Fifty years ago native opinion generally would, I believe, have corroborated the statement of the inspired Shepherd of the “Noctes,” that “the Englishers are the noblest race o’ leevin’ men—except the Scotch.” That very decided compliment, notwithstanding, however; and even although nowadays so many Scotchmen are fain to emulate the Cockney speech and fashion in all things, it is putting the case in the mildest terms to say that, up to and even beyond the period indicated, there had never been much love lost between the denizens of the sister nations, Scotland and England. On all pre-eminent occasions, subsequent to the Union, to the credit of both be it often told, their cherished antipathies—trifles mayhap at the best—have magnanimously been allowed to lapse for the time being, and “shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee,” John Bull and Sandy Cawmil, aided and abetted at all times by their brow-beaten half-brother Paddy, have presented a brave and unbroken front of steel to the enemies of their United Kingdoms. But, the conflicts over—the sword sheathed—the old animosity, the chronic jealousy, has again and again manifested itself between the Thistle and the Rose. Into the causes of this little estrangement in friendly feeling which so long obtained, but has now almost entirely disappeared, though some of them are obvious, we shall not trouble ourselves here particularly to inquire, but will rather review some of their effects as they are illustrated in the records of the many witty skirmishes which have taken place here and there between them, and in which the Thistle has fairly justified its popular motto of “Nemo me impune lacessit!” Yes! and surely it is remarkable—is an extraordinary circumstance, indeed, when viewed in the light of the fact that the English deny to the Scotch any idea of wit—that in nearly every witty encounter that has taken place between them Sandy has had the best of it. They are “a noble race o’ leevin’ men,” as the Shepherd averred. But, no, blustering John Bull is no match for canny Sandy Cawmil. He would have delighted in coercing him—would have given his right hand to have been able to say, “Sandy, you must.” But, as the late David Kennedy, the Scottish singer, used to put it, when introducing the song of “Scots wha hae,” “must was buried at Bannockburn.” And thenceforth, whilst strife with the sword had ceased between them, “a wordy war”—a war of wit and ridicule—long obtained instead. It has been a favourite sarcasm of John that the finest view in all Scotland to the eye of the Scot is the road that leads from it into England. To which Sandy has made the withering reply, “There’s nae doot, John, a hantle o’ us hae fund oor way to Lunnon, but it’s been gude for you as it’s been gude for us, for everybody kens ye wad be puir things withoot’s.” Notable features in the characteristics of the two are these, that each has been inclined to over-estimate himself and to under-estimate his neighbour. In the opinion of many a living London Cockney, a Scotsman is a being only slightly superior to a Red Indian savage. ’Arry entertains in all seriousness the conviction that every home-bred Scotsman is red-headed; and that we all wear kilts, play on the bagpipes, drink whisky ad lib., snuff, and feed exclusively on kail-brose and bannocks of barley meal. Sandy, on the other hand, has regarded himself individually as the ideal man—the noblest work of his Creator—and has declared the English to be “maybe no sae very bad considerin’, but even at the best neither mair nor less than a parcel o’ upsettin’, ignorant, pock-puddin’s.” It has been English money in general, but Scotch brains in particular, he has asserted time and again, that have made London what it is. “All the brightest intellectual luminaries of your London firmament,” he has told John Bull, “have been nursed and reared amid the hills o’ Bonnie Scotland.”

“What of Shakespeare?” John has asked. “You don’t claim him as a Scotchman, do you?”

“No; oh no,” Sandy has replied, “I’ll no say that Shakespeare was a Scotchman; although the way ye brag o’ him ye seem to think he was maist clever eneuch to be ane.”

And as in the opinion of the typical Scotsman there is no man to equal a Scotsman, so there is to his mind no land on earth like his own Scotland. He may have wandered far away from it, but distance only made his heart grow fonder, and lent enchantment to the view. And, as almost every Scotsman is a poet, if he took to sing its praises he would do so with such enthusiasm as is revealed in these lines:—

To the critical eye of John Bull the scene would appear different; and could he have sung as pithily in the vernacular speech of Auld Scotland, his vocal description would have been thus severely censorious—

And when each had had his fling the true account would be found about midway between the two. But, oh! John did like to get a hair in Sandy’s neck; and does so still. Nothing delighted Dr. Johnson, the eminent lexicographer, more. He had the meanest opinion of the Scotch, it is well known, and never missed an opportunity of casting ridicule upon them. Thus, when compiling his famous Dictionary, he defined the word oats as “food for men in Scotland and for horses in England.” The definition afforded unmixed delight to the English mind, until, by and by, it was “cast in the teeth” of a witty Scottish Lord, who retorted with—

“Yes; and where will you find such men and such horses?”

Since then, the fun of it has not been quite so apparent. But the Doctor frequently met his match, and got paid back in his own coin. Soon after his return from Scotland to London, a Scotch lady resident in the capital invited him to dinner, and in compliment to her distinguished guest ordered a dish of hotch-potch. When the great man had tasted it, she asked him if it was good, to which he replied, with his usual gruffness, “Very good for hogs, I believe!”

“Then, pray,” said the lady, “let me help you to a little more;” and she did.

Of course John Bull had never been loquacious to any great extent on the subject of Bannockburn; and Sandy, I suppose, remembering Flodden, has not reminded him too frequently of the incident. Occasions have arisen, however, when enlightenment was necessary. Thus, when, many years ago, a little company of Englishmen were travelling by railway between Glasgow and Stirling, having an old Scotchman and his wife as fellow-travellers, the weather being wet, they abused the Scottish climate, “the doocid weathaw, you know,” and everything Scotch to their hearts’ content. Latterly one of them asserted that “no Englishman could ever settle down in such a region.” By this time the train was emerging from Larbert station, and—

“Nae Englishman sattle doon in this region?” echoed the old Scotsman, who had hitherto not spoken. “Toots, man, ye’re haiverin’ nonsense. I’ll let ye see a pairt alang the line-side a bit here, whaur a gey wheen o’ yer countrymen cam’ mair than five hunder year syne, and they’re no thinkin’ o’ leavin’t yet, tho’ they maun be gey weel sattled doon by this time.”

“Where is that?” asked several of the Englishmen at once.

“Bannockburn!” replied the Scot, and “silence deep as death” fell on the little company.

A similar reminder was more delicately given when two English tourists a few years ago visited the scene of what has been aptly termed “the best day’s work ever performed in Scotland.” A local cartwright pointed out with intelligence the positions of the contending armies; the stone where Bruce’s standard was fixed, and other features of interest; and the visitors before leaving pressed their informant’s acceptance of a small money gratuity.

“Na, na,” replied the native with noticeable pride, “put up yer siller, I’ll hae nane o’t. It’s cost ye eneuch already.”

Speaking of Flodden, Sir Walter Scott was wont to tell a good story of a Scotch blacksmith whom he had formerly known as a horse doctor, and whom he found at a small country town South of the Border, practising medicine among the natives, with a reckless use of “lowdomar and calomy,” and who apologised for the mischief he might do by the assurance that it “would be a lang time afore it made up for Flodden!”

Nothing galls the national pride of the true-blue Scot more than the liberties that have been taken with that article of the Union which expressly declared that Britain should be the only recognised designation of the United Kingdoms of Scotland and England. The Queen of England, the English Ambassador, the English army, the English fleet, and similar expressions still in common use, despite the courageous and persistent protests of the Rev. David Macrae, and others, are therefore terms particularly offensive to a sensitive Scottish ear. A striking instance of this feeling occurred at the Battle of Trafalgar. Two Scotsmen, messmates and bosom cronies, from the same little clachan, happened to be stationed near each other when the now celebrated signal was given from the Admiral’s ship—England expects every man to do his duty.

“No a word o’ puir Auld Scotland on this occasion,” dolefully remarked Geordie to Jock.

Jock cocked his eye a moment, and turning to his companion—

“Man, Geordie,” said he, “Scotland kens weel eneuch that nae bairn o’ hers needs to be tell’t to do his duty—that’s just a hint to the Englishers.”

A North country drover once, returning homewards, after a somewhat unsuccessful journey to the South, was, in consequence, not in very good humour with the “Englishers.” On reaching Carlisle he saw a notice stuck up offering a certain sum to any one who could do a piece of service to the community by officiating as executioner of the law on a noted criminal then under sentence of death. Sandy herein perceived an opportunity of making up for his bad market; and comforted and encouraged that he was a perfect stranger in the town, he undertook the office, hanged the rogue, and got the fee. When moving off with the money, he was twitted with being a mean, beggarly Scot, doing for money what no Englishman would.

“’Deed,” replied Sandy, with a wicked leer in his eye, “I would hang ye a’ at the same price.”

A Scotch family lately removed to London, wished to have a sheep’s head prepared as they were accustomed to it at home, and sent a servant to the butcher’s to procure one. She was a Scotch lassie, and on entering the shop—

“My gude man,” said she to the butcher, “I want a sheep’s head.”

“There’s plenty of them there,” said he; “choose which you will.”

“Na,” said she, “but there’s nane o’ thae that will do; I want a sheep’s head that will sing” (singe).

“Go, you idiot,” said the butcher, “who ever heard of a sheep’s head that could sing?”

“Why,” replied the girl in wrath, “an’ it’s you it’s the eedyit, I’m thinkin’; for ony sheep’s head in Scotland can sing; but I jalouse yer English sheep are just as grit fules as their owners, and they can do naething as they ocht.”

A Scotch gentleman, visiting some friends in England, displayed in conversation such contempt for the memory of England’s most illustrious sons that one of the family resolved to pay him off in his own coin. He therefore took down a steel engraving of John Knox, which adorned the dining-room wall, and hung it up in a lumber room. The Scotsman, missing the picture, asked what had become of it. “We no longer consider your Reformer worthy of a place here,” said his friend, “therefore we have hung him up in a dark closet.”

“You could not have done better,” said the Scotsman. “I consider the situation very appropriate; for if ever a man could throw light on a dark subject, that was the man.”

Another Scot being in England at the time the nightingales were in song, was invited by his host one evening to come and hear one singing. As the nightingale is never heard in Scotland it was considered this would prove a rare treat to the Scotsman. After listening for a considerable time to the beautiful melody, and becoming somewhat impatient at hearing no expression of surprise or pleasure from his Scottish guest, the Englishman asked if he was not delighted. “It’s a’ very gude,” replied the canny Scot, “but I wadna gie the wheeple o’ a whaup for a’ the nightingales that ever sang!”

Shortly after the accession of James I., when Scotch gentlemen were beginning to feel a little more at home than formerly in London, Lord Harewood gave a dinner party, to which there were invited a large number of courtiers and officers—both civil and military. The feast was ended, and with the flow of wine the company prepared for a corresponding flow of wit and jollity. After the bottle had circulated a few times, and the spirits of the assembly had begun to rise, General S—, an English trooper of fame, and a reckless bon vivant, arose and said, “Gentlemen, when I am in my cups, and the generous wine begins to warm my blood, I have an absurd custom of railing against the Scotch. Knowing my weakness, I hope no gentleman of the company will take it amiss.”

He sat down, and a Highland chief, Sir Robert Bleakie, of Blair Athol, presenting a front like an old battle-worn tower, quietly arose in his place, and with the utmost simplicity and good-nature remarked, “Gentlemen, I, when I am in my cups, and the generous wine begins to warm my blood, if I hear a man rail against the Scotch, have an absurd custom of kicking him at once out of the company. Knowing my weakness, I hope no gentleman of the company will take it amiss.”

It need scarcely be added that General S— did not on that occasion suffer himself to follow his usual custom.

And despite the heavy odds against him there have yet been times when Sandy stood in high favour in high quarters in the English capital. Thus in the year 1797, when the Democratic notions ran high, the King’s coach was attacked as His Majesty was going to the House of Peers. A gigantic Hibernian on that occasion was conspicuously loyal in repelling the mob. Soon after, to his no small surprise, he received a message from Mr. Dundas to attend at his office. He went, and met with a gracious reception from the great man, who, after passing a few encomiums on his active loyalty, desired him to point out any way in which he would wish to be advanced, His Majesty having particularly noticed his courageous conduct, and being desirous to reward it. Pat scratched and scraped for a while, as if thunderstruck—

“The devil take me if I know what I’m fit for.”

“Nay, my good fellow,” cried Henry, “think a moment, and do not throw yourself out of the way of fortune.”

Pat hesitated another moment, then smirking as if some odd idea had taken hold of his noddle, he said—“I tell yez what, mister, make a Scotchman of me, and, by St. Patrick, there’ll be no fear of my getting on.”

The Minister gazed a while at the mal-apropos wit—“Make a Scotsman of you, sir, that is impossible, for I cannot give you prudence.”

Prudence is just what Paddy has always lacked, and what to all appearance he is never to learn. Had it been a special characteristic of John Bull, it would have saved him from many a coup he has received at the instance of his cautious and calculating brother Sandy, the following among the rest. A stout English visitor to one of the fashionable watering-places on the West Coast some years ago was in the habit of conversing familiarly with Donald Fraser, a character of the place, who took delight in talking boastfully of his great relations, who existed only, the stranger suspected, in the Highlander’s own lively imagination. One day, as the Englishman was seated at the door of his lodging, Donald came up driving a big fat boar.

“One of your relations, I suppose, Donald?” exclaimed the visitor, chuckling, and nodding his head in the direction of the “porker.”

“No,” quietly retorted Donald, surveying the proportions of his interlocutor, “no relation at all, sir, but just an acquaintance, like yoursel’.”

“My late esteemed friend, Mr. John Mackie, M.P. for Kirkcudbrightshire,” writes the garrulous and entertaining author of Reminiscences of Fifty Years, “used to describe an extensive view which one of his friend’s hills commanded. This he never failed to call to the attention of his English visitors when the weather was clear. Willy the shepherd was always the guide on such occasions, as he knew precisely the weather that would suit.

“One forenoon an English friend was placed under Willy’s charge to mount the hill in order to enjoy the glorious view. ‘I am told, shepherd, you are going to show me a wonderful view.’ ‘That’s quite true, sir.’ ‘What shall I see?’ ‘Weel, ye’ll see a feck o’ kingdoms—the best o’ sax, sir.’ ‘What the deuce do you mean, shepherd?’ ‘Weel, sir, I mean what I say.’ ‘But tell me all about it.’ ‘I’ll tell you naething mair, sir, until we’re at the tap o’ the hill.’ The top reached, Willy found everything he could desire in regard to a clear atmosphere. ‘Noo, sir, I houp ye’ve got guid een?’ ‘Oh, my eyes are excellent.’ ‘Then, that’s a’ richt, sir. Noo, div you see yon hills awa’ yonder?’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘Weel, sir, those are the hills o’ Cumberland, and Cumberland’s in the kingdom o’ England; that’s a’e kingdom. Noo, sir, please keep coont. Then, sir, I maun noo trouble you to look ower yonder. Div ye see what I mean?’ ‘I do.’ ‘That’s a’ richt. That’s the Isle o’ Man, and that was a kingdom and sovereignty in the families of the Earls o’ Derby and the Dukes o’ Athol frae the days o’ King David o’ Scotland, if ye ken onything o’ Scotch history.’ ‘You are quite right, shepherd.’ ‘Quite richt, did you say; I wadna ha’e brocht ye here, sir, if I was to be wrang. Weel, that’s twa kingdoms. Be sure, sir, to keep coont. Noo, turn awee aboot. Div ye see yon land yonder? It’s a bit farrer, but never mind that, sae lang as ye see it.’ ‘I see it distinctly.’ ‘Weel, that’s a’ I care aboot. Noo, sir, keep coont, for that’s Ireland, and mak’s three kingdoms; but there’s nae trouble aboot the neist, for ye’re stannin’ on’t—I mean Scotland. Weel, that mak’s four kingdoms; div you admit that, sir?’ ‘Yes, that makes four, and you have two yet to show me.’ ‘That’s true, sir, but dinna be in sic a hurry. Weel, sir, just look up aboon yer head, and this is by far the best o’ a’ the Kingdoms: that, sir, aboon, is Heaven. That’s five: and the saxth kingdom is that doon below yer feet, to which, sir, I houp ye’ll never gang; but that’s a point on which I canna speak wi’ ony certainty.’”

I have said that the Scotch and English are each inclined to over-estimate themselves and under-estimate their neighbours; but to this should be added the fact, that the canny craftiness of Sandy—his characteristic prudence—has shown him how much he might gain by familiarising himself with all John’s ways, and this he has done, whereas John has thought it sufficient to assume a knowledge of Sandy’s affairs, even although he possessed it not. And this contemptuous assumption of knowledge has led to some sublime blundering on John’s part. We scarcely expect our Cockney brethren to be familiar with our Northern tongue, or even to have very much sympathy with it. Yet, while they actually do not know it, and readily express contempt for it, they still continue to affect a knowledge, and so, to apply a well-known Irishism, “seldom open their mouth on the subject but they put their foot in it.” Thus, not very long ago, one Cockney told another that he had learned a beautiful Scotch song, and would write out for him a copy of the words. The song was, “The Lass o’ Gowrie,” and the first two lines came from his pen as follows:—

The prospect of such a long continued spell of daylight in Scotland proved too much for the risible susceptibilities of the party who looked over the writer’s shoulder, and the pen had to be thrown aside, amid a roar of laughter. Not many years ago I myself saw the printed programme of a London Scottish concert, an item in which appeared as

and I thought what an ass he must have been who prepared the “copy”! Punch—I think it was Punch—once made one Scotsman threaten to give another “A richt gude Willie-waucht in the side o’ the head.” Great dubiety existed in the London journalistic mind some time ago about the signification of the phrase, “The Land o’ the Leal,”—was it the poetical designation of Scotland, or Heaven? “Old long since ago,” and “Scots with him” are Anglicised Scotticisms as familiar as proverbs. But surely the very funniest results from Cockney intermeddling with things Scotch that ever appeared are to be found in a cheap edition of Burns’s poems, which was issued some time since by John Dicks, the well-known Strand publisher. From this copy it is made apparent that Tam o’ Shanter was not the hero of Burns’s humorous masterpiece at all, but one Tam Skelpit—vide the following lines:—

Then the family name of the householder immortalised in the “Cottar’s Saturday night,” according to this Cockney edition, was not Burns, as is popularly believed in Scotland, but Hafflins. The revelation appears in these lines:—

Tam Skelpit and Jenny Hafflins! My conscience! What next? Well, a cursory glance finds such improved readings as these (I will italicise the improvements):—

And there are many other blunders quite as ludicrous. Experience is a severe school, and when the Scotch becomes the universal tongue John Bull will perceive this; but perhaps not before.

A very humorous instance of the almost incomprehensibility of things Scotch by the English mind occurred during one of the earlier visits of the Royal Family to Balmoral. The late Prince Consort, dressed in a simple manner, was crossing one of the Scottish lochs in a steamer, and was curious to note everything relating to the management of the vessel, and, among other things, the cooking. Approaching the galley, where a brawny Scot was attending to the culinary matters, he was attracted by the savoury odours of a dish of hotch-potch which Sandy was preparing.

“What is that?” asked the Prince, who was not known to the cook.

“Hotch-potch, sir,” was the reply.

“How is it made?” was the next question.

“Weel, there’s mutton intill’t, and neeps intill’t, and carrots intill’t, and——”

“Yes, yes,” said the Prince, “but what is intill’t?”

“Weel, there’s mutton intill’t, and neeps intill’t, and——”

“Yes, I see; but what is intill’t?”

The man looked at him, and, seeing that the Prince was serious he replied—

“There’s mutton intill’t, and neeps intill’t, and——”

“Yes, certainly, I know,” still argued the Prince; “but what is intill’t—intill’t?”

“Gudesake, man,” yelled the Scotsman, brandishing his big ladle, “am I no thrang tellin’ ye what’s intill’t? There’s mutton intill’t, and——”

Here the interview was brought to a close by one of the Prince’s suite, who fortunately was passing, explaining to His Royal Highness that “intill’t” simply meant “into it,” and nothing more!

An incident of a somewhat similar nature, and even more humoursome than the above, which was happily paraphrased by the late Robert Leighton, the Scottish poet, under the title of “Scotch Words,” occurred to an English gentlewoman, a number of years ago, in the course of a brief tour “here awa’.” One night she rested at a respectable inn in a country village, and on being shown to her bedroom by the rustic chambermaid, the question was put to her—

“Would you like to have a het crock in your bed this cauld nicht, mem?”

“A what?” asked the lady.

“A pig, mem. Shall I put a pig in your bed to keep you warm?”

“Leave the room, young woman!” was the indignant response, “your mistress shall hear of your insolence.”

“Nae offence, mem,” insisted the lassie, “it was my mistress that bad me speir: and I’m sure she meant it a’ in kindness.”

The lady looked in the girl’s face, and now satisfied that no insult was intended, said, in a milder tone, “Is it common in this country, my girl, for ladies to have pigs in their beds?”

“Ay, and gentlemen ha’e them too, mem, when the weather’s cauld.”

“But you would not surely put the pig between the sheets?”

“If you please, mem, it would do maist gude there.”

“Between the sheets? It would dirty them, girl. I could never sleep with a pig between the sheets.”

“Nae fear o’ that, mem! You’ll sleep far mair comfortable. I’ll steek the mouth o’t tightly, and tie it up in a poke.”

“Do you sleep with a pig yourself in cold weather?”

“Na, mem, pigs are only for gentry like yersel’ wha lie on feather beds.”

“How do you sleep, then?”

“My neebor lass and I just sleep on cauf.”

“What! you sleep with a calf between you?”

“Ou, no, mem, ye’re jokin’ noo. We lie on the tap o’t.”

When the two came to perfectly understand each other history deponeth not.

Dean Ramsay tells an amusing story of a Stirlingshire farmer’s visit to a son, engaged in business in Liverpool. The son finding the 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 the year?”

Reaper—“Sir?”

Farmer—“I am speirin’ gif yer aits are muckle bookit the year?”

Reaper (in amazement)—“I really don’t know what you are saying, sir.”

Farmer (in equal astonishment)—“Gude—save—us—do ye no understand gude plain English? Are—yer—aits—muckle—bookit?”

He might as well have asked the road to Stronachlacher, Auchtermuchty, Ecclefechan, or Ponfeigh. The reaper decamped to her nearest companion declaring him a madman; while the farmer shouted in great wrath, “They are naething else than a set o’ ignorant pock-puddin’s.”

“My girl,” enquired a Cockney tourist of a Scotch lassie whom he met tripping lightly barefoot, “is it the custom for girls to go barefooted in these parts?”

“Pairtly they do,” she replied, “and pairtly they mind their ain business.”

The dour, plodding, persevering nature of the Scot, by virtue of which he has often prevailed over his less crafty English brother, is well exemplified in the following little narrative, which humorously describes the opening of a large mercantile business between the West of Scotland and the English capital:—

A West country Scot, who had engaged in the manufacture of a certain description of goods, then recently introduced into that part of the country, found it necessary, or conjectured it might be profitable, to establish a permanent connection with some respectable house in London. With this design he packed up a quantity of goods, equipped himself for the journey, and departed. Upon his arrival he made diligent enquiry as to those who were likely to prove his best customers, and accordingly proceeded to call upon one of the most opulent drapers, with whom he resolved to establish a regular correspondence. When Saunders entered the shop in question he found it crowded with customers, and the salesmen all bustling about making sales, and displaying their wares to prospective purchasers. Saunders waited what he considered a reasonable time, then in a lull of the business, laid down his pack, his bonnet, and staff, upon the counter, and enquired for “the head o’ the hoose.”

One of the clerks asked him what he wanted.

“I’m wantin’ to see gin he wants ocht in my line,” was the answer.

“No!” shouted the foreman.

“Will ye no tak’ a look o’ the gudes, sir?” inquired Saunders.

“No, not at all; I have not time. Take them away.”

“Ye’ll maybe find them worth your while; and I dootna but ye’ll buy,” said Saunders, as he coolly proceeded to untie his pack.

“Go away, go away!” was reiterated half a dozen times with great impatience, but the persevering Scotsman still persisted.

“Get along, you old Scotch fool,” cried the foreman, completely out of temper, as he pushed the already exposed contents of the pack off the counter. “Get along!”

Saunders looked up in the individual’s face with a wide mouth and enlarged pair of eyes, then looked down to his estate that lay scattered among his feet, looked up again, and exclaimed—“And will ye no buy ocht? But ye dinna ken, for ye haena seen the gudes,” and so saying he proceeded to replace them on the counter.

“Get out of the shop, sir!” was the peremptory and angry command which followed this third appeal.

Saunders, with great gravity and self-possession, said—“Are ye in earnest, freend?”

“Yes, certainly,” was the reply, which was succeeded by an unequivocal proof of sincerity on the part of the person who made it, when he picked up Saunders’s bonnet and whirled it into the street. The cool Scotsman stalked deliberately and gravely in quest of his Kilmarnock headgear, and after giving it two or three hearty slaps upon the wall outside the door, he re-entered very composedly, wringing the muddy moisture out of it, looked over to the person who had served him so meanly, and said, with a genuine Scotch smile—“Man, yon was an ill-faured turn; you’ll surely tak’ a look o’ the gudes noo?”

The master draper himself, who was standing all the while in the shop admiring the patience and perseverance of the old man, and feeling a little compunction for the unceremonious manner in which he had been treated, came now forward, examined the contents of the pack; found them to be articles he stood in need of; purchased them; ordered an additional regular supply; and thus laid the foundation of an opulent mercantile house that has now flourished for several generations.

The subjoined well-known and diverting story may not inappropriately conclude this chapter—

Two sides of a story could not be more opposed to each other, and nothing could better illustrate the burly innocent humour of the Scottish character.