it, it appeared a sort of arch, over and under which the river rolled white and furious, wide spreading its spray, till it reached its rugged bed below, with a noise that must fright or delight the spectator, according to the state of his nerves. As soon as the Devon has fought its way through this curious and laborious pass, it becomes tranquil, and flows on in peace towards the Forth.
The road from the Crook of Devon to Stirling runs, at the southern base of the Oichill Hills, or, as they are commonly called, the Eckles. To the north of this range of hills, I was told, no coals are found, at least no coal-pits have ever been worked to the north of those mountains.
On entering the woeful town of Dollar, high amongst gloomy hills and dark fir-woods, I perceived the ruin of Castle Campbell. It belongs to the Duke of Argyle. In its time it must have been a very strong hold; it stands upon a peninsula of a mountain, on two sides surrounded by a furious burn (brook); and on the others by deep hollows, between it and other still higher overhanging mountains. The walls of the castle are enormously thick, and the rooms within (by what remains of them), must have been dismal dungeons; but in the times when that castle was in-
