Of whisky the poet has said—
“It makes a man forget his woes,
It heightens all his joys;
It makes the widow’s heart to sing
Though the tears are in her eyes.”
And so it does; but it reduces all who imbibe it for such effects, mentally to the level of the ring-tailed monkey, and makes them cut capers as fantastic as were ever performed by the most agile “Jacko.” To this showing let our further illustrations here tend.
A West country farmer on a certain moonlight night, setting out towards home from the market town where he had sat too long and drunk too deep, had reached the burn near to his own house, attempting to cross which by the stepping-stones he missed his footing and came down with a splash into the burn. Unable to raise himself beyond his hands and knees, he looked down into the clear water, in which the moon was vividly reflected. In this position, and with the water streaming from his forelock and beard he began to shout to his wife. “Marget! Marget!”
The good woman heard and distinguished the well-known voice of her husband, and rushed out crying, “Ho, John! My, John! Is that you, John? Whaur are you, John?”
“Whaur am I?” rejoined the voice from the burn. “Gudeness kens whaur I am, Marget, but I see I’m far abune the mune.”