  (Being an additional Chapter to “The Tour in the Hebrides”) “Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “let us take a walk down Princes Street.” Finding the great man in so excellent a humour, I seized upon the opportunity to put to him many interesting questions. “Sir,” said I, “pray what do you think of Edinburgh?” “I think, sir,” replied the Doctor, “that its name is most appropriate.” “Sir,” I continued, in a fever of anticipation, “I shall be very much obliged to you if you will explain your meaning in greater detail.” “THE BILLS OF MORTALITY” Kirk Elder (after a look at his morning paper). “Poor McStagger deid! Et’s vera sad to thenk o’ the great number o’ destengweshed men that’s lately been ta’en! ’Deed—I no feel vera weel—mysel!” A MERE DETAIL Friend of the Family. “Weel, Mrs. M‘Glasgie, and how’s your daughter doin’, the one that was married a while ago?” Mrs. M‘Glasgie. “Oh, varra weel, thank ye, Mr. Brown, varra weel, indeed! She canna abide her man. But then, ye ken, there’s aye a something!!” A YOUNG HUMANITARIAN “Oh, mamma, mamma, couldn’t you interfere? There’s a horrid man squeezing something under his arm, and he is hurting it so!” Dr. Johnson. Sir, I am sorry that my meaning should require explanation. I say that the name Edinburgh is appropriate, because I find the city primitive and beautiful. Adam and Eve would, doubtless, have held it in high consideration had they had the advantage of its possession. In Mr. Boswell. A pun, sir! “It was a pun, sir!” cried the Doctor, very angrily, and I hastened to change the subject. “I am surprised to find, sir,” said I, “that Her Majesty does not reside at Edinburgh. Do you not think, sir, that she might use her Scottish Palace at Christmas time?” “No, sir, I do not think so,” replied the Doctor, “and I can find no reason for your surprise.” “Indeed, sir!” Dr. Johnson. Sir, were Her Most Gracious Majesty to dwell at Edinburgh at Christmas time, she would be put to great inconvenience. Her Most Gracious Majesty exhibits excellent sense in selecting Balmoral for her residence. Mr. Boswell. Sir, I trust you do not call in question my loyalty to the House of Brunswick? Dr. Johnson. Sir, I do not; I only question your wisdom. CAPACITY! First Traveller (proffering his mull). “Tak a pench?” Second Traveller. “Na, ’m obleeged t’ye—ah dinna tak’t.” First Traveller. “Man!—that’s a pety!—ye’ve gr-r-raund accaummodation for’t!” Mr. Boswell. Sir, if I do not trouble you, will Dr. Johnson. Why, sir, the very branches put up in honour of the festive season would treat her with disrespect! Mr. Boswell. Indeed, sir! Dr. Johnson. Sir, if Her Most Gracious Majesty visited Edinburgh at Christmas time, would she not find Holly-rood? Mr. Boswell. Another pun, sir! “It was another pun, sir!” cried the Doctor, very wrathfully, and I said no more. The next day we visited Stirling. We walked up to the Castle, and admired the magnificent view we there obtained of the surrounding country. We next examined the ramparts. “These old walls, sir,” said I, “must weigh many thousand tons avoirdupois.” “Sir,” replied the Doctor, “you should have said pounds Stirling!” “Another pun, sir!” I exclaimed. “It was another pun, sir!” roared the Doctor, and I thought it best to hold my peace. DE MORTUIS Sympathetic Young Mother. “I wunner ye could be sae cruel as to kill that bonnie wee cauf!” Practical Butcher. “Weel, ye see, ye’ll no eat them leevin’!” The next morning found us at Perth. Here we “A very lovely spot, sir,” I ventured to observe. Dr. Johnson. Sir, you are right. Sir, I have here found the people so kind-hearted, the city so handsome, and the scenery so magnificent, that I confess it would give me infinite satisfaction were I able to call the town in which I was born the place (as the Highlanders have it) of my Perth! “A pun, sir!” exclaimed our excellent host, and I could not help noticing that he seemed greatly surprised. The Doctor made no reply, but I could see by the working of his countenance that he was suffering pain. We came to our journey’s end at Wick. “What do you think of this place, sir,” I asked. Dr. Johnson. Sir, I think that the title of “The Modern Athens” should be conferred upon Wick rather than upon Edinburgh. Mr. Boswell. Indeed, sir! May I ask why? Q. E. D. Professor McPhairrson. “No, Mrs. Brown, it’s not that we Scots are dull; but you English see a joke in anything! Why, the other day I was in a room with four Englishmen, one of whom told a story, and, would you believe it, I was the only man that didn’t laugh!” Dr. Johnson. Why, sir? Sir, you must be very dull. I say, sir, that Wick should be called “The Modern Athens.” Mr. Boswell. I confess, sir, that I am dull, and yet I cannot perceive why Wick should be called “The Modern Athens” rather than Edinburgh. Dr. Johnson. Sir, you indeed must be dull if you do not associate Wick with the centre of Greece! I was silent for a few minutes, and then I ventured to make a remark. “Sir,” said I, “you once expressed a very strong opinion about pun-makers. Sir, you asserted your belief that a man who would make a pun would be capable of picking a pocket.” Dr. Johnson. Sir, I believe so still. Mr. Boswell. And yet, sir, during the course of our tour, you have made a large number of puns. Dr. Johnson. Sir, you have good grounds for what you assert. I admit, sir, with a feeling of sorrow, that I have made many puns during our tour. Mr. Boswell. Sir, may I venture to ask you why you have made so many puns? “DIRECTIONS” Scottish Village Practitioner (to Northern Farmer). “Eff the Lunnon doacter”—(his patient had been south to consult a great specialist)—“’ll no allow ye whusky, an’ ye can tak’ nowt but reed wine, theer just twa ’ll dae ye ony guid—an’ ye’ll mind o’ them, for they’re baith monoseelawbic!—po-or-r-t an’ clair-r-t!!” “Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “the puns you have noticed are symptoms of a painful disease, known to men of letters as ‘the Silly Fever.’ I attribute the commencement of this melancholy malady to the depressing effects of a Scottish climate upon a Londoner in September!” The best Scottish Joke we ever heard.—A clever Scotsman being told that Demosthenes was in the habit of making speeches at the seaside with small stones in his mouth, exclaimed, “Hoot, mon! then he must ha’ been the first Member for Peebles.” (Loud cries of “Apology,” which not being given, the Reader proceeds to groan.) The Tartan Epidemic.—The MacTavish (very angrily, to the new Boots at the “Rising Sun.”)—Where, by St. Andrew! have ye planted my braw new kilt that I put oot, for to be decently brushed! Green, red, black and white plaid. Boots (after search).—I beg pardon, sir, but the chambermaid mistook it for the skirt of the young lady in No. 13. But you’ve got her gown! RECOLLECTIONS OF THE HOLIDAYS Fussy Body (in search of a seat). “A’ fu’ here?” Voice from the depths. “‘We ar’na fou, we’re no sae fou, But jist a drappie in oor e’e——’” A WILLING MARTYR Scottish Carrier. “Eh, bit that’s strong whusky! Bit! U’ll no spile the taste wi’ water. U’ll rather thole’t!” THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE Tam. “Sae ye’ve gotten back, Sanders?” Sanders. “’Deed, aye. I’ve just gotten back.” Jamie. “An’ hoo did ’e like London?” Sanders. “Od, it’s an ootlandish place yon! They tell’t me they couldna unnerstaun ma awccent!” John. “Awccent! I never heard tell that Fife folk had ony awccent!” |
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