I remember the dinner-gong had been sounded in a house where I was one day visiting, and not being quite ready, I was still in my room. Someone knocked at my door. It was an old servant. "Noo," said she, "it's time to come doun to your dinner."
Scotch wit is cutting, there is often a sarcastic thrust in it, sometimes even a little spice of malice.
You hear none of those good broad bulls, brimming over with innocence, that are so amusing in the Irish; the Scotch witticisms are sharp strokes that penetrate and strike home.
Lunardi, the aeronaut, having made an ascent in his balloon at Edinburgh, came down on the property of a Presbyterian minister in the neighbourhood of Cupar.
"We have been up a prodigious way," said the aeronaut to the minister; "I really believe we must have been close to the gates of Paradise."
"What a pity you did not go in!" replied the Scotchman, "you may never be so near again."
I might give numerous examples of this sarcastic wit that so often underlies Scotch anecdotes. I will only cite one more. This time we have Robert Burns for hero, and I extract the story from his biography:
The celebrated poet was one day walking on Greenock pier, when a rich tradesman, who happened to be there also, slipped and fell in the water. Being unable to swim, he would have been drowned but for the bravery of a sailor who threw himself, all dressed as he was, into the water, and brought him to land.
When the tradesman had regained consciousness and recovered from his fright, he bethought himself that he ought to reward his rescuer. Putting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a shilling, which he generously presented to the brave sailor.
The crowd that had gathered round in admiration of the sailor's heroic act could not restrain its indignation. Protestations were followed by hoots, and the object of their scorn came very near being returned to the water—to learn his way about.