The view of the bridge from below is as pleasing as the top view 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 sufficiently loud 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 visitors have often taken the pains to engrave their names upon the rock.  Here Washington climbed up twenty-five feet, and carved his own name, where it still remains.  Some, wishing to immortalise their names, have engraven them deep and large, while others have tried to climb up and insert them high in this book of fame.

A few years since, a young man, being ambitious to place his name above all others, was 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 opened a large jack-knife, and, in the soft limestone, began to cut places for his hands and feet.  With much patience and industry 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 anything for his relief.  They looked upon him as already dead, expecting every moment to see him precipitated upon the rocks below and dashed to pieces.  Not so with himself.  He determined to ascend.  Accordingly he plies the rock with his knife, cutting places for his hands and feet, and gradually ascended with incredible labour.  He exerts every muscle.  His life was at stake, and all the terrors of death rose before him.  He dared not look downwards, lest his head should become dizzy; and perhaps on this circumstance his life depended.  His companions stood at 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 yet forsaken him.  His course upwards was rather oblique than perpendicular.  His most critical moment had now arrived.  He had ascended considerably more than two hundred feet, and had still further to rise, when he felt 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 two hundred and fifty feet from the water, in a course almost perpendicular; and in a little less than 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 exhausted.  He immediately fainted on reaching the top, and it was some time before he could be recovered!