Part 13 (2/2)

love, and thrown a wee bit here and a wee bit there. He had it a' to lay at the feet o' his true love, and there was little doot in ma mind, when I saw hoo things were gae'in, o' what the end on't wad be.

And, sure enow, it was no Andy, the graceful, the popular one, who married her--it was the puir, salt Jamie, who'd saved the siller o'

his love--and, by the way, he'd saved the ither sort o' siller, tae, sae that he had a grand little hoose to tak' his bride into, and a hoose well furnished, and a' paid for, too.

Aye, I'll no be denyin' the Scot is a close fisted man. But he's close fisted in more ways than one. Ye'll ca' a man close fisted and mean by that just that he's slow to open his fist to let his siller through it. But doesna the closed fist mean more than that when you come to think on't? Gie'n a man strike a blow wi' the open hand--it'll cause anger, maybe a wee bit pain. But it's the man who strikes wi' his fist closed firm who knocks his opponent doon. Ask the Germans what they think o' the close fisted Scots they've met frae ane end o' France to the other!

And the Scot wull aye be slow to part wi' his siller. He'll be wanting to know why and hoo comes it he should be spending his bawbees. But he'll be slow to part wi' other things, too. He'll keep his convictions and his loyalty as he keeps his cash. His love will no be lyin' in his open palm for the first comer to s.n.a.t.c.h awa'. Sae wull it be, tae, wi' his convictions. He had them yesterday; he keeps them to- day; they'll still be his to-morrow.

Aye, the Scott'll be a close fisted, hard man--a strang man, tae, an'

one for ye to fear if you're his enemy, but to respect withal, and to trust. Ye ken whaur the man stands who deals wi' his love and his friends and his siller as does the Scot. And ne'er think ye can fash him by callin' him mean.

Wull it sound as if I were boastin' if I talk o' what Scots did i' the war? What British city was it led the way, in proportion to its population, in subscribing to the war loans? Glasga, I'm tellin' ye, should ye no ken for yersel'. And ye'll no be needing me to tell ye hoo Scotland poured out her richest treasure, the blood of her sons, when the call came. The land that will spend lives, when the need arises, as though they were water, is the land that men ha' called mean and close! G.o.d pity the man who canna tell the difference between closeness and common sense!

There's nae merit in saving, I'll admit, unless there's a reason for't. The man who willna spend his siller when the time comes I despise as much as can anyone. But I despise, too, or I pity, the poor spendthrift who canna say ”No!” when it wad be folly for him to spend his siller. Sicca one can ne'er meet the real call when it comes; he's bankrupt in the emergency. And that's as true of a nation as of a man by himsel'.

In the wartime men everywhere came to learn the value o' saving--o'

being close fisted. Men o' means went proodly aboot, and showed their patched clothes, where the wife had put a new seat in their troosers-- 't'was a badge of honor, then, to show worn shoes, old claes.

Weel, was it only then, and for the first time, that it was patriotic for a man to be cautious and saving? Had we all practiced thrift before the war, wad we no hae been in a better state tae meet the crisis when it came upon us? Ha' we no learned in all these twa thousand years the meaning o' the parable o' the wise virgin and her lamp?

It's never richt for a man or a country tae live frae hand to mooth, save it be necessary. And if a man breaks the habit o' sae doin' it's seldom necessary. The amus.e.m.e.nt that comes frae spendin' siller recklessly dinna last; what does endure is the comfort o' kennin' weel that, come what may, weel or woe, ye'll be ready. Siller in the bank is just a symbol o' a man's ain character; it's ane o' many ways ither man have o' judging him and learnin' what sort he is.

So I'm standing up still for Scotland and my fellow countrymen.

Because they'd been close and near in time of plenty they were able to spend as freely as was needfu' when the time o' famine and sair trouble came. So let's be havin' less chattering o' the meanness o'

the Scot, and more thocht o' his prudence and what that last has meant to the Empire in the years o' war.

CHAPTER XIII

Folk ask me, whiles, hoo it comes that I dwell still sae far frae the centre o' the world--as they've a way o' dubbin London! I like London, fine, ye'll ken. It's a grand toon. I'd be an ungrateful chiel did I no keep a warm spot for the place that turned me frae a provincial comic into what I'm lucky enow to be the day. But I'm no wishfu' to pa.s.s my days and nichts always in the great city. When I've an engagement there, in the halls or in a revue, 'tis weel enow, and I'm happy. But always and again there'll be somethin' tae mak' me mindfu'

o' the Clyde and ma wee hoose at Dunoon, and ma thochts wull gae fleein' back to Scotland.

It's ma hame--that's ane thing. There's a magic i' that word, for a'

it's sae auld. But there's mair than that in the love I ha' for Dunoon and all Scotland. The city's streets--aye, they're braw, whiles, and they've brocht me happiness and fun, and will again, I'm no dootin'.

Still--oh, listen tae me whiles I speak o' the city and the glen! I'm a loon on that subject, ye'll be thinkin', maybe, but can I no mak' ye see, if ye're a city yin, hoo it is I feel?

London's the most wonderfu' city i' the world, I do believe. I ken ithers will be challenging her. New York, Chicago--braw cities, both.

San Francisco is mair picturesque than any, in some ways. In Australia, Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide--I like them a'. But old London, wi' her traditions, her auld history, her wondrous palaces-- and, aye, her slums!

I'm no a city man. I'm frae the glen, and the glen's i' the blood o'

me to stay. I've lived in London. Whiles, after I first began to sing often in London and the English provinces, I had a villa at Tooting--a modest place, hamely and comfortable. But the air there was no the Scottish air; the heather wasna there for ma een to see when they opened in the morn; the smell o' the peat was no in ma nostrils.

I gae a walkin' in the city, and the walls o' the hooses press in upon me as if they would be squeezing the breath frae ma body. The stones stick to the soles o' ma shoon and drag them doon, sae that it's an effort to lift them at every step. And at hame, I walk five miles o'er the bonny purple heather and am no sae tired as after I've trudged the single one o'er London brick and stone.

Ye ken ma song, ”I love a la.s.sie”? Aweel, it's sae that I think of my Scottish countryside. London's a grand lady, in her silks and her satins, her paint and her patches. But the country's a bonnie, bonnie la.s.sie, as pure as the heather in the dell. And it's the wee la.s.sie that I love.

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