solemnised in Inverness. I resolved to attend them, and, if I saw fit, to join in them. But I was informed by a Highland friend of mine, Laidle of Toddie, a laird much respected, that all competitors must appear in the kilt. As my own graceful proportions would look equally well in any costume, this presented no difficulty, and I marched off to Mr. Macdougall, the great Highland costumier, and after walking through a dazzling array of Gaelic glories, I said, mildly, "Can you make me a Highland dress?"

"Certainly, in a few hours", said Mr. Macdougall; but somehow I fancied that he did not seem to think that I was displaying any vast amount of sense.

"Then, please to make me one, very handsome", said I; "and send it home to-night." And I was going out of the warehouse.

"But, sir", said Mr. Macdougall, "do you belong to any clan, or what tartan will you have?"

"Mr. Macdougall", said I, "it may be that I do belong to a clan, or am affiliated to one. It may be, that like Edward Waverley, I shall be known hereafter as the friend of the sons (and daughters) of the clan ——. It may be that if war broke out between that clan and another, I would shout our war-cry, and, drawing my claymore, would walk into the hostile clan like one o'clock. But at present that is a secret, and I wear not the garb of any clan in particular. Please to make me up a costume out of the garbs of several clans, but be sure you put the brightest colours, as they suit my complexion."

I am bound to say that though Mr. Macdougall firmly declined being party to this arrangement, which he said would be inartistic, he did so with the utmost courtesy. My opinion is, that he thought I was a little cracked. Many persons have thought that, but there is no foundation for the suspicion.

"You see, Mr. Macdougall", says I, "I am a Plantagenet by descent, and one of my ancestors was hanged in the time of George the Second. Do those facts suggest anything to you in the way of costume?"

"The first does not", he said, "but the second may. A good many persons had the misfortune to be hanged about the time you mention, and for the same reason. I suppose your ancestor died for the Stuarts."

"No, sir, he died for a steward. The unfortunate nobleman was most iniquitously destroyed for shooting a plebeian of the name of Johnson, for which reason I hate everybody of that name, from Ben downwards, and will not have a Johnson's Dictionary in my house."

"Then, sir", says Mr. Macdougall, "the case is clear. You can mark your sense of the conduct of the sovereign who executed your respected relative. You can assume the costume of his chief enemies. You can wear the Stuart tartan."

"Hm", says I. "I should look well in it, no doubt; but then I have no hostility to the present House of Brunswick."

"Why", says he, laughing; "Her Majesty dresses her own princes in the Stuart tartan. I ought to know that."

"Then that's settled", I replied.

Ha! You would indeed have been proud of your contributor, had you seen him splendidly arrayed in that gorgeous garb, and treading the heather of Inverness High Street like a young mountaineer. He did not look then like

Epicurus Rotundus.

    Inverness Castle.

^[1] We perfectly understand this advsnce towards civility as the writer approaches the end of his journey. He is a superior kind of young man, if not the genius he imagines himself.--Ed.

Notice to the Highlanders.—Whereas Mr. Punch, through his "Bilious Contributor", did on the 7th November, 1863, offer a prize of fifty guineas to the best Highland player at Spellikins, in the games for 1873. And whereas Mr. Punch has had the money, with ten years' interest, quite ready, and waiting to be claimed. And whereas no Highland player at Spellikins appeared at the games of 1873. This to give notice that Mr. Punch has irrevocably confiscated the money to his own sole and peculiar use, and intends to use it in bribery at the next general election. He begs to remark to the Highlands, in the words of his ancestor, Robert Bruce, at Bannockburn—"There is a rose fallen from your wreath!"^[2]

Punch.

7th November, 1873.

^[2]Of course the King said nothing so sweetly sentimental. What he did say to Earl Randolph was, "Mind your eye, you great stupid ass, or you'll have the English spears in your back directly." Nor did the Earl reply, "My wreath shall bloom, or life shall fade. Follow, my household!" but, with an amazing great curse, "I'll cook 'em. Come on, you dawdling beggars, and fulfil the prophecies!" But so history is written.

More Revenge for Flodden.—Scene: a Scotch Hotel. Tourist (indignant at his bill). "Why, landlord, there must be some mistake there!" Landlord. "Mistake? Aye, aye. That stupid fellow, the waiter, has just charged you five shillings—too little."

From the Moors.—Sportsman. "Much rain Donald?" Donald. "A bit soft. Just wet a' day, wi' showers between."

A PLEASANT PROSPECT!

English Tourist. "I say, look here. How far is it to this Glenstarvit? They told us it was only——"

Native. "Aboot four miles."

Tourist (aghast). "All bog like this?"

Native. "Eh—h—this is just naethin' till't!!"

ANOTHER MISUNDERSTANDING

'Arry (on a Northern tour, with Cockney pronunciation). "Then I'll 'ave a bottle of aile."

Hostess of the Village Inn. "Ile, sir? We've nane in the hoose, but castor ile or paraffin. Wad ony o' them dae, sir?"

THE WEIRD SISTERS

DEER-STALKING MADE EASY

The