[6] "There are probably now more persons of Highland descent in the Lowlands than in the Highlands themselves."—Scotland of To-Day, by Henderson and Watt, p. 300. See also note at end of chapter on Inverness surnames, etc.
[7] I have heard it maintained by some zealots, whom I greatly esteem, that Gaelic is a highly moral language, that the use of it conduces to purity of life and thought, and that everyone would be improved in tone by contact with its roots. Those ministers who have charge of Session Records, chronicling events that happened before English was known in the West, cannot unreservedly corroborate these views.
[8] In his book, Edinburgh and its Neighbourhood, Hugh Miller tells the following story, on the authority of Robert Chambers:—"Though legally only transferable with the works and the minerals to which they were attached, cases occasionally occurred in which miners were actually transferred by sale from one part of the country to another. During the early part of the XIXth century, the son of an extensive coal-proprietor was examining with a friend the pits of another proprietor, and finding a collier whose speech resembled that of the colliers of his own district, he inquired where he came from. 'Oh!' exclaimed the man with surprise, 'd'ye no' ken me? Do ye no' ken that your faither sell't me for a powny?'"
[9] Such emigration has, of course, nothing to do with the systematic work instituted by Mr. William Quarrier of Bridge of Weir. That devout philanthropist occupied himself with the waifs and strays of Glasgow, taught them trades, and sent large numbers of them to the colonies to learn farming. One Saturday, in 1907, I saw a hundred and twenty of these lads, who were on Bridge of Weir platform waiting for the train. The scene was pathetic in the extreme—enough to melt a heart of nether millstone. Many of the lads were in tears as they answered the roll-call for the last time. In the afternoon they (and over two thousand emigrants) left the Clyde, amid sobs, cheers, and the waving of multitudinous handkerchiefs. These boys go, in the first instance, to Brockville, in the province of Ontario, whence they are distributed out among the Canadian farmers.
[10] It is not often possible, in the islands, to get anything but a trap or open coach. In Lochranza, on a day of dreary, disheartening rain, I found on enquiry that there was no covered vehicle to be had except the hearse.
[11] Islay is yearly becoming better known. It is an undulating island, covered with rich meadow-land, the home of horses, sheep, and cattle. There should not be a hungry man within its circumference. Under the old lairds—the Campbells—there were 14,000 inhabitants, now there are 6000.
[12] Judging from the number of clans that make a similar claim, we might fancy that all King Arthur's knights
"Gartened low their leg,
And rowed their hurdies in a philabeg."
[13] A favourite and appropriate book in this part of Scotland is Wilson's Tales of the Borders. There are not many farm-houses in the Lowlands of Scotland in which one does not find old copies, bound and unbound, of Wilson's Tales. Usually they show unmistakable evidence of having been frequently perused. One is bound to admit that the modern reader, if he spends an evening turning over these old pages, will find little reason to pride himself on the superiority of the popular reading of to-day. The short story, now in vogue, may be finely illustrated, and highly sensational, but its matter is certainly inferior, as a rule, to the general run of Wilson's stories. Wilson, in his humble way, was a gleaner in the field so richly harvested by Sir Walter Scott. The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border had called attention to the great stores of poetry and romance lingering among the peasantry of the Debateable Land. Wilson's Tales showed how much of the old spirit remained more than two centuries after the Union, and, in spite of all Christianity and an orderly Government had done for the softening of manners. Hogg, in speaking of his own countryside, said: "The poor people of these glens know no other entertainment in the long winter nights than repeating and listening to the feats of their ancestors recorded in songs which I believe to have been handed down from father to son for many generations." Wilson and his successors gathered up as much of the romantic material as they found available, and printed it for the delight of their generation.
[14] Mr. Lee has collected an amount of evidence which seems to prove that T. T., i.e., Thomas Thorpe, who wrote the dedication, was not only a piratical publisher, but also a humourist. The dedication, read in the light of these observations, acquires a character of jocularity, and begetter means procurer or getter. Thorpe thus becomes what we know Curll to have been a century later, a printer of stolen copy, with a turn for cynical waggery. Mr. W. H., the begetter, accordingly, is not a glittering aristocrat, but an unscrupulous go-between, who has made free with somebody's escritoire, and handed the sonnets over to the gay T. T.!