CHAPTER X
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 notion of 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 his Reminiscences, 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 word receptivity, so that 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. For Thy 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 him kelty" (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 a bonne 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 very wonderful 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 morning the 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 English confrère: he reads aloud from a Bible printed in raised characters.
Those who can get enough to invest in an organ or a discordeon abandon 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.
CHAPTER XI
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.
The 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 have something 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 the unco' 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, with a 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 the Jardin d'Acclimation and 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.