On Monday, Sept. 21st, I set out with a good deal of animation on
the last week-stage of my journey, which I was anxious to accomplish
as soon as possible, as the weather was becoming unsettled with
frequent rain. Reached Invergordon, passing through a most
interesting section of country, full of very fertile straths. It
was the part of Ross-shire lying on the Moray and Beauly Firths and
divided by rivers dashing down through the wooded gorges of the
mountains. I saw here some of the most productive land in Scotland.
Hundreds of acres were studded with wheat and barley stooks, and
about an equal space was covered with standing grain, though so near
the month of October. Plantations, parks, gentlemens' seats, glens
deep and grand, fir-clad mountains, villages, hamlets and scattered
cottages made up the features of every changing view. Indeed, one
travelling for a week between Perth and Inverness comes upon such a
region as this with pleasant surprise, as upon an exotic section,
imported from another latitude.

The next day I held on northward, though the weather was very
unfavorable and the walking heavy and fatiguing. Passed what seemed
the bold and ridgy island of Cromarty, so associated with the
venerated memory of Hugh Miller. The beating rain drove me
frequently to the wayside cottages for shelter; and in every one of
them I was received with kind words and pleasant looks. One of
these was occupied by an old woman in the regular Scotch cap--a
venerable old saint, with her Bible and psalm-book library on her
window-sill, and her peat fire burning cheerily. When on leaving I
intimated that I was from America, she followed me out into the
road, asking me a hundred questions about the country and its
condition. She had three sons in Montreal, and felt a mother's