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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am afraid the compliment is a little exaggerated," I responded; "certainly you cannot make me believe that I speak English so well as to pass for an Englishman."

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

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