Music — Poetry — Fiction 

 silver spray. Perhaps nowhere else in the world is the force of 1886 



i • I l j 1 Warner 



nature so overpowering to the mind, and as the eye wanders 

 from the chaos of the fall to the far horizon, where the vast rivers 

 of rapids are poured out of the sky, one feels that this force is 

 inexhaustible and eternal. 



If our travellers expected to escape the impression they were 

 under by driving down to the rapids and whirlpool below, they 

 were mistaken. Nowhere is the river so terrible as where it rushes, 

 as if maddened by its narrow bondage, through the canon. Flung 

 down the precipice and forced into this contracted space, it fumes 

 and tosses and rages with vindictive fury, driving on in a passion 

 that has almost a human quality in it. Restrained by the walls 

 of stone from being destructive, it seems to rave at its own impo- 

 tence, and when it reaches the whirlpool it is like a hungry 

 animal, returning and licking the shore for the prey it has missed. 

 But it has not always wanted a prey. Now and again it has a 

 wreck or a dead body to toss and fling about. Although it does 

 not need the human element of disaster to make this canon grew- 

 some, the keepers of the show places make the most of the late 

 Captain Webb. So vivid were their narratives that our sympa- 

 thetic party felt his presence continually, saw the strong swimmer 

 tossed like a chip, saw him throw up his hands, saw the agony 

 in his face at the spot where he was last seen. There are several 

 places where he disappeared, each vouched for by creditable 

 witnesses, so that the horror of the scene is multiplied for the 

 tourist. The late afternoon had turned gray and cold, and 

 dashes of rain fell as our party descended to the whirlpool. As 

 they looked over the heaped-up and foaming waters in this eddy 

 they almost expected to see Captain Webb or the suicide of the 

 night before circling round in the maelstrom. They came up 

 out of the gorge silent, and drove back to the hotel full of nervous 

 apprehension. 



King found no telegram from Irene, and the place seemed 

 to him intolerable. The artist was quite ready to go on in the 

 morning; indeed, the whole party, although they said it was 



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