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CHAPTER VII

Scottish Perseverance. – Thomas Carlyle, David Livingstone, and General Gordon. – Literary Exploits of a Scotchman. – Scottish Students. – All the Students study. – A useful Library. – A Family of three. – Coming, sir, coming! – Killed in Action. – Scotchmen at Oxford. – Balliol College.

It is not in business alone that the Scotchman shows that obstinate perseverance which so characterises his nation. Thomas Carlyle would have passed a whole year searching out the exact date of the most insignificant incident. That is why his Frederick the Great is the finest historical monument of the century.

It is this same Scotch perseverance which makes Watts, Livingstones, and Gordons. Never were there brighter illustrations of what can be done by power of mind united to power of endurance.

I have seen them at work, those resolute, indomitable Scots. I have known some whose performances were nothing short of feats of valour.

Here is one that I have fresh in my memory.

A young Scotchman, on leaving Oxford, had been appointed master in one of the great public schools of England. He began with the elementary classes. At that time he intended to devote himself to the study of science.

He told the head master of his intention, and asked his advice.

"If I were you," said the head master, "I would do nothing of the kind. I feel sure you have very special aptitude for Greek, and that if you will but direct your attention to that, you have a brilliant future before you. Let me trace you out a programme?"

This programme was enough to frighten the most enterprising of men. A Scotchman alone could undertake to carry it out.

Our young master accepted the task.

He took an apartment in the Temple, turned his back on his friends, and became an inaccessible hermit.

For three years he lived only for his books, consecrating to them that which, at his age, is generally consecrated to pleasure and comfort.

Nothing could turn him from the end he had in view.

One after another he read all the Greek authors. Nothing that had been written by poet, philosopher, historian, or grammarian, escaped him.

At the end of three years, he reappeared, wasted by the vigils and privations of this life of study; but the last touches had been put to the manuscript of a book, which, when it appeared three months later, was pronounced a masterpiece of scholarship, and made quite a revolution in the Greek world.

To-day this young Scotchman is one of the brightest lights in the higher walks of literature in Great Britain.

The students of the great Universities of Scotland offer, perhaps, the most striking proofs of perseverance to be found.

At Oxford and Cambridge, you find all sorts of students, especially students who do not study.

In Scotland, all students study.

To be able to have the luxury of studying, or rather "residing" (such is the less pretentious name in use), at Oxford or Cambridge, you must be well-to-do.

In Scotland, as in Germany, Greece, Switzerland, and America, the poorest young men may aspire to university honours; but often at the cost of what privations!

Here are a few incidents of students' life in Scotland. They struck me as being very interesting, very touching. I borrow them, for the most part, from a writer who published them in a Scotch Review during my stay in Edinburgh.

He mentions one young man, of fine manners and aristocratic appearance, who dined but three times a week, and then upon a hot two-penny pie. On the other days he lived on dry bread.

Another had an ingenious way of turning his scanty resources to account. Spreading out his books where the hearthrug would naturally have been, he would lie there, learning his task by the light of a fire, made from the roots of decayed trees, which he had dug in a wood near Edinburgh, and carried to his lodgings.

Three Scotchmen, now occupying high positions, shared a room containing one bed; and for a year at least, while attending Aberdeen University, they had no other lodging. The bed was a very narrow one, and quite incapable of holding two persons at once; so two worked while the other slept, and when they went to bed, he rose.

Two other students excited a great deal of curiosity for some time. One carried his books before him just as if they had been a tray, while he glided noiselessly to his place. This mystery was explained when it was learned that he had been a hotel waiter. During the winter he pursued his studies; and when summer returned, it found him, with serviette across his arm, earning the necessary fees for his next winter's course of study.

He never could quite throw off the waiter. If a professor called his name suddenly, he would start up and answer, "Coming, sir – coming!"

The other was more mysterious still. As soon as recitation was over, he would start away from the class-room and make for the environs of the town as fast as he could run. It was at last discovered that he kept a little book shop at some distance from the University, and, being too poor to hire an assistant, had to close his door to customers while he went to recite his lessons.

Professor Blackie tells of one young student, who lived for a whole session on red herrings and a barrel of potatoes, sent him from home. The poor fellow's health so gave way under this meagre diet, that he died before his course of study was finished.

The learned Professor mentions also another very touching case of a young student who fell a victim to his thirst for knowledge. The poor fellow had so weakened his stomach by privation, that he died from eating a good meal given him by a kind friend.

I said just now that little work was done at the University of Oxford. Exception must, however, be made in the case of the famous Balliol College.

But whom do we find there?

This college is full of Scotch students, who succeed in keeping themselves at Oxford, thanks to their frugality and industry. It is not unfrequent to find them giving lessons to the undergraduates of other colleges!

And what lessons the Scotch can give the English!

CHAPTER VIII

Good old Times. – A Trick. – Untying Cravats. – Bible and Whisky. – Evenings in Scotland. – The Dining-room. – Scots of the Old School. – Departure of the Whisky and Arrival of the Bible. – The Nightcap in Scotland. – Five hours' Rest. – The Gong and its Effects. – Fresh as Larks. – Iron Stomachs.

Scotchmen still drink hard; but where are the joyous days when the Scotch host broke the glasses off at the stem, so that his guests should drink nothing but bumpers?

Scotchmen still drink hard; but where are the good old times, when it was thought a slight to your host to go to bed without the help of a couple of servants?

Scotchmen still drink hard; but where is the time when people recommended a protégé, who was a candidate for a vacant post, by adding at the foot of his petition, "He is a trustworthy man – capable, hard-working, and a fine drinker"?

Lord Cockburn, who was a sober man, mentions how he was once dining in a friend's house, and towards the end of the dinner was surprised to see the number of guests around the table diminishing, although no one had left the room. He set himself to solve the mystery, and soon discovered that they had rolled under the table, one after the other. A bright idea occurred to him. There was a bit of ground free near his feet; he would secure it, and escape from the drink without drawing down on himself the displeasure of his host.

Feigning to be helplessly drunk, he slid under the table.

Scarcely had he taken his place among the victims of this Scot's hospitality, when he felt a pair of hands at his throat.

"What is it?" asked he, alarmed.

"All right, sir," said a voice at his ear; "I am the boy as looses the cravats!"

He submitted to the treatment, and then lay patiently waiting till the servants came and carried him to bed.

Scotchmen still drink hard; but where is the time when, about eleven in the evening, the ladies of the house withdrew to their rooms and locked themselves in, to escape from the drunken humours of the men who, the next morning, would treat them with all the respect due to their sex?

Yes, Scotchmen still drink hard; and if they only consecrated to Venus half – nay, one tenth – of the time that they consecrate to Bacchus, Scotchwomen would be the most envied women in the world.

Donald is theological in his cups: that is to say, the Bible, which every true Scot is full of, comes up as the whisky goes down; so that when the said whisky has floated the Bible, the Scotchman begins to discuss the most subtle biblical questions.

This is how the evening is passed in Scotland.

Dinner is served about seven. After dessert, the ladies retire to the drawing-room while the gentlemen finish their wine, smoke, and take coffee. This done, they join the ladies in the drawing-room, where tea is served, and an hour or so passed in conversation and music. At eleven, the gentlemen return to the dining-room or go to the library. Whisky and cigars are brought, and the fête begins. Several times, when the master of the house beckoned to me to follow him from the drawing-room, I tried to make him understand that I was very contented in the company of the ladies; but it was useless. He would generally take my arm and say:

"Come along!"

As who should say:

"Enough of that; you are a man, are you not? Come and pass the evening in manly fashion."

There was nothing to do but follow.

I pleaded all kinds of excuses to avoid this part of the entertainment.

"The doctor has forbidden me to drink," I mildly suggested once or twice, "or I should be very happy, I assure you."

Occasionally I tried to bring to bear more serious reasons – business reasons – such as:

"Excuse me, I have to lecture almost every day, and I am a little afraid for my voice."

Much use this! Such an excuse came near rendering me ridiculous in the eyes of those lusty Scots. They were ready to exclaim,

"What milksops those Frenchmen are!"

For the honour of the French flag, I would mix myself a glass of toddy; and by just taking a sip every quarter of an hour, make it last out the sitting, which seldom ended before two in the morning.

By a little after midnight, the tongues seem to tire, and conversation flags. At regular intervals come the solemn puff, puff, puff, from the smokers' lips, and the long spiral columns of smoke float noiselessly upwards. The faces grow long and solemn to match: it is the Bible rising to the surface. Soon it floats – as I explained just now – and conversation starts again on theology. Each has his own manner of interpreting the Scriptures, and burns to explain it to his neighbour. Then follow the subtlest arguments, the most interminable discussions. I listen. If I have not many talents, I have at least one – that of being able to hold my tongue in English, Scotch, and all imaginable languages.

The whisky continues to pass from the bottle to the glasses, and from the glasses to the throats of the company. The Bible comes up faster than ever. When the guests are well emptied of theology, everyone takes his nightcap – the signal for breaking up. The nightcap is generally the little whisky left in the decanter; to do it honour, it is taken neat. All get up, shake hands, and say Good-night. As you leave your host, you ask him at what time breakfast is served, and he replies:

"At eight."

At eight! Can he mean it? Deducting the necessary time for undressing, and for getting through your morning toilet, there remain scarcely five hours for sleep. The thought that you must make haste and get to sleep, in order to have a chance of being able to wake between seven and half-past, is just enough to prevent you from closing your eyes for the night. Thank goodness, your host, in his solicitude, has foreseen the difficulty. At seven o'clock, a horrible din makes you start up in bed and tremble from head to foot. It is a servant sounding the gong – a sort of tam-tam of Chinese invention – which fills the house with a noise fit to make you reproduce all the contortions that manufacturers of porcelain attribute to the Celestials. You rise, and dress as fast as you can. Your features look drawn; your head feels upside down; your eyes seem coming out of your head; you have the hairache: but you console yourself with the thought of the others. What will they be like? What a figure they will cut at table!

You were never more mistaken. In they come, the lusty rascals, looking as bright as the lark. Nothing on their faces betray the libations of over night, or the scanty measure of sleep they have been able to get.

"What an iron race, these Scots!" I have often exclaimed to myself. "Who could hope to compete with them?"

CHAPTER IX

Religion and Churches in Scotland. – Why Scotch Bishops cut a poor Figure. – Companies for insuring against the Accidents of the Life to come. – Religious Lecture-Rooms. – No one can serve two Masters. – How the Gospel Camel was able to pass through the Eye of a Needle. – Incense and Common Sense. – I understand, therefore I believe. – Conversions at Home. – Conversions in open Air. – A modest Preacher. – A well-filled Week. – Touching Piety. – Donald recommends John Bull and Paddy to the Lord.

Great Britain boasts two State Churches: the Anglican, or Episcopal, Church in England and Wales, and the Presbyterian Church in Scotland.

The Presbyterian Church is not under the jurisdiction of a bishop, but of a General Assembly, composed of lay and ecclesiastical deputies elected by the towns and universities, and presided over by a Moderator, elected by the Assembly, and a Lord High Commissioner, appointed every year by the Queen, and requited for this arduous task with two thousand pounds.

The Scotch Presbyterian Church was established in 1560; but the Stuarts re-established the Episcopalian Church in 1662. The Revolution of 1688, followed by the accession of the Prince of Orange to the throne of England, made Presbyterianism flourish again, and its ministers still receive emoluments from the State.

The Episcopalian Church still exists in Scotland, governed by seven bishops; but, by the irony of fate, she has become, as it were, a sort of dissenting Church.

Scotland has many Catholics. Two archbishops and four bishops watch over the spiritual health of this flock.

In 1843, many Scotchmen, having discovered that it was contrary to Scripture to have ministers appointed by the State, founded the Free Church, which at the present time rivals the Presbyterian in importance.

The religious zeal of the Scotch may be judged from the fact that, in the year of the separation, a sum of nearly £400,000 was contributed by the faithful desirous of founding a Free Church. This Church has eleven hundred pastors, receiving salaries of about £200 a year. Not less than £560,000 were sent, in 1882, to the Chief Moderator, to help meet the expenses of this free faith.

Such are the large centres of religious activity. Besides these, there are, as in England, nearly two hundred dissenting sects.

You may imagine whether the Devil has a hard time of it in Scotland.

All these spiritual insurance companies live in perfect harmony, and are flourishing.

It is only the Scotch bishops who cut a rather pitiable figure. To be a lord bishop, and not to be able to lord it a little, is hard. When I was in the North of Scotland, I saw one arrive at Buckie station, on his way to inspect the church of the town. The clergyman had come to meet him. They took the road to the vicarage, pedibus cum jambis, and my lord bishop's gaiters attracted no more attention from the good Buckie folk than did the ulster of your humble servant.

In Catholic countries, where religion exacts a life of sacrifice and abnegation from its ministers, the priesthood is a vocation. In Protestant countries, where religion imposes but few restrictions on those who serve about the altar, the Church is a profession.

Scotch places of worship are much alike inside and out. Outside, the roofs are more or less pointed; inside, the singing is more or less out of tune.

Let us go into the first we come to.

Four whitewashed walls, with a ceiling to match, or a roof supported by bare rafters; no pictures, no statues; just straight-backed benches, and a high desk or pulpit: it is a lecture-room. Not a single outer sign of fervour: no kneeling, no clasped hands, or other sign of supplication. The faces are cross-looking and forbidding, or else apathetic.

It is curious to reflect that these unmoved faces belong to people who would die to defend their liberty of conscience.

Drawling hymns, psalms and canticles sung in the twelve different semi-tones of the chromatic scale; sermons full of theological subtleties, objections raised and explained away.

The preacher does not seek to appeal to the soul by eloquence, to the heart by tenderness and grace, or to the taste by style. He addresses himself to the reason alone.

Some preachers read their sermons, some recite them, others give them ex tempore. These latter are the most interesting.

Here and there I heard sermons that were enough to send one to sleep on one's feet; you can imagine the effect upon an audience who had to hear them in a sitting posture. But Scotland has not the monopoly of this kind of eloquence; from time immemorial it has been the custom of a certain proportion of church-goers to shut their eyes to listen to the sermon.

Religion is still sterner in Scotland than in England. It is arid, like the soil of the country; angular, like the bodies of the inhabitants; thorny, like the national emblem of Scotland.

One Sunday I went to a church in Glasgow. The preacher chose for his text the passage from St. Matthew's Gospel commencing with "No man can serve two masters," and ending "Ye cannot serve God and Mammon."

About three thousand worshippers, careworn and devoured by the thirst for lucre, listened unmoved to the diatribes of the worthy pastor, and were preparing, by a day of rest, for the headlong race after wealth that they were going to resume on the morrow.

What a never-ending theme is the contempt for riches! What sermons in the desert, preached by bishops with princely pay, or poor curates who treat fortune as Master Reynard treated certain grapes that hung out of reach.

I was never more edified than on that Sunday in Glasgow, especially when the assembly struck up —

 
"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 see
The special place my dearest Lord
In 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 mourir
C'est la devise des hommes.
 

By the bye, dear reader, how do you like the expression special 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 play that 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 the Needle'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; but seeing 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 little risqué; 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 the unco' 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.