"There are chiefly three points of sight. You naturally make your way to the head of the bridge first, and as it is a continuation of the common road, with its sides covered with fine shrubs and trees, you may be on it before you are aware; but the moment you approach through the foliage to the side you are filled with apprehension. It has, indeed, a natural parapet, but few persons can stand forward and look over. You instinctively seek to reduce your height, that you may gaze on what you admire with security. Even then it agitates you with dizzy sensations. You then make your way some fifty feet down the bosom of the hill, and are supplied with some admirable standings on the projecting rockwork, to see the bridge and all its rich accompaniments. There is, 200 feet below you, the Cedar Creek, apparently motionless, except where it flashes with light as it cuts its way through the broken rocks. Mark the trees of every variety, but especially the fir, how they diminish as they stand on the margin of its bed; and how they ascend, step by step, on the noble rockwork, till they overshadow you, still preserving such delicacy of form and growth, as if they would not do an injury while they lend a grace. Observe those hills, gathering all around you in their fairest forms and richest verdure, as if to do honour to a scene of surpassing excellence. Now look at the bridge itself, springing from this bed of verdant loveliness, distinct, one, complete! It is before you in its most picturesque form; you just see through the arch, and the internal face of the further pier is perfectly revealed. Did you ever see such a pier, such an arch? Is it not most illusive? Look at that masonry. Is it not most like the perfection of art, and yet what art could never reach? Look at that colouring. Does it not appear like the painter's highest skill, and yet unspeakably transcend it? This is exquisite; still, you have no just conception of this masterpiece until you get below. You go some little distance for this purpose, as in the vicinity of the bridge the rocks are far too precipitous. A hot and brilliant day is, of all others, the time to enjoy this object. To escape from a sun which scorches you, into these verdant and cool bottoms, is a luxury of itself, which disposes you to relish everything else. When down, I was careful of the first impression, and did not venture to look steadily on the objects about me till I had selected my station. At length I placed myself about 100 feet from the bridge, on some masses of rock, which were washed by the running waters, and ornamented by the slender trees which were springing from its fissures. At my feet was the soothing melody of the rippling, gushing waters; behind me, and in the distance, the creek and the hills were expanding themselves to the light and splendour of day; before me, and all around, everything was reposing in the most delightful shade, set off by the streaming rays of the sun, which shot