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hahaya2004
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Original Contributions

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Tammas Turnip's Account of Himself
From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 29/12/1855

Chapter First.


At Kilmarnock, on the evening of a Dudd's-Day Friday [Kilmarnock's Martinmas fair], I saw a raw country lad, who evidently had taken in an extra quantity of artificial spirit, and was desirous of leaving an impression on any one who would stand out before him in pugilistic combat. He invited all and sundry—even an Irishman, or an auld wife. A tight young Irishman stepped forth from the crowd, took off his jacket, smote one hand on the other, and thus addressed the Parritch Goliath. "My name's Bob Leg, I work at the Gas Work, I have been there since the commencement, and I may be there to the latter end if I behave myself; so case yourself, and dress yourself, for you know now who's in front of you. Now lad." This speech was followed by a visit from Bob's fist to the silly lad's mouth, who fell on the road and roared murder. Bob said, "that it was but proper for every man who stood forth in a good cause to give his name and intention." In like manner, "My name's Tammas Turnip." I come before you not to abuse any part of society. On the same principle as Bob, some one may get a touch on the mouth, but it will not be done through spite. I have a twelvemonth to do it. In bringing before you departed heroes, or living ones, my intention is to teach; not to drag any one into light for a base purpose. "So case yourself, and dress yourself, for you know who's in front of you now."
Saltcoats and Ardrossan, with a peep of the Firth of Clyde, are visible from the spot where I was born. I was brought up about a gentleman's house, which may account fur my natural simplicity, and politeness of style. During school vacations, which always took place in harvest, I used to herd kye [cows], sheep, and turkeys on the pleasure ground—a job I was very unfond of. When at school, in the village of Symington, I used to visit the shoemakers' garrets on wet days, at the twal[twelve]'hours,—I had full welcome to them all; Tam Brown's, Happy Jock's, and Laird M'Pherson's. From the latter l learned the secret of a cobbler's greatness. He was a jolly, healthy-minded man, quite a boy in youthful raillery. I feel his earnest jocularity yet—he was a great teacher of boys. He brought out the truth of the boy; but, when any one ventured to give impudence, a sharp reproof, and, pointing to the door, no matter to whom they belonged. "Out Sir," were the words addressed to them. He used to tell me he was an auld sweetheart o' my mithers, and on that account he would not like to see me a gentleman's scodgy [drudge]. Of all the positions in society, that, and soldiers, he held up to the boys as fitting only for those creatures who had no mind, for if they had they durst not use it. Come to me, Sir, he would say, in a merry mood, I'll learn you to be a shoemaker, then you will be independent. I can live without a coat, or a character from any gentleman; he has to come to me to keep him comfortable. Were you a flunkey, and committing some trifling offence, or an accident taking place with you, your master can order you to put off his coat, and go about your business; always have a coat of your own, Sir, or go without one. I cannot suffer a mean man, and my dog hates them!—he smells them!—they stink like a beggar's meal pock! He lectured strongly on the independence that belonged to boys; speaking the truth made a boy so; running a message quickly and bringing back the answer correctly, was another means; getting their lessons properly for school,—he was a mean boy who would not get his questions; and he set down dult [stupid]-laziness of every kind as mean; one boy asking another to do for him what he ought to do for himself was shameful; boys fighting was mean and vile; points like these he dwelt on. I put full faith in his greatness, and had a respect for his dog Viper.
I used to think Colonel Kelso the greatest gentleman alive. But a gentleman and a great man, even when I was a boy, had two distinct meanings. M'Pherson was the great man. One day while herding, the Colonel came forward to me, he was on horseback, he looked extra pleased, his right hand rested on his thigh. Tammas quoth he, I have got a situation for you. What is it? said I. To be boy to Mr Fleming, of Barrochan. The ghost of M'Pherson glowed within me; I stood straight up; I was not eleven years of age; placed my right hand on my haunch; looked my benefactor in the face, and said, Sir, I'll be a scodgy to no man!! And what will you be? do you think your mother will be able to keep you all your days? I'll neither ask you nor her to do so. Is this all the thanks I get from you for looking for a situation for you? You should have asked me first and I would have saved you the trouble. Then what would you be if you had your choice? I'll go to Jock M'Pherson, in Symington, and learn the shoemaking, then I'll be independent. The Colonel's whip came slap upon my shoulder. I stood near to a hedge, at the garden wood, through which I bolted and climbed up a rock; I shook my fist at him and said, "now Colonel I'm independent of both you and your horse;" he smiled and rode off. I had been learning a Psalm that day, " Upon a rock he set my feet establishing my way." I here found my feet on a rock, but my way was not established. I thought when the Colonel was looking out a situation for me, it was time I was looking after one myself. "Flocks wander wha'r ye like, I dinna care." I went direct through the wood, and through parks, and ran all the way to Symington, wishing seriously that M'Pherson would be at home; and so he was, and seated for his dinner—stove potatoes with green sybo [scallion] tails on the top. I was out of breath, he looked quite astonished, and says, " what's wrang in you, Sir." I was not long till I laid my case before him; he rose, and clapped my shoulders. He sat down, and I thought he was gaun daft; one burst of laughter after anither, and choking and coughing. with the tears running over his cheeks, he stroked my head, declaring I was a right kind o' a callant [boy]. His wife Kate scolded him sair [severely] for putting ill in the callant's head. She gave me my dinner, bade me gang awa hame, and do the Colonel's bidding, for he wished me weel. M'Pherson gave me a penny, told me he was sorry he could not take me himsel, "but gang to Dundonald, gie Rowat my compliments, and he'll tak you. I'll see him and tell him what a fine boy you are." He was as good as his word. 1 went home, despatched my mother to make inquiry, then went in person. I was considered too small, yet, being well recommended, I passed the Board. What I saw there, and how I behaved myself, may be told in after chapters. This M'Pherson was the person from whom Thom the sculptor cut his stone figure, so justly celebrated, which may be seen at Burns's Monument. His habits and external appearance were said to have a striking resemblance to the original, of whom Burns says,—

"The souter tauld [cobbler told] his queerest stories."

To M‘Pherson's honour be it told, when he was offered five pounds to sit for the figure of Souter Johnny, he spurned the offer and said, no! Fond as he was of a glass, he did not wish to go down to posterity the representative of a drunkard. However, Thom, in company with a young artist, visited M'Pherson several times, while the model was going forward in clay; at every other visit some addition and correction was made, till it appeared [fold in paper] the foundation stone of Thom's greatness. M'Pherson lived to be the oldest man in the parish. The last time I saw him he was on the borders of ninety. He was sitting on a stone by his door, on a fine summer afternoon. I went and sat down by him; his memory was good; I had grown out of his remembrance, not having seen him for upwards of twenty years. When I told him who I was he laughed heartily. I let him know that I had profited by his advice, and acted on it yet. The old man shed tears of joy. He said it was pleasant to meet with one who had received good, as most people were glad to tell you how much ill you had done and forgot the good. He is now in the auld kirkyard [churchyard].
The perceptive faculties of boys are early ripe, and it is the duty of men to live before them as worthy of being gratefully remembered. Blunders are not easily forgotten, they soon become public property.
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
hahaya2004
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Re: Original Contributions

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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 05/01/1856

Tammas Turnip's Account of Himself
Chapter Second
Jock and the Whelps


The New-Year of 1814 came in with a severe frost, which lasted for thirteen weeks. It was that frost which silenced nearly half a million of the French army in Russia, and killed most of our singing birds at home. All the mills in the country were motionless for want of water. The rivers were frozen to their foundations; and, on the 22nd of March, when they resumed their sway, ice three feet thick was lifted over the banks and laid on the flat fields by the water courses, and these lay dissolving till June. Gas-light had not then shed its lustrous influence in the world. Steamboats were in the second year of their existence - railways unknown; iron ships unthought of; telegraphic messages were sent on horseback in leather bags. Weaving was the leading business in the country, and the country was gravely informed by the weaver, "If the weaving goes down the country's gone, as it is through us your greatness exists." Reformers in those days were termed "blacknebs"—Radical had not been applied.
Britain was at war with France. Buonaparte and the Devil were looked on with equal respect by weans and auld wives. Men had to be careful how they spoke on politics, as the term traitor was readily applied, and men who could reason a matter were dangerous to society. The 12th of January was recognised as the first day of the year. Our forefathers held on by use and wont, and they termed all attempts at improvement newfangled notions. Agricultural improvement had scarcely begun, iron ploughs were coming into use, and emigration to Botany Bay was reserved for those who were deemed unworthy to remain at home. Candle, sugar, and soap were fifteen pence a pound, snuff and tobacco tenpence an ounce. Great George the Third was kind, and the potato disease had not made its appearance.
It was on the 28th of March the foresaid 1814, I left my mother's house, and took with me a Bible rowed [rolled] up in a night-cap, and set forth on foot for the village of Dundonald, there to be taught the gentle craft of shoemaking, the foundation-stone of independence in after life. The garret in which I served my time might appropriately be called the College, as in it the living talent of the parish met. The past was talked over, the present talked about, and the prospects of the future speculated on. Among the worthies who met here was "Jock and the Whelps." He was a genius in his way, always the hero of his own story, and successful in his undertakings. He was a native of the parish of Fenwick. In his younger days he had trafficked with Ireland, taken over one kind of commodity and brought back another. It was said that at one time his mind had failed, and bent on doing a new business with Irish gentlemen, he had seized a number of young modiworts, got them in a box among earth, and went over to Ireland, calling on gentlemen who had gardens, stating the moles to be a precious kind of young dogs, whose province was to hunt vermin in the ground. They being particularly adapted for flower beds, where vermin eat the roots, these dogs would watch and catch everything hurtful to the growth of whatever might be entrusted to them; besides they required no looking after; let them into the earth once and they would look after themselves. Such is the story given as the foundation to his title, "Jock and the Whelps."
He was the first man I ever heard talk of chemistry or alchemy. He had collected every kind of rock, sand, or earth, about Dundonald hills, and tested them for gold. He said he was sure such metal existed there, and would some day be discovered. He at one time was herd on Clevance ground, for Bartonholm, who at that time grazed black cattle. Then Jock, having full charge, and as no post mortem examination of the cattle took place at a death, the blackley or mooril was blamed, the hide and tallow sent to the owners—Jock pretending that he burned the bad bits and haind [kept back] the rest for the swine. Whether the boys, through spite, invented such a story because he stopped them from trespassing on the ground, or if it had its origin in fact, I know not, but several things were blamed on Jock which, when understood, stood different. He used to make broom besoms [brushes], heather besoms, and scrubbers. Brimstone spunks, before the days of lucifer, were made by him, and the farmers supplied with such commodities. In some of their houses Jock had a welcome, although the most of them were doubtful of property moving after his visits, particularly if it was possible to carry it. He would carry ten stone of heather for six miles, with only one rest; so small things were in danger. When he used to visit Harperland he was always allowed a cog of brose. He liked them thick and plenty of them. He used to tell the lassies, Mak'them sterk [strong], wi' little broo [liquid]" He would not sup them in presence of any one; some out-house was always selected for feeding in. One day one of the servants made a peck of meal in brose. She thought she would like to see how such a mess went out of sight, as she had often made large doses before and they vanished quickly. Jock sat down, and, with the spoon, supped off the thin, then, taking a stocking from his leg, filled it with the thick, and tied the garter; then wrung the thin out, and in among the besoms went the solid stuff He took it home and baked bread, or made it down at pleasure. Then, smacking his lips, took in the dish, saying that was the size. He lived at one time near Symington, but, like other folk, he thought were he near the moss he would be happier. A nice little neuk [recess] belonging to Lady Mary took his fancy, and one day when Sir Charles Lamb. then Captain Burgess, was hunting in the moss, Jock showed him the corner, and made a proposal to lease it. Sir Charles at once said he might have it during his lifetime. Jock built a hut, which was called Castle Divet; it was built with turf, but, like other emigration schemes, happiness did not come out of it. In winter it was damp, with a bad road to it. One day when Sir Charles was hunting in the neighbourhood of Castle Divet, Jock made his appearance, and putting on the air of landlord, said it had not been a good bargain, and if Sir Charles had no objection to excambie [exchange] with him, there was an old quarry at Cat Craigs, where, with little effort, a new castle might be built. Sir Charles kindly granted this boon [wish] also. When the farmers in the district heard that such a tenant was coming, and having no real accusation, yet a desire to keep him out, they wished Willie Boyd, who had opened the quarry for road metal to put the veto on Jock. Willie met him one day and asked if it was true that he was coming. Jock said yes. Then I'll stop you, said Willie, for it's my quarry. Jock, thinking it would be as safe to get the rights of his ground , went home, put a pig in a pock [sack], and off to Coilsfield House. Sir Charles was at home. Jock had an interview. Quoth he, " I'm no disputing your word, sir, but some ither body may, when ye're no at haun, and if you wud jist gie me a line under your hand that I hae a right to the quarry, it would settle the dispute at ony time." There could be nothing more rational. Jock got the line, then lousing [loosening] the pock, he let out the pig, and gave it to Sir Charles, as a peice offering. The pig was accepted, and ten shillings given to Jock in return, with as much as he could eat. He started for home when only about half-a-mile from the house, he met Willie Boyd on horseback going to stop the building. Jock saluted him, saying, "I doot [think], Willie, you are rather late, as I hae the richts [rights] in my pouch." Willie went on and had an interview with Sir Charles also. He wasna sae sly, as Jock, for, when asked if there were any quarries but the one. Plenty, quoth Willie. Then take your metal out of them, and allow the man to put up his house. Jock built in the quarry, and called the place Rock Castle, in which he lived and died. He had a peculiar looking figure. They who have seen Harvey's picture of "Reading the Bible," will have a good idea of his form. He had a large forehead, lank hanging cheeks, a flapping, moveable under lip; which from peculiar pressure projected so as to form an opposition to the nose, which was of huge dimensions, and had a vibrating motion as if it had been made of Pottedhead. He wore a tautit [matted] wig made of coarse hair as if cows tails had subscribed the needful. He was lowt [stooped] shouldered, had a steady and measured step, like one who thought as he moved forward. And so he did, I never heard him tried on any subject, but he took the lead. He was suspicious of people taking their fun off him. He had a wife the counterpart of himself; and a son come to manhood. He was a sort of Esop, bordering on deformity. He married an accomplished young lady, whose habits seemed to justify his choice. She was dirty, lazy, snuffed, snivelled, and was happy. The whole family are now in the auld kirkyard [churchyard], and in some future chapters we may take a look at their excellencies or eccentricities.
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
hahaya2004
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Re: Original Contributions

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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 12/01/1856

Tammas Turnip
Chapter Third
Meditations among the Tombs


In Dundonald churchyard I could point out the resting place, and tell some story of the most of its tenants for the last hundred years; whether they came there like a shock of corn fully ripe, were abruptly interred as suicides, or tumbled in through Delirium Tremens. A quiet lesson is taught by reading the stone pages whereon is recorded the length of the pilgrimage on earth of the inmates who sleep below. Drunkenness is a vice, monstrous and malignant in its nature; and under its reeling, giddy, heathless, helpless dominion, many have been conveyed to their last home. There lies the old smuggler, who waged war with law; — the drunkard, who waged war with himself;—he who was frozen to death;—and there the mock burial ground of him who was suspended on a gibbet.
Eighty years ago, smuggling was extensively carried on in the parish of Dundonald. The wealthy, or what was then called the upper class, were all engaged in the contraband traffic, and their serfs set order at defiance. I have heard many of the old men, who were thus engaged, talk their youth over again, and from them I learned the history of the sleepers in "the auld kirkyard".
Mathew hay, in Holmes, was one of the boldest smugglers in the parish. He was a man above the common size, and resolute in his nature; his motto was "go forward." He did a large business, and feared no hazard. In his service he had the hardiest of men, who, when led by him, feared no foe. At that time carts were not in common use. Pack Horses as they were called, adorned, like tinkers' asses, with a pair of creels slung over their back, in which might be deposited a couple of casks Rum or Brandy. Sometimes a sack with a couple of boxes of Tea, was the load, and should the government forces meet them, "Protect the Cargo", was the watchword. Sometimes a front was formed to stay the chase, and a retreat with the goods ordered. Keeping the gauger [exciseman] from seeing what was there was the secret. At one time, Mathew and his men were met at a place called Roddle Rig, on the Irvine side of Dundonald. A charge was made. Mathew selected the Supervisor, who was also a stout man, and charged heavy upon him. By the first flourish of his cudgel the Supervisor's sword went over the hedge, and with the next thrash his carcase lay on the road. Thrice he urged his horse on his fallen foe to trample him to death, and thrice the horse o'erleaped the body of the Supervisor and thwarted the murderous design, when a blow of the cudgel laid his good horse lifeless beside his foe. Mathew was suspected to be an accomplice with a fellow who stole the plate of the Ayr Bank, and as it was said, fled to America, and sent home notes which were signed and put in circulation by somebody. The auld folk said that he stuck at nothing, and they used to point to the felling o' his horse as an example. In the farm house of Holmes a wholesale murder was attempted. Arsenic was put among sowns [flummery], made to supper a band of shearers. I think only one died, although thirteen partook of them. Symptoms began early to show that the sowns werna inclined to lie on the stomach of some, and that had the effect of stopping the rest from going on, else the number of victims would have been greater. Report said that the only intention he could have in providing this fatal supper was because a servant woman was like to become a mother by him; and to send her away in company was heartsome. He was apprehended, tried, and hanged at Ayr, about seventy years ago. He had no countenance from the wealthy, and the poor had no sympathy with him. His body was to be given for dissection. It was begged by his friends; but no, he was too good a figure to escape, and it is said that his skeleton dances in Edinburgh even unto this day. It was agreed among the friends that a funeral should take place, as if they had been successful in obtaining the body. The old Bellman and his wife had both tasted of the poisoned sowns, and had made a narrow escape. Thirty-two years after the mock funeral I saw the grave opened. The same old sexton opened it, and made this remark—the ordinary sentence "man shall return to the dust whence he was taken,"—" but Mathew has returned to sea sand." There was about an inch deep of sand on the bottom of the coffin, which had been placed there to personified weight. Few had been in the secret, and they had kept it.
While Mathew Hay was living, a heavy arrival of brandy took place one week; his servants had been out of bed for five successive nights. On the sixth night, notice came that a boat was putting out cargo at the Partin Craigs, or Stinking Rocks, as they sometimes are called. Every man was ordered off again; a young man named Fulton, his gardener, said he could not go, but would go to bed. Mathew distinctly told him that he would go a longer journey if he did not. To bed went Fulton, and to the shore went the rest. When they returned at five o'clock, next morning they met Mathew at the entrance to the house. The first question he asked was, where's Fulton? They answered that he went to bed and did not go with them Did he not come to you harshly asked he. Then he began to swear if he had him what he would do with him; for remarked he, after you went away, he rose and went away grumbling after you. However, as the auld folk said, he was awa and aye awa. When a new tenant came to the Holmes, in putting things to right, he could see no use for a green plot, in the midst of the garden, and when trenching it, a skeleton form was discovered, and a bundle of clothes. The knee and shoe buckles were sworn to as belonging to poor Fulton. It was evident a hole had been made in the garden, a murder committed, and the carcase and clothes deposited there.
Another characteristic story is related of him. When he was apprehended, he became suspicious that a friend of his might be in danger. He had no way of communicating with him; but before entering the old prison door at Ayr, he boldly looked round, and said, "they might imprison him, but he would take care they should not put in another man's property," and pulling off his spurs, he inquired if any one might be got for payment, to carry the spurs to John Brown, of Knockinteber, with his compliments, thank him for the loan of them; tell him, said he "to put them on and make a better use of them than he had done." The spurs were sent—the hint was not taken, and John was hanged in front of the old Jail of Glasgow, for the crime of forgery.
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
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Re: Original Contributions

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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 19/01/1856

Tammas Turnip
Chapter Fourth
John McGee, the Prophet


The subject of our sketch was a native of Dunmurray, near Belfast. An impression productive of much good was left on me by listening to his prophesies and lectures in the Cross of Kilmarnock, in the summer of 1820. When at Belfast last year, I walked to Dunmurray to view John's native place. The very fact that he was born there gave a spiritual air to the locality. The voice of John had an echo within me. A single remark of his I offer to young men; I invite them to act on it, and send it forward to the next generation.
One sunny summer forenoon, in the Cross of Kilmarnock, the shrill blast of a horn caught my ear. On looking round I saw an old man waving aloft a long white iron horn, evidently wishing an audience. Thrice he blew, paused, and waved towards himself. I readily obeyed the summons, and soon stood beside him. His figure was slender, tall, and erect; his countenance beamed with an intellectual lustre; sharp little blue eyes, a Wellington nose, with thin fresh lips; clear-skinned, with snow-white hair, and a beard hanging down to his bosom with patriarchal grace; his head o'er top'd with a dilapidated hat, and a drab great-coat, like the mantle of charity, encased him to the heels. In one hand he held the horn, and in the other a bunch of prophesies for sale—a penny for a volume of twelve pages. To be an author was his pride; to be a prophet, his glory. He stood there for the good of man and woman. All he wished was people to listen—it was the first step to improvement. John's upper storey was evidently cracked, but on that account he looked the more earnest. He believed in his own mission, and had hope that good would come out of it. Another blast of the horn, till his breath was spent, and he begins:—"I have blown that horn in the Prince Regent's face on the plains of Windsor. I told him that Napoleon Bonaparte was the baste mentioned in the book of Revelation. He smiled at me, and I told him that he was a baste also, but unworthy of notice. Even had he lived the time the Bible was written, he would never have been mentioned, unless it had been for some dirty trick he had done. For the last twenty-five years you have here an account of the war before it was fought, written by the spirit of Prophecy."
I bought the book, and stood attentively listening to the orator. He gave bursts of eloquence under great excitement, showing how faithfully he had sown the truth, and, like other preachers who are in advance of the times, he was annoyed at the want of faith in his hearers, and reproved every silly or careless look. He passed rapidly from one subject to another, making pointed remarks. The Devil was a character he had a strong sympathy with as being ill-used. John would look very earnest and exclaim, "The Devil! the Devil!! the poor Devil!!! I'm sorry for him, he's lied on—grievously and meanly lied on. There's not a dirty trick done in the country but he's blamed for it, when he was not there at all. Every man carries his own devil in his own breast, and if allowed to remain there, the man becomes his property. Get him out or he'll eat ye. Many a dirty meal the poor Devil has got, it's a wonder to me that he's not poisoned long ago. He must have a strong stomach, and a bad taste, for, believe me, many a filthy fellow he has ate".
"Pride and poverty, pride and poverty. There's always a high look before a fall. Pride began the war, and poverty ended it. Pride opens your large shops, and poverty shuts them. Pride makes your dandy lasses, and poverty your dirty wives." A number of females were present who might have taken the hint, but they joined in laughing at the prophet, whose bile rather burst at them. "Get home you latherons [slatterns], wash your faces, and take the mark of your thumb-nail out of your mutches [caps worn by married women], that cover your crawling abominations." A shoemaker was among them, who was laughing heartily. John's prophetic eye caught him, "Get home you lily-faced fellow; take your pegging-awl and pick the dirty thoughts out of the rotten heart of ye". The prophet turned his countenance on me, held up his hands, and, with solemnity, said, "Young man, you are the only hopeful one in this meeting. You listen, you'll learn". This was the great truth which struck me, and to every young man I would wish to impress the same remark, when you hear men talk about anything, if you listen you may learn. John the prophet is long ere this out of the reach of dirty wives, but his hint still remains. "Listen that you may learn". John said some parents showed their children like monkeys; age had to remain silent till the wonders of the child were exhibited, and its listening disposition destroyed for life.
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
hahaya2004
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Re: Original Contributions

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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 26/01/1856

Tammas Turnip
Chapter Fifth
Burns' Acquaintances
"They're wearing awa', awa' "


The auld acquaintances of Burns are vanishing. It is 97 years, yesterday, since he first came among us, and it will be 60 come July since he gaed awa' [went away], but he has left works behind, the merits of which are such, that worthy men of coming ages will be proud to claim kindred with him. I have known many of his personal acquaintances, or those who had seen him and spoken with him; but from the visible mental defects exhibited by the most of the pretenders to his acquaintance, it must have been but slight. I have had the Whipper-in on my back. He told me in confidence that he had the honour to be the character. I have met a number who spoke of having gills in his company, but as for conversation they seemed to have had none. An auld wife told me that she was at a wedding wi' him, and "atweel [indeed] he was but a littleworth fallow [worthless fellow]. It was a pay-wedding, and it wasna lang till he had them in for a braw sum, and the rest o' the lads thought that he keepit himsel' clear, but they couldna mak it out on him, for he put them aye stupid wi' the way he counted." Some had sat in the same kirk wi' him. Ane [one] had driven the plough with him. Anither had enjoyed his blethers [foolish talk] at the bin in the morning, and been unco [extremely] great wi' him, just because he listened to him. He was unco fond to get onybody to listen to his nonsense. I have seen Brither Davie, and heard him speak. I have heard a number of the clergymen preach whose portraits he has taken. I have visited many of the scenes he has immortalised. I was born within ten miles of him, and speak the same language. I have only heard one old man of the whole pretended acquaintances of Burns speak sensibly of his character and genius. I happened, in presence of this old man, to be singing in my own way the " Farewell to the Mason Lodge Tarbolton". "Haud your tongue, man, and no spoil that sang," quo he, "I heard it once sung to perfection, and canna think to hear onybody abuse it." " And whaur happened ye to hear it?" said I. "I heard it," said he, with emphasis, "the first time it was sung in this kintra [country]" "Ye coudna do that," said I, " for Burns himself sung it in Tarbolton the first time it was sung in public." "Aye did he man, and I sat at his right hand," quoth the old man". I made some inquiries about several things connected with the meeting, which inquiries he answered in the following manner:— "It was a great treat to see and hear Burns that night. There was a number o' us belonging to the Lodge who had been often meeting wi' him and making speeches, and we thought it was a pity to see him gaun awa' without hearing us in such a shape as to be sensible o' our greatness. We met, and looked out subjects for our speeches—every one taking up his favourite theme. We met and rehearsed our pieces, to our own satisfaction. The night came when we were to have a fareweel meeting of the Lodge, in honour o' his gaun awa'. There were about ten o' us sat that night as if we had been at a burial. We were sae fu' [full]o' our speeches we durstna [didn't dare] open our mouths for fear some bit o' them would fa' [fall] out. I had repeated mine twice or thrice to mysel', and I suppose the rest were doing the same thing. We had determined to astonish the bard for ance [once], so as he might hae mind o' us when far frae [from] us. He was late in coming that night, a thing quite uncommon wi' him. He came at last. I never in my life saw such an alteration on onybody. Ile looked bigger like than usual, and wild like. His eon seemed stern, and his cheeks fa'n [fallen] in. He sat down in the chair, as Grand Master. He looked round at us. I thought that he looked through me, and I lost the grip o' the beginning o' my speech, and fur the life o' me could I get it again that night. He apologised for being late. He had been getting a' things ready for going abroad. He could get to us no sooner. He intended to have said something to us, but it had gone from him. He had composed a song for the occasion, and would sing it. He looked round on us and burst into song, such as I never heard before or since. If ever a song was sung it was that one. O man, when he came to the last verse, where he says—

"A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a',
One round, I ask it wi' a tear,
To him, the Bard that's far awa'."

That last sight o' him will never leave my mind. He rose and burst into tears. They werena sham ones. It was a queer sight to see sae mony [many] men burst out like bubbly boys and blubber in spite o' themselves. Soon after the song he said he could not stay longer. Wishing us all well, he took his leave, as we thought, for ever. We sat and looked at each other, pregnant as we were wi' great speeches. Nane o' them cam' to the light that nicht. The greatness o' Burns was understood by the few, but the power o' him was felt by everybody; and, as I tell you, I never can think to hear that sang abused. There is a feeling remains I wadna like to part wi'." I looked on this auld man as a great man. I respected his state of mind, and excused him for no being pleased wi' my singing, although it was my attempt at it which brought out his great speech. The old man. is now gathered to his fathers. "They are wearing awa'."
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 02/02/1856

Tammas Turnip
Chapter Sixth
"All the World's a Stage"

Men, generally, are more desirous of playing an artificial part in life than seeking greatness through reality. A charm is added to the mimic stage by the rapid rise in the world. Kings, Lords, and Commons, are set up and upset in a night. Hence the young and aspiring mind can shout "a horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!". Theatrical minds are gaudy and visionary, too often destroying the substantial man and setting up the butterfly in his place. At one period in my life I had a strong desire to appear on the boards in the character of a warrior, although that of a buffoon would have been a better caste. On the stage, as well as off, people are apt to mistake their forte. I had read the play of "Venice Preserved", and looked over the various characters. Pierre, I thought, best suited to give me a voice for one night in uprooting an old, and establishing a new government. The piece, of necessity, must be understood. I began the task, and was not long till I mastered the repeating of the plots, had appealed to the senate, and received a severe sentence at their hand. Nothing was wanting but a proper chance. There were no players in the town at the time, but for the first party that came "a star" was in waiting. Mr Martin soon after, with his company, made his appearance in Kilmarnock. I called on the manager and fixed for a night. "The part of Pierre, by a young gentleman of Kilmarnock, his first appearance on any stage," was announced in the bills of the day.
'Tis an important step, coming before the world in a false character, and to be conscious of the fallacy is still worse. Several deputations called during the day to ascertain if I was the gentleman who was to "strut and fret" at night. Several had been named. In the garret where I worked about a peck of sma' [small] potatoes lay. They were destined to play a part in the theatre. Muckle [Big] Jock Loudon supplied every core (party) who called with a parcel, and directions for use. The night arrived. The gallery was nearly half full of shoemakers. Old Christie, a player of high order when sober, was to personify Jaffier. His drouth [thirst] had deceived him, for, when the curtain rose, he was drunk. Mr Martin stepped on to take the part himself, but a roar of disappointment met him. He announced Christie as intoxicated, who staggered on to the stage to show that he was not so, only nervous, and required but a single glass of spirits to steady himself. He was interrogated if willing to go on if "oiled"? Momently. "Then oil Mr Christie at my expense" shouted a well-known voice from the gallery. A wee gill was sent for in a soda-water bottle. Christie put the first glass in his mouth, made a rush for the stage, stopped short, returned for the remainder, and was advised to swallow bottle and all. He rallied and looked sprightly for a few minutes, when in discussion with his mock father-in-law, old Priuli. The whisky sunk the actor, and by the time I made my appearance to claim him as an auld frien', he was mesmerised. He dreamed the first act till meeting with Belvidera, when he became totally eclipsed, and was hissed off. A new Jaffier entered in the person of Mr Smith. We guzzled through our patriotism and greatness, I feeling all the time I was where I had no business. The glory of the stage fled with the sight behind the scenes. Everything comes to an end, so came the end of the fifth act, and with it the grand crash, when I was to be broken on the wheel—an auld cart wheel borrowed from Rab Wardrop, who had a pass ticket for the loan. He sat in the front of the pit, and was under the influence of the jolly god. Something happened to displease him in the wheel scene, and he thought proper to hiss, when down came the potatoes like a hail shower on his devoted head. Rab had to be put out to save the rest of the audience. The cheers were great, but whether it was that Rab was out or that I was off, it matters not. It took off the monotony and was a change of acting for a few minutes. I went home heartily disgusted with myself, and every part of the performance. I found that I had taken up a wrong position, and drew this conclusion from the night's blundering—

"Honour and shame from no condition rise,
Act well your part, there all the honour lies."

The stage of life was mine, and to play my part thereon was my duty. Dickens says, "as you enter the world it will receive you". Sir Joshua Reynolds says, "there is nothing denied to well-directed labour, and nothing to be had without it". I set about cultivating a talent, and offered it to the great world, who have patronised beyond what I at one time dared to expect. With all due deference to modesty, I was like the Highlandman, who said, "that at no period of his life had he a shabby opinion of himself". To ever young man I would say, be sober, be serious; set on your upward journey, and remember "he that hasteth to be rich falleth into a snare". Believe a good name to be better than riches, and do good as you go through life, disseminating with your own hand what a fool would leave to his executors.
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 09/02/1856

Tammas Turnip
Chapter Seventh
An Independent Ditcher of the Olden Time


Joseph Mills had received a good education from his father, in the hope of giving him power and weight in society; but, like many sons in our day, the father's hopes were blighted, the money wasted, and the world treated to a finished fool. He lived at one time within five parks' distance of where I was born. "Josey", as he was familiarly called, regarded neither man nor money. He was fond of poetry, wrote it, sung it, and spouted its beauties. In a biography of himself, he speaks thus:—

"Josey was a farmer's son,
And played the rogue when he was young;
But now poor Josey's heart's grown wae [sorrowful],
He must work sore, it's every day."

He was at this time a field labourer on the estate of Fairlie. Alexander Fairlie of Fairlie was at that time Factor to the Right Hon. Lord Eglinton, of that ilk. Josey had no idea of a superior. He left his work when the muse and whisky dictated. Drain tiles were not invented in his time; ditches and gaws [drains] were the known conductors of water from the fields, and spring was the time for putting them in order. Josey had been intrusted with a field to cut new gaws, and clean the sheughs [furrows, trenches], which was to be done while the weather was good. He set off on the spree and left the field to its fate. The rain fell and lay on the surface. Mr Fairlie saw it, and inquired for Josey. He was informed that Josey was at Old Rome drinking, as usual. " Send him about his business when he comes back," said he to the foreman. Josey, at the end of eleven days, made his appearance, with the spade over his shoulder, singing the old ditty of having played the rogue when he was young. He was sagely informed by the foreman that he had played the rogue and fool in his old age, and must go about his business. "Who said so," inquired Josey. "It was Mr Fairlie," replied the foreman. Josey walked direct to the front door, with his spade over his shoulder, rang the bell with a vengeance. On the servant making his appearance Josey requested to see old Fairley. The servant remonstrated, wished him to retire; but no. "Let him know that a gentleman wishes an interview." The noise attracted Mr Fairlie, who came and ordered Josey about his business. "What can I do?" said Josey. "Go and sing ballads through the country, for I have no use for you," replied Mr Fairlie. "That's a capital idea," said Josey, "I'll go home and compose one for the occasion. I will sing your character, but before starting I will sing it at your own door. Then, if I get your permission, I'll treat the country people. I will say you sent me."
Josey set off to Old Rome once more, got up the steam, set the muse to work, and in a short time appeared in front of Fairlie House, dressed in character of an old sailor. He paced backward and forward, giving full volume to his voice, which soon reached the ear of his hero, who looked over the window and ordered the poet to be gone, else he would shoot him like a dog. Josey looked up and said, "I have known you always for a coward. Come down, sir, bring a pair of pistols with you, give me my choice, and fight me like a man in front of your own house." Between the song and the challenge Josey was reprieved, and ordered off to his work. Josey said he had been commissioned to make the song, and would sell the copyright to him before leaving, so as he might be enabled to drink his health at Old Rome before beginning on his new engagement. The song was savage on the character of Fairlie. Some said it was overdrawn, and others said it was under the mark. I heard an old man sing it once. I remember the first and last verses. Other three are lost, but the fragment will show Josey's idea of his employer! —

"On the green banks of Irvine
Lives Fairlie of Fairlie,
Who oft speaks of good things,
And does them but rarely.
Lord Eglinton's tenants,
They walk very barely,
Being robbed of their riches,
By Fairlie of Fairlie.
* * * * * *
"It's in the low regions,
0 how he will fret,
When there is no farming,
Or farms for to set;
The Devil and him,
They will scold it right sairly [severely],
And h— will resound
With the shrieks of old Fairlie."

Josey's independence was of a mistaken kind, as whisky-drinkers' greatness generally is, forced by fumes, out of place and out of time. The action ceases to produce good fruit. A great or good man in any sphere must speak and act consistently. A world of Joseys would offend each other. One at a time is enough, and our Josey sleeps with his fathers.
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 16/02/1856

Tammas Turnip
Chapter Eighth
Something in the Witch Way


While cracking wi' a cronie one day, "Tammas,' quo' he, " d'ye ken onything [do you know anything] aboot witches." "O yes," said I. Langsyne [long ago] it was a common occurrence to have visitations from those gentry. They used to infest the place where I was brought up. Some of the auld folk had mind o' them [remembered them], others had heard o' them, and few dared to doubt their existence. I myself saw the last pair. It was a decent auld man and his wife, and they had the power of turning themselves, at pleasure, into the shape of hares. I saw one of them, on a fine summer evening, dance round about the minister's cow, while it was grazing in the glebe. The occurrence took place in presence of a "cloud of witnesses," who were sure that it was either John Porteous or his wife. The hare, with the greatest gravity, danced round the cow, and in front of her, sat upon its hind legs, and becked and bowed to her as if it had been brought up at a boarding school. Davie Murray, the precenter, was the only man who would venture forward to the hare. He lifted the silly thing, and stroked its head and neck as you would stroke a cat. Some of the folk cried, "thraw about the neck o't [wring its neck]". Others cried, "break a leg o't, and we will see which o' the auld folk turns lame." Some spiered at Davie if it was ony weight [asked Davie if it was heavy]. Others if it wasna [wasn't] as heavy as a man. Davie said that it was just an ordinary hare, and he believed them subject to disease like ourselves, and that it would be ill done in any one to take advantage of the poor thing in its helpless state. He set it down on its feet, and it went round the cow once more, then bounded off at a quick pace, as if sensible of having finished its mission. The people declared that it was wrong to let it off; a proper account ought to have been required at its hand. Others swore that they saw it come straight from the house where the old pair lived, and that it had taken a contrary direction going home. It was their duty to go to the house in a body, and see the old man and wife, and demand an explanation. The cow was looked on as a doomed beast; its milk at the next meal should not be used, but put on the fire and boiled, with the chimney stuffed, doors and windows darkened, and that would bring the wretch to acknowledge his or her guilt in due form, and under most excruciating agony—being, at the same time, a warning to others to wear their true shape and character. I heard a decent old farmer, who was an elder in the parish, declare that mony a time he had seen that old man and wife, in the shape of hares, eating his ryegrass, early in the summer mornings, as he went to the lime. He had often determined to take the gun with him, but the fear of it bursting made him cautious. One morning he hallooed at them, and asked them if they did not think shame, declaring at the same time that he would put a sixpence in the gun some morning and let them taste it. He said that they slunked awa' alang the dyke side, in ahint [behind] the stacks, through among the kail, and in at the back door. The next time that he met John and his wife ne'er a ane o' them [not one of them] could look him in the face, which was to him a strong evidence of their guilt. The same auld man said that there was something fearsomely wrang about the Harpercroft [1]. "1 hae heard," quo' he, "the big wheel up in the laft gaun [loft moving] at midnight, when there wasna a living soul up the stair. I hae seen the cat sit on the hearthstane wi' its back to the fire, watching the door and the lum [chimney] time about, as if it expected some visitor, for it would now and then put the most unearthly cries out o't; and the collie dog would sneak aneath [beneath] the gudeman's [husband's] chair, the time o' family worship, and bark through its sleep as if worrying some ither [other] dog. Now, I firmly believe that cats and dogs see quite different frae [from] the like o' us, and it's a great pity but every ane wha [everyone who] changes their shape were worried." Such were William's ideas of transformation.
It was at the entrance to the Harpercroft where the blacksmith, when coming hame late ae nicht [coming home late one night], a wee thocht touched wi' drink [slightly drunk], thocht [thought] he saw a light, and, in the dark, heard something snuffing the air near to where he stood. Wondering whether to go back or forward, he became spell-bound, and his eyes lost their power of motion. The legends of all that belonged to past ages swarmed on his imagination. He had only power to say, "In the name of God, what are you?" when a tinker's ass brayed aloud. He thought that it was the voice of a friend, and it revealed a mystery which, no doubt, would have been set down as something supernatural.
It was at this very spot where the good old Mr Walker, parish minister, while going home late one night was amused by the Devil whistling merry tunes. He kept out of his Reverence's sight, always allowing the hedge to be betwixt them. He conveyed the minister to his own gate, but stood behind the pillar and whistled. The minister danced till he was like to fall down, and in the height of his capering shouted, "weel whistled, Billy." The man went home and took his bed, from which he never rose in health. Instead of dancing and praising the music he should have said, "Get thee behind me, Satan".
I have heard old John Macadam rehearse an adventure which threw some light on the subject of witchcraft. John said that it was a very uncommon thing to meet with honest folk among smugglers. Every one felt disposed to cheat his neighbour. John had taken a notion to lay aside for private use a box of tea, and a cask of brandy. Such a noise was made about it that he thought it was dangerous to offer it for sale. So John, to look honest, proposed to his employer that, were he to get a guinea to fee a sorceress who lived in Bank Street, Kilmarnock, he might get notice of the missing tea and brandy. John said the woman's fame was great, from whom nothing could remain hid, and he was determined her fame should be increased by this transaction. He got the money, visited Kilmarnock, and set on the spree in company with Josey Mills, the poet. He went home on the fourth day, weary and worn. The awful trials and tribulations suffered by him in the fiendish abode of her Satanic agency, were listened to by a gaping crowd of believers, who were ordered to go to a certain place and there get the box and brandy, lying in a certain position in a whin bush. The people went and found the affair, as described by John, who said, "After he told the sorceress what he wanted, he gave the money, and was put into a dark room, where the smell of brimstone was like to close him up. In a large mirror he saw Dundonald hills, and there the box and cask met his view, as described. A voice roared through the gloom, asking ' if he would wish to see the man who stole the stuff carrying it on his back.' John said that he swaifed [swooned] wi' fright, and lay, he thinks, three days and nights, when he was flung out to the street to make the best o' his way home." John's mission to the witch wife was spread abroad among the smugglers, and made them honest for a long time after. The idea of being discovered by the power of Satan turning informer was something new, and every time John got drunk a new version was given "mair [more] horrible and awfu'" than before. A reverend divine, whose ordination is recorded by Burns, hearing of the sorceress's power, called one day, and began to abuse—"not exhort"—her. She properly thrust him out of doors. He turned round, held up his hands, and called her an old necromancer. Witnesses were present, and taken, as to intrusion and accusation. It was said to cost the divine some money to settle the affair. John said he got a good fuddle, and helped to fix the old woman's reputation for what she was innocent of. " I have seen ghosts often," said John, "but they always vanished into air, their proper element. I always found that a good fuddle and want of sleep gave new light to an inquiring mind.

[1] Harpercroft Farm near Kilmarnock
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 23/02/1856

Tammas Turnip
Chapter Ninth
The Poet and Painter


Burns enthusiastically sung the beauties of his native land. He wandered by her streams and declared their grandeur, and he mourned that no poet before him "thought it worth his while to set her name in measured style." Speaking of other districts in Scotland, he says—

"Ramsay and famous Ferguson,
Gied [gave] Forth and Tay a lift aboon [up];
Yarrow and Tweed: to mony a tune,
O'er Scotland rings,
While Irvin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon,
Nae body sings."

He kindly calls for assistance frae [from] the Ochiltree poet, to whom he says—

"Willie, set your fit [foot] to mine,
And cock your crest;
We'll gar [make] our streams and burnies [brooks] shine
Up wi' the best."

He accomplished the task. No river in the world floats more softly to the eye, or murmurs sweeter to the ear, than the classic Doon. Burns wandered by its banks, and listened to the warblers among its braes. He was charmed with their music and has outsung them all. Poets from every land have lauded his song, and artists of every grade have sketched and painted the Doon, from its source to the sea. Auld Hermit Ayr, wha steers through the woods on to the shore, has been from every point made lovely by the lores of the Bard. On its banks artists have sat and depicted its wild romantic groves, fit haunts for friendship and for love. Thus have the Ayr and the Doon been immortalised in art, while the Irvine, like many a deserving lass, has been left for more gaudy dressed queens; but modesty and worth united cannot always pass unnoticed.
The Irvine flows sedate and stealthily from its moorland source to the sea, making no loftier frolic than tumbling ower an auld dam back, of which there is no lack. Burns names the Irvine before Lugar, Ayr, and Doon. His lot was cast more by the banks of the others than by " the weel-fed Irwin," else he had raised it in song. For a short time he sojourned in Irvine, where are to be found scenes of true simplicity and grandeur, and where, by its shores, its moors, or water twistings, pictorial melody steals o'er the sense through the eye. Old mills, mouldy and rich in variegated tints, dignified in outline, and full in pictorial quality, are also to be met with in abundance. Girtrig Mill, Lave Mill, and Milton Mill, are within a mile and a-half on the river margin, and for pictorial representation, will yet be appreciated. We are on the threshold of an illumination, through art, of the boundary between Coil [Kyle] and Cunningham. Last season, Horatio M‘Culloch, the king of Scottish landscape painters, visited the Irvine. He was charmed with the scenery, and did it honour by depicting one and naming other views for future visits. It may be said that artists, like bees, follow and swarm where the king sits down. Men of genius may yet wend their way up the stream, by Caprinton, where castellated, rustic, and meandering beauty could be combined, while far up by Galston, every turning brings pleasing pictures to view, with "Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes" slumbering in peaceful grandeur.
An old acquaintance of mine, who had wandered widely o'er the world, said that, "in all his travels, he had never seen a prettier valley than that which lies between Loudoun Hill and Irvine. For twenty miles the serpentine twistings of the river could be traced, terminating in the Firth of Clyde, bounded by Arran hills; a finer outline of mountain range he never witnessed". Inland scenes by the way on both sides of the river—cottage, castle, ruin, and residence—may be had in abundance for pictorial representation. Patrons are essential for the encouragement of art. Were five hundred guineas offered for the best picture on the Irvine, within the next two years, pictures would be brought to light, sufficient in number and worth to form an Exhibition, of which Ayrshire might be proud. While Horatio M'Culloch was residing in Kilmarnock last season, he one day, in the house where he was domiciled, lifted a small volume entitled, " Ayrshire Streams."* His eye alighted on a page, wherein a poetical description of rustic scenery on the Water of Caaf riveted his attention. The artist, roused by the descriptive power of the historian, visited the place, became inspired with the grandeur and glory of the glen, transferred one of the many views to canvas; or, in other words, he went, he painted, and sold the picture. Thus our first of Scottish artists was led to scenes worthy of his pencil by the poetic taste of a young man, who, like a noble example, associated himself with the streams of his native country.
The true poet is thus the presiding genius to sing the beauties of Nature and the worth of those who, in other days, have dwelt by the stream. The artist comes and embodies the character of the place in colours charming, yet silent, giving out one feeling at one moment of time. Poetry has a wider range, reaching deeper and truer to the heart of man than any external charm can produce through art.

"Still o'er those[sic] scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams, their channels, deeper wear."

I have thus endeavoured to show the Poet essential to the Painter, and the Patron essential to both.

*"Ayrshire Streams."—By William Wylie. An interesting and meritorious little work.—Ed. A. & S. H.
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 01/03/1856

Tammas Turnip
Chapter Tenth
Tammie Raeburn


This character was widely known as the Ayrshire Hermit. His external appearance was like a tailor's midden—one shapeless mass of variegated rags darned together. The master patch was scarcely recognizable. For upwards of thirty years had this accumulation of filth hung around him. His hair, of a yellowish tinge, was uncut and uncombed, and hung down his back like a bass [door-mat] for dichting [wiping] feet on, o'ertopp'd by a hat of rottenness resembling baked peat. I heard two old wives in Kilmarnock once passing remarks on him. One of them said, "that a beast would be apt to wander in that body's head." "O," quo' the ither, "It would be a spiritless beast that wud stay on him." He was proprietor of a small patch of land, two and a-half miles above Kilmarnock, on the side of the river Irvine. The name of his place was known as the "Ark." A footpath through the fields was a near cut to his house, and a cart road through a neighbour's ground was use and wont [customary]. On Sunday Tammie had good audiences, particularly in summer. Their passing up the road had an offensive feeling on his neighbour laird, who proposed to buy up the right of way, and offered Tammie two corners of his field in lieu thereof. It would straighten the march [boundary] between them, and allow Tammie's admirers to pass on his own ground to the road. This offer seemed rational to Tammie. The agreement was written out, signed, and settled; the march dyke [boundary wall] was drawn, and the old road shut up.
Tammie now saw that he had no cart road to his house, and said to his neighbour, "Make me a road. You have ta'en awa' my auld road, and you must make me a new ane." "I gave you ground for that purpose, do it yourself, or want it, [do without]" was the reply. Tammie had viewed his bargain in a different light; and although little trouble would have made a road sufficient for all his cartage, yet the idea of having it made by his neighbour stuck fast to him. To have it properly made he spoke to a lawyer—honest man!!—who soon opened up a way in theory. The first step required twenty pounds. Other three calls for the same amount were made, when the case came to arbitration. The Judges found that they had no business to interfere with Tammie's agreement, so they decided that, as he had made a bargain, he must stick to it. Tammie considered himself ill-used by the men who decided as he himself had done. Tammie then said to the lawyer, "Gi'e me back my sillar [money]." "You got law for it," quoth the man. "But I want justice," quoth Tammie, "and I swear never to cut my hair or change my dress till I get it." Such was something like the origin of his rags. He, by penurious habits, made money. He was mean and greedy—essential elements for a "gatheraway [wandering rag-man]". His intellect was weak—witty he wished to be—punning, and catching at trifles. It was a common answer of his, on entering his hut to inquire if a light for the pipe might be had, "No," he would say, "the pipe will not light, but you may get the tobacco lighted if you like." Everything he had to sell was at a war price. He knew well that people came to see him as a curiosity, and he charged them accordingly. He ventured to sell whisky without a license, but the Excise officers came down upon him, and he had to pay a fine, with expenses. He refused to pay his assessment, on means and substance, for the support of the poor, one year, and was sent to Irvine Jail. He there took a new oath, that he would die of starvation, rather than pay the money, and for three days and three nights he kept his vow. A magistrate of that ilk, more tender-hearted than judicious, afraid lest the rag-store would die in jail, compromised the shape of the debt to suit the sliding scale of Tammie's conscience, calling this a new debt owing him! The Baillie paid the money and let the miser home, who unthankfully grumbled at parting with so much of his hoarded capital. Tammie went to Ayr races one year, and on the way home some worthies frae Kilmarnock, at the halfway house, planned to have a tuft of his hair. He was kept in amusement by one core [one of the group], and, while the beard movement was going on, a wag [mischievous person], who did the sawing process, kept a core sharping knives at the door cheek [doorpost], the same as if a ham had been undergoing a slicing process. A wisp of matted stuff, 16 ½ inches in length, and shaped like a beaver's tail, was, after severe sawing, separated from the head of its owner. It was intended to have been sent to the museum, but it was given in a present to Springthorpe, who took a cast of Tammie for his wax-work. The tuft was hung over the shoulder of the artificial Tammie as a specimen of the living one. I saw the wax figure once in Glasgow. It was well got up, had a strong resemblance to the original, and was equally as great an ornament to society. Like other mortals, Tammie died, and his miserable gatherings were divided among his relatives. When his corpse lay in the house before he was coffined, it was thought that he had taken the rue and was coming back to life again. The sheet that covered his corpse began to move, and so did some hearts begin to palpitate, when, to soothe their fears, forth stepped the cat, which had been taking a sleep beside her auld frien'. There was one peculiar feature in Tammie—birds and beasts were fond of him; he was kind to them, and seemed one of themselves, more than anything of higher origin. He lived and died a type of his own midden. It wasted where it lay, without being put to use, and it fertilised nothing but a few weeds around its base.
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
hahaya2004
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Re: Original Contributions

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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 08/03/1856

Tammas Turnip
Chapter XI
Combe on the Constitution of Man


"Content mild maid, delights in simple things,
And envies not the state of kings and queens."

My friend George, the auld paper-maker, was one who scorned to work hard. He said that it was against nature to do so. He had great faith in nature being perfect. In his outgoings, and his incomings, nay his shortcomings, had something original about them. Whatever other people did was nobody's business. He was quite sure every man should have a wife—nature meant it—and he who did not obey the law was a heathen. A wife was a great comfort to a man, more particularly if she could keep him frae [from] working to support her, and if she could also feed him, so much the better. George said no man could be more fortunate than he had been for getting good wives, and he had three in his day. He did not believe in ill wives, and if he heard a man talk lightly o' his wife, he was sure he was a little-worth fellow. Mourning for a woman after she was dead was great nonsense; to be kind to them when alive was the duty of man. He had known scoundrels who ill-used their wives, nay helped to kill them with ill-usage, and after they had buried them, gaed sorning about [walked about exacting free lodgings} wi' a web of crape [crêpe] on their hat, glowering whaur [where] to get a new ane, pretending, at the same time, the woman wasna [wasn't] born that they would put into their wife's place, and before long, with all their blethering, made a very silly choice. Providence rules all those things, George would say, with a groan. He had never rebelled, but yielded to all the dispensations quietly. George believed in a dram being a good thing next the heart in a morning, or, if out walking, it was a sensible sort of refreshment, particularly if the wife was with you, or any woman body. He could not think a man well disposed who would pass a public-house between this and Paisley, without at least having one! George related a great many walks in his first wife's time; and every gleam of joy had been illuminated by a glass of whisky. She was a wonderful woman, kept ledgers, sold tripe, and washed and dressed [ironed linens]. George went messages [did the shopping], praised her industry, and saw that she got peace to work her wark [get her work done]. "It's wonderfu'," he would say, "what a woman will do if you coax her on. I really think she killed herself working; she was a willing body. She's now away, but I mind as weel as yestreen [as if it were yesterday], just before her breath gaed out [left her], she turned her een [eyes] on me, and 'George,' quo' she, 'I find I canna be lang wi' you now; we hae been happy; and, O George, if ever ye think o' taking anither wife, I hope you'll take Maggie, she has been good to me'; and with that she streekit [stretched] herself out, and never spak [spoke] anither word. It left a strange effect on my mind to think that the last thochts [thoughts] o' the creature was about my comfort; it was an evidence that she was truly sensible. It's a wonderful pleasure to see ane keeping up a healthy tone of mind to the last. It was a trying moment. I stood and looked at her breathless body till I thocht my heart wad hae [would have] burst. I sat down by the bedside to let her settle awee [a little]. Maggie was sitting by the fire, wi' a clout afore her face [with a rag in front of her face], seemingly as much affected as I was. Says I, 'Maggie, give me a lift here, my woman'. I took out the board frae the back o' the bed and laid in on the table. We then brought out the corpse and laid it on the board. It had a pleasant look, and you wad hae thocht that it was smiling at Maggie and me. Maggie, puir [poor] thing, was quite overcome. She took her seat by the fire, and seemed the perfect picture of grief. I began to make the bed, and get it nicely sorted, and when I was smoothing it down, 'Maggie,' said I, 'did you hear her last words,' 'I did that,' quo' she. 'Hadn't she a great heart.' 'She had that,' quoth Maggie. 'And what might your feelings be on the subject,' said I. Maggie, puir thing, at the time said nothing; and, to make a long story short, we were in guid time married. Maggie made an excellent wife. She took in washing and dressing, and learned me to do up small jobs about the house. We lived happy, but her time came round also, and I got in Nancy to keep Maggie. You would really thing sometimes that everything in nature seemed to gang against you; but by setting a stout heart to a stey brae [steep hill], it's marvellous how perseverance brings you through. I was full as vexed when Maggie died as for the first ane. You see Nancy and me hadna been sae lang acquaint as what Maggie and I had been. I hae mind there was an unco [large] lifting o' dead bodies about the Gorbals when her death took place, and I was sitting looking at Maggie's remains as they lay on the same board that my first wife lay on, says I to Nancy, 'for fear the doctors should attempt lifting her, she'll no get leave to lie her lane [she won't be permitted to lie undisturbed]. I'll lie beside her in the kirkyard for ae sax weeks [for six weeks].' Nancy, puir thing, said that was a duty, and in case I was frighted, she wud gang [would go] and keep me company. Sich [such] a manifestation o' gude [good] feeling, made me leuk [look] wi' kindness upon Nancy. Maggie was buried on the second day, and at a decent time I took Nancy to fill Maggie's place, as Maggie had filled my first wife's." Nancy saw George out. He died blessing her. He said this wud be a sorry world if it werna [weren't] for the women. George's character was easily seen through. He did not court the public for their good opinion in his life, and at his death few knew of it or cared about it. He was carried to the Gorbals auld burying-ground by strangers.
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
hahaya2004
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Re: Original Contributions

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From the Ardrossan & Saltcoats Herald 15/03/1856

Tammas Turnip
Chapter XII
Where There's a Will There's a Way


At an Ayrshire Soiree, held in the Trades' Hall, Glasgow, I sat contemplating the comely countenance of an old Ayrshire gentleman, as represented in a full length portrait. I had seen him once in life. He left Maybole, in his youth, and came to Glasgow to push his fortune, and was successful. There he stood in art an oracle speaking his favourite sentence—" Where there's a will there's a way." He seemed as if smiling in approbation of our meeting together. He had acted his part, and retired from the stage, and bustle of the world. Yet art, and a kindly feeling on the part of his fellow merchants and friends, had by consent and subscription, placed him on that wall. The form before me was enriched by the history of the living man being related by an old acquaintance of his and mine. He reasoned, and wrought his way upward," said my old friend, who was a shoemaker, " and his life is a lesson to every man who would rise in the world. A man wishing to be great must begin early in life to work his way, and begin at the proper place. I lost the chance when I was young, yet I found greatness in a sense too. When I was young I wrought as shopmate in Glasgow with two as well-doing lads as ever lived. To rise in the world was our aim, and we choose industry as the path. To be first-class workers was our desire, and to accomplish that end we resolved upon a tramp to London. We were as workers, about equal in speed, and our purses accumulated about equal in weight. The time arrived when we were to pack our kits and start on foot for London. We meant to travel by large towns, and see the world on our march. The first day we walked to Edinburgh —we were keen on the road, and by night we were tired. My heart had softened on the journey though the aim was virtuous, and I was under promise of marriage to Kate; besides I had not given her notice of this step. My conscience said there was something wrong in my conduct. I resolved like a man to listen to its whisperings, So rising next morning, I said to my companions that my going with them was not requisite to their prosperity, and that my going back was essential to my peace of mind. We shook hands and parted, they for London and I for Maybole; towards which place I journeyed with a light heart. Arriving at home I found that a meeting of shoemakers had been called for the purpose of getting up a procession. I attended and was put on the list for king at the poll, and was the successful candidate. I thought there was a providence in my coming home as honour marked the event; and although it was mock dignity, I could not have been more happy had I been a Real King. The money I brought with me was expended in finery for the occasion, and shortly after that I married Kate. It is a pleasure to think that royalty did not end in my person, for as you must know, my son Charles, walked king in Kilmarnock, in 1821. Had I gone on to London with the rest I might have been better off in the world than what I am, although I question if I could have been more contented. You have now heard of my return, and here I am a journeyman shoemaker. My comrades went on and were earnest about what they went for. At that time a long kind of boots, called Hessian, were in fashion; they were worn by cavalry and by gentlemen. The crimping of the fronts was a mystery, and highly paid. My young friends found out the secret, staid some time in London and returned home. One set up in business for himself in Glasgow, and was successful—made a fortune; was elected a magistrate; lived and died respected. The other came home to his native town, commenced and carried on business in the shoe way, such as never was done in the place by any one man. His decision of character, with his persevering and industrious habits raised him to the provost's chair in the town. So I may say we were each, and all of us honoured by the approval of our brethren. Their names were Bailie M‘Tear, Glasgow; Provost Strang, Kilmarnock; King Edgar, Maybole."
They are all dead, yet their history points to every young man "A way where there is a will" to rise in the world.
The most important hour is always the present, the most significant person is the one opposite you right now, and the most necessary deed is always love. - Meister Eckhart (c.1260 - c.1328)
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