stones, on one of which I sat. Such scenes as those raise the soul to the first Cause of all things; and there it is lost to all sensations, but those of gratitude and calm delight. As I sat among the stones, viewing the torrent, Mr. Knight's Poem, called the Landscape, came into my mind; and I was glad to find in the scene before me, no trace, no slime of the modern shavers of dame Nature; the sweet simple goddess there reigned triumphant, and feared neither their trimming razors, nor their sluggish serpentines.
I left Glen Almond with regret; ascended the same zig-zag by which I entered it, and proceeded, at no very great distance, by the course of the Almond to the Brig of Buchanty; a very singular and romantic spot. The country all around this bridge is an extensive waste of black and brown; but on a sudden the eye is unexpectedly caught by the sight of a mill, and the river running in a very narrow channel to the bridge, with trees hanging over it, and wood feathering down to the water over huge rocks, on which the bridge rests; also the roaring water, bursting through its dark and close passage, to fall with a tremendous noise under the arch, altogether rendering this spot beautifully picturesque.
