EEMINISCENCES OF THE LEWS. 5 



could you contrive to get even a glimpse of a 

 rather pretty loch close by. All that separated 

 you from the peat stacks was the high road to 

 Harris. Certainly, then, our situation was not 

 picturesque ; and yet, lover of beautiful scenery 

 as I am, and having at times sojourned in very 

 lovely spots (once for years at the head of the 

 upper lake of Killarney — and show me any- 

 thing much fairer than Gheramene), I would 

 rather own that little cottage on the roadside 

 looking out on the peat- stacks, and live and 

 die there, than pass my life on the Lake of 

 Geneva, somewhere near Chillon, among a 

 constant succession of fine sunsets. But then 

 there is no accounting for tastes, and tastes 

 are formed in odd ways. It is, however, time 

 that I should get on to narrate how it was that 

 I ever got to this queer little place. 



I was sitting one morning in June, 1850, at 

 Borthwick Brae w4th F. M. and E. M., when 

 Snowie's list of shootings came in. Among the 

 advertisements was one of some shooting in the 

 Lews and in Harris. Long, long ago my old 

 friend, the late Sir Ronald Ferguson, a grand 

 old soldier and a first-rate sportsman, recom- 

 mended me to go and try those parts, as being 

 alone compatible with my pocket and my views 

 of boundless space to roam over. I had often 



