"I was in Inverness yesterday evening, and I strolled across a grassy field, down a vista of trees to find a distant row of houses, where behind, the picture of a spire rose to the glowing sky.

"The moist lay on the grass and it was glowing dark; on one side, from Tomnahurich, the sun set low, and cast beams pronounced against the crags and graves; while on the other, the first touching crown of the moon was visible in the dying light. An elderly couple dressed in gray, both white of hair, walked nearby, while in the distance, on the gentle field of grass, some boys played football; their calls escaped and cowled through the shadows toward the last of the sun; and I thought of the lines: in urbanum est pictorum rusticus, et in Arcadia ego, sum felix, pesticorum …

"And was it then I heard that groan and blasting on the heath, when black in princely anger, tearing forward as rising asteroids, came the motor cars, ploughing one after the next upon our heath, a phalanx from the top of the rise, flying in a V, willing hell towards us in the smoke.

"Never could sun burn like these cars which rode across the football ground, and indeed with the same sobbing roar, the football players and I fled this storm, helpless, bitter as I fell into the grass, taking a handful of earth and calling MERCY!  as the cars moved on imperious of resolution, splitting arcs of mud; while fast as their delicate legs might go, I spied the old couple, stumble on hope's wings only towards the fence; my face was in the mud; and the hornets burned closer, laughing gas; hasty in their reformation of the soil; a row of executive motors, burning like fiery black rock …"