This Bridge Took Us To Iris Island, So Named From The Rainbows Which
Perpetually Hover Round Its Base.
Everything of terrestrial beauty may be
found in Iris Island.
It stands amid the eternal din of the waters, a
barrier between the Canadian and American Falls. It is not more than
sixty-two acres in extent, yet it has groves of huge forest trees, and
secluded roads underneath them in the deepest shade, far apparently from
the busy world, yet thousands from every part of the globe yearly tread
its walks of beauty. We stopped at the top of a dizzy pathway, and,
leaving the Walrences to purchase some curiosities, I descended it,
crossed a trembling foot-bridge, and stood alone on Luna Island, between
the Crescent and American Falls. This beauteous and richly-embowered
little spot, which is said to tremble, and looks as if any wave might
sweep it away, has a view of matchless magnificence. From it can be seen
the whole expanse of the American rapids, rolling and struggling down,
chafing the sunny islets, as if jealous of their beauty. The Canadian Fall
was on my left; away in front stretched the scarlet woods; the
incongruities of the place were out of sight; and at my feet the broad
sheet of the American Fall tumbled down in terrible majesty. The violence
of the rapids cannot be imagined by one who has not seen their resistless
force. The turbulent waters are flung upwards, as if infuriated against
the sky. The rocks, whose jagged points are seen among them, fling off the
hurried and foamy waves, as if with supernatural strength. Nearer and
nearer they come to the Fall, becoming every instant more agitated; they
seem to recoil as they approach its verge; a momentary calm follows, and
then, like all their predecessors, they go down the abyss together. There
is something very exciting in this view; one cannot help investing Niagara
with feelings of human agony and apprehension; one feels a new sensation,
something neither terror, wonder, nor admiration, as one looks at the
phenomena which it displays. I have been surprised to see how a visit to
the Falls galvanises the most matter-of-fact person into a brief exercise
of the imaginative powers.
As the sound of the muffled drum too often accompanies the trumpet, so the
beauty of Luna Island must ever remain associated in my mind with a
terrible catastrophe which recently occurred there. Niagara was at its
gayest, and the summer at its hottest, when a joyous party went to spend
the day on Luna Island. It consisted of a Mr. and Mrs. De Forest, their
beautiful child "Nettie," a young man of great talent and promise, Mr.
Addington, and a few other persons. It was a fair evening in June, when
moonlight was struggling for ascendancy with the declining beams of the
setting sun. The elders of the party, being tired, repaired to the seats
on Iris Island to rest, Mr. De Forest calling to Nettie, "Come here, my
child; don't go near the water." "Never mind - let her alone - I'll watch
her," said Mr. Addington, for the child was very beautiful and a great
favourite, and the youthful members of the party started for Luna Island.
Nettie pulled Addington's coat in her glee.
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