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

bree[163] 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 bree[164] 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. Boyd[165] 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 kail[166]?"

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

_arglebargling_[167] 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

brither[168]?"

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 calomy[169],"

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 on[170] 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

jock[171]."

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 doors[172],' 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 pouch_[173]."

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

hoast[174]?"

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

"crined[175]" 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 "taigle[176]" 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 _toom_[177]."

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

clergyman[178], 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_ toom[179] 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 creel[180] 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 _un_married. 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 _forrit_[181]." "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 forfauchten[182]."

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 them[183].'

"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 bookit[184] 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 attention[185]. 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

him[186]." 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 _fell_[187] 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'."