first visited Scotland, in 1846, the only piece of railroad north of
the Forth was that between Dundee and Arbroath, hardly an hour long.
Now the iron pathways are running in every direction, making grand
junctions at points which had never felt the navvy's pick a dozen
years ago. Here is one heading towards John O'Groat's, grubbing its
way like a mole around the firths, cutting spiral gains into the
rock-ribbed hills, bridging the deep and dark gorges, and holding on
steadily north-poleward with a brave faith and faculty of patience
that moves mountains, or as much of them as blocks its course. The
progress is slow, silent, but sure. The world, busy in other
doings, does not hear the pick, nor the speech of the powder when it
speaks to a huge rock a-straddle the path. The world, even
including the shareholders, hears but little, if anything, of the
progress of the work for months, perhaps for a year. Then the
consummation is announced in the form of an invitation to the public
to "assist" at the opening of a railroad through towns and villages
that never saw the daylight the locomotive brings in its wake. So
it will be here. Some day, in the present decade, there will be an
excursion train advertised to run from London to John O'Groat's; and
perhaps the lineal descendant of Sigurd, or some other old Norse
jarl, will wear the conductor's belt and cap or drive the engine.

The weather was still unsettled, with much wind and rain. Resumed
my walk, and at about four miles from Tain, crossed the Dornoch
Firth in a sail ferry boat, and at noon reached Dornoch, the capital
of Sutherlandshire. This was one of the fourteen cities of
Scotland; and its little, chubby cathedral, and the tower of the old
bishop's palace still give it a kind of Canterbury air. The Earls
of Sutherland for many generations lie interred within the walls of
this ancient church. After stopping here for an hour or two for