Speaking of beadles reminds me of another good illustration of the “practicality,” if I may dare to coin a word, of the Scottish mind. A country beadle had had repeated cause to complain to his minister of interference with his duties on the part of his superannuated predecessor. Coming up to the minister one day, “John’s been interfeerin’ again,” said he, “an’ I’ve come to see what’s to be dune?”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear it,” said the minister, “but as I have told you before, David, John’s a silly body, and you should try, I think, some other means of getting rid of his annoyance than by openly resisting him. Why not follow the Scriptural injunction given for our guidance in such cases, and heap coals of fire on your enemy’s head.”
“Dod, sir, that’s the very thing,” cried David, taking the minister literally, and grinning and rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect of an early and effectual settlement of the long-standing feud. “Capital, minister; that’ll sort him; dod, ay—heap lowin’ coals on his head, and burn the wratch!”
We are proverbially a cautious people. “The canny Scot” is a world-wide term; but the Paisley man who described Niagara Falls as “naething but a perfect waste o’ water,” was canny to a fault. And yet the Moffat man—his more inspiring native surroundings notwithstanding—was scarcely more visibly impressed by the same scene. “Did you ever see anything so grand?” demanded his friend who had taken him to see the mighty cataract.
“Weel,” said the Moffat man, “as for grand, I maybe never saw onything better; but for queer, man, d’ye ken, I ance saw a peacock wi’ a wooden leg.”
How naturally the one thing would suggest the other will not readily appear to most folks.
He was more of a true Scot who, when the schoolmaster in passing along one day said to him, “I see you are to have a poor crop of potatoes this year, Thomas,” replied—
“Ay, but there’s some consolation, sir; John Tamson’s are no a bit better.”
“Hame’s aye hamely,”—some homes are more so than others. The “Paisley bodies” have some reason for being proud of their native burgh, as they are. I have heard of one who was on a visit to Edinburgh many years ago, and during his brief stay there was discovered by one of the city guides lying on his face on the Calton Hill, apparently asleep. The summer sun was scorching the back of his uncovered head, and the guide thought it his duty to rouse him up.
“I’m no sleepin’,” responded the Paisley man, to the touch of the guide’s staff, “I’m just lyin’ here thinkin’;” then turning himself round and looking up, “Ay, freend,” continued he, “I was just lyin’ thinkin’ aboot Paisley.”