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ness about 44, and its perpendicular height over the water is not far from 220 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 200 to 300 from its surface, all of lime stone. The visiter cannot give so good a description of this bridge as he can of his feelings at the time.
He softly creeps out on a shaggy projecting rock, and looking down a chasm of from 40 to 60 feet wide, he sees nearly 300 feet below, a white stream foaming and dashing against the rocks beneath, as if terrified at the rocks above. This stream is called Cedar Creek. The visiter here sees trees under the arch, whose height is 70 feet, and yet to look down upon them, they appear like small bushes of perhaps two or three feet in height I saw several birds fly under the arch; they looked like insects. I threw down a stone and counted 34 before it reached the water. All hear of height and 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 fully impressed, that none but Almighty God could build a bridge like this.
The view of the bridge from below, is as pleasing as the top 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 loud enough 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 visiters have often taken the pains to engrave their names upon the rock. Here Washington climbed up 25 feet and carved his name, where it still reinains. Some wishing to immortalize their names, have engraved them deep and large, while others have tried to climb up and insert them in the book of fame.
A few years since a young man, being too ambitious to place his name above all others, came 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 opens a large jack-knife, and in the soft lime stone, began to cut places for his hands and feet. With much patience and difficulty, 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 any thing for his relief. They looked upon him as already dead, expecting every moment to see him dashed to pieces. Not so with himself. He determined to ascend. Accordingly, he plies himself with his knife, cutting places for his hands and feet; and gradually ascended with incredible labor. He exerts every muscle. His life was at stake, and all the terrors of death rose before him. He dared not to looked downwards, lest his head should become dizzy; and perhaps on this circumstance his life depended. His companions stood on 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 forsaken him. His course upwards was rather oblique than perpendicular.-His most critical moment had not arrived. He had ascended considerable more than 200 feet, and had still further to rise, when he found 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 250 feet from the water, in a course almost perpendicular; and in little less thav 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 ex. hausted. He immediately fainted away on reaching the spot; and it was sometime before he could be re covered.
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.
NATURAL DREAD OF DEATH. It seems to us strange, it seems as if all were wrong, in a world where, from the very constitution of things death must close every scene of human life, where it hath reigned for ages over all generations, where the very air we breathe and the dust we tread upon was once animated life—it seems to us most strange and wrong, that this most common, necessary expedient and certain of all events, should bring such horror and desolation with it; that it should bring such tremendous agitation, as if it were some awful and unprecedented phenomenon; that it should be more than deatha shock, a catastrophe, a convulsion; as if nature, instead of holding on its steady course, were falling into irretrievable ruins.
And that which is strange, is our strangeness to this event. Call sickness, we repeat, call pain, an approach to death. Call the weariness and failure of the limbs and senses, call decay, dying. It is so; it is a gradual loosening of the cords of life, and a breaking up of its reservoirs and resources. So shall they all, one and another, give way." I feel”-—will the thoughtful man say—“I feel the pang of suffering, as it were, piercing and cutting asunder, one by one, the fine and invisible bonds that hold me to the earth. I feel the gushing current of life within me to be wearing away its own channels, I feel the sharpness of every keen emotion, and of every acute and far penetrating thought, as if it were shortening the moments of the soul's connexion and conflict with the body.” So it is, and so it shall ts, till at last, “the silver cord is loosened, and the golden bowl is broken, and the pitcher is broken at the fountain, and the wheel is broken at the cistern, and the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns unto God who gave it.”
Mo; it is not a strange dispensation. Death is the ellow of all that is earthly; the friend of man alone. It is not a monster in the creation. It is the law and not an anomaly; it is is the lot of nature.
Not to thy eternal resting place,
Thou shalt lie down
Of the great tomb of man.—[Bryant.] But of what is it—the tomb ? Does the spirit die ? Do the blest affections of the soul go down into the dark and silent grave ? Oh! no. “ The narrow house, and pall, and breathless darkness,” and funeral train-these belong not to the soul. They proclaim only the body's dissolution. They but celebrate the vanishing away of the shadow of existence. Man does not die, though the forms of popular speech thus announce his exit. He does not die. We bury, not our friend, but only the form, the vehicle in which, for a time, our friend lived.
That cold impassive clay, is not the friend, the parent, the child, the companion, the cherished being. No, it is not; blessed be God that we can say-It is not ! It is the material world only that earth claims. It is "dust" only that “descends to dust.” The grave !-let us break its awful spell, its dread dominion. It is the
place where man lays down his weakness, his infirmity, his diseases and sorrowing, that he may rise up to a new and glorious life. It is the place where man ceases
in all that is frail and decaying-ceases to be man, that he may be, in rlory and blessedness, an angel of light!
Why, then, should we fear death, save as the wicked fear, and must fear it? Why dread to lay down this frail body in its resting place, and this weary aching head on the pillow of its repose? Why trenible at this—that in the long sleep of the tomb, the body shall suffer disease no more, and pain no more, and hear no more the cries of want nor the groans of distress—and far retired from the turmoil of life, that violence and change shall pass lightly over it, and the elements shall beat and the storm shall sigh unheard around its lowly bed ? Say, ye aged and infirm, is it the greatest of evils to die? Say, ye children of care and toil! say, ye afflicted and tempted ! is it the greatest of evils to die?
Oh! no. Come the last hour, in God's own time?and a good life and a glorious hope shall make it welcome-Come the hour of re-union with the loved and lost on earth! and the passionate yearnings of affection, and the strong aspiration of faith, shall bear us to their blessed land. Come death to this body—this burdened, tempted, frail, failing, dying body! and to the soul, come freedom, light, and joy unceasing !-come the immortal life ! He that liveth'-saith the conqueror over the Devil — he that liveth and believeth on me, shall never die.'
ON MUSIC. (Written for the Repository by Rev. George Coles.) Music is one of the ornamental branches of science, or, as it is sometimes called, one of the fine arts.
It is the science of harmonical sounds, and the art of combining those sounds, in a manner agreeable to the ear.
This science is called Music, either from the Latin word musa, which signifies a song; or from the Greek