whose clever and expert exertions, I was the next day conducted to places where few, if any, women had ever ventured. The Rumbling Brig is a small arch of stone, from rock to rock, almost embracing each other, high above the water. The top of the arch is covered with turf, so that it is like a green bank. Trees grow luxuriantly and thick from every part of the surrounding rocks, bending over the arch, covering the side banks, and feathering down their rugged sides, and so closely entwined down to the deep chasm below, that the water is more heard than seen, dashing through its narrow, rough, and winding passage. The whole of the scenery, both at, above, and below this curious bridge, is to a very great degree romantic and beautiful, on each side the river. There are several very picturesque falls above the bridge; particularly where huge, broken, and projecting rocks impede the course of the water, and luxuriant wood hanging over them, listening, as it were, to the loud thumping of the Devil's Mill. Whatever the name imports, the fall so called, and the scenery around it, is angelic, and fills the mind with harmony and delight. The sound of this fall of the river, at a distance, is certainly si-
