{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_67576/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_67576","id":"gutenberg_67576","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67576","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","National characteristics, Scottish","Scotland -- Social life and customs","Scottish wit and humor"],"text":"THISTLEDOWN\n\n _New and Enlarged Edition, 1913_\n _Second Impression, 1914_\n _Third Impression, 1919_\n _Fourth Impression, 1921_\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Scotch folks humour, being the common gift of Nature\nto all and sundry in the land, differing only in degree, slips out\nmost frequently when and where least expected. Famous specimens of\nit come down from our lonesome hillsides\u2014from the cottage and farm\ningle-nooks.\u2014_Page 34._\n\nFrontispiece.]\n\n\n\n\n THISTLEDOWN\n\n A BOOK OF SCOTCH HUMOUR\n CHARACTER, FOLK-LORE\n STORY & ANECDOTE\n\n [Illustration]\n\n BY\n ROBERT FORD\n EDITOR OF\n \u201cBALLADS OF BAIRNHOOD,\u201d \u201cAULD SCOTS BALLANTS\u201d\n \u201cVAGABOND SONGS,\u201d ETC.\n\n _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS\n BY JOHN DUNCAN_\n\n PAISLEY: ALEXANDER GARDNER\n Publisher by Appointment to the late Queen Victoria\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nAn eminently learned and genial ex-Professor of one of our Universities\nnot long since pointed out how Scotland was remarkable for three\nthings\u2014Songs, Sermons, and Shillings. And whilst it may not be disputed\nthat she has enormous and ever-increasing store of these three good\nthings\u2014and that, moreover, she loves them all\u2014there is a fourth quality\nof her many-sided nature which is more distinctly characteristic of\nAuld Caledonia and her people, and that is the general possession of\nthe faculty of original humour. Not one in ten thousand of the Scottish\npeople may be able to produce a good song, or a good sermon; not one in\ntwenty thousand of them may be able to \u201cgather meikle gear and haud it\nweel thegither;\u201d but every second Scotsman is a born humourist. Humour\nis part and parcel of his very being. He may not live without it\u2014may\nnot breathe. Consequently, it is found breaking out amongst us in the\nmost unlikely as well as in the most likely places. It blossoms in the\nsolemn assemblies of the people; at meetings of Kirk-Sessions; in the\nCity and Town Council Chambers; in our Presbyteries; our Courts of\nJustice; and in the high Parliament of the Kirk itself. Famous specimens\nof it come down from the lonesome hillsides; from the cottage, bothy,\nand farm ingle-nooks. It issues from the village inn, the smiddy, the\nkirkyard; and functions of fasting and sorrow give it birth as well as\noccasions of feasting and mirth. It drops from the lips of the learned\nand the unlearned in the land; and is not more frequently revealed in\nthe eloquence of the University _savant_ than in the gibberish of the\nhobbling village and city natural.\n\nHumorous Scottish anecdotes have been an abundant crop; and collectors of\nthem there have been not a few. Dean Ramsay\u2019s garrulous and entertaining\n_Reminiscences_, and Dr. Charles Rogers\u2019 _Familiar Illustrations of\nScottish Life_ excepted, however, the published collections of our\nfloating faceti\u00e6 have been \u201chotch-potch\u201d affairs. Revelations each of\nsome little industry, no doubt, but few of them affording any proof of\nthe compiler\u2019s familiarity with the subject. And as none of them have\nreached farther back than Dean Ramsay, and all have been content to take\nthe more familiar of Ramsay\u2019s and Rogers\u2019 illustrations and anecdotes,\nand supplement these in hap-hazard fashion with random clippings from\nthe variety columns of the daily and weekly newspapers, the individual\nresult has been such as Voltaire\u2019s famous criticism eloquently\ndescribes:\u2014They have contained things both good and new; but what was\ngood was not new, and what was new was not good.\n\nTo the present work the critical aphorism of the \u201cbrilliant Frenchman\u201d\nmay not in fairness be applied. In any attempt to afford an adequate\nrepresentation of the humours of the Scottish people, illustrations\nmust of necessity be drawn from widely different sources, and I have,\nconsequently, to confess my indebtedness to various earlier gleaners in\nthe same field, chiefly to Dean Ramsay, Dr. Rogers, and the genial trio,\nCarrick, Motherwell, and Henderson. But for representative illustrations\nof Scottish life and character I have gone further back and come down to\na later period than any previous writer on the subject. And so, whilst\nthe reader will discover here much that is old and good, he will find\nvery much that is new, which, as illustrative of Scottish humour and\ncharacter, will compare with the best of the old.\n\nNo pointless or dubiously nationalistic anecdote or illustration has been\nadmitted. The work has been carefully and elaborately classified under\neighteen distinct headings, each class, or section, being introduced by\nan exposition of the phase or phases of life and character to which it\napplies, and cemented from first to last by reflective and expository\ncomment.\n\nEssentially a book of humour, it is hoped that the reader will find it to\nbe something more than a merely funny book. If he does not, the writer\nwill have failed to realize fully his aim.\n\n ROBERT FORD.\n\n[1891.]\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n PAGE\n\n CHAPTER I., 11\n\n The Scottish Tongue\u2014Its graphic force and powers\n of pathos and humour.\n\n CHAPTER II., 32\n\n Characteristics of Scotch Humour.\n\n CHAPTER III., 56\n\n Humour of Old Scotch Divines.\n\n CHAPTER IV., 87\n\n The Pulpit and the Pew.\n\n CHAPTER V., 122\n\n The Old Scottish Beadle\u2014His Character and Humour.\n\n CHAPTER VI., 149\n\n Humour of Scotch Precentors.\n\n CHAPTER VII., 169\n\n Humour of Dram-Drinking in Scotland.\n\n CHAPTER VIII., 195\n\n The Thistle and the Rose.\n\n CHAPTER IX., 222\n\n Screeds o\u2019 Tartan\u2014A Chapter of Highland Humour.\n\n CHAPTER X., 247\n\n Humour of Scottish Poets.\n\n CHAPTER XI., 285\n\n \u2019Tween Bench and Bar\u2014A Chapter of Legal Faceti\u00e6.\n\n CHAPTER XII., 313\n\n Humour of Scottish Rural Life.\n\n CHAPTER XIII., 342\n\n Humours of Scottish Superstition.\n\n CHAPTER XIV., 367\n\n Humour of Scotch Naturals.\n\n CHAPTER XV., 386\n\n Jamie Fleeman, the Laird of Udny\u2019s Fool.\n\n CHAPTER XVI., 401\n\n \u201cHawkie\u201d\u2014A Glasgow Street Character.\n\n CHAPTER XVII., 429\n\n The Laird o\u2019 Macnab.\n\n CHAPTER XVIII., 440\n\n Kirkyard Humour.\n\n INDEX, 455\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n PAGE\n\n Scotch folks\u2019 humour, _Frontispiece_\n\n \u201cPlenty o\u2019 milk for a\u2019 the parritch,\u201d 35\n\n \u201cThree fauts to his sermon,\u201d 91\n\n \u201cYe didna seem to ha\u2019e catch\u2019d mony,\u201d 98\n\n \u201cThis wee black deev\u2019luck, we ca\u2019 _Wee Macgregor o\u2019 the Tron_!\u201d 106\n\n \u201cCan ye tell me how long Adam continued in a state of innocence?\u201d 120\n\n \u201cI\u2019m geyan weel on mysel\u2019, sir,\u201d 131\n\n \u201cI hae happit mony a faut o\u2019 yours,\u201d 138\n\n \u201cThe foxes\u2019 tails,\u201d 168\n\n \u201cThey mind their ain business,\u201d 215\n\n \u201cCan ye no show him yer Government papers?\u201d 322\n\n \u201cWe do a\u2019 oor ain whistlin\u2019 here,\u201d 325\n\n \u201cMy\u2014my faither\u2019s below\u2019t!\u201d 326\n\n \u201cIf ye was a sheep, ye wad hae mair sense,\u201d 328\n\n \u201cJamie Carlyle, sir, feeds the best swine that come into\n Dumfries market,\u201d 335\n\n \u201cHoo the deil do you ken whether this be the road or no?\u201d 383\n\n\n\n\nTHISTLEDOWN\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE SCOTTISH TONGUE\u2014ITS GRAPHIC FORCE AND POWERS OF PATHOS AND HUMOUR\n\n\nWe are frequently told\u2014and now and again receive unwelcome scraps\nof evidence in confirmation of the scandal\u2014that our dear old mother\ntongue is falling into desuetude in our native land. Already, it must\nbe confessed, it has been abrogated from the drawing-rooms of the\nultra-refined upper circles of Scottish society. The snobbish element\namongst the great middle-class, ever prone to imitate their \u201cbetters,\u201d\naffect not to understand it, and blush (the sillier of them) when, in an\nunguarded moment, a manifest Scotticism slips into their conversation.\nThere is a portion of the semi-educated working population, again, who,\nimitating the snobbish element of the middle grade, speak Scotch freely\nonly in their working clothes. On Sundays, and extra occasions, when\ndressed in their very best, there is just about as much Scotch in their\ntalk as will show one how poorly they can speak English, and just about\nenough English to render their Scotch ridiculous. Observing all this,\nand taking it in conjunction with the other denationalising tendencies\nof the age, there are those who predict that the time is not far distant\nwhen Burns\u2019s poems, Scott\u2019s novels, and Hogg\u2019s tales will be sealed books\nto the partially educated Scotsman. That there is a growing tendency\nin the direction indicated is quite true, but the disease, I believe,\nis only skin deep as yet, and the bone and sinew of the country remain\nquite unaffected. That there will be a sudden reaction in the patient\nmust be the sincere desire of every patriotic Scot. If the prediction of\nobsoletism is ever to be realized, then, \u201cthe mair\u2019s the pity.\u201d Scotland\nwill not stand where she did. For very much\u2014oh, so much\u2014of what has made\nher glorious among the nations of the world will have passed away, taking\nthe sheen of her glory with it. What Scotsmen, as Scotsmen, should ever\nprize most is bound up inseparably with the native language. Ours is a\nmatured country, and the stirring scenes of her history on which the\nmind of the individual delights to dwell, are so frequently enshrined in\nspirited ballad and song, couched in the pithy Scottish vernacular, that,\nto suppose these latter dead\u2014they are not translatable into English\u2014is to\nsuppose the best part of Scottish history dead and buried beyond the hope\nof resurrection. For its own sake alone the Scottish tongue is eminently\ndeserving of regard\u2014of cultivation and preservation. Scotsmen should\nbe\u2014and so all well-conditioned Scotsmen surely are\u2014as proud of their\nnative tongue as they are of their far-famed native bens and glens. For\nwhy, the rugged grandeur of the physical features of our country are not\nmore worthy of admiration than the language in which their glories have\nbeen most fittingly extolled. They have characteristics in common; for\nrugged grandeur is as truly a feature of the Scottish language as it is\nthe dominant feature of Scottish scenery. True, its various dialects are\nsomewhat tantalising. The Forfar man is vividly identified by his \u201cfoo\u2019s\u201d\nand his \u201cfa\u2019s,\u201d and his \u201cfat\u2019s\u201d and his \u201cfans\u201d; and the Renfrewshire man\nby his \u201cweans,\u201d his \u201cwee weans,\u201d and his \u201cyin pound yin and yinpence,\u201d\netc. Taking a simple phrase as an example\u2014(_Anglice_):\u2014\u201cThe spoon is\non the loom.\u201d The Aberdonian will tell you that \u201cThe speen\u2019s on the\nleem.\u201d The Perthshire man will say \u201cThat spun\u2019s on the luim\u201d; and the\nGlasgow citizen will inform you that \u201cThe spin\u2019s on the lim.\u201d In a fuller\nexample, a Renfrewshire person will vouchsafe the information that he\n\u201cSaw a seybo synd\u2019t doon the syvor till it sank in the stank.\u201d A native\nof Perthshire will only about half understand what the speaker has said,\nand may threaten to \u201crax a rung frae the boggars o\u2019 the hoose and reeshil\nhis rumple wi\u2019t,\u201d without sending terror to the soul of his West country\nconfederate. Latterly, an Aberdonian may come on the scene and ask, \u201cFa\u2019\nfuppit the loonie?\u201d and neither of the forenamed parties will at once\nperceive the drift of his inquiry. To illustrate how difficult it may\nbe for the East and the West to understand each other, I will tell a\nlittle story. An Aberdonian not long ago got work in Glasgow where they\nused a quantity of tar, and was rather annoyed to see his fellow-workmen\nwash the tar off their hands while he washed and rubbed at his in vain.\nHis patience could stand it no longer, and going up to the foreman, and,\nstretching out his hands, he asked:\u2014\u201cFat\u2019ll tak\u2019 it aff?\u201d \u201cYes,\u201d replied\nthe foreman, \u201cfat\u2019ll tak\u2019 it aff.\u201d \u201cFat\u2019ll tak\u2019 it aff?\u201d \u201cYes, I said fat\nwould tak\u2019 it aff.\u201d \u201cBut _fat\u2019ll_ tak\u2019 it aff?\u201d persisted the Aberdonian.\nThe foreman pointed to a tub, and roared: \u201cGrease, you stupid eediot!\u201d\n\u201cWeel than,\u201d retorted the Aberdonian, \u201can\u2019 fat for did you no say that at\nfirst?\u201d\n\nThere are, however, dialects and provincialisms in the language of every\ncountry and people under the sun, and the Scottish vernacular is not\nworse\u2014not nearly so bad as many are. Our dialects are mainly the results\nof a narrowing and broadening of the vowel sounds, as exemplified in the\ninstance of the words \u201cspoon\u201d and \u201cloom.\u201d I have spoken of the rugged\ngrandeur of the Scottish Doric, and its claims to preservation. There\nare single words in Scotch which cannot be adequately expressed in a\nwhole sentence in English. Think of \u201cfushionless,\u201d \u201ceerie,\u201d \u201cwersh,\u201d\n\u201cgloamin\u2019,\u201d \u201cscunner,\u201d \u201cglower,\u201d \u201ccosie,\u201d \u201cbonnie,\u201d \u201cthoweless,\u201d\n\u201csplairge,\u201d and \u201cplowter,\u201d etc., and try to find their equivalents in\nthe language of the school. Try and find a sentence that will fairly\nexpress some of the words. \u201cA gowpen o\u2019 glaur\u201d is but weakly expressed\nin \u201ca handful of mud\u201d; \u201cstoure\u201d is not adequately defined by calling it\n\u201cdust in motion\u201d; \u201cflype yer stockin\u2019, lassie,\u201d is easier said than \u201cturn\nyour stocking inside out, girl.\u201d \u201cAuld lang syne\u201d is not expressible in\nEnglish. \u201cA bonnie wee lassie\u201d is more euphonious and expressive by a\nlong way than \u201ca pretty little girl.\u201d \u201cHirsle yont,\u201d \u201cmy cuit\u2019s yeukie,\u201d\n\u201ce\u2019enin\u2019s orts mak\u2019 gude mornin\u2019 fodder,\u201d \u201cspak\u2019 o\u2019 lowpin\u2019 ower a\nlinn,\u201d and \u201cpree my mou\u2019,\u201d are also good examples of expressive Scotch.\nNowhere, perhaps, is the singular beauty and rare expressiveness of the\nScottish national tongue seen to better advantage than in the proverbial\nsayings\u2014those short, sharp, and shiny shafts of speech, aptly defined\nas \u201cthe wit of one and the wisdom of many,\u201d\u2014and of which the Scottish\nlanguage has been so prolific. \u201cThe genius, wit, and wisdom of a nation\nare discovered by their proverbs,\u201d says Bacon; and, verily, while the\nproverbs of Scotland are singularly expressive of the pith and beauty\nof the vernacular in which they are couched, they also reveal in very\ngreat measure the mental and social characteristics of the people who\nhave perpetuated them. \u201cA gangin\u2019 fit\u2019s aye gettin\u2019, were\u2019t but a thorn;\u201d\n\u201cBurnt bairns dread the fire;\u201d \u201cA\u2019e bird in the hand\u2019s worth twa in the\nbush;\u201d \u201cA fool an\u2019 his siller\u2019s sune parted;\u201d \u201cHang a thief when he\u2019s\nyoung an\u2019 he\u2019ll no steal when he\u2019s auld;\u201d \u201cThere\u2019s aye some water whaur\nthe stirkie droons;\u201d \u201cMoudiwarts feedna on midges;\u201d \u201cWhen gossipin\u2019\nwives meet, the deil gangs to his dinner;\u201d \u201cHungry dogs are blythe o\u2019\nbursten puddin\u2019s;\u201d \u201cHe needs a lang-shankit spune that wad sup wi\u2019 the\ndeil;\u201d \u201cA blate cat maks a prood mouse;\u201d \u201cBetter a toom house than an\nill tenant;\u201d \u201cLippen to me, but look to yoursel\u2019;\u201d \u201cJouk an\u2019 lat the\njaw gang by;\u201d \u201cBetter sma\u2019 fish than nane;\u201d \u201cThe tulziesome tyke comes\nhirplin\u2019 hame;\u201d \u201cHa\u2019 binks are sliddery;\u201d \u201cIlka cock craws best on his\nain middenhead;\u201d \u201cLazy youth mak\u2019s lowsy age;\u201d \u201cNext to nae wife, a guid\nwife\u2019s best;\u201d \u201cLay your wame to your winnin\u2019;\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s nae lauchin\u2019 to girn\nin a widdy;\u201d \u201cThe wife\u2019s a\u2019e dochter an\u2019 the man\u2019s a\u2019e coo, the tane\u2019s\nne\u2019er weel, an\u2019 the tither\u2019s ne\u2019er fu\u2019.\u201d These give the evidence.\n\nOurs is a language peculiarly powerful in its use of vowels, and the\nfollowing dialogue between a shopman and a customer is a convincing\nexample. The conversation relates to a plaid hanging at a shop door:\u2014\n\nCustomer (inquiring the material)\u2014\u201cOo?\u201d (wool?).\n\nShopman\u2014\u201cAye, oo.\u201d (yes, wool).\n\nCustomer\u2014\u201cA\u2019 oo?\u201d (all wool?).\n\nShopman\u2014\u201cAy, a\u2019 oo\u201d (yes, all wool).\n\nCustomer\u2014\u201cA\u2019 a\u2019e oo?\u201d (all one wool?).\n\nShopman\u2014\u201cOu, ay, a\u2019 a\u2019e oo\u201d (oh, yes, all one wool).\n\nA dialogue in vowel sounds\u2014surely a thing unique in literature!\n\nIn his Scotch version of the Psalms\u2014\u201cfrae Hebrew intil Scottis\u201d\u2014the late\nRev. Dr. Hately Waddell, of Glasgow, gives many striking illustrations\nof the force and beauty of idiomatic Scotch. His language partakes\nrather much of the antique form to be readily perceptible to the present\ngeneration, but its purity is unquestionable, and its beauty and power\ninexpressible in other words than his own. Let us quote the familiar 23rd\nPsalm.\n\n\u201cThe Lord is my herd; na want sal fa\u2019 me.\n\n\u201cHe louts me till lie amang green howes; He airts me atowre by the lown\nwaters.\n\n\u201cHe waukens my wa\u2019gaen saul; He weises me roun for His ain name\u2019s sake,\nintil richt roddins.\n\n\u201cNa! tho\u2019 I gang thro\u2019 the dead-mirk dail; _e\u2019en thar_ sal I dread nae\nskaithin; for Yersel\u2019 are nar-by me; Yer stok an\u2019 Yer stay haud me baith\nfu\u2019 cheerie.\n\n\u201cMy buird Ye ha\u2019e hansell\u2019d in face o\u2019 my faes; Ye ha\u2019e drookit my head\nwi\u2019 oyle; my bicker is _fu\u2019_ an\u2019 _skailin\u2019_.\n\n\u201cE\u2019en sae sal gude guidin\u2019 an\u2019 gude gree gang wi\u2019 me ilk day o\u2019 my\nlivin\u2019; an\u2019 ever mair syne i\u2019 the Lord\u2019s ain howff, _at lang last_, sal I\nmak bydan.\u201d\n\nHear also Dr. Waddell\u2019s translation of the last four verses of the 52nd\nchapter of Isaiah, they are inexpressibly beautiful:\u2014\n\n\u201cBlythe and brak-out, lilt a\u2019 like ane, ye bourocks sae swak o\u2019\nJerusalem; for the Lord He has hearten\u2019d His folk fu\u2019 kin\u2019; He has e\u2019en\nboucht back Jerusalem.\n\n\u201cThe Lord He rax\u2019d yont His hailie arm, in sight o\u2019 the nations mony, O;\nan\u2019 ilk neuk o\u2019 the yirth sal tak tent an\u2019 learn the health o\u2019 our God\nsae bonie, O!\n\n\u201cAwa, awa, clean but frae the toun: mak nor meddle wi\u2019 nought that\u2019s\nroun\u2019; awa frae her bosom; haud ye soun\u2019, wi\u2019 the gear o\u2019 the Lord\nforenent ye!\n\n\u201cFor it\u2019s no wi\u2019 sic pingle ye\u2019se gang the gate; nor it\u2019s no wi\u2019 sic\nspeed ye maun spang the spate; for the Lord, He\u2019s afore ye, _ear\u2019 an\u2019\nlate_; an\u2019 Israel\u2019s God, He\u2019s ahint ye!\u201d\n\nThese suggest \u201cThe Lord\u2019s Prayer intill Auld Scottis,\u201d as printed by\nPinkerton, and which is cast in more antique form still:\u2014\u201cUor fader\nquhilk beest i\u2019 Hevin, Hallowit weird thyne nam. Cum thyne kinrik. Be\ndune thyne wull as is i\u2019 Hevin, sva po yerd. Uor dailie breid gif us\nthilk day. And forleit us our skaths, as we forfeit tham quha skath us.\nAnd leed us na intill temtation. Butan fre us fra evil. Amen.\u201d\n\nNo writer of any time\u2014Burns alone excepted\u2014has handled the native tongue\nto better purpose for the expression of every feeling of the human heart\nthan has Sir Walter Scott; and in Jeanie Deans\u2019 plea to the Queen for\nher sister\u2019s life there is the finest example of simple pathos, dashed\nwith the passion of hope struggling with despair, that is to be met with\nanywhere in literature. It shows the extent in this way of which the\nnative speech is capable.\n\n\u201cMy sister\u2014my puir sister Effie, still lives, though her days and hours\nare numbered! She still lives, and a word o\u2019 the King\u2019s mouth might\nrestore her to a heart-broken auld man, that never, in his daily and\nnightly exercise, forgot to pray that His Majesty might be blessed with\na lang an\u2019 a prosperous reign, and that his throne, and the throne o\u2019\nhis posterity, might be established in righteousness. O, madam, if ever\nye kend what it was to sorrow for and with a sinning and a suffering\ncreature, whase mind is sae tossed that she can be neither ca\u2019d fit to\nlive or dee, hae some compassion on our misery! Save an honest house from\ndishonour, and an unhappy girl, not eighteen years of age, from an early\nand dreadful death! Alas! it is not when we sleep saft and wake merrily\noursel\u2019s that we think on other people\u2019s sufferings. Our hearts are waxed\nlight within us then, and we are for righting our ain wrangs and fighting\nour ain battles. But when the hour of trouble comes to the mind or to the\nbody\u2014and seldom may it visit your leddyship\u2014and when the hour of death\ncomes, that comes to high and low\u2014lang and late may it be yours!\u2014oh, my\nleddy, then it isna what we hae dune for oursel\u2019s, but what we hae done\nfor others, that we think on maist pleasantly. And the thought that ye\nhae intervened to spare the puir thing\u2019s life will be sweeter in that\nhour, come when it may, than if a word o\u2019 your mouth could hang the haill\nPorteous mob at the tail o\u2019 a\u2019e tow.\u201d\n\nThen the vigour and variety of the Scottish idiom as a vehicle of\ndescription has perhaps never received better illustration than in Andrew\nFairservice\u2019s account of Glasgow Cathedral:\u2014\u201cAy! it\u2019s a brave Kirk,\u201d\nsaid Andrew. \u201cNane o\u2019 yere whigmaleeries and curliwurlies and open\nsteek hems aboot it\u2014a\u2019 solid, weel-jointed mason wark, that will stand\nas lang as the warld, keep hands and gunpowther aff it. It had amaist\na douncome lang syne at the Reformation, when they pu\u2019d doon the Kirks\nof St. Andrews and Perth, and thereawa\u2019, to cleanse them o\u2019 Papery,\nand idolatry, and image-worship, and surplices, and sic like rags o\u2019\nthe muckle hure that sitteth on the seven hills, as if ane wasna braid\nenough for her auld hinder end. Sae the commons o\u2019 Renfrew, and o\u2019 the\nBarony, and the Gorbals, and a\u2019 aboot, they behoved to come into Glasgow\na\u2019e fair morning, to try their hand on purging the High Kirk o\u2019 Popish\nnick-nackets. But the townsmen o\u2019 Glasgow, they were feared their auld\nedifice might slip the girths in gaun through siccan rough physic, sae\nthey rang the common bell, and assembled the train-bands wi\u2019 took o\u2019\ndrum. By gude luck, the worthy James Rabat was Dean o\u2019 Guild that year\n(and a gude mason he was himsell, made him keener to keep up the auld\nbigging). And the trades assembled, and offered downright battle to the\ncommons, rather than their Kirk should coup the crans, as others had\ndone elsewhere. It wasna for love o\u2019 Papery\u2014na, na!\u2014nane could ever say\nthat o\u2019 the trades o\u2019 Glasgow. Sae they sune came to an agreement to\ntak a\u2019 the idolatrous statues o\u2019 sants (sorrow be on them) out o\u2019 their\nneuks\u2014and sae the bits o\u2019 stone idols were broken in pieces by Scripture\nwarrant, and flung into the Molendiner burn, and the Auld Kirk stood as\ncrouse as a cat when the flaes are kaimed aff her, and a\u2019 body was alike\npleased. And I hae heard wise folk say that if the same had been dune in\nilka Kirk in Scotland, the Reform wad just hae been as pure as it is e\u2019en\nnow, and we wad hae mair Christianlike Kirks; for I hae been sae lang in\nEngland, that naething will drive out o\u2019 my head, that the dog-kennel at\nOsbaldistone-Hall is better than mony a house o\u2019 God in Scotland.\u201d\n\nNo man, it is well known, had ever more command of the native vernacular\nthan Robert Burns. In a letter written at Carlisle, in June 1787, to\nhis friend William Nicol, Master of the High School, Edinburgh, he has\nleft a curious testimony at once to the capabilities of the language\nand his own skill in it. \u201cKind, honest-hearted Willie,\u201d he writes, \u201cI\u2019m\nsitten doon here, after seven-and-forty miles\u2019 ridin\u2019, e\u2019en as forjeskit\nand forniaw\u2019d as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o\u2019 my\nland-lowper-like stravaigin\u2019 sin\u2019 the sorrowfu\u2019 hour that I sheuk hands\nand parted wi\u2019 Auld Reekie.\n\n\u201cMy auld ga\u2019d gleyde o\u2019 a meere has huchyall\u2019d up hill and doun brae in\nScotland and England, as teuch and birnie as a vera deevil wi\u2019 me. It\u2019s\ntrue, she\u2019s as puir\u2019s a sang-maker, an\u2019 as hard\u2019s a kirk, and tipper\ntaipers when she tak\u2019s the gate, jist like a lady\u2019s gentlewoman in a\nminuwae, or a hen on a het girdle; but she\u2019s a yauld, poutherie girran\nfor a\u2019 that, and has a stamach like Willie Stalker\u2019s meere, that wad hae\ndigeested tumbler-wheels, for she\u2019ll whip me aff her five stimparts o\u2019\nthe best aits at a down-sitten\u2019, and ne\u2019er fash her thoom. Whan ance her\nring-banes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl\u2019d, she\nbeets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the tightest. I could wager\nher price to a thretty pennies, that for twa or three wooks, ridin\u2019 at\nfifty miles a day, the deil-stickit a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and\nWhithorn could cast saut on her tail.\n\n\u201cI hae dander\u2019d owre a\u2019 the country frae Dunbar to Selcraig, and ha\u2019e\nforgather\u2019d wi\u2019 mony a gude fallow, and mony a weel-faur\u2019d hizzie. I met\nwi\u2019 twa dink queynes in particular. Ane o\u2019 them a sonsie, fine, fodgel\nlass, baith braw and bonnie; the ither was a clean-shankit, straught,\ntight, weel-faur\u2019d wench, as blythe\u2019s a lintwhite on a flowerie thorn,\nand as sweet and modest\u2019s a new blawn plum-rose in a hazel shaw. They\nwere baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and ony ane o\u2019 them had as muckle\nsmeddum and rumblegumption as the half o\u2019 some Presbytries that you and I\nbaith ken. They played me sic a deil o\u2019 a shavie, that I daur say if my\nharigals were turn\u2019d out ye wad see twa nicks i\u2019 the heart o\u2019 me like the\nmark o\u2019 a kail-whittle in a castock.\n\n\u201cI was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgi\u2019e me, I gat\nmysel\u2019 sae noutourously bitchify\u2019d the day, after kail-time, than I can\nhardly stoiter but and ben.\n\n\u201cMy best respecks to the guidwife and a\u2019 our common friens, especiall Mr.\nand Mrs. Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o\u2019 Jock\u2019s Lodge.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the\nbranks bide hale.\n\n\u201cGude be wi\u2019 you, Willie! Amen!\u201d\n\nThat letter might fairly be made the \u201cShibboleth\u201d in any case of doubt\nregarding one\u2019s ability to read Scotch. It would shiver the front teeth\nof some of your counterlouper gentry. Yet it is not an overdone example\nof the Scotch Doric as it was spoken in Edinburgh drawing-rooms a hundred\nyears ago\u2014_vide_, Henry Cockburn\u2019s _Memorials_. Between it and the \u201cbraid\nScotch\u201d of half a century earlier there is a marked difference.\n\nIn the _Scots Magazine_ for November, 1743, the following proclamation is\nprinted:\u2014\n\n\u201cAll brethren and sisters, I let you to witt that there is a\ntwa-year-auld lad littleane tint, that ist\u2019 ere\u2019en.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a\u2019 scabbit i\u2019 the how hole o\u2019 the neck o\u2019d, and a cauler kail-blade\nand brunt butter at it, that ist\u2019er. It has a muckle maun blue pooch\nhingin\u2019 at the carr side o\u2019d, fou o\u2019 mullers and chucky-stanes, and a\nspindle and a whorle, and it\u2019s daddy\u2019s ain jockteleg in\u2019t. It\u2019s a\u2019 black\naneath the nails wi\u2019 howkin\u2019 o\u2019 yird, that is\u2019t. It has its daddy\u2019s\ngravat tied about the craig o\u2019d, and hingin\u2019 down the back o\u2019d. The back\no\u2019 the hand o\u2019d\u2019s a\u2019 brunt; it got it i\u2019 the smiddy ae day.\n\n\u201cWhae\u2019er can find this said twa-year-auld lad littleane may repair to M\u2e3ao\nJ\u2e3an\u2019s, town-smith in C\u2e3an, and he sall hae for reward twall bear scones,\nand a ride o\u2019 our ain auld beast to bear him hame, and nae mair words\nabout it, that wilt\u2019r no.\u201d\n\nHogg, in his \u201cShepherd\u2019s Calendar,\u201d referring to the religious character\nof the shepherds of Scotland in his day, tells that \u201cthe antiquated\nbut delightful exercise of family worship was never neglected,\u201d and,\n\u201cformality being a thing despised, there are no compositions I ever\nheard,\u201d he continues, \u201cso truly original as those prayers occasionally\nwere; sometimes for rude eloquence and pathos, at other times for an\nindescribable sort of pomp, and, not infrequently, for a plain and\nsomewhat unbecoming familiarity.\u201d He gives several illustrations,\nquite justifying this description, from some with whom he had himself\nserved and herded. One of the most notable men for this sort of family\neloquence, he thought, was a certain Adam Scott, in Upper Dalgleish. Thus\nScott prayed for a son who seemed thoughtless\u2014\n\n\u201cFor Thy mercy\u2019s sake\u2014for the sake o\u2019 Thy puir, sinfu\u2019 servants that are\nnow addressing Thee in their ain shilly-shally way, and for the sake o\u2019\nmair than we daur weel name to Thee, hae mercy on Rab. Ye ken fu\u2019 weel\nhe\u2019s a wild, mischievous callant, and thinks nae mair o\u2019 committin\u2019 sin\nthan a dog does o\u2019 lickin\u2019 a dish; but put Thy hook in his nose, and\nThy bridle in his gab, and gar him come back to Thee wi\u2019 a jerk that\nhe\u2019ll no forget the langest day that he has to live.\u201d For another son he\nprayed:\u2014\u201cDinna forget puir Jamie, wha\u2019s far awa\u2019 frae us this nicht. Keep\nThy arm o\u2019 power about him; and, oh, I wish Ye wad endow him wi\u2019 a little\nspunk and smeddum to act for himsel\u2019; for, if Ye dinna, he\u2019ll be but a\nbauchle i\u2019 this warld, and a back-sitter i\u2019 the neist.\u201d Again:\u2014\u201cWe\u2019re\na\u2019 like hawks, we\u2019re a\u2019 like snails, we\u2019re a\u2019 like slogie riddles; like\nhawks to do evil, like snails to do good, and like slogie riddles to let\nthrough a\u2019 the gude and keep a\u2019 the bad.\u201d When Napoleon I. was filling\nEurope with alarm, he prayed\u2014\u201cBring doon the tyrant and his lang neb, for\nhe has done muckle ill this year, and gie him a cup o\u2019 Thy wrath, and gin\nhe winna tak\u2019 that, gie him kelty\u201d [_i.e._, double, or two cups].\n\nVery graphic, is it not! It reminds us of the prayer of one Jamie\nHamilton, a celebrated poacher in the West country. As Jamie was\nreconnoitring a lonely situation one morning, his mind more set on hares\nthan on prayers, a woman approached him from the only house in the\nimmediate district and requested that he should \u201ccome owre and pray for\nauld Eppie, for she\u2019s just deein\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cYe ken weel enough that I can pray nane,\u201d replied Jamie.\n\n\u201cBut we haena time to rin for ony ither Jamie,\u201d urged the woman,\n\u201cEppie\u2019s just slippin\u2019 awa\u2019; and oh! it wad be an awfu\u2019 like thing to lat\nthe puir bodie dee without bein\u2019 prayed for.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, then,\u201d said Jamie, \u201can I maun come, I maun come; but I\u2019m sure I\nkenna right what to say.\u201d\n\nThe occasion has ever so much to do with the making of the man.\nApproaching the bed, Jamie doffed his cap and proceeded:\u2014\u201cO Lord, Thou\nkens best Thy nainsel\u2019 how the case stands atween Thee and auld Eppie;\nand sin\u2019 Ye hae baith the heft and the blade in Yer nain hand, just guide\nthe gully as best suits her guid and Yer nain glory. Amen.\u201d\n\nIt was a poacher\u2019s prayer in very truth, but a bishop could not have said\nmore in as few words.\n\nBut it is easy to be expressive in Scotch, for it is peculiar to the\nnative idiom that the simpler the language employed the effect is the\ngreater. Think how this is manifested in the song and ballad literature\nof the country. In popular ballads like \u201cGil Morrice,\u201d \u201cSir James the\nRose,\u201d \u201cBarbara Allan,\u201d and \u201cThe Dowie Dens o\u2019 Yarrow\u201d; in Jane Elliot\u2019s\nsong of \u201cThe Flowers of the Forest\u201d; in Grizzel Baillie\u2019s \u201cWerena my\nheart licht I wad dee\u201d; in Lady Lindsay\u2019s \u201cAuld Robin Gray\u201d; in Lady\nNairne\u2019s \u201cLand o\u2019 the Leal\u201d; in Burns\u2019s \u201cAuld Lang Syne\u201d; in Tannahill\u2019s\n\u201cGloomy Winter\u201d; in Thom\u2019s \u201cMitherless Bairn\u201d; and in Smibert\u2019s \u201cWidow\u2019s\nLament.\u201d I do not mean to say that the making of these songs and ballads\nwas a simple matter; but the verbal material is in each case of the\nsimplest character, and the effect such that the pieces are established\nin the common heart of Scotland. Burns did not go out of his way for\neither language or figures of speech to describe Willie Wastle\u2019s wife,\nyet see the graphic picture we have presented to us by a few strokes of\nthe pen:\u2014\n\n \u201cShe has an e\u2019e\u2014she has but ane,\n The cat has twa the very colour;\n Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,\n A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller;\n A whiskin\u2019 beard about her mou\u2019,\n Her nose and chin they threaten ither\u2014\n Sic a wife as Willie has,\n I wadna gie a button for her.\n\n \u201cShe\u2019s bow-houghed, she\u2019s hein-shinn\u2019d,\n Ae limpin\u2019 leg, a hand-breed shorter;\n She\u2019s twisted right, she\u2019s twisted left\n To balance fair in ilka quarter:\n She has a hump upon her breast\n The twin o\u2019 that upon her shouther\u2014\n Sic a wife as Willie has,\n I wadna gie a button for her.\u201d\n\nNo idea there is strained. Every word is common. The same may be said\nof Hew Ainshe\u2019s lyric poem in a different vein, \u201cDowie in the hint o\u2019\nHairst,\u201d which I make no apology for quoting in full:\u2014\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s dowie in the hint o\u2019 hairst.\n At the wa\u2019-gang o\u2019 the swallow,\n When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,\n An\u2019 the wuds are hingin\u2019 yellow;\n But oh, it\u2019s dowier far to see\n The wa\u2019-gang o\u2019 her the heart gangs wi\u2019,\n The dead-set o\u2019 a shinin\u2019 e\u2019e.\n That darkens the weary warld on thee.\n\n \u201cThere was meikle love atween us twa\u2014\n Oh, twa could ne\u2019er be fonder;\n And the thing on yird was never made,\n That could ha\u2019e gart us sunder.\n But the way o\u2019 Heaven\u2019s aboon a\u2019 ken,\n And we maun bear what it likes to sen\u2019\u2014\n It\u2019s comfort, though, to weary men,\n That the warst o\u2019 this warld\u2019s waes maun en\u2019.\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s mony things that come and gae,\n Just kent, and just forgotten;\n And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,\n Gin anither year lie rotten,\n But the last look o\u2019 yon lovely e\u2019e,\n And the deein\u2019 grip she ga\u2019e to me,\n They\u2019re settled like eternitie\u2014\n Oh, Mary; gin I were wi\u2019 thee.\u201d\n\nBy these illustrations I have endeavoured to shew forth, to all whom it\nmay concern, the verbal beauty, the graphic force, and the powers for\nthe expression of pathos and humour there is in the vernacular speech\nof Scotland. Like our national emblem\u2014the thistle\u2014it is, of course,\nnothing in the mouth of an ass. But well spoken, it is charming alike to\nthe ear and the intellect; and, for the reasons already urged in this\npaper, is worthy of more general esteem and more general cultivation\nthan the current generation of Scotch folk seem disposed to award it.\nLord Cockburn pronounced it \u201cthe sweetest and most expressive of living\nlanguages;\u201d and no unprejudiced reader of his _Memorials_ will dispute\nthe value of his opinion on the subject. He wrote excellent Doric\nhimself, and made it the vehicle of his conversation in his family, and\ncasually throughout the day, as long as he lived. Ho! for more such\ngood old Scottish gentlemen! Ho! for another Jean, Duchess of Gordon,\nto teach our Scottish gentry how to speak naturally! That we had more\nmen in our midst, with equal influence and education, and charged with\nthe fine spirit of patriotism which animates Scotland\u2019s ain \u201cgrand auld\nman\u201d\u2014Professor Blackie! It has been the fashion for English journalists\nwith pretensions to wit, to animadvert by pen and pencil on what they\nregard as the idiosyncracies of Scottish speech and behaviour. _Punch_\nis a frequent offender in this way. I say _offender_ advisedly, for no\n_Punch_ artist, so far as I have seen\u2014and I have scanned that journal\nfrom the first number to the last\u2014ever drew a Scotsman in \u201chis manner\nas he lived.\u201d The originals of the pictures may have appeared in London\nChristmas pantomimes, but certainly nowhere else. Then the language which\nin their guileless innocence they expect will pass muster as Scotch, is a\nhash-up alike revolting to the ears of gods and men. We don\u2019t expect very\nmuch from some folks, but surely even a London journalist should know\nthat a Scotsman does not say \u201cmon\u201d when he means to say \u201cman.\u201d Charles\nMacklin put it that way, and the London journalist apparently can never\nget beyond Macklin. Don\u2019t go to London for your Scotch, my reader!\nListen to it as it may still be spoken at your granny\u2019s ingleside.\nFamiliarise yourself with it as it is to be found in its full vigour and\npurity in the Waverley Novels; in Burns\u2019s Poems and Songs; in the \u201cNoctes\nAmbrosian\u00e6\u201d of Professor Wilson; in Galt\u2019s Tales; in the writings of the\nEttrick Shepherd; in the stories of George MacDonald, J. M. Barrie, and\nS. R. Crockett; in the pages of \u201cMansie Wauch,\u201d \u201cTammas Bodkin,\u201d and\n\u201cJohnny Gibb.\u201d Don\u2019t learn English less; but again, I say, read, write,\nand speak Scotch more frequently. And, when doing so, remember you are\nnot indulging in a mere vulgar corruption of good English, comparable\nwith the barbarous dialects of Yorkshire and Devon, but in a true and\ndistinct, a powerful and beautiful language of your own, \u201cdiffering not\nmerely from modern English in pronunciation, but in the possession of\nmany beautiful words, which have ceased to be English, and in the use of\ninflexions unknown to literary and spoken English since the days of Piers\nPloughman and Chaucer.\u201d \u201cThe Scotch,\u201d as the late Lord Jeffrey said, \u201cis\nnot to be considered as a provincial dialect\u2014the vehicle only of rustic\nvulgarity and rude local humour. It is the language of a whole country,\nlong an independent kingdom, and still separate in laws, character, and\nmanners. It is by no means peculiar to the vulgar, but is the common\nspeech of the whole nation in early life, and with many of its most\nexalted and accomplished individuals throughout their whole existence;\nand though it be true that, in later times, it has been in some measure\nlaid aside by the more ambitious and aspiring of the present generation,\nit is still recollected even by them as the familiar language of their\nchildhood, and of those who were the earliest objects of their love and\nveneration. It is connected in their imagination not only with that olden\ntime which is uniformly conceived as more pure, lofty, and simple than\nthe present, but also with all the soft and bright colours of remembered\nchildhood and domestic affection. All its phrases conjure up images of\nschool-day innocence and sports, and friendships which have no pattern in\nsucceeding years.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nCHARACTERISTICS OF SCOTCH HUMOUR\n\n\nVarious writers have attempted to define Scotch humour, but it is a\ndifficult task, and in all my reading of the subject I do not remember\nto have ever seen a very satisfactory analysis of the subtle quantity.\nThe famous Sydney Smith did not admit that such an element obtained\nin our \u201cpuir cauld country.\u201d \u201cTheir only idea of wit which prevails\noccasionally in the North,\u201d said he, \u201cand which, under the name of\n\u2018wut,\u2019 is so infinitely distressing to people of good taste, is laughing\nimmoderately at stated intervals.\u201d Further to this, the same sublime\nauthority declared that it would require a surgical operation to get a\njoke well into a Scotch understanding. It has been presumed that the\nwitty Canon was not serious in his remark; that it was a laboured effort\nof his to make a joke. This may be true; and the idea of a surgical\noperation was possibly suggested by feeling its necessity on himself in\norder to get his joke _out_. Be that as it may, but for the fact that the\ngenial Charles Lamb, curiously, entertained a somewhat similar notion\non the subject, the rude apothegm of the Rev. Sydney Smith would never\nhave misguided even the most hopelessly opaque of his own countrymen.\nNo humour in Scotch folk! No humour in Scotland! There is no country in\nthe world that has produced so much of it. Of no other country under the\nsun can it be so truly said that humour is the common inheritance of the\npeople. Much of the kind of humour that drives an Englishman into an\necstacy of delight, would, of course, only tend to make a Scotsman sad;\nbut that is no evidence that the Scotch are lacking in their perceptions\nof the humorous. It only shows that \u201csome folks are no ill to please.\u201d\n\u201cThe Cockney must have his puns and small jokes,\u201d says Max O\u2019Rell. \u201cOn\nthe stage he delights in jigs, and to really please him the best of\nactors have to become rivals of the mountebanks at a fair. A hornpipe\ndelights his heart. An actor who, for an hour together, pretends not to\nbe able to keep on his hat, sends him into the seventh heaven of delight.\nSuch performances make the Scotch smile\u2014but with pity. The Scotsman has\nno wit of this sort. In the matter of wit he is an epicure, and only\nappreciates dainty food.\u201d In so far as the above quotation applies to the\ndenizens of the \u201cNorth,\u201d it is perfectly true. In such circumstances the\nScotch will \u201claugh immoderately at stated intervals,\u201d but the laughs will\nbe like angels\u2019 visits, \u201cfew and far between.\u201d\n\nSuperficially regarded, Scotland is a hard-featured land; yet Scotch folk\nare essentially humorous. Do not go to the places of public amusement\u2014to\nthe theatres and music halls\u2014particularly in the larger towns, where the\npopulations are so mixed; do not go there to learn the Scottish taste and\nhumour. This practice has led to the proverbial saying that \u201ca Scotchman\ntakes his amusement seriously.\u201d In such places you may learn something\nof the English character and humour, but nothing of the Scotch. For an\nEnglishman\u2019s wit (he has little or no humour) being an acquired taste,\ncomes out \u201con parade\u201d\u2014it is a gay thing\u2014while Scotch folks\u2019 humour being\nthe common gift of Nature to all and sundry in the land, differing only\nin degree, slips out most frequently when and where least expected.\nFamous specimens of it come down from our lonely hillsides\u2014from the\ncottage and farm ingle-nooks. It blossoms in the solemn assemblies of\nthe people\u2014at meetings of Kirk Sessions, in the City and Town Council\nChambers, in our Presbyteries, our Courts of Justice, and occasionally\nin the high Parliament of the Kirk itself. In testimony of this read the\n_Reminiscences_ of Dean Ramsay, Dr. Rodgers\u2019 _Century of Scottish Life_,\n_The Laird of Logan_, and other similar collections of the national\nhumour; or study the humours of our Scottish life and character as they\nare abundantly reflected in the immortal writings of Burns, and Scott,\nand Galt, and Wilson.\n\nOne of the chief characteristics of Scotch humour, as I have already\nindicated, is its spontaneity, or utter want of effort to effect its\nproduction. Much of it comes out just as a matter of course, and without\nthe slightest indication on the part of the creator that he is aware\nof the splendid part he is playing. Then it has nearly always a strong\npractical basis. The Scotch are characteristically practical people,\nand very much of what is most enjoyable in humorous Scotch stories\nand anecdotes, as Dean Ramsay truly says, arises \u201cfrom the simple and\nmatter-of-fact references made to circumstances which are unusual.\u201d\n\nThere are others, of course, but these are the main characteristics\nof Scotch humour. Our best anecdotes illustrate this. Here is a good\ninstance of the native wit and humour:\u2014\n\n\u201cJock,\u201d cried a farmer\u2019s wife to her cowherd, \u201ccome awa\u2019 in to your\nparritch, or the flees \u2019ill be droonin\u2019 themsel\u2019s in your milk bowl.\u201d\n\n\u201cNae fear o\u2019 that,\u201d was Jock\u2019s roguish reply. \u201cThey\u2019ll wade through.\u201d\n\n\u201cYe scoondrel,\u201d cried the mistress, indignantly, \u201cd\u2019ye mean to say that\nye dinna get eneuch milk?\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, ay,\u201d said Jock, \u201cI get plenty o\u2019 milk for a\u2019 the parritch.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cJock,\u201d cried a farmer\u2019s wife to her cowherd, \u201ccome awa\u2019\nin to your parritch, or the flees \u2019ill be droonin\u2019 themsel\u2019s in your\nmilk bowl.\u201d \u201cNae fear o\u2019 that,\u201d was Jock\u2019s roguish reply. \u201cThey\u2019ll wade\nthrough.\u201d \u201cYe scoundrel,\u201d cried the mistress, indignantly, \u201cd\u2019ye mean to\nsay that ye dinna get eneuch milk?\u201d \u201cOu, ay,\u201d said Jock, \u201cI get plenty o\u2019\nmilk for a\u2019 the parritch.\u201d\u2014_Page 35._]\n\nThe colloquy was richly humorous, and at the same time sublimely\npractical. The same may be said of the following:\u2014\n\nDuring the time of the great Russian War a countryman accepted the\n\u201cQueen\u2019s shilling,\u201d and very soon thereafter was sent to the front. But\nhe had scarcely time to have received his \u201cbaptism of fire\u201d when he\nturned his back on the scenes of carnage, and immediately struck of in a\nbee line for a distant haven of safety. A mounted officer, intercepting\nhis retreat, demanded to know where he was going.\n\n\u201cWhaur am I gaun?\u201d said he. \u201cHame, of course; man, this is awfu\u2019 walk;\nthey\u2019re just killin\u2019 ane anither ower there.\u201d\n\nA brother countryman took a different view of the same, or a similar\nsituation. Just before his regiment entered into an engagement with the\nenemy, he was heard to pray in these terms:\u2014\u201cO, Lord! dinna be on oor\nside, and dinna be on the tither side, but just stand ajee frae baith\no\u2019 us for an oor or twa, an\u2019 ye\u2019ll see the toosiest fecht that ever was\nfochen.\u201d What a fine, rough hero was there!\n\nSpeaking of praying prior to entering into engagements, recalls another\ngood and equally representative anecdote. It is told of two old Scottish\nmatrons. They were discussing current events.\n\n\u201cEh, woman!\u201d said one, \u201cI see by the papers that oor sodgers have been\nvictorious again.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, nae fear o\u2019 oor sodgers,\u201d replied the other. \u201cThey\u2019ll aye be\nvictorious, for they aye pray afore they engage wi\u2019 the enemy.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut do you no think the French \u2019ill pray too?\u201d questioned the first\nspeaker.\n\n\u201cThe French pray!\u201d sneered her friend. \u201cYatterin\u2019 craturs! Wha wad ken\nwhat they said?\u201d\n\nWhat a charmingly innocent auld wife! Surely it was this same matron who\nonce upon a time entered the village grocery and asked for a pound of\ncandles, at the same time laying down the price at which the article in\nquestion had stood fixed for some time.\n\n\u201cAnither bawbee, mistress,\u201d said the grocer. \u201cCawnils are up, on account\no\u2019 the war.\u201d\n\n\u201cEh, megstie me!\u201d was the response. \u201cAn\u2019 can it be the case that they\nreally fecht wi\u2019 cawnil licht?\u201d\n\nA Scotch blacksmith, being asked the meaning of metaphysics, explained\nas follows:\u2014\u201cWeel, Geordie, ye see, it\u2019s just like this. When the\npairty that listens disna ken what the pairty that speaks means, an\u2019\nwhen the pairty that speaks disna ken what he means himsel\u2019, _that\u2019s\nmetapheesics_.\u201d Many a lecture of an hour\u2019s length, I am thinking, has\nhad no better results.\n\nNo anecdote can better illustrate the practical basis of the Scotch mind\nthan the following:\u2014\u201cJohn,\u201d said a minister to one of his congregation,\n\u201cI hope you hold family worship regularly.\u201d\n\n\u201cAye,\u201d said John, \u201cin the time o\u2019 year o\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn the time o\u2019 year o\u2019t! What do you mean, John?\u201d\n\n\u201cYe ken, sir, we canna see in the winter nichts.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, John, can\u2019t you buy candles?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, I could,\u201d replied John, \u201cbut in that case I\u2019m dootin\u2019 the cost\nwould owergang the profit.\u201d\n\nAnd practical in the management of their devotional exercises, there is\na practical side to the grief of Scotch folk. \u201cDinna greet amang your\nparritch, Geordie,\u201d said one to another, \u201cthey\u2019re thin eneuch already.\u201d\nAnd the story is told of an Aberdeenshire woman who, when on the occasion\nof the death of her husband the minister\u2019s wife came to condole with\nher, and said\u2014\u201cIt is a great loss you have sustained, Janet.\u201d\n\nShe replied, \u201cDeed is\u2019t, my lady. An\u2019 I\u2019ve just been sittin\u2019 here\ngreetin\u2019 a\u2019 day, an\u2019 as sune as I get this bowliefu\u2019 o\u2019 kail suppit I\u2019m\ngaun to begin an\u2019 greet again.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have had a sore affliction, Margaret,\u201d said a minister once to a\nScotch matron in circumstances similar to the heroine of the above story.\n\u201cA sore affliction indeed; but I hope you are not altogether without\nconsolation.\u201d\n\n\u201cNa,\u201d said Margaret, \u201can\u2019 I\u2019m no that, sir; for gin He has ta\u2019en awa\u2019 the\nsaul, it\u2019s a great consolation for me to think that He\u2019s ta\u2019en awa\u2019 the\nstammick as weel.\u201d\n\nAh, poor body! No doubt she gave expression to a thought that had for\nsome time been having a prominent place in her mind. As Tom Moore reminds\nus, in the midst of a serious poem, \u201cWe must all dine,\u201d and if the\nbread-winner has been laid aside for a time, the means of subsistence are\nsometimes difficult to obtain, and when \u201csupply\u201d is wholly cut off, a\ndecrease in \u201cdemand\u201d is sometimes not unwelcome.\n\nA splendid instance of the matter-of-fact view of things celestial\nfrequently taken by the Scotch mind is in that story which Dean Ramsay\ntells of the old woman who was dying at Hawick. In this Border seat of\ntweed manufacture the people wear wooden-soled boots\u2014clogs\u2014which make a\nclanking noise on the pavement. Several friends stood by the bedside of\nthe dying person, and one of them said to her\u2014\n\n\u201cWeel, Jenny, ye\u2019re deein\u2019; but ye\u2019ve done the richt gaet here, an\u2019 ye\u2019ll\ngang to heaven; an\u2019 when ye gang there, should you see ony o\u2019 oor fouk,\nye micht tell them that we\u2019re a\u2019 weel.\u201d\n\n\u201cOu,\u201d said Jenny half-heartedly, \u201cgin I see them I\u2019se tell them; but ye\nmaunna expect that I\u2019m to be gaun clank, clankin\u2019 about through heaven\nlookin\u2019 for your fouk.\u201d\n\nOf all the stories of this class, however, the following death-bed\nconversation between a husband and wife affords perhaps the very best\nspecimen of the dry humour peculiar to Scotch folk:\u2014An old shoemaker in\nGlasgow was sitting by the bedside of his wife, who was dying. Taking her\nhusband by the hand, the old woman said, \u201cWeel, John, we\u2019re to pairt. I\nhae been a gude wife to you, John.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, middlin\u2019, middlin\u2019, Jenny,\u201d said John, not disposed to commit\nhimself wholly.\n\n\u201cAy, I\u2019ve been a gude wife to you, John,\u201d says she, \u201can\u2019 ye maun promise\nto bury me in the auld kirkyard at Stra\u2019von, beside my ain kith and kin,\nfor I couldna rest in peace among unoo fouk, in the dirt an\u2019 smoke o\u2019\nGleska\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, weel, Jenny, my woman,\u201d said John, soothingly, \u201cI\u2019ll humour ye\nthus far. We\u2019ll pit ye in the Gorbals first, an\u2019 gin ye dinna lie quiet\nthere, we\u2019ll tak\u2019 ye to Stra\u2019von syne.\u201d\n\nAnd yet there is on record a retort of a Scotch beadle, which is almost\nequally moving. Saunders was a victim to chronic asthma, and one day,\nwhilst in the act of opening a grave, was seized with a violent fit of\ncoughing. The minister, towards whom Saunders bore little affection, at\nthe same time entering the kirkyard, came up to the old man as he was\nleaning over his spade wiping the tears from his eyes, and said, \u201cThat\u2019s\na very bad cough you\u2019ve got, Saunders.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, it\u2019s no very gude,\u201d was the dry response, \u201cbut there\u2019s a hantle fouk\nlyin\u2019 round aboot ye that wud be gey glad o\u2019t.\u201d\n\nSpeaking of beadles reminds me of another good illustration of the\n\u201cpracticality,\u201d if I may dare to coin a word, of the Scottish mind.\nA country beadle had had repeated cause to complain to his minister\nof interference with his duties on the part of his superannuated\npredecessor. Coming up to the minister one day, \u201cJohn\u2019s been interfeerin\u2019\nagain,\u201d said he, \u201can\u2019 I\u2019ve come to see what\u2019s to be dune?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019m sorry to hear it,\u201d said the minister, \u201cbut as I have told you\nbefore, David, John\u2019s a silly body, and you should try, I think, some\nother means of getting rid of his annoyance than by openly resisting him.\nWhy not follow the Scriptural injunction given for our guidance in such\ncases, and heap coals of fire on your enemy\u2019s head.\u201d\n\n\u201cDod, sir, that\u2019s the very thing,\u201d cried David, taking the minister\nliterally, and grinning and rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect\nof an early and effectual settlement of the long-standing feud.\n\u201cCapital, minister; that\u2019ll sort him; dod, ay\u2014heap lowin\u2019 coals on his\nhead, and burn the wratch!\u201d\n\nWe are proverbially a cautious people. \u201cThe canny Scot\u201d is a world-wide\nterm; but the Paisley man who described Niagara Falls as \u201cnaething but\na perfect waste o\u2019 water,\u201d was canny to a fault. And yet the Moffat\nman\u2014his more inspiring native surroundings notwithstanding\u2014was scarcely\nmore visibly impressed by the same scene. \u201cDid you ever see anything so\ngrand?\u201d demanded his friend who had taken him to see the mighty cataract.\n\n\u201cWeel,\u201d said the Moffat man, \u201cas for grand, I maybe never saw onything\nbetter; but for queer, man, d\u2019ye ken, I ance saw a peacock wi\u2019 a wooden\nleg.\u201d\n\nHow naturally the one thing would suggest the other will not readily\nappear to most folks.\n\nHe was more of a true Scot who, when the schoolmaster in passing along\none day said to him, \u201cI see you are to have a poor crop of potatoes this\nyear, Thomas,\u201d replied\u2014\n\n\u201cAy, but there\u2019s some consolation, sir; John Tamson\u2019s are no a bit\nbetter.\u201d\n\n\u201cHame\u2019s aye hamely,\u201d\u2014some homes are more so than others. The \u201cPaisley\nbodies\u201d have some reason for being proud of their native burgh, as they\nare. I have heard of one who was on a visit to Edinburgh many years ago,\nand during his brief stay there was discovered by one of the city guides\nlying on his face on the Calton Hill, apparently asleep. The summer sun\nwas scorching the back of his uncovered head, and the guide thought it\nhis duty to rouse him up.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no sleepin\u2019,\u201d responded the Paisley man, to the touch of the guide\u2019s\nstaff, \u201cI\u2019m just lyin\u2019 here thinkin\u2019;\u201d then turning himself round and\nlooking up, \u201cAy, freend,\u201d continued he, \u201cI was just lyin\u2019 thinkin\u2019 aboot\nPaisley.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d responded the guide, \u201cI don\u2019t see why any thought of Paisley\nshould enter your head while you can feast your eyes on fair \u2018Edina,\nScotia\u2019s darling Seat,\u2019 as the Poet Burns has called our city here.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaybe ay, an\u2019 maybe no, freend; but it\u2019s no easy gettin\u2019 the thocht o\u2019\nPaisley oot o\u2019 a Paisley man\u2019s head, even although he is in the middle\no\u2019 Edinburgh. Up in yer braw college there, the maist distinguished\nprofessor in it is John Wilson, a Paisley man. In St. George\u2019s kirk, ower\nthere, yer precentor, R. A. Smith\u2014an\u2019 there\u2019s no his marrow again in a\u2019\nScotland\u2014is a Paisley man. In the jail ower by fornent us there\u2019s mair\nthan a\u2019e Paisley callan\u2019 the noo. Syne, ye see the Register House doon\nthere, weel, the woman that sweeps out the passages\u2014an\u2019 my ain kissen\nto boot\u2014is a Paisley woman. An\u2019 so ye see, freend, although ane\u2019s in\nEdinburgh it\u2019s no sae easy gettin\u2019 thochts o\u2019 Paisley kept oot o\u2019 his\nhead.\u201d\n\nThe next illustration is also truly Scotch. Two Lowland crofters lived\nwithin a few hundred yards of each other. One of them, Duncan by name,\nbeing the possessor of \u201cWillison\u2019s Works,\u201d a rarity in the district, his\nneighbour, Donald, sent his boy one day to ask Duncan to favour him with\na reading of the book. \u201cTell your father,\u201d said Duncan, \u201cthat I canna\nlend oot my book, but he may come to my hoose and read it there as lang\nas he likes.\u201d Country folk deal all more or less in \u201cgiff-gaff,\u201d and in\na few days after, Duncan, having to go to the market, and being minus a\nsaddle, sent his boy to ask Donald to give him the loan of his saddle for\nthe occasion. \u201cTell your father,\u201d said Donald, \u201cthat I canna lend oot my\nsaddle; but it\u2019s in the barn, an\u2019 he can come there an\u2019 ride on it a\u2019 day\nif he likes.\u201d\n\nThe cannyness characteristic of our countrymen, sometimes as a matter of\ncourse, is found manifesting itself in ways which, to say the least of\nthem, are peculiar, as witness: A Forfar cobbler, described briefly as \u201ca\nnotorious offender,\u201d was not very long ago brought up before the local\nmagistrate, and being found guilty as libelled, was sentenced to pay a\nfine of half-a-crown, or endure twenty-four hours\u2019 imprisonment. If he\nchose the latter, he would, in accordance with the police arrangements\nof the district, be taken to the jail at Perth. Having his option,\nthe cobbler communed with himself. \u201cI\u2019ll go to Perth,\u201d said he; \u201cI\u2019ve\nbusiness in the toon at ony rate.\u201d An official forthwith conveyed him by\ntrain to the \u201cFair City\u201d; but when the prisoner reached the jail he said\nhe would now pay the fine. The Governor looked surprised, but found he\nwould have to take it. \u201cAnd now,\u201d said the canny cobbler, \u201cI want my\nfare hame.\u201d The Governor demurred, made inquiries, and discovered that\nthere was no alternative; the prisoner must be sent at the public expense\nto the place where he had been brought from. So the crafty son of St.\nCrispin got the 2s. 8\u00bdd., which represented his railway fare, transacted\nhis business, and went home triumphant, 2\u00bdd. and a railway journey the\nbetter for his offence.\n\nOur next specimen is cousin-german to the above. It is of two elderly\nScotch ladies\u2014\u201ctwa auld maids,\u201d to use a more homely phrase\u2014who, on a\ncertain Sunday not very long ago, set out to attend divine service in\nthe Auld Kirk, and discovered on the way thither that they had left home\nwithout the usual small subscription for the \u201cplate.\u201d They resolved not\nto return for the money, but to ask a loan of the necessary amount from a\nfriend whose door they would pass on the way. The friend was delighted to\nbe able to oblige them, and, producing her purse, spread out on the table\na number of coins of various values\u2014halfpennies, pennies, threepenny, and\nsixpenny pieces. The ladies immediately selected a halfpenny each and\nwent away. Later in the course of the same day they appeared to their\nfriend again, and said they had come to repay the loan.\n\n\u201cToots, havers,\u201d exclaimed old Janet, \u201cye needna hae been in sic a hurry\nwi\u2019 the bits o\u2019 coppers; I could hae gotten them frae you at ony time.\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, but,\u201d said the thrifty pair, in subdued and confidential tones, \u201cit\nwas nae trouble ava\u2019, for there was naebody stannin\u2019 at the plate, so we\njust slippit in an\u2019 saved the bawbees.\u201d\n\nNow that is just the sort of anecdote which an Englishman delights to\ncommit to memory and retail in mixed companies of his Scotch and English\nfriends; and, lest he may have heard that one already\u2014may have worn it\nthreadbare, indeed\u2014I will tell another which, if not quite so good, has\nthe advantage of being not so well known. A Scotchman was once advised to\ntake shower baths. A friend explained to him how to fit up one by the use\nof a cistern and colander, and Sandy accordingly set to work and had the\nthing done at once. Subsequently he was met by the friend who had given\nhim the advice, and, being asked how he enjoyed the bath\u2014\n\n\u201cMan,\u201d said he, \u201cit was fine. I liked it rale weel, and kept mysel\u2019 quite\ndry, too.\u201d\n\nBeing asked how he managed to take the shower and yet remain quite dry,\nhe replied\u2014\n\n\u201cDod, ye dinna surely think I was sae daft as stand ablow the water\nwithout an umbrella.\u201d\n\nThat\u2019s truly Scotch. So is the next specimen, as you will presently\nperceive. Two or three nights before the advent of a recent Christmas, a\nScotch laddie of ten years old, or so, was sitting examining very gravely\na somewhat ugly hole in the heel of one of his stockings. At length he\nlooked towards his mother and said\u2014\n\n\u201cMither, ye micht gie me a pair o\u2019 new stockin\u2019s?\u201d\n\n\u201cSo I will, laddie, by and by; but ye\u2019re no sair needin\u2019 new anes yet,\u201d\nsaid his mother.\n\n\u201cWill I get them this week?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat mak\u2019s ye sae anxious to hae them this week?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause, if Santa Claus pits onything into thir anes it\u2019ll fa\u2019 oot.\u201d\n\nHow naturally a Scotsman drops into poetry, too, will be seen from the\nfollowing:\u2014\n\nMr. Dewar, a shopkeeper in Edinburgh, being in want of silver for a bank\nnote, went into the shop of a neighbour of the name of Scott, whom he\nthus addressed\u2014\n\n \u201cI say, Master Scott,\n Can you change me a note?\u201d\n\nMr. Scott\u2019s reply was\u2014\n\n \u201cI\u2019m no very sure, but I\u2019ll see.\u201d\n\nThen going into the back-room, he immediately returned and added\u2014\n\n \u201cIndeed, Mr. Dewar,\n It\u2019s out o\u2019 my power,\n For my wife\u2019s awa\u2019 wi\u2019 the key.\u201d\n\nIt is by furnishing him with choice and representative examples that one\ncan best convey to a stranger a knowledge of the characteristics of our\nnational humour. So much of it depends often on the quaintness of the\nScottish idiom, that it defies explanation, and must be seen, or better\nstill, be heard, to be understood. This course I have pursued in the\npresent paper; and the examples deduced, I think, fairly demonstrate the\nstrong substratum of practical common-sense which underlies, and yet\nmanifests itself in, the lighter elements of the Scottish character,\nfrequently making humour where pathos was meant to be. Take a few more:\u2014\n\nThe wife of a small farmer in Perthshire some time ago went to a\nchemist\u2019s in the \u201cFair City\u201d with two prescriptions\u2014one for her husband,\nthe other for her cow. Finding she had not enough of money to pay for\nboth, the chemist asked her which she would take.\n\n\u201cGie me the stuff for the coo,\u201d said she; \u201cthe morn will do weel eneuch\nfor _him_, puir body. Gin _he_ were to dee I could sune get another man,\nbut I\u2019m no sure that I could sae sune get anither coo.\u201d\n\nThe late Rev. Dr. Begg, was wont to tell of a Scotch woman to whom a\nneighbour said, \u201cEffie, I wonder hoo ye can sleep wi\u2019 sae muckle debt on\nyour heid;\u201d to which Effie quietly answered, \u201cI can sleep fu\u2019 weel; but I\nwonder hoo they can sleep that trust me.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you a native of this parish?\u201d asked a sheriff of a witness who was\nsummoned to testify in a case of distilling.\n\n\u201cMaistly, yer honour,\u201d was the reply.\n\n\u201cI mean, were you born in this parish?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, yer honour, I wisna born in this parish; but I\u2019m maistly a native\nfor a\u2019 that.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou came here when you were a child I suppose, you mean?\u201d said the\nsheriff.\n\n\u201cNo, sir; I\u2019m here just aboot sax year noo.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen how do you come to be mostly a native of the parish?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, ye see, when I cam here, sax year syne, I just weighed eight\nstane, an\u2019 I\u2019m fully seventeen stane noo; so, ye see, that aboot nine\nstane o\u2019 me belangs to this parish, an\u2019 I maun be maistly a native o\u2019t.\u201d\n\nNot very long ago a countryman got married, and soon after invited a\nfriend to his house and introduced him to his new wife, who, by the by,\nwas a person of remarkably plain appearance. \u201cWhat do you think o\u2019 her\nJohn?\u201d he asked his friend, when the good lady had retired from the room\nfor a little. \u201cShe\u2019s no\u2019 very bonnie!\u201d was the candid and discomforting\nreply. \u201cThat\u2019s true,\u201d said the husband; \u201cshe\u2019s no muckle to look at, but\nshe\u2019s a rale gude-hearted woman. Positeevly ugly _outside_, but a\u2019 that\u2019s\nlovely _inside_.\u201d \u201cLord, man, Tam,\u201d said the friend gravely, \u201cit\u2019s a\npeety ye couldna _flype_ her!\u201d\n\nAt a feeing market in Perth a boy was waiting to be hired, when a farmer,\nwho wanted such a servant, accosted him, and after some conversation,\nenquired if he had a written character. The lad replied that he had, but\nit was at home. \u201cBring it with you next Friday,\u201d said the farmer, \u201cand\nmeet me here at two o\u2019clock.\u201d When the parties met again, \u201cWeel, my man,\u201d\nsaid the farmer, \u201cha\u2019e ye got your character?\u201d \u201cNa,\u201d was the reply, \u201cbut\nI\u2019ve gotten _yours_, an\u2019 I\u2019m no comin\u2019!\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s anither row up at the Soutars\u2019,\u201d said Willie Wilson, as he\nshook the rain from his plaid and took his accustomed seat by the inn\nparlour fire. \u201cI heard them at it as I cam\u2019 by just noo.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, ay; there\u2019s aye some fun gaun\u2019 on at the Soutars\u2019,\u201d said another of\nthe company, with a laugh.\n\n\u201cFun? I shouldn\u2019t think there\u2019s much _fun_ in those disgraceful family\ndisturbances,\u201d said the schoolmaster.\n\n\u201cAweel, it\u2019s no\u2019 so vera bad, after a\u2019,\u201d said the other, who had _his_\nshare of matrimonial strife. \u201cYe see, when the wife gets in her tantrums\nshe aye throws a plate or brush, or maybe twa or three, at Sandy\u2019s head.\nGin she hits him _she\u2019s_ gled, and gin she misses him _he\u2019s_ gled; so, ye\nsee, there\u2019s aye some pleasure to a\u2019e side or the ither.\u201d\n\nThe Laird of Balnamoon, riding past a high, steep bank, stopped opposite\na hole in it, and said, \u201cJohn, I saw a brock gang in there.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid ye?\u201d said John; \u201cwill ye haud my horse, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d said the Laird, and away rushed John for a spade.\n\nAfter digging for half an hour, he came back nigh speechless to the\nLaird, who had regarded him musingly.\n\n\u201cI canna find him, sir,\u201d said John.\n\n\u201cDeed,\u201d said the Laird, very coolly, \u201cI wad hae wondered if ye had, for\nit\u2019s ten years an\u2019 mair sin\u2019 I saw him gang in.\u201d\n\nOn one occasion, when the gallant Highlanders were stationed at\nGibraltar, Sandy Macnab was sergeant of the guard, and in due course of\nduty had sent his corporal to make the last relief before four o\u2019clock in\nthe morning. Whilst proceeding to one of the outlying posts the corporal\nmissed his footing, fell over the cliff, and was killed. Meantime\nSergeant Macnab had been filling up the usual guard report, preparatory\nto dismounting. Now, at the foot of the form on which such reports are\nmade out there is a printed inquiry\u2014\u201cAnything extraordinary occurred\nsince mounting guard?\u201d\n\nMacnab, unaware of the accident to his corporal, filled the query space\nup with the word \u201c_Nil_,\u201d and, having no spare copy of the form, sent\nthis in to the orderly-room to take its chance. When the Colonel and\nAdjutant attended in the orderly-room at ten o\u2019clock, learned of the\nmishap, and read Macnab\u2019s report, the latter was peremptorily ordered to\nappear before them.\n\n\u201cMacnab,\u201d cried the Colonel, in a rage, \u201cwhat the devil do you mean by\nfilling up your guard report in this way? You say \u2018Nothing extraordinary\noccurred since mounting guard,\u2019 and yet your poor comrade fell over the\ncliff and was killed.\u201d\n\nSandy, finding himself in a fix, pulled himself together, and after a\nmoment or two of deliberation answered, coolly, \u201cWeel, sir, I dinna see\nonything very extraordinar\u2019 in that. It would hae been something very\nextraordinar\u2019 if he hadna been killed; he fell fowr hunder feet!\u201d\n\nIn Mr. Barrie\u2019s _Little Minister_, a discussion takes place in the\nvillage Parliament as to whether it is possible for a woman to refuse\nto marry a minister. \u201cI once,\u201d said Snecky Hobart, \u201cknew a widow who\ndid. His name was Samson, and if it had been Tamson she would hae ta\u2019en\nhim. Ay, you may look, but it\u2019s true. Her name was Turnbull, and she\nhad another gent after her, named Tibbets. She couldna make up her mind\natween them, and for a while she just keeped them dangling on. Ay, but\nin the end she took Tibbets. And what, think you, was her reason? As you\nken, thae grand folk hae their initials on their spoons and nichtgowns.\nAy, weel, she thocht it would be mair handy to take Tibbets, because if\nshe had ta\u2019en the minister, the _T\u2019s_ would have to be changed to _S\u2019s_.\n_It was thochtfu\u2019 o\u2019 her._\u201d\n\nOur next two specimens show how waggish the Scotch can be.\n\nA farmer, returning from a Northern tryst, accompanied by his servant\nPate, not many years ago, halted for refreshment at the Inn of Glamis,\nwhere, meeting with a number of friends, a jolly party was soon formed.\nUnder the cheering hospitality of the gude wife of the inn they cracked\ntheir jokes and told their tales, till at length the farmer proposed\nthat his attendant, Pate, should enliven the meeting with a song. One\nof the party, who professed to have an estimate of the shepherd\u2019s vocal\nabilities, sneeringly replied, \u201cWhaur can Pate sing?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat d\u2019ye say?\u201d answered the farmer. \u201cCan Pate no sing? I\u2019m thinkin\u2019\nhe\u2019s sung to as good fouk, an\u2019 better than you, in his time. I\u2019ll tell ye\no\u2019 a\u2019e place whaur he has been kent to sing wi\u2019 mair honour to himsel\u2019\nthan ye can brag o\u2019, and that\u2019s before the Queen. Ay, an\u2019 if it will\nheighten him ony in your estimation, I\u2019ll prove to you, for the wager o\u2019a\nbottle o\u2019 brandy, that he even sleepit, an\u2019 that no\u2019 sae lang syne, in\nthe same hoose she was in.\u201d\n\nThinking this latter assertion outstretched the limits of all\nprobability, the wager was immediately taken by the party, when, to the\nsatisfaction of all the others present, the worthy farmer proved the\ntruth of his allegations by telling how, accompanied by Pate, he had\nbeen to the Kirk of Crathie on the Sunday previous, and that during\nthe service, and in presence of Her Royal Majesty, Pate had both sung\nand slept. The farmer won the wager, and the bottle circulated, amid\ncontinued outbursts of stentorian laughter.\n\nA worthy laird in a Perthshire village made the, for him, wonderful\njourney to see the great Exhibition of 1851. On his return, his banker,\na man who was well known to have the idea that he was by far the most\ninfluential and potent power in the shire, invited the laird, with some\ncronies, to a glass of punch. The banker meant to amuse the company at\nthe old laird\u2019s expense, to trot him out, and get him to describe the\nsights of London. \u201cAn\u2019 what, laird, most of all impressed you at the\ngreat glass house?\u201d asked the banker, with a sly wink at the company.\n\u201cAh, weel, sir,\u201d replied the laird, as he emptied his glass, \u201cI was\nmuckle impressed wi\u2019 a\u2019 I saw\u2014muckle impressed! But the thing abune a\u2019\nthat impressed me maist was my ain insignificance. Losh, banker, I wad\nstrongly advise you to gang; it would do _you_ a vast amount o\u2019 guid,\nsir!\u201d\n\nThe next example affords the promise of an abundant harvest of humour off\nthe rising generation of Scotsmen.\n\nA little boy, whom we shall call Johnnie, just because that is his name,\nwas not very long since employed as message-boy to a grocer in a small\ncountry town in the west, said grocer being an ardent advocate and\nsupporter of the Conservative party in the State. One morning Johnnie was\nan hour or so late in turning out for duty, and on entering was promptly\ninterrogated by his master as to the cause.\n\n\u201cThe cat\u2019s had kittlins this mornin\u2019,\u201d asseverated the lad,\nassuming a look of great earnestness; \u201cfour o\u2019 them, an\u2019 they\u2019re a\u2019\nConservatives.\u201d[1]\n\n [1] By the simple transposition of the words \u201cConservatives\u201d\n and \u201cLeeberals\u201d the politics of this story may be adapted to\n suit any select company or association of individuals in these\n realms, as by the same practice I have seen it made to serve\n the interests of various Liberal and Conservative newspapers\n since I first printed it in the _People\u2019s Journal_ some years\n ago.\n\n\u201cGet in bye and tidy up that back shop,\u201d said the shopkeeper gruffly, not\nat the moment in a mood to enquire fully into the extraordinary feline\nphenomenon. One day, nearly a fortnight afterwards, the following sequel\nadded itself, however, and there was a perfect understanding established.\nA commercial traveller, who is also a true-blue Tory, called at the shop,\nand was discussing with the grocer the chances of victory or failure to\ntheir party in an approaching bye-election. Said the grocer, \u201cOur party\nis gaining strength in the country, of that I am convinced, and with\nreason; why, my message-boy was telling me recently that his mother\u2019s\ncat has had kittens\u2014four of them\u2014and they are all Conservatives.\u201d The\ntraveller laughed, as only travellers who are anticipating an order can\nlaugh. When Johnnie entered the premises with his basket on his arm and a\ntune in his mouth.\n\n\u201cHillo, Johnnie!\u201d exclaimed the commercial, \u201cand so your cat has had\nkittens, has she? Eh?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d replied Johnnie, \u201cfour o\u2019 them.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd all Conservatives, too, I believe?\u201d remarked the traveller.\n\n\u201cNa,\u201d said Johnnie: \u201cthey\u2019re Leeberals.\u201d\n\n\u201cLiberals! you told me a fortnight ago they were Conservatives,\u201d\ninterposed the master.\n\n\u201cOu, ay; of course,\u201d returned Johnnie, with the utmost gravity. \u201cThey\nwere Conservatives yon time, _but they\u2019re seein\u2019 noo_!\u201d\n\nJust one more here. There is a cobbler in a little town in the North\u2014a\nworthy old soul, as it would appear, whose custom has been for many\nyears to hammer and whistle from morn to night in his little shop, and\nto discharge both functions so lustily as to be easily heard by the\npassers-by in the street. One day not long since the minister, happening\nto pass, missed the whistling accompaniment to the measured click on the\nlapstone, and looked in to ascertain the cause. \u201cIs all well with you,\nSaunders?\u201d he asked. \u201cNa, na, sir; it\u2019s far frae bein\u2019 a\u2019 weel wi\u2019 me.\nThe sweep\u2019s gane an\u2019 ta\u2019en the shop ower my head.\u201d \u201cOh, that\u2019s bad news,\nindeed,\u201d responded the minister, \u201cbut I think you might see your way out\nof the difficulty soon if, as I always urge in cases of emergency, you\nwould make the matter a subject of earnest prayer.\u201d Saunders promised to\ndo this, and the preacher departed. In less than a week he returned, and\nfound the old cobbler hammering and whistling away in his old familiar\n\u201cmight and main\u201d fashion. \u201cWell, Saunders, how is it now?\u201d \u201cOh, it\u2019s a\u2019\nricht, minister,\u201d was the reply. \u201cI did as ye tell\u2019d me, an\u2019\u2014_the sweep\u2019s\ndeid_.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nHUMOUR OF OLD SCOTCH DIVINES\n\n\nThe late Lord Neaves, himself a man of a genial, humorous nature, was\nwont to complain pleasantly of his friend Dean Ramsay for having drawn\nso many specimens of Scottish humour from the sayings and doings of\nthe native clergy. But the worthy Dean, to employ a figure of his own\nrecording, simply \u201cbiggit\u2019s dyke wi\u2019 the feal at fit o\u2019t;\u201d in other\nwords, he gathered most grain from the field which had produced the most\nabundant crop\u2014the field of clerical life and work. Your typical pastor,\nit is true, has not to any extent been remarkable as a humourist\u2014the\nreverse may with more truth be said of him. At the same time the Scottish\npulpit has contained many earnest, good men, who were also genuine\nhumourists. Yea, than the good old Scotch divines, certainly no other\nclass or section of the community has laid up to its credit so many\nwitty and humorous sayings that are destined to live with the language\nin which they are uttered. Every parish in the land has stories to tell\nof such pastors. It is only necessary to mention such prominent names\nas the Revs. Robert Shirra, of Kirkcaldy; Walter Dunlop, of Dumfries;\nJohn Skinner, of Longside, the author of \u201cTullochgorum\u201d; Mr. Thom, of\nGovan; and the late Drs. Norman Macleod and William Anderson, of Glasgow,\nto suggest many other bright and shining lights. There have been many\nministers of the Gospel, of course, who, not at all witty themselves,\nyet, by reason of certain idiosyncrasies of nature and eccentricities of\ncharacter, have been the cause of wit in others. These, however, do not\ncome within the scope of the present paper. Here we shall deal not with\n_negative_ but with _positive_ clerical humorists only.\n\nMuch of the old clerical humour of Scotland came direct from the pulpit,\nand was part and parcel of the pastoral matter and method of the time.\nThe preaching of to-day gives but the faintest idea of the preaching of\na hundred years ago. The sermon of the old divine was very much in the\nstyle of an easy conversation, interspersed with occasional parentheses\napplicable to individual characters or to the circumstances which arose\nbefore his eyes in church.\n\nDean Ramsay, in his faithful _Reminiscences_, tells of a clergyman who,\nobserving one of his flock asleep during his sermon, paused, and called\nhim to order, thus\u2014\u201cJeems Robson, ye are sleepin\u2019. I insist on your\nwauking when God\u2019s word is preached to ye.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook at your ain seat and ye\u2019ll see a sleeper forby me,\u201d answered Jeems,\npointing to the clergyman\u2019s lady in the minister\u2019s pew.\n\n\u201cThen, Jeems,\u201d said the minister, \u201cwhen ye see my wife asleep again haud\nup your hand.\u201d\n\nBy and by the arm was stretched out, and sure enough the fair lady was\ncaught in the act. Her husband solemnly called upon her to stand up and\nreceive the censure due to her offence, and thus addressed her\u2014\u201cMrs. B.,\na\u2019body kens that when I got ye for my wife I got nae beauty; yer freens\nken I got nae siller; and, if I didna get God\u2019s grace, I hae gotten a\npuir bargain indeed.\u201d\n\nIt is fortunate for some folks, both you and I know, my reader, that\nChurch discipline is not so rigorously enforced nowadays.\n\nMr. Shirra, of Kirkcaldy, distinguished for his homely and remarkable\nsayings, both in the pulpit and abroad, was greatly given to personal\nreproof in the course of divine service, and had a happy knack of\nsometimes killing two birds with one stone. One day, observing a young\ngirl with a large and rather gaudy new bonnet, with which she herself\nseemed immoderately pleased, and also noticing or suspecting that his\nwife was indulging in a quiet nap, he paused in the middle of his sermon\nand said\u2014\u201cLook ony o\u2019 ye there if my wife be sleepin\u2019, for I canna see\nher for thae fine falderals on Jenny Bain\u2019s new bonnet.\u201d One day a\nweaver entered Shirra\u2019s kirk dressed in the new uniform then procured\nfor the volunteers, just raised. He kept walking about for a time as if\nlooking for a seat, but really to show off his finery, which he perceived\nwas attracting the attention of some of the less grave members of the\ncongregation. He came to his place, however, rather quickly on Shirra\nquietly remarking, \u201cJust sit down there, my man, and we\u2019ll a\u2019 see your\nnew breeks when the kirk skails.\u201d\n\nThis same Shirra was addicted to parenthetical remarks when reading the\nScriptures, and one day, when reading from the 116th Psalm, \u201cI said in my\nhaste, all men are liars,\u201d he quietly remarked\u2014\u201cIndeed, Dauvid, gin ye\nhad lived in this parish ye might hae said it at your leisure.\u201d\n\nThis, good as it is, was almost equalled by the remarks of an Edinburgh\nminister. The Rev. Mr. Scott, of the Cowgate, was a man of some\npopularity, but was seldom on good terms with his flock. One day, as he\nwas preaching on Job, he said\u2014\u201cMy brethren, Job, in the first place, was\na sairly tried man; Job, in the second place, was an uncommonly patient\nman; Job, in the third place, never preached in the Cowgate; fourthly,\nand lastly, if Job _had_ preached here, gude help his patience.\u201d\n\nThe Rev. James Oliphant, of Dumbarton, was especially quaint in the\npulpit. In reading the Scriptures, his habit was to make parenthetical\ncomments in undertones. On this account the seats in nearest proximity\nto the pulpit were always best filled. Reading, one day, the passage\nwhich describes the possessed swine running into the deep and being there\nchoked, he was heard to mutter, \u201cOh, that the deevil had been chockit\ntoo.\u201d Again, in the passage as to Peter exclaiming, \u201cWe have left all and\nfollowed Thee,\u201d the remark was, \u201cAye boasting, Peter, aye bragging; what\nhad ye to leave but an auld, crazy boat, and maybe twa or three rotten\nnets?\u201d There was considerable ingenuity in the mode by which Mr. Oliphant\nsought to establish the absolute wickedness of the devil. \u201cFrom the word\n_devil_,\u201d said Mr. Oliphant, \u201cwhich means an _enemy_, take the d and you\nhave _evil_; remove the e and you have _vil_ (vile); take away the v and\nit is _ill_; and so you see, my brethren, he\u2019s just an _ill_, _vile_,\n_evil devil_!\u201d\n\nA late minister of Crossmichael, in Galloway, did not disdain to\nillustrate his subjects with such images and allusions as were within the\ncomprehension of his homely hearers. Accordingly, one Sabbath morning,\nhe read a verse from the book of Exodus, as follows\u2014\u201cAnd the Lord said\nunto Moses\u2014shut that door; I\u2019m thinkin\u2019 if ye had to sit beside the door\nyersel\u2019 ye wadna be sae ready leavin\u2019 it open; it was just beside that\ndoor that Yedam Tamson, the bellman, gat his death o\u2019 cauld, an\u2019 I\u2019m\nsure, honest man, he didna let it stey muckle open.\u2014And the Lord said\nunto Moses\u2014put oot that dog; wha is\u2019t that brings dogs to the kirk,\nyaff-yaffin\u2019? Lat me never see ye bring yer dogs here ony mair, or I\u2019ll\nput you an\u2019 them baith oot.\u2014And the Lord said unto Moses\u2014I see a man\naneath that wast laft wi\u2019 his hat on; I\u2019m sure ye\u2019re clean oot o\u2019 the\nsouch o\u2019 the door; keep aff yer bonnet, Tammas, an\u2019 if yer bare pow be\ncauld, ye maun jist get a grey worset wig like mysel\u2019; they\u2019re no sae\ndear; plenty o\u2019 them at Bob Gillespie\u2019s for tenpence.\u201d This said, he\nagain began the verse, and at last made out the instructions to Moses in\na manner more strictly in accordance with the text and with decency.\n\nAnother, remarkable for the simplicity and force of his style, was\ndiscoursing from the text, \u201cExcept ye repent ye shall all likewise\nperish,\u201d and in order to impress upon his hearers the importance of\nattending to the solemn truth conveyed in the passage\u2014\u201cYes, my freens,\u201d\nhe emphatically exclaimed, \u201cunless ye repent ye shall all perish, just as\nsurely as I\u2019m gaun to ding the guts oot o\u2019 that muckle blue flee that\u2019s\nlichtit on my Bible.\u201d Before the blow was struck the fly got away, upon\nwhich he struck the book with all his might and exclaimed at the top of\nhis voice, \u201cMy freens, there\u2019s a chance for ye yet!\u201d\n\nDr. Paul, in his _Past and Present of Aberdeenshire_, tells of a minister\nwho, while preaching on the subject of the wiles and crafts of Satan,\nsuddenly paused, and then exclaimed\u2014\u201cSee him sittin\u2019 there in the crap o\u2019\nthe wa\u2019. What shall we do wi\u2019 him, my brethren? He winna hang, for he\u2019s\nlicht as a feather; neither will he droon, my brethren, for he can soom\nlike a cork; but we\u2019ll shoot him wi\u2019 the gun o\u2019 the Gospel.\u201d Then putting\nhimself in the position of one aiming at an object, and imitating the\nnoise of a shot, the minister called out exultingly, \u201cHe\u2019s doon like a\ndead craw!\u201d\n\nThis incident would have greatly delighted the man who thus described\nthe kind of minister he was in search of\u2014\u201cNane o\u2019 your guid-warks men,\nor preachers o\u2019 cauld morality for me! Gie me a speerit-rousin\u2019 preacher\nthat\u2019ll haud the deil under the noses of the congregation and mak\u2019 their\nflesh creep!\u201d\n\nIt is related of a certain divine, whose matrimonial relations are\nsupposed not to have been of the most agreeable kind, that one Sabbath\nmorning, while reading to his congregation the parable of the Supper, in\nwhich occurs the passage\u2014\u201cAnd another said, I have bought five yoke of\noxen, and I go to prove them; I pray thee have me excused. And another\nsaid, I have married a wife, and therefore cannot come,\u201d he suddenly\npaused at the end of this verse, drew off his spectacles, and, looking\non his hearers, said with emphasis\u2014\u201cThe fact is, my brethren, one woman\ncan draw a man farther away from the kingdom of heaven than fifty yoke of\noxen.\u201d\n\nThey were hard nuts to crack, many of these old preachers.\n\nA late Earl of Airlie, when Lord High Commissioner, had the retiring\nModerator to dinner with him on the evening previous to the opening\nof the General Assembly. In a spirit of mischief, the Earl tried\nto unfit him for his duties on the following day. As often as the\nreverend gentleman would endeavour to retire, the Earl met him with the\nexclamation, \u201cAnother glass, and then!\u201d In spite of his late potations,\nthe minister was in his place on the following day, and preached\nfrom the words, \u201cThe wicked shall be punished, and that right early.\u201d\nNotwithstanding the manifest impatience of the Commissioner, the sermon\nwas spun out to an inordinate length, the minister repeating with meaning\nemphasis each time that the sand glass which showed the half-hours was\nturned, \u201cAnother glass, and then! The wicked shall be punished, and that\nright _early_.\u201d\n\nA certain divine\u2014or perhaps we should say an _un_-certain\ndivine\u2014preaching a sermon from the parable of the prodigal son, took as\nhis text the words, \u201cAnd when he came to himself,\u201d and gave a reading of\nthe passage at once unique and original. \u201cWe have here, brethren,\u201d said\nhe, \u201can instance of the wonderful depth of meaning there is in Scripture.\nWe see how low this unprincipled young man had fallen. \u2018When he came to\nhimself\u2019\u2014what does it mean? Well, look at home. What do we do when our\nmoney\u2019s gone and we\u2019ve no credit? What do we turn to? The pawnshop. So\ndid he. First, his coat would go; he might live a week on that. Then his\nwaistcoat; that wouldn\u2019t serve him long. Lastly, his shirt would follow;\nand then\u2014ah, then, my friends, he came to _himself_! He couldn\u2019t pawn\nhimself, and so he went home to his father.\u201d\n\nThe older style of preaching was often wonderfully graphic as well as\namusing. Preaching from that text in Ecclesiastes\u2014\u201cDead flies cause the\nointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour; so doth a\nlittle folly him that is in reputation for wisdom and honour,\u201d a north\ncountry divine illustrated his subject by this example:\u2014\u201cSee John at the\nkirk, an\u2019 he looks amon\u2019 folk like a man o\u2019 mense; but follow him to\nthe peat-moss, an\u2019 ye\u2019ll hear him tellin\u2019 coorse stories to the loons\nan\u2019 queans, haudin\u2019 them lauchin\u2019 at sin. There\u2019s a dead flee in John\u2019s\nsowl.\u201d Sometimes, in his endeavour to give a vivid description, this\nsame preacher became delightfully grotesque. Referring to Jonah\u2014\u201cThe\nwhawl,\u201d he said, \u201cshoutherin\u2019 awa\u2019 the waves, got at last geyan near the\nshore, and cried _Byock-up_. But Jonah didna come. Then the whawl cried\n[speaking it louder, and imitating the whale retching], BYOCK-UP! But na!\nJonah aye stack. Then the whawl cried [speaking it very loud and slow],\nBYOCK-UP! Noo, sirs, divna ye see Jonah rinnin\u2019, dreepin\u2019, up the beach.\u201d\nOnce he described the progress of a sinner in a course of vice to the\nlast stage of his hopelessness, when there is nothing left for him but a\ncry of pain\u2014\u201cSirs, oot owre yon knowe there\u2019s a sheepie tether\u2019t, an\u2019 in\no\u2019 reach o\u2019 its tether there\u2019s a breem buss [broom bush], an\u2019 it gangs\nroond the buss, an\u2019 roond the buss, till it\u2019s hankit at the head, an\u2019\nthen, what does it dee? It cries, _Bae_! That\u2019s just the sinner cryin\u2019\noot in its meesery.\u201d In the same sermon, looking down upon the old women\nwho sat near the pulpit and on the pulpit stair for the purpose of better\nhearing, in their clean white mutches, he said\u2014\u201cHere ye\u2019re a\u2019 sittin\u2019,\nwi\u2019 yer auld wither\u2019t faces, that\u2019s bonnier to me than a lass in her\nteens, for I ken ye hae seen sixty or seventy years, ilka ane o\u2019 ye, an\u2019\nyer auld faces just say to me, \u2018We hae served our Maister threescore\nyears thegither, an\u2019 we\u2019re no tired servin\u2019 Him yet.\u2019\u201d It does not\nsurprise one to be told that this reference to the old women put them in\na state of visible emotion.\n\nThe quaint homeliness thus manifested in the lesson and in the sermon\nfound a place now and again in the prayers; and a west country divine,\nin the course of a wet harvest, in praying for more suitable weather,\nexpressed himself thus:\u2014\u201cO Lord, gie us nae mair watter for a season,\nbut wind\u2014plenty o\u2019 wind, an\u2019 yet, O Lord, nane o\u2019 yer rantin\u2019, tantin\u2019,\ntearin\u2019 winds, but an oughin\u2019, soughin\u2019, winnin\u2019 wind.\u201d\n\nAnother, similarly circumstanced, prayed \u201cthat the floodgates of heaven\nmight be shut for a season.\u201d This was towards the close of a protracted\nperiod of rain and storm, and the weather had never been worse than on\nthis particular Sabbath. And, just as the good man persisted in his\npetition, a fierce gust of wind bore the roof-window of the church down\nwith a crash, which was succeeded by a terrific clatter of broken glass.\n\u201cOh,\u201d he exclaimed, assuming an attitude of despair, \u201cO Lord, this is\nperfectly ridiculous!\u201d\n\nHe was more of a philosopher who, when his good lady told him that he did\nnot _insist_ enough when praying for a change of weather, replied, \u201cNae\nuse o\u2019 insistin\u2019, Marget, until the change o\u2019 the mune.\u201d\n\nThe pastor of a small congregation of Dissenters in the West of Scotland,\nwho, in prayer, often employed terms of familiarity towards the Great\nBeing whom he invoked, was praying one day that such weather would\nbe granted as was necessary for the ripening and gathering in of the\nfruits of the earth, when, pausing suddenly, he added in a lower tone of\nvoice\u2014\u201cBut what needs I talk! When I was up at the Shotts the other day,\neverything was as green as leeks!\u201d\n\nThe Rev. Dr. Young, of Perth, used to be annoyed by a couple coming to\nchurch, sitting away in the gallery, \u201cssh-ssh\u201d as they talked in lovers\u2019\nlanguage all through the service. He could stand it no longer, so one\nSunday he stopped in the middle of his sermon, looked up to the gallery,\nand said, \u201cIf that couple in the right hand gallery there will come\nto me on Monday I will marry them for nothing, if they will stop that\n\u2018ssh-ssh\u2019!\u201d\n\nThe Rev. John Ross, of Blairgowrie, indulged a propensity for versifying\nin his pulpit announcements, and one day, at the close of the service,\nintimated that\n\n \u201cThe Milton, the Hilton, Rochabie, and Tammamoon,\n Will a\u2019 be examined on Thursday afternoon.\u201d\n\nAnd now we are induced to follow our subject out of the pulpit and into\nthe wider sphere of pastoral life. It was here more particularly that\nthe pungent and ready wit of the famous Watty Dunlop got full reign\nand enjoyed free play. The best known anecdote of this worthy relates\nto an occasion when he happened to be accompanying a funeral through a\nstraggling village in the parish of Caerlaverock. Entering at one end of\nthe hamlet he met a man driving a flock of geese. The wayward disposition\nof the feathered bipeds at the moment was too much for the driver\u2019s\ntemper, and he indignantly cried out, \u201cDeevil choke ye!\u201d Mr. Dunlop\nwalked a little further on, and passed a farm-stead where a servant\nwas driving a number of swine, and banning them with \u201cDeevil tak\u2019 ye!\u201d\nUpon which Mr. Dunlop stepped up to him, and said, \u201cAy, ay, my man, yer\ngentleman\u2019ll be wi\u2019 ye i\u2019 the noo; he\u2019s just back the road there a bit\nchokin\u2019 some geese till a man.\u201d\n\nThan Mr. Dunlop few ministers were more esteemed by their congregations\nas faithful and affectionate pastors, and so much respected by all\ndenominations. And no doubt his freedom of speech and frankness of manner\nwere important factors in bringing about this happy result. Here we\nhave a capital example of his free and easy manner. While pursuing his\npastoral visitations among some of the country members of his flock, he\ncame one evening to a farmhouse where he was expected; and the mistress,\nthinking that he would be in need of refreshment, proposed that he should\ntake his tea before engaging in _exercise_, and said she would soon\nhave it ready. Mr. Dunlop\u2019s reply was, \u201cI aye tak\u2019 my tea better when my\nwark\u2019s dune. I\u2019ll just be gaun on. Ye can hing the pan on, an\u2019 lea the\ndoor ajee, an\u2019 I\u2019ll draw to a close when I hear the ham fizzlin\u2019.\u201d With\nthe frankness so characteristic of him, this divine did not hesitate\noccasionally to intimate how agreeable certain presents would be to\nhimself and his better-half. Accordingly, on a further \u201cvisitation\u201d\noccasion, and while at a \u201cdenner-tea,\u201d as he called it, at the close of\na hard day\u2019s labour, he kept incessantly praising the ham, and stated\nthat Mrs. Dunlop at home was as fond of ham as he was. His hostess took\nthe hint, and kindly offered to send Mrs. Dunlop the present of a ham.\n\u201cIt\u2019s unco kind o\u2019 ye\u2014unco kind o\u2019 ye,\u201d replied the divine; \u201cbut I\u2019ll\nno put ye to sae muckle trouble. I\u2019ll just tak\u2019 it hame on the horse\nafore me.\u201d On leaving, he mounted, and the ham was put into a sack,\nbut some difficulty was experienced in getting it to lie properly.\nHis inventive genius, however, soon cut the Gordion knot. \u201cI think,\nmistress,\u201d said he, \u201ca cheese in the ither end o\u2019 the poke would mak\u2019 a\ngrand balance.\u201d The gudewife could not resist an appeal so neatly put,\nand, like another John Gilpin, the crafty and facetious divine moved away\nwith his \u201cbalance true.\u201d Mr. Dunlop\u2019s _penchant_ for \u201cpresents\u201d was, of\ncourse, well known, and on one occasion at least brought him into rather\nan awkward predicament. While engaged in offering up prayer in a house\nat which he was visiting, a peculiar sound was heard to issue from his\ngreatcoat pocket. This was afterwards discovered to have proceeded from\na half-choked duck which he had \u201cgotten in a present,\u201d and whose neck he\nhad been squeezing all the time to prevent its crying.\n\nOn one occasion two irreverent young fellows determined, as they put it,\n\u201cto taigle (confound) the minister.\u201d Therefore, coming up to him in the\nHigh Street of Dumfries, they accosted him with much apparent solemnity,\nsaying\u2014\n\n\u201cMr. Dunlop, hae ye heard the news?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat news?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, the deil\u2019s dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs he?\u201d quoth Mr. Dunlop; \u201cthen I maun pray for twa faitherless bairns.\u201d\n\nOn another occasion, Mr. Dunlop met, with characteristic humour, an\nattempt to play off a trick on him. It was known that he was to dine\nwith a minister whose house was situated close to the church, so that\nhis return walk must be through the churchyard. Accordingly, some idle\nand mischievous fellows waited for him in the middle of the kirkyard,\ndressed in the popularly accredited habiliments of a ghost, hoping to put\nhim in a terrible fright. \u201cIs\u2019t a general risin\u2019?\u201d inquired Watty, as he\nleisurely passed by the unco figure, \u201cor are ye just takin\u2019 a daunder yer\nlane?\u201d\n\nThe celebrated Edward Irving had been lecturing at Dumfries, and a man\nwho passed as a wag in the locality had been to hear him. He met Watty\nDunlop the following day, who said\u2014\n\n\u201cWeel, Willie, man, an\u2019 what do you think o\u2019 Mr. Irving?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said Willie, contemptuously, \u201cthe man\u2019s crackit.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, Willie,\u201d rejoined Dunlop, patting the man quietly on the shoulder,\n\u201cbut ye\u2019ll aften see a bright light shinin\u2019 through a crack.\u201d No\nrejoinder was ever more pat.\n\nOf similar grit with the facetious Watty Dunlop was another Watty: to\nwit, the Rev. Walter Morrison, a well-known north country divine. It is\ntold of this worthy that when he was entreating the commanding officer\nof a regiment at Fort-George to pardon a poor fellow who had been sent\nto the halberts, the officer declared he would grant the culprit a free\npardon on the condition that Mr. Morrison should accord with the first\nfavour he (the officer) asked. The preacher at once agreed. The favour\nwas to perform the ceremony of baptism for his young puppy. A merry\nparty was invited to the christening, and much fun was expected at the\nminister\u2019s expense. But they had been reckoning without their host.\nOn his arrival, Mr. Morrison desired the officer to hold up the pup.\n\u201cAs I am a minister of the Kirk of Scotland,\u201d said he, \u201cI must proceed\naccordingly.\u201d The Major said he asked no more. \u201cWell then, Major, I begin\nwith the usual question\u2014You acknowledge yourself the father of this\npuppy?\u201d The Major saw he had been over-reached, and threw away the animal\namid the loud laughter of his brother officers.\n\nThe humour of John Skinner, for sixty-four years the Episcopal minister\nof Longside, who was the friend and correspondent of Robert Burns, and\nthe author of \u201cTullochgorum,\u201d \u201cThe Ewie wi\u2019 the Crookit Horn,\u201d \u201cJohn\no\u2019 Badenyon,\u201d and many other capital songs, was of the finest quality,\nstanding in that respect in striking contrast to the humour of the U.P.\nminister of Dumfries. One specimen will suffice here, and I give it\nexactly as recorded by Dean Ramsay. Being present at a party (I think,\nsays the Dean, at Lord Forbes\u2019s), where were also several ministers of\nthe Establishment, the conversation over their wine turned, among other\nthings, on the Prayer Book. Skinner took no part in it till one minister\nremarked to him\u2014\n\n\u201cThe great fault I hae to your Prayer Book is that ye use the Lord\u2019s\nPrayer sae aften. Ye just mak\u2019 a dishclout o\u2019t.\u201d\n\nSkinner\u2019s rejoinder was, \u201cVerra true; ay, man, we mak\u2019 a dishclout o\u2019t,\nan\u2019 we wring\u2019t, an\u2019 we wring\u2019t, an\u2019 the bree o\u2019t washes a\u2019 the lave o\u2019\nour prayers.\u201d The reply was witty and clever, and without gall.\n\nHere you have another admirable example of the retort courteous. An old\nEdinburgh Doctor of Divinity, whose nose and chin were both very long,\nlost his teeth, and the nose and chin were thus brought, like the nose\nand chin of Willie Wastle\u2019s wife, to \u201cthreaten ither.\u201d A friend of his,\naccordingly, looking him broad in the face, jokingly observed\u2014\n\n\u201cI am afraid, Doctor, your nose and chin will fight before long; they\napproach each other very menacingly.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am afraid of it myself,\u201d was the ready and good-humoured reply, \u201cfor a\ngreat many words have passed between them already.\u201d\n\nThe Rev. Dr. Lawson, of Selkirk, a pious, able, and esteemed man, was\nreputed for indulging in those sallies of humour which not unfrequently\navail in conveying salutary council when a graver method would prove\nineffectual. His medical advisor, says Dr. Charles Rogers, had contracted\nthe unworthy habit of using profane oaths. The Doctor had sent for him to\nconsult him upon the state of his health, when, after hearing a narrative\nof his complaints, the physician rather angrily said, \u201cDamn it, sir, you\nare the slave of a vile habit, and you will not soon recover unless you\nat once give it up.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what is the habit you refer to?\u201d inquired the patient.\n\n\u201cIt is your practice of smoking\u2014the use of tobacco is injuring your\nconstitution.\u201d\n\n\u201cI find it is an expensive habit,\u201d said Dr. Lawson, \u201cand if it is\ninjuring me I shall abandon it; but will you permit me to give you a\nhint, too, as to a vile habit of your own; and which, were you to give\nit up, would be a great benefit to yourself and comfort to your friends?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is that?\u201d inquired the M.D.\n\n\u201cI refer to your habit of profane swearing,\u201d replied the divine.\n\n\u201cTrue,\u201d said Dr. \u2e3a, \u201cbut that is not an expensive habit, like yours.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoctor!\u201d rejoined Lawson, \u201cI warn you that you will discover it to be a\nvery expensive habit indeed when the account is handed to you.\u201d\n\nAnother anecdote of a similar nature is recorded of this divine. He\nwas dining at a friend\u2019s house. A gentleman of the party was, in\nconversation, frequently employing the words, \u201cThe devil take me.\u201d Dr.\nLawson at length arose, and ordered his horse. The host was surprised,\nand insisted upon his remaining, as dinner had scarcely begun. But\nnothing could prevail on him to do so; and when pressed to give a reason\nfor his abrupt departure, he replied, \u201cThat gentleman there\u201d (pointing to\nhim) \u201chas been praying that the devil would take him; and as I have no\nwish to be present at the scene, I beg to be allowed to depart.\u201d\n\nAt a subsequent period of his ministry, Dr. Lawson was appointed\nProfessor in the Divinity Hall of the Associate Church. One morning he\nappeared in the Hall with his wig somewhat _tousie_ and all on one side.\nA student whispered to his neighbour, \u201cSee, his wig is no redd the day.\u201d\nThe Doctor heard, but took no notice of it at the time; but when it came\nto the turn of this student to deliver a discourse, he was invited to the\npulpit with these words from the professor\u2014\u201cCome awa, Mr. \u2e3a, and we\u2019ll\nsee wha\u2019s got the best redd wig.\u201d\n\nDr. Macfarlane, in his biography of Dr. Lawson, gives a story of another\nSelkirk minister\u2014Mr. Law, afterwards of Kirkcaldy\u2014who was equally\nremarkable with Dr. Lawson for wit and satire, piety and talent. There\nwas a sort of scoffing character in the town in which Mr. Law lived,\ncommonly called Jock Hammon. Jock had a nickname for Mr. Law, which,\nthough profane, had reference to the well-known evangelical character\nof his ministry. \u201cThere\u2019s the grace of God,\u201d he would say, as he saw\nthe good man passing by; and he actually talked of him under that\ndesignation. It so happened that Mr. Law had on one occasion consented\nto take the chair at some public meeting. The hour of meeting was past,\nthe place of meeting was filled, but no minister appeared. Symptoms of\nimpatience were manifested, when a voice was heard from one corner of\nthe hall\u2014\u201cMy freends, there will be nae \u2018Grace of God\u2019 here this nicht!\u201d\nJust at this moment the door opened and Mr. Law appeared, casting, as\nhe entered, a rather knowing look upon Jock Hammon, as Jock ejaculated\nthese words. On taking the chair Mr. Law apologised for being so late.\n\u201cI had,\u201d he said, \u201cto go into the country to preside at the examination\nof a village school, and really the young folks conducted themselves so\nwell that I could scarce get away from them. If you please, I will give\nyou a specimen of the examination. I called up an intelligent-looking\ngirl, and asked her if she had ever heard of any one who had erected\na gallows for another and who had been hanged on it himself? \u2018Yes,\u2019\nreplied the girl, \u2018it was Haman.\u2019 With that up started another little\ngirl, and she said, \u2018Eh, minister, that\u2019s no true; Hammon\u2019s no hanged\nyet, for I saw him at the public-hoose door this forenoon, and he was\nswearing like a trooper!\u2019\u201d (Upon this there was a considerable tittering\namong the audience, and eyes were directed to the corner where Jock was\nsitting.) \u201cYou are both quite right, my dears,\u201d said Mr. Law. \u201cYour\n_Haman_ was really hanged, as he deserved to be; and\u201d (turning towards\nthe other) \u201cyour _Hammon_, my lammie, is no hanged yet\u2014by \u2018the grace of\nGod,\u2019\u201d he added, with a solemnity of tone which removed every thought of\nirreverence from the allusion.\n\nVery sharp and stinging was the wit and satire of the well-known Thom\nof Govan. One day when he was preaching before the magistrates, he is\nreported to have suddenly halted and said, \u201cDinna snore sae loud, Bailie\nBroon, ye\u2019ll wauken the Provost.\u201d On another occasion, the circumstances\nof which were very similar, he suddenly stopped in his discourse, took\nout his snuff-box, tapped it on the lid, and took a pinch of snuff with\nthe greatest of deliberation. By this time the whole congregation was\nagog with eager curiosity to know what was wrong. Mr. Thom, after a\nlittle, gravely proceeded to say, \u201cMy friends, I\u2019ve had a snuff, and the\nProvost has had a sleep, and, if ye like, we\u2019ll just begin again.\u201d\n\nA country laird, near Govan, who had lately been elevated to the position\nof a county magistrate, meeting Mr. Thom one day on horseback, attempted\njocularity by remarking that he was more ambitious than his Master, who\nwas content to ride upon an ass. \u201cThey canna be gotten noo,\u201d replied\nThom; \u201cthey\u2019re a\u2019 made Justices o\u2019 the Peace.\u201d\n\nOf the Rev. James Robertson, of Kilmarnock, who was possessed of high\nattainments as a theologian and scholar, there are many good stories.\nLike many another divine, Mr. Robertson was often annoyed by those\nbusybodies who take charge of everyone\u2019s business but their own. One day,\nwhen preaching upon the besetting sins of different men, he remarked,\nusing a well-known Scottish saying\u2014\u201cEvery ane, my friends, has his ain\ndraff-pock. Some hae their draff-pock hingin\u2019 afore them; ithers, again,\nhae their draff-pock hingin\u2019 ahent them; but I ken a man that sits in my\nain kirk that has draff-pocks hingin\u2019 a\u2019 around him. An\u2019 wha dae ye think\nthat is? A\u2019body kens wha I mean\u2014nae ither than Andro\u2019 Oliphant.\u201d\n\nMr. Robertson\u2019s precentor displeased him very much by his loud singing,\nand accordingly was not only often reproved, but even stopped by him\nafter commencing the psalm. One morning a tune was started upon a key a\nlittle higher even than usual, when Mr. Robertson rose up in the pulpit,\nand, tapping the musical worthy on the head, thus addressed him\u2014\u201cAndro\u2019,\nAndro\u2019, man, do you no ken that a toom barrel aye soonds loudest?\u201d\n\nPreaching before the Associate Synod at Glasgow, he introduced the\nprobability of a French invasion as a punishment for national sin; and\nwhile admitting the immoral character of the infliction, he assured his\nhearers that \u201cProvidence wasna always nice in the choice of instruments\nfor punishing the wickedness of men.\u201d \u201cTak\u2019,\u201d he continued, \u201can example\nfrae amang yersel\u2019s. Your magistrates dinna ask certificates o\u2019 character\nfor their public executioners. They generally select sic clanjamphrie\nas hae rubbit shouthers wi\u2019 the gallows themsel\u2019s. And as for this\nBonyparte,\u201d continued the preacher, \u201cI\u2019ve tell\u2019d ye, my friends, what was\nthe beginning o\u2019 that man, and I\u2019ll tell ye what will be the end o\u2019 him.\nHe\u2019ll come doon like a pockfu\u2019 o\u2019 goats\u2019 horns at the Broomielaw!\u201d\n\nThe Rev. Dr. M\u2019Cubbin, of Douglas, had a humorous faculty peculiarly\nhis own, and once at least was able to turn the tables on such\nan incorrigible joker as the Hon. Henry Erskine. They met at the\ndinner-table of a mutual friend. There was a dish of cresses on the\ntable, and the doctor took such a hearty supply, and devoured them with\nsuch relish, using his fingers, that Erskine was tempted to remark\nthat his procedure reminded him of Nebuchadnezzar. \u201cAy,\u201d retorted Dr.\nM\u2019Cubbin, \u201cthat\u2019ll be because I\u2019m eatin\u2019 amang the brutes, I suppose.\u201d\n\nBut the wit of the old fathers and brethren was generally keenest when\nturned against the wearers of their own cloth.\n\nOn one occasion, when coming to church, Dr. Macknight, who was a much\nbetter commentator than preacher, having been caught in a shower of rain,\nentered the vestry soaked through. Every means were employed to relieve\nhim from his discomfort, but as the time drew on for divine service he\nbecame very querulous, and ejaculated over and over again, \u201cOh, I wish\nthat I was dry! Do you think that I am dry? Do you think I am dry enough\nnow?\u201d\n\nTired by these endless complaints, his jocose colleague, Dr. Henry, the\nhistorian, at last replied, \u201cBide a wee, Doctor, an\u2019 ye\u2019ll be dry enough,\nI\u2019se warrant, when ye get into the poopit.\u201d\n\nIt was a very _dry_ joke indeed.\n\nThe Rev. Dr. Dow, of Errol, and the Rev. Dr. Duff, of Kilspindie, long\nmaintained a warm and uninterrupted intimacy. Once, on a New Year\u2019s Day,\nDr. Dow sent to his friend, who was a great snuffer, a snuff-box filled\nwith snuff, and inscribed thus\u2014\n\n \u201cDr. Dow to Dr. Duff,\n Snuff! Snuff! Snuff!\u201d\n\nThe minister of Kilspindie resolved not to be outdone either in\ngenerosity or pungent humour. The pastor of Errol, though withal a sober\nand exemplary man, was known to enjoy a glass of toddy with his friends.\nSo his clerical brother retaliated on him with the present of a hot-water\njug, bearing on the lid this couplet\u2014\n\n \u201cDr. Duff to Dr. Dow,\n Fou! Fou! Fou!\u201d\n\nShortly after the disruption of the Church of Scotland, two\nclergymen\u2014father and son\u2014were discussing the comparative merits of the\nChurches to which they belonged. The father, an upholder of Erastianism,\nhad remained faithful to the Church in which he had been ordained; the\nson had joined the Non-intrusion party, and attached himself to the\nFree Church. The son expatiated at great length on the superiority of\nhis Church over that of his father; of the advantages of its freedom\nfrom State control; of the privilege of its members to elect their own\nministers; of its activity and zeal for the diffusion of religion, etc.;\nand while he did so, did not hesitate to pick holes large and many in the\ndiscipline and government of the Church with which his father had been\nso long connected, and from which he himself had so recently seceded. In\n_his_ estimation the Auld Kirk had faults innumerable, the Free Church\nnone. After hearing him for a while, the father closed the conversation\nby saying\u2014\n\n\u201cWhen _your_ Kirk\u2019s lum, Andrew, has been as lang reekin\u2019 as mine, I\u2019m\nthinkin\u2019 ye\u2019ll find, lad, it will then need sweepin\u2019 too.\u201d\n\nThe Rev. Dr. Gillan, of Inchinnan, was a ready wit, of whom a number\nof capital stories are told, among them being the following:\u2014One day\na young elder, making his first appearance in the Glasgow Presbytery,\nmodestly sat down on the very edge of a bench near the door. By and by\nthe minister who had been sitting at the other end rose, and the young\nelder was just falling off when the door opened and Dr. Gillan entered,\nwho, catching him in his arms, with his usual readiness exclaimed, \u201cSir,\nwhen you come to this place you must try and stick to the _forms_ of the\nChurch.\u201d\n\nAmong the preachers who occupied the pulpits in Scotland in the days\nof other years, these fitful glances tend to reveal, were men not less\nfamous for their eloquence and earnest preaching than for their wit and\nhumour and popular eccentricities of character; and they were certainly\nnot the less effective as pastors and preachers that they now and again\ngave reign to their fancies, and were moved to laughter like ordinary\nmen. How much have the keen humorous sensibilities of Spurgeon, and\nMoody, and M\u2019Neill, and others that might be named, contributed to the\neffectiveness of their pulpit ministrations? Indeed, there have been few\ngreat preachers, in any time or place, who have not had a lively sense\nof humour; although the converse, of course, does not obtain. The great\nDr. Guthrie; the grand Dr. Norman Macleod; the erudite Dr. Anderson, of\nGlasgow; and the eloquent Gilfillan, of Dundee, were all humourists of\nthe first water.\n\nReferring to the fact that each successive generation considers itself\na vast improvement on its predecessor, Dr. Guthrie once said, \u201cI thocht\nthat my father really didna ken very muckle, but my laddies seem to think\nI\u2019m a born idiot.\u201d\n\nDr. Norman Macleod\u2019s faculty of humour was well known everywhere, for it\nmanifested itself in various ways\u2014most effectively, perhaps, in lyrical\nmeasures such as \u201cThe Waggin\u2019 o\u2019 oor Dog\u2019s Tail,\u201d \u201cCaptain Frazer\u2019s\nNose,\u201d etc., but always to the order of uproarious fun. It is told of\nNorman that when walking down Buchanan Street, Glasgow, arm-in-arm with\na merchant friend of the West, one day, the two were passed, first by\nthe Most Rev. Bishop Irvine, of Argyll, then by the Bishop\u2019s valet,\nfollowing a few steps behind him; the one short and slim and the other\nlong and thin, but both dressed clerically and seeming much alike. They\neach saluted the popular minister of the Barony as they passed, whereupon\nhis merchant friend turned to him and enquired, \u201cWho was the man with the\nchoker on, walking behind the Bishop, who saluted you just now, Doctor?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said Norman, \u201cthat\u2019s the _valet_ of the shadow of death.\u201d\n\nWhen Norman, not yet great, began his ministry in the Ayrshire parish of\nLoudoun, among his parishioners were some rather notable freethinkers,\nwhose views the young divine, with the energy and earnestness\ncharacteristic of him, thought it proper to assail and denounce.\nNaturally this caused a good deal of commotion and excitement in what had\nhitherto been rather a sleepy parish. One of his elders, who thought his\nminister\u2019s zeal outran his discretion, one day thus addressed him\u2014\u201cMr.\nMacleod, hoo is it we ne\u2019er heard o\u2019 unbelievers hereaboot till ye cam\u2019\namong us?\u201d \u201cJohn,\u201d said the ready minister, \u201csaw ye ever a wasp\u2019s bike?\u201d\n\u201cHoot aye, aften.\u201d \u201cWeel, lat them be, and they\u2019ll lat you be; but put\nyour stick through the heart of it, and it\u2019ll be anither story.\u201d\n\nNo minister was ever more beloved by his people than was Dr. Macleod by\nthe inhabitants of the Barony parish. There is a story which reveals\nthis with rare effect, and which the great Norman himself told with much\ngusto. A dissenting minister in the district had been asked to come to a\nhouse in the High Street, and pray with a man who was thought to be at\nthe point of death. He knew by the name and address given that the people\nwere not connected with his congregation. Still, he went off at once as\ndesired. When he had read and prayed\u2014having previously noted how tidy\neverything looked about the room, and being puzzled by the thought of\na family of such respectable appearance having no church connection\u2014he\nturned to the wife and mother of the household, and asked if they were\nnot connected with any Christian body in the city?\n\n\u201cOu, ay,\u201d she replied, \u201cwe\u2019re members o\u2019 the Barony.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are members of the Barony! Then why didn\u2019t you call in Dr. Macleod\nto pray with your husband, instead of sending for me?\u201d\n\n\u201cCa\u2019 in the great Dr. Norman Macleod?\u201d skirled the matron, with uplifted\nhands. \u201cThe man\u2019s surely daft. Dinna ye ken it\u2019s a dangerous case o\u2019\n_typhus_?\u201d\n\nNorman Macleod, Anthony Trollope, the novelist, and John Burns of Castle\nWemyss, were great friends, and went together once on a tour in the\nHighlands. On arriving at an inn late at night they had supper, and then\ntold stories, and laughed without stint half the night through. In the\nmorning an old gentleman, who slept in a bedroom above them, complained\nto the landlord that he had not been able to sleep on account of the\nnoise from the party below; and added that he regretted that such men\nshould \u201ctake more than was good for them.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d replied the landlord, \u201cI am bound to say there was a good deal of\nloud talking and laughing; but they had nothing stronger than _tea and\nherrings_.\u201d\n\n\u201cBless me,\u201d rejoined the old gentleman, \u201cif that is so, what would Dr.\nMacleod and Mr. Burns be _after dinner_!\u201d\n\n\u201cWillie\u201d Anderson\u2019s well-known \u201cthree-a-penny\u201d story is perhaps the\nvery best one which rumour persistently attaches to his name. The\nDoctor had been walking towards John Street Church one Sunday evening,\nwhen it suddenly commenced to rain, very much to the discomfiture of\nthree well-dressed young men, who had come out to air their clothes\nand to see and be seen, who occupied the pavement immediately in front\nof the popular preacher. \u201cWhat\u2019s to be done?\u201d exclaimed one; \u201cwe canna\nwalk the streets in a nicht like this.\u201d \u201cWe\u2019re just comin\u2019 on to John\nStreet Kirk,\u201d remarked another, \u201cwe\u2019ll go an\u2019 hear Willie Anderson\npreachin\u2019.\u201d The mention of his name caused the minister to play the part\nof eavesdropper for a moment, during which the young gentlemen made the\ndiscovery that two halfpennies formed the sum total of their united small\ncash. This fact, however, was not to be allowed to bar their entrance\nto the place of worship, \u201cfor,\u201d said one, addressing the other two,\n\u201cI\u2019ll drap in a bawbee, an\u2019 _he\u2019ll_ drap in a bawbee, an\u2019 _ye\u2019ll_ mairch\npast the plate atween the twa o\u2019s, an\u2019 the thing\u2019ll never be noticed.\u201d\nImmediately this was agreed to, the erratic divine shot past the objects\nof his temporary attention. When they reached the church door he was\nstanding beside the elder at the plate, and as they marched past a second\nlater, and the \u201ctwa bawbees\u201d were noisily dropped in, \u201cThere they go,\u201d\nexclaimed the Doctor, \u201cthree-a-penny\u2014three-a-penny!\u201d\n\nDr. Anderson was a man of very fine musical taste, and one Sabbath, in\nJohn Street, after the first psalm had been sung, and sung badly, he\naddressed the congregation thus\u2014\u201cAre ye not ashamed of yourselves for\noffering up to God such abominable sounds? If you had to offer up a\nservice of praise before Queen Victoria in her presence, then you would\nhave met every night, if necessary, for weeks on end, but as God is\nunseen you evidently think anything is good enough for Him. I am ashamed\nof you.\u201d Then, taking a pinch of snuff out of his waistcoat pocket, he\nsaid solemnly, \u201cLet us pray.\u201d\n\nGilfillan of Dundee was distinguished for his largeness of heart and\ngenerosity as well as for his erudition and oratorical powers. No\ndeserving\u2014seldom an undeserving\u2014beggar went from his door unaided. To\nthe poor of his own flock he was a true friend and faithful pastor. On\na melancholy occasion, a member of School Wynd Church called at the\nmanse in Paradise Road to invite the Rev. George to come and officiate\nin his clerical capacity at the funeral. After the usual condolence, the\npreacher remarked to the bereaved, \u201cBy the by, I have missed you from the\nchurch for some time. What is wrong?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, to be plain with you, Mr. Gilfillan,\u201d said the man, \u201cmy coat is so\nbare, I\u2019m ashamed to come.\u201d\n\nThe big man immediately disrobed himself of his coat, and handing it to\nthe distressed member of his congregation, said, \u201cThere, my man, let me\nsee that coat every Sabbath until it becomes bare, and then call back.\u201d\n\nAfter so delivering himself, the divine returned to his study in his\nshirt-sleeves, and being observed by his worthy spouse, she approached\nand asked what he had done with his coat. His answer was, \u201cI have just\ngiven it to God, my dear.\u201d\n\nTo correct the popular but erroneous idea that the child receives its\nname at baptism from the minister, Gilfillan\u2019s practice on occasions\nof the kind was not to mention the child\u2019s name at all. Once, however,\nwhen the sacrament was asked to be administered, the parents insisted\nbeforehand that the child\u2019s name should be announced. \u201cVery well,\u201d\nwas the reply. Accordingly, when the little one had been with all due\nsolemnity received into the Church visible, the minister, looking abroad\nover the congregation, raised his voice and exclaimed, \u201cThe parents of\nthis child wish the congregation to know that its name is John.\u201d\n\nGeorge was never again asked to announce the name in a case of baptism.\n\nKindly and generous in the main, that Gilfillan could be severe too when\nhe liked, is well known. Speaking of the county town of Forfarshire,\nwhich has no very high character for morality, he said, \u201cWhen Satan was\nshowing our Lord all the kingdoms of the earth, we may be sure he _kept\nhis thumb on Forfar_.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE PULPIT AND THE PEW\n\n\nWhen discoursing on the humours of old Scotch divines, I designedly\nrecounted only such anecdotes as revealed the minister holding the \u201cheft\nend\u201d of the argument. In the present paper, which is wider in its scope,\nthe honours will be found more equally divided, and the illustrations of\nthe national character and humour laid under contribution will, on that\naccount, prove not less entertaining and amusing.\n\nTo \u201cget the better\u201d of the minister has always meant fame of a\nkind\u2014largely because of the rarity of such an achievement\u2014and one can\nimagine how the parish would ring during the proverbial \u201cnine days\u201d with\nthe fame of the old dame who, when her spiritual adviser called at her\nhouse to enquire of her the reason why recently she had suddenly turned\n\u201cSeceder,\u201d retorted, \u201cWeel, ye just took a hale fortnicht to put Jonah\ninto the whawl\u2019s belly, and anither hale fortnicht to tak\u2019 him oot; and\nwhat sort o\u2019 fool\u2019s preachin\u2019 d\u2019ye ca\u2019 that?\u201d\n\nA Fifeshire laird, in a somewhat similar way, scored heavily against the\nminister of his parish. The latter had called on the laird to solicit a\nsubscription from him to aid in putting a stove in the church, which, he\nsaid, the congregation found very cold. \u201cCauld, sir, cauld?\u201d snorted the\nchief heritor; \u201cthen warm them up wi\u2019 your doctrine, sir. John Knox never\naskit for a stove in his kirk.\u201d\n\nEqually pungent was the retort which issued from a country pew on the\nnorth of the Tay. \u201cYe\u2019re sleepin\u2019, John,\u201d said the minister, pausing in\nthe middle of a humdrum discourse, and looking hard in the direction of\nthe drowsy member thus addressed\u2014\u201cTak\u2019 a snuff, John.\u201d \u201cPut the snuff in\nthe sermon,\u201d grunted John; and the broad grin that scampered over the\nupturned faces of the congregation showed how much the suggestion was\ndeemed _fit_. But it is seldom the sleeper is found so _wide-awake_,\nif the expression will be allowed. His mental condition for the time\nbeing acts against the ready exercise of wit, and he is generally caught\nnapping in a double sense. And, indeed, many who are popularly termed\n\u201c_pillars_ of the kirk,\u201d might with equal appropriateness be termed\n_sleepers_. In a certain church in Forfarshire, there was no worse\noffender in this way than the minister\u2019s own wife. One Sabbath she was\nactually asleep before the text was given out, a fact which her husband\nwas not slow to observe. The minister had a quiet humour of his own; and\nthe passage chosen for treatment that day had more than its original\nmeaning to many present, when, \u201cfixing his glassy eye\u201d on the family\npew he said, \u201cThe words, my brethren, to which I wish to direct your\nparticular attention at the present time, are these\u2014\u2018_He giveth His\nbeloved sleep_.\u2019\u201d\n\nSome folks apparently make a mistake in not taking their nightcaps to\nchurch with them. It has been told of a Dumbartonshire cattle-dealer\nthat, going to hear (?) a young minister of repute who was preaching\nfor a day in the parish kirk at Bonhill, immediately after the opening\ndevotional services and the reading of chapter, he spread his hands\non the book-board, forming them into a temporary pillow, on which he\nlaid his drowsy head and prepared to enjoy a comfortable \u201csnooze.\u201d The\npreacher\u2019s voice was powerful, and the style of his declamation such as\nto admit of considerable grandiloquence. Accordingly, after some minutes,\nminister and people were attracted by Bauldy raising his head just a\nlittle, and saying, quite audibly, \u201cYe\u2019re just fully lood for me\u2014ay,\nfully lood.\u201d He laid down his head again, and the preacher, proceeding,\nwaxed more eloquent and more vociferous as he warmed with his theme. At\nlength, after a grand burst which closed some great passage, Bauldy sat\nright bolt up, and looking up at the minister, said, \u201cHang it! ye\u2019re far\nower lood. There\u2019s nae mortal man could sleep wi\u2019 a noise like that.\u201d\n\nIt is frequently only one step from the sleeping to the wide-awake\nmembers, and, the latter being preferable company, we will now see how\nsome of those have conducted themselves. Perhaps the prejudice against\nread sermons lingered longer in Scotland than anywhere else; and, of\ncourse, it was among the class that distinguished clearly between the\nlegitimate uses of a pew and a bed that the individuals who concerned\nthemselves in these matters were found.\n\n\u201cEh, he\u2019s a grand preacher!\u201d whispered an old spinster to her sister, as\nthey listened for the first time to a young minister.\n\n\u201cWheesht! Bell,\u201d was the reply, \u201che\u2019s _readin\u2019_!\u201d\n\n\u201cReadin\u2019, is he?\u201d said the eulogist, changing her tone. \u201cThe paltry\nfellow! We\u2019ll gang hame, Jenny, and read our Book.\u201d\n\nIn 1772, when Dr. Thomas Blacklock, the well-known poet, who was blind,\nwas preaching one of his trial discourses on the occasion of his being\npresented, by the Earl of Selkirk, to the living of Kirkcudbright, an old\nwoman who sat on the pulpit stairs inquired of a neighbour if she thought\nhe was a reader.\n\n\u201cHe canna be a reader,\u201d was the reply, \u201cfor he\u2019s blind.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m glad to hear it,\u201d said the ancient dame; \u201cI wish they were a\u2019 blind!\u201d\n\nThe ladies have always exercised a lively surveillance of the pulpit, and\nvended many an apt criticism.\n\n\u201cHow did you like that young man we had to-day?\u201d was once asked of a\ndiscerning village matron.\n\n\u201cWeel, I had just three fauts to his sermon,\u201d was the reply.\n\n\u201cAnd what were these, if I may ask?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel,\u201d said she, \u201cfirstly, it was read; and, secondly, it wasna weel\nread; and, thirdly, it wasna worth readin\u2019!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cWeel, I had just three fauts to his sermon: firstly, it\nwas read; and, secondly, it wasna weel read; and, thirdly, it wasna worth\nreadin\u2019!\u201d\u2014_Page 91._]\n\nA sweeping criticism, and no mistake.\n\nDr. Norman Macleod was once preaching in a district in Ayrshire, where\nthe reading of a sermon was regarded as the greatest fault a minister\ncould be guilty of. When the congregation dispersed, an old woman,\noverflowing with enthusiasm, addressed her neighbour with, \u201cDid ye ever\nhear onything sae grand? Wasna that a sermon?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, ay,\u201d replied her friend sulkily, \u201cbut he read it.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Read_ it,\u201d reiterated the other with indignant emphasis, \u201cI wudna hae\ncared gin he had _whustled_ it.\u201d\n\nHow the great Norman would enjoy this we can easily imagine! And yet it\nwas not always plain sailing with the preacher who was a victim to \u201cthe\npaper.\u201d\n\nA certain minister had a custom of merely writing the heads of his\ndiscourses on small bits of paper, which he arranged and placed on\nthe Bible before him, to be used in succession. One day, while he was\nexpounding the second head, he became so excited in his manner that by a\nwave of his arm the ensuing slip was, unperceived by himself, swept over\nthe edge of the pulpit, and, being caught in an air current in falling,\nwas carried right out through the window, which for ventilation sake\nhad been left partly open. On reaching the end of the second, he looked\ndown for the third slip, but, alas! it was not to be found. \u201cThirdly,\u201d\nhe cried, looking round him with great anxiety. After a little pause,\n\u201cThirdly,\u201d he again exclaimed, but still no thirdly appeared. \u201cThirdly,\nI say, my brethren,\u201d pursued the bewildered clergyman, but not another\nword could he utter. At this point, while the congregation were partly\nsympathising in his distress, and partly rejoicing in such a decisive\ninstance of the evil of using notes in preaching, an old woman came to\nthe minister\u2019s rescue with the remark\u2014\u201cDeed, sir, ye needna fash yersel\u2019,\nfor _thirdly_ gaed oot at the window a quarter o\u2019 an hour syne.\u201d\n\nThat clergyman had not the inventive ingenuity of a Perth minister I have\nheard about. The latter had one really good sermon, which he styled the\n\u201cWhite Horse,\u201d and on occasions when he was called out to preach, which\nwere few and far between, he invariably trotted out his \u201cWhite Horse.\u201d\nOn one occasion he arranged to conduct the forenoon service in a church\nat some considerable distance, the regular minister of which being from\nhome expected to return in time to preach himself in the afternoon.\nIn the forenoon, the \u201cWhite Horse\u201d did the usual gallant service, but\nin the interval of public worship, the intelligence arrived that some\nuntoward circumstance had prevented the native clergyman\u2019s return,\nand that he (the Perth divine) would require to conduct the afternoon\nservice also. Here was a demand which our Boanerges from the Fair City\nhad not calculated on. He had brought no other sermon with him, and,\neven although he had, it would not have sustained the impression made\nby the \u201cWhite Horse.\u201d What was to be done? A moment\u2019s reflection, and\nthe difficulty was removed. \u201cMy dear brethren,\u201d said he, when he stood\nup in the place of execution in the afternoon, \u201cit was told to me in\nthe interval that some of you when leaving the church were saying that\nthe sermon which I preached from this place in the forenoon was not\nsound doctrine. I maintain that it was perfectly sound; and as I wish to\nconvince everyone of you that it was so, I now ask you to give me your\nattentive hearing and I will preach the sermon over again.\u201d And he did.\n\nThe hero of the next story was like unto the author of the \u201cWhite Horse\u201d:\u2014\n\nA Scotch gentleman, previous to a Continental tour, engaged as a\ntravelling companion, a rather dissolute and ignorant Highland student,\nnamed Alexander Macpherson. Before they had been long abroad, the\ngentleman, to his regret, found himself compelled to part with his\n_compagnon de voyage_ owing to his intemperate habits, and heard no more\nabout him for several years. Happening, however, to drop into a secluded\nlittle Dissenting chapel in Wales, presided over by the Rev. Jonas\nJones, as the board at the little gate revealed, he was astonished to\nfind his dismissed servitor officiating in the pulpit, and astounded to\nhear him several times during the reading of the preliminary chapter turn\nthe English into Highland Gaelic, prefacing his translation always in a\nsententious manner by the words, \u201cor, as it is in the original,\u201d and he\nwas further astonished to hear from several of the congregation that Mr.\nJones passed among them as a man of deep learning. After the conclusion\nof the service, he accosted the minister as he was leaving the church\nwithout any signs of recognition on that worthy\u2019s part. \u201cDo you not know\nme?\u201d cried the gentleman, grasping his hand.\n\n\u201cReally, I beg your pardon, but there must be some mistake,\u201d said the\nminister, endeavouring to move on.\n\n\u201cOh, no mistake whatever, I assure you,\u201d returned the gentleman. \u201cAre you\nnot Mr. \u2e3a?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am Mr. Jonas Jones,\u201d put in the pastor, hastily.\n\n\u201cAye,\u201d replied the gentleman, sarcastically, observing that he was\ndetermined to ignore all recollection of him, \u201cor, _as it is in the\noriginal_, Sandy Macpherson o\u2019 Inveraray!\u201d\n\nTo be \u201csound\u201d was the main essential in those days. A certain clergyman\nhad been suspected of leanings towards Arminianism, or of being a\nRationalist, and much anxiety in consequence was felt by the flock he\nwas called on to superintend. He put their fears suddenly to flight,\nhowever, for he turned out to be a sound divine as well as a good man. On\nthe Monday after his sermon had been delivered, he was accosted in his\nwalk by a decent old man, who after thanking him for his able discourse,\nwent on\u2014\u201cOd, sir, the story gaed that you was a rational preacher; but\nglad am I, and a\u2019 the parish wi\u2019 me, to find that you are _no\u2019 a rational\npreacher_ after a\u2019.\u201d The minister thought it a dubious compliment, no\ndoubt.\n\nAn old farmer, wishing to pay his minister a compliment on the occasion\nof his being made a D.D., said, \u201cI kent ye wad come to something, sir,\nfor, as I have aye said, ye neither fear God nor regard man.\u201d\n\nSpeaking of the old-fashioned \u201crousing sermons\u201d with which some ministers\nused to delight and terrify their hearers, Mr. Inglis, in his recent\nwork _Our Ain Folk_, relates a conversation that took place between two\nsevere old Covenanters after hearing a sermon of this type. \u201cWhat do you\nthink o\u2019 that sermon, Jamie?\u201d said Willie, as they wended their way down\nthe street. \u201cThink o\u2019t,\u201d said Jamie. \u201cMan, it was jist a gran\u2019 sermon.\nI havena heard ane I likit better for mony a day. What do you think o\u2019t\nyersel\u2019?\u201d \u201cAe, man,\u201d said Willie, \u201cit was an awfu\u2019 sermon, a fearfu\u2019\nsermon. It fair gar\u2019d my flesh a\u2019 grue. I\u2019m shiverin\u2019 yet, an I\u2019m sure I\ncanna tak\u2019 my denner.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d said Jamie, wi\u2019 a snort o\u2019 indignation;\n\u201cwhat do you want? What wad ye ha\u2019e, man? Do you want the man to slide ye\ndown to hell on a buttered plate!\u201d\n\nA little band of old women on their way home from the kirk on the evening\nof a special day\u2019s preaching, shortened the road by discussing the merits\nof the various divines who had addressed them, when one worthy dame thus\nhonestly expressed herself, \u201cOh, leeze me abune them a\u2019,\u201d exclaimed\nshe, \u201cfor yon auld, beld, clear-headed man that spoke sae bonnie on the\nangels. When he said, \u2018Raphael sings, and Gabriel tunes his goolden herp,\nand a\u2019 the angels clap their wings wi\u2019 joy,\u2019 oh, but it was grand! It\njust put me in mind o\u2019 oor geese, at Dunjarg, as they turn their nebs to\nthe south an\u2019 clap their wings when they see rain comin\u2019 after a lang\ndrouth.\u201d\n\nThe Rev. Mr. Yule, a Perthshire divine, was in the habit of going through\nthe village on the Sabbath afternoons in summer, and inviting the people\nto open-air service on the green in the evening. Entering one afternoon\nwhere there were a number of the inhabitants congregated for no special\npurpose further than the discussion of current local events, the good man\nhad not time to declare his mission when a douce village matron folded\nher hands complacently on her lap, and, looking towards the minister,\nsaid, \u201cEh! yon was a grand sermon ye ga\u2019ed us this forenoon, Mr. Yule.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am glad you were pleased with it, I am sure,\u201d the minister modestly\nreplied.\n\n\u201cPleased!\u201d echoed the matron. \u201cI was just so perfectly _feasted_ wi\u2019 it\nthat I cam\u2019 hame an\u2019 ga\u2019rd Tammas turn up \u2018Matthew Hendry,\u2019 and read it\na\u2019 ower again to me.\u201d\n\nIn Perth, about twenty years ago, there lived one, Kirsty Robertson, who\nearned her living by washing. The poor body had to work from morning till\nnight to keep herself in food and clothing. She managed, however, to make\na respectable appearance on Sundays, and was a regular attender of the\nkirk. The minister observed her decent and obvious poverty, and thought\nhe ought to call on her, and see if he could assist her. He accordingly\ndid so, and going in one night he saw Kirsty sitting by the fire, wearied\nout with her day\u2019s labour. On hearing the minister come in Kirsty started\nup with an exclamation of surprise. He bade her be seated, and kindly\nenquired into her welfare, both spiritual and temporal. Before leaving,\nhe inquired: \u201cAnd I hope, Mrs. Robertson, you receive much good from your\nregular attendance at the ordinances?\u201d \u201cOu ay, sir,\u201d replied Kirsty,\n\u201cit\u2019s no\u2019 every day I get sic a nice seat to sit on, an\u2019 sae little to\nthink aboot.\u201d\n\nTwo men were talking about sermons. \u201cHoo did your minister get on last\nSabbath?\u201d asked the one. \u201cGet on!\u201d said the other; \u201che got on\u2014just like a\ntaed amang tar.\u201d\n\nA well-known Edinburgh lecturer\u2014the late \u201cSandy\u201d Russel of the\n_Scotsman_\u2014was some years ago, it is said, enjoying a brief holiday in\na quiet Highland retreat, which afforded excellent scope for the plying\nof the \u201cgentle art,\u201d and the Sabbath coming round in due course, he\nresolved, in order to dispel the tedium of the day, to attend the village\nchurch. The worthy parson noted the intellectual-looking stranger among\nhis sparse congregation, and, on making enquiries, was informed of his\npersonal identity. On the Monday following, the parson took a walk along\nthe river side and very soon encountered the popular editor busy with rod\nand line.\n\n\u201cYou are a keen fisher, I believe, Mr. Russel,\u201d was the preacher\u2019s\nintroductory remark.\n\n\u201cYes, I am, pastor,\u201d was the instant and decided reply.\n\n\u201cI am a fisher too,\u201d remarked the minister dreamily, \u201c_but a fisher of\nmen_;\u201d the latter words were delivered with great unction.\n\n\u201cOh, indeed,\u201d dryly responded the editor, \u201cI had a keek into your creel\nyesterday; ye didna seem to ha\u2019e catch\u2019d mony.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cI\u2019m a fisher too,\u201d remarked the minister dreamily, \u201c_but\na fisher of men_;\u201d the latter words were delivered with great unction.\n\u201cOh, indeed,\u201d dryly responded the angler, \u201cI had a keek into your creel\nyesterday; ye didna seem to ha\u2019e catch\u2019d mony.\u201d\u2014_Page 98._]\n\nTaking a walk through his parish one day a minister came upon a woman\nseated at her door reading a book, which he at once concluded was the\nNew Testament, but which was really Blind Harry\u2019s _Wallace_. Expressing\nhis gratification at finding her so well employed, he said it was a book\nwhich no one would ever grew weary reading.\n\n\u201cAtweel, sir,\u201d said she, \u201cI never weary o\u2019t; I\u2019ve read it through an\u2019\nthrough I dinna ken hoo aften, an\u2019 I\u2019m just as fond o\u2019t yet as ever.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, Janet,\u201d exclaimed the enraptured divine, \u201cI am glad to hear you say\nso; and how happy I would be if all my parishioners were of the same\nmind, and what benefit it would be to themselves, too! For oh, to think,\nJanet, what He did and suffered for us!\u201d\n\n\u201cDeed, ay, sir, an\u2019 that\u2019s true,\u201d answered Janet, \u201can\u2019 to think how\nhe soom\u2019d through the Carron water on a cauld frosty mornin\u2019, wi\u2019 his\nbraidsword in his teeth. It was awfu\u2019!\u201d\n\nThe Rev. Mr. M\u2019Dougall was one of those preachers who keep their hearers\nawake by sheer strength of lung. Preaching one day in a strange church,\nhe espied an old woman applying her handkerchief very frequently to her\neyes. Attributing her distress to a change for the better, he kept his\neye on her, and at the close of the service, found an opportunity to\nspeak to her, and said, \u201cYou seemed to be deeply affected, my good woman,\nwhile I was preaching to-day?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, sir, I was rale muckle affected,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cI am truly glad of that,\u201d quoth the minister; \u201cand I hope the impression\nmay be a lasting one.\u201d\n\n\u201cI doot, sir,\u201d said she, \u201cye\u2019re takin\u2019 me up wrang. I was only thinkin\u2019\non Shoozie.\u201d\n\n\u201cShoozie!\u201d exclaimed the astonished divine; \u201cwhat do you mean by\nShoozie?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, ye ken, sir,\u201d replied the matron, \u201cthat was a cuddie we had. She\ndee\u2019d twa or three weeks syne, and she was a kindly beast; an\u2019 I just\nthocht whiles when I heard ye in yer raptur\u2019s the day it was her roarin\u2019,\nan\u2019 I fairly broke doon wi\u2019t.\u201d\n\nIt was customary long ago to speak of the topic of a sermon as its\n_ground_ or _grund_, and the story is told of an old woman bustling into\nchurch rather late one day. The preacher, a young man, had commenced his\nsermon. The old dame, opening her Bible, nudged her next neighbour with\nthe inquiry, \u201cWhat\u2019s his grund?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d rejoined the other, \u201cthe silly elf\u2019s lost his grund lang syne; he\u2019s\njust _soomin\u2019_!\u201d\n\nIt was no use trying to throw dust in the eyes of such practical people.\n\nAnother plain-spoken dame said of a preacher of diminutive stature, who\noccasionally officiated in the church in which she was a regular hearer,\nand to whom she cherished some antipathy, \u201cIf there\u2019s an ill text in a\u2019\nthe Bible, that ugly wratch o\u2019 a creatur\u2019 is sure to tak\u2019 it.\u201d\n\nA city congregation not long since presented their minister with a sum\nof money, and sent him off to the Continent for a holiday. Soon after,\na gentleman, just returned from the Continent, meeting a prominent\nmember of the congregation, said, \u201cOh, by the by, I met your minister in\nGermany. He was looking very well\u2014he didn\u2019t look as if he needed a rest.\u201d\n\u201cNo,\u201d said the member calmly, \u201cit wasna _him_, it was the congregation\nthat was needin\u2019 a rest.\u201d\n\nShortly after a Congregational chapel had been planted in a small burgh\nin the North, an incident occurred which showed that the powers of its\nminister were appreciated in certain quarters. A boy named Johnnie\nFordyce had been indiscreet enough to put a sixpence in his mouth, and\naccidentally swallowed it. Mrs. Fordyce, concerned both for her boy\nand the sixpence, tried every means for its recovery, consulted her\nneighbours, and finally, in despair, called in the doctor, but without\nresult. As a last resort, a young girl present suggested that they should\nsend for the Congregationalist minister. \u201cThe minister?\u201d chorused mother\nand neighbours. \u201cAy, the minister,\u201d rejoined the girl. \u201cMy faither says\nif there\u2019s siller in onybody he\u2019ll tak\u2019 it oot o\u2019 them.\u201d\n\nThe following illustrates how careful a minister should be to fulfil his\npromises. A poor old deaf man, residing in Fife, was visited one day by\nthe parish minister, who had been recently inducted. Talking with the\nspouse of the afflicted parishioner, the minister professed to be greatly\ninterested in the old man\u2019s case, and promised before leaving that he\nwould call regularly and pray with him. He, however, did not darken the\ndoor of their home again until about two years after, when happening\nto go through the street in which the old man lived, he found the wife\nstanding at the door, and of course made anxious inquiry regarding her\nhusband.\n\n\u201cWell, Margaret,\u201d said he, \u201chow is Thomas?\u201d\n\n\u201cNane the better o\u2019 you,\u201d was the rather curt reply.\n\n\u201cHow, how, Margaret?\u201d inquired the minister.\n\n\u201cOh, ye promised twa years syne to ca\u2019 and pray ance a fortnicht wi\u2019 him,\nand ye hae never ance darkened oor door sin\u2019 syne.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well, Margaret, don\u2019t be so short. I thought it was not so very\nnecessary to call and pray with Thomas, for he\u2019s so deaf, you know, and\ncouldn\u2019t hear me.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, but, sir,\u201d rejoined the woman, \u201c_the Lord\u2019s no\u2019 deaf!_\u201d\n\nHe was well answered.\n\nThat story suggests another which I have heard told by the worthy divine\nin whose experience it happened. He had on his \u201csick list\u201d an old male\nparishioner, on whom he made frequent calls, and invariably read and\nprayed with the family before leaving. One day there were only the old\nman and the old woman in the house. The customary chapter was read, after\nwhich the divine engaged in prayer. On looking round at the conclusion of\nthe latter, he was astonished to discover that the woman had disappeared.\nHe had scarcely recovered from the bewilderment of the occasion, however,\nwhen she came timidly slipping through the doorway. \u201cHech, sirse!\u201d she\nexclaimed, in a tone of surprise, \u201care ye dune already?\u201d then added, by\nway of explanation, \u201cYe see, sir, the Kirkintilloch flute baund gaed by\nthere a maument syne; oor Jamie\u2019s in\u2019t, an\u2019 I just ran oot to see the\ncrood, thinkin\u2019 I wad be back again afore ye wad ken.\u201d\n\nHere is a worthy companion story to the above. A country minister had\noccasion to call upon one of his parishioners who kept a toll-bar,\nand after some conversation he proceeded to pray with him. He had not\nuttered many words when he was interrupted by an exclamation from the\ntollman\u2014\u201cWheest a minute, sir; I think I hear a cairt!\u201d and out he went.\n\nA Rev. Dr. Henderson of Galashiels in the course of his pastoral\nvisitation, called on a widow with a large family, and asked how they all\nwere, and how things were getting on. She said, \u201cA\u2019 richt, except Davie;\nhe\u2019s been troubled wi\u2019 a sair leg, and no fit for wark.\u201d The doctor could\nnot remember which one Davie was, but did not like to hurt the widow\u2019s\nfeelings by betraying his ignorance, and in his prayer he pled that\nDavid\u2019s affliction might be blessed to him. On going home, he said to his\nwife, referring to his call, \u201cWhich of the sons is David?\u201d\n\n\u201cHoot,\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cDavie\u2019s no a son, Davie\u2019s the cuddie!\u201d\n\nIt was the minister there. In the next story it was the other way about.\nA former minister in the parish of Kilspindie, in the Carse of Gowrie, in\nthe course of his parochial visitation called at the house of a ploughman\nwhere the oldest boy, a lad of ten, had been severely coached by his\nmother in anticipation of the \u201cvisit,\u201d and with the hope of his making\na good show. When, by and by, the minister took notice of the boy, \u201cAy,\u201d\ninterposed the mother, \u201can\u2019 he can say his Carratches, too.\u201d \u201cIndeed!\u201d\nexclaimed the minister, still eyeing the lad, \u201chow nice! Who made you?\u201d\n\n\u201cGod.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite correct. Who redeemed you?\u201d\n\n\u201cChrist.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight again. You\u2019re a clever little fellow, and [putting his hand on his\nhead] who cut your hair?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Holy Ghost,\u201d was the reply; and the interview terminated.\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d said the long-haired lessee of a small farm in the North one\nday as he came up to the door of the Free Church Manse, \u201cthis is awfu\u2019\nweather w\u2019 drooth; an\u2019 I ha\u2019e come across to see if you wad put up a\npetition for a shooer o\u2019 rain, for my neeps are just perishin\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are a member of the Established Church,\u201d said the clergyman\naddressed; \u201cwhy not ask your own minister to intercede on behalf of your\nturnips?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s no very likely he\u2019ll pray for rain for my neeps,\u201d was the blunt\nresponse, \u201cwhen his ain hay\u2019s no in yet.\u201d\n\nIt is quite true that\u2014\n\n \u201cIf self the wavering balance shake,\n It\u2019s rarely richt adjusted.\u201d\n\nBut perhaps this worldly-minded agriculturist wronged his minister. There\nhave been many kind, generous souls among them. I remember, says Dr.\nJohn Brown, a story of a good, old Anti-Burgher minister. It was in the\ndays when dancing was held to be a great sin, and was dealt with by the\nSessions. Jessie, a comely, blythe, and good young woman, and a great\nfavourite of the minister, had been guilty of dancing at a friend\u2019s\nwedding. She was summoned before the Session to be \u201cdealt with\u201d\u2014the\ngrim old fellows sternly concentrating their eyes upon her as she stood\ntrembling in her striped short-gown and her petticoat. The Doctor, who\nwas one of divinity, and a deep thinker, greatly pitying her and himself,\nsaid, \u201cJessie, my woman, were ye dancin\u2019?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d sobbed Jessie.\n\n\u201cYe maun e\u2019en promise never to dance again, Jessie.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will, sir; I will promise\u201d (with a curtsey).\n\n\u201cNoo, what were ye thinkin\u2019 o\u2019, Jessie, when ye were dancin\u2019?\u2014tell us\ntruly,\u201d said an old elder, who had been a poacher in youth.\n\n\u201cNae ill, sir,\u201d sabbed out the dear little woman.\n\n\u201cThen, Jessie, my woman, _aye dance_!\u201d cried the delighted Doctor.\n\nIt was capital!\n\nWhen the Rev. Mr. (now the esteemed Dr.) Macgregor, of Edinburgh, settled\nin Glasgow as minister of the Tron Kirk, he had occasion, a few weeks\nafter, to visit a family in one of the poorer districts, where he was\nas yet unknown to the eyes of his flock, although their ears had heard\nhis name, and his personal appearance had become in some vague way\nfamiliar to their minds. He inquired of the goodwife whether the head of\nthe house was at home, and, being informed that he was not, was kindly\ninvited to await his arrival. This not occurring so soon as the goodwife\nhad expected, she suggested to her visitor, who had not acquainted her\nwith his name or station, that he should \u201cgang oot an see the pigs,\u201d\nthe mother-pig having brought into the world a fine litter, a few days\nbefore. This, of course, Mr. Macgregor cheerfully consented to do. The\ninmates of the sty having been duly inspected, and the virtues of the\nmother-pig extolled till the old woman\u2019s vocabulary refused to supply\nanother adjective, she informed her visitor that \u201cthe young piggies\nhad a\u2019 been named aifter different fouk;\u201d according as their personal\nappearances seemed to offer points of resemblance. And she indicated\nthis and that one, as the bearer of some well-known name, honoured or\notherwise, until she came to the last one, a rather diminutive, but\nactive specimen of the porcine breed. \u201cAn\u2019 this ane,\u201d said she to her\nunknown and attentive listener, \u201cthis wee black deev\u2019luck, we ca\u2019 _Wee\nMacgregor o\u2019 the Tron_!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cAn\u2019 this ane,\u201d said she to her unknown and attentive\nlistener, \u201cthis wee black deev\u2019luck, we ca\u2019 _Wee Macgregor o\u2019 the\nTron_!\u201d\u2014_Page 106._]\n\nThe genial Doctor himself has frequently told the above story with great\nand unaffected gusto.\n\nThe Christenin\u2019, the Waddin\u2019, the Catakeezin\u2019 (now an unknown\ninstitution), and the Burial\u2014these were occasions which brought the\noccupants of the pulpit and the pew into the closest relationship,\nand from which many capital illustrations of the national humour and\ncharacter have arisen.\n\nBaptism, of course, sometimes had a different significance for different\npersons. \u201cWhat is Baptism, John?\u201d a minister, in the course of a public\ncatechising, asked his beadle.\n\n\u201cBaptism?\u201d answered John, scratching his head, \u201cweel, ye ken, it\u2019s\nsometimes mair and sometimes less, but, as a general rule, it\u2019s\nauchteenpence to me and a shillin\u2019 to the precentor.\u201d\n\n\u201cHoo mony o\u2019 the Elect will there be on the earth the noo, think ye,\nJanet?\u201d said one old crone to another. \u201cTen?\u201d\n\n\u201cNa: naething like it, woman.\u201d\n\n\u201cHoots, Janet, ye think there\u2019s naebody good enough for heaven but\nyersel\u2019, and the minister.\u201d\n\n\u201cDeed,\u201d replied Janet, \u201cI hae sometimes very grave doots aboot the\nminister.\u201d\n\nHere was a more generous spirit. The late Dr. Wilberforce, while paying\na visit at Taymouth Castle during the lifetime of the last Marquis\nof Breadalbane, a devoted adherent of the Free Church, was taken\nby Lady Breadalbane (_nee_ Baillie of Jerviswoode) into one of the\ncottages on the estate occupied by an old Highland woman\u2014a \u201ctrue blue\u201d\nPresbyterian\u2014who was greatly pleased by the Bishop\u2019s frank and friendly\nmanner. A few days afterwards the Bishop left the castle, and Lady\nBreadalbane paid another visit to her old friend, when the following\nconversation took place:\u2014\u201cDo you know who that was, Mary, that came to\nsee you last week?\u201d \u201cNo, my lady,\u201d was the reply. \u201cThe famous Bishop of\nOxford,\u201d said her ladyship. On which the denizen of the mountains quietly\nremarked, \u201cAweel, my lady, he\u2019s a rale fine man; and a\u2019 I can say is,\nthat I trust and pray he\u2019ll gang to heaven\u2014Bishop though he be!\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope you have made due preparation, and are in a fit state to have the\nSacrament of Baptism administered to your child, John,\u201d said a minister\nto one of his parishioners, a ploughman, who had called at the manse in\nconnection with a recent event in his domestic circle.\n\n\u201cWeel,\u201d said the ploughman, \u201cI haena been ower extravagant in the way o\u2019\npreparation, maybe. I\u2019m a man o\u2019 sma\u2019 means, ye ken; but I\u2019ve gotten in a\nbottle o\u2019 whisky and the best hauf o\u2019 a kebbuck o\u2019 cheese.\u201d\n\n\u201cTuts, tuts!\u201d interrupted the minister, \u201cI do not mean preparation of the\nthings that perish. Is your mind and heart in proper condition?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mean that I\u2019m no soond in the head?\u201d queried the ploughman.\n\n\u201cNo, I do not mean that at all,\u201d said the divine. \u201cYou do not appear to\nhave an intelligent idea of the matter that has brought you here.\u201d\n\nThen, after a minute\u2019s reflection, he continued\u2014\u201cHow many Commandments\nare there, John?\u201d\n\n\u201cI couldna tell ye jist exactly on the spur o\u2019 the meenit,\u201d said John,\nscratching his head, \u201cbut there\u2019s an auld beuk lyin\u2019 i\u2019 the hoose yonder,\ngin I had it here I could sune answer yer question.\u201d\n\n\u201cJohn,\u201d said the minister, \u201cI am afraid you are not in a fit state to\nhold up your child for baptism.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo fit to haud him up?\u201d echoed the ploughman, starting to his feet, and\nposing in the attitude best calculated to display his great muscular\nform. \u201cMe? Man, I could haud him up gin he were a bull stirk!\u201d\n\nAnd ludicrous incidents have occurred even in the supreme moment occupied\nby the ceremony of the baptism of a child, and when no one was very\nseriously to blame. In Paisley, some time ago, the father of a child\nwas from home at the time of its birth, and was not expected to return\nfor two or three months. The mother, desiring that the baptism of the\nchild should not be delayed so long, was consequently obliged to present\nthe infant herself, the ordinance being administered in private. The\nofficiating clergyman was an old man, who, when in the act of dispensing\nthe sacrament, asked the name by which the child was to be called. The\nmother, who had a thickness in her speech, politely said, \u201cLucy, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cLucifer!\u201d exclaimed the old and irritable divine, in exasperated horror,\n\u201cI shall baptise no child by the name of the Prince of Darkness, madam.\nThe child\u2019s name is John.\u201d\n\nBut perhaps the very best specimen story on record is the well-known one\nwhich is associated with the name of Ralph Erskine, the father of the\nScottish Secession Kirk, and which the late Robert Leighton, the poet,\nrendered so happily into rhyme under the title of \u201cThe Bapteezement o\u2019\nthe Bairn.\u201d Mr. Erskine was a most proficient performer on the violin,\nand so often beguiled his leisure hours with this instrument that the\npeople of Dunfermline believed he composed his sermons to its tones, as a\npoet writes a song to a particular air. But to the story:\u2014A poor man in\none of the neighbouring parishes having a child to baptise resolved not\nto employ his own clergyman, with whom he was at issue on certain points\nof doctrine, but to have the office performed by some minister of whose\ntenets fame gave a better report. With the child in his arms, therefore,\nand attended by the full complement of old and young women who usually\nminister on such occasions, he proceeded to the manse of \u2e3a, some miles\noff (not that of Mr. Erskine), where he inquired if the clergyman was at\nhome.\n\n\u201cNa; he\u2019s no at hame the noo,\u201d answered the servant lass; \u201che\u2019s doon the\nburn fishing; but I can sune cry him in.\u201d\n\n\u201cYe needna gie yersel\u2019 the trouble,\u201d replied the man, quite shocked at\nthis account of the minister\u2019s habits, \u201cnane o\u2019 yer fishin\u2019 ministers\nshall bapteeze my bairn.\u201d\n\nOff he then trudged, followed by his whole train, to the residence of\nanother parochial clergyman, at the distance of some miles. Here, on his\ninquiring if the minister was at home, the lass answered:\n\n\u201cDeed, he\u2019s no at hame the day; he\u2019s been oot since sax i\u2019 the mornin\u2019 at\nthe shooting. Ye needna wait, neither; for he\u2019ll be sae dune oot when he\ncomes back, that he\u2019ll no be able to say boo to a goose, lat-a-be kirsten\na wean.\u201d\n\n\u201cWait, lassie!\u201d cried the man, in a tone of indignant scorn; \u201cwad I wait,\nd\u2019ye think, to haud up my bairn afore a minister that gangs oot at sax i\u2019\nthe mornin\u2019 to shoot God\u2019s creatur\u2019s? I\u2019ll awa doon to gude Mr. Erskine\nat Dunfermline; and he\u2019ll be neither oot at the fishin\u2019, nor shootin\u2019,\nI\u2019m thinkin\u2019.\u201d\n\nThe whole baptismal train then set off for Dunfermline, sure that the\nfather of the Secession, although not now a placed minister, would\nat least be engaged in no unclerical sports to incapacitate him for\nperforming the sacred ordination in question. On their arriving, however,\nat the house of the clergyman, which they did not do till late in the\nevening, the man, on rapping at the door, anticipated that he would\nnot be at home any more than his brethren, as he heard the strains of\na fiddle proceeding from the upper chamber. \u201cThe minister\u2019ll no be at\nhame,\u201d he said, with a sly smile to the girl who came to the door, \u201cor\nyour lad wadna be playin\u2019 that gate to ye on the fiddle.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe minister is at hame,\u201d quoth the girl, \u201cmair be token it\u2019s himsel\u2019\nthat\u2019s playin\u2019, honest man; he aye tak\u2019s a tune at nicht, afore he gangs\nto bed. Faith, there\u2019s nae lad o\u2019 mine can play that gate; it wad be\nsomething to tell if ony o\u2019 them could.\u201d\n\n\u201c_That_ the minister playin\u2019!\u201d cried the man, in a degree of horror and\nastonishment far transcending what he had expressed on either of the\nformer occasions. \u201cIf _he_ does this, what may the rest no do? Weel,\nI fairly gie them up a\u2019 thegither. I have travelled this hale day in\nsearch o\u2019 a godly minister, an\u2019 never man met wi\u2019 mair disappointment\nin a day\u2019s journey. I\u2019ll tell ye what, gudewife,\u201d he added, turning to\nthe disconsolate party behind, \u201cwe\u2019ll just awa\u2019 back to oor ain minister\nafter a\u2019. He\u2019s no a\u2019 thegither soond, it\u2019s true; but lat him be what he\nlikes in doctrine, deil ha\u2019e me, if ever I kenn\u2019d him to fish, shoot, or\nplay on the fiddle in a\u2019 his days!\u201d\n\nWeddings have been the occasion of much joy in the world, and are\nclustered around with capital stories. \u201cJeanie, lassie,\u201d said an old\nCameronian to his daughter, who was asking his permission to marry, \u201cmind\nye, it\u2019s a solemn thing to get married.\u201d\n\n\u201cI ken that, faither,\u201d returned the sensible lass, \u201cbut it\u2019s a solemner\nthing no to be married.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the road we\u2019ve a\u2019 to gang,\u201d said the short-sighted old maid,\nsolemnly, mistaking a passing wedding party for a funeral procession.\nSo also seemed to think the heroine of the following anecdote and no\n_mistake_ about it:\u2014A clergyman, having three times refused to marry a\nman who had as often come before him drunk, on the third occasion said\nto the woman, \u201cWhy do you bring him here in that state?\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease, your reverence,\u201d said she, \u201che\u2019ll no come when he\u2019s sober.\u201d\n\nThe Rev. Dr. Wightman, of Kirkmahoe, was a simple-minded clergyman of\nthe old school. When a young man, he paid his addresses to a lady in the\nparish, and his suit was accepted on the condition that it met with the\napproval of the lady\u2019s mother. Accordingly, the Doctor waited upon the\nmatron, and, stating his case, the good woman, delighted at his proposal,\npassed the usual Scottish compliment, \u201c\u2019Deed, Doctor, ye\u2019re far ower gude\nfor our Janet.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, weel,\u201d was the instant rejoinder, \u201cye ken best; so we\u2019ll say na\nmair aboot it.\u201d And he never did, although the social intercourse of the\nparties continued as before; and forty years after Doctor Wightman died\nan old bachelor, and the _affiancee_ of his youth died an old maid. Ah,\nit\u2019s a solemn thing marriage!\n\nA humorous old divine, who had strong feelings on the subject, was in\nthe habit of prefacing the ceremony thus\u2014\u201cMy friends,\u201d he would say,\n\u201cmarriage is a blessing to some, a curse to many, and a great risk to\nall. Now, do you venture?\u201d And no objections being made\u2014\u201cThen let us\nproceed.\u201d\n\nA clergyman, in marrying a couple, failed at the crucial part of the\nservice to obtain any indication from the bridegroom as to whether he\nwould accept the bride as his helpmeet. After a considerable pause, the\nbride indignant at the stolidity of her intended husband, pushed down\nhis head with her hand, at the same time ejaculating, \u201cCanna ye boo, ye\nbrute?\u201d That young lady should have been courted by the hero of the next\nstory.\n\nSome time ago a couple went to a clergyman to get united in the bands of\nwedlock. As the custom is, before pronouncing their doom, the minister\nasked the bridegroom if he was willing to take the young woman whom he\nnow held by the hand to be his lawful wife. He nodded assent. The bride\nwas then asked the same question.\n\n\u201cNo sir,\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cWhat are your reasons,\u201d asked the worthy divine, \u201cfor drawing back after\nyou have come this length?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d replied she, hanging down her head, \u201cI ha\u2019e just ta\u2019en a scunner at\nhim.\u201d\n\nThey accordingly went away; but in about a week they returned. When\nthe minister asked her if she now consented to take this man to be her\nhusband,\n\n\u201cYes, sir,\u201d was the answer.\n\nHe then asked the bridegroom if he was willing to take this woman to be\nhis wife.\n\n\u201cNo, sir,\u201d he replied.\n\n\u201cAnd what has come over you now?\u201d inquired the minister, in a tone of\nsurprise.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said he, \u201cI ha\u2019e just ta\u2019en a scunner at her.\u201d\n\nAnd so away they went a second time without being married.\n\nThey came back a third time, however, in about a fortnight after, now\nboth thoroughly resolved; but when the minister saw them coming, he\nhurried downstairs and shut the door, and, returning to his study, cried\nover the window to them\u2014\n\n\u201cFor gudesake, gae awa\u2019 hame, you twa, for I\u2019ve ta\u2019en a scunner at you\nbaith!\u201d\n\n\u201cEh, minister, I maist think shame to come to ye,\u201d said an old dame, who\nhad sought the clergyman\u2019s offices in this way on four previous occasions.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter, Margaret, that you should think shame to come to me?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Deed, sir, it\u2019s just this, I\u2019m gaun to be married again.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Margaret, I do not see that you have any cause for shame in coming\nto me for such a purpose. Marriage, you know, is honourable in all.\u201d\n\n\u201cNae doot, sir, nae doot. But eh! (bursting into tears) there never was\nsurely ony puir woman fash\u2019d wi\u2019 sic a set o\u2019 deein\u2019 men as I\u2019ve had.\u201d\n\nAnother dame who had a similar experience in _husbandry_, took a brighter\nview of the situation. \u201cAy,\u201d she said, \u201cfirst it was John Tamson, then it\nwas Dawvit Soutar, syne Peter Anderson, then Tammas M\u2019Farlane. Noo it\u2019s\nWillie Simpson; and eh! I wonder whase _dear lamb_ I\u2019ll be next?\u201d\n\nThe practice of house-to-house visitation and congregational catechising\nhave yielded a host of anecdotes, one or two of which must suffice here.\nA country minister, accompanied by one of his elders, was visiting\nin the most outlying parts of his parish, and early in the afternoon\narrived, after a long walk, at the house of a maiden lady, who kept\na cow, a pig, and a few hens, etc. The house was so far removed from\nevery other human habitation that anyone who reached it was in instant\nneed of refreshment. On the arrival of her minister and elder, the good\nlady accordingly produced the kebbuck, a dish of milk, and a quantity\nof cakes. They were a welcome feast, for the visitors were famishing of\nhunger after their long and arduous walk. They therefore \u201claid their\nlugs amang\u201d the eatables in a style which struck terror to the heart of\ntheir extra frugal hostess. By and by, and still \u201cpegging away\u201d at the\npile of cakes and whangs of well-seasoned cheese, the minister looked\nover to Janet and remarked that he was very glad to see her in the church\non Sabbath last, and asked her if she remembered the subject of his\ndiscourse.\n\n\u201cAy, fine that,\u201d said she; \u201c\u2019twas the parable o\u2019 the loaves an\u2019 the\nfishes.\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly, Janet,\u201d said the minister; \u201cand what useful lesson did you\nderive from the exposition of the parable?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, naething particular at the time, sir, but I was just sittin\u2019\nthinkin\u2019 aboot it there a meenit syne.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Janet, that is very interesting; and what thought occurred to you\na minute since in connection with the subject?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, sir, I was just thinkin\u2019 that gin the elder an\u2019 you had been amang\nthe multitude there wadna have been sae mony basketfu\u2019s left.\u201d\n\nThe answers vouchsafed in diets of catechetical examinations were often\nshrewd, if sometimes ridiculous. \u201cWhat are the decrees of God?\u201d was once\nasked of an old dame.\n\n\u201c\u2019Deed, sir, He kens that best Himsel\u2019,\u201d was the shrewd reply.\n\n\u201cWhy did the Israelites make a golden calf?\u201d was the question put to a\nlittle girl.\n\n\u201cBecause they hadna as muckle siller as wad mak\u2019 a coo,\u201d she replied.\n\nThese examinations were invariably intimated from the pulpit, and the\nfamilies in each district were invited to meet the minister on a certain\nday, at an appointed hour, and in a particular house. The farmers\u2019\nwives, not better informed than the humble parishioners, yet considered\nthemselves superior persons, and afraid lest they should be affronted by\nhaving a question put to them that they could not answer, the catechiser\nwas frequently bribed by a basketful of eggs and a few pounds of fresh\nbutter being sent over to the manse on the morning of the diet. Thus, a\ncertain minister was intercepted whilst crossing a moor on his way to the\nhouse of meeting one day.\n\n\u201cGood morning, Janet,\u201d said the divine; \u201cbut are you not to present\nyourself at the diet of examination in the house of John Anderson, at\nnoon to-day?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy am I, sir. Ou, deed, ay. But you see, sir, I just sent ower the\nlassie to the manse this mornin\u2019 wi\u2019 twa or three rows o\u2019 fresh butter\nand a curn eggs, d\u2019ye see; an\u2019 I was just wantin\u2019 to say to ye, sir, that\nye micht speir some easy question at me. It\u2019s no that I dinna read my\nBook, an\u2019 dinna ken, but I just get in a state o\u2019 the nerves, like, afore\nfouk, an\u2019 micht mak\u2019 a fule o\u2019 mysel\u2019; an\u2019 that\u2019s the reason I wad like\nye just to ask some very simple question when my turn comes.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m surely obliged to you for your present, Janet,\u201d said the minister,\n\u201cand, depend upon it, I shall be careful to give you a question that will\nbe easily answered.\u201d So saying, he bade her good morning and rode on.\nJanet was forward in time; and when her turn came to be examined, the\nminister, remembering his promise, said\u2014\n\n\u201cJanet Davidson, can you tell me which is the Seventh Commandment?\u201d\n\nSimple as the question would have been to many present, Janet could not\nanswer it, and no voice responding, the question was repeated slowly and\nwith emphasis on the words\u2014_Seventh Commandment_. Janet cast a beseeching\nlook at the minister, and in a half-reproving tone said\u2014\n\n\u201cEh, sir, after yon on the muir the day, I didna think ye wad hae askit\nme that question!\u201d\n\nThe people looked to one another with astonishment, whereupon the\nminister prudently explained the whole matter.\n\nWhen the venerable Ebenezer Erskine was minister of Portmoak, his\nbrother, the equally well-known Ralph, afore-mentioned, paid him a visit.\nOn his entering the manse Ebenezer exclaimed\u2014\n\n\u201cRalph, man, I\u2019m glad to see you, ye hae come in gude time. I have a diet\nof examination to-day, and I have also important business to attend to at\nPerth. Ye\u2019ll tak\u2019 the examination, will ye, and let me gang to Perth?\u201d\n\n\u201cWith all my heart,\u201d said Ralph.\n\n\u201cWeel,\u201d said Ebenezer, \u201cye\u2019ll find a\u2019 my fouk easy to examine but ane,\nand him, I reckon, ye had better no meddle wi\u2019. He has an auld-fashioned\nScotch way o\u2019 answering a\u2019e question by putting anither, an\u2019 he\u2019ll maybe\naffront ye.\u201d\n\n\u201cAffront me!\u201d said Ralph indignantly. \u201cDo you think he\u2019ll foil me wi\u2019 my\nain weapons?\u201d\n\n\u201cAweel,\u201d said his brother, \u201cI gi\u2019e ye fair warning, ye had better no ca\u2019\nhim up.\u201d\n\nThe individual thus referred to was Walter Simpson, the village\nblacksmith, who at former diets of examination had proved himself\nrather troublesome to his minister. The gifted Ralph, indignant to\nthe last degree at the idea of an illiterate blacksmith perplexing\n_him_, determined to encounter him at once by putting a grand, leading,\nunanswerable question. Accordingly, after putting a variety of simple\npreliminary interrogations to some of the senior members of his brother\u2019s\ncongregation present, he cried out with a loud voice, \u201cWalter Simpson.\u201d\n\n\u201cHere, sir,\u201d responded the smith.\n\n\u201cNow, Walter, attend,\u201d said the examiner. \u201cCan ye tell me how long Adam\ncontinued in a state of innocence?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, ay, sir; just till he got a wife,\u201d said Vulcan; \u201cbut can ye tell me\nhow lang he remained innocent after that?\u201d\n\n\u201cSit down, Walter,\u201d said the discomfited divine, and proceeded to examine\nanother.\n\n[Illustration: \u201cCan ye tell me how long Adam continued in a state of\ninnocence?\u201d\u2014_Page 120._]\n\nScotch folks have each a mind of their own, which they respect. Still\nthey are seldom found to be doggedly unreasonable. When it was proposed\nby the Secession congregation at Haddington to give _a call_ to the\nafterwards celebrated Mr. John Brown, one of the adherents of the church\nexpressed his decided opposition. Subsequent to his ordination, Mr.\nBrown waited on the solitary dissentient, who was threatening to leave\nthe meeting-house. \u201cWhy do you think of leaving us?\u201d mildly enquired Mr.\nBrown. \u201cBecause,\u201d said the sturdy oppositionist, \u201cI don\u2019t think you a\ngood preacher.\u201d \u201cThat is quite my own opinion,\u201d replied the minister;\n\u201cbut the great majority of the congregation think the reverse, and it\nwould not do for you and me to set up our opinion against theirs. I have\ngiven in, you see, and I would suggest you might just do so too.\u201d \u201cWeel,\nweel,\u201d said the grumbler, quite reconciled by the candidate\u2019s frank\nconfession, \u201cI think I\u2019ll just follow your example, sir.\u201d All differences\nwere ended; and afterwards, than this same individual, the Rev. John\nBrown had no greater admirer in the town of Haddington.\n\nOld Hackstoun of Rathillet one day said to Mr. Smibert, the minister of\nCupar, who, like himself, was blessed with a foolish, or rather wild,\nyouth for a son\u2014\u201cD\u2019ye ken, sir, you and I are wiser than Solomon.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow can that be, Rathillet?\u201d inquired the startled clergyman.\n\n\u201cOu, ye see,\u201d said Hackstoun, \u201cSolomon didna ken whether his son was to\nbe a fool or a wise man: but baith you and I are quite sure that our sons\nare fools.\u201d\n\nThese anecdotes and illustrations possess a value distinct from the rich\nore of humour they reveal. They are redolent of the soil, and serve as\n\u201ckeek-holes\u201d through which fitful glances are obtained of the manners\nand customs of the \u201crude forefathers of the hamlet,\u201d and the easy\nrelationship which in bygone days existed between the occupants of the\npulpit and the pew.\n\n_Here endeth this lesson._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE OLD SCOTTISH BEADLE\u2014HIS CHARACTER AND HUMOUR\n\n\nThe beadle, or betheral\u2014frequently gravedigger, church officer, and\nminister\u2019s man all in one\u2014bulks largely in every representative\ncollection of the Scottish national humour and character\u2014next to the\nminister here, indeed, as elsewhere\u2014and furnishes the collector with his\nchoicest specimens of Scotch wit and humour of the dry and caustic order.\nThe type of beadle, of course, which fifty or a hundred years ago gave\ntone and character to the class, and has made them famous in story and\nanecdote, is now almost a defunct species. This being so, let us turn\naside and review the \u201cbodie\u201d where he is preserved, \u201cin his manner as he\nlived,\u201d in the many stories and anecdotes which have survived him. See\nhim there! He is a shrewd, canny-going, scranky-looking individual. Fond\nof snuff, and susceptible to the allurements of a sly dram. He is proud\nof his office\u2014the more solemn and conspicuous duties of which he performs\nwith a dignity of deportment and solemnity of countenance which casts the\nminister almost hopelessly into the shade. He is heard to speak of \u201c_me_\nand the minister;\u201d and should there chance to come a young probationer\nto occupy the pulpit for a day, who appears flurried and nervous just\nbefore he is to ascend to the \u201cplace of execution,\u201d he (the preacher)\nwill receive a kindly tap on the shoulder, and be warned not to let his\nfeelings get the better of him. \u201cI can never see a young chap like you\ngaun up into the poopit,\u201d he will continue, \u201cwithout bein\u2019 reminded o\u2019\nthe first Sawbath that I took up the Bible. I shook like the leaf o\u2019 a\ntree! I dinna shak\u2019 noo: an\u2019 ye\u2019ll get ower yer nervousness, too, sir,\nwi\u2019 practice, just as I ha\u2019e dune. I fand it the best plan\u2014an\u2019 dootless\nsae will ye, gin ye\u2019ll try it\u2014never to think aboot what ye\u2019re doin\u2019, nor\nwha\u2019s lookin\u2019 at ye, but just stap up the stair and gang through wi\u2019 the\nbusiness as if you didna care a rap for a livin\u2019 sowl o\u2019 them.\u201d\n\nHis intimacy with the minister\u2014the semi-private work he performs about\nthe manse, and elsewhere, affording him an occasional keek behind the\nsolemnity that doth hedge a clergyman\u2014places him on easy conversation\nwith his reverend master, and of this circumstance much of his humour is\nborn and given to the world. The minister\u2019s condescendences towards him\nnot unfrequently have had the effect of giving him an exaggerated notion\nof his own importance. His knowledge of what is going on at the manse\nmakes him a welcome visitor at the houses of the gossiping members of the\ncongregation; and Dean Ramsay tells a story which admirably illustrates\nthis interesting phase of his character.\n\nA certain country beadle had been sent round the parish to deliver\nnotices at all the houses of the catechising which was to precede the\npreparation for receiving the Communion. On his return it was evident\nthat John had partaken rather freely of refreshments in the course of the\nexpedition. The minister rebuked him for his improper conduct. The beadle\npleaded the pressing hospitality of the parishioners. The preacher would\nnot admit the plea, and added, \u201cWhy, John, I go through the parish, and\nyou do not see me return home fou\u2019, as you have done.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, minister,\u201d replied John, with an emphatic shake of the head, \u201cbut,\nthen, ye\u2019re no sae popular in the parish as I am.\u201d The self-complacency\nof the reply could scarcely be surpassed.\n\nIt is told of another of the consequential breed that being asked by a\nmember of the kirk\u2014one of the humbler order\u2014if he knew whether or not the\nminister was to be preaching himself on the approaching Sabbath, he dryly\nreplied, \u201cIt\u2019s ill for me to ken a\u2019 that the minister intends doin\u2019. Come\nye to the kirk, an\u2019 whether the minister\u2019s there or no, ye\u2019ll see me in\nthe poopit as usual, at ony rate.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, sir,\u201d said Robert Fairgrieve, the beadle of Ancrum, one day to\nthe minister, \u201cHuz (us) that are offish-bearers (meaning the minister and\nhimself) should be examples to the flock.\u201d\n\nThe self-same functionary when on his death-bed was visited by the\nminister, who was a little concerned to find him in a restless and\ndiscontented humour. On enquiring into the cause of his uneasiness,\nRobert replied, \u201cWeel, sir, I was just mindin\u2019 that I have buried 598\nfowk since I was made bedral o\u2019 Ancrum, and I was anxious, gin it were\n_His_ will, that I micht be spared to mak\u2019 it the sax hunder.\u201d\n\nWhen beadle meets beadle, as is the common practice with persons in other\nwalks of life, they enter glibly into a free-and-easy criticism of their\nrespective chiefs. One is admittedly \u201cstrong in prayer,\u201d whilst another\nis set aside as \u201cweak in doctrine,\u201d and so forth.\n\n\u201cI think oor minister does weel,\u201d said one. \u201cMan! hoo he gars the stoure\nflee oot o\u2019 the cooshions!\u201d\n\n\u201cStoure oot o\u2019 the cooshions!\u201d sneered another. \u201cIf ye\u2019ve a notion o\u2019\npowerfu\u2019 preachin\u2019, come owre an\u2019 gie us a day\u2019s hearin\u2019. Wad ye believe\nit?\u2014for a\u2019 the short time yon man o\u2019 ours has delivered the Word amang\nus, he has knockit three poopits a\u2019 to shivers, an\u2019 has dung the guts out\no\u2019 five Bibles!\u201d\n\n\u201cThe last minister I was wi\u2019,\u201d said one, \u201chad a great power o\u2019 water; for\nhe grat, an\u2019 swat, an\u2019 spat like the very mischief.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Saunders,\u201d said a country clergyman to his beadle on Monday\nmorning, \u201chow did you like that minister who was preaching for me\nyesterday?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, just very middlin\u2019 ways, sir,\u201d replied Saunders. \u201cJust very middlin\u2019\nways. He was far owre plain and simple for me. I like a preacher that\njummils the joodgement and confoonds the sense awee; and dod, sir, I\nnever heard ony o\u2019 them that could beat yersel\u2019 at that.\u201d\n\nWell said, Saunders! There are many people about who estimate a\npreacher much in the same fashion\u2014measure his eloquence by his success\nin \u201cjummlin\u2019 their joodgement\u201d and \u201cconfoondin\u2019 their senses.\u201d They\ndesire sermons so \u201cdeep\u201d that they cannot see to the bottom of them; the\nmore incomprehensible the preaching, the more profound the preacher is\ndeclared to be.\n\n\u201cEh, he was grand the day!\u201d said an old lady on her return from church.\n\n\u201cIn what respect?\u201d inquired her lord and master.\n\n\u201cJust terrible deep,\u201d said she. \u201cI didna understand a word o\u2019t; but, eh!\nit was grand!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat makes you laugh, James?\u201d inquired a country minister of his\nbeadle one Sabbath in the Session-house between the preachings, as the\nhumbler functionary stirred up the fire and \u201chottered and leuch,\u201d in a\nsemi-suppressed manner. \u201cIt is unseemly, James. What is there to amuse\nyou?\u201d\n\nThe minister, it should be explained, had a reputation for giving his\npeople what is well understood when described as \u201ccauld kail het again.\u201d\n\n\u201cEh, naething particular,\u201d said Jamie, still laughing. \u201cI was only\nthinkin\u2019 o\u2019 something that happened when the kirk was skailin\u2019 a maument\nsyne.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat was it? Tell me about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, minister, dinna be angry wi\u2019 me,\u201d said Jamie, \u201can\u2019 I\u2019ll tell ye.\nWhether ye ken it or no, sir, ye\u2019re blamed for preachin\u2019 an auld sermon\nnoo an\u2019 than, an\u2019 I think I rather got the better o\u2019 some o\u2019 them the\nday\u2014some o\u2019 the kirk-fouk, I mean.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow so, James?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Deed, simply eneuch, an\u2019 I\u2019ll tell ye hoo. Just as soon as the hinmost\npsalm was finished, ye see, I gaed aff as usual an\u2019 opened first the West\ndoor, and syne ran round and opened the East door, and as I was comin\u2019\nback round the kirk again, wha should I meet but Newmains, an\u2019 twa or\nthree ither o\u2019 the farmers, an\u2019 by the way they were lauchin\u2019 an\u2019 nudgin\u2019\nane anither wi\u2019 their elbucks, I kent fine what they were ettlin\u2019 to say,\nso I tak\u2019s the first word wi\u2019 them, an\u2019 says I, \u2018Weel, lads,\u2019 says I, \u2018ye\ncanna say that yon was an auld ane ye got the day, for it\u2019s no abune sax\nweeks since ye got it afore.\u2019 An\u2019 I think I got the better o\u2019 them, sir.\nAn\u2019 that\u2019s hoo I canna help lauchin\u2019.\u201d\n\nThe beadle of a northern city kirk was a pavior to trade, and the\nminister with whom he was regularly \u201cyokit\u201d every Sabbath coming up one\nday to where John was busily engaged laying causey, was struck with a\nfine simile, as he thought, and said, \u201cJohn, you and I toil daily with\nthe same object in view, namely, to _mend the ways_ of our fellow-men.\nBut, I am afraid, you make much better progress than I do.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d replied the pavior-beadle, dryly, \u201cbut maybe if ye was as muckle\n_on your knees_ at your wark as I am, sir, you would come better speed.\u201d\n\nA capital rejoinder.\n\nOne of the beadle\u2019s weaknesses is the \u201cdram,\u201d as has been already hinted\nhere, and as this must be taken on the sly, his defence must be strong,\neven though unscrupulous. Alexander M\u2019Laughlan, a Blairgowrie beadle,\nhad contracted a habit of tippling, and entering the Session-house one\nmorning with the evidence of guilt in his breath, the minister deemed the\noccasion a fitting one on which to administer a reproof, and said\u2014\n\n\u201cSaunders, I much fear that the bottle has become\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cAye, sir,\u201d interrupted the officer, \u201cI was just about to remark that\nthere was surely a smell o\u2019 drink amang\u2019s!\u201d\n\nIn another case of the same kind, the defence was less equivocal.\n\n\u201cYou have been drinking again, John,\u201d said the minister. \u201cWhy, John, you\nshould really become a teetotaler.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you never tak\u2019 a drap yersel\u2019, sir?\u201d inquired John.\n\n\u201cI do; but, John, you must consider the difference between your\ncircumstances and mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery true, sir,\u201d said John; \u201cbut do ye ken hoo the streets o\u2019 Jerusalem\nwere keepit clean?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I am not sure that I do, John.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, then, I\u2019ll tell ye. It was just by ilka bodie keepin\u2019 their ain\ndoor-stane soopit.\u201d\n\nThe argument, doubtless, was not further continued on that occasion.\n\nThe minister of one of the Dundee parish churches had a beadle called\nDonald, who was a worthy and useful man. No fault could be found against\nhim except his being too fond of a dram. At a meeting of the Session one\nnight Donald was so unsteady in his gait that, to prevent an accident,\none of the elders had to go to his assistance in lighting the gas, which\ncould only be reached by a chair, or steps. The habit had become so\nmarked of late that it was decided to have Donald \u201cup.\u201d On his appearing,\nthe minister, in his most impressive manner, said, \u201cDonald, the Session\nhas asked me to remonstrate with you on your intemperate habits, which\nseem to have become worse recently.\u201d\n\nDonald, with as great a look of offended dignity as in the circumstances\nhe could assume, replied, \u201cI never takes more than what\u2019s good for me,\nshir; did you ever see me the\u2014(hic)\u2014worse of drink?\u201d\n\nThe Session was not a little amused; but the minister, still keeping his\ngravity, said, \u201cWell, Donald, we have pretty plain evidence to-night. And\nnot very long ago I saw you clinging to a railing in the Nethergate, and,\nso that you might not know I saw you, I crossed to the other side of the\nstreet.\u201d\n\nDrawing himself up to his full height, the beadle replied, \u201cWell, you\ndid wrong, shir\u2014very far wrong; it was your duty, shir, to have stopped\nand admonished me.\u201d The minister was pleased enough to see Donald\u2019s back,\nas by this time it was very apparent the sympathies of the Session were\nwith the accused.\n\nWe rarely find the beadle at loggerheads with the minister, however.\nHe rather inclines to regard the minister\u2019s and his own interests\nas identical, and is disposed to be friendly and confidential. So\nconfidential, indeed, that it is recorded of one that, when the minister\nwas in a state of exasperation about something or other, John looked\nsympathisingly towards him and said, \u201cGin ye think that an aith wad\nrelieve ye, sir, dinna mind me!\u201d\n\n\u201cJohn,\u201d said a parish minister in Perthshire to his beadle not very long\nago, \u201cthat Disestablishment cry is becoming serious. Dr. Hutton and his\ncrew are apparently not to rest until they have us all put out of church\nand manse together. Why, I see there\u2019s to be a set of agitators from\nGlasgow and elsewhere to be holding a meeting in our very own parish\nthis week.\u201d \u201cDinna ye bother yersel\u2019, minister,\u201d was the beadle\u2019s reply,\n\u201cdinna ye bother yersel\u2019. If the kirk continues to do her duty, the very\ngates o\u2019 hell will no prevail against her. We have Scripture for that. As\nan instance, sir. Ye mind o\u2019 yon five dissenters wha tried to put me oot\no\u2019 the grave-diggin\u2019 twa years syne, _I\u2019ve happit four o\u2019 them noo_!\u201d\n\n\u201cDrunk again, John,\u201d said a north country minister one day to his beadle,\nmeaning, of course, that John was clearly the worse of liquor.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t mention\u2019t,\u201d replied John, with a bleary wink, \u201cI\u2019m geyan weel on\nmysel\u2019, sir.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cDrunk again, John,\u201d said a north country minister to his\nbeadle (meaning, of course, that John was clearly the worse of liquor).\n\u201cDon\u2019t mention\u2019t,\u201d replied John, with a bleary wink, \u201cI\u2019m geyan weel on\nmysel\u2019, sir.\u201d\u2014_Page 131._]\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a damp, cold morning,\u201d said the minister, as he entered the\nSession-house, chaffing both hands and feet.\n\n\u201cDeevilish, sir, deevilish!\u201d replied John, catching the _sense_ perhaps,\nalthough the _sound_ reached him imperfectly.\n\nAnd, by the by, the word _sound_ just reminds me of a very good beadle\nanecdote, and one which illustrates how expressive a monosyllable may\nsometimes be made. A certain country congregation had been hearing\ncandidates, with a view to filling the pulpit. The third on the short\nleet, a young spark of a fellow, had preached, as it were, yesterday,\nand desiring to ascertain, not only what impression he had himself made,\nbut also the esteem in which the members of the kirk held those who had\npreached before him, he sauntered around, looking for some suitable\nperson to _sound_ on the matter. In course of time he espied the beadle\nbusily exercised in opening a grave, and, going towards the digger,\nhe talked with him quietly for a time on matters likely to interest\nthe rural inhabitant, and gradually arrived at the subject which was\nuppermost in his own mind.\n\n\u201cAnd what are the people saying about the candidate who preached first?\u201d\nat length asked the budding divine.\n\n\u201cSoond!\u201d replied John, throwing up a spadeful.\n\n\u201cAnd of the second one?\u201d queried the preacher.\n\n\u201c_No_ soond!\u201d was the ready and emphatic answer.\n\n\u201cAnd do you know what opinion they entertain of myself?\u201d\n\n\u201c_A\u2019_ soond!\u201d snorted the beadle, and drove the spade into the loam with\na thud that was even more eloquent than the words of his mouth.\n\nPerhaps it was to this self-same functionary that a gentleman one day\nremarked\u2014\n\n\u201cYe hae been sae lang aboot the minister\u2019s hand, John, that I dare say ye\ncould preach a sermon yersel\u2019 noo.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, na, sir,\u201d was the modest reply; \u201cI couldna preach a sermon.\u201d Then,\nafter a brief pause, he remarked, \u201cBut maybe I could draw an inference,\nthough.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, John,\u201d said the gentleman, humouring the quiet vanity of the\nbeadle, \u201cwhat inference could you draw from this text\u2014\u2018A wild ass\nsnuffeth up the wind at her pleasure\u2019 (Jer. ii. 24)?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel,\u201d replied John, \u201cthe only naitural-like inference that I could\ndraw frae it is just this, that she wad snuff a lang time before she wad\nfatten on\u2019t.\u201d\n\nIn a country parish in the Lothians the dwelling-house of the beadle\nwas in close proximity to the manse, and both were on the summit of a\nhill overlooking the neighbouring village. The minister was greatly\nesteemed for his piety, and it was Sandy\u2019s ambition to be regarded as the\none other _unco gude_ man in the parish. They frequently foregathered\nand exchanged experiences and views, and always on the basis of their\nspiritual superiority to all their neighbours. During a certain Saturday\nnight, a great storm of wind and snow had caused such drifts to\naccumulate about the doors of the villagers that when Sunday dawned all\nwere prisoners within their dwellings except the minister and the beadle.\nMr. Blank emerged from the manse, and stood on the hill-top surveying the\nscene. In a little while he was joined by Sandy; and whether the minister\ncould interpret the situation or not, the beadle had fully mastered\nits significance. \u201cGude mornin\u2019, Maister Blank,\u201d said Sandy; \u201cye mind\nwhat the Word says, \u2018He causeth His rain to fall upon the just and the\nunjust.\u2019\u201d Then slowly sweeping his outstretched arm over the imprisoned\nvillage, he added, with a peculiar emphasis, \u201cBut faith, sir, _the snow\nfinds the sinners oot_.\u201d\n\nSeveral capital examples of our subject\u2019s power of withering sarcasm have\nbeen already quoted, but the following would be difficult to rival:\u2014\n\n\u201cGin ye mention our local magistrates in yer prayers, sir,\u201d said the\nbeadle of a small burgh town to a clergyman who had come from a distance\nto officiate for a day\u2014\u201cgin ye mention our local magistrates in yer\nprayers, dinna ask that they may be a terror to evil-doers, because the\nfack o\u2019 the maitter is, sir, the puir, auld, waefu\u2019 bodies could be nae\nterror to onybody.\u201d\n\nTo a notorious infidel, who gloried in his profanity, and was once\ndenouncing the absurdity of the doctrine of original sin, a Falkirk\nbeadle remarked, \u201cIt seems to me, Mr. H., that you needna fash yersel\u2019\naboot original sin, for to my certain knowledge you\u2019ve quite as muckle\nackual sin as will _do_ for you.\u201d\n\nAn infidel citizen of an Ayrshire burgh built a handsome mausoleum for\nhimself and family in the local cemetery. He spared no expense, and was\nrather proud of his family burial-place. Indeed, he closely superintended\nthe operations of the workmen, and noted their progress. As he was going\nto the place one day, he met the beadle of the Secession kirk, and asked\nhim if he had seen the new vault. \u201cOu ay,\u201d was all the answer he got.\nNothing daunted, he proceeded to expatiate on the theme, and concluded by\nsaying, \u201cYon\u2019s a gey strong place. It\u2019ll tak\u2019 us a\u2019 our time to rise out\no\u2019 yonder at the last day.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy man,\u201d said the beadle, \u201cdinna gie yersel\u2019 ony trouble about _risin\u2019_,\nfor they\u2019ll maybe just ding the bottom out an\u2019 let ye gang _doun_\ninstead.\u201d\n\nThey are generally found having a single eye to business, and one is\nreported to have rejoiced to hear that an epidemic had broken out in the\nparish; \u201cfor,\u201d said he, \u201cI haena buried a livin\u2019 sowl for the last six\nweeks, binna a scart o\u2019 a bairn.\u201d\n\nJohn Prentice of Carnwath put his plaint in a more pleasant form. \u201cHech\nwow!\u201d he would say, when told of the death of any person. \u201cAy, man, an\u2019\nis So-and-So dead? Weel, I wad rather it had been anither twa!\u201d\n\nA person once asked John Prentice if he considered himself at liberty\nto pray for his daily bread. \u201cDear sake, sir,\u201d he answered, \u201cthe Lord\u2019s\nPrayer tells us that, ye ken.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, but,\u201d said the querist, \u201cdo you think you can do that consistently\nwith the command which enjoins us to wish no evil to our neighbours?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy conscience!\u201d cried John, in astonishment, \u201cthe folk maun be buried!\u201d\n\n\u201cRin awa\u2019 hame, bairns,\u201d a well-known Perthshire beadle was in the habit\nof saying to such of the children as curiosity or playfulness had brought\nto the churchyard. \u201cAwa\u2019 wi\u2019 ye! an\u2019 dinna come here again on yer ain\nfeet.\u201d\n\nJust after an interment one day in the same churchyard, and as the\nmourners were returning towards the gate, one of the party gave a cough,\nwhich caused the beadle to prick his ears, and, looking towards a friend\nwho stood by, \u201cWha ga\u2019e yon howe hoast (hollow cough)?\u201d said he. \u201cHe\u2019ll\nbe my way gin March!\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m gettin\u2019 auld an\u2019 frail noo, Jamie,\u201d said a timorous and \u201cpernickity\u201d\nold lady one day to this same functionary; \u201cthere\u2019s a saxpence to ye to\nbuy snuff. An\u2019 if I sud be ta\u2019en awa\u2019 afore I see ye again, Jamie, ye\u2019ll\nmind an\u2019 lay me in oor wastmost lair.\u201d\n\n\u201cA\u2019 richt,\u201d said Jamie, \u201cbut there may be ithers i\u2019 the family that wad\nlike the wastmost lair as weel as you, so, to save disappointment, ye\u2019d\nbetter hurry up an\u2019 tak\u2019 possession.\u201d\n\nThe late Rev. Mr. Barty, of Ruthven, was a man brimful of humour, and\nmany good stories are told of him. A vacancy having occurred in the\noffice of gravedigger, one, Peter Hardie, made application for the\nappointment. The parish is small, consisting of five farms. The rate per\nhead having been duly fixed, the minister and Peter had just about closed\nthe bargain, when Peter, with an eye to self-interest, said, \u201cBut am I to\nget steady wark?\u201d \u201cKeep\u2019s a! Peter,\u201d answered Mr. Barty, \u201cwi\u2019 steady wark\nye wad bury a\u2019 the parish in a fortnicht!\u201d\n\nBut the beadle sometimes meets with folks as inhumanly practical as\nhimself.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s to pey, John?\u201d asked a scrubby farmer of the sexton of\nKilwinning, as the finishing touches were being given to the sod on the\ngrave of the farmer\u2019s wife.\n\n\u201cFive shillin\u2019s,\u201d said John.\n\n\u201cFive shillin\u2019s for that sma\u2019 job? It\u2019s oot o\u2019 a\u2019 reason. Ye\u2019re weel\npey\u2019d wi\u2019 hauf-a-croon.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s doon seven feet,\u201d said John; \u201can\u2019 I\u2019ve tell\u2019t ye my chairge.\u201d\n\n\u201cI dinna want to quarrel wi\u2019 ye here the day, John,\u201d said the farmer,\ngruffly; \u201cso there\u2019s four shillin\u2019s, but I winna gi\u2019e ye a fardin\u2019 mair!\u201d\n\n\u201cSee here!\u201d said John, holding the money on the palm of his left hand\njust as he had received it, whilst he seized the handle of the spade in a\nbusinesslike way with the other, \u201cdoon wi\u2019 the ither shillin\u2019, or up she\ncomes!\u201d\n\nAnother was remonstrated with for making an overcharge. \u201cWeel, you see,\u201d\nsaid the beadle, making a motion with his thumb to the grave, \u201chim and me\nhad a bit troke about a watch a dizzin o\u2019 years syne, and he never paid\nme the difference o\u2019t. Noo, says I to mysel\u2019, this is my last chance.\nI\u2019ll better tak\u2019 it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, man, it\u2019s a bonnie turff,\u201d one is reported to have said. \u201cIt\u2019s a\npeety to see it putten doon on the tap o\u2019 sic a skemp!\u201d\n\nOf another deceased person another beadle said, \u201cHe was sic a fine chield\nI howkit his grave wi\u2019 my new spade.\u201d\n\nNot long ago a funeral party in the North on arriving at the kirkyard\nand placing the coffin over the grave, discovered that the latter was\nnot long enough to admit of the interment. \u201cMan, John,\u201d said the chief\nmourner to the beadle, \u201cye\u2019ve made the grave ower short.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt canna be,\u201d retorted John very gruffly, \u201cI measured the coffin wi\u2019 my\nain hand, and was very particular about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYe made a mistak\u2019 in the measuring, then, John,\u201d said the party, \u201cor\nye\u2019ve gane wrang wi\u2019 the howkin\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Me_ wrang!\u201d snorted the beadle, livid with rage; \u201csee that ye haena\nbrocht the wrang corp.\u201d\n\nA physician in Dumfries, who was also a member of the Kirk-Session,\nmeeting the beadle \u201cthe waur o\u2019 a dram,\u201d threatened to expose him.\n\n\u201cMan, doctor,\u201d said the gravedigger, with a twinkle in his eye, \u201cI hae\nhappit _mony_ a faut o\u2019 yours, an\u2019 I think ye micht thole _ane_ o\u2019 mine.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cMan, doctor,\u201d said the gravedigger, with a twinkle in his\neye, \u201cI hae happit _mony_ a faut o\u2019 yours, an\u2019 I think ye micht thole\n_ane_ o\u2019 mine.\u201d\u2014_Page 138._]\n\nThe translation of the Rev. Donald Macleod from Linlithgow to Glasgow\nwas deeply resented by the beadle, who also held the office of sexton.\nWhen Mr. Macleod first went to Linlithgow, the beadle took him into the\ngraveyard, and, showing him the resting-places of his predecessors, said,\n\u201cThere\u2019s whaur Dr. Bell lies; and there\u2019s whaur Dr. Dobie lies; and\nthere\u2019s whaur you\u2019ll lie if you\u2019re spared.\u201d As Mr. Macleod was taking his\ndeparture, the beadle said, \u201cWeel, sir, ye\u2019re the first minister that was\never lifted out o\u2019 Linlithgow except to the grave.\u201d\n\nIn the memoir of the late Dr. William Lindsay Alexander there are some\nchoice beadle anecdotes; and the following, which is identified with his\nfirst pulpit appearance in the congregation which had known him \u201cman\nand boy,\u201d the rev. doctor himself told in a church meeting not very\nlong before his death. \u201cAs well as I remember,\u201d he said, \u201cI discharged\nthe duty to the best of my ability. But, on coming down to the vestry,\none of the worthy deacons came to me and said some very disparaging\nthings about my sermon, saying plainly that this sort of thing would\nnever do! Among other things he said it was too flowery. Saunders, the\nchurch-officer, who was in the vestry and was standing with his hand on\nthe door, turned round and said, \u2018Flooers! an\u2019 what for no? What ails ye\nat flooers?\u2019 After the deacon went out I went up to Saunders and thanked\nhim for taking my part. \u2018Weel, Maister Weelum, I jist didna like to see\nhim ower ill to ye; but, atween oorsel\u2019s, he wasna far wrang, ye ken.\nYon\u2019ll no dae!\u201d\n\nThe Doctor one day told \u201cJimms,\u201d who had been gardener and minister\u2019s man\nat Pinkieburn when he (the minister) was a boy, that he had planned a new\napproach to the house, and intended to set about and have it made at once.\n\n\u201cNa, na, Doctor, that\u2019ll no dae at a\u2019,\u201d Jimms sturdily exclaimed, when\nexplanations of the plan had been laid before him.\n\n\u201cWell, but I have resolved to have it done,\u201d Dr. Alexander said, and\nquietly reminded Jimms that he was there to carry out orders.\n\n\u201cNae doot, Doctor, in a certain sense that\u2019s true,\u201d was the prompt reply.\n\u201cStill I\u2019m here to prevent ye frae spoilin\u2019 the property.\u201d\n\nWhen, however, the new walk was an accomplished fact, and approved of by\nthe visitors, Jimms took his full share of the credit.\n\n\u201cOu, ay,\u201d he would say, \u201cnane o\u2019 yer landscape gardeners here. Me an\u2019\nthe Doctor, we managed it a\u2019.\u201d\n\nIn course of time this \u201cJimms\u201d went where all good beadles go, and his\nmantle fell on his successor, John Sloan. This worthy and the Doctor got\non capitally together.\n\n\u201cThere were never words atween me an\u2019 the Doctor,\u201d said Sloan. \u201cI did my\nwark, and said straicht what cam\u2019 into my head, an\u2019 the Doctor liked it.\u201d\n\nSloan seldom volunteered advice, but when he did, it was always with\ngood effect. On one occasion he found himself in the Deacons\u2019 vestry\nputting coals on the fire, when the subject under discussion was whether\na service, at which a special collection was to be asked, should be held\non Sunday afternoon or evening. Dr. Alexander had just said that he would\nprefer the afternoon, when Sloan paused for a moment, coal-scuttle in\nhand, and facing round, said, \u201cThe Doctor\u2019s richt. In the afternoon we\u2019ll\nha\u2019e oor ain fouk; at nicht there\u2019ll be a wheen Presbyterians\u2014I reckon\nthem at thruppence a dizzen!\u201d\n\nHe did not wait to see the effect of his shot, but it ended the\ndiscussion.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t think I should put on my gown to-day, John,\u201d said a country\nminister to his beadle, \u201cthe weather is so very hot. I will preach better\nwithout it.\u201d\n\n\u201cPut on the goun, sir,\u201d said John, \u201cit mak\u2019s ye mair impressive like, an\u2019\nye need it a\u2019.\u201d\n\nIn a congregation in the North the beadle had been systematically\npilfering just as much of the church-door collection money as would keep\nhimself in snuff. The acting elder habitually counted the money in the\npresence of the minister, put it in the box, turned the key in the lock,\nand left it there. By and by it was discovered that small sums were being\nregularly abstracted. Suspicion fell on the beadle. So one Sabbath after\nthe minister had seen the elder count over the day\u2019s drawings, and place\nit in the box in the usual way, he returned to the Session-house after\nthe Sabbath School was dismissed, and, counting over the money again,\nnoticed that the usual small portion had disappeared. He accordingly\nsummoned the beadle. \u201cDavid,\u201d said the minister, \u201cthere is something\nwrong here. Some one has been abstracting the church money from the box;\nand you know that no one has access to it but you and I.\u201d\n\nThe minister thought he had the beadle thoroughly cornered, and that\nhe would confess his guilt. But David cleared his conscience, and\ndumfoundered the minister by this strange proposal:\n\n\u201cWeel, minister,\u201d said he, \u201cif there is a deficiency, it\u2019s for you and me\nto mak\u2019 it up \u2019atween us, and say naething about it!\u201d\n\nA highly respectable minister, who had no preaching gifts, was one day\ngoing to officiate for a country brother who was from home. The manse\nto which he was going was some miles from the railway station, and the\nminister\u2019s man, John, was in waiting with the conveyance for the stranger\nwhen the train arrived in the winter afternoon. John, after receiving him\nkindly, told him that he had some messages to do in the town close by the\nstation, which would take him about half an hour, and that if he would\ngo along to the hotel the landlord would give him a comfortable seat at\nthe fireside till he was ready. The minister readily agreed, but when,\ninstead of half an hour, considerably more than an hour elapsed before\nJohn appeared, he upbraided him when he came for his unnecessary delay,\nand threatened to report him to his master. At length John could stand it\nno longer, and said, \u201cWeel, sir, if ye maun hae the truth, I was tell\u2019t\nby the maister to put aff at the toun till it was dark, so that the folk\nin the parish micht na see wha was to preach the morn.\u201d\n\nWhen the Rev. Mr. Mitchell had been translated from a country parish to\na church in Glasgow, a friend of his, visiting the old parish, asked the\nbeadle how he liked the new minister.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said the beadle, \u201che\u2019s a very good man, but I would rather hae Mr.\nMitchell.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed,\u201d said the visitor; \u201cI suppose the former was a better preacher?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; we\u2019ve a good enough preacher now.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas it the prayer of Mr. Mitchell, or his reading, or what was it you\npreferred him for?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, sir,\u201d said the beadle, \u201cif you maun ken the reason, Mr. Mitchell\u2019s\nauld claes fitted me best.\u201d\n\nIt is a truism that much depends upon the way in which a thing is done. A\nyoung spark of a fellow had been made a minister, neither very _wisely_\nnor very _well_, as we may in fairness suppose, for, being appointed to\na country charge where the manse was situated at a considerable distance\nfrom the church, he very soon shocked the finer sensibilities of the\nlieges by driving tandem to and from the Sunday service\u2014that is, having\ntwo horses yoked to his machine, the one running in front of the other.\nThe like had never been seen nor heard of before. He would require to be\nspoken to about it at once. Driving of itself was tolerable, but _tandem_\nwas out of the question. Accordingly, the elders laid their heads\ntogether, and one of them tackled the reverend gentleman on the question\nat the close of the service.\n\n\u201cWhy, you drive to church yourself,\u201d said the minister to the elder.\n\n\u201cAy, but in a very different manner frae that heathenish way that you do\nit,\u201d retorted the elder\u2014\u201cthat _tandem_ way.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see nothing more scandalous in driving horses tandem than running them\nabreast,\u201d coolly argued the minister; \u201cbut if you can convince me that\nthere is, I will cease from doing it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI just dinna like it,\u201d said the elder, failing to discover a better\nargument at the moment.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s just it,\u201d sneered the minister. \u201cYou don\u2019t like it. It\u2019s a sheer\ncase of conventionality and narrow-minded prejudice.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaybe it is. But it disna look weel,\u201d insisted the elder.\n\n\u201cLook! Look is nothing,\u201d returned the minister, \u201cbut a mere matter of\ntaste.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe elder\u2019s richt,\u201d broke in the beadle, who had been standing aside\nlistening to all the argument. \u201cLook has a hantle to do wi\u2019t. An\u2019\nif ye\u2019ll aloo me, sir, I\u2019ll convince ye o\u2019 that by a very simple\nillustration. See ye here noo, sir. When ye pronounced the benediction\ntwa or three minutes since, it lookit grand an\u2019 consistent-like when ye\ndid it\n\n[Illustration: _This way!_]\n\nBut what gin ye had dune it\n\n[Illustration: _That way?_\u201d]\n\nThe minister stood convinced, and never proposed tandem again as long as\nhe lived.\n\nOf a Durisdeer beadle it is told that having received from the minister\u2014a\ncomparative new-comer\u2014the gift of a half-worn coat, he sidled to the\ndoor, and turning round gave him a lesson in the traditions of his office\nby explaining, \u201cMr. Smith used to gi\u2019e me the waistcoat too.\u201d\n\nThe greatly esteemed Principal Caird was minister of Errol before he\nwas appointed Professor of Divinity in Glasgow. While there the Doctor\ndiscovered the acoustic properties of the church to be by no means of the\nbest, and his congregation being scanty, he suggested to the beadle that\nan improvement might be effected by boarding up one of the side aisles.\n\u201cThat may do very weel for you,\u201d replied the shrewd old Scotchman, \u201cbut\nwhat will we do for room if we should get a popular preacher to follow\nyou?\u201d\n\nRobert Burns tells us that\n\n \u201cThe fear o\u2019 hell\u2019s a hangman\u2019s whip\n To haud the wretch in order,\u201d\n\nand the asseveration of the bard received favourable commentary at the\ninstance of a sage country beadle not very long ago. The minister had\nfor some time previously been favouring the free and easy theology\nwhich excludes belief in eternal punishment. He had, indeed, told his\npeople from the pulpit that such an arrangement was not, in his opinion,\nconsistent with the character and being of the Creator of the universe.\nFrom this point there was a marked falling off in the attendance at\nchurch on the Sabbath, and the preacher was, naturally, concerned.\n\n\u201cJohn,\u201d he said to the beadle one day between the preachings, \u201cthe people\nare not turning out to public worship nearly so well as they used to do.\u201d\n\n\u201cI dinna blame them for\u2019t,\u201d was John\u2019s dry reply.\n\n\u201cYou what, John?\u201d\n\n\u201cI dinna blame them for\u2019t, I\u2019m sayin\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou do not blame the people for absenting themselves from divine\nservice! Do you mean to insinuate, John, that my preaching is less able,\nless adequate to their needs, and\u2014\u2014?\u201d\n\n\u201cYer preachin\u2019 may be a\u2019 ye wad claim for it, sir, an\u2019 I\u2019ll no argue wi\u2019\nye aboot it: but I say this, an\u2019 I\u2019ll stick till\u2019t, a kirk withoot a\nhell\u2019s just no worth a d\u2e3a docken.\u201d\n\n\u2019Twas coarse, but strong, and true.\n\nIn a Forfarshire parish, a number of years ago, the old beadle was\nan outstanding character even among his kind. The minister\u2014a recent\nappointment\u2014entered the churchyard one day accompanied by a gentleman\nfriend\u2014also a recent importation into the district\u2014and approaching the\nbeadle the following colloquy ensued:\u2014\n\n_Minister_\u2014\u201cThis is Mr. So and So, John, he wishes to purchase a lair.\u201d\n\n_Beadle_\u2014\u201cImphm! Ou, ay. Just that. Is it for himsel\u2019?\u201d\n\n_Gentleman_\u2014\u201cNo. It\u2019s for my brother. He died last night.\u201d\n\n_Beadle_\u2014\u201cOu, ay. Weel it\u2019s a\u2019 the same to me, of course, ye ken; but\nd\u2019ye ken hoo he wad like to lie?\u201d\n\n_Minister_\u2014\u201cWhat do you mean, John?\u201d\n\n_Beadle_\u2014\u201cWeel, ye see, there\u2019s some likes to lie wi\u2019 their feet to the\neast, some wi\u2019 their feet to the wast. There, just for instance, ahent\nye, lies the auld minister an\u2019 his wife; him wi\u2019 his feet to the east,\nan\u2019 her wi\u2019 her feet to the wast. They were contrar\u2019 a\u2019 their days, an\u2019\nthey\u2019re contrar\u2019 yet.\u201d\n\nIn a short time a lair was selected, after which the minister enquired of\nJohn how long he had been about the place.\n\n_Beadle_\u2014\u201cI\u2019ve been howkin\u2019 awa\u2019 in this corner for mair than fifty year,\nsir.\u201d\n\n_Minister_\u2014\u201cAnd I suppose you have buried one or more out of every house\nin the parish, John?\u201d\n\n_Beadle_\u2014\u201cNa\u2019, sir, na\u2019. Thae folk o\u2019 Todhills there have run nearly twa\ntacks o\u2019 their farm, an\u2019 they havena\u2019 broken grund yet.\u201d\n\n_Minister_\u2014\u201cIndeed, that\u2019s very remarkable, John, and old Todhills\nhimself looks wonderfully hale and hearty still.\u201d\n\n_Beadle_\u2014\u201cHale an\u2019 hearty, ay, hale an\u2019 hearty eneuch, an\u2019 tichtenin\u2019 his\ngrip on the warld every day. But folk sud live an\u2019 lat live, sir. I say,\nfolk sud live an\u2019 lat live.\u201d\n\nThe minister and his friend thought John should take the same advice to\nhimself, but preferred not to say so, and the interview terminated.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nHUMOUR OF SCOTCH PRECENTORS\n\n\nHand and personal labour of every kind in Scotland, as everywhere else,\nhas in recent years been largely superseded by machinery, and no one can\nhave failed to notice that even the office of \u201clettergae,\u201d or precentor,\nis a rapidly decaying institution in our midst. How rapid the progress of\nthe decay is will be recognised from a consideration of the fact that,\nwithin the memory of many persons still alive, \u201creading the line\u201d was the\ngeneral custom in congregational praise. Then there was no such thing as\nan organ, or \u201ckist o\u2019 whustles,\u201d in any Presbyterian kirk in the land,\nand choirs were the exception. In the North hymns were not mentioned,\nexcept with scorn and shaking of the head, and repeating tunes were\nregarded as a frivolity demanding extermination. By and by the repeating\ntune was tolerated, hymns were introduced here and there, choirs became\nthe fashion; and thus far the precentor was a _sine qua non_. Ultimately\nthe kirk doors were opened to the introduction of the organ, and\nprecentors became known as \u201cchoirmasters\u201d and \u201cconductors of psalmody.\u201d\nNow the \u201cwhustles\u201d are heard bumming in kirks, _bond_ and _free_.\n\u201cWhustle kirks\u201d will very soon be the rule rather than the exception,\nand the precentor will, in the course of a few years, have become an\nalmost unknown quantity. Some of us who have already cut our wisdom teeth\nmay live to see him a totally defunct species. And yet, if we do, we\nwill not behold the spectacle without acute twinges of regret, for many\npleasing memories of the pleasantest period of our lives cluster around\nthe familiar form of the village-kirk precentor as he appeared in the\ndesk with clean-shaven chin, black \u201cstock,\u201d stiffly-starched, high-rimmed\nlinen collar, and ample shirt-front as white as the drifted snaw; and by\nthe mildest effort of the imagination we can even now hear the familiar\nsnap of his snuff-box lid, see him prime the one nostril, then the other,\nand hear the equally familiar dirl of the \u201cpitchfork\u201d on the book-board,\nand the reading of the line on the key-note of \u201cBalermo,\u201d or \u201cDevizes,\u201d\n\u201cColeshill,\u201d \u201cSt. Asaphs,\u201d or the \u201cwild warbling measures of \u2018Dundee.\u2019\u201d\n\nOf course it is just as the study of music progresses in Scotland, and\nthe taste for the highly-refining art becomes general, that organs\nincrease and precentors decay. It is to the olden times, however, when he\nwho had a \u201cfairish gude lug\u201d and a thoroughly sound pair of lungs was,\nirrespective of musical education, elected to \u201cfill the desk,\u201d that the\nhumours of precenting almost exclusively belong. And, truly, of that time\nmany a sufficiently funny and ludicrous story may be told.\n\nThe late and lamented David Kennedy, the eminent Scottish vocalist, began\nhis career, as most people are aware, as a precentor in his native city\nof Perth, where his father before him held a similar office for many\nyears in one of the larger Presbyterian kirks. Of the time of the elder\nKennedy\u2019s precentorship, \u201cDauvit\u201d remembered a well-known old character\nin Perth, an inveterate snuffer, who sang with all his might, and was in\nthe habit of stopping short in the middle of a verse, blowing his nose\nin his red pocket-napkin, and, having carefully marked the place, would\nrecommence where he left off, oblivious to the fact that the precentor\nand the rest of the congregation were two lines in advance of him. That\nman\u2019s singing resembled the dancing of a Perthshire ploughman I have\nheard of. This latter individual, who hobbled on the floor like a \u201chen\non a het girdle,\u201d and never modulated the action of his limbs to fast or\nslow music, said he \u201cmaybe wasna a very elegant dancer, but he was awfu\u2019\nconstant.\u201d\n\nMr. Kennedy, also, when introducing one of his songs, used to tell a good\nstory of the times when the minister did not choose his Psalms as at\npresent, but the precentor simply went through the Psalm book, taking so\nmany verses each time. The singer\u2019s father and some others, when lads,\nmanaged to take advantage of this custom to play a good practical joke on\nan old precentor. Gaining access to the vestry on the Saturday night they\ntook his Psalm-book and, turning to the part which was to be used on the\nmorrow, neatly pasted in the first page of the well-known ballad \u201cChevy\nChase,\u201d the type in which the two books were printed being nearly similar.\n\nOn the day following, the precentor, as was the general custom in those\ndays, read each line before singing it, and so managed to get to the end\nof the third line without noticing anything out of place:\u2014\n\n \u201cGod prosper long our noble king,\n Our lives and safeties all;\n A woeful hunting once there did\u201d\u2014\n\nHaving reached the fourth line he read\u2014\n\n \u201cIn Chevy Chase befall.\u201d\n\nMuttering, \u201cHoots! I maun be turning blind,\u201d he adjusted his spectacles,\nand held the book close to his nose. Finding the exact words there, he\ngazed round him for a second as if he had doubts of his own sanity, and\nsaid, \u201cWeel, freends, I am clean bambaized. I\u2019ve sung the Psalms o\u2019\nDauvit for thretty year, but never saw \u2018Chevy Chase\u2019 mentioned in them\nbefore.\u201d\n\nThe feeling against repeating tunes approached to something like horror\nin certain parts of the country, even in the second and third decades\nof the present century, and I have heard my father tell how, when he\nwas a young man, he accompanied a friend to the kirk in Logiealmond.\nThe friend\u2019s father was an elder in the kirk in question, and he, the\nyoung man, was to occupy the precentor\u2019s desk for the day. In the course\nof the service he introduced a repeating tune, and the scene in the\nkirkyard at the \u201cskailin\u2019 o\u2019 the kirk\u201d made the occasion memorable. The\nyoung man\u2019s father had hurried out immediately after the benediction was\npronounced, and placing himself at the cheek of the kirk door, as soon as\nthe budding precentor appeared he seized him by the neck, threw him to\nthe ground, and, belabouring him with hands and feet, he exclaimed\u2014\u201cYou\nabominable scoundrel! if you dare again to profane the word of God in my\nhearing, I\u2019ll slay you with my own hands in the presence of the whole\ncongregation!\u201d\n\nA precentor of age and experience was once as effectively corrected for\nthe same practice. Thinking to steal a march on the minister, whose mind\non the subject was well known, he started a repeating tune one day. As\nsoon as his drift was evident the minister\u2019s hand was over the pulpit and\nhis fingers among the \u201clettergae\u2019s\u201d hair, and, \u201cStop, Dauvit! stop!\u201d he\nshouted, \u201cwhen the Lord repeats we\u2019ll repeat; but no till then.\u201d\n\nOf course, then, even as now, repeating tunes had to be chosen with\nneat discrimination, as much of our sacred verse does not yield itself\ngracefully to such treatment. Repeats generally occur in the last line\nof a stanza, and the praise of a congregation has not infrequently been\nrendered ludicrous from the want of good taste and common-sense in the\nselection of tunes suited to the words, as well as to the sentiment of\na psalm or hymn. To the well-known Hundredth Psalm a repeating tune has\nsometimes been applied, which, from a peculiarity in its arrangement,\nhas rendered the line\u2014\u201cAnd for His sheep He doth us take\u201d\u2014thus, \u201cAnd for\nHis _sheep he\u2019d_\u2014And for His _sheep he\u2019d_\u2014And for His _sheep he\u2019d_\u2014oth\nus take.\u201d From the same indiscretion multitudes of people have been\nmade to exclaim\u2014\u201cOh! send down _Sal_\u2014Oh! send down _Sal_\u2014Oh! send\ndown sal\u2014va\u2014tion to us,\u201d and solicit the privilege to \u201c_Bow\u2014wow\u2014wow_\nbefore the throne.\u201d But surely the most ludicrous example of the kind\never produced was when the female voices in a choir had to repeat by\nthemselves\u2014\u201cOh! for a _man_\u2014Oh! for a _man_\u2014Oh! for a man\u2014sion in the\nskies.\u201d\n\nOccasions have also been made memorable by precentors from ignorance or\naccident launching into a tune in a different measure from the psalm. In\nthis way a \u201clettergae\u201d in a rural parish in the North, far from perfect\nin his profession, astonished the congregation one Sabbath many years\nago. In the psalm which was intimated, the second line to be sung ended\nwith the word \u201cJacob,\u201d said psalm being a common metre. The precentor,\nwho sang \u201cby the lug\u201d and used no tune-book, went off on a peculiar\nmetre tune, and not discovering the error until he had reached the word\n\u201cJacob,\u201d and then finding he was short of verbal material, he improvised\nfor the occasion, and sang it \u201cJ\u2014a\u2014jay\u2014fal\u2014de\u2014riddle\u2014cob,\u201d and so on, as\nnecessity demanded, until the verses were finished. On coming out of the\nchurch some of his neighbours approached him and said\u2014\n\n\u201cO\u2019d, yon was a new ane ye ga\u2019e us the day, Geordie.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d replied Geordie; \u201cyon\u2019s \u2018Kinnoull Hill,\u2019\u201d and away he went,\navoiding further question as much as he could.\n\nGeordie\u2019s _impromptu_ was not disingenuous by any means, and his\nafter-fencing was admirable; but he would have shown better discretion\nhad he, when he discovered the incompatibility of the metres, acted\nafter the manner of a well-known precentor of the same shire, lately\ndeceased. This latter functionary was guided also more by the \u201clug\u201d than\nthe music-book, and in raising the psalm one day, even although he had\nhummed the tune to himself while the minister was reading the verses,\nhis memory played him false at the critical moment of entering into\naction, and off he went on a tune the measure of which did not suit the\npsalm. The instant he discovered his error\u2014which was at the end of the\nfirst line\u2014he stopped, looked round the congregation\u2014not a blush\u2014and\nin a firm voice said, \u201cI am wrong.\u201d Then he mused for a moment, caught\nup the tune he meant to sing, and away he went with it, and, as I have\nheard him tell, never sang with better \u201cbirr\u201d in all his life. As he left\nthe church his arm was touched by the factor\u2019s lady, a woman of rare\nintelligence and vivacity of manner, who exclaimed, \u201cNow, Joseph, I see\nthat a well-corrected mistake looks first-rate.\u201d So it does; and is often\nthe making of a man. This Joseph was acknowledged to be the best \u201creader\nof the line\u201d\u2014that is, of reading each line on the key-note before singing\nit\u2014within a radius of twenty miles. He only once \u201cput his foot in it,\u201d so\nfar as I have heard. It was in connection with the word \u201csnow,\u201d to which\nhe at first applied the wrong vowel sound, and in attempting to correct\nhimself made it altogether \u201cSnee-snaw-snow.\u201d\n\nIn connection with the practice of reading the line, I have heard\nseveral good stories. One of them is that a young man who looked even\nyounger than he was, had been granted \u201ca day in the desk\u201d by the regular\nprecentor of a country congregation. The first psalm given out was the\nfifth part of 119th, beginning \u201cTeach me, O Lord, the perfect way;\u201d and\nthis line he declaimed with quite exceptional and inspiring eloquence.\nBut on returning to sing it he failed to catch on the tune somehow. He\nread the line again; but, no, it would not go. Once more he tackled the\nsubject by the \u201cheft end,\u201d and exclaimed, \u201cTeach me, O Lord, the perfect\nway.\u201d Still being unable to raise the tune, an old farmer in the church\nblurted out, \u201cDod, laddie, I\u2019m thinking He has muckle need;\u201d and rising\nto his feet, in response to a nod from the minister, he went off with the\nline and the tune both, much to the relief of the unfledged precentor.\nThe next time that young man essayed to lead the praise in the same\nedifice, the service curiously enough opened with the 48th Paraphrase,\nthe first line of which runs, \u201cLet Christian faith and hope dispel;\u201d and\nit was with him even as the words requested, for he disported himself to\nthe complete satisfaction of all present.\n\nThe Rev. Sir Henry Moncrieff, Bart., was for some years minister of\nthe parish of Blackford, prior to his translation to St. Cuthbert\u2019s in\nEdinburgh. During his incumbency at Blackford (about 1774), he had, as\nDoctor Rodgers tells, one Sabbath opened divine service by giving out a\nportion of the 71st Psalm, at the seventh verse. The conductor of the\npsalmody followed the practice then in vogue, and enunciated the opening\nline\u2014\n\n \u201cTo many I a wonder am.\u201d\n\nImmediately the congregation seemed to be overpowered by an inclination\nto indulge in laughter, which, indeed, some were unable to restrain. The\nprecentor faltered, but proceeded to read the line again. This tended\nonly to increase the excitement; and while some quickly withdrew from\nthe church, others concealed their faces under the pews, or buried them\nin their handkerchiefs. Sir Henry rose up, and, looking down at the\nprecentor, called to him, \u201cSo you are a wonder, John; turn your wig.\u201d The\noddity of the precentor\u2019s appearance with his wig misplaced, viewed in\nconnection with his proclamation, had produced the mistimed merriment.\n\nA precentor of humour, when Lord Eglinton\u2019s family were crowded out\nof sitting room in the kirk, exclaimed, \u201cStand back, Jock, and let the\nEglinton family in;\u201d then continued to read\u2014\n\n \u201cNor stand in sinners\u2019 way.\u201d\n\nDr. Chalmers attempted to abolish the practice of reading the line, and\nused to tell a story of an old woman in his congregation who stoutly\nmaintained that the change was anti-scriptural. On being asked by the\ngreat preacher what was the scripture of which she regarded the change as\na contravention, the good old dame at once replied by citing the text,\n\u201cLine upon line,\u201d which, as she fancied, settled the matter.\n\nIt has been a common ambition among musical young men in country places\nto have \u201ca day in the desk,\u201d and many sorrowful experiences might be\nrelated in connection therewith\u2014experiences which would go to show that\nthe late James Smith\u2019s account of \u201cBarebones\u2019 First Day in the Desk\u201d\nwas not a severely overdrawn picture. Barebones\u2019 account is in \u201ccommon\nmetre,\u201d and the crisis of the occasion is thus graphically described:\u2014\n\n \u201cForth like a martyr then I went,\n Quench\u2019d were Hope\u2019s smould\u2019ring embers;\n And walk\u2019d into a lofty church,\n Well filled with country members.\n\n With fear I saw each icy glance\n That like a serpent stings;\n Then mounted quickly to the desk,\n And seemed to mount on wings.\n\n Then when the psalm was given out,\n I raised my fork on high\n With energy of fierce despair,\n And felt inclined to cry.\n\n Again the line was thunder\u2019d o\u2019er,\n Cold drops ran down my face;\n A burning throb rush\u2019d through my brain,\n For I had lost the place.\n\n I seized the first that came to hand,\n And sang with deadly shudder!\n \u2018_Blessed is he that wisely doth_\n _The poor man\u2019s case consider._\u2019\n\n With knocking knees I slew _Montrose_,\n And then \u2019mid some surprises,\n I called at _York_ and _Manchester_,\n Then landed at _Devizes_!\n\n At length _St. Lawrence_ glided by,\n \u2019Mid stillness most unpleasant,\n When suddenly a voice exclaimed\u2014\n \u2018_Stop! that\u2019ll do at present!_\u2019\n\n I started, ceased, and looking round,\n Beheld the congregation\n Wild staring, with distended jaws.\n In speechless consternation.\n\n First one began to shake his head\u2014\n Another\u2014and another;\n Then, blinded with despair, I cried,\n \u2018_My mother! Oh, my mother!_\u2019\n\n Down from the desk I swiftly sprang,\n And reached the vestry door;\n Then rent the sable gown in twain,\n And cast it on the floor.\u201d\n\nIn a rural village in Perthshire, a number of years ago, a tailor\u2019s\napprentice, who was fain to thrill the congregation with a display of his\nvocal powers, failed even more conspicuously than Barebones aforesaid.\nThis individual was allowed a \u201cday,\u201d only after repeated entreaty, the\nhabitual occupant of the \u201cletteran\u201d being dubious about the success of\nthe venture. However, when sanction was at length given, the \u201cPsalms\u201d\nwere early secured from the minister, and elaborate preparations ensued.\nSabbath came, and on the last toll of the bell our hero emerged from\nthe Session-house and stepped with jaunty and self-confident air into\nthe desk in front of the pulpit. He was a sight to behold, and not\nsoon to forget. Every hair was in its right place, and shone from the\nsuperabundance of scented pomade, and his whole demeanour was that of one\nwho had come forth to conquer, or to die. While the first psalm was being\nread he kept sounding his pitchfork. As the time for rising drew near a\nnervous twitching of the mouth and eyes ensued, which was accompanied\nby sudden paleness of the features. Promptly as the minister sat down,\nhowever, he banged to his feet, once more struck the pitchfork on the\nbook-board, once more sounded his _doh_. Then he raised his book\u2014turned\nhis eyes on the congregation\u2014opened his mouth\u2014and\u2014and\u2014no\u2014not a sound\nwould come. Perceiving the situation, the precentor, who was in his own\nfamily pew, opportunely threw his voice into the breach, and led off\nwith the tune which he had previously directed should be sung to the\nfirst psalm. At the same moment his young substitute disappeared below\nthe desk, and there he remained throughout all the rest of the service,\nand until every soul but himself and the beadle had quit the sacred\nedifice, the precentor having, as each successive psalm was given out,\nstood in his family pew and led the congregation. But, though baffled\nfor the time being, Willie was not altogether discomfited, and before\nmany months had passed he appealed for an opportunity to \u201credeem his\ncharacter,\u201d as he put it. The request was by and by conceded, and he\n\u201cstack\u201d a second time. Again he essayed to \u201credeem his character,\u201d and\nonce more the opportunity was afforded. This time it was to be \u201cnow or\nnever,\u201d and no effort was to be spared to ensure success. He was himself\nthoroughly confident, as heretofore, and in marching proudly kirkwards he\ncame up on the village wiseacre of the time, who was stepping leisurely\nin the same direction.\n\n\u201cWell, Mr. C\u2e3a, I am going to redeem my character to-day,\u201d said Willie.\n\nThe old man stopped and looked reflectively.\n\n\u201cAy! are ye gaein\u2019 to be precentin\u2019 the day, Willie?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied Willie, proudly.\n\n\u201cWeel, then,\u201d said Mr. C\u2e3a, \u201cI\u2019m gaein\u2019 hame;\u201d and home he went.\n\nHe might have gone to church that day, however, for Willie came off with\nflying colours and, though he has precented many a year and day since, he\nhas never had occasion again to \u201credeem his character.\u201d\n\nBut precentors have \u201cstuck\u201d after they have had years of experience, and\nI have heard of one in a country kirk who frequently pitched his tunes\ntoo high, and when he failed in his efforts to carry them through, he\nwould stop and shake his head and exclaim, \u201cIt\u2019ll no do, chaps; we\u2019ll\nneed to try\u2019t a wee thocht laicher.\u201d\n\nAnother, after repeated ineffectual attempts to raise the tune on\na certain occasion, turned round, and looking up to the minister,\nexclaimed, \u201cDod, sir, that psalm\u2019ll no sing ava.\u201d\n\nOne who was suffering from cold occupied the desk so imperfectly that the\nminister whispered to him over the pulpit\u2014\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter wi\u2019 ye, John?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Deed, sir,\u201d replied John, \u201cI\u2019m fash\u2019d wi\u2019 an unco kittlin\u2019 i\u2019 the paup\no\u2019 my hass.\u201d\n\n\u201cA kittlin\u2019, do ye ca\u2019t?\u201d exclaimed the minister, loud enough for all the\ncongregation to hear him. \u201cIt soonds to my lug mair like the catterwaw o\u2019\nan auld tam-cat.\u201d\n\nAnd there have been humorous incidents connected with the praise of the\nChurch for which the precentor could only be held directly responsible.\nThus in the _Statistical Account_ we read that, in the days of Mr.\nCumming, the late Episcopal minister in the parish of Halkirk, in\nCaithness-shire, there was no singer of psalms in the church but the\n\u201clettergae\u201d and one Tait, gardener in Braal. This Tait sang so loud, and\nwith such a large open mouth, that a young fellow of the name of Inverach\nwas tempted to throw a small round stone into his mouth, whereby his\nteeth were broken and his singing stopped at once, and he himself almost\nchoked. Inverach immediately took to his heels; the service was converted\nto laughter; two of Tait\u2019s sons chased and overtook him; and the scene\nwas closed with a desperate fight.\n\nPrecentors, like musical men generally, of course, have not suffered from\nan overstock of modesty. Dr. Blair used to tell the following anecdote of\nhis precentor with a great deal of glee. Happening to preach one day at a\ndistance, he next day met that official as he was returning home\u2014\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said the Doctor, \u201chow did matters proceed yesterday at church in\nmy absence?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Deed,\u201d replied the man of song, \u201cno very weel, I\u2019m dootin\u2019: for I wasna\nthere, Doctor, ony mair than yoursel\u2019.\u201d\n\nI have heard how the vanity of a choirmaster was effectually crushed. It\nwas in a certain church in one of our large towns some years ago. The\nrev. Doctor had given out a well-known psalm, which he expected would be\nsung to the tune of _Martyrdom_. Instead of that it was sung to a new\ntune which none of the congregation knew, and the choir had thus the\nwhole singing to themselves. When they had finished, the Doctor rose,\nwith an angry look on his face, and remarked, \u201cSince the choir have sung\nto their own praise and glory, we shall now sing to the praise and glory\nof God.\u201d Forthwith he began the words to the tune of _Martyrdom_, and the\nwhole of the people joined with great warmth.\n\nThe reading of the proclamations, or marriage banns, etc., was long\na duty which in country parish churches generally devolved on the\nprecentor, and many sufficiently funny blunders was the result. In a\nsmall seaport town in the North, many years ago, when vessels left port,\nthose of the crew who were members of the visible Church in the midst\nthereof were recommended publicly to the prayers of the congregation.\nCaptain M\u2019Pherson and his lady were prominent members, and the Sabbath\nsucceeding the captain\u2019s departure on one occasion, the written\nintimation which was handed to the precentor read as follows:\u2014\u201cCaptain\nM\u2019Pherson having gone to sea, his wife desires the prayers of the\ncongregation in his behalf.\u201d By the simple displacement of the comma\nafter \u201csea,\u201d the people were told that \u201cCaptain M\u2019Pherson having gone to\nsee his wife, desires the prayers of the congregation in his behalf.\u201d\n\nPrecentors have sometimes received compliments which might be envied by\nthose occupying higher places. The late Rev. Mr. M\u2019Dougall, of Paisley,\nused to tell of having been accosted by a man on leaving some meeting,\nwith\u2014\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re Mr. M\u2019Dougall, I think?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I am. How do you happen to know me?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I\u2019m whiles in your kirk.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you live in Paisley?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I live in Gleska\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, I suppose you sometimes stay with friends in Paisley?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I just walk out on the Sundays.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a long walk, surely?\u201d\n\nThe minister was beginning to feel quite proud of his power of drawing a\ncongregation, and said\u2014\n\n\u201cDo you stay over the night after going to church?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I just walk back again.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is a very long walk.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, ay, it\u2019s a bit gude walk; but ye see I think a deal o\u2019 your\nprecentor.\u201d\n\nIt was the minister here:\u2014In a rural parish the old preacher felt out of\nsorts one Sabbath, and to provide a rest for himself before delivering\nthe sermon, he gave out a long psalm to be sung, not taking into account\nthe precentor\u2019s bad cold, which was a chronic complaint. The first four\nverses were finished not so badly, but at the fifth Tammas stuck, and no\namount of tuning could get him started again. At last the minister had\nto get to his feet, and in no very pleasant mood. Accordingly, leaning\nover the pulpit, he addressed the precentor thus:\u2014\u201cTammas, if ye mak\u2019 sic\na wark about skirlin\u2019 out four verses o\u2019 a psalm noo, hoo do ye expect\nye\u2019re to manage to sing through a\u2019 the ages o\u2019 eternity?\u201d\n\nThe story of \u201cThe Foxes\u2019 Tails,\u201d so admirably elaborated to the\ndimensions of a public \u201creading\u201d by Dr. Moxey of Edinburgh, I was\naccustomed to hear, more than twenty years ago, as having transpired\nbetween a country minister and his precentor, Sandy Johnston; and in\nthis way. In the course of a twa-handed crack one day, the minister\nhad ventured on some friendly criticism of Sandy\u2019s singing, whereupon\nSandy retaliated by remarking that he thought the singing would compare\nfavourably with the preaching any day.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t let us quarrel, Sandy,\u201d said the minister; \u201cwe may each benefit by\nthe other\u2019s criticism. Now, tell me candidly, what the chief faults of my\npreaching are?\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, I\u2019m no sayin\u2019 I ha\u2019e ony fauts till\u2019t, but just this, that I\u2019ve\nnoticed ye\u2014weel\u2014that is to say\u2014ye exaggerate a wee.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Sandy, if I exaggerate the truth in the pulpit, I am certainly not\naware of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYe do\u2019t a\u2019 the same, though,\u201d insisted the precentor.\n\n\u201cSandy, I respect your opinion,\u201d said the minister, \u201cbut I am so\nsatisfied that I am innocent of the charge you have preferred against me,\nthat I now call upon you, if ever on any future occasion you shall hear\nme exaggerate in the pulpit, you will pull me up there and then, just by\nemitting a low, thin whistle.\u201d\n\nSandy agreed to this arrangement. Several Sabbaths passed, and nothing\nout-of-joint was said or heard. The precentor, however, still kept his\n\u201clug on the cock,\u201d and at length his patience was rewarded. Lecturing one\nday on that chapter of the Scriptures which describes Samson as catching\nthree hundred foxes, tying them tail to tail, casting firebrands in their\nmidst, starting them among the standing corn of the Philistines, and\nburning it down.\n\n\u201cMy friends,\u201d said he, \u201cyou will be wondering in your minds how Samson\ncould tie so many foxes tail to tail, for the best man in Scotland\ncouldn\u2019t tie two of our foxes\u2019 tails together. Samson, however, was\nthe strongest man the world has ever seen, and these Eastern foxes,\ntravellers tell us, had very long tails\u2014tails, indeed, forty and fifty\nfeet long. [Precentor emits a low thin whistle.] I should have said,\u201d\ncontinued the preacher, \u201cthat\u2014that\u2014is the account given by the earliest\ntravellers to the East, and that recent investigation had proved its\ninaccuracy, and that these foxes\u2019 tails could not have exceeded about\ntwenty feet in length. [Sandy whistles again.] Twenty feet did I say,\u201d\ncontinues the minister, \u201cyes! but the matter has very recently been\ncommanding attention in scientific circles, and it is doubted whether\nfoxes\u2019 tails, in any part of the world, ever at any time, exceeded ten or\ntwelve feet in\u2014\u2014\u201d [Sandy whistles.] At this crisis, the minister strikes\nhis book with his clenched fist, and leans over the pulpit and exclaims,\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you what it is, Sandy Johnstone, I\u2019ll no tak\u2019 anither inch\naff thae foxes\u2019 tails tho\u2019 ye sit there and whistle till the day o\u2019\njoodgment!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cI tell you what it is, Sandy Johnston, I\u2019ll no tak\u2019\nanither inch aff thae foxes\u2019 tails tho\u2019 ye sit there and whistle till the\nday o\u2019 joodgement!\u201d\u2014_Page 168._]\n\nYes! as already stated here, the Scotch precentor is a decaying\ninstitution; yet luckily for his peace of mind there are still a\nrespectable number in the land who think with the old lady who remarked,\n\u201cOrgans, nae doot, mak\u2019 unco grand music; but, eh! it\u2019s an awfu\u2019-like way\no\u2019 spendin\u2019 the Sawbath!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nHUMOURS OF DRAM-DRINKING IN SCOTLAND\n\n\n \u201cLeeze me on drink, it gie\u2019s us mair\n Than either school or college:\n It kindles wit, it waukens lear,\n It pangs us fu\u2019 o\u2019 knowledge.\n Be\u2019t whisky gill or penny wheep,\n Or ony stronger potion,\n It never fails, in drinking deep,\n To kittle up oor notion\n By night or day.\u201d\n\nSo sang Scotland\u2019s greatest, Scotland\u2019s sweetest poet; and whether in\nhis heart of hearts he believed the sentiment which in those lines we\nfind so vigorously expressed, he has undoubtedly reflected therein, for\nthe enlightenment of his countrymen through succeeding ages, the popular\nnotion of his own time regarding the potency of the \u201cdram.\u201d In Burns\u2019\nday, and for some time thereafter, happiness and whisky were regarded as\nalmost synonymous terms; deep drinking was fashionable; and \u201cthe last\nbeside his chair to fa\u2019\u201d was verily the hero of the social community.\n\u201cWe\u2019re happiest when we\u2019re fou,\u201d is a well-worn proverb. \u201cWe\u2019ll aye sit\nan\u2019 tipple owre a wee drappie o\u2019t,\u201d croons an old song-writer, evidently\nimpressed with the conviction that a man could not be better occupied\nthan in consuming malt liquors. \u201cFreedom and whisky gang thegither\u2014tak\u2019\naff your dram!\u201d shouts Burns. Yes. But the same sweet singer has fervidly\nprayed\u2014\n\n \u201cOh, wad some power the giftie gi\u2019e us,\n To see oursel\u2019s as ithers see us.\u201d\n\nAnd happily, whilst the _shout_ is going in at the one ear and out at\nthe other\u2014is failing to command obedience\u2014the _prayer_ is gradually\nbeing answered. Old customs, like old prejudices, no matter how absurd\nthey may be, die hard; but with the general advance of education in\nScotland, and the dissemination of cheap and healthy literature, the\npeople are becoming day by day more distinctly convinced of the many\nludicrous absurdities connected with our social habits, particularly\nwith the old-fashioned ideas relating to hospitality and conviviality,\nand with the practice of persistent and indiscriminate dram-drinking.\nA man may be merry nowadays without being \u201chalf fou,\u201d and yet not be\nconsidered \u201cdaft,\u201d and we have been realising that there are other ways\nof hospitably entertaining a friend than by filling him to the chin\nwith whisky. Our dram-drinking tendencies have made us the butt of the\nContinental jokist, and no wonder. How utterly absurd the practice in\ngeneral has been\u2014in many instances how highly humorous! Your teetotal\nlecturer, I have often thought, dwells too frequently on the tragedy of\nthe subject. It has a tragic side, no doubt, and a woefully pathetic\none; but very much connected with it, like the antics of a half-tipsy\nindividual, is ludicrously humorous, and needs only to be dangled before\nthe eye of sober sense to render the persistent and indiscriminate\nparticipator more than half-ashamed of his connection with it. Let our\nactive teetotallers instruct themselves fairly in the art of photography,\nand go around photographing respectably-dressed persons in their various\nstages of intoxication, afterwards circulating copies of the photos\namongst the subject\u2019s friends, being careful not to neglect sending\na few to the tippler himself, and they will do more service to the\ntemperance cause in one month than perhaps all the labour of their lives\nhas hitherto achieved. But to come directly to look at the humours of\ndram-drinking. What have been the facts of the case? Whisky has been made\nthe cure for all diseases, and the \u201csaw for a\u2019 sairs.\u201d Was Sandy cold, he\ntook a dram to warm him. Was he hot, he took a dram to cool himself. Did\nhe feel hungry, and the dinner not quite ready, he took a dram to appease\nhis appetite. Did he not feel very hungry when dinner was set before him,\nhe took a dram to sharpen his appetite, and another one after dinner to\naid his digestion. Was he sad, he took a dram to make him \u201cbear his heart\nabune.\u201d Was he merry, he took a dram to tone himself down, or to increase\nthe jollity according as he might desire. Did he feel sleepy, a dram\nwas called in to hold him wide-a-wake. Did he feel too wide-a-wake, he\nrequired a dram to induce sleep. Did he drink so much at night that he\nhad a headache in the morning he required \u201ca hair more of the dog that\nbit him,\u201d and so on. Was there a birth in the family, the dram had to\ncirculate to handsel the young Scot. The \u201ckirstenin\u2019\u201d had equal honour\nawarded it. The \u201cwaddin\u2019,\u201d the \u201clyke-wake,\u201d the \u201cburial,\u201d the \u201cfoondin\u2019,\u201d\nthe \u201choose-heatin\u2019,\u201d the \u201cfoy,\u201d the \u201cmaiden,\u201d and dozens of inevitable\noccasions demanded that the \u201cgrey-beard\u201d should be filled and emptied\nwithin a brief space of time. Did Sandy buy a cow, he \u201cstood a dram;\u201d\ndid he sell a cow he did the same. There is an old woman still living\nin Dundee who some years ago actually went and took a dram to herself\nbecause her cat had died. It was called in to solder every bargain,\nand the \u201cluck-penny,\u201d and the \u201carle-penny,\u201d and the \u201cQueen\u2019s-shilling\u201d\ndemanded in the enlistment of every soldier, meant just so much money\nto be spent in drink which should be consumed on the spot. Not of \u201cTam\no\u2019 Shanter\u201d alone might it be said that \u201cilka melder wi\u2019 the miller he\ndrank as lang as he had siller; that ilka naig was ca\u2019d a shoe on, the\nsmith an\u2019 he got roarin\u2019 fou on.\u201d Two friends could not meet and part in\ntown or country but there had to be a dram both given and taken, or the\none would have suspected the other of entertaining a grudge towards him.\nIt was the unequivocal pledge of friendship, and \u201csurely you\u2019ll be your\npint-stoup, and surely I\u2019ll be mine,\u201d was the spirit principle of their\nsocial creed. Were quarrels made over the dram they had to be settled\nover it also\u2014\n\n \u201cFor aye the cheapest lawyer\u2019s fee\n \u2019S to pree the barrel.\u201d\n\nIn houses of quality, as late as the end of last century, it was the\ncustom to keep a household officer, whose duty it was to prevent the\ndrunk guests from choking. Old Henry Mackenzie, the author of _The Man\nof Feeling_, Lord Cockburn tells, was once at a festival at Kilravock\nCastle, towards the close of which the exhausted topers sank gradually\nback and down on their chairs, till little of them was seen above the\ntable but their noses; at last they disappeared altogether and fell on\nthe floor. Those who were too far gone lay still there from necessity;\nwhile those who, like the _Man of Feeling_, were glad of a pretence for\nescaping, fell into a dose from policy. While Mackenzie was in this state\nhe was alarmed by feeling a hand working about his throat, and called\nout, when a voice answered, \u201cDinna be fear\u2019d, sir; its me.\u201d \u201cAnd who are\nyou?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m the lad that lowses the graavats.\u201d\n\nIt was employed, I have said, as the cure for all diseases, and the \u201csaw\nfor a\u2019 sairs;\u201d and the practice finds apt illustration in the story of\na schoolmaster who had been appointed to \u201cteach the young idea\u201d in a\nsparsely populated country district. Sallying forth one day soon after\nhis settlement in the neighbourhood to spy out the land, and discover\nwhether or not he was within a day\u2019s march of any person of intelligence,\nhe came up, after walking about two miles, to a man breaking stones\nby the roadside. Interrogating the workman as to the amenities of\nthe locality in general, the dominie proceeded to make enquiries in\nparticular, and said\u2014\n\n\u201cHow far distant is the nearest minister?\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, about four mile,\u201d said the roadman.\n\n\u201cIndeed. And how far are we from a doctor?\u201d\n\n\u201cTen mile an\u2019 a bittock, e\u2019en as the craw flees,\u201d replied the roadman.\n\n\u201cDear me, that\u2019s very awkward. How do you do when anyone turns suddenly\nill?\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, just gi\u2019e him a gless o\u2019 whisky.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut if a glass of whisky has not the desired effect; what then?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe just gi\u2019e him anither ane.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut if two does not set him right?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, just gi\u2019e him three.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut if neither three nor four either will cure him?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, then, fill him fou, and put him till his bed.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; but if filling him fou does not even suffice?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, just lat him lie in his bed and drink until he\u2019s better.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, my friend, but if whisky administered to him in any quantity\nwill not cure him?\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, weel, then, sir,\u201d gravely replied the roadman, \u201cif whisky winna cure\na man, he\u2019s no worth curin\u2019, an\u2019 may weel be latten slip.\u201d\n\nOh, they had sublime confidence in the \u201cdram\u201d as a revivifying agent,\nand no mistake about it! Indeed, it was regarded in some quarters as\na necessity to existence. And \u201cbe carefu\u2019 o\u2019 the mercies\u201d was a stock\nphrase relating to it. The Highlander, content to pray for \u201ca mountain\nof snuff,\u201d wanted \u201c_oceans o\u2019 whisky_.\u201d It was called in to act as \u201can\neye-opener,\u201d and to serve also as \u201ca night-cap.\u201d\n\nSo regularly had a certain Scotch laird used it in the latter capacity,\nthat once in his lifetime\u2014so he said himself\u2014he \u201cgot an awfu\u2019 fricht.\u201d\n\u201cWe ran short o\u2019 the mercies,\u201d said he, \u201cand I had to gang to my bed\nsober. I dinna feel ony the waur the day; _but, Lodsake, man, I got an\nawfu\u2019 fricht_.\u201d\n\nA well-known Scotch laird of the old school, Dean Ramsay tells us,\nexpressed himself with great indignation when someone charged hard\ndrinking with having actually _killed_ people. \u201cNa, na,\u201d said he; \u201cI\nnever knew onybody that was killed wi\u2019 drinking, but I hae kenned some\nthat dee\u2019d in the training.\u201d\n\nSo have we all, laird\u2014a great many! And yet the students have been\nnumerous and persistent. That Highlander who, when the minister shook\nhis reverend head towards him, and said, \u201cWhisky is a bad, bad thing,\nDonald,\u201d replied, \u201cAy, sir, especially _bad_ whisky,\u201d thought, no doubt,\nthat he had made a concession in opinion that would greatly mollify his\nclerical mentor. Many of your tipplers possessed a rough and ready wit,\nand from that fact no little humour has sprung. A Perthshire blacksmith,\nwhom I myself knew intimately, was once remonstrated with by the Free\nChurch minister who lived near by anent his frequent and excessive\nindulgences.\n\n\u201cWas ye ever drunk, sir?\u201d inquired the smith.\n\n\u201cNo, Donald,\u201d said the minister, \u201cI am glad to say I never was.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thocht as muckle,\u201d said the smith; \u201cfor, man, if ye was ance richt\ndrunk, ye wad never like to be sober a\u2019 your days again.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s death in the cup!\u201d exclaimed a violent teetotal lecturer as\nhe rushed up to where an old farmer was carefully toning his dram with\nwater from a huge decanter. More of the _pura_ had flowed forth than\nwas intended, and eyeing his glass critically, \u201cHech, an\u2019 I think ye\u2019re\nricht, freend,\u201d was the response, \u201cfor _I\u2019ve droon\u2019d the miller_.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is good whusky, and there is better whusky,\u201d said an old\nHighlander, \u201cbut there never yet was bad whusky.\u201d Many Lowlanders act as\nif they held the same opinion.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re just a sot, man, John,\u201d once said a wife to her tippling husband;\n\u201cye ha\u2019e drucken a hoose in your time.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, weel, Kate, I think its been a thack ane,\u201d was the reply; \u201can\u2019\nthere\u2019s some o\u2019 the stoure in my throat yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s an awful thing that drink,\u201d exclaimed a clergyman, when the barber,\nwho was visibly affected, had drawn blood from his face for the third\ntime.\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d replied the tonsorial artist, with a wicked leer in his eye, \u201cit\nmak\u2019s the skin tender.\u201d\n\nTold that whisky was a slow poison; \u201cIt maun be awfu\u2019 slow, then,\u201d said\nan old veteran, \u201cfor I\u2019ve toothfu\u2019d an\u2019 toothfu\u2019d awa\u2019 at it this saxty\nyear, an\u2019 I\u2019m aye livin\u2019 yet.\u201d\n\nNeil Gow honestly declared that, when in a certain condition, \u201cit wasna\nthe length o\u2019 the road, but the breadth o\u2019t,\u201d that bothered him. Another,\n\u201cwha leeward whiles against his will\u201d was taking \u201ca bicker,\u201d on being\nasked by a passing acquaintance if he was getting home, eloquently\nreplied in the word, \u201cWhiles.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are reeling, Janet,\u201d remarked a country parson, meeting one of\nhis parishioners carrying more sail than ballast, as a preliminary to\nlecturing her on the evils of her conduct.\n\n\u201cTroth, an\u2019 I canna aye be spinnin\u2019, sir,\u201d returned she, casting anchor\nin the middle of the road, and leering blandly up into the face of her\ninterrogator.\n\n\u201cYou do not seem to catch my meaning clearly, Janet,\u201d continued the\ndivine. \u201cDo you know where drunkards, go?\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, they generally gang whaur they get the whisky cheapest and best,\nsir.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Janet, but there is another place where they go. They go where\nthere is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.\u201d\n\n\u201cHumph!\u201d sneered the case-hardened old sinner. \u201cThey can gnash teeth that\nhave teeth to gnash. I hav\u2019na had but a\u2019e stump this forty year.\u201d\n\nA Perthshire village tradesman, recently deceased, as a rule \u201ctook a\ndrappie mair than was gude for him\u201d when he visited the county town.\nIndeed, he occasionally got \u201con the batter\u201d and did not return home until\nafter the lapse of several days. Returning from one of these \u201cbouts\u201d his\nwife met him in the door with the question, \u201cWhaur ha\u2019e ye been a\u2019 this\ntime?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerth,\u201d was the sententious reply.\n\n\u201cPerth!\u201d echoed the wife. \u201cAn\u2019 what was ye doin\u2019 sae lang at Perth? Nae\nmortal man could be doin\u2019 gude stayin\u2019 in Perth for three hale days on\nend.\u201d\n\n\u201cAwa! an\u2019 no haiver, woman,\u201d was the dry reply; \u201cplenty o\u2019 fouk stay a\u2019\ntheir days in Perth an\u2019 do brawly.\u201d\n\nThe parish minister, in reproving this same character warned him that\nthere would be a day of reckoning for it all yet. \u201cI wish a day may do\nit, sir,\u201d said the immovable Peter, \u201cit\u2019ll tak\u2019 a day an\u2019 a hauf I doubt.\nDeed, a day an\u2019 a hauf, sir, ilka minute o\u2019t,\u201d and leisurely moved on.\n\nOne festive old Scot recently visited another in the English capital.\nThey had not met before for many years, and a good deal of hot water and\nsugar joined by a corresponding quantity of \u201cbarley bree\u201d was stowed away\nwithin their waistcoats before it was considered that full justice had\nbeen done to the occasion. By this time the night was well advanced, and\nthe visitor began to speak of making tracks for his hotel, when a cab was\naccordingly called and brought to the door. Now came the supreme moment\nof parting, and the host having led his friend by the arm in devious\nfashion to the head of the stair, halted and solemnly addressed him.\n\u201cJohn,\u201d said he, \u201cI winna gang doon the stair mysel\u2019 for fear I mayna get\nup again. I\u2019m real gled to have seen you, and we\u2019ve had a grand nicht.\nGood-nicht, John, good-nicht; and mind your feet on the stair. And John,\nhark ye! when ye gang oot at the door you\u2019ll see twa cabs, but tak\u2019 the\nfirst ane\u2014the tither ane\u2019s no\u2019 there.\u201d\n\nJohn M\u2019Nab, though withal an industrious crofter, got \u201croarin\u2019 fou\u201d every\ntime he went to Perth, which was once a fortnight or so, and like every\nother person who so conducted himself, found always some excuse for\nhis behaviour, however far-fetched it might be. John could not have a\nglass, as his wife said, but \u201ca\u2019 the toon boot ken, for he was ane o\u2019 the\nsinging kind, an\u2019 waukened a\u2019 the country-side.\u201d\n\nOn the morning which succeeded one of his periodical \u201cbursts,\u201d the\nminister happening to pass just as John was watering the cow at the\nburn a little beyond the door of his house, saw, as he thought, in the\nincident a fine opportunity for improving the occasion.\n\n\u201cAh, John,\u201d said he, \u201cyou see how Crummie does. She just drinks as much\nas will do her good, and not a drop more. You might take an example of\nthe poor dumb brute.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d said John, \u201cit\u2019s easy for her.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy more easy for her than you, John?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, just because it is. Man, there\u2019s nae temptation in her case.\u201d\n\n\u201cTemptation, John? What do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, you see, sir, it\u2019s no the love o\u2019 the drink a\u2019thegether that gars\na body get the waur o\u2019t. It\u2019s the conveeviality o\u2019 the thing that plays\nthe plisky. Ye see, sir, ye meet a freend on the street, an\u2019 ye tak\u2019 him\nin to gie him a dram, an\u2019 ye crack awa\u2019 for a while, an\u2019 syne he ca\u2019s in\na dram, an\u2019 there ye crack an\u2019 ye drink, an\u2019 ye drink an\u2019 ye crack, an\u2019\ndod, ye just get fou afore ye ken whaur ye are. It\u2019s easy for Crummie,\nas I said, she has naebody to lead her aff her feet, as ye may say. She\ncomes oot here an\u2019 tak\u2019s her drink, an\u2019 no anither coo says Crummie ye\u2019re\nthere. But, certes, sir, had Dauvit Tamson\u2019s coo just come to the ither\nside o\u2019 the burn a meenit syne, an\u2019 as Crummie was takin\u2019 her first\ntoothfu\u2019, had flappit hersel\u2019 doon on her hunkers an\u2019 said, \u2018Here\u2019s to\nye, Crummie,\u2019 I\u2019ll eat my bonnet if she wadna hae flappit hersel\u2019 doon on\nher hunkers an\u2019 said, \u2018Here\u2019s to _you_, Hornie.\u2019 An\u2019 there the twa jauds\nwad hae sitten an\u2019 drunken until they were baith blind fou. I tell you\nagain, sir, it\u2019s the conveeviality o\u2019 the thing that plays the plisky.\u201d\n\nAnd yet there are instances to show that some of those old tipplers\nrepented somewhat of their folly. The celebrated teetotaller, the Rev.\nDr. Ritchie, of Potterrow, Edinburgh, once went to form a teetotal\nsociety at Peebles, and a man and wife who heard the speeches were\nconscience-smitten, and after they went home the wife said\u2014\n\n\u201c\u2019Od, John, I think we\u2019ll hae to set doon our names to that _thing_ yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll gang to anither o\u2019 the meetin\u2019s yet afore we decide,\u201d said the\nhusband.\n\nNext meeting showed the picture of a young man ruined by drink, and the\ntwo went forward at the close to set their names down.\n\n\u201cBut are we never to taste it ava\u2019?\u201d they asked simultaneously.\n\n\u201cNever,\u201d quoth the minister, \u201c_unless for a medicine_.\u201d\n\nNothing daunted by this the old couple took the pledge, and went home,\ntaking a bottle of whisky with them\u2014the which Janet stowed away in the\nben-house press to wait on cases of emergency. More than a fortnight\nelapsed before drink was again mentioned by one to the other, when one\nnight John complained of an \u201cawfu\u2019 pain in his stammack,\u201d and suggested\nthat it might not be safe to go to bed without taking just half a glass\nor so.\n\n\u201cO, man, John, it\u2019s a pity ye hae been sae lang o\u2019 speakin\u2019,\u201d said Janet,\n\u201cfor \u2019odsake, I\u2019ve had sae mony o\u2019 thae towts mysel\u2019 this auchtdays that\nthere\u2019s no a drap o\u2019 yon to the fore.\u201d\n\nAn old woman, who was a rigid total abstainer, was very ill. The doctor\ntold the nurse that she must give her a little toddy the last thing at\nnight. So when night came the nurse said to her patient, \u201cThe doctor says\nye maun tak\u2019 some toddy.\u201d \u201cOh, no, no!\u201d whined the poor old body; \u201cit\u2019s\nagainst my principle.\u201d \u201cBut,\u201d remonstrated the nurse, \u201cthe doctor says ye\nmaun tak\u2019 it.\u201d \u201cAweel,\u201d replied the old woman resignedly, \u201cI suppose we\nmaun use the means; but mak\u2019 it strong, and gar me tak\u2019 it\u2014gar me tak\u2019\nit.\u201d\n\nTam Forsyth was one of those who went from bad to worse with the dram,\nand never repented of his folly. One night in going home the breadth of\nthe road fatigued him so, that, coming to a quiet corner, he lay down,\nand was soon fast asleep. Some young fellows finding him lying snoring,\nresolved to have some fun out of the reprobate, so they gently removed\nhim to a dark cellar. Getting some phosphorus, they rubbed it on their\nown and Tam\u2019s hands and faces, and then awakened their victim. Tam seeing\nthe state those around him were in, inquired, fearfully\u2014\n\n\u201cWhaur am I?\u201d\n\n\u201cYe\u2019re dead,\u201d said one of the young men.\n\n\u201cHoo lang have I been dead?\u201d\n\n\u201cA fortnicht.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 are ye dead, too?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cHoo lang have you been dead?\u201d\n\n\u201cThree weeks.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d said Tam, without a tremour in his voice, \u201cyou\u2019ll be better\nacquaint here aboot than me: there\u2019s a shillin\u2019, skirt awa\u2019 roond an\u2019 see\nif ye can get hauf a mutchkin, for I\u2019m as dry\u2019s a wooden leg.\u201d\n\nI have remarked on how strongly the practice of dram-drinking had\nestablished itself in the social life of Scotland. It is _the_ sore\nspot in our national character\u2014a distinct characteristic (happily on\nthe wane)\u2014and the inducements to participation have been often novel\nand therefore humorous. Well-to-do individuals long ago frequently gave\ninstructions to their relatives likely to survive them to be sure and\nhave plenty of whisky at their funerals. A Montrose tradesman, feeling\nthe near approach of his dissolution, signalled his wife to his bedside\nand very gravely said, \u201cYe\u2019ll get in a bottle o\u2019 whisky, Mary, for\nthere\u2019s to be sad cheenge here this nicht.\u201d\n\nThe association of the \u201cdram\u201d with our marriage festivities has been\nhappily hit off by Robert Buchanan in \u201cThe Wedding of Shon MacLean,\u201d\nwhere \u201cevery piper was fou\u2014twenty pipers together;\u201d but surely the\nstupidity, the folly, the humour of dram-drinking to excess was never\nbetter illustrated than by Burns in the tale of \u201cTam o\u2019 Shanter.\u201d To have\nattributed such hair-lifting experiences to any sober Carrick farmer,\nas he \u201cfrae Ayr a\u2019e nicht did canter,\u201d would have been absurd, and the\nauthor knew it. Such a phantasmagoria of \u201cwarlocks and witches in a\ndance\u201d could be patent only to the heated imagination of a \u201cbletherin\u2019,\nblusterin\u2019, drunken blellum,\u201d such as the poet has represented his hero\nto have been.\n\nOf whisky the poet has said\u2014\n\n \u201cIt makes a man forget his woes,\n It heightens all his joys;\n It makes the widow\u2019s heart to sing\n Though the tears are in her eyes.\u201d\n\nAnd so it does; but it reduces all who imbibe it for such effects,\nmentally to the level of the ring-tailed monkey, and makes them cut\ncapers as fantastic as were ever performed by the most agile \u201cJacko.\u201d To\nthis showing let our further illustrations here tend.\n\nA West country farmer on a certain moonlight night, setting out towards\nhome from the market town where he had sat too long and drunk too deep,\nhad reached the burn near to his own house, attempting to cross which by\nthe stepping-stones he missed his footing and came down with a splash\ninto the burn. Unable to raise himself beyond his hands and knees,\nhe looked down into the clear water, in which the moon was vividly\nreflected. In this position, and with the water streaming from his\nforelock and beard he began to shout to his wife. \u201cMarget! Marget!\u201d\n\nThe good woman heard and distinguished the well-known voice of her\nhusband, and rushed out crying, \u201cHo, John! My, John! Is that you, John?\nWhaur are you, John?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhaur am I?\u201d rejoined the voice from the burn. \u201cGudeness kens whaur I\nam, Marget, but I see I\u2019m far abune the mune.\u201d\n\nA country laird on one occasion sent his gardener, John by name, to his\ncellar to bottle a barrel of whisky, and cautioned him at the same time\nto be sure and drink one whole glass of the liquor before starting to the\nwork, or else the fumes might go to his head and seriously affect him.\nJohn was a careful man, generally speaking, so took extra precautions,\nthough these were not attended with satisfactory results. Entering the\ncellar the laird was astonished to find his trusted retainer staggering\nabout stupidly in the place.\n\n\u201cAh, John, John,\u201d exclaimed the laird, \u201cyou have not acted on my advice,\nI fear, and taken a dram before starting.\u201d\n\n\u201cDram be hang\u2019d!\u201d blurted out John. \u201cIt\u2019s no a bit o\u2019 use. I hae ta\u2019en\nnearly a dizzen o\u2019 them, an\u2019 I\u2019m gettin\u2019 aye the langer the waur.\u201d\n\nA Forfarshire agriculturist, somewhat given to the dram, coming home\none evening fully \u201cthree sheets to the wind,\u201d took a seat by the fire,\nand, what with the heat and the fumes of the whisky he had imbibed,\nhe soon became sick, and possessed of an irresistible desire to turn\nhimself inside out. At his feet sat a \u201ccoal baikie,\u201d which for the nonce\nwas occupied by a brood of young ducklings that had been deserted by\ntheir foster mother, and for the sake of preservation had been brought\ninto the kitchen and placed thus near the fire. Into this utensil our\nhero deposited the cause of his internal derangement. And his good wife\nappearing on the scene, observing but unobserved, a minute or two later,\nshe found her husband peering critically down into the \u201cbaikie,\u201d and\nmuttering to himself\u2014\n\n\u201cEh! megstie me. It surely canna be possible. I mind weel eneuch o\u2019\neating that cheese, an\u2019 (hic) thae biscuits, an\u2019 the beef. An\u2019 I mind\nperfectly weel o\u2019 suppin\u2019 thae (hic) kail, an\u2019 the barley amon\u2019 them;\nbut, in the name o\u2019 a\u2019 that\u2019s wonderfu\u2019, whaur in a\u2019 the world did I get\n(hic) thae young deucks!\u201d\n\nHe learned next morning, doubtless, on the deafest side of his head.\n\nEven so stern an institution as total abstinence (?) has its humorous\nside:\u2014\n\nAn old \u201cwifie,\u201d who had a weakness for whisky, had been prevailed upon to\ntake the pledge.\n\nShortly afterwards she called upon a rather \u201cdrouthie neebor,\u201d who was\nnot aware of her visitor\u2019s reformation.\n\nThe bottle was at once, as usual, produced, and the recent convert to\ntotal abstinence was sorely tempted.\n\nShe made, however, a gallant effort to remain true to principle, and,\nholding up deprecating hands, she said, \u201cNa, thank ye, Mrs. Mitchell,\nI\u2019ve ta\u2019en the pledge. I have made a solemn vow not to pit han\u2019 or lip to\ngless again.\u201d\n\nBut then, seeing Mrs. Mitchell was about to remove the spirits, she\nhesitatingly said, \u201cI daur say if you wad put a wee drappie in a\n_tea-cup_ I could maybe tak\u2019 it.\u201d\n\nA young countryman went a considerable distance to pay a visit to\nhis uncle and aunt and cousins, who were reputed a family of strict\nteetotallers. During his first meal at his kinsman\u2019s table the young man\ncommented on the absence of spirituous liquors.\n\n\u201cWe are a\u2019 temperance folk here, ye ken,\u201d interrupted the old man. \u201cNo\nspirituous liquors are allowed to enter this house.\u201d\n\nAfter dinner the old man went up stairs to take his customary \u201cforty\nwinks,\u201d the girls started off to Sunday School, and the boys lounged away\nto smoke in the stable. As soon as Aunt Betty found herself alone in the\nkitchen she put her initial finger to her lips, to enjoin silence on the\npart of her youthful nephew, and going to a dark nook in the pantry she\ndrew therefrom a little black bottle, and filling a glass held it out to\nhim, and said\u2014\n\n\u201cHere, John, tak\u2019 a taste o\u2019 that. Our gudeman\u2019s sic a strict teetotaller\nthat I daurna let him ken that I keep a wee drap in the hoose\u2014just for\nmedicine. So dinna mention it.\u201d\n\nA few minutes later the old man cried from the stairhead, \u201cAre you there,\nJohn?\u201d\n\nThe nephew went upstairs, when the head of the house took him to his own\nbedroom, where he promptly produced a gallon-jar of whisky from an old\nportmanteau under the bed, and pouring out a hearty dram, said\u2014\n\n\u201cTeetotalin\u2019 doesna prevent me frae keepin\u2019 a wee drap o\u2019 the \u2018rale peat\nreek\u2019 in case o\u2019 illness, or that; so here, lad, put ye that in your\ncheek; but (confidentially) not a word aboot it to your auntie, or the\nladdies.\u201d\n\nStrolling out of doors soon after this second surprise, and entering the\nstable, the cousins beckoned their relative into the barn, where, after\nfumbling among the straw for a few seconds, they handed him a black\nbottle, with the encouraging words\u2014\n\n\u201cTak\u2019 a sook o\u2019 that, cousin, ye\u2019ll find it gude; but not a word to the\nold fouks, mind, for twa mair infatuated teetotallers were never born.\u201d\n\nI have said that our drinking customs have made us the butt of the\nforeign \u201cjokist.\u201d Here is the proof, in the following clever skit\u2014a\nburlesque report of the celebration of St. Andrew\u2019s Day in Calcutta\u2014which\nappeared some years ago in the columns of the _Indian Daily News_, under\nthe title of\u2014\n\nYE CHRONICLE OF SAINT ANDREW.\n\n1. It came to pass in the year one thousand eight hundred and four score\nand one, in the City of Palaces, dwelt certain wise men from a far\ncountry beyond the great sea.\n\n2. (In that year the rulers of the city did that which was right in their\nown eyes).\n\n3. Now these wise men assembled themselves together, and they said one to\nthe other, Go to, let us remember our brethren whom we have left.\n\n4. For, behold, we be in a far country, and it shall come to pass that\nmen shall say to us, Ye be nameless on the earth; ye have fled from the\nland of your nativity, because the land of your nativity is poor.\n\n5. This thing, therefore, will we do; we will make a great feast, so that\nthe nose of whomsoever smelleth it shall tingle, and we will call to mind\nthe ancient days and the mighty deeds of our fathers.\n\n6. So they appointed a day, and many were gathered together\u2014a mixed\nmultitude from the Land of Cakes and of Thistles, from the West and from\nthe North, and from the Isles of the Sea.\n\n7. And, behold, a great feast was prepared, and men in white raiment\nministered unto them, and a ruler of the feast was appointed, and set in\nthe midst.\n\n8. And forthwith to each man was given a writing of the good things of\nthe feast, and the writing was in a tongue no man could understand, for\nthe language was the language of the _Crapaud_, which signifieth in the\nheathen tongue, a frog.\n\n9. And some there were who pretended to know the writing, and the\ninterpretation thereof; now these were hypocrites; for they knew but six\nletters of the writing, and those letters were HAGGIS, and even this much\nwas a great mystery.\n\n10. And the dishes no man could number; the people ate mightily, as it\nwere the space of one hour. And no man spoke to his neighbour till his\ninner man was comforted.\n\n11. And while they ate, behold there drew near three mighty men of\nvalour, clothed in many-coloured garments; and they bore in their arms\nmusical instruments shaped like unto a beast of prey.\n\n12. And they blew mightily upon what seemed the tail thereof, and\nstraightway came there forth shrieks and sounds as if it were the\nhowlings of the damned.\n\n13. And the hearts of the people were comforted, for this is that wherein\ntheir great strength lieth.\n\n14. And wine was brought in vessels, but the children of the North would\nhave none of these; for they quenched their thirst with the Dew of the\nMountain, which is the water of fire.\n\n15. Then spake the wise men of the congregation unto them, and called to\nmind the ancient days and mighty deeds of their fathers. And the people\nrejoiced exceedingly.\n\n16. Now it came to pass when they had eaten and drunk greatly, even unto\nthe full, that the hinges of their tongues were loosened\u2014yea, even the\njoints of their knees.\n\n17. And the ruler of the feast fled to his home, and a third part of the\nmultitude followed, and a third part remained, saying, We thirst; and a\nthird part rose up to play.\n\n18. And they played after the fashion of their country, and their\nmovements resembled the peregrinations of a hen upon a girdle which is\nhot. Yet they seemed to think it pleasant, for they shouted with joy.\n\n19. Now, as for them that were athirst, behold, their drinking was\nsteady, but their limbs were not so; yea, they also shouted for joy and\nsang amazingly.\n\n20. And they answered one to another, and said that, notwithstanding the\ncrowing of the cock or the dawning of the day, they should still partake\nof the juice of the barley. So they encouraged one another with these\nwords.\n\n21. Now it came to pass that, as they sat, one came and said he had seen\na strange fire in the sky, but what it was he could not tell.\n\n22. And some said, It is the moon; and others said, It is the sun; and\nsome said, Doth the sun rise in the west? and others said, This is not\nthe west, but the east; and some said, Which is it, for we perceive two\nin the sky.\n\n23. And one said, I see nothing. Now the name of that man was Blin\u2019 Foo.\nHe was the son of Fill Foo, and his mother\u2019s name was Haud Foo; and his\nbrethren\u2014Bung Foo, Sing Foo, Greet Foo, and Dam Foo\u2014were speechless.\n\n24. Then each man bade his neighbour farewell, embracing and vowing\neternal friendship, and some were borne home by men in scanty raiment,\nand others in carriages which jingled as they went; and others drove\ntheir own chariots home, and saw many strange sights, for they found\ngrass growing and ditches in the midst of the way where they had not\nperceived them before.\n\n25. And it came to pass that in the morning many lamented, and took no\nbreakfast that day; and the men in white raiment brought unto them many\ncunningly-devised drinks, yea, pick-me-ups, for their tongues clove unto\nthe roofs of their mouths, and the spittle on their beard was like unto a\nsmall silver coin, even a sixpence.\n\n26. But, when they thought on the previous day, they rejoiced again, for\nthey said, Our brethren whom we have left will hear of it at the Feast of\nthe New Year, and they will remember us and bless us, and our hearts and\nhands shall be strengthened for our labour here.\n\nThat is quite delicious! And now we will allow George Outram to close the\nchapter with his inimitable poem:\u2014\n\n DRINKIN\u2019 DRAMS,\n OR, \u201cTHE TIPPLER\u2019S PROGRESS.\u201d\n\n He ance was holy\n An\u2019 melancholy,\n Till he fand the folly\n O\u2019 singin\u2019 psalms;\n He\u2019s now as red\u2019s a rose,\n An\u2019 there\u2019s pimples on his nose,\n An\u2019 in size it daily grows,\n By drinkin\u2019 drams.\n\n He ance was weak,\n An\u2019 couldna eat a steak\n Without gettin\u2019 sick,\n An\u2019 takin\u2019 qualms;\n But now he can eat\n O\u2019 ony kind o\u2019 meat,\n For he\u2019s got an appeteet,\n By drinkin\u2019 drams.\n\n He ance was thin,\n Wi\u2019 a nose like a pen,\n An\u2019 hands like a hen,\n An\u2019 nae hams;\n But now he\u2019s roond an\u2019 ticht,\n An\u2019 a deevil o\u2019 a wicht,\n For he\u2019s got himsel\u2019 put richt\n By drinkin\u2019 drams.\n\n He ance was saft as dirt,\n An\u2019 as pale as ony shirt,\n An\u2019 as useless as a cart\n Without the trams;\n But now he\u2019d face the deil,\n Or swallow Jonah\u2019s whale\u2014\n He\u2019s as gleg\u2019s a puddock\u2019s tail,\n Wi\u2019 drinkin\u2019 drams.\n\n Oh! pale, pale was his hue,\n An\u2019 cauld, cauld was his broo,\n An\u2019 he grumbled like a ewe\n \u2019Mang libbit rams;\n But now his broo is bricht,\n An\u2019 his een are orbs o\u2019 licht,\n An\u2019 his nose is just a sicht,\n Wi\u2019 drinkin\u2019 drams.\n\n He studied mathematics,\n Logic, ethics, hydrostatics,\n Till he needed diuretics\n To lowse his dams;\n But now, without a lee,\n He could mak\u2019 anither sea,\n For he\u2019s left philosophy,\n An\u2019 ta\u2019en to drams.\n\n He fand that learning, fame,\n Gas, philanthropy, an\u2019 steam,\n Logic, loyalty, gude name,\n Were a\u2019 mere shams;\n That the source o\u2019 joy below,\n An\u2019 the antidote to woe,\n An\u2019 the only proper go,\n Was drinkin\u2019 drams.\n\n It\u2019s true that he can see\n Auld Nick, wi\u2019 gloatin\u2019 e\u2019e,\n Just waitin\u2019 till he dee\n \u2019Mid frichts an\u2019 dwams;\n But what\u2019s Auld Nick to him,\n Or palsied tongue or limb,\n Wi\u2019 glass filled to the brim,\n When drinkin\u2019 drams.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nTHE THISTLE AND THE ROSE\n\n\nFifty years ago native opinion generally would, I believe, have\ncorroborated the statement of the inspired _Shepherd_ of the \u201cNoctes,\u201d\nthat \u201cthe Englishers are the noblest race o\u2019 leevin\u2019 men\u2014except the\nScotch.\u201d That very decided compliment, notwithstanding, however; and\neven although nowadays so many Scotchmen are fain to emulate the\nCockney speech and fashion in all things, it is putting the case in the\nmildest terms to say that, up to and even beyond the period indicated,\nthere had never been much love lost between the denizens of the sister\nnations, Scotland and England. On all pre-eminent occasions, subsequent\nto the Union, to the credit of both be it often told, their cherished\nantipathies\u2014trifles mayhap at the best\u2014have magnanimously been allowed\nto lapse for the time being, and \u201cshoulder to shoulder, knee to knee,\u201d\nJohn Bull and Sandy Cawmil, aided and abetted at all times by their\nbrow-beaten half-brother Paddy, have presented a brave and unbroken front\nof steel to the enemies of their United Kingdoms. But, the conflicts\nover\u2014the sword sheathed\u2014the old animosity, the chronic jealousy, has\nagain and again manifested itself between the Thistle and the Rose.\nInto the causes of this little estrangement in friendly feeling which\nso long obtained, but has now almost entirely disappeared, though some\nof them are obvious, we shall not trouble ourselves here particularly\nto inquire, but will rather review some of their effects as they are\nillustrated in the records of the many witty skirmishes which have taken\nplace here and there between them, and in which the Thistle has fairly\njustified its popular motto of \u201c_Nemo me impune lacessit_!\u201d Yes! and\nsurely it is remarkable\u2014is an extraordinary circumstance, indeed, when\nviewed in the light of the fact that the English deny to the Scotch any\nidea of wit\u2014that in nearly every witty encounter that has taken place\nbetween them Sandy has had the best of it. They are \u201ca noble race o\u2019\nleevin\u2019 men,\u201d as the _Shepherd_ averred. But, no, blustering John Bull\nis no match for canny Sandy Cawmil. He would have delighted in coercing\nhim\u2014would have given his right hand to have been able to say, \u201cSandy,\n_you must_.\u201d But, as the late David Kennedy, the Scottish singer, used\nto put it, when introducing the song of \u201cScots wha hae,\u201d \u201c_must_ was\nburied at Bannockburn.\u201d And thenceforth, whilst strife with the sword\nhad ceased between them, \u201ca wordy war\u201d\u2014a war of wit and ridicule\u2014long\nobtained instead. It has been a favourite sarcasm of John that the finest\nview in all Scotland to the eye of the Scot is the road that leads from\nit into England. To which Sandy has made the withering reply, \u201cThere\u2019s\nnae doot, John, a hantle o\u2019 us hae fund oor way to Lunnon, but it\u2019s\nbeen gude for you as it\u2019s been gude for us, for everybody kens ye wad\nbe _puir things withoot\u2019s_.\u201d Notable features in the characteristics of\nthe two are these, that each has been inclined to over-estimate himself\nand to under-estimate his neighbour. In the opinion of many a living\nLondon Cockney, a Scotsman is a being only slightly superior to a Red\nIndian savage. \u2019Arry entertains in all seriousness the conviction that\nevery home-bred Scotsman is red-headed; and that we all wear kilts, play\non the bagpipes, drink whisky _ad lib._, snuff, and feed exclusively on\nkail-brose and bannocks of barley meal. Sandy, on the other hand, has\nregarded himself individually as the ideal _man_\u2014the noblest work of\nhis Creator\u2014and has declared the English to be \u201cmaybe no sae very bad\nconsiderin\u2019, but even at the best neither mair nor less than a parcel\no\u2019 upsettin\u2019, ignorant, pock-puddin\u2019s.\u201d It has been English money in\ngeneral, but Scotch brains in particular, he has asserted time and\nagain, that have made London what it is. \u201cAll the brightest intellectual\nluminaries of your London firmament,\u201d he has told John Bull, \u201chave been\nnursed and reared amid the hills o\u2019 Bonnie Scotland.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat of Shakespeare?\u201d John has asked. \u201cYou don\u2019t claim him as a\nScotchman, do you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; oh no,\u201d Sandy has replied, \u201cI\u2019ll no say that Shakespeare was a\nScotchman; although the way ye brag o\u2019 him ye seem to think he was maist\nclever eneuch to be ane.\u201d\n\nAnd as in the opinion of the typical Scotsman there is no man to equal a\nScotsman, so there is to his mind no land on earth like his own Scotland.\nHe may have wandered far away from it, but distance only made his heart\ngrow fonder, and lent enchantment to the view. And, as almost every\nScotsman is a poet, if he took to sing its praises he would do so with\nsuch enthusiasm as is revealed in these lines:\u2014\n\n \u201cLand of chivalry and of freedom,\n Land of old traditional fame,\n May thy noble sons and daughters\n Long uphold thy honoured name.\n\n Land where foreign foe ne\u2019er ventured,\n Land where tyrant never trod,\n Land whose sons are ever foremost,\n Treading nobly life\u2019s high road.\n\n Land of simple-hearted kindness,\n Land of patriotic worth,\n May thy virtues ever flourish,\n Hardy clansmen of the North!\n\n Land where rest in silent chambers\n Ashes of our honoured sires,\n May their memories long be cherished\n Round our humble cottage fires.\u201d\n\nTo the critical eye of John Bull the scene would appear different; and\ncould he have sung as pithily in the vernacular speech of Auld Scotland,\nhis vocal description would have been thus severely censorious\u2014\n\n \u201cLand of ancient bloody tyrants,\n Sneaking traitors deep and sly;\n Land of thieving \u2018Heclan\u2019 teevils,\u2019\n Kilted rogues and stolen kye.\n\n Land o\u2019 bribes and kirks and bastards,\n Saints and lasses awfu\u2019 frail.\n Drunkards, shebeens, godly deacons,\n Parritch, thistles, brose, and kail.\n\n Land o\u2019 canny, carefu\u2019 bodies\u2014\n Foes to a\u2019 ungodly fun;\n Those wha sum up man\u2019s whole duty\u2014\n Heaven, hell, and _number one_.\n\n Land of droning psalms and sermons,\n Pauky wit and snuffy bores;\n Fair fa\u2019n chields so fond o\u2019 country\n That they leave it fast in scores.\u201d\n\nAnd when each had had his fling the true account would be found about\nmidway between the two. But, oh! John did like to get a hair in Sandy\u2019s\nneck; and does so still. Nothing delighted Dr. Johnson, the eminent\nlexicographer, more. He had the meanest opinion of the Scotch, it is well\nknown, and never missed an opportunity of casting ridicule upon them.\nThus, when compiling his famous Dictionary, he defined the word _oats_\nas \u201cfood for men in Scotland and for horses in England.\u201d The definition\nafforded unmixed delight to the English mind, until, by and by, it was\n\u201ccast in the teeth\u201d of a witty Scottish Lord, who retorted with\u2014\n\n\u201cYes; and where will you find such men and such horses?\u201d\n\nSince then, the fun of it has not been quite so apparent. But the Doctor\nfrequently met his match, and got paid back in his own coin. Soon after\nhis return from Scotland to London, a Scotch lady resident in the capital\ninvited him to dinner, and in compliment to her distinguished guest\nordered a dish of hotch-potch. When the great man had tasted it, she\nasked him if it was good, to which he replied, with his usual gruffness,\n\u201cVery good for hogs, I believe!\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, pray,\u201d said the lady, \u201clet me help you to a little more;\u201d and she\ndid.\n\nOf course John Bull had never been loquacious to any great extent on the\nsubject of Bannockburn; and Sandy, I suppose, remembering Flodden, has\nnot reminded him too frequently of the incident. Occasions have arisen,\nhowever, when enlightenment was necessary. Thus, when, many years ago, a\nlittle company of Englishmen were travelling by railway between Glasgow\nand Stirling, having an old Scotchman and his wife as fellow-travellers,\nthe weather being wet, they abused the Scottish climate, \u201cthe doocid\nweathaw, you know,\u201d and everything Scotch to their hearts\u2019 content.\nLatterly one of them asserted that \u201cno Englishman could ever settle down\nin such a region.\u201d By this time the train was emerging from Larbert\nstation, and\u2014\n\n\u201cNae Englishman sattle doon in this region?\u201d echoed the old Scotsman, who\nhad hitherto not spoken. \u201cToots, man, ye\u2019re haiverin\u2019 nonsense. I\u2019ll let\nye see a pairt alang the line-side a bit here, whaur a gey wheen o\u2019 yer\ncountrymen cam\u2019 mair than five hunder year syne, and they\u2019re no thinkin\u2019\no\u2019 leavin\u2019t yet, tho\u2019 they maun be gey weel _sattled doon_ by this time.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere is that?\u201d asked several of the Englishmen at once.\n\n\u201cBannockburn!\u201d replied the Scot, and \u201csilence deep as death\u201d fell on the\nlittle company.\n\nA similar reminder was more delicately given when two English tourists\na few years ago visited the scene of what has been aptly termed \u201cthe\nbest day\u2019s work ever performed in Scotland.\u201d A local cartwright pointed\nout with intelligence the positions of the contending armies; the stone\nwhere Bruce\u2019s standard was fixed, and other features of interest; and the\nvisitors before leaving pressed their informant\u2019s acceptance of a small\nmoney gratuity.\n\n\u201cNa, na,\u201d replied the native with noticeable pride, \u201cput up yer siller,\nI\u2019ll hae nane o\u2019t. _It\u2019s cost ye eneuch already._\u201d\n\nSpeaking of Flodden, Sir Walter Scott was wont to tell a good story of a\nScotch blacksmith whom he had formerly known as a horse doctor, and whom\nhe found at a small country town South of the Border, practising medicine\namong the natives, with a reckless use of \u201clowdomar and calomy,\u201d and who\napologised for the mischief he might do by the assurance that it \u201cwould\nbe a lang time afore it _made up for Flodden_!\u201d\n\nNothing galls the national pride of the true-blue Scot more than the\nliberties that have been taken with that article of the Union which\nexpressly declared that Britain should be the only recognised designation\nof the United Kingdoms of Scotland and England. The Queen of England,\nthe English Ambassador, the English army, the English fleet, and similar\nexpressions still in common use, despite the courageous and persistent\nprotests of the Rev. David Macrae, and others, are therefore terms\nparticularly offensive to a sensitive Scottish ear. A striking instance\nof this feeling occurred at the Battle of Trafalgar. Two Scotsmen,\nmessmates and bosom cronies, from the same little clachan, happened to be\nstationed near each other when the now celebrated signal was given from\nthe Admiral\u2019s ship\u2014_England expects every man to do his duty_.\n\n\u201cNo a word o\u2019 puir Auld Scotland on this occasion,\u201d dolefully remarked\nGeordie to Jock.\n\nJock cocked his eye a moment, and turning to his companion\u2014\n\n\u201cMan, Geordie,\u201d said he, \u201cScotland kens weel eneuch that nae bairn\no\u2019 hers needs to be tell\u2019t to do his duty\u2014_that\u2019s just a hint to the\nEnglishers_.\u201d\n\nA North country drover once, returning homewards, after a somewhat\nunsuccessful journey to the South, was, in consequence, not in very\ngood humour with the \u201cEnglishers.\u201d On reaching Carlisle he saw a notice\nstuck up offering a certain sum to any one who could do a piece of\nservice to the community by officiating as executioner of the law on a\nnoted criminal then under sentence of death. Sandy herein perceived an\nopportunity of making up for his bad market; and comforted and encouraged\nthat he was a perfect stranger in the town, he undertook the office,\nhanged the rogue, and got the fee. When moving off with the money, he\nwas twitted with being a mean, beggarly Scot, doing for money what no\nEnglishman would.\n\n\u201c\u2019Deed,\u201d replied Sandy, with a wicked leer in his eye, \u201cI would hang ye\na\u2019 at the same price.\u201d\n\nA Scotch family lately removed to London, wished to have a sheep\u2019s head\nprepared as they were accustomed to it at home, and sent a servant to the\nbutcher\u2019s to procure one. She was a Scotch lassie, and on entering the\nshop\u2014\n\n\u201cMy gude man,\u201d said she to the butcher, \u201cI want a sheep\u2019s head.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s plenty of them there,\u201d said he; \u201cchoose which you will.\u201d\n\n\u201cNa,\u201d said she, \u201cbut there\u2019s nane o\u2019 thae that will do; I want a sheep\u2019s\nhead that will sing\u201d (singe).\n\n\u201cGo, you idiot,\u201d said the butcher, \u201cwho ever heard of a sheep\u2019s head that\ncould sing?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d replied the girl in wrath, \u201can\u2019 it\u2019s you it\u2019s the eedyit, I\u2019m\nthinkin\u2019; for ony sheep\u2019s head in Scotland can sing; but I jalouse yer\nEnglish sheep are just as grit fules as their owners, and they can do\nnaething as they ocht.\u201d\n\nA Scotch gentleman, visiting some friends in England, displayed in\nconversation such contempt for the memory of England\u2019s most illustrious\nsons that one of the family resolved to pay him off in his own coin. He\ntherefore took down a steel engraving of John Knox, which adorned the\ndining-room wall, and hung it up in a lumber room. The Scotsman, missing\nthe picture, asked what had become of it. \u201cWe no longer consider your\nReformer worthy of a place here,\u201d said his friend, \u201ctherefore we have\nhung him up in a dark closet.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could not have done better,\u201d said the Scotsman. \u201cI consider the\nsituation very appropriate; for if ever a man could throw light on a dark\nsubject, that was the man.\u201d\n\nAnother Scot being in England at the time the nightingales were in song,\nwas invited by his host one evening to come and hear one singing. As\nthe nightingale is never heard in Scotland it was considered this would\nprove a rare treat to the Scotsman. After listening for a considerable\ntime to the beautiful melody, and becoming somewhat impatient at hearing\nno expression of surprise or pleasure from his Scottish guest, the\nEnglishman asked if he was not delighted. \u201cIt\u2019s a\u2019 very gude,\u201d replied\nthe canny Scot, \u201cbut I wadna gie the _wheeple o\u2019 a whaup_ for a\u2019 the\nnightingales that ever sang!\u201d\n\nShortly after the accession of James I., when Scotch gentlemen were\nbeginning to feel a little more at home than formerly in London, Lord\nHarewood gave a dinner party, to which there were invited a large number\nof courtiers and officers\u2014both civil and military. The feast was ended,\nand with the flow of wine the company prepared for a corresponding flow\nof wit and jollity. After the bottle had circulated a few times, and the\nspirits of the assembly had begun to rise, General S\u2e3a, an English trooper\nof fame, and a reckless _bon vivant_, arose and said, \u201cGentlemen, when I\nam in my cups, and the generous wine begins to warm my blood, I have an\nabsurd custom of railing against the Scotch. Knowing my weakness, I hope\nno gentleman of the company will take it amiss.\u201d\n\nHe sat down, and a Highland chief, Sir Robert Bleakie, of Blair Athol,\npresenting a front like an old battle-worn tower, quietly arose in\nhis place, and with the utmost simplicity and good-nature remarked,\n\u201cGentlemen, I, when I am in my cups, and the generous wine begins to warm\nmy blood, if I hear a man rail against the Scotch, have an absurd custom\nof kicking him at once out of the company. Knowing my weakness, I hope no\ngentleman of the company will take it amiss.\u201d\n\nIt need scarcely be added that General S\u2e3a did not on that occasion suffer\nhimself to follow his usual custom.\n\nAnd despite the heavy odds against him there have yet been times when\nSandy stood in high favour in high quarters in the English capital. Thus\nin the year 1797, when the Democratic notions ran high, the King\u2019s coach\nwas attacked as His Majesty was going to the House of Peers. A gigantic\nHibernian on that occasion was conspicuously loyal in repelling the\nmob. Soon after, to his no small surprise, he received a message from\nMr. Dundas to attend at his office. He went, and met with a gracious\nreception from the great man, who, after passing a few encomiums on his\nactive loyalty, desired him to point out any way in which he would wish\nto be advanced, His Majesty having particularly noticed his courageous\nconduct, and being desirous to reward it. Pat scratched and scraped for a\nwhile, as if thunderstruck\u2014\n\n\u201cThe devil take me if I know what I\u2019m fit for.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, my good fellow,\u201d cried Henry, \u201cthink a moment, and do not throw\nyourself out of the way of fortune.\u201d\n\nPat hesitated another moment, then smirking as if some odd idea had taken\nhold of his noddle, he said\u2014\u201cI tell yez what, mister, make a Scotchman of\nme, and, by St. Patrick, there\u2019ll be no fear of my getting on.\u201d\n\nThe Minister gazed a while at the _mal-apropos_ wit\u2014\u201cMake a Scotsman of\nyou, sir, that is impossible, for I cannot give you prudence.\u201d\n\nPrudence is just what Paddy has always lacked, and what to all appearance\nhe is never to learn. Had it been a special characteristic of John\nBull, it would have saved him from many a _coup_ he has received at the\ninstance of his cautious and calculating brother Sandy, the following\namong the rest. A stout English visitor to one of the fashionable\nwatering-places on the West Coast some years ago was in the habit of\nconversing familiarly with Donald Fraser, a character of the place, who\ntook delight in talking boastfully of his great relations, who existed\nonly, the stranger suspected, in the Highlander\u2019s own lively imagination.\nOne day, as the Englishman was seated at the door of his lodging, Donald\ncame up driving a big fat boar.\n\n\u201cOne of your relations, I suppose, Donald?\u201d exclaimed the visitor,\nchuckling, and nodding his head in the direction of the \u201cporker.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d quietly retorted Donald, surveying the proportions of his\ninterlocutor, \u201cno relation at all, sir, but just an acquaintance, _like\nyoursel\u2019_.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy late esteemed friend, Mr. John Mackie, M.P. for Kirkcudbrightshire,\u201d\nwrites the garrulous and entertaining author of _Reminiscences of Fifty\nYears_, \u201cused to describe an extensive view which one of his friend\u2019s\nhills commanded. This he never failed to call to the attention of his\nEnglish visitors when the weather was clear. Willy the shepherd was\nalways the guide on such occasions, as he knew precisely the weather that\nwould suit.\n\n\u201cOne forenoon an English friend was placed under Willy\u2019s charge to mount\nthe hill in order to enjoy the glorious view. \u2018I am told, shepherd, you\nare going to show me a wonderful view.\u2019 \u2018That\u2019s quite true, sir.\u2019 \u2018What\nshall I see?\u2019 \u2018Weel, ye\u2019ll see a feck o\u2019 kingdoms\u2014the best o\u2019 sax, sir.\u2019\n\u2018What the deuce do you mean, shepherd?\u2019 \u2018Weel, sir, I mean what I say.\u2019\n\u2018But tell me all about it.\u2019 \u2018I\u2019ll tell you naething mair, sir, until\nwe\u2019re at the tap o\u2019 the hill.\u2019 The top reached, Willy found everything\nhe could desire in regard to a clear atmosphere. \u2018Noo, sir, I houp ye\u2019ve\ngot guid een?\u2019 \u2018Oh, my eyes are excellent.\u2019 \u2018Then, that\u2019s a\u2019 richt, sir.\nNoo, div you see yon hills awa\u2019 yonder?\u2019 \u2018Yes, I do.\u2019 \u2018Weel, sir, those\nare the hills o\u2019 Cumberland, and Cumberland\u2019s in the kingdom o\u2019 England;\nthat\u2019s a\u2019e kingdom. Noo, sir, please keep coont. Then, sir, I maun noo\ntrouble you to look ower yonder. Div ye see what I mean?\u2019 \u2018I do.\u2019 \u2018That\u2019s\na\u2019 richt. That\u2019s the Isle o\u2019 Man, and that was a kingdom and sovereignty\nin the families of the Earls o\u2019 Derby and the Dukes o\u2019 Athol frae the\ndays o\u2019 King David o\u2019 Scotland, if ye ken onything o\u2019 Scotch history.\u2019\n\u2018You are quite right, shepherd.\u2019 \u2018Quite richt, did you say; I wadna ha\u2019e\nbrocht ye here, sir, if I was to be wrang. Weel, that\u2019s twa kingdoms.\nBe sure, sir, to keep coont. Noo, turn awee aboot. Div ye see yon land\nyonder? It\u2019s a bit farrer, but never mind that, sae lang as ye see it.\u2019\n\u2018I see it distinctly.\u2019 \u2018Weel, that\u2019s a\u2019 I care aboot. Noo, sir, keep\ncoont, for that\u2019s Ireland, and mak\u2019s three kingdoms; but there\u2019s nae\ntrouble aboot the neist, for ye\u2019re stannin\u2019 on\u2019t\u2014I mean Scotland. Weel,\nthat mak\u2019s four kingdoms; div you admit that, sir?\u2019 \u2018Yes, that makes\nfour, and you have two yet to show me.\u2019 \u2018That\u2019s true, sir, but dinna be\nin sic a hurry. Weel, sir, just look up aboon yer head, and this is by\nfar the best o\u2019 a\u2019 the Kingdoms: that, sir, aboon, is Heaven. That\u2019s\nfive: and the saxth kingdom is that doon below yer feet, to which, sir, I\nhoup ye\u2019ll never gang; but that\u2019s a point on which I canna speak wi\u2019 ony\ncertainty.\u2019\u201d\n\nI have said that the Scotch and English are each inclined to\nover-estimate themselves and under-estimate their neighbours; but to\nthis should be added the fact, that the canny craftiness of Sandy\u2014his\ncharacteristic prudence\u2014has shown him how much he might gain by\nfamiliarising himself with all John\u2019s ways, and this he has done, whereas\nJohn has thought it sufficient to assume a knowledge of Sandy\u2019s affairs,\neven although he possessed it not. And this contemptuous assumption of\nknowledge has led to some sublime blundering on John\u2019s part. We scarcely\nexpect our Cockney brethren to be familiar with our Northern tongue, or\neven to have very much sympathy with it. Yet, while they actually do not\nknow it, and readily express contempt for it, they still continue to\naffect a knowledge, and so, to apply a well-known Irishism, \u201cseldom open\ntheir mouth on the subject but they put their foot in it.\u201d Thus, not very\nlong ago, one Cockney told another that he had learned a beautiful Scotch\nsong, and would write out for him a copy of the words. The song was, \u201cThe\nLass o\u2019 Gowrie,\u201d and the first two lines came from his pen as follows:\u2014\n\n \u201c\u2019Twas on a summer\u2019s afternoon,\n A _week_ before the sun went doon.\u201d\n\nThe prospect of such a long continued spell of daylight in Scotland\nproved too much for the risible susceptibilities of the party who looked\nover the writer\u2019s shoulder, and the pen had to be thrown aside, amid a\nroar of laughter. Not many years ago I myself saw the printed programme\nof a London Scottish concert, an item in which appeared as\n\n \u201cYe Banks and _Brays_ of Bonnie Doon,\u201d\n\nand I thought what an _ass_ he must have been who prepared the \u201ccopy\u201d!\n_Punch_\u2014I think it was _Punch_\u2014once made one Scotsman threaten to give\nanother \u201cA richt gude Willie-waucht in the side o\u2019 the head.\u201d Great\ndubiety existed in the London journalistic mind some time ago about\nthe signification of the phrase, \u201cThe Land o\u2019 the Leal,\u201d\u2014was it the\npoetical designation of Scotland, or Heaven? \u201cOld long since ago,\u201d and\n\u201cScots with him\u201d are Anglicised Scotticisms as familiar as proverbs. But\nsurely the very funniest results from Cockney intermeddling with things\nScotch that ever appeared are to be found in a cheap edition of Burns\u2019s\npoems, which was issued some time since by John Dicks, the well-known\nStrand publisher. From this copy it is made apparent that Tam o\u2019 Shanter\nwas not the hero of Burns\u2019s humorous masterpiece at all, but one Tam\nSkelpit\u2014_vide_ the following lines:\u2014\n\n \u201cTam Skelpit on through mud and mire,\n Despising wind and rain and fire.\u201d\n\nThen the family name of the householder immortalised in the \u201cCottar\u2019s\nSaturday night,\u201d according to this Cockney edition, was not Burns, as is\npopularly believed in Scotland, but _Hafflins_. The revelation appears in\nthese lines:\u2014\n\n \u201cThe wily mother sees the conscious flame\n Sparkle in Jenny\u2019s e\u2019e and flush her cheek,\n Wi\u2019 heart-struck anxious care inquires his name;\n While Jenny Hafflins is afraid to speak;\n Weel pleased the mother hears it\u2019s nae wild, worthless rake.\u201d\n\nTam Skelpit and Jenny Hafflins! My conscience! What next? Well, a cursory\nglance finds such improved readings as these (I will italicise the\nimprovements):\u2014\n\n \u201cThe heapit _happier\u2019s_ ebbing still.\u201d\n\n \u201cI held _awe_ to Annie.\u201d\n\n \u201cThey reeled, they set, they crossed, they _cleckit_.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnd _well_ tak\u2019 a cup o\u2019 kindness yet.\u201d\n\n \u201cOr wake the bosom-_smelting_ throe.\u201d\n\nAnd there are many other blunders quite as ludicrous. Experience is a\nsevere school, and when the Scotch becomes the universal tongue John Bull\nwill perceive this; but perhaps not before.\n\nA very humorous instance of the almost incomprehensibility of things\nScotch by the English mind occurred during one of the earlier visits\nof the Royal Family to Balmoral. The late Prince Consort, dressed in a\nsimple manner, was crossing one of the Scottish lochs in a steamer, and\nwas curious to note everything relating to the management of the vessel,\nand, among other things, the cooking. Approaching the galley, where a\nbrawny Scot was attending to the culinary matters, he was attracted by\nthe savoury odours of a dish of hotch-potch which Sandy was preparing.\n\n\u201cWhat is that?\u201d asked the Prince, who was not known to the cook.\n\n\u201cHotch-potch, sir,\u201d was the reply.\n\n\u201cHow is it made?\u201d was the next question.\n\n\u201cWeel, there\u2019s mutton intill\u2019t, and neeps intill\u2019t, and carrots intill\u2019t,\nand\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d said the Prince, \u201cbut _what_ is intill\u2019t?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, there\u2019s mutton intill\u2019t, and neeps intill\u2019t, and\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I see; but what _is_ intill\u2019t?\u201d\n\nThe man looked at him, and, seeing that the Prince was serious he replied\u2014\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s mutton intill\u2019t, and neeps intill\u2019t, and\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, certainly, I know,\u201d still argued the Prince; \u201cbut what is\n_intill\u2019t_\u2014_intill\u2019t_?\u201d\n\n\u201cGudesake, man,\u201d yelled the Scotsman, brandishing his big ladle, \u201cam I no\nthrang tellin\u2019 ye what\u2019s intill\u2019t? There\u2019s mutton intill\u2019t, and\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\nHere the interview was brought to a close by one of the Prince\u2019s suite,\nwho fortunately was passing, explaining to His Royal Highness that\n\u201cintill\u2019t\u201d simply meant \u201cinto it,\u201d and nothing more!\n\nAn incident of a somewhat similar nature, and even more humoursome than\nthe above, which was happily paraphrased by the late Robert Leighton,\nthe Scottish poet, under the title of \u201cScotch Words,\u201d occurred to an\nEnglish gentlewoman, a number of years ago, in the course of a brief\ntour \u201chere awa\u2019.\u201d One night she rested at a respectable inn in a country\nvillage, and on being shown to her bedroom by the rustic chambermaid, the\nquestion was put to her\u2014\n\n\u201cWould you like to have a het crock in your bed this cauld nicht, mem?\u201d\n\n\u201cA what?\u201d asked the lady.\n\n\u201cA pig, mem. Shall I put a pig in your bed to keep you warm?\u201d\n\n\u201cLeave the room, young woman!\u201d was the indignant response, \u201cyour mistress\nshall hear of your insolence.\u201d\n\n\u201cNae offence, mem,\u201d insisted the lassie, \u201cit was my mistress that bad me\nspeir: and I\u2019m sure she meant it a\u2019 in kindness.\u201d\n\nThe lady looked in the girl\u2019s face, and now satisfied that no insult was\nintended, said, in a milder tone, \u201cIs it common in this country, my girl,\nfor ladies to have pigs in their beds?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, and gentlemen ha\u2019e them too, mem, when the weather\u2019s cauld.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you would not surely put the pig between the sheets?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you please, mem, it would do maist gude there.\u201d\n\n\u201cBetween the sheets? It would dirty them, girl. I could never sleep with\na pig between the sheets.\u201d\n\n\u201cNae fear o\u2019 that, mem! You\u2019ll sleep far mair comfortable. I\u2019ll steek\nthe mouth o\u2019t tightly, and tie it up in a poke.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you sleep with a pig yourself in cold weather?\u201d\n\n\u201cNa, mem, pigs are only for gentry like yersel\u2019 wha lie on feather beds.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you sleep, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy neebor lass and I just sleep on cauf.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! you sleep with a calf between you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, no, mem, ye\u2019re jokin\u2019 noo. We lie on the tap o\u2019t.\u201d\n\nWhen the two came to perfectly understand each other history deponeth not.\n\nDean Ramsay tells an amusing story of a Stirlingshire farmer\u2019s visit to a\nson, engaged in business in Liverpool. The son finding the father rather\n_de trop_ in his office, one day, persuaded him to cross the ferry over\nthe Mersey, and inspect the harvesting, then in full operation, on the\nCheshire side. On landing, he approached a young woman reaping with the\nsickle in a field of oats, when the following dialogue ensued:\u2014\n\n_Farmer_\u2014\u201cLassie, are yer aits muckle bookit the year?\u201d\n\n_Reaper_\u2014\u201cSir?\u201d\n\n_Farmer_\u2014\u201cI am speirin\u2019 gif yer aits are muckle bookit the year?\u201d\n\n_Reaper_ (in amazement)\u2014\u201cI really don\u2019t know what you are saying, sir.\u201d\n\n_Farmer_ (in equal astonishment)\u2014\u201cGude\u2014save\u2014us\u2014do ye no understand gude\nplain English? Are\u2014yer\u2014aits\u2014muckle\u2014bookit?\u201d\n\nHe might as well have asked the road to Stronachlacher, Auchtermuchty,\nEcclefechan, or Ponfeigh. The reaper decamped to her nearest companion\ndeclaring him a madman; while the farmer shouted in great wrath, \u201cThey\nare naething else than a set o\u2019 ignorant pock-puddin\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy girl,\u201d enquired a Cockney tourist of a Scotch lassie whom he met\ntripping lightly barefoot, \u201cis it the custom for girls to go barefooted\nin these parts?\u201d\n\n\u201cPairtly they do,\u201d she replied, \u201cand pairtly they mind their ain\nbusiness.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cMy girl,\u201d enquired a Cockney tourist of a Scotch lassie\nwhom he met tripping lightly barefoot, \u201cis it the custom for girls to go\nbarefooted in these parts?\u201d \u201cPairtly they do,\u201d she replied, \u201cand pairtly\nthey mind their ain business.\u201d\u2014_Page 215._]\n\nThe dour, plodding, persevering nature of the Scot, by virtue of which\nhe has often prevailed over his less crafty English brother, is well\nexemplified in the following little narrative, which humorously describes\nthe opening of a large mercantile business between the West of Scotland\nand the English capital:\u2014\n\nA West country Scot, who had engaged in the manufacture of a certain\ndescription of goods, then recently introduced into that part of the\ncountry, found it necessary, or conjectured it might be profitable, to\nestablish a permanent connection with some respectable house in London.\nWith this design he packed up a quantity of goods, equipped himself for\nthe journey, and departed. Upon his arrival he made diligent enquiry as\nto those who were likely to prove his best customers, and accordingly\nproceeded to call upon one of the most opulent drapers, with whom he\nresolved to establish a regular correspondence. When Saunders entered the\nshop in question he found it crowded with customers, and the salesmen all\nbustling about making sales, and displaying their wares to prospective\npurchasers. Saunders waited what he considered a reasonable time, then in\na lull of the business, laid down his pack, his bonnet, and staff, upon\nthe counter, and enquired for \u201cthe head o\u2019 the hoose.\u201d\n\nOne of the clerks asked him what he wanted.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m wantin\u2019 to see gin he wants ocht in my line,\u201d was the answer.\n\n\u201cNo!\u201d shouted the foreman.\n\n\u201cWill ye no tak\u2019 a look o\u2019 the gudes, sir?\u201d inquired Saunders.\n\n\u201cNo, not at all; I have not time. Take them away.\u201d\n\n\u201cYe\u2019ll maybe find them worth your while; and I dootna but ye\u2019ll buy,\u201d\nsaid Saunders, as he coolly proceeded to untie his pack.\n\n\u201cGo away, go away!\u201d was reiterated half a dozen times with great\nimpatience, but the persevering Scotsman still persisted.\n\n\u201cGet along, you old Scotch fool,\u201d cried the foreman, completely out of\ntemper, as he pushed the already exposed contents of the pack off the\ncounter. \u201cGet along!\u201d\n\nSaunders looked up in the individual\u2019s face with a wide mouth and\nenlarged pair of eyes, then looked down to his estate that lay scattered\namong his feet, looked up again, and exclaimed\u2014\u201cAnd will ye no buy\nocht? But ye dinna ken, for ye haena seen the gudes,\u201d and so saying he\nproceeded to replace them on the counter.\n\n\u201cGet out of the shop, sir!\u201d was the peremptory and angry command which\nfollowed this third appeal.\n\nSaunders, with great gravity and self-possession, said\u2014\u201cAre ye in\nearnest, freend?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, certainly,\u201d was the reply, which was succeeded by an unequivocal\nproof of sincerity on the part of the person who made it, when he picked\nup Saunders\u2019s bonnet and whirled it into the street. The cool Scotsman\nstalked deliberately and gravely in quest of his Kilmarnock headgear, and\nafter giving it two or three hearty slaps upon the wall outside the door,\nhe re-entered very composedly, wringing the muddy moisture out of it,\nlooked over to the person who had served him so meanly, and said, with a\ngenuine Scotch smile\u2014\u201cMan, yon was an ill-faured turn; you\u2019ll surely tak\u2019\na look o\u2019 the gudes noo?\u201d\n\nThe master draper himself, who was standing all the while in the shop\nadmiring the patience and perseverance of the old man, and feeling a\nlittle compunction for the unceremonious manner in which he had been\ntreated, came now forward, examined the contents of the pack; found\nthem to be articles he stood in need of; purchased them; ordered an\nadditional regular supply; and thus laid the foundation of an opulent\nmercantile house that has now flourished for several generations.\n\nThe subjoined well-known and diverting story may not inappropriately\nconclude this chapter\u2014\n\nTHE PROFESSOR OF SIGNS, OR TWO WAYS OF TELLING A STORY.\n\nKing James the Sixth, on removing to London, was waited upon by the\nSpanish ambassador, a man of erudition, but who had an eccentric idea in\nhis head that every country should have a Professor of Signs to enable\nmen of all languages to understand each other without the aid of speech.\nThe ambassador lamenting one day, before the king, this great desideratum\nthroughout all Europe, the king, who was an _outr\u00e9_ character, said to\nhim, \u201cI have a Professor of Signs in the most northern college in my\ndominions, viz., at Aberdeen; but it is a great way off\u2014perhaps 600\nmiles.\u201d\n\n\u201cWere it 10,000 leagues off, I shall see him,\u201d said the ambassador, and\nexpressed determination to set out _instanter_, in order to have an\ninterview with the Scottish Professor of Signs.\n\nThe king, perceiving he had committed himself, wrote, or caused to be\nwritten, an intimation to the University of Aberdeen, stating the case,\nand desiring the professors to put him off, or make the best of him they\ncould. The ambassador arrived, and was received with great solemnity.\nHe immediately inquired which of them had the honour to be Professor of\nSigns, but was told that the professor was absent in the Highlands, and\nwould return nobody could say when.\n\n\u201cI will,\u201d said he, \u201cwait his return though it were for twelve months.\u201d\n\nThe professors, seeing that this would not do, contrived the following\nstratagem:\u2014there was in the city one, Geordie, a butcher, blind of an\neye\u2014a droll fellow with much wit and roguery about him. The butcher was\nput up to the story, and instructed how to comport himself in his new\nsituation of \u201cProfessor of Signs,\u201d but he was enjoined on no account to\nutter a syllable. Geordie willingly undertook the office for a small\nbribe. The ambassador was then told, to his infinite satisfaction, that\nthe Professor of Signs would be at home next day. Everything being\nprepared, Geordie was gowned, wigged, and placed in a chair of state, in\na room in the college, all the professors and the ambassador being in\nan adjoining room. The Spaniard was then shown into Geordie\u2019s room, and\nleft to converse with him as best he could, the whole of the professors\nwaiting the issue with considerable anxiety. Then commenced the scene.\nThe ambassador held up one of his fingers to Geordie; Geordie held up\ntwo of his. The ambassador held up three; Geordie clenched his fist and\nlooked stern. The ambassador then took an orange from his pocket, and\nshowed it to the new-fangled professor; Geordie in return pulled out\na piece of barley cake from his pocket, and exhibited it in a similar\nmanner. The ambassador then bowed to him, and retired to the other\nprofessors, who anxiously inquired his opinion of their brother.\n\n\u201cHe is a perfect miracle,\u201d said the ambassador, \u201cI would not give him for\nthe wealth of the Indies.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d exclaimed one of the professors, \u201cto descend to particulars, how\nhas he edified you?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said the ambassador, \u201cI first held up one finger, denoting that\nthere is one God; he held up two, signifying that there are the Father\nand Son. I held up three, meaning Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; he\nclenched his fist to say that these three are one. I then took out an\norange signifying the goodness of God, who gives His creatures not only\nnecessaries, but the luxuries of life; upon which the wonderful man\npresented a piece of bread, showing that it was the staff of life, and\npreferable to every luxury.\u201d\n\nThe professors were glad that matters had turned out so well; and having\ngot quit of the ambassador, they called in Geordie to hear his version of\nthe affair.\n\n\u201cWell, Geordie, how have you come on, and what do you think of yon man?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe scoundrel,\u201d exclaimed the butcher, \u201cwhat did he do first, think ye?\nHe held up a\u2019e finger, as muckle as to say, you have only a\u2019e e\u2019e! Then\nI held up twa, meaning that my ane was as gude as his twa. Then the\nfellow held up three o\u2019 his fingers, to say that there were but three\neen between us; and then I was so mad at the scoundrel that I steeked\nmy neive, and was gaun to gi\u2019e him a whack on the side o\u2019 his head, and\nwould hae done\u2019t too, but for your sakes. He didna stop here wi\u2019 his\nprovocation; but, forsooth, he took out an orange, as much as to say,\nyour puir, beggarly, cauld country canna produce that! I showed him a\nwhang of a bere bannock, meaning that I didna care a farthing for him\nnor his trash either as lang as I had this! But, by a\u2019 that\u2019s gude,\u201d\nconcluded Geordie, \u201cI\u2019m angry yet that I didna break every bane in his\nsun-singit, ill-shapen body.\u201d\n\nTwo sides of a story could not be more opposed to each other, and nothing\ncould better illustrate the burly innocent humour of the Scottish\ncharacter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nSCREEDS O\u2019 TARTAN\u2014A CHAPTER OF HIGHLAND HUMOUR\n\n\nDiffering from the Lowland Scotch in personal appearance, in language,\nin style of dress, and in other respects, the Highlander\u2019s humour also\npresents characteristics which are distinctively local. Though often\nrich, for example, it is never boisterous, never sparkling\u2014is rarely\nspontaneous\u2014but is nearly always slow, sly, severe, and insinuative.\nFor, slow in muscular action, Donald is slow in mental action also. He\nhas to be stimulated or induced to physical activity; and, naturally\nof a serious cast of mind, his humour, in its richest ore, comes out\nnearly always as the result of provocation. But rouse his Highland blood\nby insult\u2014and a word will do it sometimes\u2014or awaken his drowsy wits\nby banter, then get out of the reach of both his arms and his tongue\ninstanter, for his hand is heavy, his eye is sure, and his speech is a\nhurricane. Much of what passes for Highland humour, as everybody knows,\narises from the difference which exists between the Gaelic and the\nEnglish and the Scottish idiom; and from the efforts of the semi-educated\nor non-educated Gaelic-speaking Highlander to express himself in\nEnglish, or in the colloquial tongue of the Lowland Scot. The English\nlanguage, \u201cas she is spoke\u201d by the Scottish mountaineer\u2014felicitous\nexamples of which we find in the lighter writings of John Donald Carrick,\nthe first editor of \u201cWhistle Binkie,\u201d in Sandy Roger\u2019s song of \u201cShon\nM\u2019Nab,\u201d in Alexander Fisher\u2019s song, \u201cTa Offish in ta Mornin\u2019,\u201d and\n\u201cTa Praise o\u2019 Ouskie,\u201d and in the old ballad of \u201cTurnumspikeman\u201d\u2014is\nfearfully and wonderfully made. He transposes his tenses; calls yesterday\n\u201cto-morrow,\u201d and to-morrow \u201cyesterday.\u201d He confuses his genders; calls\neverything \u201cshe,\u201d except his wife and the cat, and these he calls \u201chims.\u201d\nHe makes his nouns qualify his adjectives, and places the cart before\nthe horse in every second sentence. \u201cZe can never learn zat tamn English\nlangvidge,\u201d once exclaimed a French student in despair. \u201cZe spell von\nvord A-S-S, zen ze bronounce it DONKEY.\u201d Synonyms equally vex the spirit\nof the Scottish Highlander. Thus Donald Roy M\u2019Vean, when interrogated\nin regard to the quality of his potato crop, provided amusement to the\nLowlanders around him by replying\u2014\u201cThey are just ferry goot, inteed, but\nfery _seldom_ whatefer.\u201d Another fertile source of amusement is found in\nthe difficulty with which the unkempt Highlander adapts himself to the\nusages of low country, and, particularly, to city life. A happy depiction\nof his _speech_ and _behaviour_ in such a circumstance is found in\nRodger\u2019s familiar song of \u201cShon M\u2019Nab,\u201d already referred to. On coming\nto Glasgow, \u201cShon\u201d said\u2014\n\n \u201cTa first thing she pe wonder at,\n As she came doun ta street, man,\n Was mans pe traw ta cart himsel\u2019,\n Shust \u2019pon his nain twa feet, man.\n Och on! och on! her nainsel\u2019 thought,\n As she wad stood and glower, man;\n Poor man, if they mak\u2019 you ta _horse_\u2014\n Should gang \u2019pon a\u2019 your _four_ man.\n\n And when she turn ta corner round,\n Ta black man tere she see, man;\n Pe grund to music in ta kist,\n And sell him for pawpee, man.\n And aye she\u2019ll grund, and grund, and grund,\n And turn her mill aboot, man:\n Pe strange! she will put nothings in,\n Yet aye teuk music out, man.\u201d\n\nThere are some choice specimens of Donald\u2019s English extant, and,\nbefore passing on to the richer ore of his natural humour, it will be\nworth while to glance at a few. First, there is the famous Inveraray\nproclamation, which I do not remember to have seen in print, but which,\nwhen a boy, I learned from the lips of a droll old man in Central\nPerthshire. It is a unique production, but is said to have actually been\ndelivered at the Market Cross of Inveraray towards the close of the last\ncentury. Here it is\u2014\n\n\u201cTa-hoy!\u2014a tither ta-hoy!\u2014three times ta-hoy!\u2014and ta-hoy! Wheesht!! By\ncommand of Her Majesty King Sheorge and Her Grace ta Tuke o\u2019 Argyll! Any\npersons found fishing abune ta loch or below ta loch, afore ta loch or\nahent ta loch, in ta loch or on ta loch, roun ta loch or about ta loch,\nwill pe persecuted with three persecutions\u2014First she\u2019ll pe troon\u2019d, and\nsyne she\u2019ll pe hang\u2019d, and ten she\u2019ll pe prunt; and if she\u2019ll come back\nany more she\u2019ll pe persecuted with a far worse persecution tan all that.\nGot save the King and Her Grace ta Tuke o\u2019 Argyll!\u201d\n\nIf we admit the above to be _bona-fide_, we can scarcely doubt the\ngenuineness of the following prayer, which is said to have emanated from\na contemporary of the Inveraray bellman:\u2014\n\n\u201cGracious Providence! Bless all ta Macdonalds, and ta Macdonalds\u2019\nchildren, tere sons\u2019 sons and tere daughters\u2019 daughters, for a thoosand\nyears langsyne. Be gracious to send us mountains of snuff and tobacco,\nand send us oceans of whisky\u2014ta very finest of whisky! Oh, yes! And send\nus hills of potatoes, and breads and cheeses as big as all ta Howe of\nStrathmore. And, moreover, likewise, send us floods of water, tat tere\nmay pe grass for plenty to man and beast, and some to spare to ta poor of\nta parish. Send us guns and pistols as more as ta sea and ta sand-shore;\nand swords, too, likewise, to kill all ta Grants and ta Macphersons for\nevermore. Bless ta wee stirk, and mak\u2019 him a big coo pefore Martinmas.\nBless ta wee soo, too, and mak\u2019 him a big boar likewise. Oh, yes! Put\nthe strength of Samson into Donald\u2019s arms, and send us parley, kail,\nand corn prodigious. Bless all ta pairns\u2014Duncan and Rory and Flora, and\nyou, Donald, and you, Lauchie, and you, Peter; and glorious, yours for\nevermore.\u201d\n\nI do not ask any one to swallow the above, minus the proverbial\n\u201cgrain of salt.\u201d I like to take it that way myself. And yet there are\nwell-authenticated instances and occasions revealing deliverances quite\nas ludicrous and absurd. Witness the following fragment of a pulpit\nhomily which appears in Hugh Boyd\u2019s admittedly veracious _Reminiscences\nof Fifty Years_, and which the recorder appears to have heard himself, or\nreceived on highly credible authority:\u2014\n\n\u201cAh, my friends,\u201d exclaimed the preacher, \u201cwhat causes have we for\ngratitude! Oh, yes! for the deepest gratitude! Look at the place of our\nhabitation. How grateful should we be that we do not leeve in the far\nNorth, Oh, no! amid the frost and the snaw, and the cauld and the weet,\nOh, no! where there\u2019s a lang day the a\u2019e half o\u2019 the year, Oh, yes!\nand a lang nicht the tither, Oh, yes! That we do not depend upon the\naurawry boreawlis, Oh, no! That we do not gang shivering aboot in skins,\nOh, no! snookin\u2019 amang the snaw like mowdiewarts, Oh, no, no! And how\ngrateful should we be that we do not leeve in the for Sooth, beneath the\nequawter, and the sun aye burnin\u2019, burnin\u2019. Where the sky\u2019s het, Ah, yes!\nand the earth\u2019s het, and the water\u2019s het, and ye\u2019re burnt black as a\nsmiddy, Ah, yes! Where there\u2019s teegurs, Oh, yes! And lions, Oh, yes! And\ncrocodiles, Oh, yes! And fearsome beasts growlin\u2019 and girnin\u2019 at ye amang\nthe woods. Where the very air is a fever, like the burnin\u2019 breath o\u2019 a\nfiery drawgon; that we do not leeve in these places\u2014Oh, no, no, no, no!\nBut that we leeve in this blessit island of ours, call\u2019t Great Britain,\nOh, yes, yes! and in that part of it named Scotland, that looks up at Ben\nNevis\u2014Oh, yes, yes, yes! Where\u2019s neither frost, nor cauld, nor wund, nor\nweet, nor hail, nor rain, nor teegurs, nor lions, nor burnin\u2019 suns, nor\nhurricanes, nor\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cHere,\u201d says the narrator, \u201ca tremendous burst of wind and rain from\nBen Nevis blew in the windows of the kirk, and brought the preacher\u2019s\neloquence to an abrupt conclusion.\u201d\n\nHighlanders have the habit when talking their English, so-called, of\ninterjecting the personal pronoun \u201che\u201d when it is not required\u2014such\nas \u201cthe doctor he has come,\u201d or \u201cthe postman he is going\u201d\u2014and often\nin consequence a sentence or an expression is rendered sufficiently\nludicrous, as the sequel will show. A reverend and pious gentleman once\nbegan his discourse thus:\u2014\u201cMy dearly beloved brethren, you will find\nthe subject of our observations this afternoon in the First Epistle\nGeneral of Peter, the fifth chapter and the eighth verse, and in these\nwords, \u2018The devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may\ndevour.\u2019 Now, my brethren, with your leave, we will divide the subject\nof our text into four heads. First, we shall endeavour to ascertain\n_who the devil he was_. Secondly, we shall inquire into his geographical\nposition\u2014namely, _where the devil he was going_. Thirdly\u2014and this is of a\npersonal character\u2014we will ask ourselves _who the devil he was seeking_.\nFourthly, and lastly, my beloved brethren, we shall endeavour to solve a\nproblem that has never been solved to this day\u2014namely, _what the devil he\nwas roaring at_.\u201d\n\nRecently a Highland policeman, not many weeks imported from the island of\nJura, approached to where a number of young men were standing in a knot\non the pavement of one of the busier streets of the Western metropolis,\nand pushing them somewhat roughly, exclaimed, \u201cIf you\u2019ll be going to\nstand here, my lads, you\u2019ll have to be moving about.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs this not a free country?\u201d demanded one of the fellows, somewhat\nsharply.\n\n\u201cThis is not ta country at all, you tam sheep\u2019s head,\u201d shouted the now\nenraged member of the law, \u201cthis is one of the largest cities in the town\nof Glasgow!\u201d\n\nBut if Donald\u2019s _uttered_ speech is sometimes ludicrous, what are we\nto say concerning some specimens which we have seen of his _written_\naddress! The _Glasgow Herald_ a number of years ago gave its authority\nfor the following being a _verbatim_ copy of a letter which, a short time\npreviously, had been received by a local coal-agent, the writer\u2019s name\nalone being mercifully withheld from publication:\u2014\n\n \u201cTurbert,\n 27 February, 180074\n\n \u201cSur,\u2014I was understand that you was a cole pit. i was want to\n knew what was your monish for to supplie coal to be deliver\n to turbert at the Quay most nearust to the city of turbert\n loch fine side was I used to got my coal from a agent at\n Greenock but he was charge me a great dale much more than i was\n understand he was pae for them and though am always used to was\n a onest man i was not have many monish to spare, and was wish\n to have as chape a prise as I could got. I was tuk 2 cargos as\n wad full a smak about 20 tons twice as more every week to land\n on thursdae, and the monish wood be sented to you wunst every\n fridae by the agint of the bank a very dacent man and his wife\n too and has aulways pai his way and never was spoke an ill\n about any man as I was knew before, if you will rite your price\n to me the smallest you can took I will rite you a answer when\n the day after will come.\n\n \u201cI was like to deal with a highlandman, and always did use to\n like very more aul the Campbell\u2019s, my wife\u2019s cuisin\u2019s faither\u2019s\n uncle was a Campbell\u2014a very civil lad as was a fishing smak and\n was made a dale of monish and was lefe a legacie to my wife who\n will be glad to see you with myselfe and gave you a bed if you\n was kum and spoke the prise you wood tuke for the coles and\n save you the trubel of wrighting a letter to was to tell the\n prise of the coles.\n\n \u201cIf U cannot come ureself write to \u2e3a \u2e3a.\n\n \u201cI was got my son Lachie was a goot riter to rite the name of\n your shop in Glesco. He would tuke a place if you could get him\n wan.\u201d\n\nNot long ago a stalwart west country Highlander was describing to a\ncompany of Lowlanders the wonderful power and facility in drawing\npossessed by his brother Donald, \u201cHooch ay,\u201d he said, \u201che\u2019ll juist tak\u2019\na bit cawk (chalk) the size o\u2019 her thoom\u2019s nose, and he\u2019ll draw a man\n_there_, and a horse _there_, and you couldn\u2019t tell which was which.\u201d The\ncompany laughed. \u201cAy,\u201d continued the speaker in a more impassioned vein,\n\u201cand he wad tak\u2019 a piece o\u2019 cawk, and he wad draw a horse _there_ and a\ncart _there_, and you _couldn\u2019t_ tell which was which. They was _juist\nbeautiful_!\u201d\n\nWe have so far here been looking at Donald\u2019s humour on its least\nfavourable side; having been viewing it, so to speak, in the garb of the\nSassenach only. Let us now glance at a few examples in full Highland\ncostume. And here at once is an instance showing rare shrewdness and\nwit combined. A Highland piper having a pupil placed in his hands by\nhis chief, and not knowing the notes of music\u2014the semibreves, minims,\ncrotchets, and quavers, etc.\u2014by the proper designations, although he knew\neach one by head mark, and its musical value very well, set to work in\nthis way.\n\n\u201cHere, Donald,\u201d said he, \u201ctook your pipes, my goot lad, and blow a\nblast.\u201d\n\nDonald did as requested.\n\n\u201cSo, so!\u201d exclaimed the old man, \u201ctat iss very well blown, inteed\u2014just\nbeautiful. But what is sound, Donald, without sense? Just so. You may\nblow for ever without making a tune of it if I do not tell you how ta\nqueer things on ta paper are to help you. Look here, lad. You see tat big\nfellow with ta round, open face (pointing to a semibreve between the two\nlines of a bar), he moves slowly from tat line to tis while you beat one\nwith your foot and give a long blast. Now you put a leg to him. You make\ntwo of him, and he will move twice as fast. If you blacken hims face he\nwill run four times faster as ta fellow with ta white face; but, besides\nblackenin\u2019 hims face, if you will bend hims knees, or tie hims legs, he\nwill hop eight times faster as ta white-faced fellow I showed you ta\nfirst time. And now whenever you blow your pipes, Donald, remember tis,\nthe tighter you will tie tese fellows legs ta faster they will run, an\u2019\nta quicker they will be sure to dance.\u201d\n\nThere is a characteristic story which Highlanders themselves delight to\ntell, to the effect, that, once upon a time, when one of their countrymen\nwas passing a farm-steading, the dog attached thereto came rushing and\nbarking towards him, and latterly added injury to the insult which\nhad been offered by inserting its fangs in the naked calf of one of\nthe brawny Celt\u2019s legs. Maddened by the pain, the Highlander seized a\nhayfork which happened to be conveniently near, and with one fell thrust\ntransfixed the snarling tyke to the earth. The howls of agony quickly\nbrought the farmer on the scene, who, on seeing his favourite collie\nwrithing on the ground, exclaimed in wrath, \u201cWhy the devil did ye no tak\u2019\nthe other end o\u2019 the fork to the dog, you stupid ass?\u201d \u201cAnd why the dog\ndid the deevil no tak\u2019 his other end to me, you stupid ass yourself?\u201d the\nHighlander replied.\n\nIt is the Ettrick Shepherd, I think, who tells of two Highlanders who set\nout on a reiving expedition to steal the litter of a wild sow, which lay\nin a narrow-mouthed cave. Seizing the opportunity of Madame Grumphie\u2019s\nabsence, one of the men crept in, and the other kept a watch at the\nmouth. Presently, down the hillside came the distracted and angry sow,\nand rushed with menacing tusks towards her den. The guard, as she slipped\ninto the passage, had just time to lay hold of her tail, give it a firm\ntwist round his strong hand; and, throwing himself down and setting his\nfeet against the sides of the den, he held her fast. The Highlander in\nthe cave was too much engaged with the screaming little pigs to hear the\ntussle going on outside; but finding himself in darkness, he called out\nto his mate, \u201cDonald, fat the deil\u2019s the maitter? I canna see.\u201d Donald,\nwho by this time had found a pig\u2019s tail a most uneasy tenure, and who had\nno wind left for explanations, briefly but significantly answered, \u201cGin\nthe tail breaks, Dougal\u2019, my lad, you\u2019ll see fat\u2019s the maitter.\u201d\n\n\u201cHillo, Donald!\u201d exclaimed one Highlander to another, as they met on a\ncountry road recently, \u201cwhat are you doing here at all? I socht you was\nalways with M\u2019Lachlan down in the Glen.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo I was a long time with M\u2019Lachlan too,\u201d replied Donald, \u201cbut I have\nleft him, whatever.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy did you leave him? He\u2019s a good master I\u2019m sure.\u201d\n\n\u201cHooch, ay, a good master enough; but I left him about the salt beef.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you not like salt beef?\u201d\n\n\u201cHooch, ay, I like salt beef well enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you get too much salt beef?\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is how it was, you see. There was a cow that died, and he salted\nthe cow, and we got nothing but salt cow as long as she lasted. And I\nlike salt cow well enough. But then there was a sheeps that died, and he\nsalted that too, and we got nothing but salt sheep as long as she lasted;\nand I like salt sheeps well enough. But some time after there was a pig\nthat died, and he salted her too, and we got nothing but salt pig as long\nas she lasted. And I like salt pigs well enough. But just when the pig\nwas nearly all done, one day his grandmother died, and he comes out to\nthe stable, and says he, \u2018You\u2019ll have to go away for a stone of salt,\nDonald.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Hooch ay,\u2019 thinks I to myself, \u2018my man; but if you\u2019ll thought that I\nwas going to eat your grandmother you\u2019re very far mistaken,\u2019 and I never\nsays a word to him at all, but just comes away.\u201d\n\nHighlanders make good soldiers, good policemen, and faithful watchmen and\nshepherds. Forgathering with one tending his sheep on the verdant slopes\nof a Northern mountain one day, a company of English tourists thought to\nhave some entertainment at his expense, and began by remarking that he\nseemed to be enjoying himself.\n\n\u201cOu, ay,\u201d said the shepherd, \u201cI\u2019m shoost lookin\u2019 aboot me here.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what are you looking about you for?\u201d inquired another.\n\n\u201cOh, shoost because it\u2019s a fine view from this side o\u2019 the hill.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, but what can you see from here?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, if there was no mist ta day I would see ta town, and ta boats on\nta loch, and many more things, whatever.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose you can see a great distance from here on a clear day?\u201d\nremarked one.\n\n\u201cOh, yes, shentlemen, a great distance, indeed,\u201d said the shepherd.\n\n\u201cI suppose, on a clear day now, you can see London from this extreme\naltitude?\u201d exclaimed one of the Cockneys, quizzing the countryman, and\nnudging his companions.\n\n\u201cOch, ay, and much further than that too,\u201d replied the shepherd, who had\nperceived the nudge.\n\n\u201cFarther than London?\u201d gasped two of the somewhat alarmed tourists.\n\n\u201cAy, to be shurely, and further than America too,\u201d replied the Highlander.\n\n\u201cFarther than America?\u201d shouted all the Cockneys together. \u201cImpossible!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s shoost true what I tell you whatever,\u201d said Donald; \u201cbut if you\u2019ll\nwon\u2019t believe me, shoost sit doon there, and took out your flasks and\ntook a dram, and wait for twa oors and more, and if the mist will clear\nawa\u2019 you will see the _moon_ from here.\u201d\n\nWe may suppose that the next shepherd who came in the way of these\ntourists would not be unduly interrogated.\n\nA Highland lassie whom I have heard of was not quite so successful in an\nencounter with the Sassenach postmaster. She had gone to the Post Office\nto take out a money order.\n\n\u201cWhere is your order to go?\u201d demanded the clerk, with the snappishness\nwhich only Post Office officials can command, and which roused the\ninflammable blood of the young countrywoman of Helen Macgregor.\n\n\u201cWhat you\u2019ll ask for? You\u2019ll look your book, and you\u2019ll saw there,\u201d the\ngirl tartly replied (she had got an order a short time previous).\n\n\u201cI must know where your order is to go to,\u201d said the clerk, firmly.\n\nThe girl goes to the door and brings in a companion who explained that\nthe order was for Tobermory.\n\n\u201cWho is to get the order?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy mother, to be surely.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is your mother\u2019s name?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy mother\u2019s name is Mrs. M\u2019Tavish.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is your mother\u2019s Christian name?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat you\u2019ll want to know whether my Christian be a mother or not?\u201d\ndemanded the girl, now in a perfect rage with anger. \u201cMy mother be a\ngood Christian woman, and will go to the Free Church in Tobermory every\nSabbath, which is maybe more than you\u2019ll do.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t want to know anything about what church your mother goes to; I\nonly wish to know her Christian name,\u201d now, somewhat mildly, explained\nthe clerk.\n\n\u201cMy mother\u2019s name is Mrs. M\u2019Tavish,\u201d replied the girl, \u201cand she\u2019s the\ndecenter married womans than you are, and I\u2019ll not tell any mans born any\nmore, whatever,\u201d and off she marched in the very highest dudgeon.\n\nDonald is proud of his native heath, proud of his native dress, proud\nof his name and clan, proud of everything pertaining exclusively to his\nnative hills. He claims for the Gaelic that it is not only the best but\none of the oldest languages in the world. He would not like to say just\n_the_ very oldest. The humorous poet no doubt has asserted that\u2014\n\n When Eve, all fresh in beauty\u2019s charms,\n First met fond Adam\u2019s view,\n The first word that he\u2019ll spoke to her\n Was \u201c_Cia mar a tha thu an duidh?_\u201d\n\n\u201cBut did you\u2019ll opserve,\u201d says Donald, \u201cif it was ta Gaelic that\nwas spoket in ta Garden of Eden, maybe they\u2019ll say ta Teevil was a\nHielandman, and she wouldn\u2019t like that to pe at all, whatever!\u201d\n\nI have said that the Highlander is proud of his name and clan, and there\nare stories that reveal to what extent.\n\n\u201cDid you\u2019ll know what day this is, Donald?\u201d inquired one Celt of another,\non the morning of a certain national occasion which will come out in the\nsequel.\n\n\u201cHooch, ay,\u201d replied Donald; \u201cit\u2019s just ta day after ta morn, Dugald.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Donald, to be shurely,\u201d replied his friend. \u201cBut did you\u2019ll forgot\nthis was ta day ta Queen\u2019s dochter was to be married to ta Tuke o\u2019\nArgyll\u2019s son\u2014ta Marquis o\u2019 Lorne?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, ay, did you\u2019ll told me that? Well, well, it\u2019s the prood, prood mans\nta Queen will be this day.\u201d\n\nOn the occasion aforesaid there was, of course, great national rejoicing,\nand the town of Inverness was, like every other municipality, illuminated\nat night.\n\n\u201cDear me, Donald,\u201d exclaimed one local shopkeeper to another, as he\nissued from his own door, \u201cdid you ever behold the likes of that? There\u2019s\nfive-fourths of the whole town under luminations this nicht!\u201d\n\n\u201cToots, man, Angus, I\u2019ll thought that you know better than spoke like\nthat,\u201d replied his neighbour. \u201cA fourth is a quarter, and five quarters\nwould be more than the whole.\u201d\n\n\u201cOch, Donald Fraser, my lad,\u201d retorted Angus, \u201cI\u2019ve seen too many\nsnowy days not to know what I\u2019ll say. I\u2019ve got cloths in my own shop\nsix-quarters, and that is more\u2014there, now, with your ignorance.\u201d\n\nThe following is an amusing instance of the tenacity with which the\nHighlanders hold to the honours and antiquity of their kindred. A dispute\narose between a Campbell and a M\u2019Lean upon the never-ending subject. The\nM\u2019Lean would not allow that the Campbells had any right to rank with his\nclan in the matter of antiquity, who, he insisted, were in existence as a\nclan from the beginning of the world. Campbell had a little more Biblical\nlore than his antagonist, and asked him if the Clan M\u2019Lean was before the\nFlood.\n\n\u201cFlood! what flood?\u201d demanded the M\u2019Lean.\n\n\u201cThe Flood that you know drowned all the world but Noah and his family,\nand his flocks and herds,\u201d said Campbell.\n\n\u201cPooh! you and your flood too,\u201d said the M\u2019Lean. \u201cMy clan was before ta\nFlood.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have not read in my Bible,\u201d said Campbell, \u201cof the name of M\u2019Lean\ngoing into Noah\u2019s Ark.\u201d\n\n\u201cNoah\u2019s Ark!\u201d snorted the M\u2019Lean; \u201cwho ever heard of a M\u2019Lean that had\nnot a boat of his own?\u201d\n\nThere was a fine exhibition of clan pride afforded during the years the\nlate Earl of Airlie acted as Lord High Commissioner to the General\nAssembly of the Church of Scotland. Amongst his attendants at Holyrood\nwere two pipers, who, at every dinner given to the clergy and other\nguests at the Palace, marched several times round the large dining-hall\nplaying the wild and inspiriting music of the Highlands. One evening the\nModerator of the Assembly, at some one\u2019s request, asked his Grace whether\nhe had any objections to instruct the pipers to play \u201cThe Bonnie House o\u2019\nAirlie.\u201d\n\n\u201cNone whatever,\u201d replied the Earl, \u201cbut I doubt whether we shall get it,\nfor the one piper is an Ogilvie and the other is a Campbell; but we shall\nsee.\u201d\n\nCalling the butler, he gave orders that when the pipers next came in they\nshould play \u201cThe Bonnie House o\u2019 Airlie.\u201d\n\nThe butler went at once with the message. By and by the pipes were heard\napproaching, and in a little, one piper, the Ogilvie, marched in, playing\nthe desired tune with great dignity and vigour.\n\n\u201cI expected this,\u201d said the Earl in a jocular way to the Moderator.\n\nSummoning the butler again, he asked whether his message had been\ndelivered.\n\n\u201cYes, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen why has Campbell not come in with Ogilvie?\u201d\n\n\u201cI gave him your message, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did he say then?\u201d\n\nThe man hesitated.\n\n\u201cWhat did Campbell say?\u201d again demanded the Earl.\n\n\u201cHe said\u2014eh\u2014eh,\u201d still hesitating\u2014\u201che said he would see your Lordship\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\nThe rest of the sentence was lost in a cough and the skirl of Ogilvie\u2019s\npipes.\n\n\u201cIt must be frankly admitted,\u201d says Dr. Norman Macleod, \u201cthat there is\nno man more easily offended, more thin-skinned, who cherishes longer the\nmemory of an insult, or keeps up with more freshness a personal, family,\nor party feud than the genuine Highlander. Woe to the man who offends his\npride or vanity! \u2018I may forgive, but I cannot forget,\u2019 is a favourite\nsaying. He will stand by a friend to the last; but let a breach be once\nmade, and it is most difficult ever again to repair it as it once was.\nThe grudge is immortal.\u201d Here is a case in proof:\u2014\n\nA Highlander was visited on his death-bed by his clergyman, who exhorted\nDonald to prepare himself for another world by a sincere repentance of\nall the crimes he had committed on earth, and strongly urged the absolute\nnecessity of forgiving his enemies.\n\nDonald shrugged up his shoulders at this hard request; yet he at last\nagreed to forgive every person who had injured him except one, who\nhad long been the Highlander\u2019s mortal foe, and of whom Donald hoped\nthe parson, knowing all the circumstances of the case, would make an\nexception. The holy man, however, insisted so much on this point, that\nDonald at last said\u2014\n\n\u201cWeel, weel, sir, since there be no help for it, Donald will forgive her;\nbut,\u201d he added, turning to his two sons, \u201cmay G\u2e3ad d\u2e3an you, Duncan and\nRory, if you\u2019ll forgive her too!\u201d\n\nTo be the means of causing a Highlander to emigrate from one locality\nto another, either by purchasing the property on which he resides, or\nobtaining a lease without his concurrence, is a sin not to be forgiven.\nA Glasgow gentleman wished to feu the patch of ground on which the\nBellman\u2019s house stood at Kilmun, with the stripe of garden attached to\nit, at which the Highland ire of the latter could scarcely be restrained.\n\n\u201cDid you\u2019ll know?\u201d queried he at an acquaintance, \u201ca fellow\u2014shentleman he\nis not; no, nor his mother before him\u2014from your Glasgow, is going to put\nme away from my wee placie, where I was for all my days, an\u2019 they\u2019ll call\nher Macsmall\u2014eh?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d replied the Glaswegian, \u201cI don\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was thought so, nor no decent mans. Well, maybe ay, and maybe no. A\nstone will put up his house or a stone will put it down; I\u2019ll never did\na mischiefs to no bodie, and I\u2019ll not put my hand to a murder too. But,\nyou see, there\u2019s many friends in the glen will take a friend\u2019s part\u2014and\nthey\u2019ll be taking walks up the hill, an\u2019 there\u2019s many bigger stones there\nnor a house itself, and they\u2019ll just be in the way, so they will; a bit\ndunch with the foot will make them come down without any carts and\nwheels, they\u2019re heavy\u2014very heavy\u2014teet are they, and no easy to put a stop\nto when rinnin\u2019, poor dumb creatures; and they canna help though they\nwere taking the house of this _trouster mosach_ (dirty scoundrel) with\nher. I wad just like, quietly between ourselfs, to see his house, six\nweeks after it was biggit, and the sclates on\u2019t. Ay would I.\u201d\n\nDonald is dour and \u201cthrawn as the wuddie,\u201d and is consequently loath to\neat his words. Yet there have been occasions when he has made the _amende\nhonorable_. A notable case of the kind occurred not many years ago on\nboard one of the West Highland steamers. One of the deck porters, whom we\nshall here call Duncan\u2014just because his name was Donald\u2014was much annoyed\nby a \u201cpernickity\u201d and, to say the least of it, rather troublesome lady\npassenger, who, without on any occasion producing the expected \u201ctip,\u201d\nkept Duncan shifting her baggage here and there about the boat. Greatly\nirritated by these frequent interruptions, Duncan at length so far forgot\nhimself as to tell her to \u201cgo to Jericho,\u201d or some other place in that\ndirection. The lady, greatly shocked and insulted, complained to the\ncaptain, and insisted on an apology, failing which, she would communicate\nwith the owners of the steamer. The captain promised to see the matter\nrighted, and forthwith summoned Duncan to the state-room.\n\n\u201cDuncan,\u201d said he, \u201cyou have been charged with gross incivility to a\nlady passenger, who threatens that, unless you apologise, she will inform\nthe owners of the boat as soon as she reaches Glasgow. Now, you have just\nuntil we reach Greenock to do so. Off you go and apologise to her at\nonce.\u201d\n\nDuncan bit his lip pretty hard, but the thing had to be done, so he went\nupstairs and snooved about rather sulkily until, by and by, he discovered\nthe object of his quest, approaching whom, he said, with half-averted\nface, and eyes fixed on vacancy\u2014\n\n\u201cWas you the old lady I was told to go to Jericho?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied the lady, snappishly.\n\n\u201cWell, the Captain says you\u2019re not to go now!\u201d said Duncan; and off he\nwent, and had half a dozen passengers\u2019 trunks in confusion on deck before\nthe lady had time to adjust her spectacles and see where he had vanished\nto.\n\nSpeaking of boats. Not long ago a couple of Highland farmers, recognised\nas folks of some importance in their own immediate neighbourhood, left\nStornoway by steamer with the view of attending an important market in\nthe South. The weather looked good at the start, and considering this\nin conjunction with the fact that it would be so much cheaper, and few,\nor none, of those on board would know them, they resolved on travelling\nsteerage. So far so good. But they had not been long out on the billowy\ndeep when it commenced to blow a perfect hurricane, and all on board\nbecame alarmed as to the safety of their lives, and there was running\nto and fro and many anxious inquiries concerning the vessel\u2019s chances\nof weathering the storm. Not the least perturbed in spirit were the two\nfarmers. \u201cOich! Oich!\u201d said the one to the other, \u201cit will be awful if\nanything happens, and we\u2019ve only got steerage tickets in oor pockets.\u201d\n\u201cIndeed, and it\u2019s very true what you say, Mr. M\u2019Donald, and that\u2019s what\ntroubles me most of all,\u201d responded the other, looking, if possible,\nmore doleful than his friend. \u201cBut I\u2019ll tell you what we\u2019ll do. We\u2019ll go\nabaft the bridge this moment, and if the worst comes, which the goodness\nforbid, we\u2019ll fling awa\u2019 our tickets, and _gang doon as cabin passengers\nanyway_.\u201d\n\nAnother example here, in evidence of the Highlander\u2019s peculiar powers of\nreasoning. Donald Macgregor, like his more illustrious namesake, Rob Roy,\nwas a notorious sheep and cattle-lifter in the Highlands of Perthshire.\nAt last he was overtaken by the grim tyrant of the human race, and was\nvisited by the minister of the parish in which he resided. The holy man\nwarmly exhorted the dying reiver to reflect upon the long and black\ncatalogue of his sins before it was too late; otherwise, he would have a\ntremendous account to give at the great day of retribution, when all the\ncrimes he had committed in the world would appear in dreadful array as\nevidence of his guilt.\n\n\u201cOch, sirse,\u201d cried the dying man, \u201cand will all ta sheeps and all ta\ncows and all ta things that Donald has helped hersel\u2019 to, be there?\u201d\n\n\u201cUndoubtedly,\u201d replied the parson.\n\n\u201cOch, that will pe all right then; shust let every shentlemans took her\nown, and Donald Macgregor will be ta honest man again.\u201d\n\nAnd now, as the universal \u201cAuld Lang Syne\u201d has formed the parting-song\nof so many merry meetings at home and abroad, let the following clever\nset of verses, the reputed composition of a talented Perthshire divine of\nthe \u201cAuld Kirk,\u201d afford the finishing touch to the present sederunt of\nanecdotal fun:\u2014\n\n AULD LANG SYNE, DONE UP IN TARTAN.\n\n Should Gaelic speech be e\u2019er forgot,\n And never brocht to min\u2019,\n For she\u2019ll be spoke in Paradise\n In the days o\u2019 auld lang syne.\n\n When Eve, all fresh in beauty\u2019s charms,\n First met fond Adam\u2019s view,\n The first word that he\u2019ll spoke to her\n Was \u201c_Cia mar a tha thu an duidh?_\u201d\n\n And Adam, in his garden fair,\n Whene\u2019er the day did close,\n The dish that he\u2019ll to supper teuk\n Was always Athol brose.\n\n When Adam from his leafy bower\n Cam\u2019 out at break o\u2019 day,\n He\u2019ll always for his morning teuk\n A quaich of usquebae.\n\n And when wi\u2019 Eve he\u2019ll had a crack,\n He\u2019ll teuk his sneeshin\u2019 horn,\n And on the tap ye\u2019ll weel micht mark\n A braw big Cairngorm.\n\n The sneeshin\u2019 mull is fine, my frien\u2019s,\n The sneeshin\u2019 mull is grand;\n We\u2019ll teuk a hearty sneesh, my frien\u2019s,\n And pass\u2019t from hand to hand.\n\n When man first fand the want o\u2019 claes,\n The wind and cauld to fleg,\n He twisted round about hims waist\n The tartan philabeg.\n\n And music first on earth was heard\n In Gaelic accents deep,\n When Jubal in his oxter squeezed\n The blether o\u2019 a sheep.\n\n The braw bagpipes is grand, my frien\u2019s,\n The braw bagpipes is fine;\n We\u2019ll teuk another pibroch yet,\n For the days o\u2019 auld lang syne.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nHUMOUR OF SCOTTISH POETS\n\n\nThere have been few great poets\u2014few poets of any appreciable quality,\nindeed\u2014anywhere, who have not had a lively and appreciative sense\nof humour, if they have not actually been positive and productive\nhumourists. It is a faculty of the human mind without which no man can be\nintellectually great\u2014without which no view of life can be comprehensive\nand true; a faculty without which Shakespeare could no more have sounded\nthe gamut of human feeling as he did than a man who is colour-blind could\ndescribe the glowing iridescence of the rainbow. In Burns and Scott,\nthe most notable among Scottish poets\u2014and mighty influences both in the\nrepublic of letters\u2014the faculty of original humour was revealed to an\nextraordinary degree. In the case of Scott the playfulness of his fancy\nwas made manifest essentially, no doubt, in the _Waverley Novels_, and\nin conversations with individuals; his poetry being mainly martial and\nmoving, and severe rather than lightsome. In Burns, the greater poet,\nand the more impulsive genius, there was revealed the greater humourist\nand the readier wit, as well as the finer sentimentalist. Alone amid the\nsublimities of Nature, or touched by the muse in her diviner moods, he\nwas reverent in spirit and glowed with adoration as fervid and sincere\nas ever animated the breast of the royal Hebrew bard himself; but\nprompted to join the social circle at the festive board, and fired by the\nspirit of fun, he would dazzle and delight a party for hours together\nby the brilliance and rapidity of his flashes of ready wit and humorous\nsatire. The most ample and effective examples of Burns\u2019s humour occur,\nof course, in his poems\u2014notably in \u201cTam o\u2019 Shanter,\u201d and \u201cThe Jolly\nBeggars\u201d; in his songs \u201cDuncan Gray,\u201d \u201cTam Glen,\u201d and \u201cSic a Wife as\nWillie had\u201d; and in some of the rhymed epistles. The impromptu epitaphs\nand epigrams, etc., which find a place in nearly every edition of his\nworks, afford convincing evidence of the pungency of his electric wit,\nand the annihilating weight of his equally ready satire. But with all of\nthese\u2014particularly the poems and the songs\u2014every adult person in Scotland\nis so familiar that to quote from one or other of them here would be\nsomething like superfluous labour. A few of the nimbler of the impromptu\nrhymes and epigrams, with descriptions of the circumstances under which\nthey were provoked, may, however, be reproduced _en passant_. The process\nwill freshen the reader\u2019s memory, if it does not actually enlighten his\nmind.\n\nBurns, like true steel, was ever ready to give fire at the touch of the\nflint, and being present in a company where an ill-educated _parvenu_ was\nboring everyone by boasting of the many great people he had lately been\nvisiting, the poet gave vent to his feelings in the following impromptu\nstanza, which we may be sure effectually silenced the babbling snob\nbefore him:\u2014\n\n \u201cNo more of your titled acquaintances boast,\n And in what lordly circles you\u2019ve been;\n An insect is only an insect at most,\n Though it crawl on the curls of a queen.\u201d\n\nHaving been storm-sted one Sunday at Lamington, in Clydesdale, the poet\nwent to church, but the day was so cold, the place so uncomfortable, and\nthe sermon so poor, that he left this protest on the pew which he had\noccupied:\u2014\n\n \u201cAs cauld a wind as ever blew,\n A caulder kirk, and in \u2019t but few;\n As cauld a preacher\u2019s ever spak\u2019\u2014\n Ye\u2019ll a\u2019 be het ere I come back.\u201d\n\nWhile in Edinburgh, he visited at the studio of a well-known painter, who\nwas at that time engaged on a picture of Jacob\u2019s dream. Burns embodied\nhis criticism of the work in the following lines, which he wrote on the\nback of a sketch still preserved in the painter\u2019s family:\u2014\n\n \u201cDear \u2e3a, I\u2019ll gie ye some advice,\n You\u2019ll tak\u2019 it no uncivil;\n You shouldna paint at angels mair,\n But try and paint the devil.\n To paint an angel\u2019s kittle wark,\n Wi\u2019 Auld Nick there\u2019s less danger;\n You\u2019ll easy draw a weel-kent face,\n But no sae weel a stranger.\u201d\n\nNever perhaps was there a neater compliment paid to feminine loveliness\nthan that paid by Burns to Miss Ainslie in an impromptu rhyme. During the\npoet\u2019s Border tour he went to church on Sunday, accompanied by the sister\nof his travelling companion, Mr. Robert Ainslie, of Berrywell, Dunse. The\ntext for the day happened to contain a severe denunciation of obstinate\nsinners, and the poet, observing the young lady intently turning over the\nleaves of her Bible in search of the passage, took out a small piece of\npaper, and wrote the following lines, which he immediately passed to her:\u2014\n\n \u201cFair maid, you need not take the hint,\n Nor idle texts pursue;\n \u2019Twas guilty sinners that he meant,\n Not angels such as you.\u201d\n\nReady-witted \u201cgraces before meat\u201d were evolved by the poet on demand,\ntime and again. Having met some friends to dine with them at the Globe\nTavern, Dumfries, on one occasion, when a sheep\u2019s head happened to be\nthe fare provided, he was asked to give something new as a grace, and\ninstantly delivered the following, which has certainly little wit to\nrecommend it:\u2014\n\n \u201cO Lord, when hunger pinches sore,\n Do Thou stand us in stead,\n And send us from thy bounteous store\n A tup, or wether\u2019s head.\u201d\n\nAfter having dined, however, and greatly enjoyed the repast, he was\nappealed to to return thanks, and did so in four lines revealing native\nwit, by saying:\u2014\n\n \u201cO Lord, sine we have feasted thus,\n Which we so little merit,\n Let Meg now take away the flesh,\n And Jock bring in the spirit.\u201d\n\nThan Burns\u2019s epitaph \u201cOn a Suicide,\u201d nothing more scathingly sarcastic\nwas ever written. It is as if he could not express too much scorn of the\nmiserable coward who would eschew the obligations of life by an act of\nself-destruction:\u2014\n\n \u201cEarth\u2019d up, here lies an imp o\u2019 hell,\n Planted by Satan\u2019s dibble;\n Poor, silly wretch, he\u2019s damned himsel\u2019\n To save the Lord the trouble.\u201d\n\nBurns was standing one day on the quay at Greenock, when a wealthy\nmerchant belonging to the town had the misfortune to fall into the\nharbour. He was no swimmer, and would certainly have been drowned had\nnot a sailor, at the risk of his own life, plunged in and rescued him\nfrom his dangerous situation. The merchant, upon recovering a little\nfrom his fright, put his hand into his pocket and presented the sailor\nwith a shilling. The crowd, who were by this time collected, loudly\nprotested against the insignificance of the sum; but Burns, with a smile\nof ineffable scorn, entreated them to restrain their clamour, \u201cFor,\u201d said\nhe, \u201cthe gentleman is, of course, the best judge of the value of his own\nlife.\u201d\n\nA writer who happened to be present in a company along with Burns when\nthe conversation turned on \u201cTam o\u2019 Shanter,\u201d and stung, perhaps, with the\nsarcastic touch on the legal fraternity\u2014\n\n \u201cThree lawyers\u2019 tongues turned inside out,\n Wi\u2019 lees seemed like a beggar\u2019s clout,\u201d\n\nremarked that he thought the witches\u2019 orgies obscure.\n\n\u201cObscure, sir,\u201d exclaimed the poet; \u201cye know not the language of the\ngreat master of your own art; the devil! If you get a witch for your\nclient, you will not be able to manage her defence.\u201d\n\nBurns lived five months in a house which was occupied by an old man named\nDavid Cully, or Kelly. The poet sometimes read books not usually seen in\npeople\u2019s hands on the Sabbath. His landlord checked him for this, when\nthe bard laughingly replied\u2014\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll not think me so good a man as Nancy Kelly is a woman, I suppose?\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, no.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen I\u2019ll tell you what happened this morning. When I took a walk by the\nbanks o\u2019 the Nith, I heard Nancy Kelly praying long before I came to her.\nI walked on, and before I returned I saw her helping herself to an armful\nof my fitches.\u201d The parties kept a cow.\n\nOn one occasion Nance and the bard were sitting in the \u201cspence,\u201d when the\nformer turned the conversation on her favourite topic\u2014religion. Burns\nsympathised with the matron, and quoted so much Scripture that she was\nfairly astonished. By and by she said to her husband, \u201cOh, Dauvit, how\nthey have wranged that man; for I think he has mair o\u2019 the Bible on\nhis tongue than Mr. Inglis himsel\u2019.\u201d Mr. Inglis was the Anti-burgher\nminister. Burns enjoyed that compliment, and almost the first thing he\ncommunicated to his wife on her arrival was the lift he had got from old\nNance.\n\nThan \u201cthe glorious ploughman,\u201d no one was kinder to such helpless\ncreatures as were weak in mind, and who sauntered harmlessly about. A\npoor half-witted creature\u2014the Madge Wildfire, it is said, of Scott\u2014always\nfound a mouthful ready for her at the bard\u2019s fireside. He was equally\nkind, Allan Cuningham tells, to a crazy and tippling prodigal named Quin.\n\n\u201cJamie,\u201d said the poet one day, as he gave this character a penny, \u201cyou\nshould pray to be turned from the evil of your ways; you are ready now to\nmelt that penny into whisky.\u201d\n\n\u201cTurn!\u201d exclaimed Jamie, who was a wit in his way, \u201cI wish some ane wad\nturn me into the worm o\u2019 Will Hyslop\u2019s whisky-still, that the drink micht\ndribble through me for ever.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel said, Jamie,\u201d responded the poet; \u201cyou shall have a glass of whisky\nonce a week for that if you will come sober for it.\u201d\n\nA friend rallied Burns for indulging such creatures.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t understand the matter,\u201d said he; \u201cthey are poets; they have\nthe madness of the muse, and all they want is the inspiration\u2014a mere\ntrifle!\u201d\n\nA prophet has no honour in his own country, and few of the peasantry\npersonally acquainted with Burns were willing to allow that his merit\nexceeded their own. Mrs. M\u2019Quistan, the housekeeper at Dunlop House,\nwhere the poet was a frequent visitor, saw nothing in his writings\ncalling for special admiration, and doubted the propriety of her mistress\nentertaining a mere ploughman who made rhymes. As regarded \u201cThe Cottar\u2019s\nSaturday Night,\u201d she declared to Mrs. Dunlop, with much shaking of the\nhead, that \u201cNae doubt gentlemen and ladies think muckle o\u2019 that, but,\nfor me, it\u2019s naething but what I saw in my ain faither\u2019s house every\nday, and I dinna see who he could hae tauld it ony other way.\u201d It was a\nsplendid compliment. Yet the author once received perhaps a better\u2014in his\nown hearing, too\u2014one, at least, which he appreciated more. A little boy\nwas asked which of the poet\u2019s works he liked best. \u201cI like \u2018The Cottar\u2019s\nSaturday Night\u2019 far best,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cthough it made me greet when my\nfather made me read it to my mother.\u201d\n\nThe poet, with a sudden start, looked into the boy\u2019s face intently, and,\npatting him on the cheek, said, the tear glistening in his eye the while,\n\u201cWell, my callant, it made me greet, too, more than once, when I was\nwriting it at my father\u2019s fireside.\u201d\n\nScott, when about seventeen years of age, saw Burns in Edinburgh, and\nhas afforded the most truthful and graphic account of his personal\nappearance extant. It was at a literary dinner at Professor Fergusson\u2019s\nthat they met. The wondrous boy enlightened the party as to the\nauthorship of the line\u2014\n\n \u201cThe child of misery baptized in tears,\u201d\n\nby telling them it was Langhorne\u2019s,[2] whereupon Burns looked towards\nhim and exclaimed, \u201cYou will be a man yet.\u201d No prophecy received fuller\nfulfilment; for if Sir Walter Scott did not rise to the full stature of\ntrue manhood, no mere man ever did. Scott brought pleasure with him into\nevery party he chose to enter. His rich, racy humour in telling stories\nand giving anecdotes, always on the spur of the moment, was delightful.\nHe had an anecdote ready, a story to match, or \u201ccap,\u201d as he used to\ncall it, every one he heard, and with most perfect ease and hearty good\nhumour. His first publisher, says one, Robert Millar, gave anecdotes very\npleasantly, and one day, after dinner, he was telling the company that\nhe, or some friend, had been present at an Assize Court in Jedburgh, when\na farm servant had summoned his master for non-payment of wages, which\nhe, the servant, had justly forfeited through some misconduct. After a\ngreat deal of cross-questioning\u2014\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure, my lord,\u201d said the pursuer, \u201cI\u2019m seeking nowt but what I\u2019ve\nrowt for!\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, my man,\u201d responded the judge, \u201cbut I\u2019m thinking ye\u2019ll hae to _rowt_\na wee langer afore ye get it, though;\u201d and nonsuited him.\n\n [2] The company had been admiring a print of Banbury\u2019s,\n representing a soldier lying dead on the snow\u2014the dog sitting\n in misery on the one side\u2014on the other, his widow with a child\n in her arms. These lines were written underneath:\u2014\n\n \u201cCold on Canadian hills, or Minden\u2019s plain,\n Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain;\n Bent o\u2019er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew,\n The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,\n Gave the sad presage of his future years\u2014\n The child of misery baptized in tears.\u201d\n\n Burns was so much affected by the picture, or rather the ideas\n which it suggested to his mind, that he actually shed tears. He\n asked whose the lines were, and it chanced that among all who\n were present, and the company included the celebrated Dugald\n Stewart, and other men of letters, young Scott alone remembered\n that they occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne\u2019s, called\n by the unpromising title of \u201cThe Justice of the Peace.\u201d\n\nScott, with the others, was well pleased with this dialogue, and, in his\neasy unaffected manner, said\u2014\n\n\u201cWell, something of a similar nature occurred when a friend of mine was\npresent at the Justice Court at Jedburgh. Two fellows had been taken\nup for sheep-stealing; there was a dense crowd, and we were listening\nwith breathless attention to the evidence, when, from what reason I have\nforgotten, there was a dead pause, during which the judge, observing a\nrosy-cheeked, chubby-faced country boy, who seemed to pay the utmost\nattention to what was going on, and continued to fix his eyes on his\nLordship\u2019s countenance, cried out to the callant\u2014\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, my man, what do you say to the cause!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Eh, gosh!\u2019 answered the boy, \u2018but that\u2019s a gude ane! What div I say?\nI whiles say, _Pui hup!_ and whiles I say _Pui ho!_ to the caws,\u2019\nmeaning, of course, the calves. But the business was quickly decided, for\nthe whole Court, judge and jury, were thrown into such convulsions of\nlaughter that nothing more could be said or done.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is interesting to observe,\u201d says Gilfillan, \u201chow not a few of\nthe familiar names known to Scott in his youth or boyhood have been\npreserved on his written pages and are now classical. Thus Meg Dods was\nthe real name of a woman, or \u2018Luckie,\u2019 in Howgate, \u2018who brewed good ale\nfor gentlemen.\u2019 In the account of a Galloway trial, in which Scott was\ncounsel, occurs the name \u2018Mac-Guffog,\u2019 afterwards that of the famous\nturnkey in _Guy Mannering_. The name \u2018Durward\u2019 may still be seen on the\nsigns of Arbroath and Forfar, and Scott had doubtless met it there; as\nwell as that of \u2018Prudfute,\u2019 or \u2018Proudfoot,\u2019 in or near Perth; \u2018Morton,\u2019\nin the lists of the Western Whigs; and \u2018Gilfillan,\u2019 in the catalogue of\nthe prisoners in Dunnottar Castle. Nothing, in fact, that ever flashed on\nthe eye or vibrated on the ear of this extraordinary man but was in some\nform or other reproduced in his writings.\u201d In a remarkable sense here the\nchild was father of the man. When a lad at school, a boy in the same\nclass was asked by the dominie what part of speech \u201cwith\u201d was.\n\n\u201cA noun, sir,\u201d answered the boy.\n\n\u201cYou young blockhead,\u201d cried the pedagogue, \u201cwhat example can you give of\nsuch a thing?\u201d\n\n\u201cI can tell you, sir,\u201d interrupted Scott. \u201cYou know there\u2019s a verse in\nthe Bible which says\u2014\u2018They bound Samson with _withs_!\u2019\u201d\n\nMrs. Cockburn, authoress of the popular version of \u201cThe Flowers of the\nForest,\u201d the one beginning \u201cI\u2019ve seen the smiling of fortune beguiling,\u201d\nhas left a curious account of an interview which she had with Scott,\nwhen a boy not quite six years old. He was reading a poem to his mother\nwhen the lady entered, the subject of which was the description of a\nshipwreck. His passion rose with the storm, and he lifted up his eyes and\nhands\u2014\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a mast gone,\u201d says he; \u201ccrash it goes; they will all perish!\u201d\n\nAfter his agitation, he turned to Mrs. Cockburn, and said\u2014\n\n\u201cThat is too melancholy. I had better read you something more amusing.\u201d\n\nMrs. Cockburn preferred a little chat, and asked his opinion of Milton\nand other books which he had been reading, which he gave wonderfully.\nOne of his observations was\u2014\u201cHow strange that Adam, just new come into\nthe world, should know everything. That must be the poet\u2019s fancy,\u201d said\nhe. But when told he was created perfectly by God Himself, he instantly\nyielded.\n\nWhen he was taken to bed the same evening, he told his aunt that he liked\nMrs. Cockburn, \u201cfor I think,\u201d said he, \u201cshe is a _virtuoso_ like myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cDear Walter, what is a _virtuoso_?\u201d inquired his aunt.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you know?\u201d said he. \u201cWhy, it\u2019s one that will know everything.\u201d\n\nHe was still a boy, when a lady friend remarked in company on the almost\nperpetual drizzle which prevails in the West of Scotland, and declared\nherself at a loss to account for it.\n\nPopping his head up from below the table, \u201cIt is,\u201d said he, \u201conly Nature\nweeping for the barrenness of her soil.\u201d\n\nIt was Sir Walter Scott who said that \u201chis friends werna great\nbook-readers, but they were maistly a\u2019 grand book-_keepers_\u201d\u2014a common\naccomplishment of the friends and acquaintances of all men, alas!\n\nTom Purdie, Sir Walter\u2019s favourite servant, appeared before the Sheriff\nfirst as a poacher; when Scott became so interested in his story, which\nhe told with a mixture of pathos, simplicity, and pawky humour, that he\ngranted him forgiveness, and ultimately engaged him as a sort of factotum\nat Abbotsford. Tom served him long and faithfully. Only \u201cleeward whiles\nhe took a bicker\u201d towards the dram. Scott is said to have proposed for\nTom\u2019s epitaph the words\u2014\u201cHere lies one who might have been trusted with\na purse of untold gold, but _not_ with a barrel of unmeasured whisky.\u201d\nBut more pungent than this even was his remark at the funeral ceremony of\nthe eccentric Earl of Buchan. In accordance with the Christian mode of\nburial, the body should have been carried into the chapel, where it was\nto be interred, feet first. Sir David Brewster was one of the mourners,\nand was the first to observe that the head of the coffin was first in. He\nsaid\u2014\u201cWe have brought the Earl\u2019s head in the wrong way.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind,\u201d replied Scott. \u201cHis Lordship\u2019s head was turned when he was\nalive, and it is not worth our while to shift it now.\u201d\n\nLong before the secret of the Waverley novels had been blown about, the\nEttrick Shepherd divined it, and as the novels appeared he had them\nre-bound and lettered \u201cScott\u2019s Novels.\u201d While visiting Hogg at Altrive,\nthe author ventured to remark in a dry humorous tone, \u201cJamie, your\nbookseller must be a stupid fellow, to spell _Scott\u2019s_ with two _t\u2019s_.\u201d\nHogg replied, \u201cAh, Watty, I am ower auld a cat to draw that strae before.\u201d\n\nMrs. John Ballantyne tells a story of Scott and Hogg not to be found in\nLockhart.\n\nAt her dinner table in Hanover Street, she says, the Shepherd was\npresent, and was amusing the company very much by his attempts to\ndissect \u201ctwa teugh auld chuckies,\u201d and was making the legs and wings\nand gravy fly in every direction, to the annoyance of every one in his\nneighbourhood. Suddenly he stopped, dipped a napkin in the finger-glass,\nand began to mop his face, which was \u201ca\u2019 jappit wi\u2019 the juice.\u201d\n\nScott saw his friend\u2019s dilemma, and out of the goodness of his heart\ndetermined to create a diversion in his favour. Addressing Mrs.\nBallantyne, he asked this question\u2014\u201cMrs. John, once on a time all the\nletters of the alphabet were invited out to their dinner\u2014they all came\nbut U. Why did not U come?\u201d On giving it up, Scott said, \u201cWhy, then, the\nreason why U did not come to dinner is very clear\u2014because U never comes\ntill after (T).\u201d\n\nSometimes a very trifling joke or anecdote adds to the gaiety of a\ncompany. It was so in this case, the story passed round, but Hogg\ncould not understand it, and he asked what they were all laughing\nat. \u201cIt\u2019s about U (you),\u201d cried Mrs. Ballantyne, and this made Hogg\nquite indignant. He rose and brandished his knife, and inquired in a\nblood-thirsty sort of way what they could possibly see about him to speak\nand laugh about. This made the joke tell all the better, when it was\nexplained to him.\n\nCarlyle recites with approbation a saying of somebody to the effect that\nno man has written so many volumes as Scott having so few sentences\nthat can be quoted, and Gilfillan, replying to the charge, says he is\nprepared to prove that in no other novelist\u2014not even Cervantes, or\nBulwer, or Goodwin\u2014is there to be found a greater number of separate and\nquotable beauties than in Scott. Gilfillan\u2019s offer is not extravagant.\nRegarding the humorous side of the Waverley novels alone, which is all\nthat concerns us here, one has only to think of Caleb Balderston, of Edie\nOchiltree, of Cuddie Headrigg, of Andrew Fairservice; has but to utter\naloud to himself the familiar \u201cMa conscience!\u201d of Bailie Nicol Jarvie;\nthe \u201cProdigious!\u201d of Dominie Samson; the \u201cJeanie, woman!\u201d of the Laird of\nDumbiedikes\u2014to have his mind peopled like a market-place with familiar\nfigures, and his memory serving his tongue with passage upon passage,\npage upon page, and all with the freedom and rapidity of electric\ntelegraphy. The temptation to quote now is strong; but I must resist it\nin order to overtake less familiar, though perhaps less delectable matter.\n\nHow humour will serve one in circumstances where sheer eloquence might\npall is well illustrated by an important incident in the life of Scott.\nWhen George IV. visited Scotland in 1812, Sir Walter was largely \u201cin\nevidence\u201d in Edinburgh, eager to greet his Sovereign and afford him a\nroyal welcome. Elaborate preparations had been made in the Capital in\norder that the reception might be worthy of the illustrious visitor,\nbut when the royal yacht arrived in the Forth, the rain poured down in\ntorrents. Sir Walter accordingly visited the King on board, and, in\nasking him to defer his landing on account of the inclemency of the\nweather, made one of the happiest speeches of his life\u2014a speech which we\nmay be sure delighted no one more than the King himself:\u2014\n\n\u201cImpatient, Sire,\u201d said he, \u201cas your loyal subjects are to see you plant\nyour foot upon their soil, they hope you will consent to postpone your\npublic entry until to-morrow. In seeing the state of the weather, I am\nmyself forcibly reminded of a circumstance which once occurred to me. I\nwas about to make a tour through the Western Highlands with part of my\nfamily. I wrote to the innkeeper of a certain hostelry, where I meant to\nhalt a day or two, to have rooms prepared for me. On the day appointed it\nrained, as it does to-day, ceaselessly. As we drew near our quarters, we\nwere met on the hill over his house by our Boniface, with bared head, and\nbacking every yard as I advanced, who thus addressed me:\u2014\n\n\u201c\u2018Guid guide us, Sir Walter! This is just awfu\u2019! Siccan a downpour! Was\never the like? I really beg your pardon! I\u2019m sure it\u2019s nae faut o\u2019 mine;\nI canna think how it should happen to rain this way, just as you, o\u2019 a\u2019\nmen in the warld, should come to see us! It looks amaist personal! I can\nonly say for my part, I\u2019m just ashamed o\u2019 the weather!\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd so, Sire, I do not know that I can improve upon the language of the\nhonest innkeeper; I cannot think how it should rain this way, just as\nyour Majesty, of all men in the world, should have condescended to come\nand see us. I can only say in the name of my countrymen, I\u2019m just ashamed\no\u2019 the weather!\u201d\n\nSir Walter welcomed his Majesty not only in person, but also in song, by\nwriting a long ballad in two parts, to the old tune of \u201cCarle, and the\nKing Come.\u201d Simultaneously with this loyal piece there, however, appeared\nin the _London Examiner_ a satirical effusion, entitled, \u201cSawney, now the\nKing\u2019s Come,\u201d which caused some stir, and greatly annoyed the sensitive\nloyalty of the author of _Waverley_.\n\nThe writer was Alexander Rodger, of Glasgow, the well-known author\nof \u201cRobin Tamson\u2019s Smiddy,\u201d \u201cBehave yersel\u2019 before Folk,\u201d and other\npopular humorous songs; and the ultra-radical opinions for which he had\nalready languished in \u201cBridewell,\u201d it cannot be denied, rendered the\nhumour of this counterblast rather too broad for general circulation.\nIts cleverness, however, was undoubted. A poet of admitted quality,\nRodger had a rich and ready humour which helped him through many a\ndifficulty. Whilst for the treasonable character of his contributions\nto the _Spirit of the Union_ he lay in a Glasgow prison, where he was\nused with reprehensible harshness, he solaced himself in his solitude by\nsinging, at the top of his lungs, his own political song compositions,\nsome of which were so spiced with humorous satire that they could not\nbe very grateful to the ears of his jailors. Once, when his house was\nsearched for seditious publications (terrible bugbears at that time to\nthe local authorities of Glasgow), Sandy handed the Family Bible to the\nSheriff\u2019s officer, with the remark that that was the only treasonable\nbook in his possession; and for proof he referred the aghast official to\nthe chapter on Kings, in the first Book of Samuel. Rodger\u2019s contributions\nto _Whistle-Binkie_ form perhaps the most delightsome items of that\nperennial collection of Scottish lyrics, none of them being a whit less\nfelicitous than his lyrical address to Peter M\u2019Kay\u2014\u201cAne sober advice\nto ane drucken souter in Perth\u201d\u2014of which the following forms the first\nverse:\u2014\n\n \u201cO, Peter M\u2019Kay! O, Peter M\u2019Kay!\n Gin ye\u2019d do like the brutes, only drink when ye\u2019re dry,\n Ye might gather cash yet, grow gaucy and gash yet,\n And carry your noddle Perth-Provost pow-high;\n But poor, drucken deevil, ye\u2019re wed to the evil\n Sae closely, that naething can sever the tie;\n Wi\u2019 boring and boosing, and snoring and snoozing,\n Ye emulate _him_ that inhabits\u2014the sty.\u201d\n\nGeorge Outram, another Glasgow poet, claims particular attention when\nand wherever the humour of Scottish poets and poetry is the subject of\nconsideration. Such of his pieces as \u201cThe Annuity,\u201d \u201cDrinkin\u2019 Drams,\u201d\nand \u201cSoumin\u2019 an\u2019 Roumin\u2019,\u201d are amongst the most humoursome effusions\nin the native tongue. The temperance cause has made great progress\nsince the bacchanalian heroic above named was penned, and it is now\nthe teetotallers who laugh most over the ironical humour expressed in\nthe lines. His \u201cAnnuity\u201d is familiar to everybody, and the same may be\nsaid of \u201cSoumin\u2019 an\u2019 Roumin\u2019.\u201d The following illustration of his wit in\nthe shape of an epigram, which he composed on hearing a lady praise a\ncertain reverend Doctor\u2019s eyes, is, however, not so well known as it\ndeserves\u2014\n\n \u201cI cannot praise the Doctor\u2019s eyes,\n I never saw his glance divine;\n He always shuts them when he prays,\n And when he preaches he shuts mine,\u201d\n\nand the whimsical humour contained in the subjoined little sketch will\nwarrant its quotation:\u2014\n\n \u201cMy twa swine on the midden,\n Wi\u2019 very fat their een are hidden;\n Their wames are swell\u2019d beyond dimension,\n Their shapes!\u2014ye hae nae comprehension.\n Sic a sicht!\u2014their tails are curly,\n Their houghs sae round, their necks sae burly;\n In the warld there\u2019s naething bigger\n Than the tane\u2014except the tither.\u201d\n\nThe next prominent among Scottish poet-humourists that occurs here\nis Professor Wilson, whose claim is made perfect by the unique and\nincomparable \u201cNoctes Ambrosian\u00e6,\u201d originally contributed to _Blackwood\u2019s\nMagazine_ under the pen name of \u201cChristopher North.\u201d Here there is humour\nto the knees, humour to the loins, humour to swim in\u2014a great river! But\nwe dare not enter, even though the temptation is strong. One solitary\nexample of Wilson\u2019s genial humour, gleaned outside of the \u201cNoctes,\u201d must\nserve here. It involves the name of another poet-humourist of almost\nequal renown\u2014namely, Professor Aytoun, author of the celebrated _Lays of\nthe Scottish Cavaliers_ and joint-author with Sir Theodore Martin of\nthe _Bon Gaultier Ballads_. Aytoun, as everybody knows, married Wilson\u2019s\ndaughter, Miss Emily Jane. When, after the usual preliminaries, he made\na proposal of marriage to her, the young lady, as a matter of course,\nreferred him to her father. Aytoun was uncommonly diffident, and said,\n\u201cEmily, my dear, you must speak for me. I could not summon courage to\nspeak to the Professor on the subject.\u201d\n\n\u201cPapa is in the library,\u201d remarked the lady.\n\n\u201cThen you had better go to him,\u201d said the suitor, \u201cand I will wait here\nfor you.\u201d\n\nThere being apparently no help for it, the lady proceeded to the library,\nand, taking her father affectionately by the hand, mentioned that Aytoun\nhad asked her in marriage, and added, \u201cShall I accept his offer, papa; he\nis so shy and diffident that he cannot speak to you himself?\u201d\n\n\u201cThen we must deal tenderly with him,\u201d said the hearty old man; and\nwriting his reply on a slip of paper, he pinned it on her back.\n\n\u201cPapa\u2019s answer is on the back of my dress,\u201d said Miss Wilson, as she\nre-entered the drawing-room. Turning her round, the delighted swain\nperceived these words\u2014\u201cWith the author\u2019s compliments.\u201d\n\nSusanna, Countess of Eglinton, Allan Ramsay\u2019s patroness, to whom he\ndedicated his immortal \u201cGentle Shepherd,\u201d once sent him a basket of fine\nfruit. No poet of the last century could let such a circumstance pass\nunsung; accordingly, honest Allan composed the following complimentary\nepigram, which he sent with his note of acknowledgment to the Countess:\u2014\n\n \u201cNow Priam\u2019s son, ye may be mute,\n For I can bauldly brag with thee;\n Thou to the fairest gave the fruit\u2014\n The fairest gave the fruit to me.\u201d\n\nNeatly turned, you say! Yes; but, not content with sending the epigram to\nthe person for whom it was particularly intended, he enclosed a copy to\nhis friend Budgell, who soon sent him back the subjoined comment upon it,\nwhich, we need not doubt, severely wounded the vanity of the wig-maker\npoet:\u2014\n\n \u201cAs Juno fair, as Venus kind,\n She may have been who gave the fruit;\n But had she had Minerva\u2019s mind,\n She\u2019d ne\u2019er have given \u2019t to such a brute.\u201d\n\nThe following epigram, by a living Scottish writer, is decidedly pointed\nand clever, and has the additional merit of being self-explanatory:\u2014\n\n \u201cHe was a burglar stout and strong,\n Who held \u2018It surely can\u2019t be wrong,\n To open trunks and rifle shelves,\n For \u201cGod helps those who help themselves.\u201d\u2019\n But when before the court he came,\n And boldly rose to plead the same,\n The judge replied\u2014\u2018That\u2019s very true;\n You\u2019ve helped yourself\u2014_now God help you_!\u2019\u201d\n\nI have spoken of Professor Aytoun, and his connection with the _Bon\nGaultier Ballads_. As everybody knows, \u201cThe Massacre of the Phairshon,\u201d\n\n \u201cWith four-and-twenty men\n And five-and-thirty pipers,\u201d\n\nis from Aytoun\u2019s pen. In the Memoirs of the poet, written by his friend\nand collaborator, Sir Theodore Martin, there is this capital story of\nthe ballad. \u201cBeing asked to get up an impromptu amusement at a friend\u2019s\nhouse in 1844, for some English visitors, who were enthusiastic about\nthe Highlanders and the Highlands, he fished out from his wardrobe the\nkilt with which he had electrified the men of Thurso in his boyish\ndays. Arraying himself in this, and a blue cloth jacket with white\nmetal buttons, which he had got years before to act a charity boy, in a\ncharade, he completed his costume by a scarf across his shoulders, short\nhose, and brogues! The brevity of the kilt produced a most ludicrous\neffect, and not being eked out with the usual \u2018sporran\u2019 left him much\nin the condition of the \u2018Cutty Sark\u2019 of Burns\u2019s poem. With hair like\nKatterfelto\u2019s, on end in wild disorder, Aytoun was ushered into the\ndrawing-room. He bore himself with more than Celtic dignity, and saluted\nthe Southrons with stately courtesy, being introduced to them as the\nfamous Laird of Macnab. The ladies were delighted with the Chieftain,\nwho related many highly exciting traits of Highland manners. Among other\nthings, when his neighbours, as he told them, made a foray, which they\noften did, upon his cattle, he thought nothing of \u2018sticking a tirk into\ntheir powels,\u2019 when the ladies exclaimed, in horror, \u2018O, laird, you don\u2019t\nsay so!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Say so!\u2019 he replied, \u2018on my saul, laties, and to pe surely, I to it.\u2019\n\n\u201cAt supper he was asked to sing a song. \u2018I am fery sorry, laties,\u2019 he\nreplied, \u2018that I have no voice; but I will speak to you a translation of\na fery ancient Gaelic poem,\u2019 and proceeded to chant \u2018The Massacre of ta\nPhairshon,\u2019 which came upon all present as if it were the invention of\nthe moment, and was greeted with roars of laughter. The joke was carried\non until the party broke up, and the strangers were not undeceived for\nsome days as to the true character of the great Celtic chief.\u201d\n\nAdam Skirving, author of the popular song of \u201cJohnnie Cope,\u201d and the\nequally facetious and felicitous ballad of \u201cTranent Muir,\u201d was a wealthy\nfarmer near Haddington, and a man of athletic body as well as of strong\nmind. Among the various persons referred to in \u201cTranent Muir\u201d was a\ncertain Lieutenant Smith, an Irishman, who displayed much cowardice in\nthe battle. Says the poet:\u2014\n\n \u201cAnd Major Bowle, that worthy sowl,\n Was brought down to the ground, man;\n His horse being shot, it was his lot,\n For to get many a wound, man;\n Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth,\n Frae whom he called for aid, man,\n Being full of dread, lap owre his head,\n And wadna be gainsaid, man.\n\n \u201cHe made sic haste, sae spurred his beast,\n \u2019Twas little there he saw, man;\n To Berwick rade, and safely said,\n The Scots were rebels a\u2019, man;\n But let that end\u2014for weel \u2019tis kenn\u2019d\n His use and wont to lee, man,\n The league is nought, he never fought\n When he had room to flee, man.\u201d\n\nImmediately on the satire and its source of emanation being communicated\nto the heroic (?) Lieutenant Smith, he despatched a junior officer to\nSkirving, with a challenge to the poet to meet him in single combat.\n\nThe bard\u2019s reply was of a piece with his attack\u2014\u201cGang back,\u201d said he,\n\u201cand tell Lieutenant Smith that I hae nae leisure to come to Haddington;\nbut tell him to come here, and I\u2019ll tak\u2019 a look o\u2019 him, and if I think\nI\u2019m fit to fecht, I\u2019ll fecht him; and if no, I\u2019ll do as he did\u2014_I\u2019ll rin\nawa\u2019_.\u201d\n\nHard and stinging things have been uttered against poets, but the hardest\nand sharpest have been those hurled by one poet against another. As\ninstance, the \u201cFlyting\u201d of Dunbar and Kennedy, the less remote encounter\nbetween Tennyson and Bulwer Lytton in the pages of _Punch_, and the more\nrecent scalping scuffle which took place between Buchanan, Swinburne, and\nRossetti. The wit of the poet is indispensable for affording the proper\npoint to the sting of humorous satire. Here is a good example:\u2014A few\nyears ago the late William C. Cameron, of Glasgow, a shoemaker to trade,\nand author of a meritorious volume of verses, entitled _Light, Shade, and\nToil_, contributed a little poem to the columns of the _Weekly Herald_,\neach succeeding stanza of which opened somewhat ostentatiously with the\nrequest\u2014\u201cWrite me my epitaph!\u201d one entire verse being:\u2014\n\n \u201cWrite me my epitaph! short let it be,\n Say that here, \u2019neath the sod, lies one of the free,\n One who has wrote and sung the lays of the poor,\n One who has loved more than gold, field, wood, and moor.\u201d\n\nResponsive to the poet\u2019s request a local bard wrote, and the _Herald_ of\nthe following week contained \u201cHis Epitaph,\u201d in these words:\u2014\n\n \u201c_Toil_ over, _Light_ snuffed out, himself a _Shade_,\n For evermore removed from pitiless chaff,\n _Hic jacet!_\u2014A judicious reader made\n (Excuse his tears) this touching epitaph.\u201d\n\nPoets there have been, too, who were their own most merciless censors.\nRobert Chambers tells that when the General Assembly of the Church of\nScotland determined on extending their body of psalmody, they addressed\na circular to the clergy, praying that those who were so inclined would\ncompose paraphrases of scripture, and transmit them to Edinburgh for the\ninspection of the Assembly, that a proper selection might be made for\nuse. A very old man, and very primitive minister in Caithness, was roused\nby this request from prosaic lethargy of a whole lifetime, and felt a\nlatent spark of poetry suddenly arise in his bosom. So instantaneous was\nthe effect of this inspiration, that on the very Sunday after he had\nreceived the Assembly\u2019s circular, he had prepared a paraphrase which he\ndetermined to read aloud to his congregation. The first verse ran as\nfollows:\u2014\n\n \u201cThe Deil shall ryve them a\u2019 in rags,\n That wicked are in vain;\n But if they\u2019re gude and do repent,\n They shall be sew\u2019d again.\u201d\n\nBut this was quite enough, the audience burst out into such a transport\nof laughter on hearing it that the ingenious author saw fit to suppress\nthe rest, and abandon his poetical attempt.\n\nThen Zachary Boyd, of facetious memory, minister of the Barony Church,\nGlasgow, in the time of Charles I., and who translated the Bible into\nverse, the MS. of which is preserved in the library of the University of\nGlasgow to this day, must have been a frank fellow. He sings:\u2014\n\n \u201cThere was a man called Job,\n Dwelt in the land of Uz;\n He had a good gift of the gob,\n The same thing happens us.\u201d\n\nA fatal \u201cgift o\u2019 the gob,\u201d alas!\u2014for perfectly convincing proof of which\nsee the following verses from his \u201cHistory of Jonah\u201d\u2014a gem _per se_.\nJonah\u2014according to the poet\u2014soliloquiseth\u2014\n\n \u201cWhat house is this, where\u2019s neither coal nor candle,\n Where I no thing but guts of fishes handle;\n The like of this on earth man never saw,\n A living man within a monster\u2019s maw.\n\n Noe in his ark might goe and also come,\n But I sit still in such a straitened roome,\n As is most uncouth, head and feet together,\n Among such grease as would a thousand smother.\n\n In all the earth like unto me is none,\n Farre from all living I heere lye alone,\n Where I entombed in melancholy sink,\n Choak\u2019t, suffocat, with excremental stink.\u201d\n\nOn Burns\u2019s first visit to Edinburgh he was introduced, among many others,\nto a Mr. Taylor, then parochial schoolmaster at Currie, and, in his own\nestimation, a poet of no mean order. The meeting was effected at the\nhouse of Mr. Heron, at whose table Burns was a frequent guest. Taylor\nbrought with him his book of manuscript poems, a few of which were read\nto Burns for his favourable opinion previous to printing. Some of the\npassages were odd enough, such as this, on the title-page\u2014\n\n \u201cRin, bookie, rin, round the warld lowp,\n Whilst I lie in the yird wi\u2019 a cauld dowp,\u201d\n\nat which Burns laughed heartily. Next morning Mr. Heron meeting Taylor,\nenquired of him what he thought of the Ayrshire poet.\n\n\u201cHoot,\u201d quoth the self-admiring pedagogue, \u201cthe lad\u2019ll do; considering\nhis want o\u2019 lear, he\u2019s weel eneuch.\u201d\n\nThough not like it, the foregoing recalls a good anecdote of the poet\nCampbell, which recently appeared in print for the first time, in the\ncolumns of the _Christian Leader_.\n\nThe author of \u201cThe Pleasures of Hope\u201d being on a visit to Ayrshire,\nhappened to go into a bookseller\u2019s shop in Kilmarnock. The bookseller, as\nhe entered, whispered something over the counter to a portly and comely\nold lady, who was making a small purchase of sealing-wax and notepaper.\n\u201cLord save us,\u201d she replied, in an audible whisper, \u201cye dinna mean it!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s true, I tell ye,\u201d said the bookseller, also in a whisper.\n\nThe old lady turned towards the poet and said, not without betraying a\nslight embarrassment: \u201cAn\u2019 sae ye\u2019re the great Thomas Campbell; are ye?\nI\u2019m vera prood to meet ye, sir, and didna think when I left hame in the\nmornin\u2019 that sic a great honour was to befa\u2019 me.\u201d\n\nThe poet felt much flattered by this tribute; but confusion took entire\npossession of him, as the worthy old soul continued: \u201cThere\u2019s no a man\nin Ayrshire that has the great skill ye hae, Mr. Campbell, and I wad be\ngreatly obleeged to ye if ye wad come and see my coo before ye leave this\npart o\u2019 the country, an\u2019 let me ken if ye can do onything for her. She\u2019s\na young beastie, and a guid beastie, and I shouldna like to lose her.\u201d\n\nThere was an eminent veterinary surgeon, or cow doctor, in the\nneighbouring county of Dumfries, whose name was also Thomas Campbell, and\nthe worthy woman had mistaken the poet for this celebrated and doubtless\nhighly respectable person.\n\nOf Campbell and Leyden, Gilfillan tells an interesting and instructive\nstory in his _Life of Sir Walter Scott_. The former thought the latter\nboastful and self-asserting; Leyton thought Campbell jealous and envious.\nAnd there was perhaps a modicum of truth in their estimates of each\nother. Campbell had been unfortunate and not over well conducted in his\nyouth; had been hindered by circumstances in his path to the pulpit;\nand this, along with poverty, had soured him. Yet he was a fine-hearted\nfellow in the main, as well as a thoroughly true one. Leyden had\nsomething of the self-glorification of the wild Indian chief, fond of\nshowing his strings of scalps, and chanting fierce war-songs over his\nfallen foes; but he, too, was sincere, warm-hearted and guileless. When\nhe read Campbell\u2019s \u201cHohenlinden,\u201d he said to Scott, \u201cDash it! I hate the\nfellow, but he has written the best verses I have read for ever so long;\u201d\nto which Campbell replied, \u201cI detest Leyden with all my soul, but I know\nthe value of his critical approbation.\u201d\n\nEvery Scottish reader is familiar with Burns\u2019s weird and inimitable\n\u201cAddress to the Deil,\u201d and some are aware that more than one of our\nnative bards\u2014from a desire to \u201cgive the deil his due,\u201d as we may\nsuppose\u2014have essayed to catch up the grim humour of the original\neffusion, and compose a suitable reply to it. I have myself seen three\nefforts of the kind, each of them more or less clever: one by Ebenezer\nPicken, of Paisley, who died in 1816; and two of unknown authorship. For\npungency of wit and skill of versification, one of the latter\u2014cut from a\nScottish newspaper published in Burns\u2019s lifetime\u2014indisputably \u201cbears the\ngree,\u201d and forms a not unworthy companion-poem to the original \u201cAddress.\u201d\nIt is somewhat lengthy, but its rarity, considered in conjunction with\nits merit, will justify its quotation in full:\u2014\n\n THE DEIL\u2019S REPLY TO ROBERT BURNS.\n\n O waes me, Rab! hae ye gane gyte;\n What is\u2019t that gars ye tak\u2019 delight\n To jeer at me, and ban, and flyte,\n In Scottish rhyme,\n And fausely gie me a\u2019 the wyte\n O\u2019 ilka crime?\n\n O\u2019 auld nicknames ye hae a fouth,\n O\u2019 sharp sarcastic rhymes a routh,\n And as ye\u2019re bent to gie them scouth,\n \u2019Twere just as weel\n For you to tell the honest truth,\n And shame the deil.\n\n I dinna mean to note the whole\n O\u2019 your confounded rigmarole,\n I\u2019d rather haud my tongue, and thole\n Your clishmaclavers,\n Than try to plod through sic a scrole\n O\u2019 senseless havers.\n\n O\u2019 warlocks and o\u2019 witches a\u2019,\n O\u2019 spunkies, kelpies, great or sma\u2019,\n There isna ony truth ava\n In what you say,\n For siccan frichts I never saw,\n Up to this day.\n\n The truth is, Rab, that wicked men,\n When caught in crimes that are their ain,\n To find a help, are unco fain,\n To share the shame,\n And so they shout, wi\u2019 micht and main,\n The deil\u2019s to blame.\n\n Thus, I am blamed for Adam\u2019s fa\u2019.\n You say that I maist ruined a\u2019;\n I\u2019ll tell ye a\u2019 e thing, that\u2019s no twa,\n It\u2019s just a lee;\n I fasht na wi\u2019 the pair ava,\n But loot them be.\n\n I\u2019d nae mair haun\u2019 in that transgression,\n You deem the source o\u2019 a\u2019 oppression,\n And wae, and death, and man\u2019s damnation,\n Than you, yersel\u2019;\n I filled a decent situation\n When Adam fell.\n\n And, Rab, gin ye\u2019ll just read your Bible,\n Instead o\u2019 blin\u2019 Jock Milton\u2019s fable,\n I\u2019ll plank a croon on ony table\n Against a groat,\n To fin\u2019 my name you\u2019ll no\u2019 be able\n In a\u2019 the plot.\n\n Your mither, Eve, I kent her brawly;\n A dainty queen she was, and wally,\n But destitute o\u2019 prudence wholly,\n The witless hizzie,\n Aye bent on fun, and whiles on folly,\n And mischief busy.\n\n Her Father had a bonnie tree,\n The apples on\u2019t allured her e\u2019e;\n He warned her no\u2019 the fruit to pree,\n Nor clim\u2019 the wa\u2019,\n For if she did, she\u2019d surely dee,\n And leave it a\u2019.\n\n As for that famous serpent story,\n To lee I\u2019d baith be shamed and sorry,\n It\u2019s just a clever allegory,\n And weel writ doon;\n The wark o\u2019 an Egyptian Tory\u2014\n I kent the loon.\n\n Your tale o\u2019 Job, the man o\u2019 Uz,\n Wi\u2019 reekit claes, and reested guiz,\n My hornie hooves, and brockit phiz,\n Wi\u2019 ither clatter,\n Is maistly, after a\u2019 the bizz,\n A moonshine matter.\n\n Auld Job, I kent the carl right weel;\n An honest, decent, kintra chiel\u2019\n Wi\u2019 head to plan, and heart to feel,\n And haun\u2019 to gie\u2014\n He wadna wrang\u2019d the verra Deil\n A broon bawbee.\n\n The man was gay and weel to do,\n Had horse, and kye, and ousen, too,\n And sheep, and stots, and stirks enow\n To fill a byre;\n O\u2019 meat and claes, a\u2019 maistly new,\n His heart\u2019s desire.\n\n Forby he had within his dwellings\n Three winsome queans and five braw callans\n Ye wadna, in the hail braid Lallans,\n Hae fand their marrow,\n Were ye to search frae auld Tantallans\n To Braes o\u2019 Yarrow.\n\n It happened that three breekless bands\n O\u2019 caterans came frae distant lands,\n And took what fell amang their hands,\n O\u2019 sheep and duddies.\n Just like your reivin\u2019 Hielan\u2019 clans,\n Or Border bodies.\n\n I tell thee, Rab, I had nae share\n In a\u2019 the tulzie, here or there,\n I lookit on, I do declare,\n A mere spectator,\n Nor said, nor acted, less or mair,\n Aboot the matter.\n\n Job had a minstrel o\u2019 his ain,\n A genius rare, and somewhat vain\n Of rhyme and lear, but then again,\n Just like yersel\u2019,\n O\u2019 drink and lasses unco fain,\n The ne\u2019er-do-weel.\n\n He\u2019d sing o\u2019 lads and lasses fair,\n O\u2019 love, and hope, and mirk despair,\n And wond\u2019rous tales wad whiles prepare,\n And string together,\n For a\u2019 he wanted was a hair\n To mak\u2019 a tether.\n\n So with intention fully bent,\n My doings to misrepresent,\n That Book o\u2019 Job he did invent,\n And then his rhymes\n Got published, in Arabic prent,\n To suit the times.\n\n You poets, Rab, are a\u2019 the same,\n O\u2019 ilka kintra, age, and name,\n Nae matter what may be your aim,\n Or your intentions,\n Maist a\u2019 your characters of fame,\n Are pure inventions.\n\n Your dogs are baith debaters, rare,\n Wi\u2019 sense, galore, and some to spare,\n While e\u2019en the verra Brigs o\u2019 Ayr,\n Ye gar them quarrel\u2014\n Tak\u2019 Coila ben to deck your hair\n Wi\u2019 Scottish laurel.\n\n Yet, Robin, lad, for a\u2019 your spite,\n And taunts, and jeers, and wrangfu\u2019 wyte,\n I find, before you end your flyte,\n And wind yer pirn,\n Ye\u2019re nae sae cankered in the bite\n As in the girn.\n\n For when you think I\u2019m doomed to dwell,\n The lang for-ever-mair in hell,\n Ye come and bid a kind farewell\u2014\n And, guid be here,\n E\u2019en for the very Deil himsel\u2019,\n Let fa\u2019 a tear.\n\n And, Rab, I\u2019m just as wae for thee,\n As ever thou can\u2019st be for me,\n For less ye let the drink abee,\n I\u2019ll tak\u2019 my aith,\n Ye\u2019ll a\u2019 gang wrang, and, maybe, dee\n A drunkard\u2019s death.\n\n Sure as ye mourned the daisy\u2019s fate,\n That fate is thine, nae distant date,\n Stern Ruin\u2019s ploughshare drives elate,\n Full on thy bloom,\n And crushed beneath the furrow\u2019s weight\n May be thy doom.\n\nMuch more might be written under this heading, for of the humours of\nliving and recent poets I have scarcely dared to speak. Yea, of the\nhumours of those about whom one may write with perfect freedom, the half\nhas not been told; and to the bookish reader, I feel, the chapter will\nbe interesting as much for what it suggests as for what it contains.\n\nAs a last item, the following humorous \u201cdig\u201d at the rigid and narrow\nSabbatarianism of the early Dissenters, which has had a wonderful\nvitality\u2014living as it has done for generations, more in the memory\nof what we may call the \u201clong-headed\u201d order of the community than in\nprinted books\u2014will be enjoyed. Its authorship\u2014presumably a secret\nfrom the first\u2014is still unknown; and it has no history or interesting\nparticular other than is expressed by itself, further than this, that it\nis occasionally sung to a standard Psalm tune, under the old fashion of\n\u201creading the line,\u201d and, when so rendered, sounds inexpressibly droll:\u2014\n\n THE CAMERONIAN\u2019S CAT.\n\n There was an auld Seceder\u2019s cat\n Gaed hunting for a prey,\n And ben the house she catch\u2019d a mouse\n Upon the Sabbath day.\n\n The Whig, he being offended\n At such an act profane,\n Laid by the Book, the cat he took,\n And bound her in a chain.\n\n \u201cThou damned, thou cursed creature,\n This deed so dark with thee,\n Think\u2019st thou to bring to hell below\n My holy wife and me?\n\n \u201cAssure thyself that for the deed\n Thou blood for blood shall pay\n For killing of the Lord\u2019s own mouse\n Upon the Sabbath day.\u201d\n\n The presbyter laid by the Book,\n And earnestly he pray\u2019d\n That the great sin the cat had done\n Might not on him be laid.\n\n And straight to execution\n Poor pussy she was drawn,\n And high hang\u2019d up upon a tree\u2014\n The preacher sang a psalm.\n\n And when the work was ended,\n They thought the cat was dead,\n She gave a purr, and then a meow,\n And stretched out her head.\n\n \u201cThy name,\u201d said he, \u201cshall certainly\n A beacon still remain,\n A terror unto evil doers\n For evermore, Amen.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\u2019TWEEN BENCH AND BAR\u2014A CHAPTER OF LEGAL FACETI\u00c6\n\n\nThe Scottish Law Courts have been long and justly celebrated as an arena\nof wit and humour of the richest sort. But the facetious counsel and the\nwitty and eccentric judge, like the humorous and quaint divine, no longer\nprevail; and the current collector of the native legal faceti\u00e6 who would\npresent brilliant specimens and illustrations must riddle the records\nof past generations to find them, or else adopt the simpler method,\nwhich has been most frequently followed, of riddling the riddlings of\nthose who have successfully riddled the records before them. Despising\nneither of the courses indicated, I shall partially here pursue both;\nand, first of all, will turn to the _Memorials_ of the late Lord Henry\nCockburn, the most extraordinary passages of which perhaps are the\nwriter\u2019s memories of the law lords. Of Lords Braxfield, Eskgrove, Eldon,\nHermand, and Meadowbank, and others, most of whom he knew personally,\nCockburn tells some \u201cunco\u201d stories. And, surely, if we may express\nregret that the wit and humour of some of those are not inherited by\nthe present occupiers of the judicial bench, we may be very thankful\nthat the brutal severity which was practised by the first named is no\nlonger possible. Braxfield\u2019s maxim seems to have been, \u201cHang a thief\nwhen he\u2019s young and he\u2019ll no steal when he\u2019s auld.\u201d It may be doubted,\nsays Cockburn, if he was ever so much in his element as when tauntingly\nrepelling the last despairing claim of a wretched culprit, and sending\nhim to Botany Bay or the gallows with an insulting jest, over which he\nwould chuckle the more from observing that correct people were shocked.\nTo an eloquent culprit at the bar he once said\u2014\u201cYe\u2019re a vera clever\nchield, my man, but ye wad be nane the waur o\u2019 a hanging,\u201d and perhaps he\ngot it. \u201cLet them bring me prisoners and I\u2019ll find them law,\u201d used to be\nopenly stated as his suggestion when an intended political prosecution\nwas marred by anticipated difficulties. And Mr. Horner, the father of\nFrancis, who was one of the juniors in one Mair\u2019s case, told that when\nhe was passing the bench to get into the box, Braxfield, who knew him,\nwhispered, \u201cCome awa\u2019, Mr. Horner, come awa\u2019, and help us to hang ane o\u2019\nthae damned scoondrels.\u201d In another political case it was pled in defence\nthat \u201cChristianity was an innovation, and that all great men had been\nreformers, even our Saviour himself.\u201d \u201cMuckle He made o\u2019 that,\u201d chuckled\nBraxfield, in an under voice, \u201cHe was hangit.\u201d\n\nEskgrove succeeded Braxfield as the head of the Criminal Court, and\na more ludicrous personage surely never existed. \u201cHis face,\u201d says\nCockburn, \u201cvaried according to circumstances, from a scurfy red to\na scurfy blue; the nose was prodigious; the underlip enormous, and\nsupported by a huge, clumsy chin, which moved like the jaw of an\nexaggerated Dutch toy.\u201d When addressing a jury, if a name could be\npronounced in more ways than one he gave them all. Syllable he invariably\ncalled sylla-_bill_, and wherever a word ended with the letter \u201cg,\u201d\nthe letter was pronounced, and strongly so. And he was very fond of\nmeaningless successions of adjectives. The article \u201ca\u201d was generally\nmade into _one_; and a good man he would describe as \u201cone excellent, and\nworthy, and amiabill, and agreeabill, and very good man.\u201d Condemning a\ntailor to death for murdering a soldier by stabbing him, he addressed him\nthus:\u2014\u201cAnd not only did you murder him, whereby he was bereaved of his\nlife, but you did thrust, or push, or pierce, or project, or propell the\nle-thal weapon through the belly-band of his regimen-tal breeches, which\nwere his Ma-jes-ty\u2019s!\u201d\n\nIn the trial of Glengarry, for the murder of Sir Alexander Boswell in\na duel, a lady of great beauty was called as a witness. She came into\ncourt veiled. But before administering the oath, Eskgrove gave her this\nexposition of her duty in the situation: \u201cYoung woman, you will now\nconsider yourself as in the presence of Almighty God, and of this High\nCourt. Lift up your veil; throw off all modesty, and look me in the\nface.\u201d Having to condemn two or three persons to death who had broken\ninto a house at Luss, and assaulted Sir James Colquhoun and others, and\nrobbed them of a large sum of money, he first, as was his almost constant\npractice, explained the nature of the various crimes\u2014assault, robbery,\nand hamesucken\u2014of which last he gave them the etymology. He then reminded\nthem that they had attacked the house and the persons within it, and\nrobbed them, and then came to this climax\u2014\u201cAll this you did; and God\npreserve us! joost when they were setten doon to their denner!\u201d\n\nA common arrangement of his logic, when addressing juries, was\u2014\u201cAnd\nso, gentlemen, having shown you that the panell\u2019s argument is utterly\nimpossibill, I shall now proceed to shew you that it is extremely\nimprobabill.\u201d\n\nBrougham delighted to torment him. Retaliating, Eskgrove sneered at\nBrougham\u2019s eloquence by calling it, or him, _the Harangue_. In his\nsumming up he would say\u2014\u201cWell, gentlemen, and what did the Harangue\nsay next? Why, it said this\u2014\u2014.\u201d Candidly, however, he had to declare\nthat \u201cthat man Broom, or Broug-ham, was the torment of his life.\u201d Lord\nEskgrove, of course, was an unconscious humourist. So also in great\nmeasure was Lord Hermand. When _Guy Mannering_ was first published,\nHermand was so much delighted with the picture of the old Scottish\nlawyers in the novel that he could talk of nothing else but Pleydell and\nDandie Dinmont and High Jinks for many weeks. He usually carried a volume\nof the work about with him; and one morning on the bench his love for it\nso completely got the better of him that he lugged in the subject\u2014head\nand shoulders\u2014into the midst of a speech about a dry point of law.\nGetting warmer every moment he spoke of it, he at last plucked the volume\nfrom his pocket, and, in spite of the remonstrances of his brethren,\ninsisted upon reading aloud the whole passage for their edification. He\nwent through the task with his wonted vivacity, gave great effect to\nevery speech and most appropriate expression to every joke; and, when it\nwas done, the court had no difficulty in confessing that they had very\nseldom been so well entertained. During the whole scene, Mr. Walter Scott\nhimself was present, in his official capacity as Clerk of the Court of\nSession, and was seated close under the Judge.\n\nBefore Hermand was elevated to the bench, and was known among men as Mr.\nGeorge Fergusson, his addresses were delivered with such animation and\nintense earnestness that when it was known he was to speak the court was\nsure to be filled. His eagerness made him froth and splutter, and there\nis a story to the effect that, when he was pleading in the House of\nLords, the Duke of Gloucester, who was about fifty feet from the bar, and\nalways attended when \u201cMr. George Fergusson, the Scotch counsel,\u201d was to\nspeak, rose and said, with pretended gravity, \u201cI shall be much obliged to\nthe learned gentleman if he will be so good as to refrain from spitting\nin my face.\u201d\n\nHermand was very intimate at one time with Sir John Scott, afterwards\nLord Eldon. They were counsel together, says Cockburn, in Eldon\u2019s first\nimportant Scotch entail case in the House of Lords. Eldon was so much\nalarmed that he wrote his intended speech, and begged Hermand to dine\nwith him at a tavern, where he read the paper and asked him if it would\ndo.\n\n\u201cDo, sir? It is delightful, absolutely delightful! I could listen to it\nfor ever! It is so beautifully written and so beautifully read! But,\nsir, it is the greatest nonsense! It may do very well for an English\nChancellor; but it would disgrace a clerk with us.\u201d\n\nBacon\u2019s advice to judges is to \u201cdraw your law out of your books, not out\nof your brains.\u201d Hermand generally did neither. He occasionally showed\ngreat contempt for statute law, and would exclaim, \u201cA statute! What\u2019s\na statute? Words\u2014mere words! And am _I_ to be tied down by words? No,\nmy Laards, I go by the law of _right reason_, my Laards. I _feel_ my\nlaw\u2014_here_, my Laards\u201d\u2014striking his heart.\n\nDrinking, in this old fellow\u2019s estimation, was a virtue rather than a\nvice; and when speaking to a case where one Glasgow man was charged with\nstabbing another to the death in the course of a night\u2019s carousal, \u201cThey\nhad been carousing the whole night,\u201d exclaimed Hermand, \u201cand yet he\nstabbed him! After drinking a whole bottle of rum with him! Good God, my\nLaards, if he will do this when he\u2019s drunk, what will he not do when he\u2019s\nsober?\u201d\n\nWilliam Maconochie (Lord Meadowbank), was an able but curious man. Before\nhe spoke, Cockburn says, it would often have been a fair wager whether\nwhat he said would be reasonable or extravagant. All that was certain\nwas, that even his extravagance would be vigorous and original, and he\nhad more pleasure in inventing ingenious reasons for being wrong than\nin being quietly right. Sir Harry Moncrieff, who was present at his\nmarriage, told that the knot was tied about seven in the evening, and\nthat at a later hour the bridegroom disappeared, and on being sought for,\nwas found absorbed in the composition of a metaphysical essay on \u201cpains\nand penalties.\u201d\n\nThere has been no more famous legal notability in Scotland than John\nClerk of Eldin, afterwards Lord Eldin. When Meadowbank was yet Mr.\nMaconochie, he one day approached his facetious professional brother,\nClerk, and after telling him that he had prospects of being raised to the\nbench, asked him to suggest what title he should adopt.\n\n\u201cLord Preserve Us!\u201d said Clerk, and moved off.\n\nWhen pleading before the same learned senator, after he had assumed the\njudicial title of Lord Meadowbank, it was suggested to Clerk by his\nLordship that in the legal document which he had submitted to the Court\nhe might have varied the frequently recurring expression \u201calso,\u201d by the\noccasional use of \u201clikewise.\u201d\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon, my Lord,\u201d said Clerk, \u201cbut the terms are not always\nsynonymous.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn every case,\u201d retorted Meadowbank, gruffly.\n\nClerk still dissented.\n\n\u201cThen cite an instance,\u201d demanded the Judge.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d remarked Clerk, doubtless chuckling inwardly the while, \u201cyour\nLordship\u2019s father was a Judge of Session. You are a Judge of Session\n_also_, but not _likewise_.\u201d\n\nClerk\u2019s ready wit helped him well on many an occasion. In pleading, he\nfrequently dropped into broad Scotch, and once when arguing a Scotch\nappeal case before the House of Lords, in which his client claimed the\nuse of a mill-stream by a prescriptive right, he contended that \u201cthe\n_watter_ had run that way for forty years.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed,\u201d argued Clerk, \u201cnaebody kens how lang, and why should my client\nnow be deprived of the _watter_?\u201d etc.\n\nThe Chancellor, much amused at the pronunciation of the Scottish\nadvocate, in a rather bantering tone, asked\u2014\u201cMr. Clerk, do you spell\nwater in Scotland with two t\u2019s?\u201d\n\nNettled at this hit at his national tongue, Clerk immediately\nreplied\u2014\u201cNo, my Lord, we dinna spell _watter_ in Scotland wi\u2019 twa t\u2019s,\nbut we spell _manners_ in Scotland wi\u2019 twa n\u2019s.\u201d\n\nOn one occasion, when he had been pleading a case before Lord Hermand,\nalready mentioned, after he had finished and sat down to receive\njudgment, his Lordship took up the case rather warmly, and when in the\nheat of an excited harangue, the saliva from his lips was spurted in the\nface of the sarcastic advocate.\n\n\u201cI have often heard o\u2019 the dews o\u2019 Hermon,\u201d remarked Clerk, \u201cbut I never\nfelt them before.\u201d\n\nMr. James Wolfe-Murray became a Judge of the Court of Session, under the\ntitle of Lord Cringletie. When he was appointed, doubts were expressed by\nsome as to his legal acquirements, and Clerk expressed his view in the\nfollowing clever epigram:\u2014\n\n \u201cNecessity and Cringletie\n Are fitted to a tittle;\n Necessity has nae law,\n Cringletie has as little.\u201d\n\nWhen in his sixty-fifth year he was raised to the Bench, Clerk took the\ntitle of Lord Eldin, from his family estate. Some one remarked to him\nthat his title nearly resembled that of the Lord-Chancellor Eldon.\n\n\u201cThe difference,\u201d said he, \u201cis all in my eye (i).\u201d\n\nClerk had a halt in his gait, and when passing along on the street one\nday, he overheard a lady remark to a friend\u2014\u201cThat\u2019s John Clerk, the lame\nlawyer.\u201d\n\nHe was about in a minute.\n\n\u201cNo, madam,\u201d said he, \u201cI am a lame man, but not a lame lawyer.\u201d\n\nQuite right; _also_, but not _likewise_.\n\nAnother out-of-doors story in connection with this witty advocate refers\nto an occasion when he had been dining rather freely at the house of\na friend in Queen Street, Edinburgh. Wending his way homewards \u201cearly\nin the morning, merrily, O,\u201d he failed to discover his own house in\nPicardy Place, and observing a housemaid busily engaged in cleaning a\ndoorstep\u2014\u201cMy good girl,\u201d says he, \u201ccan you tell me whaur John Clerk\nlives?\u201d\n\n\u201cAwa\u2019 wi\u2019 yer nonsense,\u201d exclaimed the astonished girl, \u201cyou\u2019re John\nClerk himsel\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s true enough, lassie,\u201d said he, \u201cbut it\u2019s no John Clerk I\u2019m\nseekin\u2019 for, it\u2019s John Clerk\u2019s house.\u201d\n\nSir James Colquhoun, Bart. of Luss, Principal Clerk of Session, was one\nof the odd characters of his time, and was much teased by the wags of the\nParliament House. On one occasion, whilst Henry Erskine was at the Inner\nHouse Bar, during the advising of some important case he amused himself\nby making faces at Sir James, who was sitting at the Clerk\u2019s table,\nbeneath the Judges. His victim was much annoyed at the strange conduct of\nthe tormenting lawyer, and, unable to bear it, disturbed the gravity of\nthe Court by rising, and exclaiming\u2014\u201cMy Lord, my Lord, I wish you would\nspeak to Harry, he\u2019s aye making faces at me!\u201d\n\nHarry, however, looked as grave as a judge.\n\nPeace ensued, and the advising went on, when Sir James, casting his\neyes towards the Bar, witnessed a new grimace from his tormentor, and\nconvulsed Bench, Bar, and audience by roaring out, \u201cThere, my Lord, he\u2019s\nat it again!\u201d\n\nErskine was remarkable for his ready wit and stinging repartee. Like\nthe illustrious John Clerk of Eldin, he was indifferent to the rules of\npronunciation, and in pleading before a learned senator he spoke of a\n_curator bonis_.\n\n\u201cAllow me to correct you,\u201d said his Lordship, \u201cthe word is _curaator_.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, my Lord,\u201d said Erskine. \u201cI doubt not your Lordship is right,\nsince you are so learned a _senaator_, and so eloquent an _oraator_.\u201d\n\nMr. Erskine of Alva, subsequently Lord Bargaig, was a person of short\nstature. Having been counsel in a case in which Henry Erskine appeared\non the opposite side, he was obliged on account of the crowded state of\nthe court to have a chair brought forward on which to raise himself when\naddressing the judge.\n\n\u201cThis,\u201d remarked Henry, \u201cis one way of rising at the Bar.\u201d\n\nTo a Judge of the Commissary Court, who talked in an inflated and pompous\nmanner, who told him that his brother in the country had fallen from a\nstile and sprained his foot\u2014\n\n\u201cIt was fortunate for your brother,\u201d remarked Henry, \u201cthat it was not\nfrom your _style_ he fell, or he had certainly broken his neek.\u201d\n\nFor the foregoing anecdotes relating to this well-known witty lawyer, as\nwell as for the one that follows, I am indebted to the late Dr. Charles\nRogers\u2019 _Illustrations of Scottish Life_. On a change of ministry,\nErskine was appointed to succeed Harry Dundas (subsequently Lord\nMelville), as Lord-Advocate. On the morning of his appointment, he met\nDundas in the Parliament House, who had resumed the ordinary gown worn by\nall practitioners at the Scottish Bar, excepting the Lord-Advocate and\nthe Solicitor-General. After a little conversation, Erskine remarked that\nhe must be off to order his silk gown.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis not worth your while,\u201d said Dundas, \u201cfor the short time you\u2019ll want\nit; you had better borrow mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no doubt your gown,\u201d replied Erskine, \u201cis made to _fit any\nparty_; but however short may be my time in office, it shall not be\nsaid of Henry Erskine that he put on the _abandoned habits_ of his\npredecessor.\u201d\n\nThe late Lord Rutherford was a very able lawyer, but exceedingly affected\nin his manner and speech, and when addressing either the Bench or a jury\nspoke extra-superfine English. When, however, he broke out in a passion,\nwhich was by no means an unusual occurrence, he expressed his feelings in\nthe broad vernacular. Lord Cockburn said to him one day, \u201cIt is strange,\nRutherford, that you should pray in English and swear in Scotch.\u201d\n\nMr. Strang and Mr. Bruce were two members of the faculty in Parliament\nHouse, Edinburgh, who were nearly equally matched in cleverness, but\nmost unlike as to stature. Strang was quite an Anak in height, whilst\nBruce was so diminutive that he was facetiously known as \u201cZaccheus.\u201d When\nSheriff Barbour, of Inverness, was appointed a Lord of Session, under the\ntitle of Lord Skelton, he was naturally ignorant of the new members of\nthe bar in Parliament House, from which he had been away for twenty years.\n\nOn an early day after Lord Skelton began his duties in the Court\nof Session he was hearing a case in which Bruce appeared for the\nprosecution, while Strang had been retained for the defence. Bruce, duly\narrayed in wig and gown, the latter of which effectually hid his short\nlegs, was standing behind the Advocate\u2019s table, and had got under weigh\nin his opening remarks for the prosecution, when his Lordship interposed,\nwith the slightest manifestation of feeling\u2014\n\n\u201cIt is usual, Mr. Bruce, for an advocate to stand when he addresses the\nCourt.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am standing, my Lord,\u201d replied Bruce, deferentially.\n\n\u201cOh, I beg a thousand pardons!\u201d resumed Lord Skelton, feeling bitterly\nhis unfortunate remark, and bowing his head for a few minutes towards his\npapers.\n\nBruce continuing his opening address, his Lordship took courage and\nlooked up, when he saw at the other end of the bar the tall figure\nof Strang, towering up above his fellows. Thinking he had risen to\ninterpose some remark against the opposing counsel\u2019s speech, he hurriedly\nsaid\u2014\n\n\u201cKindly sit down, Mr. Strang; Mr. Bruce is before the Court just now. I\nshall gladly hear you afterwards.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am sitting, my Lord,\u201d explained Strang, to the utter discomfiture of\nthe astounded judge, and amidst the roars of laughter of all the members\nof the bar.\n\nIt was of these two able fellows that a waggish brother-barrister made\nthe impromptu epigram\u2014\n\n \u201cTo the heights of the law, though I hope you will rise,\n You will never be judges, I\u2019m sure of a(s)size.\u201d\n\nLawyers, like editors, have been frequently made the butt of the\nsatirist; but illustrations of their wit and humour, such as are here\ndeduced\u2014and they could be multiplied almost to any extent\u2014show how well\nable they have been to hold their own\u2014yea, to rout the enemy. Jeffrey was\nfrequently more than equal to the occasion. When addressing a jury in a\ncertain trial, he had occasion to speak freely of a military officer who\nwas a witness in the cause; and having frequently described him as \u201cthis\nsoldier,\u201d the witness, who was present, could not restrain himself, but\nstarted up, and called out\u2014\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t call me a soldier, sir; I am an officer!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, gentlemen of the jury,\u201d proceeded Jeffrey, \u201cthis officer who,\naccording to his own statement, is no soldier,\u201d etc.\n\nAnd what cause could the livelier of them not extract fun from? At a jury\ntrial in the town of Jedburgh, in which Moncrieff, Jeffrey, and Cockburn\nwere engaged as counsel, while the former was addressing the jury,\nJeffrey passed a slip of paper to Cockburn, with the following case for\nhis opinion:\u2014\n\n\u201cA legacy was lately left by an old lady to the _Peer_ of Aberdeen.\nAs the will was written by the Dowager herself, and by no means\ndistinguished for correctness of orthography or expression, a dispute\nhas arisen as to the intent of the testator; and the following claimants\nhave appeared for the legacy:\u20141st, the Earl of Aberdeen; 2nd, the\nCommissioners for erecting the pier at Aberdeen; and, 3rd, the Manager\nof the Charity Workhouse, who grounds his right on the fact that the old\nlady was in the habit, _more majorum_, of pronouncing poor _peer_. To\nwhich of the parties does the money belong?\u201d\n\nCockburn immediately wrote in answer\u2014\u201cTo none of the three; but to\nthe Horticultural Society of Scotland for the purpose of promoting\nthe culture of a sort of fruit called, or to be called, _the Pear of\nAberdeen_.\u201d\n\nMany humorous instances of attempts to evade the law, and successful\nand unsuccessful attempts to get the better of it, could be cited; but\nmost of them, of necessity, have been wicked as well as witty, and lie\nsomewhat outside of my subject. One or two, however, may be tolerated,\nand the first, which reveals a biter neatly bitten, will be enjoyed. A\ndealer having hired a horse to a lawyer, the latter, either through bad\nusage or by accident, killed the beast, upon which the hirer insisted\non payment of its value; and if it was not convenient to pay costs,\nhe expressed his willingness to accept a bill. The writer offered no\nobjection, but said he must be allowed a long date. The hirer desired him\nto fix his own time, whereupon the writer drew a promissory note, making\nit payable at the day of judgment. An action ensued, when, in defence,\nthe lawyer asked the judge to look at the bill.\n\nHaving done so the judge replied\u2014\n\n\u201cThe bill is perfectly good, sir; and, as this is the day of judgment, I\ndecree that you pay to-morrow.\u201d\n\nSteenie Stuart, a recently deceased and well-known inhabitant of a\npopulous northern burgh, got \u201croarin\u2019 fou\u2019 ilka pay nicht,\u201d and, in\nconsequence, had frequently to appear and answer for his sins at the bar\nof the Police Court. As he approached the rail with a leer of recognition\nand compromise in his eye one Monday morning, the magistrate hailed him\nwith \u201cHere again, Steenie?\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, ay, Bailie,\u201d Steenie replied.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 are you no ashamed o\u2019 yersel\u2019?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Deed, am I, Bailie; black ashamed.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen what brings ye here ilka ither week?\u201d\n\n\u201cDinna blame me, Bailie. I canna help it. There\u2019s a curse on the name.\u201d\n\n\u201cA curse on whatna name?\u201d\n\n\u201cOn my name, Bailie; on the name o\u2019 Stuart.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat d\u2019ye mean, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Stuarts, ye ken, ha\u2019e aye been unfortunate. James the First fell\nby the hands o\u2019 assassins in the toun o\u2019 Perth; James the Second was\nkilled at the siege o\u2019 Roxburgh Castle; James the Third was murdered by\nhis rebellious subjects; James the Fourth lost his life in the Battle o\u2019\nFlodden Field; James the Fifth died o\u2019 a broken heart; Mary, puir Mary,\nlost her head an\u2019 her croon baith thegether; Charlie had neither a head\nnor a croon to lose, or he wad ha\u2019e lost the ane or the ither, or baith.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, ay, Steenie,\u201d interjected the witty Bailie, \u201cthere\u2019s nae doot the\nStuarts have had a fatal habit o\u2019 losin\u2019 their heads an\u2019 their croons,\nbut yours is a case of an especially aggravated nature. They lost nae\nmair than a\u2019e croon and a\u2019e head each, but you ha\u2019e lost mair heads an\u2019\nmair croons than a\u2019 the lave putten thegether, for you lose yer head\nmaistly every Saturday nicht in Tam Johnstone\u2019s public house, an\u2019 yer\ncroon afore the Court here ilka Monday mornin\u2019. It\u2019ll no do, Steenie lad.\nIt\u2019ll no do. _Five shillings, or seven days._\u201d\n\nA Coupar-Angus man, not many years ago, was sued for debt in the Sheriff\nCourt at Perth, and on the day of the trial was met by a friend on the\nHigh Street of the Fair City.\n\n\u201cBy the by,\u201d said the friend, \u201cye\u2019ve a case in the Coort the day.\u201d\n\n\u201cHoch! it\u2019s owre an oor syne,\u201d was the reply.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 hoo cam\u2019 ye on?\u201d inquired the friend.\n\n\u201cI wan.\u201d\n\n\u201cYe wan!\u201d exclaimed the surprised interrogator, who knew that the debt\nwas a just enough one. \u201cHoo did ye manage to win?\u201d\n\n\u201cDaugon\u2019d!\u201d exclaimed the erewhile defendant, \u201cI couldna but win; the\nthing was left to my ain oath.\u201d\n\nSwearers, of course, who view the oath as a thing of expediency, as\nevidently that man did, come in handy about Courts of Law, and not very\nlong since, in the same Sheriff Court, a batch of witnesses \u201cswore\u201d\na young man so clearly out of a charge of assault that a party in\nCourt, who was subsequently to be called on a similar charge, was heard\nwhispering to a friend\u2014\u201cLord, Tam, I wad gie a pound for half an oor o\u2019\nthae witnesses.\u201d\n\nWitnesses are a widely various lot, and are often the source of much\namusement \u2019tween Bench and Bar. Great tact is required by the lawyer\nwho would get \u201cthe truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,\u201d\nout of some of them; and this sometimes, not because of any desire on\nthe witnesses\u2019 part to prevaricate, but from perfectly innocent causes.\nCockburn was exceedingly happy in the management of some of those who\nhailed from country places, and one case in which Jeffrey and he were\nengaged as counsel is memorable. A vital question in the cause was the\nsanity of one of the parties primarily concerned.\n\n\u201cIs the defendant, in your opinion, perfectly sane?\u201d said Jeffrey,\ninterrogating one of the witnesses, a plain, stupid-looking country man.\n\nThe witness gazed in bewilderment at the questioner, and gave no answer.\nJeffrey repeated the question, altering the words\u2014\n\n\u201cDo you think the defendant is perfectly capable of managing his own\naffairs?\u201d\n\nStill in vain.\n\n\u201cI ask you,\u201d said Jeffrey, \u201cdo you consider the man is perfectly\nrational?\u201d\n\nNo answer yet.\n\n\u201cLet _me_ tackle him,\u201d said Cockburn.\n\nJeffrey sat down, whereupon Cockburn assumed his broadest Scottish tone\nand accent, and turning to the obdurate witness, began\u2014\n\n\u201cHae ye your mull wi\u2019 ye?\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, ay!\u201d said the awkward countryman, and diving his hand into his coat\npocket he drew forth his snuff-horn and handed it over to the witty\ncounsel.\n\n\u201cNoo, hoo lang hae ye kent John Sampson?\u201d inquired Cockburn, tapping the\nmull familiarly with his finger, and taking a pinch.\n\n\u201cEver since he was that heicht,\u201d was the ready reply, the witness\nindicating with his hand the alleged altitude.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 d\u2019 ye really think noo, atween you an\u2019 me,\u201d said the advocate, in\nhis most insinuating Scotch manner, \u201cthat there\u2019s onything ava intill the\ncratur\u2019?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wadna lippen him wi\u2019 a bull-stirk,\u201d was the instant and brilliant\nrejoinder; and Jeffrey admitted that Cockburn had fairly extracted the\nessence of the evidence.\n\nCockburn, who entered the faculty in the year 1800, was in his day\nthe most eloquent and persuasive orator at the Scottish Bar. With his\nimpressive oratory, writes one, his expressive face and fine eye, his\nmellow voice, and his pure and homely Scottish dialect, he was almost\nirresistible with a jury, or in the General Assembly of the Church, where\nhe was often engaged as counsel. On the trial of the infamous Burke and\nhis wife, in 1829, for numerous murders of unfortunate creatures whom\nthey had lured into their den and murdered, and whose bodies they sold to\nthe Edinburgh doctors for dissection purposes, he acted as counsel for\nthe woman. The trial lasted till five in the morning of the second day,\nand after sixteen or seventeen hours\u2019 previous exertion, he addressed\nthe jury, in one of the most impassioned, and powerful speeches he ever\ndelivered. He spoke for an hour, and literally held the jury and the\naudience spell-bound. His chief aim was to break down the evidence of\nHare, and his wife, who were _socii criminis_, and had been admitted\nby the Crown as approvers. While the miserable woman was giving her\nevidence, she had a child in her arms, who continued to scream almost\nincessantly. After drawing, in scathing and terrible words, a picture of\nher and Hare\u2019s atrocities, whom he represented as the real criminals,\nhe ascribed the screaming of the child to terror, \u201cas if it had felt\nthe fingers of the murderous hag clutching its little innocent throat.\u201d\nHis peroration, delivered with a glistening eye, in tones of the utmost\nsolemnity and pathos, put it to the jury that there was no real evidence\nexcept that of the approvers, and that if they found the accused guilty\nupon such evidence as that of the two Hares, \u201cthese [pointing with a\ntremulous hand to the accused] will be murdered, and these [pointing to\nthe jury] will be perjured.\u201d Horrified as all in Court had been at the\nfearful atrocities disclosed on the trial, there was, when he sat down, a\nuniversal hum of sympathy from the large audience. His speech saved the\nwoman\u2019s life; for, while the jury found the man guilty, their verdict in\nthe case of the woman was \u201cnot proven.\u201d\n\nFor racy wit and humour Cockburn was equally distinguished as he was\nfor eloquence. On one occasion he was engaged in a case in which some\nmiscreant had ill-used and maimed a farmer\u2019s cattle by cutting off\ntheir tails. At the conclusion of a consultation, at which the farmer\nwas present, some conversation took place as to the disposal of the\nanimals. Turning to him, Cockburn said the cattle might now be sold, but\nthat he must be content to sell them wholesale, because he could not\n_retail_ them. On another occasion he was counsel for a man accused of a\ncapital crime, for which, if found guilty, the punishment was death. The\nevidence was quite conclusive as to the man\u2019s guilt. When the jury had\nretired to consider their verdict, his client roundly taxed him with not\nhaving done him justice in the defence. He bore the fellow\u2019s insolence\nfor some time, but at last he gave him the pithy reply\u2014\u201cKeep your mind\neasy, my worthy friend, you\u2019ll get _perfect justice_ about this time\nsix weeks\u201d\u2014six weeks being then the period allowed to elapse between a\nsentence of death and its execution.\n\nThat recalls a story told by Dr. Rogers concerning Sir John Hay, Bart.,\nat one time Sheriff-Substitute of Stirlingshire, and one of the most\nfacetious members of his order. Sir John had a habit, even when sitting\non the bench, of crooning, or whistling, in an undertone, one or other\nof the Scottish airs. A youthful panel was in his court, found guilty\nof an act of larceny, for which in those days a sentence of banishment\nmight be pronounced. After awarding him a sentence of imprisonment for a\nperiod, Sir John added, \u201cand take care you don\u2019t come here again, my man,\nor\u2014\u2014,\u201d and he closed the interview by humming the tune \u201cOwer the Water\nto Charlie,\u201d affording a gentle hint, which was no doubt well enough\nunderstood.\n\nThe Judges and Counsel engaged in our Scottish Law Courts, it has been\nseen, have been a peculiarly witty and entertaining set, and the same may\nbe said of some of the witnesses who have passed through their fingers.\nThe following examination, which took place in a question tried in 1817,\nin the Jury Court, between the Trustees on the Kinghorn Passage and the\ntown of Kirkcaldy, affords a striking illustration of the cannieness of\none.\n\nThe witness was called on the part of the trustees, and apparently full\nof their interest. The counsel having heard that the man had got the\npresent of a coat from the clerk to the trustees before coming to attend\nthe trial, thought proper to interrogate him on that point; as, by\nproving this, it would have the effect of completely setting aside his\ntestimony. The examination was as follows:\u2014\n\n\u201cPray, where did you get that coat?\u201d\n\nThe witness (looking obliquely down on the sleeve of his coat, and from\nthence to the counsel), with a mixture of effrontery and confusion,\nexclaimed\u2014\n\n\u201cCoat, coat, sir! Whare got I that coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish to know where you got that coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cMaybe ye ken whare I got it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; but we wish to know from whom you got it?\u201d\n\n\u201cDid ye gi\u2019e me that coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cTell the jury where you got that coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your business wi\u2019 that?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is material that you tell the court where you got that coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no obleeged to tell about my coat.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you not recollect whether you bought that coat, or whether it was\ngiven to you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI canna recollect everything about my coats\u2014whan I get them, or whare I\nget them.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou said you remembered perfectly well about the boats forty-two years\nago, and the people that lived at Kirkcaldy then, and John More\u2019s boat;\nand can you not recollect where you got that coat you have on at present?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no gaun to say onything about coats.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid Mr. Douglas, clerk to the trustees, give you that coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cHoo do you ken onything about that?\u201d\n\n\u201cI ask you, did Mr. Douglas, clerk to the trustees, give you that coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no bound to answer that question, but merely to tell the truth.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you won\u2019t tell where you got that coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cI didna get the coat to do onything wrang for\u2019t; I didna engage to say\nonything that wasna true.\u201d\n\nThe Lord Chief Commissioner, when the witness was going out of the box,\ncalled him back and observed, \u201cThe Court wish to know from you something\nfarther about this coat. It is not believed or suspected that you got\nit improperly or dishonestly, or that there is any reason for your\nconcealing it. You may have been disinclined to speak about it, thinking\nthat there was something of insult or reproach in the question put from\nthe bar. You must be sensible that the bench can have no such intention:\nand it is for your credit, and the sake of your testimony, to disclose\nfairly where you got it. There may be discredit in concealing, but none\nin telling where you got it.\n\n\u201cWhere did you get the coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no obleeged to tell about my coat.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, you are not obliged to tell where you got it, but it is for your\nown credit to tell.\u201d\n\n\u201cI didna come here to tell about coats, but to tell about boats and\npinnaces.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you do not tell, I must throw aside your evidence altogether.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no gaun to say onything about my coat; I\u2019m no obleeged to say\nonything about it.\u201d\n\nWitness went away, and was called back by Lord Gillies.\n\n\u201cHow long have you had that coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cI dinna ken how lang I ha\u2019e had my coat. I ha\u2019e plenty o\u2019 coats. I dinna\nmind about this coat or that coat.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you remember anything near the time: have you had it a year, a month,\nor a week? Have you had it a week?\u201d\n\n\u201cHoot, ay, I daresay I may.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you had it a month?\u201d\n\n\u201cI dinna ken: I cam\u2019 here to speak about boats, and no about coats.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you buy the coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cI dinna mind what coat I bought, or what coat I got.\u201d\n\nThe upshot of it was, that their lordships were forced to reject the\nevidence of the witness.\n\nYour city and burgh magistrates, too, by the sublime naturalness with\nwhich they \u201copen their mouth and put their foot in it,\u201d have afforded\nmuch fun to the world. A boy being brought before a newly-installed West\ncountry bailie for stealing a turnip, he sentenced him to seven days\u2019\nimprisonment, adding, in profoundly solemn tones, \u201cAnd may the Lord have\nmercy on your soul.\u201d\n\nA Glasgow magistrate had a young lad brought before him accused with\nabstracting a handkerchief from a gentleman\u2019s pocket. Without waiting for\nproof of the accused\u2019s guilt, the bailie addressed him, remarking, \u201cI\nha\u2019e nae doot but ye did the deed, for I had a handkerchief ta\u2019en oot o\u2019\nmy ain pouch this vera week,\u201d and passed sentence.\n\nThe same magisterial logician was on another occasion seated on the\nbench, when a case of serious assault was brought before him by the\npublic prosecutor. Struck by the powerful phraseology of the indictment,\nthe bailie proceeded to say, \u201cFor this malicious crime you are fined\nhalf a guinea.\u201d The assessor remarked that the case had not been proven.\n\u201cThen,\u201d continued the magistrate, \u201cwe\u2019ll mak\u2019 it five shillings.\u201d\n\nAn unfortunate fellow, many years ago, appeared at the bar of the Glasgow\nPolice Court for being drunk and disorderly. Both the culprit and the\nbailie were characters in their way. The case was conclusively proved,\nand the bailie fined the man in fifteen shillings.\n\n\u201cFifteen shillin\u2019s!\u201d exclaimed the man. \u201cBailie, you\u2019re surely no\u2019 in\nearnest! Bless ye! whan will I win fifteen shillin\u2019s to gie ye!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said the bailie, \u201cI\u2019ll make it half a guinea, and not a farthing\nless.\u201d\n\n\u201cHauf a guinea! If ye fine me in hauf a guinea what\u2019s to come o\u2019 my puir\nwife an\u2019 weans? They maun starve; there\u2019s nae ither way o\u2019t!\u201d returned\nthe offender, in a most lugubrious tone. \u201cAy, we maun a\u2019 starve, or beg!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said the bailie, relenting, \u201cI\u2019ll make it seven and six, and not\na farthing less!\u201d\n\n\u201cSeeven an\u2019 six! That\u2019s just the hauf o\u2019 my week\u2019s wages\u2014and there\u2019s\nno\u2019 a grain o\u2019 meal in the hoose, nor a bit coal to mak\u2019 it ready, even\nsupposin\u2019 there was! Oh, bailie, think what an awfu\u2019 lot seven an\u2019 six is\nto a workin\u2019 man wi\u2019 a sma\u2019 family!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d returned the good-natured magistrate, \u201cI\u2019ll make it five\nshillings, and I\u2019ll not make it a farthing less though you were the king\non the throne!\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, weel, bailie, Mary an\u2019 me an\u2019 the weans maun just submit,\u201d said\nthe knave, pretending to have broken into tears, at the same time saying\nto himself, \u201cBlessed is he that wisely doth the poor man\u2019s case consider.\u201d\n\nThe soft-hearted bailie couldn\u2019t stand the silent appeal of tears nor the\napt quotation the artful dodger had made, so, gathering together all the\npoor stock of savage energy he possessed, he turned on the prisoner, and\nsaid\u2014\n\n\u201cLook here! I\u2019ll mak\u2019 it hauf a crown, and though you were ma ain brither\nI couldna mak\u2019 it less!\u201d\n\nBailie Robertson of Edinburgh had not the advantage of an early\neducation, nor the prudence to conceal his ignorance. A case was brought\nbefore him, in which the owner of a squirrel presented a claim of damages\nagainst a person who had it in charge, but who had allowed it to escape.\nThe case was one of great complication, and the bailie was rather at a\nloss for a time. At length, collecting his faculties, he said to the\ndefendant, \u201cHoo did it manage to get awa\u2019?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe door o\u2019 the cage was open, and it gaed oot through the window,\u201d was\nthe reply.\n\n\u201cThen, hoo did you no\u2019 clip its wings?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a quadruped, your honour,\u201d said the defendant.\n\n\u201cQuadruped here, or quadruped there,\u201d argued the magistrate, \u201cif ye\nhad clippit the brute\u2019s wings it couldna hae flown awa\u2019. I maun decide\nagainst ye.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nHUMOURS OF SCOTTISH RURAL LIFE\n\n\nAffording better opportunities for the development of individual\ncharacter than are to be found in the busy town and crowded city,\ncountry life is more congenial also to the growth and exercise of the\nfaculty of original humour. In the denser populations information on\nevery intelligible subject is so readily accessible through the medium\nof books, magazines, morning and evening newspapers, and courses of\nlectures, etc., that it is not incumbent on any one to form his or her\nown idea of any particular matter. Ideas here are supplied ready-made,\nlike everything else, and warranted free from adulteration; and thus your\ncity and townspeople see very generally eye to eye; and from frequency of\ncontact with each other, and the causes already indicated, are forcibly\nrubbed into something like a general mental, as well as physical,\nsimilitude.\n\nIn the rural districts of the country it is altogether different. Books\nare scarce, daily newspapers rarely appear, there are no courses of\nscientific or other lectures, and so the individual mind has largely to\nform its own idea of every particular subject; and as very much of what\nis most enjoyable in humorous Scottish stories and anecdotes arises from\n\u201csimple and matter-of-fact references made to circumstances which are\nunusual,\u201d thus it is that the best as well as the most of our Scottish\nhumour is bred of rural life. Every book of native anecdotes\u2014every bout\nof story-telling\u2014reveals this fact. And in the present chapter I shall\nrecount, irrespective of consecutive order and design, the choicest\nillustrations of the humours of Scottish rural life which have not\nalready appeared in these pages, and with which my memory shall serve\nme, committing them to paper simply as they rise in my mind. And, just\nto set the ball a-rolling, let the first story relate to the first day\nof the week, and be one that to some extent contrasts the town with the\ncountry notion as to the proper observance of the day of rest. It is a\nstory which Mr. Henry Irving told, and did not tell well, some years\nago, in the course of an after-dinner speech in (I think) New York, and\nwhich, with questionable propriety, he related as having happened in\nhis own experience whilst, shortly before, he had been journeying in\nthe vicinity of Balmoral, although it had been told in pithier form in\nselect circles in Scotland for ten years and more. The story is to this\neffect:\u2014A well-known and esteemed city Established Kirk minister, in\nthe course of a summer vacation in the North, was prevailed upon by a\nbrother clergyman a little distance off to occupy his pulpit for a day,\nduring his, the local preacher\u2019s, peremptory call from home. The service\nconsisted of a \u201csingle yokin\u2019,\u201d which ended a little after mid-day,\nand the weather being fine, the D.D., for he was such, when he had\n\u201ccuisten the goon\u201d and refreshed the inner man, took his familiar staff\nin his hand and emerged from the manse to enjoy a stroll along the quiet\ncountry road. A few hundred yards distant from the manse gate he passed\na little farm steading on the roadside, the abode of the ruling elder\nof the congregation, and one of the sternest Calvinists and strictest\nSabbatarians in the whole parish, but had hardly done so when he heard\nfootsteps behind him, and the next moment an arresting hand was laid on\nhis shoulder.\n\n\u201cYe\u2019ll excuse me, sir,\u201d said the farmer and elder, \u201cbut ye\u2019re the\nEdinborough minister that was preachin\u2019 to us the day, an\u2019 I would like\nto ken if ye\u2019re walkin\u2019 oot the gate for mere pleasure on the blessed\nday, or if ye\u2019re on a mission o\u2019 mercy?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, it\u2019s a delightful afternoon,\u201d replied the divine, \u201cand I am just\nenjoying a meditative walk amid the beauties of Nature, so rich and\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cI just suspectit as muckle,\u201d broke in the elder; \u201cbut you that\u2019s a\nminister o\u2019 the Gospel sud ken that this is no a day for ony sic thing.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d returned the Doctor, \u201cwe find good precedent for walking on the\nSabbath. You remember that even the Master himself walked in the fields\nwith His disciples on the Sabbath day.\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, I ken a\u2019 aboot that brawly,\u201d snorted the elder; \u201cbut I dinna think\nony mair o\u2019 _Him_ for\u2019t either!\u201d and immediately turning on his heel, he\nstrode sulkily towards the steading.\n\nBut, of course, the ministers are more commonly the accusers than the\naccused in the matter of supposed or actual Sabbath desecration\u2014both in\ntown and country.\n\n\u201cWherefore did you go and shoot the hare on the Sabbath day, John?\u201d asked\na reverend gentleman once of a parishioner who was \u201cbefore the Session\u201d\nfor the misdeed in question.\n\n\u201cWeel, ye see,\u201d replied John, not unphilosophically, \u201cI had a strong\ndreed that the beastie michtna sit till Monday, say just dressed his\ndrodrum when I had the chance.\u201d\n\nBut a certain minister and elder in Perthshire once combined to transact\ndubious business, even \u201cbetween the preachin\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cHad it not been the Sabbath day, Mr. Blank,\u201d remarked the preacher, \u201cI\nwould have asked you how the hay was selling in Perth on Friday?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, sir,\u201d replied the sessional _confrere_, \u201chad it no been the day\nthat it is, I wad just hae tell\u2019t ye it was gaun at a shillin\u2019 the stane.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed! Well, had it been Monday instead of Sabbath, I would have told\nyou that I have some to sell.\u201d\n\n\u201cImphm, ay, ou ay, sir. An\u2019 had it been Monday, as ye say, then, I wad\njust hae tell\u2019t ye I wad gie ye market price for\u2019t.\u201d\n\nThe significant nod which the minister gave to this last remark brought\nthe elder with a couple of carts to the manse on Monday morning, and\nbefore mid-day the minister\u2019s hay-stack was _non est_.\n\nThese fellows were wise as serpents, though scarcely as innocent as doves.\n\nThe Dumfries old lady who was accustomed to employ the wet Sundays\nin arranging her wardrobe had less cunning. \u201cPreserve me!\u201d she would\nexclaim, \u201canother gude Sabbath! I dinna ken whan I\u2019m to get thae drawers\nredd up.\u201d\n\nDr. Guthrie says \u201cour ancestors might have been too scrupulous. I don\u2019t\nsay they did not fall into glaring inconsistencies\u201d in connection with\nSabbath observance, and tells a story of his going to preach for a\nclerical friend in Ross-shire. Before retiring to rest on Saturday night,\nhe asked his friend if he could get warm water in the morning to shave\nwith.\n\n\u201cWheesht! wheesht!\u201d returned his host. \u201cSpeak of shaving on the Lord\u2019s\nday in Ross-shire, and you need never preach here again.\u201d\n\nAnd yet at the same time, in the same locality, a little warm water\nand whisky would have been supplied on the self-same morning without\nquestion, being regarded as a work of necessity and mercy.\n\nSpeaking of necessity and mercy. It is Dr. Guthrie also, I think, who\ntells of a maid-servant who refused to feed the cows on the Sabbath,\nalthough she was willing to milk them. The explanation being, \u201cThe cows\ncanna milk themsel\u2019s, so to _milk_ them is a clear work o\u2019 necessity,\nbut let them out to the fields and they\u2019ll _feed_ themsel\u2019s weel\nenough.\u201d And speaking of milking reminds me of a good country story. It\nis a native of Glenisla, in Forfarshire, and belongs to the time when\nMatthew Henry\u2019s famous Bible Commentary was the apple of every leal\nScotsman\u2019s eye. One Geordie Scott, thereaway, was so fain to possess a\ncopy of \u201cMatthew Henry,\u201d as this Bible was long familiarly termed, that\nhe suggested to his wife (the two lived alone together) that they might\nsell the cow and purchase one with the price she would realise. The wife\ndemurred at first, but latterly consented, with one proviso\u2014namely, that\nGeordie would be willing to take \u201ctreacle ale\u201d to his porridge every\nmorning. This the good man at once agreed to. So crummie departed, and\n\u201cMatthew Henry\u201d arrived. A few weeks passed, and the big ha\u2019 Bible gave\ngreat delight, but the \u201ctreacle ale\u201d was like to turn Geordie\u2019s stamach\na\u2019thegither.\n\n\u201cDod, wife,\u201d said he one morning, \u201cI doot that treacle ale\u2019s no gaun to\ndo wi\u2019 me, we\u2019ll need to try an\u2019 get a wee drap milk to the parritch.\nWhat do ye think?\u201d\n\nJanet had been missing her troke with the cow, and was rueing that she\nhad consented to the \u201cniffer.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Deed, gudeman,\u201d says she, \u201ca bargain\u2019s a bargain. An\u2019 gin ye will hae\nmilk, an\u2019 winna want it, ye maun just gang an\u2019 milk \u2018Matthew Henry.\u2019\u201d\n\nYour rural Scot is reflective and argumentative to a degree.\n\n\u201cDinna tell me,\u201d said a sapient Forfarshire laird of the old school,\n\u201cdinna tell me that the earth\u2019s shaped like an orange, an\u2019 that it whirls\nroond aboot ilka twenty-four \u2019oors. It\u2019s a\u2019 nonsense. The Seidlaw Hills\nlie to the North and the Tay to the Sooth at nicht when I gang to my\nbed; i\u2019 the mornin\u2019 when I rise I find them the same; an\u2019 that\u2019s gude\nproof that the earth disna turn roond. I\u2019ll tell ye what it is\u2014an\u2019 I\nspeak wi\u2019 authority of ane wha\u2019s gi\u2019en the maitter a deal o\u2019 thocht\u2014the\nearth\u2019s spread oot just like a muckle barley scone, in which the Howe o\u2019\nStrathmore represents a knuckle mark.\u201d\n\nReflective, I said. Very! And the ordinary Scotch farmer\u2019s love of gain\nis proverbial. Life in his eyes is valuable chiefly as a season in which\nto make money. Thus, not very long ago, while about half a dozen farmers\nwere returning home by train from the Perth weekly market, they talked\nabout how this friend and that friend was in his health; and about some\nothers who had died recently, and how much money each of them must have\nleft.\n\n\u201cAy, but men dinna live nearly sae lang nooadays as they did in the Bible\ntimes!\u201d remarked one, with a heavy sigh.\n\n\u201cEh, man, na,\u201d broke in another, who had hitherto not spoken. \u201cAn\u2019 I was\njust thinkin\u2019 there to mysel\u2019 a minute syne, that Methuselah must have\nbeen worth a power o\u2019 money when he dee\u2019d, if he was onything o\u2019 a savin\u2019\nkind o\u2019 a man ava.\u201d\n\nWaggish some of them, and wild not a few. There are many rare good\nfellows among the farmers of Perthshire; genuine humourists, too. Here\nwas how one of them proposed the toast of \u201cThe Queen\u201d at a recent Cattle\nShow dinner. He was Chairman, and, \u201cNoo, gentlemen,\u201d said he, \u201cfill a\u2019\nyour glasses, for I\u2019m aboot to bring forrit \u2018The Queen.\u2019 (Applause.)\nOur Queen, gentlemen, is really a wonderfu\u2019 woman, if I may say it.\nShe\u2019s ane o\u2019 the gude auld sort; nae whigmaleeries or falderalls aboot\nher, but a douce, daicent bodie. Respectable, beyond a\u2019 doot. She\u2019s\nbrocht up a grand family o\u2019 weel-faur\u2019d lads and lasses\u2014her auldest\nson wad be a credit to ony mither; and they\u2019re a\u2019 weel married\u2014a\u2019e\ndauchter is nae less than married to the Duke o\u2019 Argyle\u2019s son and heir.\n(Cheers.) Gentlemen, ye\u2019ll maybe no believe it, but I ance saw the Queen.\n(Sensation.) I did. It was when I took my auld broon coo to the Perth\nShow. I mind o\u2019 her weel\u2014sic colour! sic hair! sic\u2014\u2014(Interruptions,\nand cries of \u201cIs it the coo or the Queen ye\u2019re proposin\u2019?\u201d) The Queen,\ngentlemen. I beg your pardon, but I was talkin\u2019 aboot the coo. Hooever,\nas to the Queen; somebody pointed her out to me at the Perth station. And\nthere she was, smart and tidy-like; and says I to mysel\u2019, \u2018Gin my auld\nwoman at hame slips awa\u2019 ye needna remain a widow anither hour langer.\u2019\n(Cheers.) Noo, gentlemen, the whisky\u2019s gude, the nicht\u2019s lang, the\nweather\u2019s weet, and the roads are saft and will harm naebody that comes\nto grief. So aff wi\u2019 ye; every gless to the boddom\u2014\u2018The Queen!\u2019\u201d\n\nMany forces in Nature and circumstances in life conspire to disturb\nthe peace of the farmer. Amongst them\u2014trespassers. But, if he is a man\nof resource, he may summon a species of artillery that will \u201chold the\nfield\u201d against all comers. It is told of one in the South that, while\nsome members of the Ordnance Survey were plodding here and there through\ngrowing grain and everything else on his farm, and perhaps more than was\nnecessary, just to irritate the farmer, who, they had learned, was a\ncrusty customer. They had not man\u0153uvred long when the farmer approached.\n\n\u201cWhat are ye dancin\u2019 aboot there for?\u201d he demanded.\n\n\u201cOh, we have a right to go anywhere,\u201d returned one of the company. \u201cWe\nare surveying, and here are our Government papers.\u201d\n\n\u201cPapers here or papers there,\u201d returned the farmer, \u201coot ye gang oot o\u2019\nmy field.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, we shan\u2019t,\u201d was the reply; \u201cand, remember, you are rendering\nyourself liable to prosecution for interrupting us.\u201d\n\nThe farmer said no more; but going over to a shed which opened into the\nfield, and at the time chanced to contain a vicious bull, he gently\nopened the door and stood aside. The bull no sooner saw the red coats\nthan he, of course, rushed at them in full career. The surveyors snatched\nup their theodolite and ran for their lives, while the old farmer held\nhis sides with laughter, and yelled after them\u2014\u201cWhat are ye a\u2019 rinnin\u2019\nfor? Can ye no show him yer Government papers?\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cWhat are ye a\u2019 rinnin\u2019 for? Can ye no show him yer\nGovernment papers?\u201d\u2014_Page 322._]\n\nSpeaking of trespassing, I am reminded of a story which reveals how\nready-witted the rural inhabitants can sometimes be. One day, many years\nago, Willie Craig, a Perthshire village worthy, found himself in the near\nvicinity of Scone Palace, and by cutting through the woods there he would\nreach his destination much sooner than by holding to the public road. The\nold Earl of Mansfield could never distinguish between a trespasser and a\npoacher, and Willie knew this, and that if he was seen he would, at the\nvery least, be turned back. Still the nearer road was so tempting that he\nventured it, trusting his own ready wit to cope with the vigilance of the\nterror-striking game-preserver. All went well until about three-fourths\nof the forbidden ground had been traversed, when, lo and behold, the Earl\nappeared. Willie, alert to every sight and sound, eyed the Earl ere the\nEarl had time to eye him, so instantly turned on his heel and commenced\nto retrace his steps.\n\n\u201cHi, sir!\u201d cried the Earl, \u201cwhere are you going?\u201d\n\nWillie snooved along and made no reply.\n\n\u201cHalt, sir!\u201d cried the Earl, rushing up to where Willie was; \u201cturn this\nmoment, and go back the way you came.\u201d\n\nWillie meekly and instantly obeyed. He had not gone many paces when the\nEarl, straining a point in favour of so pliable a culprit, again stopped\nhim and said he might go for this time. Willie hesitated for a moment,\nbut, mastering the situation with one bright idea, he quickened his step,\nand, glancing over his shoulder, retorted with energy\u2014\n\n\u201cNa, na, my lord; ye\u2019ve turned me ance, but ye\u2019ll never turn me twice.\nI\u2019ll lat ye see, noo, that I\u2019m just as independent as ye\u2019re fit to be.\u201d\n\nSpeaking of Perthshire worthies reminds me of another characteristic\nstory. A thrifty middle-aged crofter of that ilk, until a year or two\nago, lived a life of easy bachelorhood, his only domestic companion\nbeing an antiquated maiden sister. About the period indicated, however,\nfollowing the example of the majority of his sex, he took unto himself\na wife, whom he brought home to reside together with his sister and\nhimself. \u201cTwa women is ane ower mony in ony house,\u201d says the proverb,\nand this instance proved no exception. The new-comer soon made the\nsituation so hot for her sister-in-law that the crofter perceived that\na reconstruction of his household was instantly necessary. He was equal\nto the occasion; the wife was dismissed _sans ceremonie_. On being\ninterrogated by a neighbour on the policy of his action, Peter made reply\u2014\n\n\u201cWas I gaun, think ye, to hae my sister abused by a woman that isna a\ndrap\u2019s bluid to ony o\u2019 the twa o\u2019 us?\u201d\n\nVery good! And Peter\u2019s philosophic reply brings vividly before me the\ncharacteristic figure of honest Tammas Broon, a well-known denizen of\na small Perthshire village. Tammas had little or no idea of things\nhumorous; yet, as if by the inspiration of accident, he was continually\npassing remarks and answering questions in language and manner the most\nprovocative of laughter. One day a Free Church minister\u2014now of world-wide\nfame\u2014was passing along while Tammas was busily engaged at the thatching\nof a stack in his own little barn-yard, and snatching readily at the\ncircumstance as a means to the improvement of the moment, the divine\ncalled out\u2014\n\n\u201cYou are thatching, I see, Thomas. Do you think you will require to do\nany such work in the future existence?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all, sir,\u201d was the instant and innocent rejoiner; \u201cthis is only\nto hold out _water_.\u201d\n\nTammas\u2019s daughter, rumour said, at one time was about to marry with a\nyoung man of the village of whose family Tammas did not approve. Village\ngossips are active creatures, and the spirit, if not the exact letter, of\nTammas\u2019s dissent was early conveyed to the young man\u2019s mother, a bit of\na randy. The result was a forced meeting on the king\u2019s highway, when the\nenraged matron demanded to know if Tammas had ever said that _her_ son\nwasna a match for _his_ dochter?\n\n\u201cI never said such a thing, lady,\u201d Tammas replied coolly, \u201cI simply\nremarked that he was a hawk out of a bad nest.\u201d And the matter ended.\n\nTo be called \u201cFifish\u201d is not a compliment, but there is much pawky humour\nin the typical Fife character. Here is a specimen:\u2014Recently a tattered\nson of Orpheus attached to the end of a tin whistle penetrated the land\nas far as Kingsbarns, in the East Neuk. Entering at one end, he whistled\nhimself right out at the other, without receiving a copper. As he passed\nthe last door he turned towards an old native who sat sunning himself on\na low dyke. \u201cMan,\u201d said he, \u201cI havena got a farden in the hale toon.\u201d\n\n\u201cNa, I\u2019m no thinking ye wad,\u201d replied the ancient Fifer; \u201cye see, we do\na\u2019 our ain whistlin\u2019 here.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cMan, I havena got a farden in the hale toon.\u201d \u201cNa, I\u2019m no\nthinking ye wad; ye see, we do a\u2019 our ain whistlin\u2019 here.\u201d\u2014_Page 325._]\n\nEvery one who has seen much of country life has noticed with what patient\nskill and anxiety a ploughman builds, say, a load of hay or straw which\nhe is afterwards to cart to the town, and the pride there is in his eye\nas he marches with it along the road, guiding his pair of horses with\ncheering words and gentle touches of the reins. Not many years ago a\nPerthshire ploughman was proceeding in the manner indicated when, in a\nnarrow part of the road, he was met by a hearse and a funeral party on\nfoot behind it. On either side of the road was a deep ditch, and it was\nat once evident that every inch of room would be required to effect a\nsafe passage. The funeral party were, very naturally, most concerned\nabout the safety of the hearse, and not less than half a dozen voices\nkept assailing the ploughman with \u201cHaud t\u2019ye! haud t\u2019ye! haud t\u2019ye!\u201d The\nploughman held to him, and held to him, and still being implored to yield\nfurther, he held to him just an inch too far, and heels-over-head the\nhorses and cartload of hay went into the ditch. Jock viewed the wreck for\none brief moment, then, turning to those around him, he exclaimed, \u201cYe\nsee what ye\u2019ve dune noo wi\u2019 yer _d\u2014d\u2014dawmed_ burial.\u201d\n\nThere is room for the play of humour sometimes on the occasion of a\n\u201ccoupit cart.\u201d One day a country lad approached a man who was ploughing\nin a field near the highway, and said\u2014\n\n\u201cOd man, I\u2019ve coupit my cart.\u201d\n\n\u201cCoupit yer cart! That\u2019s a peety, man. Whaur is\u2019t, and what had ye on\u2019t?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s doon on the road yonder, an\u2019 it was laden wi\u2019 hay. Do you think you\ncould come an\u2019 help me to lift it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, I canna leave my horses in the middle o\u2019 the field, but as sune as\nI get doon to the end o\u2019 the furr\u2019, I\u2019ll come an\u2019 help ye.\u201d\n\n\u201cMan, div ye no think ye can come i\u2019 the noo?\u201d he asked, scratching his\nhead.\n\n\u201cNo; ye see weel eneuch I canna come i\u2019 the noo.\u201d\n\n\u201cAweel,\u201d he said, in a tone of resignation, \u201cI maun just wait then, but\nit would have suited better if ye could have come i\u2019 the noo, for the\nhanged thing is, my\u2014my\u2014faither\u2019s below\u2019t!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cMan, div ye no think ye can come i\u2019 the noo?\u201d \u201cNo; ye\nsee weel eneuch I canna come i\u2019 the noo.\u201d \u201cAweel,\u201d he said, in a tone of\nresignation, \u201cI maun just wait, then, but it would have suited better if\nye could have come i\u2019 the noo, for the hanged thing is, my\u2014my\u2014faither\u2019s\nbelow\u2019t!\u201d\u2014_Page 326._]\n\nI said _burial_ a minute ago, and the word recalls a little story\nrevealing much dry humour. A country cottar lay, as was evident, on\nhis death-bed. His wife, true and faithful, sat on a chair by his side\nknitting a stocking, and ready to minister to his wants. Through the\nhalf-open door of the sickroom the dying man could see into the kitchen,\nfrom the roof of which there was suspended a nice fresh stump of bacon\nham. \u201cMarg\u2019et,\u201d he said, by and by, \u201cthere\u2019s a nice bit of ham hangin\u2019 in\nthe kitchen roof, if ye wad fry a slice o\u2019 that, woman, I think I could\ntak\u2019 it.\u201d\n\nThe ham had evidently not been expected to meet John\u2019s eye, and the\nrequest disconcerted Marg\u2019et.\n\n\u201cEh, John,\u201d she replied \u201cthere\u2019s few things in the warld I cud bear to\nrefuse ye, but I canna brak\u2019 on that bit ham. _It\u2019ll tak\u2019 it a\u2019 to ser\u2019\nthe fouk at the funeral._\u201d\n\nA farmer not far from Coupar-Angus happened to go into the bothy and\nseeing all his men sitting by the fire doing nothing, he said he would\nbring them some books to read. On going back some weeks after he saw\nhis books lying up on a shelf with about an inch of dust on them, and\nhe asked if they had been reading them. One of the ploughmen said they\nhadn\u2019t much time, and he said he would take them back then, and did so.\nAfter he had gone one of the men said, \u201cDoes the eediot think we will\nwirk his wark and read his books for the same siller?\u201d\n\nThat is humour of the unconscious type. The next illustration belongs to\nthe other class, and is quite as fresh, being as a matter of fact only\na few months old. A Glasgow dignitary, with a very fine handle to his\nname, was recently rusticating in Western Perthshire; and expressing the\ndesire to his host to know at first hand the feeling of the rural mind\non the subject of Disestablishment, he was taken to the nearest roadside\nsmithy and introduced to the smith. On being interrogated on the matter,\nthe smith\u2019s reply was, \u201cO\u2019d, sir, I dinna ken verra weel what to say\naboot it. This Kirk affair seems to me a\u2019thegither just like a bee\u2019s skep\nthat\u2019s cuisten twa or three times. First there was the Anti-Burgher, or\nauld Licht, hive that cam aff. Syne there was the Seceders, or U.P.\u2019s, as\nye ca\u2019 them. Then there was the Free hive. An\u2019 noo, because it\u2019s no like\nto cast ony mair, they wad fain hae us to start an\u2019 smeek the auld skep\u2014a\ngey ungratefu\u2019 like piece o\u2019 wark.\u201d\n\nThere is an old proverb which says\u2014\u201cFules shudna use chappin\u2019-sticks,\nnor weavers guns.\u201d Drawing an inference therefrom, townspeople should be\ncareful how they express themselves on country affairs to a country-bred\nperson.\n\nAfter the late Lord Cockburn had become proprietor of Bonaly, at the foot\nof the Pentland Hills, he was sitting on the hillside with his shepherd\none day, and observing the sheep reposing in the coldest situation, he\nremarked\u2014\n\n\u201cJohn, if I were a sheep, I would lie on the other side of the hill.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, my Lord,\u201d said the shepherd, \u201cbut if ye was a sheep, ye wad hae mair\nsense.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cJohn, if I were a sheep, I would lie on the other side\nof the hill.\u201d \u201cAh,\u201d said the shepherd, \u201cbut if ye was a sheep, ye wad hae\nmair sense.\u201d\u2014_Page 328._]\n\nLord Rutherford, having entered into conversation with a shepherd on\nthe Pentland Hills one day, complained bitterly of the weather, which\nprevented him enjoying his visit to the country. In specially forcible\nlanguage he denounced the mist, and expressed his wonder how, or for what\npurpose, an East wind was created.\n\nThe shepherd, a tall, grim figure, turned round sharply upon him, and\u2014\n\n\u201cWhat ails ye at the mist, sir?\u201d he said. \u201cIt wats the sod, it slockens\nthe yowes, and,\u201d adding with much solemnity, \u201c_it\u2019s God\u2019s wull_,\u201d he\nturned away with lofty indignation.\n\nLord Rutherford used to repeat this with much candour as a fine specimen\nof rebuke from a sincere and simple mind.\n\nFine-spun theories and a high-falutin form of address may be wasted\nenergy when applied to your ordinary rural inhabitant; but, even when his\nignorance comes out, it is frequently seen in the garb of humour.\n\nWhen Dr. Johnson was travelling in Scotland, he came up one day to a\npeasant who was busily engaged cutting turf, _i.e._\u2014_casting divots_.\n\n\u201cPray, sir,\u201d inquired the lexicographer, \u201ccan you point out the way to\nthe most contiguous village, for we are dreadfully fatigued, having\ndeviated from our road these two hours?\u201d\n\n\u201cTired wi\u2019 _divoting_ twa hours!\u201d exclaimed the rustic, with scornful\nsurprise. \u201cI have been _divoting_ here since four o\u2019clock this morning,\nand maun do sae as lang as I can see, tired or no.\u201d\n\nA burly Clydesdale farmer visiting Glasgow a number of years since,\nentered a chemist\u2019s shop to purchase a quantity of salts and senna for\ndomestic purposes, and found the man of drugs\u2014a bit of a wag\u2014busily\nengaged with a galvanic battery. The farmer looked on for some time at\nthe operations of the chemist, and, his curiosity becoming aroused\u2014\n\n\u201cWhat kind o\u2019 a machine do ye ca\u2019 that, maister?\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cOh, man, that\u2019s the new patent machine for sawin\u2019 turnips,\u201d was the\nreply.\n\n\u201cFor sawin\u2019 neeps!\u201d cried the astonished son of the soil. \u201cHoo dis\u2019t\nwork?\u201d\n\n\u201cTake hold of the handles,\u201d said the chemist, \u201cand I\u2019ll show you.\u201d\n\nNo sooner had he taken hold of the handles than the chemist set the thing\nin motion. In less than a minute the farmer was dancing and howling in\nthe most dreadful manner.\n\n\u201cThrow the handles on the counter, man,\u201d cried the chemist.\n\nThis the farmer was, of course, unable to do.\n\nAt length he cried, \u201cWoa! woa! man! Dod, it\u2019s perfect murder haudin\u2019 that\nthing.\u201d\n\nThe chemist then stopped the current of electricity; and as soon as he\nwas released the farmer rushed from the shop, shouting, \u201cBy the Lord\nHarry, I\u2019ll stick to the auld-fashioned barrow yet!\u201d\n\nAt a sale of an antiquarian gentleman\u2019s effects in Roxburghshire, which\nSir Walter Scott happened to attend, there was one little article\u2014a Roman\npatera\u2014which occasioned a good deal of competition, and was eventually\nknocked down to the author of _Waverley_ at a high price. Sir Walter was\nexcessively amused during the time of the bidding to observe how much the\nprice being realized was exciting the astonishment of an old woman who\nhad evidently come there to buy culinary utensils on a more economical\nprinciple. When the sale of the article was affected\u2014\u201cLord, bless me,\u201d\nshe exclaimed, \u201cif the _parritch pan_ gangs at that, what will the _kail\npat_ gang for?\u201d\n\nWhen, some years ago, an old woman in Perthshire had occasion for the\nfirst time in her life to make a journey by rail, she hied to the nearest\nstation and demanded a ticket.\n\n\u201c_First_ or _third_?\u201d inquired the clerk.\n\n\u201cOh, a first ane,\u201d said she, \u201cfor I\u2019m in an awfu\u2019 hurry, an\u2019 wad like to\nbe hame again afore it\u2019s dark.\u201d\n\nBurns prayed that the deil might \u201ctak a thocht an\u2019 mend.\u201d \u201cJanet, \u2019oman,\u201d\nsaid a Perthshire cottager to his wife, \u201cd\u2019ye ken, I was prayin\u2019 last\nnicht that the deil micht dee.\u201d\n\n\u201cDinna fash doin\u2019 onything o\u2019 the kind again, then,\u201d replied Janet. \u201cI\u2019m\nthinking we micht get a waur ane.\u201d\n\n\u201cHoo\u2019s yer mither the day?\u201d was once asked of a country laddie.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s nae better,\u201d was the reply; \u201cbut there\u2019s waur than that, the coo\u2019s\nturned ill this mornin\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m thinkin\u2019, Nanny,\u201d said an aged country cottager to his faithful\nspouse, one day, while he lay in bed contemplating his end, \u201cI\u2019m thinkin\u2019\nit canna be lang noo. I feel as if this very nicht the end wad come.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, gudeman,\u201d said Nanny, in the most pensive tones. \u201cIf it were the\nLord\u2019s will it wad be rale convenient, for the coo\u2019s gaun to calve, and I\ndinna weel see hoo I\u2019m to be able to attend to you baith.\u201d\n\nDr. Alexander Fraser, of Aberdeen, was a homely and somewhat gruff but\nskilful physician. Among his patients was a sturdy country wife of the\nworking class order, who had, upon very slight pretence, as Fraser felt\nsatisfied, taken into her head that she was unwell\u2014indeed, \u201cwas just\ndwynin\u2019 awa,\u201d as she herself phrased it. \u201cAnd fat could he do for her?\u201d\n\nThe doctor did not feel called upon to search the pharmacop\u0153ia very\ndeeply, and asked if she thought she could eat a herring.\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d she said, \u201cI rather like them.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel,\u201d said he, \u201cye canna do better than haud tichtly at them.\u201d\n\nOn his next visit the patient was asked if she had felt herself equal to\ncarrying out the prescription.\n\n\u201cOu ay.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 how many herrin\u2019 did you contrive to eat?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, sir, I managed eleven.\u201d\n\n\u201cEleven! indeed; that is quite as many as I expected. How did you manage\nthem?\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, they were rather strong, sir,\u201d replied the patient, \u201cbut I just\nconquered them wi\u2019 bread.\u201d\n\nI have heard of another country wife in the North who was \u201csairly fashed\nwi\u2019 her stamach.\u201d \u201cEh,\u201d said she, \u201cthe time was when I could hae ta\u2019en a\nharl o\u2019 onything that was gaun, but noo, gin I sud eat a bittie o\u2019 bawcon\nto my dinner twice the buik o\u2019 yer steekit neive, sorra\u2019s in me, but I\u2019ll\nhae the ruft o\u2019t the hale aifternoon.\u201d\n\nMr. Inglis, in his book, _Our Ain Folk_, tells a story of a grand\ndinner that was given inside the ruins of Edzell Castle in honour of\nFox Maule, who had succeeded his father, Lord Panmure. Sandie Eggo, a\nsmall landowner from Glenesk, had got seated between two burly farmers,\nwho were too much taken up cracking their own jokes to heed the meek,\nshrinking Sandie, who, starving with hunger, could not attract the\nattention of any of the busy waiters. Dish after dish was whipped away\nfrom the table without his tasting it; and though he had paid a guinea\nfor his ticket, he sat unnoticed and unattended to. At length, in\ndesperation he seized a spoon and attacked a dish in front of him, which\nturned out to be mashed turnips, on which he gorged himself. By and by\nMr. Inglis, the minister, met Sandie in the grounds, and asked how he\nenjoyed the grand dinner.\n\n\u201cGraund denner!\u201d growled Sandie; \u201cye can ca\u2019t graund if ye like; but I\ncan only say the fodder\u2019s michty dear at ane an\u2019 twenty guid shillin\u2019s\nfor a wheen chappit neeps no fit to set doon to a stirk.\u201d\n\nThe same banquet gave rise to another story concerning a sheep farmer\nfrom Lethnot. He was a hard-headed man, and could stand any amount\nof whisky at a market fair without \u201cturning a hair,\u201d but a banquet\nfairly bambaized him. He had got among some lawyers, who were drinking\nchampagne, and looking with the utmost contempt on the potency of the\n\u201cthin fizzin\u2019 stuff,\u201d he quaffed bumpers of it at every toast. Some\ntime after Mr. Inglis came upon him at another table covered with toddy\ntumblers and whisky bottles, and arrived at that state of intoxication\nknown as \u201cgreetin\u2019 fou.\u201d On the minister inquiring what was the matter\nwith the poor man, he replied, weeping copious tears\u2014\n\n\u201cAh, Maister Inglis, I\u2019m failin\u2019; I\u2019m failin\u2019 fast. I\u2019m no lang for this\nwarl\u2019!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, nonsense,\u201d said the minister, \u201cdon\u2019t be foolish! You look hale and\nhearty yet. You just try to get away home.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m clean dune, sir! I\u2019m clean failed,\u201d persisted the lachrymose farmer,\nwith intense pathos. \u201cAs fac\u2019s death, sir, I\u2019ve only haen aucht tumblers,\nand I\u2019m fou, sir\u2014I\u2019m fou!\u201d\n\nThe Carlyles were a country-bred family, and the country roadman\u2019s\ncriticism of them would have made \u201cTeufelsdr\u00f6ckh\u201d laugh as only readers\nof _Sartor_ know how. \u201cI ken them a\u2019,\u201d said he. \u201cJock\u2019s a doctor aboot\nLondon. Tam\u2019s a harem-scarem kind o\u2019 chiel\u2019, an\u2019 wreats books, an\u2019 that.\nBut Jamie\u2014yon\u2019s his farm you see ower yonder\u2014Jamie\u2019s the man o\u2019 that\nfamily, an\u2019 I\u2019m proud to say I ken him. Jamie Carlyle, sir, feeds the\nbest swine that come into Dumfries market.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cI ken them a\u2019. Jock\u2019s a doctor aboot London. Tam\u2019s a\nharem-scarem kind o\u2019 chiel\u2019, an\u2019 wreats books, an\u2019 that. But Jamie\u2014yon\u2019s\nhis farm ye see ower yonder\u2014Jamie\u2019s the man o\u2019 that family, an\u2019 I\u2019m proud\nto say I ken him. Jamie Carlyle, sir, feeds the best swine that come into\nDumfries market.\u201d\u2014_Page 335._]\n\nHe was a country boy\u2014the son of the village blacksmith\u2014who, when he\njoined the evening singing class at the schoolhouse, and the precentor\nasked him if he had an ear for music, replied, \u201cI dinna ken, but ye can\ntak\u2019 a cawnil an\u2019 look.\u201d\n\nLove has been described in rural phraseology as \u201ca yeukieness o\u2019 the\nheart that the hand canna claw.\u201d\n\nIt was a country lass who defined it as \u201cjust an unco fykieness i\u2019 the\nmind.\u201d It is very often, alas! nothing more. Another declared that\nunsalted porridge\u2014\u201cwersh parritch\u201d\u2014\u201cjust tasted like a kiss frae a body\nye dinna like.\u201d It was a country wife who said to Dr. Chalmers, in answer\nto the question if she knew what was meant by _believing_, \u201cOu, ay; it\u2019s\njust to _lippen_, sir.\u201d\n\nAny apt illustrations and choice examples of the humours of Scottish\nrural life might be multiplied to almost any extent. Only one or two\nmore here, however, and first, one of Sir Walter Scott\u2019s, which should\nconvey a lesson to those who cater for cheap compliments. A jolly dame,\nsays Scott, who, not \u201csixty years since,\u201d kept the principal caravansary\nat Greenlaw, in Berwickshire, had the honour to receive under her roof\na very worthy clergyman, with three sons of the same profession, each\nhaving a cure of souls. Be it said, in passing, none of this reverend\nparty were reckoned very powerful in the pulpit. After dinner was over,\nthe worthy senior, in the pride of his heart, asked Mrs. Buchan, the\nlandlady, whether she ever had had such a party in her house before.\n\n\u201cHere sit I,\u201d said he, \u201ca placed minister in the Kirk of Scotland, and\nhere sit my three sons, each a placed minister of the same Kirk. Confess,\nLucky Buchan, you never had such a party in your house before.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, sir,\u201d replied Lucky Buchan, \u201cI canna just say that I ever had\nsuch a party in my house before, except ance in the forty-five, when I\nhad a Highland piper here and his three sons, a\u2019 Highland pipers, and the\ndeil a spring could they play amang them!\u201d\n\nThe simplicity of rural love-making, to unsuccessful as well as\nsuccessful issues, has found illustration in many a humorous tale of\nScottish life and character, but seldom with truer naivete than in the\nsubjoined narrative of Betty\u2019s courtship and marriage, from the pen of\nan unknown author. It first appeared in an Edinburgh newspaper many\nyears ago, and afforded the ground plan of the late Alexander M\u2019Laggan\u2019s\npopular and really clever song, \u201cTibby and the Laird.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome noo, Betty,\u201d said an acquaintance, \u201can\u2019 gie me a sketch, an\u2019 tell\nme a\u2019 about your courtship an\u2019 marriage, for we dinna ken what\u2019s afore\nus, an\u2019 I may have a chance mysel\u2019 yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cDeed,\u201d says Betty, \u201cthere\u2019s was little about it ava\u2019. Our maister was\nawa\u2019 at the fair a\u2019e day, sellin\u2019 the lambs, an\u2019 it was gey late afore\nhe cam hame. Our maister very seldom stays late, ony place, for he\u2019s a\ndouce man as can be. Weel, ye see, he was mair hearty than I had seen\nhim for a lang time, but I opine he had a gude market for his lambs, and\nthere\u2019s room for excuse when ane drives a gude bargain. Indeed, to tell\nye the even-doun truth, he had rather better that a wee drap in his e\u2019e.\nIt was my usual to sit up till he cam\u2019 hame, when he was awa\u2019. When he\ncam\u2019 in that nicht an\u2019 gied up stairs he fand his supper ready for him.\nAn\u2019 \u2018Betty,\u2019 says he, \u2018what\u2019s been gaun on the day?\u2014A\u2019s richt, I houp?\u2019\n\u2018Ou, ay, sir!\u2019 says I. \u2018Very weel, very weel,\u2019 says he, in his ain canny\nway, an\u2019 gae me a clap on the shouther an\u2019 said I was a gude lassie.\nWhen I had telt him a\u2019 that had been dune through the day, just as I aye\ndid, he gae me anither clap on the shouther, an\u2019 said he was a fortunate\nman to hae sic a carefu\u2019 person about the house. I never had heard him\nsay sae muckle to my face afore, though he had aften said mair ahent my\nback. I really thocht he was fey. When he had got his supper finished, he\nbegan to be very jokey ways, an\u2019 said that I wasna only a gude but I was\na bonnie lassie. I ken that fouks arena themsel\u2019s when they have a dram,\nan\u2019 say rather mair than they wad do if they were sober, sae I cam\u2019 awa\u2019\ndoun into the kitchen\u2014Na, the maister never offered to kiss me; he was\nower modest a man for that.\n\n\u201cTwa or three days after, our maister cam\u2019 into the kitchen. \u2018Betty,\u2019\nsays he. \u2018Sir,\u2019 says I. \u2018Betty,\u2019 says he, \u2018come upstairs; I want to speak\nto ye,\u2019 says he. \u2018Very weel, sir,\u2019 says I. Sae I went upstairs after him,\nthinking a\u2019 the road that he was gaun to tell me something aboot the\nfeedin\u2019 o\u2019 the swine, or something like that. But when he tellt me to sit\ndoun, I saw there was something serious, for he never bid me sit doun\nafore but ance, an\u2019 that was whan he was gaun to Glasgow Fair. \u2018Betty,\u2019\nsays he, \u2018ye ha\u2019e been lang a servant to me,\u2019 says he, \u2018an\u2019 a gude an\u2019\nan honest servant. Since ye\u2019re sae gude a servant, I aften think ye\u2019ll\nmak\u2019 a better wife. Ha\u2019e ye ony objections to be a wife, Betty?\u2019 says he.\n\u2018I dinna ken, sir,\u2019 says I; \u2018a body canna just say hoo they wad like a\nbargain until they see the article.\u2019 \u2018Weel, Betty,\u2019 says he, \u2018ye\u2019re very\nricht there again. I ha\u2019e had ye for a servant these fifteen years, an\u2019\nI never knew that I could find faut wi\u2019 ye for onything. Ye\u2019re carefu\u2019,\nhonest, an\u2019 attentive. And\u2014\u2014\u2019 \u2018Oh, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018ye aye paid me for\u2019t,\nan\u2019 it was only my duty.\u2019 \u2018Weel, weel,\u2019 says he, \u2018Betty, that\u2019s true;\nbut then I mean to mak\u2019 amends to ye for the evil speculation that Tibby\nLangtongue raised about you an\u2019 me, an\u2019 forby\u2014the world are taking the\nsame liberty; sae, to stop a\u2019 their mouths you an\u2019 I sall be married.\u2019\n\u2018Very weel, sir,\u2019 says I; for what could I say?\n\n\u201cOur maister looks into the kitchen anither day, an\u2019 says, \u2018Betty,\u2019 says\nhe. \u2018Sir,\u2019 says I. \u2018Betty,\u2019 says he, \u2018I\u2019m gaun to gie in our names to be\ncried in the kirk, this and next Sabbath.\u2019 \u2018Very weel, sir,\u2019 says I.\n\n\u201cAbout anither eight days after this, our maister says to me, \u2018Betty,\u2019\nsays he. \u2018Sir,\u2019 says I. \u2018Betty,\u2019 says he, I think we\u2019ll ha\u2019e the waddin\u2019\nput owre neist Friday, if ye ha\u2019e nae objections.\u2019 \u2018Very weel, sir,\u2019 says\nI. \u2018An\u2019 ye\u2019ll tak\u2019 the grey yad, an\u2019 gang to the toun on Monday, an\u2019 get\nyour bits o\u2019 waddin\u2019 braws. I ha\u2019e spoken to Mr. Cheap, the draper, an\u2019\nye can tak\u2019 aff onything ye want, an\u2019 please yoursel\u2019, for I canna get\nawa\u2019 that day.\u2019 \u2018Very weel, sir,\u2019 says I.\n\n\u201cSae I gaed awa\u2019 to the toun on Monday, an\u2019 bought some wee bits\no\u2019 things; but I had plenty o\u2019 claes, an\u2019 I couldna think o\u2019 bein\u2019\nextravagant. I took them to the manty-maker to get made.\n\n\u201cOn Thursday nicht our maister says to me\u2014\u2018Betty,\u2019 says he. \u2018Sir,\u2019\nsays I. \u2018The morn is our waddin\u2019-day,\u2019 says he; \u2018an\u2019 ye maun see that\na\u2019 thing\u2019s prepared for the denner,\u2019 says he, \u2018an\u2019 see everything dune\nyoursel\u2019, says he; \u2018for I expect some company, an\u2019 wad like to see\na\u2019thing feat an\u2019 tidy, an\u2019 in your ain way,\u2019 says he. \u2018Very weel, sir,\u2019\nsays I. Sae I got everything in readiness.\n\n\u201cOn Friday mornin\u2019 our maister says to me, \u2018Betty,\u2019 says he. \u2018Sir,\u2019 says\nI. \u2018Betty,\u2019 says he, \u2018gang awa\u2019 an\u2019 get yoursel\u2019 dressed,\u2019 says he. \u2018For\nthe company will sune be here, an\u2019 ye maun be decent. An\u2019 ye maun stay in\nthe room upstairs,\u2019 says he, \u2018until ye\u2019re sent for,\u2019 says he. \u2018Very weel,\nsir,\u2019 says I. But there was sic a great deal to do, an\u2019 sae many grand\ndishes to prepare for the denner, to the company, that I couldna get\nawa\u2019, an\u2019 the hale fouk were come afore I got mysel\u2019 dressed.\n\n\u201cOur maister cam\u2019 dounstairs an\u2019 tell\u2019t me to go up that instant an\u2019\ndress mysel\u2019, for the minister was just comin\u2019 doun the loan. Sae I\nwas obleeged to leave everything to the rest o\u2019 the servants, an\u2019 gang\nupstairs an\u2019 put on my claes.\n\n\u201cWhen I was wanted, Mr. Brown o\u2019 the Hazelybrae cam\u2019 an\u2019 took me into the\nroom amang a\u2019 the grand fouk an\u2019 the minister. I was maist like to fent,\nfor I never saw sae mony grand fouk thegether a\u2019 my born days afore, an\u2019\nI didna ken whaur to look. At last our maister took me by the hand, an\u2019 I\nwas greatly relieved. The minister said a great deal to us, but I canna\nmind muckle o\u2019t; an\u2019 then he said a prayer. After this I thocht I should\nhae been worried wi\u2019 fouk kissin\u2019 me; mony ane shook hands wi\u2019 me I had\nnever seen afore, an\u2019 wished me much joy.\n\n\u201cAfter the ceremony was owre, I slippit awa\u2019 doun into the kitchen again\namang the lave o\u2019 the servants, to see if the denner was a\u2019 richt. But in\na maument\u2019s time, our maister cam\u2019 into the kitchen, an\u2019 says\u2014\u2018Betty,\u2019\nsays he. \u2018Sir,\u2019 says I. \u2018Betty,\u2019 says he, \u2018ye maun consider that ye\u2019re\nnae langer my servant, but my wife,\u2019 says he, \u2018an\u2019 therefore ye must come\nupstairs an\u2019 sit amang the rest o\u2019 the company,\u2019 says he. \u2018Very weel,\nsir,\u2019 says I. Sae what could I do but gang upstairs to the lave o\u2019 the\ncompany, an\u2019 sit doun amang them? Sae, Jean, that was a\u2019 that was about\nmy courtship an\u2019 marriage.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nHUMOURS OF SCOTTISH SUPERSTITION\n\n\nIt is consistent with the earnestness of the Scottish character that, so\nlong as the light of intelligence was but feebly diffused in the land,\nthere should be a strong tendency towards superstitious imagining in\nthe minds of the people. For superstitious notions, be it noted, have\nnot been wont to spring so much out of _listless_ as out of _restless_\nignorance. Each notion and theory they embrace, however wild and wide\nof the mark, has been a guess at the truth. In the dim days of the\nMiddle Ages, ere yet the sunshine of science had lit the hilltops of our\ncountry, whatsoever came within the living experience of the people,\nand was not palpable to sense, was readily attributed to supernatural\nagency, good or bad\u2014generally the latter. Thus it was that the heavens\nabove, and the earth beneath, and even the waters under the earth, became\npeopled with fairies, brownies, hobgoblins, waterkelpies, warlocks,\nghosts, and witches. The powers attributed to these\u2014each monster and\nspirit in its place\u2014afforded to the popular mind an explanation of\nwhat, in the circumstances, was otherwise inexplainable, and thus,\nso long as ignorance abounded, superstition did much more abound. As\nthe world has grown older the people have, happily, grown wiser. The\ngrosser superstitions of Scotland have entirely disappeared. No living\nmortal outside of Bedlam, nowadays, believes in witches\u2019 cantrips\u2014that\nghosts walk the earth\u2014or that fairies dance beneath the dim light of the\nmoon. No; and the stories of faerie machinations, and of warlocks and\nwitches, which our great-grandmothers related, in the light of the \u201coilie\ncruizie,\u201d to the wide-mouthed horror and bewilderment of our youthful\ngrandfathers and grandmothers, would excite the youth of the present\ngeneration only to laughter. While saying that the grosser superstitions\nare gone, however, it must be admitted that some of the milder forms of\nsuperstitious belief\u2014such as \u201cfreits\u201d and omens\u2014still find acceptance\namong us. \u201cMarry in May, an\u2019 ye\u2019ll rue\u2019t for aye,\u201d says an old \u201cfreit\u201d;\nand an examination of the Registrar\u2019s books, in town and country, will\nreveal that, comparatively, very few have the temerity yet to defy the\nill-favoured prediction. It is an old \u201cfreit\u201d that when children are\nbrought to church for baptism, if the females receive sprinkling before\nthe males, the latter will grow up effeminate, and the former will\ndevelop beards; and not very long ago I witnessed myself in a city church\na rather unseemly scramble by a parent to have his boy brought to the\nfront in preference to a neighbour\u2019s girl. It is not half a dozen years\nsince a friend of mine in the West of Scotland was advised to pass her\nchildren through below a donkey\u2019s belly to cure them of whooping-cough.\nThe night howling of a dog is still believed by many to betoken the\nearly demise of some person in the near neighbourhood of that in which\nit occurs. \u201cDream o\u2019 the dead and you\u2019ll get news o\u2019 the livin\u2019,\u201d is\na prediction one may hear vented almost any day yet. The practice of\n\u201cfirst-footing\u201d at New Year time is a remnant of superstition; as is\nalso the practice, still adhered to in country districts, of throwing a\n\u201cbauchle\u201d at the heels of a bride as she is quitting her father\u2019s and\nmother\u2019s house. An old rhyme has come down embracing a number of omens,\nthus\u2014\n\n \u201cWest wind to the bairn when gaun for its name,\n Rain to the corpse carried to its lang hame;\n A bonnie blue sky to welcome the bride\n As she gangs to the kirk wi\u2019 the sun on her side.\u201d\n\nAnd better confidence is inspired in many when the conditions of each\ncase are favourably meted out.\n\nBut to get at the broader humours of superstition, we have to go back a\nhundred years or more, when the broader superstitions were in vogue; when\nfortune-tellers and dealers in incantations plied a roaring trade\u2014when\nthe devil\u2014not figuratively, but really\u2014went about like a roaring lion\nseeking whom he might devour; and when\u2014\n\n \u201c\u2014\u2014guidly folks gat many a fricht\n When the mune was set an\u2019 the stars ga\u2019e nae licht,\n At the roarin\u2019 linn in the howe o\u2019 the nicht,\n Wi\u2019 soughs like Aiken Drum.\u201d\n\nOne\u2019s journey through life was fairly beset with supernatural agents,\nexcitements, and influences. Much, indeed, depended on what day in the\nweek one made his or her \u201cfirst appearance on any stage,\u201d for, as that\nday was lucky or unlucky, so would their life be. Thus it was rhymed and\nwritten:\u2014\n\n \u201cMonday\u2019s bairn is fair o\u2019 face,\n Tuesday\u2019s bairn is fu\u2019 o\u2019 grace,\n Wednesday\u2019s bairn\u2019s the child of woe,\n Thursday\u2019s bairn has far to go,\n Friday\u2019s bairn is loving and giving,\n Saturday\u2019s bairn maun work for its living,\n But the bairn that\u2019s born on the Sabbath day\n Is lucky, and bonnie, and wise, and gay.\u201d\n\nDuring the period of infancy\u2014particularly, prior to receiving the\nsacrament of baptism\u2014the utmost watchfulness had to be maintained lest\nthe fairies should steal away a healthy child and leave a weakly infant\nof their own in its stead. A fairy child, it seemed, when it fell\nill could be restored to health only by human milk. When there was a\nsuspicion that a substitution of the kind had been effected\u2014and this\nwas jaloused if a child became extra fractious\u2014a common and effectual\ntest was to hold the youngster over the fire. If it was a changeling\nit would disappear up the lum with a \u201cpuff.\u201d If not, it would remain,\nperhaps to be burned, and be more fractious than before. Still there\nwas satisfaction if it stood the test. Various superstitious rites\nwere practised by the skilly wives to prevent catastrophe. The child\nimmediately after birth might be turned three times contrary to the\ncourse of the sun. The bed containing the mother and child might be\ndrawn to the centre of the floor, where the nurse would wave an open\nBible over them three times\u2014once for each person in the Holy Trinity\u2014and\nadjure the evil spirits, by the name of all that was sacred, to depart to\nwhatever place they came from. The sign of the cross made on the floor in\nfront of the bed, or on the husband\u2019s nether garments laid at the foot of\nit, might suffice also to keep the elves aloof.\n\nAfter a birth the mother was not permitted to cross the threshold of the\ndoor after the hour of sunset till she was \u201ckirkit,\u201d lest the fairies\nshould carry her off to nurse their children.\n\nBaptismal customs were more ceremonious then than now. A young unmarried\nwoman invariably carried the child to church. In her hand she took with\nher a slice of bread and cheese, wrapped up, and fastened with a pin\ntaken from the child\u2019s dress, and this she presented to the first male\npasser she met. This person constituted the child\u2019s \u201cfirst-foot\u201d\u2014it\nhad not previously been allowed to cross the doorstep; and if he was a\ndark-haired man, there was good luck for the child; if fair, the reverse\nwould happen to it.\n\nConnected with this practice, Dr. Classon tells an amusing story. An\nEnglish Duke had arrived in Glasgow on a Sunday, and was wandering in the\nstreets during the time of afternoon service, when a young woman came up\nto him with a child in her arms, and offered him a piece of bread and\ncheese. In vain he protested that he did not know what she meant\u2014that\nhe had nothing to do with her or her child\u2014that he was an entire\nstranger\u2014that he had never been in Scotland before\u2014that he knew nothing\nof the usages of the Presbyterian Kirk, being of the Church of England,\nand that she should give the \u201cpiece\u201d to somebody else. The young woman\nwas deaf to all his arguments, and held out authoritatively the bread\nand cheese. Thinking, probably, that the lass had not given him credit\nfor what he had said, he told her in perfect simplicity that he was the\nDuke of \u2e3a, and that he had just arrived at a hotel in the city, which he\nnamed. Her answer shut his mouth\u2014\u201cThough ye were the king on the throne,\nsir, ye maun tak\u2019 that bread an\u2019 cheese.\u201d\n\nMarriage was set about with rites and usages, some of which were\npeculiarly funny. First of all, in respect to date, the fateful month\nof May had to be avoided. If the \u201csend,\u201d or bridal party, in going to\nor from the manse, met a funeral procession or a hearse on the way, it\nwas a bad omen. When the bride entered her house for the first time, she\nhad to be careful to step over the threshold, if she would be lucky. An\noaten cake, or a cake of shortbread, was broken over her head, usually\nby the mother of the bridegroom, as she entered. In some instances the\nbread was placed on a plate and thrown over her head. If the plate was\nbroken, so much the better luck. Then the links of the crook were put\nround her neck, and she was led to the meal girnal and compelled to\ntake up a handful of meal. On the morning after marriage, in some parts\nof the country, the youth of both sexes, or perhaps females, would\nassemble out of doors, along with the newly-married couple. A basket\nwould be transmitted among them, and gradually filled with stones until\nit reached the bridegroom, when it would be suspended from his neck.\nOn receiving some more additional load, his affectionate helpmate, to\ntestify her sense of the caresses he had lavished on her, would cut the\ncord and relieve him of the oppressive burden. The person who declined to\ncomply with the latter ceremony would have come under a certain degree of\ndiscredit.\n\nLiable at all times to the malevolent influences of the \u201cEvil Eye,\u201d in\naddition to the many other ills already indicated, human life in the\nolden time was a serious matter. If a person died suddenly, or was laid\naside by any sickness or disease, which the doctor might not readily\ncomprehend the nature of, he was declared to have fallen the victim to an\nevil eye. When a death occurred the corpse was dressed and laid out in\nthe manner still in practice, but with this addition\u2014the friends laid on\nthe breast of the deceased a wooden platter containing a small quantity\nof salt and earth, separate and unmixed\u2014the earth an emblem of the\ncorruptible body; the salt an emblem of the immortal spirit. No fire was\nallowed to be lit in a room where a corpse was kept; and it was reckoned\nso ominous for a dog or a cat to pass over it, that the poor animal was\nat once laid by the heels and killed without mercy. If a mourner\u2019s tear\nfalls on the shroud, the spirit of the deceased might in consequence be\nso disturbed that it could not rest in the grave. During the several\nnights that intervened betwixt death and interment, the friends and\nneighbours took their turn at \u201csittin\u2019 up wi\u2019 the corpse,\u201d and were\nprovided with a candle, a Bible, and a bottle of whisky. This practice\nwas known as the \u201cLykewake,\u201d and its main purpose was to protect the\nbody of the deceased person from supernatural interference. If a funeral\n_cortege_ proceeded to the kirkyard in an irregular and straggling\nmanner, it was accepted as a portent that there would ere long be another\nfuneral in the same family.\n\nIn a village in Aberdeenshire, we read in the _Statistical Account_,\nwhere it was believed that the ghost of the person last buried kept the\ngate of the churchyard till relieved by the next victim of death, a\nsingular scene frequently occurred when two burials were to take place\nin one churchyard on the same day. Both parties hurried forward as fast\nas possible to consign their respective friend in the first place to the\ndust. If they met at the gate, the dead were thrown down till the living\ndecided by blows whose ghost should be condemned to porter it. Suicides\nwere denied the right of Christian burial, and were interred either\nwithin the crossing of two public roads, with a stake driven through the\nbody to hold it down, or were deposited in the march or ditch dividing\ntwo lairds\u2019 lands\u2014as in the case of \u201cJenny Nettles,\u201d the heroine of the\nold song\u2014and had a huge cairn of stones raised over the spot for the same\npurpose of protection.\n\nGhosts, of course, were numerous enough, and there was little need to\nmake reckless additions to their number. The floating ballads were\nstudded with them, and each district had its tales of ghostly horror.\nAmong the ghosts of national celebrity there was \u201cPearlin\u2019 Jean,\u201d of whom\nthe traditional catch runs\u2014\n\n \u201cO Pearlin\u2019 Jean! O Pearlin\u2019 Jean!\n She haunts the house, she haunts the green,\n And glowers on us a\u2019 wi\u2019 her wul\u2019-cat een.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn my youth,\u201d says Mr. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, \u201cPearlin\u2019 Jean was\nthe most remarkable ghost in Scotland, and my terror when a child. Our\nold nurse, Jenny Blackadder, had been a servant at Allanbank, and often\nheard her rustling in silks up and down stairs and along the passages.\nShe never saw her, but her husband did. She was a French woman, whom the\nfirst Baronet of Allanbank, then Mr. Stuart, met with at Paris during his\ntour to finish his education as a gentleman. Some people said she was a\nnun; in which case she must have been a Sister of Charity, as she appears\nnot to have been confined to a cloister. After some time young Stuart\neither became faithless to the lady, or was suddenly recalled to Scotland\nby his parents, and had got into his carriage, at the door of his hotel,\nwhen his Dido unexpectedly made her appearance, and, stepping on the\nfore-wheel of the coach to address her lover, he ordered the postillion\nto drive on, the consequence of which was that the lady fell, and one of\nthe wheels going over her forehead, killed her.\n\n\u201cIn a dusky autumnal evening, when Mr. Stuart drove under the arched\ngateway of Allanbank, he perceived Pearlin\u2019 Jean sitting on the top, her\nhead and shoulders covered with blood. After this, for many years, the\nhouse was haunted\u2014doors shut and opened with great noise at midnight;\nthe rustling of silks and pattering of high-heeled shoes were heard in\nbedrooms and passages. Nurse Jenny said there were seven ministers called\nin together at one time to lay the spirit; \u2018but they didna muckle good,\nmy dear.\u2019 The picture of the ghost was hung up between those of the lover\nand his lady, and kept her comparatively quiet; but when taken away she\nbecame worse-natured than ever.\u201d\n\nAnother was \u201cThrummy Cap,\u201d a kindly ghost, celebrated in popular verse\nby John Burness, the cousin-german of the national poet. Then there\nwere \u201cLady Greensleeves,\u201d who haunted the castle of Huntingtower, in\nPerthshire; the \u201cGhost o\u2019 Mause,\u201d a Blairgowrie spectre, who revisited\nthe glimpses of the moon in the shape of a fox; but such a fox as had\nthe power of speech, and to which no farmer\u2019s dog in the parish would\nbe induced to give chase\u2014and many besides. One of \u201cLady Greensleeves\u2019\u201d\nappearances was mercifully opportune. In a lone house on the estate of\nHuntingtower there lived an old man, the sole occupant of the building,\nand reputed to have hidden riches in some secret place in his dwelling.\nOne night a number of masked villains broke in upon him and demanded, on\npain of death, that he should show them where his money was concealed.\nIn vain did he protest that he had no money in the house, save a few\nshillings, to which he made them welcome. Laying hands on him, dragging\nhim to the floor, and brandishing their drawn knives over his hoary head,\nthey swore that he must die for the lie which he had told them. As the\noath was on their lips their intended victim uttered a wild shriek, and\nstretched out his hands imploringly towards a small two-paned window in\nthe wall of the house. To that window the ruffians turned their eyes\nkeenly, when lo! through the under pane a female face, pale as death,\nbut with eyes sparkling like diamonds, stared in on them. \u201cOh, Lady\nGreensleeves,\u201d cried the old man, \u201cwinna ye come an\u2019 help me?\u201d The name\nwas as terror-striking as was the weird face at the window, and throwing\ndown their knives, the robbers rushed from the house, and fled through\nthe darkness, as if all the rogue-catchers of the shire had been at their\nheels.\n\nBelief in the supernatural, it is worth noting, has not been confined\nexclusively to the ignorant classes. Lord Byron was sensitively\nsuperstitious. Sir David Brewster admitted it to have a certain power\nover him. James Thomson, the author of the \u201cSeasons,\u201d had a great horror\nof the supernatural; and his fear of ghosts and goblins afforded much\namusement to his fellow-collegians at Edinburgh. His bedfellow, knowing\nthat he was afraid to remain alone in the dark, quietly slipped away\nfrom him one night when he was asleep. On waking, he rushed out of the\nroom like a frightened child, and called loudly on his landlady for\nassistance. Dr. Somerville, who relates this anecdote upon the authority\nof Mr. Cranston, late minister of Ancrum, who lodged in the same room\nwith the poet at Edinburgh, attributes his weakness on this subject to\nthe following circumstance:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe belief in ghosts, witches, fairies, etc., was so exceedingly\nprevalent at the beginning of this century that it would have been deemed\nheretical in any clergyman to have called in question their existence,\nor even their palpable interposition. One of the last appearances of\nthese tremendous agents happened (I am speaking in the language of the\nvulgar) at Woolie, in the parish of Southdean, where Mr. Thomson was\nminister. Ever since I entered into life, it was necessary to speak\nguardedly upon the subject of the Woolie Ghost, as I myself have more\nthan once given offence by my silence on the subject. The sequel of the\nstory I heard, not at second-hand, but from the lips of a person, and\nthat of rank and education, above the vulgar. Mr. Thomson, the father\nof the poet, in a fatal hour, was prevailed upon to attempt laying the\nevil spirit. He appointed his diet of catechising at Woolie, the scene\nof the ghost\u2019s exploits, and behold, when he had just begun to pray, a\nball of fire strikes him on the head. Overwhelmed with consternation, he\ncould not utter another word, or make a second attempt to pray. He was\ncarried home to his house, where he languished under the oppression of\ndiabolic malignity, and at length expired. Only think what an impression\nthis story\u2014I do not say fact, I say this story, for of it there can be\nno doubt\u2014must necessarily have made upon the vigorous imagination of the\nyoung poet.\u201d\n\nThe ghost stories of Scotland would fill a large volume. Pennant\ntells of a poor visionary in Breadalbane who had been working in his\ncabbage garden, and imagined that he was suddenly raised into the air\nand conveyed over the fence into a corn field, where he found himself\nsurrounded by a crowd of men and women, many of whom he knew to be dead.\nOn his uttering the name of God they all vanished, except a female\nsprite, who obliged him to promise an assignation at the very same hour\nof the same day next week. Being left, he found his hair tied in double\nknots, and that he had almost lost the use of speech. However, he kept\nhis appointment with the spectre, whom he soon saw coming floating\nthrough the air towards him; but she pretended to be in a hurry, bade\nhim go on his way, and no harm should befall him. Such was the dreamer\u2019s\naccount of the matter. But it is incredible, adds the narrator, what\nmischief this story did in the neighbourhood. The friends and relatives\nof the deceased, whom the old dotard had named, were in the utmost\ndistress in finding them in such bad company in the other world; and the\nalmost extinct belief in ghosts and apparitions seemed for a time to be\nrevived.\n\nNext to ghosts, witches ranked as objects of preternatural dread; and\n\u201cfor ways that were dark, and tricks that were vain,\u201d the witches,\nno doubt, were peculiar. And yet, surely most of the poor wretches\nwho suffered and died at the stake because of the suspicion that they\npractised the forms of diablerie popularly attributed to warlocks and\nwitches, were more sinned against than sinning.\n\nThe burning of witches\u2014based, no doubt, on the command given in the\ntwenty-second chapter of Exodus, namely\u2014\u201cThou shall not suffer a witch to\nlive\u201d\u2014forms a black chapter in the history of Scotland, and one in which\nwe look in vain for the discovery of much humour. In the powers popularly\nassigned to these \u201cwithered beldams, auld and droll,\u201d there was, however,\na world of humour. They were accused of having intercourse with Satan,\nand making bargains with the Evil One to serve him\u2014of attending meetings\nof witches\u2014of raising storms at sea\u2014of taking away milk\u2014of blasting the\ncorn\u2014of spoiling the success of the fishing\u2014of curing diseases, and of\ninflicting diseases, and of receiving money in payment for the one and\nthe other. Among the warlocks and witches who danced to satanic strains\nin \u201cAlloway\u2019s auld haunted kirk,\u201d the poet was careful to note\u2014\n\n \u201cThere was ae winsome wench and walie,\n That night enlisted in the core,\n Lang after kenn\u2019d on Carrick shore:\n For mony a beast to dead she shot,\n And perish\u2019d mony a bonnie boat,\n And shook baith meikle corn and bear,\n And kept the country-side in fear.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is astonishing,\u201d says one, \u201cthat the _Reformed_ clergy could have\nbelieved that his sable majesty, to whom they ascribed so much cunning,\nshould have employed only ignorant, old, and decrepit women as his\ninstruments in carrying out his war against mankind.\u201d It is equally\nmatter for astonishment, surely, that many of these ignorant, old, and\ndecrepit women themselves believed that they possessed the powers of\ndiablerie popularly attributed to them. Isobel Gowdie, who was burned\nas a witch in 1662, gives the following as the charm which had to be\nrepeated when she resolved to change into a hare\u2014\n\n \u201cI sall go intill a hare,\n With sorrow, sigh, and muckle care;\n And I sall go in the devil\u2019s name,\n Ay while I come back again.\u201d\n\nThis from her Confessions, as reported in the Appendix to Pitcairn\u2019s\n_Criminal Trials_, is of interest:\u2014\u201cHe (the devil) would send me now\nand then to Auldern on some errands to my neighbours, in the shape of a\nhare, and Patrick Papley\u2019s servants, in Kilhill, being going to their\nlabouring, his hounds being with them, ran after me, being in the shape\nof a hare. I ran very long, but was forced, being weary, at last to take\nto my own house. The door being left open I ran in behind a chest, and\nthe hounds followed in; but they went to the other side of the chest, and\nI was forced to run forth again, and ran into another house, and there\ntook leisure to say\u2014\n\n \u2018Hare, hare, God send thee care;\n I am in a hare\u2019s likeness now,\n But I sall be a woman e\u2019en now;\n Hare, hare, God send thee care,\u2019\n\nand so I returned to my own shape, as I am at this instant, again. The\ndogs will sometimes get some bites of us when we are in hares, but will\nnot get us killed. When we turn out of a hare\u2019s likeness to our own\nshape we will have the bites and rives and scratches on our bodies. When\nwe would be in the shape of cats we did nothing but cry and wraw, and\nriving, and, as it were, worrying one another; and when we come to our\nshapes again we will find the scratches and rives on our skin very sore.\nWhen one of us, or more, are in the shape of cats, and meet with any\nothers, our neighbours, we will say\u2014\n\n \u2018Devil speed thee,\n Go thou with me!\u2019\n\nand immediately they will turn into the shape of a cat and go with us.\nWhen we will be in the shape of crows we will be larger than ordinary\ncrows, and will sit upon branches of trees.\u201d\n\nThe spells, incantations, and cantrips, employed by witches when working\nout their diableries were quaint and curious enough. Students of\nShakespeare are familiar with the\n\n \u201cToil and trouble, toil and trouble,\n Fire burn, and cauldron bubble,\u201d\n\nof the witches in the play of _Macbeth_, as well as the request of the\nfirst witch, to\n\n \u201cPour in sow\u2019s blood, that hath eaten\n Her nine farrow; grease that\u2019s sweaten\n From the murderer\u2019s gibbet throw\n Into the flame,\u201d\n\nmaking an uncouth mixture. But think of the following\u2014one of two snatches\nof cantrip rhymes quoted by M\u2019Taggart in the _Scottish Gallovidian\nEncyclopedia_\u2014\n\n \u201cIn the pingle or the pan,\n Or the haurnpan o\u2019 man,\n Boil the heart\u2019s blude o\u2019 the tade,\n Wi\u2019 the tallow o\u2019 the gled;\n Hawcket kail, and hen dirt,\n Chow\u2019d cheese, and chicken-wort;\n Yellow paddocks champit sma\u2019,\n Spiders ten, and gelloch\u2019s twa;\n Sclaters twall, frae foggy dyke,\n Bumbees twenty, frae their byke;\n Asks frae stinkin\u2019 lochens blue,\n Aye will mak\u2019 a better stew;\n Bachelors maun hae a charm,\n Hearts hae they a\u2019 fu\u2019 o\u2019 harm,\n Aye the aulder, aye the caulder,\n Aye the caulder, aye the baulder.\n Taps snaw white, and tails green,\n Snappin\u2019 maiden\u2019s o\u2019 fifteen,\n Mingle, mingle, in the pingle,\n Join the cantrip wi\u2019 the jingle;\n Now we see, and now we see,\n Plots o\u2019 poachin\u2019 ane, twa, three.\u201d\n\nBy tugging at a hair-rope, in the usual manner of milking a cow\u2014said rope\nbeing made up of tufts of hair drawn from cows\u2019 tails, and having on it a\nknot for each cow\u2014and chanting the following, or a similar charm\u2014\n\n \u201cCow\u2019s milk, and mare\u2019s milk,\n And every beast that bears milk,\n Between St. Johnstone\u2019s and Dundee,\n Come a\u2019 to me, come a\u2019 to me,\u201d\n\nit was vulgarly believed, as late as the beginning of the century,\nthat a witch could draw away every drop of milk from the cattle in her\nneighbourhood. Only a horse-shoe nailed to the byre door, and sprigs\nof rowan-tree tied with red thread to the cow\u2019s tail, was a certain\nprotection here; for\n\n \u201cRowan-tree and red thread\n Gar the witches tyne their speed.\u201d\n\nWhere such protection was neglected, to discover the witch, the gudeman\u2019s\nbreeks might be put upon the horns of the cow\u2014a leg upon each horn\u2014when,\nfor certain, crummie being let loose, would run straight to the door of\nthe guilty party.\n\nWhen the late Reverend Dr. Andrew A. Bonar as a young man laboured in\nthe position of assistant minister in Collace parish, less than half\na century ago, I have been told, he found the practice of wearing\nhorse-shoes on byre doors so prevalent there that he tried to reason the\npeople out of the absurdity. He so far succeeded, but no further than\nthis, that they took them off the _outsides_ of the door and fastened\nthem upon the insides\u2014where, I believe, some are to be seen even to this\nday and hour.\n\n\u201cScoring abune the breath\u201d (executing with a rusty nail, to the effusion\nof blood, the sign of the Cross, on the upper parts of the face of\na suspected witch) was another means of protection. Whoso performed\nthis ceremony was henceforth secure against personal attack from the\nparticular witch, or witches, he may have \u201cscored.\u201d An old joiner, or\n\u201cwricht,\u201d in a Perthshire village, with whom I was well acquainted in my\nboyhood, had a belief in witches which no human argument could dissolve.\nHe suspected a neighbour\u2019s wife of witchcraft, and lived in terror of\nher until, one day, finding a favourable opportunity of performing the\noperation, he \u201cscored\u201d her \u201cabune the breath\u201d with a rusty nail, which he\ncarried with him concealed for the purpose; and, this done, he started\nback, and shaking his clenched fist in her face, bragged her to \u201cdo her\nwarst noo.\u201d\n\nIn Hogg\u2019s tale of \u201cThe Witch of Fife,\u201d is to be found the pleasantest\nstories of witches\u2019 \u201congauns\u201d to be met with anywhere. Hogg had no peer\nin the delineation of the mysterious and uncanny, and the students of\nfairy mythology will ever esteem his picture of \u201cKilmeny,\u201d as one of the\nmost beautiful and perfect of its kind.\n\n \u201cBonnie Kilmeny gaed up the glen,\n But it wasna to meet Duneira\u2019s men.\u201d\n\nLike many another, before and since, she was taken possession of by the\nfairies, and led to a land where\n\n \u201cThe emerald fields were of dazzling glow,\n And the flowers of everlasting blow.\u201d\n\nFairies were popularly believed to inhabit certain round grassy\neminences, where they celebrated their nocturnal festivities by the light\nof the moon. It was believed that if, on Hallowe\u2019en, any person should\ngo round one of these hillocks nine times, contrary to the course of the\nsun, a door would open, by which he would be admitted into the realms of\nfairyland. Many, it has been said, of mortal race have been entertained\nin their secret recesses, there to have been received into the most\nsplendid apartments, and regaled with the most sumptuous banquets and\ndelicious wines. Their females surpassed the daughters of men in beauty,\nand fairy life was one eternal round of festivity and dancing. Unhappy\nwas the mortal, however, who dared to join in the joys, or ventured to\npartake of their dainties, as, by this indulgence, he forfeited for ever\nthe society of men, and was bound down irrevocably to the conditions of a\n_Shi ich_, or \u201cman of peace.\u201d\n\nThere is a Highland tradition to the effect that a woman, in days of\nyore, was conveyed into the secret recesses of the _Daoine Shi_, or\nmen of peace. There she was recognised by one who had formerly been an\nordinary mortal, but who had, by some fatality, became associated with\nthe fairies. This acquaintance, still retaining some portion of human\nbenevolence, warned her of her danger, and counselled her, as she valued\nher liberty, to abstain from eating and drinking with them for a certain\nspace of time. She complied with the counsel of her friend; and when the\nperiod assigned was elapsed, she found herself again upon earth, restored\nto the society of mortals. It is added, that when she examined the viands\nwhich had been presented to her, and which had appeared so tempting\nto the eye, they were found, now that the enchantment was removed, to\nconsist only of the refuse of the earth.\n\n\u201cIt is the common opinion,\u201d says Sir Walter Scott, \u201cthat persons\nfalling under the power of the fairies, were only allowed to revisit\nthe haunts of men after seven years had expired. At the end of seven\nyears more, they again disappeared, after which they were seldom seen\namong mortals. The accounts they gave of their situation differ in\nsome particulars. Sometimes they were represented as leading a life of\nconstant restlessness, and wandering by moonlight. According to others,\nthey inhabited a pleasant region, where, however, their situation was\nrendered horrible by the sacrifice of one or more individuals to the\ndevil every seventh year. This circumstance is mentioned in Alison\nPearson\u2019s indictment, and in the \u2018Tale of the Young Tamlane,\u2019 where it is\ntermed \u2018The paying the kane to hell\u2019; or, according to some recitations,\n\u2018the teind,\u2019 or tenth. This is the popular reason assigned for the desire\nof the fairies to abstract young children as substitutes for themselves\nin this dreadful tribute. Concerning the mode of winning or recovering\npersons abstracted by the fairies, tradition differs; but the popular\nopinion supposes that the recovery must be effected within a year and a\nday, to be held legal in the Fairy Court. This feat, which was reckoned\nan enterprise of equal difficulty and danger, could only be accomplished\nat Hallowe\u2019en at the great annual procession of the Fairy Court.\u201d Burns\nrefers to this fairy pageant in the opening lines of his \u201cHallowe\u2019en,\u201d\nthus\u2014\n\n \u201cUpon that night, when fairies light,\n On Cassilis Downan\u2019s dance,\n Or ower the lays, in splendid blaze,\n On sprightly coursers prance.\u201d\n\nIt was at Miles Cross, on Hallowe\u2019en, that fair Janet succeeded in the\nrescue of her lover, \u201cThe Young Tamlane\u201d:\u2014\n\n \u201cShe pu\u2019d him frae the milk-white steed,\n And loot the bridle fa\u2019;\n And up there raise an eldritch cry,\n \u2018He\u2019s won among us a\u2019!\u2019\n\n \u201cThey shaped him in fair Janet\u2019s arms\n An ask, but and an adder:\n She held him fast in every shape\u2014\n To be her bairn\u2019s father.\n\n \u201cThey shaped him in her arms at last\n A mother-naked man;\n She wrapped him in her green mantle,\n And sae her true love wan.\u201d\n\nHallowe\u2019en as it is popularly observed in Scotland nowadays, is a \u201cmerry\nmeeting,\u201d and nothing more; but in the times from which Burns drew his\ninimitable picture of it, it was a festival pregnant with superstitious\nsignificance and prophetic awe, and some of the olden time customs are\nworth recounting:\u2014The first ceremony of Hallowe\u2019en was, pulling each a\nstock or plant of kail. The parties went out hand in hand with eyes shut,\nand pulled the first they met with. Its being big or little, straight\nor crooked, was prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of\nall their spells\u2014the husband or wife. If any yird or earth stuck to the\nroot, that meant tocher or fortune, and the taste of the custock\u2014that is\nthe heart of the stem\u2014indicated the temper or disposition. The \u201crunts\u201d\nwere placed over the doorway; and the christian names of the people whom\nchance brought into the house, were, according to priority of placing the\n\u201crunts,\u201d the names in question. When burning the nuts, they named the\nlad and lass to each particular nut, as they laid them in the fire, and,\naccording as they burned quietly together, or started from beside one\nanother, the course and issue of the courtship would be. Among various\nother charms to be practised were those:\u2014To take a candle and go alone to\nthe looking-glass, and eat an apple before it\u2014combing your hair all the\ntime\u2014when the face of your conjugal companion would be seen in the glass\nas if peering over your shoulder. To steal out, unobserved, and sow a\nhandful of hemp seed, harrowing it with anything you could conveniently\ndraw after you\u2014a grape or a rake or the like\u2014repeating now and again\u2014\n\n \u201cHemp seed I saw thee, hemp seed I saw thee,\n Whaever\u2019s to be my true-love, come after me and maw thee,\u201d\n\nand, on looking over your shoulder, you would see the appearance of the\nperson invoked, in the attitude of reaping hemp. To take the opportunity\nof going unnoticed to a bean-stack, and in fathoming it three times round\nwith both arms, in the last fathom of the last round you would embrace\nthe appearance of your future yoke-fellow. To go to a south-running\nspring or rivulet, where \u201cthree lairds\u2019 lands meet,\u201d and dip your\nleft shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, before which you had\npreviously hung the wet sleeve to dry. Lie awake, and about midnight an\napparition having the exact figure of the grand object in question, would\ncome and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it. Take three\ndishes: put clean water into one, foul water into another; leave the\nthird empty. Blindfold a person (say a male) and lead him to the hearth\nwhere the dishes are ranged. If he dips the left hand by chance into\nclean water, his future wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if\ninto the empty dish, he will have no marriage at all; if into the foul,\nhe will marry a widow. This charm had to be repeated three times, and\nevery time the arrangement of the dishes had to be altered.\n\nThere are other decayed and rapidly decaying forms of popular\nsuperstition\u2014such as those relating to animals and places, the\ncharacteristics of the Brownies, and the various, vast, and extravagant\nideas which have been entertained concerning the personality and\nbehaviour of that much abused party known as \u201cAuld Hornie, Satan, Nick,\nor Clootie\u201d\u2014but these must suffice here.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nHUMOUR OF SCOTCH NATURALS\n\n\nHumour, I have already asserted, is part and parcel of a Scotsman\u2019s\nbeing, and is common to all classes of the Scottish people; and the\nremark receives point from the fact that even the daft folk in our land\nare touched with a rough-and-ready sense of it. Idiocy, unhappily, has\nobtained in all countries, and among all peoples, and \u201cNaturals,\u201d and\npersons of sadly inferior intellect, have not been uncommon in Scotland.\nLike many another familiar figure in recent Scottish life, the village\nor parish idiot, however, is no longer apparent in the native highways\nand byways. He has been legislated on, and from his listless and perilous\nwanderings hither and thither in the earth, has mercifully been placed\nwithin the confines of some private or charitable institution. When he\nroamed \u201cat lairge\u201d he was a striking individual, and claimed no little\nattention. The children laughed and ran at his heels, attracted thereto\nby the eccentricities of his speech and behaviour. Adult men and women,\nsound of head and heart, indulged his idiotic fancies, and treated him\nkindly for pity\u2019s sake; while the thoughtless and cruel-minded among the\nrobust order of the community too often teased his silly soul into a\nfrenzy, and made him the butt of their cruel and wanton jokes. That he\nmight be secure from the torment of the latter class is partly the reason\nwhy he has been deprived of his liberty. Every parish has its daft Jamie,\ndaft Willie, or daft Davie, as the case might be; and being all touched,\nless or more, with a sense of humour, as we have said, and daring to\ngive audible speech to unpleasant truths, which sane persons dared not\nmore than think, many good stories are told of them. Not unfrequently\nthey exhibited a degree of cunning and readiness of wit quite unlooked\nfor in members of their class. Thus, whilst lounging listlessly along\nthe roadside one day, a North country natural was accosted by a late\nProfessor in one of our Universities.\n\n\u201cPray, sir,\u201d inquired the learned servant, \u201chow long may a man live\nwithout brains?\u201d\n\n\u201cI dinna ken,\u201d responded the natural, scratching his head, and eyeing the\nProfessor critically from top to toe; \u201chow auld are you yersel\u2019?\u201d\n\nRemonstrated with for his do-nothing kind of life, one was told he might\nat least herd cows.\n\n\u201cMe herd kye!\u201d said he; \u201cI wonder to hear ye. I\u2019m far ower daft. Man, I\ndinna ken grass frae corn.\u201d\n\nPrevious to the amelioration in the Poor Law, men of the imbecile class\nwere found constantly as \u201changers-on\u201d about hotels and coach offices,\nas well as churchyards on occasions of funerals. About seventy years\nago there lived one of this class in Dunbar, who regularly frequented\nthe kitchen of the \u201cWhite Swan,\u201d where he received all his meals. His\nappetite was of no common order, and when remonstrated with for eating\nall food that came in his way, he was wont to exclaim, \u201cBetter belly\nburst than gude meat spoil;\u201d and the saying has become a proverb.\n\nDaft Willie Law was the descendant of an ancient family nearly related to\nthe famous John Law of Laurieston, the celebrated financier of France.\nWillie, on that account, was often spoken to and taken notice of by\ngentlemen of distinction. Posting one day through Kirkcaldy with more\nthan ordinary speed, he was met by Mr. Oswald of Dunnikier, who asked him\nwhere he was bound for in such a hurry.\n\n\u201cGaun!\u201d says Willie, with apparent surprise at the question. \u201cI\u2019m gaun to\nmy cousin, Lord Elgin\u2019s burial.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour cousin, Lord Elgin\u2019s burial, you fool! Lord Elgin\u2019s not dead,\u201d\nresponded Mr. Oswald.\n\n\u201cAh! deil ma care,\u201d quoth Willie, \u201cthere\u2019s sax doctors out o\u2019 Embro\u2019 at\nhim, an\u2019 they\u2019ll hae him dead afore I win forrit,\u201d and off he posted at\nan increased rate.\n\nThese poor creatures, as Dean Ramsay observes, had invariably a great\ndelight in attending funerals. In most country places hardly a funeral\never took place without the attendance of the parochial idiot. And\nhabit has such a powerful influence that it seemed almost a necessary\nassociation. Funeral scenes of this description had been familiar to the\nexperience of Sir Walter Scott, who thus portrays a funeral incident in\n_Guy Mannering_:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe funeral pomp set forth,\u201d says he, \u201csaulies with their batons and\ngamphions of tarnished white crape. Six starved horses, themselves the\nvery emblems of mortality, well cloaked and plumed, lugging along the\nhearse, with its dismal emblazonry, crept in slow pace towards the place\nof interment, preceded by Jamie Duff, an idiot, who, with weepers and\ngravat made of white paper, attended on every funeral, and followed by\nsix mourning coaches filled with the company.\u201d\n\nIt was the free and ample feast of fat things, of course, that generally\nproved the attraction; and it serves as a commentary on the social\nlife of Scotland, in the days of our grandfathers, to find a \u201cnatural\u201d\ndeclaring that a certain funeral, which he had attended, \u201cwas a puir\naffair; there wasna a drunk man at it.\u201d\n\nAsked why he never went to church, a Fife \u201cnatural\u201d\u2014at least a Fifer more\n_Fifish_ than his fellows\u2014struck a dramatic attitude and exclaimed\u2014\u201cI\nlove the lark that rises from the green sod with the dew sparkling from\nhis breast, and soars far up in the blue heavens\u2014_that\u2019s my_ religion.\u201d\nMany perfectly sane persons have not so much. And your \u201cnatural\u201d could\nadmonish a stinging reproof when the occasion seemed to demand it. About\nthe year 1820, at the time of the trial of Queen Caroline, Dr. Wightman\nwas the popular and esteemed minister of Kirkmahoe, in the County of\nDumfries, and he, like all the old Established clergymen, had been\nordered to omit the Queen\u2019s name from his public prayers. In those days\nthe Doctor was often seen in the streets of the County town on market\ndays, and on one of those occasions he happened to meet with daft Jock\nGordon, and as usual stopped to have a little chat with him.\n\n\u201cGood morning, Jock, and how are you to-day?\u201d said the kindly divine.\n\n\u201cOh, gaily weel, gaily weel, Doctor,\u201d replied Jock; \u201cbut, man, they tell\nme ye dinna pray for the Queen noo.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite true, Jock, for I\u2019m afraid she is not a good woman,\u201d replied Dr.\nWightman.\n\n\u201cGod bless me, Doctor, ye ken I\u2019m a puir daft creature, and maybe kens\nnae better,\u201d said Jock, \u201cbut I aye thocht, the waur a body was they aye\nwanted the prayin\u2019 for the mair.\u201d\n\nDr. Wightman felt he had been justly rebuked, and quietly slipped away.\n\nIt has become a proverb that \u201ceverybody has his bubblyjock,\u201d and the\nwell-known aphorism rose from the remark of a Scottish half-wit. The\ncircumstances which produced it occurred in the experience of Sir Walter\nScott, and deserves to be told.\n\nA gentleman conversing with the illustrious author, remarked that he\nbelieved it possible that perfect happiness might be enjoyed, even in\nthis world.\n\nSir Walter dissented.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said the gentleman, \u201cthere is an idiot whom I am certain will\nconfirm my opinion, he seems the very beau-ideal of animal contentment.\u201d\n\nThe daft individual was moving along humming to himself, when Sir Walter\naddressed him.\n\n\u201cWeel, Jamie, hoo are ye the day?\u201d\n\n\u201cBrawly, ou brawly,\u201d answered he.\n\n\u201cHave you plenty to eat and drink, Jamie?\u201d\n\n\u201cOu ay.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere,\u201d said the poet\u2019s antagonist, crowing, \u201cis a perfectly happy\ncreature.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot so fast,\u201d continued Sir Walter. Then to Jamie\u2014\n\n\u201cIs there nathing that bothers ye ava, Jamie?\u201d\n\n\u201cOu ay,\u201d said the idiot, changing his merry look, \u201cI\u2019m sair hadden doon\nby the muckle bubblyjock; he follows me whaurever I gang.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said Sir Walter, \u201cyou see from this that the simplest and most\nstupid of mankind are haunted by evil of some kind or another\u2014in short,\nsir, everybody has his bubblyjock.\u201d\n\nDour and self-willed, your Natural is frequently moved by the strongest\nprejudices either for or against persons and things. I knew of one in\nPerthshire who could never be induced to go into a boat, and this\nalthough he was born and lived all his lifetime within a few hundred\nyards of the river Tay. \u201cGang into a boat! Na, na,\u201d he would say, \u201cjust\na wee thin dealie atween ye and eternitie!\u201d Of this same individual a\ngood story is told, which happened in this way. Jock was a frequent\nvisitor at the \u201cbig hoose,\u201d and being neither lame nor lazy, was always\nready to perform a needed turn for a small gratuity. Some years ago, on\nthe occasion of a shooting battue over the estate, when each sportsman\nwas appointed a separate bag-carrier, Jock got apportioned to one\nwho occasioned more deaths among the birds than the majority of the\nsportsmen, and consequently he soon made a bag which was not easily\nlugged o\u2019er field and fence. Still, on the party hurried, each short\ninterval adding to Jock\u2019s burden. The sweat oozed from every pore of his\nsonsy face, and trickled from his chubby chin; still he complained not.\nHowever, \u2019tis the last straw that breaks the camel\u2019s back, and a crisis\nwas imminent. One of the \u201cbeaters,\u201d a boy, who had been several times\nfound fault with by the sportsmen, was sternly rebuked, and was told\nby Jock\u2019s man that if he did not steer clear of the guns he would blow\nhis brains out. Jock saw in the threat an impending big addition to his\nalready too heavy load, and throwing the bag at the sportsman\u2019s feet, he\nwiped his steaming temples, and exclaimed in his own peculiar stuttering\nmanner\u2014\n\n\u201cYe can sh-sh-shoot him gin ye like, but I\u2019ll be h-h-hanged if I\u2019m to\nc-c-carry him,\u201d and in the highest dudgeon he quitted the field.\n\nAnother, who was employed about a farm town, showed, at least on one\noccasion, a \u201csma\u2019 glimmerin\u2019 o\u2019 common sense.\u201d Some one had given him\na penny, and this he went and hid in a crevice in the barn wall. The\nfarmer, observing what had been done, watched the opportunity, and,\nextracting the penny, placed in the crevice a two-shilling piece.\n\n\u201cStrange,\u201d said Jock, when he went to look at his treasure; \u201cturned white\nin the face\u2014maun hae catched the cauld,\u201d so rolled the florin in a rag\nand put it back.\n\nNext day the farmer changed the coin to a shilling.\n\n\u201cGetting to be a case o\u2019 consumption, I doot,\u201d said Jock on his next\nvisit.\n\nNext day the rag contained a sixpenny piece.\n\n\u201cGallopin\u2019 consumption!\u201d exclaimed the natural, and replaced the coin\nwith a dowie shake of his head.\n\nThe farmer next day substituted a half-sovereign.\n\n\u201cNoo ye\u2019ve ta\u2019en the jaundice,\u201d exclaimed Jock on a subsequent visit.\n\u201cYe\u2019ll need to be keepit warm,\u201d and so saying, he placed the coin in his\nbreek-pooch and _kept it there_.\n\nA minister of the North of Scotland, who was not too ready at paying his\ndebts, but very fond of a joke, meeting a fool he was in the habit of\nteasing, asked him how the potatoes were selling in the moon just now.\n\u201cOh, very cheap, and plenty of them,\u201d said the fool.\n\n\u201cBut don\u2019t you think,\u201d said the minister, \u201cthat there might be a\ndifficulty in getting them down?\u201d\n\n\u201cNae fear o\u2019 that,\u201d answered the fool. \u201cSend up the money, and they\u2019ll\nsoon send them down.\u201d\n\nA Perthshire tradesman, recently deceased, who was not naturally\nweak-minded, but whose intellect had been partially ruined by\ndissipation, was confined for several months, a number of years ago,\nto Murthly Asylum. On his liberation, he received, in accordance with\nthe custom of such institutions, the written assurance of two doctors\nthat he was a person perfectly sane, and safe to be at large. Some time\nsubsequently, when he was engaged on a \u201cjob\u201d along with a number of his\nfellow craftsmen at a country farm, a wordy war arose which waxed so hot\nand furious that one of the combatants turned savagely on our hero and\ntold him he was \u201cdaft.\u201d\n\n\u201cDaft!\u201d echoed he, plunging his hands into the oxter pocket of his\njacket. \u201cDaft! blast ye! Look here, I can show twa certificates that I\u2019m\nwise, and there\u2019s not anither man on the job that can produce ane!\u201d\n\nHe was right.\n\nAbout the middle of the last century there lived in the neighbourhood\nof Denholm a natural named Daft Jamie, who was occasionally employed by\nthe Laird of Cavers and his brother, Captain Douglas, who resided at\nMidshields, to transport them on his back across the water which flowed\nbetween their places of abode. One day Captain Douglas resolved to have\na little fun at the expense of his brother, and bribed Jamie to drop the\nLaird in the middle of the river.\n\nAccordingly, having taken Cavers on his back, and proceeded to the middle\nof the stream, \u201cOh! Laird,\u201d exclaimed Jamie, standing stock-still, \u201cmy\nkuit\u2019s yeukie!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well; never mind that,\u201d exclaimed Cavers.\n\n\u201cAy, but I maun mind it;\u201d and, notwithstanding orders, entreaties, and\nthreats, Jamie plumped the Laird down into the water and began scratching\nhis ankle to the infinite amusement of the Captain, who stood on the bank\nlaughing like to split his sides. Jamie soon returned for the Captain,\nwho, thinking of no other trick than his own, was speedily mounted and\ncarried to the middle of the stream. At exactly the same spot where he\nhad dropped the Laird, Jamie again stood still.\n\n\u201cNoo, Captain,\u201d said he, \u201cgin ye dinna gie me twa shillin\u2019s mair, I\u2019ll\nlat you doon too.\u201d\n\nIt is almost needless to say the Captain had to \u201cpurchase his discharge\u201d\nfrom the threatened immersion, besides suffering the retributive ridicule\nof his brother.\n\nJock Scott, a half-witted lad, who had been employed by the minister to\ncart some firewood, finding he had got the worst of the bargain, the\nreverend gentleman remarked severely, \u201cJock, when I came here they told\nme you were a fool.\u201d \u201cAy, sir,\u201d replied Jock; \u201cand they told me ye wis\na grand preacher; but,\u201d he added in a lower tone, \u201cit\u2019s never safe to\nbelieve a\u2019 that ye hear!\u201d\n\nIn Perthshire, not long ago, a gang of workmen were digging a trial pit\nprevious to some excavations being done. While they were at work throwing\nup the earth a half-wit named Jock Howe, belonging to the district,\nappeared on the scene, and addressing the foreman, said, \u201cWhat are ye\nhowking doon there for?\u201d The foreman, taking in at a glance the character\nof his questioner, answered, \u201cO, we\u2019re diggin\u2019 doon to Australia. Would\nyou like to come?\u201d Jock, after thinking for a minute, answered, \u201cAy man!\nHowkin\u2019 doon to Australia, are ye? Lo\u2019d! ye maun be far dafter than me\nyet. Can ye no\u2019 sail to Australia an\u2019 _howk up_, an\u2019 ye wad be saved a\u2019\nthe bother o\u2019 liftin\u2019 the earth oot, for a\u2019 yer stuff wad then fa\u2019 awa\u2019\nfrae ye?\u201d\n\nOf our native half-wits, four at least have enjoyed a national\nreputation. These are Jamie Fleeman, the Laird of Udny\u2019s fool, who will\nhave a chapter here all to himself; Daft Rab Hamilton, Daft Jock Amos,\nand Daft Will Speir. Of the latter three\u2014as well as of Fleeman\u2014there are\nmany good and interesting stories extant.\n\nRab Hamilton, like others of his class, was an example to some sane folks\nfrom the fact that he was a frequent, if not regular, attender of the\nchurch. In Ayr he was well known as a staunch Seceder. One day, however,\nhe went to hear a sermon in a church belonging to the Establishment, and\nproduced a sensation which was not soon forgotten by those who witnessed\nit. He took his seat on an inside stair, which had what is known as a\n\u201cwooden rail,\u201d and having put his head through the railing, in attempting\nto pull it back he found himself caught by the ears. He shouted at the\nutmost pitch of his stentorian voice\u2014\n\n\u201cMurder!\u2014my head\u2019ll be cuttit aff! Holy minister! congregation!\u2014oh, my\nhead maun be cuttit aff! It\u2019s a judgment for leaving my ain godlie Mr.\nPeebles at the Newton, an\u2019 comin\u2019 to hear a paper minister.\u201d\n\nAfter being extricated, and asked why he put his head there, he said, \u201cIt\nwas to look on wi\u2019 _anither woman_!\u201d\n\nRab was one day offered the choice of a sixpence or a penny.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll no be greedy,\u201d said he, \u201cI\u2019ll jist tak\u2019 the wee white ane.\u201d\n\nReceiving a gratuitous dinner at a favourite inn in Kilmarnock one\nday, and dining to his heart\u2019s content, the waiter remarked, as he was\npreparing to leave the table\u2014\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sure ye\u2019ve gotten a guid dinner the day, Rab!\u201d\n\n\u201cOu, ay,\u201d replied Rab; \u201catweel have I; but if the folk o\u2019 Ayr speir if I\ngot a dram after\u2019t, what will I say?\u201d\n\nRab\u2019s dream is well known. Dr. Auld often showed him kindness, but being\nonce addressed by him when in a hurry, and out of humour, he said\u2014\n\n\u201cGet away, Rab\u2014I\u2019ve nothing for you to-day.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhaw! whew!\u201d cried Rab, in a half howl, half whining tone, \u201cI dinna want\nonything the day, Mister Auld. I wanted just to tell you aboot an awsome\ndream I had; I dreamed I was dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, what then?\u201d asked Dr. Auld.\n\n\u201cOu, I was carried far, far, far, and up, up, up, till I cam\u2019 to heaven\u2019s\nyett, whaur I chappit, an\u2019 chappit, till at last an angel keeked out an\u2019\nsaid, \u2018Wha are ye?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m puir Rab Hamilton,\u2019 says I.\n\n\u201c\u2018Whaur are ye frae?\u2019 says he.\n\n\u201c\u2018Frae the wicked toun o\u2019 Ayr,\u2019 says I.\n\n\u201c\u2018Hech, man,\u2019 says the angel, \u2018I\u2019m glad to see ye here. I ken the place,\nbut there\u2019s naebody come this gate frae the toun o\u2019 Ayr sin\u2019 the year\u2019\u201d\nso and so (mentioning the year when Dr. Auld was inducted into the\nparish).\n\nFinding Jock Amos busily engaged with a knife on a piece of wood one\nSabbath day, Mr. Boston, the minister, approached him, and said, \u201cJohn,\ncan you tell me which is the Fourth Commandment?\u201d\n\n\u201cI daresay, Mr. Boston, it\u2019ll be the ane after the third,\u201d was the reply.\n\n\u201cCan you repeat it?\u201d asked the divine.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no sure aboot it,\u201d answered Jock. \u201cI ken it has some wheeram by the\nrest.\u201d\n\nMr. Boston repeated it, and tried thereby to show Jock his error, but\u2014\n\n\u201cAy, that\u2019s it, sir,\u201d said Jock, and kept whittling away.\n\n\u201cWhy, what is the reason you never come to church, John?\u201d inquired the\nminister.\n\n\u201cOh, because you never preach on the text I want you to preach on.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat text would you have me to preach on, John?\u201d\n\n\u201cOn the nine-and-twenty knives that cam\u2019 back frae Babylon.\u201d\n\n\u201cI never heard of them before.\u201d\n\n\u201cHa! ha! the mair fool ye! Gang hame an\u2019 read yer Bible, Mr. Boston! Sic\nfool; sic minister.\u201d\n\nSubsequently Mr. Boston found the text sure enough in Ezra i. 9th, and\nwondered greatly at the \u2019cuteness of the fool, considering the subject on\nwhich he had been reproving him. And now, \u201cThe mair fool ye, as Jock Amos\nsaid to the minister,\u201d is a well-worn proverb.\n\nIt was to this same Jock Amos that a female acquaintance, following a\ncommon Scotch idiom, said one day, \u201cJock, how auld will you be?\u201d They had\nbeen talking of ages.\n\n\u201cHumph! It wad tak\u2019 a wiser head than mine to tell ye that,\u201d was Jock\u2019s\nreply.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s unco queer that ye dinna ken how auld ye are?\u201d returned she.\n\n\u201cI ken weel enough how auld I _am_,\u201d said Jock, \u201cbut dinna ken how auld\nI\u2019ll _be_.\u201d Jock had to be addressed by the book.\n\nWill Speir was the eldest son of the Laird of Camphill, Dairy, Ayrshire,\nand many witty stories are put to his credit. Report had it that the\ncause of his mental aberration arose in this simple way. When a boy, some\nof his companions, in mere frolic, caught him, and suspended him by the\nheels over the parapet of a bridge of very considerable height, and from\nthat hour the hitherto lively boy became dull, absent, and unsociable\nin his habits. Will, when he chanced to visit the village of Dalry,\nlodged with two personages\u2014Souple Sandy, and Rab Paik, or Pollock\u2014whose\nintellects were at a greater discount than even his own. Robert Speir,\nthe brother of the witty natural, was precentor in the Parish Church of\nDalry, and, when present, Will usually threw in the whole strength of his\nlungs to assist his brother, so that no voice but his own sometimes could\nbe heard within the range of a dozen pews. Rab Paik, his fellow-lodger,\ntried to keep up with him, but could not muster such volume of voice as\nhis associate. This annoyed Will rather than otherwise, and one day he\nglared over in the direction of his confederate, and shouted\u2014\n\n\u201cSing, man, Rab, sing, for the hail burden o\u2019 the Psalm lies on you and\nme an\u2019 our Rab.\u201d\n\nWill was accustomed to assist the beadle of the church, whereof he was an\nunworthy member, in some of the less important functions of his office.\nOn one occasion, during service, a fight took place between two sturdy\ncollies, in one of the aisles of the church, which interrupted the\nservice for a time. Will rushed to the scene of the riot, and belabouring\nthe belligerents with a stick, he exclaimed, \u201cIf you would pay mair\nattention to what the minister\u2019s sayin\u2019 to you, it would be muckle better\nfor you than tearing your tousie jackets at that gate. Tak\u2019 better care\no\u2019 your claes, you blockheads, for there\u2019s no a tailor in Beith can\neither mend thae, or mak\u2019 new anes to you when they\u2019re dune,\u201d and having\ndelivered such stinging reproof, the censor gravely returned and resumed\nhis seat.\n\nSeated on the bench below the pulpit, Will one Sabbath joined in the\npsalmody with such noisy zeal that Mr. Fullerton, the minister, tapped\nhim on the head, saying, \u201cNot so loud, Will.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, sir,\u201d retorted the natural, \u201cwill I no praise the Lord _with a\u2019 my\nmicht_?\u201d\n\nMr. Fullerton had advertised from the pulpit that he was to hold a diet\nof examination in a certain district of the parish, and meeting Will on\nhis way thither, he inquired of the half-wit why he never appeared on\nsuch occasions.\n\n\u201cBecause ye dinna gi\u2019e fair play,\u201d was the reply.\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said the minister, \u201cwhat do you mean Will?\u201d\n\n\u201cYe should aloo question aboot,\u201d returned Will.\n\nThis point was conceded by the minister, and Will, accordingly, appeared\nat the next diet.\n\n\u201cHow many Gods are there, William?\u201d the catechiser asked.\n\n\u201cThere is but one only, the living and true God,\u201d replied Will.\n\nMr. F. was proceeding with the next question, \u201cHow many persons,\u201d etc.,\nwhen he was interrupted with, \u201cNa na, minister, a bargain\u2019s a bargain;\nit\u2019s my turn noo. How many deevils are there?\u201d\n\n\u201cI really cannot tell,\u201d replied the divine.\n\n\u201cIs that the gate o\u2019 ye already?\u201d exclaimed Will, and made off with\nhimself as quickly as possible.\n\nWill was a sort of half-privileged haunter of Eglinton Castle and\ngrounds, and knew the Earl very well. Discovering him crossing a fence\none day preparatory to making a \u201cshort cut\u201d towards some point in the\ndemesne, the Earl called out, \u201cCome back, sir; that is not the road.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you ken,\u201d asked Will, \u201cwhaur I\u2019m gaun?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d replied his Lordship.\n\n\u201cWeel, hoo the deil do you ken whether this be the road or no?\u201d and\nhaving said so, away he went.\n\n[Illustration: The Earl called out, \u201cCome back, sir: that is not the\nroad.\u201d \u201cDo you ken,\u201d asked Will, \u201cwhaur I\u2019m gaun?\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d replied his\nLordship. \u201cWeel, hoo the deil do ye ken whether this be the road or\nno?\u201d\u2014_Page 383._]\n\nEntering the house of a clergyman in Beith, famed as a skilful performer\non the violin, and hearing the minister playing on the fiddle, Will began\nto dance, and continued in his own unmeasured style till the clergyman\nwas fairly tired. The practical commentator on catgut then handed Will\na shilling. \u201cHech,\u201d said Will, \u201cthis world\u2019s uncoly changed, for in my\nyoung days it was the dancers that aye pay\u2019d the fiddler.\u201d\n\nPassing along the road by the side of the minister\u2019s glebe one morning,\nwhilst haymaking was in progress, the minister asked Will if he thought\nthe weather would keep up, as it looked rather like rain.\n\n\u201cWeel,\u201d says Will, \u201cI canna be sure sae early in the day, but I\u2019ll be\npassin\u2019 this way the nicht again, an\u2019 I\u2019ll ca\u2019 in and tell ye.\u201d\n\nOn making his way to a farmhouse one day where he was usually quite at\nhome, Will accidentally lighted on a young cow of his host\u2019s, which had\ngot swamped in a bog.\n\nThe poor creature was sunk so deep that no more than the ridge of the\nback, the head, and half the neck was to be seen. Will ran to the house\nat his utmost speed, and threw open the kitchen door flat against the\nwall, which rebounded back again with a noise like the discharge of\na piece of artillery. The whole family, who were engaged at morning\nprayers, started from their knees. \u201cYe\u2019re losin\u2019 mair than ye\u2019re\nwinnin\u2019,\u201d exclaimed Will, almost out of breath. \u201cThere\u2019s ane o\u2019 yer\nstirks doun in the bog there. Rin an\u2019 tak\u2019 her out, or she\u2019ll sune be o\u2019\nnae mair value to you than the hide an\u2019 horns. Prayers are a\u2019 richt, an\u2019\nye\u2019re no sae aften at them maybe as ye should; but dinna be prayin\u2019 when\nye should be puttin\u2019 to hands.\u201d Will\u2019s gospel was thoroughly orthodox.\n\nSurely, my reader, these anecdotes and illustrations, besides revealing\nthe strong and ready sense of humour which obtains in the mind and\nmanifests itself in the speech of the ordinary Scottish natural, serve\nto corroborate the witty saying of the Rev. Walter Dunlop of Dumfries,\nnamely, that \u201cYe\u2019ll often see a bricht licht shinin\u2019 through a _crack_.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nJAMIE FLEEMAN, THE LAIRD OF UDNY\u2019S FOOL\n\n\nJamie Fleeman, the Laird of Udny\u2019s Fool, the most illustrious, was\nprobably the very last of his order in Scotland. A real \u201cnatural,\u201d Jamie\nhad, notwithstanding, rare \u201cglimmerings of common-sense,\u201d as Bailie Nicol\nJarvie avowed concerning the Dugal Craitur, and possessed a pungency of\nready wit and humour and withering sarcasm which caused him to be dreaded\nas a foe and trusted as a friend. Without troubling to follow the details\nof Jamie\u2019s career, interesting as these are, we will simply glance\n_en passant_ at his strange personality, and proceed to account some\nwell-authenticated stories in which he was a prime actor.\n\nBiographically, suffice it to say that, according to one writer, he\nwas a native of Longside, in Aberdeenshire, and was born on the 7th\nApril, 1713, whilst an earlier chronicler asserts that the place of the\ngreat man\u2019s birth is so uncertain that the eighty-and-one parishes of\nAberdeenshire might, if they pleased, contend for that honour in like\nmanner as the seven cities of Greece contended for the glory of having\nbeen the birthplace of Homer. Jamie spent the days of his boyhood about\nthe house of Sir Alexander Guthrie of Ludquharn, and at a very early\nperiod of life began, by his bluntness of manner and shrewdness of\nremark, to attract the notice of his superiors. By and by he gravitated\nto Udny, which remained his \u201chead-quarters\u201d during many pleasant years.\nHe had a strange appearance. \u201cHis countenance\u2014indescribably, and even\npainfully, striking\u2014wore that expression which at once betrays the\nabsence of sound judgment; his head large and round\u2014his hair perhaps\nnaturally brown, but rendered, by constant exposure to the weather, of\na dingy fox-colour, and not sleek, but standing on end\u2014as if Jamie had\nbeen frightened out of his wits\u2014indicated that his foolishness was not\nassumed but real.\u201d A person of strong and reliable affection, Jamie\nhad equally strong and confirmed prejudices. The latter had respect to\nplaces, persons, and animals. No red-haired woman, for example, could\ngain his respect. \u201cWhaur saw ye ever a lady wi\u2019 scarlet hair?\u201d he would\ngrowl. He had a prejudice in favour of dogs, and a hatred of cats, and\nthis, he said, was \u201cgentlemanny.\u201d All the curs in the country knew him,\nand were glad to see him. Wherever he stayed, the dog was generally\npermitted to share his bed and board. At Waterton he taught a large\nhouse-dog to observe a line drawn across the porridge pot. On one side\nof the line the porridge belonged to Jamie, on the other the dog was\npermitted to feed, Jamie\u2019s spoon making the boundary line to be duly\nrespected. One morning the dog being from home, the cook insisted that\nthe cat should be permitted to take Curry\u2019s place. Fleeman\u2019s countenance\nfell at the suggestion, but he did not venture to remonstrate and run\nthe risk of losing the cook\u2019s favour. Pussy was accordingly placed at\nthe opposite side of the pot from Jamie, but ignorant of the law of the\npot, she speedily transgressed by putting her nose across the marshes.\nFleeman suspended operations, and viewed her for a moment with an eye of\nsovereign contempt. A like transgression on the part of the dog would\nhave been adequately punished by a slap over the head with the back of\nhis spoon; but less mercy must be shown to the cat, so, quietly slipping\nhis hand down on the enemy\u2019s head, he, with a sudden jerk, plunged her\nover the ears into the scalding mess, gravely remarking the while,\n\u201cDesperate diseases require desperate cures, ye curst wretch!\u201d\n\nFactors were no favourites with Jamie either, and it was a trait in his\ncharacter that he employed every opportunity that presented itself to\nannoy those whom he held in aversion. One day a proprietor, at whose\nhouse he was on a visit, was walking out with his factor, and showing him\na field of hill-land which he had cultivated at considerable expense, but\nwhich had proved very unproductive. \u201cI have tried many things,\u201d said the\ngentleman; \u201cwhat do you think, if planted, would be likely to thrive in\nit?\u201d\n\nThe factor, a very corpulent man, put on an air of great consequence,\nand stood musing for a time, during which Jamie was overheard saying\u2014\n\n\u201cO\u2019d, I could tell ye what would thrive in\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Fleeman,\u201d said the Laird, \u201cand what would that be?\u201d\n\n\u201cPlant it wi\u2019 factors, Laird,\u201d said the fool, \u201cthey thrive in every\nplace; but for a\u2019 that,\u201d added he, \u201cdeil curse the crap, it\u2019s no a very\nprofitable ane.\u201d\n\nThe proprietor of an estate near by Udny was held in special aversion by\nJamie, and one day when the fool was lolling on the bank of the Ythan,\nbasking himself in the sun, he was hailed from the other side of the\nwater by this laird, who asked him where was the best ford. The malicious\nknave directed the laird to the deepest pool in the river, and the laird\nattempting to cross narrowly escaped drowning. When he arrived, sorely\ndrenched and \u201cforfouchen,\u201d on the other side, he made up to Fleeman, and\nin a voice hoarse with passion, accused the poor fool of a design to\ndrown him. \u201cGosh be here, Laird!\u201d said Jamie, \u201cI\u2019ve seen the geese and\nthe deucks crossin\u2019 there hunders o\u2019 times, and I\u2019m sure your horse has\nfar langer legs than they ha\u2019e.\u201d\n\nTo try if Jamie was proof against the allurements of pelf, some one about\nthe place scattered a few copper coins on the way between the house and\nthe well, and kept watch at the time when he would be sent out for water.\nFleeman, carrying his buckets, came to the place where the coins lay,\nand, eyeing them for a moment, he muttered to himself\u2014just loud enough\nto be heard by those who watched his conduct\u2014\u201cWhen I carry water, I carry\nwater; and when I gather bawbees, I gather bawbees,\u201d and passed on. This\nshows that if Jamie was a fool, he possessed a virtue which many who are\nnot accounted so cannot lay claim to.\n\nAnother story illustrates his extraordinary sagacity. On one occasion\nhe was sent all the way to Edinburgh with a letter to the Laird, who\nhad gone thither some short time previously. Jamie arrived in Edinburgh\nsafely, but he was quite ignorant of the Laird\u2019s address; and this he\nset about to discover. And thus\u2014as he wandered about in the streets, he\nnarrowly inspected every dog he met, and was at last sufficiently lucky\nto recognise one of his old bed-fellows. Seizing him in his arms, he ran\ninto a shop, and, asking a coil of rope, measured off five or six yards,\nand fastening the end of this round the dog\u2019s neck, he set him down, and\ngiving him a few hearty kicks, cried, \u201cHame wi\u2019 you, ye scoonging tyke!\nhame wi\u2019 ye!\u201d and, following at the heels of the half-frightened-to-death\ndog, he discovered the Laird\u2019s temporary dwelling-place.\n\nFleeman\u2019s wit was sometimes of a playful cast, sometimes of a grave and\ndidactic nature; but grave or gay, it rarely failed to effect the object\nfor which it was called forth. Passing along the road one day, he was\naccosted by a foppishly-dressed individual, who eyed him from head to\nfoot, and exclaimed in a rather impertinent manner, \u201cYou are Udny\u2019s\nfool, are you not?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d replied Jamie, with an odd stare, peculiar to himself, \u201cI\u2019m Udny\u2019s\nfeel. Fa\u2019s feel are ye?\u201d\n\nBeing at Peterhead, Fleeman was one day on the shore near the \u201cWine\nWell,\u201d where several gentlemen belonging to the town were assembled, and\nlooking very earnestly through a telescope at some distant object. Always\nof an enquiring nature, Jamie asked one of the gentlemen what it was they\nwere so intently surveying. \u201cOh, Jamie,\u201d said he, bantering the fool, \u201cwe\nare looking at a couple of limpets that are trying a race on the Skerry!\nD\u2019ye no see them?\u201d\n\n\u201cI canna just say that I do,\u201d replied Jamie, as grave as a judge. Then,\nturning up one side of his head as if listening intently, he all of a\nsudden assumed an animated expression of countenance, and exclaimed with\nludicrous gravity, \u201cLo\u2019d bless me, sir, I hear the sound o\u2019 their feet as\nthey scamper up the face o\u2019 the rock!\u201d and passed on.\n\nJamie\u2019s practice was never to call any person a liar, but when any one\ntold him what he considered was a deliberate falsehood, he just capped\nthe initial lie with a bigger one.\n\n\u201cMan, Jamie,\u201d exclaimed an individual whom he met on the road one day,\n\u201chave ye heard the news?\u201d (Jamie had a well-known _penchant_ for news).\n\n\u201cNa, faith I,\u201d said Jamie, all expectation. \u201cWhat news, man?\u201d\n\n\u201cO\u2019d man,\u201d said he, \u201cthere\u2019s seven miles o\u2019 the sea burned at Newburgh\nthis morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, man,\u201d replied Jamie, apparently very much in earnest. \u201cWeel, I\nlittle ferlie, for I saw a flock o\u2019 skate that darkened the very air\nfleein\u2019 ower this way about breakfast-time. They gaed ower by Waterton to\nthe woods o\u2019 Tolquhon, and they\u2019ll likely be biggin\u2019 their nests there.\u201d\n\nAs is often the case with naturals, Jamie was possessed of extraordinary\nstrength, particularly in his arms; and in this connection there is a\ngood story told of him. There happened to be in Aberdeen an English\nregiment, the commander of which was a gasconading fellow, who constantly\nbragged of the extraordinary strength of his men. One day the Laird of\nUdny and this officer were of the same party at dinner. When the glass\nbegan to circulate, the officer began to boast, and, as was his wont, got\nlouder and louder in praise of his men, as he became more and more heated\nwith wine. At length, Udny, believing that the insult was levelled at\nhis countrymen, by the pertinacity of the officer\u2019s boast, said rather\nsmartly\u2014\n\n\u201cFrom all accounts, these famous grenadiers of yours are the best\nwrestlers that England can produce. I\u2019ll take you a wager of twenty\nguineas that the lad who herds my cows, and carries peats and water to\nthe kitchen, will throw the best man in your regiment.\u201d\n\nThe officer was in a paroxysm of rage, but confident that his men were\nas good as he had represented them to be, he readily took the bet,\nclenching it with an oath, and added that the pride of the Scotch would\nsoon be laid as low as it was on Drummossie Moor.\n\nTime and place for the trial of strength being appointed, Udny, after\nordering his servant to purchase half a pound of fine twist tobacco, set\noff to his residence. Fearing that Jamie might not relish the job he\nhad prepared for him, Udny thought it the wisest course to coax him a\nlittle, and knowing his passionate fondness for tobacco, he presented the\nhalf-pound, at the same time remarking\u2014\n\n\u201cI have got myself into a scrape, Fleeman, and no man but you can take me\nout of it.\u201d\n\nJamie eyed the tobacco with a look of great satisfaction, clapped a\ncouple of inches from the end of it in his cheek, and looking Udny in the\nface, with an air of great seriousness, said\u2014\n\n\u201cWhat is\u2019t Laird?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must shak\u2019-a-fa\u2019 for me, Fleeman,\u201d said Udny.\n\n\u201cIs that a\u2019?\u201d cried Jamie.\n\n\u201cBut it is with soldiers, Jamie; and if ye throw them, ye shall get\nanother half-pound of tobacco.\u201d\n\nJamie began to gambol and cut capers, as was his custom when in good\nhumour, and Udny saw his point was gained.\n\nOn the appointed day Jamie appeared at the Cross of Aberdeen bareheaded,\nhis hair standing on end as on ordinary occasions, and dressed in the\nsackcloth coat which he usually wore. The soldiers, not deeming that\nthey jested with their antagonist, were playing on him all sorts of\ntricks. When the hour approached the Colonel appeared, and had his men\ndrawn up in order. Seeing no person with Udny, he demanded him, with an\nair of triumph, to produce the cowherd who was to throw the best man that\nEngland could produce. Udny beckoned to Jamie, who came capering forward.\nThe officer looked with an air of contempt on Udny and his cow-boy,\nwhilst a loud laugh burst from the soldiers when they saw the poor idiot\nwhom they had lately been jeering brought forward as a match for any\nman in the company. As the soldiers were really fine men, and expert\nwrestlers, their commander, instead of selecting the strongest of his\nparty, ordered out one of the weakest, determined, as he thought, to turn\nthe laugh, as well as the bet, against Udny.\n\n\u201cDo you take the first shake?\u201d inquired the soldier, approaching Jamie\nnot without some evidence of aversion.\n\n\u201cNa, na,\u201d replied Jamie; \u201ctak\u2019 ye the first shake, for fear ye getna\nanither,\u201d and he threw the soldier from him as he would have done a child.\n\nAnother and more powerful man shared the same fate. The Colonel now began\nto suspect that Udny\u2019s man was better than he looked. He was likewise\nirritated by the smiles on the faces of the bystanders, and ordered out\nthe best man in his regiment.\n\nJamie, too, was beginning to be in earnest, and the champion was seized\nand dashed to the ground in an instant, which done, Jamie ran up to the\nLaird and inquired\u2014\n\n\u201cLo\u2019d! have I a\u2019 that dyke o\u2019 men to throw, Laird? If sae, tell their\nmaister to ca\u2019 oot twa or three o\u2019 them at ance, for I maun be hame in\ntime to tak\u2019 in the kye.\u201d\n\nThe Castlegate rang with shouts of laughter, and the bet was declared off.\n\nJamie liked to accompany the Laird whithersoever he went, and, mounted on\na huge \u201crung,\u201d he could keep pace with his master\u2019s pony, if the journey\nwas not a very long one. One year the Laird set out for Perth Races,\nand, as the sequel indicates, without\u2014purposely or forgetfully\u2014making\nFleeman aware of his intention. Udny had not proceeded far on his\njourney, however, until the scene of his sojourn was being talked about\nthe house. Jamie\u2019s ears, always on the cock, caught the word, and, taking\nto his rung, he cut across the country, and reached St. Johnstone before\nhis master. Jamie had a friend in the kitchen of every house at which\nUdny was in the habit of visiting, and, calling on one or other of his\nPerthshire benefactors, he had got served with the larger half of a leg\nof mutton. With this he repaired to the Brig of Perth to make a meal, and\nwait the Laird\u2019s arrival. It was not long until the Laird of Udny made\nhis appearance.\n\n\u201cHilloa, Fleeman,\u201d said he, reining up his nag, \u201care you here already?\u201d\n\n\u201cCa\u2019 awa\u2019, Laird,\u201d said Jamie, smacking his lips, and not deigning to\nlook his interrogator in the face\u2014\u201cca\u2019 awa\u2019! Ye ken a body when they hae\nsomething.\u201d\n\nIt is recorded of him that one day when travelling along the road he\nfound a horse shoe. Shortly after Mr. Craigie, the minister of St.\nFergus, came up to him. Jamie knew the minister well, and, holding up the\nshoe and examining it carefully all round the while\u2014\n\n\u201cOd, minister,\u201d he said, \u201ccan ye tell me what that is?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat!\u201d said the minister, \u201cyou fool, that\u2019s a horse shoe!\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said Fleeman, with a sigh, \u201csic a blessin\u2019 it is to hae book lear!\nI couldna tell whether it was a horse\u2019s shoe or a mare\u2019s!\u201d\n\nThe following is about the only anecdote recorded of Fleeman which\nexhibits a mingling of the rogue with the fool:\u2014He had been sent to\nHaddo House to fetch some geese thence to Udny Castle. Finding the task\nof driving them before him a very arduous one, by reason of their many\nperverse digressions from the public road, Jamie, when his patience was\nfairly exhausted, procured a straw rope, and twisting this about their\nnecks, he took the double of it over his shoulder and walked swiftly on,\ndragging the geese after him, and never casting \u201cone longing, lingering\nlook behind.\u201d On his arrival at Udny, he discovered to his horror, that\nthe geese were all strangled and stone-dead. The breed was a peculiar\none, and strict injunctions had been given to him to be careful in\nconducting the geese safely home. So his ingenuity, which never failed\nhim, had to be drawn upon to devise a plan that would free him from\ndisgrace. Accordingly, dragging his victims into the poultry yard, he\nstuffed their bills and throats with food, then boldly entered the castle.\n\n\u201cWell, Jamie, have you brought the geese?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy have I.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd are they safe?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Safe!_ I put them into the poultry yard, an\u2019 they\u2019re goble, goblin\u2019 an\u2019\neatin\u2019 yonder as if they hadna seen meat this twalmonth. I only hope they\nhaena chokit themsel\u2019s afore noo!\u201d\n\nIf Jamie Fleeman\u2019s wits were \u201cravelled,\u201d his heart was generally found\nsound and in the right place. His sympathies invariably went with the\nweak, the suffering, the poor, and the oppressed; and many anecdotes,\nnot a few of them quite pathetic in their character, are on record, in\nillustration of this delightful side of his nature. Just one here:\u2014There\nwas a young fellow, a servant about a farmhouse where Fleeman sometimes\nstayed for a day or two at a time, who had seduced a poor girl in the\nneighbourhood, and added to his first fault by resolutely denying that he\nwas the father of the child, and strenuously endeavouring to make it be\nbelieved that the girl\u2019s reputation had always been of a very doubtful\nnature. Before the Kirk-Session he appeared again and again, where he\ndeclared his own innocence, and denounced the poor girl as a liar and\nworse, although, up to that time, she had really borne an unimpeachable\ncharacter. With all these facts Jamie was, along with everybody else in\nthe district, perfectly familiar, and he formed his own opinion regarding\nthem. One evening at the farmhouse aforesaid, when the servants were\ngathered round the kitchen fire, and, with the fool in their midst, were\nplaying off little jokes upon Jamie, in order to get amusement by his\nquick repartee, no one teased him more than he who had lately figured so\nconspicuously before the Kirk-Session.\n\n\u201cMan, Jamie,\u201d said he, \u201cye\u2019re sic a fool that I\u2019ll wager ye that ye canna\ntell whether ye be your father\u2019s son or your mither\u2019s? Fat answer ha\u2019e ye\ngot to that? Just tell me?\u201d And he burst into a loud fit of laughter, as\nif he had got the better of Jamie.\n\n\u201cTell ye me first, then,\u201d said Fleeman, gravely, \u201cfat answer ye have to\ngie your Maker at the last day, when He asks you if ye didna break the\nlass\u2019s character, and then swear that ye did nae sic thing. It will maybe\nthen be asked of you if you can tell whether her boy be not your son as\nwell as his mither\u2019s; and, faith, I\u2019m thinking it will puzzle you to mak\u2019\nit out that his being the son o\u2019 the ane hinders him from being the son\no\u2019 the ither.\u201d\n\nSome of those present laughed, others looked as if they did not know what\nto do. But the upshot of the matter was that, in the course of a few\ndays after, the man waited on the minister, declared himself mis-sworn,\nconfessed he had purposely endeavoured to injure the girl\u2019s character,\nand begged to be absolved from Church censure.\n\nTo an accident which befell him when following his avocation of cowherd,\nis to be ascribed the origin of a proverb very current in Buchan\u2014\u201cThe\ntruth aye tells best.\u201d Fleeman had, in repelling the invasion of\na corn-field by the cattle under his charge, had recourse to the\nunwarrantable and _unherd-like_ expedient of throwing stones. One of\nhis missiles, on an evil day and an hour of woe, broke the leg of a\nthriving two-year-old. Towards sunset, when the hour of driving the\ncattle home had arrived, Jamie was lingering by a dykeside, planning an\nexcuse for the fractured limb of the unfortunate _stot_. \u201cI\u2019ll say,\u201d he\nsoliloquised, \u201cthat he was loupin\u2019 a stank an\u2019 fell an\u2019 broke his leg.\nNa! that winna tell! I\u2019ll say that the brown stallion gied him a kick and\ndid it. That winna tell either! I\u2019ll say that the park yett fell upon\u2019t.\nNa! that winna tell! I\u2019ll say\u2014I\u2019ll say\u2014what will I say? Od, I\u2019ll say that\nI flung a stane and did it! That\u2019ll tell!\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, Jamie,\u201d cried the Laird, who had been an unseen listener, \u201cay, ay,\nJamie, the truth aye tells best.\u201d\n\nIn course of time Jamie was waited on to pay the debt of Nature, and,\nwhile standing round his death-bed, one said to another\u2014\n\n\u201cI wonder if he has any sense of another world or a future reckoning?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no, he is a fool!\u201d replied the other. \u201cWhat can _he_ know of such\nthings?\u201d\n\nJamie opened his eyes, and looking this man in the face said, \u201cI never\nheard that God seeks where He did not give.\u201d\n\nAfter this he lay quiet for a short time, when he again opened his eyes,\nand looking up into the face of one standing near, whom he respected, he\nsaid in a firm tone, \u201cI\u2019m of the gentle persuasion, dinna bury me like a\nbeast!\u201d\n\nHis remains lie in the churchyard of Longside, in close proximity to the\ngrave of the Rev. John Skinner, the author of \u201cTullochgorum\u201d; and in\nkindly recognition of the humanity in poor Jamie, a handsome polished\ngranite obelisk has been erected as near as is known to his grave, which\nbears the following inscription:\u2014\n\n ERECTED\n IN 1861\n TO INDICATE THE GRAVE\n OF\n JAMIE FLEEMAN,\n IN ANSWER TO HIS PRAYER,\n \u201cDINNA BURY ME LIKE A BEAST.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\u201cHAWKIE\u201d\u2014A GLASGOW STREET CHARACTER\n\n\nThe streets and lanes, highways and byeways, of our large cities form\nplatforms on which many a quaint and curious character appears and cuts\ncapers to draw forth the surplus coppers of the impressionable portion\nof the lieges. Here it is a fiddler\u2014there it is a ballad singer\u2014here a\nclog-dancer\u2014there a spouter\u2014now a mute, hungry-looking soul, whose rags\nappeal to the crowd with a thousand tongues\u2014anon one who rends the air\nwith a manufactured tale of woe. But amongst all the tatterdemalion\nclass of public entertainers, street beggars, etc.\u2014and their name is\nlegion\u2014there has not perhaps appeared within the memory of living men\none who was better known whilst he lived, and whose memory is likely to\nremain longer green, than the animated bundle of rags and bones known\namongst men by the self-created pseudonym which stands at the head of\nthis paper. Verily, who has not heard of Hawkie; and where in broad\nScotland have not his jibes and jests, his flashes of wit and humour,\nnot been told and retold? Every book of Scottish humorous anecdotes of\nany account, from _The Laird o\u2019 Logan_ downwards, contains specimens\nof his smart _repartee_, biting sarcasm, and reckless wit, as its\nchoicest bits; and a brief biographical sketch, interspersed with the\nmost telling of the _tellable_ witticisms of this king of Scottish\nbeggars, will be read with interest, if not with profit. His real name\nwas William Cameron, and he was born at a place called Plean, in the\nparish of St. Ninians, in Stirlingshire, where his maternal forbears had\nbeen residenters for generations unknown. His mother\u2019s name was Paterson.\nHis father, Donald Cameron, was a native of Braemar, and claimed distant\nrelationship to the Camerons of Lochiel. At the time of our subject\u2019s\nbirth, he (the father) was engaged as a mashman at a distillery in the\nneighbourhood of Plean. His parents were very poor, and during the\nharvest season his mother went forth to the shearing, leaving William in\ncharge of a girl about six years of age. Whilst thus imperfectly nursed\nand attended he caught damage to his right leg, so serious that it left\nhim a cripple for life. At the age of four he was sent to school. His\nteacher, he said, was an old, decrepit man, who had tried to be a nailer,\nbut at that employment he could not earn his bread. He then attempted to\nteach a few children, for which undertaking he was quite unfit. Writing\nand arithmetic were to him secrets dark as death, and as for English, he\nwas short-sighted, and a word of more than two or three syllables was\neither passed over, or it got a term of his own making. At this school\nhe continued four years, but was not four months advanced in learning,\nalthough, he said, he was as far advanced as his teacher. He next\nwent to a school at a place called Milton, about a mile distant, where\nhe racked his memory learning psalms, chapters of the Bible, and the\ncatechisms, till he could begin at the Song of Solomon, and by heart go\non to the end of Malachi. At the age of twelve he was bound apprentice to\na tailor in Stirling, and in the course of his Autobiography, which, at\nthe request of the late David Robertson, of _Whistle Binkie_ fame, Hawkie\nwrote whilst he was a winter inmate of the Glasgow Hospital, between\nthe years 1840-1850, he gives the following graphic account of this\nengagement:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe first glisk that I got o\u2019 this slubberdegullion o\u2019 a maister gied\nme the heartscad at him. Quo\u2019 I to mysel\u2019, bin\u2019 me as ye like, I\u2019ll no\nrowt lang in your tether, I\u2019se warrant ye. We\u2019re no likely, for a\u2019 that\nI can see, to rot twa door-cheeks thegither, and if a\u2019 reports were\nto be believed, better at padding the inside o\u2019 the pouch-lids than\nhandlin\u2019 the goose. The first job that he gied me was to mak\u2019 a holder\n(needle-cushion) to mysel\u2019, and to it I set. I threaded the best blunt,\nand waxed the twist till it was like to stick in the passage. I stour\u2019d\nawa\u2019, throwing my needle-arm weel out, so that my next neighbour was\nobliged to hirsel\u2019 awa\u2019 frae me to keep out o\u2019 harm\u2019s way. I stitch\u2019d\nit, back-stitch\u2019d it, cross-stitch\u2019d it, and then fell\u2019d and plaed it\nwi\u2019 black, blue, and red, grey, green, and yellow, till the ae colour\nfairly kill\u2019d the ither. My answer to every advice was, I kent what I\nwas doin\u2019, did I never see my mither makin\u2019 a hussey? By the time I had\ngi\u2019en my holder the last stitch, my maister hinted that it wasna likely\nthat I wad e\u2019er mak\u2019 saut to my kail sowthering claith thegither, and\nthat though the shears were run through every stitch o\u2019 the indenture\nit wadna break his heart. Thinks I to mysel\u2019, there\u2019s a pair o\u2019 us, as\nthe coo said to the cuddie, and my crutch can do the job as weel as your\nclippers, so I laid the whip to my stilt, and took the road hame.\u201d\n\nWilliam was again sent to school, his anxious parents still thinking that\nhis habits would settle down, and that he might be fitted for acting as\na dominie in some country district. There was, however, no \u201csettlement\u201d\nin his nature, and he broke away from the dominie as abruptly as he\nhad previously done from the tailor. Wandering to Glasgow he joined a\njourneyman tailor\u2019s house-of-call, then in the Pipe Close, High Street,\nand soon found employment. At this time, walking in Glasgow Green in\ncompany with a brother tradesman one Sabbath morning, they came across a\nfield preacher holding forth to a large audience, \u201cwhile the lining of\nhis hat spoke more for the feelings of his hearers than himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cI could beat him myself,\u201d said Cameron.\n\nThe remark was carried to the workshop by his companion, and next day\u2014\n\n\u201cYou think you could beat the preacher,\u201d said one of the tailors,\naddressing our subject.\n\n\u201cAnd so I could,\u201d retorted Cameron, not expecting the thing would be\ncontinued further.\n\nOn Saturday night, however, he fell in with some tailors, and the\n\u201cpreaching\u201d was again the subject of remark. Cameron still maintained\nthat he could beat him, and it was agreed that he should be put to\nthe test on the following day. About forty or fifty of the principal\njourneymen in the city accordingly assembled next day in the\nhouse-of-call, when the unfledged orator was dressed in a borrowed\nsuit of \u201cblacks,\u201d in order to try his mettle in the preaching art. At\nabout twelve o\u2019clock they set out, and Westmuir, on the road leading to\nAirdrie, was selected as the scene of action.\n\n\u201cMy father and mother,\u201d writes Hawkie, \u201cwere Burghers, and possessing the\nworks of Ralph Erskine of Dunfermline, whose sermons my mother took great\npleasure in reading and hearing read. I had often to read them aloud\nto her, which, although to her a pleasure, was to me a punishment; and\nhaving a good memory, which was much improved at school, I preached one\nof Ralph Erskine\u2019s sermons. I had got a number of lessons in elocution,\nfor which I had a peculiar liking, and my voice at that time not being\nbroken, I made a favourable impression on the people. We had an elder\nchosen to go round with the hat, but the money came in so quick that\nthere was no need for that.\u201d Such was Hawkie\u2019s first public appearance as\nan orator.\n\nFor the following Sabbath another sermon was planned, but in the interim\nthe budding preacher vacated the city. He is next found keeping a school\nat Bloack, in Ayrshire, behaving exemplary, and carefully studying the\nnature of his scholars. Soon again he is in Glasgow, working at the\ntailor trade, and anon keeping a school at a coal work at Plean Muir, in\nthe vicinity of his birthplace. Next move, the tawse are thrown once more\naside. He attaches himself to a band of strolling players, and \u201cstars\u201d it\nthrough part of the county of Fife. The stage turns out an unprofitable\nspeculation, and the scene again changes. He is now a toy manufacturer.\nThis proves too laborious an occupation, and he next becomes a\nchina-mender. No cement will, however, bind the unsettled changeling. At\nthe end of nine months he abandons the china trade, starts for Newcastle,\nand embarks in field-preaching among the collier population, who were\nnearly all Methodists. This he found to be a lucrative job.\n\n\u201cI got so dexterous at that craft,\u201d he writes, \u201cthat I might have had a\nchurch, and was approved to be admitted into the brotherhood, but was\nafraid that the _holes of my robe would not hold a button, and a small\nbreeze of wind would expose the inside work_.\u201d\n\nHe abandons preaching, quits Newcastle, sets out for Carlisle, and\nremains there until his money is done. He then starts for Scotland,\ncoming through Annandale, and asks charity for the first time in his\nlife in the village of Ecclefechan, Dumfriesshire. In his brief career\nhe has already acted many and varied parts, and each one has left him\na little lower down than it found him. At the age of thirty he lets\nslip the spirit of independence that had hitherto struggled against his\nnatural inclination towards utter depravity, and becomes a common beggar.\nAttempts to rescue him had been put forth time and again, but all to no\npurpose; his nature was predisposed gutterwards, and down he went.\n\n\u201cOh, man,\u201d he was once heard to say, when remonstrated with about his\ndissolute life, \u201cif I hadna the heart o\u2019 a hyena, my mither\u2019s tears would\nhae saftened it lang afore now. My conscience yet gies me sair stangs\nwhen I think aboot her, and I hae just to huzzh\u2019t asleep wi\u2019 whisky.\u201d\n\nBegging from door to door, and occasionally selling chap books in the\nstreets, he wandered over the most of Scotland, as well as over a large\npart of England, and had many strange experiences, which, in course of\ntime, were faithfully recorded in his \u201cAutobiography\u201d already referred\nto. These records, I may state in passing, edited by John Strathesk, the\nwell-known author of _Bits from Blinkbonny_, were recently published\nby David Robertson & Co., of Glasgow. The book is a revelation of\nbeggar-life well calculated to do good, as its perusal will convince\nany unbiased mind that ninety-nine per cent. of your door-to-door\nbeggars are arrant rogues and vagabonds. Read alongside of Hawkie\u2019s\nAutobiography, Burns\u2019s \u201cJolly Beggars\u201d is found to be no fancy picture.\nIn his description of Beggars\u2019 Dens of any consequence all over the\nland there are found life-like portraits of the various \u201crandie gangrel\nbodies,\u201d who, \u201cin Poosie Nansie\u2019s held the splore to drink their orra\nduddies.\u201d Andrew Gemmells, the original of Scott\u2019s \u201cEdie Ochiltree,\u201d\naverred, in his remoter time, that begging had become scarcely the\nprofession of a gentleman. As a trade it was forty pounds in the year\nworse than when he practised it, and, if he had twenty sons, he would\nnot be easily induced to breed one of them up in his own line. Even in\nHawkie\u2019s time the profession, however, was not quite played out. The\nCanonmills Road in Edinburgh, when he first started, was, he says, worth\non an average five shillings and a few pence daily. The King\u2019s Park was\nnot worth anything except on Sunday, but the first Sunday he begged in\nit, standing hat in hand from three in the afternoon until nine at night,\nhe lifted over seventeen shillings. Paisley and a number of villages in\nthe neighbourhood are admitted to be excellent ground for the \u201ccadger.\u201d A\nbeggar may remain in Paisley, Hawkie avers, and live on the best of the\nland. Gangrel bodies will therefore do well to take Hawkie\u2019s experience\nalong with Lord Beaconsfields hint and \u201ckeep\u201d their \u201ceye on Paisley.\u201d\n\nBut we must return to what is more particularly our present\nsubject\u2014Hawkie and his witticisms. Glasgow was the scene of his triumph\nas a street orator and wit. Whilst he wandered to and fro in the earth,\nhe was a nameless, unknown gangrel, drifting towards a \u201ccadger pownie\u2019s\ndeath at some dykeside.\u201d But settling down in the mercantile capital,\nthe keen struggle for existence which obtains there roused his dormant\nenergies into full play, and he soon became a \u201cman of mark.\u201d Diogenes\nwith his tub was not better known in the streets of Athens than was\nHawkie with his crutch for many years in the streets of St. Mungo. He\nfirst made his presence felt there some time subsequent to 1818. About\nthis time an impostor of the name of Ross had been gulling the gaping\nmob with a prediction that the Bridgegate of Glasgow, with its swarm\nof motley inhabitants, was doomed to sudden and complete destruction.\nCameron possessed a ready turn for satirical burlesque; so, envying Ross\nhis following, he set up a claim for prophetic vision also, and made\nhis Seer \u201cHawkie, a twa-year-auld quey frae Aberdour, in the County of\nFife, and sister-german to Ross.\u201d She also foretold the destruction of\nthe Bridgegate, but from a different cause than that given by Ross. \u201cIt\nis to be destroyed,\u201d said the Aberdour stirk, \u201cby a flood o\u2019 whisky, and\nthe wives will be ferrying in washing tubs frae ae door to anither, and\nmony o\u2019 their lives will be lost, that itherwise micht hae been saved, by\nlouting ower their tubs to try the flood, whether it was Sky-blue or the\nreal Ferintosh.\u201d This production was a profitable speculation for some\ntime, and Cameron continued to cry it so frequently that the name of the\n\u201cstirk\u201d took the place of his own.\n\nHawkie was ever ready to enter into a religious discussion, and\nfrequently showed great skill in the management of an argument. One day\nhe fell into a discussion on the doctrine of Baptism with a spirit-dealer\nin the city, who maintained that the mere observance of the external\nceremony was all that was required.\n\n\u201cDo you,\u201d says the gangrel, \u201cinsist that sprinkling wi\u2019 water constitutes\nbaptism?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I do,\u201d replied the bar-master.\n\n\u201cWeel, then, gin that be a\u2019 that\u2019s necessary, your whisky casks may\ndispute Christianity wi\u2019 ony Protestant Bishop in the hale country.\u201d This\nclinched the argument.\n\nHawkie\u2019s besetting sin was an inveterate love of ardent spirits. \u201cI am\nsurprised, Hawkie,\u201d said a person remonstrating with him one day on\nhis dissolute life, \u201cthat a person of your knowledge and intellect can\ndegrade himself by drinking whisky until you are deprived of reason, and\nwith whom the brute could justly dispute pre-eminence. I would allow you\ntwo glasses per day, if you can\u2019t want it, but not more.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, that\u2019s fair,\u201d replied the wit; \u201cbut will ye lodge\u2019t in a\npublic-house? Man, ye dinna ken what I hae to do. My forefathers, and\nforemithers, too, were a\u2019 sober folk, and I hae had to drink for them\na\u2019. Ye see, they ran in debt to the British Government, and left me to\npay\u2019t; and when I cudna do\u2019t I got an easy settlement wi\u2019 the folks o\u2019\nthe Exchequer, on condition that I was to pay\u2019t up by instalments, and\nwherever I saw a house wi\u2019 reading abune the door-head, \u2018British spirits\nsold here,\u2019 to pay in my dividend; and there was nae fear o\u2019 it comin\u2019 to\nthem.\u201d\n\nHawkie once had a watch, and the only one, moreover, that ever beat in\nhis fob. \u201cIt didna cost me muckle,\u201d he said. \u201cI bocht it at a sale ae\nnicht, and the match o\u2019t against time was never in onybody\u2019s pouch, for\nit gaed a\u2019 the four-and-twenty hours in the first ane after I row\u2019d it\nup.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are well acquainted with the but and ben end of the \u2018Land of Cakes,\u2019\nHawkie,\u201d said a gentleman to him.\n\n\u201cAy, man,\u201d replied the wit; \u201cI micht throw the halter ower the neck o\u2019\nmy stilt, and it would turn in o\u2019 its ain accord to its quarters for the\nnicht, without happin\u2019 or windin\u2019 in ony corner o\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a wonder, Hawkie, that ye can live,\u201d said another. \u201cA man o\u2019 your\nintellect, trampin\u2019 up and down among a\u2019 the riff-raff that beg the\ncountry.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, but man, is that a\u2019 ye ken,\u201d replied the indomitable one; \u201cI hae a\nprofession to support\u2014I\u2019m a collector o\u2019 poor\u2019s rates.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must have a surplus of funds,\u201d continued the gentleman; \u201cfor I think\nyou are a talented and industrious collector.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeel, man,\u201d returned Hawkie, \u201cI admit baith; but for a\u2019 that I ne\u2019er got\nwhat paid the collector decently.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have myself something to do with collecting accounts, Hawkie, but if\nyour rates are as difficult to call in as my accounts are, you must have\nbattle enough in your profession?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, man, you\u2019re no up to your business. Ye\u2019re but a green hand. I could\nlearn you to get your accounts! I ca\u2019 in accounts regularly whaur there\u2019s\nnaething awin\u2019 to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cHae, Hawkie,\u201d said one of his almoners, \u201cthere\u2019s a penny to you, and gae\nawa\u2019, man, and get your beard ta\u2019en aff; ye micht draw lint through\u2019t for\na heckle, I\u2019m perfectly ashamed to see you gaun about like a Jew.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d replied Hawkie, \u201cbut you forget, freend, that it disna suit a\nbeggar to be bare-faced.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall endeavour to provoke Hawkie into retort,\u201d said a gentleman who\nwas well known to the wit, to a friend. And passing the beggar, with head\nturned away to avoid recognition, he remarked, in a voice sufficiently\naudible, \u201cHe\u2019s a perfect blackguard and impostor, that Hawkie. He should\nbe sent to Bridewell!\u201d\n\n\u201cHech, man,\u201d retorted Hawkie, \u201cyou\u2019re the only neebour-like person I hae\nseen the day.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat will you charge to teach me the profession of begging, Hawkie?\u201d\ninquired one.\n\n\u201cMan, ye couldna come to a better hand for your education,\u201d replied\nHawkie; \u201cand I\u2019ll just tak\u2019 ye on the terms the poor weavers used to tak\u2019\ntheir apprentices; I\u2019ll gie you the half o\u2019 your winning.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a shocking-like hat you have got on your head, Hawkie,\u201d said one.\n\u201cYou never had anything like a decent one, but that is certainly the\nworst I ever saw you have.\u201d\n\n\u201cI got it in Paddy\u2019s Market,\u201d said the wit, \u201cand it\u2019s made on the sliding\nscale,\u201d said he, taking it off, and lifting off the upper portion.\n\u201cMan!\u2014I kent the sliding scale afore Peel.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you ever hear an ass, bray, Hawkie?\u201d queried a young whiskered puppy.\n\n\u201cNever till the noo,\u201d was the instant reply.\n\nThe street orator entered a shop one day where there happened to be a\ngentleman from Perth standing at the counter.\n\n\u201cWere you ever in Perth, Willie?\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cYes, I hae been there,\u201d said Hawkie; \u201cand I hae gude reason to mind\nPerth. I gaed in at a street ill-lichted, and I thocht, nae fear o\u2019 the\npolice here; so I commenced my story. But I hadna weel begun when a\nvoice frae a window cries out, \u2018Get you gone, sir, or the police will\nfind quarters for ye.\u2019 I ne\u2019er loot on that I heard the threat, but\ncried awa\u2019 till I got to the end o\u2019 the street, and then took the road\nto my lodgings. I hadna been there mony minutes when in comes ane o\u2019 the\npolice, and lugs me aff to jail, whaur they keepit me till Monday\u2014this\nwas Friday\u2014and just let me out then wi\u2019 as much daylicht as would let me\nsee across the brig. That\u2019s a\u2019 that I ken about the Fair City.\u201d Standing\nfor a few minutes, he held out his left hand, and, gathering the fingers\nof his right to a point, he dipped them into the hollow of his left,\nsaying, \u201cWeel, sir, what are ye gaun to gie to redeem the character o\u2019\nyour town?\u201d\n\nHawkie entered the shop of one of his almoners one day whilst a process\nof painting was going on. \u201cTake care of your clothes!\u201d shouted an\nattendant at the counter.\n\n\u201cTak\u2019 ye care o\u2019 your paint,\u201d retorted the ragged wit. \u201cIt\u2019s mair likely\nto be damaged by me than I am by it.\u201d\n\nThe orator was addressing an audience in the street one day when he was\ninterrupted by a passer-by\u2014\u201cI see you are preaching, as usual, Hawkie.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I am,\u201d said he, holding out his open hand, \u201cand there\u2019s the plate\nfor the collection.\u201d\n\nA little carpenter, with a shaving tied round as a hat-band, observing\nHawkie standing at a corner, accosted the orator with, \u201cMan, Hawkie, do\nyou see, I\u2019m gaun in mournings for you?\u201d\n\n\u201cIs\u2019t no,\u201d replied Hawkie, appealing to the crowd, \u201ca puir account o\u2019\nPresbyterian Glasgow, when a brat like that is permitted to gang about in\nmournings for a man before he\u2019s dead?\u201d\n\nOur _orateur du pav\u00e8_, by reason of his calling and behaviour together,\ngot into frequent conflict with the police.\n\n\u201cTake the road, sir, and not obstruct the street,\u201d was the imperative\ndemand of a batonman to him one day.\n\n\u201cI hae nae richt till\u2019t,\u201d replied the wit; \u201cI pay nae road money.\u201d\n\nOn another occasion he was told to be off and not disturb the street by\ncollecting mobs.\n\n\u201cDinna blame me,\u201d was the reply, \u201cbut the congregation.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t stand there, sir, and collect a crowd,\u201d exclaimed a gentleman in\nblue to him one day.\n\n\u201cMan,\u201d responded Hawkie, \u201cthere\u2019s a power o\u2019 hearers, but few believers.\u201d\n\nCalling on a shopkeeper somewhat late one evening soliciting a trifle to\nhelp to pay his lodgings, the merchant remarked that he had surely come\nlittle speed during the day when he had not made so much as would defray\nthat small matter.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a\u2019 ye ken,\u201d replied Hawkie; \u201cmy lodging costs mair than yours\ndoes.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you make that out?\u201d was asked.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell ye,\u201d said the vagrant. \u201cIn the first place, it tak\u2019s\nfifteenpence to mak\u2019 me drunk\u2014boards and banes mak\u2019 up the bed and\ncontents, and unless I were drunk I couldna sleep a wink\u2014the bed that I\nhae to lie doon on wad mak\u2019 a dog yowl to look at; and then the landlady\nmaun be paid, though a week\u2019s lodgings wad buy a\u2019 the boards an\u2019 bowls\nthat\u2019s in the house. I hae made but little the day. I was up at the\nCowcaddens, whar they hae little to themsel\u2019s, an\u2019 less disposition to\nspare; an\u2019, wearied oot, I lay doon on the roadside to rest me. The\nladdies as they passed were sayin, \u2018Hawkie\u2019s drunk! Hawkie\u2019s drunk!\u2019\nAn\u2019, man, my very heart was like to brak\u2019, I was sae vex\u2019d to think it\nwasna true.\u201d\n\nSome forty years ago, when the Very Rev. Bishop Murdoch was Bishop in\nGlasgow, Hawkie, in his rambles often made his way to the Bishop\u2019s\nresidence in Great Clyde Street, and as the Bishop was well acquainted\nwith Hawkie and his pawky sayings, he often rewarded him with a plate\nof soup or a glass of spirits, whichever he appeared to be most in need\nof. On one occasion a clergyman from the Highlands was paying a visit\nto the Bishop, and as they both chanced to be standing at the window\nconversing, they saw Hawkie slowly making his way in their direction. The\nBishop, turning to the clergyman, told him that that was one of Glasgow\u2019s\ncharacters, famous for his witty sayings, etc., and that he would call\nhim in, when he would probably hear for himself. Accordingly, Hawkie was\nbrought in and shown into the room beside the reverend gentlemen. The\nBishop spoke a few words to him, and then, as he saw Hawkie looking at\nthe pictures on the walls, he asked him if he knew any of them.\n\n\u201cMaybe,\u201d was the answer.\n\nThe Bishop, pointing to a likeness of himself which was hanging on the\nwall, asked him if he knew it, and if it was a good likeness.\n\n\u201cOu, ay,\u201d said Hawkie, \u201cit\u2019s no bad.\u201d\n\nHe was then shown an engraving of the Pope, and, being told who it was,\nhe said, \u201cI dinna ken, I never saw him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said the Bishop, pointing to a picture of the Crucifixion, which\nwas hanging between the two likenesses, \u201cyou surely know that?\u201d\n\nHawkie gazed intently at it for a minute, and then said, \u201cI aye heard\nthat Christ was crucified between twa thieves, but I ne\u2019er kent wha they\nwere afore.\u201d\n\nIt is needless to say Hawkie was rewarded with his glass of spirits, and\nboth the gentlemen enjoyed a good laugh at the witty answer.\n\nOn one of the Glasgow half-yearly Fasts (now an unknown institution)\nHawkie took his beat on the Dumbarton Road, between Glasgow and Partick.\nAs the day happened to be fine, the \u201ccollector of poor\u2019s rates\u201d justly\ncalculated that this district would be well frequented. \u201cI am sent out\nhere this afternoon,\u201d said the ever fertile \u201ccollector\u201d to the objects\nof his assessment, \u201cI am sent out here this afternoon by the clergy of\nGlasgow to put a tax on a\u2019 you gentry that hae mista\u2019en the country for\nthe kirk the day.\u201d\n\nHe cherished an inveterate hatred of the Irish, and the lash of his\nsatirical tongue never wagged with more delight than when it was flaying\nthe back of poor Paddy. \u201cGae hame to your bogs and ditches!\u201d he would\nshout. \u201cBlast ye! the Glasgow folk canna get the honest use o\u2019 their ain\ngallows for ye!\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m neither,\u201d said our public lecturer, \u201ca Tory nor a Radical. I like\nmiddle courses\u2014gang ayont that, either up or doon, it disna matter\u2014it\u2019s\na wreck ony way ye like to tak\u2019 it.\u201d\n\nA few gentlemen going home from a supper party, amongst whom was the\namiable John Imlah, the writer of many popular Scottish songs, were\naccosted by Hawkie for the beggar\u2019s impost.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a bawbee,\u201d said Mr. Imlah, \u201cwill that do?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d says the collector, \u201cit winna pay for ye a\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow much, then, are we owing to you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was looking ower my books last nicht, and I think you are owing me\ntippence.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow much will you let us off for\u2014present, past, and to come?\u201d\n\n\u201cPope Leo X.,\u201d said Hawkie, \u201cin the sixteenth century, commenced the\nsale of indulgences, for the purpose of aggrandising his Church, and the\nharlot kirk never fairly damned hersel\u2019 till then. I\u2019m no gaun to follow\nsuch an example.\u201d\n\nThis ingenious argument, we may be sure, brought forth more than the\nstipulated amount.\n\nOur \u201ccollector of poor\u2019s rates\u201d frequently took his stand at the north\nend of Glasgow Bridge. On the occasion of a special public rejoicing,\na grand floral arch had been thrown over there, bearing in its very\nappearance the evidence of a lavish expenditure of the public funds.\n\n\u201cWhat height do you think that arch will be?\u201d asked some one of Hawkie.\n\n\u201cThe heicht o\u2019 hanged nonsense,\u201d was the instant reply.\n\nDuring the latter years of his life the poor waif had to take winter\nshelter in the Town\u2019s Hospital, leaving which, in the spring, Dr.\nAuchincloss, surgeon, who was very attentive to him, gave him some money,\nremarking, \u201cWeel, Hawkie, I\u2019ll tak\u2019 a bet that the first place ye land in\nis a spirit-cellar.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tak\u2019 odds on your side, doctor,\u201d replied Hawkie.\n\nOn his first appearance in the street to follow his wonted calling, he\nthus addressed his hearers,\u2014\u201cWeel, ye\u2019ll hae been thinkin\u2019 I was dead,\nbut I needna tell ye that that\u2019s no true, for I\u2019m a living evidence to\nthe contrary. I have been down in the Town\u2019s Hospital this while taking\ncare o\u2019 mysel\u2019, for I hae nae notion o\u2019 puttin\u2019 on a fir jackit as lang\nas I can help it. But I\u2019m nae better otherwise than when I gaed in, and,\nif I may believe my ain een, there\u2019s as little improvement on you.\u201d\n\nThe \u201cfir jacket\u201d so much dreaded encircled the poor gangrel in 1851, and\nthe streets and lanes which once knew him so well, will know him no more\nfor ever.\n\nThe following genuine illustration of Hawkie\u2019s street oratory,\ncontributed by William Finlay, a Paisley poet, to the pages of _Whistle\nBinkie_, will fitly conclude the present paper.\n\n\u201cA-hey! bide a wee, bodies, and dinna hurry awa\u2019 hame, till ye hear what\nI hae gotten to tell ye; do you think that I cam\u2019 out at this time o\u2019\nnicht to cry to the stane wa\u2019s o\u2019 the Brig-gate for naething, or for\nonything else than the public guid?\u2014wearing my constitution down to rags,\nlike the claes on my carcase, without even seeking a pension frae Her\nMajesty; though mony a poor beggar wi\u2019 a star o\u2019er his breast has gotten\nane for far less.\u201d\n\n(_Voice from the crowd_)\u2014\u201cHawkie, ye should hae been sent to Parliament,\nto croak there like some ither Parliamentary puddocks till yer throat\nwere cleared.\u201d\n\n(_Reply_)\u2014\u201cTak\u2019 aff yer hat when ye speak to a gentleman\u2014it\u2019s no the\nfashion in this country to put hats on cabbage stocks\u2014a haggis would loup\nits lane for fricht afore ye\u2014ye\u2019ll be a king where a hornspoon is the\nemblem of authority!\u201d (_Resumes_)\u2014\u201cHere ye hae the history of a notorious\nbeggar, the full and particular account of his birth and parentage\u2014at\nleast on his mither\u2019s side. This heir to the wallets was born in the byre\no\u2019 a kintra farmer, an\u2019 just in the crib afore the kye, an\u2019 was welcomed\nto the world by the nose of honest Hawkie.\u201d\n\n(_From the crowd_)\u2014\u201cWas this a sister o\u2019 yours, Hawkie?\u201d\n\n(_Answer_)\u2014\u201cWhatna kail yard cam\u2019 ye out o\u2019? That\u2019s yer brither aside\nye, is\u2019t? You\u2019re a seemly pair, as the cow said to her cloots.\u201d\n(_Continues_)\u2014\u201cIt ne\u2019er could be precisely ascertained the hour of this\nbeggar\u2019s birth, though the parish records hae been riddled to get at the\nfact. I maun also tell ye, for I dinna like to impose on my customers,\nthat there is a great doubt about the day o\u2019 the month, an\u2019 even about\nthe month itsel\u2019; but that he was born hasna been disputed, though it\nmight hae been, if we hadna an account o\u2019 his life and death to convince\nthe gainsayers. He arrived sooner at the years o\u2019 discretion than usual;\nan\u2019 if ye dinna ken the period when a beggar\u2019s bairn comes to his estate\nduly qualified, I\u2019ll tell you\u2014it\u2019s when he ceases to distinguish between\nither folk\u2019s property and his ain.\u201d\n\n(_From the crowd_)\u2014\u201cWhat a poor stock ye maun hae; ye hae been yelling\nabout that beggar, till the story is as bare as your ain elbows.\u201d\n\n(_Retort_)\u2014\u201cHech, man, but you\u2019re witty\u2014when ye set out on the tramp,\ndinna come to me for a certificate, for I really couldna recommend ye; ye\nhavena brains for a beggar, and our funds are no in a condition to gi\u2019e\nony pensions the now.\u201d (_Continues_)\u2014\u201cYe hae an account o\u2019 the education\nwhich he received riding across the meal pock; and the lair that he\nlearnt aff the loofs o\u2019 his mither, which was a\u2019 the school craft he e\u2019er\nreceived; but sic a proficient did he himsel\u2019 grow in loof lair, that,\nlike a\u2019 weel trained bairns, he tried his hands on the haffits of his\nauld mither in turn, and gied her sic thunderin\u2019 lessons, that she gied\nup her breath and business in begging at the same time to her hopeful son\nand successor.\u201d\n\n(_Voice from the crowd_)\u2014\u201cYe should hae keepit a school amang beggars,\nand micht hae taen your stilt for the taws.\u201d\n\n(_Retort_)\u2014\u201cOh, man, I would like ither materials to work wi\u2019 than the\nlike of you! it\u2019s ill to bring out what\u2019s no in; a leech would as soon\ntak\u2019 blood out o\u2019 my stilt as bring ony mair out o\u2019 you than the spoon\nput in.\u201d (_Resumes_)\u2014\u201cYe hae an account of his progress in life after he\nbegan business on his ain account, and what a skilful tradesman he turn\u2019d\nout\u2014he could \u2018lay on the cadge\u2019[3] better than ony walleteer that e\u2019er\ncoost a pock o\u2019er his shouther.\n\n [3] Skilful address in begging\u2014_Dict. of Buckish Slang_.\n\n\u201cYe hae an account o\u2019 his last illness and death\u2014for beggars dee as\nweel as ither folk, though seldom through a surfeit; ye hae also a copy\no\u2019 his last Will and Testament, bequeathing his fortune to be drunk at\nhis dredgy\u2014the best action he ever did in his life, and which mak\u2019s his\nmemory a standing toast at a\u2019 beggars\u2019 carousals\u2014when they hae onything\nto drink it wi\u2019; and really, you\u2019ll allow me to remark, if we had twa or\nthree mae public-spirited beggars in our day that would do the like, the\ntrade might yet be preserved in the country\u2014for it has been threatening\nto leave us in baith Scotland and England, in consequence of the opening\nup of the trade wi\u2019 Ireland, and the prices hae been broken ever since;\nwe hae a\u2019 this to contend wi\u2019 to preserve the pocks frae perishing, for\nthe sake o\u2019 our children.\u201d\n\n(_Voice from the crowd_)\u2014\u201cOch, Willie, is it your own self that I\u2019m\nhearing this morning? and how did ye get home last night, after drinking\ntill the daylight wakened ye? troth, ye did not know your own crutch\nfrom a cow\u2019s tail.\u201d\n\n(_Retort_)\u2014\u201cOh, man, Paddy, it\u2019s naething new to me to be drunk, but it\u2019s\na great rarity to you\u2014no for want o\u2019 will, but the bawbees. What way\ncam\u2019 ye here, Paddy? for ye hae naething to pay for your passage; and\nyour claes are no worth the thread and buttons that haud them thegither;\ngin I had a crown for every road that your trotters could get into your\ntrowsers by, it would be a fortune to me. \u2018Take me over,\u2019 said you, to\nyour ould croak-in-the-bog; \u2018I wish I had my body across agin, out of\nthis starvation could country, for there\u2019s nothing but earth and stones\nfor a poor man to feed on; and in my own country I\u2019ll have the potato\nfor the lifting.\u2019 Hech, man\u2014but the police keeps ye in order\u2014and ye\nthought when ye cam\u2019 o\u2019er to live by lifting? man! aff wi\u2019 ye to your\nbogs\u2014there\u2019s nae place like hame for ye, as the Deil said when he found\nhimsel\u2019 in the Court o\u2019 Session.\n\n\u201cYe hae an account o\u2019 this beggar\u2019s burial, and his dredgy.\u201d\n\n(_Boy\u2019s voice from the crowd_)\u2014\u201cWas ye there, Hawkie? surely, if the\nstilt could haud ye up!\u201d\n\n\u201cOch, sirs, are ye out already\u2014you\u2019re afore your time\u2014you should hae\nstaid a wee langer in the nest till ye had gotten the feathers on ye, and\nthen ye would hae been a goose worth the looking at.\u201d\n\n(_Continues_)\u2014\u201cSic a dredgy as this beggar had wad mak\u2019 our Lords o\u2019\nSession lick their lips to hear tell o\u2019\u2014thae gentry come down among us\nlike as mony pouther-monkeys\u2014with their heads dipped in flower-pocks,\nto gie them the appearance o\u2019 what neither the school nor experience in\nthe world could teach them\u2014gin hangie would gie them a dip through his\ntrap-door, and ding the dust aff their wigs, there\u2019s no a beggar frae\nJohn o\u2019 Groats to the Mull o\u2019 Galloway that wadna gie his stilts to help\nto mak\u2019 a bonfire on the occasion.\n\n\u201cYe hae the order o\u2019 the procession at the burial\u2014it\u2019s the rank in the\nprofession that entitles to tak\u2019 precedence at a beggar\u2019s burial\u2014ye never\nhear tell o\u2019 blood relations claiming their right to be nearest the\nbeggar\u2019s banes. We\u2019ll be thinking the warld is on its last legs, and like\nto throw aff its wallets too, when sic an event occurs.\u201d\n\n(_Interrupted_)\u2014\u201cYour stilt would, nae doubt, be stumpin\u2019 at the head o\u2019\nthem a\u2019.\u201d\n\n(_Reply_)\u2014\u201cStan\u2019 aside, lads, I\u2019m just wantin\u2019 to see if he has cloots\non his trotters, for horns are sae common, nowadays, amang the gentry o\u2019\nthe blood, whar we should look for an example, that they hae ceased to\ndistinguish the class that nature intended them for.\u201d (_Goes on_)\u2014\u201cFirst\nin order was Tinklers, the beggars\u2019 cavalry, wha being in constant\nconsultation with the gentry of the lang lugs, hae some pretensions to\nwisdom; next Swindlers, wha mak\u2019 the best bargains they can wi\u2019 their\ncustomers, without pretendin\u2019 to hae ony authority for doin\u2019t\u2014no like our\nblack coats, wha can only get authority on ae side, to gang to a scene\nof mair extensive usefulness, whar the preaching pays better\u2014our brethren\nof the pock a\u2019 follow this example; they never stay lang whar there\u2019s\nnaething either to get or to tak\u2019\u2014but I\u2019m forgetting mysel\u2019; at their\nheels were Pickpockets, wha just tak\u2019 the hangman\u2019s helter wi\u2019 them, and\ngang the length o\u2019 their tether\u2014for hangie aye keeps the hank in his ain\nhand.\n\n\u201cNext, Chain-drappers\u2014the jewellers in the camp, wha are ready to\nsell cheap, or half the profits wi\u2019 everybody they meet, and wha are\nlike mony o\u2019 our public instructors\u2014aye get mair than they gie\u2014then\nPrick-the-loops, wha are sae familiar wi\u2019 the hangman\u2019s loop that they\u2019ve\nturned the idea into business, and set up wi\u2019 their garter\u2014which they\ncan easily spare, as they hae seldom ony stockings to tie on wi\u2019t; by\nthis simple expedient they mak\u2019 large profits on sma\u2019 capital. Next,\nChartered-beggars, or Blue-gowns\u2014wha get a licence frae the authorities\nto cheat and lie over the whole country.\n\n\u201cNext, the hale clanjamfrey o\u2019 Vagrants\u2014for they\u2019re a\u2019 but beggars\u2019\nbairns the best o\u2019 them\u2014Randies, Thieves, Big-beggars, and Wee-beggars,\nBane-gatherers and Rowley-powleys. Criers o\u2019 Hanging-speeches\u2014wha,\ngenerally, should hae been the subject o\u2019 their ain story\u2014some wi\u2019\nweans, but a\u2019 wi\u2019 wallets, broken backs, half arms, and nae arms; some\nonly wi\u2019 half an e\u2019e\u2014ithers, wi\u2019 mair een than nature gied them\u2014and that\nis an e\u2019e after everything that they can mak\u2019 their ain; snub-noses,\ncock-noses, and half-noses; Roman-noses, lang-noses\u2014some o\u2019 them\nlike a chuckie-stane, ithers like a jarganell pear; hawk-noses, and\ngoose-noses; and mind ye I dinna find fault wi\u2019 the last kind, for nature\ndoes naething in vain, and put it there to suit the head; but whatever\nthe size and description o\u2019 the neb, they could a\u2019 tak\u2019 their pick, for\nthe hale concern, man and mither\u2019s son, had mouths, and whar teeth were\nwanting, the defect was mair than made up by desperate willin\u2019 gums.\n\n\u201cSome were lame, though their limbs were like ither folks. There are mae\nstilts made than lame folk, for I maun tell you some gang a-begging and\nforget their stilts, and hae to gang back for them afore they can come\nony speed; ithers hae nae legs to be lame wi\u2019; a few, like mysel\u2019, had\nonly ae guid ane, like the goose in a frosty morning, but made up the\nloss by the beggars\u2019 locomotive\u2014a stilt\u2014which a poor goose canna handle\nwi\u2019 advantage.\n\n\u201cThe rear o\u2019 this pock procession was closed by bands o\u2019 sweeps, wha are\nready for a\u2019 handlings, whar there\u2019s onything to do for the teeth; an\u2019\nthey hae the advantage o\u2019 us, for they\u2019re aye in Court-dress, and, like\nhonest Collie, dinna need to change their claes.\n\n\u201cIn the hame-coming there was a scramble, wha should be soonest at the\nfeast, and a quarrel, an\u2019 you\u2019ll maybe be surprised that there was but ae\nquarrel, but I maun tell you that they were a\u2019 engaged in\u2019t, an\u2019 maist\no\u2019 them kentna what they were gettin\u2019 their croons cloored for, but\njust to be neighbour-like. The cracking o\u2019 stilts, the yelly-hooings o\u2019\nwives and weans, and the clatter o\u2019 tinklers\u2019 wives, wad hae ca\u2019m\u2019d the\nsea in the Bay of Biscay\u2014do ye ken the distance at which a beggar fights\nhis duel?\u2014it\u2019s just stilt length, or nearer, if his enemy is no sae weel\narmed as himsel\u2019.\n\n\u201cYe hae a return o\u2019 the killed and wounded\u2014four Blind Fiddlers wi\u2019\ntheir noses broken\u2014four Tinklers\u2019 wives wi\u2019 their tongues split, and if\nthey had keepit them within their teeth, as a\u2019 wives\u2019 tongues should\nbe, they would have been safe\u2014there\u2019s nae souder or salve that can\ncure an ill tongue\u2014five Croons crackit on the outside\u2014sixteen torn\nLugs\u2014four-and-twenty Noses laid down\u2014four Left Hands with the thumb\nbitten aff\u2014ten Mouths made mill doors o\u2019\u2014four dozen Stilts wanting the\nshouther-piece\u2014twenty made down for the use of the family\u2014in ither words,\nbroken in twa! an\u2019 they are usefu\u2019, for we have a\u2019 sizes o\u2019 beggars.\nAfter a\u2019 this, the grand dredgy; but I havena time to tell you about it\nthe night; but ye see what handlings beggars would hae if the public\nwould be liberal.\n\n\u201cBuy this book; if ye hae nae bawbees I\u2019ll len\u2019 ye, for I\u2019m no carin\u2019\nabout siller. I hae perish\u2019d the pack already, an\u2019 I am gaun to tak\u2019 my\nStilt, the morn\u2019s morning, and let the Creditors tak\u2019 what they can get.\u201d\n\nClosing the extraordinary scene, the poet adds, as a sort of epilogue\u2014\n\n \u201cThis is the end of all,\n High and low, great and small;\n This finishes the poor vain show,\n And the King, with all his pride,\n In his lifetime deified\u2014\n With the beggar is at last laid low.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nTHE LAIRD O\u2019 MACNAB\n\n\nNo collection of the national humours could be regarded as representative\nor complete that did not contain more than a passing reference to the\nLaird of Macnab, who was the hero of many a ludicrously funny story, and\nwho, like Sir John Falstaff, was not only witty himself, but frequently\nthe cause of wit in others. The Macnabs were originally the proprietors\nof extensive estates in the Highlands of Perthshire, and were sometimes\nstyled \u201cThe Macnabs of Auchlyne,\u201d at other times \u201cThe Macnabs of Bovain,\u201d\n\u201cThe Macnabs of Kinnell,\u201d and \u201cThe Macnabs of Glendochart.\u201d Francis\u2014our\nhero\u2014was the last relic of the ancient, stern, feudal system. His\nobtrusive peculiarities were pride of family antiquity and rank, and a\nwithering scorn of the trousered Sassenach. He was extremely poor, but\nwas extremely proud, and, having no money to boast of, he boasted all the\nmore of his \u201clang pedigree.\u201d On this latter, indeed, he could scarcely\never speak dispassionately. As compared with the Macnabs, the Campbells\nand the M\u2019Leans and such like were creatures of yesterday. These might\ntrace their ancestral line even to the Flood, but that afforded them\nnext to nothing in the comparison, for the Macnab, bless you\u2014the chief of\nall the Macnabs\u2014why, he had a boat of his own, and would never condescend\nto be beholden to Noah, or any such plebeian individual. No, no, the\nMacnab recognised no superior, and there were doubtless many Maister\nMacnabs, \u201cbut the auld black lad may hae my saul,\u201d he would say, \u201cif I\nken but o\u2019 _ae Macnab_.\u201d How it would have roused the Laird\u2019s ire had he\nlived to see the Highlands overrun with Cockney tourists\u2014and not only so,\nbut to see many ancient family seats passing into the hands of wealthy\nbrewers and manufacturers\u2014we can from his own words form some idea.\n\n\u201cMacnab, are you acquainted with Macloran of Dronascandlich, who has\nlately purchased so many acres in Inverness-shire?\u201d asked a fellow-guest\nof the Laird one day at a dinner party.\n\n\u201cKen wha?\u201d burst in the Macnab, thus easily sent off on his genealogical\nsteed. \u201cThe puddock-stool o\u2019 a creature they ca\u2019 Dronascandlich, wha no\nfar bygane daured, curse him! to offer siller, sir, for an auld ancient\nestate, sir? An estate as auld as the Flood, sir; a hantle deal aulder,\nsir. Siller, sir, scrapit thegether by the miserable sinner in India,\nsir, not in an officer or gentleman-like way, sir; but, hang him, sir,\nby makin\u2019 cart wheels and trams, sir, and barrows, and the like o\u2019 that\nwretched handicraft. Ken him, sir? I ken the creature weel, and whaur he\ncomes frae, sir; and so I ken that dumb tyke, sir, a better brute by half\nthan a score o\u2019 him.\u201d\n\n\u201cMercy on us, Macnab! you surprise me,\u201d interjected the querist; \u201cI\nthought from the sublime sound of his name and title, that, like\nyourself, he had been a chief of fifteen centuries\u2019 standing, at least.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy the saul o\u2019 the Macnabs, sir,\u201d rejoined the Laird, snorting like a\nmountain whirlwind with rage at the daring comparison, \u201cnaething but yer\ndiabolical Lowland ignorance can excuse ye for siccan profanation! Hear\nme, sir! It\u2019s fifty years and mair bygane, a\u2019e time I was at Glasgow,\nwanting some tyking, or Osnaburgs, or what the fiend ca\u2019 ye them, what\nye mak\u2019 pillows and bowsters, o\u2019? Weel, sir, I was recommended to an\nauld decent creature o\u2019 a wabster, wha pickit up a miserable subsistence\nin the Gallowgate. I gaed east a bit past the Spoutmouth, then up a\u2019e\npair o\u2019 stairs\u2014twa\u2014three\u2014four pair o\u2019 stairs\u2014a perfect Tower o\u2019 Babel in\nmeeniature, sir. At last I quat the regions o\u2019 stane an\u2019 lime an\u2019 cam\u2019\nto timmer, sir\u2014about twenty or thirty rotten boards, that were a perfect\ntemptation o\u2019 Providence to venture the fit o\u2019 a five-year-auld bairn\non. I gaed in at a hole\u2014door it was nane\u2014and there I found a miserable\nanatomy\u2014the picture o\u2019 famine, sir; wi\u2019 a face as white as a clout,\nan auld red Kilmarnock night-cap on his poor grey pow, an\u2019 treddle,\ntreddling awa\u2019 wi\u2019 his pitifu\u2019 wizened trotters. Wha think ye, sir, was\nthis abortion o\u2019 a creatur\u2014this threadbare, penniless, and parritchless\nscrap o\u2019 an antediluvian wabster? This was Macloran\u2019s grandfather, sir!\nThis was the origin o\u2019 Dronascandlich, sir!! And a bonnie origin for a\nHighland chief, by the saul o\u2019 the Macnabs!!!\u201d\n\nRecognising no superior, the Laird was consequently a law unto himself,\nor rather claimed the right to be so. He rarely, however\u2014never in\nfact\u2014was known to concede another\u2019s title to exception from the\nstrictures of law and order. \u201cLike the Laird o\u2019 Macnab\u2019s Volunteers,\u201d\nhas become a Scotch proverb, and thereby hangs the following tale, which\nshows that the Laird\u2019s ideas of volunteering were as original as any\nIrishman\u2019s could possibly be. When the French war broke out the Laird\norganised a corps of infantry, which he styled \u201cMacnab\u2019s Volunteers.\u201d A\nkenspeckle lot they were, we may be sure; but to our tale.\n\nOne day while Lord Breadalbane was driving down Strathyre on his way\nfrom Taymouth Castle to Stirling, he encountered a horse and cart, the\nlatter containing the living carcasses of six brawny Highlanders tied\nneck and heel, and the whole in charge of a cordon of armed gillies. On\nhis lordship inquiring as to the meaning of the strange spectacle, he was\ninformed by the kilted driver that\u2014\n\n\u201cTem are six tam scoundrels, my Lort, that refuse to pe the Laird o\u2019\nMacnab\u2019s Volunteers, and we\u2019re just takin\u2019 tem doon to Stirling, ta curst\nhallions tat ta are, to see if ta cauld steel will mak\u2019 tem do their\nduty.\u201d\n\nThis is quite as good as the wife\u2019s request to her husband to \u201cgang awa\nquietly and be hangit, and no anger the Laird.\u201d\n\nSpeaking of the Laird and his volunteers calls to memory an episode\nwhich exhibits our hero in the character of a strategist of the first\nwater. Macnab was proceeding from the West, on one occasion, towards\nDunfermline, in charge of a company of the Breadalbane Fencibles.\nIn those days, the Highlanders were notorious for their smuggling\npropensities, and an excursion to the Lowlands, whatever might be its\ncause or import, was an opportunity by no means to be neglected. The\nBreadalbane men, accordingly, contrived to store a considerable quantity\nof the genuine \u201cpeat reek\u201d into the baggage carts. On the party reaching\nAlloa, the excisemen located therein got a hint as to the contents of\nthe carts, so hurried out and intercepted them. Meanwhile, Macnab,\naccompanied by a gillie, in true feudal style, was proceeding slowly at\nthe head of his men, and the intelligence reaching him that the baggage\nhad been seized by a posse of excisemen, at once roused the lion within\nhis breast.\n\n\u201cDid the lousy villains dare to obstruct the march of the Breadalbane\nFencibles?\u201d he exclaimed, inspired with the wrath of a thousand heroes,\nas away he rushed to the scene of contention.\n\n\u201cWho the devil are you?\u201d he demanded as soon as he reached the excisemen.\n\n\u201cGentlemen of the Excise,\u201d was the answer.\n\n\u201cRobbers, thieves, you mean!\u201d shrieked the Macnab. \u201cHow dare you\nlay hands on His Majesty\u2019s stores? If you be gaugers, show me your\ncommissions.\u201d\n\nUnfortunately for the excisemen, they had not deemed it necessary to\nbring such documents with them.\n\n\u201cAy! just what I took you for; a parcel of highway robbers and\nscoundrels. Come, my good fellows\u201d (addressing the soldiers in charge of\nthe baggage, and extending his voice with the lungs of a Stentor) \u201cprime!\nload!\u201d\n\nThe excisemen did not wait the completion of the order, but fled at full\nspeed.\n\n\u201cNow, my lads,\u201d said the Laird, \u201cproceed\u2014the whisky\u2019s safe.\u201d\n\nAnother anecdote illustrates how equal he was to a delicate occasion.\nThe Laird was a regular attender at Leith races. He rode a most\nwretched-looking steed, which gave occasion for many jibes at his\nexpense, and one year, while rushing in to see the result of a heat, his\nhorse fell and was seriously injured. The year following, a puppy, who\nthought he might raise a laugh at Macnab\u2019s expense, looked up to him as\nhe passed by, and enquired\u2014\n\n\u201cIs that the same horse ye had here last year, Laird?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d retorted Macnab, bringing his whip-shaft down on his interrogator\u2019s\nhead with a force that made him bite the dust, \u201cbut it\u2019s the same\n_whup_!\u201d\n\nBut the Laird\u2019s grand escapade\u2014his _coup d\u2019\u00e9tat_\u2014remains yet to be\nrelated. It happened to be the last in his life, and it forms a fitting\nclimacteric to a truly wonderful career. It is narrated at great length\nin a MS. scrap book of his adventures still preserved at Breadalbane\nCastle, and is briefly as follows:\u2014\n\nThe pressure of a declining revenue began to tell heavily on the Laird,\nand he had occasionally to grant bills for his purchases. For many years\nthese bills were regularly discounted at the Perth Bank, the Directors of\nwhich, knowing their money to be sure, though perhaps not soon, humoured\nhis idiosyncracies, and took his acceptances although signed \u201cThe\nMacnab.\u201d Unluckily for the Laird, one of these \u201ccursed bits o\u2019 paper,\u201d\nas he termed them, found its way to the Stirling Bank, an establishment\nwith which he had no direct connection, and, having no personal friend\nto protect his credit at Stirling, it was duly noted and protested, and\nnotice was sent to him. These formalities the Laird treated, of course,\nwith the most lofty indifference. He was effectually roused, however,\nwhen the alarming information reached his ear that a \u201ccaption and\nhorning\u201d had been issued against him, and that a clerk, accompanied by\ntwo messengers, would proceed to Auchlyne House on the following Friday\nfor the purpose of taking him into custody. The Laird called a council of\nwar. Janet, his faithful old housekeeper, and other two trusty retainers,\nwere made familiar with the disgrace that was threatening to fall on\nthe Chief of all the Macnabs. Janet was a diplomatist of the true Caleb\nBalderstone type, and the Laird trusted chiefly to her wit and ingenuity\nin the emergency. \u201cTo clap me within four bare stane wa\u2019s,\u201d said he,\naddressing his female major-general, \u201cand for what, think ye? A peetifu\u2019\nscart o\u2019 a goose\u2019s feather\u2014deil cripple their souple shanks. It would ill\nbecome me to hae ony hobble-show wi\u2019 siccan vermin, so I\u2019ll awa\u2019 doun to\nmy Lord\u2019s at Taymouth, and leave you, Janet, my bonnie woman, to gie them\n_their kail through the reek_.\u201d And off he went, leaving Janet to master\nthe situation as best she could. This was on Friday morning. In the\ncourse of the day the officers made their appearance at Auchlyne House.\n\n\u201cO, sirs,\u201d quoth Janet, receiving them blandly, \u201cye maun be sair\nforfouchten wi\u2019 your langsome travel. Sit down, and get some meat. The\nLaird\u2019s awa\u2019 to see a friend, and will be back momently. What gars ye\ngloom that gate? There\u2019s a\u2019 ye want, and muckle mair, locked up in that\nkist there, in bonnie yellow gowd, fairly counted by his honour this very\nmornin\u2019,\u201d and, so saying, she spread before the wayworn travellers a\nplentiful store of Highland cheer\u2014including kippered salmon and braxtie\nham, and a \u201cgood willie-waucht\u201d of the \u201crale peat reek.\u201d The gloaming\ncame, but brought no signs of the Laird\u2019s returning. \u201cNae doot,\u201d said\nJanet, \u201chis honour will be down at the Earl\u2019s, so ye\u2019ll just e\u2019en mak\u2019\nyer beds here for the nicht, and the first thing ye\u2019ll get for your\nhandsel in the mornin\u2019 will be a sonsie breakfast and weel-counted\nsiller.\u201d\n\nThe terms were sufficiently tempting, and were accordingly closed with.\nThe two limbs of the law were quartered in a room the window of which\nfaced the East, while the clerk was, in deference to his social status,\nbestowed in a room the window of which looked towards the setting sun.\n\nNow, opposite the window of the room in which the officers slept there\ngrew a huge tree, the great spreading branches of which creaked and\nmoaned beneath the blast during the entire night, and now and again made\na crash which caused the drowsy beagles to start in their sleep, and\nshiver when they had fairly awakened. Being utterly ignorant of the cause\nof these disturbances, and anxious to ascertain, the first glimmer of\ndaylight brought one of the officers to the window, when, horror! there,\nbefore his eyes, swinging backwards and forwards, suspended from one of\nthe main branches of the tree, was the body of the clerk, coated, booted,\nand fully attired, as if he had been taken and lynched just when ready\nfor the road. The poor man gave a howl which nearly lifted the roof off\nthe house. Five minutes later the domestics were alarmed by the officers\nrushing headlong down the stairs, and making in the direction of the\ndoor, and by Janet demanding of them in fierce tones\u2014\u201cWhat the foul fiend\nd\u2019ye mak\u2019 sic a din for?\u201d\n\n\u201cW\u2014what\u2019s that on the t\u2014t\u2014tree!\u201d gasped out the officers, simultaneously.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said Janet, with an eldritch laugh, \u201cit\u2019s a bit clerk bodie frae\nthe Bank o\u2019 Stirling that cam\u2019 here last nicht to deave the Laird for\nsiller. We\u2019ve ta\u2019en and hangit the silly elf.\u201d\n\nNot another word was needed. The limbs of the law disappeared like water\npoured on quick-sand, and were beyond the reach of Janet\u2019s voice ere\nshe had well finished her sentence. During this brief parley Janet\u2019s\nconfederates slipped out and cut down the man of straw, which, for the\noccasion, had been filling the clerk\u2019s clothes; and, quickly divesting it\nof the latter, they had these deftly replaced on the chair beside the bed\nwhere lay their still soundly sleeping owner.\n\nBy and by the all-unconscious clerk came tripping leisurely downstairs.\n\n\u201cAre my companions not astir yet?\u201d said he to Janet.\n\n\u201cYer companions?\u201d queried Janet, with a grim leer in her eyes; \u201cthe\nLaird\u2019s gillies have ta\u2019en them awa\u2019 to the Holy Loch at Crianlarich and\ndroon\u2019d them\u2014and they\u2019ll be here for you directly.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hear them comin\u2019!\u201d cried Janet, as the clerk\u2019s heels disappeared out\nat the doorway.\n\nWhether the money was ever paid history deponeth not. One thing however,\nis certain, and it is this, that not all the estates of all the Macnabs\nthat ever existed would have tempted another embassy of the same three\nto Auchlyne.\n\nThe Laird o\u2019 Macnab paid the debt of Nature (there was no shirking this\ncreditor!) in the early part of the present century. His portrait\u2014full\nlength, and in Highland costume\u2014painted by Raeburn, is still in the\npossession of the Breadalbane family.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nKIRKYARD HUMOUR\n\n\n\u201cGod\u2019s acre\u201d should be about the last place in the world to which\nany mind blessed with an average sense of consistency, not to employ\na stronger term, would turn with deliberate purpose in search of\nentertainment of a frivolous and amusing character. And yet, paradoxical\nas it may appear, the most serious of all events, solemn of all\nordinances, and weird of all situations\u2014death, burial, and the grave\u2014have\nbeen the subjects of the most mirth-provoking puns and jokes; whilst\nsome of the wittiest and most audaciously sarcastic of epigrammatic\ncompositions are among those which have been discovered among the tombs\nin the silent cities of the dead. Like the dry and caustic humour of the\nScottish beadles, to which, in essence and order they are nearly related,\nhumorous and curious epitaphs no longer prevail amongst us. This is not\nto be regretted, for they have yielded to a more decorous, if perhaps\nless truthful and enlivening order of things. The wonder is that they\never obtained favour at all, here or elsewhere. I say elsewhere, because\neccentricities of the kind under notice have not been peculiar to the\nkirkyards of the North. In England the punning and eccentric epitaph has\nprevailed to a greater extent even than in Scotland. Every representative\ncollection of tombstone literature reveals this fact. Scotland alone,\nhowever, has produced an abundant crop. So much, indeed, as to form quite\na distinct and interesting department of the humour of the country.\nThe utter unpreparedness of the mind for the reception of humour in\nsuch a place as a kirkyard has occasionally, no doubt, helped what was\nincongruous to pass for humorous, as from the sublime to the ridiculous\nthere is but one step; but the following, which is still \u201cto the fore,\u201d\nthough more than two hundred years old, and may be seen and read of all\nmen in the Reid kirkyard, in the parish of Gairtney, in Annandale, is\nsufficiently ludicrous in itself to tickle the risible sensibilities\nof any rightly organized person independently of circumstance or\nassociation:\u2014\n\n \u201cI, Jocky Bell o\u2019 Brakenbrow, lyes under this stane,\n Five of my awn sons laid it on my wame;\n I liv\u2019d aw my deyes, but sturt or strife\n Was man o\u2019 my meat, and master o\u2019 my wife;\n If you\u2019ve done better in your time than I did in mine,\n Take the stane aff my wame, and lay it on thine.\u201d\n\nThe same may be said of the next.\n\nMany years ago a strolling musician, of remarkable appearance, of the\nname of Abercromby, or \u201cCrummy,\u201d as he was usually called, was well known\nthroughout the north of Scotland. He supported himself and his partner\nby his penny whistle, with which he had no difficulty in charming the\nmusical of any village. He was buried in the churchyard of Cruden, in\nAberdeenshire. He composed his own epitaph in these words:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere Crummy lies, enclosed in wood,\n Full six feet one and better,\n When tyrant Death grim o\u2019er him stood,\n He faced him like a hatter.\n Now lies he low without a boot,\n Free from a world of bustle,\n And silent now is Crummy\u2019s flute,\n And awful dry his whustle.\u201d\n\nThe following is copied from a tombstone in the East Neuk o\u2019 Fife\u2014Crail,\nI think:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies my good and gracious Auntie,\n Wham Death has packed in his portmanty,\n Threescore and ten years God did gift her,\n And here she lies, wha de\u2019il daurs lift her?\u201d\n\nOn a tombstone in the old churchyard of Peterhead there was wont to\nappear this interrogatory inscription:\u2014\n\n \u201cWha lies here?\n John Sim, ye needna\u2019 spier.\n Hullo, John, is that you?\n Ay, ay, but I\u2019m deed noo.\u201d\n\nThis is from Haddington kirkyard:\u2014\n\n \u201cUnderneath this stone doth lie\n As much beauty as could die,\n Which while it lived did vigour give\n To as much virtue as could live.\u201d\n\nThe next is from the same place:\u2014\n\n \u201cHout, Atropos, hard-hearted Hag,\n To cut the sheugh of Jamie Craig;\n For had he lived a wheen mae years,\n He had been owre tough for all your sheirs;\n Now Jamie\u2019s deed, sua man we a\u2019,\n And for his sake I\u2019ll say this sa,\n In Heiven Jamie be thy saul!\u201d\n\nMr. Pryse Gordon relates, in his _Autobiography_, that a sailor having\nthought proper to enclose the parish churchyard of Deskford, near Cullen,\nin order to keep it decent, his executor placed a tombstone over him\nafter death, on which was the following:\u2014\n\n \u201cHic jacet Joannes Anderson, Aberdoniensis,\n Who built this churchyard dyke at his own expenses.\u201d\n\nThat suggests another which is like unto it:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies the laird o\u2019 Lundie,\n _Sic transit gloria Mundi_.\u201d\n\nThe following curious specimen of sepulchral literature is said to be\ncopied from an old tombstone which marks the grave of a soldier in the\nkirkyard of Dumfries:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies Andrew M\u2019Pherson,\n Who was a peculiar person;\n He stood six foot two\n Without his shoe,\n And was slew\n At Waterloo.\u201d\n\nThe following is a copy of an epitaph on an old tombstone at Logiepert,\nin the neighbourhood of Montrose:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies the Smith\u2014to wit\u2014Tam Gouk,\n His Faither and his Mither,\n Wi\u2019 Tam, and Jock, and Joan, and Noll,\n And a\u2019 the Gouks thegither.\n When on the yird Tam and his wife\n Gree\u2019d desprate ill wi\u2019 ither,\n But noo, without e\u2019en din or strife,\n They tak\u2019 their Nap thegither.\u201d\n\nIn Bothwell there appears:\u2014\n\n \u201cErected by Margaret Scott in memory of her husband, Robert\n Stobo, late smith and farrier, Goukthrapple, who died, May\n 1834, in the 70th year of his age.\n\n \u201cMy sledge and hammer lies declined\n My bellows-pipe has lost its wind;\n My forge\u2019s extinct; my fire\u2019s decayed;\n And in the dust my vice is laid.\n My coals is spent; my iron is gone;\n My nails are drove; my work is done.\u201d\n\n\nIn Cullen churchyard, in Banffshire, there is this graphic verse:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies interred a man o\u2019 micht,\n His name was Malcolm Downie:\n He lost his life ae market nicht\n By fa\u2019in aff his pownie.\n Aged 37 years.\u201d\n\nIn the churchyard of Newtyle, Ruthven, Perthshire, is the following,\nbearing date 1771:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies the body of Robert Small,\n Who, when in life, was thick not tall;\n But what\u2019s of greater consequence,\n He was endow\u00e8d with good sense.\u201d\n\nThe following sublimely confused inscription will be found on the\nheadstone, No. 41,242, of the Old Howff in Dundee:\u2014\n\n \u201c1830.\n In memory of James\n and another son\n and five other friends\n Who died in infancy.\n Erected by\n James Stewart,\n spirit merchant, Dundee,\n and his spouse\n and three other children.\u201d\n\nHere is another Dundee epitaph:\u2014\n\n \u201cJ. P. P.,\n Provost of Dundee\u2014\n Hallelujah,\n Hallelujee.\u201d\n\nAgain:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lie the banes o\u2019 Tammy Messer,\n Of Tarry woo\u2019 he was a dresser;\n He had some fau\u2019ts and mony merits,\n And died o\u2019 drinking ardent spirits.\u201d\n\nAnd again:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies old John Hildibrodd\n Have mercy on him, good God,\n As he would do if he was God,\n And Thou wert old John Hildibrodd.\u201d\n\nMarion Scott died at Dunkeld, November 21, 1727, aged 100, and was\nburied in the Abbey. She lived in the reigns of James VI., Charles I.,\nOliver Cromwell (Commonwealth), Charles II., James II., William III.,\nand Mary II., Anne, George I., and George II. Her tombstone bears this\ninscription:\u2014\n\n \u201cStop, passenger, until my life you\u2019ve read;\n The living may get knowledge by the dead.\n Five times five years I liv\u2019d a virgin life;\n Five times five years I was a virtuous wife;\n Ten times five years I liv\u2019d a widow chaste\n Now, tir\u2019d of this mortal life, I rest.\n I, from my cradle to my grave, have seen\n Eight mighty kings of Scotland and a queen.\n Full twice five years the Commonwealth I saw;\n Ten times the subjects rose against the law.\n Twice did I see old prelacy pull\u2019d down!\n And twice the cloak was humbled by the gown.\n An end of Stuart\u2019s race I saw: nay more!\n I saw my country sold for English ore.\n Such desolations in my time have been;\n I have an end of all perfection seen.\u201d\n\nThomas Tyre, pedlar, died on the 2nd day of January, 1795, and was buried\nin the graveyard of West Kilbride, where his monument, with the following\ndescriptive lines, may any time be seen. He was over 72 years of age:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lye the banes of Thomas Tyre,\n Wha lang had drudg\u2019d through dub and mire\n In carrying bundles and sic like,\n His task performing wi\u2019 small fyke.\n To deal his snuff Tam aye was free,\n And served his friends for little fee.\n His life obscure was naething new,\n Yet we must own his faults were few,\n Although at Yule he sip\u2019d a drap,\n And in the kirk whiles took a nap.\n True to his word in every case,\n Tam scorned to cheat for lucre base.\n Now he is gone to taste the fare,\n Which none but honest men will share.\u201d\n\nAt Redkirk, in the parish of Gretna, Dumfriesshire, there was formerly a\nchurchyard, which the sea has completely swept away. The only vestige of\nit is a monumental stone, lying about 150 feet within high water mark,\nand which will no doubt be soon sanded up. The inscription upon it merits\npreservation:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lieth I\u2014N. Bell, who died in ye yhere\n MDX., and of his age cxxx. years.\n Here bluidy Bell, baith skin and bane,\n Lies quietly styll aneath this stane;\n He was a stark mosstrooper shent\n As ever drave a bow on bent.\n He brynt ye Lockwood tower and hall,\n An\u2019 flang ye lady o\u2019er ye wall;\n For whilk ye Johnstone, stout and wyte,\n Set Blacketh a\u2019 in low by nyght,\n Whyle cryed a voice, as if frae hell,\n \u2018Haste, open ye gates for _bluidy_ Bell.\u2019\u201d\n\nAn eccentric character named John So, a native of Inverkip, bequeathed\nhis property to a friend, on the condition that he would get engraved on\nhis tombstone the following epitaph written by himself:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies John So,\n So so did he so,\n So did he live,\n So did he die,\n So so did he so,\n So let him lie.\u201d\n\nThis, to be seen on the south wall of Elgin Cathedral, is repeated in\nvarious churchyards throughout the country:\u2014\n\n \u201cThe world is a city full of streets,\n And death the mercat that all men meets,\n If lyfe were a thing that monie could buy,\n The poor could not live, and the rich would not die.\u201d\n\nThe next is found near Rob Roy\u2019s grave, in Balquhidder:\u2014\n\n \u201cBeneath this stane lies Shanet Roy,\n Shon Roy\u2019s reputed mother;\n In all her life save this Shon Roy\n She never had another.\n\n \u2019Tis here or hereabout, they say,\n The place no one can tell;\n But when she\u2019ll rise at the last day,\n She\u2019ll ken the stane hersel\u2019.\u201d\n\nAndrew Sharpe, who practised the arts of the drawing-master and poet,\nand enjoyed some reputation as a flute-player, is thus celebrated in the\nchurchyard of Kinnoul, Perth:\u2014\n\n \u201cHalt, for a moment,\n Passenger, and read\u2014\n Here Andrew dozes\n In his daisied bed.\n Silent his flute,\n Torn off its key,\n His genius scattered\n And the Muse set free.\u201d\n\nThis curious example is found in Arbroath:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lyes Alexander Peter, present treasurer of Arbroath, who died\n 12th January, 1630.\n Such a Treasurer was not since, nor yet before,\n For common work, calsais,[4] brigs,[5] and schoir;[6]\n Of all others he did excel;\n He devised our school and he hung our bell.\u201d\n\n [4] Causeway.\n\n [5] Bridges.\n\n [6] Sewers.\n\nThe following lines are said to be in the churchyards of Stirling,\nOrdiquhill, Dundee (Old Howff), Fort Augustus, and Hamilton:\u2014\n\n \u201cOur life is but a winter day\n Some only breakfast and away,\n Others to dinner stay and are full fed,\n The oldest man but sups and goes to bed,\n Large is his debt that lingers out the day,\n He that goes soonest has the least to pay.\u201d\n\nClose by St. Regulus Tower, St. Andrews, the ashes of a sea captain and\nhis spouse have anchored safely in their last haven, which is marked by a\nsimple tombstone with these words:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere we lie\n In horizontal position,\n Like a ship laid up\n Stript of her mast and riggin\u2019.\u201d\n\nCaptain Hill, who rests in the kirkyard of Cleish, has his virtues thus\npithily extolled on the stone which marks the spot:\u2014\n\n \u201cAt anchor now in Death\u2019s dark road,\n Rides honest Captain Hill,\n Who served his king and feared his God,\n With upright heart and will.\n In social life sincere and just,\n To vice of no kind given;\n So that his better part, we trust,\n Hath made the Port of Heaven.\u201d\n\nThe following quaint inscription, copied from the Abbey of Melrose,\nconsecrated in 1146, is of much historical value. From it, it\nwould appear that one John Murdo superintended most of the ancient\necclesiastical edifices in Scotland:\u2014\n\n \u201cJohn Murdo some tym callit was I,\n And born in Parysse certainly,\n And had in kepying all mason werk\n Of Sanctandroys, the hye kyrk\n Of Glasgu, Melros, and Paslay,\n Of Nyddysdale, and of Galway,\n Pray to God, and Mari baith,\n And sweet St. John, keep this holy kyrk fra skaith.\u201d\n\nIn Forfar cemetery we find:\u2014\n\n \u201c\u2019Tis here that Tibby Allan lies,\n \u2019Tis here, or here about,\n But no one till the Resurrection day,\n Shall the very spot dispute.\u201d\n\nLoch Ranza has this:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies Donald and his wife,\n Janet M\u2019Fee;\n Aged 40 hee,\n Aged 30 shee.\u201d\n\nIn the Necropolis of Glasgow, which is separated from the Cathedral and\nits olden cemetery by the Molendinar Burn, stands a plain stone with the\ngrave warning:\u2014\n\n \u201cStranger, as you pass o\u2019er the grass,\n Think seriously, with no humdrumming,\n Prepare for death, for judgment\u2019s coming.\u201d\n\nIn the same place may be seen:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies Mess Andrew Gray,\n Of whom ne muckle good can i say\n He was ne Quaker, for he had ne spirit;\n He was ne Papist, for he had ne merit;\n He was ne Turk, for he drank muckle wine;\n He was ne Jew, for he eat muckle swine;\n Full forty years he preached and leed,\n For which God doomed him when he deed.\u201d\n\nThe subject of the next epitaph, owing to her bravery at the battle of\nAncrum Moor, is celebrated in heroic verse still to be seen in a country\nchurchyard in Roxburghshire:\u2014\n\n \u201cFair Maiden Lilliard lies under this stane,\n Little was her stature, but great was her fame;\n Upon the English louns she laid many thumps,\n And when her legs were cutted off she fought upon her stumps.\u201d\n\nIn the churchyard of Hoddam is found:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lyes a man, who all his mortal life\n Past mending clocks, but could not mend his wyfe,\n The \u2019larum of his bell was ne\u2019er sae shrill\n As was her tongue\u2014aye clacking like a mill.\n But now he\u2019s gane\u2014oh! whither nane can tell\u2014\n I hope beyond the sound o\u2019 Mally\u2019s bell.\u201d\n\nOver the last lair of a Glasgow magistrate there is written:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lyes\u2014read it with your hats on\u2014\n The bones of Bailie William Watson,\n Who was famous for his thinking,\n And moderation in his drinking.\u201d\n\nThe following has been deciphered from an inscription on a tombstone in\nSkye:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lie the bones\n O\u2019 Tonald Jones,\n The wale o\u2019 men\n For eating scones.\n Eating scones\n And drinking yill,\n Till his last moans\n He took his fill.\u201d\n\nIn the kirkyard of Horncliffe, on the Tweed, may be seen:\u2014\n\n \u201cHere lies the Horner of Horncliffe,\n Puir Tam Gordon, cauld and stiff,\n Wha in this narrow hole was puttin\n For his lawless love of wedder mutton.\u201d\n\nThere is a neatly expressed compliment to the memory of a dead wife in\nthese lines, said to be copied from a gravestone in Meigle:\u2014\n\n \u201cShe was\u2014but words are wanting,\n To say what.\n Think what a wife should be\u2014\n She was that.\u201d\n\nThe writer of William Mathieson\u2019s epitaph, in the West Churchyard,\nTranent, was not nearly so happy in his diction. It runs limpingly thus:\u2014\n\n \u201cWilliam Matthison here lies,\n Whose age was forty-one;\n February seventeenth he dies,\n Went Is\u2019bel Mitchell from.\n Who was his married wife,\n The fourth part of his life.\n The soul it cannot die,\n Tho\u2019 th\u2019 body be turn\u2019d to clay;\n Yet meet again must they\n At the last day.\n Trumpets shall sound, archangels cry,\n Come forth Is\u2019bel Mitchell and meet\n William Matthison in the sky.\u201d\n\nSeldom has there been a better excuse for an epitaph than appears in the\nfollowing, from the burial-place of Inchchapel, near Montrose:\u2014\n\n \u201cJanet Milne, spouse to James Lurie, her Monument.\n We do this for no other end\n But that our Burial may be ken\u2019d.\u201d\n\nThese, though the choicest specimens of their kind, form not more than a\ntithe of the humorous and curious epitaphs which are readily accessible\nto the writer. But\u2014though we have not laughed once irreverently\u2014perhaps,\nmy reader, we have laughed long enough over the \u201ccauld clay biggin\u2019s\u201d of\ngloomy Death, where rests in awful solemnity much that is sainted and\nsacred to us both. No more, then.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX\n\n\n A.\n\n A\u2019 a\u2019e oo, 16\n\n Aberdeenshire woman\u2019s affliction, 38\n\n A dangerous case o\u2019 _typhus_, 83\n\n A day in the desk, 160\n\n A fearfu\u2019 sermon, 95\n\n A fisher of men, 98\n\n Ainslie, Hew, quoted, 27\n\n Airlie, Earl of, 62, 238\n\n Alexander, Dr. William Lindsay, 138\n\n _Also_, but not _likewise_, 292\n\n Anderson, Dr. William, 57, 80, 84\n\n And the Lord said unto Moses, 60\n\n Another glass and then, 62\n\n An awfu\u2019 fricht, 175\n\n A pig in the bed, 213\n\n Arbroath epitaph, 448\n\n Are yer aits muckle bookit? 214\n\n As it is in the original, 94\n\n A _week_ before the sun went doon, 209\n\n A well-corrected mistake, 155\n\n Auld, Dr., 378\n\n Auld lang syne, 15\n dune up in tartan, 245\n\n Awfu\u2019 wark; they\u2019re just killin\u2019 ane anither ower there, 35\n\n Aytoun, Professor, 267, 269\n\n\n B.\n\n Ballantyne, Mrs., 260\n\n Balquhidder epitaph, 448\n\n Balnamoon and the brock, 49\n\n Banffshire epitaph, 444\n\n Bannockburn, Story of the battle of, 201\n\n Baptismal customs, 346\n\n Baptisms, Stories about, 86, 107, 108\n\n Barbour, Sheriff, 297\n\n Bargaig, Lord, 295\n\n Barebones\u2019 first day in the desk, 158\n\n Barrie, J. M., 30\n quoted, 51\n\n Barty, Rev. Mr., of Ruthven, 136\n\n Beadle on Disestablishment, 130\n drawing an inference, 132\n\n Begg, Rev. Dr., 47\n\n Betty\u2019s courtship and marriage, 336\n\n Bishop Irving of Argyll, 81\n\n Bishop though he be, 107\n\n Blackie, Professor, 29\n\n Blacklock, Dr. Thomas, 90\n\n Bleakie, Sir Robert, of Blair Athol, 205\n\n Bluidy Bell\u2019s epitaph, 447\n\n Bonar, Rev. Dr. A. A., 360\n\n Bonnie House o\u2019 Airlie, The, 239\n\n Boston, Rev. Mr., and Daft Jock Amos, 379\n\n Boswell, Sir Alexander, 287\n\n Bothwell epitaph, 444\n\n Boyd, Hugh, quoted, 226\n\n Boyd, Rev. Zachary, 273\n\n Braxfield, Lord, 285, 286\n\n Breadalbane, Marquis, 107\n Lady, 107\n\n Brewster, Sir David, 352\n\n Brougham, Lord, 288\n\n Brown, Rev. John of Haddington, 120\n\n Brown, Dr. John, 105\n\n Bruce and Strang, 296\n\n Buchanan, Robert, 183\n\n Burial customs, 349\n\n Burke and Hare Trial, 304\n\n Burns\u2019 letter to William Nicol, 21\n\n Burns quoted, 21, 27, 146, 169, 356, 363\n\n Burns\u2019 Poems, Cockney Edition, 210\n Epigrams by, 249, 250, 251\n Anecdotes of, 251, 252, 253, 254\n and Scott, Meeting of, 255\n\n Burns of Castle Wemyss, 83\n\n\n C.\n\n Caird, Principal, 145\n\n Cameron, W. C., 272\n\n Canna ye boo, ye brute? 113\n\n Campbell, Thomas, 275\n\n Campbell and Leyden, 276\n\n Cameronian\u2019s cat, The, 283\n\n Carle, and the King come, 264\n\n Carlyle family described, 334\n\n _Cia mar a tha thu an duidh?_, 236\n\n Chalmers, Dr., 158, 335\n\n _Chevy Chase_ in the Psalms, 151\n\n Clank, clankin\u2019 through heaven, 38\n\n Clan pride, 238\n\n Classon, Dr., 346\n\n Clerk, John, of Eldin, 291, 292, 294\n\n Coals of fire on his enemy\u2019s head, 40\n\n Coat, sir! whaur got I the coat? 307\n\n Cockburn, Lord, 23, 28, 285, 290, 299, 302\n\n Cockburn, Mrs., 258\n\n Colquhoun, Sir James, 288, 294\n\n \u201cCome awa, Mr. Horner, an\u2019 help us to hang thae damned scoondrels,\u201d\n 286\n\n Congregation needing a rest, 100\n\n Consolation, 38\n\n Conveeviality that plays the plisky, 180\n\n Cranston, Mr., 353\n\n Craig, Willie, and the Earl of Mansfield, 322\n\n Cringletie, Lord, 293\n\n Crockett, S. R., 30\n\n Crossmichael, Minister of, 60\n\n Curing the Coo, 47\n\n _Curator Bonus_, 295\n\n \u201cCrummy\u2019s\u201d epitaph, 442\n\n Cullen epitaph, 444\n\n Cruden \u201d 442\n\n Crail \u201d 384\n\n\n D.\n\n Daft Jock Amos, 379-380\n\n Daft Jock Gordon, 371\n\n Daft Rab Hamilton, 377-379\n\n Daft Willie Law, 369\n\n Daft Will Speir, 381-384\n\n _Daoine Shi_, 362\n\n Davie\u2019s no a son, Davie\u2019s the cuddie, 103\n\n Dead flea in John\u2019s sowl, 64\n\n Deans\u2019, Jeanie, plea to the Queen, 19\n\n \u201cDeevil choke ye,\u201d 67\n\n Deil\u2019s Reply to Robert Burns, The, 277\n\n Deskford epitaph, 433\n\n Devil, definition of the word, 60\n\n Dews of Hermon, 293\n\n Dick\u2019s edition of Burns, 210\n\n Dinna snore sae loud, Bailie Broon, 75\n\n Dinna bury me like a beast, 400\n\n Doin\u2019 brawly in Perth, 178\n\n Dod, sir, that psalm\u2019ll no sing ava, 162\n\n Donald and his great relations, 207\n\n Don\u2019t call me a soldier, 298\n\n Doon wi\u2019 the ither shillin\u2019 or up she comes, 137\n\n Dow, Rev. Dr., of Errol, 78\n\n \u201cDowie in the Hint o\u2019 Hairst,\u201d 27\n\n Dram be hang\u2019d: it\u2019s no a bit o\u2019 use, 185\n\n \u201cDrinkin\u2019 Drams,\u201d 192\n\n Dry enough, 78\n\n Dumfries epitaph, 443\n\n Duff, Rev. Dr., of Kilspindie, 78\n\n Dundas, Mr. Henry, 206, 296\n\n Dundee Parish Church beadle and the session, 129\n\n Dundee epitaph, 445\n\n Dunkeld epitaph, 446\n\n Dunlop, Rev. Walter, 56, 67-69\n\n\n E.\n\n Earl of Eglinton and Will Speir, 383\n\n Earl of Mansfield, 322\n\n Eatin\u2019 amang the brutes, 77\n\n E\u2019enin\u2019s orts mak\u2019 gude mornin\u2019 fodder, 15\n\n Elgin epitaph, 448\n\n Eldin, Lord, 293\n\n Eldon, Lord, 293\n\n Epitaphs, 440\n\n Erskine, Mr., of Alva, 295\n\n Erskine, Sir Henry, 294\n\n Erskine, Rev. Ralph, and the blacksmith, 119\n\n Eskgrove, Lord, 287-289\n\n Every ane has his ain draff-pock, 76\n\n Everybody has his ain bubblyjock, 372\n\n \u201cEvil Eye,\u201d 348\n\n\n F.\n\n Fa\u2019s feel are ye? 391\n\n Fa\u2019 fuppit the loonie? 13\n\n Fairservice, Andrew, 20\n\n Fairgrieve, Robert, beadle of Ancrum, 124\n\n Family worship: the time o\u2019 year o\u2019t, 37\n\n Far abune the mune, 185\n\n Fashed wi\u2019 a set o\u2019 deein\u2019 men, 115\n\n Fat \u2019ill tak\u2019 it aff, 14\n\n Fechtin\u2019 wi\u2019 cawnil licht, 37\n\n Fifer more _Fifish_ than his fellows, 370\n\n Finlay, William, quoted, 419\n\n Fleeman, the Laird of Udny\u2019s fool, 386\n resists temptation, 390\n in Edinburgh, 390\n in Perth, 395\n shak\u2019-a-fa\u2019s the soldiers, 383\n confounds the guilty ploughman, 397\n\n Flype yer stockin\u2019, 15\n\n Flype her, Peety ye couldna, 48\n\n Following a good example, 120\n\n Forfar cobbler, A canny, 43\n\n Forfar epitaph, 450\n\n Forfarshire beadle, 147\n\n Fou! Fou! Fou! 79\n\n Foxes\u2019 tails, Story about the, 166\n\n Fraser, Dr. Alexander, 332\n\n Freits, 343-347\n\n Freedom and whisky, 170\n\n Fun at the Soutar\u2019s, 49\n\n\n G.\n\n Gairtney epitaph, 441\n\n Gallopin\u2019 consumption, 374\n\n Galt, John, 30\n\n Gey weel sattled doon by this time, 201\n\n Ghost o\u2019 Mause, 351\n\n Ghosts, stories of, 349-355\n\n Giff-gaff, 43\n\n Gilfillan, Rev. George, 80, 85, 86, 276\n\n Gillan, Dr., of Inchinnan, 80\n\n Gillies, Lord, 309\n\n Gin the tail breaks, you\u2019ll see what\u2019s the maitter, 232\n\n Glasgow Cathedral, Account of, 20\n\n Glasgow epitaphs, 450, 451\n\n Gordon, Duchess of, 29\n\n Gordon, Pryse, 443\n\n Gouk\u2019s, Tam, epitaph, 444, 296\n\n Gow, Neil, 177\n\n Gowdie, Isobel, 356\n\n Gown made to fit any party, 296\n\n Gowpen o\u2019 glaur, A, 15\n\n Grace of God, 74\n\n Grave joke, 40\n\n Grat, an\u2019 swat, an\u2019 spat like the very mischief, 125\n\n Green as leeks at the Shotts, 66\n\n Guthrie, Dr., 81, 317\n\n\n H.\n\n Hackstoun of Rathillet, 121\n\n Haddington epitaphs, 442, 443\n\n Hallowe\u2019en, 363-366\n\n Hamilton, Daft Rab, 377-379\n\n Hay, Sir John, 306\n\n Hammon\u2019s no hanged yet, 75\n\n Harewood\u2019s, Lord, dinner party, 204\n\n Harry at it again, 295\n\n \u201cHawkie\u2019s\u201d account of himself, 405\n autobiography, 403\n first public appearance, 405\n wanderings, 406-408\n debt to the British Government, 410\n lodgings, 415\n profession\u2014a collector of taxes, 411\n opinion of Perth, 413\n retorts to the police, 414\n retort to Bishop Murdoch, 416\n politics, 417\n health, 419\n \u201cfir jacket,\u201d 419\n street oratory, 419\n\n Hermand, Lord, 288-290\n\n Highlandman\u2019s prayer, 225\n\n Highland sermon, 226\n letter, 229\n lesson in music, 230\n apology, 242\n\n Hill, Captain, Epitaph on, 449\n\n Hirsle yont, 15\n\n History of Jonah, 274\n\n Hoddam epitaph, 451\n\n Hogg, James, 24, 260\n\n Hogg quoted, 24, 361\n\n Hoo the streets o\u2019 Jerusalem were keepit clean, 128\n\n Horncliffe epitaph, 452\n\n Hotch-potch, Story of, 212\n\n How long a man may live without brains, 368\n\n\n I.\n\n I couldna but win, 302\n\n I dinna think ower muckle o\u2019 _him_ for\u2019t either, 315\n\n Ill, vile, evil, devil, 60\n\n Imlah, John, 418\n\n I\u2019m the lad that lowses the graavats, 173\n\n Inglis, James, quoted, 95, 333, 334\n\n Insisting in prayer, 66\n\n Intill\u2019t, what\u2019s intill\u2019t? 212\n\n Inveraray proclamation, 225\n\n Irving, Edward, 69\n\n Is\u2019t a general risin\u2019? 69\n\n It\u2019s dowie in the hint o\u2019 hairst, 27\n\n It\u2019ll no do chaps: we\u2019ll need to try\u2019t a wee thocht laicher, 162\n\n It\u2019ll tak\u2019 it a\u2019 to ser\u2019 the fouk at the funeral, 327\n\n It\u2019s a solemn thing marriage, 112\n\n I wad hang ye a\u2019 at the same price, 203\n\n I wadna lippen him wi\u2019 a bull stirk, 304\n\n\n J.\n\n J\u2014a\u2014jay\u2014fal-de-riddle\u2014cob, 154\n\n Janet Davidson and the seventh commandment, 118\n\n Jeffrey, Lord, 30, 298\n\n Jessie, my woman, aye dance, 105\n\n Jock and his parritch, 35\n\n \u201cJohnny Gibb,\u201d 30\n\n Johnson, Dr., 199, 329\n\n Johnnie Bell o\u2019 Brakenbrow, 441\n\n John Knox never askit for a stove in his kirk, 88\n\n Jonah and the \u201cwhawl,\u201d 64\n\n Jummlin\u2019 the joodgement, and confoondin\u2019 the sense, 125\n\n Just a hint to the Englishers, 202\n\n Just an unco fykieness i\u2019 the mind, 335\n\n\n K.\n\n Kennedy, David, 151, 196\n\n Killin\u2019 ane anither ower there, 36\n\n Kilmun bellman, 241\n\n Kilspindie story, 103\n\n \u201cKinnoull Hill,\u201d 155\n\n Kittlin\u2019 in the paup o\u2019 his hass, 162\n\n Knox, John, 204\n\n\n L.\n\n Lady Greensleeves, 351\n\n Lang time afore it mak\u2019s up for Flodden, 201\n\n Law, Rev. Mr., 74\n\n Lawson, Dr., of Selkirk, 72-73\n\n \u201cLand o\u2019 the Leal,\u201d English ideas of, 210\n\n Leighton, Robert, 212\n\n Left to my ain oath, 302\n\n Leyden and Campbell, 276\n\n Liberals or Conservatives, 54\n\n Line upon line, 158\n\n Loch Ranza epitaph, 450\n\n Logiepert epitaph, 444\n\n Lord, Tam, I wad gie a pound for half an oor o\u2019 thae witnesses, 302\n\n London journalists, 29\n\n Lord Elgin\u2019s burial, 369\n\n Lord\u2019s Prayer intill Auld Scottis, 18\n ye just mak\u2019 a dishclout o\u2019t, 71\n\n \u201cLord Preserve Us!\u201d 291\n\n Love defined, 335\n\n Lundie\u2019s, Laird of, epitaph, 443\n\n Lykewake, 349\n\n\n M.\n\n Macdonald, Dr. George, 30\n\n Macgregor, Dr., of the Tron, 105\n\n Mackie, M.P., Mr. John, 207\n\n Macklin, Charles, 29\n\n Macknight, Dr., 78\n\n Macleod, Rev. Donald, 138\n\n Macleod, Dr. Norman, 57, 81-83, 91\n quoted, 240\n\n Macnab, Laird of, 429-439\n\n Maiden Lilliard\u2019s epitaph, 451\n\n Maistly a native, 47\n\n Man, yon was an ill-faured trick; ye\u2019ll surely tak\u2019 a look o\u2019 the\n gudes noo? 216\n\n Mansfield, Earl of, 322\n\n \u201cMansie Wauch,\u201d 30\n\n Marriage anecdotes, 112-115\n customs and superstitions, 347-348\n\n Martin, Sir Theodore, 267, 269\n\n Massacre of the Phairshon, 269\n\n Matthison\u2019s, William, epitaph, 452\n\n Maybe they\u2019ll say the Teevil was a Hielandman, 237\n\n M\u2019Cubbin, Rev. Dr., of Douglas, 77\n\n M\u2019Dougall, Rev. Mr., 99\n\n M\u2019Dougall, Rev. Mr., of Paisley, 164\n\n M\u2019Farlane, Dr., 74\n\n Metaphysics defined, 37\n\n M\u2019Laughlan, Alexander, a Blairgowrie beadle, 128\n\n M\u2019Kenzie, Old Henry, 173\n\n M\u2019Leans before the Flood, 238\n\n M\u2019Laggan, Alexander, 336\n\n M\u2019Taggart quoted, 358\n\n Meadowbank, Lord, 291, 292\n\n Milking \u201cMatthew Henry,\u201d 318\n\n Men of Peace, 362\n\n Meigle epitaph, 452\n\n Melrose epitaph, 450\n\n Melville, Lord, 296\n\n Mitchell, Rev. Mr., 142\n\n Moncrieff, Rev. Sir Henry, 157\n\n Moncrieff, Sir Harry, 291\n\n Morrison, Rev. Walter, 70\n\n Montrose epitaph, 453\n\n Muckle He made o\u2019 that, He was hangit, 286\n\n My cuit\u2019s yeukie, 15, 376\n\n M\u2019Pherson\u2019s, Andrew, epitaph, 443\n\n\n N.\n\n Naturals, 367\n\n Necessity and Cringletie, 293\n\n Niagara Falls, Scotch idea of, 41\n\n \u201cNoctes Ambrosian\u00e6,\u201d 266\n\n Nine-and-twenty knives that came back from Babylon, 380\n\n No relation at all; but just an acquaintance like yersel\u2019, 207\n\n No soldier, 298\n\n Nothing extraordinary, 50\n\n\n O.\n\n Oats, definition of, 199\n\n Oh, for a man! 154\n\n One way of rising at the Bar, 295\n\n O\u2019Rell, Max, on Cockney _versus_ Scotch humour, 33\n\n Oliphant, Rev. James, 59\n\n Omens, 343, 344\n\n Oswald of Dunnikier, 369\n\n _Our Ain Folk_, 95\n\n Outram, George, quoted, 192, 265\n\n \u201cOwre the water to Charlie,\u201d 306\n\n\n P.\n\n Patent machine for sowing turnips, 330\n\n Pairtly they do, and pairtly they mind their ain business, 215\n\n Paisley bodies, 41\n\n Paul, Dr., 61\n\n Perthshire worthies, 323-325\n\n Perthshire farmers, 319-320\n\n Perthshire blacksmith and the dram, 176\n\n Pearlin\u2019 Jean, 350\n\n Pennant quoted, 354\n\n Peterhead epitaph, 442\n\n Picken, Ebenezer, of Paisley, 277\n\n Plenty o\u2019 milk for a\u2019 the parritch, 35\n\n Poacher\u2019s prayer, A, 25\n\n Pockfu\u2019 o\u2019 goats\u2019 horns at the Broomielaw, Like a, 77\n\n Proclamation, Old, 23\n\n Prodigal son, when he came to himself, 63\n\n Professor of Signs, 218\n\n Proverbs, 15\n\n Pitcairn quoted, 356\n\n Pearson, Alison, 363\n\n Plant it wi\u2019 factors, Laird, 388\n\n Prentice, John, beadle of Carnwath, 135\n\n Prince Consort, Story of, 211\n\n _Punch_ an offender, 29, 210\n\n Purdie, Tom, Story of, 259\n\n Put on the goun, sir, 140\n\n\n Q.\n\n Quadruped here, quadruped there, ye should hae clippit the brute\u2019s\n wings, 312\n\n\n R.\n\n Ramsay, Allan, 267\n\n Ramsay, Dean, 34, 57, 71, 369\n\n Ranting tantin\u2019, tearin\u2019 wind, 65\n\n Rax a rung, and reeshil his rumple, 13\n\n Readin\u2019, the paltry fallow, 90\n\n Repeating tunes, 152, 153\n\n Rhyming Edinburgh shopkeepers, 46\n\n Rin, Bookie, rin, 274\n\n Ritchie, Rev. Dr., of Potterrow, 181\n\n Robertson, Bailie, of Edinburgh, 312\n\n Robertson, Rev. James, of Kilmarnock, 76\n\n Rodger, Alexander, 224, 264\n\n Rogers, Rev. Dr. Charles, 34, 72, 296, 306\n\n Ross, Rev. John, Blairgowrie, 66\n\n Russel of the _Scotsman_, 98\n\n Rutherford, Lord, 296, 329\n\n\n S.\n\n Sabbath observance, Stories of, 314-317\n\n Santa Claus, 46\n\n Sandy and the shower bath, 45\n\n \u201cSawney, now the King\u2019s come,\u201d 264\n\n Savin\u2019 the bawbees, 44\n\n Scotland described by an enthusiast, 198\n\n Scotland described by a critic, 199\n\n Scott, Rev. John, 59\n\n Scott, Adam, in Upper Dalgleish, 24\n\n _Scots Magazine_, quoted, 23\n\n Scott, Anecdotes of, 254-264, 331, 335, 370, 371\n\n Scott, Margaret, 444\n\n Scott, Marion, 445\n\n Scott quoted, 19\n\n Scunnered at them baith, 114\n\n Scorin\u2019 abune the breath, 360\n\n _Scottish Gallovidian Encyclopedia_, 358\n\n Seybo synd\u2019t doon the syvor, 13\n\n Shakespeare maist clever enough to be a Scotchman, 197\n\n Sharpe, Andrew, 448\n\n Sharpe, Charles, Kirkpatrick, quoted, 350\n\n Sheep\u2019s head that will sing, 203\n\n Shepherd, The Ettrick, 232\n\n Shirra, Rev. Robert, Kirkcaldy, 58\n\n _Shi ich_, or men of peace, 362\n\n \u201cShon M\u2019Nab,\u201d 224\n\n Sittin\u2019 up wi\u2019 the corpse, 349\n\n Skelton, Lord, 297\n\n Skinner, Rev. John, 56, 71\n\n Skirving, Adam, quoted, 270\n\n Skye, epitaph from, 452\n\n Singing before the Queen, 52\n\n Small, Robert, 444\n\n Snaw finds the sinners oot, 133\n\n Snee-snaw-snow, 156\n\n Snuff! snuff! snuff! 78\n\n Snuff in the Sermon, 88\n\n Soldier\u2019s prayer, 36\n\n Somerville, Dr., 353\n\n So, John, 447\n\n Soond! _no_ soond! _a_\u2019 soond! 132\n\n Spak\u2019 o\u2019 lowpin\u2019 ower a linn, 15\n\n Spoon is on the loom, The, 13\n\n _Statistical Account_ quoted, 162, 349\n\n Stick to the _forms_ of the Church, 80\n\n Stuart: a curse on the name, 306\n\n St. Andrews epitaph, 449\n\n Stobo\u2019s, Robert, epitaph, 444\n\n Strang and Bruce, 297\n\n Sydney Smith and Scotch \u201cwut,\u201d 32\n\n\n T.\n\n Tak\u2019 a snuff, John, 88\n\n Tamlane, The young, 363\n\n \u201cTammas Bodkin,\u201d 30\n\n \u201cTandem,\u201d 143\n\n Taylor, the schoolmaster of Currie, 14\n\n Teetotal story, 187\n\n Thae fowk o\u2019 Todhills\u2014they havena broken grund yet, 147\n\n The best redd wig, 73\n\n The Peer of Aberdeen, 299\n\n The Lord\u2019s no deaf, 102\n\n The man\u2019s crackit, 70\n\n The sweep\u2019s dead, 55\n\n There they go\u2014three-a-penny, 84\n\n There\u2019s a chance for ye yet, 61\n\n They\u2019re seein\u2019 noo, 53\n\n The _Harangue_, 288\n\n That man Broom, 288\n\n Thom, Rev. Mr., of Govan, 56, 75, 76\n\n Thomson, the author of \u201cThe Seasons,\u201d 352\n\n Thrummy Cap, 351\n\n Trollope, Anthony, 83\n\n Tranent epitaph, 452\n\n To many I a wonder am, 157\n\n Toom barrel aye sounds loudest, A, 77\n\n \u201cTullochgorum\u201d: story of the author, 71\n\n Tyre\u2019s, Thomas, epitaph, 446\n\n\n V.\n\n _Valet_ of the shadow of death, 81\n\n Very good for hogs, 200\n\n\n W.\n\n Waddell, Dr. Hately, quoted, 17\n\n Waggishness in the Inn of Glamis, 51\n\n Wee Macgregor o\u2019 the Tron, 106\n\n We\u2019ll pit ye in the Gorbals first, 39\n\n What the devil he was roaring at, 227\n\n Whaur in a\u2019 the world did I get thae (hic) young deucks? 185\n\n Whaur John Clerk lives, 294\n\n \u201cWhite Horse,\u201d The, 92\n\n Wheesht a minute, sir, I think I hear a cairt, 103\n\n When the Lord repeats, we\u2019ll repeat, 153\n\n Wightman, Dr., of Kirkmahoe, 113, 371\n\n Whistlin\u2019 in Fife, 325\n\n Wilberforce, Dr., 107\n\n Wilson, Professor, 30, 266\n\n With the author\u2019s compliments, 267\n\n Witches, 355-361\n\n Witch of Fife, 360\n\n Willie Wastle, 27\n\n Woolie Ghost, 353\n\n\n Y.\n\n Yatterin\u2019 creaturs, wha wad ken what they said, 36\n\n Ye Banks and _Brays_ of Bonnie Doon, 210\n\n Ye Chronicle of Saint Andrew, 188\n\n Ye\u2019re far ower lood, 89\n\n Ye see what ye\u2019ve dune noo wi\u2019 yer _d\u2014d\u2014dawmed_ burial, 325\n\n Ye wad be nane the waur o\u2019 a hanging, 286\n\n Young, Rev. Dr., of Perth, 66\n\n Yule, Rev. Mr., 96","title":"Thistledown: A Book of Scotch Humour, Character, Folk-lore, Story & Anecdote","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":109035}