Scotch Wit and Humor. Howe Walter Henry
one observed, "Mr. Dunlop, ye maun send ane to Mr. – " naming the obnoxious relative.
"Ou, ay," returned the minister, striving that his sense of duty should overcome his reluctance to the proposal. "Ye can send him ane." Then immediately added, with much gravity, and in a tone that told the vast relief which the reflection afforded, "He'll no be able to come up the stairs." [4]
Curious Sentence
Some years ago the celebrated Edward Irving had been lecturing at Dumfries, and a man who passed as a wag in that locality had been to hear him.
He met Watty Dunlop the following day, who said, "Weel, Willie, man, an' what do ye think of Mr. Irving?"
"Oh," said Willie contemptuously, "the man's crack't."
Dunlop patted him on the shoulder, with a quiet remark, "Willie, ye'll aften see a light peeping through a crack!" [7]
Too Canny to Admit Anything Particular
An elder of the parish kirk of Montrose was suspected of illegal practices, and the magistrates being loth to prosecute him, privately requested the minister to warn the man that his evil doings were known, and that if he did not desist he would be punished and disgraced. The minister accordingly paid the elder a visit, but could extort neither confession nor promise of amendment from the delinquent.
"Well, Sandy," said the minister, as he rose to retire from his fruitless mission, "you seem to think your sins cannot be proved before an earthly tribunal, but you may be assured that they will all come out in the day of judgment."
"Verra true, sir," replied the elder, calmly. "An' it is to be hoped for the credit of the kirk that neither yours nor mine come oot afore then."
Mortifying Unanimity
I said, to one who picked me up,
Just slipping from a rock,
"I'm not much good at climbing, eh?"
"No, sirr, ye arrrn't," quoth Jock.
I showed him then a sketch I'd made,
Of rough hill-side and lock;
"I'm not an artist, mind," I said;
"No, sirr, ye arrrn't," quoth Jock.
A poem, next, I read aloud —
One of my num'rous stock;
"I'm no great poet," I remarked;
"No, sirr, ye arrrn't," said Jock.
Alas! I fear I well deserved
(Although it proved a shock),
In answer to each modest sham,
That plain retort from Jock.
A Consoling "If"
Bannockburn is always the set-off to Flodden in popular estimation, and without it Flodden would be a sore subject.
"So you are going to England to practice surgery," said a Scottish lawyer to a client, who had been a cow-doctor; "but have you skill enough for your new profession!"
"Hoots! ay! plenty o' skill!"
"But are you not afraid ye may sometimes kill your patients, if you do not study medicine for awhile as your proper profession?"
"Nae fear! and if I do kill a few o' the Southrons, it will take a great deal of killing to mak' up for Flodden!"
Happy Escape from an Angry Mob
The most famous surgeon in Edinburgh, towards the close of the last (the eighteenth) century, was certainly Mr. Alexander Wood, Member of the Incorporation of Chirurgeons, or what is now called the Royal College of Surgeons. In these days he was known by no other name than Lang Sandy Wood (or "Wud," as it was pronounced). He deserves to be remembered as the last man in Edinburgh who wore a cocked hat and sword as part of his ordinary dress, and the first who was known to carry an umbrella.
It is generally supposed that he was induced to discontinue the wearing of the sword and cocked hat by an unfortunate accident which very nearly happened to him about 1792. At that time the then lord provost, or chief magistrate of the city, a Mr. Stirling, was very unpopular with the lower orders of society, and one dark night, as Sandy was proceeding over the North Bridge on some errand of mercy, he was met by an infuriated mob on their way from the "closes" of the old town to burn the provost's house in revenge for some wrong – real or imaginary – supposed to be inflicted by that functionary. Catching sight of an old gentleman in a cocked hat and sword, they instantly concluded that this must be the provost – these two articles of dress being then part of the official attire of the Edinburgh chief magistrate. Then arose the cry of "Throw him over the bridge" – a suggestion no sooner made than it was attempted to be carried into execution.
The tall old surgeon was in mortal terror, and had barely time to gasp out, just as he was carried to the parapet of the bridge, "Gude folk, I'm no' the provost. Carry me to a lamp post an' ye'll see I'm Lang Sandy Wood!"
With considerable doubt whether or not the obnoxious magistrate was not trying to save his life by trading on the popularity of Sandy, they carried him to one of the dim oil-lamps, with which the city was then lit, and after scanning his face closely, satisfied themselves of the truth of their victim's assertion. Then came a revulsion of feeling, and amid shouts of applause the popular surgeon was carried to his residence on the shoulders of the mob.
The End Justifying the Means
Sandy Wood had the most eccentric ways of curing people. One of his patients, the Hon. Mrs. – , took it into her head that she was a hen, and that her mission in life was to hatch eggs. So firmly did this delusion take possession of her mind that, by-and-bye she found it impossible to rise off her seat, lest the eggs should get cold. Sandy encouraged the mania, and requested that he might have the pleasure of taking a "dish of tea" with her that evening, and that she would have the very best china on the table.
She cordially agreed to this, and when her guest arrived in the evening he found the tea-table covered with some very valuable crockery, which did not belie its name, for it had really been imported from China by a relative of the lady, an East Indian Nabob.
The surgeon made a few remarks about the closeness of the room, asked permission to raise the window, and then, watching an opportunity when the hostess' eye was upon him, he seized the trayful of fragile ware and feigned to throw them out of the window.
The lady screamed, and, forgetful in her fright of her supposed inability to rise, she rushed from her seat to arrest the arm of the vandal.
The task was not a hard one, for the eccentric old surgeon laughed as he replaced the tray on the table, and escorted his patient to her seat. The spell had been broken, and nothing more was ever heard of the egg-hatching mania.
Another lady patient of his had a tumor in her throat, which threatened her death if it did not burst. She entirely lost her voice, and all his efforts to reach the seat of the malady were unavailing. As a last resort, he quietly placed the poker in the fire; and after in vain attempting to get his patient to scream, so as to burst the tumor, he asked her to open her mouth, and seizing the then red-hot poker, he made a rush with it to her throat. The result was a yell of terror from the thoroughly frightened patient, which effected what he had long desired – the breaking of the tumor, and her recovery.
A Lecture on Baldness – Curious Results
Edinburgh laughed heartily, but was not at all scandalized, when one famous university professor kicked another famous professor in the same faculty, down before him from near the North Bridge to where the Register House now stands. The casus belli was simple, but, as reported, most irritating.
The offending professor was lecturing to his class one morning, and happened to say that baldness was no sign of age. "In fact, gentlemen," said the suave professor, "it's no sign at all, nor the converse. I was called in very early