And now are we not all the better for this pleasantry? so womanly, so genial, so rich, and so without a sting,—such a true diversion, with none of the sin of effort or of mere cleverness; and how it takes us into the midst of the strong-brained and strong-hearted men and women of that time! what an atmosphere of sense and good-breeding and kindliness! And then the Scotch! cropping out everywhere as blithe, and expressive, and unexpected as a gowan or sweet-briar rose, with an occasional thistle, sturdy, erect, and bristling with Nemo me. Besides the deeper and general interest of these Mystifications, in their giving, as far as I know, a unique specimen of true personation—distinct from acting—I think it a national good to let our youngsters read, and, as it were, hear the language which our gentry and judges and men of letters spoke not long ago, and into which such books as Dean Ramsay’s and this are breathing the breath of its old life. Was there ever anything better or so good, said of a stiff clay, than that it “girns (grins) a’ simmer, and greets (weeps) a’ winter?”
“OH, I’M WAT, WAT!”
The father of the Rev. Mr. Steven of Largs, was the son of a farmer, who lived next farm to Mossgiel. When a boy of eight, he found “Robbie” who was a great friend of his, and of all the children, engaged digging a large trench in a field, Gilbert, his brother, with him. The boy pausing on the edge of the trench, and looking down upon Burns, said, “Robbie, what’s that ye’re doin’?” “Howkin’ a muckle hole, Tammie.” “What for?” “To bury the Deil in, Tammie!” (one can fancy how those eyes would glow.) “A’but, Robbie,” said the logical Tammie, “hoo’re ye to get him in?” “Ay” said Burns, “that’s it, hoo are we to get Him in!” and went off into shouts of laughter; and every now and then during that summer day shouts would come from that hole, as the idea came over him. If one could only have daguerreotyped his day’s fancies!
“What is love, Mary?” said Seventeen to Thirteen, who was busy with her English lessons.
“Love! what do you mean, John?”
“I mean, what’s love?”
“Love’s just love, I suppose.”
(Yes, Mary, you are right to keep by the concrete; analysis kills love as well as other things. I once asked a useful-information young lady what her mother was. ‘Oh, mamma’s a biped!’ I turned in dismay to her younger sister, and said, What do you say? ‘Oh, my mother’s just my mother.’)