“Well,” responded the guide, “I don’t see why any thought of Paisley should enter your head while you can feast your eyes on fair ‘Edina, Scotia’s darling Seat,’ as the Poet Burns has called our city here.”
“Maybe ay, an’ maybe no, freend; but it’s no easy gettin’ the thocht o’ Paisley oot o’ a Paisley man’s head, even although he is in the middle o’ Edinburgh. Up in yer braw college there, the maist distinguished professor in it is John Wilson, a Paisley man. In St. George’s kirk, ower there, yer precentor, R. A. Smith—an’ there’s no his marrow again in a’ Scotland—is a Paisley man. In the jail ower by fornent us there’s mair than a’e Paisley callan’ the noo. Syne, ye see the Register House doon there, weel, the woman that sweeps out the passages—an’ my ain kissen to boot—is a Paisley woman. An’ so ye see, freend, although ane’s in Edinburgh it’s no sae easy gettin’ thochts o’ Paisley kept oot o’ his head.”
The next illustration is also truly Scotch. Two Lowland crofters lived within a few hundred yards of each other. One of them, Duncan by name, being the possessor of “Willison’s Works,” a rarity in the district, his neighbour, Donald, sent his boy one day to ask Duncan to favour him with a reading of the book. “Tell your father,” said Duncan, “that I canna lend oot my book, but he may come to my hoose and read it there as lang as he likes.” Country folk deal all more or less in “giff-gaff,” and in a few days after, Duncan, having to go to the market, and being minus a saddle, sent his boy to ask Donald to give him the loan of his saddle for the occasion. “Tell your father,” said Donald, “that I canna lend oot my saddle; but it’s in the barn, an’ he can come there an’ ride on it a’ day if he likes.”
The cannyness characteristic of our countrymen, sometimes as a matter of course, is found manifesting itself in ways which, to say the least of them, are peculiar, as witness: A Forfar cobbler, described briefly as “a notorious offender,” was not very long ago brought up before the local magistrate, and being found guilty as libelled, was sentenced to pay a fine of half-a-crown, or endure twenty-four hours’ imprisonment. If he chose the latter, he would, in accordance with the police arrangements of the district, be taken to the jail at Perth. Having his option, the cobbler communed with himself. “I’ll go to Perth,” said he; “I’ve business in the toon at ony rate.” An official forthwith conveyed him by train to the “Fair City”; but when the prisoner reached the jail he said he would now pay the fine. The Governor looked surprised, but found he would have to take it. “And now,” said the canny cobbler, “I want my fare hame.” The Governor demurred, made inquiries, and discovered that there was no alternative; the prisoner must be sent at the public expense to the place where he had been brought from. So the crafty son of St. Crispin got the 2s. 8½d., which represented his railway fare, transacted his business, and went home triumphant, 2½d. and a railway journey the better for his offence.
Our next specimen is cousin-german to the above. It is of two elderly Scotch ladies—“twa auld maids,” to use a more homely phrase—who, on a certain Sunday not very long ago, set out to attend divine service in the Auld Kirk, and discovered on the way thither that they had left home without the usual small subscription for the “plate.” They resolved not to return for the money, but to ask a loan of the necessary amount from a friend whose door they would pass on the way. The friend was delighted to be able to oblige them, and, producing her purse, spread out on the table a number of coins of various values—halfpennies, pennies, threepenny, and sixpenny pieces. The ladies immediately selected a halfpenny each and went away. Later in the course of the same day they appeared to their friend again, and said they had come to repay the loan.
“Toots, havers,” exclaimed old Janet, “ye needna hae been in sic a hurry wi’ the bits o’ coppers; I could hae gotten them frae you at ony time.”
“Ou, but,” said the thrifty pair, in subdued and confidential tones, “it was nae trouble ava’, for there was naebody stannin’ at the plate, so we just slippit in an’ saved the bawbees.”
Now that is just the sort of anecdote which an Englishman delights to commit to memory and retail in mixed companies of his Scotch and English friends; and, lest he may have heard that one already—may have worn it threadbare, indeed—I will tell another which, if not quite so good, has the advantage of being not so well known. A Scotchman was once advised to take shower baths. A friend explained to him how to fit up one by the use of a cistern and colander, and Sandy accordingly set to work and had the thing done at once. Subsequently he was met by the friend who had given him the advice, and, being asked how he enjoyed the bath—
“Man,” said he, “it was fine. I liked it rale weel, and kept mysel’ quite dry, too.”
Being asked how he managed to take the shower and yet remain quite dry, he replied—