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.

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.”