“At a mile from the bridge, the road turns off through a wood. While the stage rolled and jolted along the extremely bad road, Mr. L—— and I went prying about the whole area of the wood, poking our horses’ noses into every thicket, and between any two pieces of rock, that we might be sure not to miss our object; the driver smiling after us, whenever he could spare attention from his own not very easy task, of getting his charge along. With all my attention, I could see no precipice, and was concluding to follow the road without any more vagaries, when Mr. L——, who was a little in advance, waived his whip, as he stood beside his horse, and said, ‘Here is the bridge!’ I then perceived that we were nearly over it, the piled rocks on either hand forming a barrier, which prevents a careless eye from perceiving the ravine which it spans. I turned to the side of the road, and rose in my stirrup to look over; but I found it would not do. I went on to the inn, deposited my horses and returned on foot to the bridge.
“With all my efforts, I could not look down steadily into what seemed the bottomless abyss of foliage and shadow. From every point of the bridge I tried, and all in vain. I was heated and extremely hungry, and much vexed at my own weakness. The only way was to go down and look up; though where the bottom could be, was past my imagining, the view from the top seeming to be of foliage below foliage for ever.
“The way to the glen is through a field opposite the inn, and down a steep, rough, rocky path, which leads under the bridge, and a few yards beyond it. I think the finest view of all is from this path, just before reaching the bridge. The irregular arch of rock, spanning a chasm of one hundred and sixty feet in height, and from sixty to ninety in width, is exquisitely tinted with every shade of grey and brown; while trees encroach from the sides, and overhang from the top; between which and the arch there is an additional depth of fifty-six feet. It was now early in July; the trees were in their brightest and thickest foliage; and the tall beeches under the arch contrasted their verdure with the grey rock, and received the gilding of the sunshine, as it slanted into the ravine, glittering in the drip from the arch, and in the splashing and tumbling waters of Cedar Creek, which ran by our feet. Swallows were flying about under the arch. What others of their tribe can boast of such a home?
“We crossed and re-crossed the creek on stepping-stones, searching out every spot to which any tradition belonged. Under the arch, thirty feet from the water, the lower part of the letters G. W. may be seen, carved in the rock. When Washington was a young man, he climbed up hither, to leave this record of his visit. There are other inscriptions, of the same kind; and above them a board, on which are painted the names of two persons, who have thought it worth while thus to immortalize their feat of climbing highest. But their glory was but transient, after all. They have been outstripped by a traveller, whose achievement will probably never be rivalled; for he would not have accomplished it, if he could by any means have declined the task. Never was a wonderful deed more involuntarily performed. There is no disparagement to the gentleman in saying this: it is only absolving him from the charge of foolhardiness.
“This young man, named Blacklock, accompanied by two friends, visited the Natural Bridge; and, being seized with the ambition appropriate to the place, of writing his name highest, climbed the rock opposite to the part selected by Washington, and carved his initials. Others have perhaps seen what Mr. Blacklock had overlooked—that it was a place easy to ascend, but from which it is impossible to come down. He was forty feet or more from the path; his footing was precarious; he was weary with holding on, while carving his name, and his head began to swim when he saw the impossibility of getting down again. He called to his companions that his only chance was to climb up upon the bridge, without hesitation or delay. They saw this, and with anguish agreed between themselves that the chance was a very bare one. They cheered him, and advised him to look neither up nor down. On he went, slanting upwards from under the arch, creeping round a projection, on which no foothold is visible from below, and then disappearing in a recess filled up with foliage. Long and long they waited, watching for motion, and listening for crashing among the trees. He must have been now one hundred and fifty feet above them. At length their eyes were so strained that they could see no more; and they had almost lost all hope. There was little doubt that he had fallen while behind the trees, where his body would never be found. They went up to try the chance of looking for him from above. They found him lying insensible on the bridge. He could just remember reaching the top, when he immediately fainted. One would like to know whether the accident left him a coward, in respect of climbing, or whether it strengthened his confidence in his nerves.”
VIEW OF THE PASSAIC FALLS.
A description of these beautiful Falls having been given in another page of the work, it may be worth while to step a little aside from the immediate subject of the drawing, in search of historic incident. The annals of New Jersey present nothing more interesting than the military operations of Washington, within its border; and among these stands conspicuous the battle at Monmouth Court House. On the news of the alliance between America and France, the British Government ordered its forces to be concentrated at New York. The royal army, in consequence, evacuated Philadelphia, and took up their march through New Jersey, where Washington resolved to hazard a battle. “The British army,” says the historian, “marched in two divisions,—the van commanded by General Knyphausen, and the rear by Lord Cornwallis; but the British commander-in-chief, judging that the design of the American General was to make an attempt on his baggage, put it under the care of General Knyphausen, that the rear division, consisting of the flower of the British army, might be ready to act with vigour. This arrangement being made, General Knyphausen’s division marched, in pursuance of orders, at break of day, on the 28th of June; but the other division, under Lord Cornwallis, attended by the Commander-in-chief, did not move until eight, that it might not press too closely on the baggage. General Lee appeared on the heights of Freehold, soon after the British had left them; and, following them into the plain, made dispositions for intercepting their covering party in the rear. While he was advancing to the front of a wood, adjoining the plain, to reconnoitre the enemy in person, Sir Henry Clinton was marching back his whole rear division, to attack the Americans. Lee now perceived that he had mistaken the force which formed the rear of the British; but he still proposed to engage on that ground. While both armies were preparing for action, General Scott, mistaking an oblique march of an American column for a retreat, left his position, and repassed a morass in his rear. Lee, dissatisfied with the ground on which the army was drawn up, did not correct the error of Scott, but directed the whole detachment to repass the morass, and regain the heights. During this retrograde movement, the rear of the army, which at the first firing had thrown off their packs, and advanced rapidly to the support of the front, approached the scene of action; and General Washington, riding forward, met the advanced corps, to his extreme mortification and astonishment, retiring before the enemy. On coming up to Lee, he spoke to him in terms of disapprobation; but, though warm, he lost not for a moment that self-command, than which, at so critical a moment, nothing could be more essential to the command of others. He instantly ordered Colonel Stewart’s and Lieutenant-Colonel Ramsay’s battalions to form on a piece of ground, which he judged suitable for giving a check to the enemy; and, having directed General Lee to take proper measures with the residue of his force to stop the British columns on that ground, he rode back himself to arrange the rear division of the army. His orders were executed with firmness. A sharp conflict ensued; and though Lee was forced from the ground on which he had been placed, he brought off his troops in good order, and was then directed to form in the rear of Englishtown. The check which he had given to the enemy procured time to make a disposition of the left wing, and second line of the American army, in the wood, and on the eminence to which Lee was retreating. Lord Stirling, who commanded the left wing, placed some cannon on the eminence, which, with the cooperation of some parties of infantry, effectually stopped the advance of the British in that quarter. The enemy attempted to turn the left flank of the Americans, but were repulsed. They also made a movement to the right, but were there repelled by General Greene, who had taken a very advantageous position. Wayne, advancing with a body of troops, kept up so severe and well-directed a fire, that the British soon gave way, and took the position which Lee had before occupied, where the action commenced immediately after the arrival of General Washington. Here the British line was formed on very strong ground. Both flanks were secured by the woods and morasses, and their front could only be reached through a narrow pass. The day had been intensely hot, and the troops were greatly fatigued; yet General Washington resolved to renew the engagement. He ordered Brigadier-General Poor, with his own and the Carolina brigade, to gain the enemy’s right flank, while Woodford, with his brigade, should turn their left. The artillery was ordered at the same time to advance and play on them in front. These orders were promptly obeyed; but there were so many impediments to be overcome, that before the attack could be commenced, it was nearly dark. It was therefore thought most advisable to postpone further operations until morning; and the troops lay on their arms in the field of battle. General Washington, who had been exceedingly active through the day, and entirely regardless of personal danger, reposed himself at night in his cloak, under a tree, in the midst of his soldiers. His intention of renewing the battle was frustrated. The British troops marched about midnight, in such profound silence, that the most advanced posts, and those very near, knew nothing of their departure until morning.”