Affording better opportunities for the development of individual character than are to be found in the busy town and crowded city, country life is more congenial also to the growth and exercise of the faculty of original humour. In the denser populations information on every intelligible subject is so readily accessible through the medium of books, magazines, morning and evening newspapers, and courses of lectures, etc., that it is not incumbent on any one to form his or her own idea of any particular matter. Ideas here are supplied ready-made, like everything else, and warranted free from adulteration; and thus your city and townspeople see very generally eye to eye; and from frequency of contact with each other, and the causes already indicated, are forcibly rubbed into something like a general mental, as well as physical, similitude.

In the rural districts of the country it is altogether different. Books are scarce, daily newspapers rarely appear, there are no courses of scientific or other lectures, and so the individual mind has largely to form its own idea of every particular subject; and as very much of what is most enjoyable in humorous Scottish stories and anecdotes arises from “simple and matter-of-fact references made to circumstances which are unusual,” thus it is that the best as well as the most of our Scottish humour is bred of rural life. Every book of native anecdotes—every bout of story-telling—reveals this fact. And in the present chapter I shall recount, irrespective of consecutive order and design, the choicest illustrations of the humours of Scottish rural life which have not already appeared in these pages, and with which my memory shall serve me, committing them to paper simply as they rise in my mind. And, just to set the ball a-rolling, let the first story relate to the first day of the week, and be one that to some extent contrasts the town with the country notion as to the proper observance of the day of rest. It is a story which Mr. Henry Irving told, and did not tell well, some years ago, in the course of an after-dinner speech in (I think) New York, and which, with questionable propriety, he related as having happened in his own experience whilst, shortly before, he had been journeying in the vicinity of Balmoral, although it had been told in pithier form in select circles in Scotland for ten years and more. The story is to this effect:—A well-known and esteemed city Established Kirk minister, in the course of a summer vacation in the North, was prevailed upon by a brother clergyman a little distance off to occupy his pulpit for a day, during his, the local preacher’s, peremptory call from home. The service consisted of a “single yokin’,” which ended a little after mid-day, and the weather being fine, the D.D., for he was such, when he had “cuisten the goon” and refreshed the inner man, took his familiar staff in his hand and emerged from the manse to enjoy a stroll along the quiet country road. A few hundred yards distant from the manse gate he passed a little farm steading on the roadside, the abode of the ruling elder of the congregation, and one of the sternest Calvinists and strictest Sabbatarians in the whole parish, but had hardly done so when he heard footsteps behind him, and the next moment an arresting hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Ye’ll excuse me, sir,” said the farmer and elder, “but ye’re the Edinborough minister that was preachin’ to us the day, an’ I would like to ken if ye’re walkin’ oot the gate for mere pleasure on the blessed day, or if ye’re on a mission o’ mercy?”

“Oh, it’s a delightful afternoon,” replied the divine, “and I am just enjoying a meditative walk amid the beauties of Nature, so rich and——”

“I just suspectit as muckle,” broke in the elder; “but you that’s a minister o’ the Gospel sud ken that this is no a day for ony sic thing.”

“Well,” returned the Doctor, “we find good precedent for walking on the Sabbath. You remember that even the Master himself walked in the fields with His disciples on the Sabbath day.”

“Ou, I ken a’ aboot that brawly,” snorted the elder; “but I dinna think ony mair o’ Him for’t either!” and immediately turning on his heel, he strode sulkily towards the steading.

But, of course, the ministers are more commonly the accusers than the accused in the matter of supposed or actual Sabbath desecration—both in town and country.

“Wherefore did you go and shoot the hare on the Sabbath day, John?” asked a reverend gentleman once of a parishioner who was “before the Session” for the misdeed in question.

“Weel, ye see,” replied John, not unphilosophically, “I had a strong dreed that the beastie michtna sit till Monday, say just dressed his drodrum when I had the chance.”

But a certain minister and elder in Perthshire once combined to transact dubious business, even “between the preachin’s.”

“Had it not been the Sabbath day, Mr. Blank,” remarked the preacher, “I would have asked you how the hay was selling in Perth on Friday?”

“Weel, sir,” replied the sessional confrere, “had it no been the day that it is, I wad just hae tell’t ye it was gaun at a shillin’ the stane.”

“Indeed! Well, had it been Monday instead of Sabbath, I would have told you that I have some to sell.”

“Imphm, ay, ou ay, sir. An’ had it been Monday, as ye say, then, I wad just hae tell’t ye I wad gie ye market price for’t.”

The significant nod which the minister gave to this last remark brought the elder with a couple of carts to the manse on Monday morning, and before mid-day the minister’s hay-stack was non est.

These fellows were wise as serpents, though scarcely as innocent as doves.

The Dumfries old lady who was accustomed to employ the wet Sundays in arranging her wardrobe had less cunning. “Preserve me!” she would exclaim, “another gude Sabbath! I dinna ken whan I’m to get thae drawers redd up.”

Dr. Guthrie says “our ancestors might have been too scrupulous. I don’t say they did not fall into glaring inconsistencies” in connection with Sabbath observance, and tells a story of his going to preach for a clerical friend in Ross-shire. Before retiring to rest on Saturday night, he asked his friend if he could get warm water in the morning to shave with.

“Wheesht! wheesht!” returned his host. “Speak of shaving on the Lord’s day in Ross-shire, and you need never preach here again.”

And yet at the same time, in the same locality, a little warm water and whisky would have been supplied on the self-same morning without question, being regarded as a work of necessity and mercy.

Speaking of necessity and mercy. It is Dr. Guthrie also, I think, who tells of a maid-servant who refused to feed the cows on the Sabbath, although she was willing to milk them. The explanation being, “The cows canna milk themsel’s, so to milk them is a clear work o’ necessity, but let them out to the fields and they’ll feed themsel’s weel enough.” And speaking of milking reminds me of a good country story. It is a native of Glenisla, in Forfarshire, and belongs to the time when Matthew Henry’s famous Bible Commentary was the apple of every leal Scotsman’s eye. One Geordie Scott, thereaway, was so fain to possess a copy of “Matthew Henry,” as this Bible was long familiarly termed, that he suggested to his wife (the two lived alone together) that they might sell the cow and purchase one with the price she would realise. The wife demurred at first, but latterly consented, with one proviso—namely, that Geordie would be willing to take “treacle ale” to his porridge every morning. This the good man at once agreed to. So crummie departed, and “Matthew Henry” arrived. A few weeks passed, and the big ha’ Bible gave great delight, but the “treacle ale” was like to turn Geordie’s stamach a’thegither.

“Dod, wife,” said he one morning, “I doot that treacle ale’s no gaun to do wi’ me, we’ll need to try an’ get a wee drap milk to the parritch. What do ye think?”

Janet had been missing her troke with the cow, and was rueing that she had consented to the “niffer.”

“’Deed, gudeman,” says she, “a bargain’s a bargain. An’ gin ye will hae milk, an’ winna want it, ye maun just gang an’ milk ‘Matthew Henry.’”

Your rural Scot is reflective and argumentative to a degree.

“Dinna tell me,” said a sapient Forfarshire laird of the old school, “dinna tell me that the earth’s shaped like an orange, an’ that it whirls roond aboot ilka twenty-four ’oors. It’s a’ nonsense. The Seidlaw Hills lie to the North and the Tay to the Sooth at nicht when I gang to my bed; i’ the mornin’ when I rise I find them the same; an’ that’s gude proof that the earth disna turn roond. I’ll tell ye what it is—an’ I speak wi’ authority of ane wha’s gi’en the maitter a deal o’ thocht—the earth’s spread oot just like a muckle barley scone, in which the Howe o’ Strathmore represents a knuckle mark.”

Reflective, I said. Very! And the ordinary Scotch farmer’s love of gain is proverbial. Life in his eyes is valuable chiefly as a season in which to make money. Thus, not very long ago, while about half a dozen farmers were returning home by train from the Perth weekly market, they talked about how this friend and that friend was in his health; and about some others who had died recently, and how much money each of them must have left.

“Ay, but men dinna live nearly sae lang nooadays as they did in the Bible times!” remarked one, with a heavy sigh.

“Eh, man, na,” broke in another, who had hitherto not spoken. “An’ I was just thinkin’ there to mysel’ a minute syne, that Methuselah must have been worth a power o’ money when he dee’d, if he was onything o’ a savin’ kind o’ a man ava.”

Waggish some of them, and wild not a few. There are many rare good fellows among the farmers of Perthshire; genuine humourists, too. Here was how one of them proposed the toast of “The Queen” at a recent Cattle Show dinner. He was Chairman, and, “Noo, gentlemen,” said he, “fill a’ your glasses, for I’m aboot to bring forrit ‘The Queen.’ (Applause.) Our Queen, gentlemen, is really a wonderfu’ woman, if I may say it. She’s ane o’ the gude auld sort; nae whigmaleeries or falderalls aboot her, but a douce, daicent bodie. Respectable, beyond a’ doot. She’s brocht up a grand family o’ weel-faur’d lads and lasses—her auldest son wad be a credit to ony mither; and they’re a’ weel married—a’e dauchter is nae less than married to the Duke o’ Argyle’s son and heir. (Cheers.) Gentlemen, ye’ll maybe no believe it, but I ance saw the Queen. (Sensation.) I did. It was when I took my auld broon coo to the Perth Show. I mind o’ her weel—sic colour! sic hair! sic——(Interruptions, and cries of “Is it the coo or the Queen ye’re proposin’?”) The Queen, gentlemen. I beg your pardon, but I was talkin’ aboot the coo. Hooever, as to the Queen; somebody pointed her out to me at the Perth station. And there she was, smart and tidy-like; and says I to mysel’, ‘Gin my auld woman at hame slips awa’ ye needna remain a widow anither hour langer.’ (Cheers.) Noo, gentlemen, the whisky’s gude, the nicht’s lang, the weather’s weet, and the roads are saft and will harm naebody that comes to grief. So aff wi’ ye; every gless to the boddom—‘The Queen!’”

Many forces in Nature and circumstances in life conspire to disturb the peace of the farmer. Amongst them—trespassers. But, if he is a man of resource, he may summon a species of artillery that will “hold the field” against all comers. It is told of one in the South that, while some members of the Ordnance Survey were plodding here and there through growing grain and everything else on his farm, and perhaps more than was necessary, just to irritate the farmer, who, they had learned, was a crusty customer. They had not manœuvred long when the farmer approached.

“What are ye dancin’ aboot there for?” he demanded.

“Oh, we have a right to go anywhere,” returned one of the company. “We are surveying, and here are our Government papers.”

“Papers here or papers there,” returned the farmer, “oot ye gang oot o’ my field.”

“No, we shan’t,” was the reply; “and, remember, you are rendering yourself liable to prosecution for interrupting us.”

The farmer said no more; but going over to a shed which opened into the field, and at the time chanced to contain a vicious bull, he gently opened the door and stood aside. The bull no sooner saw the red coats than he, of course, rushed at them in full career. The surveyors snatched up their theodolite and ran for their lives, while the old farmer held his sides with laughter, and yelled after them—“What are ye a’ rinnin’ for? Can ye no show him yer Government papers?”

Speaking of trespassing, I am reminded of a story which reveals how ready-witted the rural inhabitants can sometimes be. One day, many years ago, Willie Craig, a Perthshire village worthy, found himself in the near vicinity of Scone Palace, and by cutting through the woods there he would reach his destination much sooner than by holding to the public road. The old Earl of Mansfield could never distinguish between a trespasser and a poacher, and Willie knew this, and that if he was seen he would, at the very least, be turned back. Still the nearer road was so tempting that he ventured it, trusting his own ready wit to cope with the vigilance of the terror-striking game-preserver. All went well until about three-fourths of the forbidden ground had been traversed, when, lo and behold, the Earl appeared. Willie, alert to every sight and sound, eyed the Earl ere the Earl had time to eye him, so instantly turned on his heel and commenced to retrace his steps.

“Hi, sir!” cried the Earl, “where are you going?”

Willie snooved along and made no reply.

“Halt, sir!” cried the Earl, rushing up to where Willie was; “turn this moment, and go back the way you came.”

Willie meekly and instantly obeyed. He had not gone many paces when the Earl, straining a point in favour of so pliable a culprit, again stopped him and said he might go for this time. Willie hesitated for a moment, but, mastering the situation with one bright idea, he quickened his step, and, glancing over his shoulder, retorted with energy—

“Na, na, my lord; ye’ve turned me ance, but ye’ll never turn me twice. I’ll lat ye see, noo, that I’m just as independent as ye’re fit to be.”

Speaking of Perthshire worthies reminds me of another characteristic story. A thrifty middle-aged crofter of that ilk, until a year or two ago, lived a life of easy bachelorhood, his only domestic companion being an antiquated maiden sister. About the period indicated, however, following the example of the majority of his sex, he took unto himself a wife, whom he brought home to reside together with his sister and himself. “Twa women is ane ower mony in ony house,” says the proverb, and this instance proved no exception. The new-comer soon made the situation so hot for her sister-in-law that the crofter perceived that a reconstruction of his household was instantly necessary. He was equal to the occasion; the wife was dismissed sans ceremonie. On being interrogated by a neighbour on the policy of his action, Peter made reply—

“Was I gaun, think ye, to hae my sister abused by a woman that isna a drap’s bluid to ony o’ the twa o’ us?”

Very good! And Peter’s philosophic reply brings vividly before me the characteristic figure of honest Tammas Broon, a well-known denizen of a small Perthshire village. Tammas had little or no idea of things humorous; yet, as if by the inspiration of accident, he was continually passing remarks and answering questions in language and manner the most provocative of laughter. One day a Free Church minister—now of world-wide fame—was passing along while Tammas was busily engaged at the thatching of a stack in his own little barn-yard, and snatching readily at the circumstance as a means to the improvement of the moment, the divine called out—

“You are thatching, I see, Thomas. Do you think you will require to do any such work in the future existence?”

“Not at all, sir,” was the instant and innocent rejoiner; “this is only to hold out water.”

Tammas’s daughter, rumour said, at one time was about to marry with a young man of the village of whose family Tammas did not approve. Village gossips are active creatures, and the spirit, if not the exact letter, of Tammas’s dissent was early conveyed to the young man’s mother, a bit of a randy. The result was a forced meeting on the king’s highway, when the enraged matron demanded to know if Tammas had ever said that her son wasna a match for his dochter?

“I never said such a thing, lady,” Tammas replied coolly, “I simply remarked that he was a hawk out of a bad nest.” And the matter ended.

To be called “Fifish” is not a compliment, but there is much pawky humour in the typical Fife character. Here is a specimen:—Recently a tattered son of Orpheus attached to the end of a tin whistle penetrated the land as far as Kingsbarns, in the East Neuk. Entering at one end, he whistled himself right out at the other, without receiving a copper. As he passed the last door he turned towards an old native who sat sunning himself on a low dyke. “Man,” said he, “I havena got a farden in the hale toon.”

“Na, I’m no thinking ye wad,” replied the ancient Fifer; “ye see, we do a’ our ain whistlin’ here.”

Every one who has seen much of country life has noticed with what patient skill and anxiety a ploughman builds, say, a load of hay or straw which he is afterwards to cart to the town, and the pride there is in his eye as he marches with it along the road, guiding his pair of horses with cheering words and gentle touches of the reins. Not many years ago a Perthshire ploughman was proceeding in the manner indicated when, in a narrow part of the road, he was met by a hearse and a funeral party on foot behind it. On either side of the road was a deep ditch, and it was at once evident that every inch of room would be required to effect a safe passage. The funeral party were, very naturally, most concerned about the safety of the hearse, and not less than half a dozen voices kept assailing the ploughman with “Haud t’ye! haud t’ye! haud t’ye!” The ploughman held to him, and held to him, and still being implored to yield further, he held to him just an inch too far, and heels-over-head the horses and cartload of hay went into the ditch. Jock viewed the wreck for one brief moment, then, turning to those around him, he exclaimed, “Ye see what ye’ve dune noo wi’ yer d—d—dawmed burial.”

There is room for the play of humour sometimes on the occasion of a “coupit cart.” One day a country lad approached a man who was ploughing in a field near the highway, and said—

“Od man, I’ve coupit my cart.”

“Coupit yer cart! That’s a peety, man. Whaur is’t, and what had ye on’t?”

“It’s doon on the road yonder, an’ it was laden wi’ hay. Do you think you could come an’ help me to lift it?”

“Weel, I canna leave my horses in the middle o’ the field, but as sune as I get doon to the end o’ the furr’, I’ll come an’ help ye.”

“Man, div ye no think ye can come i’ the noo?” he asked, scratching his head.

“No; ye see weel eneuch I canna come i’ the noo.”

“Aweel,” he said, in a tone of resignation, “I maun just wait then, but it would have suited better if ye could have come i’ the noo, for the hanged thing is, my—my—faither’s below’t!”

I said burial a minute ago, and the word recalls a little story revealing much dry humour. A country cottar lay, as was evident, on his death-bed. His wife, true and faithful, sat on a chair by his side knitting a stocking, and ready to minister to his wants. Through the half-open door of the sickroom the dying man could see into the kitchen, from the roof of which there was suspended a nice fresh stump of bacon ham. “Marg’et,” he said, by and by, “there’s a nice bit of ham hangin’ in the kitchen roof, if ye wad fry a slice o’ that, woman, I think I could tak’ it.”

The ham had evidently not been expected to meet John’s eye, and the request disconcerted Marg’et.

“Eh, John,” she replied “there’s few things in the warld I cud bear to refuse ye, but I canna brak’ on that bit ham. It’ll tak’ it a’ to ser’ the fouk at the funeral.”

A farmer not far from Coupar-Angus happened to go into the bothy and seeing all his men sitting by the fire doing nothing, he said he would bring them some books to read. On going back some weeks after he saw his books lying up on a shelf with about an inch of dust on them, and he asked if they had been reading them. One of the ploughmen said they hadn’t much time, and he said he would take them back then, and did so. After he had gone one of the men said, “Does the eediot think we will wirk his wark and read his books for the same siller?”

That is humour of the unconscious type. The next illustration belongs to the other class, and is quite as fresh, being as a matter of fact only a few months old. A Glasgow dignitary, with a very fine handle to his name, was recently rusticating in Western Perthshire; and expressing the desire to his host to know at first hand the feeling of the rural mind on the subject of Disestablishment, he was taken to the nearest roadside smithy and introduced to the smith. On being interrogated on the matter, the smith’s reply was, “O’d, sir, I dinna ken verra weel what to say aboot it. This Kirk affair seems to me a’thegither just like a bee’s skep that’s cuisten twa or three times. First there was the Anti-Burgher, or auld Licht, hive that cam aff. Syne there was the Seceders, or U.P.’s, as ye ca’ them. Then there was the Free hive. An’ noo, because it’s no like to cast ony mair, they wad fain hae us to start an’ smeek the auld skep—a gey ungratefu’ like piece o’ wark.”

There is an old proverb which says—“Fules shudna use chappin’-sticks, nor weavers guns.” Drawing an inference therefrom, townspeople should be careful how they express themselves on country affairs to a country-bred person.

After the late Lord Cockburn had become proprietor of Bonaly, at the foot of the Pentland Hills, he was sitting on the hillside with his shepherd one day, and observing the sheep reposing in the coldest situation, he remarked—

“John, if I were a sheep, I would lie on the other side of the hill.”

“Ah, my Lord,” said the shepherd, “but if ye was a sheep, ye wad hae mair sense.”

Lord Rutherford, having entered into conversation with a shepherd on the Pentland Hills one day, complained bitterly of the weather, which prevented him enjoying his visit to the country. In specially forcible language he denounced the mist, and expressed his wonder how, or for what purpose, an East wind was created.

The shepherd, a tall, grim figure, turned round sharply upon him, and—

“What ails ye at the mist, sir?” he said. “It wats the sod, it slockens the yowes, and,” adding with much solemnity, “it’s God’s wull,” he turned away with lofty indignation.

Lord Rutherford used to repeat this with much candour as a fine specimen of rebuke from a sincere and simple mind.

Fine-spun theories and a high-falutin form of address may be wasted energy when applied to your ordinary rural inhabitant; but, even when his ignorance comes out, it is frequently seen in the garb of humour.

When Dr. Johnson was travelling in Scotland, he came up one day to a peasant who was busily engaged cutting turf, i.e.—casting divots.

“Pray, sir,” inquired the lexicographer, “can you point out the way to the most contiguous village, for we are dreadfully fatigued, having deviated from our road these two hours?”

“Tired wi’ divoting twa hours!” exclaimed the rustic, with scornful surprise. “I have been divoting here since four o’clock this morning, and maun do sae as lang as I can see, tired or no.”

A burly Clydesdale farmer visiting Glasgow a number of years since, entered a chemist’s shop to purchase a quantity of salts and senna for domestic purposes, and found the man of drugs—a bit of a wag—busily engaged with a galvanic battery. The farmer looked on for some time at the operations of the chemist, and, his curiosity becoming aroused—

“What kind o’ a machine do ye ca’ that, maister?” said he.

“Oh, man, that’s the new patent machine for sawin’ turnips,” was the reply.

“For sawin’ neeps!” cried the astonished son of the soil. “Hoo dis’t work?”

“Take hold of the handles,” said the chemist, “and I’ll show you.”

No sooner had he taken hold of the handles than the chemist set the thing in motion. In less than a minute the farmer was dancing and howling in the most dreadful manner.

“Throw the handles on the counter, man,” cried the chemist.

This the farmer was, of course, unable to do.

At length he cried, “Woa! woa! man! Dod, it’s perfect murder haudin’ that thing.”

The chemist then stopped the current of electricity; and as soon as he was released the farmer rushed from the shop, shouting, “By the Lord Harry, I’ll stick to the auld-fashioned barrow yet!”

At a sale of an antiquarian gentleman’s effects in Roxburghshire, which Sir Walter Scott happened to attend, there was one little article—a Roman patera—which occasioned a good deal of competition, and was eventually knocked down to the author of Waverley at a high price. Sir Walter was excessively amused during the time of the bidding to observe how much the price being realized was exciting the astonishment of an old woman who had evidently come there to buy culinary utensils on a more economical principle. When the sale of the article was affected—“Lord, bless me,” she exclaimed, “if the parritch pan gangs at that, what will the kail pat gang for?”

When, some years ago, an old woman in Perthshire had occasion for the first time in her life to make a journey by rail, she hied to the nearest station and demanded a ticket.

“First or third?” inquired the clerk.

“Oh, a first ane,” said she, “for I’m in an awfu’ hurry, an’ wad like to be hame again afore it’s dark.”

Burns prayed that the deil might “tak a thocht an’ mend.” “Janet, ’oman,” said a Perthshire cottager to his wife, “d’ye ken, I was prayin’ last nicht that the deil micht dee.”

“Dinna fash doin’ onything o’ the kind again, then,” replied Janet. “I’m thinking we micht get a waur ane.”

“Hoo’s yer mither the day?” was once asked of a country laddie.

“She’s nae better,” was the reply; “but there’s waur than that, the coo’s turned ill this mornin’.”

“I’m thinkin’, Nanny,” said an aged country cottager to his faithful spouse, one day, while he lay in bed contemplating his end, “I’m thinkin’ it canna be lang noo. I feel as if this very nicht the end wad come.”

“Indeed, gudeman,” said Nanny, in the most pensive tones. “If it were the Lord’s will it wad be rale convenient, for the coo’s gaun to calve, and I dinna weel see hoo I’m to be able to attend to you baith.”

Dr. Alexander Fraser, of Aberdeen, was a homely and somewhat gruff but skilful physician. Among his patients was a sturdy country wife of the working class order, who had, upon very slight pretence, as Fraser felt satisfied, taken into her head that she was unwell—indeed, “was just dwynin’ awa,” as she herself phrased it. “And fat could he do for her?”

The doctor did not feel called upon to search the pharmacopœia very deeply, and asked if she thought she could eat a herring.

“Ay,” she said, “I rather like them.”

“Weel,” said he, “ye canna do better than haud tichtly at them.”

On his next visit the patient was asked if she had felt herself equal to carrying out the prescription.

“Ou ay.”

“An’ how many herrin’ did you contrive to eat?”

“Weel, sir, I managed eleven.”

“Eleven! indeed; that is quite as many as I expected. How did you manage them?”

“Weel, they were rather strong, sir,” replied the patient, “but I just conquered them wi’ bread.”

I have heard of another country wife in the North who was “sairly fashed wi’ her stamach.” “Eh,” said she, “the time was when I could hae ta’en a harl o’ onything that was gaun, but noo, gin I sud eat a bittie o’ bawcon to my dinner twice the buik o’ yer steekit neive, sorra’s in me, but I’ll hae the ruft o’t the hale aifternoon.”

Mr. Inglis, in his book, Our Ain Folk, tells a story of a grand dinner that was given inside the ruins of Edzell Castle in honour of Fox Maule, who had succeeded his father, Lord Panmure. Sandie Eggo, a small landowner from Glenesk, had got seated between two burly farmers, who were too much taken up cracking their own jokes to heed the meek, shrinking Sandie, who, starving with hunger, could not attract the attention of any of the busy waiters. Dish after dish was whipped away from the table without his tasting it; and though he had paid a guinea for his ticket, he sat unnoticed and unattended to. At length, in desperation he seized a spoon and attacked a dish in front of him, which turned out to be mashed turnips, on which he gorged himself. By and by Mr. Inglis, the minister, met Sandie in the grounds, and asked how he enjoyed the grand dinner.

“Graund denner!” growled Sandie; “ye can ca’t graund if ye like; but I can only say the fodder’s michty dear at ane an’ twenty guid shillin’s for a wheen chappit neeps no fit to set doon to a stirk.”

The same banquet gave rise to another story concerning a sheep farmer from Lethnot. He was a hard-headed man, and could stand any amount of whisky at a market fair without “turning a hair,” but a banquet fairly bambaized him. He had got among some lawyers, who were drinking champagne, and looking with the utmost contempt on the potency of the “thin fizzin’ stuff,” he quaffed bumpers of it at every toast. Some time after Mr. Inglis came upon him at another table covered with toddy tumblers and whisky bottles, and arrived at that state of intoxication known as “greetin’ fou.” On the minister inquiring what was the matter with the poor man, he replied, weeping copious tears—

“Ah, Maister Inglis, I’m failin’; I’m failin’ fast. I’m no lang for this warl’!”

“Oh, nonsense,” said the minister, “don’t be foolish! You look hale and hearty yet. You just try to get away home.”

“I’m clean dune, sir! I’m clean failed,” persisted the lachrymose farmer, with intense pathos. “As fac’s death, sir, I’ve only haen aucht tumblers, and I’m fou, sir—I’m fou!”

The Carlyles were a country-bred family, and the country roadman’s criticism of them would have made “Teufelsdröckh” laugh as only readers of Sartor know how. “I ken them a’,” said he. “Jock’s a doctor aboot London. Tam’s a harem-scarem kind o’ chiel’, an’ wreats books, an’ that. But Jamie—yon’s his farm you see ower yonder—Jamie’s the man o’ that family, an’ I’m proud to say I ken him. Jamie Carlyle, sir, feeds the best swine that come into Dumfries market.”

He was a country boy—the son of the village blacksmith—who, when he joined the evening singing class at the schoolhouse, and the precentor asked him if he had an ear for music, replied, “I dinna ken, but ye can tak’ a cawnil an’ look.”

Love has been described in rural phraseology as “a yeukieness o’ the heart that the hand canna claw.”

It was a country lass who defined it as “just an unco fykieness i’ the mind.” It is very often, alas! nothing more. Another declared that unsalted porridge—“wersh parritch”—“just tasted like a kiss frae a body ye dinna like.” It was a country wife who said to Dr. Chalmers, in answer to the question if she knew what was meant by believing, “Ou, ay; it’s just to lippen, sir.”

Any apt illustrations and choice examples of the humours of Scottish rural life might be multiplied to almost any extent. Only one or two more here, however, and first, one of Sir Walter Scott’s, which should convey a lesson to those who cater for cheap compliments. A jolly dame, says Scott, who, not “sixty years since,” kept the principal caravansary at Greenlaw, in Berwickshire, had the honour to receive under her roof a very worthy clergyman, with three sons of the same profession, each having a cure of souls. Be it said, in passing, none of this reverend party were reckoned very powerful in the pulpit. After dinner was over, the worthy senior, in the pride of his heart, asked Mrs. Buchan, the landlady, whether she ever had had such a party in her house before.

“Here sit I,” said he, “a placed minister in the Kirk of Scotland, and here sit my three sons, each a placed minister of the same Kirk. Confess, Lucky Buchan, you never had such a party in your house before.”

“Indeed, sir,” replied Lucky Buchan, “I canna just say that I ever had such a party in my house before, except ance in the forty-five, when I had a Highland piper here and his three sons, a’ Highland pipers, and the deil a spring could they play amang them!”

The simplicity of rural love-making, to unsuccessful as well as successful issues, has found illustration in many a humorous tale of Scottish life and character, but seldom with truer naivete than in the subjoined narrative of Betty’s courtship and marriage, from the pen of an unknown author. It first appeared in an Edinburgh newspaper many years ago, and afforded the ground plan of the late Alexander M’Laggan’s popular and really clever song, “Tibby and the Laird.”

“Come noo, Betty,” said an acquaintance, “an’ gie me a sketch, an’ tell me a’ about your courtship an’ marriage, for we dinna ken what’s afore us, an’ I may have a chance mysel’ yet.”

“Deed,” says Betty, “there’s was little about it ava’. Our maister was awa’ at the fair a’e day, sellin’ the lambs, an’ it was gey late afore he cam hame. Our maister very seldom stays late, ony place, for he’s a douce man as can be. Weel, ye see, he was mair hearty than I had seen him for a lang time, but I opine he had a gude market for his lambs, and there’s room for excuse when ane drives a gude bargain. Indeed, to tell ye the even-doun truth, he had rather better that a wee drap in his e’e. It was my usual to sit up till he cam’ hame, when he was awa’. When he cam’ in that nicht an’ gied up stairs he fand his supper ready for him. An’ ‘Betty,’ says he, ‘what’s been gaun on the day?—A’s richt, I houp?’ ‘Ou, ay, sir!’ says I. ‘Very weel, very weel,’ says he, in his ain canny way, an’ gae me a clap on the shouther an’ said I was a gude lassie. When I had telt him a’ that had been dune through the day, just as I aye did, he gae me anither clap on the shouther, an’ said he was a fortunate man to hae sic a carefu’ person about the house. I never had heard him say sae muckle to my face afore, though he had aften said mair ahent my back. I really thocht he was fey. When he had got his supper finished, he began to be very jokey ways, an’ said that I wasna only a gude but I was a bonnie lassie. I ken that fouks arena themsel’s when they have a dram, an’ say rather mair than they wad do if they were sober, sae I cam’ awa’ doun into the kitchen—Na, the maister never offered to kiss me; he was ower modest a man for that.

“Twa or three days after, our maister cam’ into the kitchen. ‘Betty,’ says he. ‘Sir,’ says I. ‘Betty,’ says he, ‘come upstairs; I want to speak to ye,’ says he. ‘Very weel, sir,’ says I. Sae I went upstairs after him, thinking a’ the road that he was gaun to tell me something aboot the feedin’ o’ the swine, or something like that. But when he tellt me to sit doun, I saw there was something serious, for he never bid me sit doun afore but ance, an’ that was whan he was gaun to Glasgow Fair. ‘Betty,’ says he, ‘ye ha’e been lang a servant to me,’ says he, ‘an’ a gude an’ an honest servant. Since ye’re sae gude a servant, I aften think ye’ll mak’ a better wife. Ha’e ye ony objections to be a wife, Betty?’ says he. ‘I dinna ken, sir,’ says I; ‘a body canna just say hoo they wad like a bargain until they see the article.’ ‘Weel, Betty,’ says he, ‘ye’re very richt there again. I ha’e had ye for a servant these fifteen years, an’ I never knew that I could find faut wi’ ye for onything. Ye’re carefu’, honest, an’ attentive. And——’ ‘Oh, sir,’ says I, ‘ye aye paid me for’t, an’ it was only my duty.’ ‘Weel, weel,’ says he, ‘Betty, that’s true; but then I mean to mak’ amends to ye for the evil speculation that Tibby Langtongue raised about you an’ me, an’ forby—the world are taking the same liberty; sae, to stop a’ their mouths you an’ I sall be married.’ ‘Very weel, sir,’ says I; for what could I say?

“Our maister looks into the kitchen anither day, an’ says, ‘Betty,’ says he. ‘Sir,’ says I. ‘Betty,’ says he, ‘I’m gaun to gie in our names to be cried in the kirk, this and next Sabbath.’ ‘Very weel, sir,’ says I.

“About anither eight days after this, our maister says to me, ‘Betty,’ says he. ‘Sir,’ says I. ‘Betty,’ says he, I think we’ll ha’e the waddin’ put owre neist Friday, if ye ha’e nae objections.’ ‘Very weel, sir,’ says I. ‘An’ ye’ll tak’ the grey yad, an’ gang to the toun on Monday, an’ get your bits o’ waddin’ braws. I ha’e spoken to Mr. Cheap, the draper, an’ ye can tak’ aff onything ye want, an’ please yoursel’, for I canna get awa’ that day.’ ‘Very weel, sir,’ says I.

“Sae I gaed awa’ to the toun on Monday, an’ bought some wee bits o’ things; but I had plenty o’ claes, an’ I couldna think o’ bein’ extravagant. I took them to the manty-maker to get made.

“On Thursday nicht our maister says to me—‘Betty,’ says he. ‘Sir,’ says I. ‘The morn is our waddin’-day,’ says he; ‘an’ ye maun see that a’ thing’s prepared for the denner,’ says he, ‘an’ see everything dune yoursel’, says he; ‘for I expect some company, an’ wad like to see a’thing feat an’ tidy, an’ in your ain way,’ says he. ‘Very weel, sir,’ says I. Sae I got everything in readiness.

“On Friday mornin’ our maister says to me, ‘Betty,’ says he. ‘Sir,’ says I. ‘Betty,’ says he, ‘gang awa’ an’ get yoursel’ dressed,’ says he. ‘For the company will sune be here, an’ ye maun be decent. An’ ye maun stay in the room upstairs,’ says he, ‘until ye’re sent for,’ says he. ‘Very weel, sir,’ says I. But there was sic a great deal to do, an’ sae many grand dishes to prepare for the denner, to the company, that I couldna get awa’, an’ the hale fouk were come afore I got mysel’ dressed.

“Our maister cam’ dounstairs an’ tell’t me to go up that instant an’ dress mysel’, for the minister was just comin’ doun the loan. Sae I was obleeged to leave everything to the rest o’ the servants, an’ gang upstairs an’ put on my claes.

“When I was wanted, Mr. Brown o’ the Hazelybrae cam’ an’ took me into the room amang a’ the grand fouk an’ the minister. I was maist like to fent, for I never saw sae mony grand fouk thegether a’ my born days afore, an’ I didna ken whaur to look. At last our maister took me by the hand, an’ I was greatly relieved. The minister said a great deal to us, but I canna mind muckle o’t; an’ then he said a prayer. After this I thocht I should hae been worried wi’ fouk kissin’ me; mony ane shook hands wi’ me I had never seen afore, an’ wished me much joy.

“After the ceremony was owre, I slippit awa’ doun into the kitchen again amang the lave o’ the servants, to see if the denner was a’ richt. But in a maument’s time, our maister cam’ into the kitchen, an’ says—‘Betty,’ says he. ‘Sir,’ says I. ‘Betty,’ says he, ‘ye maun consider that ye’re nae langer my servant, but my wife,’ says he, ‘an’ therefore ye must come upstairs an’ sit amang the rest o’ the company,’ says he. ‘Very weel, sir,’ says I. Sae what could I do but gang upstairs to the lave o’ the company, an’ sit doun amang them? Sae, Jean, that was a’ that was about my courtship an’ marriage.”