Travelers* Original Accounts Since 1 840 



London, without a ripple on its deep surface, and flowing quickly 1859 

 on, though still so smooth, so treacherously quiet in its might, 00 * 

 that one might almost think of swimming in it but that the 

 branches of trees and little bits of timber which hurry down so 

 fast give such a warning of the power beneath the water as even 

 a fish would not care to disregard. A mile or so lower down, 

 and the river begins to throw off all disguise, and hurries swiftly 

 on, keeping the roots and plants that fringe its edge flickering 

 and waving tremulously out, or pouring against the points of 

 rocks and islands with a force that makes it recoil back in a 

 feather of spray, as from the bows of a steamboat, till you 

 can almost fancy that the very islands have got adrift and are 

 struggling fiercely up against the stream. By-and-by foam 

 appears on the water, then whirlpools, which spin till your head 

 reels to look at them, then more foam, then lines of deep sunken 

 gullies, where the blue water drops heavily down and seems to 

 choke and rave till it becomes a livid, frothy white, freeing its 

 waves at last in sullen heaves and throes, and rushing on again, 

 torn, jagged, and roaring, wilder and more dangerous than ever. 

 As you gaze upon the rush you feel a horrid yearning in your 

 heart to plunge in and join the mad whirl and see the mystery 

 out. Yet even with this thought at its strongest you shrink 

 instinctively from the dreadful brink, where the very waters them- 

 selves seem hurrying to destruction. Faster and faster, and 

 wilder and wilder, it pours with every minute throbbing over the 

 rocks and stones in mounds of spray, like loosely driven snow, 

 bent into crooked channels between the islands, but always 

 rushing on as if the river was mad. Trees, tumbled over and 

 over, toss their wet branches out of the water as if they strove 

 for help against their enemy, and cling for one brief instant to 

 the banks to be whirled down the next more rapidly than ever. 

 Gradually Goat Island comes in sight, its massive piles of rocks 

 and dense quiet foliage contrasting so strongly against the wild 

 terrible uproar and rush of waters, writhing and dashing madly 

 past its base. You are nearing the cataracts, and soon a dreadful 



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