Aberrations of reason and weakness of intellect have always deeply excited the attention of thinking men. The curious condition of the Scottish “daft-folks,” especially of harmless imbeciles and idiots, of which class almost every town and village, as I have mentioned, enjoyed a representative, could not escape the eye of the great delineator of mankind, from the top to the bottom of the social scale. Respecting one of them near Abbotsford he used to tell, in his naive and matchless manner, a story; which, as far as I know, has not found its way into print. In strolling forth with his trusty crony, Sir Adam Ferguson, the question ran upon the happiness or the reverse in different stations in life, Ferguson maintaining that there were certain fortunate beings who were exempt from the common troubles to which others were exposed, and Scott holding the opposite argument. As they walked in the fine sunshiny day, they came up with the privileged “fool” of the place, whom Scott immediately addressed, and something like the following colloquy ensued:
Scott. We’el Andrew, how are you?
Andrew. Weel, very weel, thank ye sheriff, for speiring.
Scott. Naebody harms you, I hope, Andrew! are a’ the folks careful about ye, and kind to ye?
Andrew. ’Deed are they. A’ very kind. A’ the warld are kind to poor Andrew!
Scott. We’el fed, I hope; I see ye are we’el clad.
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Andrew. Heh! ay! Plenty to eat, and a gude coat on my back! Isn’t it, sheriff?
Scott. Yes, Andrew, and I am glad to see it. But as everybody is so kind to you, and you are every way sae weel off, I suppose I must just conclude that you are one of the happiest of human creatures, and can have nothing to distress you.
Andrew (hastily). Na, na, had ye there, sheriff! It would be a’ very happy if it war na for that d—d Bubbly Jock (turkey cock). The bairns use me well enough, but they canna help roaring and shouting when they see that cursed brute chasing me about, with his neck a’ in fury, and his gobble, gobble, going enough to frighten the de’il. He’s after me every day, and maks me perfectly miserable.
Scott (turning to Sir Adam). Ah, Ferguson, in this life of ours, be assured that every man has his own Bubbly Jock!
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