbrae’s eyes. “‘Athocht,’ he said, ‘when yir message cam, that maybe ye hed anither mind than yir factor, and wud send me back tae Jean wi’ guid news in ma mooth.’
“‘Gin it be yir wull that we flit, A’ll mak nae mair complaint, an’ there’s nae bitterness in ma hert. But A wud like ye tae ken that it ’ill be a sair pairtin’.
“‘For twa hundred years an’ mair there’s been a Baxter at Burnbrae and a Hay at Kilspindie; ane wes juist a workin’ farmer, an’ the other a belted earl, but gude freends an’ faithfu’; an’, ma Lord, Burnbrae wes as dear tae oor fouk as the castle wes tae yours.
“‘A mind that day the Viscount cam’ o’ age, an’ we gaithered tae wush him weel, that A saw the pictures o’ the auld Hays on yir walls, an’ thocht hoo mony were the ties that bund ye tae yir hame.
“We haena pictures nor gowden treasures, but there’s an auld chair at oor fireside, an’ A saw ma grandfather in it when A wes a laddie at the schule, an’ A mind him tellin’ me that his grandfather hed sat in lang afore. It’s no worth muckle, an’ it’s been often mended, but A’ll no like tae see it carried oot frae Burnbrae.
“‘There is a Bible, tae, that hes come doon, father tae son, frae 1690, and ilka Baxter hes written his name in it, an’ “farmer at Burnbrae,” but it’ll no’ be duneagain, for oor race ’ill be awa frae Burnbrae for ever.
“‘Be patient wi’ me, ma Lord, for it’s the laist time we’re like tae meet, an’ there’s anither thing A want tae say, for it’s heavy on ma hert.
“‘When the factor told me within this verra room that we maun leave, he spoke o’ me as if A hed been a lawless man, an’ it cut me mair than ony ither word.
“‘Ma Lord, it’s no’ the men that fear their God that ’ill brak the laws, an’ A ken nae Baxter that wes ither than a loyal man tae his King and country.
“‘Ma uncle chairged wi’ the Scots Greys at Waterloo, and A mind him tellin’, when A wes a wee laddie, hoo the Hielanders cried oot, “Scotland for ever,” as they passed.
“‘A needna tell ye aboot ma brither, for he wes killed by yir side afore Sebastopol, and the letter ye sent tae Burnbrae is keepit in that Bible for a heritage.
“‘A’ll mention naething aither o’ ma ain laddie, for ye’ve said mair than wud be richtfor me, but we coont it hard that when oor laddie hes shed his blude like an honest man for his Queen, his auld father and mither sud be driven frae the hame their forebears hed for seeven generations.’”
What a family! The sergeant with the V. C., ma uncle who chairged wi’ the Scots Greys, and ma brither who wes killed by yir side afore Sebastopol, and, of course, the Bible has to be lugged in. What wonder that at this outburst of Scottish reticence, so to say, Lord Kilspindie rose to his feet. In the twinkling of a paragraph or two the shallow, monstrous, black-hearted English factor is, need one say, coming in for a bit of his Lordship’s mind.
“‘You’ll reduce the rent to the old figure, and put in the name of John Baxter, and let it be for the longest period we ever give on the estate.’
“‘But, Lord Kilspindie … I … did you know⸺’
“‘Do as I command you without another word,’ and his Lordship was fearful to behold.”
Baxter goes home to his farm victor. The news goes down the Glen,—or up it as the case may be,—and the question arises as to what Baxter is going to do with the farm that has been denuded of live stock and implements, and before you can say Jack Robinson every man who has made a purchase at the Burnbrae roup is off to Burnbrae with his purchase and dumps it down and leaves it there, free, gratis, and for nothing.
Now the whole of this story is simply ridiculous. Even if one swallowed the English factor who had turned an old tenant out of his farm on a question of kirk; even if one swallowed the neighbourly bidding up at the roup (not to mention the Victoria Cross and the fighting uncle and brither), Dr. Maclaren cannot make us believe that a Scotchman would part freely and without price with anything that he had once bought. And what a reflection it is upon the dulness of the patient, resigned, and tear-stricken Burnbrae, that he did not have the presence of mind to address dear, good Earl of Kilspindiebefore the roup came off! But had he done that, of course, Dr. Ian Maclaren could not have made his point as to the incredible generosity of the dwellers about Drumtochty.
But the Glen could boast much more remarkable men than Burnbrae. There is Drumsheugh, about as pale a martyr as a martyr-loving people could wish for. Drumsheugh passed in the Glen for a hard man and a miser, “a wratch that ’ill hae the laist penny in a bargain, and no spend a saxpence gin he can keep it.” But Drumsheugh was sairly misjudged. He carried his tribble for mair than thirty year, and then unburdened himself of it over the whiskey to his friend, Dr. Maclure. “‘It wes for anither A githered, an’ as fast as A got the gear A gied it awa’,’ and Drumsheugh sprang to his feet, his eyes shining; ‘it wes for love’s sake A haggled an’ schemed, an’ stairved an’ toiled, till A’ve been a byword at kirk an’ market for nearness; A did it a’, an’ bore it a’, for ma love, an’ for … ma love A wud hae dune ten times mair.’” Naturally, andthe lady in the case was named Marget, the bonniest as weel as the noblest o’ weemen (they all are). Well, Drumsheugh fell in love with Marget when she was in her bloom. With the true Scottish reticence, however, he omitted to mention his condition to the object of his affection, so that she went off quite properly and married a feckless person named Whinnie, who, being feckless, got himself into persistent holes for money, so that Whinnie and Marget were continually being threatened with the loss of their happy home, and all the time Drumsheugh, for love’s sake, kept on sending money through his solicitors in the name of Whinnie’s rich uncle in America. For thirty years Whinnie continued to be a drain on his purse, and Drumsheugh spake no word, but went on loving Marget all the time. Being made the recipient of this astonishing confidence, Maclure is for posting off to Marget right away, and she, good woman, posts as swiftly off to Drumsheugh. It is a case of ae fond kiss and dinna peety me, Marget; A’ve hed ma reward,an’ A’m mair than content; and we wind up with the biblical reflection that “They which shall be accounted worthy … neither marry nor are given in marriage … but are as the angels of God in Heaven”; which is all very pretty and all very Scotch, and all made to sell. We may note, however, that Drumsheugh did not stand alone in Drumtochty for his devotion to a lost love. The fetch is too easy and too safe for Dr. Maclaren to allow himself the use of it only once. There was a man in Drumtochty who had been counted a cynic and a railer against “merridge,” even as Drumsheugh was accounted a miser. In the course of nature this man, Jamie Soutar, came to die. On his death bed he remarked to a friend, “‘Wha sed A wes against merridge, Doctor Davidson?’ and Jamie’s face flushed. ‘Did ever man or woman hear me speak lichtly o’ the mystery o’ love? The Glen hes thocht me an auld cankered bachelor, an’ A’ve seen a lass leave her lad’s side on the sicht o’ me. Little they kent!’” And it transpires that “‘forty-fiveyears syne A met … a lassie near Kildrummie, an’ A cam tae love her aince and for ever, an’ we hed … seeven evenin’s thegither. When A cam the next day she wesna there, an’ A hoddit amang the trees for a ploy; but it wes lang waitin’, for she didna come, an’ A gaed hame wi’ fear in ma hert.…
“‘A set aff tae her hoose, and ilka turn o’ the road A lookit for Menie. Aince ma hert loupit in ma breist like a birdie in its cage, for a wumman cam’ along the near road frae Kildrummie, but it wesna Menie.
“‘When A saw her brither wi’ his face tae Drumtochty, A kent, afore he said a word, that he wes seekin’ me, an’ that Menie was deid. Never a tear cam’ that day tae ma een, an’ he telt me, stannin’ in the middle o’ the road, where it begins tae gae doon the hill:
“‘It wes her throat, an’ the doctor wes feared frae the first day. The nicht she didna come she wes carried (delirious); she … said, “Jamie, Jamie,” ower an’ ower again, an’ wanted tae rise.
“‘Aboot daybreak she cam’ tae hersel’, and knew oor faces. “A’m deein’,” she said, “an’ A didna keep ma tryst last nicht. It’s ower late noo, an’ A’ll no see him on earth again.
“‘“Tell James Soutar that it wesna ma blame A failed, an’ gie him ma Bible,” an’ a while aifter she said, “A’ll keep the tryst wi’ him some day,” an’ … that’s a’.’”
After that, any child could tell you what Jamie’s “last words” would be.
“‘Menie,’ he cried, suddenly, with a new voice, ‘A’ve keepit oor tryst.’”
Heaven help us!
From Thrums and Drumtochty the blest to Barbie, which is also in Scotland, may be fairly described as a far cry. In the beautiful communities conceived by Drs. Barrie and Maclaren the milk of human nature flows like a river; everybody lives, not for his or her foolish self, but for somebody else; everybody dies for somebody else; all bachelors are faithful to the sweethearts of their youth “for forty year and more”; all the women make the best butter in Galloway; all the girls are pretty and angelic of temperament, and, in short, Thrums and Drumtochty are little bits of heaven dropped on to the map of Scotland. But Barbie is not of heavenly origin in the least. The chronicles of Barbiehave been put into print for us by Mr. George Douglas, and he calls his bookThe House with the Green Shutters. If he had wanted a just title for it, he might very well have called it “The Unspeakable Scot.” Nowhere in letters does there exist such an unsophisticated revelation of the minds and habits of a savage and barbarous people as is to be found in this book. It is fiction, of course; but it is that kind of fiction which has been written from observation, and is practically a human document. The Barbie crowd do not waste any time on little acts of kindness; there is not a man among them who cannot fairly be termed mean. If meanness were the only fault one might be able to put up with Barbie; but the inhabitants have graver failings. They are all dour; they are all bitter-hearted; they are all greedy; they are all merciless and full of the wickedest guile. Gourlay, who is the hero of the piece, counts among the most unpleasant persons one has ever met in a book. He has “the black glower in his een,” and all theScotch qualities of envy, hatred, overweening pride, and tyranny find full expression in him. For years he has trampled the rest of Barbie under his feet, and all Barbie hates him. “He had been born and bred in Barbie, and he knew his townsmen—oh, yes—he knew them. He knew they laughed because he had no gift of the gab, and could never be provost, or bailie, or elder, or even chairman of the gasworks! ‘Oh, verra well, verra well, let Connal and Brodie and Allardyce have the talk, and manage the town’s affairs’ (he was damned if they should manage his!); he, for his part, preferred the substantial reality.” So that he treated Barbie with contempt; he had a civil word for nobody, and his manners were as bad as only Scotch manners can be. It was these very manners, however, that helped to bring about his downfall. One fine morning a stranger walked into Barbie; he was a Scotchman, and in his appearance there was “an air of dirty and pretentious well-to-doness,” which is the Scotch way.Well, this stranger ran up against Mr. Gourlay.
“‘It’s a fine morning, Mr. Gourlay!’ simpered the stranger. His air was that of a forward tenant who thinks it a great thing to pass remarks on the weather with his laird.
“Gourlay cast a look at the dropping heavens.
“‘Is thatyouropinion?’ said he. ‘I fail to see ’t mysel’.…’
“The stranger laughed, a little deprecating giggle. ‘I meant it was fine weather for the fields,’ he explained.…
“‘Areyoua farmer, then?’ Gourlay nipped in, with his eye on the white waistcoat.
“‘Oh—oh, Mr. Gourlay! A farmer, no. Hi—hi! I’m not a farmer. I daresay, now, you have no mind ofme!’
“‘No,’ said Gourlay, regarding him very gravely and steadily with his dark eyes. ‘I cannot say, sir, that I have the pleasure of rememberingyou!’
“‘Man, I’m a son of auld John Wilson of Brigabee!’
“‘Oh, auld Wilson, the mole-catcher!’ said contemptuous Gourlay. ‘What’s this they christened him now? “Toddling Johnnie,” was it noat?’
“Wilson coloured. But he sniggered to gloss over the awkwardness of the remark. A coward always sniggers when insulted, pretending that the insult is only a joke of his opponent, and therefore to be laughed aside. So he escapes the quarrel which he fears a show of displeasure might provoke.
“But, though Wilson was not a handy man, it was not timidity only that caused his tame submission to Gourlay.…”
Here you have the two types of Scotchmen presented in speaking likenesses, namely, the bully, primed with “repressiveness” and “force of character,” and the giggling lickspittle who does not know how to fight and consequently falls back on livid revenges.
Later, Wilson ventures on a remark about business. Gourlay retorts:
“‘Business! Heavens, did ye hear him talking? What did Toddling Johnny’s sonknow about business? What was the world coming to? To hear him setting up his face there and asking the best merchant in the town whether business was brisk! It was high time to put him in his place, the conceited upstart, shoving himself forward like an equal!’
“For it was the assumption of equality implied by Wilson’s manner that offended Gourlay—as if mole-catcher’s son and monopolist were discussing, on equal terms, matters of interest to them both.
“‘Business!’ he said, gravely. ‘Well, I’m not well acquainted with your line, but I believe mole-traps are cheap—if ye have any idea of taking up the oald trade!’
“Wilson’s eyes flickered over him, hurt and dubious. His mouth opened—then shut—then he decided to speak after all. ‘Oh, I was thinking Barbie would be very quiet,’ said he, ‘compared wi’ places where they have the railway! I was thinking it would need stirring up a bit.’
“‘Oh, ye was thinking that, was ye?’birred Gourlay, with a stupid man’s repetition of his jibe. ‘Well, I believe there’s a grand opening in the moleskin line, sothere’sa chance for ye! My quarrymen wear out their breeks in no time!’
“Wilson’s face, which had swelled with red shame, went a dead white. ‘Good morning!’ he said, and started rapidly away with a vicious dig of his stick upon the wet road.
“Goo-ood mor-r-ning, serr!’ Gourlay birred after him; ‘goo-ood mor-r-ning, serr!’ He felt he had been bright this morning. He had put the branks on Wilson!”
In spite of his smallness and rattiness, Wilson is not without his Scotch feelings, so that he goes away and schemes. And the end of his scheming is that he becomes a trade rival of Gourlay’s in Barbie. Perhaps man never had a more unscrupulous or fiendishly cunning trade rival. The end of it is that Gourlay is brought to the verge of bankruptcy and dies miserably, while Barbie is left to go on its wicked way rejoicing. Thisfight between two ugly natures is watched by the population of Barbie with great zest; the combatants are continually egged on by the sarcastic comments of the neebors, who practically hate them both as they hate one another. And the result is a picture which rivals in hideousness anything of the kind which has hitherto been attempted. FromThe House with the Green Shuttersone is able to gather what life in a Scotch township really means. One understands, too, how it comes to pass that the Scotchmen one meets in London are so wanting in the qualities which render communication between men possible and tolerable. Persons who have spent their youth in such a township as Barbie must of necessity have altogether wrong views about life and the reason for it. Their hand is against every man; to get and to keep by fair means or foul is their sole ambition, and of the finer feelings which keep existence sweet they know absolutely nothing. It is a squalid picture, and not in the least flattering to Scotland. Yet the Scotchcritics have not ventured to deny its authenticity; indeed, they admit that there is a great deal in it. Mr. Douglas, the author ofThe House with the Green Shutters, is himself a Scotchman, and to malign his country is about the last thing you may expect from a Scotch writer; his tendency usually is the other way. To put Thrums, Drumtochty, and Barbie into one vessel, as it were, to mix them and make a blend of them is probably to get at the truth about the Scot as he lives and moves in his native element. And when one has done this, one can only imagine that the average Scotchman is a compound of two things,—to wit, the knave and the fool.
In England “the Bard” stands for Shakespeare; in Scotland, of course, when you say “the Bard” you mean Robert Burns. Nothing that Scotland ever possessed has abided so firmly in the heart of the Scotchman as “the Bard”—Robert Burns, that is to say. An Englishman can forget that Shakespeare ever existed. A Scotsman never forgets that Robert Burns was a Scotchman. Morn, noon, and night he will talk to you of Burns if you give him half a chance. Till Dr. J. M. Barrie and Dr. Crockett came in, the Scotchman had no other book but a dog’s-eared Burns, from which work he gathered his views of life, including justification for his vices. Round the person and poetry ofBurns numberless well-meaning people have found it worth their while to write a literature. There was a time when “the Bard” received praise only from mere poets. Keats wrote sonnets about him; Montgomery offered him the usual graceful tribute; Wordsworth mentioned him cheek by jowl with Chatterton; and even Eliza Cook had her metrical say about him. Then the prose men came along—Carlyle, Stevenson, Henley. Carlyle took the man Burns and set him up for a tremendous genius, with “a head of gold.” Stevenson, whom probably for this reason the Scotch do not love, ventured to suggest that Mr. Burns had “feet of clay.” Mr. Henley followed and accentuated the feet of clay, greatly to the annoyance of all Scotland. It ill becomes the present writer to attempt to do what has already been done so well, therefore he will say nothing about either heads of gold or feet of clay. But Robert Burns is everybody’s property, and one may crave leave even at this late day to say about him the thing that one believes.The whole truth about Burns may be summed up in half a dozen words. He was a poet, he was a loose liver, and he was a ploughman. And if one looks through his writings, one is forced to the conclusion that he owes his fame to the circumstances that he was a loose liver and a ploughman rather than to the circumstance that he was a poet. To take up the works of Burns in one volume and to glance through them haphazard, assaying here a page and there a page, is to come to a knowledge of him which is rather staggering. As I write, I have before me the Globe Edition of theComplete Works of Robert Burns, edited by Alexander Smith. It is a portly book, and one is aware that it contains matter which is really of excellent quality, considered as poetry. Yet to test it by chance openings is to perceive that in the main Burns, as poet, has been vastly overrated. On page 211, for example, which is about the middle of the book, I find five pieces, not one of which is good enough to grace a common valentine. We lead off withPeggy’s Charms:
My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form,The frost of hermit age might warm;My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind,Might charm the first of human kind.I love my Peggy’s angel air,Her face so truly, heavenly fair,Her native grace so void of art;But I adore my Peggy’s heart.
My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form,The frost of hermit age might warm;My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind,Might charm the first of human kind.I love my Peggy’s angel air,Her face so truly, heavenly fair,Her native grace so void of art;But I adore my Peggy’s heart.
My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form,The frost of hermit age might warm;My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind,Might charm the first of human kind.I love my Peggy’s angel air,Her face so truly, heavenly fair,Her native grace so void of art;But I adore my Peggy’s heart.
My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form,
The frost of hermit age might warm;
My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy’s angel air,
Her face so truly, heavenly fair,
Her native grace so void of art;
But I adore my Peggy’s heart.
Not to put too fine a point upon it, this is arrant drivel, villainously rhymed. Then comesUp in the Morning Early:
Up in the morning’s no’ for me,Up in the morning early;When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,The drift is driving sairly;Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.The birds sit chittering in the thorn,A’ day they fare but sparely;And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Up in the morning’s no’ for me,Up in the morning early;When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,The drift is driving sairly;Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.The birds sit chittering in the thorn,A’ day they fare but sparely;And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Up in the morning’s no’ for me,Up in the morning early;When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Up in the morning’s no’ for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,The drift is driving sairly;Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
The birds sit chittering in the thorn,A’ day they fare but sparely;And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A’ day they fare but sparely;
And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
One surmisesUp in the Morning Earlybelongs to “that great body of treasurable songs with which Burns has dowered his countrymen.” On the face of it, to find sorrier stuff one would have to visit an Englishmusic hall. There is not a glimmer of poetry in any one of the twelve lines, and the composition as a whole might have been written by a precocious infant in a Glasgow Board School. After this precious production we are regaled with the appended touching piece of sentimentalism:
Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part,As far’s the pole and line;Her dear idea round my heartShould tenderly entwine.Tho’ mountains frown and deserts howl,And oceans roar between;Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,I still would love my Jean.
Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part,As far’s the pole and line;Her dear idea round my heartShould tenderly entwine.Tho’ mountains frown and deserts howl,And oceans roar between;Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,I still would love my Jean.
Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part,As far’s the pole and line;Her dear idea round my heartShould tenderly entwine.
Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part,
As far’s the pole and line;
Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.
Tho’ mountains frown and deserts howl,And oceans roar between;Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,I still would love my Jean.
Tho’ mountains frown and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.
The spectacle of a gentleman having somebody’s “dear idea” entwined, whether tenderly or otherwise, round his heart would surely set a cat laughing. And the loving of Jean, though mountains frown and deserts howl and oceans roar between, is clearly the merest fustian. FollowsI Dreamed I Lay Where Flowers were Springing—a stupid sort of dream to say the least of it. The flowers,it seems, were springing “gaily in the sunny beam,” and the poet, it seems, not only “dreamed that he lay among them” but, that he was “list’ning to the wild birds singing by a falling crystal stream,” which is a very common and hackneyed thing for a tenth-rate poet to do. But mark:
Straight the sky grew black and daring;Thro’ the woods the whirlwinds rave;Trees with aged arms were warring,O’er the swelling, drumlie wave.Such was my life’s deceitful morning,Such the pleasures I enjoy’d;But lang or noon, loud tempests stormingA’ my flowery bliss destroy’d.Tho’ fickle fortune has deceived me,She promised fair, and performed but ill;Of monie a joy and hope bereav’d me,I bear a heart shall support me still.
Straight the sky grew black and daring;Thro’ the woods the whirlwinds rave;Trees with aged arms were warring,O’er the swelling, drumlie wave.Such was my life’s deceitful morning,Such the pleasures I enjoy’d;But lang or noon, loud tempests stormingA’ my flowery bliss destroy’d.Tho’ fickle fortune has deceived me,She promised fair, and performed but ill;Of monie a joy and hope bereav’d me,I bear a heart shall support me still.
Straight the sky grew black and daring;Thro’ the woods the whirlwinds rave;Trees with aged arms were warring,O’er the swelling, drumlie wave.
Straight the sky grew black and daring;
Thro’ the woods the whirlwinds rave;
Trees with aged arms were warring,
O’er the swelling, drumlie wave.
Such was my life’s deceitful morning,Such the pleasures I enjoy’d;But lang or noon, loud tempests stormingA’ my flowery bliss destroy’d.Tho’ fickle fortune has deceived me,She promised fair, and performed but ill;Of monie a joy and hope bereav’d me,I bear a heart shall support me still.
Such was my life’s deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoy’d;
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming
A’ my flowery bliss destroy’d.
Tho’ fickle fortune has deceived me,
She promised fair, and performed but ill;
Of monie a joy and hope bereav’d me,
I bear a heart shall support me still.
The moral here is as lame as the meter, and in the open market to-day the “poem” is not worth fourpence. We finish the page withBonie Ann:
Ye gallants bright, I red you right,Beware of bonie Ann:Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace,Your heart she will trepan.Her een sae bright, like stars by night,Her skin is like the swan;Sae jimpy lac’d her genty waist,That sweetly ye might span.Youth, grace, and love, attendant move,And pleasure leads the van;In a’ their charms, and conquering arms,They wait on bonie Ann.The captive bands may chain the hands,But love enslaves the man:Ye gallants braw, I red you a’Beware of bonie Ann.
Ye gallants bright, I red you right,Beware of bonie Ann:Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace,Your heart she will trepan.Her een sae bright, like stars by night,Her skin is like the swan;Sae jimpy lac’d her genty waist,That sweetly ye might span.Youth, grace, and love, attendant move,And pleasure leads the van;In a’ their charms, and conquering arms,They wait on bonie Ann.The captive bands may chain the hands,But love enslaves the man:Ye gallants braw, I red you a’Beware of bonie Ann.
Ye gallants bright, I red you right,Beware of bonie Ann:Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace,Your heart she will trepan.Her een sae bright, like stars by night,Her skin is like the swan;Sae jimpy lac’d her genty waist,That sweetly ye might span.
Ye gallants bright, I red you right,
Beware of bonie Ann:
Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace,
Your heart she will trepan.
Her een sae bright, like stars by night,
Her skin is like the swan;
Sae jimpy lac’d her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might span.
Youth, grace, and love, attendant move,And pleasure leads the van;In a’ their charms, and conquering arms,They wait on bonie Ann.The captive bands may chain the hands,But love enslaves the man:Ye gallants braw, I red you a’Beware of bonie Ann.
Youth, grace, and love, attendant move,
And pleasure leads the van;
In a’ their charms, and conquering arms,
They wait on bonie Ann.
The captive bands may chain the hands,
But love enslaves the man:
Ye gallants braw, I red you a’
Beware of bonie Ann.
One notes that three out of these five lucubrations have to do with love, and one wonders how a man who went about with such ill-considered love-verses in his pocket ever got a woman to look at him.
To take our life in our hands once more, we open on page 153. Here we have a choice selection of short pieces, and feeble, which we reproduce as they stand: