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 hig