“Why,” said the ambassador, “I first held up one finger, denoting that there is one God; he held up two, signifying that there are the Father and Son. I held up three, meaning Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; he clenched his fist to say that these three are one. I then took out an orange signifying the goodness of God, who gives His creatures not only necessaries, but the luxuries of life; upon which the wonderful man presented a piece of bread, showing that it was the staff of life, and preferable to every luxury.”
The professors were glad that matters had turned out so well; and having got quit of the ambassador, they called in Geordie to hear his version of the affair.
“Well, Geordie, how have you come on, and what do you think of yon man?”
“The scoundrel,” exclaimed the butcher, “what did he do first, think ye? He held up a’e finger, as muckle as to say, you have only a’e e’e! Then I held up twa, meaning that my ane was as gude as his twa. Then the fellow held up three o’ his fingers, to say that there were but three een between us; and then I was so mad at the scoundrel that I steeked my neive, and was gaun to gi’e him a whack on the side o’ his head, and would hae done’t too, but for your sakes. He didna stop here wi’ his provocation; but, forsooth, he took out an orange, as much as to say, your puir, beggarly, cauld country canna produce that! I showed him a whang of a bere bannock, meaning that I didna care a farthing for him nor his trash either as lang as I had this! But, by a’ that’s gude,” concluded Geordie, “I’m angry yet that I didna break every bane in his sun-singit, ill-shapen body.”
Two sides of a story could not be more opposed to each other, and nothing could better illustrate the burly innocent humour of the Scottish character.
CHAPTER IX
SCREEDS O’ TARTAN—A CHAPTER OF HIGHLAND HUMOUR
Differing from the Lowland Scotch in personal appearance, in language, in style of dress, and in other respects, the Highlander’s humour also presents characteristics which are distinctively local. Though often rich, for example, it is never boisterous, never sparkling—is rarely spontaneous—but is nearly always slow, sly, severe, and insinuative. For, slow in muscular action, Donald is slow in mental action also. He has to be stimulated or induced to physical activity; and, naturally of a serious cast of mind, his humour, in its richest ore, comes out nearly always as the result of provocation. But rouse his Highland blood by insult—and a word will do it sometimes—or awaken his drowsy wits by banter, then get out of the reach of both his arms and his tongue instanter, for his hand is heavy, his eye is sure, and his speech is a hurricane. Much of what passes for Highland humour, as everybody knows, arises from the difference which exists between the Gaelic and the English and the Scottish idiom; and from the efforts of the semi-educated or non-educated Gaelic-speaking Highlander to express himself in English, or in the colloquial tongue of the Lowland Scot. The English language, “as she is spoke” by the Scottish mountaineer—felicitous examples of which we find in the lighter writings of John Donald Carrick, the first editor of “Whistle Binkie,” in Sandy Roger’s song of “Shon M’Nab,” in Alexander Fisher’s song, “Ta Offish in ta Mornin’,” and “Ta Praise o’ Ouskie,” and in the old ballad of “Turnumspikeman”—is fearfully and wonderfully made. He transposes his tenses; calls yesterday “to-morrow,” and to-morrow “yesterday.” He confuses his genders; calls everything “she,” except his wife and the cat, and these he calls “hims.” He makes his nouns qualify his adjectives, and places the cart before the horse in every second sentence. “Ze can never learn zat tamn English langvidge,” once exclaimed a French student in despair. “Ze spell von vord A-S-S, zen ze bronounce it DONKEY.” Synonyms equally vex the spirit of the Scottish Highlander. Thus Donald Roy M’Vean, when interrogated in regard to the quality of his potato crop, provided amusement to the Lowlanders around him by replying—“They are just ferry goot, inteed, but fery seldom whatefer.” Another fertile source of amusement is found in the difficulty with which the unkempt Highlander adapts himself to the usages of low country, and, particularly, to city life. A happy depiction of his speech and behaviour in such a circumstance is found in Rodger’s familiar song of “Shon M’Nab,” already referred to. On coming to Glasgow, “Shon” said—
“Ta first thing she pe wonder at,
As she came doun ta street, man,