Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character by Edward Bannerman Ramsay

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"The souter tauld his queerest stories,
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus."

Or we may think of the delight it gave the good Mr. Balwhidder, when he
tells, in his Annals of the Parish, of some such story, that it was a
"jocosity that was just a kittle to hear." When I speak of changes in
such Scottish humour which have taken place, I refer to a particular
sort of humour, and I speak of the sort of feeling that belongs to
Scottish pleasantry,--which is sly, and cheery, and pawky. It is
undoubtedly a humour that depends a good deal upon the vehicle in which
the story is conveyed. If, as we have said, our quaint dialect is
passing away, and our national eccentric points of character, we must
expect to find much of the peculiar humour allied with them to have
passed away also. In other departments of wit and repartee, and acute
hits at men and things, Scotsmen (whatever Sydney Smith may have said to
the contrary) are equal to their neighbours, and, so far as I know, may
have gained rather than lost. But this peculiar humour of which I now
speak has not, in our day, the scope and development which were
permitted to it by the former generation. Where the tendency exists, the
exercise of it is kept down by the usages and feelings of society. For
examples of it (in its full force at any rate) we must go back to a race
who are departed. One remark, however, has occurred to me in regard to
the specimens we have of this kind of humour--viz. that they do not
always proceed from the personal wit or cleverness of any of the
individuals concerned in them. The amusement comes from the
circumstances, from the concurrence or combination of the ideas, and in
many cases from the mere expressions which describe the facts. The
humour of the narrative is unquestionable, and yet no one has tried to
be humorous. In short, it is the _Scottishness_ that gives the zest. The
same ideas differently expounded might have no point at all. There is,
for example, something highly original in the notions of celestial
mechanics entertained by an honest Scottish Fife lass regarding the
theory of comets. Having occasion to go out after dark, and having
observed the brilliant comet then visible (1858), she ran in with
breathless haste to the house, calling on her fellow-servants to "Come
oot and see a new star that hasna got its tail cuttit aff yet!"
Exquisite astronomical speculation! Stars, like puppies, are born with
tails, and in due time have them docked. Take an example of a story
where there is no display of any one's wit or humour, and yet it is a
good story, and one can't exactly say why:--An English traveller had
gone on a fine Highland road so long, without having seen an indication
of fellow-travellers, that he became astonished at the solitude of the
country; and no doubt before the Highlands were so much frequented as
they are in our time, the roads sometimes bore a very striking aspect of
solitariness. Our traveller, at last coming up to an old man breaking
stones, asked him if there was _any_ traffic on this road--was it at
_all_ frequented? "Ay," he said, coolly, "it's no ill at that; there was
a cadger body yestreen, and there's yoursell the day." No English
version of the story could have half such amusement, or have so quaint a
character. An answer even still more characteristic is recorded to have
been given by a countryman to a traveller. Being doubtful of his way, he
inquired if he were on the right road to Dunkeld. With some of his
national inquisitiveness about strangers, the countryman asked his
inquirer where he came from. Offended at the liberty, as he considered
it, he sharply reminded the man that where he came from was nothing to
him; but all the answer he got was the quiet rejoinder, "Indeed, it's
just as little to me whar ye're gaen." A friend has told me of an answer
highly characteristic of this dry and unconcerned quality which he heard
given to a fellow-traveller. A gentleman sitting opposite to him in the
stage-coach at Berwick complained bitterly that the cushion on which he
sat was quite wet. On looking up to the roof he saw a hole through which
the rain descended copiously, and at once accounted for the mischief. He
called for the coachman, and in great wrath reproached him with the evil
under which he suffered, and pointed to the hole which was the cause of
it. All the satisfaction, however, that he got was the quiet unmoved
reply, "Ay, mony a ane has complained o' _that_ hole." Another anecdote
I heard from a gentleman who vouched for the truth, which is just a case
where the narrative has its humour not from the wit which is displayed
but from that dry matter-of-fact view of things peculiar to some of our
countrymen. The friend of my informant was walking in a street of Perth,
when, to his horror, he saw a workman fall from a roof where he was
mending slates, right upon the pavement. By extraordinary good fortune
he was not killed, and on the gentleman going up to his assistance, and
exclaiming, with much excitement, "God bless me, are you much hurt?" all
the answer he got was the cool rejoinder, "On the contrary, sir." A
similar matter-of fact answer was made by one of the old race of
Montrose humorists. He was coming out of church, and in the press of the
kirk _skailing_, a young man thoughtlessly trod on the old gentleman's
toe, which was tender with corns. He hastened to apologise, saying, "I
am very sorry, sir; I beg your pardon." The only acknowledgment of which
was the dry answer, "And ye've as muckle need, sir." An old man marrying
a very young wife, his friends rallied him on the inequality of their
ages. "She will be near me," he replied, "to close my een." "Weel,"
remarked another of the party, "I've had twa wives, and they _opened
my een_."

One of the best specimens of cool Scottish matter-of-fact view of things
has been supplied by a kind correspondent, who narrates it from his own
personal recollection.

The back windows of the house where he was brought up looked upon the
Greyfriars Church that was burnt down. On the Sunday morning in which
that event took place, as they were all preparing to go to church, the
flames began to burst forth; the young people screamed from the back
part of the house, "A fire! A fire!" and all was in a state of confusion
and alarm. The housemaid was not at home, it being her turn for the
Sunday "out." Kitty, the cook, was taking her place, and performing her
duties. The old woman was always very particular on the subject of her
responsibility on such occasions, and came panting and hobbling up
stairs from the lower regions, and exclaimed, "Oh, what is't, what
is't?" "O Kitty, look here, the Greyfriars Church is on fire!" "Is that
a', Miss? What a fricht ye geed me! I thought ye said the parlour
fire was out."

In connection with the subject of Scottish _toasts_ I am supplied by a
first-rate Highland authority of one of the most graceful and crushing
replies of a lady to what was intended as a sarcastic compliment and
smart saying at her expense.

About the beginning of the present century the then Campbell of Combie,
on Loch Awe side, in Argyleshire, was a man of extraordinary character,
and of great physical strength, and such swiftness of foot that it is
said he could "catch the best _tup_ on the hill." He also looked upon
himself as a "pretty man," though in this he was singular; also, it was
more than whispered that the laird was not remarkable for his principles
of honesty. There also lived in the same district a Miss MacNabb of
Bar-a'-Chaistril, a lady who, before she had passed the zenith of life,
had never been remarkable for her beauty--the contrary even had passed
into a proverb, while she was in her teens; but, to counterbalance this
defect in external qualities, nature had endowed her with great
benevolence, while she was renowned for her probity. One day the Laird
of Combie, who piqued himself on his _bon-mots,_ was, as frequently
happened, a guest of Miss MacNabb's, and after dinner several toasts had
gone round as usual, Combie rose with great solemnity and addressing the
lady of the house requested an especial bumper, insisting on all the
guests to fill to the brim. He then rose and said, addressing himself to
Miss MacNabb, "I propose the old Scottish toast of 'Honest men and
_bonnie_ lassies,'" and bowing to the hostess, he resumed his seat. The
lady returned his bow with her usual amiable smile, and taking up her
glass, replied, "Weel, Combie, I am sure _we_ may drink that, for it
will neither apply to _you_ nor _me_."

An amusing example of a quiet cool view of a pecuniary transaction
happened to my father whilst doing the business of the rent-day. He was
receiving sums of money from the tenants in succession. After looking
over a bundle of notes which he had just received from one of them, a
well-known character, he said in banter, "James, the notes are not
correct." To which the farmer, who was much of a humorist, drily
answered, "I dinna ken what they may be _noo_; but they were a' richt
afore ye had your fingers in amang 'em." An English farmer would hardly
have spoken thus to his landlord. The Duke of Buccleuch told me an
answer very quaintly Scotch, given to his grandmother by a farmer of the
old school. A dinner was given to some tenantry of the vast estates of
the family, in the time of Duke Henry. His Duchess (the last descendant
of the Dukes of Montague) always appeared at table on such occasions,
and did the honours with that mixture of dignity and of affable kindness
for which she was so remarkable. Abundant hospitality was shown to all
the guests. The Duchess, having observed one of the tenants supplied
with boiled beef from a noble round, proposed that he should add a
supply of cabbage: on his declining, the Duchess good-humouredly
remarked, "Why, boiled beef and 'greens' seem so naturally to go
together, I wonder you don't take it." To which the honest farmer
objected, "Ah, but your Grace maun alloo it's a vary _windy_ vegetable,"
in delicate allusion to the flatulent quality of the esculent. Similar
to this was the naive answer of a farmer on the occasion of a rent-day.
The lady of the house asked him if he would take some "rhubarb-tart," to
which he innocently answered, "Thank ye, mem, I dinna _need_ it."

A Highland minister, dining with the patroness of his parish, ventured
to say, "I'll thank your leddyship for a little more of that
apple-tart;" "It's not apple-tart, it's rhubarb," replied the lady.
"Rhubarb!" repeated the other, with a look of surprise and alarm, and
immediately called out to the attendant, "Freend, I'll thank you for
a dram."

A characteristic _table_ anecdote I can recall amongst Deeside
reminiscences. My aunt, Mrs. Forbes, had entertained an honest Scotch
farmer at Banchory Lodge; a draught of ale had been offered to him,
which he had quickly despatched. My aunt observing that the glass had no
head or effervescence, observed, that she feared it had not been a good
bottle, "Oh, vera gude, maam, it's just some strong o' the aaple," an
expression which indicates the beer to be somewhat sharp or pungent. It
turned out to have been a bottle of _vinegar_ decanted by mistake.

An amusing instance of an old Scottish farmer being unacquainted with
table refinements occurred at a tenant's dinner in the north. The
servant had put down beside him a dessert spoon when he had been helped
to pudding. This seemed quite superfluous to the honest man, who
exclaimed, "Tak' it awa, my man; my mou's as big for puddin' as it is
for kail."

Amongst the lower orders in Scotland humour is found, occasionally,
very rich in mere children, and I recollect a remarkable illustration of
this early native humour occurring in a family in Forfarshire, where I
used in former days to be very intimate. A wretched woman, who used to
traverse the country as a beggar or tramp, left a poor, half-starved
little girl by the road-side, near the house of my friends. Always ready
to assist the unfortunate, they took charge of the child, and as she
grew a little older they began to give her some education, and taught
her to read. She soon made some progress in reading the Bible, and the
native odd humour of which we speak began soon to show itself. On
reading the passage, which began, "Then David rose," etc., the child
stopped, and looked up knowingly, to say, "I ken wha that was," and on
being asked what she could mean, she confidently said, "That's David
Rowse the pleuchman." And again, reading the passage where the words
occur, "He took Paul's girdle," the child said, with much confidence, "I
ken what he took that for," and on being asked to explain, replied at
once, "To bake 's bannocks on;" "girdle" being in the north the name for
the iron plate hung over the fire for baking oat cakes or bannocks.

To a distinguished member of the Church of Scotland I am indebted for an
excellent story of quaint child humour, which he had from the lips of an
old woman who related the story of herself:--When a girl of eight years
of age she was taken by her grandmother to church. The parish minister
was not only a long preacher, but, as the custom was, delivered two
sermons on the Sabbath day without any interval, and thus saved the
parishioners the two journeys to church. Elizabeth was sufficiently
wearied before the close of the first discourse; but when, after singing
and prayer, the good minister opened the Bible, read a second text, and
prepared to give a second sermon, the young girl, being both tired and
hungry, lost all patience, and cried out to her grandmother, to the no
small amusement of those who were so near as to hear her, "Come awa,
granny, and gang hame; this is a lang grace, and nae meat."

A most amusing account of child humour used to be narrated by an old Mr.
Campbell of Jura, who told the story of his own son. It seems the boy
was much spoilt by indulgence. In fact, the parents were scarce able to
refuse him anything he demanded. He was in the drawing-room on one
occasion when dinner was announced, and on being ordered up to the
nursery he insisted on going down to dinner with the company. His mother
was for refusal, but the child persevered, and kept saying, "If I dinna
gang, I'll tell thon." His father then, for peace sake, let him go. So
he went and sat at table by his mother. When he found every one getting
soup and himself omitted, he demanded soup, and repeated, "If I dinna
get it, I'll tell thon." Well, soup was given, and various other things
yielded to his importunities, to which he always added the usual threat
of "telling thon." At last, when it came to wine, his mother stood firm,
and positively refused, as "a bad thing for little boys," and so on. He
then became more vociferous than ever about "telling thon;" and as still
he was refused, he declared, "Now, I will tell thon," and at last roared
out, "_Ma new breeks were made oot o' the auld curtains_!"

The Rev. Mr. Agnew has kindly sent me an anecdote which supplies an
example of cleverness in a Scottish boy, and which rivals, as he
observes, the smartness of the London boy, termed by _Punch_ the "Street
boy." It has also a touch of quiet, sly Scottish _humour_. A gentleman,
editor of a Glasgow paper, well known as a bon-vivant and epicure, and
by no means a popular character, was returning one day from his office,
and met near his own house a boy carrying a splendid salmon. The
gentleman looked at it with longing eyes, and addressed the boy--"Where
are you taking that salmon, my boy?" Boy--"Do you ken gin ae Mr. ----
(giving the gentleman's name) lives hereabout?" Mr. ---- "Yes, oh yes;
his house is here just by." Boy (looking sly)--"Weel, it's no for him."
Of this same Scottish _boy cleverness_, the Rev. Mr. M'Lure of Marykirk
kindly supplies a capital specimen, in an instance which occurred at
what is called the market, at Fettercairn, where there is always a
hiring of servants. A boy was asked by a farmer if he wished to be
engaged. "Ou ay," said the youth. "Wha was your last maister?" was the
next question. "Oh, yonder him," said the boy; and then agreeing to wait
where he was standing with some other servants till the inquirer should
return from examination of the boy's late employer. The farmer returned
and accosted the boy, "Weel, lathie, I've been speerin' about ye, an'
I'm tae tak ye." "Ou ay," was the prompt reply, "an' I've been speerin'
about _ye tae_, an' I'm nae gaen."

We could not have had a better specimen of the cool self-sufficiency of
these young domestics of the Scottish type than the following:--I heard
of a boy making a very cool and determined exit from the house into
which he had very lately been introduced. He had been told that he
should be dismissed if he broke any of the china that was under his
charge. On the morning of a great dinner-party he was entrusted (rather
rashly) with a great load of plates, which he was to carry up-stairs
from the kitchen to the dining-room, and which were piled up, and
rested upon his two hands. In going up-stairs his foot slipped, and the
plates were broken to atoms. He at once went up to the drawing-room, put
his head in at the door, and shouted: "The plates are a' smashed,
and I'm awa."

A facetious and acute friend, who rather leans to the Sydney Smith view
of Scottish wit, declares that all our humorous stories are about
lairds, and lairds that are drunk. Of such stories there are certainly
not a few. The following is one of the best belonging to my part of the
country, and to many persons I should perhaps apologise for introducing
it at all. The story has been told of various parties and localities,
but no doubt the genuine laird was a laird of Balnamoon (pronounced in
the country Bonnymoon), and that the locality was a wild tract of land,
not far from his place, called Munrimmon Moor. Balnamoon had been dining
out in the neighbourhood, where, by mistake, they had put down to him
after dinner cherry brandy, instead of port wine, his usual beverage.
The rich flavour and strength so pleased him that, having tasted it, he
would have nothing else. On rising from table, therefore, the laird
would be more affected by his drink than if he had taken his ordinary
allowance of port. His servant Harry or Hairy was to drive him home in a
gig, or whisky as it was called, the usual open carriage of the time. On
crossing the moor, however, whether from greater exposure to the blast,
or from the laird's unsteadiness of head, his hat and wig came off and
fell upon the ground. Harry got out to pick them up and restore them to
his master. The laird was satisfied with the hat, but demurred at the
wig. "It's no my wig, Hairy, lad; it's no my wig," and refused to have
anything to do with it. Hairy lost his patience, and, anxious to get
home, remonstrated with his master, "Ye'd better tak it, sir, for
there's nae _waile_[161] o' wigs on Munrimmon Moor." The humour of the
argument is exquisite, putting to the laird in his unreasonable
objection the sly insinuation that in such a locality, if he did not
take _this_ wig, he was not likely to find another. Then, what a rich
expression, "waile o' wigs." In English what is it? "A choice of
perukes;" which is nothing comparable to the "waile o' wigs." I ought to
mention also an amusing sequel to the story, viz. in what happened after
the affair of the wig had been settled, and the laird had consented to
return home. When the whisky drove up to the door, Hairy, sitting in
front, told the servant who came "to tak out the laird." No laird was to
be seen; and it appeared that he had fallen out on the moor without
Hairy observing it. Of course, they went back, and, picking him up,
brought him safe home. A neighbouring laird having called a few days
after, and having referred to the accident, Balnamoon quietly added,
"Indeed, I maun hae a lume[162] that'll _haud in_."

The laird of Balnamoon was a truly eccentric character. He joined with
his drinking propensities a great zeal for the Episcopal church, the
service of which he read to his own family with much solemnity and
earnestness of manner. Two gentlemen, one of them a stranger to the
country, having called pretty early one Sunday morning, Balnamoon
invited them to dinner, and as they accepted the invitation, they
remained and joined in the forenoon devotional exercises conducted by
Balnamoon himself. The stranger was much impressed with the laird's
performance of the service, and during a walk which they took before
dinner, mentioned to his friend how highly he esteemed the religious
deportment of their host. The gentleman said nothing, but smiled to
himself at the scene which he anticipated was to follow. After dinner,
Balnamoon set himself, according to the custom of old hospitable
Scottish hosts, to make his guests as drunk as possible. The result was,
that the party spent the evening in a riotous debauch, and were carried
to bed by the servants at a late hour. Next day, when they had taken
leave and left the house, the gentleman who had introduced his friend
asked him what he thought of their entertainer--"Why, really," he
replied, with evident astonishment, "sic a speat o' praying, and sic a
speat o' drinking, I never knew in the whole course o' my life."

Lady Dalhousie, mother, I mean, of the late distinguished Marquis of
Dalhousie, used to tell a characteristic anecdote of her day. But here,
on mention of the name Christian, Countess of Dalhousie, may I pause a
moment to recall the memory of one who was a very remarkable person. She
was for many years, to me and mine, a sincere, and true and valuable
friend. By an awful dispensation of God's providence her death happened
_instantaneously_ under my roof in 1839. Lady Dalhousie was eminently
distinguished for a fund of the most varied knowledge, for a clear and
powerful judgment, for acute observation, a kind heart, a brilliant wit.
Her story was thus:--A Scottish judge, somewhat in the predicament of
the Laird of Balnamoon, had dined at Coalstoun with her father Charles
Brown, an advocate, and son of George Brown, who sat in the Supreme
Court as a judge with the title of Lord Coalstoun. The party had been
convivial, as we know parties of the highest legal characters often
were in those days. When breaking up and going to the drawing-room, one
of them, not seeing his way very clearly, stepped out of the dining-room
window, which was open to the summer air. The ground at Coalstoun
sloping off from the house behind, the worthy judge got a great fall,
and rolled down the bank. He contrived, however, as tipsy men generally
do, to regain his legs, and was able to reach the drawing-room. The
first remark he made was an innocent remonstrance with his friend the
host, "Od, Charlie Brown, what gars ye hae sic lang steps to your
_front_ door?"

On Deeside, where many original stories had their origin, I recollect
hearing several of an excellent and worthy, but very simple-minded man,
the Laird of Craigmyle. On one occasion, when the beautiful and clever
Jane, Duchess of Gordon, was scouring through the country, intent upon
some of those electioneering schemes which often occupied her fertile
imagination and active energies, she came to call at Craigmyle, and
having heard that the laird was making bricks on the property, for the
purpose of building a new garden wall, with her usual tact she opened
the subject, and kindly asked, "Well, Mr. Gordon, and how do your bricks
come on?" Good Craigmyle's thoughts were much occupied with a new
leather portion of his dress, which had been lately constructed, so,
looking down on his nether garments, he said in pure Aberdeen dialect,
"Muckle obleeged to yer Grace, the breeks war sum ticht at first, but
they are deeing weel eneuch noo."

The last Laird of Macnab, before the clan finally broke up and emigrated
to Canada, was a well-known character in the country, and being poor,
used to ride about on a most wretched horse, which gave occasion to
many jibes at his expense. The laird was in the constant habit of riding
up from the country to attend the Musselburgh races. A young wit, by way
of playing him off on the race-course, asked him, in a contemptuous
tone, "Is that the same horse you had last year, laird?" "Na," said the
laird, brandishing his whip in the interrogator's face in so emphatic a
manner as to preclude further questioning, "na; but it's the same
_whup_." In those days, as might be expected, people were not nice in
expressions of their dislike of persons and measures. If there be not
more charity in society than of old, there is certainly more courtesy. I
have, from a friend, an anecdote illustrative of this remark, in regard
to feelings exercised towards an unpopular laird. In the neighbourhood
of Banff, in Forfarshire, the seat of a very ancient branch of the
Ramsays, lived a proprietor who bore the appellation of Corb, from the
name of his estate. This family has passed away, and its property merged
in Banff. The laird was intensely disliked in the neighbourhood. Sir
George Ramsay was, on the other hand, universally popular and respected.
On one occasion, Sir George, in passing a morass in his own
neighbourhood, had missed the road and fallen into a bog to an alarming
depth. To his great relief, he saw a passenger coming along the path,
which was at no great distance. He called loudly for his help, but the
man took no notice. Poor Sir George felt himself sinking, and redoubled
his cries for assistance; all at once the passenger rushed forward,
carefully extricated him from his perilous position, and politely
apologised for his first neglect of his appeal, adding, as his reason,
"Indeed, Sir George, I thought it was Corb!" evidently meaning that
_had_ it been Corb, he must have taken his chance for him.

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