Oh, they had sublime confidence in the “dram” as a revivifying agent, and no mistake about it! Indeed, it was regarded in some quarters as a necessity to existence. And “be carefu’ o’ the mercies” was a stock phrase relating to it. The Highlander, content to pray for “a mountain of snuff,” wanted “oceans o’ whisky.” It was called in to act as “an eye-opener,” and to serve also as “a night-cap.”
So regularly had a certain Scotch laird used it in the latter capacity, that once in his lifetime—so he said himself—he “got an awfu’ fricht.” “We ran short o’ the mercies,” said he, “and I had to gang to my bed sober. I dinna feel ony the waur the day; but, Lodsake, man, I got an awfu’ fricht.”
A well-known Scotch laird of the old school, Dean Ramsay tells us, expressed himself with great indignation when someone charged hard drinking with having actually killed people. “Na, na,” said he; “I never knew onybody that was killed wi’ drinking, but I hae kenned some that dee’d in the training.”
So have we all, laird—a great many! And yet the students have been numerous and persistent. That Highlander who, when the minister shook his reverend head towards him, and said, “Whisky is a bad, bad thing, Donald,” replied, “Ay, sir, especially bad whisky,” thought, no doubt, that he had made a concession in opinion that would greatly mollify his clerical mentor. Many of your tipplers possessed a rough and ready wit, and from that fact no little humour has sprung. A Perthshire blacksmith, whom I myself knew intimately, was once remonstrated with by the Free Church minister who lived near by anent his frequent and excessive indulgences.
“Was ye ever drunk, sir?” inquired the smith.
“No, Donald,” said the minister, “I am glad to say I never was.”
“I thocht as muckle,” said the smith; “for, man, if ye was ance richt drunk, ye wad never like to be sober a’ your days again.”
“There’s death in the cup!” exclaimed a violent teetotal lecturer as he rushed up to where an old farmer was carefully toning his dram with water from a huge decanter. More of the pura had flowed forth than was intended, and eyeing his glass critically, “Hech, an’ I think ye’re richt, freend,” was the response, “for I’ve droon’d the miller.”
“There is good whusky, and there is better whusky,” said an old Highlander, “but there never yet was bad whusky.” Many Lowlanders act as if they held the same opinion.