The examiner. [volume] (Louisville, Ky.) 1847-1849, 1848-11-18

away.
Over mmultuous torrent, high in the
uppcr air, there hangs bridge Of rock,
fashioned by the hand Of Nature, with the
peaks Of granite mountains for its horizon.
Two hundred feet above the foaming waves
you behold this arch, which, in its very
raggedness, looks graceful as a floating
scarf Over the wave, looking through the
arch, you catch vision of colossal cliffs,
with glimpse OF smiling sky. Advanced
to the parapet OF this bridge--cling to the
shrubs that grow there-look below' Your
heart grows sick-your brain reels.
Stand in the shadow Of the arch, and
lock above. How beautiful! While the
torrent spsrkles at your feet, yonder, in the
very Heaven. the Arch Of Rock fills your
eye, and spans the abyss, with giant trees
upon its brow.
To the Natural Bridge, Washington, the
young pilgrim, came. He stood by the
waves at sunsel-he drank in the rugged
sublimity of the scene. And when the
morning came, with an unfsltering step.
and hand that never shook, not for an in
slant, with one pulse of fear, he climbed
the awful height-he wrote his name upon
the rock-he stood upon the summit, be-
meath the tall pine, and saw the march Of
day among the mountains.
Who shall picture his emotions in that
hour?
AS his unfaltering hand traced the name
upon the rock, did he dream Of the day
when that name should be stamped upon
the history Of the country, ana written not
in stone, but in the throbs OF living hearts?
As he stood upon the arch, and saw the
torrent sparkle dimly far below, while the
kiss of light was glittering over the noun
tain tops, did no vision of the battlefield,
no shadowy presentiment Of glory, gleam
awfully before his flashing eyes!
Again: another scene OF Washington's
education:
There is river which sparkles beauti-
fully among its leafy banks-glides on as
smoothly as the dream Of sinless slumber;
but even ss you gaze upon its CLASSY waves
it rushes from your ght. 1t glides over
bed OF rocks, and then through yawning
abyss sinks with one sullen plunge into the
bosom Of the earth. On one side you be-
hold its smooth waters; a! your feet the
abyss; and yonder an undulating meadow.
Yes where should be the course of the riv-
er, you behold slopes Of grass and flow
ers.
1t is simply called the Lost River.
1t fills you with inexPlicable emotions to
see this beautiful stream, now flashing in
the sunlight; now, ere you can count one,
lost in a dismal cavern, with flowers grow
ing upon its grave.
Here, Washington, the young pilgrim,
wandered oftentime, and gazed with full
heart upon the mysterious river.
"Shall my life be like that river? Gid
ing smoothly on--shining in sunlight, only
to plunge, without moments warning, in
to night and eternity"
Did no thought like this cross the young
pilgrims soul! In that wondrous river he
beheld a symbol Of brave life. suddenly
plunged in darkness. Or, it may be, OF
great heart, hurled into obscurity, only to
rise more beautiful and strong, after the night
was over and the darkness gone. For after
three miles of darkness the Lost River
comes sparkling into light again, singing
for very gladneSs, as it rushes from the cav
ern into the open air.
Amid scenes like this the youth Of Wash.
ington was passed. He grew to manhood
amid the glorious images Of unpolluted ma
ture. Now, pausing near the mountain top,
he saw the valleys of Virginia fade far
away, in one long smile of verdure and SUM-
shine, with the Potomac, like silver thread,
in the distance.
Now battling for life, amid hunger, snow,
and savage foes, he makes his bed in the
hollow OF a rock, or sets his destiny ahoat
amid the waves and ice Of wintry river.
There is the picture in the life Of Wash.
ington, the Boy, which has ever impressed
my soul.
Ii is not so much that picture of young
Washington seated at the feet OF his widow.
ed mother, gazing into her pale face, drink
ing the fathomless affection OF her mild eyes
and for her sake renouncing the glit:ering
prospect of an ocean life and laurels gath
cred from its CORY waves.
This picture, in its simplicity, is very
beautiful. But it is another picture which
enchants me. Behold it:
By the side of lonely stream, in the
depth of a green woodland, sits boy OF
lourteen--shut out from all the world, alone
with his heart-his finger laid upon an
opened volume. while his large gray eye
gazes vacantly into the deep waters.
And that volume is the old Family Bible,
marked with the name Of its ancestor, John
Washington; and from its large letters look
forth the Prophets Of Israel and from its
pages, printed in antique style, the face OF
Jesus smiles in upon the soul of the dream
ing boy.
Washington, the Boy, alone with the old
Bible, which his ancestor, a wanderer and
exile, brought from the English shore; alone
with the Prophets and the warriors of long
distant ages; shut in from the world by the
awful forms Of revelation; now wandering
with the Patriarchs, under the shade OF
palms, among the white focks-now lin.
gering by Samaria's well, while the Divine
voice melts in accents of unutterable music
upon the stiffness of MONDAY.
Let us for few moments survey the va
rious epochs Of the youth Of Washington.
At the age of ten years he is left an or.
phan; from the hour Of his fathers death,
he is educated by his widowed mother.