Green-Mountain freeman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1844-1884, 1851-07-03
Translated from the German f'f the N. Y. Organ.
THE OLD WOODEN BRIDGE.
THRILLTsG NGIDENT.

"Truth is stranger Than fiction" This trite
but veritable remark receives additional signif-
canoe from the touch of high romance contained
in the following incident, which occurred about
the close of the last century, and within the
msmory of many still Iiving among whom are
some of the writer's relatives.
The scene of our story lies on the banks of
the River Usk, beautiful stream which winds
its way through the rich, wooded valleys and
fertile plains of Monmouthshire, in South
Wales, though nominally reckoned in England.
At distance of alb q sen or twelve miles
from its mouth, where it emptles itself into the
Bristol Channel stands the ancient fortress of
Caereon, once large city, andin times gone by
one of the chief stations of the Roman Legions,
whence it derives its name Its massive walls
and crumblng arches, manted with clinginp
ivy, and its numerous monuments and relics
which from time to time have been dug out of
its buried treasures give evidence of the ancient
greatness of the famous "ISca SiImum"-the
name by which it was known among the Ro-
mans. Time and events however, have brought
low the once proud city, which long before the
period of our story had dwindled to a small mar
ket town, reposing amid the quiet and romance
which spreads such an all-pervadng charm over
the rural portions of the country.
ThIown across the rapid stream of the Usk
was rude wooden bridge which led directly
from the old town 10 a cluster Of curious, albeit
comfortable looking dwellings on the opposite
bank, known by the appelation Of the village"
Bridges in many parts of Wales, at the time
we speak Of, were not as they are now.
The roads, too--they seemed ts if our FORE
fathers were determined 10 make them as diff
cult as possible by leading them over the most
craggy sleeps, along the most dangerous preci-
pices and down the most rugged deserts they
could find. This is no exaggeraton, as those
who have ever visited that part of the Principal
ity, and have been fond of saunteing amid the
soltudes of those unfrequente1 paths, can testi-
fly. But to our tale.
On wild fearful night in October, when the
spirits of the storm ragged In all their fury, and
the " flood gates of heaven" seemed opened,
and the mountain sluices sent forth their tor
rents to swell the rushing current of the river,
female form bearing laR2 whose Pickering
light only served to ren4K the surrounding
darkness more visible, hurfRd onward through
fhe storm il the diFeotia lila bridge
above described. She arrived at its foot-paus-
ed-listened-and fearfully agitated, not know
ing which way to proceed, gazed around her
with bewildered look. 1t was midnight. No
human sound of voice or footstep. The howl
of the storm mingled with the reverberating
thunder and the "voice of many waters" alone
greeted her sinking heart. Suddenly, on the
other side the river, door opened-a bright
fire sent forth cheerful highland in the mo-
mentary lull of the tempest, strain from well
known voice fell upon her ear, and the door
again closed
She no longer hesitated, but over the bridge
dashed onward, through the thick darkness that
hung over the waters and enhanced the terror
of the tempest.
All breathess, forward she flew, when in a
moment there came crash! rapidly followed
by splashing noise in the waters beneath, and
the unfortunate victim was carried swiftly awav
down the dark swelling torrent.