And mind it will cheer you through life’s little span,
The blessing that fa’s frae the blind beggar man.”
Before putting these “Bits from Blinkbonny” into the hands of the public, I asked Mr. Andrew Taylor, my old friend the precentor already referred to, to look over them; for old Mr. Taylor, and worthy Mr. Morrison the minister, and Miss Park, and many of those who are mentioned in the “Bits,” have passed away.
His criticism was: “Well, I’ve read your ‘Bits,’ an’ they’re no’ bad, considerin’. Ye’ve said rather much about the Free Kirk an’ Bell; for although she’s a nice body, she’s just like oursel’s, an’ no’ the kind to make a book o’. An’ then Dan was a queer subject to mix up wi’ the ithers. It’s a’ true enough so far. I mind o’ the braid-nebs an’ the dream, an’ David himsel’ tell’d me about the sow an’ the Corinthians. The whole affair brings me in mind o’ a fire-screen my daughter won at a bazaar; it’s covered wi’ pictures o’ a’ sorts an’ sizes, wi’ scenes out o’ every country under the sun, an’ at a’ times o’ the year, simmer an’ winter; there’s butterflies bigger than folk, an’ oranges and peaches, and even shells, growin’ on ivy leaves. In fact, it minds me o’ a story in Dean Ramsay’s book about a Scotchman when he was askit by an Englishman if he ca’d a sheep’s head a dish? ‘I dinna ken,’ said Sawnie, ‘but there’s a lot o’ gude confused eatin’ about it, onyway.’”
I told him that I felt it was more of a hash than a joint, a sort of literary haggis, but that it was difficult to give a fair notion of village life without bringing in all sorts of folks and scenes.
“That’s exactly what I’m sayin’,” said Andrew. “There’s the ither kirks, as gude as the Free, that ye’ve said little about; an’ then there’s our tradesmen,—there were some queer fish among them in my young days; an’ there’s the schule, an’ the doctor, an’ plenty mair. Could ye no’ hae said something about the like o’ the generality o’ the auld folk o’ Blinkbonny? If ye tak’ as lang to them as ye’ve ta’en to Bell, ye micht make fifty books.”
I acknowledged the correctness of his remarks, and advised him to try it himself, and he would perhaps find it more difficult than he imagined.
“Me write a book!” said he; “I’ve mair sense. You’ll find that you’re sure to hae trampit on somebody’s tender corns.”
“THE HANGING COMMITTEE.”