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    MR. PUNCH IN THE HIGHLANDS

    PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

    Edited by J. A. Hammerton

Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the
cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic
draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch", from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH IN THE HIGHLANDS

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THRIFT

_Highlander (he had struck his foot against a "stane")._ "Phew-ts!--e-eh
what a ding ma puir buit wad a gotten if a'd had it on!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH IN THE HIGHLANDS

[Illustration]

AS PICTURED BY

CHARLES KEENE, JOHN LEECH, GEORGE DU MAURIER, W. RALSTON, L. RAVEN-HILL,
J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE, E. T. REED, G. D. ARMOUR, CECIL ALDIN, A. S. BOYD,
ETC.

_WITH 140 ILLUSTRATIONS_

PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"

THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Punch Library of Humour

_Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages
fully illustrated_

    LIFE IN LONDON
    COUNTRY LIFE
    IN THE HIGHLANDS
    SCOTTISH HUMOUR
    IRISH HUMOUR
    COCKNEY HUMOUR
    IN SOCIETY
    AFTER DINNER STORIES
    IN BOHEMIA
    AT THE PLAY
    MR. PUNCH AT HOME
    ON THE CONTINONG
    RAILWAY BOOK
    AT THE SEASIDE
    MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
    IN THE HUNTING FIELD
    MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
    WITH ROD AND GUN
    MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
    BOOK OF SPORTS
    GOLF STORIES
    IN WIG AND GOWN
    ON THE WARPATH
    BOOK OF LOVE
    WITH THE CHILDREN

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

NORTHWARD HO!

SCOTSMEN--Highlanders and Lowlanders--have furnished Mr. Punch with many
of his happiest jokes. Despite the curious tradition which the Cockney
imbibes with his mother's milk as to the sterility of Scotland in
humour, the Scots are not only the cause of humour in others but there
are occasions when they prove themselves not entirely bereft of the
faculty which, with his charming egoism, the Cockney supposes to be his
own exclusive birthright. Indeed, we have it on the authority of Mr.
Spielmann, the author of "The History of _Punch_", that "of the accepted
jokes from unattached contributors (to Punch), it is a notable fact that
at least 75 per cent. comes from north of the Tweed." As a very
considerable proportion of these Scottish jokes make fun of the national
characteristics of the Scot, it is clear that Donald has the supreme
gift of being able to laugh at himself. It should be noted, however,
that Mr. Punch's most celebrated Scottish joke ("Bang went saxpence"),
which we give on page 153, was no invention, but merely the record of an
actual conversation overheard by an Englishman!

In the present volume the purpose has been not so much to bring together
a representative collection of the Scottish humour that has appeared in
_Punch_, but to illustrate the intercourse of the "Sassenach" with the
Highlander, chiefly as a visitor bent on sport, and incidentally to
illustrate some of the humours of Highland life. Perhaps the distinction
between Highlander and Lowlander has not been very rigidly kept, but
that need trouble none but the pedants, who are notoriously lacking in
the sense of humour, and by that token ought not to be peeping into
these pages.

Of all Mr. Punch's contributors, we may say, without risk of being
invidious, that Charles Keene was by far the happiest in the portrayal
of Scottish character. His Highland types are perhaps somewhat closer to
the life than his Lowlanders, but all are invariably touched off with
the kindliest humour, and never in any way burlesqued. If his work
overshadows that of the other humorous artists past and present
represented in this volume, it is for the reason stated; yet it will be
found that from the days of John Leech to those of Mr. Raven-Hill. MR.
PUNCH'S artists have seldom been more happily inspired than when they
have sought to depict Highland life and the lighter side of sport and
travel north of the Tweed.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH IN THE HIGHLANDS

SPORTING NOTES

[Illustration]

The following are the notes we have received from our Sporting
Contributor. I wish we could say they were a fair equivalent for the
notes he has received from _us_, to say nothing of that new Henry's
patent double central-fire breech-loader, with all the latest
improvements, and one of Mr. Benjamin's heather-mixture suits. Such as
they are we print them, with the unsatisfactory consolation that if the
notes are bad they are like the sport and the birds. Of all these it may
be said that "bad is the best."

_North and South Uist._--The awfully hard weather--the natives call it
"soft" here--having rendered the chances of winged game out of the
question, the sportsmen who have rented the shootings are glad to try
the chances of the game, sitting, and have confined themselves to the
whist from which the islands take their name. Being only two, they are
reduced to double dummy. As the rental of the Uist Moors is £400, they
find the points come rather high--so far.

_Harris._--In spite of repeated inquiries, the proprietress of the
island was not visible. Her friend, Mrs. Gamp, now here on a visit,
declares she saw Mrs. H. very recently, but was quite unable to give me
any information as to shootings, except the shootings of her own corns.

_Fifeshire._--The renters of the Fife shootings generally have been
seriously considering the feasibility of combining with those of the
once well-stocked Drum Moor in Aberdeenshire, to get up something like
a band--of hope, that a bag may be made some day. Thus far, the only
bags made have been those of the proprietors of the shootings, who have
bagged heavy rentals.

_Rum._--I call the island a gross-misnomer, as there is nothing to drink
in it but whiskey, which, with the adjacent "Egg", may be supposed to
have given rise to the neighbouring "Mull"--hot drinks being the natural
resource of both natives and visitors in such weather as we've had ever
since I crossed the Tweed. I have seen one bird--at least so the gilly
says--after six tumblers, but to me it had all the appearance of a
brace.

_Skye._--Birds wild. Sportsmen, ditto. Sky a gloomy grey--your
correspondent and the milk at the hotel at Corrieverrieslushin alike
sky-blue.

_Cantire._--Can't you? Try tramping the moors for eight hours after a
pack of preternaturally old birds that know better than let you get
within half a mile of their tails. Then see if you can't tire. I beg
your pardon, but if you knew what it was to make jokes under my present
circumstances, you'd give it up, or do worse. If I should not turn up
shortly, and you hear of an inquest on a young man, in one of
Benjamin's heather-mixture suits, with a Henry's central-fire
breech-loader, and a roll of new notes in his possession, found hanging
wet through, in his braces in some remote Highland shieling--break it
gently to the family of

    Your Sporting Contributor.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PIBROCH FOR BREAKFAST.

  Hech, ho, the Highland laddie!
  Hech, ho, the Finnon haddie!
        Breeks awa',
        Heck, the braw,
  Ho, the bonnie tartan plaidie!
        Hech, the laddie,
        Ho, the haddie,
  Hech, ho, the cummer's caddie,
        Dinna forget
        The bannocks het,
  Gin ye luve your Highland laddie.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Member for Sark writes from the remote Highlands of Scotland, where
he has been driving past an interminable series of lochs, to inquire
where the keys are kept? He had better apply to the local authorities in
the Isle of Man. They have a whole House of Keys. Possibly those the
hon. Member is concerned about may be found among them.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ON THE HILLS

_Deer Stalker (old hand, and fond of it)._ "Isn't it exciting? Keep
cool!"

  [_Jones isn't used to it, and, not having moved for the last half-hour,
  his excitement has worn off. He's wet through, and sinking fast in the
  boggy ground, and speechless with cold. So he doesn't answer._

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: 1) MR. BUGGLE'S FIRST STAG.

AT THE FIRST SHOT MR BUGGLE'S FIRST STAG LAY PRONE.]

[Illustration: 2) ELATED WITH SUCCESS MR B. RUSHED UP AND SEATED HIMSELF
ASTRIDE HIS VICTIM]

[Illustration: 3) BUT ALAS IT WAS ONLY SLIGHTLY STUNNED, AND PROMPTLY
ROSE TO THE OCCASION.]

[Illustration: 4) SO DID MR B.]

[Illustration: 5) THE LAW OF GRAVITY PROVED TOO STRONG WHEN A LUCKY SHOT
FROM THE KEEPER]

[Illustration: 6) PLACED MATTERS UPON A SATISFACTORY FOOTING ONCE MORE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MY ONLY SHOT AT A CORMORANT.

Here she comes!]

[Illustration: There she goes!]

       *       *       *       *       *

FULL STOP IN THE DAWDLE FROM THE NORTH.

(_Leaves from the Highland Journal of Toby, M.P._)

"Here's a go", I said, turning to Sark, after carefully looking round
the station to see if we really were back at Oban, having a quarter of
an hour ago started (as we supposed) on our journey, already fifteen
minutes late.

[Illustration]

"Well, if you put it in that way", he said, "I should call it an entire
absence of go. I thought it was a peculiarly jolting train. Never passed
over so many points in the same time in my life."

"Looks as if we should miss train at Stirling", I remark, anxiously. "If
so, we can't get on from Carlisle to Woodside to-night."

"Oh, that'll be all right", said Sark, airy to the last; "we'll make it
up as we go along."

Again sort of faint bluish light, which I had come to recognise as a
smile, feebly flashed over cadaverous countenance of the stranger in
corner seat.

Certainly no hurry in getting off. More whistling, more waving of green
flag. Observed that natives who had come to see friends off had quietly
waited on platform. Train evidently expected back. Now it had returned
they said good-bye over again to friends. Train deliberately steams out
of station thirty-five minutes late. Every eight or ten miles stopped at
roadside station. No one got in or got out. After waiting five or six
minutes, to see if any one would change his mind, train crawled out
again. Performance repeated few miles further on with same result.

[Illustration]

"Don't put your head out of the window and ask questions", Sark
remonstrated, as I banged down the window. "I never did it since I heard
a story against himself John Bright used to tell with great glee.
Travelling homeward one day in a particularly slow train, it stopped an
unconscionably long time at Oldham. Finally, losing all patience, he
leaned out of the window, and in his most magisterial manner said, 'Is
it intended that this train shall move on to-night?' The porter
addressed, not knowing the great man, tartly replied, 'Put in thy big
white yedd, and mebbe the train'll start.'"

Due at Loch Awe 1.32; half-past one when we strolled into Connel Ferry
station, sixteen miles short of that point. Two more stations before we
reach Loch Awe.

"Always heard it was a far cry to Loch Awe", said Sark, undauntedly
determined to regard matters cheerfully.

"You haven't come to the hill yet", said a sepulchral voice in the
corner.

"What hill?" I asked.

"Oh, you'll see soon enough. It's where we usually get out and walk. If
there are on board the train any chums of the guard or driver, they are
expected to lend a shoulder to help the train up."

Ice once broken, stranger became communicative. Told us his melancholy
story. Had been a W.S. in Edinburgh. Five years ago, still in prime of
life, bought a house at Oban; obliged to go to Edinburgh once, sometimes
twice, a week. Only thrice in all that time had train made junction
with Edinburgh train at Stirling. Appetite failed; flesh fell away;
spirits went down to water level. Through looking out of window on
approaching Stirling, in hope of seeing South train waiting, eyes put on
that gaze of strained anxiety that had puzzled me. Similarly habit
contracted of involuntarily jerking up right hand with gesture designed
to arrest departing train.

"Last week, coming north from Edinburgh", said the hapless passenger,
"we were two hours late at Loch Awe. 'A little late to-day, aren't we?'
I timidly observed to the guard. 'Ou aye! we're a bit late,' he said.
'Ye see, we had a lot of rams, and we couldna' get baith them and you up
the hill; so we left ye at Tyndrum, and ran the rams through first, and
then came back for ye.'"

Fifty minutes late at Killin Junction. So far from making up time lost
at Oban, more lost at every wayside station.

"I hope we shan't miss the train at Stirling?" I anxiously inquired of
guard.

"Weel, no", said he, looking at his watch. "I dinna think ye'll hae
managed that yet."

This spoken in soothing tones, warm from the kindly Scottish heart.
Hadn't yet finally lost chance of missing train at Stirling that should
enable us to keep our tryst at Woodside. But no need for despair. A
little more dawdling and it would be done.

Done it was. When we reached Stirling, porters complacently announced
English mail had left quarter of an hour ago. As for stationmaster, he
was righteously indignant with inconsiderate travellers who showed
disposition to lament their loss.

"Good night", said cadaverous fellow-passenger, feebly walking out of
darkling station. "Hope you'll get a bed somewhere. Having been going up
and down line for five years, I keep a bedroom close by. Cheaper in the
end. I shall get on in the morning."

       *       *       *       *       *

MERE INVENTION.--Up the Highlands way there is, in wet weather, a
handsome cataract, the name whereof is spelt anyhow you like, but is
pronounced "Fyres." There is not much water in hot weather, and then art
assists nature, and a bucket or so of the fluid is thrown over for the
delectation of tourists. One of them, observing this arrangement, said
that the proprietor

     "Began to pail his ineffectual Fyres."

[This story is quite false, which would be of no consequence, but that
every Scottish tourist knows it to be false. Our contributor should
really be more careful.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "Where can that confounded fellow have got to with the
lunch-basket?"]

[Illustration: Here he is, remarking, confidentially, that "that
ginger-peer is apout the pest he ever tasted."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Cockney Sportsman._ "Haw--young woman, whose whiskies do
you keep here?"

_Highland Lassie._ "We only keep McPherson's, sir."

_C. S._ "McPherson? Haw--who the deuce is McPherson?"

_H. L._ "My brother, sir."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: During Mr. Spoffin's visit to the Highlands, he found a
difficulty in approaching his game--so invented a method of simplifying
matters. His "make-up", however, was so realistic, that the jealous old
stag nearly finished him!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HIS IDEA OF IT

_Native._ "Is 't no a daft-like place this tae be takin' a view? There's
no naething tae be seen for the trees. Noo, if ye was tae gang tae the
tap o' Knockcreggan, that wad set ye fine! Ye can see _five coonties_
frae there!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TOURING IN THE HIGHLANDS

"Hullo, Sandy! Why haven't you cleaned my carriage, as I told you last
night?"

"Hech, sir, what for would it need washing? It will be just the same
when you'll be using it again!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM OUR BILIOUS CONTRIBUTOR.

_To_ MR. PUNCH.

MY DEAR SIR,[A]

Embarking at Bannavie very early in the morning--_diluculo surgere
saluberrimum est_, but it is also particularly disagreeable--I was upon
the canal of the Caledonians, on my way to the capital of the Highlands.
This is the last voyage which, upon this occasion, I shall have the
pleasure of describing. The vessel was commanded by Captain Turner, who
is a remarkable meteorologist, and has emitted some wonderful weather
prophecies. Having had, moreover, much opportunity of observing
character, in his capacity of captain of boats chiefly used by tourists,
he is well acquainted with the inmost nature of the aristocracy and
their imitators. Being myself of an aristocratic turn of mind (as well
as shape of body) it was refreshing to me to sit with him on the bridge
and speak of our titled friends.

[Footnote A: We perfectly understand this advance towards civility as
the writer approaches the end of his journey. He is a superior kind of
young man, if not the genius he imagines himself.--_Ed._]

Fort Augustus, which we passed, is not called so from having been built
by the Roman Emperor of that name, quite the reverse. The next object of
interest is a thing called the Fall of Foyers, which latter word is
sounded like fires, and the announcement to Cockneys that they are going
to see the affair, leads them to expect something of a pyrotechnic
character. It is nothing of that sort. The steamboat is moored, you rush
on shore, and are instantly arrested by several pikemen--I do not mean
soldiers of a mediæval date, but fellows at a gate, who demand fourpence
apiece from everybody landing in those parts. Being in Scotland, this
naturally made me think I had come to Johnny Groat's house, but no such
thing, and I have no idea of the reason of this highway robbery, or why
a very dirty card should have been forced upon me in proof that I had
submitted. We were told to go up an ascending road, and then to climb a
dreadfully steep hill, and that then we should see something. For my own
part, I felt inclined to see everybody blowed first, but being
over-persuaded, I saw everybody blowed afterwards, for that hill is a
breather, I can tell you. However, I rushed up like a mounting deer, and
when at the top was told to run a little way down again. I did, and saw
the sight. You have seen the cataracts of the Nile? It's not like them.
You have seen a cataract in a party's eye. It's not like that. Foyers is
a very fine waterfall, and worthy of much better verses than some which
Mr. Burns addressed to it in his English style, which is vile. Still,
the waterfall at the Colosseum, Regent's Park, is a good one, and has
this advantage, that you can sit in a chair and look at it as long as
you like, whereas you walk a mile to Foyers, goaded by the sailors from
the vessel, who are perpetually telling you to make haste, and you are
allowed about three minutes and fourteen seconds to gaze upon the scene,
when the sailors begin to goad you back again, frightening you with
hints that the captain will depart without you. Precious hot you come on
board, with a recollection of a mass of foam falling into an abyss. That
is not the way to see Foyers, and I hereby advise all tourists who are
going to stop at Inverness, to drive over from thence, take their time
at the noble sight, and do the pier-beggars out of their fourpences.

The stately towers of the capital of the Highlands are seen on our
right. A few minutes more, and we are moored. Friendly voices hail us,
and also hail a vehicle. We are borne away. There is news for us. We are
forthwith--even in that carriage, were it possible--to induct ourselves
into the black tr × ws × rs of refined life and the white cravat of
graceful sociality, and to accompany our host to the dinner of the
Highland railwaymen. _We_ rail. We have not come six hundred miles to
dress for dinner. Our host is of a different opinion, and being a host
in himself, conquers our single-handed resistance. We attend the dinner,
and find ourselves among Highland chieftains plaided and plumed in their
"tartan array." (Why doesn't Horatio MacCulloch, noble artist and
Highland-man, come to London and be _our_ tartan R.A.?) We hear wonders
of the new line, which is to save folks the trouble of visiting the lost
tribe at Aberdeen, and is to take them direct from Inverness to Perth,
through wonderful scenery. We see a programme of toasts, to the number
of thirty-four, which of course involves sixty-eight speeches. There is
also much music by the volunteers--not, happily, by bag-pipers. We
calculate, on the whole, that the proceedings will be over about four in
the morning. Ha! ha! _Dremacky_. There is a _deus ex machiná_ literally,
a driver on an engine, and he starts at ten. Numbers of the guests must
go with him. _Claymore!_ We slash out the toasts without mercy--without
mercy on men set down to speak and who have spoiled their dinner by
thinking over their _impromptus_. But there is one toast which shall be
honoured, yea, with the Highland honours. _Mr. Punch's_ health is
proposed. It is well that this handsome hall is built strongly, or the
Highland maidens should dance here no more. The shout goes up for _Mr.
Punch_.

I believe that I have mentioned to you, once or twice, that I am an
admirable speaker, but upon this occasion I surpassed myself--I was in
fact, as the Covent Garden play-bills say, "unsurpassingly successful."
Your interests were safe in my hands. I believe that no person present
heard a syllable of what I said. It was this:

     [It may have been, but as what our correspondent has been pleased
     to send as his speech would occupy four columns, we prefer to leave
     it to immortality in the excellent newspaper of which he sends us a
     "cutting." We incline to think that he _was_ weak enough to say
     what he says he said, because he could not have invented and
     written it out after a Highland dinner, and it was published next
     morning. It is extremely egotistical, and not in the least
     entertaining--_Ed._]

Among the guests was a gentleman who owns the mare who will certainly
win the Cesarewitch. _I know this for a fact_, and I advise you to put
your money on _Lioness_. His health was proposed, and he returned thanks
with the soul of wit. I hope he recollects the hope expressed by the
proposer touching a certain saddling-bell. I thought it rather strong in
"Bible-loving Scotland", but to be sure, we were in the Highlands, which
are England, or at all events where the best English spoken in Scotland
is heard.

We reached our house at an early hour, and I was lulled to a gentle
slumber by the sound of the river Ness. This comes out of Loch Ness, and
in the latest geographical work with which I am acquainted, namely,
"Geography Anatomiz'd, by Pat. Gordon, M.A.F.R.S. Printed for Andr.
Bell, at the Cross Keys and Bible in Cornhill, and R. Smith, under the
Royal Exchange, 1711", I read that "towards the north-west part of
_Murray_ is the famous _Lough-Ness_ which never freezeth, but retaineth
its natural heat, even in the extremest cold of winter, and in many
places this lake hath been sounded with a line of 500 fathom, but no
bottom can be found" (just as in the last rehearsal of the artisans'
play in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_), but I believe that recent
experiments have been more successful, and that though no lead plummet
would go so deep, a volume by a very particular friend of mine was
fastened to the line, and descended to the bottom in no time. I will
mention his name if he is not kind to my next work, but at present I
have the highest esteem and respect for him. I only show him that I know
this little anecdote.

There were what are called Highland games to be solemnised in Inverness.
I resolved to attend them, and, if I saw fit, to join in them. But I was
informed by a Highland friend of mine, Laidle of Toddie, a laird much
respected, that all competitors must appear in the kilt. As my own
graceful proportions would look equally well in any costume, this
presented no difficulty, and I marched off to Mr. Macdougall, the great
Highland costumier, and after walking through a dazzling array of Gaelic
glories, I said, mildly, "Can you make me a Highland dress?"

"Certainly, in a few hours", said Mr. Macdougall; but somehow I fancied
that he did not seem to think that I was displaying any vast amount of
sense.

"Then, please to make me one, very handsome", said I; "and send it home
to-night." And I was going out of the warehouse.

"But, sir", said Mr. Macdougall, "do you belong to any clan, or what
tartan will you have?"

"Mr. Macdougall", said I, "it may be that I do belong to a clan, or am
affiliated to one. It may be, that like Edward Waverley, I shall be
known hereafter as the friend of the sons (and daughters) of the
clan ----. It may be that if war broke out between that clan and another,
I would shout our war-cry, and, drawing my claymore, would walk into the
hostile clan like one o'clock. But at present that is a secret, and I
wear not the garb of any clan in particular. Please to make me up a
costume out of the garbs of several clans, but be sure you put the
brightest colours, as they suit my complexion."

I am bound to say that though Mr. Macdougall firmly declined being party
to this arrangement, which he said would be inartistic, he did so with
the utmost courtesy. My opinion is, that he thought I was a little
cracked. Many persons have thought that, but there is no foundation for
the suspicion.

"You see, Mr. Macdougall", says I, "I am a Plantagenet by descent, and
one of my ancestors was hanged in the time of George the Second. Do
those facts suggest anything to you in the way of costume?"

"The first does not", he said, "but the second may. A good many persons
had the misfortune to be hanged about the time you mention, and for the
same reason. I suppose your ancestor died for the Stuarts."

"No, sir, he died for a steward. The unfortunate nobleman was most
iniquitously destroyed for shooting a plebeian of the name of Johnson,
for which reason I hate everybody of that name, from Ben downwards, and
will not have a Johnson's _Dictionary_ in my house."

"Then, sir", says Mr. Macdougall, "the case is clear. You can mark your
sense of the conduct of the sovereign who executed your respected
relative. You can assume the costume of his chief enemies. You can wear
the Stuart tartan."

"Hm", says I. "I should look well in it, no doubt; but then I have no
hostility to the present House of Brunswick."

"Why", says he, laughing; "Her Majesty dresses her own princes in the
Stuart tartan. I ought to know that."

"Then that's settled", I replied.

Ha! You would indeed have been proud of your contributor, had you seen
him splendidly arrayed in that gorgeous garb, and treading the heather
of Inverness High Street like a young mountaineer. He did not look then
like

  EPICURUS ROTUNDUS.

    _Inverness Castle._

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTICE TO THE HIGHLANDERS.--Whereas Mr. Punch, through his "Bilious
Contributor", did on the 7th November, 1863, offer a prize of fifty
guineas to the best Highland player at Spellikins, in the games for
1873. And whereas Mr. Punch has had the money, with ten years' interest,
quite ready, and waiting to be claimed. And whereas no Highland player
at Spellikins appeared at the games of 1873. This to give notice that
Mr. Punch has irrevocably confiscated the money to his own sole and
peculiar use, and intends to use it in bribery at the next general
election. He begs to remark to the Highlands, in the words of his
ancestor, Robert Bruce, at Bannockburn--"There is a rose fallen from
your wreath!"[B]

    PUNCH.

  7th November, 1873.

[Footnote B: Of course the King said nothing so sweetly sentimental.
What he did say to Earl Randolph was, "Mind your eye, you great stupid
ass, or you'll have the English spears in your back directly." Nor did
the Earl reply, "My wreath shall bloom, or life shall fade. Follow, my
household!" but, with an amazing great curse, "I'll cook 'em. Come on,
you dawdling beggars, and fulfil the prophecies!" But so history is
written.]

       *       *       *       *       *

MORE REVENGE FOR FLODDEN.--_Scene: a Scotch Hotel. Tourist (indignant at
his bill)._ "Why, landlord, there must be some mistake there!"
_Landlord._ "Mistake? Aye, aye. That stupid fellow, the waiter, has just
charged you five shillings--too little."

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM THE MOORS.--_Sportsman._ "Much rain Donald?" _Donald._ "A bit soft.
Just wet a' day, wi' showers between."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PLEASANT PROSPECT!

_English Tourist._ "I say, look here. How far is it to this Glenstarvit?
They told us it was only----"

_Native._ "Aboot four miles."

_Tourist_ (_aghast_). "All bog like this?"

_Native._ "Eh--h--this is just naethin' till't!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ANOTHER MISUNDERSTANDING

_'Arry_ (_on a Northern tour, with Cockney pronunciation_). "Then I'll
'ave a bottle of aile."

_Hostess of the Village Inn._ "_Ile_, sir? We've nane in the hoose, but
castor ile or paraffin. Wad ony o' them dae, sir?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE WEIRD SISTERS]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DEER-STALKING MADE EASY

The patent silent motor-crawler.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ILLUSTRATED QUOTATIONS

(_One so seldom finds an Artist who realises the poetic conception._)

"Is this the noble Moor ...?"--_Othello_, Act IV., Scene 1.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DRACONIAN

SCENE.--_Police Court, North Highlands._

_Accused._ "Put, Pailie, it's na provit!"

_Bailie._ "Hoot toots, Tonal, and hear me speak! Aw'll only fine ye
ha'f-a-croon the day, because et's no varra well provit. But if ever ye
come before me again, ye'll no get aff under five shillin's, whether
et's provit or no!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF YE ENGLYSHE IN 1849

DEERE STALKYNGE IN YE HYGHLANDES]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ONE OF THE ADVANTAGES OF SHOOTING FROM A BUTT

_Keeper (on moor rented by the latest South African millionaire, to
guest)._ "Never mind the birds, sir. For onny sake, lie down! The
maister's gawn tae shoot!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE TWELFTH

(_Guilderstein in the Highlands_)

_Guild. (His first experience)._ "I've been swindled! That confounded
agent said it was all drivin' on this moor, and look at it, all hills
and slosh! Not a decent carriage road within ten miles!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE MATERNAL INSTINCT

_The Master._ "I'm sayin', wumman, ha'e ye gotten the tickets?"

_The Mistress._ "Tuts, haud your tongue aboot tickets. Let me count the
weans!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "NEMO ME IMPUNE", &c.

_The Irrepressible._ "Hi, Scotty, tip us the 'Ighland fling."

TIPPED!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Return of the wounded and missing Popplewitz omitted to
send in after his day on the moors.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: RECRIMINATION

_Inhabitant of Uist._ "I say, they'll pe speaking fa-ar petter English
in Uist than in Styornaway."

_Lass of the Lewis._ "Put in Styornaway they'll not pe caa-in' fush
'feesh,' whatefer!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HIGHLAND GAMES AT MACJIGGITY

Whilst staying at MacFoozle Castle, my excellent host insisted that I
should accompany him to see the Highland games. The MacFoozle himself is
a typical Hielander, and appeared in a kilt and jelly-bag--philabeg, I
mean. Suggested to him that I should go, attired in pair of
bathing-drawers, Norfolk jacket, and Glengarry cap, but he, for some
inscrutable reason of his own, negatived the idea. Had half a mind to
dress in kilt myself, but finally decided against the national costume
as being too draughty. Arrived on ground, and found that "tossing the
caber" was in full progress. Braw laddies struggled, in turn, with
enormous tree trunk. The idea of the contest is, that whoever succeeds
in killing the greatest number of spectators by hurling the tree on to
them, wins the prize. Fancy these laddies had been hung too long, or
else they were particularly braw. Moved up to windward of them promptly.

"Who is the truculent-looking villain with red whiskers?" I ask.

"Hush!" says my host, in awed tones. "That is the MacGinger himself!"

I grovel. Not that I have ever even heard his name before, but I don't
want to show my ignorance before the MacFoozle. The competition of
pipers was next in order, and I took to my heels and fled. Rejoined
MacFoozle half an hour later to witness the dancing. On a large raised
platform sat the judges, with the mighty MacGinger himself at their
head. Can't quite make out whether the dance is a Reel, a Strathspey, a
Haggis, or a Skirl--sure it is one or the other. Just as I ask for
information, amid a confusing whirl of arms and legs and "Hoots!" a
terrific crack is heard, and the platform, as though protesting at the
indignities heaped upon it, suddenly gives way, and in a moment,
dancers, pipers, and judges are hurled in a confused and struggling heap
to the ground. The MacGinger falls upon some bag-pipes, which emit
dismal groanings beneath his massive weight. This ends the dancing
prematurely, and a notice is immediately put up all round the grounds
that (to take its place) "There will be another competition of
bag-pipes." I read it, evaded the MacFoozle, and fled.

       *       *       *       *       *

SONG FOR A SCOTCH DUKE.

  My harts in the Highlands shall have their hills clear,
  My harts in the Highlands no serf shall come near--
  I'll chase out the Gael to make room for the roe,
  My harts in the Highlands were ever his foe.

       *       *       *       *       *

THINGS NO HIGHLANDER CAN UNDERSTAND.

Breaches of promise.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GUILDERSTEIN IN THE HIGHLANDS

Guilderstein. "Missed again! And dat fellow, Hoggenheimer, comin'on
Monday too! Why did I not wire to Leadenhall for an 'aunch, as Betty
told me!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Juvenis. "Jolly day we had last week at McFoggarty's
wedding! Capital champagne he gave us, and we did it justice, I can tell
you--"

Senex (who prefers whiskey). "Eh-h, mun, it's a' verra weel weddings at
ye-er time o' life. Gie me a gude funeral!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HEBRIDEAN SPORT

_Shooting Tenant (accounting for very large species of grouse which his
setter has just flushed)._ "Capercailzie! By George!"

_Under-keeper Neil._ "I'm after thinking, sir, you'll have killed Widow
McSwan's cochin cock. Ye see the crofters were forced to put him and the
hens away out here till the oats is ripe!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LATEST FROM THE MOORS

_Intelligent Foreigner._ "Tell me--zee 'Ilanders, do zay always wear zee
raw legs?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

A GROAN FROM A GILLIE

    Lasses shouldna' gang to shoot,
                                  Na, na!
    Gillies canna' help but hoot,
                                  Ha, ha!
    Yon douce bodies arena' fittin'
    Wi' the gudeman's to be pittin',
    Bide at hame and mind yere knittin'!
                                  Hoot, awa'!
    "Wimmen's Rechts" is vara weel,
                                  Ooh, aye!
    For hizzies wha've nae hearts to feel;
                                  Forbye
    Wimmen's Rechts is aiblins Wrang
     When nat'ral weak maun ape the strang,
    An' chaney cups wi' cau'drons gang,
                                  Auch, fie!
    Hennies shouldna' try to craw
                                  Sae fast--
    Their westlin' thrapples canna' blair
                                  Sic a blast.
    Leave to men-folk bogs and ferns,
    An' pairtricks, muircocks, braes, and cairns;
    And lasses! ye may mind the bairns--
                                  That's best!

      TONALT (X) _his mark._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A PRECISIAN

_Artist (affably)._ "Fine morning." _Native._ "No' bad ava'."

_Artist._ "Pretty scenery." _Native._ "Gey an' good."

_Artist (pointing to St. Bannoch's, in the distance)._ "What place is
that down at the bottom of the loch?"

_Native._ "It's no at the bottom--it's at the fut!"

_Artist (to himself)._ "You past-participled Highlander!"

    [_Drops the subject!_
]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE THING TO DO IN SCOTLAND

(_More Leaves from the Highland Journal of Toby, M.P._)

_Quiverfield, Haddingtonshire, Monday._--You can't spend twenty-four
hours at Quiverfield without having borne in upon you the truth that the
only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff. (On other side of Tweed
they call it golf. Here we are too much in a hurry to get at the game to
spend time on unnecessary consonant.) The waters of what Victor Hugo
called "The First of the Fourth" lave the links at Quiverfield. Blue as
the Mediterranean they have been in a marvellous autumn, soon to lapse
into November. We can see the Bass Rock from the eighth hole, and can
almost hear the whirr of the balls skimming with swallow flight over the
links at North Berwick.

Prince Arthur here to-day, looking fully ten years younger than when I
last saw him at Westminster. Plays through live-long day, and drives off
fourteen miles for dinner at Whittinghame, thinking no more of it than
if he were crossing Palace Yard. Our host, Waverley Pen, is happy in
possession of links at his park gates. All his own, for self and
friends. You step through the shrubbery, and there are the far-reaching
links; beyond them the gleaming waters of the Forth. Stroll out
immediately after breakfast to meet the attendant caddies; play goff
till half-past one; reluctantly break off for luncheon; go back to
complete the fearsome foursome; have tea brought out to save time; leave
off in bare time to dress for dinner; talk goff at dinner; arrange
matches after dinner; and the new morning finds the caddies waiting as
before.

[Illustration: Fingen's finger.]

Decidedly the only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff.

_Deeside, Aberdeenshire, Wednesday._--Fingen, M.P., once told an abashed
House of Commons that he "owned a mountain in Scotland." Find, on
visiting him in his ancestral home, that he owns a whole range. Go up
one or two of them; that comparatively easy; difficulty presents itself
when we try to get down. Man and boy, Fingen has lived here fifty years;
has not yet acquired knowledge necessary to guide a party home after
ascending one of his mountains. Walking up in cool of afternoon, we
usually get home sore-footed and hungry about midnight.

"Must be going now", says Fingen, M.P., when we have seen view from top
of mountain. "Just time to get down before dark. But I know short cut;
be there in a jiffy. Come along."

We come along. At end of twenty minutes find ourselves in front of
impassable gorge.

"Ha!" says Fingen, M.P., cheerily. "Must have taken wrong turn; better
go back and start again."

All very well to say go back; but where were we? Fingen, M.P., knows;
wets his finger; holds it up.

"Ha!" he says, with increased joyousness of manner; "the wind is blowing
that way, is it? Then we turn to the left."

Another twenty minutes stumbling through aged heather. Path trends
downwards.

"That's all right", says Fingen, M.P.; "must lead on to the road."

Instead of which we nearly fall into a bubbling burn. Go back again;
make bee line up acclivity nearly as steep as side of house; find
ourselves again on top of mountain.

"How lucky!" shouts Fingen, M.P., beaming with delight.

As if we had been trying all this time to get to top of mountain instead
of to bottom!

Wants to wet his finger again and try how the wind lies. We protest. Let
us be saved that at least. Fingen leads off in quite another direction.
By rocky pathway which threatens sprains; through bushes and brambles
that tear the clothes; by dangerous leaps from rock to rock he brings us
to apparently impenetrable hedge. We stare forlorn.

[Illustration: The crack of the whip('s pate!)]

"Ha!" says Fingen, M.P., more aggressively cheerful than ever. "The road
is on other side. Thought we would come upon it somewhere." Somehow or
other we crawl through.

"Nothing like having an eye to the lay of country", says Fingen, M.P.,
as we limp along the road. "It's a sort of instinct, you know. If I
hadn't been with you, you might have had to camp out all night on the
mountain."

They don't play goff at Deeside. They bicycle. Down the long avenue with
spreading elm trees deftly trained to make triumphal arches, the
bicycles come and go. Whipsroom, M.P., thinks opportunity convenient
for acquiring the art of cycling. W. is got up with consummate art. Has
had his trousers cut short at knee in order to display ribbed stockings
of rainbow hue. Loose tweed-jacket, blood-red necktie, white felt hat
with rim turned down all round, combine to lend him air of a Drury Lane
bandit out of work. Determined to learn to ride the bicycle, but spends
most of the day on his hands and knees, or on his back. Looking down
avenue at any moment pretty sure to find W. either running into the iron
fence, coming off sideways, or bolting head first over the handles of
his bike. Get quite new views of him fore-shortened in all possible
ways, some that would be impossible to any but a man of his
determination.

"Never had a man stay in the house", says Fingen, M.P., ruefully, "who
so cut up the lawn with his head, or indented the gravel with his elbows
and his knees."

Evidently I was mistaken about goff. Cycling's the thing in Scotland.

_Goasyoucan, Inverness-shire, Saturday._--Wrong again. Not goff nor
cycling is the thing to do in Scotland. It's stalking. Soon learn that
great truth at Goasyoucan. The hills that encircle the house densely
populated with stags. To-day three guns grassed nine, one a royal. This
the place to spend a happy day, crouching down among the heather
awaiting the fortuitous moment. Weather no object. Rain or snow out you
go, submissive to guidance and instruction of keeper; by comparison with
whose tyranny life of the ancient galley-slave was perfect freedom.

Consummation of human delight this, to lie prone on your face amid the
wet heather, with the rain pattering down incessantly, or the snow
pitilessly falling, covering you up flake by flake as if it were a robin
and you a babe in the wood. Mustn't stir; mustn't speak; if you can
conveniently dispense with the operation, better not breathe. Sometimes,
after morning and greater part of afternoon thus cheerfully spent, you
may get a shot; even a stag. Also you may not; or, having attained the
first, may miss the latter. At any rate you have spent a day of
exhilarating delight.

Stalking is evidently the thing to do in Scotland. It's a far cry to the
Highlands. Happily there is Arthur's Seat by Edinburgh town where
beginners can practise, and old hands may feign delight of early
triumphs.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE "IRREPRESSIBLE" AGAIN

_Gent in Knickerbockers._ "Rummy speakers them 'Ighlanders, 'Enery. When
we wos talking to one of the 'ands, did you notice 'im saying
'_nozzing_' for '_nothink_,' and '_she_' for '_e_'?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE LAST STRAW"

"Tired out, are you? Try a drop of brandy! Eh!--what!--confound----By
jingo, I've forgotten my flask!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: NOTHING LIKE MOUNTAIN AIR

_Tourist (who has been refreshing himself with the toddy of the
country)._ "I shay, ole fler! Highlands seem to 'gree with you
wonerfly--annomishtake. Why, you look DOUBLE the man already!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE HEIGHT OF BLISS

_Highland Shepherd._ "Fine toon, Glasco', I pelieve, and lots o' coot
meat there."

_Tourist._ "Oh, yes, lots."

_Highland Shepherd._ "An' drink, too?"

_Tourist._ "Oh, yes."

_Highland Shepherd (doubtingly)._ "Ye'll get porter tae yir parrich?"

_Tourist._ "Yes, if we like."

_Highland Shepherd._ "Cra-ci-ous!"

    [_Speechless with admiration._

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TENACITY

_First North Briton_ (_on the Oban boat, in a rolling sea and dirty
weather_). "Thraw it up, man, and ye'll feel a' the better!"

_Second ditto_ (_keeping it down_). "Hech, mon, it's whuskey!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EXCUSABLE WRATH

_Drover_ (_exhausted with his struggles_). "Whit are ye wouf, woufan'
there, ye stupit ass! It wud be wis-eer like if ye gang awn hame, an'
bring a barrow!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A SOFT IMPEACHMENT

_Sporting Saxon (mournfully, after three weeks' incessant down-pour)._
"Does it always rain like this up here, Mr. McFuskey?"

_His Guide, Philosopher, and Friendly Landlord (calmly)._ "Oo aye, it's
a-ye just a wee bit shooery."!!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ANTIQUARIAN RESEARCH

2 A.M.

_Brown (who has taken a shooting-box in the Highlands, and has been
"celebrating" his first appearance in a kilt)._ "Worsht of these
ole-fashioned beshteads is, they take such a lot of climbin' into!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GUILDERSTEIN IN THE HIGHLANDS

_Mrs. G._ "We must leave this horrible place, dear. The keeper has just
told me there is disease on the moor. Good gracious, the boys might take
it!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A GREAT DRAWBACK

_Dougal_ (_with all his native contempt for the Londoner_). "Aye, mon,
an' he's no a bad shot?"

_Davie._ "'Deed an' he's a verra _guid_ shot."

_Dougal._ "Hech! it's an awfu' peetie he's a Londoner!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTES FROM THE HIGHLANDS

"_Jam satis terris,_" _&c._

_Alt-na-blashy._--The aqueous and igneous agencies seem to be combined
in these quarters, for since the rain we hear of a great increase of
burns. In default of the moors we fall back on the kitchen and the
cellar. I need hardly add that dry wines are almost exclusively used by
our party, and moist sugar is generally avoided. Dripping, too, is
discontinued, and everything that is likely to whet the appetite is at a
discount.

_Drizzle-arich._--A Frenchman, soaked out of our bothy by the moisture
of the weather, was overheard to exclaim "_Après moi le déluge._"

_Inverdreary._--Greatly to the indignation of their chief, several of
the "Children of the Mist", in this romantic but rainy region, have
assumed the garb of the Mackintoshes.

_Loch Drunkie._--We have several partners in misery within hail, or life
would be fairly washed out of us. We make up parties alternately at our
shooting quarters when the weather allows of wading between them.
Inebriation, it is to be feared, must be on the increase, for few of us
who go out to dinner return without making a wet night of it.

Meantime, the watering-places in our vicinity--in particular the Linns
o' Dun-Dreepie--are literally overflowing.

It is asserted that even young horses are growing impatient of the
reins.

Our greatest comfort is the weekly budget of dry humour from _Mr.
Punch_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A DISAPPOINTING HOST.--_Sandy._ "A 'm tellt ye hev a new nebbur,
Donal'." _Donald._ "Aye." _Sandy._ "An' what like is he?" _Donald._
"Weel, he's a curious laddie. A went to hev a bit talk wi' him th' ither
evenin', an' he offered me a glass o' whuskey, d'ye see? Weel, he was
poorin' it oot, an' A said to him 'Stop!'--_an' he stoppit!_ That's the
soort o' mon he is."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AMBIGUITY

SCENE--_A Highland Ferry_

_Tourist._ "But we paid you sixpence each as we came over, and you said
the same fare would bring us back."

_Skipper._ "Well, well, and I telled ye nothing but the truth, an' it'll
be no more than the same fare I'm wantin' the noo for bringin' ye
back."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AUGUST IN SCOTLAND

_Bag Carrier (to Keeper)._ "What does the maister aye ask that body tae
shoot wi' him for? He canna hit a thing!"

_Keeper._ "Dod, man, I daur say he wishes they was a' like him. The same
birds does him a' through the season!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

KINREEN O' THE DEE;

A PIOBRACH HEARD WAILING DOWN GLENTANNER ON THE EXILE OF THREE
GENERATIONS.

[Illustration]

              Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
                Kinreen o' the Dee!
                Kinreen o' the Dee!
              Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!

              I'll blaw up my chanter,
                I've rounded fu' weel,
              To mony a ranter,
                In mony a reel,
              An' pour'd a' my heart i' the win'bag wi' glee:
                Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
    For licht wis the laughter in bonny Kinreen,
    An' licht wis the footfa' that glanced o'er the green,
    An' licht ware the hearts a' an' lichtsome the eyne,
              Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
                Kinreen o' the Dee!
                Kinreen o' the Dee!
              Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!

              The auld hoose is bare noo,
                A cauld hoose to me,
              The hearth is nae mair noo,
                The centre o' glee,
    Nae mair for the bairnies the bield it has been,
              Och hey, for bonny Kinreen!
    The auld folk, the young folk, the wee anes, an' a',
    A hunder years' hame birds are harried awa',
    Are harried an' hameless, whatever winds blaw,
              Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.

              Fareweel my auld pleugh lan',
                I'll never mair pleugh it:
              Fareweel my auld cairt an'
                The auld yaud[C] that drew it.
    Fareweel my auld kailyard, ilk bush an' ilk tree!
              Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
    Fareweel the auld braes, that my hand keepit green,
    Fareweel the auld ways where we waunder'd unseen
    Ere the star o' my hearth came to bonny Kinreen,
              Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.

              The auld kirk looks up o'er
                The dreesome auld dead,
              Like a saint speakin' hope o'er
                Some sorrowfu' bed.
    Fareweel the auld kirk, an' fareweel the kirk green,
    They tell o' a far better hame than Kinreen!
    The place we wad cling to--puir simple auld fules,
    O' our births an' our bridals, oor blesses an' dools,
    Whare oor wee bits o' bairnies lie cauld i' the mools.[D]
              Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.

              I aft times hae wunder'd
                If deer be as dear,
              As sweet ties o' kindred,
                To peasant or peer;
    As the tie to the hames o' the land born be,
                Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
    The heather that blossoms unkent o' the moor,
    Wad dee in his lordship's best greenhoose, I'm sure,
    To the wunder o' mony a fairy land flure.
                Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee! &c.

                Though little the thing be,
                  Oor ain we can ca';
                That little we cling be,
                  The mair that it's sma';
    Though puir wis oor hame, an' thogh wild wis the scene,
    'Twas the hame o' oor hearts: it was bonnie Kinreen.
    An yet we maun leave it, baith grey head an bairn;
    Leave it to fatten the deer o' Cock-Cairn,
    O' Pannanich wuds an' o' Morven o' Gairn.
                Och hey, Kinreen o' the Dee!
                  Kinreen o' the Dee!
                  Kinreen o' the Dee!
        Sae Fareweel for ever, Kinreen of the Dee!

[Footnote C: Mare.]

[Footnote D: Earth.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CANNY!

_Sportsman._ "That's a tough old fellow, Jemmy!"

_Keeper._ "Aye, sir, a grand bird to send to your freens!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: EXPERTO CREDE

_Tourist_ (_on approaching hostelry_). "What will you have, coachman?"

_Driver._ "A wee drap whuskey, sir, thank you."

_Tourist._ "All right I'll get down and send it out to you."

_Driver._ "Na, na, gie me the saxpence. They'll gie you an unco sma'
gless!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A LAMENT FROM THE NORTH

"And then the weather's been so bad, Donald!"

"Ou ay, sir. Only three fine days--and twa of them snappit up by the
Sawbath!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TWO ON A TOUR

"Can you tell me which is Croft Lochay?"

The smith leant on his pitchfork--he had been up at the hay--and eyed
Gwendolen and myself with friendly interest.

"Ye'll be the gentry from London Mistress McDiarmat is expectin'?"

"And which is the way to her house?"

"Well", said the smith, shading his eyes as he peered up at the Ben, "ye
can't see it rightly from here, as it lies behind yon knowe. It's a
whole year whatever since I hev not been up myself; but if you follow
the burn----"

I glanced at Gwen and saw that she shared my satisfaction. To cross the
edge of civilisation had for months past been our hearts' desire; and to
have achieved a jumping-off place only approachable by a burn exceeded
our wildest ambitions.

We thanked the smith, and set off on our expedition up the mountain
side.

"We twa hae paidlit in the burn", sang Gwendolen as she skipped like a
goat from stone to stone. "O Jack, isn't it too primitive and
delightful!"

"Rather", said I, inhaling great draughts of the mountain air.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Rather", I repeated. "Wonder what there'll be to eat."

"Oh, I don't care what it is. Anything will be delicious. Is that the
house, do you think?"

I looked up and saw above us a low white-washed shanty covered with
thatch which was kept in its place by a network of laths. A few heavy
stones were evidently designed to keep the roof from blowing off in
winter storms.

"No", said Gwen. "That must be the cowhouse byre, don't you call it?"

"I'm not so sure", said I.

While we were still uncertain, a figure came to the door and bade us
welcome.

"Come in, come in. Ye'll be tired with the travelling, and ye'll like to
see the rooms."

We acquiesced, and Mistress McDiarmat led the way into the cowhouse.

"Shoo!" she cried as she opened the door of the bedroom. "Get away,
Speckle! The hens _will_ lay their bit egg on the bed, sir."

"What fresh eggs we shall get!" cried Gwen, delighted with this fresh
proof of rusticity and with the Gaelic gutturals with which Mistress
McDiarmat emphasized her remarks to Speckle.

The "other end" was furnished with two hard chairs, a table and a bed.

"Fancy a bed in the dining-room and hens in your bed!" said Gwen, in the
highest of spirits. "And here comes tea! Eggs and bacon--Ah! how lovely
they smell, and how much nicer than horrid, stodgy dinners! And
oatcakes--and jelly--and the lightest feathery scones! O Jack, isn't it
heavenly?"

"Rather", I agreed, beginning the meal with tremendous gusto. The eggs
and bacon disappeared in the twinkling of an eye, and then we fell to on
the light feathery scones. "Wish we hadn't wasted a fortnight's time
and money in ruinous Highland hotels. Wonder what Schiehallion thinks of
hot baths and late dinners, not to speak of waiters and wine-lists."

"I suppose", remarked Gwendolen, "one _could_ get a bath at the
Temperance Inn we passed on the road?"

"Baths!" cried I. "Why, my dear, one only has to go and sit under the
neighbouring waterfall." Gwen did not laugh, and looking up I saw she
had stopped in the middle of a scone on which she had embarked with
great appetite.

"Try an oat-cake", I suggested.

"No, thanks", said Gwen.

"A little more jelly?"

Gwen shook her head.

I finished my meal in silence and pulled out my pipe.

"Going to smoke in here?" asked Gwen.

"It's raining outside, my dear."

"Oh, very well. But remember this is my bedroom. I decline to sleep with
hens."

I put the pipe away and prepared for conversation.

"Can't you sit still?" asked Gwen after a long pause.

"This chair is very hard, dear."

"So is mine."

"Don't you think we might sit on the bed?"

"Certainly not. I shouldn't sleep a wink if we disarranged the clothes,
and only an expert can re-make a chaff bed."

"Wish we had something to read", I remarked, after another long pause.

"Do you expect a circulating library on the top of Ben-y-Gloe?"

I began to realise that Gwen was no longer in a conversational mood, and
made no further efforts to break the silence. Half-an-hour later Gwen
came across the room and laid her hand on my shoulder. "What are you
reading, dear?" she asked.

"I find we can get a train from Struan to-morrow afternoon which catches
the London connection at Perth when the train's not more than two hours
late."

"We can't risk that. Isn't there a train in the morning?"

"It would mean leaving this at five."

"So much the better. O Jack, if I eat another meal like that it will be
fatal. To think we shall be back in dear old Chelsea to-morrow!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ORIGIN OF THE HIGHLAND SCHOTTISCHE

  "This is the way they tread the hay, tread the hay, tread the hay;
      This is the way they tread the hay, tread the hay in Scotland!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GROUSE SHOOTING LATE IN THE SEASON.
JOLLY, VERY!

"Come along, old fellow! Here's a point!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DEER-STALKING MADE EASY. A HINT TO
LUSTY SPORTSMEN]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SOONER OR LATER

_Old Gent._ "When is the steamer due here?"

_Highland Pier-Master._ "Various. Sometimes sooner,
sometimes earlier, an' even sometimes before that, too."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "HARMLESS"

_Cockney Sporting Gent._ "But I think it's a 'en!"

_Sandy (his keeper)._ "Shoot, man, shoot! She'll be no
muckle the waur o' ye!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PLEASANT

_Friend (to novice at salmon fishing)._ "I say, old boy, mind how you
wade; there are some tremendous holes, fourteen or fifteen feet deep."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:AN IMPORTANT DETAIL

_Our latest Millionaire_ (_to Gillie, who has brought him within
close range of the finest stag in the forest_). "I say, Mac, confound
it all, _which eye do you use_?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _English Tourist (in the far North, miles from anywhere)._
"Do you mean to say that you and your family live here
all the winter? Why, what do you do when any of you
are ill? You can never get a doctor!"

_Scotch Shepherd._ "Nae, sir. We've just to dee a natural
death!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SCENE--A ROADSIDE INN IN A MOORLAND
DISTRICT, SCOTLAND

(_The Captain and Gamekeeper call in to have some Refreshment_)

_Landlady_ (_enters in fear_). "Eh, sir, yer gun's no loaded
is't? for a never would bide in a hoose whaur the wur a
loaded gun in a' m'life."

_Captain_ (_composedly_). "Oh, we'll soon put that all right--have
you got a cork?"

  [_Exit Landlady and brings a cork, which the Captain
  carefully sticks in the muzzle of the gun, and assures
  her it is all right now_--


_Landlady_ (_relieved_). "Ou, aye! it's a' right noo, but it
wasna safe afore, ye ken."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "A MONARCH OF THE GLEN"

_Transatlantic Millionaire (surveying one of his deer-forests)._
"Ha! look there! I see _three excursionists_! Send 'em to
the----!"

_Gigantic Gillie (and chucker-out)._ "If you please, Mr.
Dollers, they're _excisemen_!"

_T. M._ "I don't care _who_ they are! Send 'em to
the----!"

_G. G._ "Yes, Mr. Dollers."

    [_Proceeds to carry out order._

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Sportsman (who declines to be told where to go and
what to do by his gillie), after an arduous stalk in the
blazing sun, at last manages to crawl within close range of
those "brown specks" he discovered miles distant on the
hill-side!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PROMISING!

_Tourist._ "Have you any decent cigars?"

_Highland Grocer._ "Decent cigars? Ay, here are decent
cigars enough."

_Tourist._ "Are they Havanahs, or Manillas?"

_Highland Grocer._ "They're just from Kircaldy!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE MISS"

_Gillie._ "Eh, mon! But it's fortunate there's beef in Aberdeen!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. BRIGGS IN THE HIGHLANDS

_By_ JOHN LEECH

[Illustration: Mr. Briggs, feeling that his heart is in the Highlands
a-chasing the deer, starts for the North.]

[Illustration: Before going out, Mr. Briggs and his friends have a
quiet chat about deer-stalking generally. He listens with much
interest to some pleasing anecdotes about the little incidents
frequently met with--such as balls going through caps--toes being shot
off!--occasionally being gored by the antlers of infuriate stags, &c.,
&c., &c.]

[Illustration: Mr. Briggs, previous to going through his course of
deer-stalking, assists the forester in getting a hart or two for the
house. Donald is requesting our friend to hold the animal down by the
horns.

    [N.B. The said animal is as strong as a bull, and uses his legs like
a race-horse.

]

[Illustration: The deer are driven for Mr. Briggs. He has an excellent
place, but what with waiting by himself so long, the murmur of the
stream, the beauty of the scene, and the novelty of the situation, he
falls asleep, and while he takes his forty winks, the deer pass!]

[Illustration: As the wind is favourable, the deer are driven again.]

[Illustration: Mr. Briggs is suddenly face to face with the monarch of
the glen! He is so astonished that he omits to fire his rifle.]

[Illustration: To-day he goes out for a stalk, and Donald shows Mr.
Briggs the way!]

[Illustration: After a good deal of climbing, our friend gets to the top
of Ben-something-or-other, and the forester looks out to see if there
are any deer on the hills. Yes! several hinds, and perhaps the finest
hart that ever was seen.]

[Illustration: To get at him, they are obliged to go a long way round.
Before they get down, the shower, peculiar to the country, overtakes
them, so they "shelter a-wee."]

[Illustration: With extraordinary perseverance they come within shot of
"the finest hart." Mr. B. is out of breath, afraid of slipping, and
wants to blow his nose (quite out of the question), otherwise he is
tolerably comfortable.]

[Illustration: After aiming for a quarter of an hour, Mr. B. fires both
his barrels--and--misses!!!! _Tableau_--The forester's anguish]

[Illustration: The royal hart Mr. Briggs did NOT hit.]

[Illustration: Mr. Briggs has another day's stalking, and his rifle
having gone off sooner than he expected, he kills a stag. As it is his
first, he is made free of the forest by the process customary on the
hills!--]

[Illustration: And returns home in triumph. He is a little knocked up,
but after a nap, will, no doubt, go through the broad-sword dance in the
evening as usual.]

[Illustration: MR. BRIGGS GROUSE SHOOTING

9 A.M. His arrival on the moor.--Mr. Briggs says that the fine bracing
air makes him so vigorous that he shall never be beat. He also
facetiously remarks that he is on "his native heath", and that his "name
is Macgregor!"

    [_The result of the day's sport will be communicated by electric
    telegraph._

]

       *       *       *       *       *

SKETCHES FROM SCOTLAND

AT THE DRUMQUHIDDER HIGHLAND GATHERING.

    SCENE--_A meadow near Drumquhidder, South Perthshire, where the
    annual Highland Games are being held. The programme being a long
    one, there are generally three events being contested in various
    parts of the ground at the same time. On the benches immediately
    below the Grand Stand are seated two Drumquhidder worthies_, MR.
    PARRITCH _and_ MR. HAVERS, _with_ MRS. McTAVISH _and her niece, two
    acquaintances from Glasgow, to whom they are endeavouring--not
    altogether successfully--to make themselves agreeable_.

_Mr. Havers_ (_in allusion to the dozen or so of drags, landaus, and
waggonettes on the ground_). There's a number o' machines hier the day,
Messis McTarvish, an' a wonderfu' crood; there'll be a bit scarceness
ower on yon side, but a gey many a'thegither. I conseeder we're jest
awfu' forrtunate in the day an' a'.

    [_Mrs. McTavish assents, but without enthusiasm._

_Mr. Parritch._ I've jist ben keekin into the Refraishmen' Tent. It's an
awfu' peety they're no pairmeetin' ony intoaxicans--naethin' but
non-alcohoalic liquors an' sic like, an' the hawm-sawndwiches no verra
tender. (_With gallantry._) What do ye say, noo, Messis McTarvish--wull
ye no come an' tak' a bite wi' me?

_Mrs. McTavish (distantly)._ Ah'm no feelin' able for't jist the noo,
Mester Pairritch.

_Mr. Parr._ Ye'll hae a boatle o' leemonade at my expense? Ye'll no?
Then ye wull, Mess Rawse. (_With relief, as Miss Rose declines also._)
Aweel, I jist thocht I'd pit the quaistion. (_To a friend of his, who
joins them._) An' hoo's a' wi' ye, Mester McKerrow? Ye're a member o'
the Cawmittee, I obsairve, sae I'll hae to keck up a bet row wi' ye.

_Mr. McKerrow (unconcernedly)._ Then ye'll jist to hae to keck it doon
again. What's wrang the noo?

_Mr. Parr._ I'd like to ask ye if ye conseeder it fair or jest to
charrge us tippence every time we'd go aff the groon? Man, it's jist an
extoartion.

_Mr. McKerr._ I'm no responsible for't; but, if I'd ben there, I'd ha'
chairged ye twa shellins; sae ye'd better say nae mair aboot the
maitter.

    [_Mr. Parritch does not pursue the subject._

_Mr. Havers (as a detachment of the Black Watch Highlanders conclude an
exhibition of musical drill)._ Ye'll be the baiter o' haeing the Block
Wetch hier the day. Man, they gie us a colour! It's verra pretty hoo
nicely they can pairforrm the drill.... An' noo them sojers is gaun to
rin a bet race amang theirsels. This'll be an extry cawmpeteetion, I
doot. (_As the race is being run._) It's no a verra suitable dress for
rinnin'--the spleughan--or "sporran", is it?--hairrts them tairible.

_Mr. McKerr. (contradictiously)._ The sporran does na hairrt them at a'.

_Mr. Havers._ Man, it's knockin' against them at every stride they tak'.
(_His attention wanders to a Highland Fling, which three small boys are
dancing on a platform opposite._) He's an awfu' bonnie dauncer that wee
laddie i' the meddle!

_Mr. McKerr._ Na sae awfu' bonnie, he luiks tae much at his taes. Yon on
the richt is the laddie o' the lote! He disna move his boady at a'....
This'll be the Half Mile Handicap they're stairting for down yonder.
It'll gae to Jock Alister--him in the blue breeks.

_Mr. Parr._ Yon grup-luikin' tyke? I canna thenk it.

_Mr. Havers._ Na, it'll be yon bald-heided man in broon. He's verra
enthusiastic. He's ben rinnin' in a' the races, I obsairve. "Smeth" did
ye say his neem was? (_To Miss Rose, "pawkily"._) Ye'll hae an
affaictionate regaird for that neem, I'm thenking, Mess Rawse?

_Miss Rose (with maidenly displeasure)._ 'Deed, an I'm no unnerstanding
why ye should thenk ony sic a thing!

_Mr. Havers (abashed)._ I beg your pairrdon. I don't know hoo it was I
gethered Smeth was your ain neem. (_Miss Rose shakes her head._) No?
Then maybe ye'll be acquaint with a Mester Alexawnder Smeth fro'
Paisley? (_Miss Rose is not, nor apparently desires to be, and Mr.
Havers returns to the foot-race._) The baldheid's leadin' them a', I
tellt ye he'd----Na, he's gien up! it'll be the little block fellow,
he's peckin' up tairible!

_Mr. Parr._ 'Twull no be him. Yon lang chap has an easy jobe o't. Ye'll
see he'll jist putt a spairrt on at yon faur poast--he's comin' on
noo--he's.... Losh! he's only thirrd after a'; he didna putt the spairrt
on sune eneugh; that was the gran' fau't he made!

_Mr. Havers._ They'll be begenning the wrustling oot yon in the
centre....(_As the competitors grip._) Losh! that's no the way to
wrustle; they shouldna left the ither up; they're no allowed to threp!

_Mr. McKerr._ That's jist the game, I'm telling ye; ye know naething at
a' aboot it!

[Illustration: "That's jist the game, I'm telling ye; ye know naething
at a' aboot it!"]

_Mr. Havers._ I'd sthruggle baiter'n that mysel', it's no great
wrustling at a', merely bairrns' play!

_Mr. McKerr (as a corpulent elderly gentleman appears, in very pink
tights)._ Ye'll see some science noo, for hier's McBannock o'
Balwhuskie, the chawmpion.

_Mr. Havers (disenchanted)._ Wull yon be him in the penk breeks. Man,
but he's awfu' stoot for sic wark!

_Mr. McKerr._ The wecht of him's no easy put doon. The rest are boys to
him.

_Mr. Parr._ I doot the little dairk fellow'll hae him ... it's a gey
sthruggle.

_Mr. McKerr._ He's not doon yet. Wull ye bait sexpence against
McBannock, Mester Pairritch?

_Mr. Parr. (promptly)._ Aye, wull I--na, he's got the dairk mon doon. I
was jist mindin' the sword-daunce, sae the bait's aff. (_Three men in
full Highland costume step upon the platform and stand, proud and
impassive, fronting the grand stand, while the judges walk round them,
making careful notes of their respective points._) What wull _they_ be
aboot?

_Mr. McKerr._ It'll be the prize for the mon who's the best dressed
Hielander at his ain expense. I'm thenkin' they'll find it no verra easy
to come to a deceesion.

_Mr. Parr._ Deed, it's no sae deeficult; 'twill be the mon in the
centre, sure as deith!

_Mr. Havers._ Ye say that because he has a' them gowd maidles hing on
his jocket!

_Mr. Parr_. (_loftily_). I pay no attention to the maidles at a'. I'm
sayin' that Dougal Macrae is the best dressed Hielander o' the three.

_Mr. Havers._ It'll no be Macrae at a'. Jock McEwan, that's furthest
west, 'll be the mon.

_Mr. Parr._ (_dogmatically_). It'll be Macrae, I'm tellin' ye. He has
the nicest kelt on him that iver I sa'!

_Mr. Havers._ It's no the _kelt_ that diz it, 'tis jist the way they pit
it on. An' Macrae'll hae his tae faur doon, a guid twa enches too low,
it is.

_Mr. Parr._ Ye're a' wrang, the kelt is on richt eneugh!

_Mr. Havers._ I know fine hoo a kelt should be pit an, though I'm no
Hielander mysel', and I'll ask ye, Mess Rawse, if Dougal Macrae's kelt
isn't too lang; it's jist losin his knees a' thegither, like a lassie he
looks in it!

    [_Miss Rose declines, with some stiffness, to express an opinion on
    so delicate a point._

_Mr. Parr. (recklessly)._ I'll pit a sexpence on Macrae wi' ye, come
noo!

_Mr. Havers._ Na, na, pit cawmpetent jedges on to deceede, and they'll
be o' my opeenion; but I'll no bait wi' ye.

_Mr. Parr. (his blood up)._ Then I'll hae a sexpence on 't wi you,
Mester McKerrow!

_Mr. McKerr._ Nay, I'm for Macrae mysel'.... An' we're baith in the
richt o't too, for they've jist gien him the bit red flag--that means
he's got firsst prize.

_Mr. Parr. (to Mr. Havers, with reproach)._ Man, if ye'd hed the speerit
o' your opeenions, I'd ha' won sexpence aff ye by noo!

_Mr. Havers (obstinately)._ I canna thenk but that Macrae's kelt was too
lang--prize or no prize. I'll be telling him when I see him that he
looked like a lassie in it.

_Mr. Parr. (with concern)._ I wouldna jist advise ye to say ony sic a
thing to him. These Hielanders are awfu' prood; and he micht tak' it gey
ill fro' ye!

_Mr. Havers._ I see nae hairrm mysel' in jist tellin' him, in a
pleesant, daffin-like way, that he looked like a lassie in his kelt. But
there's nae tellin' hoo ye may offend some fowk; an' I'm thenking it's
no sae verra prawbable that I'll hae the oaportunity o' saying onything
aboot the maitter to him.

       *       *       *       *       *

AWKWARD FOR HIM.--_Tam._ "I'm sayin', man, my cairt o' hay's fa'en ower.
Will ye gie 's a haund up wi' 't?" _Jock._ "'Deed will I. But ye'll be
in nae hurry till I get tae the end o' the raw?" _Tam._ "Ou no. I'm in
nae hurry, but I doot my faither 'll be wearyin'." _Jock._ "An' whaur's
yer faither?" _Tam._ "He's in below the hay!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "MISTAKEN IDENTITY"

SCENE--_Northern Meeting at Inverness._ PERSONS REPRESENTED--Ian Gorm
_and_ Dougald Mohr, _gillies_. Mr. Smith, _of London_.

_First Gillie._ "Wull yon be the MacWhannel, Ian Gorm?"

_Second ditto._ "No!! Hes nae-um is Muster Smuth! And he ahl-ways wears
the kult--and it is foohl that you aar, Tougalt Mohr!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: (LOCH) FYNE GRAMMAR

(_A Sad Fact for the School Board_)

_Tugal._ "Dud ye'll ever see the _I-oo-na_ any more before?"

_Tonal._ "Surely I was."

_Tugal._ "Ay, ay! Maybe you was never on poard too, after thus----"

_Tonal._ "I dud."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: NON BEN (LOMOND) TROVATO.

_Rory (fresh from the hills)._ "Hech, mon! Ye're loassin' a' yer
watter!!"

_Aungus._ "Haud yer tongue, ye feul! Ett's latt oot to stoap the laddies
frae ridin' ahint!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "NOTHING LIKE LEATHER"

_Bookseller_ (_to Lanarkshire country gentleman who had brought his back
numbers to be bound_). "Would you like them done in 'Russia' or
'Morocco,' sir?"

_Old Gentleman._ "Na, never maind aboot Rooshy or Moroccy. I'll just hae
'em boond in Glasgy here!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE TROUBLES OF STALKING

_Irate Gillie_ (_on discovering in the distance, for the third time that
morning, a "brute of a man" moving about in his favourite bit of
"forest"_). "Oh! deil take the people! Come awa', Muster Brown, sir;
_it's just Peekadilly!!!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A FALLEN ASS

_Indignant Gillie_ (_to Jones, of London, who has by mistake killed a
hind_). "I thoucht ony fule ken't it was the stags that had the horns!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: BONCHIENIE

_Young Lady Tourist_ (_caressing the hotel terrier, Bareglourie, N.B._).
"Oh, Binkie is his name! He seems inclined to be quite friendly with
me."

_Waiter._ "Oo, aye, miss, he's no vera parteec'lar wha he taks oop wi!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "CANNY"

_First North Briton._ "'T's a fine day, this?"

_Second ditto._ "No ill, ava."

_First ditto._ "Ye'll be travellin'?"

_Second ditto._ "Weel, maybe I'm no."

_First ditto._ "Gaun t'Aberdeen, maybe?"

_Second ditto._ "Ye're no faur aff't!!"

    [_Mutually satisfied, each goes his respective way_

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE PURCHASING LIMIT

_Mr. Steinsen_ (_our latest millionaire--after his third fruitless
stalk_). "Now, look here, you rascal! if you can't have the brutes
tamer, I'm hanged if I don't sack you!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GROWING POPULARITY OF THE HIGHLANDS

_Mrs. Smith_ (_of Brixton_). "Lor', Mr. Brown, I 'ardly knoo yer! Only
think of our meetin' _'ere_, this year, instead of dear old Margit! An'
I suppose that's the costume you go _salmon-stalking_ in?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MORE SKETCHES FROM SCOTLAND

ON A CALLANDER CHAR-A-BANC.

     SCENE--_In front of the Trossachs Hotel. The few passengers bound
     for Callander have been sitting for several minutes on the coach
     "Fitz-James" in pelting rain, resignedly wondering when the driver
     will consider them sufficiently wet to start._

_The Head Boots (to the driver)._ There's another to come yet; he'll no
be lang now. (_The cause of the delay comes down the hotel steps, and
surveys the vehicle and its occupants with a surly scowl._) Up with ye,
sir, plenty of room on the second seats.

_The Surly Passenger._ And have all the umbrellas behind dripping on my
hat! No, thank you, I'm going in front. (_He mounts, and takes up the
apron._) Here, driver, just look at this apron--it's sopping wet!

_The Driver (tranquilly)._ Aye, I'm thinking it wull ha' got a bet
domp.

[Illustration: "Ou aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to
it."]

_The Surly P._ Well, I'm not going to have this over me. Haven't you got
a _dry_ one somewhere?

_The Driver._ There'll be dry ones at Collander.

_The Surly P. (with a snort)._ At Callander! Much good that is! (_With
crushing sarcasm._) If I'm to keep dry on this concern, it strikes me
I'd better get inside the boot at once!

_The Driver (with the air of a man who is making a concession)._ Ou aye,
ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to it.

    [_The coach starts, and is presently stopped at a corner to take up
    a male and a female passenger, who occupy the seats immediately
    behind the Surly Passenger._

_The Female P. (enthusiastically, to her companion)._ There's dear old
Mrs. Macfarlane, come out to see the last of us! Look at her standing
out there in the garden, all in the rain. That's what I always say about
the Scotch--they _are_ warm-hearted!

    [_She waves her hand in farewell to some distant object._

_Her Companion. That_ ain't her; that's an old apple-tree in the garden
_you_'re waving to. _She's_ keeping indoors--and shows her sense too.

_The Female P. (disgusted)._ Well, I _do_ think after our being at the
farm a fortnight and all, she _might_----But that's Scotch all _over_,
that is; get all they can out of you, and then, for anything _they_
care----!

_The Surly P._ I don't know whether you are aware of it, ma'am, but that
umbrella of yours is sending a constant trickle down the back of my
neck, which is _most_ unpleasant!

_The Female P._ I'm sorry to hear it, sir, but it's no worse for you
than it is for me. I've got somebody else's umbrella dripping down _my_
back, and _I_ don't complain.

_The Surly P._ I _do_, ma'am, for, being in front, I haven't even the
poor consolation of feeling that my umbrella is a nuisance to anybody.

_A Sardonic P. (in the rear, politely)._ On the contrary, sir, I find it
a most pleasing object to contemplate. Far more picturesque, I don't
doubt, than any scenery it may happen to conceal.

_A Chatty P. (to the driver; not because he cares, but simply for the
sake of conversation)._ What fish do you catch in that river there?

_The Driver (with an effort)._ There'll be troots, an', maybe, a pairrch
or two.

_The Chatty P._ Perch? Ah, that's rather like a goldfish in shape, eh?

_Driver (cautiously)._ Aye, it would be that.

_Chatty P._ Only considerably bigger, of course.

_Driver (evasively)._ Pairrch is no a verra beg fesh.

_Chatty P._ But bigger than goldfish.

_Driver (more confidently)._ Ou aye, they'll be begger than goldfesh.

_Chatty P. (persistently)._ You've seen goldfish--know what they're
like, eh?

_Driver (placidly)._ I canna say I do.

    [_They pass a shooting party with beaters._

_Chatty P. (as before)._ What are they going to shoot?

_Driver._ They'll jist be going up to the hells for a bet grouse
drivin'.

_A Lady P._ I wonder why they carry those poles with the red and yellow
flags. I suppose they're to warn tourists to keep out of range when they
begin firing at the butts. I know they _have_ butts up on the moor,
because I've seen them. Just look at those birds running after that man
throwing grain for them. Would those be _grouse_?

_Driver._ Ye'll no find grouse so tame as that, mem; they'll jist be
phaysants.

_The Lady P._ Poor dear things! why, they're as tame as chickens. It
_does_ seem so cruel to kill them!

_Her Comp._ Well, but they kill chickens, occasionally.

_The Lady P._ Not with a horrid gun; and, besides, that's such a totally
different thing.

_The Chatty P._ What do you call that mountain, driver, eh?

_Driver._ Yon hell? I'm no minding its name.

_The Surly P._ You don't seem very ready in pointing out the objects of
interests on the route, I must say.

_Driver (modestly)._ There'll be them on the corch that know as much
aboot it as myself. (_After a pause--to vindicate his character as a
cicerone._) Did ye nottice a bit building at the end of the loch over
yonder?

_The Surly P._ No, I didn't.

_Driver._ Ye might ha' seen it, had ye looked.

    [_He relapses into a contented silence._

_Chatty P._ Anything remarkable about the building?

_Driver._ It was no the building that's remairkable. (_After a severe
struggle with his own reticence._) It was jist the spoat. 'Twas there
_Roderick Dhu_ fought _Fitz-James_ after convoying him that far on his
way.

    [_The Surly Passenger snorts as though he didn't consider this
    information._

_The Lady P. (who doesn't seem to be up in her "Lady of the Lake").
Fitz-James who?_

_Her Comp._ I fancy he's the man who owns this line of coaches. There's
his name on the side of this one.

_The Lady P._ And I saw _Roderick Dhu's_ on another coach. I _thought_
it sounded familiar, somehow. He must be the _rival_ proprietor, I
suppose. I wonder if they've made it up yet.

_The Driver (to the Surly Passenger, with another outburst of
communicativeness)._ Yon stoan is called "Sawmson's Putting Stoan." He
hurrled it up to the tope of the hell, whaur it's bided ever sence.

    [_The Surly Passenger receives this information with an incredulous
    grunt._

_The Lady P._ What a magnificent old ruin that is across the valley,
some ancient castle, evidently; they can't build like that nowadays!

_The Driver._ That's the Collander Hydropawthec, mem; burrnt doon two or
three years back.

_The Lady P. (with a sense of the irony of events)._ _Burnt_ down! A
Hydropathic! Fancy!

_Male P. (as they enter Callander and pass a trim villa)._ There,
_that's_ Mr. Figgis's place.

_His Comp._ What--_that_? Why, it's quite a _bee-yutiful_ place, with
green venetians, and a conservatory, and a croaky lawn, and everything!
Fancy all that belonging to _him!_ It's well to be a grocer--in _these_
parts, seemingly!

_Male P._ Ah, _we_ ought to come up and start business here; it 'ud be
better than being in the Caledonian Road!

    [_They meditate for the remainder of the journey upon the caprices
    of Fortune with regard to grocery profits in Caledonia and the
    Caledonian Road respectively._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER"

_Mr. Punch_ is at present in the Highlands "a-chasing the deer."

_Mrs. Punch_ is at home, and has promised all her friends haunches of
venison as soon as they arrive!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "DESIRABLE"

_Saxon Passenger (on Highland coach)._ "Of course you're well acquainted
with the country round about here. Do you know 'Glen Accron'?"

_Driver._ "Aye, weel."

_Saxon Passenger (who had just bought the estate)._ "What sort of a
place is it?"

_Driver._ "Weel, if ye saw the deil tethered on't, ye'd just say 'Puir
brute'!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ISOLATION!--OFF THE ORKNEYS

_Southern Tourist._ "'Get any newspapers here?"

_Orcadian Boatman._ "Ou aye, when the steamer comes. If it's fine,
she'll come ance a week; but when it's stormy, i' winter, we dinna catch
a glint o' her for three months at a time."

_S. T._ "Then you'll not know what's goin' on in London!"

_O. B._ "Na--but ye see ye're just as ill aff i' London as we are, for
ye dinna ken what's gaun on here!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ON THE MOORS

_The Laird's Brother-in-law (from London)._ "It's very strange, Lachlan!
I'm having no luck!--and yet I seem to see two birds in place of one?
That was surely very strong whiskey your master gave me at lunch?"

_Keeper._ "Maybe aye and maybe no--the whuskey was goot; but any way ye
dinna manage to hit the richt bird o' the twa!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A POOR ADVERTISEMENT

_Tourist._ "I suppose you feel proud to have such a distinguished man
staying in your house?"

_Host of the "Drumdonnachie Arms."_ "'Deed no! A body like that does us
mair hairm than guid; his appearance is nae credit tae oor
commissariat!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GENEROSITY

_Noble Lord (whose rifle has brought to a scarcely untimely end a very
consumptive-looking fallow deer)._ "Tut--t, t, t, t, tut! O, I say,
Stubbs!"--(_to his keeper_)--"you shouldn't have let me kill such a
poor, little, sickly, scraggy thing as this, you know! It positively
isn't fit for human food! Ah! look here, now! I'll tell you what. You
and McFarlin may have this buck between you!!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TRAVELLER TOO BONÂ FIDE

_Dusty Pedestrian._ "I should like a glass of beer, missis, please----"

_Landlady._ "Hae ye been trevellin' by rell?"

_Pedestrian._ "No, I've been walking--fourteen miles."

_Landlady._ "Na, na, nae drink will ony yin get here, wha's been
pleesure-seekin' o' the Sawbath day!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MR. PUNCH IN THE HIGHLANDS

He goes on board the _Iona_. The only drawback to his perfect enjoyment
is the jealousy caused among all the gentlemen by the ladies clustering
round him on all occasions.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PREHISTORIC PEEPS

There were often unforeseen circumstances which gave to the Highland
stalking of those days an added zest!]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PLEASURES OF TRAVEL

(_By Ane that has kent them_)

[Illustration]

    'Tis a great thing, the Traivel; I'll thank ye tae find
    Its equal for openin' the poors o' the mind.
    It mak's a man polished, an' gies him, ye ken,
    Sic a graun' cosmypollitan knowledge o' men!

    I ne'er was a stay-at-hame callant ava,
    I aye must be rantin' an' roamin' awa',
    An' far hae I wandered, an' muckle hae seen
    O' the ways o' the warl' wi' ma vara ain een.

    I've been tae Kingskettle wi' Wullie an' Jeames,
    I've veesited Anster an' Elie an' Wemyss,
    I've walked tae Kirkca'dy an' Cupar an' Crail,
    An' I aince was awa' tae Dundee wi' the rail.

    Losh me, sir! The wonnerfu' things that I saw!
    The kirks wi' their steeples, sae bonny an' braw
    An' publics whauriver ye turned wi' yer ee--
    'Tis jist a complete eddication, Dundee!

    Theer's streets--be the hunner! An' shops be the score!
    Theer's bakers an' grocers an' fleshers galore!
    An' milliners' winders a' flauntin' awa'
    Wi' the last o' the fashions frae Lunnon an' a'.

    An' eh, sic a thrang, sir! I saw in a minnit
    Mair folk than the toun o' Kinghorn will hae in it
    I wadna hae thocht that the hail o' creation
    Could boast at ae time sic a vast population!

    Ma word, sir! It gars ye clap haun' tae yer broo
    An' wunner what's Providence after the noo
    That he lets sic a swarm o' they cratur's be born
    Wham naebody kens aboot here in Kinghorn.

    What?--Leeberal minded?--Ye canna but be
    When ye've had sic a graun' eddication as me.
    For oh, theer is naethin' like traivel, ye ken,
    For growin' acquent wi' the natur' o' men.

       *       *       *       *       *

"FALLS OF FOYERS."--A correspondent writes:--"I have seen a good many
letters in the _Times_, headed 'The Falls of the Foyers.' Here and
abroad I have seen many Foyers, and only fell down once. This was at the
Théâtre Francais, where the Foyer is kept highly polished, or used to be
so. If the Foyers are carpeted or matted, there need be no 'Falls.'

  Yours,

    COMMON SENSE."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "WINGED"

_First Gael._ "What's the matter, Tonal?"

_Second ditto (who had been out with Old Briggs)._ "Matter! Hur legs is
full o' shoots".]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MR. PUNCH AT THE HIGHLAND GAMES

Shows the natives how to "put the stone."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN ARTIST SCAMP IN THE HIGHLANDS

_Artist (entering)._ "My good woman, if you'll allow me, I'll just paint
that bedstead of yours."

_Cottager (with bob-curtsey)._ "Thank ye, sir, I' sure it's very kind of
ye--but dinna ye think that little one over yonder wants it more?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

EN ÉCOSSE

_À Monsieur Punch_

DEAR MISTER,--I come of to make a little voyage in Scotland. Ah, the
beautiful country of Sir Scott, Sir Wallace, and Sir Burns! I am gone to
render visit to one of my english friends, a charming boy--_un charmant
garçon_--and his wife, a lady very instructed and very spiritual, and
their childs. I adore them, the dear little english childs, who have the
cheeks like some roses, and the hairs like some flax, as one says in
your country, all buckled--_bouclés_, how say you?

I go by the train of night--in french one says "_le sleeping_"--to
Edimbourg, and then to Calendar, where I attend to find a coach--in
french one says "_un mail_" or "_un fourinhand_." _Nom d'une pipe_, it
is one of those ridicule carriages, called in french "_un breack_" and
in english a char-à-banc--that which the english pronounce
"_tcherribaingue_"--which attends us at the going out of the station! Eh
well, in voyage one must habituate himself to all! But a such carriage
discovered--_découverte_--seems to me well unuseful in a country where
he falls of rain without cease.

Before to start I demand of all the world some _renseignements_ on the
scottish climate, and all the world responds me, "All-days of the rain."
By consequence I procure myself some impermeable vestments, one
mackintosch coat, one mackintosch cape of Inverness, one mackintosch
covering of voyage, one south-western hat, some umbrellas, some gaiters,
and many pairs of boots very thick--not boots of town, but veritable
"shootings."

I arrive at Edimbourg by a morning of the most sads; the sky grey, the
earth wet, the air humid. Therefore I propose to myself to search at
Calender a place at the interior, _et voilà_--and see there--the
_breack_ has no interior! There is but that which one calls a "boot",
and me, Auguste, can I to lie myself there at the middle of the
baggages? Ah no! Thus I am forced to endorse--_endosser_--my impermeable
vestments and to protect myself the head by my south-western hat. Then,
holding firmly the most strong of my umbrellas, I say to the coacher,
"He goes to fall of the rain, is it not?" He makes a sign of head of not
to comprehend. Ah, for sure, he is scottish! I indicate the sky and my
umbrella, and I say "Rain?" and then he comprehends. "_Eh huile_", he
responds to me, "_ah canna sé, mébi huile no hé meukl the dé_." I write
this phonetically, for I comprehend not the scottish language. What
droll of conversation! Him comprehends not the english; me I comprehend
not the scottish.

But I essay of new, "How many has he of it from here to the lake?"
_C'est inutile_--it is unuseful. I say, "Distance?" He comprehends.
"_Mébi oui taque toua hours_", says he; "_beutt yile no fache yoursel,
its no sé lang that yile bi ouishinn yoursel aoua_." _Quelle
langue_--what language, even to write phonetically! I comprehend one
sole word, "hours." Some hours! _Sapristi!_ I say, "Hours?" He says
"_Toua_" all together, a monosyllable. _Sans aucune doute ça veut dire_
"twelve"--_douze_. Twelve hours on a _breack_ in a such climate! Ah, no!
_C'est trop fort_--it is too strong! "Hold", I cry myself, "attend, I
descend, I go not!" It is true that I see not how I can to descend, for
I am _entouré_--how say you? of voyagers. We are five on a bench, of the
most narrows, and me I am at the middle. And the bench before us is also
complete, and we touch him of the knees. And my neighbours carry on the
knees all sorts of packets, umbrellas, canes, sacks of voyage, &c. _Il
n'y a pas moyen_--he has not there mean. And the coacher says me "_Na,
na, monne, yile no ghitt doun, yile djest baïd ouar yer sittinn._" Then
he mounts to his place, and we part immediately. _Il va tomber de la
pluie! Douze heures! Mon Dieu, quel voyage!_

  Agree, &c.,

    AUGUSTE.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ZEAL

_Saxon Tourist._ "Been at the kirk?"

_Celt._ "Aye."

_Saxon T._ "How far is it?"

_Celt._ "Daur say it'll be fourteen mile."

_Saxon T._ "Fourteen miles!!"

_Celt._ "Aye, aw'm awfu' fond o' the preachin'"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THRIFT

_Peebles Body (to townsman who was supposed to be in London on a
visit)._ "E--eh Mac! ye're sune hame again!"

_Mac._ "E--eh, it's just a ruinous place, that! Mun, a had na' been
the-erre abune twa hoours when--_bang_--went _saxpence!!!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A SATISFACTORY SOLUTION

"I fear, Duncan, that friend of mine does not seem overly safe with his
gun."

"No, sir. But I'm thinkin' it'll be all right if you wass to go wan side
o' him and Mr. John the ither. He canna shoot baith o' ye!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "VITA FUMUS"

_Tonal._ "Whar'll ye hae been till, Tugal?"

_Tugal._ "At ta McTavishes' funeral----"

_Tonal._ "An' is ta Tavish deed?"

_Tugal._ "Deed is he!!"

_Tonal._ "Losh, mon! Fowk are aye deein' noo that never used to dee
afore!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PRECAUTIONS

_Saxon Angler (to his keeper)._ "You seem in a great hurry with your
clip! I haven't seen a sign of a fish yet--not a rise!"

_Duncan._ "'Deed, sir, I wisna a botherin' mysel' aboot the fush; but
seein' you wis new to the business, I had a thocht it widna be lang
afore you were needin' a left oot o' the watter yoursel'!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HIS POUND OF FLESH

_Financier (tenant of our forest, after a week's unsuccessful
stalking)._ "Now, look here, my man. I bought and paid for ten stags. If
the brutes can't be shot, you'll have to trap them! I've promised the
venison, and I mean to have it!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SCRUPULOUS

_Shepherd._ "O, Jims, mun! Can ye no gie a whustle on tha ram'lin' brute
o' mine? I daurna mysel'; it's just fast-day in oor parish!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE LAND OF LORN"

_It has drizzled incessantly, for a fortnight, since the Smiths came
down to their charming villa at Braebogie, in Argyleshire._

_Keeper (who has come up to say the boat is ready on the loch, if
"they're for fushin' the day")._ "Eh! I should na wonder if this weather
tur-rns ta rain!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LOCAL

SUNDAY MORNING

_Tourist (staying at the Glenmulctem Hotel--dubiously)._ "Can
I--ah--have a boat?"

_Boatman._ "Oo--aye!"

_Tourist._ "But I thought you--ah--never broke the--aw--Sabbath in
Scotland?"

_Boatman._ "Aweel, ye ken the Sawbath disna' come doon to the loch--it
just staps at the hottle!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

EN ÉCOSSE (ENCORE)

_À Monsieur Punch_

DEAR MISTER,--I have spoken you of my departure from Calendar on the
_breack_. Eh, well, he rained not of the whole of the whole--_du tout
du tout! Il faisait un temps superbe_--he was making a superb time, the
route was well agreeable, and the voyage lasted but two hours, and not
twelve. What droll of idea! In Scottish _twa_ is two, not twelve. I was
so content to arrive so quick, and without to be wetted that I gave the
coacher a good to-drink--_un bon pourboire_--though before to start all
the voyagers had paid him a "tipp", that which he called a "driver's
fee." Again what droll of idea! To give the to-drink before to start,
and each one the same--six pennys.

My friend encountered me and conducted me to his house, where I have
passed fifteen days, a sojourn of the most agreeables. And all the time
almost not one sole drop of rain! _J'avais beau_--I had fine--to buy all
my impermeable vestments, I carry them never. One sole umbrella suffices
me, and I open him but two times. And yet one says that the Scotland is
a rainy country. It is perhaps a season _tout à fait_--all to
fact--exceptional. But fifteen days almost without rain! One would
believe himself at the border of the Mediterranean, absolutely at the
South. And I have eaten of the "porridg", me Auguste! _Partout_ I essay
the dish of the country. I take at first a spoonful pure and simple. _Oh
la, la!_ My friend offers me of the cream. It is well. Also of the salt.
_Quelle idée!_ But no, before me I perceive a dish of _confiture_, that
which the Scottish call "marmaladde." _A la bonne heure!_ With some
marmaladde, some cream, and much of sugar, I find that the "porridg" is
enough well, for I taste him no more.

One day we make an ascension, and we see many grouses. Only we can not
to shoot, for it is not yet the season of the huntings. It is but a hill
that we mount. The name appears me to be french, but bad written. "Ben
Venue", that is to say, "_Bienvenu_"--_soyez le bienvenu_. She is one of
the first of the Scottish hills, and she says "welcome" in french. It is
a pretty idea, and a politeness very amiable towards my country. I
salute the hospitable Scotland and I thank her. It is a great country,
of brave men, of charming women--ah, I recall to myself some eyes so
beautiful, some forms so attracting!--of ravishing landscapes, and, at
that epoch there, of a climate so delicious. She has one sole and one
great defect. The best Scottish hotels cost very dear, and, my faith,
the two or three that I visited are not great thing like
comfortable--_ne sont pas grand'chose comme comfortable!_

One day we make a little excursion on the Lake of Lomond. The lake is
well beautiful, and the steamboat is excellent. But in one certain
hotel, in descending from a _breack_, and before to embark, we take the
"lunch." We bargain not, we ask not even the price, we eat at the _table
d'hôte_ like all the world in Swiss, in France, even in Germany, when
there is but one half hour before the departure of the train or of the
boat. _Oh la, la!_ I have eaten in the spanish hotels, on the steamboats
of the italian lakes, even in the _restaurants--mon Dieu!_--of the
english railways, but never, never--_au grand jamais_--have I eaten a
_déjeuner_ like that! One dish I shall forget never; some exterior green
leaves of lettuce, without oil or vinegar, which they called a "salad."
_Parbleu_--by blue! In all the history of the world there has been but
one man who would have could to eat her with pleasure--Nabuchodonosor!

  Agree, &c.,

    AUGUSTE.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "CANNY"

_Sister._ "Why, Charles, you've got raw whiskey here!"

_Charles._ "Well, it's hardly worth while to bring water. We can always
find that as we go along--when we want it."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CAUTIOUS

_Visitor (at out-of-the-way inn in the North)._ "Do you know anything
about salmon-poaching in this neighbourhood?"

_Landlady (whose son is not above suspicion)._--"Eh--no, sir. Maybe it's
a new style of cooking as we haven't heard of in these parts, as you
see, sir, we only do our eggs that way; and"--(_brightening up_)--"if
you like 'em, I can get you a dish at once!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A DECIDED OPINION

_Proprietor of shootings ("in the course of conversation")._ "Yes, but
you know, Sandy, it's difficult to choose between the Scylla of a shy
tenant, and the Charybdis of----"

_Sandy (promptly)._ "Aweel! Gie me the siller, an' anybuddy that likes
may hae the tither!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Chappie (after missing his fourth stag, explains)._
"Aw--fact is, the--aw--waving grass was in my way."

_Old Stalker._ "Hoot, mon, wad he hae me bring out a scythe?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Our artist catches it again this winter in the
Highlands.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A FINE HEAD (BUT NOT OF THE RIGHT SORT OF CATTLE) Perkins
has paid a mint of money for his shooting, and has had bad luck all the
season. To-day, however, he gets a shot, only--it turns out to be at a
cow!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A "SCENE" IN THE HIGHLANDS

_Ill-used husband_ (_under the bed_). "Aye! Ye may crack me, and ye may
thrash me, but ye canna break my manly sperrit. I'll na come oot!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MR. PUNCH IN THE HIGHLANDS

He is at present on a boating excursion, and describes the motion as
extremely pleasant, and has no dread of sea-sickness.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "GAME" IN THE HIGHLANDS

_Captain Jinks._ "Birds plentiful, I hope, Donald?"

_Donald._ "Tousans, sir--in tousans."

_Captain J._ "Any zebras?"

_Donald_ (_anxious to please_). "Is't zebras? They're in tousans, too."

_Captain J._ "And gorillas, no doubt?"

_Donald._ "Well, noo an' then we see ane or twa--just like yerself."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MISS LAVINIA BROUNJONES'S ADVENTURES IN THE HIGHLANDS

Lavinia takes a siesta,]

[Illustration: And the frightful situation she finds herself in at the
end of it.]

[Illustration: Lavinia arrives at a waterfall, and asks its name. The
shepherd (not understanding English) informs her in Gaelic that it is
called (as Lavinia supposes) "Vicharoobashallochoggilnabo." Lavinia
thinks it a very pretty name.]

[Illustration: A bright idea strikes the shepherd, and before Lavinia
can remonstrate, he transports her, in the usual manner, to the other
side.]

[Illustration: MISS LAVINIA BROUNJONES

She comes suddenly on a strange structure--apparently a native fort, and
is just going to sketch it, when a savage of gigantic stature, and armed
to the teeth, starts from an ambush, and menaces her in Gaelic!]

       *       *       *       *       *

TWENTY HOURS AFTER

EUSTON, 8 P.M.

    I'm sick of this sweltering weather.
      Phew! ninety degrees in the shade!
    I long for the hills and the heather,
      I long for the kilt and the plaid;
    I long to escape from this hot land
      Where there isn't a mouthful of air,
    And fly to the breezes of Scotland--
      It's never too stuffy up there.

    For weeks I have sat in pyjamas,
      And found even these were _de trop_,
    And envied the folk of Bahamas
      Who dress in a feather or so;
    But now there's an end to my grilling,
      My Inferno's a thing of the past;
    Hurrah! there's the whistle a-shrilling--
      We are off to the Highlands at last!

CALLANDER, 4 P.M.

    The dull leaden skies are all clouded
      In the gloom of a sad weeping day,
    The desolate mountains are shrouded
      In palls of funereal grey;
    'Mid the skirl of the wild wintry weather
      The torrents descend in a sheet
    As we shiver all huddled together
      In the reek of the smouldering peat.

    A plague on the Highlands! to think of
      The heat that but lately we banned;
    Oh! what would we give for a blink of
      The bright sunny side of the Strand!
    To think there are folk that still revel
      In Summer, and fling themselves down,
    In the Park, or St. James? What the d----
      Possessed us to hurry from town?

       *       *       *       *       *

"OUT OF TUNE AND HARSH."--_First Elder_ (_at the Kirk "Skellin'"_). "Did
ye hear Dougal? More snorin' in the sermon?"

_Second Elder_, "Parefec'ly disgracefu'! He's waukened 's a'!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OVERHEARD IN THE HIGHLANDS

_First Chieftain._ "I say, old chap, what a doose of a bore these games
are!"

_Second Chieftain._ "Ah, but, my dear boy, it is this sort of thing that
has made us Scotchmen _what we are!!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "SERMONS IN STONES"

_Tourist_ (_of an inquiring and antiquarian turn_). "Now I suppose,
farmer, that large cairn of stones has some history?"

_Highland Farmer._ "Ooh, aye, that buig o' stanes has a gran' history
whatever!"

_Tourist_ (_eagerly_). "Indeed! I should like to----What is the
legend----?"

_Farmer._ "Just a gran' history!" (_Solemnly._) "It took a' ma cairts
full and horses sax months to gather them aff he land and pit them
ther-r-re!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: JETSAM AND FLOTSAM

Smith being shut out from the Continent this year, takes a cottage ornée
on Dee-Side. Scotland. The children are sent up first. The house is
described as "conveniently furnished"--they find it so!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: IN THE WILDS OF THE NORTH.

_Hungry Saxon_ (_just arrived, with equally hungry family_). "Well,
now--er--what can you give us for dinner, as soon as we've had a wash?"

_Scotch Lassie._ "Oh, jist onything!"

_H. S._ (_rubbing his hands in anticipation_). "Ah! Now we'll have a
nice juicy steak."

_Lassie._ "A--weel. We'll be haein' some steak here maybe by the boat i'
the morn's morn!"

_H. S._ (_a little crestfallen_). "Oh--well--chops then. We'll say
mutton chops."

_Lassie._ "Oh, ay, but we've no been killin' a sheep the day!"

    [_Ends up with boiled eggs, and vows to remain at home for the future._

]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DUKE OF ATHOLL'S SHILLING (1851)

The _North British Mail_ assures us that the Duke of Atholl exacts one
shilling a head from every person taking a walk in his ground at
Dunkeld. This is rather dear; but the impost would be insupportable if
his Grace insisted upon also showing himself for the money.

A HIGHLAND CORONACH

_Or Lament over the Acts and State of the Duke of Atholl._

After Scott.

    He has shut up the mountain,
    He has locked up the forest,
    He has bunged up the fountain,
    When our need was the sorest;
    The traveller stirring
    To the North, may dogs borrow;
    But the Duke gives no hearing,
    No pass--but to sorrow.

    The hand of the tourist
    Grasps the carpet-bag grimly,
    But a face of the dourest
    Frowns through the Glen dimly.
    The autumn winds, rushing,
    Stir a kilt of the queerest,
    Duke and gillies come crushing
    Where pleasure is nearest!

    Queer foot on the corrie,
    Oddly loving to cumber--
    Give up this odd foray,
    Awake from your slumber!
    Take your ban from the mountain,
    Take your lock from the river,
    Take your bolt from the fountain,
    Now at once, and for ever!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: The sad fate of our only ham.--The pursuit.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A RARA MONGRELLIS

_Tourist._ "Your dog appears to be deaf, as he pays no attention to me."

_Shepherd._ "Na, na, sir. She's a varra wise dog, for all tat. But she
only speaks Gaelic."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "IN FOR IT"

_Innocent Tourist._ "No fish to be caught in Loch Fine now? And how do
you support yourself?"

_Native._ "Whiles she carries parcels, and whiles she raws people in ta
poat, and whiles a shentleman 'ull give her a saxpence or a shillin'!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A BLANK DAY

_The Keeper_ (_to Brown, who rents the forest_). "Doon wi' ye! Doon wi'
ye! Get ahint a stang!"

_Brown_ (_out of temper--he had been "stalking" about all the morning,
and missed several times_). "Yes, it's all very well to say 'Get behind
a stone.' But show me one!--show me one!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Mr. Punch passes a night at McGillie Cullum Castle.]

[Illustration: The Laird, as a delicate compliment, serenades him.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A BAD SEASON

_Sportsman._ "I can assure you, what with the rent of the moor, and my
expenses, and 'what not,' the birds have cost me--ah--a sovereign
apiece!!"

_Keeper._ "A' weel, sir! 'Deed it's a maircy ye didna kill na mair o'
'em!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CANDID

_Sportsman._ "Boy, you've been at this whiskey!"

_Boy_ (_who has brought the luncheon-basket_). "Na! The cooark wadna
come oot!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "UNCO CANNY"

_Noble Sportsman._ "Missed, eh?"

_Cautious Keeper._ "Weel, a' wadna gang quite sae faur as to say that;
but a' doot ye hay'na _exactly_ hit."]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SONG OF THE SCOTCH TOURIST

    Those Scotch hotels! Those Scotch hotels
    Are fit for princes and for swells;
    But their high charges don't agree
    With humbler travellers like me.

    Twelve shillings daily for my board
    Is more than I can well afford,
    For this includes nor ale nor wine,
    Whereof I drink some when I dine.

    Bad sherry's charged at eight-and-six,
    A price that in my gizzard sticks:
    And if I want a pint of port,
    A crown is what I'm pilfer'd for 't.

    For service, too, I have to pay,
    Two shillings, as a rule, per day:
    Yet always, when I leave the door,
    The boots and waiter beg for more.

    So, till a fortune I can spend,
    Abroad my autumn steps I'll bend;
    Far cheaper there, experience tells,
    Is living than at Scotch hotels!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A VERY DIFFERENT MATTER

_Southern Lord_ (_staying at Highland castle_). "Thank you so much.
I--ah--weally enjoy your music. I think of having a piper at my own
place."

_Sandy the piper._ "An' fat kin' o' a piper would your lordship be
needin'?"

_Southern Lord._ "Oh, certainly a good piper like yourself, Sandy."

_Sandy_ (_sniffing_). "Och! Inteet!--Ye might easily fin' a lord like
your lordship, but it's nae sae easy to fin' a piper like me whatever!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

THE END

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.