A Scotch Sketch

"A Scotch Sketch" by Charles Battell Loomis is a lighthearted, humorous travelogue that captures the author's experiences and observations during a trip to Scotland. Through witty anecdotes and vivid descriptions, Loomis presents a charming portrayal of Scottish culture, landscapes, and the quirky characters he encounters. The narrative combines a sense of adventure with a playful critique of both travel and tourism, making it an engaging read for those interested in travel literature and Scottish traditions.

• Short story

								
The shadows lengthened on old Ben Nevis. Surely none of my readers
imagines that Ben Nevis is the hero of my simple Scotch sketch. If
so, he is awa off. Ben Nevis is a mountain, and I have flung it in as
a suitable background for the following conversation:

“Mither, mither, ye’ll mek nae doot o’ haein’ roast beef fer supper,”
said Hillocks Kilspindie, as he sat on the old bench in front of
their cottage door.

With a troubled look, his mother, old Margaret Kilspindie, replied:
“Man, Hillocks, div ye no see me buyin’ the haggis?”

“Yes, mither; but I’m sair sick o’ haggis. Syne Scotch literatoor kem
in it’s hard put we are to live at all. I say may the plague take
Maclaren and Barrie and Crockett. Before they began to write”--and
in his excitement Hillocks was using as good English as any other
Scotchman in real life--“roast beef and wheat bread and chops and
tomato-sauce and other Christian dishes were good enough for us all.
Then came the influx of Americans who wanted to see the scenes made
immortal by the ‘Bonnie Brier Bush’ (I wish Ian might have scratched
his writing-hand upon it) and the ‘Window in Thrums’ (which I wish
some one had broken before Barrie saw it), and now it is haggis in
the morning, and haggis at noon, and haggis at night, and Scotch
dialect that tears my tongue to pieces all the time.”

“Hech, my bairnie; but thae are wrang words, an’ fu’ o’ unchristian
bitterness.”

“Oh, mother! drop your ‘hechs’ and your ‘fu’s.’ There are no
Americans about this evening. It’s hard enough to talk the abominable
gibberish when we have to, without keeping it up all the time.
But, tell me, mother, couldn’t you smuggle in a little roast beef
to-night, and let me eat in the cellar?” And a pleading look came
into the young man’s eyes that was hard to resist.

“My bairn--I mean my boy, I’d like to, but I dare not. Maclaren’s
inspectors are due here any minute, and I could ill afford to pay the
heavy fine that would be levied if we were found with as English a
thing as roast beef in the house. No, lad, we maun stick to parritch
and haggis--I mean we must stick to oatmeal and haggis.”

Just then the sentry that was stationed at the outskirts of the
village to warn the villagers of the approach of Americans gave the
laugh of warning: “H-O! H-O! H-O!” And, with a bitter look on his
face, and a shake of his fist in the direction of Loch Lomond, Ben
Nevis, Ben Bolt, and various other bits of Scotch scenery that were
scattered about, Hillocks Kilspindie said to his mother: “Weel, as
surees deith a’ c’u’dna help it; tae be sittin’ on peens for mair
than twa oors, tryin’ tae get a grup o’ a man’s heads. (I learned
that this morning, mother. Isn’t it a looloo?)”

“(Indeed it is, my son. Look out! The Americans are almost within
ear-shot.) Noo we’ve tae begin an’ keep it up till they gang awa, for
there mauna be a cheep aboot the hoose, for Annie’s sake! Here they
are.”

“Mither! Mither! if ye lo’e me bring me mair haggis.”

CHORUS OF AMERICANS. Oh, how adorably Scotch!

“Losh keep us a’, but the childie’ll eat his mither oot o’ hoose an’
hame wi’ his haggis. Ye’ll find some o’ it i’ the cupboard.”

AMERICAN (politely to HILLOCKS). Have some haggis on me.

HILLOCKS (with a canny Scotch leer). Thanks; but I prefer a plate.
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