Travelers' Original Accounts Since 1840 



Advancing beyond the path leading down to the lesser fall, we 1858-61 

 come to that point of the island at which the waters of the main 

 river begin to descend. From hence across to the Canadian side 

 the cataract continues itself in one unabated line. But the line 

 is very far from being direct or straight. After stretching for 

 some little way from the shore to a point in the river which is 

 reached by a wooden bridge at the end of which stands a tower 

 upon the rock, — after stretching to this, the line of the ledge 

 bends inwards against the flood — in, and in, and in — till one is 

 led to think that the depth of that horseshoe is immeasurable. It 

 has been cut with no stinting hand. A monstrous cantle has 

 been worn back out of the centre of the rock, so that the fury 

 of the water converges; and the spectator, as he gazes into the 

 hollow with wishful eyes, fancies that he can hardly trace out the 

 centre of the abyss. 



Go down to the end of that wooden bridge, seat yourself on 

 the rail, and there sit till all the outer world is lost to you. There 

 is no grander spot about Niagara than this. The waters are 

 absolutely around you. If you have that power of eye-control 

 which is so necessary to the full enjoyment of scenery, you will 

 see nothing but the water. You will certainly hear nothing 

 else; and the sound, I beg you to remember, is not an ear- 

 cracking, agonizing crash and clang of noises, but is melo- 

 dious and soft withal, though loud as thunder. It fills your ears, 

 and, as it were, envelops them, but at the same time you can speak 

 to your neighbor without an effort. But at this place, and in 

 these moments, the less of speaking, I should say, the better. There 

 is no grander spot than this. Here, seated on the rail of the 

 bridge, you will not see the whole depth of the fall. In looking 

 at the grandest works of nature, and of art too, I fancy it is 

 never well to see all. There should be something left to the 

 imagination, and much should be half concealed in mystery. 

 The greatest charm of a mountain range is the wild feeling that 

 there must be strange, unknown, desolate worlds in those far-off 

 valleys beyond. And so here, at Niagara, that converging rush 



299 



