Part 4
_Second ditto._ "No!! Hes nae-um is Muster Smuth! And he ahl-ways wears the kult--and it is foohl that you aar, Tougalt Mohr!!"]
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MORE SKETCHES FROM SCOTLAND
ON A CALLANDER CHAR-A-BANC.
SCENE--_In front of the Trossachs Hotel. The few passengers bound for Callander have been sitting for several minutes on the coach "Fitz-James" in pelting rain, resignedly wondering when the driver will consider them sufficiently wet to start._
_The Head Boots (to the driver)._ There's another to come yet; he'll no be lang now. (_The cause of the delay comes down the hotel steps, and surveys the vehicle and its occupants with a surly scowl._) Up with ye, sir, plenty of room on the second seats.
_The Surly Passenger._ And have all the umbrellas behind dripping on my hat! No, thank you, I'm going in front. (_He mounts, and takes up the apron._) Here, driver, just look at this apron--it's sopping wet!
_The Driver (tranquilly)._ Aye, I'm thinking it wull ha' got a bet domp.
_The Surly P._ Well, I'm not going to have this over me. Haven't you got a _dry_ one somewhere?
_The Driver._ There'll be dry ones at Collander.
_The Surly P. (with a snort)._ At Callander! Much good that is! (_With crushing sarcasm._) If I'm to keep dry on this concern, it strikes me I'd better get inside the boot at once!
_The Driver (with the air of a man who is making a concession)._ Ou aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to it.
[_The coach starts, and is presently stopped at a corner to take up a male and a female passenger, who occupy the seats immediately behind the Surly Passenger._
_The Female P. (enthusiastically, to her companion)._ There's dear old Mrs. Macfarlane, come out to see the last of us! Look at her standing out there in the garden, all in the rain. That's what I always say about the Scotch--they _are_ warm-hearted!
[_She waves her hand in farewell to some distant object._
_Her Companion. That_ ain't her; that's an old apple-tree in the garden _you_'re waving to. _She's_ keeping indoors--and shows her sense too.
_The Female P. (disgusted)._ Well, I _do_ think after our being at the farm a fortnight and all, she _might_----But that's Scotch all _over_, that is; get all they can out of you, and then, for anything _they_ care----!
_The Surly P._ I don't know whether you are aware of it, ma'am, but that umbrella of yours is sending a constant trickle down the back of my neck, which is _most_ unpleasant!
_The Female P._ I'm sorry to hear it, sir, but it's no worse for you than it is for me. I've got somebody else's umbrella dripping down _my_ back, and _I_ don't complain.
_The Surly P._ I _do_, ma'am, for, being in front, I haven't even the poor consolation of feeling that my umbrella is a nuisance to anybody.
_A Sardonic P. (in the rear, politely)._ On the contrary, sir, I find it a most pleasing object to contemplate. Far more picturesque, I don't doubt, than any scenery it may happen to conceal.
_A Chatty P. (to the driver; not because he cares, but simply for the sake of conversation)._ What fish do you catch in that river there?
_The Driver (with an effort)._ There'll be troots, an', maybe, a pairrch or two.
_The Chatty P._ Perch? Ah, that's rather like a goldfish in shape, eh?
_Driver (cautiously)._ Aye, it would be that.
_Chatty P._ Only considerably bigger, of course.
_Driver (evasively)._ Pairrch is no a verra beg fesh.
_Chatty P._ But bigger than goldfish.
_Driver (more confidently)._ Ou aye, they'll be begger than goldfesh.
_Chatty P. (persistently)._ You've seen goldfish--know what they're like, eh?
_Driver (placidly)._ I canna say I do.
[_They pass a shooting party with beaters._
_Chatty P. (as before)._ What are they going to shoot?
_Driver._ They'll jist be going up to the hells for a bet grouse drivin'.
_A Lady P._ I wonder why they carry those poles with the red and yellow flags. I suppose they're to warn tourists to keep out of range when they begin firing at the butts. I know they _have_ butts up on the moor, because I've seen them. Just look at those birds running after that man throwing grain for them. Would those be _grouse_?
_Driver._ Ye'll no find grouse so tame as that, mem; they'll jist be phaysants.
_The Lady P._ Poor dear things! why, they're as tame as chickens. It _does_ seem so cruel to kill them!
_Her Comp._ Well, but they kill chickens, occasionally.
_The Lady P._ Not with a horrid gun; and, besides, that's such a totally different thing.
_The Chatty P._ What do you call that mountain, driver, eh?
_Driver._ Yon hell? I'm no minding its name.
_The Surly P._ You don't seem very ready in pointing out the objects of interests on the route, I must say.
_Driver (modestly)._ There'll be them on the corch that know as much aboot it as myself. (_After a pause--to vindicate his character as a cicerone._) Did ye nottice a bit building at the end of the loch over yonder?
_The Surly P._ No, I didn't.
_Driver._ Ye might ha' seen it, had ye looked.
[_He relapses into a contented silence._
_Chatty P._ Anything remarkable about the building?
_Driver._ It was no the building that's remairkable. (_After a severe struggle with his own reticence._) It was jist the spoat. 'Twas there _Roderick Dhu_ fought _Fitz-James_ after convoying him that far on his way.
[_The Surly Passenger snorts as though he didn't consider this information._
_The Lady P. (who doesn't seem to be up in her "Lady of the Lake"). Fitz-James who?_
_Her Comp._ I fancy he's the man who owns this line of coaches. There's his name on the side of this one.
_The Lady P._ And I saw _Roderick Dhu's_ on another coach. I _thought_ it sounded familiar, somehow. He must be the _rival_ proprietor, I suppose. I wonder if they've made it up yet.
_The Driver (to the Surly Passenger, with another outburst of communicativeness)._ Yon stoan is called "Sawmson's Putting Stoan." He hurrled it up to the tope of the hell, whaur it's bided ever sence.
[_The Surly Passenger receives this information with an incredulous grunt._
_The Lady P._ What a magnificent old ruin that is across the valley, some ancient castle, evidently; they can't build like that nowadays!
_The Driver._ That's the Collander Hydropawthec, mem; burrnt doon two or three years back.
_The Lady P. (with a sense of the irony of events)._ _Burnt_ down! A Hydropathic! Fancy!
_Male P. (as they enter Callander and pass a trim villa)._ There, _that's_ Mr. Figgis's place.
_His Comp._ What--_that_? Why, it's quite a _bee-yutiful_ place, with green venetians, and a conservatory, and a croaky lawn, and everything! Fancy all that belonging to _him!_ It's well to be a grocer--in _these_ parts, seemingly!
_Male P._ Ah, _we_ ought to come up and start business here; it 'ud be better than being in the Caledonian Road!
[_They meditate for the remainder of the journey upon the caprices of Fortune with regard to grocery profits in Caledonia and the Caledonian Road respectively._
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THE PLEASURES OF TRAVEL
(_By Ane that has kent them_)
'Tis a great thing, the Traivel; I'll thank ye tae find Its equal for openin' the poors o' the mind. It mak's a man polished, an' gies him, ye ken, Sic a graun' cosmypollitan knowledge o' men!
I ne'er was a stay-at-hame callant ava, I aye must be rantin' an' roamin' awa', An' far hae I wandered, an' muckle hae seen O' the ways o' the warl' wi' ma vara ain een.
I've been tae Kingskettle wi' Wullie an' Jeames, I've veesited Anster an' Elie an' Wemyss, I've walked tae Kirkca'dy an' Cupar an' Crail, An' I aince was awa' tae Dundee wi' the rail.
Losh me, sir! The wonnerfu' things that I saw! The kirks wi' their steeples, sae bonny an' braw An' publics whauriver ye turned wi' yer ee-- 'Tis jist a complete eddication, Dundee!
Theer's streets--be the hunner! An' shops be the score! Theer's bakers an' grocers an' fleshers galore! An' milliners' winders a' flauntin' awa' Wi' the last o' the fashions frae Lunnon an' a'.
An' eh, sic a thrang, sir! I saw in a minnit Mair folk than the toun o' Kinghorn will hae in it I wadna hae thocht that the hail o' creation Could boast at ae time sic a vast population!
Ma word, sir! It gars ye clap haun' tae yer broo An' wunner what's Providence after the noo That he lets sic a swarm o' they cratur's be born Wham naebody kens aboot here in Kinghorn.
What?--Leeberal minded?--Ye canna but be When ye've had sic a graun' eddication as me. For oh, theer is naethin' like traivel, ye ken, For growin' acquent wi' the natur' o' men.
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"FALLS OF FOYERS."--A correspondent writes:--"I have seen a good many letters in the _Times_, headed 'The Falls of the Foyers.' Here and abroad I have seen many Foyers, and only fell down once. This was at the Theatre Francais, where the Foyer is kept highly polished, or used to be so. If the Foyers are carpeted or matted, there need be no 'Falls.'
Yours,
COMMON SENSE."
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EN ECOSSE
_A Monsieur Punch_
DEAR MISTER,--I come of to make a little voyage in Scotland. Ah, the beautiful country of Sir Scott, Sir Wallace, and Sir Burns! I am gone to render visit to one of my english friends, a charming boy--_un charmant garcon_--and his wife, a lady very instructed and very spiritual, and their childs. I adore them, the dear little english childs, who have the cheeks like some roses, and the hairs like some flax, as one says in your country, all buckled--_boucles_, how say you?
I go by the train of night--in french one says "_le sleeping_"--to Edimbourg, and then to Calendar, where I attend to find a coach--in french one says "_un mail_" or "_un fourinhand_." _Nom d'une pipe_, it is one of those ridicule carriages, called in french "_un breack_" and in english a char-a-banc--that which the english pronounce "_tcherribaingue_"--which attends us at the going out of the station! Eh well, in voyage one must habituate himself to all! But a such carriage discovered--_decouverte_--seems to me well unuseful in a country where he falls of rain without cease.
Before to start I demand of all the world some _renseignements_ on the scottish climate, and all the world responds me, "All-days of the rain." By consequence I procure myself some impermeable vestments, one mackintosch coat, one mackintosch cape of Inverness, one mackintosch covering of voyage, one south-western hat, some umbrellas, some gaiters, and many pairs of boots very thick--not boots of town, but veritable "shootings."
I arrive at Edimbourg by a morning of the most sads; the sky grey, the earth wet, the air humid. Therefore I propose to myself to search at Calender a place at the interior, _et voila_--and see there--the _breack_ has no interior! There is but that which one calls a "boot", and me, Auguste, can I to lie myself there at the middle of the baggages? Ah no! Thus I am forced to endorse--_endosser_--my impermeable vestments and to protect myself the head by my south-western hat. Then, holding firmly the most strong of my umbrellas, I say to the coacher, "He goes to fall of the rain, is it not?" He makes a sign of head of not to comprehend. Ah, for sure, he is scottish! I indicate the sky and my umbrella, and I say "Rain?" and then he comprehends. "_Eh huile_", he responds to me, "_ah canna se, mebi huile no he meukl the de_." I write this phonetically, for I comprehend not the scottish language. What droll of conversation! Him comprehends not the english; me I comprehend not the scottish.
But I essay of new, "How many has he of it from here to the lake?" _C'est inutile_--it is unuseful. I say, "Distance?" He comprehends. "_Mebi oui taque toua hours_", says he; "_beutt yile no fache yoursel, its no se lang that yile bi ouishinn yoursel aoua_." _Quelle langue_--what language, even to write phonetically! I comprehend one sole word, "hours." Some hours! _Sapristi!_ I say, "Hours?" He says "_Toua_" all together, a monosyllable. _Sans aucune doute ca veut dire_ "twelve"--_douze_. Twelve hours on a _breack_ in a such climate! Ah, no! _C'est trop fort_--it is too strong! "Hold", I cry myself, "attend, I descend, I go not!" It is true that I see not how I can to descend, for I am _entoure_--how say you? of voyagers. We are five on a bench, of the most narrows, and me I am at the middle. And the bench before us is also complete, and we touch him of the knees. And my neighbours carry on the knees all sorts of packets, umbrellas, canes, sacks of voyage, &c. _Il n'y a pas moyen_--he has not there mean. And the coacher says me "_Na, na, monne, yile no ghitt doun, yile djest baid ouar yer sittinn._" Then he mounts to his place, and we part immediately. _Il va tomber de la pluie! Douze heures! Mon Dieu, quel voyage!_
Agree, &c.,
AUGUSTE.
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EN ECOSSE (ENCORE)
_A Monsieur Punch_
DEAR MISTER,--I have spoken you of my departure from Calendar on the _breack_. Eh, well, he rained not of the whole of the whole--_du tout du tout! Il faisait un temps superbe_--he was making a superb time, the route was well agreeable, and the voyage lasted but two hours, and not twelve. What droll of idea! In Scottish _twa_ is two, not twelve. I was so content to arrive so quick, and without to be wetted that I gave the coacher a good to-drink--_un bon pourboire_--though before to start all the voyagers had paid him a "tipp", that which he called a "driver's fee." Again what droll of idea! To give the to-drink before to start, and each one the same--six pennys.
My friend encountered me and conducted me to his house, where I have passed fifteen days, a sojourn of the most agreeables. And all the time almost not one sole drop of rain! _J'avais beau_--I had fine--to buy all my impermeable vestments, I carry them never. One sole umbrella suffices me, and I open him but two times. And yet one says that the Scotland is a rainy country. It is perhaps a season _tout a fait_--all to fact--exceptional. But fifteen days almost without rain! One would believe himself at the border of the Mediterranean, absolutely at the South. And I have eaten of the "porridg", me Auguste! _Partout_ I essay the dish of the country. I take at first a spoonful pure and simple. _Oh la, la!_ My friend offers me of the cream. It is well. Also of the salt. _Quelle idee!_ But no, before me I perceive a dish of _confiture_, that which the Scottish call "marmaladde." _A la bonne heure!_ With some marmaladde, some cream, and much of sugar, I find that the "porridg" is enough well, for I taste him no more.