Lord Rutherford, having entered into conversation with a shepherd on the Pentland Hills one day, complained bitterly of the weather, which prevented him enjoying his visit to the country. In specially forcible language he denounced the mist, and expressed his wonder how, or for what purpose, an East wind was created.
The shepherd, a tall, grim figure, turned round sharply upon him, and—
“What ails ye at the mist, sir?” he said. “It wats the sod, it slockens the yowes, and,” adding with much solemnity, “it’s God’s wull,” he turned away with lofty indignation.
Lord Rutherford used to repeat this with much candour as a fine specimen of rebuke from a sincere and simple mind.
Fine-spun theories and a high-falutin form of address may be wasted energy when applied to your ordinary rural inhabitant; but, even when his ignorance comes out, it is frequently seen in the garb of humour.
When Dr. Johnson was travelling in Scotland, he came up one day to a peasant who was busily engaged cutting turf, i.e.—casting divots.
“Pray, sir,” inquired the lexicographer, “can you point out the way to the most contiguous village, for we are dreadfully fatigued, having deviated from our road these two hours?”
“Tired wi’ divoting twa hours!” exclaimed the rustic, with scornful surprise. “I have been divoting here since four o’clock this morning, and maun do sae as lang as I can see, tired or no.”
A burly Clydesdale farmer visiting Glasgow a number of years since, entered a chemist’s shop to purchase a quantity of salts and senna for domestic purposes, and found the man of drugs—a bit of a wag—busily engaged with a galvanic battery. The farmer looked on for some time at the operations of the chemist, and, his curiosity becoming aroused—
“What kind o’ a machine do ye ca’ that, maister?” said he.