the most intolerable. During dinner, you hear the distant grumble of
thunder; there is a word or two dropped, of this hole and that hole--of
this stroke and that stroke--of this tee and that tee; but so soon as
the glass has circulated a little, you are all mish-mash,
helter-skelter, at it again. Done--done! is the word on the match;
shillings, pounds, and guineas fly about like midges in harvest
sunshine. Some one tries to introduce general conversation, by observing
that the coronation went well off; but it is all to no purpose. Their
voice is not heard in the general uproar. The very table seems to take
an interest in the hubbub, and responds to the clenched fist with a
peculiar hollow sound. If this be not pedantry, I know nothing of the
subject. The Old Commodore, a second Uncle Toby, was a pedant; and so
was Willie Herdman, who had fought as a common soldier at the siege of
Gibraltar; and Jumping Jenny was a pedant, who had not an idea beyond a
reel and a fling; and Willie Crosbie was a pedant, who could talk of
nothing but ewes and gimmers; and Geordie Johnston was a pedant, who
valued himself on his small ankles, and nice lambs'-wool stockings; and
Archy Tait was a pedant, who kept up a nightly intercourse with the
devil and all manner of bogles. But time and paper (which is more
precious than time, never to speak of the printing) would fail me, were
I to reveal to you the thousandth part of the cases in which pedantic
idiocy appears. Turn we now, therefore, to another species of the same
genus, to the "SARCASTICAL JESTER," who, though he has not yet obtained
a name amongst the notables, is, undeniably, the greatest and most
offensive Idiot of the whole batch.
We must approach him slily, for he is an exceedingly cunning fellow;
and, when you least think of it, he will be showing you off to some
third party, whom, in his turn, he will again be showing off to you.
Dean Swift's housemaid was one of this class, who pinned a dish-clout to
the tail of Dr Sheridan, and pointed him out as an object of ridicule to
all the servants. Nay, Satan himself was a master of works on the
occasion, when he said "eat, and be wise," well knowing that his advice
was folly, and obedience to it death. The practical jester is not a man
of many words, but he looks two ways for Sabbath. He will tread upon
your corny toe, and then ask your pardon, looking all the while slily to
his companion, who is in the secret. He will call you _Kettle of
Barclay_, instead of _Barclay of Kettle_--aware, as he is, that you
value yourself upon your title. He will, above all this, practise upon
you his great leading joke of _Johnnie Hastie's shears_. You are sitting
beside him upon the top of a coach, and thinking of nothing but the
crops, the fields, and the cottages. All at once, you spring to your
feet with a shout, and are precipitated over the driver's seat upon the
backs of the horses. All that he did, or was doing, was to give you a
clip of Johnnie Hastie's shears. Good reader (for all readers of those
Tales are good, like the Tales themselves), dost thou know anything
about Johnnie Hastie or his shears? I shall tell thee.
He was a tailor in the Parish of Crail, famous for fish and herrings--a
real cankered body, but with about an equal quantity of humour or
malevolent wit. Whenever he found a proper opportunity, he used to bend
his fore and middle fingers, and then, protruding the middle joint, and
opening or separating the one from the other, he used to apply this
instrument to the fleshy and most sensitive part of any person who might
happen to sit near him, and, by compressing suddenly the joints and
fingers, gave the impression of severe clipping. This he denominated a
clip of Johnnie Hastie's shears; and hence arose the by-word. An
incident or two of this sort it may not be improper to mention.
It is well known that hiccuping is an unpleasant but a pertinacious
complaint, and that it proceeds from many causes as well as from a too
liberal indulgence in wine. A person who happened to be at the time
afflicted with this convulsive movement was suddenly struck on the back,
by a practical jester, by way of surprising him out of the distemper.
The stroke, however, happened to introduce a small piece of nut kernel,
which he was eating, into his windpipe, and it was not without much
suffering that it was at last extracted. Another came up to a man of
peculiar habits and feelings, observing that he was looking very ill;
and then, meeting him again next day, and a third, and a fourth, made
the same observation. The poor nervous creature took it sadly to heart,
went to bed, and never rose again. He died from the fear of death. At
the siege of Toulon--when balls flew about in abundance--after the
battle was over, and our ships were forced, by the infant Hercules,
Bonaparte, to retreat, an officer went up to his companion, who was
standing with his back towards him in the dark, and slapped him suddenly
on the back betwixt the shoulders. The person suddenly struck jumped up
on the deck, and shouting, "Shot at last, by God!" he died on the spot.
Jeanie Gibson and William Laidlaw were lovers, not in any particular
sentimental manner, but just in the old-fashioned way. They liked each
other's company, sat very close to each other in the dark, and
occasionally indulged in an innocent kiss! But Jeanie was what is called
"bonny," and had more lovers than Willie Laidlaw; one of whom, Bob
Paton, a sly, unfeeling rogue, of the practical-jesting kind, was over
head-and-ears in love with bonny Jeanie. He took it into his head that
he would play a trick upon Jeanie, and make her avow at once her
preference for Willie Laidlaw, whom she only in secret favoured. For
this purpose, he dressed up a figure in what (in the dark) might appear
to be the clothes of Willie Laidlaw, and placed it in a field through
which he knew Laidlaw was to pass. He armed himself with a gun, duly
charged with powder and shot. Firm prepared, he advanced into the field
or park, well knowing that Jeanie Gibson was not only within _sight_,
but within _hearing_ of him, being seated under the cover of a stone
dyke hard by.
"Where are you going, William?" said the practical jester. "I know where
you are going; you are going to meet wi' Jeanie Gibson; but I'll blaw
your brains out first." Thus saying, he fired off his musket, and the
figure immediately fell.
A wild scream was all that was heard, and Jeanie was found lifeless: no,
much worse--deprived of reason for life! She never recovered; but when
her lover was brought into her presence, always said--
"I know--I know it is not my Willie. I saw--I saw him fa'! It isna him;
it canna be him. He's awa--awa--awa!" And then she uniformly fainted.
Nor did the practical jester escape. Willie actually shot him, and was
hanged on Lockerby Muir for the deed.
_Finis coronat opus_--to conclude, I shall e'en take off myself under
the character of
"THE SCRIBBLING IDIOT."
He is always meditating something great, but never carries it into
execution. One day he commences a heroic poem, which terminates the next
in a rebus or sonnet. One day he becomes a dramatist, and pens a scene
of a play on the escape of James the Fifth from the palace of Falkland;
the next he writes an article for the "Tales of the Borders." Now he
undertakes a history of the eight-and-twenty years' persecution--gets
out numerous books from the library--actually writes a preface and a
conclusion in fine style, which ends in a few lines in the poet's corner
of a country newspaper. He sketches a poem, to be entitled,
"Gratitude"--in which dogs, elephants, lions, and even horses, as well
as men and women, are to figure; but he never gets on further than four
very indifferent lines. He is sixty years old; and at sixteen could
write as well and cleverly as he does now. He never takes time to
correct _vetere stylum_, he is always in such a confounded hurry lest
his idea should escape him ere he has given it a black coat and a white
waistcoat. Nobody can equal him in rapidity of composition; but, then,
his composition is like the man's horse, with two faults--"it is very
ill to catch, and not worth a penny when caught." He does everything for
everybody; writes all manner of reviews of books which he has never
read, and quotes authorities which he has never consulted. He gets daily
into scrapes by making use of people's names about whom he knows
nothing, and who abhor, or pretend to abhor, notoriety. One day he is
all devotion and sentiment, the next all fun and frolic. He spends his
life in an endless whirl of fancies, meditations, resolves, attempts,
and finds himself every hour less respected; and, indeed, less
respectable than he once was. The worst of it is, "he knows that he is
an idiot;" but the knowledge does him no manner of good. He takes a
tumbler or two; and then he is, in his own estimation, the very acme of
genius! He knows that, had he possessed perseverance, he might have done
much; and this knowledge, instead of stimulating, paralyses all manner
of effect. His life is a dream; and when he dies, he will be instantly
forgotten. He will set like an equatorial sun, and there will be no
twilight over his memory.
But "_latet dolus in generalibus_"--I set out in life with excellent
prospects--had gained the patronage of a nobleman who had at least
twenty kirks in his gift. In these days the Veto had not shown its
appalling phiz. I had the absolute promise of a kirk, which was sure to
be vacant in a year or two. But nothing would serve me but I would
write some satirical verses on a scolding wife, whom I knew only by
report. I sent the following lines to some magazine of the day.
TUNE--"_Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch_
"Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal[1]--
Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal,
Wat ye how she rated me,
And ca'ed me baith a loon and rascal!
"Her words gaed through me like a sword--
She said she'd gnash our heads together.
Had I sic wife, upon my word,
I'd twist her chanter in a tether.
Tam's wife, &c.
"I did but pree her dinner cheer,
And hadna drunk twa jugs o' toddy,
When _in_ she bang'd like ony bear--
Oh, she is an awsome body!
Tam's wife, &c.
"I took my bonnet and the road,
And to my waefu fate resign'd me;
When, what think ye, the raging jade
Daddit _to_ the door behind me?
Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal--
Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal,
Wat ye how she rated me,
And ca'ed me baith a loon and rascal.
[Footnote 1: Name of a farm.]
Now this song happened to take in the neighbourhood, and was reckoned
severe and clever. The murder came out in a few weeks. I received the
following letter from Lord C----:--
"SIR,--I hear you have been lampooning, in a periodical work, a
person in whom Lady C---- takes a deep interest. I consider
myself relieved from any obligations which your past services
may have imposed upon me.--I remain, &c."
My lord was as good as his word, and that I am now
"Within my noisy mansion skill'd to rule,"
instead of appearing sleek, fat, and comfortable at the General Assembly
now sitting, is owing to my scribbling propensities.
But there is yet one other idiot, with whose character I might close
"this strange, eventful history"--an idiot decidedly the most prominent
of all--an idiot who, in modern times in particular, has proved his
claims on my notice to an unusual extent--an idiot, too, without whose
idiocy mine were literally a dead letter: Reader! gentle reader!--"_Quid
rides--nomine mutato de_ TE"--that is, if you are _displeased_; if not,
you are an angel!
THE FLOSHEND INN.
About the middle of the last century, and previous to it, the truly
national trade of carrying the pack was, as doubtless many of our
readers know, both much more general and respectable than it now is.
It did not then, by any means, occupy the low place in the scale of
traffic to which modern pride, and perhaps modern improvement, have
reduced it. At the period to which we allude, those engaged in this
trade were for the most part men of good substance and of unimpeachable
character, trustworthy, and, in their humble sphere, highly
respectable--circumstances which, doubtless, imparted to their calling
the consideration which it then enjoyed. The reason lies on the surface:
the trade was then both a more extensive and a more important one than
it is now, and required a much greater capital; for there being then
none of those rapid and commodious conveyances for transporting
merchandise from place to place which are now everywhere to be met with,
the greater part of this business was then done by the packmen, who
combined the two characters of merchants and carriers; and in this
double capacity supplied many of the shops of Edinburgh and Glasgow, and
other large towns, with English manufactures. Those, therefore, who
would conceive of the packman of old, an indifferently-clad and
equivocal-looking fellow, with a wooden box on his back, containing his
whole stock, would form a very erroneous idea of the peripatetic
merchant. Their conception would not, in truth, represent the man at
all. The packman of yore kept two or three horses, and these he loaded
with his merchandise, to the value often of several thousand pounds; and
thus he perambulated the country, passing between Scotland and England,
conveying the goods of the one to the other; and thus maintaining the
commercial intercourse of the two kingdoms.
About the year 1746, this trade had arrived at so great a height, that
the high-road to England by Gretna Green was thronged with those engaged
in it, going to and returning from the sister kingdom with their loaded
ponies; and a merry and bustling time of it they kept at the Floshend
Inn. This hostelry, now extinct, was long a favourite resort of these
packmen, or pack-carriers, as they were more generally or more properly
called. It was situated on the Scottish side of the Borders, near to
Gretna Green, and was kept by a very civil and obliging person, of the
luminous name of John Gas--a little, fat, good-humoured,
landlord-looking body, with a countenance strongly expressive of his
comfortable condition, having a capital business, and being very much at
his ease, both in mind and body. His house was a favourite resort of the
pack-carriers; and for good reasons. It was the last inn of any note on
the Scottish side, and was, of consequence, the first they came to on
re-entering their native country from their expeditions into England.
The quarters, besides, were in themselves excellent; the accommodations
were good, and the fare abundant, reasonable, and of the first
quality--especially the liquor, that great _sine qua non_ of good cheer.
In addition to all this, John Gas himself was the very pink of
landlords; humorous, kind, attentive, and obliging; possessing that
valuable quality of being able to stand almost any given quantity of
drink, which enabled him to distribute his presence and his company over
any number of successive guests. Fresh as a bedewed daisy, and steady as
a wave-beaten rock, he was always forthcoming, whatever might have been
the amount of previous duty he had performed; and what might remain yet
to do he always overtook, and executed with credit to himself, and
satisfaction to his customers--no instance having been known of his
having been placed _hors de combat_, either by ale-cup or brandy-bottle.
With such claims on public patronage, it was no wonder that his house
secured so large a share of the custom of the itinerant merchants of the
time; who, so much did they appreciate the comforts of the Floshend Inn,
and so much were they alive to the merits of its host, that they would
not rest, foul or fair, dark or light, anywhere within ten miles of it.
A dozen of them were thus frequently assembled together at the same time
under the hospitable roof; and, being all known to each other, they
formed, on such occasions, a merry corps--spending freely, and sitting
down all together at the same table. A more amusing or more entertaining
company could, perhaps, nowhere be found; for they were all shrewd,
intelligent men--their profession and their wandering lives putting them
in possession of a vast store of curious adventure and anecdote, and
throwing many sights in their way which escape the local fixtures of the
human race. Naturally of a gossiping turn--a propensity made
particularly evident when they chanced to meet together in such a way as
we have described--they were in the habit of amusing each other with
narratives of what they had seen and heard that was strange, and
enlivening the evening with merry tale and jest.
It was somewhere about the month of March, in the year 1750, that a knot
of these worthies, consisting of seven or eight, was assembled in the
cheerful kitchen of the Floshend Inn--an apartment they preferred for
its superior comfort, its blazing fire, and its freedom from all
restraint. Some of the guests present on this occasion were on their way
to England; others had just returned from it, with packs of Manchester
goods, and large bales of Kendal leather. These last, and all other
descriptions of merchandise which his pack-carrier customers brought,
were stowed in a large room in the inn, which the landlord had very
judiciously and very properly appropriated for this purpose; while the
horses that bore them were comfortably quartered in the commodious and
well-ordered stables. They were seated on either side of the fire, with
a small round table between them, on which stood a circle of glasses; in
the centre, a smoking jug, whose contents may be readily guessed; and
close by the table was the landlord, doing the honours of the
occasion--that is, making the brandy-toddy, and filling the glasses of
his guests. The master of ceremonies was in great glee, being precisely
in his element, the situation of all others in which he most
delighted--a bowl of good liquor before him, a set of merry good friends
around him, and the prospect of a neat, snug reckoning in perspective.
The conversation amongst the guests was general; but it might have been
observed that one of the party had got the ear of the landlord, and was
telling him, in an under-tone, some curious story; for the latter, with
head inclined towards the facetious narrator, was chuckling and smirking
at every turn of the humorous tale. At length a sudden roar of laughter
at once announced its consummation, and attracted towards himself the
general attention of the company.
"What's that, mine host?" was an inquiry put by three or four at once.
"Something guid, I warrant; for that was a hearty ane." The speaker
meant Mr Gas's laugh. "What was't?"
"It's a story," replied he, the tears still standing in his eyes, "that
Andrew here has been tellin me, aboot the minister o' Kirkfodden and his
servant lass--and a very guid ane it is. Andrew, will I tell it?" he
added, turning round to the person who had told him the story.
"Surely, surely," replied Andrew; "let it gang to the general guid."
Aweel, freends (said mine host, now confronting his auditors), the
minister o' Kirkfodden, ye maun ken, is, though a clergyman, a droll
sort o' body, and very fond o' a curious story, and still fonder o' a
guid joke--and no a whit the waur is he o' that; for he is a guid,
worthy man, as I mysel ken. The minister had a servant lass they ca'd
Jenny Waterstone--a young, guid-lookin, decent, active quean; and she
had a sweetheart o' the name o' David Widrow--a neighbourin ploughman
lad, a very decent chield in his way--wha used to come skulkin aboot the
manse at nichts, to get a sicht and a word o' Jenny, withoot ony
objection on the part o' the minister, wha believed it to be, as it
really was, an honourable courtship on baith sides. Ae nicht, being
later in his garden than usual--indeed, until it got pretty dark--the
minister's attention was suddenly attracted by a loud whisperin on the
ither side o' the garden wa', just opposite to where he stood. He
listened a moment, and soon discovered that the whisperers were David
Widrow and his servant, and overheard, as the nicht was uncommonly lown,
the followin conversation between the lovin pair:--
"I fear, Jenny," said David, "that the minister winna be owre weel
pleased to see me comin sae aften aboot the house."
"I dinna think he'll be ill pleased," replied Jenny. "He's no ane o'
that kind."
"Still," said David, "I had better let the nicht fa', now and then,
before I come; and then he'll no see me mair than four times a-week or
sae. He canna count that bein very troublesome."
"Just as ye like, David," said she.
"But how am I to let ye ken I'm here?" inquired the lover.
"Ye can just gie a rap at the kitchen window, and I'll come oot to ye,"
replied the girl.
"Very weel," said David; "I'll come and rap at the back window the
morn's nicht."
"Do sae," replied she; "and, if I canna get oot to ye at the moment,
just step into the barn till I come. I'll leave the door open for ye."
This matter arranged, the lovers parted, little suspectin wha had
overheard them; and the minister went into the house. On the followin
evenin, a little after dark, the doctor, closely wrapped up in a plaid
belongin to his servin-man, slipped oot, and, stealin up behind the
house, till he cam to the kitchen window, gave the preconcerted signal,
by gently tappin on it with his fingers. Jenny, who was employed at the
moment in bottlin aff a sma' cask o' choice strong ale, for his ain
particular use, immediately answered the ca', raised the window, and put
oot her head.
"Is that you, David?" said she.
"Yes," said the minister, in a whisper so gentle as to prevent her
recognisin his voice.
"I canna get to ye at present," said Jenny; "for I'm engaged bottlin
some ale, and maun put it a' past before I gang oot; the minister's
waitin till I tak it up the stair; but love maks clever hands, as they
say, and I'll gie ye something to keep ye frae wearyin, in the meantime,
till I come." Sayin this she handed him oot a bottle o' the ale, and a
basket containin some cakes and cheese. "Now," said she, "tak thae awa
to the barn wi' ye, David, and tak a bite and a sowp till I come." And
she drew down the window, and resumed her work. The minister, without
sayin a word, retired wi' his booty, and placed it in a dark corner at a
little distance. In a short time he again returned to the window, and
again rapped. The window was promptly thrown up, and Jenny's head thrust
oot.
"Can ye gie's anither bottle, Jenny?" said the minister, speakin as low
as before, and disguisin his voice as well as he could.
"Anither bottle, David!" exclaimed Jenny, in surprise. "Gude save us
frae a' evil! hae ye finished a hail bottle already? My troth, that's
clever wark! But I canna gie ye anither the nicht, David. It's a' put
past. Besides, ye hae aneugh for ae nicht."
"Weel, weel," said the minister; "come oot as sune as ye can, Jenny."
And he again slippit awa.
Thinkin, now, that he couldna carry the joke farther wi' safety, as
there was great risk o' the real David appearin, the minister slippit
into the house, threw aff his plaid, and went to a little back window
that was immediately over the kitchen ane, from which he could, by a
little cautious management, both see and overhear, unobserved, all that
should pass between Jenny and her lover, when _he_ came on the stage.
Nor had he to wait long for this. In a few minutes after he had taken
his station, he saw David come round the corner o' the house, and steal,
wi' cautious steps, towards the kitchen-window. He rapped. The window
was raised, but evidently wi' some impatience.
"Gude bless me, Davie! are ye there again already?" said Jenny, somewhat
testily. "Dear me, man, can ye no hae patience a bit? I'll come to ye
immediately." And, without waitin for ony answer, she again banged doun
the window.
David was confounded at this treatment; but, as Jenny had gien him nae
time to mak ony remark for her edification, he made ane or twa for his
ain.
"Here _again_!" he said, mutterin to himself--"here _already_! Can I no
hae patience!" Then, after a pause, "What does the woman mean? What
_can_ she mean?"
This was a question, however, which Jenny hersel only could explain; and
for this explanation David had to wait wi' what patience he could
conveniently spare. But he certainly hadna to tarry lang; for, in twa or
three minutes after, a soft, low voice was heard sayin--
"Whar are ye, David?"
"Here," quoth David, in the same cautious voice.
"Dear me, man," said Jenny, "what was a' yer hurry? I'm sure ae rap at
the window was as guid as twenty. Ye micht hae been sure I wad come to
ye as sune as I could."
"Hurry, Jenny! What do ye mean? I was only ance at the window," replied
David. "Ye surely canna ca' that impatience."
"Ye're fou, Davie; that's plain," said Jenny. "The bottle o' ale has
gane to your head, and ye've forgotten. Nae wonder; it wasna sma' beer,
I warrant ye, but real double stoot. Catch the minister drinkin onything
else! Thae black-coats ken what's guid for them." And, without waitin
for ony answer, she proceeded--"But whar hae ye left the basket, Davie?
Is't in the barn?"
"Jenny," said David, now perfectly bewildered by all this, to him,
wholly incomprehensible ravin, "ye say I'm fou; but, if I'm no greatly
mistaen, ye're the fouest o' the twa." And he peered into her face, to
see how far appearances would confirm his conjectures.
"Awa wi' ye, ye stupid gowk!" said Jenny, pushin him good-naturedly from
her. "Ye're just as fou's the Baltic--that's plain. But tell me, man,
whar ye put the basket; for it may be missed? I houp ye haena forgotten
that tae?"
"Jenny," replied David, now somewhat mair sincerely, "will ye tell me at
ance what ye mean? What bottles o' ale and baskets are ye speakin
aboot?"