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_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


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