Sunbury American And Shamokin Journal

By Masser & Eisely

NATURAL BRIDGE:

The following graphic and thrilling sketch of an incident which occurred some years since at the Natural Bridge in Virginia, comprises a passage in a lecture on Genius, delivered by the celebrated Elnathan Burritt, the learned Blacksmith, of Rhode Island :

"The scene opens with a view of the great Natural Bridge in Virginia. There are three or four lads standing in the channel below, looking up with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks, which the Almighty bridged over these everlasting abutments 'when the morning stars sang together.' The little piece of sky spanning those measureless piers. is full of stars, although it is midday, It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up those perpendicular bulwarks of limestone, to the key rock of that vast arch, which appears to them only of the size of a man's hand. The silence of death is rendered more impressive by the little stream that falls from rock to rock down the channel, The sun is darkened, and the boys have unconsciously uncovered their heads as if standing in the presence chamber of the Majesty of the whole earth. At last, this feeling begins to wear away; they begin to look around them They see the names of hundreds cut in the limestone abutments. A new feeling comes over their young hearts, and their knives are in hands in an instant. 'What man has done, man can do,' is their watchword, while they draw themselves up and carve their names a foot above those of a hundred full grown men who had been there before them.

They are satisfied with this feat of physical exertion, except one. whose example illustrates perfectly the forgotten truth, that there is no royal road to intellectual eminence. The ambitious youth sees a name just above his reach. a name that will be green in the memory of the world. when those of Alexander, Caesar and Bonaparte shall rot in oblivion. It was the name of Washington. Before he marched with Braddock to that fatal field, he had been there. and left his name a foot above all his predecessors. It was a glorious thought of the boy, to write his name side, by side with that of the great father of his country. He grasps his knife with a firmer hand; and, clinging to a little jutting crag. he cuts again into the limestone, about a foot above where he stands; he then reaches up and cuts another for his hands. It is a dangerous adventure ; but as he puts his feet and hands into those gains, and draws himself up carefully to his full length, he finds himself a foot above every name chronicled in that mighty wall. While his companions are regarding him with concern and admiration, he cuts his name in rude capitals, large and deep. into the flinty album. His knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews, and a new created aspiration in his heart.

Again he cuts another niche, and again he carves his name in large capitals. This is not enough. Heedless of the entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs again. The gradations of his ascending scale grow wider apart. He measures his length at every gain he cuts.-The voices of his friends wax weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his ear. He now for the first time casts a look beneath him. Had that glance lasted a moment, that moment would have been his last. He clings with a convulsive shudder to his little niche in the rock. An awful abyss awaits his almost certain fall. He is faint with severe exertion, and trembling from the sudden view of the dreadful destruction to which he is exposed. His knife is worn halfway to the haft. He can hear the voices, but not the words of his terror-stricken companions below. What a moment! What a meagre chance to escape destruction ! There is no retracing his steps. It is impossible to put his hands into the same niche with his feet and retain his slender hold a moment. His companions instantly perceive this new and fearful dilemma, and await his fall with emotions that freeze their young blood.' He is too high, too faint, to ask for his father and mother, his brothers and sister, to come and witness or avert his destruction. But one of his companions anticipates his desire.— Swift as the wind he bounds down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told upon his father's hearth-stone.

Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there are hundreds standing in the rocky channel, hundreds on the bridge above, all holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above and below. He can just distinguish the tones of his father, who is shouting with all the energies of despair, William! William! Don't look down! Your mother and Henry and Harriet, are all here praying for you! Don't look down! Keep your eye towards the top !' 'The boy didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a flint towards Heaven, and his young heart on him who reigns there. He grasps his knife. He cuts another niche, and another foot is added to the hundreds that remove him from the reach of human help from below, How carefully he uses his wasting blade ! How anxiously he selects the softest places in that vast pier ! How he avoids every flinty grain! How he economises his physical powers--resting a moment at each, again he cuts. How every motion is watched from below. There stand his father, mother, brother and sister, on the very spot where, it he falls, he will not fall alone. The sun is now half-way down the west. The lad has made fifty additional niches in that mighty wall, and now finds himself directly under the middle of that vast arch of rocks, earth and trees. He must cut his way in a new direction to get from under this overhanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is dying in his bosom : its vital heat is fed by the increased shouts of hundreds perched upon cliffs and trees, and others who stand with ropes in their hands on the bridge above, or with ladders below. Fifty gains more must be cut before the longest rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again into the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully, foot by foot, from under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes are already in the hands of those who are leaning over the edge of the bridge. Two minutes more and all will be over.—The blade is worn to the last half inch. The boy's head reels; his eyes are starting from their sockets.--His last hope is dying in his heart : his life must hang upon the next gain he cuts. That niche is his last.-At the last faint gash he makes, his knife, his faithful knife, falls from his nerveless hand, and ringing along the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death-knell through the channel below, and all is still as the grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart, and closing eyes to commend his soul to God. "Tis but a moment-there! one foot swings off!-he is reeling-trembling-toppling over into eternity ! Hark! a shout falls on his ear from above! The man who is lying with half his length over the bridge, has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick as thought the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes, With a faint, convulsive effort the swooning boy drops his arms into the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words, God ! mother ! whispered on his lips just loud enough to be heard in heaven, the tightening rope lifts him out of his last shallow niche. Not a lip moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss ; but when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms before the fearful, breathless multitude, such shouting, such leaping and weeping for joy, never greeted the ear of human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity."

E. B.