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If any reader of the foregoing Chapter feels somewhat fatigued by the supply of “Puns” contained therein, there need not be any apprehension of a further dose of the same ingredient in this Chapter, because it is intended to deal mostly with traces of humour and quaintness which are of Scottish origin, in which punning is rarely found. And indeed, the exemption from this form of the humoresque in Scotland, as compared with England, is quite remarkable. Thus, in that treasury of Scottish Characteristics contained in Dean Ramsay’s celebrated book, amidst countless examples of amusing incident and quotation, there will scarcely be found anything in the punning line.

And, by the way, as that work has attained to fourteen editions, it seems strange that it should not have given the quietus to the tradition—which the Dean recognised, quite seriously, as worth refutation—about the obtuseness of the normal Scot, in regard to joke appreciation; but there is no need, at any rate there will be no attempt, to follow the Dean’s line of defence regarding that rather well-worn notion, except in the indirect manner of drawing from the Scottish reservoir of originality in wit and humour.

The people of Scotland have the reputation of being mostly of a serious and religious turn of mind and habit; and doubtless this reputation is deserved; at least, it has been so in the past. It may, therefore, seem somewhat singular that so many of the amusing sayings and incidents which have passed into currency, should, in so many instances, have been associated with religious observances and experiences. An example, taken almost at random, may be found in the description (contained in Dean Ramsay’s book) of an occurrence in a pastoral district of the Highlands.

At one of the Churches, where the congregation was drawn from a wide district, it was always the custom for the shepherds to bring their dogs with them to the service; and the dogs, of course, thoroughly trained, remained perfectly quiet throughout the service, until towards the end, namely when the last Psalm was given out. Then, perceiving, through experience or instinct, that the time of release was at hand, there was much stretching and yawning, and also those quaint sounds by which dogs are apt to indicate enjoyment and satisfaction; and when the pronouncement of the benediction began, the feelings of the canine portion of the assemblage were apt to break out into actual barks of joy.

These manifestations became so much a matter of course, that they had no disturbing effect upon either minister or congregation; but when it became known that on a certain Sunday the service would be conducted by a stranger, it was felt that the usual demonstration by the dogs would seem indecorous, and indeed embarrassing to the minister; and therefore, to prevent this, an arrangement was agreed upon. In Presbyterian Churches, the congregation always rise when the concluding benediction is about to be pronounced, but on this occasion, when the minister raised his hands as usual, the congregation remained seated; the minister paused, somewhat puzzled, but an old shepherd, looking up to the pulpit, said, “Say awa’, sir, we’re a’ sittin’ to cheat the dowgs.”

Of course the above would apply only to a district of exceptional kind in regard to the prevalent occupation of the inhabitants, though the presence of dogs in church, admirably well behaved, was quite a common thing in many parts of the country in former times. Indeed, I may admit (tell it not in Gath!), that Lady Aberdeen used to be regularly accompanied to church by her favourite Skye terrier “Monarch,” who always behaved in an exemplary manner, not even showing undue elation when the service ended, his only stipulation being that he should be allowed to keep near to his mistress. (Of course he did not think it necessary to set an example of wakefulness.)

But it must be allowed that in connection with the termination of the church services, at least in country districts, there was a custom of a not edifying character, namely, that the instant the Amen of the benediction was pronounced, the egress of the congregation took place with a suddenness that might be compared to the rush of water from a milldam when the sluice is raised. This custom was alluded to by Lord Sands in the course of some very interesting reminiscences of his early days, and I myself, distinctly remember its prevalence in my boyish days, in the old Parish Church of Methlick. This may sound like irreverence, but it was in reality simply a matter of custom. Not a word was spoken, in contrast, by the way, to what may have been observed in many places of worship in England in past times, and perhaps to some extent at the present day, namely, the prevalence of a certain amount of exchange of greetings (in a quiet way) and also of conversation within the building, after the conclusion of the service; and after all, this need not be an indication of any lack of devout feeling.

I may doubtless be told, and with truth, that such a thing would not occur in any church belonging to the Church of England. Quite so; but in that respect also, there has been a change. I remember, with absolute distinctness, that the late Bishop Wilkinson, soon after he became Vicar of St Peter’s Church, Eaton Square, where he was the means of effecting a veritable transformation, uttered words to the following effect, from the pulpit: “Before beginning my discourse, I wish to say something about the Godless habit of talking in Church;” and he went on to say that he had noticed that members of the congregation, after taking their seats, would occasionally exchange indications of greeting with friends and acquaintances, either in the gallery or in the body of the Church. And he then exhorted his hearers that there should be no continuance of this practice. It is not surprising that one can vividly call to mind this utterance, because it was delivered with that intensity of earnestness and conviction so characteristic of the man, whose apostolic zeal and spiritual fervour became, to so many, the cause of lasting benefit and thankfulness.

Reverting to the old habit in Scotland, as to the mode of exit from Church, this is now quite a thing of the past, and indeed it is credibly reported that at a quite early period a minister of the old school and style, namely, a former pastor of the now United Free Church at Craigdam, Aberdeenshire, namely, the Rev. Patrick Robertson, took steps long ago to check the impetuous departure of his flock at the end of the service, in the following quaint manner. Having raised his hands as the usual sign that he was about to pronounce the benediction, he dropped them, and addressed the congregation, who had risen, in the following manner: “Ma freens, ye mind me on the nowt in Frosterhill’s byre—nae seener does the bailie pit’s han’ til a seill than ilka heid’s turned to the door.” Instead of adding a foot-note with a glossary for the benefit of any English readers, or, indeed, perhaps for some of Scottish nationality who are young, it may be convenient simply to repeat the above in an English version: “My friends, you remind me of the cattle in Mr Frosterhill’s cowhouse. No sooner does the cattle-man place his hand on the collar-fastening of one of the animals, than every head is turned towards the door.” One can quite well understand that the above vivid metaphorical address would come home to the hearers with permanent effect.

There can be little doubt that if the above utterance had been made known to Dean Ramsay, he would have inserted it in his book, if only for the sake of illustrating what is certainly one of his favourite themes, namely, the advantage possessed by the old Scottish vernacular as a medium of terse and vigorous communication; and I confess that in attempting to give a reasonably correct English equivalent to the above exhortation, I was not without hope that, with due Scottish (so-called) modesty, the advantage as to force and impressiveness might be with the original form. Moreover, it contains a distinctive Scottish element, namely, in the allusion to Frosterhill’s byre; for this combines the indication of both a person and a place, which would make the illustration, of course, all the more familiar and effective to the hearers. The real name of the farm referred to is Foresterhill, but is always pronounced Frosterhill; but the use of the name indicated also the farmer, doubtless a much esteemed member of the congregation.

The old Scottish custom of designating lairds by the name of their estate has always been largely adopted in the case of the occupiers of the farms, and the more naturally, owing to the prevalence of leaseholds for nineteen years, but often renewed again and again, so that in many instances successive generations have occupied the same place. Of course the rule is not universal, but it may be taken as a sign of popularity when a farmer is always designated by the name of his home; and a further sign of popularity and goodwill is indicated by the use of a diminutive, which is also, of course, a Scottish tendency.

I remember once in my early days, which were also the early days of steam traction-engines, these being certainly the precursors of the modern motor car, that I happened to be in the congenial position of standing on the footplate of one of those same cumbrous machines. We were approaching the village of Methlick in fine style, but soon after crossing the bridge over the Ythan, the young man who was driving the engine slackened speed. I asked him why? He replied: “I didna wish to skeir Wardie’s powney.” I then looked ahead and observed that my esteemed friend, Mr Simpson, the excellent tenant of the substantial farm of Wardford, was driving through the village in his gig with a smart trotting pony. The engine-driver was not in the slightest degree showing any undue assumption of familiarity, he was simply using the nomenclature which, owing to Mr Simpson’s position and reputation, had become his invariable designation by all sections of the community in which he lived; and I am sure our valued friends, his daughters, Miss Elsie Simpson, of Aberdeen, and her married sisters, will endorse these observations, and they will also be able mentally to picture the little scene which I have indicated.

This kind of sobriquet, as distinguished from a mere nickname, has, of course, to some extent, its counterpart outside Scotland, and is nearly always a sign of a large measure of popularity; thus, in the case of the late Field-Marshal Earl Roberts, the designation “Bobs” became a sort of pet name amongst the soldiery. Again, in another arena, “Dizzy,” although no doubt used by opponents as well as friends, was more essentially the habitual designation by the latter; and so with Mr Gladstone, the “G.O.M.”; in his case, I think this was almost exclusively used by friends and well-wishers; so also with “C.B.”

All this is certainly in the nature of a digression, but, after all, this book will admittedly be largely of a conversational character, and, therefore, a certain amount of elasticity will, it is hoped, be tolerated; but it is high time to revert to the topic from which there has been a divergence, namely, certain phases of church usage in Scotland.

Although, as indicated, there is now in Scottish Churches, universally, a moment or two of appropriate stillness after the benediction, there is not yet in Presbyterian Churches, at any rate in the country districts, a general observance of what has always been a recognised usage in England, namely, the indication of at least a moment or two of silent devotion before the commencement of a service. Strangely enough, there used to be a distinction between the mode of this observance, in the case of men and women respectively; for it was usual for a man not to kneel, but while standing, to raise his hat in front of his face for a moment or two, and then to take his seat.

This custom was alluded to many years ago in one of the pictures in Punch. The scene was the interior of a Church, just before the commencement of a service, when a little girl, seated beside her mother whispers: “Mummy, is Mr Brown a naughty man?”

Mother: “Hush, dear, no. Why?”

Child: “Because he doesn’t smell his hat before sitting down.”

There is just an indication in the distance of a gentleman who is duly observing the custom.

I have not got the past volumes of Punch conveniently at hand, nor is there any need for such, but if anyone wishes to verify the above, this, of course, can easily be done, though I cannot assist by giving any indication of the date, except that obviously it is somewhat remote.

During a considerable period, Scottish humorous and anecdotal contributions have been largely based on two prominent tendencies supposed to be specially characteristic of Scotland, namely, first, a tendency to an undue fondness for alcoholic beverages, especially whisky, and secondly, the practice of an extreme degree of thrift. The former of these two groups seems to be falling somewhat into disuse; and this is scarcely to be regretted. After all, the tendency, so far as it exists, is nothing to be proud of, and, moreover, jokes based thereon are apt to be somewhat thin in quality. However, in a book professing to deal with, inter alia, Scottish jocularity, it would seem almost like affectation to ignore this section of the subject. A few specimens, therefore, will be quoted.

One such, which may be regarded as typical, was, I remember, recited with considerable relish by my late brother-in-law, Lord Balfour of Burleigh, whose exceptional business talents both in Parliamentary procedure and in business, were none the less valued because of the manner in which he could enliven the luncheon interval of a Parliamentary Committee, or a commercial board meeting, by the introduction of a racy anecdote from time to time. A specimen which occurs to my mind was that of a man who was found on a roadway in a somewhat collapsed condition; and being asked by some passer-by where he had been, he replied: “I dinna richtly recollec whither it was a wedding or a funeral; but onyway it was a gran’ success.”

I may as well add another little tale which I think was a favourite with “B. of B.” An inhabitant of a Scottish village was describing a visit which he had made to the newly installed schoolmaster. “After a bit of a crack he asked if I would take anything, and I said I wadna object, and so he fetched the bottle and commenced to pour into a glass. Of course I soon said, ‘Oh, stop, stop,’ and—he did stop. Na, I dinna think he’ll suit this Parish.”

As to the thrift basis one may anticipate that this will continue to flourish, partly because there appears to be a fairly continuous reinforcement of the stock, and it is in this department of anecdote that there is the most frequent illustration of the fact that the typical Scot can appreciate jokes at the expense of his own nationality. Indeed there is plenty of foundation for the rumour that stories relating especially to the supposed extreme frugality of the people of Aberdeen and surrounding districts are invented by persons belonging to that region, and the supply seems to be almost unlimited. Amongst the latest which I have met with, is the following:

Three Aberdonians while taking a holiday, found themselves in a town where they were strangers. By and by they observed a notice outside a building, intimating the holding of a social gathering, with Music, Tea, etc., and No Charge for Admission. The strangers said one to another, “That’s the very place for us; let’s go in,” and they did so, and enjoyed the music, and especially the tea; but after a while, the Chairman rose suddenly and announced a collection would then and there be taken up. On hearing this, one of the Aberdonians fainted; and of course his comrades had to carry him out of the building in order that consciousness might be restored. But none of the party returned in time for the collection.

Another tale, which I heard in Dundee, described how a certain visitor arrived at a seaport and, wishing to obtain information about the shipping in the harbour, asked an inhabitant for some information on the subject, which was readily given, and various vessels were pointed out as belonging to this or that port in various parts of the world.

“But,” said the visitor, “how do you know?”

“Oh, partly by the style of build, rigging, and so forth.”

“Well, but,” said the visitor, “you surely cannot always tell, especially when a vessel is some distance away. There is a steamer passing now, and you could not tell what port she belongs to?”

The inhabitant surveyed the steamer for a moment: “That must be an Aberdeen boat.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because there are no sea-gulls following her.”