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"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


_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]


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

* * * * *

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."

* * * * *


_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!!"]

* * * * *


_'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]

* * * * *


The patent silent motor-crawler.]

* * * * *


(_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!!"]

* * * * *



* * * * *


_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!"]

* * * * *


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

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

* * * * *

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

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


* * * * *

[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!"]

* * * * *


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.

* * * * *


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.

* * * * *


Breaches of promise.

* * * * *


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!"]

* * * * *


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

* * * * *



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;
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!_

* * * * *


(_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

[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

"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

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

"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

* * * * *


_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!"]

* * * * *


_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!"]

* * * * *


_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."!!]

* * * * *


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!"]

* * * * *


_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

* * * * *

[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!"]

* * * * *


"_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

_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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *


_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!"]

* * * * *




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

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