Quiverfield, Haddingtonshire, Monday.—You can't spend twenty-four hours at Quiverfield without having borne in upon you the truth that the only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff. (On other side of Tweed they call it golf. Here we are too much in a hurry to get at the game to spend time on unnecessary consonant.) The waters of what Victor Hugo called "The First of the Fourth" lave the links at Quiverfield. Blue as the Mediterranean they have been in a marvellous autumn, soon to lapse into November. We can see the Bass Rock from the eighth hole, and can almost hear the whirr of the balls skimming with swallow flight over the links at North Berwick.

Prince Arthur here to-day, looking fully ten years younger than when I last saw him at Westminster. Plays through live-long day, and drives off fourteen miles for dinner at Whittinghame, thinking no more of it than if he were crossing Palace Yard. Our host, Waverley Pen, is happy in possession of links at his park gates. All his own, for self and friends. You step through the shrubbery, and there are the far-reaching links; beyond them the gleaming waters of the Forth. Stroll out immediately after breakfast to meet the attendant caddies; play goff till half-past one; reluctantly break off for luncheon; go back to complete the fearsome foursome; have tea brought out to save time; leave off in bare time to dress for dinner; talk goff at dinner; arrange matches after dinner; and the new morning finds the caddies waiting as before.

Decidedly the only thing to do in Scotland is to play goff.

Deeside, Aberdeenshire, Wednesday.—Fingen, M.P., once told an abashed House of Commons that he "owned a mountain in Scotland." Find, on visiting him in his ancestral home, that he owns a whole range. Go up one or two of them; that comparatively easy; difficulty presents itself when we try to get down. Man and boy, Fingen has lived here fifty years; has not yet acquired knowledge necessary to guide a party home after ascending one of his mountains. Walking up in cool of afternoon, we usually get home sore-footed and hungry about midnight.

"Must be going now", says Fingen, M.P., when we have seen view from top of mountain. "Just time to get down before dark. But I know short cut; be there in a jiffy. Come along."

We come along. At end of twenty minutes find ourselves in front of impassable gorge.

"Ha!" says Fingen, M.P., cheerily. "Must have taken wrong turn; better go back and start again."

All very well to say go back; but where were we? Fingen, M.P., knows; wets his finger; holds it up.

"Ha!" he says, with increased joyousness of manner; "the wind is blowing that way, is it? Then we turn to the left."

Another twenty minutes stumbling through aged heather. Path trends downwards.

"That's all right", says Fingen, M.P.; "must lead on to the road."

Instead of which we nearly fall into a bubbling burn. Go back again; make bee line up acclivity nearly as steep as side of house; find ourselves again on top of mountain.

"How lucky!" shouts Fingen, M.P., beaming with delight.

As if we had been trying all this time to get to top of mountain instead of to bottom!

Wants to wet his finger again and try how the wind lies. We protest. Let us be saved that at least. Fingen leads off in quite another direction. By rocky pathway which threatens sprains; through bushes and brambles that tear the clothes; by dangerous leaps from rock to rock he brings us to apparently impenetrable hedge. We stare forlorn.

"Ha!" says Fingen, M.P., more aggressively cheerful than ever. "The road is on other side. Thought we would come upon it somewhere." Somehow or other we crawl through.

"Nothing like having an eye to the lay of country", says Fingen, M.P., as we limp along the road. "It's a sort of instinct, you know. If I hadn't been with you, you might have had to camp out all night on the mountain."

They don't play goff at Deeside. They bicycle. Down the long avenue with spreading elm trees deftly trained to make triumphal arches, the bicycles come and go. Whipsroom, M.P., thinks opportunity convenient for acquiring the art of cycling. W. is got up with consummate art. Has had his trousers cut short at knee in order to display ribbed stockings of rainbow hue. Loose tweed-jacket, blood-red necktie, white felt hat with rim turned down all round, combine to lend him air of a Drury Lane bandit out of work. Determined to learn to ride the bicycle, but spends most of the day on his hands and knees, or on his back. Looking down avenue at any moment pretty sure to find W. either running into the iron fence, coming off sideways, or bolting head first over the handles of his bike. Get quite new views of him fore-shortened in all possible ways, some that would be impossible to any but a man of his determination.

"Never had a man stay in the house", says Fingen, M.P., ruefully, "who so cut up the lawn with his head, or indented the gravel with his elbows and his knees."

Evidently I was mistaken about goff. Cycling's the thing in Scotland.

Goasyoucan, Inverness-shire, Saturday.—Wrong again. Not goff nor cycling is the thing to do in Scotland. It's stalking. Soon learn that great truth at Goasyoucan. The hills that encircle the house densely populated with stags. To-day three guns grassed nine, one a royal. This the place to spend a happy day, crouching down among the heather awaiting the fortuitous moment. Weather no object. Rain or snow out you go, submissive to guidance and instruction of keeper; by comparison with whose tyranny life of the ancient galley-slave was perfect freedom.

Consummation of human delight this, to lie prone on your face amid the wet heather, with the rain pattering down incessantly, or the snow pitilessly falling, covering you up flake by flake as if it were a robin and you a babe in the wood. Mustn't stir; mustn't speak; if you can conveniently dispense with the operation, better not breathe. Sometimes, after morning and greater part of afternoon thus cheerfully spent, you may get a shot; even a stag. Also you may not; or, having attained the first, may miss the latter. At any rate you have spent a day of exhilarating delight.

Stalking is evidently the thing to do in Scotland. It's a far cry to the Highlands. Happily there is Arthur's Seat by Edinburgh town where beginners can practise, and old hands may feign delight of early triumphs.