The fall, which is split into two, is
thundering beside you; foam, foam, foam is flying all about you;
The basin or cauldron is boiling frightfully below you; hirsute
rocks are frowning terribly above you, and above them forest trees,
dank and wet with spray and mist, are distilling drops in showers
from their boughs.
But where is the bridge, the celebrated bridge of the Evil Man?
From the bottom of the first flight of steps leading down into the
hollow you see a modern-looking bridge, bestriding a deep chasm or
cleft to the south-east, near the top of the dingle of the Monks'
River; over it lies the road to Pont Erwyd. That, however, is not
the Devil's Bridge; but about twenty feet below that bridge, and
completely overhung by it, don't you see a shadowy, spectral
object, something like a bow, which likewise bestrides the chasm?
You do! Well, that shadowy, spectral object is the celebrated
Devil's Bridge, or, as the timorous peasants of the locality call
it, the Pont y Gwr Drwg. It is now merely preserved as an object
of curiosity, the bridge above being alone used for transit, and is
quite inaccessible except to birds and the climbing wicked boys of
the neighbourhood, who sometimes at the risk of their lives
contrive to get upon it from the frightfully steep northern bank,
and snatch a fearful joy, as, whilst lying on their bellies, they
poke their heads over its sides worn by age, without parapet to
prevent them from falling into the horrid gulf below.
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