At a funeral in Glasgow, a stranger who had taken his seat in one of the mourning coaches excited the curiosity of the other three occupants, one of whom at last addressed him, ‘Ye’ll be a brither o’ the corp?’ ‘No, I’m no a brither o’ the corp,’ was the prompt reply. ‘Weel, then, ye’ll be his cousin?’ ‘No, I’m no that.’ ‘No! then ye’ll be at least a frien’ o’ the corp?’ ‘No that either. To tell the truth, I’ve no been that weel mysel’, and as my doctor has ordered me some carriage exercise, I thocht this wad be the cheapest way to tak’ it.’ It has often been remarked how great an attraction funerals have for some half-witted people. There used to be one of these poor creatures in an Ayrshire village, who, when any one was seriously ill, would from time to time knock at the door and enquire, ‘Is she ony waur (worse)?’ his hopes rising at any relapse, and the consequent prospect of another interment. A great change for the better has come over the usages connected with burials in Scotland. In old days, as already mentioned, the ‘lyke-wakes’ were often scenes of shocking licence and debauchery. By degrees these painful exhibitions have become less and less objectionable until now, except that there is still sometimes too liberal a dispensing of whisky, there is little that can be found fault with. In country places, where the mourners have often to come from long distances to attend a funeral, refreshments of some kind are perhaps necessary, but it is unfortunate that the average Scot would think such refreshments decidedly ‘wairsh’ (tasteless) if they did not include an adequate provision of the national drink. Accordingly, it is still too common to think first of seeing that whisky enough has been obtained, even where the claims of pedestrians from a distance have not to be considered. Thus one of the family of an old dying woman was asked, ‘Is your Auntie still livin’?’ ‘Ay,’ was the answer, ‘she’s no just deid yet; but we’ve gotten in the whusky for the funeral.’ [Sidenote: VILLAGE NATURALS] I remember the first funeral I saw fifty years ago in the Highlands. It was in the old graveyard of Kilchrist, Skye, where a large company of crofters had gathered from all parts of the parish of Strath. There was a confused undertone of conversation audible at a little distance as I passed along the public road; and as soon as I came in sight two or three of the mourners at once made for me, carrying bottle, glasses, and a plate of bits of cake. Though I was an entire stranger to them and to the deceased, I knew enough of Highland customs and feelings to be assured that on no account could I be excused from at least tasting the refreshments. The halt of a few minutes showed me that much whisky was being consumed around the ruined kirk.