We have many times and in many countries proved the measure of truth that is contained in the quatrain which William Shenstone wrote upon the window of a hostel:—

The American traveller can also agree in part with Dr. Johnson that “there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn,” yet who, except Leighton, that sunny soul, the principal of Edinburgh University,—who was “not militant enough to please his fierce co-presbyters,”—could say “that if he were to choose a place to die in, it should be an inn”?

Our experiences of Scottish hotels, “temperance,” “hydro,” ordinary, fashionable, rural, rustic, and what not, were almost invariably pleasant, and our hosts were honest in their dealings; yet in the many British homes in which we were guests the welcome was so warm and the care taken of us so thorough, thoughtful, and minute, that Shenstone’s verse seems to have in it more verbal music than experimental reality. Leighton’s wish seems strange, indeed, especially in the light of memory, when sickness, apparently nigh unto the bourne of life, proved the depth of Scottish hospitality and friendship.

Yet of all the pictures of either the stately or the modest homes of Scotland, which now hang in the gallery of memory, none exceeds in beauty and charm those of the home at Invergowrie, where we were several times guests. Here was a typical Scottish family of character and culture. Father and mother were in the prime of life, health, and manifold activities. Around them had grown up a family of sons and daughters, from the youngest, a blooming maiden of eighteen, educated in Germany and at Brussels, to the eldest son, who, besides being active in business, was an officer in the local volunteer artillery corps. At night he loved to put on his Highland suit for comfort and enjoyment, as we chatted with his friends on British and American politics. One of these talks, in the billiard-room, was soon after President Cleveland had issued his strenuous proclamation concerning Venezuela, when British feelings were hurt and when a combination of tact, some knowledge of history, and of the political and personal motives of American Presidents was necessary to the guest and peacemaker.

The Invergowrie family honored the American in Scotland more than once by inviting, to the dinners given in his honor, the professional gentlemen of the neighborhood and from Dundee.

While in Scotland one must beware of what toes he is likely to tread upon, should he nurse opinions differing from those welcomed by people holding any of the various shades of Presbyterianism, whom he will probably meet anywhere and everywhere. It was in Scotland, above every other country, that we learned what it meant to “mind your p’s,” yet our hope is that we succeeded measurably. The garden parties, in which the young people had their fun and amusement, the five o’clock teas, at which the ladies of the neighborhood dropped in for chat and friendly calls, were as delightful to enjoy as they are now pleasant to recall. Yet, as in the United States the county fair excels all other inventions and facilities for seeing the real, average American, so I valued most, for intimate knowledge of the Scottish populace of all grades and ages, the local exhibitions, “bazaars,” and gatherings.

To be present, as we often were, to see the modern version of “The Cotter’s Saturday Night,”—though in this version we mean a luxurious home, with all the appointments of comfort, culture, and of service,—crowned all delights. This social situation in Scotland is necessarily different from that in America, where, in the cities at least, native-born maidens so rarely take domestic service in families. With our composite people, also, there is usually such a disagreement as to the theories of the universe, as taught by priest, parson, and rabbi, that worship of the same God by all, at one time, in the same way, and in one household, seems impossible. The head of the house or the mistress holds usually to one form of dogma or ritual, while the servants have been reared in an atmosphere so very different that family worship, with the “help” joining in or present, is, to say the least, not customary in “the land of the free.” Occasionally British visitors, who imagine that the very mixed people called Americans are descended chiefly from insular instead of continental stock, like the late James Anthony Froude when in New York city, for instance, make disagreeable discoveries. At times, in our democracy the kitchen rules the parlor.

At Invergowrie, as in a score or more of homes on the island in which I have been so often a guest, the two or three maids and perhaps a man-servant came in with their Bibles and read, with the children of the household, the Word which is above every other word—the Father’s message to his children. Where there was but one servant, the same rule usually held. At Invergowrie, besides a chapter of Scripture and a prayer by the father, the high priest of the family, the older son read one of the Psalms in Rous’s metrical version.

The breakfast in Scotland, as in the British Isles generally, is one that suits admirably the free-born Briton. It is certainly a festival of freedom for the servants, who are usually apt to be upstairs or attending to other domestic duties, though in a large family, the members of which sit down at the same time, there is usually one maid present to wait upon the table. At several places where I was entertained, even in well-to-do families, the grown sons and daughters or members of the household came and went at their convenience, helping themselves at will from dishes on a sideboard. After the table has been laid by one of the maids, who may or may not remain present, it may be that the elder daughter serves. At Invergowrie there was a large, normal family, consisting of parents and children, with sufficient uniformity of dispositions and habits to make both the breakfast and the dinner time a delightful gathering, with merriment and leisure. The news of the day, the happenings of the neighborhood, the things alike and different as between Scotland and America, the annals of the village fair, or the social chat, or those pleasant nothings that lubricate life, made the moments pass all too rapidly.

That father benign and mother of imposing presence have been long laid to sleep; but in London, and Edinburgh, and Dundee, in the world at large, live yet these sons and daughters of “Bonnie Scotland” who have made the Americans’ memories of their lovely home in their home land a storehouse of delight.

Besides the private grounds of the home, with their trees and shrubbery, there were walks that afforded plenty of room for rambles. Still farther afield, yet not far away from either the house or the railway station, were ruins of Dargie Church. These touched the imagination and called history to resurrection. It appeared strange to come across the footprints of our old friend St. Winifred, or Boniface, whom we met with in our studies of the Pilgrim Fathers, and in the Netherlands, whose varied and strenuous life, as ecclesiastical politician as well as saint and soldier of the Papacy, quite as much as preacher of the gospel, was one of such amazing activity. At Scrooby in England, at Dokkum in Friesland, in France and in Germany, where I visited the places made historic by his activities, he left enduring marks of his influence and power.

At Invergowrie I meditated among the ruins of the old kirk, in which, or near by, it is said, St. Boniface, the apostle to Germany and a legate from the Church of Rome, in the eighth century preached and planned to neutralize the work of the Irish monks in favor of British uniformity, and by means of conformity with Rome. Here also are still to be seen some singular examples of ancient sculptured stone monuments.

In 1107, Alexander I, son of Margaret of England, had a residence at Invergowrie, which, however, he did not long possess, for assassination was so much of a pastime with many and a settled custom with a few in those days, that, after having escaped the dirk only by a narrow margin, he left Invergowrie, built a church at Scone, and then turned over the property he left behind him for its support.

I recall that it was at the last of our visits and entertainment at Invergowrie, which was in 1900, after the ladies had left the dinner table and the gentlemen adjourned to the billiard-room for a smoke, the conversation turned on the next European war, and the possible relations of Great Britain and the United States in the alignment of friends, foes, allies, and neutrals. One prominent Dundeean confessed himself not so much exasperated, as hurt, by President Cleveland’s sharp method of reasserting the Monroe Doctrine, in regard to the boundary of Venezuela. From our town of Ithaca, the two scholars, the ex-president of Cornell University and Professor George Burr, had been summoned to consult archives, rectify boundaries, and help keep the peace. After the American in Scotland had emptied his cruse of oil upon the waters, by explaining some of the ins and outs of American politics, the conversation drifted to regions across the North Sea—the growth of the Kaiser’s navy, the salient features of German politics, and the reports, then very direct from the Fatherland, that the “Kultur” of the twentieth century required that “England [Great Britain] needed to be taught a lesson.” The hope was warmly expressed that, in the coming clash,—then looked for to come before many years,—the sympathy, and even aid, if necessary, of “the States” would be forthcoming. With American friendliness and the possession of the coaling-stations of the world, it was believed that the United Kingdom could withstand the coming shock and recover triumphantly.

More than once, at these social conferences with Scotsmen, as well as in the press, I noted the indignation, even anger, expressed, that in all national affairs it was “England” and “the English” that took and received the credit for what belonged to the four nations making up the United Kingdom. The claim was for a more liberal use of “Britain” and “British” in place of “England” and “English.” Both Scotch and Irish, to say nothing of the Welsh, resent the assumption that “England” is the British Empire. In a word, the great need of the language used in the British archipelago is a common name for the federated four countries and for all the subjects of the Crown. Here is an instance of the priceless value of right words. The absence of an acceptable comprehensive term is a real impediment to patriotism and an obstacle to perfect union. The fault is in language, not in the human spirit. The situation reinforces the argument that “words are things.”

We Americans can throw no stones. Canadians, Mexicans, the southern republics below Panama, all challenge our right to the monopoly of “America” and “Americans.” Language lags behind events.

When at last, in 1914, the great war did come, and the storm broke, no part of the Empire responded more quickly, generously, fully than Scotland, nor did any courage or sacrifice exceed that of the Scots; yet, not only was the credit usually given to “England,” but even the prayer of hate, made in Germany, chose “England” as its butt. Yet while Scottish valor and sacrifice and Irish courage and free-will offerings of life on the field and waves are unstinted, who can blame the poet, nay, who does not say “amen,” to his lines, in the Glasgow “Herald,” written in the closing days of 1915?

During this trial of the soul of a nation, in the wager of battle, to decide whether truth is worth living and dying for and whether solemn compacts are as torn paper—we catch a glimpse of a great part of the nation at prayer.

It is in St. Giles’s Church, Edinburgh, that the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland holds its annual sessions and the function is made decidedly spectacular, as is supposed to become a State Church. For two hundred and twenty-five years, the meeting has been held without interruption. In the brilliant procession, the Lord High Chancellor, as representative of the king, takes part, and usually a regiment of the garrison troops adds color and a show of worldly might to the spectacle. Few elements appropriate to the day are omitted, for this is the august assembly of the “Church established by law.” In the spring of 1914, the full strength of the Cameron Highlanders was paraded.

But in 1915, after the gates of hell had been fully opened on the Continent, swallowing up, it is said, from one regiment, by death and wounds, no fewer than nine hundred of the Cameron Highlanders, leaving but one hundred unwounded survivors, the meeting was more than usual like a gathering of the ministers of the Prince of Peace. The king’s representative on this occasion, the Earl of Aberdeen, was dressed in a soldier’s service uniform of khaki and the military escort as guard of honor was a corps of cadets. The interior phenomena were equally impressive. Men cared little for debate and turned constantly to prayer and intercession. The high-water mark of interest in the proceedings was on Foreign Mission Day. Then a strong note of optimism appeared regarding that work, in comparison with the depression felt as to other interests of the Church. It was in Edinburgh that the world-wide conference upon missions was held in 1913, whose influence is still felt throughout the whole earth.

Perhaps some thoughts turned to the words of the Almighty to Job, “And the Lord turned the captivity of Job, when he prayed for his friends.”

Be this as it may, can we not all abide in hope that the ultimate history of “Bonnie Scotland” will follow that of Job—“Also the Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before.”