The gardener showed him a lank greyhound, on which the gentleman said, "No, no; the dog I gave your master was a mastiff, not a greyhound;" to which the gardener quietly answered, "Indeed, ony dog micht sune become a greyhound by stopping here." From a friend and relative, a minister of the Established Church of Scotland, I used to hear many characteristic stories.

He had a curious vein of this sort of humour in himself, besides what he brought out from others.

One of his peculiarities was a mortal antipathy to the whole French nation, whom he frequently abused in no measured terms.

At the same time he had great relish of a glass of claret, which he considered the prince of all social beverages.

So he usually finished off his antigallican tirades, with the reservation, "But the bodies brew the braw drink." He lived amongst his own people, and knew well the habits and peculiarities of a race gone by.