The Sun.
London, England, 1840-11-05 00:00:00

'E HOURS'

IjUNiELD - A THltl.-.
RAMBLE,

(From the Scols;;ian)
Eight or ten years ago I visited Dunkeld, tut it was
then shrouded in mist. So thick indeed was the fog,
that you almost lost sight of your own hand in stretch-
ing it out to ascertain whether the object which loomed
before you was a horse or a house, a tree or a mountain.
Occasionally, the atmosphere cleared a little, and then
thickened again, but a dim, vague outline was all I re-
membered of its romantic scenery.
This time I was more fortunate. It was a beautiful
day when I left Perth, not hot or hazy, but with the
clear, bracing air of October upon the mountains.
After proceeding a dozen miles through a fine undulat-
ing country, the road begins to descend, and sweeps
round the Birnam Hill to the vale or nook in which
Dunkeld is situated. As you cross the Tay, which
"flows to the right between the Birnam and Newtyle
Hills, the village, with its old cathedral, lies immediately
before you, and away to the left the magnificent policies
of the Duke of Atholl, embracing both sides of the
river. The whole scene is closed in by hills, beauti-
fully wooded. Dashing up the main street, you are
surprised to observe on each side, not country-looking
inns, but large and formidable hotels, a circumstance
sufficiently indicative of the number of tourists by whom
it is annually visited. As soon as I alighted I was fur-
nished with a guide, and set out to examine, in detail,
the principal lions in the neighbourhood.
There are three different points to which you may be
conducted. The first is to Ossian's Hall—the second
to a height called Craig-Vinian, commanding a charm-
ing prospect—and the third to the Rumbling Bridge,
which crosses the River Breen. I preferred the
longest route, in order to embrace the whole three ob-
jects, but many tourists, I was told, were content with
seeing Oisian's Hall, probably from not allowing them-
selves sufficient time.
Here I was, then, about one o'clock on a Friday af-
ternoon, and under a bright October sun, entering the
ducal grounds, with the descriptions I had read of the
scenery rising in my memory, and filling my mind with
lively expectations. My guide was a little prompt
man in blue, and profoundly conversant with the
place. Every question I asked seemed to gratify
him, and he answered with the air of a man who felt
himself possessed of superior knowledge The various
objects he described he scarcely seemed to look at
himself; but rather to watch their effect upon me, as the
only thing that was new to him. Nothing was suffered
to escape observation. Here was a magnificent spruce,
there a fine silver fir, and yonder to the left two of the
first larches introduced into this country from Switzer-
land. The latter, moreover, were ninety-six feet high,
they were twenty feet round the base, and fifteen feet
in girth a yard from the ground. We have now
passed the new Palace commenced by the late
Duke, and which rises only a few feet—the por-
tions of wall, with here and there an arched
window or doorway, being covered in till some
future Duke choose to proceed with the building.
We have heard the dimensions of the various apart-
ments, and acquired a deep insight into its plan and sta-
tistics, and are now winding along a lovely green walk on
the north bank of the Tay—now descending into a close
bosky dell—and anon emerging on the open sward—at
one time curving inland, and again descending close by
the river, with the leaves, which a few weeks back
were waving green overhead, now rustling brown
and withered about our feet, Look there! Cast
your eye across the river, and observe yonder old
oak ! That was Neil Gow's favourite tree. Under it
he used to sit for hours composing his original airs.
What a sweet spot for such a task! There the din of the
great world could not reach him. The intrigues of
Courts and Cabinets, the clangour of war, and the conten-
tion of cities, all would be far off, and from the wood's
feathered minstrels, or the gentle gurgle of the Tay as it
flowed softly by, or perhaps the louder rush of the
Breen over its rocky bed at a little distance, his soul
might catch echoes till it became itself vocal ! My
little guide, however, seems impatient.
We have now advanced a considerable way up the
side of the river. We have seen the Braan with its
two artificial falls joining the Tay at the opposite side,
and passed through the Duchess's American garden—
filled chiefly with American plants—and now the bill
of Craigiebarns rises on the right, and a little further
on, the King's Seat. Between these two hills lies the
grand entrance to the Highlands. It was called the
mouth of the Highlands, but the metaphor was con-
sidered inaccurate, as it wanted a Highland tongue, al-
though the Gaelic language is spoken in the next vil-
lage northward. We are now about two miles and a
half from the gate at which we entered, and a small
fishing-boat conveys us to the other side. The view from
the river is exquisite. On all sides it is closed in by
beautifully wooded hills, and has, in fact, all the beauty
and serenity of an inland lake. On landing, we push
our way through the wood, leaving the river behind, and
crossing the Kenmore road, climb, by a winding path,
up the opposite bank. The thinning of the trees at
this season suggests melancholy reflections. Every
breath of wind sends down a shower of leaves, and
in the intervals of the breeze an occasional leaf
drops, and wavers, and falls with a soft rustle to
the ground ; but, fortunately for the reader, we
have no time to moralize. What is that ? A squirrel !
see there—yonder—up the stem—along the bough—
now it has disappeared—another glimpse—a leap, and
it is out of sight ! There are a good many squirrels in
the woods, and the guide seemed delighted that I had
got a sight of one. Turning round occasionally to ga-
ther breath, the prospect which opens up is highly pic-
turesque, but we must ascend yet higher. We now find
ourselves surrounded with tall larch trees, with their
graceful, drooping boughs—a little higher, and we
are in the midst of dark pines—still ascending—
climbing—panting—shut in by trees—courage--up
still—huzza! We are now on the open brow of Craig-
Vinian ! There is here a seat prepared for us, and
we can rest and take breath. And now, what a
beautiful world we live in ! We are looking down
on it—on a favoured spot, it is true, but still a spot
of that same old, illeused world, of which so many
harsh things are said. To the right is Birnam Hill,
with its historical or rather its glorious poetical associa-
tions, the hill of Craigiebarns opposite, and, far to the
left, up the magnificent strath of the Tay, Benevrachie
and the braes of Tullymet. Below are the splendid po-
licies of the Duke of Atholl, with their rich picturesque
foliage—the various-tinted oak, the yellow sycamore,
the ash with its pale fresh green, the birch with its
brown or orange, and the red beech, with now and then
the still redder leaf of the gean tree—forming a gay
and beautiful assemblage of colours, and relieved on the
dark mass of pine which crowns the pyramidal hill of
Craigiebarns in front. The silver Tay, too, which we
crossed a few minutes before, is seen stealing its way
through the valley below—now half, now wholly hidden
—anon spreading a broad mirror to the surrounding
landscape, and indulging in many a wayward curve and
winding, as if anxious to linger, and lengthen out its
course through this beautiful region.
Having sufficiently feasted his eyes with this scene,
the tourist descends the hill at the other side, and at
length emerges from the Atholl grounds. He now finds
himself on a romantic country road leading to the Rum-
bling Bridge, which crosses the Braan. It is but a
little way onward—take the road to the left—never
mind that pretty girl with her two cows—but go right
on—you cannot mistake your way ; for it has a voice
calling you—a hissing, rattling, confused rumbling voice.
If you close your eyes for an instant, and could forget
the hissing sound, you might fancy yourself in the
streets of London, with the roar of its mighty traffic in
your ears. The water falls in a broken and confused
mass, and forces its way beneath huge blocks of stone,
which almost choke up the passage. It then passes
through the narrow charm underneath the bridge, and,
thus checked in its progress, issues in what seems almost
a still pool on the other side. The finest view of the
fall is from a promontory close to the cataract, and op-
posite the bridge. To gain this point you must leap
over a fence, and force your way through hazel bushes,
till you find yourself on the edge of the gulf. The effect
bete is very striking. You see at your feet the mass of
water partly broken in the centre, with another portion
of it gushing crosswise behind—the whole rushing
down impetuously into the abyss below, and sending up
a white steam-like vapour. How magnificent the jost-
ling and earring, and churning of the waters, which make
up he everlasting murmur !
Before the bridge itself was built, there were only
two planks over the chasm. As a few steps would suf-
fice to take a person across, the passage would be safe
enough for any sober individual by daylight, and horses
might also be led from one side to the other without

difficulty. A story, however, is current among the
country people, that one day a decent farmer who had
gone to Dunkeld to transact some business was detained
rather late, and had been somewhat too kindly treated.
On returning, it was dark, and, mounted on his horse,
he had fallen into that happy state of mind in which
danger.ceases to be perceptible. The horse, however,
having, for the time, more sagacity than its master, con-
ducted him safely across. Next day, when the farmer
recovered his senses, be reflected on the danger he had
been in, and walked back to the spot, in order to in-
dulge his brain with imaginings of bow narrowly he had
escaped being dashed on the rocks below. The circum-
stance took a strong hold of his mind, and, as the story
goes, he died that night,
From the Rumbling Bridge my guide and I retraced
our steps a, short distance, and then struck into a thick
plantation, leading back to the Tay along the banks of
the Braan. On the right, the liraan, whose rough bed
extends for about two miles below bridge, keeps up
a perpetual murmur, and now and then peeps out, with
its thousand little sputtering and gushing waterfalls.
Having passed Ossian's Cave—a rude stone hut—you
are led at length to a neat little edifice standing on a
romantic promontory, and looking down on the river at
a point where it descends in a broad, broken cascade,
This is Ossian's Hail, or the Hermitage. On entering,
you find yourself in a little circular apartment lighted
from the roof, when your attention is directed to a
upon his harp. The guide—
painting of. Ossian playing
man the guide !—then oh, he is a cunning
re-
quests you to step forward and examine it narrowly,
when suddenly it slips aside—and 10, a little oblong