(_More Leaves from the Highland Journal of Toby, M.P._)
_Quiverfield, Haddingtonshire, Monday._--You can't spend twenty-four
hours at Quiverfield without having borne in upon you the truth that the
only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff. (On other side of Tweed
they call it golf. Here we are too much in a hurry to get at the game to
spend time on unnecessary consonant.) The waters of what Victor Hugo
called "The First of the Fourth" lave the links at Quiverfield. Blue as
the Mediterranean they have been in a marvellous autumn, soon to lapse
into November. We can see the Bass Rock from the eighth hole, and can
almost hear the whirr of the balls skimming with swallow flight over the
links at North Berwick.
Prince Arthur here to-day, looking fully ten years younger than when I
last saw him at Westminster. Plays through live-long day, and drives off
fourteen miles for dinner at Whittinghame, thinking no more of it than
if he were crossing Palace Yard. Our host, Waverley Pen, is happy in
possession of links at his park gates. All his own, for self and
friends. You step through the shrubbery, and there are the far-reaching
links; beyond them the gleaming waters of the Forth. Stroll out
immediately after breakfast to meet the attendant caddies; play goff
till half-past one; reluctantly break off for luncheon; go back to
complete the fearsome foursome; have tea brought out to save time; leave
off in bare time to dress for dinner; talk goff at dinner; arrange
matches after dinner; and the new morning finds the caddies waiting as
before.
[Illustration: Fingen's finger.]
Decidedly the only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff.
_Deeside, Aberdeenshire, Wednesday._--Fingen, M.P., once told an abashed
House of Commons that he "owned a mountain in Scotland." Find, on
visiting him in his ancestral home, that he owns a whole range. Go up
one or two of them; that comparatively easy; difficulty presents itself
when we try to get down. Man and boy, Fingen has lived here fifty years;
has not yet acquired knowledge necessary to guide a party home after
ascending one of his mountains. Walking up in cool of afternoon, we
usually get home sore-footed and hungry about midnight.
"Must be going now", says Fingen, M.P., when we have seen view from top
of mountain. "Just time to get down before dark. But I know short cut;
be there in a jiffy. Come along."
We come along. At end of twenty minutes find ourselves in front of
impassable gorge.
"Ha!" says Fingen, M.P., cheerily. "Must have taken wrong turn; better
go back and start again."
All very well to say go back; but where were we? Fingen, M.P., knows;
wets his finger; holds it up.
"Ha!" he says, with increased joyousness of manner; "the wind is blowing
that way, is it? Then we turn to the left."
Another twenty minutes stumbling through aged heather. Path trends
downwards.
"That's all right", says Fingen, M.P.; "must lead on to the road."
Instead of which we nearly fall into a bubbling burn. Go back again;
make bee line up acclivity nearly as steep as side of house; find
ourselves again on top of mountain.
"How lucky!" shouts Fingen, M.P., beaming with delight.
As if we had been trying all this time to get to top of mountain instead
of to bottom!
Wants to wet his finger again and try how the wind lies. We protest. Let
us be saved that at least. Fingen leads off in quite another direction.
By rocky pathway which threatens sprains; through bushes and brambles
that tear the clothes; by dangerous leaps from rock to rock he brings us
to apparently impenetrable hedge. We stare forlorn.
[Illustration: The crack of the whip('s pate!)]
"Ha!" says Fingen, M.P., more aggressively cheerful than ever. "The road
is on other side. Thought we would come upon it somewhere." Somehow or
other we crawl through.
"Nothing like having an eye to the lay of country", says Fingen, M.P.,
as we limp along the road. "It's a sort of instinct, you know. If I
hadn't been with you, you might have had to camp out all night on the
mountain."
They don't play goff at Deeside. They bicycle. Down the long avenue with
spreading elm trees deftly trained to make triumphal arches, the
bicycles come and go. Whipsroom, M.P., thinks opportunity convenient
for acquiring the art of cycling. W. is got up with consummate art. Has
had his trousers cut short at knee in order to display ribbed stockings
of rainbow hue. Loose tweed-jacket, blood-red necktie, white felt hat
with rim turned down all round, combine to lend him air of a Drury Lane
bandit out of work. Determined to learn to ride the bicycle, but spends
most of the day on his hands and knees, or on his back. Looking down
avenue at any moment pretty sure to find W. either running into the iron
fence, coming off sideways, or bolting head first over the handles of
his bike. Get quite new views of him fore-shortened in all possible
ways, some that would be impossible to any but a man of his
determination.
"Never had a man stay in the house", says Fingen, M.P., ruefully, "who
so cut up the lawn with his head, or indented the gravel with his elbows
and his knees."
Evidently I was mistaken about goff. Cycling's the thing in Scotland.
_Goasyoucan, Inverness-shire, Saturday._--Wrong again. Not goff nor
cycling is the thing to do in Scotland. It's stalking. Soon learn that
great truth at Goasyoucan. The hills that encircle the house densely
populated with stags. To-day three guns grassed nine, one a royal. This
the place to spend a happy day, crouching down among the heather
awaiting the fortuitous moment. Weather no object. Rain or snow out you
go, submissive to guidance and instruction of keeper; by comparison with
whose tyranny life of the ancient galley-slave was perfect freedom.
Consummation of human delight this, to lie prone on your face amid the
wet heather, with the rain pattering down incessantly, or the snow
pitilessly falling, covering you up flake by flake as if it were a robin
and you a babe in the wood. Mustn't stir; mustn't speak; if you can
conveniently dispense with the operation, better not breathe. Sometimes,
after morning and greater part of afternoon thus cheerfully spent, you
may get a shot; even a stag. Also you may not; or, having attained the
first, may miss the latter. At any rate you have spent a day of
exhilarating delight.
Stalking is evidently the thing to do in Scotland. It's a far cry to the
Highlands. Happily there is Arthur's Seat by Edinburgh town where
beginners can practise, and old hands may feign delight of early
triumphs.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE "IRREPRESSIBLE" AGAIN
_Gent in Knickerbockers._ "Rummy speakers them 'Ighlanders, 'Enery. When
we wos talking to one of the 'ands, did you notice 'im saying
'_nozzing_' for '_nothink_,' and '_she_' for '_e_'?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE LAST STRAW"
"Tired out, are you? Try a drop of brandy! Eh!--what!--confound----By
jingo, I've forgotten my flask!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: NOTHING LIKE MOUNTAIN AIR
_Tourist (who has been refreshing himself with the toddy of the
country)._ "I shay, ole fler! Highlands seem to 'gree with you
wonerfly--annomishtake. Why, you look DOUBLE the man already!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE HEIGHT OF BLISS
_Highland Shepherd._ "Fine toon, Glasco', I pelieve, and lots o' coot
meat there."
_Tourist._ "Oh, yes, lots."
_Highland Shepherd._ "An' drink, too?"
_Tourist._ "Oh, yes."
_Highland Shepherd (doubtingly)._ "Ye'll get porter tae yir parrich?"
_Tourist._ "Yes, if we like."
_Highland Shepherd._ "Cra-ci-ous!"
[_Speechless with admiration._
]
* * * * *
[Illustration: TENACITY
_First North Briton_ (_on the Oban boat, in a rolling sea and dirty
weather_). "Thraw it up, man, and ye'll feel a' the better!"
_Second ditto_ (_keeping it down_). "Hech, mon, it's whuskey!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: EXCUSABLE WRATH
_Drover_ (_exhausted with his struggles_). "Whit are ye wouf, woufan'
there, ye stupit ass! It wud be wis-eer like if ye gang awn hame, an'
bring a barrow!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A SOFT IMPEACHMENT
_Sporting Saxon (mournfully, after three weeks' incessant down-pour)._
"Does it always rain like this up here, Mr. McFuskey?"
_His Guide, Philosopher, and Friendly Landlord (calmly)._ "Oo aye, it's
a-ye just a wee bit shooery."!!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: ANTIQUARIAN RESEARCH