Travelers' Original Accounts Since 1840 



from out the thundering water; what faces, faded from the earth, 1841 

 looked out upon me from its gleaming depths ; what Heavenly Dltkens 

 promise glistened in those angels' tears, the drops of many hues, 

 that showered around, and twined themselves about the gorgeous 

 arches which the changing rainbows made! 



I never stirred in all that time from the Canadian side, whither 

 I had gone at first. I never crossed the river again; for I knew 

 there were people on the other shore, and in such a place it is 

 natural to shun strange company. To wander to and fro all 

 day, and see the cataracts from all points of view ; to stand upon 

 the edge of the Great Horse Shoe Fall, marking the hurried 

 water gathering strength as it approached the verge, yet seeming, 

 too, to pause before it shot into the gulf below; to gaze from 

 the river's level up at the torrent as it came streaming down; to 

 climb the neighbouring heights and watch it through the trees, 

 and see the wreathing water in the rapids hurrying on to take its 

 fearful plunge, to linger in the shadow of the solemn rocks three 

 miles below; watching the river as, stirred by no visible cause, 

 it heaved and eddied and awoke the echoes, being troubled yet, 

 far down beneath the surface, by its giant leap; to have Niagara 

 before me, lighted by the sun and by the moon, red in the day's 

 decline, and grey as evening slowly fell upon it; to look upon it 

 every day, and wake up in the night and hear its ceaseless voice : 

 this was enough. 



I think in every quiet season now, still do those waters roll 

 and leap, and roar and tumble, all day long; still are the rain- 

 bows spanning them, a hundred feet below. Still, when the sun is 

 on them, do they shine and glow like molten gold. Still, when the 

 day is gloomy, do they fall like snow, or seem to crumble away like 

 the front of a great chalk cliff, or roll adown the rock like dense 

 white smoke. But always does the mighty stream appear to die 

 as it comes down, and always from its unfathomable grave arises 

 that tremendous ghost of spray and mist which is never laid: 

 which has haunted this place with the same dread solemnity since 

 Darkness brooded on the deep, and that first flood before the 



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