An article by John Robertson on his visit to Glencalve in June of 1844 shorty before the Glen was cleared for sheep.
On the afternoon of Friday the 14th of June 1844, accompanied by the outed ministers of Croick and Kincardine, I set off up Strathcarron to Glencalvie. In Strathcarron I saw, for the first time, a Highland vale in the state which prevailed everywhere prior to the removal of the small tenants from their holdings, and the introduction of the system of large farms. On the road from Invergordon to Bonar, I had observed, in sheltered spots among the grey-brown mountains, green patches shining out with the brilliancy of the emerald from the brown of the heather and the grey of the rocks, and was told these green spots marked the sites where, of old, homes had been. The footprints of family life are the reverse of those of the conquering Attila — where he trod the grass withered — where homes make their impress, the brown heather becomes green verdure. As I drove over the cold and barren hills of Struy there were large white noble fleecy clouds high up in the blue skies, which threw un-shapely shadows on the fields and the hillsides. My thoughts being full of the malign influence of certain landlords on the country in which I was, I could not help fancying an analogy between the nobles and the clouds. High up in their own lofty regions the nobles seem pure and beneficent, but they are chiefly known to the lowly lands below as black shadows,
Strathcarron is a great contrast to the Struy road. Strathcarron is still in the old state. The Carron, a fierce, black, rapid, rock–kicking Highland stream, rages down the vale or strath. A good road skirts its northern bank. On both sides of the strath, built some of stone and some of feal or divot, appear dots of cottages or kraals-low, sombre, unsightly — and around them small green patches of stunted corn and dwarf-like potatoes. Add to these objects, here and there, a boy in a plaid, by the side of the corn, keeping off a few sheep - or a barefooted woman sitting on a stone herding a wretched little brown or brandered cow - realise the lofty round-topped brown mountains which enclose the scene - a sky, grey and dirty with rain - fierce gusts of wind, and sudden peltings of wet, and you have a faint idea of Strathcarron as I saw it.
Mr Hugh Miller has described a grander aspect of it, seen one winter gloaming by a Highlander, when from the river rose a grey fog, along which stalked a meteoric figure - a spirit of evil omen—like a red -hot man. But my point was Glencalvie, the property of Major Charles Robertson of Kindeace, a small ravine in the parish of Kincardine and county of Ross. My attraction was, the desire to realise the feelings of a Celtic community who had recently received a notice to quit and had hanging over them the fear of being removed by legal force or fire.
The glen of the Calvie is, located where the Calvie joins the Carron. An angle of hills running north and west has its point at Glencalvie. Down the northern strath rolls the Carron - down the western strath dashes the Calvie. The glen is on the right bank of the Calvie, and enclosed by mountains. Its site was evidently chosen in times when protection from marauders and enemies was of the greatest importance to its inhabitants. On two sides they would be protected by the mountains on the other two by the rivers. Eighteen or nineteen families occupy this glen. Their cottages and holdings vary from huts in which the paupers of the community live without paying any rent, upwards to the only stone cottage whose occupant pays a rental of about eight pounds a year. Of those who pay rent, the highest pay eight pounds — the lowest two pounds a year.
Most of the people do not know when their forefathers came there. Alistair Iverach, or Alexander Campbell, told me his grandfather lived there in three centuries. To use his own expression, his grandfather “saw the three hundreds.” He was born at the end of the seventeenth century, lived through the whole of the eighteenth century, and, at the age of one hundred and twenty -seven, died in the nineteenth century. This old man never had a pair of pantaloons but wore all his days, or centuries, the kilt or philabeg. It is a curious circumstance, full of the vivacity of the Highland character, that this old man was seen in one of the Gaelic schools learning his alphabet in his hundred and twenty-seventh year. Cato learning Greek at eighty was nothing to him. Alistair Iverach knew nothing of his great-grandfather, as may be supposed, but had heard that he had always lived in Glencalvie.
On my return to Bonar Bridge, after a month spent in the north and west of Sutherland, I found John Chisholm waiting for my arrival. He wished to interest me in the poor Rosses of Glencalvie. He is a small sharp-featured, white-headed, blind old man, dressed respectably in a blue coat with bright yellow buttons, and a blue Glengarry bonnet. This interesting old man is celebrated as an old historian or Sennachie. On the authority of ancient books, which he had read before he lost his eye-sight, and of traditions which he had heard in his boyhood, he assured me that the Rosses of Glencalvie had occupied the glen for five hundred years, and were the descendants of the Earls of Ross. Hugh Ross, a pensioner, could be traced from Earl Farquhar. In all ages, Glencalvie men have become soldiers; and of sixty of them who went away at one time, many were killed at the siege of Gibraltar. He dwelt on the clan feuds and fights between the Rosses and Mackay’s. Unconsciously he painted some graphic scenes. One of the Rosses had carried fire and sword through the country of the Mackay’s so victoriously, that as a mark of his success, “he ploughed the sands of Tongue,” on the North Sea, and before the chief seat of the Lords of Reay. One of the spoils carried off by this victorious Alexander Ross — an ancient table — is still to be seen in the hall of the house of Ardmore, near Tain. The Sennachie related the revenge of the Mackay’s. A priest and Hugh Ross met near the church of Kincardine. They were allowing their horses to graze. The horse of the priest was slow, the horse of Ross was swift. The Mackay’s came upon them by surprise. The priest set off on the swift horse the Mackay’s overtook and surrounded Ross, and cut off his knees, and then demanded his sword; “Oh, come and take it,” cried he. 'They were about to close upon him when with a sudden switch of his good claymore he wounded nine of them but was struck to the heart with the blow of an axe.
This scene took place near where the bridge of Carron now is, and a stone, said to be marked with his blood, was long pointed out. John Chisholm portrayed the character of Evander Ross, a keeper of the wild horses of the lairds of Balnagown. His story exhibits the operation of Christianity on a savage clansman. Evander Ross lived about the time of the Revolution, in the forest of Balnagown, on the precipitous banks of the Enack River. He would not enter a church nor speak to a minister and thought of nothing but his horses and his pastime. The Rev. Thomas Hogg of Kiltearn resolved to assail him on spiritual affairs in his forest lair. Being a strong young man, dressed in tartans, and well-armed, the minister applied at the cabin of the keeper of the wild horses for quarters “Be you friend or foe,” was the frank reply, “you look like a man and shall have them. They entertained each other with Highland stories, and the minister ascertained that the horse keeper was very fond of snuff. At parting, he asked him if he had ever been in a church "Not I. ", “Well, will ye go?” “No!”, “Would you meet a friend at the Church of Kiltearn who wishes to give you a pound of snuff?”, “Well, I will; but how shall I find you?" “Oh, just sit opposite the minister and you'll see me. The instant the minister entered the pulpit, Evander Ross recognised his guest. What he heard of the Gospel touched him to the quick. After the sermon, the minister offered him the pound of snuff. He declined it, saying, “Oh, no, the kingdom of God is not bought with snuff. Evander Ross had been so remarkable for his command over his horses that he could ride with a halter of withes or woodies the wildest of them. He now became remarkable for his piety. The people believed him to be a prophet. A part of a wild stream, which before his day the people could not pass without hearing the cries of Satan, or, as the Sennachie called him, the Mischief is now haunted, in popular belief, with the sounds of the prayers of Evander Ross, the tamer of the wild horses of the forest of Balnagown.
But let’s return from the stories of John Chisholm the Sennachie of Kincardine, to the people of Glencalvie. The constitution of society in the glen is remarkably simple. Four heads of families are bound for the whole rental, £55, and 13s, a year. The number of souls is about ninety. Sixteen cottages pay rent, three cottages are occupied by old lone women who pay no rent, and who have a grace from the others for the grazing of a few goats or sheep, by which they live. This self–working poor- law system is supported by the people themselves; the laird, I am informed, never gives anything to it. The people of Amat and Glencalvie themselves supported a teacher for the education of their children. The laird has never lost a farthing of rent. In bad years, such as 1836 or 1837, the people may have required the favour of a few weeks' delay, but they are not now a single farthing in arrears. They are exceedingly attached to the glen. Their associations are all within it. Their affections — all the flower and beauty of their lives are rooted, and grow like the red buds of the coarse grass in the clefts of the rocks, out of their bleak, bare, wild mountain home. Their hearts are rooted to their hearths.
Wonderful is the power of the affections which link human love to dark, dirty, turf huts, with earthen floors, and heather roofs, half kraals and half cowsheds! Let me frankly confess that, with the exception of one stone cottage, all the cabins I inspected filled me with disgust. It is disgraceful that human beings should pig in such places. The people are greatly to blame for their dirt, their slovenly habits, and their indifference to improvements. The evening I walked up the glen was very wet and boisterous. There was no road, nothing that deserved the name of a footpath. In slippery spots, when leaping across rills from rock to rock, it seemed not unlikely I should get my neck broken for my pains. On entering one hovel, after picking my steps through the dunghill, I was met behind the door, in what would be called the hall of a mansion - not by a stately porter — but by a cow's tail. I could not advance without being preceded by a guide. The laird of Macleod on the streets of Edinburgh had his piper to go before him crying to the inhabitants of Auld Reekie, “Reiteichabdh 'n raid do Mhacleid” (Clear the causie for Macleod). The dignity of the Macleod came into collision with the privileges of the sons and daughters of Edina; and the maintenance of my dignity, and the cleanliness of my boots, required that I also should be preceded by a herald to preserve them from interference with the privileges of the cow.
Ever since the introduction of the large farm system into the High lands, people in the condition of the inhabitants of Glencalvie have been full of terror of removals, For a century their privileges have been lessening — they dare not now hunt the deer, or shoot the grouse or the black - cock — they have no longer the range of the hills for their cattle and their sheep-they must not catch a salmon in a stream-in earth, air, and water, the rights of the lairds are greater and the rights of the people are smaller than they were in the days of their forefathers. Yet, forsooth, here is much locqueville talk about the progress of democracy as a tendency towards equality of conditions in our day! One of the ministers who accompanied me had to become bound for law expenses to the amount of £20, inflicted on the people for taking a log from the forest for their bridge — a thing they and their fathers had always done unchallenged. During my inspection of this village, I felt very vividly the sort of impressions likely to induce landlords and factors to deem it right to clear estates. A superficial examination of the state of such a people would flash the conviction on their minds, that this state of things must be altered at all hazards. The Dictator Francia, when the inhabitants of one of his towns refused to make a street, announced the day on which, if the houses which stood in the way were not removed, he would remove them by force. Francia on that day planted two cannon, which blazed right on, and soon made a clear street. The Dictator did quite right. The state of things in Glencalvie is such as no man ought to permit to exist for a single week. It is quite true that these poor people are willing to pay as much rent as the large farmers, and it is also true that they have a moral right to a preference over the claims of strangers from the south. But the mode of improvement always suggested to the landlord is the introduction of the large farm system; and his love of improvements, even in spite of his pecuniary interests and his hereditary affections and recollections, induces him to order the removal of the people. There seems no reason to believe that, on the part of the landlords, a sordid spirit dictates those clearings. But the large farmers and the factors are hand and glove, and their sordid interests have full play in these affairs.
The Highland townships are full of the most brave, virtuous, religious, and intelligent people. But some are always found who will commit offences. These peel the bark of the birch and oak trees, and sell it at £8 a ton; and the enemies of the people, when told that they pay their rents regularly, say. Oh, yes, they pay the rent to the landlord by the bark of his own trees.” The slander tells and does its work, although I am assured that such wood as that of Glencalvie if stripped—and I did not fall in with a single peeled tree - would scarcely yield more than a couple of pounds worth of bark. On some of the lonely and wild hills, the small pipe of the whisky still will trickle its dew. The enemies of the people -- the emissaries of the factors and large farmers — fail not to represent the whole of the neighbouring communities as irreclaimable smugglers. The Highlander is obstinate to the advice of the Sassenach. Go-a-head ideas he has none. The spirit of improvement has not manifested itself in his secluded glens. His soul lives in the clan and family traditions of the past — the legends of the ingle — the songs of the bard. The master idea of the English mind-the idea of business — has not dawned on his soul - has not developed its peculiar virtues in his character. He is loyal, but not punctual; honest, but not systematic. When religion gets hold of him, he becomes, if possessed of any ability, eminent for his powers of exhortation and prayer — a man who travels for days and weeks to witness sacraments far and near - an elder listened to by crowds in prayer meetings — or a catechist at whose feet the devout sisterhood sit. But the iron Genius of economic improvement he knows not and heeds not. Such are the causes, which, dictate removals.
Glencalvie was advertised to let in spring 1842. The people believe that their laird, Major Charles Robertson, had made them many verbal promises never to remove them while they paid their rent. An old and white-headed patriarch of the glen mentioned to me an occasion on which he met the laird and said to him - "We hear you are going to remove us” The reply, was— "Far be that from me, go you on improving”; and the tenant says "perhaps for another." A matron mentioned to me that the laird sat where I sat, and said: “he would not remove them, because he would then have no place in which to take bread and cheese.” Notwithstanding the impression on the minds of the people, the place was advertised to be let in the spring of '42. Their minister, the Rev. Mr Aird, addressed the following letter to their factor, Mr. Gillanders, the laird being abroad in Australia or Van Diemen’s Land:
“Manse of Croick, 14th March 1842. “ Dear Sir,—The place of Glencalvie, in this district, has been for some weeks past advertised to let, with entry at Whitsunday. Offers for it, I suppose, have before now been tendered. Understanding that the Glencalvie people have made you an offer for that part which they at present occupy, to the effect that they promise to pay as much as has, or may have been offered by another, and that they hope you will give them the preference, and thus be allowed to retain their places. Being their minister, I naturally feel a particular interest in their case, and hope that you will not think it obtrusive in me the liberty which I now take in addressing you a few lines in their behalf, in hopes that their request will meet with a favourable reception from you, Allow me to submit to you the following particulars for your consideration:“
1. The ancestors of most of the present occupants have resided on the Glencalvie property for time immemorial“
2. During the short period I have been settled here (about fourteen months) I have found them an inoffensive, quiet, and civil set of people. "
3. They have uniformly, I understand, paid their rents honestly, and I believe the rent which they at present pay is fully equal to the value of the place. “
4. There are in Glencalvie eighteen families, containing a population of eighty-eight souls. This I have ascertained from personal knowledge, as last summer I visited each family separately, and took down the numbers in each.“
5. Although, as I understand, in their offer they have not specified a particular sum, yet they promise to pay as much as any other person would give, and hope that you will give them the preference“
6. I may mention that about two years ago, when in company one day with Major Charles Robertson in course of conversation, he spoke of the Glencalvie people, and I distinctly recollect his having said that he would not have the least objections if they voluntarily left the place; but that, so long as they paid the rent they were then paying, he would not think of turning out so many poor people, and I really think that if he were in the country that he would be still of the same feeling. “
7. If the offer of another is preferred, and theirs refused, these eighty-eight souls will then be set adrift, without knowing where to go or look for shelter. At home, there is almost no prospect of their procuring any place, and to emigrate would prove to the most of them but total misery, as, after reaching any of the colonies, they would not have the wherewithal to support themselves until they could realise a subsistence from their labours of the soil there, and therefore, would have but starvation and death staring them in the face.
"My object in thus writing you is not to become personally bound for the people as to the rent, but to lay the above particulars before you, in the hope that, after reflecting upon them, you may be inclined to give their offer and request a favourable consideration. The feelings of humanity and benevolence continue in calling for this; for the consequences which must unavoidably follow to these poor people, in the event of their being removed, will assuredly be sad and calamitous in the extreme. “Now, as hitherto they have honestly paid their rents, and now offer as much as any other would give, I sincerely hope that they will not be set adrift, but that the example of the good Samaritan will be followed towards them. “I really believe that if you were acting solely for yourself this would be“
I have to apologise for the liberty which I have taken; but feeling as their minister a peculiar interest in their case, you will, I hope, sustain this as an excuse, &c. the case.”
To this letter he received from Mr J. Gillanders the following answer:
“Highfield, by Beauly, 21st March 1842."
“DEAR SIR,—I am favoured with your letter of the 14th ultimo) of pathetic appeal on behalf of the tenants of Glencalvie, to which I have given my best consideration as regards the interest of the landlord, and my tender consideration as regards the circumstances of the people, and which has brought me to the determination to continue the present tenants, but only on the event of their giving a full rent for the farm, which I do not consider they pay at present. It will be necessary for them to specify in their offer - having advertised the farm, it would be acting on the other substantial candidates for the farm if their offers were not impartially treated – and even in the event of the present tenants procuring the farm by a higher offer, it will be necessary for them to find security for the due payment of their rents. - I am, &c.”
Mr Aird, meeting some of the cottars, told them the substance of the factor's letter. The four chief tenants appointed the following Monday to arrange with the factor. Three days after Mr Aird received it, the officers of the Sheriff arrived from Tain with summonses of removal. Alert though they had been, the people had received a friendly hint of their approach, conveyed by relays of voluntary horsemen. The women met the constables on the wooden bridge of Glencalvie, which divides the Kindeace from the Amat property. The women took the summonses from the two constables. That no papers except the obnoxious one might be destroyed, the women, though they could not read themselves, got a person who could. A lighted peat was ready, summons after summons was examined, and duly burnt on the bank before the bridge. The sheriff-officers baffled, and laughed at, returned to Tain unscathed. This occurred on the Thursday.
The Sheriff- substitute himself came up on Monday, with the Fiscal and some officers. They had new summonses. The Sheriff and his clerk, on their way to the manse, met Mr Aird as he was going to the glen on parochial duty. “I am going up to Glencalvie today," said the Sheriff, “I am sorry to say I hear you have had a letter from Mr Gillanders;” Mr Aird gave the Sheriff the letter. After reading it, “I am surprised at this,” exclaimed the Sheriff, “that after writing this letter he should request me and these constables to serve the summonses;" On a flat green eminence before the bridge, a few men and women were on the look-out for the arrival of the officers, They had rungs or cudgels. When they saw the strangers approach, they said, “We will use our sticks.” The first object, however, which they recognised in the approaching group, was the well-known cloak of the minister. They then said, “The minister is there we must not use our sticks.” About 200 men and women were assembled on a green eminence which commands the bridge. Both the mountain - streams were swollen into flood height, the snow having thawed on the hills, and the fierce rain pelting most pitilessly. As the strangers approached, the people called out to their minister, “Separate yourself, Sir, from these people; you have no business to be in such company,” Some of them now came up, and laid their hands on the Sheriff's plaid: “He is not a constable - this is the Sheriff,” said Mr Aird, "you must not lay hands on him.” The minister then bade them not use their hands or sticks.
The Sheriff addressed them in Gaelic. He assured them, “I feel great regret that so many people should be turned adrift, but by resisting the law you are only injuring yourselves; if you will but receive the summonses, after writing such a letter to Mr Aird, Mr Gillanders could not show his face if he turned you out. I do not believe you will be turned out, and I will do all I can to prevent it if you will not break the law and take the summonses.” Alistair Iverach, a wild-looking, wiry Highland kerne, dressed in the woollen drugget of the country, came before the Sheriff, and said, “What do you mean to do with us if you turn us out? -am I to take my sick wife and children and lay them in there?” He pointed to the black flood beneath. The Sheriff wished to cross the bridge they would not allow him. Some said, “He has something under that;" others said, “Let him, we shall see how well he can swim." They said they would let their own minister pass, and he passed and went to dry himself in one of the cottages. The constables now came up. The Sheriff and the Fiscal walked up the road. The young women took the summonses from the constables. The summonses were carefully examined, that no useful paper might be destroyed; some say the women took affectionately the hand of a constable, held the summonses in the hand clasped in rough dalliance, and applied the lighted peat to the end of the summons, and as the flame advanced up the paper, the fingers of the constables themselves pushed forward the summonses to a state of tinder. According to other accounts, the women simply burned the papers. But as there would be a struggle for the summonses, it seems most probable they were destroyed whenever an edge of them appeared in the grasp of the constables.
On coming back, the Sheriff ordered the constable forward, the people blocked up the way, and the functionaries of the law retired, having, it is said, sustained no further injury than a wound on a hat. Though discomfited, they retired to the cottage at Amat, which belongs to the Chieftain of the Rosses, where they examined the minister and another witness. The minister had not seen the burning of the summons. Most of the people being Rosses, distinguished only by nicknames; it was difficult to identify them. Another witness, the gamekeeper at Amat, being very unwilling to give evidence, the Fiscal threatened to handcuff him when he said there were not as many of them as do it. When asked, “Who the man was with the white hat, who was marked?" he said, “I saw no man with a white hat but Mr Andrew Ross, the Justice of Peace clerk”, Being asked if he saw a young woman with a stick, he said, “I did."- "For what purpose do you think she had it?” “I cannot say, it might be for a busk” (a busk is a supporter of a corset). An invitation being sent some weeks after to a few of the youngsters by the authorities, to come down to be examined at the seat of justice in Tain, they returned for answer, that they wished, before going, to be assured that they might not be clapped into the sharp-pointed house, meaning the prison with its spires.*
Recently, the four tenants who understood that arrangements were to be made with them for leases were served with summonses in Tain — they were put into their plaids and cast off. On my visit, I was exceedingly interested in the striking scene presented within the cottage, where the people came to meet me in bonnet and plaid. One set after another came in with stately quiet courtesy, and the salutation “failte dhuibh (Hail to thee), sith gu robh” (Peace be here.)
The kind grasp of the hard hands I will not soon forget. If they had leases, they assured me they would carry out improvements under the advice of their ministers, and be the opponents of the smuggler and the protectors of the wood and the game of the laird. About twenty of them accompanied their minister and the stranger, whose Highland blood led him to sympathise with their position. Near the spot where the authorities had to retire, they asked advice what they ought to do when, turned out? The bridge was their own, and it was hard to see that they ought to keep up a bridge to let their ejectors pass. If turned out by fire, which their fancies feared, I pledged myself that the burners should be branded, but assured them it was not at all likely. “When the officers come, receive them civilly, I implore you let them hear no angry word, and see no angry look. Instead of taking up the planks of the bridge, lay planks across this pool that they may cross dry. Say to them, “Gentlemen, by what hour must we be gone? Collect your cattle your furniture, carry the sick, your children, and come in a body to your minister on your way to the nearest town south. If you break the law, you give your enemies the victory and the public sympathy -- if you keep the law, you keep the public sympathy and the victory — if you break the law, you will make it impossible for any man like your minister or me to say a word for you. If you keep it, you will find friends. God bless you." I will not soon forget the kind eyes which gleamed through the dark of that coarse night upon me, nor the blessings in an unknown tongue which fell upon my ear. Grey-haired men and young boys uncovered their heads and promised to obey the law: with full hearts we parted.
A fortnight afterwards a letter informed me that the day of their ejection had been named. If they went out peaceably, a sum of money was to be given to take them to America — if they resisted, it would be expended on their forcible ejection. This is the belief of the people respecting the terms offered them. The father of the laird of Kindeace bought Glencalvie. It was sold by a Ross two short centuries ago. The swords of the Rosses of Glencalvie did their part in protecting this little glen, as well as the broad lands of Invercarron, from the ravages and the clutches of hostile septs. These clansmen bled and died in the belief that every principle of honour and morals secured their descendants a right to subsistence on the soil. The chiefs and their children had the same charter of the sword. Some Legislatures have made the right of the people superior to the right of the chief. British lawmakers have made the rights of the chief everything and those of his followers nothing. The ideas of the morality of property are in most men the creatures of their interests and sympathies. Of this there cannot be a doubt; however, the chiefs would not have the land at all, could the clansmen have foreseen the present state of the Highlands their children in mournful groups going into exile — the faggot of legal myrmidons in the thatch of the feal cabin --the hearths of their loves and their lives the green sheep walks of the stranger. Sad it is that it is seemingly the will of our constituencies that our laws shall prefer the few to the many.
Most mournful will it be, should the clansmen of the Highlands have been cleared away — ejected — exiled in deference to a political, a moral, a social, and an economical mistake -a suggestion not of Philosophy but of Mammon - a system in which the Demon of Sordidness assumed the shape of the Angel of Civilization and of Light.
The above was extensively circulated during the autumn and winter of 1844. In the spring of 1845, I received in anonymous letters several libels, concocted with legal skill, which I was implored to publish for the sake of the poor Highlanders, warned to remove at Midsummer. Many attempts were made to ensnare me into publishing a statement that the people were to be removed without being allowed to plant a single potato in their lands. The fact was carefully concealed that they had consented to the amount of compensation in money they were to receive for their crops and for their removal. When the appointed time came, public attention was directed to the spot, and a subscription raised in behalf of the ejected people. The Times — a journal true to the poor always — had a gentleman of intelligence and humanity present to describe the condition of the people, and witness the sad procession of the inhabitants of the glen from the hearths to the graves of their forefathers for an asylum. A tent was erected in the churchyard until the people could scatter into different and more hospitable localities. Noble persons showed them kindness. “There were only two smokes in the glen last night," was the pathetic remark of the people in the churchyard. It so happened, that in the autumn, some English friends of mine took the shooting for the season in the neighbourhood of Glencalvie. They came back full of stories with which they had been primed against the people. One, however, whose heart is divided between the feelings of a landed proprietor and natural humanity, said to me, “Whatever I may think of it now it is done, I would not have been the man to do it. The cottages, with their black smoked rafters, have been unroofed, and look exactly as if the people had been burned out.”