CHAPTER VIII
THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE
Fifty years ago native opinion generally would, I believe, have corroborated the statement of the inspired Shepherd of the “Noctes,” that “the Englishers are the noblest race o’ leevin’ men—except the Scotch.” That very decided compliment, notwithstanding, however; and even although nowadays so many Scotchmen are fain to emulate the Cockney speech and fashion in all things, it is putting the case in the mildest terms to say that, up to and even beyond the period indicated, there had never been much love lost between the denizens of the sister nations, Scotland and England. On all pre-eminent occasions, subsequent to the Union, to the credit of both be it often told, their cherished antipathies—trifles mayhap at the best—have magnanimously been allowed to lapse for the time being, and “shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee,” John Bull and Sandy Cawmil, aided and abetted at all times by their brow-beaten half-brother Paddy, have presented a brave and unbroken front of steel to the enemies of their United Kingdoms. But, the conflicts over—the sword sheathed—the old animosity, the chronic jealousy, has again and again manifested itself between the Thistle and the Rose. Into the causes of this little estrangement in friendly feeling which so long obtained, but has now almost entirely disappeared, though some of them are obvious, we shall not trouble ourselves here particularly to inquire, but will rather review some of their effects as they are illustrated in the records of the many witty skirmishes which have taken place here and there between them, and in which the Thistle has fairly justified its popular motto of “Nemo me impune lacessit!” Yes! and surely it is remarkable—is an extraordinary circumstance, indeed, when viewed in the light of the fact that the English deny to the Scotch any idea of wit—that in nearly every witty encounter that has taken place between them Sandy has had the best of it. They are “a noble race o’ leevin’ men,” as the Shepherd averred. But, no, blustering John Bull is no match for canny Sandy Cawmil. He would have delighted in coercing him—would have given his right hand to have been able to say, “Sandy, you must.” But, as the late David Kennedy, the Scottish singer, used to put it, when introducing the song of “Scots wha hae,” “must was buried at Bannockburn.” And thenceforth, whilst strife with the sword had ceased between them, “a wordy war”—a war of wit and ridicule—long obtained instead. It has been a favourite sarcasm of John that the finest view in all Scotland to the eye of the Scot is the road that leads from it into England. To which Sandy has made the withering reply, “There’s nae doot, John, a hantle o’ us hae fund oor way to Lunnon, but it’s been gude for you as it’s been gude for us, for everybody kens ye wad be puir things withoot’s.” Notable features in the characteristics of the two are these, that each has been inclined to over-estimate himself and to under-estimate his neighbour. In the opinion of many a living London Cockney, a Scotsman is a being only slightly superior to a Red Indian savage. ’Arry entertains in all seriousness the conviction that every home-bred Scotsman is red-headed; and that we all wear kilts, play on the bagpipes, drink whisky ad lib., snuff, and feed exclusively on kail-brose and bannocks of barley meal. Sandy, on the other hand, has regarded himself individually as the ideal man—the noblest work of his Creator—and has declared the English to be “maybe no sae very bad considerin’, but even at the best neither mair nor less than a parcel o’ upsettin’, ignorant, pock-puddin’s.” It has been English money in general, but Scotch brains in particular, he has asserted time and again, that have made London what it is. “All the brightest intellectual luminaries of your London firmament,” he has told John Bull, “have been nursed and reared amid the hills o’ Bonnie Scotland.”
“What of Shakespeare?” John has asked. “You don’t claim him as a Scotchman, do you?”
“No; oh no,” Sandy has replied, “I’ll no say that Shakespeare was a Scotchman; although the way ye brag o’ him ye seem to think he was maist clever eneuch to be ane.”
And as in the opinion of the typical Scotsman there is no man to equal a Scotsman, so there is to his mind no land on earth like his own Scotland. He may have wandered far away from it, but distance only made his heart grow fonder, and lent enchantment to the view. And, as almost every Scotsman is a poet, if he took to sing its praises he would do so with such enthusiasm as is revealed in these lines:—
“Land of chivalry and of freedom,
Land of old traditional fame,
May thy noble sons and daughters
Long uphold thy honoured name.