Mr. Punch in the Highlands, J. A. Hammerton and Charles Keene [books to read romance .txt] 📗
Book online «Mr. Punch in the Highlands, J. A. Hammerton and Charles Keene [books to read romance .txt] 📗». Author J. A. Hammerton and Charles Keene
Tourist. "Are they Havanahs, or Manillas?"
Highland Grocer. "They're just from Kircaldy!"
[Pg 99]
"THE MISS"
Gillie. "Eh, mon! But it's fortunate there's beef in Aberdeen!"
[Pg 100]
MR. BRIGGS IN THE HIGHLANDS By John Leech
Mr. Briggs, feeling that his heart is in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, starts for the North.
[Pg 101]
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.
[Pg 102]
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.
[Pg 103]
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!
[Pg 104]
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.
[Pg 105]
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.
[Pg 106]
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.
[Pg 107]
After aiming for a quarter of an hour, Mr. B. fires both his barrels—and—misses!!!! Tableau—The forester's anguish
[Pg 108]
The royal hart Mr. Briggs did NOT hit.
[Pg 109]
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!—
[Pg 110]
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.
[Pg 111]
MR. BRIGGS GROUSE SHOOTING
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.
[Pg 112]
SKETCHES FROM SCOTLAND At the Drumquhidder Highland Gathering.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'.
[Mrs. McTavish assents, but without enthusiasm.
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?[Pg 114]
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. Parritch does not pursue the subject.
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[Pg 116] 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[Pg 118] 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[Pg 120] 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[Pg 122] 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![Pg 126]
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.[Pg 128] 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
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