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A
RACE which has all but disappeared from the
country-side in Scotland since the passing of stringent vagrancy Acts and
the reformation of local authorities, is that of the half-witted
wanderers, or naturals," as they used to be called, whose idiosyncrasies,
a generation ago, formed one of the
occasionally painful characteristics of most rural
districts. A sort of privileged mendicants, they were never turned from
the door of cottage, manse, or farm-steading. This friendly reception was
due partly to superstition, which made it unlucky to refuse hospitality to
those mentally afflicted, and partly to fear of the unreasoning vengeance
which some of them had been known to perpetrate; but most of all to pity,
which everywhere looked upon them with a kindly and excusing eye. Stories
of their exploits and savings, by no means always so "thowless" as might
have been expected, but generally containing a biting grain of humour
which tickled the fancy, were current everywhere about the country. And
sometimes "the natural" even did a useful service which could have been
effected by no more sane and sensible person.
It is recorded in the life of Hogg,
the Ettrick Shepherd, that he owed something of the dawn of his
inspiration to one of these wanderers. One sunny summer day when, a lad of
twenty, he was herding his sheep on the Hawkshaw Rig, above the farm of
Blackhouse, on the Douglas Burn, in Yarrow, there came up to him one of
these naturals, named Jock- Scott, well known and welcomed on that
country-side for his poetic proclivities. To while away the time, Jock,
who was then on his return from a peregrination in Ayrshire, recited to
the Shepherd the whole of a wonderful poem called " Tam o' Shanter," made
by an Ayrshire ploughman of the name of Burns. To that recitation, no
less, perhaps, than to the storied surroundings of the hills of Yarrow
among which he dwelt, Hogg owed the opening of his eyes to the poetic
light that never was on sea or land, and to the magic of that elfin
underworld in which he was to dream his exquisite dream of Bonnie Kilmeny.
Of later wanderers like Jock Scott
on that Borderside, Dr. Russell, in his "Reminiscences of Yarrow," has
recorded an anecdote or two. Jock Gray, supposed to be the original of
Davie Gellatley in "Waverley," is described as wearing knee-breeches, and
fastening his stockings with glaring scarlet barters. Like many of his
kind, he was strong in mimicry, especially of the ministers whose services
he attended, and whom he could frequently be induced to "take off " with
great effect. Once the wife of the minister of Selkirk asked him to
furnish forth an imitation of her husband. That gentleman was in the habit
of reading his sermons, a habit much reprobated in those days. The
saltness of Jock's reply may therefore be understood when he told the lady
that before he could comply with her demand she must give him " a bit o'
paper." Sometimes his zeal for ministerial duties carried him further than
mere mimicry. It is recorded that on one occasion he managed to make his
way into the pulpit of Ettrick kirk before the arrival of the minister.
When the latter himself reached the foot of the pulpit stairs and
discovered the occupant of his place, he called out, "Come down, John,"
The predicament reached its climax when the congregation heard the answer,
"Na, sir; come ye up; they're a stiff-necked and rebellious people; it'll
tak' us baith."
When Jock was a lad, the minister of
Yarrow once told him he was the idlest boy, in the parish, and
suggested that he might at least herd a few cows. "Me herd cows! me herd
cows! " said Jock. "I dinna ken gersh [grass] frae corn"; a rejoinder
-which suggests the idea that Jock may possibly have been something of the
knave as well as a little of the fool. Jock latterly used to wander about
the country with his father, an old mendicant, who, with a gift of prayer,
was accustomed to conduct family worship in the cottages in which the two
were lodged for the night. It is recorded that one night during this
function, Jock, who doubtless felt the gnawings of hunger just then, twice
or thrice lifted the lid of the pot on the fire, and was heard speculating
in somewhat forcible language as to when his parent would conclude. A
strong affection, nevertheless, existed between the two, and when at
length the old father died, Sock at once took to his bed, and within a
week also breathed his last. Some of the verses of this worthy, containing
no small inkling of pawky humour, are preserved, with a description of
their author, in the "Memoirs of Dr. Robert Chambers."
Jock Dickson, another wanderer of the same sort, whose
father, nicknamed "Cool-the-hail," from the length of his sermons, had
been minister of Bedrule, was a visitor in Yarrow, and was wont for many a
day to find quarters in the various manses in which his parent had been
known. He was distinguished chiefly by the cut of his clothes. These
consisted of " a long blue coat, with very wide and long tails, and a
double row of brass buttons down the back as well as in front,
knee-breeches, and shoes with buckles." On account of these habiliments,
the boys of some of the towns through which he passed were accustomed,
merciless and conscienceless as boys constantly are, to follow him with
the shout of "Daft Jock Dickson! Buckles and pouches! Buckles and
pouches!"
On the south shore of Loch Lomond many of the
inhabitants still living remember Will-o'-the- shore. A fearsome sight he
was, to children and persons not acquainted with the neighbourhood, as he
went about the quiet roads grumbling to himself regarding his wrongs, and
muttering vengeance on all and sundry.
His clothes were always in the last stage of tatters;
his head had no covering but a great shock of matted hair ; and he
slouched along with his great splayfeet naked in all weathers. His usual
custom upon entering a house, which he did without ceremony, was to "wecht
the wemen," as he called it. Upon one occasion he rushed into the
mansion-house of Caldarvan, and straightway seizing its mistress by the
waist, to her dismay lifted her into the air. Matters were put right,
however, by the lady's sister, who was present, suggesting to the too
energetic and somewhat dubious visitor that what he wanted was "a jelly
piece." "Aye," said lie; and, no doubt to her immense relief, set his
burden down. Something more than a suspicion existed that Will's pranks
were not confined to the comparatively harmless one of "wechting the wemen."
The opening of field-gates during the night, and the consequent serious
straying of cattle and sheep, were frequently attributed to him. Further
and even worse deeds of spiteful mischief contributed to make him
sufficiently feared as the evil genius of the country-side; and it was no
small relief to the farmers, as well as to the women and children of his
district, when he finally disappeared.
Egg Will was a character of a different sort in the
same neighbourhood. A good-natured "sumph," with broad, fat face and
harmless hands, he went about the district with a long basket, gathering
eggs, which he carried to Dunbarton for sale, thereby contributing in some
degree to the support of himself
and his widowed mother. In his way lie was a
beneficent friend to the farmers among whom he went; and upon coming to a
bed of thistles growing by the road, he would be seen to set down his
basket and attack the enemy, rooting them out with immense energy and
indignation. His chief peculiarity, however, was an unbounded admiration
for people of title ; and at all the public functions ---cattle shows,
fairs, and sports he might be observed, with open mouth and undisguised
worship, following the footsteps of the Duke of Montrose. Upon one
occasion a late minister of the district, who was blind, was being led
through a cattle show at Drymen by one of the present proprietors of the
neighbourhood, then a boy, when the duke was seen approaching, followed at
a few paces' distance by his humble worshipper. The minister's guide
whispered to him that the duke was coming towards him; but at that moment
some other object distracted his Grace's attention, and he turned aside.
The follower behind, however, perceiving the expectant attitude of the
minister, seized the golden opportunity. "How do you do, Mr. ?" he said,
throwing his utmost powers of mimicry into an imitation of the ducal
accent, and entirely deceiving the unfortunate clergyman whom he
addressed. "I am very well, I thank you, my lord duke!" replied the
latter, sweeping off his hat to his interrogator. Next moment, on a
hurried whisper of "It's Egg Will!" from the boy at his side, the minister
more suddenly and with less dignity clapped his hat on his head again, and
muttering something about scoundrels and vagabonds, turned on his heel and
made for home. Will's purpose, however, had been sufficiently served ; and
never to his dying day did he forget that he had once been taken for the
Duke of Montrose.
A character of a similar
sort was known in the neighbourhood of Whitburn and Bathgate, forty or
fifty years ago, as Henry Downie. He was the son of a collier, and, as
often pathetically happens, his mother's heart was set with peculiar
tenderness upon this weakling of her family. So long as he remained a
child she did her best to shield his shortcoming from public observation
by keeping him near herself; but as he grew older he took to wandering
over the country, farther and farther from her sheltering care, until he
would be away for days and, perhaps, weeks together. At no time, however,
was he known to suffer accident or to go without a meal. Wherever he might
be, he could always count upon getting a bowl of porridge or soup, or a
night's lodging in the hay-shed, from some kindly farmer or cottar.
Henry's outstanding peculiarity was a passion for attending processions
and funerals; and as the latter were naturally by far the more numerous in
that rural district, his figure became especially connected in the popular
mind with marches to the graveyard. At the hour of funeral he was
invariably to be seen in attendance outside the house of the departed: and
when the coffin was brought out, either upon stretchers or for carriage by
hearse, he set himself in front, and solemnly led the way to the place of
burial--a contrast of tragedy and folly Shakespearean in its vividness.
Sometimes, at a pinch, Henry was employed to run
errands for tradesmen of the town, and generally the errands were
performed satisfactorily enough. But one denouement of another sort
remains upon record. The minister of Longridge had ordered the immediate
delivery of a new hat, in which he meant to attend a ceremony of some
state in his neighbourhood; and for lack of other means of conveyance,
Henry Downie was despatched by the tradesman with the parcel. The
messenger started forth upon his errand in all good faith; and all went
well until, in the midst of a wood, about half-way towards his
destination, Henry was seized with an irrepressible desire to discover how
he should feel with the minister's hat on his head. Opening the bandbox,
therefore, and undoing the tissue paper in which the hat was wrapped, he
placed the glossy satin headgear on his own ill-cut locks, and took to
marching up and down the secluded glade. Unfortunately, the time of year
happened to be early summer, and the air of the little plantation was
full, not only of lines of spiders' webs, but of the stringy exudations
which are given forth by some kinds of fir-tree at that season. Entirely
oblivious of the decoration which by these means was being imparted to the
minister's hat, Henry marched up and down for some time in the full
enjoyment of his stolen dignity and it was only at last, upon suddenly
remembering that the minister would be waiting for his headcovering, that
the unlucky messenger crushed the hat back into its bandbox, and tucking
it under his arm, made off with great speed and diligence to Longridge.
The dismay of the reverend gentleman on discovering the condition of his
purchase is not recorded; but it is certain that Henry Downie was never
again entrusted with the carriage of perishable goods.
A contemporary of Henry, who peregrinated throughout
the shires of Linlithgow and Stirling, was well known for many years by
the somewhat suggestive and not particularly euphonious title of "Puddin'
Geordie." Stories of his exploits, showing him to be by no means so great
a simpleton as he looked, were everywhere cur-rent in the region of his
wanderings, and his appearance must be remembered by many persons still
living. Geordie possessed an infinite attachment to the ordinances of
religion, and in whatever part of the country he happened to find himself
on Sunday, never failed to make his way to the kirk, where he possessed
himself always of an empty seat, and displayed exceeding fervour in
attending to the service. His memory, like the memory of many of the
"natural" class, was vividly retentive, and nothing pleased him more than
to be asked to "give out" a sermon of the Rev. Mr. So-and-So. Mounted
forthwith upon a chair by way of pulpit, he would begin with the text, and
repeat the whole discourse with wonderful accuracy to the end. Upon one
occasion this faculty of his was turned to mischievous account by the boys
of the Relief manse at Bathgate. Beforehand, in anticipation of Geordie's
visit, they had prepared a trigger for the lid of the barrel which caught
the rain-water from the roof, and upon the mendicant's appearance, they
induced him, with a little flattery and the promise of a penny, to mount
this extemporised pulpit and give them a sermon. Nothing loth, he ascended
the coign of vantage, and proceeded with text and heads. He had passed no
further, however, than the first division, when, in the midst of the most
emphatic passage of one of their own father's discourses, the boys pulled
the trigger, there was a crash, and Geordie disappeared in rain-water up
to the chin.
As he went about the country, lie received constant
doles both of eatables and of money, which must have amounted sometimes,
one would suppose, to a considerable value. A story in connection with one
of these doles, which throws a suggestive light on the character of the
seeming simpleton, was long told by the lady in Falkirk at whose door the
incident occurred. This lady had for some time been in the charitable
habit, each Saturday, upon his appearance, of presenting Geordie with a
penny. -Upon one occasion she had been from home for some time,
during which, of course, she had not seen her pensioner. When, therefore,
on the Saturday after her return, she saw him coming to the house, she
went to the door herself, and, with a kindly inquiry after his welfare,
was presenting him with the usual coin, when she was electrified by the
mendicant's remark, referring to the omission of the previous Saturday,
"But ye ken, Mrs. -, ye're awin' me a penny." It is needless to say
Geordie's dole was forthwith put upon a less exacting basis.
Tales of such wanderers are still to be heard in nearly
every rural district in Scotland. The decencies of life have perhaps
gained from the present-day rule of secluding our Egg Wills and Puddin'
Geordies in poorhouse and asylum; but the absence of the "natural" takes a
certain interest and picturesqueness from the country-side. |
