Massacre of the English Tongue.—Donald the Friend of France.—Scotch Anecdotes again.—Reason of their Drollery.—Picturesque Dialect.—Dry Old Faces.—A Scotch Chambermaid.—Oddly-placed Moustachios.—My Chimney smokes.—Sarcastic Spirit.—A good Chance of entering Paradise thrown away.—Robbie Burns and the Greenock Shopkeeper. T he Scotch may be recognised at the first word by the very strong, Certainly there is nothing insurmountably difficult to understand in all this; but that rogue of a Donald has a way of eating the ends of many of his words, of running the mutilated remains in together with such bewildering rapidity, and accompanying the whole with such a tremendous rolling of r's, that the stranger is completely staggered until his ear grows accustomed to the jargon. The English language is composed of about forty-three thousand words, out of which fourteen thousand are of Germanic origin, and twenty-nine thousand have come into it from the Latin through the Norman dialect. But in Scotland you will hear the people using numbers of modern French words, which are no part of the English vocabulary. These words are remnants of the close relations that existed between France and Scotland in the sixteenth century. They are mostly heard now in the mouths of the older inhabitants. For nearly a hundred years past the English There were doubtless many others in use formerly, but I have collected only those which may still be heard in everyday use among the Scotch populace:
These are not, as may be seen, words borrowed from our milliners and dressmakers; they are terms The language spoken by the Scotch lends itself to humour. Their picturesque pronunciation gives their conversation a piquancy which defies imitation. A Scotch anecdote told in Scotch language never misses its effect. Tell it in English, or any other language, and it loses all its raciness. As I have already remarked, the Scot does not seek to appear witty, still less amusing, and there lies the charm. His remarks are not intended to be quaint, but are intensely so. Their drollery lies in the dialect and the combination of ideas. The Scotch are quick to seize the humorous side of things, and that without being aware of it. Their remarks are made with an imperturbable gravity, without a gesture, or the movement of a muscle. I fancy I see still the old Scotch servant with whom I was speaking on the subject of a fire which would not burn in my room at a hotel. All at once she interrupted the conversation; she had just perceived, on the top of my head, a somewhat solitary lock of hair. "Are ye growin' a moustache on the top o' your heid?" she exclaimed without a smile. My first impulse was to bid her mind her business, and make my fire draw. But though I disliked the familiarity, I saw immediately that the good creature, a bony Scotchwoman of at least fifty summers, had not had the least intention of joking me, still less of vexing me. Her stolid expression, her quaint accent, to say nothing of the incongruous idea that had come to her lips, it all diverted me intensely, and I laughed well over it to the great astonishment of the worthy woman, who went away grumbling at the fire which had proved very obdurate. The chimney continued to smoke horribly, and presently I rang the bell again. The woman reappeared. "This chimney smokes atrociously still," I said. You should have seen her dry old face as she simply remarked: "Eh, mony a ane has complained o' that chimney." The familiarity of the Scotch servant is an old theme. The good humour of the master in Scotland encourages familiarity in the servant, and the fidelity of the latter causes it to be overlooked. I remember the dinner-gong had been sounded in a house where I was one day visiting, and not being quite ready, I was still in my room. Someone knocked at my door. It was an old servant. "Noo," said she, "it's time to come doun to your dinner." Scotch wit is cutting, there is often a sarcastic thrust in it, sometimes even a little spice of malice. You hear none of those good broad bulls, brimming over with innocence, that are so amusing in the Irish; the Scotch witticisms are sharp strokes that penetrate and strike home. Lunardi, the aeronaut, having made an ascent in his balloon at Edinburgh, came down on the property of a Presbyterian minister in the neighbourhood of Cupar. "We have been up a prodigious way," said the aeronaut to the minister; "I really believe we must have been close to the gates of Paradise." "What a pity you did not go in!" replied the Scotchman, "you may never be so near again." I might give numerous examples of this sarcastic wit that so often underlies Scotch anecdotes. I will only cite one more. This time we have Robert Burns for hero, and I extract the story from his biography: The celebrated poet was one day walking on Greenock pier, when a rich tradesman, who happened to be there also, slipped and fell in the water. Being unable to swim, he would have been drowned but for the bravery of a sailor who threw himself, all dressed as he was, into the water, and brought him to land. When the tradesman had regained consciousness and recovered from his fright, he bethought himself that he ought to reward his rescuer. The crowd that had gathered round in admiration of the sailor's heroic act could not restrain its indignation. Protestations were followed by hoots, and the object of their scorn came very near being returned to the water—to learn his way about. Robbie Burns, however, succeeded in appeasing their wrath. "Calm yourselves," said he; "this gentleman is certainly a better judge of his own value than you can be." |