Scottish humour in relation to death and the grave.
Resurrectionists. Tombstone inscriptions. ‘Naturals’ in Scotland.
Confused thoughts of second childhood. Belief in witchcraft.
Miners and their superstitions. Colliers and Salters in Scotland
were slaves until the end of the eighteenth century. Metal-mining
in Scotland.
A notable feature in Scottish humour is the frequency with which
it deals with death and the grave. The allusions are sometimes
unintentionally ludicrous, not infrequently grim and ghastly. The
subject seems to have a kind of fascination which has affected people
in every walk of life, more especially the lower ranks. But like
most of the national characteristics, this too appears to be on the
wane, and one has to go back for a generation or two to find the most
pregnant illustrations of it. Dr. Sloan of Ayr, about forty years
ago, told me that a friend of his had gone not long before to see the
parish minister of Craigie, near Kilmarnock, and finding him for the
moment engaged, had turned into the churchyard, where he sauntered past
the sexton, who was at work in digging a grave. As the clergyman was
detained some time, the visitor walked to and fro along the path, and
at length noticed that the sexton’s eyes were pretty constantly fixed
on him, to the detriment of the excavation on which the man should have
been engaged. At last he stopped, and addressing the gravedigger asked,
‘What the deil are you staring at me for? You needna tak’ the measure
o’ me, if that’s what ye’re ettlin’ at, for we bury at Riccarton.’
Mr. Thomas Stevenson, father of the novelist, told me that when the
gravedigger of Monkton was dying his minister came to see him, and
after speaking comfortable words to him for a while, asked if there was
anything on his mind that he would like to speak out. The man looked
up wistfully and answered, ‘Weel, minister, I’ve put 285 corps in that
kirkyard, and I wuss it had been the Lord’s wull to let me mak up the
300.’[33]
[Sidenote: THE RESURRECTIONISTS]
When Chang, the Chinese giant, was exhibited in Glasgow, an elderly
country couple went to see him. After gazing long at him, they retired
without making any observation. At last, as they were going downstairs,
the wife first broke silence with the remark: ‘Eh, Duncan, whatna
coffin he wull tak.’
All over Scotland, and more especially in the lowlands, memorials
remain of the time when graves were opened and coffins were rifled
of their dead, to supply the needs of the dissecting rooms of the
medical schools. In the middle of the eighteenth century, Shenstone,
in protesting against this sacrilege, contended that the bodies of
convicted malefactors should suffice for the needs of the medical
profession--
If Paean’s sons these horrid rites require,
If Health’s fair science be by these refined,
Let guilty convicts, for their use, expire;
And let their breathless corse avail mankind.
But though the bodies of executed murderers had for two centuries been
handed over to surgeons for dissection, the supply of evil-doers must
have been still too scanty, even at a time when theft and robbery were
capitally punished. The growing success of the medical schools in
Scotland increased the demand for human bodies to such a degree as to
offer strong temptation to the enterprise of bold and reckless men. So
frequent did violations of the tomb become as to lead to extraordinary
precautions to prevent them. The graves were protected with heavy iron
gratings securely riveted above them, many of which may still be seen
in the churchyards of Fife and the Lothians. Watch-houses were likewise
erected in the burial-grounds to serve as shelters for the men who in
turn every night took their stations there, with guns loaded, on the
outlook for any midnight marauders. In a commanding position in the
graveyard around the parish church of Crail, one of these houses may
still be seen, bearing the suggestive record--
ERECTED for securing the DEAD
Ann. Dom. MDCCCXXVI.
The trade of the ‘resurrection-men’ was finally destroyed by an Act
of Parliament passed in the year 1832, in consequence of the murders
committed by Burke and Hare in Edinburgh, and Bishop and Williams in
London. This measure, by permitting the unclaimed bodies of paupers,
dying in poor-houses, to be taken for dissection to the medical
schools, provided a supply of subjects which, if not abundant, at least
prevented any further violations of the grave.
[Sidenote: TOMBSTONE INSCRIPTIONS]
Of the monumental inscriptions in Scottish graveyards various
collections have been published, and to these many more might be
added. They have seldom any literary excellence, and their chief
interest arises from their oddities of spelling and grammar, and their
conceptions of a future state. As an illustrative example of them, I
may cite one from the kirkyard of Sweetheart Abbey, in the Stewartry of
Kirkcudbright.
Here lyes The body of Alex
ander Houston son of Matthe^w
Houston and Jean Milligan in
Parish of New Abbay born
August y^e 12^{th} 1731 died July y^e 15^{th} 1763
Non est mortale quid opto
Farew^{e}ll my obedient Son of Neighbours well belov’d
and an Exempler Christian near thirty two remov’d
Farewell a while my parents bot^h Brothers and Sisters all
I’ll at the Resurrection day obey the Trumpets call.
The insertion of a few words of bad Latin (probably unintelligible to
the grieving family), the farewell to the departed, his farewell in
response, and the sacrifice of grammar to the exigencies of verse,
are characteristic features on the gravestones earlier than the
beginning of the last century. Some of these peculiarities are further
illustrated by a more ambitious piece of versification which I copied
from a tombstone in the churchyard of Berwick-on-Tweed. Though not
strictly within the bounds of Scotland, the stone lies at least on the
north side of the Tweed, and in its defiance of grammatical niceties is
not unworthy of the pen of a northern elegist.
1. The peaceful mansions of the dead
Are scattered far and near
But by the stones o’er this yard spread
Seem numerously here
2. A relative far from his home
Mindful of men so just
Reveres this spot inscribes this tomb
And in his God doth trust
3. That he shall pass a righteous life
Leve long for sake of seven
Return in safety to his wife
And meet them both in heaven
4. God bless the souls departed hence
This church without a steeple
The king the clergy and the good sense
Of all the Berwick people
[Sidenote: RAPID DECAY OF TOMBSTONES]
In connexion with tombstones, I may refer to the frequently rapid decay
of the materials of which they are made, in such a climate as that of
Scotland. Nearly five-and-twenty years ago I investigated this subject
among the old graveyards of Edinburgh and other parts of the country,
and found that while some varieties of hard siliceous sandstone retain
their inscriptions quite sharp at the end of two centuries, as in the
case of Alexander Henderson’s tombstone in Greyfriars Churchyard,
no marble monument, freely exposed to the elements in a town, will
survive in a legible condition for a single century. As an example of
this disintegration I cited the handsome monument erected, in that
same churchyard, to the memory of the illustrious Joseph Black, who
died in 1799. It consisted of a large slab of white marble, let into
a massive framework of sandstone. Less than eighty years had sufficed
to render the inscription partly illegible, and the stone, bulging out
in the centre and rent by numerous cracks, was evidently doomed to
early destruction. Three years ago I returned to see the condition of
the tomb, and then found that the marble had disappeared entirely, its
place being now taken by a sandstone slab, on which the authorities
had with pious care copied the original inscription. Here the marble,
though partially protected by the overhanging masonry of the monument
and by a high wall that screened it in some measure from the western
rains, had fallen into irreparable ruin in less than a hundred years.
A curious attitude of mind towards one who has died, but is still
unburied, is shown by the use of the word ‘corp,’ which is popularly
supposed to be the singular of ‘corpse.’ This usage may be illustrated
by an incident told me by the late Henry Drummond as having occurred
in his own experience. While attending the funeral of a man with whom
he had had no acquaintance, he enquired of one of the company what
employment the deceased had followed. The person questioned did not
know, but at once asked his next neighbour, ‘I’m sayin’, Tam, what was
the corp to trade?’
An old couple were exceedingly annoyed that they had not been invited
to the funeral of one of their friends. At last the good wife consoled
her husband thus: ‘Aweel, never you mind, Tammas, maybe we’ll be haein’
a corp o’ our ain before lang, and we’ll no ask them.’
A gentleman came to a railway station where he found a mourning party.
Wishing to be sympathetic, he enquired of one of the company whether
it was a funeral, and received the reply: ‘We canna exactly ca’ it a
funeral, for the corp has missed the railway connection.’
[Sidenote: FUNERALS]
At a funeral in Glasgow, a stranger who had taken his seat in one
of the mourning coaches excited the curiosity of the other three
occupants, one of whom at last addressed him, ‘Ye’ll be a brither o’
the corp?’ ‘No, I’m no a brither o’ the corp,’ was the prompt reply.
‘Weel, then, ye’ll be his cousin?’ ‘No, I’m no that.’ ‘No! then ye’ll
be at least a frien’ o’ the corp?’ ‘No that either. To tell the truth,
I’ve no been that weel mysel’, and as my doctor has ordered me some
carriage exercise, I thocht this wad be the cheapest way to tak’ it.’
It has often been remarked how great an attraction funerals have for
some half-witted people. There used to be one of these poor creatures
in an Ayrshire village, who, when any one was seriously ill, would from
time to time knock at the door and enquire, ‘Is she ony waur (worse)?’
his hopes rising at any relapse, and the consequent prospect of another
interment.
A great change for the better has come over the usages connected
with burials in Scotland. In old days, as already mentioned, the
‘lyke-wakes’ were often scenes of shocking licence and debauchery.
By degrees these painful exhibitions have become less and less
objectionable until now, except that there is still sometimes too
liberal a dispensing of whisky, there is little that can be found
fault with. In country places, where the mourners have often to come
from long distances to attend a funeral, refreshments of some kind are
perhaps necessary, but it is unfortunate that the average Scot would
think such refreshments decidedly ‘wairsh’ (tasteless) if they did not
include an adequate provision of the national drink. Accordingly, it is
still too common to think first of seeing that whisky enough has been
obtained, even where the claims of pedestrians from a distance have
not to be considered. Thus one of the family of an old dying woman was
asked, ‘Is your Auntie still livin’?’ ‘Ay,’ was the answer, ‘she’s no
just deid yet; but we’ve gotten in the whusky for the funeral.’
[Sidenote: VILLAGE NATURALS]
I remember the first funeral I saw fifty years ago in the Highlands. It
was in the old graveyard of Kilchrist, Skye, where a large company of
crofters had gathered from all parts of the parish of Strath. There
was a confused undertone of conversation audible at a little distance
as I passed along the public road; and as soon as I came in sight two
or three of the mourners at once made for me, carrying bottle, glasses,
and a plate of bits of cake. Though I was an entire stranger to them
and to the deceased, I knew enough of Highland customs and feelings to
be assured that on no account could I be excused from at least tasting
the refreshments. The halt of a few minutes showed me that much whisky
was being consumed around the ruined kirk.
In former days most parishes in the country possessed one or more
‘naturals,’ whose lives were embittered by the persecution of the
children, though they might be kindly enough treated by the elders,
whom they amused by the oddities of their ways and the quaintness
of their expressions. Since the establishment of the Lunacy Board,
however, they have been mostly drafted into asylums, much to the
increase of the decency of the communities, though a little of the
picturesqueness of village life has thereby been lost. One of these
‘fules’ was seen marching along quickly with a gun over his shoulder.
Its owner knew it not to be loaded, but he called out, ‘Archie, where
are you going wi’ the gun? You are no’ wantin’ to shoot yoursell?’
‘No,’ said he, ‘I’m no’ jist gaun to shoot mysell, but I’m gaun to gie
mysell a deevil o’ a fleg (fright).’
[Sidenote: AN ARRAN NATURAL]
Many years ago a half-witted but pawky attendant, perhaps as much knave
as fool, was a well-known figure at the old inn of Brodick, in Arran.
He was employed in miscellaneous errands and simple bits of work about
the inn or the farm, such as suited his capacity, and he was noted for
having a specially pronounced love of brandy. One day he was seen by
two visitors at the hotel, pushing a boat down the beach and getting
the oars ready. They accosted him and asked where he was bound for. He
answered that he was going across the bay to Corriegills for a bag or
two of potatoes. Their request to be allowed to accompany him was all
the more willingly complied with, inasmuch as they at once proposed
that they should pull the oars if he would steer. Sandy had not much
English, but he employed it to the best of his ability in the hope that
it might be the means of gaining him some of his favourite liquor.
Having crossed the bay, the boat was pulled towards the large granite
boulder that forms so notable a landmark on that part of the shore. He
directed the attention of his crew to it, and said:
‘D’ye see that muckle stane? Weel, maybe ye’ll no’ be believin’ me, but
it’s the truth I’m tellin’ ye. If onybody wad be climmin’ to the tap o’
that stane and wad be roarin’ as loud as he likes, there’s naebody can
hear him.’
‘Nonsense; we don’t believe a word of it.’
‘But I wad wager ye onythin’ ye like it’s true. I wad be wagerin’ ye a
bottle o’ brandy, if ye like.’
‘Very well, we’ll try. You jump ashore and get on the stone and roar.’
Sandy with great alacrity sprang out of the boat, and was speedily on
the great grey boulder. He opened his mouth and swung his body, as if
he were roaring with the strength of ten bulls of Bashan, until he
grew purple in the face with his apparent efforts to make a noise. But
though he stooped and gesticulated, he took care that never a sound
should escape from him.
‘Wass you hearin’ me?’ he asked with a triumphant face when he had come
down to the boat again.
‘You rascal, you never gave a sound.’
‘Ochan, ochan, wass you not seein’ that I was screamin’ till I couldna
scream ony more, whatefer?’
‘Very extraordinary, to be sure. Well, we’ll try ourselves.’
So saying they jumped upon the beach, and, with rather less agility
than Sandy had shown, clambered up the stone, while he stood beside the
boat. When they were both on the top, they proceeded to shout with such
vehemence that they might have been heard on the other side of the bay.
Sandy, however, as if intent on hearing the faintest sound, put his
hand behind each ear in turn, and bent his head now to one side, now to
the other. When the two strangers had had enough of this performance,
they came down, and indignantly demanded:
‘Well, Sandy, do you mean to tell us that you did not hear?’
‘Hear ye!’ said he. ‘Wass you roarin’ at all. I was never hearin’ wan
bit.’
He had a remarkable power of expressing astonishment by his mere looks,
and put on a face of child-like innocence when he protested that no
sound at all had been heard by him. Feeling that they had been ‘sold’
by this apparent ‘natural,’ they left him to fetch his potatoes and
pull the boat back himself. But he had his brandy that evening.
[Sidenote: AYRSHIRE WITCHES]
Removed into asylums, the village idiots lose the opportunity of giving
expression to the memorable sayings which free contact with their
kinsfolk and the irritation caused by their young persecutors used
to produce. But even there their oddity of phrase comes occasionally
forward. My old companion, John Young, already referred to, used
to tell how, when he was one of the assistant physicians in the
Morningside Asylum at Edinburgh, he was one morning reading prayers.
The weather being raw and chilly, he had a cough, which interrupted him
at the end of the petition, ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’ During
the pause, one of the patients, sitting in front of him, added in an
audible voice, ‘and _butter_.’
The second childhood of old age among people who have been sane all
their lives sometimes gives rise to confusion of thought and language
such as no half-witted creature can rival. I knew an old Scottish lady
who used to make curious lapses of this kind. Her nephew met me one day
and said, ‘I must give you auntie’s last. She was in bed, and, calling
her maid, said to her: “Jenny, if I’m spared to be taken away soon, I
hope my nephew Thomas will get the doctor to open my head, and see if
anything canna be done for my hearin’.”’
The belief in witchcraft, though it still maintains its hold in
the remote districts of the Highlands and Islands, may be regarded
as practically extinct in the non-Celtic parts of the country. Yet
it flares out now and then in the lowlands, as if it were still
smouldering underneath the surface, ready to be awakened once more when
the occasion arises to revive it. Forty years ago, in the valley of
the Girvan Water, there were some old colliers whose grandmothers had
been reputed witches, and who, though they professed to disbelieve the
report, had evidently a deep-grounded respect for it. One of these men
described to me some of his own experiences in the matter. When still a
lad, he was walking one Sunday evening along the road near Kilgrammie
with a companion and a fox-terrier. The dog had jumped over a low wall
into a field, and they were attracted by its loud barking. Looking over
the wall they saw that it was chasing a hare, which, instead of making
its escape, seemed to be enjoying the game, and was racing to and fro
across the field. The two lads soon leapt over the wall to join in the
sport. At last the hare, tired apparently of the exercise, made for a
low part of the far wall and scrambled over it. When they got up to
the place they were just in time to see the animal lie down on the
doorstep of his grandmother’s cottage, pass both its paws across its
nose, and disappear into the house. It then flashed upon him that as
his grandmother was believed to be able to take the shape of a hare, he
might really have been chasing her all the while. He added that he went
home as fast as he could.
[Sidenote: A WITCH’S FUNERAL]
Another old woman in the neighbouring village of Dailly, who had been
long bed-ridden, was at last near her end. On the afternoon of the
day she died, the boys of the place were busy with their games in the
street, when a hare appeared from the country and tried to pass them.
They at once gave chase, and the animal retreated along the road by
which it had come. Again, a little later, it returned, and once more
attempted to get into the village, but was again chased away. A third
time, however, when their game had carried the boys further along the
street, puss was successful, and before her enemies could reach her,
gained the outside stair that led up to the old woman’s garret, and
disappeared inside the doorway. The invalid died that evening, and the
hare was believed to be either herself or one of her accomplices who
had come to be with her at the last.
Let me try to repeat in the vernacular of the district the tale told
by the grandson of one of these helpless and harmless old women. ‘My
grannie was weel kent to be no’ canny. She had ways of doin’ things and
kennin things that naebody could mak oot. At last she deeit, and she
behoved to be buryit i’ the Barr, that’s a village on the ither side
o’ the hills, laigh doon by the Stinchar. When the funeral day cam’,
we carryit the coffin up the steep road, and when we were gettin’ near
the tap, and hadna muckle breath left, for the coffin was nae licht
wecht, a fine-lookin’ gentleman, ridin’ a fine black horse, made up to
us. Nane o’ us kennt him or had seen him afore. But he rade alangside
o’ us, and cracked awa’ maist croosely, and cheered us sae that we
gaed scrievin’ doon the brae on the ither side. Weel, you may jalouse
we were a wee bit forfeuchen when we cam’ to the kirkyard, and some o’
us thocht we wadna be the waur o’ bit drappie afore we gaed on wi’ the
buryin’. Sae we steppit into the public-hoose. Weel, ye mauna think
we bydeit lang there, but losh me! when we cam’ oot the coffin wi’ my
grannie in’t was awa’, and sae was the man an’ the black horse. And to
this day I canna tell what cam’ ower them.’
[Sidenote: COLLIER SUPERSTITIONS]
Miners are generally a superstitious race. Their subterranean
occupation, with its darkness and its dangers, fosters the inborn
human instinct to credit the supernatural. Hence old beliefs that have
died out in the general community may still be found lingering among
them. A miner who meets a woman, when he starts for his work in the
morning, will turn back again, as the day has become unlucky for him.
Any unexpected event in the mine is sure to awaken all his old-world
‘freits.’ If any of his comrades should, by the falling of part of
the roof of the mine, be crushed to death, he dreads to continue his
ordinary work so long as a corpse remains in the pit, and will spare
himself no labour until he has tunnelled through the fallen roof. A
memorable instance of this devotion has been already alluded to as
having taken place in the little coal-field of Dailly, where one of
the miners was shut off from all communication with mankind by the
crushing down of the roof between him and his fellow-workmen. They
toiled day and night to cut a passage through the material, with the
view of reaching and removing his body, and they found him actually
alive, after being shut up for twenty-three days without food. He died,
however, three days after his rescue.[34] Such an incident could not
fail to awaken to life all the dormant superstitions and fears of the
collier mind. For a long time after, strange sounds and sights were
imagined in the mine.
A more ludicrous recollection of that time was narrated to me by a
survivor of the tragedy. One of his comrades had returned unexpectedly
from work in the forenoon, and, to the surprise of his wife, appeared
in front of their cottage. She was in the habit, unknown to him, of
solacing herself in the early part of the day with a bottle of porter.
On the occasion in question the bottle stood toasting pleasantly before
the fire when the form of the ‘gudeman’ came in sight. In a moment she
drove in the cork and thrust the bottle underneath the blankets of
the box-bed, when he entered, and, seating himself by the fire, began
to light his pipe. In a little while the warmed porter managed to
expel the cork, and to escape in a series of very ominous gurgles from
underneath the clothes. The poor fellow ran outside at once, crying
‘Anither warning, Meg! Rin, rin, the house is fa’ing.’ But Meg ‘kenn’d
what was what fu’ brawly,’ and made for the bed, in time to save only
the last dregs of her intended potation.
[Sidenote: COLLIERS AS SLAVES]
It is strange to reflect that many people now alive have known natives
of Scotland who were born slaves. The colliers and salters had, from
time immemorial, been attached for life to the works in which they
were engaged. They could not legally remove from them, and if they
escaped, could be lawfully pursued, arrested, and brought back to their
proprietors. Their children, too, if once employed in any part of their
work, became from that very fact bondsmen for life. In my own boyhood I
have seen old men and women who were born in such servitude, and worked
in the mines of Midlothian. The women were employed in the pits to
carry up heavy baskets of coals on their backs from underground to the
surface--a laborious and degrading occupation from which they dared not
try to escape.
It is related by Robert Chambers that Bald, the mining engineer,
about the year 1820, came upon an old miner near Glasgow who had been
actually bartered by his master for a pony. When the famous decision
was made by the Court of King’s Bench in June, 1772, that slavery could
not exist in Great Britain, the Court hardly realised that at that
very moment there were hundreds of slaves in Scotland who were bought
and sold as part of the works on which they and their forbears were
employed.
By an act of Parliament of the United Kingdom passed in 1775 (15 George
III. cap. 28) the villainage of colliers and salters was meant to be
finally abolished. The act, which took effect from 1st July of that
year, decreed that all colliers under 21 years of age were to be free
in seven years from that date. Those between 21 and 35 were to be
released after a further service of ten years from the date of the act,
and those between 35 and 45 after a service of seven years, provided
that these two classes, if required, should find and sufficiently
instruct ‘in the art and mystery of coal-hewing or making of salt,’
an apprentice of at least 18 years, and on the perfection of such
instruction, should then be free from further bondage. All persons
above 45 years of age were to be discharged in three years.
[Sidenote: COLLIER WOMEN UNDERGROUND]
Nothing could apparently have been more precise than these
stipulations. Unfortunately, however, they were saddled with a
provision that before any collier or salter could claim the benefit
of the act and gain his freedom, he was compelled to obtain ‘a decree
of the Sheriff Court of the county in which he resides, finding and
declaring that he is entitled unto his freedom under the authority of
this act.’ It may readily be understood that only a small proportion of
the workmen had the means of defraying the cost of such an action at
law. As narrated in the subsequent act of 1799, there was ‘a general
practice among the coal-owners and lessees of coal, of advancing
considerable sums to their colliers, or for their behoof, much beyond
what the colliers are able to repay; which sums are advanced for the
purpose of tempting them to enter into or continue their engagements,
notwithstanding the sums so advanced are kept up as debts against
the colliers.’ Hence, in spite of the legislation, the provision for
emancipation remained a dead letter in regard to the great majority of
the colliers, who continued to be slaves until their death. It was not
until the act of 13th June, 1799 (39 Geo. III. cap. 56) was passed that
the shackles were finally broken, and the colliers of Scotland were
‘declared to be free from their servitude.’
But though no longer legally bound to these collieries, women continued
to be employed in the same laborious and degrading occupation within
the coal mines. Quarter of a century after the act of emancipation
was passed, Hugh Miller, when working as a stone-mason at Niddry,
in Midlothian, found the women-toilers still at their task, and he
has left the following account of them: ‘The collier women of the
village, poor over-toiled creatures, who carried up all the coal from
underground on their backs by a long turnpike stair inserted in one
of the shafts, continued to bear more of the marks of serfdom than
even the men. How these poor women did labour, and how thoroughly,
even at this time, were they characterised by the slave nature! It has
been estimated that one of their ordinary day’s work was equal to the
carrying of a hundredweight from the level of the sea to the top of
Ben Lomond. They were marked by a peculiar type of mouth. It was wide,
open, thick-lipped, projecting equally above and below.... I have seen
these collier-women crying like children, when toiling under their
load along the upper rounds of the wooden stair, and then returning,
scarce a minute after, with the empty creel, singing with glee.’ Some
of these women were still at work when, as a child, I first visited
the district. It was not indeed until 10th August, 1842, that the
act (5 and 6 Vic. cap. 99) was passed which declared it to be ‘unfit
that women and girls should be employed in any mine or colliery,’ and
absolutely prohibited any mine-owner from employing or permitting to
be employed underground any female person whatsoever.
[Sidenote: COLLIER HUMOUR]
Their mole-like operations underground do not wholly eradicate a
sense of humour in the colliers. When engaged in a study of the
Borrowstouness coal-field, I had occasion to see some of the miners
at Kinneil House. One of them remarked to me that they had lately
found ‘Mother Eve’ in one of their pits. I was thereupon shown a large
concretionary mass of sandstone, having a rude resemblance to a human
head and bust. Seeing that this counterfeit presentment of our first
parent did not greatly interest me, a younger member of the band, with
a sly twinkle in his eye, whispered that besides Eve, they had found
the Serpent, and that he was sure I should wish to see that. I was then
taken to the back of the house where the ‘serpent’ lay extended for a
length of some ten or twelve feet. The specimen proved to be one of
the long tree-roots known as _Stigmaria_, and common among the fossil
vegetation of the Coal-measures. Not content with having found the
tempter of the Garden of Eden, the miners had resolved to beautify and
preserve his remains, and had accordingly procured some black lead
with which they had burnished him up like a well-polished grate. Of
greater interest to me at the time was the remembrance that this same
Kinneil House had been the retreat of the illustrious Dugald Stewart
during the later years of his life, whence he gave to the world those
essays and dissertations which mark so notable an epoch in the history
of Scottish philosophy.
Metal-mining, save that of iron, has on the whole, been unsuccessful
in Scotland. The experience of Lord Breadalbane in this direction has
been that of most proprietors who have sought to discover ‘what earth’s
low entrails hold.’ The mines of Leadhills and Wanlockhead are the only
examples that have long been worked, and can still be carried on. The
history of the metal-mining industry in Scotland is well illustrated
by the story told by Chambers of one of the old lairds of Alva, on the
flanks of the Ochil Hills. Walking one day with a friend, he pointed to
a hole on the hillside, and said he had taken fifty thousand pounds out
of it. A little further on he came to another excavation, and added, ‘I
put it all into _that_ hole again.’