“Yes, Janet, but there is another place where they go. They go where there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.”
“Humph!” sneered the case-hardened old sinner. “They can gnash teeth that have teeth to gnash. I hav’na had but a’e stump this forty year.”
A Perthshire village tradesman, recently deceased, as a rule “took a drappie mair than was gude for him” when he visited the county town. Indeed, he occasionally got “on the batter” and did not return home until after the lapse of several days. Returning from one of these “bouts” his wife met him in the door with the question, “Whaur ha’e ye been a’ this time?”
“Perth,” was the sententious reply.
“Perth!” echoed the wife. “An’ what was ye doin’ sae lang at Perth? Nae mortal man could be doin’ gude stayin’ in Perth for three hale days on end.”
“Awa! an’ no haiver, woman,” was the dry reply; “plenty o’ fouk stay a’ their days in Perth an’ do brawly.”
The parish minister, in reproving this same character warned him that there would be a day of reckoning for it all yet. “I wish a day may do it, sir,” said the immovable Peter, “it’ll tak’ a day an’ a hauf I doubt. Deed, a day an’ a hauf, sir, ilka minute o’t,” and leisurely moved on.
One festive old Scot recently visited another in the English capital. They had not met before for many years, and a good deal of hot water and sugar joined by a corresponding quantity of “barley bree” was stowed away within their waistcoats before it was considered that full justice had been done to the occasion. By this time the night was well advanced, and the visitor began to speak of making tracks for his hotel, when a cab was accordingly called and brought to the door. Now came the supreme moment of parting, and the host having led his friend by the arm in devious fashion to the head of the stair, halted and solemnly addressed him. “John,” said he, “I winna gang doon the stair mysel’ for fear I mayna get up again. I’m real gled to have seen you, and we’ve had a grand nicht. Good-nicht, John, good-nicht; and mind your feet on the stair. And John, hark ye! when ye gang oot at the door you’ll see twa cabs, but tak’ the first ane—the tither ane’s no’ there.”
John M’Nab, though withal an industrious crofter, got “roarin’ fou” every time he went to Perth, which was once a fortnight or so, and like every other person who so conducted himself, found always some excuse for his behaviour, however far-fetched it might be. John could not have a glass, as his wife said, but “a’ the toon boot ken, for he was ane o’ the singing kind, an’ waukened a’ the country-side.”