"I believe I hae met wi' the woman I loe," responds Jamie; "but I dinna ken whether she lo'es me."
"Why dinna ye ask her, Jamie?"
"Janet," says Jamie, without accompanying his words with the slightest chalorous movement, "wad ye be that woman I was speakin' of?"
"If I died before you, Jamie, I wad like your han' to close my een."
The engagement was completed with a kiss to seal the compact.
The Scot, in his quality of a man of action, talks little; all the less, perhaps, because he knows that he will have to give an account of every idle word in the Last Day.
He has reduced conversation to its simplest expression. Sometimes even he will restrain himself, much to the despair of foreigners, so far as to only pronounce the accentuated syllable of each word. What do I say? The syllable? He will often sound but the vowel of that syllable.
Here is a specimen of Scotch conversation, given by Dr. Ramsay:
A Scot, feeling the warp of a plaid hanging at a tailor's door, enquires:
"Oo?" (Wool?)
Shopkeeper– "Ay, oo." (Yes, wool.)
Customer– "A' oo?" (All wool?)
Shopkeeper– "Ay, a' oo." (Yes, all wool.)
Customer– "A' ae oo?" (All one wool?)
Shopkeeper– "Ay, a' ae oo." (Yes, all one wool.)
These are two who will not have much to fear on the Day of Judgment – eh?"
You may, perhaps, imagine that laconism could no further go.
But you are mistaken; I have something better still to give you.
Alfred Tennyson at one time often paid a visit to Thomas Carlyle at Chelsea.
On one of those occasions, these two great men, having gone to Carlyle's library to have a quiet chat together, seated themselves one on each side of the fireplace, and lit their pipes.
And there for two hours they sat, plunged in profound meditation, the silence being unbroken save for the little dry regular sound that the lips of the smokers made as they sent puffs of smoke soaring to the ceiling. Not one single word broke the silence.
After two hours of this strange converse between two great souls that understood each other without speech, Tennyson rose to take leave of his host. Carlyle went with him to the door, and then, grasping his hand, uttered these words:
"Eh, Alfred, we've had a grand nicht! Come back again soon."
If Thomas Carlyle had lived at Hamadan, he would have been worthy to fill the first seat in the Silent Academy, the chief statute of which was, as you may remember, worded thus:
"The Academicians must think much, write little, and speak as seldom as possible."
Another Scot very worthy of a place in the Silent Academy was the late Christopher North.
A professor of the Edinburgh University, having asked him for the hand of his daughter Jane, Christopher North fixed a small ticket to Miss Jane's chest, and announced his decision by thus presenting the young lady to the professor, who read with glad eyes:
"With the Author's compliments."
CHAPTER IV
The traditional Hospitality of the Highlands. – One more fond Belief gone. – Highland Bills. – Donald's Two Trinities. – Never trust Donald on Saturdays or Mondays. – The Game he prefers. – A well-informed Man. – Ask no Questions and you will be told no Tales. – How Donald showed prodigious Things to a Cockney in the Highlands. – There is no Man so dumb as he who will not be heard.
Ever since the French first heard Boïeldieu's opera, La Dame Blanche, and were charmed with the chorus, "Chez les montagnards écossais l'hospitalité se donne," the Highlander has enjoyed a tremendous reputation for hospitality on the other side of the Channel.
I am ready to acknowledge that the Scotch, as a nation, are most hospitable; but do not talk to me of the hospitality of the Highlander.
The hospitality of the mountains, like that of the valleys, is extinct in almost every place where modern civilisation has penetrated; the real old-fashioned article is scarcely to be found except among the savages.
Donald has made the acquaintance of railways and mail coaches, he has transformed his Highlands into a kind of little Switzerland; in fact, the man is no longer recognisable.
The Highlander of the year of grace 1887 is a wideawake dog, who lies in wait for the innocent tourist, and knows how to tot you up a bill worthy of a Parisian boarding-house keeper at Exhibition time. Woe to you if you fall into his clutches; before you come out of them you will be plucked, veritably flayed.
The Highlander worships two trinities: the holy one on Sundays, and a metallic one all the week. £. s. d. is the base of his language. Though Gaelic should be the veriest Hebrew to you, you have but to learn the meaning and pronunciation of the three magic words, and you will have no difficulty in getting along in the Highlands.
Every Sabbath he goes in for a thorough spiritual cleaning; therefore trust him not on Saturday or Monday – on Saturday, because he says to himself, "Oh! one transgression more or less whilst I am at it, what does it matter? it is Sunday to-morrow;" on Monday, because he is all fresh washed, and ready to begin the week worthily.
He has a way of giving you your change which seems to say, "Is it the full change you expect?" If you keep your hand held out, and appear to examine what he gives you, his look says: "You are one of the wideawake sort; we understand each other."
Needless to say that the Highlander is glad to see the tourist, as the hunter is glad to see game.
Frenchmen, Germans, Russians, Englishmen, Americans, all are sure of a welcome – he loves them all alike.
Still, perhaps of all the foreign tourists who visit his hunting-grounds, it is the Americans who have found the royal road to his heart.
"The Americans are a great people," said a Highland innkeeper to me one day. "When you present an Englishman with his bill, he looks it over to see that it is all right. He will often dispute and haggle. The American is a gentleman; he would think it beneath him to descend to such trifles. When you bring him his account, he will wave your hand away and tell you he does not want your bill; he wants to know how much he owes you, and that's the end of it."
His idea of a perfect gentleman is an innocent who pays his bills without looking at them.
When he recognises a tourist as a compatriot, you may imagine what a wry face he makes.
Just as the hotel-keeper of Interlaken or Chamounix relegates all his Swiss customers to the fifth floor rooms, so Donald gives the cold shoulder to all the Scotch who come his way. With them he is obliged to submit his bills to the elementary rules of arithmetic, and be careful that two and two make only four.
It is said that of all the inhabitants of the earth, the Paris badaud is the most easy to amuse. I think, for my part, that his London equivalent runs him very close. However this may be, the native of London is an easy prey to the wily Scot.
They are fond of telling, in Scotland, how friend Donald one day showed a Cockney really prodigious things in the Isle of Arran.
A Londoner, wishing to astonish his friends with the account of his adventures in Scotland, resolved to make the ascent of the Goatfell without the aid of a guide. Arrived at the foot of the mountain, he informed the guides, who came to offer him their services, of his intention. You may imagine if Donald, who had sniffed a good day's work, meant to give up his bread and butter without a struggle.
"Your project is a mad one," our tourist is told. "You will miss many splendid points of view, and you will run a thousand risks."
The ascension of the Goatfell is about as difficult as that of the Monument; but our hero, who knew nothing about it, began to turn pale.
However, he appeared