courtesy called an hotel. All night, long, the
Duke of Cumberland, in a red coat, with a
redder face, sat on the foot of my bed, and wrote
orders of execution on the backs of playingcards.
I noticed that every card was the nine
of diamonds, which, as you are aware, is known
as the Curse of Scotland.

Inverness, the capital of the Highlands, over
the hills and faraway from the accepted centres
of civilisation, is a town well calculated to
astonish the weak minds of those English
excursionists who approach Scotland with
misgivings lest they should not find food fit to eat,
a bed fit to lie in, or a roof capable of keeping
out the weather. There is a street as fine as
Regent-street, with plate-glass windows a story
high; there are banks so architecturally splendid,
that I am sure they would, in that respect,
disdain to call the Old Lady in Threadneedle-street
their thirteenth cousin; there is a tartan
warehouse, which combines the extensiveness of
Cannon-street with the gorgeousuess of
Stamboul; there are hotels nearly as big as the
Grosvenor and the Langham, but infinitely
superior, inasmuch as their accommodation is of
a lower class, and their charges are higher.

But to my mind the lion of Inverness is the
tartan warehouse of one Mr. M'Dougall. Such a
large and varied assortment of soft pretty things
I never saw before. And so temptingly laid
out! Plaids, scarves, kilts, cloaks, heatherwool
jackets daintily shaped and daintily lined
for dainty figures, ribbons, hose, cairngorm-hilted
dirks and skeans—a gathering of all the
tartans of all the clans. I was obliged to tear
myself away, for fear I might not leave myself
money enough to carry me back to London. I
was told, however, that tartan is going out of
fashion. The " garb of old Gaul," too, is going
out of fashion even in Inverness. I saw only
one kilt, and that was worn by the hotel-gillie.
A mighty Scottish chief with an historical name,
a Mac of that ilk, the definite article of his clan,
came down from the hills to meet the canal-boat
at one of the stations, and that Scottish chieftain
wore knickerbockers! At one period the
kilt was a defiance to the Saxon, and a protest
against Geordie's occupancy of Charlie's chair;
but that feeling was buried long ago, and a
Scotchman may now wear breeks with a loyal
conscience.

I am following now the beaten track of the
excursionists and tourists. Oban has been called
the Charing-cross of the Highlands. Inverness
may, on the same principle, be called the Angel
at Islington of the Highlands, Fort Augustus
the King's-cross, and Fort St. George the
Regent's-circus. It is a pleasant two days'
journey through canal and lake, now walking
along the banks while the steamer ascends the
locks, now driving for a short distance by coach,
and then again turning aside to view some waterfall
or glen; but it is not the best way to see
the Highlands, and to be fully impressed with
the grandeur of the scenery. Your attention is
distracted between men and mountains, between
"far-folding mists" and the steam of the pots
on the galley-fire, between Ben Nevis and the
flavour of his dew which comes up the cabin
stairs. I for one am willing to confess that
where there are a man and a mountain, I prefer
the man.

             The proper study of mankind is man.

I see Dr. Johnson and Mr. James Boswell
jogging along upon two Highland ponies,
communing with nature undisturbed by those
applications of modern art and science, which,
while they overcome difficulties of locomotion,
are destructive of the higher sentiments which
grand and romantic scenery is calculated to
inspire in the human breast. These breezy lakes,
those stark shuddering rocks, yonder towering
mountains lifting their heads above the mists to
the blue heavens, the grim ruins of ancient
castles—all these are very fine, very grand, but
to me they would not be half so interesting if
my fancy did not associate them with the
war-like chiefs and clansmen of old. On the loch I
see the chieftain's boat, on the hills I see the
gleam of steel, and the wind comes to me laden
with the sound of the pibroch. And no small
share of my pleasure I derive from that
ever-present vision of Dr. Johnson jogging along on
his pony.

But there is too much eating and drinking
going on to leave my soul quite open to the
influence of fine thoughts. If I could get rid
of the steam-boat, and the venison-pies, and the
eternal odour of toddy, I dare say I could lie
upon my back among the birch-trees yonder and
poetise about Ben Nevis. As it is, I am
wondering where Long John's distillery is. The
only kilted persons I saw between Inverness
and Oban were a Scotch-African mighty hunter,
who makes a show of his skins and other
trophies at Fort Augustus, and a blind
white-bearded beggar. I would not dress up and
walk about in broad day like this hunter for a
thousand pounds. At Oban I saw nothing
remarkable, except an unconscionable hotel bill,
and a tame seagull that fought a dog and come
down to the boat to beg for biscuit. There was
nothing in Oban that I should have cared to
bring away but that bird. If I go there again,
I shall inquire for him. Meantime, here's to
his health and his family's, and may he live
long and prosper. The Crinan Canal is quite
a " sensation." It is not so wide as the canal
that runs through Regent's Park, London,
and the barge, which just fits it (but not without
causing the dish to overflow), is dragged
along at a gallop by two horses ridden by
post-boys in red jackets. For fully three miles a
flock of little barefooted children kept pace
with us on the bank, and called to us to "heave
oot." The excursionists threw them halfpence,
and they scrambled for them, and sometimes fell
into the water. Some of the urchins were certainly
not more than six years old, yet they ran for the
whole course without stopping, except to scramble
for the money, and they did not seem in the
slightest degree distressed. It was, I heard,
their daily occupation to attend upon two boats.