Mrs. Baird of Newbyth, the mother of our distinguished countryman the late General Sir David Baird, was always spoken of as a grand specimen of the class.  When the news arrived from India of the gallant but unfortunate action of ’84 against Hyder Ali, in which her son, then Captain Baird, was engaged, it was stated that he and other officers had been taken prisoners and chained together two and two.  The friends were careful in breaking such sad intelligence to the mother of Captain Baird.  When, however, she was made fully to understand the position of her son and his gallant companions, disdaining all weak and useless expressions of her own grief, and knowing well the restless and athletic habits of her son, all she said was, “Lord pity the chiel that’s chained to our Davie!”

It is only due to the memory of “our Davie,” however, to add that the “chiel” to whom he was chained, had, in writing home to his friends, borne the highest testimony to the kindness and consideration of Captain Baird, which he exercised towards him in this uncomfortable alliance.  General Baird was a first-rate officer, and a fine noble character.  He left home for active service so soon (before he was fifteen) that his education had necessarily been very imperfect.  This deficiency he had always himself through life deeply regretted.  A military friend, and great admirer of Sir David, used jocularly to tell a story of him—­that having finished the despatch which must carry home the news of his great action, the capture of Seringapatam, as he was preparing to sign it in great form, he deliberately took off his coat.  “Why do you take off your coat?” said his friend.  To which the General quietly answered, “Oh, it’s to turn the muckle D in Dauvid.”

The ladies of this class had certainly no affectation in speaking of those who came under their displeasure, even when life and death were concerned.  I had an anecdote illustrative of this characteristic in a well-known old lady of the last century, Miss Johnstone of Westerhall.  She had been extremely indignant that, on the death of her brother, his widow had proposed to sell off the old furniture of Westerhall.  She was attached to it from old associations, and considered the parting with it little short of sacrilege.  The event was, however, arrested by death, or, as she describes the result, “The furniture was a’ to be roupit, and we couldna persuade her.  But before the sale cam on, in God’s gude providence she just clinkit aff hersell.”  Of this same Miss Johnstone another characteristic anecdote has been preserved in the family.  She came into possession of Hawkhill, near Edinburgh, and died there.  When dying, a tremendous storm of rain and thunder came on, so as to shake the house.  In her own quaint eccentric spirit, and with no thought of profane or light allusions, she looked up, and, listening to the storm, quietly remarked, in reference to her departure, “Ech, sirs! what a nicht for me to be fleein’