You Will Descend This Shaft,
Taking To Yourself Or Not Taking To Yourself A Suit Of Oil-Clothes
As You May Think Best.
I have gone with and without the suit, and
again recommend that they be left behind.
I am inclined to think
that the ordinary payment should be made for their use, as
otherwise it will appear to those whose trade it is to prepare them
that you are injuring them in their vested rights.
Some three years since I visited Niagara on my way back to England
from Bermuda, and in a volume of travels which I then published I
endeavored to explain the impression made upon me by this passage
between the rock and the waterfall. An author should not quote
himself; but as I feel myself bound, in writing a chapter specially
about Niagara, to give some account of this strange position, I
will venture to repeat my own words.
In the spot to which I allude the visitor stands on a broad, safe
path, made of shingles, between the rock over which the water
rushes and the rushing water. He will go in so far that the spray,
rising back from the bed of the torrent, does not incommode him.
With this exception, the farther he can go in the better; but
circumstances will clearly show him the spot to which he should
advance. Unless the water be driven in by a very strong wind, five
yards make the difference between a comparatively dry coat and an
absolutely wet one. And then let him stand with his back to the
entrance, thus hiding the last glimmer of the expiring day. So
standing, he will look up among the falling waters, or down into
the deep, misty pit, from which they re-ascend in almost as
palpable a bulk. The rock will be at his right hand, high and
hard, and dark and straight, like the wall of some huge cavern,
such as children enter in their dreams. For the first five minutes
he will be looking but at the waters of a cataract - at the waters,
indeed, of such a cataract as we know no other, and at their
interior curves which elsewhere we cannot see. But by-and-by all
this will change. He will no longer be on a shingly path beneath a
waterfall; but that feeling of a cavern wall will grow upon him, of
a cavern deep, below roaring seas, in which the waves are there,
though they do not enter in upon him; or rather, not the waves, but
the very bowels of the ocean. He will feel as though the floods
surrounded him, coming and going with their wild sounds, and he
will hardly recognize that though among them he is not in them.
And they, as they fall with a continual roar, not hurting the ear,
but musical withal, will seem to move as the vast ocean waters may
perhaps move in their internal currents. He will lose the sense of
one continued descent, and think that they are passing round him in
their appointed courses. The broken spray that rises from the
depths below, rises so strongly, so palpably, so rapidly that the
motion in every direction will seem equal. And, as he looks on,
strange colors will show themselves through the mist; the shades of
gray will become green or blue, with ever and anon a flash of
white; and then, when some gust of wind blows in with greater
violence, the sea-girt cavern will become all dark and black. Oh,
my friend, let there be no one there to speak to thee then; no, not
even a brother. As you stand there speak only to the waters.
Two miles below the falls the river is crossed by a suspension
bridge of marvelous construction. It affords two thoroughfares,
one above the other. The lower road is for carriages and horses,
and the upper one bears a railway belonging to the Great Western
Canada Line. The view from hence, both up and down the river, is
very beautiful, for the bridge is built immediately over the first
of a series of rapids. One mile below the bridge these rapids end
in a broad basin called the whirlpool, and, issuing out of this,
the current turns to the right through a narrow channel overhung by
cliffs and trees, and then makes its way down to Lake Ontario with
comparative tranquillity.
But I will beg you to take notice of those rapids from the bridge,
and to ask yourself what chance of life would remain to any ship,
craft, or boat required by destiny to undergo navigation beneath
the bridge and down into that whirlpool. Heretofore all men would
have said that no chance of life could remain to so ill-starred a
bark. The navigation, however, has been effected. But men used to
the river still say that the chances would be fifty to one against
any vessel which should attempt to repeat the experiment.
The story of that wondrous voyage was as follows: A small steamer,
called the Maid of the Mist, was built upon the river, between the
falls and the rapids, and was used for taking adventurous tourists
up amid the spray as near to the cataract as was possible. "The
Maid of the Mist plied in this way for a year or two, and was, I
believe, much patronized during the season. But in the early part
of last summer an evil time had come. Either the Maid got into
debt, or her owner had embarked in other and less profitable
speculations. At any rate, he became subject to the law, and
tidings reached him that the sheriff would seize the Maid. On most
occasions the sheriff is bound to keep such intentions secret,
seeing that property is movable, and that an insolvent debtor will
not always await the officers of justice. But with the poor Maid
there was no need of such secrecy.
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