of the river is there choaked up by large masses of rock lying one upon another, in every kind of form and direction. These fragments of rocks have been most of them, at least, washed thither by floods, and in a course of years have collected soil that has cemented many of them together, forming rough islands, covered with beautiful bushes, and trees of no great size; but starting from every crevice, branching and weeping over the rocks, in a style that delights the eye. Two small bridges, from rock to rock (but not in a line), lead from the south to the north side of the river. Just at the bridges the river is divided by the head of a small rocky high-banked island. This nook is the terra firma between the bridges; against which, and the rocks before it, and at the arches of the bridges, the water dashes, foams, and roars to such a degree, that it is scarcely possible to hear the sound of a human voice, close at the ear. I wonder the inhabitants of Killin are not all deaf (like those who are employed in iron and copper works), from the loud and never-ceasing noise of the rushing waters. Standing on either of the romantic bridges, the scene around is prodigiously grand, awful, and striking. To the west, is the river winding from a narrow
