Part 5
One day we make an ascension, and we see many grouses. Only we can not to shoot, for it is not yet the season of the huntings. It is but a hill that we mount. The name appears me to be french, but bad written. "Ben Venue", that is to say, "_Bienvenu_"--_soyez le bienvenu_. She is one of the first of the Scottish hills, and she says "welcome" in french. It is a pretty idea, and a politeness very amiable towards my country. I salute the hospitable Scotland and I thank her. It is a great country, of brave men, of charming women--ah, I recall to myself some eyes so beautiful, some forms so attracting!--of ravishing landscapes, and, at that epoch there, of a climate so delicious. She has one sole and one great defect. The best Scottish hotels cost very dear, and, my faith, the two or three that I visited are not great thing like comfortable--_ne sont pas grand'chose comme comfortable!_
One day we make a little excursion on the Lake of Lomond. The lake is well beautiful, and the steamboat is excellent. But in one certain hotel, in descending from a _breack_, and before to embark, we take the "lunch." We bargain not, we ask not even the price, we eat at the _table d'hote_ like all the world in Swiss, in France, even in Germany, when there is but one half hour before the departure of the train or of the boat. _Oh la, la!_ I have eaten in the spanish hotels, on the steamboats of the italian lakes, even in the _restaurants--mon Dieu!_--of the english railways, but never, never--_au grand jamais_--have I eaten a _dejeuner_ like that! One dish I shall forget never; some exterior green leaves of lettuce, without oil or vinegar, which they called a "salad." _Parbleu_--by blue! In all the history of the world there has been but one man who would have could to eat her with pleasure--Nabuchodonosor!
Agree, &c.,
AUGUSTE.
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TWENTY HOURS AFTER
EUSTON, 8 P.M.
I'm sick of this sweltering weather. Phew! ninety degrees in the shade! I long for the hills and the heather, I long for the kilt and the plaid; I long to escape from this hot land Where there isn't a mouthful of air, And fly to the breezes of Scotland-- It's never too stuffy up there.
For weeks I have sat in pyjamas, And found even these were _de trop_, And envied the folk of Bahamas Who dress in a feather or so; But now there's an end to my grilling, My Inferno's a thing of the past; Hurrah! there's the whistle a-shrilling-- We are off to the Highlands at last!
CALLANDER, 4 P.M.
The dull leaden skies are all clouded In the gloom of a sad weeping day, The desolate mountains are shrouded In palls of funereal grey; 'Mid the skirl of the wild wintry weather The torrents descend in a sheet As we shiver all huddled together In the reek of the smouldering peat.
A plague on the Highlands! to think of The heat that but lately we banned; Oh! what would we give for a blink of The bright sunny side of the Strand! To think there are folk that still revel In Summer, and fling themselves down, In the Park, or St. James? What the d---- Possessed us to hurry from town?
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"OUT OF TUNE AND HARSH."--_First Elder_ (_at the Kirk "Skellin'"_). "Did ye hear Dougal? More snorin' in the sermon?"
_Second Elder_, "Parefec'ly disgracefu'! He's waukened 's a'!"
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THE DUKE OF ATHOLL'S SHILLING (1851)
The _North British Mail_ assures us that the Duke of Atholl exacts one shilling a head from every person taking a walk in his ground at Dunkeld. This is rather dear; but the impost would be insupportable if his Grace insisted upon also showing himself for the money.
A HIGHLAND CORONACH
_Or Lament over the Acts and State of the Duke of Atholl._
After Scott.
He has shut up the mountain, He has locked up the forest, He has bunged up the fountain, When our need was the sorest; The traveller stirring To the North, may dogs borrow; But the Duke gives no hearing, No pass--but to sorrow.
The hand of the tourist Grasps the carpet-bag grimly, But a face of the dourest Frowns through the Glen dimly. The autumn winds, rushing, Stir a kilt of the queerest, Duke and gillies come crushing Where pleasure is nearest!
Queer foot on the corrie, Oddly loving to cumber-- Give up this odd foray, Awake from your slumber! Take your ban from the mountain, Take your lock from the river, Take your bolt from the fountain, Now at once, and for ever!
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THE SONG OF THE SCOTCH TOURIST
Those Scotch hotels! Those Scotch hotels Are fit for princes and for swells; But their high charges don't agree With humbler travellers like me.
Twelve shillings daily for my board Is more than I can well afford, For this includes nor ale nor wine, Whereof I drink some when I dine.
Bad sherry's charged at eight-and-six, A price that in my gizzard sticks: And if I want a pint of port, A crown is what I'm pilfer'd for 't.
For service, too, I have to pay, Two shillings, as a rule, per day: Yet always, when I leave the door, The boots and waiter beg for more.
So, till a fortune I can spend, Abroad my autumn steps I'll bend; Far cheaper there, experience tells, Is living than at Scotch hotels!
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THE END
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.