The tops of trees are waving in the interval, and we are relieved from the first impression that it is man's masonry, the work of art, on finding that it supports some fifteen or twenty feet of soil, in which trees and shrubbery are firmly imbedded—the verdant crown and testimony of Nature's great work. Here too we are divested of a notion which we believe is the popular one, that the Bridge is merely a huge slab of rock thrown across a chasm, or some such hasty and violent arrangement. It is no such thing. The arch and the approaches to it are formed of one solid rock: the average width of that portion which forms the Bridge is eighty feet, and beyond this the rock extends for a hundred feet or so in mural precipices, divided by only a single fissure, that makes a natural pier on the upper side of the Bridge, and up which climb the hardy firs, ascending step by step on the noble rock-work till they overshadow you.
This mighty rock, a single mass sunk in the earth's side, of which even what appears is stupendous, is of the same geological character—limestone covered to the depth of from four to six feet with alluvial and clayey earth. The span of the arch runs from forty-five to sixty feet wide, and its height to the under line is one hundred and ninety-six feet, and to the head two hundred and fifteen feet. The form of the arch approaches the elliptical: the stage-road which passes over the Bridge runs from north to south, with an incline of thirty-five degrees, and the arch is carried over on a diagonal line—the very line of all others the most difficult for the architect to realize, and the one best calculated for picturesque effects. It is the proportions of Art in this wild, strange work of Nature, its adjustment in the very perfection of mechanical skill, its apparently deliberate purpose, that render it an object of interest and of wonder. The deep ravine over which it shoots, and which is traversed by the beautiful Cedar Creek, is not otherwise easily passed for several miles, either above or below theBridge. It is needful to the spot, and yet so little likely to have survived the great fracture the evidences of which are visible around, and which has made a fissure of about ninety feet through the breadth of a rock-ribbed hill, that we are at first disposed to reflect upon it as the work of man. It is only when we contemplate its full measure of grandeur that we are assured it is the work of God. We have the pier, the arch, the studied angle of ascent; and that nothing might be wanted in the evidences of design, the Bridge is guarded by a parapet of rocks, so covered with fine shrubs and trees that a person traveling the stage-road which runs over it would, if not informed of the curiosity, pass it unnoticed.
But let him approach through the foliage to the side. More than two hundred feet below is the creek, apparently motionless, except where it flashes with light as it breaks on an obstruction in the channel: there are trees, attaining to grander heights as they ascend the face of the pier; and far below this bed of verdure the majestic rock rises with the sharpness of a wall, and the spectator shrinks from contemplating the grand but cruel depths, and turns away with dizzy sensations. But the most effective view is from the base of the Bridge, whither you descend by a circuitous and romantic path. To escape from the hot sun into these verdant and cool bottoms is of itself a luxury, and it prepares you for the deliberate enjoyment of the scene. Everything reposes in the most delightful shade, set off by the streaming rays of the sun, which shoot across the head of the picture far above you, and sweeten with softer touches the solitude below. Standing by the rippling, gushing waters of the creek, and raising your eyes to the arch, massive and yet light and beautiful from its height, its elevation apparently in creased by the narrowness of its piers and by its projection on the blue sky, you gaze on this marvel of Nature with increased astonishment. When you have sustained this view of the arch raised against the sky, its black patches
