I do not wish to say that there is more intelligence in Scotland than in England; but I can in all security say there is more intellectuality.
The Cockney must have his puns and small jokes. On the stage, he delights in jigs; and to really please him, the best of actors have to become rivals of the mountebanks at a fair. A hornpipe delights his heart. An actor who, for an hour together, pretends not to be able to keep on his hat, sends him into the seventh heaven of delight; and I have seen the tenants of the stalls applaud these things. Such performances make the Scotch smile, but with pity. The Cockney! When you have said that you have said everything: it is a being who will find fault with the opera of Faust, because up to the present time no manager has given the Kermess scene the attraction of an acrobat turning a wheel or standing on his head.
No, no; the Scotchman has no wit of this sort. In the matter of wit, he is an epicure, and only appreciates dainty food. A smart repartee will tickle his sides agreeably; he understands demi-mots; he is good-tempered, and can take a joke as well as see through one. His quick-wittedness and the subtlety of his character make him full of quaint remarks and funny and unexpected comparisons. He is a stranger to affectation—that dangerous rock to the would-be wit; he is natural, and is witty without trying to be a wit.
Yes, Donald is witty; but he possesses more solid qualities as well.
We will make acquaintance with his intellectual qualities presently.
As to his exterior—look at him: he is as strong as his own granite, and cut out for work.
A head well planted on a pair of broad shoulders; a strong-knit, sinewy frame; small, keen eyes; iron muscles; a hand that almost crushes your own as he shakes it; and large flat feet that only advance cautiously and after having tried the ground: such is Donald.
Needless to say that he generally lives to a good old age.
I never knew a Christian so confident of going to Paradise, or less eager to set out.