"You see, Mr. Macdougall", says I, "I am a Plantagenet by descent, and one of my ancestors was hanged in the time of George the Second. Do those facts suggest anything to you in the way of costume?"
"The first does not", he said, "but the second may. A good many persons had the misfortune to be hanged about the time you mention, and for the same reason. I suppose your ancestor died for the Stuarts."
"No, sir, he died for a steward. The unfortunate nobleman was most iniquitously destroyed for shooting a plebeian of the name of Johnson, for which reason I hate everybody of that name, from Ben downwards, and will not have a Johnson's Dictionary in my house."
"Then, sir", says Mr. Macdougall, "the case is clear. You can mark your sense of the conduct of the sovereign who executed your respected relative. You can assume the costume of his chief enemies. You can wear the Stuart tartan."
"Hm", says I. "I should look well in it, no doubt; but then I have no hostility to the present House of Brunswick."
"Why", says he, laughing; "Her Majesty dresses her own princes in the Stuart tartan. I ought to know that."
"Then that's settled", I replied.
Ha! You would indeed have been proud of your contributor, had you seen him splendidly arrayed in that gorgeous garb, and treading the heather of Inverness High Street like a young mountaineer. He did not look then like
Epicurus Rotundus.
Inverness Castle.