THE NATURAL HISTORY OF IDIOTS.

The very foundation of idiocy is peculiarity; whatever this unfortunate class may want, they do not want those features by which they are distinguishable from the ordinary ranks of mankind. Hence the interest which idiocy has ever exerted, and the splendid creations which, under the name of asylums, quiet, country residences, &c., have been made for their accommodation. The great mass of society—with the exception, perhaps, of a kingdom, which shall, for the present, be nameless—have nothing idiotical, that is, peculiar, belonging to them exclusively. They move as others move, dress as others dress, think as others think, and worship God as others do and as others did. Were it not for idiots, in the extended sense of the word, there were an end of plays, novels, and all works of fiction. Very few women, if we may credit Pope, are idiots: for he says—

But, although the original meaning and enlarged sense of the term might carry us into a field thus almost boundless, we shall at the present limit ourselves to two classes of idiots, comprehending, as they do, a great variety of species. First, the natural idiot, or the simply fatuous: of these there are two varieties—the peaceable and the frantic. Secondly, the unnatural or rational idiot; of these the varieties are infinite, and a selection only is in the present instance either desirable or attainable.

We return then to the purely fatuous, or peaceable idiot.

Poor innocent! as he is uniformly and kindly named by the neighbourhood. There he walks about, along that stream, or across that meadow, from morn to night, and from night to morning, his hand at his cheek, and his lips muttering incoherence, such as, "Johnnie, quo' he, lad; ah, ha, Willie lad, Willie lad, Willie lad." He is so biddable, that a child may make him lie down, or rise up, enlarge or shorten his step. He will carry a peat-barrow when peats are a-casting, ted hay, or lift a child safely over a fence; yet, for all that, he is not always to be trusted—for there are times when his countenance gets flushed, his frame nervously convulsed, and then he utters dreadful things, and becomes violent and unmanageable. These are, however, only aberrations, not continued character; and, by watching the symptoms of the approaching storm, the effects may be easily avoided. Idiots, even of this peaceable and innocuous kind, are now abstracted from their natural and kindly hearths, and concealed in asylums and private residences. Not so—it was not indeed so—in the olden times. The hereditary possession of at least one "innocent" in a family was deemed a blessing. "There never will be wanting," said the pious parent, "a bit for thy helplessness, poor Johnnie." Good luck took up her residence under the roof where such a one resided; and the parent was doubly attached to the object, as he was sometimes called. To hurt him, or injure him in any manner of way, was domestic treason; and even the schoolboy, on his harvest rambles, only pelted him with nuts and brambleberries. Poor Johnnie! he was missed one day; he had wandered beyond his ordinary reach, and all the town was in motion searching for him. The night came on, dark, and even drifty; and the poor helpless object could nowhere be found. Shouts were raised, dogs were dismissed on errands of inquiry, herd-boys ran, and servant lads greatly hastened their pace. At last, he was discovered on the brink of a precipice, over which he was suspended, by the coat-tails, which a strong shepherd's dog was holding fast in its teeth. But for the powerful sagacity of this brute, the helpless being had been dashed to pieces. When he was rescued from his dangerous position, he was repeating, in his usual manner, "Johnnie's a-caul quo' he, lad." He was never suffered to be in such danger again. These eyes saw him on his death-bed; and, at the instant of his departure, it was indeed a most affecting scene.

As the pulse ebbed and the feet swelled, reason seemed to resume her long-deserted seat. He actually raised himself upon his elbow, drew the back of his hand twice across his brow, as if clearing away some obstruction from his eyes, and, looking around with an eye unusually bright and beaming, lambent like an expiring taper—

"Oh, what a dream! what a dream! But I see you all now; yes—yes—I see my kind mother, my dear father, my sister! Yes—yes—I am now well. I am awake—I live." Hereupon the fatal and well-known struggle in the throat stopped his speech; he fell back, gave one deep sigh, and was at rest. Poor Johnnie! if a tear of gratitude can gratify anything that lives, bearing the most distant relationship to thee, that tear has now been shed. Heaven has long been merciful to the poor Innocent.

But the frantic idiot who now struggles against the chain and the strait-waistcoat in yonder cell. He too, at one time, roamed at large, to the great alarm, but seldom to the injury, of the lieges. "His bark," as the people said, "was waur than his bite;" and, if at any time he required to be confined by force, a few kindly words and soothing accents threw oil on the troubled sea, and restored comparative serenity. Daft Will Gibson rises before me; his long rung or kent by way of staff, his Kilmarnock night-cap, and shoes of many patches, his aversion to all manner of trick or nickname, and his furious onset when pursued by schoolboys: all these circumstances rise again from the dark past, and glare before me like the shades in "Macbeth." Yet, though occasionally furious, and even dangerous, he was kind-hearted, and not unobservant of character. The timid he rejoiced to terrify, whilst he passed by the bold and firm unmolested. Though he often threw large stones at those who assailed him, he took special care always to throw short of his object. But one day a little child, unobserved by him, had crossed the pathway of his missile after it had been delivered, altogether unobserved by poor Will. The child was knocked down and greatly injured—it bled profusely. Will seemed horrorstruck, and roared aloud—

"It was I! It was me! It was daft Will Gibson!"

From that day he never lifted another stone, but always exhibited the greatest liking for this child—of which the following anecdote is sufficient proof. A little boy was playing in the channel of a mountain torrent, then almost dry. There was thunder in the distance, and Queensberry had put on her inky robe of darkness. All at once, the burns began to emit a loud, roaring, rattling sound, and down came the Caple Water—as my informant, who witnessed the scene, said—like "corn sacks." The boy, owing to his eagerness in pursuing a trout (which he was endeavouring to catch) from stone to stone, did not hear or see the approaching danger, till the mighty flood was upon him. My informant—a shepherd—threw aside plaid and staff, and ran to the rescue; but the red and roaring flood was before him; and a fine boy of seven or eight years old would undoubtedly have lost his life, had it not been for the poor maniac, who chanced to be pulling rushes hard by. He rushed into the flood just as it was oversetting the helpless victim, and, with a tremendous jerk, threw him clean upon the green bank of the torrent. He then endeavoured himself to clear the bank; but the treacherous and hollow earth, under the pressure of the water, gave way, and down tumbled brow and man into the raging whirlpool—the man underneath, the brow above him. The boy, by means of his heels, escaped; but poor Will Gibson's body was next day found some miles lower down, sadly disfigured and mangled. Thus did this grateful maniac expiate the inadvertent injury which he had done this very boy when a mere child, by saving his life at the expense of his own.

We now pass, in prosecution of our history, from darkness into light, from the irresponsible and irrational agent, to the responsible and foolish. Our guide here, in this mare magnum of idiocy, shall be the use of language in discussing the various merits of the different classes. We shall make use of no new phraseology, but be guided to our purpose by the acknowledged and recognised use and meaning of terms. Why the word "idiot" is retained in conversational language in particular, when its original and more legitimate meaning is lost, we have already pointed at; it is owing to analogy and resemblance that in this case, as in many others, such terms are legitimate and expressive.

There is, then, in the first place, to come at once to the point—there is

"THE HAVERING IDIOT."

Horace gives a most correct idea of this class in these well-known lines:—

Galt, too, has hit off the character, under a feminine aspect, in his "Wearifu Woman;" but we have no occasion to ask Horace for his spectacles, or Galt for his microscope, in order to discover the features of this most numerous and annoying class. Midges, in a new-mown meadow, are terribly teasing; so are peas in one's shoes—particularly if unboiled. There is a certain cutaneous disease which is said to give exercise at once to the nails and to patience. Who would not fret if placed naked, all face over, in a whin bush? To be teased and tormented with grammar rules is vastly provoking; and to get the proof questions by heart cannot be deemed anything but annoying. A showery day, when you have set out on a long-meditated "pic-nic," will vex the most patient soul into spleen; and marriage-settlements are frequently great sources of heartburnings and delays. To be told that your house is on fire, when your messenger is on his way to effect an insurance, may possibly give pain; and to find that every pipe is frozen, so that there is not a drop of water for the engine, may probably add to your chagrin. All these, and a thousand other miseries to which human flesh is heir, may, nay must, be borne; but the torment of coming into ear-shot of a "havering idiot" is a thousand and a thousand times more insupportable. You are placed beside him at table, and in a mixed company of men of literature and science, whom probably you may never see again. A subject is started, which, from peculiar reasons, happens to be not only of itself curious, but exceedingly interesting to you, professionally in particular. Professor Pillans is discussing education, or Combe is manipulating heads; Sir David Brewster is describing the polarisation of light, or Tom Campbell is thrilling every heart with poetic quotations;—no matter, you are unfortunately in juxtaposition to a "havering idiot," and about five removes from the focus of general conversation. He will not let you rest for a moment, but is ever whispering into your ear some grand thing which he said last evening at Lady Whirligig's ball. You push your dish forward, and fix your eyes upon the intelligent speaker. He observes, and mistakes, or seems to mistake, your movement and your motive, and immediately hopes he may help you to the dish you are after. You are fairly dished; and unless you knock him down with your fist in the first place, and shoot him afterwards, you have no resource but to repeat the lines of Horace, already quoted, and submit to your fate.

His stories are infinite and inextricable; but, unlike the epic, they have neither a beginning, a middle, nor an end. When he starts with "I'll tell you a good thing," you listen for an instant, but immediately perceive that you are on the wrong scent; and, as he advances, he is ever admonishing you with his elbow of the many hits he is making; and having heard him out—if that be possible!—you immediately exclaim, "Well!" thinking assuredly the cream of the joke is yet awaiting you.

"But, sir, you are making no meal at all. You must try some of that fine honeycomb; it is most excellent; it is of our own making; for, I may say, we have almost everything within ourselves. The bees, last season, did not do well at all; but they have done better this, sir. You are a natural philosopher, sir—can you tell me how the bees see their way back again to their houses, when they go far away in search of flowers and honey?"

"Just the way, I suppose, ma'am, that they see their way a-field."

"Oh, ay—I ken that; but I hae a book here—(go away, Jeanie, and bring me the book on natural history; the Cyclopædia, ye ken). Now, sir, this book tells me that, from the shape of their eye, the bees canna see an inch before them—how then do they travel miles and miles, and never lose their road?—but bless me, sir, you're no making a meal at no rate. Ay, here's 'the article,' as it is called. Read that, sir, just at the bottom of the 196th page," &c. &c.

"THE BLETHERING IDIOT"

is manifestly twin-brother to the haverer, with this small difference, however, that the bletherer is a mere repeater or reporter of havers. The one is the importer, as it were, of the article wholesale, and the other retails the article thus imported. They are raw commodity and manufactured goods—they are original and copy—cause and effect. Burns was quite aware of this when he wrote—

These blethers were not original inventions, but merely varnished repetitions. The blethering idiot is most dangerous as well as most disagreeable. In this respect, he even surpasses the haverer, whose annoyances terminate in themselves, in the irritations and inconveniences of the moment. But the bletherer is a dangerous friend, an inveterate foe, and a most unsafe neighbour. Will Webster was the intimate friend of poor James Johnston. James was a lad of honest intentions, fair talents, and warm feelings. He was educated as an engineer, and had already acquired a certain status and character in that capacity. His friend Webster had been accidentally a school companion, from the proximity of their dwellings and the intimacy of their parents. Webster had studied law, and was about to pass advocate, when he came to meet his friend, and spend a harvest vacation with him at Castledykes, in the parish of Tynron, Dumfries-shire. The two young men were in the bloom and strength of youth, being both some months under twenty-one. Georgina Gordon was the daughter of a small neighbouring proprietor (a Dunscore laird), an only daughter, her father's prop (her mother having died at her birth), and the admiration of everybody who merely saw her at church on Sunday, or who knew her intimately. I should have mentioned before, that this beautiful flower had been named Georgina, with the view of perpetuating the name of a brother whose fate had been involved in obscurity. He had betaken himself early to sea, and the vessel in which he sailed had never more, during several years before Georgina's birth, been heard of. All possible inquiries had been made, but without effect. The Thunderer, Captain Morris, had been seen off the coast of South America; but no more was known. James Johnston was already in the way of making reasonable proposals to any one; but his heart had long been fixed at Castledykes. He used to wander for hours and days along the glen of the cairn, and within sight of the old family abode. Georgina, however, had already many lovers, and was reported to have, in fact, made a selection. It was again and again reported by Will Webster to his friend Johnston, and to everybody who took any interest in the report, that he had seen Georgina enter the Kelpie Cave in company with a lover, and that he had even seen them fondly embracing each other. At first Johnston gave no heed to Will's blethers; but still they gradually made an impression upon him. He became, at last, decidedly jealous, when, led and guided by his friend Will, he beheld with his own eyes a male figure, closely wrapped up in a plaid, holding secret converse with the lovely Miss Gordon. What will not jealousy, goaded on by officious and injudicious friendship, do? Unknown to any one, he met and accosted the figure in the dark: a struggle and a contest with lethal weapons took place, and the stranger fell. No sooner had the deed been done, than James saw and repented of his rashness. The wound which he had inflicted was bound up, and the fainting man, help being procured, conveyed to Castledykes. James Johnston was not the man to fly, even should death prove the consequence of his rashness. A curious denouement now took place: the person whom James had wounded was no other than the long-lost George Gordon. The vessel in which he had sailed had not been wrecked, as was supposed, but had been taken, scuttled, and sunk, by Spanish privateers, who then infested the Leeward Islands. He had been bound and fettered in the hold, till he came under a solemn promise neither to desert nor abandon his colours in the hour of battle. Under such discipline, it was no wonder that, in a few years, George Gordon (now taking the Spanish name of Joan Paraiso) should be habituated to all manner of rapine and bloodshed. From less to more, by acts of heroism, he became second, and ultimately first, in command of a Spanish privateer.

England, having viewed this growing evil with a suitable indignation, sent out her armaments to the west; and the Don Savallo, Joan Paraiso, commander, was taken. The prisoners were conveyed to Britain; and it being discovered that Paraiso was originally a British subject, he was thrown into prison to abide his trial. From this he escaped, almost by a miracle, and wandering over the kingdom in another domino, or assumed name, he came at last, as if by the law of force and attraction, to his native glen. But he durst not yet discover himself, for he was an outlaw, and the papers were filled with rewards for his apprehension. In this situation he discovered himself, under the most dreadful oaths of secresy, even from his own father (at least for a time), to his sister. The rest, up to the period of his wound, which was by no means dangerous, is easily understood. What follows will be necessary to complete the narrative:—James Johnston having learned all this from Georgina, who, in a moment of excitement, discovered that it was not a lover but a brother over whom she hung, he again met his blethering friend Webster—acquainted him with the history, and, in a few days, Joan Paraiso was arrested in his bed, and carried to Plymouth, to undergo his trial. The grief and horror of all may be easily conceived. All, save the origin of the evil, were thunderstruck and overpowered with grief and vexation. "But for your long tongue and empty head," said Johnston, taking him one day by the throat, "my dear Georgina had been mine—her brother had lived, and all had been well." The guilty man struggled, and was dashed against a stone wall with tremendous violence. A concussion of the brain followed, and poor unhappy James Johnston was himself on trial for murder. It is true that he was acquitted, as the surgeon would not positively affirm that the dead person had not died from a natural stroke of apoplexy; and it is likewise true, that Joan Paraiso, alias George Gordon, was acquitted, as he had been compelled, from fear of death, to act as he had done. But Georgina was no longer an heiress, and the mercenary laird of Clatchet-Knowe, who had all but obtained her consent to a marriage, became suddenly cooled in his fervour. Johnston hearing of this, and having, after some months, recovered his spirits, made his addresses, and was accepted. Georgina Johnston is now, or was lately, a happy wife and mother. Her husband has purchased the farm of Kirkcudbright, in that neighbourhood, and they live in comfort and respectability. So much as a specimen of the achievements and fate of a bletherer. But who waits there?

"THE AFFECTED IDIOT.

Let him enter. What a thing! But it is not with the tailor-work that we have to deal; we leave that to the titter and ridicule of every sensible person in the company, and to the compassion of the rest.

So says good-hearted Cowper. But, hating affectation, he must in some degree hate a large section of the male, and a still larger proportion of the female sex. In fact, we are all more or less affected—I in writing this article in such an easy, off-hand, after-dinner manner, and the publisher of the "Border Tales" in affecting not to be affected by so many favourable notices in so many papers. I don't like the word—I hate it ever since Lord Brougham (who once was so great) made use of the one half of it, when speaking of Sugden; but, notwithstanding, I must out with it—"humbug" is the go, and everybody knows it, and yet everybody does it. Was there ever such a queer world, ma'am? I wish—well, I will tell you, madam, what I wish—I wish I had a new tack of "this world," with all its nonsense. This thing we call "life" is to me exceeding amusing; but I am off, on the very velocipede of affectation, and must "'bout ship."

The affectation of no affectation is the most unsupportable of all. Simple Johnnie comes into the room, throwing about, from side to side, both his elbows. He immediately, in the simplicity of his nature, lets you know that he never was up to the ordinary methods of society; in testimony of which he sits down beside you on a sofa—plaits his legs, and passes his hand along his leg, from heel to knee, and vice versa. You talk of anything and everything. He is sure you are right. He never could remember anything. He is sure you are right; but he cannot say, it is so long since he read about it. He tells you at once that people call him "Simple Johnnie;" that he once tumbled into a river, whilst reading a book; that he is so absent, you have no notion; that he has forgotten his own name, and only remembered it, after having given a penny to a boy, saying, "Now, my boy, do you know who gave you that?" He puts on a blue stocking and a grey, and wonders that people observe it; he pushes through the market, snuffing, snorting, and repeating almost aloud, Thomson's "Seasons;" he is called a good sort of a body, and tells you so; but he knows in reality that he is an excellent classical scholar, and a writer of no mean degree. Affectation, however, hangs over him, like a mist; and his real merits, which are great, are greatly obscured by the medium through which they are seen.

Let us change the sex!—A farmer's daughter married to an earl—no, not an earl—a laird—a country gentleman. She is all gentility—talks of nothing beneath dukes and marquises; asks you if there is anybody of note in India; never saw fish eaten without a silver fork; and considers that Queen Victoria has never seen good company! After a', wha cares? This is a precious rag of feminality; nobody can hurt her feelings, or destroy her equanimity. You mention, in her company, that Lady Louisa Russell, her most intimate friend, of whom she talks daily, and to everybody, has left the town without calling; she assumes an air of supreme indifference, and exclaims—"Well! after a', wha cares?"

A bluestocking!—No, I will not spend ink and paper on the subject—it is literally thread-bare—not a loop in the stocking but may be seen by a man of ninety without spectacles. A fop!—faugh!—who cares for anything of the dandy or exquisite species?—A braggadocio—another Munchausen! who kills trouts by the gross, and men by the dozen—who shoots on the wing—e.g. Two individuals of this description once met in my own presence. They had been in India, and were Indianising for the benefit and entertainment of the company. Shooting came on the carpet, and their various achievements were stated. Colonel A—— had shot more than a dozen water-fowl at one shot.

"I am sure," said he, appealing to his Indian friend—"I am sure, general, you know it to be true."

"Twelve dozen, by God!" was the emphatic response.

"Who has not heard of my father, the colonel?"—viz., Colonel Cloud—and yet this colonel proved to be nothing more than plain Mr B——, from the grand town of Forfar. Oh, how shall I overtake the varied forms that rise up before me!—as well might I essay to catch and fix every butterfly from the Emperor of Morocco down to the blue wing. "Upwards and downwards, thwarting and convolved," the myriads of insects dance away their hour, and are forgot. And who art thou who thus speakest of others? A solitary fly! A large blue-bottom, madam, as insignificant and ephemeral as any amongst them. But of this enough. Let us now introduce another actor, or rather speaker.

"Well, sir, I am glad I have met you; for I was just going to call upon you, to tell you that my son John, poor fellow—you know John?—that he has got a step—what they call a step in the service, and that he has had a severe fever, but is now quite well; and that he writes to his sister—such a letter—but I have it here, sir, in my pocket. Pray do, sir, sit down for a little, and I will read it to you; it is such a funny letter—you have no notion—and so full of inquiries for everybody, amongst the rest for yourself, whom it is wonderful that he remembers—he has such a memory, my Johnnie, and always had. I remember, when just a little thing not higher than this parasol. But, bless me, sir, you are not listening!"

"No, ma'am; I beg your pardon; but I have an engagement." (Exit.)

And who does not see, at once, that this is a

"PROSING IDIOT?"

"I was up, yes—yes—up—up—yes, I was up by five yesterday—yes—yes—yesterday morning. When do you rise, ma'am? I always rise—yes—yes—rise—I always rise by six—true—true—quite true—by six, ma'am—it is good—so good—yes—yes—very good, ma'am, for the health—the health—yes—the health."

Such is the drivel which we have often heard oozing, drop by drop, from a male creature of the prosy kind.

"THE BLAZING IDIOT."

The blazing idiot is all over self and wonderment. He has done—what has he not done? He can do—what can he not do? One of this character was one day entertaining old Quin with the account of an encounter with a furious bull, in which the blazer had proved too much for the horner, and held him, in spite of his neck, till he roared for a truce.

"Oh," said Quin, looking around him knowingly on the company, "that is nothing at all to what I once experienced myself."

The original blazer looked amazement.

"Yes," says Quin, "I—even I, have managed the bull exercise in a higher style than you, sir. You only held the bull's head down by the horns, but I twisted his head from his neck, and threw it after his departing hind-quarters!"

This produced a roar at the idiot's expense, and he shrunk out, to announce his achievements somewhere else.

Is he a traveller?—Why, then, Munchausen is a fool to him. He has undergone, achieved, seen, heard, tasted, more wonders than a thousand Gullivers.

"The bats of Madagascar are large, assuredly, and almost exclude the sunlight by the breadth of their hairy wings. But the bats are nothing, sir, to the bees."

"What kind of bees have they?"

"Why, sir, the bees are, 'pon honour, sir, they are as large as your sheep in this country."

"Why, then, one would require to keep a pretty sharp look-out ahead, in case of a near encounter with such a winged monster."

"Not at all, sir. They make such a roaring noise, sir, with their wings, that you can hear them, like the bulls of Bashan, a full mile distant."

"Terrible! But are they numerous?"

"Oh, exceedingly!"

"And what kind of flowers have they to feed on?"

"Why, just ordinary flowers. They cover them all over, and insert their proboscis into a thousand, without stirring from their position."

"Yes! And what kind of skeps have they?"

"Oh, just ordinary skeps, like ours in this country."

"Yes! And how do these bees get into the skeps?"

"Oh, just let them see to that!"

But these may be termed the magnificent blazers. There is an animal of this species of very reduced dimensions; and yet, from its numbers and activity, it is not less provoking and annoying than the giant race. You cannot mention a long walk which you have taken, but it out-walks you by at least ten miles. You cannot drink your three bottles at a sitting, but it empties five. You made, whilst a boy, some hairbreadth escapes, but they are nothing to what it has escaped. You have had a very bad fever, and lay a whole week insensible; this creature roared a whole month. You have broken your tendon Achilles; this unfortunate has cut all the arteries and tendons of the leg. Go where you will, the land has been travelled before you. Do what you may, the thing has been done, and much better done, already. In fact, you are only the copy of the original before you; a shaping out of a web; a degenerate branch of a vine in full growth; an Italian alphabet in the presence of a Roman. "I thought my master a wise man; but this man makes my master a fool," says the housemaid in Dean Swift; and it is thus that the emmet Blazer befools you, turn where you may. Whom have we next in this our show-box of rarities? Step in, sir. Don't stumble on the doorway, like Protesilaus in setting out for Troy. Oh, I ask your pardon—

"THE BLUNDERING IDIOT."

Sit down there, sir—no, not on that sofa—with your dirty garments, and shoes bemired; but on that arm-chair, where you may roll about to your heart's content. Now, sir, be silent; for I see you are about to blunder out whatever comes uppermost (and that is generally froth and scum), and listen to me. I am going to read you a lecture. It was owing to your blundering interference that I am not the Laird of Peatie's Mill at this moment. You went to my uncle, and, by the way of recommending his nephew, told him that I was an intimate acquaintance of yours, and that you and I had many a happy night together at Johnnie Dowie's. Now, you ought to have known my uncle's views and habits—in short, his character—and that he had all his life long an utter abhorrence of anything approaching to dissipation. My uncle instituted inquiry, and found that what you stated was true, at least to a certain extent; and, in consequence, cut me off with a shilling, leaving Peatie's Mill to a miserly, mean fellow, who had once informed him of the approaching failure of one who owed him money. You need not make any apology now, the thing is done, and cannot be undone. When I was on the point of being married to an heiress, with a good person and a fine property, you came again as my evil genius, denying a report, which I had myself propagated, of my early indiscretions, and assuring her cousin that I was totally incapable of anything of the kind; that I was a perfect Nathaniel, or Joseph, or what not; and, in short, so disgusted the lady with your praises of me, that she immediately cut me, and married the master of a coasting vessel. I know what you are going to say; but I know, too, that you had no business to pop your nose into other people's business. Besides, at last election, did not you assure the members to whom you, amongst others, applied in my favour, that I was at heart a Tory, though I had assumed Whig colours of late; and all this because you knew his own father had been a violent Tory in old times. This so disgusted my patron, that I lost the stamps by it. Your blundering idiocy, sir—without any bad motive to arm it to mischief—has done more injury to yourself, as well as to others, than would be the very worst intentions and the most malevolent endeavours. But I spare you—convinced, as I am, that nothing which I can say will ever drain the blundering propensity out of your nature. But whom have we here?—

"A BORN IDIOT."

"Well, ma'am, let me have your own story from your own lips."

"Why, sir, do you use no more ceremony with me, knowing who I am, sir? When your ancestors, sir, were working on the queen's highways, and breaking stones——"

"I beg your pardon, madam; but it is but a short time since Macadamising was introduced, and my ancestors happened to live at a period prior to the breaking of stones on high-roads as a business."

"Well, sir, but you have interrupted me, and I forgot what I was going to say. Oh ay! I was going to tell you that my ancestors rode in coaches, when yours drove carts; that mine spent thousands upon thousands, whilst yours were dealing in tarry-woo and candle grease; and yet you, sir—you now sit in this cottage of yours (as you must needs call it)—you have the audacity, and the impertinence, and the presumption, forsooth, to call my son to account for shooting a few of your dirty birds over your poor, paltry acres."

"Ma'am, I only warned him off my preserves, and did it in civil language, too; but your son, taking his cue, I have no doubt, from so accomplished a parent, used improper and ungentlemanly language to me, and threatened to horsewhip me; so I thought it was only justice to myself to put him into the hands of my man of business."

"Your man of business, sir! And who gave you, or your father's son, a man of business, pray? What business may you have to manage, which a servant lass may not conduct to a favourable conclusion with a three-pronged grape?"

"Madam, I will stand this no longer. This house is my own. Depart!"

There she goes, wagging her tail and tossing her head, the Born Idiot!

But here comes a change of person, in

"THE CANTING IDIOT."

But, hush! I hear the voice of psalmody. She has taken to what she terms a "sweet psalm," and must not on any account be disturbed.

It is true that there are odd stories abroad of her early life, and some rather suspicious reports respecting a certain serjeant of a certain regiment. Suspicions, too, have been entertained of her being concerned in the burning of a certain will, by which her husband became possessed of property to a comfortable extent; but she has no family, and of late years has taken to religion, and, some say, occasionally to a less safe stimulant. Be that as it may, Mrs Glaiks is at the head of all manner of female associations of a religious character. She is a perfect adept in judging of young preachers and evangelical discourses. If she pronounce her verdict, the matter is settled; there is no appeal, not even to her poor henpecked husband, whose conscience, every now and then, requires all her care and eloquence to soothe. She has already taken possession of this world by a trick, and she means to take the next by force. She is urgent with the Lord, in season and out of season, and has been at great pains in converting a handsome young man, who was addicted to wine and its usual accompaniments. She says that she has been the unworthy instrument, in God's hand, of his soul's salvation; and meets with him more frequently in private than John Glaiks approves of. Pass on, Mrs Glaiks—

But what a mighty fuss is here! The door flies wide open, till the hinges crack again, as in there rolls, in all the majesty of a new suit of clothes, and a mighty self.

"THE POMPOUS IDIOT."

Reader! it is not Samuel Johnson, nor his Leader Bozzie. These were both pompous enough, God knows; but they were not idiots—it is "my Uncle Thomas." My Uncle Thomas was once a colonel in the Galloway Militia, and has long retired in single blessedness, to live upon a small family inheritance, which is scarcely sufficient to support himself, with a man in livery and a servant girl, to work his means, and act as chambermaid. My uncle rises every morning at seven, rings his bell, and calls his servant to shave and dress him. All this is done in solemn silence; for it would be presumption in John to utter a word, unless he be spoken to. My uncle, having surveyed his full, round person in the glass, takes possession of his arm-chair, then pokers the fire; looks out at his window; scolds a turkey-cock for spreading his feathers and keeping up a row in the back court; rings the bell again, and says—

"Why, sir, what do you stare at? Let me have breakfast."

Breakfast with my uncle is a serious concern. The cups are not in order; the bread is burned to a cinder; the butter is rancid, and the cream is only fit to feed pigs with. However, he has at last breakfasted, and been again surveyed and brushed by John, and is now prepared for the onerous duties of the day. These consist, first, in taking snuff, which he does regularly with three raps on the box-lid, a gaze around, to see if he is observed, and a knowing plunge of the forefinger and thumb into the midst of the powder. But his box is empty, though in fact half-full, and John, having been well scolded, is despatched to his own shop, Donald Mackechnie's, for the real Irish. The box is impressed with the family arms, and the family motto, "dum vivo spero." At last the supply arrives; his gold-headed cane, presented to him when colonel of the Galloway Militia, is taken in hand; his hat is brushed, and planted in proper attitude on his head; and forth he sallies, in his pepper-and-salt habiliments, to scold the schoolboys for neglecting to take off, or even touch, their hats, as he passes along what he terms his gravel-walk, which is nothing more nor less than a cart-road leading to a stone-quarry. A cow has escaped from under the care of his keeper, and poor Davie Proudfoot, the herd-boy, is in hot pursuit. The cow is directing her steps, somewhat unceremoniously, towards the colonel's favourite walk, and he is loudly appealed to by the boy, to assist him in "wearing" the brute. My uncle stares with ineffable rage and contempt upon the unfortunate tender of cattle.

"What, sir!—what mean you, sir, to ask a colonel in His Majesty's service to turn a cow?"

My uncle has gone, in quest of an appetite, beyond his usual bounds, and having observed a person passing over the grounds of a neighbouring laird, with a gun under his arm, and of a questionable appearance, he determines to inform Lord Douglas, the neighbouring laird, as he usually designates his lordship, of the fact; and for this purpose, in order to receive information, he calls at the door of a cottage. A little girl, about ten years of age, makes her appearance, and is accosted with—

"Lassie, where is your mother?"

"Mither, oh, mither—she's butt the house; but what do you want wi' her?"

"You are an ill-educated girl," says my uncle. "Why don't you say 'sir' to me when you address me? But go and tell your mother to speak to me—away!"

"Mither! mither! haste and come here—there's a man wantin to speak to you."

This was more than my uncle could stand: so he instantly decamped, gold-headed cane and all, to ruminate over the indignities to which he had been subjected.

"Go," said he one day to John, when acting as butler to the colonel, his master, and the young laird of Puddentuscal, who had been invited to dinner—"go to catacomb seventeen, and bring us a bottle of vintage twenty-six."

"Catacomb here, and vintage there," replied John, with a comical expression on his face, "that's the last bottle on the table I've got frae Peter Cruikshanks, for the twa cheeses we selt him."

My uncle died one day, but had taken previous care to have himself carried shoulder-high to the grave. "Sic transit gloria mundi!"

"Miss Smiles! Oh, Miss Smiles, I am happy to see you, you have been such a stranger! But how is your mother? I was sorry to hear of her late dangerous indisposition, and that you were obliged to call in the assistance of a doctor."

"Oh yes," replies

"THE SIMPERING IDIOT"

with an everlasting smile on her countenance. "Poor mamma was so ill!—he—he—he! we really thought she would have died—he! But then Dr Blister was so attentive and funny. Oh la!—oh la! how he did laugh, and made such a deal of fun, that poor mamma absolutely sat up in bed, and he!—he!—he!—laughed, absolutely laughed outright. But, really, Mrs Wotton, really that is such a beautiful little pony which you have got feeding on the green, and it looked so comical at me in passing—he! he!—and your little boy, Bobby, rides it so gracefully—ha! ha!—and he fell so prettily. But be not alarmed, Mrs Wotton, the boy is only a little, just a very little hurt about the head—he! he!—only about the head, ma'am. I assure you don't be alarmed. Pray—pray, don't!—he!—he! I think I see little Bobby tumbling heels up, head down. A pretty boy, indeed, your little Bobby. But, bless me, Mrs Wotton, don't ring the bell—he!—he! I saw Bobby carefully carried into the gardener's cottage at the gate, with the whip still in his hand, and—but he did not bleed severely——Oh la!—oh la! I hope I have not alarmed you, ma'am. Good-morning—good-morning."

There goes that insensible piece of everlasting giggle. She has no more heart than that poker, and no more mercy than an enraged cobbler, making use of it to chastise a drunken spouse. There she goes from house to house, from morn to night, with all the external marks of contentment and high delight, and yet with an inward feeling of envy and ill-will, which is a perfect hell. But here comes, with a copy of the "Laus Stultitiæ" by Erasmus, in one pocket, and a play of Æschylus in the Other.

"THE PEDANTIC IDIOT"

Oxford bred—pure Oxford, ma'am. You cannot possibly utter a sentiment which he does not roll you off in pure Iambics, nor mention a fact which does not suggest another, at least eighteen centuries old.

"The day is very fine, ma'am, very fine indeed. 'And thus, from day to day'—you remember the quotation in Shakspere—it is prettily said, but not delicately. I do not like the words 'rot, and rot;' yet, if one take into account the age, ma'am, the age of Shakspere—I don't mean the years which he lived, but the age of the world in which he lived—if you take into consideration the age, such words as rot were not deemed ungenteel. 'Like a bare bodkin,' and 'groan and sweat'—all these phrases have got somehow into bad repute now; but they were once seen in the most polite company. Have you read the 'Laus Stultitiæ' of Erasmus, sir; or, as it is more frequently expressed in Greek terms, the Encomium Moriæ? It is quite unique, sir; so full of genuine fun, expressed in beautiful Latin, with scraps of Greek intermixed. What think you of the 'Prometheus' of Euripides?—is it not sublime and terrific?—such a thunder of language and meaning intermingled! These old fellows—these ancients—were the boys. What are our moderns to them? What is Southey to Virgil, or Scott to Homer, Tom Moore to Anacreon, or the lyrics of Burns to those of Horace? Oh, fons Blandusiæ! how soft, how sweet, how beautifully simplex munditiis! And then his 'quem verum aut heroa,' 'Cœlo tonantem credimus Jovem'. But I am, perhaps, trespassing on your patience; if so, I ask your pardon, and bid you good-morning."

There he goes—a creature of nut-shells, one who deals with the husk but never with the kernel—a bag of chaff, with scarcely a per-centage of honest grain—a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal—a thing of shreds and patches—a Joseph's coat of many colours. I was heartily tired of the classical pedant; but there are pedants, ma'am, in all situations and professions. There are even pedantic chimney-sweeps—men in sooty garb, who brandish the brush and display the dirt-bag with an air of importance, and whose loud and penetrating "sweep" has a peculiar force with it. There is, for example, your next neighbour, Mrs Manage, who makes more cheeses from less milk than any one of her neighbours; whose butter has a higher flavour than any in the market; and who kills you, from morn to night, with plans of savings, and profits, and improvements. She even rides her hobby whilst asleep; for she often starts, and mutters the name of a favourite milcher. And there is Mr Clark. Ah, my dear, good-natured, companionable, ever-to-be-remembered Mr Clark! You were indeed the prince of fishers. You had travelled over a great part of Scotland, like my friend Stodart, fishing; and, really and in truth, you had done and seen wonders. I am sorry, very sorry, indeed, to place you amongst the "pedants;" but truth, my dear sir—my dear shade, compels me to do so. Set you once upon fishing, and there was no end of it—from Dan to Beersheba, on you went. Here you killed a salmon of fourteen pounds weight, after playing him up pool and down stream for at least six hours; there, you hooked another, which broke your line, and curvetted away to the tune of

Again, you filled your basket ere twelve o'clock, and gave up fishing merely because you could carry no more. And then, such adventures! One day you lost yourself in the mist—found a tethered horse—wandered for hours, and then encountered the same tethered horse again. At another time, you came upon a cottage in the muirland with a lame crow; and, after much wandering, came again upon the same object. You once changed your flies three times, and at last pulled him out by a knot upon the line, at which he took greedily. Was it not you who filled your basket with trouts of a pound weight each, and then, in leaning over a bank to land another, your basket-pin gave way, and they all tumbled dead into the gullet? Did not you jump in after them; and were you not carried down into the bumbling pool; and had it not been that you got a hold of a heather cow, would not you have been absolutely drowned? After all this testimony, which you know—I mean knew (alas! my dear friend, that I should say knew!)—to be true, can I avoid placing you amongst the fishing pedants? Yet, as the angel did in Sterne (an angel who has had a deal of work to do in his time), do I now drop a tear upon what I have written, and all but blot it out for ever. Honest Mr Clark! you were indeed the king of fishers; but, then, all your fish weighed fisher's weight—you added at least seventy-five per cent. to the avoirdupois!

But golfers! Golfers, of all pedants who infest earth or purgatory, are the most intolerable. During dinner, you hear the distant grumble of thunder; there is a word or two dropped, of this hole and that hole—of this stroke and that stroke—of this tee and that tee; but so soon as the glass has circulated a little, you are all mish-mash, helter-skelter, at it again. Done—done! is the word on the match; shillings, pounds, and guineas fly about like midges in harvest sunshine. Some one tries to introduce general conversation, by observing that the coronation went well off; but it is all to no purpose. Their voice is not heard in the general uproar. The very table seems to take an interest in the hubbub, and responds to the clenched fist with a peculiar hollow sound. If this be not pedantry, I know nothing of the subject. The Old Commodore, a second Uncle Toby, was a pedant; and so was Willie Herdman, who had fought as a common soldier at the siege of Gibraltar; and Jumping Jenny was a pedant, who had not an idea beyond a reel and a fling; and Willie Crosbie was a pedant, who could talk of nothing but ewes and gimmers; and Geordie Johnston was a pedant, who valued himself on his small ankles, and nice lambs'-wool stockings; and Archy Tait was a pedant, who kept up a nightly intercourse with the devil and all manner of bogles. But time and paper (which is more precious than time, never to speak of the printing) would fail me, were I to reveal to you the thousandth part of the cases in which pedantic idiocy appears. Turn we now, therefore, to another species of the same genus, to the "Sarcastical Jester," who, though he has not yet obtained a name amongst the notables, is, undeniably, the greatest and most offensive Idiot of the whole batch.

We must approach him slily, for he is an exceedingly cunning fellow; and, when you least think of it, he will be showing you off to some third party, whom, in his turn, he will again be showing off to you. Dean Swift's housemaid was one of this class, who pinned a dish-clout to the tail of Dr Sheridan, and pointed him out as an object of ridicule to all the servants. Nay, Satan himself was a master of works on the occasion, when he said "eat, and be wise," well knowing that his advice was folly, and obedience to it death. The practical jester is not a man of many words, but he looks two ways for Sabbath. He will tread upon your corny toe, and then ask your pardon, looking all the while slily to his companion, who is in the secret. He will call you Kettle of Barclay, instead of Barclay of Kettle—aware, as he is, that you value yourself upon your title. He will, above all this, practise upon you his great leading joke of Johnnie Hastie's shears. You are sitting beside him upon the top of a coach, and thinking of nothing but the crops, the fields, and the cottages. All at once, you spring to your feet with a shout, and are precipitated over the driver's seat upon the backs of the horses. All that he did, or was doing, was to give you a clip of Johnnie Hastie's shears. Good reader (for all readers of those Tales are good, like the Tales themselves), dost thou know anything about Johnnie Hastie or his shears? I shall tell thee.

He was a tailor in the Parish of Crail, famous for fish and herrings—a real cankered body, but with about an equal quantity of humour or malevolent wit. Whenever he found a proper opportunity, he used to bend his fore and middle fingers, and then, protruding the middle joint, and opening or separating the one from the other, he used to apply this instrument to the fleshy and most sensitive part of any person who might happen to sit near him, and, by compressing suddenly the joints and fingers, gave the impression of severe clipping. This he denominated a clip of Johnnie Hastie's shears; and hence arose the by-word. An incident or two of this sort it may not be improper to mention.

It is well known that hiccuping is an unpleasant but a pertinacious complaint, and that it proceeds from many causes as well as from a too liberal indulgence in wine. A person who happened to be at the time afflicted with this convulsive movement was suddenly struck on the back, by a practical jester, by way of surprising him out of the distemper. The stroke, however, happened to introduce a small piece of nut kernel, which he was eating, into his windpipe, and it was not without much suffering that it was at last extracted. Another came up to a man of peculiar habits and feelings, observing that he was looking very ill; and then, meeting him again next day, and a third, and a fourth, made the same observation. The poor nervous creature took it sadly to heart, went to bed, and never rose again. He died from the fear of death. At the siege of Toulon—when balls flew about in abundance—after the battle was over, and our ships were forced, by the infant Hercules, Bonaparte, to retreat, an officer went up to his companion, who was standing with his back towards him in the dark, and slapped him suddenly on the back betwixt the shoulders. The person suddenly struck jumped up on the deck, and shouting, "Shot at last, by God!" he died on the spot.

Jeanie Gibson and William Laidlaw were lovers, not in any particular sentimental manner, but just in the old-fashioned way. They liked each other's company, sat very close to each other in the dark, and occasionally indulged in an innocent kiss! But Jeanie was what is called "bonny," and had more lovers than Willie Laidlaw; one of whom, Bob Paton, a sly, unfeeling rogue, of the practical-jesting kind, was over head-and-ears in love with bonny Jeanie. He took it into his head that he would play a trick upon Jeanie, and make her avow at once her preference for Willie Laidlaw, whom she only in secret favoured. For this purpose, he dressed up a figure in what (in the dark) might appear to be the clothes of Willie Laidlaw, and placed it in a field through which he knew Laidlaw was to pass. He armed himself with a gun, duly charged with powder and shot. Firm prepared, he advanced into the field or park, well knowing that Jeanie Gibson was not only within sight, but within hearing of him, being seated under the cover of a stone dyke hard by.

"Where are you going, William?" said the practical jester. "I know where you are going; you are going to meet wi' Jeanie Gibson; but I'll blaw your brains out first." Thus saying, he fired off his musket, and the figure immediately fell.

A wild scream was all that was heard, and Jeanie was found lifeless: no, much worse—deprived of reason for life! She never recovered; but when her lover was brought into her presence, always said—

"I know—I know it is not my Willie. I saw—I saw him fa'! It isna him; it canna be him. He's awa—awa—awa!" And then she uniformly fainted.

Nor did the practical jester escape. Willie actually shot him, and was hanged on Lockerby Muir for the deed.

Finis coronat opus—to conclude, I shall e'en take off myself under the character of

"THE SCRIBBLING IDIOT."

He is always meditating something great, but never carries it into execution. One day he commences a heroic poem, which terminates the next in a rebus or sonnet. One day he becomes a dramatist, and pens a scene of a play on the escape of James the Fifth from the palace of Falkland; the next he writes an article for the "Tales of the Borders." Now he undertakes a history of the eight-and-twenty years' persecution—gets out numerous books from the library—actually writes a preface and a conclusion in fine style, which ends in a few lines in the poet's corner of a country newspaper. He sketches a poem, to be entitled, "Gratitude"—in which dogs, elephants, lions, and even horses, as well as men and women, are to figure; but he never gets on further than four very indifferent lines. He is sixty years old; and at sixteen could write as well and cleverly as he does now. He never takes time to correct vetere stylum, he is always in such a confounded hurry lest his idea should escape him ere he has given it a black coat and a white waistcoat. Nobody can equal him in rapidity of composition; but, then, his composition is like the man's horse, with two faults—"it is very ill to catch, and not worth a penny when caught." He does everything for everybody; writes all manner of reviews of books which he has never read, and quotes authorities which he has never consulted. He gets daily into scrapes by making use of people's names about whom he knows nothing, and who abhor, or pretend to abhor, notoriety. One day he is all devotion and sentiment, the next all fun and frolic. He spends his life in an endless whirl of fancies, meditations, resolves, attempts, and finds himself every hour less respected; and, indeed, less respectable than he once was. The worst of it is, "he knows that he is an idiot;" but the knowledge does him no manner of good. He takes a tumbler or two; and then he is, in his own estimation, the very acme of genius! He knows that, had he possessed perseverance, he might have done much; and this knowledge, instead of stimulating, paralyses all manner of effect. His life is a dream; and when he dies, he will be instantly forgotten. He will set like an equatorial sun, and there will be no twilight over his memory.

But "latet dolus in generalibus"—I set out in life with excellent prospects—had gained the patronage of a nobleman who had at least twenty kirks in his gift. In these days the Veto had not shown its appalling phiz. I had the absolute promise of a kirk, which was sure to be vacant in a year or two. But nothing would serve me but I would write some satirical verses on a scolding wife, whom I knew only by report. I sent the following lines to some magazine of the day.

Now this song happened to take in the neighbourhood, and was reckoned severe and clever. The murder came out in a few weeks. I received the following letter from Lord C——:—

"Sir,—I hear you have been lampooning, in a periodical work, a person in whom Lady C—— takes a deep interest. I consider myself relieved from any obligations which your past services may have imposed upon me.—I remain, &c."

My lord was as good as his word, and that I am now

instead of appearing sleek, fat, and comfortable at the General Assembly now sitting, is owing to my scribbling propensities.

But there is yet one other idiot, with whose character I might close "this strange, eventful history"—an idiot decidedly the most prominent of all—an idiot who, in modern times in particular, has proved his claims on my notice to an unusual extent—an idiot, too, without whose idiocy mine were literally a dead letter: Reader! gentle reader!—"Quid rides—nomine mutato de TE"—that is, if you are displeased; if not, you are an angel!