Here A Negro Guide Of Most Repulsive Appearance Awaited Me, And
I Waded Through A Perfect Sea Of Mud To The Shaft By Which People Go Under
Table Rock.
My friends were evidently ashamed of my appearance, but they
met me here to wish me a safe return, and, following the guide, I dived
down a spiral staircase, very dark and very much out of repair.
Leaving this staircase, I followed the guide along a narrow path covered
with fragments of shale, with Table Rock above and the deep abyss below. A
cold, damp wind blew against me, succeeded by a sharp pelting rain, and
the path became more slippery and difficult. Still I was not near the
sheet of water, and felt not the slightest dizziness. I speedily arrived
at the difficult point of my progress: heavy gusts almost blew me away;
showers of spray nearly blinded me; I was quite deafened and half-drowned;
I wished to retreat, and essayed to use my voice to stop the progress of
my guide. I raised it to a scream, but it was lost in the thunder of the
cataract. The negro saw my incertitude and extended his hand. I shuddered
even there as I took hold of it, not quite free from the juvenile idea
that "the black comes off." He seemed at that moment to wear the aspect of
a black imp leading me to destruction.
The path is a narrow, slippery ledge of rock. I am blinded with spray, the
darkening sheet of water is before me. Shall I go on? The spray beats
against my face, driven by the contending gusts of wind which rush into
the eyes, nostrils, and mouth, and almost prevent my progress; the
narrowing ledge is not more than a foot wide, and the boiling gulf is
seventy feet below. Yet thousands have pursued this way before, so why
should not I? I grasp tighter hold of the guide's hand, and proceed step
by step holding down my head. The water beats against me, the path
narrows, and will only hold my two feet abreast. I ask the guide to stop,
but my voice is drowned by the "Thunder of Waters." He guesses what I
would say, and shrieks in my ear, "It's worse going back." I make a
desperate attempt: four steps more and I am at the end of the ledge; my
breath is taken away, and I can only just stand against the gusts of wind
which are driving the water against me. The gulf is but a few inches from
me, and, gasping for breath, and drenched to the skin, I become conscious
that I have reached Termination Rock.
Once arrived at this place, the clouds of driving spray are a little
thinner, and, though it is still very difficult either to see or breathe,
the magnificence of the temple, which is here formed by the natural bend
of the cataract and the backward shelve of the precipice, makes a lasting
impression on the mind.
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