Stevenson, wearying for his
"hills of home," found a romance in the wet Edinburgh streets, which
might have passed unnoticed had he been condemned to live in the
grim reality. And we have Mr. Charles Murray, who in the South
African veld writes Scots, not as an exercise, but as a living
speech, and recaptures old moods and scenes with a freshness which
is hardly possible for those who with their own eyes have watched
the fading of the outlines. It is the rarest thing, this use of
Scots as a living tongue, and perhaps only the exile can achieve it,
for the Scot at home is apt to write it with an antiquarian zest, as
one polishes Latin hexameters, or with the exaggerations which are
permissible in what does not touch life too nearly. But the exile
uses the Doric because it is the means by which he can best express
his importunate longing.
Mrs. Jacob has this rare distinction. She writes Scots because
what she has to say could not be written otherwise and retain its
peculiar quality. It is good Scots, quite free from misspelt English
or that perverted slang which too often nowadays is vulgarising the
old tongue. But above all it is a living speech, with the accent of
the natural voice, and not a skilful mosaic of robust words, which,
as in sundry poems of Stevenson, for all the wit and skill remains
a mosaic.
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