Salmon-breeding is doubtless destined to rank with sheep-culture and cattle-culture in the future.  The remotest colonies of Great Britain are moving in the matter with vigor and almost enthusiasm.  Vessels have been constructed on purpose to convey this fair and mottled stock of British rivers to those of Australia and New Zealand.  In France, fish-farming has become a large and lucrative occupation.  I hope our own countrymen, who plume themselves on going ahead in utilitarian enterprises, will show the world what they can do in this.  Surely our New England men, who claim to lead in American industries and ingenuities, will not suffer half a million acres of river-pasturage to run to waste for another half century, when it would fold and feed millions of salmon.  Once they herded in the Connecticut in such multitudes that a special stipulation was inserted in the indentures of apprentices in the vicinity of the river, that they should not be obliged to eat salmon more than a certain number of times in a week.  Now, if a salmon is caught between the mouth and source of the river, it is blazoned forth in the newspapers as a very extraordinary and unnatural event.  There is no earthly reason why the Connecticut should not breed and supply as great a number of these excellent and beautiful fish as the Tay.  Its waters are equally pure and quiet as those of the Scotch river.  Every acre of the Connecticut, from the northernmost bridge that spans it in Vermont to its debouchment at Saybrook, might be made productive of as great a value as any onion-garden acre at Wethersfield.

The salmon-shepherd at Stormontfields, having fully explained the labors and duties of his charge, rowed me across the Tay, and I continued my walk highly gratified in having seen one of the new industries which this age is adding to the different cultures provided for the sustentation and comfort of human life.  The whole way to Dunkeld was full of interest, nature and history making every mile a scene to delight the eye and exhilarate the mind.  The first considerable village I passed through was Stanley, which gives the name to that old family of British peers known in history by the battle-cry of a badly-pressed sovereign, “On, Stanley, on!” Murthley Castle, the seat of Sir William Stewart, and the beautiful grounds which front and surround it, will excite the admiration of the traveller and pay him well for a moment’s pause to peruse its illuminated pages opened to his view.  The baronet is regarded as an eccentric man, perhaps chiefly because he has built a splendid Roman Catholic chapel quite near to his mansion and supports a priest of that order mostly for his own spiritual good.  Near Dunkeld, Birnam Hill lifts its round, dark, bushy head to the height of over 1,500 feet, grand and grim, as if it wore the bonnet of Macbeth and hid his dagger beneath its tartan cloak of firs.  “Birnam Wood,” which Shakespeare’s genius has made one of the immortals among earthly