the Atholl estates, would sell for 10,000,000 pounds if brought to the hammer.  But he was not only the greatest arboriculturist in the world, but the founder of tree-farming as a productive industry as well as a decorative art.  Already it has transformed the Highlands of Scotland and trebled their value, as well as clothed them with a new and beautiful scenery.  What we call the Scotch larch was not originally a native of that country.  Close to the cathedral in Dunkeld stand the two patriarchs of the family, first introduced into Scotland from Switzerland in 1737.

Having remained the best part of two days in Dunkeld, I held on northward, through heavily-shaded and winding glen and valley to Blair Atholl.  For the whole distance of twenty miles the country is quite Alpine, wild and grand, with mountains larched or firred to the utmost reach and tenure of soil for roots; deep, dark gorges pouring down into the narrowing river their foamy, dashing streams; mansions planted here and there on sloping lawns showing sunnily through groves and parks; now a hamlet of cottages set in the side of a lofty hill, now a larger village opening suddenly upon you at the turning of the turnpike road.  I reached Blair Atholl at about dark, and lodged at the largest hotel I slept in between London and John O’Groat’s.  It is virtually the tourist’s inn; for this is the centre of some of the most interesting and striking sceneries and localities in Scotland.  Glens, waterfalls, stream, torrent, mountain and valley, with their romantic histories, make this a very attractive region to thousands of summer travellers from England and other countries.  The railway from Perth to Inverness via Dunkeld and Blair Atholl, has just opened up this secluded Scotch Switzerland to multitudes who never would have seen it without the help of the Iron Horse.  A month previous, this point had been the most distant in Scotland from steam-routes of transportation and travel.  Now southern sportsmen were hiring up “the shooting” for many miles on both sides of the line, making the hills and glens echo with their fusillades.  Blair Castle, the duke’s mansion, is a very ordinary building in appearance, looking from the public road like a large four-story factory painted white, with small, old-fashioned windows.  He himself was lying in a very painful and precarious condition, with a cancer in the throat, from which it was the general impression that he never would recover.  The day preceding, the Queen had visited him, while en route for Balmoral, having gone sixty miles out of her way to comfort him with such an expression of her sympathy.