And when each had had his fling the true account would be found about midway between the two. But, oh! John did like to get a hair in Sandy’s neck; and does so still. Nothing delighted Dr. Johnson, the eminent lexicographer, more. He had the meanest opinion of the Scotch, it is well known, and never missed an opportunity of casting ridicule upon them. Thus, when compiling his famous Dictionary, he defined the word oats as “food for men in Scotland and for horses in England.” The definition afforded unmixed delight to the English mind, until, by and by, it was “cast in the teeth” of a witty Scottish Lord, who retorted with—
“Yes; and where will you find such men and such horses?”
Since then, the fun of it has not been quite so apparent. But the Doctor frequently met his match, and got paid back in his own coin. Soon after his return from Scotland to London, a Scotch lady resident in the capital invited him to dinner, and in compliment to her distinguished guest ordered a dish of hotch-potch. When the great man had tasted it, she asked him if it was good, to which he replied, with his usual gruffness, “Very good for hogs, I believe!”
“Then, pray,” said the lady, “let me help you to a little more;” and she did.
Of course John Bull had never been loquacious to any great extent on the subject of Bannockburn; and Sandy, I suppose, remembering Flodden, has not reminded him too frequently of the incident. Occasions have arisen, however, when enlightenment was necessary. Thus, when, many years ago, a little company of Englishmen were travelling by railway between Glasgow and Stirling, having an old Scotchman and his wife as fellow-travellers, the weather being wet, they abused the Scottish climate, “the doocid weathaw, you know,” and everything Scotch to their hearts’ content. Latterly one of them asserted that “no Englishman could ever settle down in such a region.” By this time the train was emerging from Larbert station, and—
“Nae Englishman sattle doon in this region?” echoed the old Scotsman, who had hitherto not spoken. “Toots, man, ye’re haiverin’ nonsense. I’ll let ye see a pairt alang the line-side a bit here, whaur a gey wheen o’ yer countrymen cam’ mair than five hunder year syne, and they’re no thinkin’ o’ leavin’t yet, tho’ they maun be gey weel sattled doon by this time.”
“Where is that?” asked several of the Englishmen at once.
“Bannockburn!” replied the Scot, and “silence deep as death” fell on the little company.
A similar reminder was more delicately given when two English tourists a few years ago visited the scene of what has been aptly termed “the best day’s work ever performed in Scotland.” A local cartwright pointed out with intelligence the positions of the contending armies; the stone where Bruce’s standard was fixed, and other features of interest; and the visitors before leaving pressed their informant’s acceptance of a small money gratuity.