exceptions; but such is human nature, and such are the frailties and follies of man.

To a certain proportion of mankind - such as the literary, and those whose circumstances place them above the necessity of labor or business, and who are fond of reading and indulging in matters of taste the evening of life affords especial opportunities for the most tranquil enjoyments, arising from the view of the past, the present, and the future; and it is the happy season for solemn meditation on subjects of eternal moment: and for this last purpose, the season is most interesting to all, whatever may be the external circumstances which distinguish their lot in life. The foregoing observations have reference to some of the comforts of old age, as they are seen to exist, arising out of the employments, habits, dispositions, tastes, and views, of people, as they approach the vale of years. It is true, that in countless instances they are imperfect and unsatisfying comforts. They are too often, merely occasional and transitory: but man's imprudence or misconduct gives them this character. Such being the sorrowful truth, the philosopher and the moralist are anxious to change the aspect of society, and by inducing mankind to observe the only true regimen, to increase the moral health, and preserve it in purity and strength, when bodily disabilities are constantly increasing. Let us then resort to the only medicine which possesses the necessary virtue to sustain the health of the heart, and its best affections, not only in the summer of life, but in its waning autumn, and the cold climate of its winter. The only sure way to guard against this climate, is to be constantly preparing for it. Such a preparation renders our approach toward it by no means unwelcome, because it is so gradual. In a word, a virtuous life is the only one which can give serenity and peace during the last act of life's drama. The calm beauty of its evening is generally the natural consequence of a fair morning, properly improved in preparation for the labors and duties of its busy day and the faithful discharge of these duties will procure those treasures which will last, and preserve their virtues till the close of the evening. We have abundant assurance that such is the course, in the moral as well as the natural world. They who, when young, cultivate kind and affectionate dispositions, will imperceptibly surround themselves with friends, and receive courtesy and kindness from all. The same remark will apply to those in the meridian of life. Sincerity, integrity, and truth, always will command respect, and secure the homage of all hearts, except the hearts of those 'whose censure is praise, and whose good opinion is scandal.' In old age, virtue will always enjoy and inspire confidence and the peace of mind which an old man, walking in the path of honor and truth, displays to those around him, insensibly awakens in them a love of virtue, and kindles the desire of imitation. We are not aware of the extent of that influence which the Christian and good man, without seeming to know it, exerts on all around. His atmosphere is all health and purity.

:

It should be remembered, that a large portion of those miseries which multitudes suffer in old age, are penalties which they are doomed to endure, as the usual consequences of irregular habits, violent passions, unhallowed desires, or unpardonable carelessness. Heaven thus

teaches wisdom; and yet how few attend to the lessons given them!
Let these solemn truths never be forgotten, by the rising or the risen
generation. To be sure, there are miseries which age is doomed to
suffer, that seem to be the effects of pure misfortune: but what we
call misfortunes, too often are occasioned by imprudence or inatten-
tion. Afflictions must come, according to the order of nature. Sick-
ness distresses our friends, as well as ourselves; and their death
wounds our hearts. Still, in all these cases, the good man finds peace
in the retrospect of life, and is sustained by hopes, and consolations,
and humble trust, when he extends his view beyond the valley before
him. His life may have been, at certain periods of it, covered with
clouds and gloom, and even storms may have overtaken him. Still
he is at peace with himself and all around him. In the same man-
ner we often witness days in succession, during which no sunshine
gladdens the earth, and the elements are in wild and destructive com-
motion; yet before those days have closed, the heavens have pre-
sented to view the western horizon all mild, cloudless, and beautiful,
and glowing with the promises of a morning of serenity and softness.
The setting sun of the good man is equally peaceful, and full of
promise. Heaven grant that ours may be such! To gain this bless-
ing should be the unceasing business of life the constant aspira-
tion of the heart. Whatever may be our sphere of action, we all have
our duties; and our great aim should be, to perform them properly.
Time is on the wing. Youth soon rises into manhood; manhood is
for a while buried in the midst of cares, pleasures, and anxieties, and
then hastens onward toward his last resting place. Let us all, in
view of Life's Evening,' and the solemnities which are associated
with it, sincerely endeaver to be, as will appear to be, such as we
ought to be. This is no time for deceiving others or ourselves. Let
us not depend on the flattery of our epitaphs, inscribed by the hand
of affection, and therefore deceptive and overdrawn; nor let us re-
pose our confidence in the comforting aphorism, that 'Death opens
the gate of Fame, and shuts the gate of Envy after him.'
Let us es-
tablish our own characters, as good and worthy, and deserve them.
Let this be our earthly crown of rejoicing. A poet of feeling and
sensibility has, in the two following lines, beautifully described the
good man's exit :

'Night dews fall not more gently on the ground,
Nor weary, worn-out winds expires so soft.'

CLIMBING THE NATURAL BRIDGE.

BY THE ONLY SURVIVING WITNESS OF THAT EXTRAORDINARY FEAT.

I HAVE Some reason to believe, that I am the only surviving witness of that most adventurous exploit of climbing the Natural Bridge in Virginia; and believing that the particulars ought to be put upon record, I have selected the KNICKERBOCKER as the medium. I have oftentimes, and for many years, withstood repeated solicitations to do this, for the following reasons, which I give, lest it might be supposed, by some suspicious persons, that I had waited for the death of the other alleged witnesses.

Immediately after the adventure had been accomplished, and while all the circumstances were fresh in my memory, I recorded them in a sort of journal, kept to record visiters' names, by poor Patrick Henry, a man of color, who kept the Bridge. This record was referred to by Patrick, whenever a visiter became inquisitive about the circumstances. Some believed my statement, and others disbelieved it; but by far the greater number disbelieved it, as he informed me. This was far from being pleasant, to one who had never had his veracity doubted before. But this was not all.

I happened to be at the Bridge, some time after the event, when a large company of respectable-looking ladies and gentlemen had just returned from under the Bridge, and were waiting dinner, like myself, at the house on the summit, to which I have alluded. The conversation, among this company, naturally turned upon the remarkable event, as it does to this day; and the book was referred to, as usual, for the particulars. I immediately gave Patrick the hint that I wished to remain incog., in order that I might hear for myself the remarks upon my testimony. It is an old saying, that a listener never hears any good of himself, and so it turned out on this occasion. The company were unanimous in discrediting my testimony, ladies and all. Little did they imagine that the man himself was ensconced in a corner of the same room with themselves. I forthwith determined to volunteer no more testimony about things so out of the common current of events; at all events, I determined to hold my peace, until the public mind should settle down into the truth, as it generally does at last.

That time seems to have arrived. The public, without an exception, so far as I know, has yielded its credence to the united testimony of so many witnesses. Scarcely a periodical in the country, or a book of travels, but mentions the subject.

*

But there is another reason for coming forward at this time. Tradition has got hold of the story at the wrong end. In the very last number of your Magazine, one of your contributors misrepresents the matter unintentionally no doubt; and Miss Martineau, in her 'Retrospect of Western Travel,' undertakes to detail the whole affair, scarcely one circumstance of which she does correctly. Under

See KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE, for May.

these circumstances, I think a discerning public will readily appreciate my true motives in coming out over my own signature: indeed unless I were to do so, it would be useless to say any thing at all.

I think it was in the summer of 1818, that James H. Piper, William Revely, William Wallace, and myself, being then students at Washington College, Virginia, determined to make a jaunt to the Natural Bridge, fourteen miles off. Having obtained permission from the president, we proceeded on our way rejoicing. When we arrived at the Bridge, nearly all of us commenced climbing up the precipitous sides, in order to immortalize our names, as usual.

We had not been long thus employed, before we were joined by Robert Penn, of Amherst, then a pupil of the Rev. Samuel Houston's grammar school, in the immediate neighborhood of the Bridge. Mr. Piper, the hero of the occasion, commenced climbing on the opposite side of the creek from the one by which the pathway ascends the ravine. He began far down the banks of the brook; so far, that we did not know where he had gone, and were only apprized of his whereabout, by his shouting above our heads. When we looked up, he was standing apparently right under the arch, I suppose an hundred feet from the bottom, and that on the smooth side, which is generally considered inaccessible without a ladder. He was standing far above the spot where General Washington is said to have inscribed his name, when a youth.

The ledge of rock by which he ascended to this perilous height, does not appear from below to be three inches wide, and runs almost at right angles to the abutment of the Bridge; of course, its termination is far down the cliff, on that side. Many of the written and traditional accounts state this to be the side of the Bridge up which he climbed. I believe Miss Martineau so states; but it is altogether a mistake, as any one may see, by casting an eye up the precipice on that side. The story no doubt originated from this preliminary exploit.

The ledge of rock on which he was standing, appeared so narrow to us below, as to make us believe his position a very perilous one, and we earnestly entreated him to come down. He answered us with loud shouts of derision. At this stage of the business, Mr. Penn and servant left us. He would not have done so, I suppose, if he had known what was to follow; but up to this time, not one of us had the slightest suspicion that Mr. Piper intended the daring exploit which he afterward accomplished. He soon after descended from that side, crossed the brook, and commenced climbing on the side by which all visiters ascend the ravine. He first mounted the rocks on this side, as he had done on the other - far down the abutment, but not so far as on the opposite side. The projecting ledge may be distinctly seen by any visitor. It commences four or five feet from the pathway, on the lower side, and winds round, gradually ascending, until it meets the cleft of rock over which the celebrated cedar stump hangs. Following this ledge to its termination, it brought him to about thirty or forty feet from the ground, and placed him between two deep fissures, one on each side of the gigantic column of rock on which the aforementioned cedar stump stands. This column stands out from the Bridge as separate and dis

----

tinct as if placed there by nature on purpose for an observatory to the wonderful arch and ravine which it over looks. A huge crack or fissure extends from its base to its summit; indeed it is cracked on both sides, but much more perceptibly on one side than the other. Both these fissures are thickly overgrown with bushes, and numerous roots project into them from the trees growing on the precipice. It was between these, that the before-mentioned ledge conducted him. Here he stopped, pulled off his coat and shoes, and threw them down to me. And this, in my opinion, is a sufficient refutation of the story, so often told, that he went up to inscribe his name, and ascended so high that he found it more difficult to return than go forward. He could have returned easily from the point where he disencumbered himself, but the fact that he did thus prepare so early, and so near the ground, and after he had ascended more than double that height, on the other side, are clear proofs, that to inscribe his name was not, and to climb the bridge was, his object. He had already inscribed his name above Washington himself, more than fifty

feet.

Around the face of this huge column, and between the clefts, he now moved, backward and forward, still ascending, as he found convenient foot hold. When he had ascended about one hundred and seventy feet from the earth, and had reached the point where the pillar overhangs the ravine, his heart seemed to fail him! He stopped, and seemed to us to be balancing midway between heaven and earth. We were in dread suspense, expecting every moment to see him dashed to atoms at our feet. We had already exhausted our powers of entreaty, in persuading him to return, but all to no purpose. Now, it was perilous even to speak to him, and very difficult to carry on conversation at all, from the immense height to which he had ascended, and the noise made by the bubbling of the little brook, as it tumbled in tiny cascades over its rocky bed, at our feet. At length he seemed to discover that one of the clefts beforementioned retreated backward from the overhanging position of the pillar. Into this he sprang at once, and was soon out of sight and out of danger.

There is not a word of truth in all that story about our hauling him up with ropes, and his fainting away so soon as he landed on the summit. Those acquainted with the localities, will at once perceive its absurdity, for we were beneath the arch, and it is half a mile round to the top, and for the most part up a rugged mountain. Instead of fainting away, Mr. Piper proceeded at once down the hill to meet us, and obtain his hat and shoes. We met about half way, and there he laid down for a few moments, to recover himself from his fatigue.

We dined at the tavern of Mr. Donihoo, half way between the Bridge and Lexington, and there we related the whole matter at the dinner table. Mr. Donihoo has since removed to the St. Clair, in Michigan. Mr. Piper was preparing himself for the ministry, in the Presbyterian church, and the president of the college was his spiritual preceptor, as well as his teacher in college. Accordingly he called him up, next morning, to inquire into it, thinking, perhaps, that it was not a very proper exhibition for a student of theology.