Travelers Original Accounts: 1801-1840 



us down in Manchester. I began to listen for the roar of the 1834 

 cataract, and trembled with a sensation like dread, as the moment Hawrne 

 drew nigh, when its voice of ages must roll, for the first time, 

 on my ear. The French gentleman stretched himself from 

 the window, and expressed loud admiration, while, by a sudden 

 impulse, I threw myself back and closed my eyes. When the 

 scene shut in, I was glad to think, that for me the whole burst 

 of Niagara was yet in futurity. We rolled on, and entered the 

 village of Manchester, bordering on the falls. 



I am quite ashamed of myself here. Not that I ran, like a 

 madman to the falls, and plunged into the thickest of the spray, 

 — never stopping to breathe, till breathing was impossible: not 

 that I committed this, or any other suitable extravagance. On the 

 contrary, I alighted with perfect decency and composure, gave 

 my cloak to the black waiter, pointed out my baggage, and 

 inquired, not the nearest way to the cataract, but about the 

 dinner-hour. The interval was spent in arranging my dress. 

 Within the last fifteen minutes, my mind had grown strangely 

 benumbed, and my spirits apathetic, with a slight depression, 

 not decided enough to be termed sadness. My enthusiasm 

 was in a deathlike slumber. Without aspiring to immortality, 

 as he did, I could have imitated that English traveler, who 

 turned back from the point where he first heard the thunder 

 of Niagara, after crossing the ocean to behold it. Many a 

 Western trader, by the by, has performed a similar act of heroism 

 with more heroic simplicity, deeming it no such wonderful feat 

 to dine at the hotel and resume his route to Buffalo or Lewiston, 

 while the cataract was roaring unseen. 



Such has often been my apathy, when objects, long sought, 

 and earnestly desired, were placed within my reach. After 

 dinner — at which an unwonted and perverse epicurism detained 

 me longer than usual — I lighted a cigar and paced the piazza, 

 minutely attentive to the aspect and business of a very ordinary 

 village. Finally, with reluctant step, and the feeling of an 

 intruder, I walked towards Goat Island. At the toll-house, 



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