The first day’s proceedings of the sporting troop are most notable. They “leave the civilised country” at Renfrew. How they get across the Clyde does not appear; but there are no doubt stepping-stones in all Highland streams. Having thus invaded the Lennox, they forthwith stalk its desolate moors from Loch Lomond to Loch Katrine, where as a touch of local colour the author is careful to point out that one must not use the word lakes. Nine or ten strong, the company is thrown out in skirmishing order, those who have guns marching in front behind the dogs, while the unarmed members are invited to bring up the rear “as simple spectators.” Scotland being such a proverbially hospitable country, they do not judge it necessary to provide themselves with leave or license, but their hotel-keeper for two or three shillings hires a bare-legged shepherd in “a short petticoat” to show them where the game lies. In spite of this liberality, towards the end of the day the bag amounts only to three or four head, including one hare, explained to be a _rara avis_ hereabouts, and one fierce bull which has given a spice of danger to their sport. In the evening, however, the grouse begin to “rise,” spring up “every instant under their feet,” and nearly two dozen are brought down, enough to serve for supper. The question of lodging presents more difficulty, the Trossachs being an “absolutely desert” country without a village for six leagues round; but the whole party are comfortably accommodated in a fisherman’s hut, fifteen to twenty feet square, which must have been a tight fit for ten, even though there was no furniture beyond a table, two benches and a sheepskin. With genuine Scottish pride the fisherman refuses to accept a bawbee from his guests; though rather too much given to “bird’s eye tobacco” and “that abominable product of civilisation Scotch whisky,” he is a superior person, by his parents designed for the national church, but the honour of “wearing a surplice,” it is explained, had not seemed to him worth the frequent birching which makes the discipline of parish schools in the north. Next day, for a change, the strangers give themselves up to the kindred sport of angling; and two of them undertake the Alpine ascent of one of the peaks above Loch Katrine, but, without a guide, come to sore grief, and have to be rescued by a search party led by those sagacious pointers in true Ben St. Bernard style. In such cases, our author points out “the superiority of the savage over the civilised man, at least in the desert.” Only to the Highland fisherman had it occurred that those luckless adventurers might want something to eat; but he, taught by experience, produces in the nick of time a bottle of whisky, a biscuit and a slice of bacon; and thus [Illustration: NEAR ARDLUI, LOCH LOMOND, DUMBARTONSHIRE] the perishing hero’s life is saved to “dance a Scottish _gigue_”--O M. Laurie, M. Laurie, O!