the risk of their lives contrive to get
upon it from the frightfully steep northern bank, and snatch a fearful
joy, as, whilst lying on their bellies, they poke their heads over its
sides worn by age, without parapet to prevent them from falling into the
horrid gulf below. But from the steps in the hollow the view of the
Devil's Bridge, and likewise of the cleft, is very slight and
unsatisfactory. To view it properly, and the wonders connected with it,
you must pass over the bridge above it, and descend a precipitous dingle
on the eastern side till you come to a small platform in a crag. Below
you now is a frightful cavity, at the bottom of which the waters of the
Monks' River, which comes tumbling from a glen to the east, whirl, boil,
and hiss in a horrid pot or cauldron, called in the language of the
country Twll yn y graig, or the hole in the rock, in a manner truly
tremendous. On your right is a slit, probably caused by volcanic force,
through which the waters after whirling in the cauldron eventually
escape. The slit is wonderfully narrow, considering its altitude which
is very great--considerably upwards of a hundred feet. Nearly above you,
crossing the slit, which is partially wrapt in darkness, is the far-famed
bridge, the Bridge of the Evil Man, a work which, though crumbling and
darkly grey, does much honour to the hand which built it, whether it was
the hand of Satan or of a monkish architect; for the arch is chaste and
beautiful, far superior in every respect, except in safety and utility,
to the one above it, which from this place you have not the mortification
of seeing. Gaze on these objects, namely, the horrid seething pot or
cauldron, the gloomy volcanic slit, and the spectral, shadowy Devil's
Bridge for about three minutes, allowing a minute to each, then scramble
up the bank and repair to your inn, and have no more sight-seeing that
day, for you have seen enough. And if pleasant recollections do not
haunt you through life of the noble falls and the beautiful wooded
dingles to the west of the bridge of the Evil One, and awful and
mysterious ones of the monks' boiling cauldron, the long, savage, shadowy
cleft, and the grey, crumbling, spectral bridge, I say boldly that you
must be a very unpoetical person indeed.

CHAPTER LXXXV

Dinner at the Hospice--Evening Gossip--A Day of Rain--A Scanty Flock--The
Bridge of the Minister--Legs in Danger.

I dined in a parlour of the inn commanding a