A LIBEL ON SCOTSMEN

Southland Times, Issue 19311, 1 August 1924, Page 9

A LIBEL ON SCOTSMEN

FIRE OF THEIR WIT. SOME NOTABLE STORIES. It has been said that all the peoples of the earth weep in the same language, but laugh in different languages. When one thinks this over, it seems to be true. A Frenchman will laugh at something which will leave a Scandinavian cold. An American will become hilarious over a joke which will make no timorous appeal to an Englishman. As for a Scotsman, Sydney Smith is alleged to have said that it required a surgical operation to get a joke into the head cf a Scotsman, and this gibe at the Scottish race has been extensively quoted ever since. But the truth of the matter is that no such statement was ever made by Sydney Smith. The correct version is recorded by Dr. William Chambers, of Edinburgh, the founder of Chambers’ Journal. Dr Chambers said to Sydney Smith that he must, at least, admit that the Scots were a humorous race, and the Englishman of letters replied:— “Oh, by all means, you are an immensely funny people, but you need a little operating upon to let the fun out. I know of no instrument .so effectual for the purpose as the corkscrew.” Strange to say, the fire of English wit is largely directed at the people of Aberdeen. For example, it is stated that an Aberdonian wm taking a walk with his young son, when he said: “Jock, is =that yer Sunday boots ye’ve on “Ay.” “Well, then, tak’ longer steps.” There is also the story about the Jew who went to Aberdeen and filled in his census paper with the declaration that he had gone there to learn his profession; or the one about the Aberdeen fish dealer who said that as he had to buy his fish from Scotsmen and sell them to Jews, he could “mak’ naething o’t.” Even the dumb animals from the Granite City are alleged to be endowed with this keenness of eye for the main chance, as witness that story about the Aberdeen horse that came to a sudden standstill on the streets of Glasgow and would not move until they lifted up his hoof and found a “saxpence” underneath. ONLY THE HEADS.

The Archbishop of Canterbury is an eminent Scot, and this is one of his stories:— ,

“A Scotsman got a position in a large commercial house in London, and a friend, meeting him shortly afterwards, asked, ‘Well, hew are you liking England?’ ‘All right,’ he replied. “‘But how do you like the English?’

“ ‘Oh, weel,’ said the Scot, ‘I havna met many o’ the English yet. Ye see a’ my dealings are wi’ heads o’ departments.’ ”

Much Scottish humour that is peculiarly characteristic circles round the minister, the beadle or sexton, and the simple folk of the country districts. A parish minister one Sunday was reproving his congregation for sleeping in church during the sermon. He said: “Look at Jamie Fleeman, the parish fool; he’s wide awake.” “Ay, and if I hadna been a fool I would hae been sleepin’ too,” responded Jamie, loud enough for everyone to hear. On another occasion, in the winter time, when the weather was cold and stormy and the church without any system of heating, the minister was preaching an unusually long and dry sermon. The members of the small congregation rose one after another, left their pews and quietly went home, until the beadle became the only auditor. That official waited patiently for a time, but the sermon went on until he could stand it no longer. So he slowly and noiselessly ascended the steps of the pulpit, and taking the key to the church out of his pocket he held it in front of the preacher, remarking in a subdued tone; “If ye please sir, when ye’re done, would ye be sae, kind as to lock the door?”

The beadle or church officer is in Scotland—especially in the country districts—a greatly privileged person, and is often a bit of a character. A young university student, fresh from the irons, visited his native parish and met the beadle, who had a high opinion of his minister. The student said he heard the minister’s sermon, but that the simile of the wind upon the barley which had been used was borrowed from “Odyssey” of Homer. “Dinna tell me that,” retorted the beadle. “I believe it’s mair likely Homer borrowed it frae oor man.”

Earl Balfour said recently that philosophy was not so popular in any country as in Scotland. But some of the folks are philosophers without knowing it, as the following will show: —The minister and his man Jeanies were driving past a Highland distillery. The tall chimney was considerably off the perpendicular, and the minister said: “If that stack falls it will kill somebody.” Jeames immediately replied: “It’ll kill mair folk if it stan’s.” HOW DID HE KNOW? Then there is the story of the fellow, supposed to be half-witted, who was cne day walking through the Earl of Eglintoun’s private grounds. The Earl saw him and called: “Come back, you’re on the wrong road.” The man stood still and said: “D’ye ken whaur I’m gaun?” “No,’ said the Earl. “Then how in the world can ye tell whether I’m gaun the richt road or no ?” And he walked on. Not so very long ago there lived an old Highland minister whose homely remarks occasionally drew a smile from even the most serious-minded of his congregation. One day he paused before beginning his sermcn and called out: “There’s a young man there ticklin’ a young woman, in the gallery; when he stops I’ll begin!” The same minister, preaching a sermon on Faith, made use of the following illustration from his own experience: “I was coming over in the ferry boat from Cromarty to Invergordon, and a storm arose. The boat gave a big lurch and a young woman sitting near me gave a scream and just gripped me round the middle. My friend, that’s faith.”

In a fishing town in the north of Scotland an old fish wife had died, and her daughter was relating to the neighbours all the details of her illness, how she' had nursed her mother 'and applied poultices and so on. She concluded in a sad, mournful tone, “But, ma freens, I’ve the proud satisfaction o’ knowing that she has gone to a better world wi’ the mark o’ my mustard poultice on her breest.” AN ENGLISH HEAD.

Despite the tradition that the average Scot is of dour disposition and resents every attempt at putting the joke “on him,” he is a firm believer in the line which says, “Laugh, and the world laughs with you.” When the jokes are good he can enjoy them —even at his own expense! For instance, an Aberdonian was once asked his impressions of London on a Sunday. He replied: “Oh, it’s just like Aberdeen on a Tag Day. Not a soul to be seen on the streets.”

But there are times, occasions of mental excitement and stress, when the Celtic nature inclines to the vitriolic. An English lady entered a butcher’s shop in Inverness, and wanted an English sheep’s head. The butcher said there was no difference between an English and a Scotch sheep’s head. The lady, however, was very persistent —it must be an English one, and no other. So the butcher, losing his temper, went into the back shop, and was heard to exclaim to his assistant:

“Hi* Tougal, skin ta sheep’s head, an’ mak’ it English. Tak’ oot the brains, but leave in the tongue.” Thus was Culloden avenged. I will conclude with an episode of one of the scenes of which I myself was a witness. It was in a royal burgh on the borders of the Highlands, just before the war. It was New Year’s Eve, commonly called “Hogmanay” in Scotland, and three bosom croonies—Sandy the souter, Jamie the baker, and Donald- the butcher, foregathered in the back shop of the latter after closing time to celebrate the departure of the Old Year, and welcome in the New.

It was a Saturday night, and when Donald had pulled down the window shade, and turned off the lights in the front shop, the trio adjourned to the rear of the premises, and spent an hour or two to their mutual satisfaction.

Now Donald, although a bachelor, was likewise an elder o’ the kirk, and saw to it that his boon companions, who were both married men, did not prolong the revel until an unseemly hour. Having bade them good-night, Donald returned to his seat by the fire in the back shop and fell asleep. So sound were his slumbers that when the sun arose on that Sabbath morn he stirred not and the first bell had clanged from the steeple of the kirk, of which he was an ornament and a shining light, and some of the good folk were beginning to stir on the streets ere he awoke.

“Bless me,” said Donald, “I’ve slept in,” forgetting in his excitement that it was the first day of the week, as well as the first day of the year and thinking only that he had neglected to open his shop at the usual hour. Jumping up, he hurriedly denned his blue and white striped apron, pulled up the window blind, opened up the front door, and stood looking forth with all the alertness he could command, ready for the first customer. Whom should he espy coming Iflong the street but his friend Sandy the Souter. Sandy, who was a magistrate of the burgh, as well as a worthy citizen, was arrayed in all the glory of a frock coat, “him” hat, and black trousers. Donald was a bit surprised at this display of grandeur, and at once hailed him, “Good mornin’, Sandy, will ye be goin’ to a funeral the day? Wha’s deid?” “There’s nobody deid, Donald. This is the Sabbath day, an’ I gaun tae the kirk.” Donald’s meat emporium was closed in record time, but his fall from grace will be remembered by his fellow citizens unto the third and fourth generations.—Dearborn Independent.