Travelers' Original Accounts Since 1840 



which wreathe its image in the mind as the sparkling vapor floats, 1851 

 a rainbow, around the reality. It is in the flowers that grow ur,ls 

 quietly along the edges of the precipices, to the slightest of which 

 one drop of the clouds of spray that curl from the seething abyss 

 is the sufficient elixir of a long and lovely life. 



Yet — for we must look the Alpine comparison which is sug- 

 gested to every one who knows Switzerland, fairly in the face — 

 the Alps are more terrible than Niagara. The movement and 

 roar of the Cataract, and the facility of approach to the very 

 plunge, relieve the crushing sense of awfulness which the silent, 

 inaccessible, deadly solitudes of the high Alps inspire. . . . 



Besides, where trees grow, there human sympathy lingers. 

 Doubtless it is the supreme beauty of the edges of Niagara, 

 which often causes travellers to fancy that they are disappointed, 

 as if in Semiramis they should see more of the woman than of 

 the queen. . . , 



The little steamer leaves the shore by the suspension bridge, 

 and, gliding with effort into the current of the river, you remem- 

 ber that there is the Cataract before and the whirlpool behind, 

 and sheer rocky precipices on each side. But there is only gay 

 gossip and pleasant wonder all around you, the morning is mild, 

 and the Falls flash like a plunge of white flame. Slowly, slowly, 

 tugs the little boat against the stream. She hugs the shore, rocky- 

 hearted, stiff, straight, prim old puritan of a shore that it is, 

 although it is wreathed and crowned with graceful foliage. 



Presently comes a puff of cool spray. Is it a threat, a kiss, 

 or a warning from our terrible bourne? The fussy little captain 

 exhorts everybody to wrap in a water-proof cloak and cap; we 

 shall else be soaked through and through, as we were never 

 soaked by shower before. But some of us, beautiful daughters 

 of a mother famously fair, love our looks, and would fain enjoy 

 every thing without making ourselves less lovely. 



" Pooh, pooh! " insists our captain, " I wouldn't give three 

 cents for them 'ere bunnets, (our choice travelling hats!) if they 

 once get wet." 



17 257 



