Mr. Punch in the Highlands, J. A. Hammerton and Charles Keene [books to read romance .txt] 📗
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[Cover]
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE.
Some pages of this work have been moved from the original sequence to enable the contents to continue without interruption. The page numbering remains unaltered.
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PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR Edited by J. A. HammertonDesigned 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.
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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!!"
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MR. PUNCH IN THE HIGHLANDS AS PICTURED BYCHARLES 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 ILLUSTRATIONSPUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"
THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.
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THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo. 192 pagesfully 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
[Pg 5]
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[Pg 6] 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.
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MR. PUNCH IN THE HIGHLANDS
"SPORTING NOTES"
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[Pg 8] 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[Pg 10] 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[Pg 14] 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.
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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.
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MR. BUGGLE'S FIRST STAG
1) AT THE FIRST SHOT MR BUGGLE'S FIRST STAG LAY PRONE.
2) ELATED WITH SUCCESS MR B. RUSHED UP AND SEATED HIMSELF ASTRIDE HIS VICTIM.
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3) BUT ALAS IT WAS ONLY SLIGHTLY STUNNED, AND PROMPTLY ROSE TO THE OCCASION.
4) SO DID MR B.
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5) THE LAW OF GRAVITY PROVED TOO STRONG WHEN A LUCKY SHOT FROM THE KEEPER
6) PLACED MATTERS UPON A SATISFACTORY FOOTING ONCE MORE.
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MY ONLY SHOT AT A CORMORANT.
Here she comes!
There she goes!
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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.
"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 [Pg 17]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.
"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
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