Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character

Chapter the Seventh On Scottish Stories of Wit and Humour

The portion of our subject which we proposed under the head of “Reminiscences of Scottish Stories of Wit or Humour,” yet remains to be considered. This is closely connected with the question of Scottish dialect and expressions; indeed, on some points hardly separable, as the wit, to a great extent, proceeds from the quaint and picturesque modes of expressing it. But here we are met by a difficulty. On high authority it has been declared that no such thing as wit exists amongst us. What has no existence can have no change. We cannot be said to have lost a quality which we never possessed. Many of my readers are no doubt familiar with what Sydney Smith declared on this point, and certainly on the question of wit he must be considered an authority. He used to say (I am almost ashamed to repeat it), “It requires a surgical operation to get a joke well into a Scotch understanding. Their only idea of wit, which prevails occasionally in the north, and which, under the name of WUT, is so infinitely distressing to people of good taste, is laughing immoderately at stated intervals.” Strange language to use of a country which has produced Smollett, Burns, Scott, Galt, and Wilson—all remarkable for the humour diffused through their writings! Indeed, we may fairly ask, have they equals in this respect amongst English writers? Charles Lamb had the same notion, or, I should rather say, the same prejudice, about Scottish people not being accessible to wit; and he tells a story of what happened to himself, in corroboration of the opinion. He had been asked to a party, and one object of the invitation had been to meet a son of Burns. When he arrived, Mr. Burns had not made his appearance, and in the course of conversation regarding the family of the poet, Lamb, in his lack-a-daisical kind of manner, said, “I wish it had been the father instead of the son;” upon which four Scotsmen present with one voice exclaimed, “That’s impossible, for he’s dead160.” Now, there will be dull men and matter-of-fact men everywhere, who do not take a joke, or enter into a jocular allusion; but surely, as a general remark, this is far from being a natural quality of our country. Sydney Smith and Charles Lamb say so. But, at the risk of being considered presumptuous, I will say I think them entirely mistaken. I should say that there was, on the contrary, a strong connection between the Scottish temperament and, call it if you like, humour, if it is not wit. And what is the difference? My readers need not be afraid that they are to be led through a labyrinth of metaphysical distinctions between wit and humour. I have read Dr. Campbell’s dissertation on the difference, in his Philosophy of Rhetoric; I have read Sydney Smith’s own two lectures; but I confess I am not much the wiser. Professors of rhetoric, no doubt, must have such discussions; but when you wish to be amused by the thing itself, it is somewhat disappointing to be presented with metaphysical analysis. It is like instituting an examination of the glass and cork of a champagne bottle, and a chemical testing of the wine. In the very process the volatile and sparkling draught which was to delight the palate has become like ditch water, vapid and dead. What I mean is, that, call it wit or humour, or what you please, there is a school of Scottish pleasantry, amusing and characteristic beyond all other. Don’t think of analysing its nature, or the qualities of which it is composed; enjoy its quaint and amusing flow of oddity and fun; as we may, for instance, suppose it to have flowed on that eventful night so joyously described by Burns:—

“The souter tauld his queerest stories,
The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus.”

Or we may think of the delight it gave the good Mr. Balwhidder, when he tells, in his Annals of the Parish, of some such story, that it was a “jocosity that was just a kittle to hear.” When I speak of changes in such Scottish humour which have taken place, I refer to a particular sort of humour, and I speak of the sort of feeling that belongs to Scottish pleasantry,—which is sly, and cheery, and pawky. It is undoubtedly a humour that depends a good deal upon the vehicle in which the story is conveyed. If, as we have said, our quaint dialect is passing away, and our national eccentric points of character, we must expect to find much of the peculiar humour allied with them to have passed away also. In other departments of wit and repartee, and acute hits at men and things, Scotsmen (whatever Sydney Smith may have said to the contrary) are equal to their neighbours, and, so far as I know, may have gained rather than lost. But this peculiar humour of which I now speak has not, in our day, the scope and development which were permitted to it by the former generation. Where the tendency exists, the exercise of it is kept down by the usages and feelings of society. For examples of it (in its full force at any rate) we must go back to a race who are departed. One remark, however, has occurred to me in regard to the specimens we have of this kind of humour—viz. that they do not always proceed from the personal wit or cleverness of any of the individuals concerned in them. The amusement comes from the circumstances, from the concurrence or combination of the ideas, and in many cases from the mere expressions which describe the facts. The humour of the narrative is unquestionable, and yet no one has tried to be humorous. In short, it is the Scottishness that gives the zest. The same ideas differently expounded might have no point at all. There is, for example, something highly original in the notions of celestial mechanics entertained by an honest Scottish Fife lass regarding the theory of comets. Having occasion to go out after dark, and having observed the brilliant comet then visible (1858), she ran in with breathless haste to the house, calling on her fellow-servants to “Come oot and see a new star that hasna got its tail cuttit aff yet!” Exquisite astronomical speculation! Stars, like puppies, are born with tails, and in due time have them docked. Take an example of a story where there is no display of any one’s wit or humour, and yet it is a good story, and one can’t exactly say why:—An English traveller had gone on a fine Highland road so long, without having seen an indication of fellow-travellers, that he became astonished at the solitude of the country; and no doubt before the Highlands were so much frequented as they are in our time, the roads sometimes bore a very striking aspect of solitariness. Our traveller, at last coming up to an old man breaking stones, asked him if there was any traffic on this road—was it at all frequented? “Ay,” he said, coolly, “it’s no ill at that; there was a cadger body yestreen, and there’s yoursell the day.” No English version of the story could have half such amusement, or have so quaint a character. An answer even still more characteristic is recorded to have been given by a countryman to a traveller. Being doubtful of his way, he inquired if he were on the right road to Dunkeld. With some of his national inquisitiveness about strangers, the countryman asked his inquirer where he came from. Offended at the liberty, as he considered it, he sharply reminded the man that where he came from was nothing to him; but all the answer he got was the quiet rejoinder, “Indeed, it’s just as little to me whar ye’re gaen.” A friend has told me of an answer highly characteristic of this dry and unconcerned quality which he heard given to a fellow-traveller. A gentleman sitting opposite to him in the stage-coach at Berwick complained bitterly that the cushion on which he sat was quite wet. On looking up to the roof he saw a hole through which the rain descended copiously, and at once accounted for the mischief. He called for the coachman, and in great wrath reproached him with the evil under which he suffered, and pointed to the hole which was the cause of it. All the satisfaction, however, that he got was the quiet unmoved reply, “Ay, mony a ane has complained o’ that hole.” Another anecdote I heard from a gentleman who vouched for the truth, which is just a case where the narrative has its humour not from the wit which is displayed but from that dry matter-of-fact view of things peculiar to some of our countrymen. The friend of my informant was walking in a street of Perth, when, to his horror, he saw a workman fall from a roof where he was mending slates, right upon the pavement. By extraordinary good fortune he was not killed, and on the gentleman going up to his assistance, and exclaiming, with much excitement, “God bless me, are you much hurt?” all the answer he got was the cool rejoinder, “On the contrary, sir.” A similar matter-of fact answer was made by one of the old race of Montrose humorists. He was coming out of church, and in the press of the kirk skailing, a young man thoughtlessly trod on the old gentleman’s toe, which was tender with corns. He hastened to apologise, saying, “I am very sorry, sir; I beg your pardon.” The only acknowledgment of which was the dry answer, “And ye’ve as muckle need, sir.” An old man marrying a very young wife, his friends rallied him on the inequality of their ages. “She will be near me,” he replied, “to close my een.” “Weel,” remarked another of the party, “I’ve had twa wives, and they opened my een.”

One of the best specimens of cool Scottish matter-of-fact view of things has been supplied by a kind correspondent, who narrates it from his own personal recollection.

The back windows of the house where he was brought up looked upon the Greyfriars Church that was burnt down. On the Sunday morning in which that event took place, as they were all preparing to go to church, the flames began to burst forth; the young people screamed from the back part of the house, “A fire! A fire!” and all was in a state of confusion and alarm. The housemaid was not at home, it being her turn for the Sunday “out.” Kitty, the cook, was taking her place, and performing her duties. The old woman was always very particular on the subject of her responsibility on such occasions, and came panting and hobbling up stairs from the lower regions, and exclaimed, “Oh, what is’t, what is’t?” “O Kitty, look here, the Greyfriars Church is on fire!” “Is that a’, Miss? What a fricht ye geed me! I thought ye said the parlour fire was out.”

In connection with the subject of Scottish toasts I am supplied by a first-rate Highland authority of one of the most graceful and crushing replies of a lady to what was intended as a sarcastic compliment and smart saying at her expense.

About the beginning of the present century the then Campbell of Combie, on Loch Awe side, in Argyleshire, was a man of extraordinary character, and of great physical strength, and such swiftness of foot that it is said he could “catch the best tup on the hill.” He also looked upon himself as a “pretty man,” though in this he was singular; also, it was more than whispered that the laird was not remarkable for his principles of honesty. There also lived in the same district a Miss MacNabb of Bar-a’-Chaistril, a lady who, before she had passed the zenith of life, had never been remarkable for her beauty—the contrary even had passed into a proverb, while she was in her teens; but, to counterbalance this defect in external qualities, nature had endowed her with great benevolence, while she was renowned for her probity. One day the Laird of Combie, who piqued himself on his bon-mots, was, as frequently happened, a guest of Miss MacNabb’s, and after dinner several toasts had gone round as usual, Combie rose with great solemnity and addressing the lady of the house requested an especial bumper, insisting on all the guests to fill to the brim. He then rose and said, addressing himself to Miss MacNabb, “I propose the old Scottish toast of ‘Honest men and bonnie lassies,’” and bowing to the hostess, he resumed his seat. The lady returned his bow with her usual amiable smile, and taking up her glass, replied, “Weel, Combie, I am sure we may drink that, for it will neither apply to you nor me.”

An amusing example of a quiet cool view of a pecuniary transaction happened to my father whilst doing the business of the rent-day. He was receiving sums of money from the tenants in succession. After looking over a bundle of notes which he had just received from one of them, a well-known character, he said in banter, “James, the notes are not correct.” To which the farmer, who was much of a humorist, drily answered, “I dinna ken what they may be noo; but they were a’ richt afore ye had your fingers in amang ’em.” An English farmer would hardly have spoken thus to his landlord. The Duke of Buccleuch told me an answer very quaintly Scotch, given to his grandmother by a farmer of the old school. A dinner was given to some tenantry of the vast estates of the family, in the time of Duke Henry. His Duchess (the last descendant of the Dukes of Montague) always appeared at table on such occasions, and did the honours with that mixture of dignity and of affable kindness for which she was so remarkable. Abundant hospitality was shown to all the guests. The Duchess, having observed one of the tenants supplied with boiled beef from a noble round, proposed that he should add a supply of cabbage: on his declining, the Duchess good-humouredly remarked, “Why, boiled beef and ‘greens’ seem so naturally to go together, I wonder you don’t take it.” To which the honest farmer objected, “Ah, but your Grace maun alloo it’s a vary windy vegetable,” in delicate allusion to the flatulent quality of the esculent. Similar to this was the naïve answer of a farmer on the occasion of a rent-day. The lady of the house asked him if he would take some “rhubarb-tart,” to which he innocently answered, “Thank ye, mem, I dinna need it.”

A Highland minister, dining with the patroness of his parish, ventured to say, “I’ll thank your leddyship for a little more of that apple-tart;” “It’s not apple-tart, it’s rhubarb,” replied the lady. “Rhubarb!” repeated the other, with a look of surprise and alarm, and immediately called out to the attendant, “Freend, I’ll thank you for a dram.”

A characteristic table anecdote I can recall amongst Deeside reminiscences. My aunt, Mrs. Forbes, had entertained an honest Scotch farmer at Banchory Lodge; a draught of ale had been offered to him, which he had quickly despatched. My aunt observing that the glass had no head or effervescence, observed, that she feared it had not been a good bottle, “Oh, vera gude, maam, it’s just some strong o’ the aaple,” an expression which indicates the beer to be somewhat sharp or pungent. It turned out to have been a bottle of vinegar decanted by mistake.

An amusing instance of an old Scottish farmer being unacquainted with table refinements occurred at a tenant’s dinner in the north. The servant had put down beside him a dessert spoon when he had been helped to pudding. This seemed quite superfluous to the honest man, who exclaimed, “Tak’ it awa, my man; my mou’s as big for puddin’ as it is for kail.”

Amongst the lower orders in Scotland humour is found, occasionally, very rich in mere children, and I recollect a remarkable illustration of this early native humour occurring in a family in Forfarshire, where I used in former days to be very intimate. A wretched woman, who used to traverse the country as a beggar or tramp, left a poor, half-starved little girl by the road-side, near the house of my friends. Always ready to assist the unfortunate, they took charge of the child, and as she grew a little older they began to give her some education, and taught her to read. She soon made some progress in reading the Bible, and the native odd humour of which we speak began soon to show itself. On reading the passage, which began, “Then David rose,” etc., the child stopped, and looked up knowingly, to say, “I ken wha that was,” and on being asked what she could mean, she confidently said, “That’s David Rowse the pleuchman.” And again, reading the passage where the words occur, “He took Paul’s girdle,” the child said, with much confidence, “I ken what he took that for,” and on being asked to explain, replied at once, “To bake ’s bannocks on;” “girdle” being in the north the name for the iron plate hung over the fire for baking oat cakes or bannocks.

To a distinguished member of the Church of Scotland I am indebted for an excellent story of quaint child humour, which he had from the lips of an old woman who related the story of herself:—When a girl of eight years of age she was taken by her grandmother to church. The parish minister was not only a long preacher, but, as the custom was, delivered two sermons on the Sabbath day without any interval, and thus saved the parishioners the two journeys to church. Elizabeth was sufficiently wearied before the close of the first discourse; but when, after singing and prayer, the good minister opened the Bible, read a second text, and prepared to give a second sermon, the young girl, being both tired and hungry, lost all patience, and cried out to her grandmother, to the no small amusement of those who were so near as to hear her, “Come awa, granny, and gang hame; this is a lang grace, and nae meat.”

A most amusing account of child humour used to be narrated by an old Mr. Campbell of Jura, who told the story of his own son. It seems the boy was much spoilt by indulgence. In fact, the parents were scarce able to refuse him anything he demanded. He was in the drawing-room on one occasion when dinner was announced, and on being ordered up to the nursery he insisted on going down to dinner with the company. His mother was for refusal, but the child persevered, and kept saying, “If I dinna gang, I’ll tell thon.” His father then, for peace sake, let him go. So he went and sat at table by his mother. When he found every one getting soup and himself omitted, he demanded soup, and repeated, “If I dinna get it, I’ll tell thon.” Well, soup was given, and various other things yielded to his importunities, to which he always added the usual threat of “telling thon.” At last, when it came to wine, his mother stood firm, and positively refused, as “a bad thing for little boys,” and so on. He then became more vociferous than ever about “telling thon;” and as still he was refused, he declared, “Now, I will tell thon,” and at last roared out, “Ma new breeks were made oot o’ the auld curtains!”

The Rev. Mr. Agnew has kindly sent me an anecdote which supplies an example of cleverness in a Scottish boy, and which rivals, as he observes, the smartness of the London boy, termed by Punch the “Street boy.” It has also a touch of quiet, sly Scottish humour. A gentleman, editor of a Glasgow paper, well known as a bon-vivant and epicure, and by no means a popular character, was returning one day from his office, and met near his own house a boy carrying a splendid salmon. The gentleman looked at it with longing eyes, and addressed the boy—“Where are you taking that salmon, my boy?” Boy—“Do you ken gin ae Mr. —— (giving the gentleman’s name) lives hereabout?” Mr. —— “Yes, oh yes; his house is here just by.” Boy (looking sly)—“Weel, it’s no for him.” Of this same Scottish boy cleverness, the Rev. Mr. M’Lure of Marykirk kindly supplies a capital specimen, in an instance which occurred at what is called the market, at Fettercairn, where there is always a hiring of servants. A boy was asked by a farmer if he wished to be engaged. “Ou ay,” said the youth. “Wha was your last maister?” was the next question. “Oh, yonder him,” said the boy; and then agreeing to wait where he was standing with some other servants till the inquirer should return from examination of the boy’s late employer. The farmer returned and accosted the boy, “Weel, lathie, I’ve been speerin’ about ye, an’ I’m tae tak ye.” “Ou ay,” was the prompt reply, “an’ I’ve been speerin’ about ye tae, an’ I’m nae gaen.”

We could not have had a better specimen of the cool self-sufficiency of these young domestics of the Scottish type than the following:—I heard of a boy making a very cool and determined exit from the house into which he had very lately been introduced. He had been told that he should be dismissed if he broke any of the china that was under his charge. On the morning of a great dinner-party he was entrusted (rather rashly) with a great load of plates, which he was to carry up-stairs from the kitchen to the dining-room, and which were piled up, and rested upon his two hands. In going up-stairs his foot slipped, and the plates were broken to atoms. He at once went up to the drawing-room, put his head in at the door, and shouted: “The plates are a’ smashed, and I’m awa.”

A facetious and acute friend, who rather leans to the Sydney Smith view of Scottish wit, declares that all our humorous stories are about lairds, and lairds that are drunk. Of such stories there are certainly not a few. The following is one of the best belonging to my part of the country, and to many persons I should perhaps apologise for introducing it at all. The story has been told of various parties and localities, but no doubt the genuine laird was a laird of Balnamoon (pronounced in the country Bonnymoon), and that the locality was a wild tract of land, not far from his place, called Munrimmon Moor. Balnamoon had been dining out in the neighbourhood, where, by mistake, they had put down to him after dinner cherry brandy, instead of port wine, his usual beverage. The rich flavour and strength so pleased him that, having tasted it, he would have nothing else. On rising from table, therefore, the laird would be more affected by his drink than if he had taken his ordinary allowance of port. His servant Harry or Hairy was to drive him home in a gig, or whisky as it was called, the usual open carriage of the time. On crossing the moor, however, whether from greater exposure to the blast, or from the laird’s unsteadiness of head, his hat and wig came off and fell upon the ground. Harry got out to pick them up and restore them to his master. The laird was satisfied with the hat, but demurred at the wig. “It’s no my wig, Hairy, lad; it’s no my wig,” and refused to have anything to do with it. Hairy lost his patience, and, anxious to get home, remonstrated with his master, “Ye’d better tak it, sir, for there’s nae waile161 o’ wigs on Munrimmon Moor.” The humour of the argument is exquisite, putting to the laird in his unreasonable objection the sly insinuation that in such a locality, if he did not take this wig, he was not likely to find another. Then, what a rich expression, “waile o’ wigs.” In English what is it? “A choice of perukes;” which is nothing comparable to the “waile o’ wigs.” I ought to mention also an amusing sequel to the story, viz. in what happened after the affair of the wig had been settled, and the laird had consented to return home. When the whisky drove up to the door, Hairy, sitting in front, told the servant who came “to tak out the laird.” No laird was to be seen; and it appeared that he had fallen out on the moor without Hairy observing it. Of course, they went back, and, picking him up, brought him safe home. A neighbouring laird having called a few days after, and having referred to the accident, Balnamoon quietly added, “Indeed, I maun hae a lume162 that’ll haud in.”

The laird of Balnamoon was a truly eccentric character. He joined with his drinking propensities a great zeal for the Episcopal church, the service of which he read to his own family with much solemnity and earnestness of manner. Two gentlemen, one of them a stranger to the country, having called pretty early one Sunday morning, Balnamoon invited them to dinner, and as they accepted the invitation, they remained and joined in the forenoon devotional exercises conducted by Balnamoon himself. The stranger was much impressed with the laird’s performance of the service, and during a walk which they took before dinner, mentioned to his friend how highly he esteemed the religious deportment of their host. The gentleman said nothing, but smiled to himself at the scene which he anticipated was to follow. After dinner, Balnamoon set himself, according to the custom of old hospitable Scottish hosts, to make his guests as drunk as possible. The result was, that the party spent the evening in a riotous debauch, and were carried to bed by the servants at a late hour. Next day, when they had taken leave and left the house, the gentleman who had introduced his friend asked him what he thought of their entertainer—“Why, really,” he replied, with evident astonishment, “sic a speat o’ praying, and sic a speat o’ drinking, I never knew in the whole course o’ my life.”

Lady Dalhousie, mother, I mean, of the late distinguished Marquis of Dalhousie, used to tell a characteristic anecdote of her day. But here, on mention of the name Christian, Countess of Dalhousie, may I pause a moment to recall the memory of one who was a very remarkable person. She was for many years, to me and mine, a sincere, and true and valuable friend. By an awful dispensation of God’s providence her death happened instantaneously under my roof in 1839. Lady Dalhousie was eminently distinguished for a fund of the most varied knowledge, for a clear and powerful judgment, for acute observation, a kind heart, a brilliant wit. Her story was thus:—A Scottish judge, somewhat in the predicament of the Laird of Balnamoon, had dined at Coalstoun with her father Charles Brown, an advocate, and son of George Brown, who sat in the Supreme Court as a judge with the title of Lord Coalstoun. The party had been convivial, as we know parties of the highest legal characters often were in those days. When breaking up and going to the drawing-room, one of them, not seeing his way very clearly, stepped out of the dining-room window, which was open to the summer air. The ground at Coalstoun sloping off from the house behind, the worthy judge got a great fall, and rolled down the bank. He contrived, however, as tipsy men generally do, to regain his legs, and was able to reach the drawing-room. The first remark he made was an innocent remonstrance with his friend the host, “Od, Charlie Brown, what gars ye hae sic lang steps to your front door?”

On Deeside, where many original stories had their origin, I recollect hearing several of an excellent and worthy, but very simple-minded man, the Laird of Craigmyle. On one occasion, when the beautiful and clever Jane, Duchess of Gordon, was scouring through the country, intent upon some of those electioneering schemes which often occupied her fertile imagination and active energies, she came to call at Craigmyle, and having heard that the laird was making bricks on the property, for the purpose of building a new garden wall, with her usual tact she opened the subject, and kindly asked, “Well, Mr. Gordon, and how do your bricks come on?” Good Craigmyle’s thoughts were much occupied with a new leather portion of his dress, which had been lately constructed, so, looking down on his nether garments, he said in pure Aberdeen dialect, “Muckle obleeged to yer Grace, the breeks war sum ticht at first, but they are deeing weel eneuch noo.”

The last Laird of Macnab, before the clan finally broke up and emigrated to Canada, was a well-known character in the country, and being poor, used to ride about on a most wretched horse, which gave occasion to many jibes at his expense. The laird was in the constant habit of riding up from the country to attend the Musselburgh races. A young wit, by way of playing him off on the race-course, asked him, in a contemptuous tone, “Is that the same horse you had last year, laird?” “Na,” said the laird, brandishing his whip in the interrogator’s face in so emphatic a manner as to preclude further questioning, “na; but it’s the same whup.” In those days, as might be expected, people were not nice in expressions of their dislike of persons and measures. If there be not more charity in society than of old, there is certainly more courtesy. I have, from a friend, an anecdote illustrative of this remark, in regard to feelings exercised towards an unpopular laird. In the neighbourhood of Banff, in Forfarshire, the seat of a very ancient branch of the Ramsays, lived a proprietor who bore the appellation of Corb, from the name of his estate. This family has passed away, and its property merged in Banff. The laird was intensely disliked in the neighbourhood. Sir George Ramsay was, on the other hand, universally popular and respected. On one occasion, Sir George, in passing a morass in his own neighbourhood, had missed the road and fallen into a bog to an alarming depth. To his great relief, he saw a passenger coming along the path, which was at no great distance. He called loudly for his help, but the man took no notice. Poor Sir George felt himself sinking, and redoubled his cries for assistance; all at once the passenger rushed forward, carefully extricated him from his perilous position, and politely apologised for his first neglect of his appeal, adding, as his reason, “Indeed, Sir George, I thought it was Corb!” evidently meaning that had it been Corb, he must have taken his chance for him.

In Lanarkshire there lived a sma’ sma’ laird named Hamilton, who was noted for his eccentricity. On one occasion, a neighbour waited on him, and requested his name as an accommodation to a “bit bill” for twenty pounds at three months’ date, which led to the following characteristic and truly Scottish colloquy:—“Na, na, I canna do that.” “What for no, laird? ye hae dune the same thing for ithers.” “Ay, ay, Tammas, but there’s wheels within wheels ye ken naething about; I canna do’t.” “It’s a sma’ affair to refuse me, laird.” “Weel, ye see, Tammas, if I was to pit my name till’t, ye wad get the siller frae the bank, and when the time came round, ye wadna be ready, and I wad hae to pay’t; sae then you and me wad quarrel; sae we may just as weel quarrel the noo, as lang’s the siller’s in ma pouch.” On one occasion, Hamilton having business with the late Duke of Hamilton at Hamilton Palace, the Duke politely asked him to lunch. A liveried servant waited upon them, and was most assiduous in his attentions to the Duke and his guest. At last our eccentric friend lost patience, and looking at the servant, addressed him thus, “What the deil for are ye dance, dancing, about the room that gait? can ye no draw in your chair and sit down? I’m sure there’s plenty on the table for three.”

As a specimen of the old-fashioned Laird, now become a Reminiscence, who adhered pertinaciously to old Scottish usages, and to the old Scottish dialect, I cannot, I am sure, adduce a better specimen than Mr. Fergusson of Pitfour, to whose servant I have already referred. He was always called Pitfour, from the name of his property in Aberdeenshire. He must have died fifty years ago. He was for many years M.P. for the county of Aberdeen, and I have reason to believe that he made the enlightened parliamentary declaration which has been given to others: He said “he had often heard speeches in the House, which had changed his opinion, but none that had ever changed his vote.” I recollect hearing of his dining in London sixty years ago, at the house of a Scottish friend, where there was a swell party, and Pitfour was introduced as a great northern proprietor, and county M.P. A fashionable lady patronised him graciously, and took great charge of him, and asked him about his estates. Pitfour was very dry and sparing in his communications, as for example, “What does your home farm chiefly produce, Mr. Fergusson?” Answer, “Girss.” “I beg your pardon, Mr. Fergusson, what does your home farm produce?” All she could extract was, “Girss.”

Of another laird, whom I heard often spoken of in old times, an anecdote was told strongly Scottish. Our friend had much difficulty (as many worthy lairds have had) in meeting the claims of those two woeful periods of the year called with us in Scotland the “tarmes.” He had been employing for some time as workman a stranger from the south on some house repairs, of the not uncommon name in England of Christmas. His servant early one morning called out at the laird’s door in great excitement that “Christmas had run away, and nobody knew where he had gone.” He coolly turned in his bed with the ejaculation, “I only wish he had taken Whitsunday and Martinmas along with him.” I do not know a better illustration of quiet, shrewd, and acute Scottish humour than the following little story, which an esteemed correspondent mentions having heard from his father when a boy, relating to a former Duke of Athole, who had no family of his own, and whom he mentions as having remembered very well:—He met, one morning, one of his cottars or gardeners, whose wife he knew to be in the hopeful way. Asking him “how Marget was the day,” the man replied that she had that morning given him twins. Upon which the Duke said,—“Weel, Donald; ye ken the Almighty never sends bairns without the meat.” “That may be, your Grace,” said Donald; “but whiles I think that Providence maks a mistak in thae matters, and sends the bairns to ae hoose and the meat to anither!” The Duke took the hint, and sent him a cow with calf the following morning.

I have heard of an amusing scene between a laird, noted for his meanness, and a wandering sort of Edie Ochiltree, a well-known itinerant who lived by his wits and what he could pick up in his rounds amongst the houses through the country. The laird, having seen the beggar sit down near his gate to examine the contents of his pock or wallet, conjectured that he had come from his house, and so drew near to see what he had carried off. As the laird was keenly investigating the mendicant’s spoils, his quick eye detected some bones on which there remained more meat than should have been allowed to leave his kitchen. Accordingly he pounced upon the bones, declaring he had been robbed, and insisted on the beggar returning to the house and giving back the spoil. He was, however, prepared for the attack, and sturdily defended his property, boldly asserting, “Na, na, laird, thae are no Tod-brae banes; they are Inch-byre banes, and nane o’ your honour’s”—meaning that he had received these bones at the house of a neighbour of a more liberal character. The beggar’s professional discrimination between the merits of the bones of the two mansions, and his pertinacious defence of his own property, would have been most amusing to a bystander.

I have, however, a reverse story, in which the beggar is quietly silenced by the proprietor. A noble lord, some generations back, well known for his frugal habits, had just picked up a small copper coin in his own avenue, and had been observed by one of the itinerating mendicant race, who, grudging the transfer of the piece into the peer’s pocket, exclaimed, “O, gie’t to me, my lord;” to which the quiet answer was, “Na, na; fin’ a fardin’ for yersell, puir body.”

There are always pointed anecdotes against houses wanting in a liberal and hospitable expenditure in Scotland. Thus, we have heard of a master leaving such a mansion, and taxing his servant with being drunk, which he had too often been after other country visits. On this occasion, however, he was innocent of the charge, for he had not the opportunity to transgress. So, when his master asserted, “Jemmy, you are drunk!” Jemmy very quietly answered, “Indeed, sir, I wish I wur.” At another mansion, notorious for scanty fare, a gentleman was inquiring of the gardener about a dog which some time ago he had given to the laird. The gardener showed him a lank greyhound, on which the gentleman said, “No, no; the dog I gave your master was a mastiff, not a greyhound;” to which the gardener quietly answered, “Indeed, ony dog micht sune become a greyhound by stopping here.”

From a friend and relative, a minister of the Established Church of Scotland, I used to hear many characteristic stories. He had a curious vein of this sort of humour in himself, besides what he brought out from others. One of his peculiarities was a mortal antipathy to the whole French nation, whom he frequently abused in no measured terms. At the same time he had great relish of a glass of claret, which he considered the prince of all social beverages. So he usually finished off his antigallican tirades, with the reservation, “But the bodies brew the braw drink.” He lived amongst his own people, and knew well the habits and peculiarities of a race gone by. He had many stories connected with the pastoral relation between minister and people, and all such stories are curious, not merely for their amusement, but from the illustration they afford us of that peculiar Scottish humour which we are now describing. He had himself, when a very young boy, before he came up to the Edinburgh High School, been at the parochial school where he resided, and which, like many others, at that period, had a considerable reputation for the skill and scholarship of the master. He used to describe school scenes rather different, I suspect, from school scenes in our day. One boy, on coming late, explained that the cause had been a regular pitched battle between his parents, with the details of which he amused his school-fellows; and he described the battle in vivid and Scottish Homeric terms: “And eh, as they faucht, and they faucht,” adding, however, with much complacency, “but my minnie dang, she did tho’.”

There was a style of conversation and quaint modes of expression between ministers and their people at that time, which, I suppose, would seem strange to the present generation; as, for example, I recollect a conversation between this relative and one of his parishioners of this description.—It had been a very wet and unpromising autumn. The minister met a certain Janet of his flock, and accosted her very kindly. He remarked, “Bad prospect for the har’st (harvest), Janet, this wet.” Janet—“Indeed, sir, I’ve seen as muckle as that there’ll be nae har’st the year.” Minister—“Na, Janet, deil as muckle as that’t ever you saw.”

As I have said, he was a clergyman of the Established Church, and had many stories about ministers and people, arising out of his own pastoral experience, or the experience of friends and neighbours. He was much delighted with the not very refined rebuke which one of his own farmers had given to a young minister who had for some Sundays occupied his pulpit. The young man had dined with the farmer in the afternoon when services were over, and his appetite was so sharp, that he thought it necessary to apologise to his host for eating so substantial a dinner.—“You see,” he said, “I am always very hungry after preaching.” The old gentleman, not much admiring the youth’s pulpit ministrations, having heard this apology two or three times, at last replied sarcastically, “Indeed, sir, I’m no surprised at it, considering the trash that comes aff your stamach in the morning.”

What I wish to keep in view is, to distinguish anecdotes which are amusing on account merely of the expressions used, from those which have real wit and humour combined, with the purely Scottish vehicle in which they are conveyed.

Of this class I could not have a better specimen to commence with than the defence of the liturgy of his church, by John Skinner of Langside, of whom previous mention has been made. It is witty and clever.

Being present at a party (I think at Lord Forbes’s), where were also several ministers of the Establishment, the conversation over their wine turned, among other things, on the Prayer Book. Skinner took no part in it, till one minister remarked to him, “The great faut I hae to your prayer-book is that ye use the Lord’s Prayer sae aften,—ye juist mak a dishclout o’t.” Skinner’s rejoinder was, “Verra true! Ay, man, we mak a dishclout o’t, an’ we wring’t, an’ we wring’t, an’ we wring’t, an’ the bree163 o’t washes a’ the lave o’ our prayers.”

No one, I think, could deny the wit of the two following rejoinders.

A ruling elder of a country parish in the west of Scotland was well known in the district as a shrewd and ready-witted man. He received many a visit from persons who liked a banter, or to hear a good joke. Three young students gave him a call in order to have a little amusement at the elder’s expense. On approaching him, one of them saluted him, “Well, Father Abraham, how are you to-day?” “You are wrong,” said the other, “this is old Father Isaac.” “Tuts,” said the third, “you are both mistaken; this is old Father Jacob.” David looked at the young men, and in his own way replied, “I am neither old Father Abraham, nor old Father Isaac, nor old Father Jacob; but I am Saul the son of Kish, seeking his father’s asses, and lo! I’ve found three o’ them.”

For many years the Baptist community of Dunfermline was presided over by brothers David Dewar and James Inglis, the latter of whom has just recently gone to his reward. Brother David was a plain, honest, straightforward man, who never hesitated to express his convictions, however unpalatable they might be to others. Being elected a member of the Prison Board, he was called upon to give his vote in the choice of a chaplain from the licentiates of the Established Kirk. The party who had gained the confidence of the Board had proved rather an indifferent preacher in a charge to which he had previously been appointed; and on David being asked to signify his assent to the choice of the Board, he said, “Weel, I’ve no objections to the man, for I understand he has preached a kirk toom (empty) already, and if he be as successful in the jail, he’ll maybe preach it vawcant as weel.”

From Mr. Inglis, clerk of the Court of Session, I have the following Scottish rejoinder:—

“I recollect my father relating a conversation between a Perthshire laird and one of his tenants. The laird’s eldest son was rather a simpleton. Laird says, ‘I am going to send the young laird abroad,’ ‘What for?’ asks the tenant; answered, ‘To see the world;’ tenant replies, ‘But, lord-sake, laird, will no the world see him?’”

An admirably humorous reply is recorded of a Scotch officer, well known and esteemed in his day for mirth and humour. Captain Innes of the Guards (usually called Jock Innes by his contemporaries) was with others getting ready for Flushing or some of those expeditions of the beginning of the great war. His commanding officer (Lord Huntly, my correspondent thinks) remonstrated about the badness of his hat, and recommended a new one—“Na, na! bide a wee,” said Jock; “where we’re gain’ faith there’ll soon be mair hats nor heads.”

I recollect being much amused with a Scottish reference of this kind in the heart of London. Many years ago a Scotch party had dined at Simpson’s famous beef-steak house in the Strand. On coming away some of the party could not find their hats, and my uncle was jocularly asking the waiter, whom he knew to be a Deeside man, “Whar are our bonnets, Jeems?” To which he replied, “‘Deed, I mind the day when I had neither hat nor bonnet.”

There is an odd and original way of putting a matter sometimes in Scotch people, which is irresistibly comic, although by the persons nothing comic is intended; as for example, when in 1786 Edinburgh was illuminated on account of the recovery of George III. from severe illness. In a house where great preparation was going on for the occasion, by getting the candles fixed in tin sconces, an old nurse of the family, looking on, exclaimed, “Ay, it’s a braw time for the cannel-makers when the king is sick, honest man!”

Scottish farmers of the old school were a shrewd and humorous race, sometimes not indisposed to look with a little jealousy upon their younger brethren, who, on their part, perhaps, showed their contempt for the old-fashioned ways. I take the following example from the columns of the Peterhead Sentinel, just as it appeared—June 14, 1861:—

“AN ANECDOTE FOR DEAN EAMSAY.—The following characteristic and amusing anecdote was communicated to us the other day by a gentleman who happened to be a party to the conversation detailed below. This gentleman was passing along a road not a hundred miles from Peterhead one day this week. Two different farms skirt the separate sides of the turnpike, one of which is rented by a farmer who cultivates his land according to the most advanced system of agriculture, and the other of which is farmed by a gentleman of the old school. Our informant met the latter worthy at the side of the turnpike opposite his neighbour’s farm, and seeing a fine crop of wheat upon what appeared to be [and really was] very thin and poor land, asked, ‘When was that wheat sown?’ ‘O I dinna ken,’ replied the gentleman of the old school, with a sort of half-indifference, half-contempt. ‘But isn’t it strange that such a fine crop should be reared on such bad land?’ asked our informant. ‘O, na—nae at a’—deevil thank it; a gravesteen wad gie guid bree164 gin ye gied it plenty o’ butter!’”

But perhaps the best anecdote illustrative of the keen shrewdness of the Scottish farmer is related by Mr. Boyd165 in one of his charming series of papers, reprinted from Fraser’s Magazine. “A friend of mine, a country parson, on first going to his parish, resolved to farm his glebe for himself. A neighbouring farmer kindly offered the parson to plough one of his fields. The farmer said that he would send his man John with a plough and a pair of horses on a certain day. ‘If ye’re goin’ about,’ said the farmer to the clergyman, ‘John will be unco weel pleased if you speak to him, and say it’s a fine day, or the like o’ that; but dinna,’ said the farmer, with much solemnity, ‘dinna say onything to him about ploughin’ and sawin’; for John,’ he added, ‘is a stupid body, but he has been ploughin’ and sawin’ a’ his life, and he’ll see in a minute that ye ken naething aboot ploughin’ and sawin’. And then,’ said the sagacious old farmer, with much earnestness, ‘if he comes to think that ye ken naething aboot ploughin’ and sawin’, he’ll think that ye ken naething aboot onything!’”

The following is rather an original commentary, by a layman, upon clerical incomes:—A relative of mine going to church with a Forfarshire farmer, one of the old school, asked him the amount of the minister’s stipend. He said, “Od, it’s a gude ane—the maist part of £300 a year.” “Well,” said my relative, “many of these Scotch ministers are but poorly off.” “They’ve eneuch, sir, they’ve eneuch; if they’d mair, it would want a’ their time to the spendin’ o’t.”

Scotch gamekeepers had often much dry quiet humour. I was much amused by the answer of one of those under the following circumstances:—An Ayrshire gentleman, who was from the first a very bad shot, or rather no shot at all, when out on 1st of September, having failed, time after time, in bringing down a single bird, had at last pointed out to him by his attendant bag-carrier a large covey, thick and close on the stubbles. “Noo, Mr. Jeems, let drive at them, just as they are!” Mr. Jeems did let drive, as advised, but not a feather remained to testify the shot. All flew off, safe and sound—“Hech, sir (remarks his friend), but ye’ve made thae yins shift their quarters.”

The two following anecdotes of rejoinders from Scottish guidwives, and for which I am indebted, as for many other kind communications, to the Rev. Mr. Blair of Dunblane, appear to me as good examples of the peculiar Scottish pithy phraseology which we refer to, as any that I have met with.

An old lady from whom the “Great Unknown” had derived many an ancient tale, was waited upon one day by the author of “Waverley.” On his endeavouring to give the authorship the go-by, the old dame protested, “D’ye think, sir, I dinna ken my ain groats in ither folk’s kail166?”

A conceited packman called at a farm-house in the west of Scotland, in order to dispose of some of his wares. The goodwife was offended by his southern accent, and his high talk about York, London, and other big places. “An’ whaur come ye frae yersell?” was the question of the guidwife. “Ou, I am from the Border.” “The Border—oh! I thocht that; for we aye think the selvidge is the wakest bit o’ the wab!”

The following is a good specimen of ready Scotch humorous reply, by a master to his discontented workman, and in which he turned the tables upon him, in his reference to Scripture. In a town of one of the central counties a Mr. J—— carried on, about a century ago, a very extensive business in the linen manufacture. Although strikes were then unknown among the labouring classes, the spirit from which these take their rise has no doubt at all times existed. Among Mr. J——’s many workmen, one had given him constant annoyance for years, from his discontented and argumentative spirit. Insisting one day on getting something or other which his master thought most unreasonable, and refused to give in to, he at last submitted, with a bad grace, saying, “You’re nae better than Pharaoh, sir, forcin’ puir folk to mak’ bricks without straw.” “Well, Saunders,” quietly rejoined his master, “if I’m nae better than Pharaoh in one respect, I’ll be better in another, for I’ll no hinder ye going to the wilderness whenever you choose.”

Persons who are curious in Scottish stories of wit and humour speak much of the sayings of a certain “Laird of Logan,” who was a well-known character in the West of Scotland. This same Laird of Logan was at a meeting of the heritors of Cumnock, where a proposal was made to erect a new churchyard wall. He met the proposition with the dry remark, “I never big dykes till the tenants complain.” Calling one day for a gill of whisky in a public-house, the Laird was asked if he would take any water with the spirit. “Na, na,” replied he, “I would rather ye would tak the water out o’t.”

The laird sold a horse to an Englishman, saying, “You buy him as you see him; but he’s an honest beast.” The purchaser took him home. In a few days he stumbled and fell, to the damage of his own knees and his rider’s head. On this the angry purchaser remonstrated with the laird, whose reply was, “Well, sir, I told ye he was an honest beast; many a time has he threatened to come down with me, and I kenned he would keep his word some day.”

At the time of the threatened invasion, the laird had been taunted at a meeting at Ayr with want of loyal spirit at Cumnock, as at that place no volunteer corps had been raised to meet the coming danger; Cumnock, it should be recollected, being on a high situation, and ten or twelve miles from the coast. “What sort of people are you up at Cumnock?” said an Ayr gentleman; “you have not a single volunteer!” “Never you heed,” says Logan, very quietly; “if the French land at Ayr, there will soon be plenty of volunteers up at Cumnock.”

A pendant to the story of candid admission on the part of the minister, that the people might be weary after his sermon, has been given on the authority of the narrator, a Fife gentleman, ninety years of age when he told it. He had been to church at Elie, and listening to a young and perhaps bombastic preacher, who happened to be officiating for the Rev. Dr. Milligan, who was in church. After service, meeting the Doctor in the passage, he introduced the young clergyman, who, on being asked by the old man how he did, elevated his shirt collar, and complained of fatigue, and being very much “tired.” “Tired, did ye say, my man?” said the old satirist, who was slightly deaf; “Lord, man! if you’re half as tired as I am, I pity ye!”

I have been much pleased with an offering from Carluke, containing two very pithy anecdotes. Mr. Rankin very kindly writes:—“Your ‘Reminiscences’ are most refreshing. I am very little of a story-collector, but I have recorded some of an old schoolmaster, who was a story-teller. As a sort of payment for the amusement I have derived from your book, I shall give one or two.”

He sends the two following:—

“Shortly after Mr. Kay had been inducted schoolmaster of Carluke (1790), the bederal called at the school, verbally announcing, proclamation-ways, that Mrs. So-and-So’s funeral would be on Fuirsday. ‘At what hour?’ asked the dominie. ‘Ou, ony time atween ten and twa.’ At two o’clock of the day fixed, Mr. Kay—quite a stranger to the customs of the district—arrived at the place, and was astonished to find a crowd of men and lads, standing here and there, some smoking, and all arglebargling167 as if at the end of a fair. He was instantly, but mysteriously, approached, and touched on the arm by a red-faced bareheaded man, who seemed to be in authority, and was beckoned to follow. On entering the barn, which was seated all round, he found numbers sitting, each with the head bent down, and each with his hat between his knees—all gravity and silence. Anon a voice was heard issuing from the far end, and a long prayer was uttered. They had worked at this—what was called ‘a service’—during three previous hours, one party succeeding another, and many taking advantage of every service, which consisted of a prayer by way of grace, a glass of white wine, a glass of red wine, a glass of rum, and a prayer by way of thanksgiving. After the long invocation, bread and wine passed round. Silence prevailed. Most partook of both rounds of wine, but when the rum came, many nodded refusal, and by and by the nodding seemed to be universal, and the trays passed on so much the more quickly. A sumphish weather-beaten man, with a large flat blue bonnet on his knee, who had nodded unwittingly, and was about to lose the last chance of a glass of rum, raised his head, saying, amid the deep silence, ‘Od, I daursay I wull tak anither glass,’ and in a sort of vengeful, yet apologetic tone, added, ‘The auld jaud yince cheated me wi’ a cauve’ (calf).”

At a farmer’s funeral in the country, an undertaker was in charge of the ceremonial, and directing how it was to proceed, when he noticed a little man giving orders, and, as he thought, rather encroaching upon the duties and privileges of his own office. He asked him, “And wha are ye, mi’ man, that tak sae muckle on ye?” “Oh, dinna ye ken?” said the man, under a strong sense of his own importance, “I’m the corp’s brither168?”

Curious scenes took place at funerals where there was, in times gone by, an unfortunate tendency to join with such solemnities more attention to festal entertainment than was becoming. A farmer, at the interment of his second wife, exercised a liberal hospitality to his friends at the inn near the church. On looking over the bill, the master defended the charge as moderate. But he reminded him, “Ye forget, man, that it’s no ilka ane that brings a second funeral to your house.”

“Dr. Scott, minister of Carluke (1770), was a fine graceful kindly man, always stepping about in his bag-wig and cane in hand, with a kind and ready word to every one. He was officiating at a bridal in his parish, where there was a goodly company, had partaken of the good cheer, and waited till the young people were fairly warmed in the dance. A dissenting body had sprung up in the parish, which he tried to think was beneath him even to notice, when he could help it, yet never seemed to feel at all keenly when the dissenters were alluded to. One of the chief leaders of this body was at the bridal, and felt it to be his bounden duty to call upon the minister for his reasons for sanctioning by his presence so sinful an enjoyment. ‘Weel, minister, what think ye o’ this dancin’?’ ‘Why, John,’ said the minister, blithely, ‘I think it an excellent exercise for young people, and, I dare say, so do you.’ ‘Ah, sir, I’m no sure about it; I see nae authority for’t in the Scriptures.’ ‘Umph, indeed, John; you cannot forget David.’ ‘Ah, sir, Dauvid; gif they were a’ to dance as Dauvid did, it would be a different thing a’thegither.’ ‘Hoot-o-fie, hoot-o-fie, John; would you have the young folk strip to the sark?’”

Reference has been made to the eccentric laird of Balnamoon, his wig, and his “speats o’ drinking and praying.” A story of this laird is recorded, which I do think is well named, by a correspondent who communicates it, as a “quintessential phasis of dry Scotch humour,” and the explanation of which would perhaps be thrown away upon any one who needed the explanation. The story is this:—The laird riding past a high steep bank, stopped opposite a hole in it, and said, “Hairy, I saw a brock gang in there.” “Did ye?” said Hairy; “wull ye hand my horse, sir?” “Certainly,” said the laird, and away rushed Hairy for a spade. After digging for half-an-hour, he came back, quite done, to the laird, who had regarded him musingly. “I canna find him, sir,” said Hairy. “‘Deed,” said the laird, very coolly, “I wad ha’ wondered if ye had, for it’s ten years sin’ I saw him gang in there.”

Amongst many humorous colloquies between Balnamoon and his servant, the following must have been very racy and very original. The laird, accompanied by Hairy, after a dinner party, was riding on his way home, through a ford, when he fell off into the water. “Whae’s that faun?” he inquired. “‘Deed,” quoth Hairy, “I witna an it be na your honour.”

There is a peculiarity connected with what we have considered Scotch humour. It is more common for Scotsmen to associate their own feelings with national events and national history than for Englishmen. Take as illustrations the following, as being perhaps as good as any:—The Rev. Robert Scott, a Scotsman who forgets not Scotland in his southern vicarage, and whom I have named before as having sent me some good reminiscences, tells me that, at Inverary, some thirty years ago, he could not help overhearing the conversation of some Lowland cattle-dealers in the public room in which he was. The subject of the bravery of our navy being started, one of the interlocutors expressed his surprise that Nelson should have issued his signal at Trafalgar in the terms, “England expects,” etc. He was met with the answer (which seemed highly satisfactory to the rest), “Ah, Nelson only said ‘expects’ of the English; he said naething of Scotland, for he kent the Scotch would do theirs.”

I am assured the following manifestation of national feeling against the memory of a Scottish character actually took place within a few years:—Williamson (the Duke of Buccleuch’s huntsman) was one afternoon riding home from hunting through Haddington; and as he passed the old Abbey, he saw an ancient woman looking through the iron grating in front of the burial-place of the Lauderdale family, holding by the bars, and grinning and dancing with rage. “Eh, gudewife,” said Williamson, “what ails ye?” “It’s the Duke o’ Lauderdale,” cried she. “Eh, if I could win at him, I wud rax the banes o’ him.”

To this class belongs the following complacent Scottish remark upon Bannockburn. A splenetic Englishman said to a Scottish countryman, something of a wag, that no man of taste would think of remaining any time in such a country as Scotland. To which the canny Scot replied, “Tastes differ; I’se tak ye to a place no far frae Stirling, whaur thretty thousand o’ your countrymen ha’ been for five hunder years, and they’ve nae thocht o’ leavin’ yet.”

In a similar spirit, an honest Scotch farmer, who had sent some sheep to compete at a great English agricultural cattle-show, and was much disgusted at not getting a prize, consoled himself for the disappointment, by insinuating that the judges could hardly act quite impartially by a Scottish competitor, complacently remarking, “It’s aye been the same since Bannockburn.”

Then, again, take the story told in Lockhart’s Life of Sir Walter Scott, of the blacksmith whom Sir Walter had formerly known as a horse-doctor, and whom he found at a small country town south of the Border, practising medicine with a reckless use of “laudamy and calomy169,” apologising at the same time for the mischief he might do, by the assurance that it “would be lang before it made up for Flodden.” How graphically it describes the interest felt by Scotchmen of his rank in the incidents of their national history. A similar example has been recorded in connection with Bannockburn. Two Englishmen visited the field of that great battle, and a country blacksmith pointed out the positions of the two armies, the stone on which was fixed the Bruce’s standard, etc. The gentlemen, pleased with the intelligence of their guide, on leaving pressed his acceptance of a crown-piece. “Na, na,” replied the Scotsman, with much pride, “it has cost ye eneuch already.” Such an example of self-denial on the part of a Scottish cicerone is, we fear, now rather a “reminiscence.”

A north country drover had, however, a more tangible opportunity of gratifying his national animosity against the Southron, and of which he availed himself. Returning homewards, after a somewhat unsuccessful journey, and not in very good humour with the Englishers, when passing through Carlisle he saw a notice stuck up, offering a reward of £50 for any one who would do a piece of service to the community, by officiating as executioner of the law on a noted criminal then under sentence of death. Seeing a chance to make up for his bad market, and comforted with the assurance that he was unknown there, he undertook the office, executed the condemned, and got the fee. When moving off with the money, he was twitted at as a “mean beggarly Scot,” doing for money what no Englishman would. With a grin and quiet glee, he only replied, “I’ll hang ye a’ at the price.”

Some Scotsmen, no doubt, have a very complacent feeling regarding the superiority of their countrymen, and make no hesitation in proclaiming their opinion. I have always admired the quaint expression of such belief in a case which has recently been reported to me. A young Englishman had taken a Scottish shooting-ground, and enjoyed his mountain sport so much as to imbibe a strong partiality for his northern residence and all its accompaniments. At a German watering-place he encountered, next year, an original character, a Scotsman of the old school, very national, and somewhat bigoted in his nationality: he determined to pass himself off to him as a genuine Scottish native; and, accordingly, he talked of Scotland and haggis, and sheep’s head, and whisky; he boasted of Bannockburn, and admired Queen Mary; looked upon Scott and Burns as superior to all English writers; and staggered, although he did not convince, the old gentleman. On going away he took leave of his Scottish friend, and said, “Well, sir, next time we meet, I hope you will receive me as a real countryman.” “Weel,” he said, “I’m jest thinkin’, my lad, ye’re nae Scotsman; but I’ll tell ye what ye are—ye’re juist an impruived Englishman.”

I am afraid we must allow that Scottish people have a leetle national vanity, and may be too ready sometimes to press the claim of their country to an extravagantly assumed pre-eminence in the annals of genius and celebrities. An extreme case of such pretension I heard of lately, which is amusing. A Scotsman, in reference to the distinction awarded to Sir Walter Scott, on occasion of his centenary, had roundly asserted, “But all who have been eminent men were Scotsmen.” An Englishman, offended at such assumption of national pre-eminence, asked indignantly, “What do you say to Shakspeare?” To which the other quietly replied, “Weel, his tawlent wad justifee the inference.” This is rich, as an example of an à priori argument in favour of a man being a Scotsman.

We find in the conversation of old people frequent mention of a class of beings well known in country parishes, now either become commonplace, like the rest of the world, or removed altogether, and shut up in poorhouses or madhouses—I mean the individuals frequently called parochial idiots; but who were rather of the order of naturals. They were eccentric, or somewhat crazy, useless, idle creatures, who used to wander about from house to house, and sometimes made very shrewd sarcastic remarks upon what was going on in the parish. I heard such a person once described as one who was “wanting in twopence of change for a shilling.” They used to take great liberty of speech regarding the conduct and disposition of those with whom they came in contact, and many odd sayings which emanated from them were traditionary in country localities. I have a kindly feeling towards these imperfectly intelligent, but often perfectly cunning beings; partly, I believe, from recollections of early associations in boyish days with some of those Davy Gellatleys. I have therefore preserved several anecdotes with which I have been favoured, where their odd sayings and indications of a degree of mental activity have been recorded. These persons seem to have had a partiality for getting near the pulpit in church, and their presence there was accordingly sometimes annoying to the preacher and the congregation; as at Maybole, when Dr. Paul, now of St. Cuthbert’s, was minister in 1823, John M’Lymont, an individual of this class, had been in the habit of standing so close to the pulpit door as to overlook the Bible and pulpit board. When required, however, by the clergyman to keep at a greater distance, and not look in upon the minister, he got intensely angry and violent. He threatened the minister,—“Sir, bæby (maybe) I’ll come farther;” meaning to intimate that perhaps he would, if much provoked, come into the pulpit altogether. This, indeed, actually took place on another occasion, and the tenure of the ministerial position was justified by an argument of a most amusing nature. The circumstance, I am assured, happened in a parish in the north. The clergyman, on coming into church, found the pulpit occupied by the parish natural. The authorities had been unable to remove him without more violence than was seemly, and therefore waited for the minister to dispossess Tam of the place he had assumed. “Come down, sir, immediately!” was the peremptory and indignant call; and on Tam being unmoved, it was repeated with still greater energy. Tam, however, replied, looking down confidentially from his elevation, “Na, na, minister! juist ye come up wi’ me. This is a perverse generation, and faith they need us baith.” It is curious to mark the sort of glimmering of sense, and even of discriminating thought, displayed by persons of this class. As an example, take a conversation held by this same John M’Lymont, with Dr. Paul, whom he met some time after. He seemed to have recovered his good humour, as he stopped him and said, “Sir, I would like to speer a question at ye on a subject that’s troubling me.” “Well, Johnnie, what is the question?” To which he replied, “Sir, is it lawful at ony time to tell a lee?” The minister desired to know what Johnnie himself thought upon the point. “Weel, sir,” said he, “I’ll no say but in every case it’s wrang to tell a lee; but,” added he, looking archly and giving a knowing wink, “I think there are waur lees than ithers” “How, Johnnie?” and then he instantly replied, with all the simplicity of a fool, “To keep down a din, for instance. I’ll no say but a man does wrang in telling a lee to keep down a din, but I’m sure he does not do half sae muckle wrang as a man who tells a lee to kick up a deevilment o’ a din.” This opened a question not likely to occur to such a mind. Mr. Asher, minister of Inveraven, in Morayshire, narrated to Dr. Paul a curious example of want of intelligence combined with a power of cunning to redress a fancied wrong, shown by a poor natural of the parish, who had been seized with a violent inflammatory attack, and was in great danger. The medical attendant saw it necessary to bleed him, but he resisted, and would not submit to it. At last the case became so hopeless that they were obliged to use force, and, holding his hands and feet, the doctor opened a vein and drew blood, upon which the poor creature, struggling violently, bawled out, “O doctor, doctor! you’ll kill me! you’ll kill me! and depend upon it the first thing I’ll do when I get to the other world will be to report you to the board of Supervision there, and get you dismissed.” A most extraordinary sensation was once produced on a congregation by Rab Hamilton, a well-remembered crazy creature of the west country, on the occasion of his attendance at the parish kirk of “Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a toun surpasses,” the minister of which, in the opinion of Rab’s own minister, Mr. Peebles, had a tendency to Socinian doctrines. Miss Kirkwood, Bothwell, relates the story from the recollection of her aunt, who was present. Rab had put his head between some iron rails, the first intimation of which to the congregation was a stentorian voice crying out, “Murder! my heed’ll hae to be cuttit aff! Holy minister! congregation! Oh, my heed maun be cuttit aff. It’s a judgment for leaving my godlie Mr. Peebles at the Newton.” After he had been extricated and quieted, when asked why he put his head there, he said, “It was juist to look on170 wi’ anither woman.”

The following anecdote of this same Rab Hamilton from a kind correspondent at Ayr sanctions the opinion that he must have occasionally said such clever things as made some think him more rogue than fool. Dr. Auld often showed him kindness, but being once addressed by him when in a hurry and out of humour, he said, “Get away, Rab; I have nothing for you to day.” “Whaw, whew,” cried Rab, in a half howl, half whining tone, “I dinna want onything the day, Maister Auld; I wanted to tell you an awsome dream I hae had. I dreamt I was deed.” “Weel, what then?” said Dr. Auld. “Ou, I was carried far, far, and up, up, up, till I cam to heeven’s yett, where I chappit, and chappit, and chappit, till at last an angel keekit out, and said ‘Wha are ye?’ ‘A’m puir Rab Hamilton.’ ‘Whaur are ye frae?’ ‘Frae the wicked toun o’ Ayr.’ ‘I dinna ken ony sic place,’ said the angel. ‘Oh, but A’m juist frae there,’ Weel, the angel sends for the Apostle Peter, and Peter comes wi’ his key and opens the yett, and says to me, ‘Honest man, do you come frae the auld toun o’ Ayr?’ ‘Deed do I,’ says I. ‘Weel,’ says Peter, ‘I ken the place, but naebody’s cam frae the toun o’ Ayr, no since the year’” so and so—mentioning the year when Dr. Auld was inducted into the parish. Dr. Auld could not resist giving him his answer, and telling him to go about his business.

The pathetic complaint of one of this class, residing at a farm-house, has often been narrated, and forms a good illustration of idiot life and feelings. He was living in the greatest comfort, and every want provided. But, like the rest of mankind, he had his own trials, and his own cause for anxiety and annoyance. In this poor fellow’s case it was the great turkey-cock at the farm, of which he stood so terribly in awe that he was afraid to come within a great distance of his enemy. Some of his friends, coming to visit him, reminded him how comfortable he was, and how grateful he ought to be for the great care taken of him. He admitted the truth of the remark generally, but still, like others, he had his unknown grief which sorely beset his path in life. There was a secret grievance which embittered his lot; and to his friend he thus opened his heart:—“Ae, ae, but oh, I’m sair hadden doun wi’ the bubbly jock171.”

I have received two anecdotes illustrative both of the occasional acutenesss of mind, and of the sensitiveness of feeling occasionally indicated by persons thus situated. A well-known idiot, Jamie Fraser, belonging to the parish of Lunan, in Forfarshire, quite surprised people sometimes by his replies. The congregation of his parish church had for some time distressed the minister by their habit of sleeping in church. He had often endeavoured to impress them with a sense of the impropriety of such conduct, and one day Jamie was sitting in the front gallery, wide awake, when many were slumbering round him. The clergyman endeavoured to draw the attention of his hearers to his discourse by stating the fact, saying, “You see even Jamie Fraser, the idiot, does not fall asleep, as so many of you are doing.” Jamie, not liking, perhaps, to be thus designated, coolly replied, “An I hadna been an idiot, I micht ha’ been sleepin’ too.” Another of these imbeciles, belonging to Peebles, had been sitting at church for some time listening attentively to a strong representation from the pulpit of the guilt of deceit and falsehood in Christian characters. He was observed to turn red, and grow very uneasy, until at last, as if wincing under the supposed attack upon himself personally, he roared out, “Indeed, minister, there’s mair leears in Peebles than me.” As examples of this class of persons possessing much of the dry humour of their more sane countrymen, and of their facility to utter sly and ready-witted sayings, I have received the two following from Mr. W. Chambers:—Daft Jock Gray, the supposed original of David Gellatley, was one day assailed by the minister of a south-country parish on the subject of his idleness. “John,” said the minister, rather pompously, “you are a very idle fellow; you might surely herd a few cows.” “Me hird!” replied Jock; “I dinna ken corn frae gerss.”

“There was a carrier named Davie Loch who was reputed to be rather light of wits, but at the same time not without a sense of his worldly interests. His mother, finding her end approaching, addressed her son in the presence of a number of the neighbours. ‘The house will be Davie’s and the furniture too.’ ‘Eh, hear her,’ quoth Davie; ‘sensible to the last, sensible to the last.’ ‘The lyin’ siller’—‘Eh yes; how clear she is about everything!’ ‘The lyin’ siller is to be divided between my twa dauchters.’ ‘Steek the bed doors, steek the bed doors172,’ interposed Davie; ’she’s ravin’ now;’ and the old dying woman was shut up accordingly.”

In the Memorials of the Montgomeries, Earls of Eglinton, vol. i. p. 134, occurs an anecdote illustrative of the peculiar acuteness and quaint humour which occasionally mark the sayings of persons considered as imbeciles. There was a certain “Daft Will Speir,” who was a privileged haunter of Eglinton Castle and grounds. He was discovered by the Earl one day taking a near cut, and crossing a fence in the demesne. The Earl called out, “Come back, sir, that’s not the road.” “Do you ken,” said Will, “whaur I’m gaun?” “No,” replied his lordship. “Weel, hoo the deil do ye ken whether this be the road or no?”

This same “Daft Will Speir” was passing the minister’s glebe, where haymaking was in progress. The minister asked Will if he thought the weather would keep up, as it looked rather like rain. “Weel,” said Will, “I canna be very sure, but I’ll be passin’ this way the nicht, an’ I’ll ca’ in and tell ye.” “Well, Will,” said his master one day to him, seeing that he had just finished his dinner, “have you had a good dinner to day?” (Will had been grumbling some time before.) “Ou, vera gude,” answered Will; “but gin onybody asks if I got a dram after’t, what will I say?” This poor creature had a high sense of duty. It appears he had been given the charge of the coal-stores at the Earl of Eglinton’s. Having on one occasion been reprimanded for allowing the supplies to run out before further supplies were ordered, he was ever afterwards most careful to fulfil his duty. In course of time poor Will became “sick unto death,” and the minister came to see him. Thinking him in really a good frame of mind, the minister asked him, in presence of the laird and others, if there were not one great thought which was ever to him the highest consolation in his hour of trouble. “Ou ay,” gasped the sufferer, “Lord be thankit, a’ the bunkers are fu’!”

The following anecdote is told regarding the late Lord Dundrennan:—A half silly basket-woman passing down his avenue at Compstone one day, he met her, and said, “My good woman, there’s no road this way.” “Na, sir,” she said, “I think ye’re wrang there; I think it’s a most beautifu’ road.”

These poor creatures have invariably a great delight in attending funerals. In many country places hardly a funeral ever took place without the attendance of the parochial idiot. It seemed almost a necessary association; and such attendance seemed to constitute the great delight of those creatures. I have myself witnessed again and again the sort of funeral scene portrayed by Sir Walter Scott, who no doubt took his description from what was common in his day:—“The funeral pomp set forth—saulies with their batons and gumphions of tarnished white crape. Six starved horses, themselves the very emblems of mortality, well cloaked and plumed, lugging along the hearse with its dismal emblazonry, crept in slow pace towards the place of interment, preceded by Jamie Duff, an idiot, who, with weepers and cravat made of white paper, attended on every funeral, and followed by six mourning coaches filled with the company.”—Guy Mannering.

The following anecdote, supplied by Mr. Blair, is an amusing illustration both of the funeral propensity, and of the working of a defective brain, in a half-witted carle, who used to range the province of Galloway armed with a huge pike-staff, and who one day met a funeral procession a few miles from Wigtown. A long train of carriages, and farmers riding on horse-back, suggested the propriety of his bestriding his staff, and following after the funeral. The procession marched at a brisk pace, and on reaching the kirk-yard style, as each rider dismounted, “Daft Jock” descended from his wooden steed, besmeared with mire and perspiration, exclaiming, “Hech, sirs, had it no been for the fashion o’ the thing, I micht as weel hae been on my ain feet.”

The withdrawal of these characters from public view, and the loss of importance which they once enjoyed in Scottish society, seem to me inexplicable. Have they ceased to exist, or are they removed from our sight to different scenes? The fool was, in early times, a very important personage in most Scottish households of any distinction. Indeed this had been so common as to be a public nuisance.

It seemed that persons assumed the character, for we find a Scottish Act of Parliament, dated 19th January 1449, with this title:—“Act for the way-putting of Fenyent Fules,” etc. (Thomson’s Acts of Parliament of Scotland, vol. i.); and it enacts very stringent measures against such persons. They seem to have formed a link between the helpless idiot and the boisterous madman, sharing the eccentricity of the latter and the stupidity of the former, generally adding, however, a good deal of the sharp-wittedness of the knave. Up to the middle of the eighteenth century this appears to have been still an appendage to some families. I have before me a little publication with the title, “The Life and Death of Jamie Fleeman, the Laird of Udny’s Fool. Tenth edition. Aberdeen, 1810.” With portrait. Also twenty-sixth edition, of 1829. I should suppose this account of a family fool was a fair representation of a good specimen of the class. He was evidently of defective intellect, but at times showed the odd humour and quick conclusion which so often mark the disordered brain. I can only now give two examples taken from his history:—Having found a horse-shoe on the road, he met Mr. Craigie, the minister of St. Fergus, and showed it to him, asking, in pretended ignorance, what it was. “Why, Jamie,” said Mr. Craigie, good humouredly, “anybody that was not a fool would know that it is a horse-shoe.” “Ah!” said Jamie, with affected simplicity, “what it is to be wise—to ken it’s no a meer’s shoe!”

On another occasion, when all the country-side were hastening to the Perth races, Jamie had cut across the fields and reached a bridge near the town, and sat down upon the parapet. He commenced munching away at a large portion of a leg of mutton which he had somehow become possessed of, and of which he was amazingly proud. The laird came riding past, and seeing Jamie sitting on the bridge, accosted him:—“Ay, Fleeman, are ye here already?” “Ou ay,” quoth Fleeman, with an air of assumed dignity and archness not easy to describe, while his eye glanced significantly towards the mutton, “Ou ay, ye ken a body when he has anything.”

Of witty retorts by half-witted creatures of this class, I do not know of one more pointed than what is recorded of such a character who used to hang about the residence of a late Lord Fife. It would appear that some parts of his lordship’s estates, were barren, and in a very unproductive condition. Under the improved system of agriculture and of draining, great preparations had been made for securing a good crop in a certain field, where Lord Fife, his factor, and others interested in the subject, were collected together. There was much discussion, and some difference of opinion, as to the crop with which the field had best be sown. The idiot retainer, who had been listening unnoticed to all that was said, at last cried out, “Saw’t wi’ factors, ma lord; they are sure to thrive everywhere.”

There was an idiot who lived long in Lauder, and seems to have had a great resemblance to the jester of old times. He was a staunch supporter of the Established Church. One day some one gave him a bad shilling. On Sunday he went to the Seceders’ meeting-house, and when the ladle was taken round he put in his bad shilling and took out elevenpence halfpenny. Afterwards he went in high glee to the late Lord Lauderdale, calling out, “I’ve cheated the Seceders the day, my lord; I’ve cheated the Seceders.”

Jemmy had long harboured a dislike to the steward on the property, which he made manifest in the following manner:—Lord Lauderdale and Sir Anthony Maitland used to take him out shooting; and one day Lord Maitland (he was then), on having to cross the Leader, said, “Now, Jemmy, you shall carry me through the water,” which Jemmy duly did. The steward, who was shooting with them, expected the same service, and accordingly said, “Now, Jemmy, you must carry me over.” “Vera weel,” said Jemmy. He took the steward on his back, and when he had carefully carried him half-way across the river he paid off his grudge by dropping him quietly into the water.

A daft individual used to frequent the same district, about whom a variety of opinions were entertained,—some people thinking him not so foolish as he sometimes seemed. On one occasion a person, wishing to test whether he knew the value of money, held out a sixpence and a penny, and offered him his choice. “I’ll tak the wee ane,” he said, giving as his modest reason, “I’se no be greedy.” At another time, a miller laughing at him for his witlessness, he said, “Some things I ken, and some I dinna ken.” On being asked what he knew, he said, “I ken a miller has aye a gey fat sou.” “An’ what d’ye no ken?” said the miller. “Ou,” he returned, “I dinna ken wha’s expense she’s fed at.”

A very amusing collision of one of those penurious lairds, already referred to, a certain Mr. Gordon of Rothie, with a half-daft beggar wanderer of the name of Jock Muilton, has been recorded. The laird was very shabby, as usual, and, meeting Jock, began to banter him on the subject of his dress:—“Ye’re very grand, Jock. Thae’s fine claes ye hae gotten; whaur did ye get that coat?” Jock told him who had given him his coat, and then, looking slily at the laird, he inquired, as with great simplicity, “And whaur did ye get yours, laird?”

For another admirable story of a rencontre between a penurious laird and the parish natural I am indebted to the Scotsman, June 16, 1871. Once on a time there was a Highland laird renowned for his caution in money matters, and his precise keeping of books. His charities were there; but that department of his bookkeeping was not believed to be heavy. On examination, a sum of half-a-crown was unexpectedly discovered in it; but this was accounted for in a manner creditable to his intentions, if not to his success in executing them. It had been given in mistake instead of a coin of a different denomination, to “the natural” of the parish for holding his shelty while he transacted business at the bank. A gleam in the boy’s eye drew his attention to a gleam of white as the metal dropped into his pocket. In vain the laird assured him it was not a good bawbee—if he would give it up he would get another—it was “guid eneuch” for the like of him. And when the laird in his extremity swore a great oath that unless it was given up he would never give another halfpenny, the answer was—“Ech, laird, it wad be lang or ye gied me saxty.”

Another example of shrewd and ready humour in one of that class is the following:—In this case the idiot was musical, and earned a few stray pence by playing Scottish airs on a flute. He resided at Stirling, and used to hang about the door of the inn to watch the arrival and departure of travellers. A lady, who used to give him something occasionally, was just starting, and said to Jamie that she had only a fourpenny piece, and that he must be content with that, for she could not stay to get more. Jamie was not satisfied, and as the lady drove out, he expressed his feelings by playing with all his might, “O wearie o’ the toom pouch173.”

The spirit in Jamie Fraser before mentioned, and which had kept him awake, shows itself in idiots occasionally by making them restless and troublesome. One of this character had annoyed the clergyman where he attended church by fidgeting, and by uncouth sounds which he uttered during divine service. Accordingly, one day before church began, he was cautioned against moving, or “making a whisht,” under the penalty of being turned out. The poor creature sat quite still and silent, till, in a very important part of the sermon, he felt an inclination to cough. So he shouted out, “Minister, may a puir body like me noo gie a hoast174?”

I have two anecdotes of two peers, who might be said to come under the description of half-witted. In their case the same sort of dry Scotch humour came out under the cloak of mental disease. The first is of a Scottish nobleman of the last century who had been a soldier the greater part of his life, but was obliged to come home on account of aberration of mind, superinduced by hereditary propensity. Desirous of putting him under due restraint, and at the same time of engaging his mind in his favourite pursuit, his friends secured a Sergeant Briggs to be his companion, and, in fact, keeper. To render the sergeant acceptable as a companion they introduced him to the old earl as Colonel Briggs. Being asked how he liked “the colonel,” the earl showed how acute he still was by his answer, “Oh, very well; he is a sensible man, and a good soldier, but he smells damnably of the halbert.”

The second anecdote relates also to a Scottish nobleman labouring under aberration of mind, and is, I believe, a traditionary one. In Scotland, some hundred years ago, madhouses did not exist, or were on a very limited scale; and there was often great difficulty in procuring suitable accommodation for patients who required special treatment and seclusion from the world. The gentleman in question had been consigned to the Canongate prison, and his position there was far from comfortable. An old friend called to see him, and asked how it had happened that he was placed in so unpleasant a situation. His reply was, “Sir, it was more the kind interest and patronage of my friends than my own merits that have placed me here.” “But have you not remonstrated or complained?” asked his visitor. “I told them” said his lordship, “that they were a pack of infernal villains.” “Did you?” said his friend; “that was bold language; and what did they say to that?” “Oh,” said the peer, “I took care not to tell them till they were fairly out of the place, and weel up the Canongate.”

In Peebles there was a crazy being of this kind called “Daft Yedie.” On one occasion he saw a gentleman, a stranger in the town, who had a club foot. Yedie contemplated this phenomenon with some interest, and, addressing the gentleman, said compassionately, “It’s a great pity—its spoils the boot.” There is a story of one of those half-witted creatures of a different character from the humorous ones already recorded; I think it is exceedingly affecting. The story is traditionary in a country district, and I am not aware of its being ever printed.

A poor boy, of this class, who had evidently manifested a tendency towards religious and devotional feelings, asked permission from the clergyman to attend the Lord’s Table and partake of the holy communion with the other members of the congregation (whether Episcopalian or Presbyterian I do not know). The clergyman demurred for some time, under the impression of his mind being incapable of a right and due understanding of the sacred ordinance. But observing the extreme earnestness of the poor boy, he at last gave consent, and he was allowed to come. He was much affected, and all the way home was heard to exclaim, “Oh! I hae seen the pretty man.” This referred to his seeing the Lord Jesus whom he had approached in the sacrament. He kept repeating the words, and went with them on his lips to rest for the night. Not appearing at the usual hour for breakfast, when they went to his bedside they found him dead! The excitement had been too much—mind and body had given way—and the half-idiot of earth awoke to the glories and the bliss of his Redeemer’s presence.

Analogous with the language of the defective intellect is the language of the imperfectly formed intellect, and I have often thought there was something very touching and very fresh in the expression of feelings and notions by children. I have given examples before, but the following is, to my taste, a charming specimen:—A little boy had lived for some time with a very penurious uncle, who took good care that the child’s health should not be injured by over-feeding. The uncle was one day walking out, the child at his side, when a friend accosted him, accompanied by a greyhound. While the elders were talking, the little fellow, never having seen a dog so slim and slight of form, clasped the creature round the neck with the impassioned cry, “Oh, doggie, doggie, and div ye live wi’ your uncle tae, that ye are so thin?”

In connection with funerals, I am indebted to the kindness of Lord Kinloch for a characteristic anecdote of cautious Scottish character in the west country. It was the old fashion, still practised in some districts, to carry the coffin to the grave on long poles, or “spokes,” as they were commonly termed. There were usually two bearers abreast on each side. On a certain occasion one of the two said to his companion, “I’m awfu’ tired wi’ carryin’.” “Do you carry?” was the interrogatory in reply. “Yes; what do you do?” “Oh,” said the other, “I aye lean.” His friend’s fatigue was at once accounted for.

I am strongly tempted to give an account of a parish functionary in the words of a kind correspondent from Kilmarnock, although communicated in the following very flattering terms:—“In common with every Scottish man worthy of the name, I have been delighted with your book, and have the ambition to add a pebble to the cairn, and accordingly send you a bellman story; it has, at least, the merit of being unprinted and unedited.”

The incumbent of Craigie parish, in this district of Ayrshire, had asked a Mr. Wood, tutor in the Cairnhill family, to officiate for him on a particular Sunday. Mr. Wood, however, between the time of being asked and the appointed day, got intimation of the dangerous illness of his father; in the hurry of setting out to see him, he forgot to arrange for the pulpit being filled. The bellman of Craigie parish, by name Matthew Dinning, and at this time about eighty years of age, was a very little “crined175” old man, and always wore a broad Scottish blue bonnet, with a red “bob” on the top. The parish is a small rural one, so that Matthew knew every inhabitant in it, and had seen most of them grow up. On this particular day, after the congregation had waited for some time, Matthew was seen to walk very slowly up the middle of the church, with the large Bible and psalm-book under his arm, to mount the pulpit stair; and after taking his bonnet off, and smoothing down his forehead with his “loof,” thus addressed the audience:—

“My freens, there was ane Wuds tae hae preached here the day, but he has nayther comed himsell, nor had the ceevility tae sen’ us the scart o’ a pen. Ye’ll bide here for ten meenonts, and gin naebody comes forrit in that time, ye can gang awa’ hame. Some say his feyther’s dead; as for that I kenna.”

The following is another illustration of the character of the old Scottish betheral. One of those worthies, who was parochial grave-digger, had been missing for two days or so, and the minister had in vain sent to discover him at most likely places. He bethought, at last, to make inquiry at a “public” at some distance from the village, and on entering the door he met his man in the trance, quite fou, staggering out, supporting himself with a hand on each wa’. To the minister’s sharp rebuke and rising wrath for his indecent and shameful behaviour, John, a wag in his way, and emboldened by liquor, made answer, “‘Deed, sir, sin’ I ca’d at the manse, I hae buried an auld wife, and I’ve just drucken her, hough an’ horn.” Such was his candid admission of the manner in which he had disposed of the church fees paid for the interment.

An encounter of wits between a laird and an elder:—A certain laird in Fife, well known for his parsimonious habits, and who, although his substance largely increased, did not increase his liberality in his weekly contribution to the church collection, which never exceeded the sum of one penny, one day by mistake dropped into the plate at the door half-a-crown; but discovering his error before he was seated in his pew, he hurried back, and was about to replace the coin by his customary penny, when the elder in attendance cried out, “Stop, laird; ye may put in what ye like, but ye maun tak naething oot!” The laird, finding his explanations went for nothing, at last said, “Aweel, I suppose I’ll get credit for it in heaven.” “Na, na, laird,” said the elder, sarcastically; “ye’ll only get credit for the penny.”

The following is not a bad specimen of sly piper wit:—

The Rev. Mr. Johnstone of Monquhitter, a very grandiloquent pulpit orator in his day, accosting a travelling piper, well known in the district, with the question, “Well, John, how does the wind pay?” received from John, with a low bow, the answer, “Your Reverence has the advantage of me.”

Apropos to stories connected with ministers and pipers, there cannot be a better specimen than the famous one preserved by Sir Walter Scott, in his notes to Waverley, which I am tempted to reproduce, as possibly some of my readers may have forgotten it. The gudewife of the inn at Greenlaw had received four clerical guests into her house, a father and three sons. The father took an early opportunity of calling the attention of the landlady to the subject of his visit, and, introducing himself, commenced in rather a pompous manner—“Now, confess, Luckie Buchan, you never remember having such a party in your house before. Here am I, a placed minister, with my three sons, who are themselves all placed ministers.” The landlady, accustomed to a good deal of deference and attention from the county families, not quite liking the high tone assumed by the minister on the occasion, and being well aware that all the four were reckoned very poor and uninteresting preachers, answered rather drily, “‘Deed, minister, I canna just say that I ever had sic a party before in the hoose, except it were in the ’45, when I had a piper and his three sons—a’ pipers. But” (she added quietly, as if aside), “deil a spring could they play amang them.”

I have received from Rev. William Blair, A.M., U.P. minister at Dunblane, many kind communications. I have made a selection, which I now group together, and they have this character in common, that they are all anecdotes of ministers:—

Rev. Walter Dunlop of Dumfries was well known for pithy and facetious replies; he was kindly known under the appellation of our “Watty Dunlop.” On one occasion two irreverent young fellows determined, as they said, to “taigle176” the minister. Coming up to him in the High Street of Dumfries, they accosted him with much solemnity—“Maister Dunlop, dae ye hear the news?” “What news?” “Oh, the deil’s deed.” “Is he?” said Mr. Dunlop, “then I maun pray for twa faitherless bairns.” On another occasion Mr. Dunlop met, with characteristic humour, an attempt to play off a trick against him. It was known that he was to dine with a minister whose house was close to the church, so that his return back must be through the churchyard. Accordingly some idle and mischievous youths waited for him in the dark night, and one of them came up to him, dressed as a ghost, in hopes of putting him in a fright. Watty’s cool accost speedily upset the plan:—“Weel, Maister Ghaist, is this a general rising, or are ye juist takin’ a daunder frae yer grave by yersell?” I have received from a correspondent another specimen of Watty’s acute rejoinders. Some years ago the celebrated Edward Irving had been lecturing at Dumfries, and a man who passed as a wag in that locality had been to hear him. He met Watty Dunlop the following day, who said, “Weel, Willie, man, an’ what do ye think of Mr. Irving?” “Oh,” said Willie, contemptuously, “the man’s crack’t.” Dunlop patted him on the shoulder, with a quiet remark, “Willie, ye’ll aften see a light peeping through a crack!”

He was accompanying a funeral one day, when he met a man driving a flock of geese. The wayward disposition of the bipeds at the moment was too much for the driver’s temper, and he indignantly cried out, “Deevil choke them!” Mr. Dunlop walked a little farther on, and passed a farm-stead, where a servant was driving out a number of swine, and banning them with “Deevil tak them!” Upon which, Mr. Dunlop stepped up to him, and said, “Ay, ay, my man; your gentleman’ll be wi’ ye i’ the noo: he’s juist back the road there a bit, choking some geese till a man.”

Shortly after the Disruption, Dr. Cook of St. Andrews was introduced to Mr. Dunlop, upon which occasion Mr. Dunlop said, “Weel, sir, ye’ve been lang Cook, Cooking them, but ye’ve dished them at last.”

Mr. Clark of Dalreoch, whose head was vastly disproportioned to his body, met Mr. Dunlop one day. “Weel, Mr. Clark, that’s a great head o’ yours.” “Indeed it is, Mr. Dunlop; I could contain yours inside of my own.” “Juist sae,” quietly replied Mr. Dunlop; “I was e’en thinkin’ it was geyan toom177.”

Mr. Dunlop happened one day to be present in a church court of a neighbouring presbytery. A Rev. Doctor was asked to pray, and declined. On the meeting adjourning, Mr. Dunlop stepped up to the Doctor, and asked how he did. The Doctor, never having been introduced, did not reply. Mr. Dunlop withdrew, and said to his friend, “Eh! but isna he a queer man, that Doctor, he’ll neither speak to God nor man.”

The Rev. John Brown of Whitburn was riding out one day on an old pony, when he was accosted by a rude youth: “I say, Mr. Broon, what gars your horse’s tail wag that way?” “Oo, juist what gars your tongue wag; it’s fashed wi’ a wakeness.”

About sixty years ago there were two ministers in Sanquhar of the name of Thomson, one of whom was father of the late Dr. Andrew Thomson of Edinburgh, the other was father of Dr. Thomson of Balfron. The domestic in the family of the latter was rather obtrusive with her secret devotions, sometimes kneeling on the stairs at night, and talking loud enough to be heard. On a communion season she was praying devoutly and exclusively for her minister: “Remember Mr. Tamson, no him at the Green, but oor ain Mr. Tamson.”

Rev. Mr. Leslie of Morayshire combined the duties of justice of peace with those of parochial clergyman. One day he was taken into confidence by a culprit who had been caught in the act of smuggling, and was threatened with a heavy fine. The culprit was a staunch Seceder, and owned a small farm. Mr. Leslie, with an old-fashioned zeal for the Established Church, said to him, “The king will come in the cadger’s road some day. Ye wadna come to the parish kirk, though it were to save your life, wad ye? Come noo, an’ I’se mak ye a’ richt!” Next Sabbath the seceding smuggler appeared in the parish kirk, and as the paupers were receiving parochial allowance, Mr. Leslie slipped a shilling into the smuggler’s hand. When the J.P. Court was held, Mr. Leslie was present, when a fine was proposed to be exacted from the smuggler. “Fine!” said Mr. Leslie; “he’s mair need o’ something to get duds to his back. He’s are o’ my poor roll; I gie’d him a shilling just last Sabbath.”

A worthy old Seceder used to ride from Gargunnock to Bucklyvie every Sabbath to attend the Burgher kirk. One day as he rode past the parish kirk of Kippen, the elder at the plate accosted him, “I’m sure, John, it’s no like the thing to see you ridin’ in sic a doon-pour o’ rain sae far by to thae Seceders. Ye ken the mercifu’ man is mercifu’ to his beast. Could ye no step in by?” “Weel,” said John, “I wadna care sae muckle about stablin’ my beast inside, but it’s anither thing mysel’ gain’ in.”

The Rev. Dr. George Lawson of Selkirk acted for many years as theological tutor to the Secession Church. One day, on entering the Divinity Hall, he overheard a student remark that the professor’s wig was uncombed. That same student, on that very day, had occasion to preach a sermon before the Doctor, for which he received a bit of severe criticism, the sting of which was in its tail: “You said my wig wasna kaimed this mornin’, my lad, but I think I’ve redd your head to you.”

The Rev. John Heugh of Stirling was one day admonishing one of his people of the sin of intemperance: “Man, John, you should never drink except when you’re dry.” “Weel, sir,” quoth John, “that’s what I’m aye doin’, for I am never slocken’d.”

The Rev. Mr. M—— of Bathgate came up to a street-paviour one day, and addressed him, “Eh, John, what’s this you’re at?” “Oh! I’m mending the ways o’ Bathgate!” “Ah, John, I’ve long been trying to mend the ways o’ Bathgate, an’ they’re no weel yet.” “Weel, Mr. M., if you had tried my plan, and come doon to your knees, ye wad maybe hae come mair speed!”

There once lived in Cupar a merchant whose store contained supplies of every character and description, so that he was commonly known by the sobriquet of Robbie A’Thing. One day a minister, who was well known for a servile use of MS. in the pulpit, called at the store, asking for a rope and pin to tether a young calf in the glebe. Robbie at once informed him that he could not furnish such articles to him. But the minister, being somewhat importunate, said, “Oh! I thought you were named Robbie A’Thing from the fact of your keeping all kinds of goods.” “Weel a weel,” said Robbie, “I keep a’thing in my shop but calf’s tether-pins and paper sermons for ministers to read.”

It was a somewhat whimsical advice, supported by whimsical argument, which used to be given by an old Scottish minister to young preachers, when they visited from home, to “sup well at the kail, for if they were good they were worth the supping, and if not they might be sure there was not much worth coming after them.”

A good many families in and around Dunblane rejoice in the patronymic of Dochart. This name, which sounds somewhat Irish, is derived from Loch Dochart, in Perthshire. The M’Gregors having been proscribed, were subjected to severe penalties, and a group of the clan having been hunted by their superiors, swam the stream which issues from Loch Dochart, and in gratitude to the river they afterwards assumed the family name of Dochart. A young lad of this name, on being sent to Glasgow College, presented a letter from his minister to Rev. Dr. Heugh of Glasgow. He gave his name as Dochart, and the name in the letter was M’Gregor. “Oh,” said the Doctor, “I fear there is some mistake about your identity, the names don’t agree.” “Weel, sir, that’s the way they spell the name in our country.”

The relative whom I have mentioned as supplying so many Scottish anecdotes had many stories of a parochial functionary whose eccentricities have, in a great measure, given way before the assimilating spirit of the times. I mean the old SCOTTISH BEADLE, or betheral, as he used to be called. Some classes of men are found to have that nameless but distinguishing characteristic of figure and aspect which marks out particular occupations and professions of mankind. This was so much the case in the betheral class, that an old lady, observing a well-known judge and advocate walking together in the street, remarked to a friend as they passed by, “Dear me, Lucy, wha are thae twa beddle-looking bodies?” They were often great originals, and, I suspect, must have been in past times somewhat given to convivial habits, from a remark I recollect of the late Baron Clerk Rattray, viz. that in his younger days he had hardly ever known a perfectly sober betheral. However this may have been, they were, as a class, remarkable for quaint humour, and for being shrewd observers of what was going on. I have heard of an occasion where the betheral made his wit furnish an apology for his want of sobriety. He had been sent round the parish by the minister to deliver notices at all the houses, of the catechising which was to precede the preparation for receiving the communion. On his return it was quite evident that he had partaken too largely of refreshment since he had been on his expedition. The minister reproached him for this improper conduct. The betheral pleaded the pressing hospitality of the parishioners. The clergyman did not admit the plea, and added, “Now, John, I go through the parish, and you don’t see me return fou, as you have done.” “Ay, minister,” rejoined the betheral, with much complacency, “but then aiblins ye’re no sae popular i’ the parish as me.”

My relative used to tell of one of these officials receiving, with much ceremony, a brother betheral, from a neighbouring parish, who had come with the minister thereof for the purpose of preaching on some special occasion. After service, the betheral of the stranger clergyman felt proud of the performance of the appointed duty, and said in a triumphant tone to his friend, “I think oor minister did weel; ay, he gars the stour flee oot o’ the cushion.” To which the other rejoined, with a calm feeling of superiority, “Stour oot o’ the cushion! hout, our minister, sin’ he cam wi’ us, has dung the guts oot o’ twa Bibles.” Another description I have heard of an energetic preacher more forcible than delicate—“Eh, oor minister had a great power o’ watter, for he grat, and spat, and swat like mischeef.” An obliging anonymous correspondent has sent me a story of a functionary of this class whose pride was centred not so much in the performance of the minister as of the precentor. He states that he remembers an old beadle of the church which was called “Haddo’s Hole,” and sometimes the “Little Kirk,” in Edinburgh, whose son occasionally officiated as precentor. He was not very well qualified for the duty, but the father had a high opinion of his son’s vocal powers. In those days there was always service in the church on the Tuesday evenings; and when the father was asked on such occasions, “Who’s to preach to-night?” his self-complacent reply used to be, “I divna ken wha’s till preach, but my son’s for till precent.” The following is a more correct version of a betheral story than one which occupied this page in the last edition. The beadle had been asked to recommend a person for the same office, and his answer was, “If ye had wanted twa or three bits o’ elder bodies, I cud hae gotten them for ye as easily as penny baps oot of Mr. Rowan’s shop,” pointing to a baker’s shop opposite to where the colloquy took place; “or even if ye had wanted a minister, I might hae helpit ye to get ane; but as for a gude beadle, that’s about the maist difficult thing I ken o’ just now.”

Perhaps the following may seem to illustrate the self-importance of the betheral tribe. The Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair was one Sunday absent from his pulpit, and next morning meeting his beadle in the street he inquired how matters went in the High Church on Sabbath. “‘Deed, I dare say no very weel,” was the answer; “I wasna there ony mair than yoursell.”

Mr. Turnbull of Dundee kindly sends me an excellent anecdote of the “Betheral” type, which illustrates the esprit de corps of the betherelian mind. The late Dr. Robertson of Glasgow had, while in the parish of Mains, a quaint old church attendant of the name of Walter Nicoll, commonly called “Watty Nuckle,” whom he invited to come and visit him after he had been removed to Glasgow. Watty accordingly ventured on the (to him) terrible journey, and was received by the Doctor with great kindness. The Doctor, amongst other sights, took him to see the Cathedral church, and showed him all through it, and after they were coming away the Doctor asked Watty what he thought of it, and if it was not better than the Mains church. Watty shook his head, and said, “Aweel, sir, you see she’s bigger; but she has nae laft, and she’s sair fashed wi’ thae pillars.”

On the same subject of beadle peculiarities, I have received from Mrs. Mearns of Kineff Manse an exquisitely characteristic illustration of beadle professional habits being made to bear upon the tender passion:—A certain beadle had fancied the manse housemaid, but at a loss for an opportunity to declare himself, one day—a Sunday—when his duties were ended, he looked sheepish, and said, “Mary, wad ye tak a turn, Mary?” He led her to the churchyard, and pointing with his finger, got out, “My fowk lie there, Mary; wad ye like to lie there?” The grave hint was taken, and she became his wife, but does not yet lie there.

Here is another good example of betheral refinement or philosophy.—He was carefully dressing up a grave, and adjusting the turf upon it. The clergyman, passing through the churchyard, observed, “That’s beautiful sod, Jeems.” “Indeed is’t, minister, and I grudge it upon the grave o’ sic a scamp.”

This class of functionaries were very free in their remarks upon the preaching of strangers, who used occasionally to occupy the pulpit of their church—the city betherals speaking sometimes in a most condescending manner of clergy from the provincial parishes. As, for example, a betheral of one of the large churches in Glasgow, criticising the sermon of a minister from the country who had been preaching in the city church, characterised it as “gude coorse country wark.” A betheral of one of the churches of St. Giles, Edinburgh, used to call on the family of Mr. Robert Stevenson, engineer, who was one of the elders. On one occasion they asked him what had been the text on such a night, when none of the family had been present. The man of office, confused at the question, and unwilling to show anything like ignorance, poured forth, “Weel, ye see, the text last day was just entirely, sirs—yes—the text, sirs—what was it again?—ou ay, just entirely, ye see it was, ‘What profiteth a man if he lose the world, and gain his own soul?’” Most of such stories are usually of an old standing. A more recent one has been told me of a betheral of a royal burgh much decayed from former importance, and governed by a feeble municipality of old men, who continued in office, and in fact constituted rather the shadow than the substance of a corporation. A clergyman from a distance having come to officiate in the parish church, the betheral, knowing the terms on which it was usual for the minister officiating to pray for the efficiency of the local magistracy, quietly cautioned the clergyman before service that, in regard to the town-council there, it would be quite out of place for him to pray that they should be a “terror to evil-doers,” because, as he said, “the puir auld bodies could be nae terror to onybody.” A minister of Easter Anstruther, during the last century, used to say of the magistrates of Wester Anstruther, that “instead of being a terror to evil-doers, evil-doers were a terror to them.”

The “minister’s man” was a functionary well known in many parishes, and who often evinced much Scottish humour and original character. These men were (like the betheral) great critics of sermons, and often severe upon strangers, sometimes with a sly hit at their own minister. One of these, David, a well-known character, complimenting a young minister who had preached, told him, “Your introduction, sir, is aye grand; its worth a’ the rest o’ the sermon—could ye no mak it a’ introduction?”

David’s criticisms of his master’s sermons were sometimes sharp enough and shrewd. On one occasion, driving the minister home from a neighbouring church where he had been preaching, and who, as he thought, had acquitted himself pretty well, inquired of David what he thought of it. The subject of discourse had been the escape of the Israelites from Egypt. So David opened his criticism—“Thocht o’t, sir? deed I thocht nocht o’t ava. It was a vara imperfect discourse in ma opinion; ye did weel eneuch till ye took them through, but where did ye leave them? just daunerin’ o’ the sea-shore without a place to gang till. Had it no been for Pharaoh they had been better on the other side, where they were comfortably encampit, than daunerin’ where ye left them. It’s painful to hear a sermon stoppit afore it’s richt ended, just as it is to hear ane streekit out lang after it’s dune. That’s ma opinion o’ the sermon ye gied us to-day.” “Very freely given, David, very freely given; drive on a little faster, for I think ye’re daunerin’ noo yersell.”

To another who had gone through a long course of parish official life a gentleman one day remarked—“John, ye hae been sae lang about the minister’s hand that I dare say ye could preach a sermon yersell now.” To which John modestly replied, “O na, sir, I couldna preach a sermon, but maybe I could draw an inference.” “Well, John,” said the gentleman, humouring the quiet vanity of the beadle, “what inference could ye draw frae this text, ‘A wild ass snuffeth up the wind at her pleasure?’” (Jer. ii. 24). “Weel, sir, I wad draw this inference, he would snuff a lang time afore he would fatten upon’t.” I had an anecdote from a friend, of a reply from a betheral to the minister in church, which was quaint and amusing from the shrewd self-importance it indicated in his own acuteness. The clergyman had been annoyed during the course of his sermon by the restlessness and occasional whining of a dog, which at last began to bark outright. He looked out for the beadle, and directed him very peremptorily, “John, carry that dog out.” John, looked up to the pulpit, and with a very knowing expression, said, “Na, na, sir; I’se just mak him gae out on his ain four legs.” I have another story of canine misbehaviour in church. A dog was present during the service, and in the sermon the worthy minister was in the habit of speaking very loud, and, in fact, when he got warmed with his subject, of shouting almost at the top of his voice. The dog, who, in the early part, had been very quiet, became quite excited, as is not uncommon with some dogs when hearing a noise, and from whinging and whining, as the speaker’s voice rose loud and strong, at last began to bark and howl. The minister, naturally much annoyed at the interruption, called upon the betheral to put out the dog, who at once expressed his readiness to obey the order, but could not resist the temptation to look up to the pulpit, and to say very significantly, “Ay, ay, sir; but indeed it was yersell began it.” There is a dog story connected with Reminiscences of Glasgow (see Chambers’s Journal, March 1855), which is full of meaning. The bowls of rum-punch which so remarkably characterised the Glasgow dinners of last century and the early part of the present, it is to be feared made some of the congregation given to somnolency on the Sundays following. The members of the town-council often adopted Saturday for such meetings; accordingly, the Rev. Mr. Thorn, an excellent clergyman178, took occasion to mark this propensity with some acerbity. A dog had been very troublesome, and disturbed the congregation for some time, when the minister at last gave orders to the beadle, “Take out that dog; he’d wauken a Glasgow magistrate.”

The parochial gravediggers had sometimes a very familiar professional style of dealing with the solemn subjects connected with their office. Thus I have heard of a grave-digger pointing out a large human bone to a lady who was looking at his work, of digging a grave, and asking her—“D’ye ken wha’s bane that is, mem?—that’s Jenny Fraser’s hench-bane;” adding with a serious aspect—“a weel-baned family thae Frasers.”

It would be impossible in these Reminiscences to omit the well-known and often repeated anecdote connected with an eminent divine of our own country, whose works take a high place in our theological literature. The story to which I allude was rendered popular throughout the kingdom some years ago, by the inimitable mode in which it was told, or rather acted, by the late Charles Matthews. But Matthews was wrong in the person of whom he related the humorous address. I have assurance of the parties from a friend, whose father, a distinguished clergyman in the Scottish Church at the time, had accurate knowledge of the whole circumstances. The late celebrated Dr. Macknight, a learned and profound scholar and commentator, was nevertheless, as a preacher, to a great degree heavy, unrelieved by fancy or imagination; an able writer, but a dull speaker. His colleague, Dr. Henry, well known as the author of a History of England, was, on the other hand, a man of great humour, and could not resist a joke when the temptation came upon him. On one occasion when coming to church, Dr. Macknight had been caught in a shower of rain, and entered the vestry soaked with wet. Every means were used to relieve him from his discomfort; but as the time drew on for divine service he became much distressed, and ejaculated over and over, “Oh, I wush that I was dry; do you think I’m dry? do you think I’m dry eneuch noo?” His jocose colleague could resist no longer, but, patting him on the shoulder, comforted him with the sly assurance, “Bide a wee, Doctor, and ye’se be dry eneuch when ye get into the pu’pit.”

Another quaint remark of the facetious doctor to his more formal colleague has been preserved by friends of the family. Dr. Henry, who with all his pleasantry and abilities, had himself as little popularity in the pulpit as his coadjutor, had been remarking to Dr. Macknight what a blessing it was that they were two colleagues in one charge, and continued dwelling on the subject so long, that Dr. Macknight, not quite pleased at the frequent reiteration of the remark, said that it certainly was a great pleasure to himself, but he did not see what great benefit it might be to the world. “Ah,” said Dr. Henry, “an it hadna been for that, there wad hae been twa toom179 kirks this day.” Lord Cockburn tells a characteristic anecdote of Dr. Henry’s behaviour the last day of his life. I am indebted to a gentleman, himself also a distinguished member of the Scottish Church, for an authentic anecdote of this learned divine, and which occurred whilst Dr. Macknight was the minister of Maybole. One of his parishioners, a well-known humorous blacksmith of the parish, who, no doubt, thought that the Doctor’s learned books were rather a waste of time and labour for a country pastor, was asked if his minister was at home. The Doctor was then busy bringing out his laborious and valuable work, his Harmony of the Four Gospels. “Na, he’s gane to Edinburgh on a verra useless job.” On being asked what this useless work might be which engaged his pastor’s time and attention, he answered, “He’s gane to mak four men agree wha ne’er cast oot.” The good-humoured and candid answer of a learned and rather long-winded preacher of the old school always appeared to me quite charming. The good man was far from being a popular preacher, and yet he could not reduce his discourses below the hour and a half. On being asked, as a gentle hint of their possibly needless length, if he did not feel tired after preaching so long, he replied, “Na, na, I’m no tired;” adding, however, with much naïveté, “But, Lord, how tired the fowk whiles are.”

The late good kind-hearted Dr. David Dickson was fond of telling a story of a Scottish termagant of the days before kirk-session discipline had passed away. A couple were brought before the court, and Janet, the wife, was charged with violent and undutiful conduct, and with wounding her husband by throwing a three-legged stool at his head. The minister rebuked her conduct, and pointed out its grievous character, by explaining that just as Christ was head of his Church, so the husband was head of the wife; and therefore in assaulting him, she had in fact injured her own body. “Weel,” she replied, “it’s come to a fine pass gin a wife canna kame her ain head;” “Ay, but, Janet,” rejoined the minister, “a three-legged stool is a thief-like bane-kame to scart yer ain head wi’!”

The following is a dry Scottish case, of a minister’s wife quietly “kaming her husband’s head.” Mr. Mair, a Scotch minister, was rather short-tempered, and had a wife named Rebecca, whom for brevity’s sake he addressed as “Becky.” He kept a diary, and among other entries, this one was very frequent—“Becky and I had a rippet, for which I desire to be humble.” A gentleman who had been on a visit to the minister went to Edinburgh, and told the story to a minister and his wife there; when the lady replied “Weel, he must have been an excellent man, Mr. Mair. My husband and I sometimes too have ‘rippets,’ but catch him if he’s ever humble.”

Our object in bringing up and recording anecdotes of this kind is to elucidate the sort of humour we refer to, and to show it as a humour of past times. A modern clergyman could hardly adopt the tone and manner of the older class of ministers—men not less useful and beloved, on account of their odd Scottish humour, which indeed suited their time. Could a clergyman, for instance, now come off from the trying position in which we have heard of a northern minister being placed, and by the same way through which he extricated himself with much good nature and quiet sarcasm? A young man, sitting opposite to him in the front of the gallery, had been up late on the previous night, and had stuffed the cards with which he had been occupied into his coat pocket. Forgetting the circumstance, he pulled out his handkerchief, and the cards all flew about. The minister simply looked at him, and remarked, “Eh, man, your psalm-buik has been ill bund.”

An admirable story of a quiet pulpit rebuke is traditionary in Fife, and is told of Mr. Shirra, a Seceding minister of Kirkcaldy, a man still well remembered by some of the older generation for many excellent and some eccentric qualities. A young officer of a volunteer corps on duty in the place, very proud of his fresh uniform, had come to Mr. Shirra’s church, and walked about as if looking for a seat, but in fact to show off his dress, which he saw was attracting attention from some of the less grave members of the congregation. He came to his place, however, rather quickly, on Mr. Shirra quietly remonstrating, “O man, will ye sit doun, and we’ll see your new breeks when the kirk’s dune.” This same Mr. Shirra was well known from his quaint, and, as it were, parenthetical comments which he introduced in his reading of Scripture; as, for example, on reading from the 116th Psalm, “I said in my haste all men are liars,” he quietly observed, “Indeed, Dauvid, my man, an’ ye had been i’ this parish ye might hae said it at your leisure.”

There was something even still more pungent in the incidental remark of a good man, in the course of his sermon, who had in a country place taken to preaching out of doors in the summer afternoons. He used to collect the people as they were taking air by the side of a stream outside the village. On one occasion he had unfortunately taken his place on a bank, and fixed himself on an ants’ nest. The active habits of those little creatures soon made the position of the intruder upon their domain very uncomfortable; and, afraid that his audience might observe something of this discomfort in his manner, he apologised by the remark—“Brethren, though I hope I have the word of God in my mouth, I think the deil himself has gotten into my breeks.”

There was often no doubt a sharp conflict of wits when some of these humorist ministers came into collision with members of their flocks who were also humorists. Of this nature is the following anecdote, which I am assured is genuine:—A minister in the north was taking to task one of his hearers who was a frequent defaulter, and was reproaching him as a habitual absentee from public worship. The accused vindicated himself on the plea of a dislike to long sermons. “‘Deed, man,” said the reverend monitor, a little nettled at the insinuation thrown out against himself, “if ye dinna mend, ye may land yersell where ye’ll no be troubled wi’ mony sermons either lang or short.” “Weel, aiblins sae,” retorted John, “but that mayna be for want o’ ministers.”

An answer to another clergyman, Mr. Shireff, parochial minister of St. Ninian’s, is indicative of Scottish and really clever wit. One of the members of his church was John Henderson or Anderson—a very decent douce shoemaker—and who left the church and joined the Independents, who had a meeting in Stirling. Some time afterwards, when Mr. Shireff met John on the road, he said, “And so, John, I understand you have become an Independent?” “‘Deed, sir,” replied John, “that’s true.” “Oh, John,” said the minister, “I’m sure you ken that a rowin’ (rolling) stane gathers nae fog” (moss). “Ay,” said John, “that’s true too; but can ye tell me what guid the fog does to the stane?” Mr. Shireff himself afterwards became a Baptist. The wit, however, was all in favour of the minister in the following:—

Dr. Gilchrist, formerly of the East Parish of Greenock, and who died minister of the Canongate, Edinburgh, received an intimation of one of his hearers who had been exceedingly irregular in his attendance that he had taken seats in an Episcopal chapel. One day soon after, he met his former parishioner, who told him candidly that he had “changed his religion.” “Indeed,” said the Doctor quietly; “how’s that? I ne’er heard ye had ony.” It was this same Dr. Gilchrist who gave the well-known quiet but forcible rebuke to a young minister whom he considered rather conceited and fond of putting forward his own doings, and who was to officiate in the Doctor’s church. He explained to him the mode in which he usually conducted the service, and stated that he always finished the prayer before the sermon with the Lord’s Prayer. The young minister demurred at this, and asked if he “might not introduce any other short prayer?” “Ou ay,” was the Doctor’s quiet reply, “gif ye can gie us onything better.”

There is a story current of a sharp hit at the pretensions of a minister who required a little set down. The scene was on a Monday by a burn near Inverness. A stranger is fishing by a burn-side one Monday morning, when the parish minister accosts him from the other side of the stream thus:—“Good sport?” “Not very.” “I am also an angler,” but, pompously, “I am a fisher of men.” “Are you always successful?” “Not very.” “So I guessed, as I keeked into your creel180 yesterday.”

At Banchory, on Deeside, some of the criticisms and remarks on sermons were very quaint and characteristic. My cousin had asked the Leys grieve what he thought of a young man’s preaching, who had been more successful in appropriating the words than the ideas of Dr. Chalmers. He drily answered, “Ou, Sir Thomas, just a floorish o’ the surface.” But the same hearer bore this unequivocal testimony to another preacher whom he really admired. He was asked if he did not think the sermon long: “Na, I should nae hae thocht it lang an’ I’d been sitting on thorns.”

I think the following is about as good a sample of what we call Scotch “pawky” as any I know:—A countryman had lost his wife and a favourite cow on the same day. His friends consoled him for the loss of the wife; and being highly respectable, several hints and offers were made towards getting another for him. “Ou ay,” he at length replied; “you’re a’ keen aneuch to get me anither wife, but no yin o’ ye offers to gie me anither coo.”

The following anecdotes, collected from different contributors, are fair samples of the quaint and original character of Scottish ways and expressions, now becoming more and more matters of reminiscence:—A poor man came to his minister for the purpose of intimating his intention of being married. As he expressed, however, some doubts on the subject, and seemed to hesitate, the minister asked him if there were any doubts about his being accepted. No, that was not the difficulty; but he expressed a fear that it might not be altogether suitable, and he asked whether, if he were once married, he could not (in case of unsuitability and unhappiness) get unmarried. The clergyman assured him that it was impossible; if he married, it must be for better and worse; that he could not go back upon the step. So thus instructed he went away. After a time he returned, and said he had made up his mind to try the experiment, and he came and was married. Ere long he came back very disconsolate, and declared it would not do at all; that he was quite miserable, and begged to be unmarried. The minister assured him that was out of the question, and urged him to put away the notion of anything so absurd. The man insisted that the marriage could not hold good, for the wife was “waur than the deevil.” The minister demurred, saying that it was quite impossible. “‘Deed, sir,” said the poor man, “the Bible tells ye that if ye resist the deil he flees frae ye, but if ye resist her she flees at ye.”

A faithful minister of the gospel, being one day engaged in visiting some members of his flock, came to the door of a house where his gentle tapping could not be heard for the noise of contention within. After waiting a little he opened the door, and walked in, saying, with an authoritative voice, “I should like to know who is the head of this house.” “Weel, sir,” said the husband and father, “if ye sit doun a wee, we’ll maybe be able to tell ye, for we’re just trying to settle that point.”

I have received from my kind correspondent, Rev. Mr. Hogg of Kirkmahoe, the following most amusing account of a passage-at-arms between a minister and “minister’s man,” both of them of the old school. The minister of a parish in Dumfriesshire had a man who had long and faithfully served at the manse. During the minister’s absence, a ploughing match came off in the district, and the man, feeling the old spirit return with the force of former days, wished to enter the lists, and go in for a prize, which he did, and gained the fifth prize. The minister, on his return home, and glancing at the local newspaper, saw the report of the match, and the name of his own man in the prize-list. Being of a crusty temper, he rang the bell in fury, and summoned John, when the following colloquy took place:—“John, how is this? who gave you leave to go to the ploughing-match?” “You were not at hame, sir.” “Well, you should have written to me.” “I didn’t think it was worth while, sir, as we had our ain ploughing forrit181.” “That may be; but why were you not higher in the prize-list? I’m ashamed of you, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for being so far behind.” John’s patience had given way, and, in his haste he burst forth, “Indeed, I’m thinking, sir, that if ye were at a preaching match, and five-and-thirty in the field, ye wadna come in for onything, let a-be for a fift’.”

Stories of humorous encounters between ministers and their hearers are numerous, and though often seasoned with dry and caustic humour, they never indicate appearance of bitterness or ill-feeling between the parties. As an example, a clergyman thought his people were making rather an unconscionable objection to his using a MS. in delivering his sermon. They urged, “What gars ye tak up your bit papers to the pu’pit?” He replied that it was best, for really he could not remember his sermon, and must have his papers. “Weel, weel, minister, then dinna expect that we can remember them.”

Some of these encounters arise out of the old question of sleeping in church. For example—“I see, James, that you tak a bit nap in the kirk,” said a minister to one of his people; “can ye no tak a mull with you? and when you become heavy an extra pinch would keep you up.” “Maybe it wad,” said James, “but pit you the sneeshin intil your sermon, minister, and maybe that’ll serve the same purpose.” As a specimen of the matter-of-fact view of religious questions frequently recorded of older ministers, let me adduce a well-authenticated account of a minister in a far up-hill parish in Deeside. Returning thanks one Sabbath for the excellent harvest, he began as usual, “O Lord, we thank thee,” etc., and went on to mention its abundance, and its safe ingathering; but, feeling anxious to be quite candid and scrupulously truthful, added, “all except a few sma’ bitties at Birse no worth o’ mentioning.”

A Scotch preacher, a man of large stature, being sent to officiate one Sunday at a country parish, was accommodated at night, in the manse, in a very diminutive closet—the usual best bedroom, appropriated to strangers, being otherwise occupied. “Is this the bedroom?” he said, starting back in amazement. “‘Deed ay, sir, this is the prophets’ chalmer.” “It maun be for the minor prophets, then,” was the quiet reply.

Elders of the kirk, no doubt, frequently partook of the original and humorous character of ministers and others, their contemporaries; and amusing scenes must have passed, and good Scotch sayings been said, where they were concerned. Dr. Chalmers used to repeat one of these sayings of an elder with great delight. The Doctor associated with the anecdote the name of Lady Glenorchy and the church which she endowed; but I am assured that the person was Lady Elizabeth Cunninghame, sister of Archibald, eleventh Earl of Eglinton, and wife of Sir John Cunninghame, Bart., of Caprington, near Kilmarnock. It seems her ladyship had, for some reason, taken offence at the proceedings of the Caprington parochial authorities, and a result of which was that she ceased putting her usual liberal offering into the plate at the door. This had gone on for some time, till one of the elders, of less forbearing character than the others, took his turn at the plate. Lady Elizabeth as usual passed by without a contribution, but made a formal courtsey to the elder at the plate, and sailed up the aisle. The good man was determined not to let her pass so easily, so he quickly followed her, and urged the remonstrance: “Gie us mair o’ your siller and less o’ your mainners, my lady Betty.” My kind correspondent, Rev. Mr. Agnew, supplies me with an amusing pendant to this anecdote:—At a great church meeting, Dr. Chalmers had told this story with much effect when Lord Galloway was in the chair. After the meeting, Dr. Chalmers, and many who had been present, dined at his lordship’s hospitable table. After dinner, when the morning meeting was discussed, Lord Galloway addressed Dr. Chalmers on the subject of this story and, as if not quite pleased at its being introduced, said, “Do you know, Doctor, the lady of whom you told the story of the elder is a near relation of mine?” Dr. Chalmers, with real or seeming simplicity, answered, “No, my Lord, I did not; but next time I tell the story I can mention the fact.” As a pendant to the elder’s disclaimer of “mainners” on the part of a lady of rank, I may add an authentic anecdote of a very blunt and unpolished Kincardineshire laird, expressing the same disclaimer of mainners on the part of a servant, but in a far rougher form of speech. He had been talking with a man who came to offer for his service as a butler. But the laird soon found he was far too grand a gentleman for his service, and became chafed with his requiring so many things as conditions of coming; till, on his dismissal, when the man was bowing and scraping to show how genteel he could be, he lost all patience, and roared out, “Get out, ye fule; gie us nane o’ your mainners here.”

Of an eccentric and eloquent professor and divine of a northern Scottish university, there are numerous and extraordinary traditionary anecdotes. I have received an account of some of these anecdotes from the kind communication of an eminent Scottish clergyman, who was himself in early days his frequent hearer. The stories told of the strange observations and allusions which he introduced into his pulpit discourses almost surpass belief. For many reasons, they are not suitable to the nature of this publication, still less could they be tolerated in any pulpit administration now, although familiar with his contemporaries. The remarkable circumstance, however, connected with these eccentricities was, that he introduced them with the utmost gravity, and oftentimes, after he had delivered them, pursued his subject with great earnestness and eloquence, as if he had said nothing uncommon. One saying of the professor, however, out of the pulpit, is too good to be omitted, and may be recorded without violation of propriety. He happened to meet at the house of a lawyer, whom he considered rather a man of sharp practice, and for whom he had no great favour, two of his own parishioners. The lawyer jocularly and ungraciously put the question; “Doctor, these are members of your flock; may I ask, do you look upon them as white sheep or as black sheep?” “I don’t know,” answered the professor drily, “whether they are black or white sheep, but I know that if they are long here they are pretty sure to be fleeced.”

It was a pungent answer given by a Free Kirk member who had deserted his colours and returned to the old faith. A short time after the Disruption, the Free Church minister chanced to meet him who had then left him and returned to the Established Church. The minister bluntly accosted him—“Ay, man, John, an’ ye’ve left us; what micht be your reason for that? Did ye think it wasna a guid road we was gaun?” “Ou, I daursay it was a guid eneuch road and a braw road; but, O minister, the tolls were unco high.”

The following story I received from a member of the Penicuik family:—Dr. Ritchie, who died minister of St. Andrews, Edinburgh, was, when a young man, tutor to Sir G. Clerk and his brothers. Whilst with them, the clergyman of the parish became unable, from infirmity and illness, to do his duty, and Mr. Ritchie was appointed interim assistant. He was an active young man, and during his residence in the country had become fond of fishing, and was a good shot. When the grouse-shooting came round, his pupils happened to be laid up with a fever, so Mr. Ritchie had all the shooting to himself. One day he walked over the moor so far that he became quite weary and footsore. On returning home he went into a cottage, where the good woman received him kindly, gave him water for his feet, and refreshment. In the course of conversation, he told her he was acting as assistant minister of the parish, and he explained how far he had travelled in pursuit of game, how weary he was, and how completely knocked up he was. “Weel, sir, I dinna doubt ye maun be sair travelled and tired wi’ your walk.” And then she added, with sly reference to his profession, “‘Deed, sir, I’m thinkin’ ye micht hae travelled frae Genesis to Revelation and no been sae forfauchten182.”

Scotch people in general are, like this old woman, very jealous, as might be expected, of ministers joining the sportsman to their pastoral character. A proposal for the appointment of a minister to a particular parish, who was known in the country as a capital shot, called forth a rather neat Scottish pun, from an old woman of the parish, who significantly observed, “‘Deed, Kilpaatrick would hae been a mair appropriate place for him.” Paatrick is Scotch for partridge.

I cannot do better in regard to the three following anecdotes of the late Professor Gillespie of St. Andrews, than give them to my readers in the words with which Dr. Lindsay Alexander kindly communicated them to me.

“In the Cornhill Magazine for March 1860, in an article on Student Life in Scotland, there is an anecdote of the late Professor Gillespie of St. Andrews, which is told in such a way as to miss the point and humour of the story. The correct version, as I have heard it from the professor himself, is this: Having employed the village carpenter to put a frame round a dial at the manse of Cults, where he was a minister, he received from the man a bill to the following effect:—‘To fencing the deil, 5s. 6d.’ ‘When I paid him,’ said the professor, ‘I could not help saying, John, this is rather more than I counted on; but I haven’t a word to say. I get somewhere about two hundred a year for fencing the deil, and I’m afraid I don’t do it half so effectually as you’ve done.’”

“Whilst I am writing, another of the many stories of the learned and facetious professor rises in my mind. There was a worthy old woman at Cults whose place in church was what is commonly called the Lateran; a kind of small gallery at the top of the pulpit steps. She was a most regular attender, but as regularly fell asleep during sermon, of which fault the preacher had sometimes audible intimation. It was observed, however, that though Janet always slept during her own pastor’s discourse, she could be attentive enough when she pleased, and especially was she alert when some young preacher occupied the pulpit. A little piqued, perhaps, at this, Mr. Gillespie said to her one day, ‘Janet, I think you hardly behave very respectfully to your own minister in one respect.’ ‘Me, sir!’ exclaimed Janet, ‘I wad like to see ony man, no tae say woman, by yoursell, say that o’ me! what can you mean, sir?’ ‘Weel, Janet, ye ken when I preach you’re almost always fast asleep before I’ve well given out my text; but when any of these young men from St. Andrews preach for me, I see you never sleep a wink. Now, that’s what I call no using me as you should do.’ ‘Hoot, sir,’ was the reply, ‘is that a’? I’ll sune tell you the reason o’ that. When you preach, we a’ ken the word o’ God’s safe in your hands; but when thae young birkies tak it in haun, my certie, but it taks us a’ to look after them183.’

“I am tempted to subjoin another. In the Humanity Class, one day, a youth who was rather fond of showing off his powers of language, translated Hor. Od. iii., 3, 61, 62, somewhat thus:—‘The fortunes of Troy renascent under sorrowful omen shall be repeated with sad catastrophe.’ ‘Catastrophe!’ cried the professor. ‘Catastrophe, Mr. ——, that’s Greek. Give us it in plain English, if you please.’ Thus suddenly pulled down from his high horse, the student effected his retreat with a rather lame and impotent version. ‘Now,’ said the professor, his little sharp eyes twinkling with fun, ‘that brings to my recollection what once happened to a friend of mine, a minister in the country. Being a scholarly man he was sometimes betrayed into the use of words in the pulpit which the people were not likely to understand; but being very conscientious, he never detected himself in this, without pausing to give the meaning of the word he had used, and sometimes his extempore explanations of very fine words were a little like what we have just had from Mr. ——, rather too flat and commonplace. On one occasion he allowed this very word ’catastrophe’ to drop from him, on which he immediately added, ’that, you know, my friends, means the end of a thing.’ Next day, as he was riding through his parish, some mischievous youth succeeded in fastening a bunch of furze to his horse’s tail—a trick which, had the animal been skittish, might have exposed the worthy pastor’s horsemanship to too severe a trial, but which happily had no effect whatever on the sober-minded and respectable quadruped which he bestrode. On, therefore, he quietly jogged, utterly unconscious of the addition that had been made to his horse’s caudal region, until, as he was passing some cottages, he was arrested by the shrill voice of an old woman exclaiming, ‘Heh, sir! Heh, sir! there’s a whun-buss at your horse’s catawstrophe!’”

I have several times adverted to the subject of epigrams. A clever impromptu of this class has been recorded as given by a judge’s lady in reply to one made by the witty Henry Erskine at a dinner party at Lord Armadale’s. When a bottle of claret was called for, port was brought in by mistake. A second time claret was sent for, and a second time the same mistake occurred. Henry Erskine addressed the host in an impromptu, which was meant as a parody on the well-known Scottish song, “My Jo, Janet”—

“Kind sir, it’s for your courtesie
 When I come here to dine, sir,
For the love ye bear to me,
 Gie me the claret wine, sir.”

To which Mrs. Honeyman retorted—

“Drink the port, the claret’s dear,
 Erskine, Erskine;
Yell get fou on’t, never fear,
 My jo, Erskine.”

Some of my younger readers may not be familiar with the epigram of John Home, author of the tragedy of “Douglas.” The lines were great favourites with Sir Walter Scott, who delighted in repeating them. Home was very partial to claret, and could not bear port. He was exceedingly indignant when the Government laid a tax upon claret, having previously long connived at its introduction into Scotland under very mitigated duties. He embodied his anger in the following epigram:—

“Firm and erect the Caledonian stood,
Old was his mutton, and his claret good;
‘Let him drink port,’ an English statesman cried—
He drank the poison, and his spirit died.”

There is a curious story traditionary in some families connected with the nobleman who is the subject of it, which, I am assured, is true, and further, that it has never yet appeared in print. The story is, therefore, a “Scottish reminiscence,” and, as such, deserves a place here. The Earl of Lauderdale was so ill as to cause great alarm to his friends, and perplexity to his physicians. One distressing symptom was a total absence of sleep, and the medical men declared their opinion, that without sleep being induced he could not recover. His son, a queer eccentric-looking boy, who was considered not entirely right in his mind but somewhat “daft” and who accordingly had had little attention paid to his education, was sitting under the table, and cried out, “Sen’ for that preachin’ man frae Livingstone, for faither aye sleeps in the kirk.” One of the doctors thought this hint worth attending to. The experiment of “getting a minister till him” succeeded, and, sleep coming on, he recovered. The Earl, out of gratitude for this benefit, took more notice of his son, paid attention to his education, and that boy became the Duke of Lauderdale, afterwards so famous or infamous in his country’s history.

The following very amusing anecdote, although it belongs more properly to the division on peculiarities of Scottish phraseology, I give in the words of a correspondent who received it from the parties with whom it originated. About twenty years ago, he was paying a visit to a cousin, married to a Liverpool merchant of some standing. The husband had lately had a visit from his aged father, who formerly followed the occupation of farming in Stirlingshire, and who had probably never been out of Scotland before in his life. The son, finding his father rather de trop in his office, one day persuaded him to cross the ferry over the Mersey, and inspect the harvesting, then in full operation, on the Cheshire side. On landing, he approached a young woman reaping with the sickle in a field of oats, when the following dialogue ensued:—

Farmer.—Lassie, are yer aits muckle bookit184 th’ year?

Reaper.—What say’n yo?

Farmer.—I was speiring gif yer aits are muckle bookit th’ year!

Reaper (in amazement).—I dunnot know what yo’ say’n.

Farmer (in equal astonishment).—Gude—safe—us,—do ye no understaan gude plain English?—are—yer—aits—muckle—bookit?

Reaper decamps to her nearest companion, saying that was a madman, while he shouted in great wrath, “They were naething else than a set o’ ignorant pock-puddings.”

An English tourist visited Arran, and being a keen disciple of Izaak Walton, was arranging to have a day’s good sport. Being told that the cleg, or horse-fly, would suit his purpose admirably for lure, he addressed himself to Christy, the Highland servant-girl:—“I say, my girl, can you get me some horse-flies?” Christy looked stupid, and he repeated his question. Finding that she did not yet comprehend him, he exclaimed, “Why, girl, did you never see a horse-fly?” “Naa, sir,” said the girl, “but A wance saw a coo jump ower a preshipice.”

The following anecdote is highly illustrative of the thoroughly attached old family serving-man. A correspondent sends it as told to him by an old schoolfellow of Sir Walter Scott’s at Fraser and Adam’s class, High School:—

One of the lairds of Abercairnie proposed to go out, on the occasion of one of the risings for the Stuarts, in the ’15 or ’45—but this was not with the will of his old serving-man, who, when Abercairnie was pulling on his boots, preparing to go, overturned a kettle of boiling water upon his legs, so as to disable him from joining his friends—saying, “Tak that—let them fecht wha like; stay ye at hame and be laird o’ Abercairnie.”

A story illustrative of a union of polite courtesy with rough and violent ebullition of temper common in the old Scottish character, is well known in the Lothian family. William Henry, fourth Marquis of Lothian, had for his guest at dinner an old countess to whom he wished to show particular respect and attention185. After a very complimentary reception, he put on his white gloves to hand her down stairs, led her up to the upper end of the table, bowed, and retired to his own place. This I am assured was the usual custom with the chief lady guest by persons who themselves remember it. After all were seated, the Marquis addressed the lady, “Madam, may I have the honour and happiness of helping your ladyship to some fish?” But he got no answer, for the poor woman was deaf as a post, and did not hear him. After a pause, but still in the most courteous accents, “Madam, have I your ladyship’s permission to send you some fish?” Then a little quicker, “Is your Ladyship inclined to take fish?” Very quick, and rather peremptory, “Madam, do ye choice fish?” At last the thunder burst, to everybody’s consternation, with a loud thump on the table and stamp on the floor: “Con—found ye, will ye have any fish?” I am afraid the exclamation might have been even of a more pungent character.

A correspondent has kindly enabled me to add a reminiscence and anecdote of a type of Scottish character now nearly extinct.—I mean the old Scottish military officer of the wars of Holland and the Low Countries. I give them in his own words:—“My father, the late Rev. Dr. Bethune, minister of Dornoch, was on friendly terms with a fine old soldier, the late Colonel Alexander Sutherland of Calmaly and Braegrudy, in Sutherlandshire, who was lieutenant-colonel of the ‘Local Militia,’ and who used occasionally, in his word of command, to break out with a Gaelic phrase to the men, much to the amusement of bystanders. He called his charger, a high-boned not overfed animal, Cadaver—a play upon accents, for he was a good classical scholar, and fond of quoting the Latin poets. But he had no relish nor respect for the ‘Modern languages,’ particularly for that of our French neighbours, whom he looked upon as ‘hereditary’ enemies! My father and the colonel were both politicians, as well as scholars. Reading a newspaper article in his presence one day, my father stopped short, handing the paper to him, and said, ‘Colonel, here is a French quotation, which you can translate better than I can,’ ‘No, sir!’ said the colonel, ‘I never learnt the language of the scoundrels!!!’ The colonel was known as ‘Col. Sandy Sutherland,’ and the men always called him Colonel Sandy. He was a splendid specimen of the hale veteran, with a stentorian voice, and the last queue I remember to have seen.”

A correspondent kindly sends me from Aberdeenshire a humorous story, very much of the same sort as that of Colonel Erskine’s servant, who considerately suggested to his master that “maybe an aith might relieve him186.” My correspondent heard the story from the late Bishop Skinner.

It was among the experiences of his father, Bishop John Skinner. While making some pastoral visits in the neighbourhood of the town (Aberdeen), the Bishop took occasion to step into the cottage of two humble parishioners, a man and his wife, who cultivated a little croft. No one was within; but as the door was only on the latch, the Bishop knew that the worthy couple could not be far distant. He therefore stepped in the direction of the outhouses, and found them both in the barn winnowing corn, in the primitive way, with “riddles,” betwixt two open doors. On the Bishop making his appearance, the honest man ceased his winnowing operations, and in the gladness of his heart stepped briskly forward to welcome his pastor; but in his haste he trod upon the rim of the riddle, which rebounded with great force against one of his shins. The accident made him suddenly pull up; and, instead of completing the reception, he stood vigorously rubbing the injured limb; and, not daring in such a venerable presence to give vent to the customary strong ejaculations, kept twisting his face into all sorts of grimaces. As was natural, the Bishop went forward, uttering the usual formulas of condolence and sympathy, the patient, meanwhile, continuing his rubbings and his silent but expressive contortions. At last Janet came to the rescue; and, clapping the Bishop coaxingly on the back, said, “Noo, Bishop, jist gang ye yir waas into the hoose, an’ we’ll follow fan he’s had time to curse a fyllie, an’ I’se warran’ he’ll seen be weel eneuch!”

The following might have been added as examples of the dry humorous manner in which our countrymen and countrywomen sometimes treat matters with which they have to deal, even when serious ones:—

An itinerant vendor of wood in Aberdeen having been asked how his wife was, replied, “Oh, she’s fine; I hae taen her tae Banchory;” and on it being innocently remarked that the change of air would do her good, he looked up, and, with a half smile, said, “Hoot, she’s i’ the kirk-yard.”

The well-known aversion of the Scotch to hearing read sermons has often led to amusing occurrences. One pastor, in a country district, who was much respected by his people, but who, nevertheless, were never quite reconciled to his paper in the pulpit, found himself on one occasion in an awkward predicament, from this same paper question. One Sabbath afternoon, having exhausted both firstly and secondly, he came to the termination of his discourse; but, unfortunately, the manuscript was wanting. In vain efforts to seek the missing paper, he repeated “thirdly and lastly” ad nauseam to his hearers. At last one, cooler than the others, rose, and nodding to the minister, observed, “‘Deed, sir, If I’m no mista’en, I saw ’thirdly and lastly’ fa’ ower the poopit stairs;” evidently enjoying the disappearance of so important a part of the obnoxious document.

This prejudice was indeed some years since in Scotland quite inveterate. The following anecdote has been kindly sent to me from Memoirs of Charles Young, lately published by his son:—

“I have a distinct recollection, one Sunday when I was living at Cults, and when a stranger was officiating for Dr. Gillespie, observing that he had not proceeded five minutes with his ‘discourse,’ before there was a general commotion and stampedo. The exodus at last became so serious, that, conceiving something to be wrong, probably a fire in the manse, I caught the infection, and eagerly inquired of the first person I encountered in the churchyard what was the matter, and was told, with an expression of sovereign scorn and disgust—‘Losh keep ye, young man! Hae ye eyes, and see not? Hae ye ears, and hear not? The man reads!”

On one occasion, however, even this prejudice gave way before the power of the most eloquent preacher that Scotland ever heard, or perhaps that the world ever heard. A shrewd old Fife hearer of sermons had been objecting, in the usual exaggerated language, against reading sermons in the pulpit. A gentleman urged the case of Dr. Chalmers, in defence of the practice. He used his paper in preaching rigidly, and yet with what an effect he read! All the objector could reply to this was, “Ah, but it’s fell187 reading yon.”

The two following are from a correspondent who heard them told by the late Dr. Barclay the anatomist, well known for his own dry Scottish humour.

A country laird, at his death, left his property in equal shares to his two sons, who continued to live very amicably together for many years. At length one said to the other, “Tam, we’re gettin’ auld now, you’ll tak a wife, and when I dee you’ll get my share o’ the grund.” “Na, John, you’re the youngest and maist active, you’ll tak a wife, and when I dee you’ll get my share.” “Od,” says John, “Tam, that’s jist the way wi’ you when there’s ony fash or trouble. The deevil a thing you’ll do at a’.”

A country clergyman, who was not on the most friendly terms with one of his heritors who resided in Stirling, and who had annoyed the minister by delay in paying him his teinds (or tithe), found it necessary to make the laird understand that his proportion of stipend must be paid so soon as it became due. The payment came next term punctual to the time. When the messenger was introduced to the minister, he asked who he was, remarking that he thought he had seen him before. “I am the hangman of Stirling, sir.” “Oh, just so, take a seat till I write you a receipt.” It was evident that the laird had chosen this medium of communication with the minister as an affront, and to show his spite. The minister, however, turned the tables upon him, sending back an acknowledgment for the payment in these terms:—“Received from Mr. ——, by the hands of the hangman of Stirling, his doer188, the sum of,” etc. etc.

The following story of pulpit criticism by a beadle used to be told, I am assured, by the late Rev. Dr. Andrew Thomson:—

A clergyman in the country had a stranger preaching for him one day, and meeting his beadle, he said to him, “Well, Saunders, how did you like the sermon to-day?” “I watna, sir; it was rather ower plain and simple for me. I like thae sermons best that jumbles the joodgment and confoonds the sense. Od, sir, I never saw ane that could come up to yoursell at that.”

The epithet “canny” has frequently been applied to our countrymen, not in a severe or invidious spirit, but as indicating a due regard to personal interest and safety. In the larger edition of Jamieson (see edition of 1840) I find there are no fewer than eighteen meanings given of this word. The following extract from a provincial paper, which has been sent me, will furnish a good illustration. It is headed, the “PROPERTY QUALIFICATION,” and goes on—“Give a chartist a large estate, and a copious supply of ready money, and you make a Conservative of him. He can then see the other side of the moon, which he could never see before. Once, a determined Radical in Scotland, named Davy Armstrong, left his native village; and many years afterwards, an old fellow grumbler met him, and commenced the old song. Davy shook his head. His friend was astonished, and soon perceived that Davy was no longer a grumbler, but a rank Tory. Wondering at the change, he was desirous of knowing the reason. Davy quietly and laconically replied—‘I’ve a coo (cow) noo.’”

But even still more “canny” was the eye to the main chance in an Aberdonian fellow-countryman, communicated in the following pleasant terms from a Nairn correspondent:—“I have just been reading your delightful ‘Reminiscences,’ which has brought to my recollection a story I used to hear my father tell. It was thus:—A countryman in a remote part of Aberdeenshire having got a newly-coined sovereign in the days when such a thing was seldom seen in his part of the country, went about showing it to his friends and neighbours for the charge of one penny each sight. Evil days, however, unfortunately overtook him, and he was obliged to part with his loved coin. Soon after, a neighbour called on him, and asked a sight of his sovereign, at the same time tendering a penny. ‘Ah, man,’ says he, ‘it’s gane; but I’ll lat ye see the cloutie it was rowt in for a bawbee.’”

There was something very simple-minded in the manner in which a parishioner announced his canny care for his supposed interests when he became an elder of the kirk. The story is told of a man who had got himself installed in the eldership, and, in consequence, had for some time carried round the ladle for the collections. He had accepted the office of elder because some wag had made him believe that the remuneration was sixpence each Sunday, with a boll of meal at New Year’s Day. When the time arrived he claimed his meal, but was told he had been hoaxed. “It may be sae wi’ the meal,” he said coolly, “but I took care o’ the saxpence mysell.”

There was a good deal both of the pawky and the canny in the following anecdote, which I have from an honoured lady of the south of Scotland:—“There was an old man who always rode a donkey to his work, and tethered him while he worked on the roads, or whatever else it might be. It was suggested to him by my grandfather that he was suspected of putting it in to feed in the fields at other people’s expense. ‘Eh, laird, I could never be tempted to do that, for my cuddy winna eat onything but nettles and thristles.’ One day my grandfather was riding along the road, when he saw Andrew Leslie at work, and his donkey up to the knees in one of his clover fields, feeding luxuriously. ‘Hollo, Andrew,’ said he; ‘I thought you told me your cuddy would eat nothing but nettles and thistles.’ ‘Ay,’ said he, ‘but he misbehaved the day; he nearly kicket me ower his head, sae I pat him in there just to punish him.’”

There is a good deal of the same sort of simple character brought out in the two following. They were sent to me from Golspie, and are original, as they occurred in my correspondent’s own experience. The one is a capital illustration of thrift, the other of kind feeling for the friendless, in the Highland character. I give the anecdotes in my correspondent’s own words:—A little boy, some twelve years of age, came to me one day with the following message: “My mother wants a vomit from you, sir, and she bade me say if it will not be strong enough, she will send it back.” “Oh, Mr. Begg,” said a woman to me, for whom I was weighing two grains of calomel for a child, “dinna be so mean wi’ it; it is for a poor faitherless bairn.”

The following, from a provincial paper, contains a very amusing recognition of a return which one of the itinerant race considered himself conscientiously bound to make to his clerical patron for an alms: “A beggar, while on his rounds one day this week, called on a clergyman (within two and a half miles of the Cross of Kilmarnock), who, obeying the biblical injunction of clothing the naked, offered the beggar an old top-coat. It was immediately rolled up, and the beggar, in going away with it under his arm, thoughtfully (!) remarked, ‘I’ll hae tae gie ye a day’s hearin’ for this na.’”

The natural and self-complacent manner in which the following anecdote brings out in the Highlander an innate sense of the superiority of Celtic blood is highly characteristic:—A few years ago, when an English family were visiting in the Highlands, their attention was directed to a child crying; on their observing to the mother it was cross, she exclaimed—“Na, na, it’s nae cross, for we’re baith true Hieland.”

The late Mr. Grahame of Garsock, in Strathearn, whose grandson now “is laird himsel,” used to tell, with great unction, some thirty years ago, a story of a neighbour of his own of a still earlier generation, Drummond of Keltie, who, as it seems, had employed an itinerant tailor instead of a metropolitan artist. On one occasion a new pair of inexpressibles had been made for the laird; they were so tight that, after waxing hot and red in the attempt to try them on, he let out rather savagely at the tailor, who calmly assured him, “It’s the fash’n; it’s jist the fash’n.” “Eh, ye haveril, is it the fashion for them no to go on?”

An English gentleman writes to me—“We have all heard much of Scotch caution, and I met once with an instance of it which I think is worth recording, and which I tell as strictly original. About 1827, I fell into conversation, on board of a Stirling steamer, with a well-dressed middle-aged man, who told me he was a soldier of the 42d, going on leave. He began to relate the campaigns he had gone through, and mentioned having been at the siege of St. Sebastian.—‘Ah! under Sir Thomas Graham?’ ‘Yes, sir; he commanded there.’ ‘Well,’ I said, merely by way of carrying on the crack, ‘and what do you think of him?’ Instead of answering, he scanned me several times from head to foot, and from foot to head, and then said, in a tone of the most diplomatic caution, ‘Ye’ll perhaps be of the name of Grah’m yersel, sir?’ There could hardly be a better example, either of the circumspection of a real canny Scot, or of the lingering influence of the old patriarchal feeling, by which ‘A name, a word, makes clansmen vassals to their lord.’”

Now when we linger over these old stories, we seem to live at another period, and in such reminiscences we converse with a generation different from our own. Changes are still going on around us. They have been going on for some time past. The changes are less striking as society advances, and we find fewer alterations for us to notice. Probably each generation will have less change to record than the generation that preceded; still every one who is tolerably advanced in life must feel that, comparing its beginning and its close, he has witnessed two epochs, and that in advanced life he looks on a different world from one which he can remember. To elucidate this fact has been my present object, and in attempting this task I cannot but feel how trifling and unsatisfactory my remarks must seem to many who have a more enlarged and minute acquaintance with Scottish life and manners than I have. But I shall be encouraged to hope for a favourable, or at least an indulgent, sentence upon these Reminiscences, if to any of my readers I shall have opened a fresh insight into the subject of social changes amongst us. Many causes have their effect upon the habits and customs of mankind, and of late years such causes have been greatly multiplied in number and activity. In many persons, and in some who have not altogether lost their national partialities, there is a general tendency to merge Scottish usages and Scottish expressions into the English forms, as being more correct and genteel. The facilities for moving, not merely from place to place in our own country, but from one country to another; the spread of knowledge and information by means of periodical publications and newspapers; and the incredibly low prices at which literary works are produced, must have great effects. Then there is the improved taste in art, which, together with literature, has been taken up by young men who, fifty, sixty, seventy years ago, or more, would have known no such sources of interest, or indeed who would have looked upon them as unmanly and effeminate. When first these pursuits were taken up by our Scottish young men, they excited in the north much amazement, and, I fear, contempt, as was evinced by a laird of the old school, who, the first time he saw a young man at the pianoforte, asked, with evident disgust, “Can the creature sew ony?” evidently putting the accomplishment of playing the pianoforte and the accomplishment of the needle in the same category.

The greater facility of producing books, prints, and other articles which tend to the comfort and embellishment of domestic life, must have considerable influence upon the habits and tastes of a people. I have often thought how much effect might be traced to the single circumstance of the cheap production of pianofortes. An increased facility of procuring the means of acquaintance with good works of art and literature acts both as cause and effect. A growing and improved taste tends to stimulate the production of the best works of art. These, in return, foster and advance the power of forming a due estimate of art. In the higher department of music, for example, the cheap rate not only of hearing compositions of the first class, but of possessing the works of the most eminent composers, must have had influence upon thousands. The principal oratorios of Handel may be purchased for as many shillings each as they cost pounds years ago. Indeed, at that time the very names of those immortal works were known only to a few who were skilled to appreciate their high beauties. Now associations are formed for practising and studying the choral works of the great masters.

We might indeed adduce many more causes which seem to produce changes of habits, tastes, and associations, amongst our people. For example, families do not vegetate for years in one retired spot as they used to do; young men are encouraged to attain accomplishments, and to have other sources of interest than the field or the bottle. Every one knows, or may know, everything that is going on through the whole world. There is a tendency in mankind to lose all that is peculiar, and in nations to part with all that distinguishes them from each other. We hear of wonderful changes in habits and customs where change seemed impossible. In India and Turkey even, peculiarities and prejudices are fading away under the influence of time. Amongst ourselves, no doubt, one circumstance tended greatly to call forth, and, as we may say, to develop, the peculiar Scotch humour of which we speak—and that was the familiarity of intercourse which took place between persons in different positions of life. This extended even to an occasional interchange of words between the minister and the members of his flock during time of service. I have two anecdotes in illustration of this fact, which I have reason to believe are quite authentic. In the church of Banchory on Deeside, to which I have referred, a former minister always preached without book, and being of an absent disposition, he sometimes forgot the head of discourse on which he was engaged, and got involved in confusion. On one occasion, being desirous of recalling to his memory the division of his subject, he called out to one of his elders, a farmer on the estate of Ley, “Bush (the name of his farm), Bush, ye’re sleeping.” “Na, sir, I’m no sleeping—I’m listening.” “Weel, then, what had I begun to say?” “Oh, ye were saying so and so.” This was enough, and supplied the minister with the thread of his discourse; and he went on. The other anecdote related to the parish of Cumbernauld, the minister of which was at the time referred to noted for a very disjointed and rambling style of preaching, without method or connection. His principal heritor was the Lord Elphinstone of the time, and unfortunately the minister and the peer were not on good terms, and always ready to annoy each other by sharp sayings or otherwise. The minister on one occasion had somewhat in this spirit called upon the beadle to “wauken my Lord Elphinstone,” upon which Lord Elphinstone said, “I’m no sleeping, minister.” “Indeed you were, my lord.” He again disclaimed the sleeping. So as a test the preacher asked him, “What I had been saying last then?” “Oh, juist wauken Lord Elphinstone.” “Ay, but what did I say before that?” “Indeed,” retorted Lord Elphinstone, “I’ll gie ye a guinea if ye’ll tell that yersell, minister.” We can hardly imagine the possibility of such scenes now taking place amongst us in church. It seems as if all men were gradually approximating to a common type or form in their manners and views of life; oddities are sunk, prominences are rounded off, sharp features are polished, and all things are becoming smooth and conventional. The remark, like the effect, is general, and extends to other countries as well as to our own. But as we have more recently parted with our peculiarities of dialect, oddity, and eccentricity, it becomes the more amusing to mark our participation in this change, because a period of fifty years shows here a greater contrast than the same period would show in many other localities.

I have already referred to a custom which prevailed in all the rural parish churches, and which I remember in my early days at Fettercairn; the custom I mean, now quite obsolete, of the minister, after pronouncing the blessing, turning to the heritors, who always occupied the front seats of the gallery, and making low bows to each family. Another custom I recollect:—When the text had been given out, it was usual for the elder branches of the congregation to hand about their Bibles amongst the younger members, marking the place, and calling their attention to the passage. During service another handing about was frequent among the seniors, and that was a circulation of the sneeshin-mull or snuff-box. Indeed, I have heard of the same practice in an Episcopal church, and particularly in one case of an ordination, where the bishop took his pinch of snuff, and handed the mull to go round amongst the clergy assembled for the solemn occasion within the altar-rails.

Amongst Scottish reminiscences which do not extend beyond our own recollections we may mention the disappearance of Trinity Church in Edinburgh, which has taken place within the last quarter of a century. It was founded by Mary of Gueldres, queen of James II. of Scotland, in 1446, and liberally endowed for a provost, prebendaries, choristers, etc. It was never completed, but the portions built—viz., choir, transept, and central tower—were amongst the finest specimens of later Gothic work in Scotland. The pious founder had placed it at the east end of what was then the North Loch. She chose her own church for the resting-place of her remains as a sanctuary of safety and repose. A railway parliamentary bill, however, overrides founder’s intentions and Episcopal consecrations. Where once stood the beautiful church of the Holy Trinity, where once the “pealing organ” and the “full-voiced choir” were daily heard “in service high and anthems clear”—where for 400 years slept the ashes of a Scottish Queen—now resound the noise and turmoil of a railway station.

But we have another example of the uncertainty of all earthly concerns, and one which supplies a Scottish reminiscence belonging to the last seventy years. Wilhelmina, Viscountess Glenorchy, during her lifetime, built and endowed a church for two ministers, who were provided with very handsome incomes. She died 17th July 1786, and was buried on the 24th July, aged 44. Her interment took place, by her own direction, in the church she had founded, immediately in front of the pulpit; and she fixed upon that spot as a place of security and safety, where her mortal remains might rest in peace till the morning of the resurrection. But alas for the uncertainty of all earthly plans and projects for the future!—the iron road came on its reckless course and swept the church away. The site was required for the North British Railway, which passed directly over the spot where Lady Glenorchy had been buried. Her remains were accordingly disinterred 24th December 1844; and the trustees of the church, not having yet erected a new one, deposited the body of their foundress in the vaults beneath St. John’s Episcopal Church, and after resting there for fifteen years, they were, in 1859, removed to the building which is now Lady Glenorchy’s Church.

In our reminiscences of many changes which have taken place during fifty years in Scottish manners, it might form an interesting section to record some peculiarities which remain. I mean such peculiarities as yet linger amongst us, and still mark a difference in some of our social habits from those of England. Some Scottish usages die hard, and are found still to supply amusement for southern visitors. To give a few examples, persons still persist among us in calling the head of a family, or the host, the landlord, although he never charged his guests a halfpenny for the hospitality he exercises. In games, golf and curling still continue to mark the national character—cricket was long an exotic amongst us. In many of our educational institutions, however, it seems now fairly to have taken root. We continue to call our reception rooms “public rooms,” although never used for any but domestic purposes. Military rank is attached to ladies, as we speak of Mrs. Lieutenant Fraser, Mrs. Captain Scott, Mrs. Major Smith, Mrs. Colonel Campbell. On the occasion of a death, we persist in sending circular notices to all the relatives, whether they know of it or not—a custom which, together with men wearing weepers at funeral solemnities, is unknown in England189. Announcing a married lady’s death under her maiden name must seem strange to English ears—as, for example, we read of the demise of Mrs. Jane Dickson, spouse of Thomas Morison. Scottish cookery retains its ground, and hotch-potch, minced collops, sheep’s head singed, and occasionally haggis, are still marked peculiarities of the Scottish table. These social differences linger amongst us. But stronger points are worn away; eccentricities and oddities such as existed once will not do now. One does not see why eccentricity should be more developed in one age than in another, but we cannot avoid the conclusion that the day for real oddities is no more. Professors of colleges are those in whom one least expects oddity—grave and learned characters; and yet such have been in former times. We can scarcely now imagine such professors as we read of in a past generation. Take the case of no less distinguished a person than Adam Smith, author of the Wealth of Nations, who went about the streets talking and laughing to himself in such a manner as to make the market women think he was deranged; and he told of one himself who ejaculated, as he passed, “Hech, sirs, and he is weel pat on, too!” expressing surprise that a decided lunatic, who from his dress appeared to be a gentleman, should be permitted to walk abroad unattended. Professors still have their crotchets like other people; but we can scarcely conceive a professor of our day coming out like Adam Smith, and making fishwives to pass such observations on his demeanour.

Peculiarities in a people’s phraseology may prove more than we are aware of, and may tend to illustrate circumstances of national history. Thus many words which would be included by Englishmen under the general term of Scotticisms, bear directly upon the question of a past intercourse with France, and prove how close at one time must have been the influence exercised upon general habits in Scotland by that intercourse. Scoto-Gallic words were quite differently situated from French words and phrases adopted in England. With us they proceeded from a real admixture of the two peoples. With us they form the ordinary common language of the country, and that was from a distant period moulded by French. In England, the educated and upper classes of late years adopted French words and phrases. With us, some of our French derivatives are growing obsolete as vulgar, and nearly all are passing from fashionable society. In England, we find the French-adopted words rather receiving accessions than going out of use.

Examples of words such as we have referred to, as showing a French influence and admixture, are familiar to many of my readers. I recollect some of them in constant use amongst old-fashioned Scottish people, and those terms, let it be remembered, are unknown in England.

A leg of mutton was always, with old-fashioned Scotch people, a gigot (Fr. gigot).

The crystal jug or decanter in which water is placed upon the table, was a caraff (Fr. carafe).

Gooseberries were groserts, or grossarts (Fr. groseille).

Partridges were pertricks,—a word much more formed upon the French perdrix than the English partridge.

The plate on which a joint or side-dish was placed upon the table was an ashet (Fr. assiette).

In the old streets of Edinburgh, where the houses are very high, and where the inhabitants all live in flats, before the introduction of soil-pipes there was no method of disposing of the foul water of the household, except by throwing it out of the window into the street. This operation, dangerous to those outside, was limited to certain hours, and the well-known cry, which preceded the missile and warned the passenger, was gardeloo! or, as Smollett writes it, gardy loo (Fr. garge de l’eau).

Anything troublesome or irksome used to be called, Scotticè, fashions (Fr. facheux, facheuse); to fash one’s-self (Fr. se facher).

The small cherry, both black and red, common in gardens, is in Scotland, never in England, termed gean (Fr. guigne), from Guigne, in Picardy.

The term dambrod, which has already supplied materials for a good story, arises from adopting French terms into Scottish language, as dams were the pieces with which the game of draughts was played (Fr. dammes). Brod is board.

A bedgown, or loose female upper garment, is still in many parts of Scotland termed a jupe (Fr. jupe).

In Kincardineshire the ashes of a blacksmith’s furnace had the peculiar name of smiddy-coom (Fr. écume, i.e. dross).

Oil, in common Scotch, used always to be ule,—as the uley pot, or uley cruse (Fr. huile).

Many of my readers are no doubt familiar with the notice taken of these words by Lord Cockburn, and with the account which he gives of these Scottish words derived from the French, probably during the time of Queen Mary’s minority, when French troops were quartered in Scotland. I subjoin a more full list, for which I am indebted to a correspondent, because the words still lingering amongst us are in themselves the best REMINISCENCES of former days.

Scotch.	English.	French.
Serviter	Napkin	From Serviette.
Gigot (of mutton)	...	″ Gigot.
Reeforts	Radishes	″ Raiforts.
Grosserts	Gooseberries	″ Groseilles.
Gardyveen	Case for holding wine	″ Garde-vin.
Jupe	Part of a woman’s dress	″ Jupe.
Bonnaille	A parting glass with a	″ Bon aller.
	friend going on a journey
Gysard	Person in a fancy dress	″ Guise.
Dambrod	Draught-board	″ Dammes.
Pantufles	Slippers	″ Pantoufles.
Haggis	Hashed meat	″ Hachis.
Gou	Taste, smell	″ Gout.
Hogue	Tainted	″ Haut gout.
Grange	Granary	″ Grange.
Mouter	Miller’s perquisite	″ Mouture.
Dour	Obstinate	″ Dur.
Douce	Mild	″ Doux.
Dorty	Sulky	″ Dureté.
Braw	Fine	″ Brave.
Kimmer	Gossip	″ Commère.
Jalouse	Suspect	″ Jalouser.
Vizzy	To aim at, to examine	″ Viser.
Ruckle	Heap (of stones)	″ Recueil.
Gardy-loo	(Notice well known in	″ Gardez-l’eau.
	Edinburgh)
Dementit	Out of patience, deranged	″ Dementir.
On my verity	Assertion of truth	″ Verité.
By my certy	Assertion of truth	″ Certes.
Aumrie	Cupboard	″ Almoire, in old
		French.
Walise	Portmanteau	″ Valise.
Sucker	Sugar	″ Sucre
Petticoat-tails	Cakes of triangular shapes	″ Petits gatelles
		(gateaux).
Ashet	Meat-dish	″ Assiette.
Fashious	Troublesome	″ Facheux.
Prush, Madame190	Call to a cow to come	″ Approchez,
	forward	Madame

Edinburgh Street Cry:—“Neeps like sucker. Whae’ll buy neeps?” (turnips).

I dwell the more minutely on this question of Scottish words, from the conviction of their being so characteristic of Scottish humour, and being so distinctive a feature of the older Scottish race. Take away our Scottish phraseology, and we lose what is our specific distinction from England. In these expressions, too, there is often a tenderness and beauty as remarkable as the wit and humour. I have already spoken of the phrase “Auld-lang-syne,” and of other expressions of sentiment, which may be compared in their Anglican and Scotch form.

FOOTNOTES:

Notes

160 After all, the remark may not have been so absurd then as it appears now. Burns had not been long dead, nor was he then so noted a character as he is now. The Scotsmen might really have supposed a Southerner unacquainted with the fact of the poet’s death.

161 Choice.
162 A vessel.
163 Juice.
164 Broth.
165 Rev. A.K.H. Boyd.

166 I believe the lady was Mrs. Murray Keith of Ravelston, with whom Sir Walter had in early life much intercourse.

167 Disputing or bandying words backwards and forwards.
168 In Scotland the remains of the deceased person is called the “corp.”
169 Laudanum and calomel.
170 Read from the same book.
171 Sorely kept under by the turkey-cock.

172 Close the doors. The old woman was lying in a “box-bed.” See Life of Robert Chambers, p. 12.

173 Empty pocket.
174 A cough.
175 Shrivelled.
176 Confound.
177 Empty.

178 It was of this minister, Mr. Thom of Govan, that Sir Walter Scott remarked “that he had demolished all his own chances of a Glasgow benefice, by preaching before the town council from a text in Hosea, ‘Ephraim’s drink is sour.’”

179 Empty.
180 Basket for fish.
181 Well advanced.
182 Wearied.

183 I have abundant evidence to prove that a similar answer to that which Dr. Alexander records to have been made to Mr. Gillespie has been given on similar occasions by others.

184 Oats heavy in bulk.

185 This Marquis of Lothian was aide-de-camp to the Duke of Cumberland at the battle of Culloden, who sullied his character as a soldier and a nobleman by the cruelties which he exercised on the vanquished.

186 Sir H. Moncreiff’s Life of Dr. J. Erskine.

187 Extraordinary.

188 In Scotland it is usual to term the law-agent or man of business of any person his “doer.”

189 And yet, even as we write, weepers seem to be passing into reminiscence.

190 This expression was adopted apparently in ridicule of the French applying the word “Madame” to a cow.