Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication. Robert Michael Ballantyne

stage-coaches in Scotland.”

      “Well; but think of the slow and wearisome travelling among great mountains, over precipices, and through Scotch mists. Lady Knownothing assures me she has been told that the rain never ceases in Scotland, except for a short time in autumn, just to give the scanty crops time to ripen. You know, dear, that our darling Jacky’s health could never stand the Scotch mists, he is so very, delicate.”

      “Why, Mary!” exclaimed Mr Sudberry, abruptly; “the doctor told me only yesterday that for a boy of five years old he was a perfect marvel of robust health—that nothing ailed him, except the result of over-eating and the want of open-air exercise; and I am sure that I can testify to the strength of his legs and the soundness of his lungs; for he kicks like a jackass, and roars like a lion.”

      “It is very wrong, very sinful of the doctor,” said Mrs Sudberry, in a languidly indignant manner, “to give such a false report of the health of our darling boy.”

      At this moment the door burst open, and the “darling boy” rushed into the room—with a wild cheer of defiance at his nurse, from whom he had escaped, and who was in full pursuit—hit his head on the corner of the table, and fell flat on the floor, with a yell that might have sent a pang of jealousy to the heart of a Chippeway Indian!

      Mr Sudberry started up, and almost overturned the tea-table in his haste; but before he could reach his prostrate son, nurse had him kicking in her arms, and carried him off howling.

      “Darling child!” said Mrs Sudberry, with her hand on her heart. “How you do startle me, John, with your violence! That is the fifteenth tea-cup this week.”

      The good lady pointed to a shattered member of the set that lay on the tray beside her.

      “I have just ordered a new set, my dear,” said her husband, in a subdued voice. “Our poor dear boy would benefit, I think, by mountain air. But go on with the cons.”

      “Have I not said enough?” replied Mrs Sudberry, with an injured look. “Besides, they have no food in Scotland.”

      This was a somewhat staggering assertion. The merchant looked astonished.

      “At least,” pursued his wife, “they have nothing, I am told, but oatmeal. Do you imagine that Jacky could live on oatmeal? Do you suppose that your family would return to London in a condition fit to be looked at, after a summer spent on food such as we give to our horses? No doubt you will tell me they have plenty of milk,—buttermilk, I suppose, which I abhor. But do you think that I could live with pleasure on sawdust, just because I had milk to take to it?”

      “But milk implies cream, my dear,” interposed the merchant, “and buttermilk implies butter, and both imply cows, which are strong presumptive evidence in favour of beef. Besides—”

      “Don’t talk to me, Mr Sudberry. I know better; and Lady Knownothing, who went to Scotland last year, in the most unprejudiced state of mind, came back absolutely horrified by what she had seen. Why, she actually tells me that the natives still wear the kilt! The very day she passed through Edinburgh she met five hundred men without trousers! To be sure, they had guns on their shoulders, and someone told her they were soldiers; but the sight was so appalling that she could not get rid of the impression; she shut her eyes, and ordered the coachman to drive straight through the town, and let her know when she was quite beyond its walls. She has no doubt whatever that most, if not all, of the other inhabitants of that place were clothed—perhaps I should say unclothed—in the same way. What surprised poor Lady Knownothing most was, that she did not see nearly so many kilts in the Highlands as she saw on that occasion in Edinburgh, from which she concluded that the natives of Scotland are less barbarous in the north than they are in the south. But she did see a few. One man who played those hideous things called the pipes—which, she says, are so very like little pigs being killed—actually came into her presence one day, sat down before her with bare knees, and took a pinch of snuff with a salt-spoon!”

      “That is a dreadful account, no doubt,” said Mr Sudberry, “but you must remember that Lady Knownothing is given to exaggerating, and is therefore not to be depended on. Have you done with the cons?”

      “Not nearly done, John, but my nervous system cannot stand the sustained contemplation of such things. I should like to recover breath, and hear what you have to say in favour of this temporary expatriation, I had almost said, of your family.”

      “Well, then, here goes for the pros,” cried Mr Sudberry, while a gleam of excitement shot from his eyes, and his clinched hand came heavily down on the table.

      “The sixteenth cup—as near as possible,” observed his wife, languidly.

      “Never mind the cups, my dear, but listen to me. The air of the Highlands is salubrious and bracing—”

      “And piercingly cold, my dear John,” interrupted Mrs Sudberry.

      “In summer,” pursued her husband, regardless of the interruption, “it is sometimes as clear and warm as it is in Italy—”

      “And often foggy, my dear.”

      “The mountain scenery is grand and majestic beyond description—”

      “Then why attempt to describe it, dear John?”

      “The hotels in most parts of the Highlands, though rather expensive—”

      “Ah! think of that, my dear.”

      “Though rather expensive, are excellent; the food is of the best quality, and the wines are passable. Beds—”

      “Have they beds, my dear?”

      “Beds are generally found to be well aired and quite clean, though of course in the poorer and more remote districts they are—”

      “Hush! pray spare my feelings, my dear John.”

      “Remote districts, they are not so immaculate as one would wish. Then there are endless moors covered with game, and splendid lakes and rivers full of fish. Just think, Mary, what a region for our dear boys to revel in! Think of the shooting—”

      “And the dreadful accidents, my dear.”

      “Think of the fishing—”

      “And the wet feet, and the colds. Poor darling Jacky, what a prospect!”

      “Think of the glorious sunrises seen from the mountain-tops before breakfast—”

      “And the falling over precipices, and broken necks and limbs, dear John.”

      “Think of the shaggy ponies for our darling Lucy to ride on—”

      “Ah! and to fall off.”

      “And the dew of early morning on the hills, and the mists rolling up from the lakes, and the wild uncultivated beauty of all around us, and the sketching, and walking, and driving—”

      “Dreadful!”

      “And bathing and boating—”

      “And drowning!”

      “Not to mention the—”

      “Dear John, have pity on me. The pros are too much for me. I cannot stand the thought—”

      “But, my dear, the place is taken. The thing is fixed,” said Mr Sudberry, with emphasis. Mrs Sudberry was a wise woman. When she was told by her husband that a thing was fixed, she invariably gave in with a good grace. Her powers of dissuasion having failed,—as they always did fail,—she arose, kissed Mr Sudberry’s forehead, assured him that she would try to make the most of it, since it was fixed, and left the room with the comfortable feeling, of having acted the part of a dutiful wife and a resigned martyr.

      It was towards the close of a doubtful summer’s evening, several weeks after the conversation just detailed, that a heavy stage-coach, of an old-fashioned description, toiled slowly up the ascent of one of those wild passes by which access is gained into the highlands of Perthshire.

      The course of the vehicle had for some time