THE BOOKMAN

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 91, 8 July 1927, Page 14

THE BOOKMAN

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“SCOTTISH CHARACTERISTICS”

r rHE Sctft . . . do we really know him? I think not. Yet he is well in our midst, and has recently been so much to the fore that perhaps it would be as well to try to understand him, and appreciate a few of the lesser-known qualities leavening a nature we are too prone to dismiss cursorily as lacking the finer tenderer emotions we attribute to ourselves. So many hands have endeavoured to delineate the Scottish character, and too many by far have merely sought to make a deeper impression of certain hackneyed traits supposed to be ingrained in the Scot —his canniness, his hardness and dour reticence, a certain fixed stodginess evolved from the consumption of much porridge and haggis (the potent pudding which has been termed a boiled bagpipe), and his sole vein of elevation expressed in an inordinate love of whisky. Poor maligned Scot! We of to-day should know that those things are no more true of him than the beef-eating, bull-dog, all-conquering nonsense is

true of the Englishman: the eternal vivacity and verbosity of the French, and that other and finer qualities lie below the surface if we care to probe. No. The Scot cannot be disposed of by a few strokes of the crayon, depicting him in direst agony divorcing a “saxpence” from the unwilling recesses of a pocket with one hand, and with the other pouring alcohol down a hardened and capacious throat, an uncompromising soul who, when he walks —walks with himself, talks with himself, and himself replies to him! Scotland may have bred men like this, just as England has produced others who have been “beefeaters,” behaved like bull-dogs, and conquered everything, but they do not flourish along the hedgerow like the thistle and the rose.

Even if they did, representation of the more subtle and therefore more interesting characteristics of the Scot are usually ignored, which is a pity, for he can be very lovable when he likes. It has been said that the Scot has no sense of humour, that he is not humorous; Sydney Smith even went so far as to say that “a surgical operation was needed to put a joke into a Scotchman’s head,” yet it is one of the greatest mistakes made, and maybe we do not look deep enough for his quiet laughter.

And who credits the Scot with tenderness, that sweet gentle virtue that has made even rogues beloved? Yet this same quality he possessed in no small degree, though wrapped in a quaint rugged covering as if he would fain hide it from prying eyes; we will give an example presently. The Scottish character is composite. It holds strange contradictions. Hardness and tenderness seem to meet in equal proportions, just as the sarcastic and reverential seem perpetually to strive for mastery, and with this one will also sometimes encounter the “sly and sleekit” propensity with which unkind critics have stamped the Scot through so many generations. But even so, let us seek the less advertised side of him and amuse and refresh ourselves for a few moments as we study the quaint humour he is supposed not to possess, for what is more satisfying than to find something we have been told does not exist? Dry humour often tickles the most. In the first place I know of no other race having the gift of making even grim death appear cheerful —nay, even skittish —as do the following reproductions of old Scotch advertisements: surely they have a pleasant, even hilarious raciness. This from Glasgow:— James Hodge, who lives in the first close above the Cross, on the West side of the High Street, continues with a great sale of burial crapes, ready made; and his wife's niece, who lives with him. dresses dead corpses at as cheap a rate as was formerly done by her aunt, having been educated by her, and perfected at Edinburgh, from whence she has lately arrived, and has brought with her all the newest and latest fashions!

Humour surely! Where have we anything outside of fiction to compare with it? How one longs to meet James Hodge’s wife’s niece and find out how she would array live corpses since she was capable of dressing dead ones to such wonderful advantage! And this:

Miss Christopher Brown dresses the dead as usual in the most fashionable manner, and also carries on her business of making stylish dead flannels and burial crapes, etc. In such bright and businesslike circumstances maybe even death would lose much of its sting for both departed and bereaved. It is not on record, but one can almost hear the horses racing gaily along with the hearse, that no one might be downhearted.

Scotland gave birth to the dear old lady who had strong prejudices against the organ in divine service. One was erected in her kirk: it was the first she had ever seen or heard, and accordingly they ask<M her opinion of it after the first performance. She replied: •It’s a very bonny kist (chest) of whistles, but oh, sirs, it’s an awfu’ way of spending the Sabbath!” Slow, cautious humour, but deep and lasting. Its very caution commands more attention than do the lighter and more frivolous forms to which we are accustomed, and though slow, it is the Scot himself, for as he says in Henderson’s “Proverbs of Scotland” — “Naething should be done in ha3te but gripping fleas." Even in their religion, full of the most solemn reverence as they intend it to be, is an irresistible undercurrent of what to us must appear as humour, because the Scot is unconsciously humorous. Take this tender, eloquent prayer of one Adam Scott in “Shepherd's Calendar,” offered up for a son who seemed thoughtless: “For Thy mercy’s sake—for the sake of Thy poor stnfu’ servants that are now addressing Thee in their own shilly-shally way, and for the sake o’ mair than we dare

veel name to Thee have mercy on Rob. Ye yen fu’ well he is a wild, mischievous callant, and thinks nae mair o’ committing sin than a dog does o’ licking a dish; but put Thy hook in his nose, and Thy bridle in his gab, and gar him come back with a jerk that he’ll no forget the longest day he has to live.” Intensely human—sincere. Humour is one with the life-stream of the Scot. And tenderness . . . the precious quality usually sought elsewhere than in the heart of Scotland’s sons. Hear another prayer—that of an old shepherd the day after his only son was buried: “Thou hast seen meet in Thy wise Providence to remove the staff

out of my right hand at the very time when to us poor sand-blind mortals it appeared that I stood maist in need o’t. But, oh, ee was a sicker (such) ane, and a sure ane, and a dear ane to my heart! And how I’ll climb the steep hill o’ aud age and sorrow without it Thou mayst ken, but I dinna.” Beautiful . . . his rugged mantle fallen, one sees but the tender grief for the flesh of his flesh that has been torn from him. Y'es, he has tenderness, but we must seek it beneath his fortress-like exterior, and we can listen to it in the wailing sweetness of their most popular airs. Want of space forbids further references, but Pld Scottish literature teems with them, then shall we not in meeting him search for the more sympathetic traits that , lie like Scotland’s lakes in the heart of grim, dark mountain passes, fringed with forest glooms, finding that the beauty of the Scottish nature like the beauty of her lakes is well worth the seeking. ALICE CARR TIBBITS.

BOOKS REVIEWED.

A HAZARDOUS JOURNEY. TO THE uninitiated, it may appear a comparatively simple thing to motor across the heart of Australia, even if there are plenty of deserts to cross. Probably a man would consider that so long as he could assure himself of sufficient petrol to keep his engine going, enough water to defy thirst, and ability to detect loose sand without driving into it, ordinary motoring skill would have little difficulty, the incentive once granted, in motoring across the southern continent. Well, let him read

“The Long Lead,” and he will have new ideas. He will learn that even to men who have been there before, experienced bush and desert men who are also very skilful motorists, a trip such as that can offer a wide variety of experience—much of it adventurous.

M. H. Ellis, who wrote “The Long Lead,” was the leader of the little expedition whose journey is the subject of the book. His second-in-command was Francis Birtles, the best-known overlander in Australia, who is now with Mr Ellis in an overland motor journey from England to Australia. The third member of the party was a motor-engineer from the Coventry works in which the call* used was produced. Fourthly, there was Birtle’s dog, also an overlander of large experience. At odd times the party was enlarged by another dog, and by a distinguished botanist. Between Ellis, Birtles, and Dinkum the dog, there was enough knowledge of Central Australia and enough motoring wisdom to equip two expeditions. But the engineer did hot appreciate that fact when he set out on the trip. He thought he knew all there was to be known about driving a motor-car —until he came upon one of the special traps that the interior pf the continent lays for the motorist. Then, though he had been specially warned, hard experience taught him respect. The lesson was improved upon when, with a broken piniontooth, a back-axle that had to be taken down and replaced, and the nearest garage 683 miles away, Birtles demonstrated that “there isn’t any job you can’t do on a car, so long as you have a box-spanner, some fencing wire, and a bit of commonsense.” We should say that by the tirqe the journey was finished the professional engineer had a lot of respect for the unprofessional engineers with whom he had the good fortune to learn what a motor-car can really do and what can be done with it. Part of the great interest of the book lies in the story of that motor “trek” over 6278 miles of the worst country in Australia, from Sydney through parts of New South Wales, Queensland, and the Northern Territory to Darwin, down through the Middle of the continent until Adelaide was within reach, and then across to Sydney again. There certainly was plenty of “incident,” and Mr Ellis has told that part of the tale in a lively way. But there was more in it than that. The object of the journey was not primarily a motor “stunt,” but to allow Mr Ellis, as special representative of a group of Australian newspapers and of the Australian Meat Council, to examine the conditions of the Northern Territory, and to attempt to form a conclusion why a hundred years of colonising effort had left so few marks of progress on that great area. And so we get some very informative discussion of an interesting prob lem, besides graphic vignettes of the lives of people, both white and black, in far and lonely places. So there are three classes of people to whom the book should appeal—motorists, people who are interested in colonial problems, and those who like to read good books of travel. It certainly is well worth reading. “The Long Lead : Across Australia bv Motor-Car.” M. 11. Ellis. T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd. (Ernest Bonn. Ltd.), London. Our copy from Angus and Robertson. Ltd.. SydPictures and Verse. A children’s book. The tale is told In verse; a tale of a boy and two girls, Whiffer Wag the dog, Twinkle Tail the wily hare, Uncle Paul's hidden treasure, and Captain Crook’s pirate crew; verse which is good enough to carry the stery along. To be candid, the ingredients sound rather better than the story actually is. But it will appeal to young children, and the coloured wood-cuts are very gay and attractive ornaments. Something should be done to this lamentable stanza: Of ornaments and such like things The room was rather hare; Unless you count the odds and ends Which laid round here and there. “Hidden Gold.” Anthony Raine Barker John the Bodley Head, Ltd. Our copy from Angus and Robertson, Ltd., Sydney, Brother Saul. A copy of Donn Byrne’s fine new novel, “Brother Saul,” which was recommended and briefly reviewed under Bookmarks last week, has been received from Robertson and Mullens Ltd.

“Far Out West With Whitaker.” ‘The Tenderfoot” is the introductory effort in a volume of fine western stories by Herman Whitaker. This versatile writer has maintained his reputation for he-man narratives and whether his stories are set amidst the winter snows or tell of the heat of the desert, it is fiction which holds a high place among readers of great out-door W'estern adventures. “The Tenderfoot.’* Herman Whitaker. Wm. Collins Sons and Co., Ltd. Our copy from Wnitcombe and Tombs, Exciting Fiction. The jungles and streams of Amazonia are the setting of Mr Arthur O. Friel’s new story, “Renegade,” and one of the things that impresses the reader t is Mr Friel’s intimate knowledge of the country and people he writes about. The renegade is Captain Hart, of the United States Army, who, believing he has killed a man, becomes a fugitive from justice and leader of a gang of desperadoes in the land of vast swamps, and trackless jungle. It is a tale told in a n exciting manner —entertaining reading for the fireside on a winter's evening.

“Renegade.” Arthur O. Friel. Cassell Respectability.

Mr Bohun Lynch’s work has improved rapidly and extraordinarily, and there is no denying that his latest novel i* distinguished by real merit. The book falls into two parts; in the first Esther Wade marries, but not for love, runs away from a drunkard husband to love, and is at last driven, pulled, edged back to him and on to pitiful disaster by Respectability; in the second Esther’s daughter has the independent wisdom to know where her happiness lies and the independent strength to gather it to her, in Respectability’s spite. The first part is better done than the second, which is a little confused and gains nothing in force from one’s seeing the chief Respectable, Lord Orgrave, decline into a vindictive and doddering lecher. But the first part is in itself a fine achievement. The characters are drawn with a quiet and sensitive but firm touch,, and in the Millicent who, when the family history was being discussed, “would skilfully lead up to the subject, then go to the library and

and fetch the Memoir, because she wanted to make quite sur e that Ralph Wilson, Esther’s husband, was aware of the primary nature of that cousinship that Miss Lucy Thurland had borne to the third Lord Tockenham—“in her we see already the Respectable Lady whose urgency is afterwards to ruin a life for the sake of a convention. It is a pity that Mr Lynch did not read his proofs more carefully. “Respectability.” Bohun Lynch. Jonathan Cape. Our- copy through Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd.

Brazen! The old, old story*—unsympathetic wife, lies and bad temper, another woman, the hero descending to drink and degradaion, a convenient accident, readjustment, new love, moonlight and repose, the hero wipes the sweat from his brow and starts again, she explains to him as she gazes into his poor tired eyes, and seeks to justify herself: “It is horrible, all of it! You are tied to a woman who is heartless, utterly selfish and in the real sense, immoral, because there is other morality than just the sexual thing, and Beatrice has none of it. . . . It’s wrong and dreadful and stupid—so stupid. Either the dissolution of marriage should rest on truth or it

should be indissoluble!” A sex novel. “Brass” is a good simile, and dull. Why are the authors of these novels nearly always women?

“Gates of Brass.” Joan Sutherland. Cassell. “