HUMOUR OF SCOTCH NATURALS
Humour, I have already asserted, is part and parcel of a Scotsman’s
being, and is common to all classes of the Scottish people; and the
remark receives point from the fact that even the daft folk in our land
are touched with a rough-and-ready sense of it. Idiocy, unhappily, has
obtained in all countries, and among all peoples, and “Naturals,” and
persons of sadly inferior intellect, have not been uncommon in Scotland.
Like many another familiar figure in recent Scottish life, the village
or parish idiot, however, is no longer apparent in the native highways
and byways. He has been legislated on, and from his listless and perilous
wanderings hither and thither in the earth, has mercifully been placed
within the confines of some private or charitable institution. When he
roamed “at lairge” he was a striking individual, and claimed no little
attention. The children laughed and ran at his heels, attracted thereto
by the eccentricities of his speech and behaviour. Adult men and women,
sound of head and heart, indulged his idiotic fancies, and treated him
kindly for pity’s sake; while the thoughtless and cruel-minded among the
robust order of the community too often teased his silly soul into a
frenzy, and made him the butt of their cruel and wanton jokes. That he
might be secure from the torment of the latter class is partly the reason
why he has been deprived of his liberty. Every parish has its daft Jamie,
daft Willie, or daft Davie, as the case might be; and being all touched,
less or more, with a sense of humour, as we have said, and daring to
give audible speech to unpleasant truths, which sane persons dared not
more than think, many good stories are told of them. Not unfrequently
they exhibited a degree of cunning and readiness of wit quite unlooked
for in members of their class. Thus, whilst lounging listlessly along
the roadside one day, a North country natural was accosted by a late
Professor in one of our Universities.
“Pray, sir,” inquired the learned servant, “how long may a man live
without brains?”
“I dinna ken,” responded the natural, scratching his head, and eyeing the
Professor critically from top to toe; “how auld are you yersel’?”
Remonstrated with for his do-nothing kind of life, one was told he might
at least herd cows.
“Me herd kye!” said he; “I wonder to hear ye. I’m far ower daft. Man, I
dinna ken grass frae corn.”
Previous to the amelioration in the Poor Law, men of the imbecile class
were found constantly as “hangers-on” about hotels and coach offices,
as well as churchyards on occasions of funerals. About seventy years
ago there lived one of this class in Dunbar, who regularly frequented
the kitchen of the “White Swan,” where he received all his meals. His
appetite was of no common order, and when remonstrated with for eating
all food that came in his way, he was wont to exclaim, “Better belly
burst than gude meat spoil;” and the saying has become a proverb.
Daft Willie Law was the descendant of an ancient family nearly related to
the famous John Law of Laurieston, the celebrated financier of France.
Willie, on that account, was often spoken to and taken notice of by
gentlemen of distinction. Posting one day through Kirkcaldy with more
than ordinary speed, he was met by Mr. Oswald of Dunnikier, who asked him
where he was bound for in such a hurry.
“Gaun!” says Willie, with apparent surprise at the question. “I’m gaun to
my cousin, Lord Elgin’s burial.”
“Your cousin, Lord Elgin’s burial, you fool! Lord Elgin’s not dead,”
responded Mr. Oswald.
“Ah! deil ma care,” quoth Willie, “there’s sax doctors out o’ Embro’ at
him, an’ they’ll hae him dead afore I win forrit,” and off he posted at
an increased rate.
These poor creatures, as Dean Ramsay observes, had invariably a great
delight in attending funerals. In most country places hardly a funeral
ever took place without the attendance of the parochial idiot. And
habit has such a powerful influence that it seemed almost a necessary
association. Funeral scenes of this description had been familiar to the
experience of Sir Walter Scott, who thus portrays a funeral incident in
_Guy Mannering_:—
“The funeral pomp set forth,” says he, “saulies with their batons and
gamphions 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
gravat made of white paper, attended on every funeral, and followed by
six mourning coaches filled with the company.”
It was the free and ample feast of fat things, of course, that generally
proved the attraction; and it serves as a commentary on the social
life of Scotland, in the days of our grandfathers, to find a “natural”
declaring that a certain funeral, which he had attended, “was a puir
affair; there wasna a drunk man at it.”
Asked why he never went to church, a Fife “natural”—at least a Fifer more
_Fifish_ than his fellows—struck a dramatic attitude and exclaimed—“I
love the lark that rises from the green sod with the dew sparkling from
his breast, and soars far up in the blue heavens—_that’s my_ religion.”
Many perfectly sane persons have not so much. And your “natural” could
admonish a stinging reproof when the occasion seemed to demand it. About
the year 1820, at the time of the trial of Queen Caroline, Dr. Wightman
was the popular and esteemed minister of Kirkmahoe, in the County of
Dumfries, and he, like all the old Established clergymen, had been
ordered to omit the Queen’s name from his public prayers. In those days
the Doctor was often seen in the streets of the County town on market
days, and on one of those occasions he happened to meet with daft Jock
Gordon, and as usual stopped to have a little chat with him.
“Good morning, Jock, and how are you to-day?” said the kindly divine.
“Oh, gaily weel, gaily weel, Doctor,” replied Jock; “but, man, they tell
me ye dinna pray for the Queen noo.”
“Quite true, Jock, for I’m afraid she is not a good woman,” replied Dr.
Wightman.
“God bless me, Doctor, ye ken I’m a puir daft creature, and maybe kens
nae better,” said Jock, “but I aye thocht, the waur a body was they aye
wanted the prayin’ for the mair.”
Dr. Wightman felt he had been justly rebuked, and quietly slipped away.
It has become a proverb that “everybody has his bubblyjock,” and the
well-known aphorism rose from the remark of a Scottish half-wit. The
circumstances which produced it occurred in the experience of Sir Walter
Scott, and deserves to be told.
A gentleman conversing with the illustrious author, remarked that he
believed it possible that perfect happiness might be enjoyed, even in
this world.
Sir Walter dissented.
“Well,” said the gentleman, “there is an idiot whom I am certain will
confirm my opinion, he seems the very beau-ideal of animal contentment.”
The daft individual was moving along humming to himself, when Sir Walter
addressed him.
“Weel, Jamie, hoo are ye the day?”
“Brawly, ou brawly,” answered he.
“Have you plenty to eat and drink, Jamie?”
“Ou ay.”
“There,” said the poet’s antagonist, crowing, “is a perfectly happy
creature.”
“Not so fast,” continued Sir Walter. Then to Jamie—
“Is there nathing that bothers ye ava, Jamie?”
“Ou ay,” said the idiot, changing his merry look, “I’m sair hadden doon
by the muckle bubblyjock; he follows me whaurever I gang.”
“Now,” said Sir Walter, “you see from this that the simplest and most
stupid of mankind are haunted by evil of some kind or another—in short,
sir, everybody has his bubblyjock.”
Dour and self-willed, your Natural is frequently moved by the strongest
prejudices either for or against persons and things. I knew of one in
Perthshire who could never be induced to go into a boat, and this
although he was born and lived all his lifetime within a few hundred
yards of the river Tay. “Gang into a boat! Na, na,” he would say, “just
a wee thin dealie atween ye and eternitie!” Of this same individual a
good story is told, which happened in this way. Jock was a frequent
visitor at the “big hoose,” and being neither lame nor lazy, was always
ready to perform a needed turn for a small gratuity. Some years ago, on
the occasion of a shooting battue over the estate, when each sportsman
was appointed a separate bag-carrier, Jock got apportioned to one
who occasioned more deaths among the birds than the majority of the
sportsmen, and consequently he soon made a bag which was not easily
lugged o’er field and fence. Still, on the party hurried, each short
interval adding to Jock’s burden. The sweat oozed from every pore of his
sonsy face, and trickled from his chubby chin; still he complained not.
However, ’tis the last straw that breaks the camel’s back, and a crisis
was imminent. One of the “beaters,” a boy, who had been several times
found fault with by the sportsmen, was sternly rebuked, and was told
by Jock’s man that if he did not steer clear of the guns he would blow
his brains out. Jock saw in the threat an impending big addition to his
already too heavy load, and throwing the bag at the sportsman’s feet, he
wiped his steaming temples, and exclaimed in his own peculiar stuttering
manner—
“Ye can sh-sh-shoot him gin ye like, but I’ll be h-h-hanged if I’m to
c-c-carry him,” and in the highest dudgeon he quitted the field.
Another, who was employed about a farm town, showed, at least on one
occasion, a “sma’ glimmerin’ o’ common sense.” Some one had given him
a penny, and this he went and hid in a crevice in the barn wall. The
farmer, observing what had been done, watched the opportunity, and,
extracting the penny, placed in the crevice a two-shilling piece.
“Strange,” said Jock, when he went to look at his treasure; “turned white
in the face—maun hae catched the cauld,” so rolled the florin in a rag
and put it back.
Next day the farmer changed the coin to a shilling.
“Getting to be a case o’ consumption, I doot,” said Jock on his next
visit.
Next day the rag contained a sixpenny piece.
“Gallopin’ consumption!” exclaimed the natural, and replaced the coin
with a dowie shake of his head.
The farmer next day substituted a half-sovereign.
“Noo ye’ve ta’en the jaundice,” exclaimed Jock on a subsequent visit.
“Ye’ll need to be keepit warm,” and so saying, he placed the coin in his
breek-pooch and _kept it there_.
A minister of the North of Scotland, who was not too ready at paying his
debts, but very fond of a joke, meeting a fool he was in the habit of
teasing, asked him how the potatoes were selling in the moon just now.
“Oh, very cheap, and plenty of them,” said the fool.
“But don’t you think,” said the minister, “that there might be a
difficulty in getting them down?”
“Nae fear o’ that,” answered the fool. “Send up the money, and they’ll
soon send them down.”
A Perthshire tradesman, recently deceased, who was not naturally
weak-minded, but whose intellect had been partially ruined by
dissipation, was confined for several months, a number of years ago,
to Murthly Asylum. On his liberation, he received, in accordance with
the custom of such institutions, the written assurance of two doctors
that he was a person perfectly sane, and safe to be at large. Some time
subsequently, when he was engaged on a “job” along with a number of his
fellow craftsmen at a country farm, a wordy war arose which waxed so hot
and furious that one of the combatants turned savagely on our hero and
told him he was “daft.”
“Daft!” echoed he, plunging his hands into the oxter pocket of his
jacket. “Daft! blast ye! Look here, I can show twa certificates that I’m
wise, and there’s not anither man on the job that can produce ane!”
He was right.
About the middle of the last century there lived in the neighbourhood
of Denholm a natural named Daft Jamie, who was occasionally employed by
the Laird of Cavers and his brother, Captain Douglas, who resided at
Midshields, to transport them on his back across the water which flowed
between their places of abode. One day Captain Douglas resolved to have
a little fun at the expense of his brother, and bribed Jamie to drop the
Laird in the middle of the river.
Accordingly, having taken Cavers on his back, and proceeded to the middle
of the stream, “Oh! Laird,” exclaimed Jamie, standing stock-still, “my
kuit’s yeukie!”
“Well, well; never mind that,” exclaimed Cavers.
“Ay, but I maun mind it;” and, notwithstanding orders, entreaties, and
threats, Jamie plumped the Laird down into the water and began scratching
his ankle to the infinite amusement of the Captain, who stood on the bank
laughing like to split his sides. Jamie soon returned for the Captain,
who, thinking of no other trick than his own, was speedily mounted and
carried to the middle of the stream. At exactly the same spot where he
had dropped the Laird, Jamie again stood still.
“Noo, Captain,” said he, “gin ye dinna gie me twa shillin’s mair, I’ll
lat you doon too.”
It is almost needless to say the Captain had to “purchase his discharge”
from the threatened immersion, besides suffering the retributive ridicule
of his brother.
Jock Scott, a half-witted lad, who had been employed by the minister to
cart some firewood, finding he had got the worst of the bargain, the
reverend gentleman remarked severely, “Jock, when I came here they told
me you were a fool.” “Ay, sir,” replied Jock; “and they told me ye wis
a grand preacher; but,” he added in a lower tone, “it’s never safe to
believe a’ that ye hear!”
In Perthshire, not long ago, a gang of workmen were digging a trial pit
previous to some excavations being done. While they were at work throwing
up the earth a half-wit named Jock Howe, belonging to the district,
appeared on the scene, and addressing the foreman, said, “What are ye
howking doon there for?” The foreman, taking in at a glance the character
of his questioner, answered, “O, we’re diggin’ doon to Australia. Would
you like to come?” Jock, after thinking for a minute, answered, “Ay man!
Howkin’ doon to Australia, are ye? Lo’d! ye maun be far dafter than me
yet. Can ye no’ sail to Australia an’ _howk up_, an’ ye wad be saved a’
the bother o’ liftin’ the earth oot, for a’ yer stuff wad then fa’ awa’
frae ye?”
Of our native half-wits, four at least have enjoyed a national
reputation. These are Jamie Fleeman, the Laird of Udny’s fool, who will
have a chapter here all to himself; Daft Rab Hamilton, Daft Jock Amos,
and Daft Will Speir. Of the latter three—as well as of Fleeman—there are
many good and interesting stories extant.
Rab Hamilton, like others of his class, was an example to some sane folks
from the fact that he was a frequent, if not regular, attender of the
church. In Ayr he was well known as a staunch Seceder. One day, however,
he went to hear a sermon in a church belonging to the Establishment, and
produced a sensation which was not soon forgotten by those who witnessed
it. He took his seat on an inside stair, which had what is known as a
“wooden rail,” and having put his head through the railing, in attempting
to pull it back he found himself caught by the ears. He shouted at the
utmost pitch of his stentorian voice—
“Murder!—my head’ll be cuttit aff! Holy minister! congregation!—oh, my
head maun be cuttit aff! It’s a judgment for leaving my ain godlie Mr.
Peebles at the Newton, an’ comin’ to hear a paper minister.”
After being extricated, and asked why he put his head there, he said, “It
was to look on wi’ _anither woman_!”
Rab was one day offered the choice of a sixpence or a penny.
“I’ll no be greedy,” said he, “I’ll jist tak’ the wee white ane.”
Receiving a gratuitous dinner at a favourite inn in Kilmarnock one
day, and dining to his heart’s content, the waiter remarked, as he was
preparing to leave the table—
“I’m sure ye’ve gotten a guid dinner the day, Rab!”
“Ou, ay,” replied Rab; “atweel have I; but if the folk o’ Ayr speir if I
got a dram after’t, what will I say?”
Rab’s dream is well known. 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’ve nothing for you to-day.”
“Whaw! whew!” cried Rab, in a half howl, half whining tone, “I dinna want
onything the day, Mister Auld. I wanted just to tell you aboot an awsome
dream I had; I dreamed I was dead.”
“Well, what then?” asked Dr. Auld.
“Ou, I was carried far, far, far, and up, up, up, till I cam’ to heaven’s
yett, whaur I chappit, an’ chappit, till at last an angel keeked out an’
said, ‘Wha are ye?’
“‘I’m puir Rab Hamilton,’ says I.
“‘Whaur are ye frae?’ says he.
“‘Frae the wicked toun o’ Ayr,’ says I.
“‘Hech, man,’ says the angel, ‘I’m glad to see ye here. I ken the place,
but there’s naebody come this gate frae the toun o’ Ayr sin’ the year’”
so and so (mentioning the year when Dr. Auld was inducted into the
parish).
Finding Jock Amos busily engaged with a knife on a piece of wood one
Sabbath day, Mr. Boston, the minister, approached him, and said, “John,
can you tell me which is the Fourth Commandment?”
“I daresay, Mr. Boston, it’ll be the ane after the third,” was the reply.
“Can you repeat it?” asked the divine.
“I’m no sure aboot it,” answered Jock. “I ken it has some wheeram by the
rest.”
Mr. Boston repeated it, and tried thereby to show Jock his error, but—
“Ay, that’s it, sir,” said Jock, and kept whittling away.
“Why, what is the reason you never come to church, John?” inquired the
minister.
“Oh, because you never preach on the text I want you to preach on.”
“What text would you have me to preach on, John?”
“On the nine-and-twenty knives that cam’ back frae Babylon.”
“I never heard of them before.”
“Ha! ha! the mair fool ye! Gang hame an’ read yer Bible, Mr. Boston! Sic
fool; sic minister.”
Subsequently Mr. Boston found the text sure enough in Ezra i. 9th, and
wondered greatly at the ’cuteness of the fool, considering the subject on
which he had been reproving him. And now, “The mair fool ye, as Jock Amos
said to the minister,” is a well-worn proverb.
It was to this same Jock Amos that a female acquaintance, following a
common Scotch idiom, said one day, “Jock, how auld will you be?” They had
been talking of ages.
“Humph! It wad tak’ a wiser head than mine to tell ye that,” was Jock’s
reply.
“It’s unco queer that ye dinna ken how auld ye are?” returned she.
“I ken weel enough how auld I _am_,” said Jock, “but dinna ken how auld
I’ll _be_.” Jock had to be addressed by the book.
Will Speir was the eldest son of the Laird of Camphill, Dairy, Ayrshire,
and many witty stories are put to his credit. Report had it that the
cause of his mental aberration arose in this simple way. When a boy, some
of his companions, in mere frolic, caught him, and suspended him by the
heels over the parapet of a bridge of very considerable height, and from
that hour the hitherto lively boy became dull, absent, and unsociable
in his habits. Will, when he chanced to visit the village of Dalry,
lodged with two personages—Souple Sandy, and Rab Paik, or Pollock—whose
intellects were at a greater discount than even his own. Robert Speir,
the brother of the witty natural, was precentor in the Parish Church of
Dalry, and, when present, Will usually threw in the whole strength of his
lungs to assist his brother, so that no voice but his own sometimes could
be heard within the range of a dozen pews. Rab Paik, his fellow-lodger,
tried to keep up with him, but could not muster such volume of voice as
his associate. This annoyed Will rather than otherwise, and one day he
glared over in the direction of his confederate, and shouted—
“Sing, man, Rab, sing, for the hail burden o’ the Psalm lies on you and
me an’ our Rab.”
Will was accustomed to assist the beadle of the church, whereof he was an
unworthy member, in some of the less important functions of his office.
On one occasion, during service, a fight took place between two sturdy
collies, in one of the aisles of the church, which interrupted the
service for a time. Will rushed to the scene of the riot, and belabouring
the belligerents with a stick, he exclaimed, “If you would pay mair
attention to what the minister’s sayin’ to you, it would be muckle better
for you than tearing your tousie jackets at that gate. Tak’ better care
o’ your claes, you blockheads, for there’s no a tailor in Beith can
either mend thae, or mak’ new anes to you when they’re dune,” and having
delivered such stinging reproof, the censor gravely returned and resumed
his seat.
Seated on the bench below the pulpit, Will one Sabbath joined in the
psalmody with such noisy zeal that Mr. Fullerton, the minister, tapped
him on the head, saying, “Not so loud, Will.”
“What, sir,” retorted the natural, “will I no praise the Lord _with a’ my
micht_?”
Mr. Fullerton had advertised from the pulpit that he was to hold a diet
of examination in a certain district of the parish, and meeting Will on
his way thither, he inquired of the half-wit why he never appeared on
such occasions.
“Because ye dinna gi’e fair play,” was the reply.
“Why,” said the minister, “what do you mean Will?”
“Ye should aloo question aboot,” returned Will.
This point was conceded by the minister, and Will, accordingly, appeared
at the next diet.
“How many Gods are there, William?” the catechiser asked.
“There is but one only, the living and true God,” replied Will.
Mr. F. was proceeding with the next question, “How many persons,” etc.,
when he was interrupted with, “Na na, minister, a bargain’s a bargain;
it’s my turn noo. How many deevils are there?”
“I really cannot tell,” replied the divine.
“Is that the gate o’ ye already?” exclaimed Will, and made off with
himself as quickly as possible.
Will was a sort of half-privileged haunter of Eglinton Castle and
grounds, and knew the Earl very well. Discovering him crossing a fence
one day preparatory to making a “short cut” towards some point in the
demesne, the Earl called out, “Come back, sir; that is not the road.”
“Do you ken,” asked Will, “whaur I’m gaun?”
“No,” replied his Lordship.
“Weel, hoo the deil do you ken whether this be the road or no?” and
having said so, away he went.
[Illustration: The Earl called out, “Come back, sir: that is not the
road.” “Do you ken,” asked Will, “whaur I’m gaun?” “No,” replied his
Lordship. “Weel, hoo the deil do ye ken whether this be the road or
no?”—_Page 383._]
Entering the house of a clergyman in Beith, famed as a skilful performer
on the violin, and hearing the minister playing on the fiddle, Will began
to dance, and continued in his own unmeasured style till the clergyman
was fairly tired. The practical commentator on catgut then handed Will
a shilling. “Hech,” said Will, “this world’s uncoly changed, for in my
young days it was the dancers that aye pay’d the fiddler.”
Passing along the road by the side of the minister’s glebe one morning,
whilst haymaking was in progress, the minister asked Will if he thought
the weather would keep up, as it looked rather like rain.
“Weel,” says Will, “I canna be sure sae early in the day, but I’ll be
passin’ this way the nicht again, an’ I’ll ca’ in and tell ye.”
On making his way to a farmhouse one day where he was usually quite at
home, Will accidentally lighted on a young cow of his host’s, which had
got swamped in a bog.
The poor creature was sunk so deep that no more than the ridge of the
back, the head, and half the neck was to be seen. Will ran to the house
at his utmost speed, and threw open the kitchen door flat against the
wall, which rebounded back again with a noise like the discharge of
a piece of artillery. The whole family, who were engaged at morning
prayers, started from their knees. “Ye’re losin’ mair than ye’re
winnin’,” exclaimed Will, almost out of breath. “There’s ane o’ yer
stirks doun in the bog there. Rin an’ tak’ her out, or she’ll sune be o’
nae mair value to you than the hide an’ horns. Prayers are a’ richt, an’
ye’re no sae aften at them maybe as ye should; but dinna be prayin’ when
ye should be puttin’ to hands.” Will’s gospel was thoroughly orthodox.
Surely, my reader, these anecdotes and illustrations, besides revealing
the strong and ready sense of humour which obtains in the mind and
manifests itself in the speech of the ordinary Scottish natural, serve
to corroborate the witty saying of the Rev. Walter Dunlop of Dumfries,
namely, that “Ye’ll often see a bricht licht shinin’ through a _crack_.”