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 the order.
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 dicovered miles distant on the hillside!
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!"
Mr. Briggs, feeling that his heart is in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, starts for the North.
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.
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.
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!
As the wind is favourable, the deer are driven again.
Mr. Briggs is suddenly face to face with the monarch of the glen! He is so astonished that he omits to fire his rifle.
To-day he goes out for a stalk, and Donald shows Mr. Briggs the way!
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.
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."
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.
After aiming for a quarter of an hour, Mr. B. fires both his barrels—and—misses!!!! Tableau—The forester's anguish
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!—
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.
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.
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'.
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. 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!
That's jist the game, I'm telling ye; ye know naething at a' aboot it!
Mr. McKerr. "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!"
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!!"
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."
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!!"
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!"
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!!!"
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!"
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!"
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
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!"
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?"
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.
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.
"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.
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!
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'!"
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!"
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!!"
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!"
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!!!"
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!!"
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.
There were often unforeseen circumstances which gave to the Highland stalking of those days an added zest!
'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'
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,