nds from Oban to Inverness over about two
hundred miles of excellent road running through wild and often beautiful
scenery, but there were few historic spots as compared with the coast
country. The road usually followed the edge of the hills, often with a
lake or mountain stream on one hand. From Crianlarich we followed the
sparkling Dochart until we reached the shore of Loch Tay, about twenty
miles distant. From the mountainside we had an unobstructed view of this
narrow but lovely lake, lying for a distance of twenty miles between
ridges of sharply rising hills. White, low-hung clouds half hid the
mountains on the opposite side of the loch, giving the delightful effect
of light and shadow for which the Scotch Highlands are famous and which
the pictures of Watson, Graham and Farquharson have made familiar to
nearly everyone.

At the northern end of the lake we caught distant glimpses of the
battlemented towers of Taymouth Castle, home of the Marquis of
Breadalbane, which, though modern, is one of the most imposing of the
Scotch country seats. If the castle itself is imposing, what shall we
say of the estate, extending as it does westward to the Sound of Mull, a
distance of one hundred miles--a striking example of the inequalities of
the feudal system. Just before we crossed the bridge over the Tay River
near the outlet of the lake, we noticed a gray old mansion with many
Gothic towers and gables, Grandtully Castle, made famous by Scott as the
Tully-Veolan of Waverly. Near by is Kinniard House, where Robert Louis
Stevenson wrote "Treasure Island."

A few miles farther on we came to Pitlochry, a surprisingly well built
resort with excellent hotels and a mammoth "Hydropathic" that dominates
the place from a high hill. The town is situated in the very center of
the Highlands, surrounded by hills that supply the gray granite used in
its construction; and here we broke our journey for the night.

Our way to Inverness was through a sparsely inhabited, wildly broken
country, with half a dozen mean-looking villages at considerable
distances from each other and an occasional hut or wayside inn between.
Although it was July and quite warm for the north of Scotland, the snow
still lingered on many of the low mountains, and in some places it
seemed that we might reach it by a few minutes' walk. There was little
along the road to remind one of the stirring times or the plaided and
kilted Highlander that Scott has led us to associa