CANADA.
EARLY next morning I started for Canada. Just below the Falls a flight
of three hundred steps, protected by a weather-boarded frame-work and
roof, descends the steep bank to the water’s edge, and beside the flight
of steps is a track for small cars, that are drawn up and let down by
means of a windlass run by water-power. I got on one of the cars and
rode down to the water; but before taking the boat for Canada, visited
the foot of the Falls near by, and got completely wet with spray again.
Here the wind created by the vast masses of water continually tumbling
down is very strong, and the flying spray is equal to a violent rain; so
that this place reminded me of the “Cave of the Winds.” I had to climb
over a huge heap of slippery rocks that had at one time fallen from
above, and I got my shin scraped and bruised, and my knee cut in the
operation. O, what difficulties a mortal will overcome for the sake of
novelty. Charles Dickens thus speaks of this place in his “American
Notes:”
“Climbing over some broken rocks, deafened by the noise, half-blinded by
the spray, and wet to the skin, we were at the foot of the American
Fall. I could see an immense torrent of water tearing headlong down from
some great height, but had no idea of shape or situation, or any thing
but vague immensity.”
After getting as wet as I wanted, I (John Smith,) returned to the foot
of the stairway and got aboard the ferry-boat. This is only a kind of
yawl that will accommodate twenty or twenty-five passengers, and is
rowed across the turbulent stream by _one_ strong man. It was crowded
with visitors, of both sexes and all ages; and when we reached the
middle of the stream, where the waves were rolling, and the boat rocked
handsomely, a lady grew dizzy and pale, dropped her parasol in the
water, fainted, and fell back in the boat, into the arms of a friend. I
seized the parasol before it could float away, sprinkled a little of the
sparkling water upon her face, and she revived. We soon after reached
the Canada shore and she was all right again.
When we landed, the passengers all arose from their seats in the crowded
boat, and made a rush to see who should be first ashore, just as though
the first would see the most. The result was that one fell overboard,
and another, in making a leap from the gunwale of the boat,
miscalculated the distance, and alighted in water of such a depth that
it just ran into his watch-pocket to see what time it was. Both were
rescued, completely saturated, and terribly scared. I quietly retained
my seat in the boat till the rush was over. As I stepped ashore, last of
all, the boatman, whom I shall always remember gratefully for his
kindness, slyly said to me:
“You are going over here for the first time, I suppose, be careful that
you don’t get beat. Do not buy any thing or hire a carriage without
first making your bargain, or you will be charged six prices.”
I thanked him, and treasured up his advice.
On the Canada side, a carriage-road winds its way in a serpentine course
up the steep, high shore; and, on stepping from the boat I was
immediately assailed by half-a-dozen drivers of carriages, who expressed
a curiosity to know whether I desired to ride up or not. But I replied
that I lived “just over the hill,” and would walk up. One of them winked
at the other, and I passed on.
On gaining the top of the high shore, I visited Table Rock, from which
prominent point I had an excellent view of the whole cataract. I was
again assailed by cabmen.
“Do you want to go to Lundy’s Lane?” “Do you want to go to the Burning
Springs?” “Do you want to go to the Suspension Bridge?” “Do you want to
go to Brock’s Monument?” I was asked in a second.
“Yes, but I’m going to walk,” I replied.
“Walk! You can’t! It’s four miles to Lundy’s Lane.” [It’s only a little
over a mile, reader. J. Smith.] “It’s five miles to the Burning
Springs.” [It’s only one and a half. J. Smith.] “It’s ten miles to
Brock’s Monument.” [It’s only five or six. J. Smith.] “It’s three and a
half to the Bridge.” [It’s only two. J. Smith.]
“Is that all? Then I’ll walk, certainly.”
They left me—having probably come to the conclusion that I was a
heathen.
I was told that there was a place on the Canada side similar to the
“Cave of the Winds,” where one could go behind the sheet of water.
Desiring to see all that was to be seen, I went into an adjacent
building, in which was a museum, got a water-proof suit, and, with
others, explored this dangerous place.
It is a fact worthy of remark, that the Canadian in charge of the place,
did not offer a single objection to my venturing upon the perilous walk;
nor did he offer a single objection to accepting the fee of two dollars.
Why? ’Cause I was a “Yankee.”
We walked fifty feet behind the sheet of water, on a narrow and slippery
path. The wind and spray here, as in the “Cave of the Winds,” formed a
perfect tempest. It is really surprising that so few accidents happen at
this place. Many ladies visit it. I believe only one person ever fell
from the path, and that was a gentleman. He lost his footing, rolled
down a steep and slippery declivity, fell under the resistless torrent,
and, of course, never breathed again.
Having returned to the building and removed my water-proof clothes, I
went into the museum awhile, where I saw a mummy, a native of Egypt,
that had reached the remarkable age of three thousand years, and there
wasn’t a gray hair in his head. He had a healthy and vigorous
appearance, and looked as though by being careful about his diet, and
avoiding damp weather, he might live a thousand years yet. I also saw
the skeleton of a mammoth that had been discovered at the bottom of an
oil-well. It was chiefly made of the best seasoned oak timber, and
constructed with an eye to strength and beauty combined.
On leaving the building, I saw a very black seventeen-year old negro
sitting lazily in a buggy, and I approached him and asked:
“What will you charge to drive to Lundy’s Lane?”
“Why,” he replied after regarding me attentively for a moment, “dey
charges six dol——”
“O, never mind,” I interrupted. “I’ll walk it!” And I turned away.
“No, no; wait a minute,” he said, quickly; and I stopped to learn what
he might have the honor to represent.
“Dey charges six dollahs,” said he, “but you git in an’ I’ll take you
dar an’ to de Burnin’ Springs bofe, fur dat. Did you want to go any oder
whar?”
“Don’t know,” said I. “But come, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I may want
to visit several places, or may only go to Lundy’s Lane. Now, I’ll give
you a dollar an hour for the time we’re gone.”
“O, dat’s too——”
“Very well,” I interrupted, walking away.
“Hold on! Wait!” he called, excitedly. “Let’s see. Well, don’ car. May
be I kin afford it. Git in.—Or, I’ll help you.”
He was going to get out to help me in, but I placed one hand on the
buggy and the other on the top of my crutch, and sprung up upon the seat
with ease.
“Golly!” he exclaimed. “You kin git up better’n anoder man!”
“Certainly, old coon,” I replied. “You awkward two-legged fellows can’t
get about in the world.—Drive on: don’t waste my time. Let me see——” I
looked at my watch—“it is just ten o’clock.”
“Whar’ll I go de fustest?”
“To Lundy’s Lane. Move it, now.”
My ebony companion touched up his horse, and we got over the ground
pretty fast. He might have jogged along slowly, to extend the time, as
he was paid by the hour; but he saw I was up to all that, and it
wouldn’t do.
On the old battle ground of Lundy’s Lane, there is a wooden tower fifty
or sixty feet high, from the top of which one can see not only all the
ground on which the battle was fought, but also a vast expanse of
country on both sides of the river, including the vicinity of the Falls,
and also many miles of the river, its mouth and a portion of Lake
Ontario.
The tower is ascended by means of a winding stairway; and a surly old
cove, who pretends that he was in the battle of Lundy’s Lane—but I’ll
bet my hat he wasn’t—stays there and acts as guide. He accompanied me to
the top of the tower, and showed me a telescope supported on a pivot.
With this I proceeded to sweep the wide, wide landscape before me, and I
began to ask the old “soldier” a few questions. He was very reticent,
and his answers were not only very brief, but also very vague,
ambiguous, and unsatisfactory. I soon discovered why. His tongue had to
be greased with a trifle of change—for he was only employed by the owner
of the tower, who kept a drinking-saloon at the bottom—that is, the
_base-meant_.
“Is that Brock’s Monument?” I queried, perceiving a tall column of
masonry in the direction of Lake Ontario.
“A-hem,” he replied, reluctantly, and with an apparent difficulty of
articulation—“I—I—it bothers my head to talk much, ever since I got my
wound in this battle. That is Brock’s—A-hem—I—Visitors usually gives
me—a—a—they generally—a little—a—a—ahem——”
“O, to be sure,” said I. “It’s perfectly right they should not forget
your services.”
I gave him a quarter, and found his speech much improved. Still, it was
not so fluent as I could have desired, and I further touched it up in
this way:
“Do you ever drink any thing?”
“Yes, sometimes,” he replied, distinctly, brightening up.
“The gentleman below keeps something, does he not?”
“Yes, I believe he—Yes, he keeps a little on hand.”
“Then,” said I, “we will take a little of a good article when we go
down. It always does me good to take a little something strengthening
that way with an old soldier—especially one who, like yourself, has that
graceful military air that can leave no doubt of his having served his
country with distinction.”
This was certainly piling it on pretty strong, but not too much so, it
seemed, for he took it all with as good a grace as a toper would take
his “bitters” in the morning. He grew extremely affable, and gave me all
the information I wanted; and more, too, for I am satisfied he made up
about thirty-nine or forty lies and told me—among which was this one:
That he was captured at Lundy’s Lane and taken before General (then
Colonel) Winfield Scott—whom he pronounced the noblest soldier that ever
lived—and that the latter gave him a drink of most excellent rum, and
said to him: “You have an air of greatness about you—you have. Are you
not a British general in disguise?”
The veteran guide also told me that Buffalo was clearly visible through
the telescope, and tried to point it out to me. I will not deny the fact
that it was visible from the tower, but I couldn’t “see it.”
When we went below, I treated him, as I had promised, tasting something
myself; then I asked the proprietor what was to pay for drinks and
visiting the tower?
He let me off for a dollar.
Returning to my sable friend in the buggy, I got in again and told him
to drive to the Burning Springs, “as fast as the law would allow him;”
and in less than half-an-hour we were there.
The water of these springs is characterized by an accompaniment of
inflammable gas—sulphuretted hydrogen, I think—and when a lighted match
is applied to it a blue flame springs up over the surface, like the
flames of burning spirits.
I returned to the Falls and found that we had been gone a little over
two hours and a half. I then gave the darkey three dollars, and told him
to drive me down to the river; which he cheerfully did.
The ferry-boat was just leaving, as I jumped from the vehicle, but the
boatman saw me, and began to push back. To reach the boat, I had to step
over some stationary rocks that protruded from the water, and in
attempting to step from one of them to the boat, I slipped, lost my
footing, and down I went into the river, striking my chin on the sharp
edge of the rock, as I descended, and cutting it to the bone. I went in
up to my neck, and would have gone lower still had I not clung to the
rock. I scrambled up into the boat, with some assistance, and the
boatman recovered my crutch and cane that were floating on the water.
The gash on my chin healed up in a few weeks, but it left a scar that
will be unpleasant ground for my barber to get over as long as I live.
A couple of days later, having visited all the points of interest in the
vicinity of Niagara, I departed for Buffalo, a city at the head of the
Niagara river, twenty-two miles from the Falls. I did not leave however,
without regret: I fancied I could never grow tired of Niagara Falls. The
great cataract, whose youth, and vigor, and might are the same they were
a thousand years ago, could never grow old to me!