PREFACE. O 



harass, quite a pleasant soldier- of- fortune feeling in 

 never being sure whether you would turn up at night 

 by the fireside of " a golden farmer/' or in a hole in 

 the wall at a wayside inn. Mere scenery I was 

 obliged to disregard. In fact, it was of no use to me, 

 unless it served as "setting" for some crack sheep or 

 cattle ; and acting on this purely-practical view 

 of things, I sternly held nay line, regardless of the 

 most glorious combinations of water, wood, and 

 mountain, for which other tourists were ever turning 

 aside. I did not even spare a day for the Trossachs, 

 but went " hot trod" past the guide post after black 

 faces towards Rob Roy's grave ; and my eye might 

 never have rested on Killiecrankie, if I had not 

 passed through it on my way to the West Highland 

 herd at Blair Athole. 



" Something attempted, something done, 

 Has earned a night's repose," 



was my motto, and I enjoyed one between two and 

 four a.m., in the saddle, during a night ride over the 

 Ord of Caithness, while the rain poured and the mare 

 grazed. " Cockade" so called from persistently 

 wearing her mane on the near side was not my 

 companion in the summer of '62. I thought at first 

 that I would walk, but it was a great mistake. It 

 may answer for a mere light-hearted saunterer, who 

 wants to take a few sketches, and his ease in his inn, 

 but not for one who has a responsible task in hand. 



