same prejudice, about Scottish people not being accessible to wit; and he tells a story of what happened to himself, in corroboration of the opinion.  He had been asked to a party, and one object of the invitation had been to meet a son of Burns.  When he arrived, Mr. Burns had not made his appearance, and in the course of conversation regarding the family of the poet, Lamb, in his lack-a-daisical kind of manner, said, “I wish it had been the father instead of the son;” upon which four Scotsmen present with one voice exclaimed, “That’s impossible, for he’s dead[160].”  Now, there will be dull men and matter-of-fact men everywhere, who do not take a joke, or enter into a jocular allusion; but surely, as a general remark, this is far from being a natural quality of our country.  Sydney Smith and Charles Lamb say so.  But, at the risk of being considered presumptuous, I will say I think them entirely mistaken.  I should say that there was, on the contrary, a strong connection between the Scottish temperament and, call it if you like, humour, if it is not wit.  And what is the difference?  My readers need not be afraid that they are to be led through a labyrinth of metaphysical distinctions between wit and humour.  I have read Dr. Campbell’s dissertation on the difference, in his Philosophy of Rhetoric; I have read Sydney Smith’s own two lectures; but I confess I am not much the wiser.  Professors of rhetoric, no doubt, must have such discussions; but when you wish to be amused by the thing itself, it is somewhat disappointing to be presented with metaphysical analysis.  It is like instituting an examination of the glass and cork of a champagne bottle, and a chemical testing of the wine.  In the very process the volatile and sparkling draught which was to delight the palate has become like ditch water, vapid and dead.  What I mean is, that, call it wit or humour, or what you please, there is a school of Scottish pleasantry, amusing and characteristic beyond all other.  Don’t think of analysing its nature, or the qualities of which it is composed; enjoy its quaint and amusing flow of oddity and fun; as we may, for instance, suppose it to have flowed on that eventful night so joyously described by Burns:—­

     “The souter tauld his queerest stories,
     The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus.”

Or we may think of the delight it gave the good Mr. Balwhidder, when he tells, in his Annals of the Parish, of some such story, that it was a “jocosity that was just a kittle to hear.”  When I speak of changes in such Scottish humour which have taken place, I refer to a particular sort of humour, and I speak of the sort of feeling that belongs to Scottish pleasantry,—­which is sly, and cheery, and pawky.  It is undoubtedly a humour that depends a good deal upon the vehicle in which the story is conveyed.  If, as we have said, our quaint dialect is passing away, and our national eccentric points of character, we must expect to find much of the peculiar