BUFFALO--THE NIAGARA FALLS--A FROST--ROCHESTER TO THE RESCUE OF
BUFFALO--CLEVELAND--I MEET JONATHAN--PHANTASMAGORIA.
_Buffalo, January 14._
This town is situated twenty-seven miles from Niagara Falls. The
Americans say that the Buffalo people can hear the noise of the
water-fall quite distinctly. I am quite prepared to believe it. However,
an hour's journey by rail and then a quarter of an hour's sleigh ride
will take you from Buffalo within sight of this, perhaps the grandest
piece of scenery in the world. Words cannot describe it. You spend a
couple of hours visiting every point of view. You are nailed, as it
were, to the ground, feeling like a pigmy, awestruck in the presence of
nature at her grandest. The snow was falling thickly, and though it made
the view less clear, it added to the grandeur of the scene.
I went down by the cable car to a level with the rapids and the place
where poor Captain Webb was last seen alive; a presumptuous pigmy, he,
to dare such waters as these. His widow keeps a little bazaar near the
falls and sells souvenirs to the visitors.
It was most thrilling to stand within touching distance of that great
torrent of water, called the Niagara Falls, in distinction to the
Horseshoe Falls, to hear the roar of it as it fell. The idea of force it
gives one is tremendous. You stand and wonder how many ages it has been
roaring on, what eyes besides your own have gazed awestruck at its
mighty rushing, and wonder if the pigmies will ever do what they say
they will; one day make those columns of water their servants to turn
wheels at their bidding.
[Illustration: SHOOTING THE RAPIDS.]
We crossed the bridge over to the Canadian side, and there we had the
whole grand panorama before our eyes.
It appears that it is quite a feasible thing to run the rapids in a
barrel. Girls have done it, and it may become the fashionable sport for
American girls in the near future. It has been safely accomplished
plenty of times by young fellows up for an exciting day's sport.
On the Canadian shore was a pretty villa where Princess Louise stayed
while she painted the scene. Some of the pretty houses were fringed all
round the roofs and balconies in the loveliest way, with icicles a yard
long, and loaded with snow. They looked most beautiful.
On the way back we called at Prospect House, a charming hotel which I
hope, if ever I go near Buffalo again, I shall put up at for a day or
two, to see the neighborhood well.
Two years ago I was lucky enough to witness a most curious sight. The
water was frozen under the falls, and a natural bridge, formed by the
ice, was being used by venturesome people to cross the Niagara River on.
This occurs very seldom.
* * * * *
I have had a fizzle to-night. I almost expected it. In a hall that could
easily have accommodated fifteen hundred people, I lectured to an
audience of about three hundred. Fortunately they proved so intelligent,
warm, and appreciative that I did not feel at all depressed; but my
impresario did. However, he congratulated me on having been able to do
justice to the _causerie_, as if I had had a bumper house.
I must own that it is much easier to be a tragedian than a light
comedian before a $200 house.
* * * * *
_Cleveland, O., January 15._
The weather is so bad that I shall be unable to see anything of this
city, which, people tell me, is very beautiful.
On arriving at the Weddell House, I met a New York friend.
"Well," said he, "how are you getting on? Where do you come from?"
"From Buffalo," said I, pulling a long face.
"What is the matter? Don't you like the Buffalo people?"
"Yes; I liked those I saw. I should have liked to extend my love to a
larger number. I had a fizzle; about three hundred people. Perhaps I
drew all the brain of Buffalo."
"How many people do you say you had in the hall?" said my friend.
"About three hundred."
"Then you must have drawn a good many people from Rochester, I should
think," said he quite solemnly.
In reading the Buffalo newspapers this morning, I noticed favorable
criticisms of my lecture; but while my English was praised, so far as
the language went, severe comments were passed on my pronunciation. In
England, where the English language is spoken with a decent
pronunciation, I never once read a condemnation of my pronunciation of
the English language.
I will not appear again in Buffalo until I feel much improved.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "GOING TO PITTSBURG, I GUESS."]
_En route to Pittsburg, January 16._
The American railway stations have special waiting rooms for
ladies--not, as in England, places furnished with looking-glasses, where
they can go and arrange their bonnets, etc. No, no. Places where they
can wait for the trains, protected against the contamination of man, and
where they are spared the sight of that eternal little round piece of
furniture with which the floors of the whole of the United States are
dotted.
At Cleveland Station, this morning, I met Jonathan, such as he is
represented in the comic papers of the world. A man of sixty, with long
straight white hair falling over his shoulders; no mustache, long
imperial beard, a razor-blade-shaped nose, small keen eyes, and high
prominent cheek-bones, the whole smoking the traditional cigar; the
Anglo-Saxon indianized--Jonathan. If he had had a long swallow-tail coat
on, a waistcoat ornamented with stars, and trowsers with stripes, he
might have sat for the cartoons of _Puck_ or _Judge_.
In the car, Jonathan came and sat opposite me. A few minutes after the
train had started, he said:
"Going to Pittsburg, I guess."
"Yes," I replied.
"To lecture?"
"Oh, you know I lecture?"
"Why, certainly; I heard you in Boston ten days ago."
He offered me a cigar, told me his name--I mean his three names--what he
did, how much he earned, where he lived, how many children he had; he
read me a poem of his own composition, invited me to go and see him, and
entertained me for three hours and a half, telling me the history of his
life, etc. Indeed, it was Jonathan.
* * * * *
All the Americans I have met have written a poem (pronounced _pome_).
Now I am not generalizing. I do not say that all the Americans have
written a poem, I say _all the Americans I have met_.
* * * * *
_Pittsburg (same day later)._
I lecture here to-night under the auspices of the Press Club of the
town. The president of the club came to meet me at the station, in order
to show me something of the town.
I like Pittsburg very much. From the top of the hill, which you reach in
a couple of minutes by the cable car, there is a most beautiful sight to
contemplate: one never to be forgotten.
On our way to the hotel, my kind friend took me to a fire station, and
asked the man in command of the place to go through the performance of a
fire-call for my own edification.
Now, in two words, here is the thing.
You touch the fire bell in your own house. That causes the name of your
street and the number of your house to appear in the fire station; it
causes all the doors of the station to open outward. Wait a minute--it
causes whips which are hanging behind the horses, to lash them and send
them under harnesses that fall upon them and are self-adjusting; it
causes the men, who are lying down on the first floor, to slide down an
incline and fall on the box and steps of the cart. And off they gallop.
It takes about two minutes to describe it as quickly as possible. It
only takes fourteen seconds to do it. It is the nearest approach to
phantasmagoria that I have yet seen in real life.