On a lovely morning towards the close of spring, I found myself in a
very beautiful part of the great valley of Virginia. Spurred on by
impatience, I beheld the sun rising in splendour, and changing the blue
tints on the tops of the lofty Alleghany mountains into streaks of
purest gold; and nature seemed to smile in the freshness of beauty. A
ride of about fifteen miles, and a pleasant woodland ramble of about
two, brought myself and my companion to the great NATURAL BRIDGE.
Although I had been anxiously looking forward to this time, and my mind
had been considerably excited by expectation, yet I was not altogether
prepared for this visit. This great work of nature is considered by many
as the second great curiosity in our country, Niagara Falls being the
first. I do not expect to convey a very correct idea of this bridge; for
no description can do this.
The Natural Bridge is entirely the work of God. It is of solid
limestone, and connects two huge mountains together, by a most beautiful
arch over which there is a great wagon road. Its length from one
mountain to the other is nearly eighty feet, its width about
thirty-five, its thickness forty-five, and its perpendicular height
above the water is not far from two hundred and twenty feet. A few
bushes grow on its top, by which the traveller may hold himself as he
looks over. On each side of the stream, and near the bridge, are rocks
projecting ten or fifteen feet over the water, and from two hundred to
three hundred feet from its surface, all of limestone. The visitor
cannot give so good a description of the bridge as he can of his
feelings at the time. He softly creeps out on a shaggy projecting rock,
and, looking down a chasm from forty to sixty feet wide, he sees, nearly
three hundred feet below, a wild stream foaming and dashing against the
rocks beneath, as if terrified at the rocks above. This stream is called
Cedar Creek. He sees under the arch, trees whose height is seventy feet;
and yet, as he looks down upon them, they appear like small bushes of
perhaps two or three feet in height. I saw several birds fly under the
arch, and they looked like insects. I threw down a stone, and counted
thirty-four before it reached the water. All hear of heights and of
depths, but they here _see_ what is high, and they tremble, and _feel_
it to be deep. The awful rocks present their everlasting butments, the
water murmurs and foams far below, and the two mountains rear their
proud heads on each side, separated by a channel of sublimity. Those who
view the sun, the moon, and the stars, and allow that none but God could
make them, will here be impressed that none but an _Almighty_ God could
build a bridge like this.
The view of the bridge from below is as pleasing as the top view is
awful. The arch from beneath would seem to be about two feet in
thickness. Some idea of the distance from the top to the bottom may be
formed, from the fact, that as I stood on the bridge and my companion
beneath, neither of us could speak sufficiently loud to be heard by the
other. A man, from either view, does not appear more than four or five
inches in height.
As we stood under this beautiful arch, we saw the place where visitors
have often taken the pains to engrave their names upon the rock. Here
Washington climbed up twenty-five feet, and carved his own name, where
it still remains. Some, wishing to immortalise their names, have
engraven them deep and large, while others have tried to climb up and
insert them high in this book of fame.
A few years since, a young man, being ambitious to place his name above
all others, was very near losing his life in the attempt. After much
fatigue he climbed up as high as possible, but found that the person who
had before occupied his place was taller than himself, and consequently
had placed his name above his reach. But he was not thus to be
discouraged. He opened a large jack-knife, and, in the soft limestone,
began to cut places for his hands and feet. With much patience and
industry he worked his way upwards, and succeeded in carving his name
higher than the most ambitious had done before him. He could now
triumph, but his triumph was short; for he was placed in such a
situation that it was impossible to descend, unless he fell upon the
ragged rocks beneath him. There was no house near, from whence his
companions could get assistance. He could not long remain in that
condition, and, what was worse, his friends were too much frightened to
do anything for his relief. They looked upon him as already dead,
expecting every moment to see him precipitated upon the rocks below and
dashed to pieces. Not so with himself. He determined to ascend.
Accordingly he plies the rock with his knife, cutting places for his
hands and feet, and gradually ascended with incredible labour. He exerts
every muscle. His life was at stake, and all the terrors of death rose
before him. He dared not look downwards, lest his head should become
dizzy; and perhaps on this circumstance his life depended. His
companions stood at the top of the rock, exhorting and encouraging him.
His strength was almost exhausted; but a bare possibility of saving his
life still remained; and hope, the last friend of the distressed, had
not yet forsaken him. His course upwards was rather oblique than
perpendicular. His most critical moment had now arrived. He had ascended
considerably more than two hundred feet, and had still further to rise,
when he felt himself fast growing weak. He thought of his friends, and
all his earthly joys, and he could not leave them. He thought of the
grave, and dared not meet it. He now made his last effort and succeeded.
He had cut his way not far from two hundred and fifty feet from the
water, in a course almost perpendicular; and in a little less than two
hours, his anxious companions reached him a pole from the top, and drew
him up. They received him with shouts of joy, but he himself was
completely exhausted. He immediately fainted on reaching the top, and it
was some time before he could be recovered!
It was interesting to see the path up these awful rocks, and to follow
in imagination this bold youth as he thus saved his life. His name
stands far above all the rest, a monument of hardihood, of rashness, and
of folly.
We lingered around this seat of grandeur about four hours; but, from my
own feelings, I should not have supposed it over half an hour. There is
a little cottage near, lately built; here we were desired to write our
names, as visitors of the bridge, in a large book kept for this purpose.
Two large volumes were nearly filled in this manner already. Having
immortalised our names by enrolling them in this book, we slowly and
silently returned to our horses, wondering at this great work of nature;
and we could not but be filled with astonishment at the amazing power of
Him who can clothe Himself in wonder and terror, or throw around His
works a mantle of sublimity.