them unsurpassed in beauty and
attractiveness elsewhere in the world. In number and variety of
mineral springs it stands unequalled; its caverns, Luray and
Weyer's, are rich in charms of subterranean scenery; and its
two remarkable examples of nature's grandeur, the Natural
Bridge and Natural Tunnel, are unique in their peculiar
characteristics. Edward A. Pollard, in his "Virginia Tourist,"
has ably described the various attractions of the Old Dominion,
and we select from this work his word picture of the Natural
Bridge. He made his way thither from Lynchburg, _via_ the James
River Canal.]

As the traveller enters the gap of the Blue Ridge from the east, the
winding courses of the stage-coach carry him up the mountain's side
until he has gained an elevation of hundreds of feet above the James
River, over the waters of which the zigzag and rotten road hangs
fearfully. On every side are gigantic mountains hemming him in; there
are black ravines in the great prison-house; and the lengthened arms of
the winds smite the strained ear with the sounds of the rapids below.
While he looks at the distance, a mountain rivulet, slight and
glittering from amid the primeval forest, dashes across his path, and,
leaping from rock to rock, goes joyously on its way.

On the North River the scenes are quieter. Emerging here, the traveller
sees a beautiful and fertile country opening before him, while still
westward the blue outlines of distant mountains in Rockbridge bound his
vision. The water landscape is beautiful. Lovely valleys debouch upon
the stream; there are peaceful shadows in the steel-blue waters, and on
the broad shoulders of the cattle on the banks we see the drapery of the
shadows of the trees beneath which they rest. The fisherman standing
leg-deep in the water can see his face as in a mirror.

But at present our way does not lie through these scenes. The canal-boat
is taking us along the James in the moonlit night, and by the time the
day has broken we are within two miles of the Natural Bridge. A rickety
team awaits us at the lock-house where we disembark. Through an air
filled with golden vapor, and with the mists of the morning yet hanging
in the trees by the wayside, we proceed on our journey. The old
stage-coach lumbers along under the thick, overhanging boughs of the
forest pines, which ever and anon scrape its top or strike in through
the windows, scattering th