Mr. Punch in the Highlands by J. A. Hammerton and Charles Keene (books to improve english .txt) 📖

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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.

[Pg 42]

"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[Pg 44] 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."[Pg 46]

"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.

[1] We perfectly understand this advsnce 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.

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[Pg 48] 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!"[2]

Punch.

7th November, 1873.

[2]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."

[Pg 29]

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!!"

[Pg 31]

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?"

[Pg 33]

THE WEIRD SISTERS

[Pg 35]

DEER-STALKING MADE EASY The patent silent motor-crawler. [Pg 36]

ILLUSTRATED QUOTATIONS

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

"Is this the noble Moor...?"—Othello, Act IV., Scene 1.

[Pg 37]

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!!"

[Pg 38]

MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF YE ENGLYSHE IN 1849 DEERE STALKYNGE IN YE HYGHLANDES

[Pg 39]

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!"

[Pg 41]

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!"

[Pg 43]

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!"

[Pg 45]

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

Tipped! "NEMO ME IMPUNE", &c.

[Pg 47]

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

[Pg 49]

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!"

[Pg 50]

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!"

[Pg 51]

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!"

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.[Pg 52] 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[Pg 54] 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.

[Pg 53]

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!"

[Pg 55]