CHAPTER VI
SCOTLAND
My second season was a very full one, but what I think gave me more pleasure than anything connected with it was the fact that I had about three weeks in Scotland. For I had only made one flying visit to Scotland before except as a sailor and then very briefly, seeing only the seamy sides of Glasgow and Dundee. But I had delightful remembrances of Scotsmen the world over, and especially in New Zealand; some of my most dearly loved shipmates had been Scotsmen and I flattered myself that I could pass as a Scotsman anywhere in any northern dialect except that of Glasgow, which I confess always bothered me.
Now, not having had the advantage of conferring with any of my fellow-lecturers I was just a little anxious to know whether my countrymen’s notion had any ground for it, viz. that a Scotsman, or an assembly of them, could not see a joke and were very chary of showing any sign of appreciation. I had a fairly wide range for testing, for my engagements ranged from Dumfries to Oban, Perth to Hawick. I do not now remember which town or city I began in, but I think it was Oban. My host was a local schoolmaster, of quite straitened means I should judge, but a kindly gentleman if ever there was one. The lecture hall was a drill shed and a very rough one at that, but it seemed exactly suited to my audience, who struck me as being one and all working folk. But the gravity of their demeanour, the intelligence they displayed in taking up every point, and the whole-hearted enjoyment with which they greeted even my feeblest jokes made me love them. Indeed I was so carried away by their interest that I committed that well-nigh unpardonable crime in a lecturer—I went on for two hours instead of ending at one hour and a half, beyond which time it is wicked to expect any person to be attentive.
When at last the lecture was over I was met in the stable-like ante-room by a grave committee of poorly dressed men who quietly thanked me for the pleasure I had given them, and one (who really looked as if he did not earn so much in six months) produced a dingy bag and counted out my heavy fee in gold upon the rough table, producing at the same time a form of receipt. It was the first time I had ever been paid for a lecture like that, and it made me feel rather strange, the amount seemed so large compared with the surroundings and its source. But I consoled myself with the thought that the committee did not appear the sort of men who would purchase an article unless they knew they were getting their money’s worth.
My next engagement was at Dundee, and as it was midwinter I was confronted with a rough journey across Scotland of great length in point of time. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that there was to be a long wait at Dunblane, where I could rest in a warm room and have a good hot meal, for the excellence of Scotch hotels had long been known to me by repute. Also, but I do not know why, “Jessie, the flower o’ Dunblane,” kept running through my mind, making the prospect of visiting the place quite alluring.
The train arrived there in a blizzard of snow, and I lost no time in transferring myself, making sure of the time of departure of my Dundee train and securing information from the porter as to the whereabouts of the principal hotel. I was chilled to the marrow when I got there, for Dunblane seemed dead beyond resurrection and buried under snow. And when I entered the hotel I saw no one, but following painted instructions went upstairs, where I found a splendid room with a long table laid for a banquet. I rang the bell and seated myself, rejoicing in the thought of what was to come.
Alas, a veritable draggle-tailed Sally Slap-cabbage answered my call, and her first words to me were:
“Ye maun c’way oot o’ that, it’s privaat.”
Law-abiding ever, I rose with alacrity, only asking where I could go to be comfortable. She showed me into a dark, fireless, dirty cell, and said nonchalantly:
“D’ye wish tea?”
I replied briskly, “No, I want dinner, and as quick as possible. Also a fire or another room, this is as cold as the open air.”
“We’ve nae denner,” was the reply, “an’ I dinna ken if ther any cauld meat, but ye can hae some tea, an’ I’ll see if ther’s ony meat.”
She departed and after twenty minutes’ absence returned with a dish whereon were a few dirty scraps of cold mutton, obviously scraped from the bone. Some tea and bread and butter of a parsimonious and poverty-stricken sort completed the banquet, which, however it disgusted me, was so certainly all there was obtainable that I made no further protest but ate and shivered in silence. When I came to pay I was charged two shillings, which the taciturn Moll accepted in silence and I departed colder than when I arrived and extremely anxious never to renew my acquaintance with Dunblane any more.
But all my discontent vanished upon arrival at Dundee. Though it was snowing heavily my kind and thoughtful host, Bailie Robertson, was at the station to meet me and I very soon found myself in his beautiful house seated before a noble hot meal which was ready and waiting for me, and at which that splendid old lady his sister presided with a motherly grace that I can never forget. As both these grand old people are dead I can speak of them with greater freedom than they would have liked during their lifetime, for they were essentially of the kind who “do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.”
Here again my lecture effort gave me the greatest possible gratification. Not only was the fine Kinnaird Hall packed with listeners, but a large portion of them were intimately connected with the whale fishery and were therefore intensely interested in my subject, although I spoke mainly upon the Southern Whale Fishery, a totally different business. I cannot remember how many old whaling skippers were introduced to me after the lecture, but I do remember and shall always be grateful for their very warm appreciation and the outspoken manner in which they gave it utterance. But I hope and believe that I realised then, and always have done, that their tribute was paid, not to any eloquence or oratory, but to practical acquaintance with the great business with which I dealt, and that I think will always be found to be the case with every subject. That it should be so seems eminently reasonable.
Now lest it should appear that my lecture path was roses, roses all the way, I must just interpose an experience in Scotland of a very different character. I was booked to lecture at Borrowstounness (Bo’ness) at a very low fee because it “fitted in” as we say; that is because I had other lectures in Scotland round about that time, obviating the necessity for making a long journey from London specially. Now I had to come from Hull, leaving there at 6 a.m., and in consequence when I arrived in Edinburgh, where I had to spend three or four hours, I was very tired. Common prudence would suggest that I should have a quiet meal and a rest, but I was not prudent, and, having ascertained the time of a convenient train from Waverley to Bo’ness, I used up my spare time in visiting friends in Edinburgh.
Therefore when I joined my train I settled down and went fast asleep, so fast, that I did not awake to change at Manuel Junction. I did awake at Falkirk, the next station, and there found that the next train back to Bo’ness would not get me there much before nine o’clock, my lecture being fixed for eight. Knowing that Falkirk was not far from Bo’ness by road, I then begged the stationmaster to tell me where I could get a “masheen,” as a wheeled vehicle is called up here, to take me the nine miles, and how much the charge was likely to be. For all reply he waved his hand in a lordly manner towards a row of cabs ranged outside the station, and I, as it was then 6.30 o’clock and I felt that I had no time to lose, immediately interviewed a cabman. But no inducement that I could offer up to £2 had any effect upon the frozen stolidity of those men, I could get nothing out of them but a surly “No.”
So at last I had to wire to the secretary, informing him of the state of affairs, and saying that I could not hope to reach him before nine o’clock. Of course I got no answer and when I arrived the little platform was crowded with what would have been my audience, reinforced by all the loafers and bad boys in the town. For the only time in my life I was booed and hissed, but I feel grateful that nobody threw anything or I should certainly have been pelted also. This, though unpleasant, did not hurt me so much as the attitude of the secretary. He did not actually call me a liar, but he said that though several lecturers, notably Mary Kingsley, had missed that Manuel connection before, none had ever experienced any difficulty in getting a masheen to bring them from Falkirk. Drivers were always eager to take the job, besides, there was a posting-house opposite the station, and the fare was 10s. In vain I told him my experience, his only reply was, “It’s verra strange.” And his look said quite plainly, “You are telling me lies.” In the end I was compelled to make a journey from London some months later to give that lecture, the expenses of which left me with a slight balance on the wrong side when I had received my fee.
As a set off to this decidedly unpleasant experience I shortly afterwards paid a visit to Penicuik, and became the guest of Mr. S. R. Crockett. The whole of that visit is like a blissful dream, for verily I never enjoyed myself more. The big genial novelist, then in the heyday of his prosperity, was an ideal host and even outdid his countrymen in his efforts to make his guest happy. But of all the delights of that happy three days one experience stands out, salient, from the rest. It was Mr. Crockett’s prayer at family worship on the night of my arrival. As a general rule I dread to hear extempore prayer, having often suffered many things from men who either maundered or preached or raved and foamed and pounded for long periods of time and assumed that they were praying! But that prayer was in my mind all that a prayer ought to be and as a proof of this it is the only one, out of the many thousands I have heard and mostly writhed under, that I joyfully and gratefully remember. Only a few days ago I heard that my good friend and host of that occasion had passed away from us in the fullness of his powers and manhood. And though I only forgathered with him once I have an aching sense of irreplaceable loss.
Following hard upon the heels of that came another delightful experience, a lecture at Fettes College, when I had the privilege of making the acquaintance of Dr. Heard, the headmaster, whose guest I was. That acquaintance deepened into friendship, second of the many headmasters whom it has been my fortunate lot to know and love and about whom I hope to fill many pages. But on the very threshold of the subject I must pause to note my astonishment, not that some headmasters relegate the duty of showing hospitality to some person other than themselves, but that any headmaster dares to invite such strangers as lecturers and entertainers must be, to stay with him at all.
For I have heard such stories, not told in malice, but sadly, and with an obvious effort to gloss over the worst features, as have made me redden with shame, stories that have fully explained to me the aloofness with which I have sometimes been regarded where I was not known. Stories of hospitality abused, of persistent and vehement begging, of equally persistent touting for employment, backed by assurances that without that particular engagement the wheels would come right off the applicant’s carriage—how can men, expecting to be received and treated as gentlemen, and never expecting in vain, be guilty of such behaviour? But then I have known tradesmen who, upon receiving an order upon the fulfilment of which they have been promptly paid, immediately proffer a request for a substantial loan. This, I suppose, would be on the ground that a man who would pay lawful demands like that must have more money than he knew what to do with, and must also be somewhat easy in his hold upon that money.
Now the gentry whom I have hinted at as abusing the confidence of headmaster hosts would undoubtedly be indignant at being classed with tradesmen, but if there be any truth in the grand old adage, noblesse oblige, they are far more culpable. But I hold that the average tradesman’s standard is higher than theirs and with less reason.
My visit to Fettes, following as it did upon the beautiful experience of Penicuik, went far to confirm me in my opinion that the lecturer’s life was a charming one, the people were all so pleasant, so eager to make one happy and comfortable. Moreover, it was a delight to address the lads. Of course it was impossible to tell how they would have received the lecture had they been perfectly free agents, but that is one of those things about which it is well never to show too much curiosity. All one could do, and that was certainly obligatory in the highest sense, was to give them one’s best and make it as interesting as possible; as I have before hinted, that is, to allow no suspicion of “swot” to creep in under the disguise of an entertainment.
But undoubtedly it is a little difficult sometimes to hold the attention of the very youngest boys, whose minds are often incapable of sustained effort. Occasionally this is manifested to the lecturer in a startling manner, as the following experience of mine at a preparatory school at West Drayton will show. I was speaking upon “Romance and Reality at Sea,” amid an ominous quiet on the part of my very juvenile audience which gave me the uneasy consciousness that I was often outside their depth. A lecturer can always tell whether his audience be with him or not, whatever be their ages or conditions. Suddenly there broke from the boys a spontaneous peal of laughter, so ringing, so universal that I almost fancied hysteria had seized upon them, and wondered whether I was to blame. I could not imagine anything I had said causing such an outburst. I stood facing the roaring lads waiting for the merriment to subside and puzzled beyond belief, until I suddenly turned and looked at the screen and the mystery was at once cleared up.
A full-rigged sailing ship was being shown, and walking across her maintopmast stay was a fly magnified to the size of an eagle. It had evidently got into the condenser somehow, and finding it warm moved about pretty briskly, but, of course, never out of the picture. It had obviously come as a sweet boon, a heavenly relief from boredom, and the children had welcomed it thus uproariously in consequence. And I regret to say that neither my eloquence nor the commands of the masters availed to restore the youngsters’ attention. So we presently gave it up as a bad job, at which announcement the laughter burst forth again as if irrepressible.
I leave any moral that may be drawn from this episode to those whose interest it is to seek it, I have no concern with the matter now beyond relating facts and uttering the platitude that it is unwise to expect too much from young boys.