"And when in other climes we meet,
Some isle or vale enchanting,
And all looks flowery, wild and sweet,
And naught but love is wanting,
We think how blest had been our fate,
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die 'mid scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us."
Shout, reader, on the hill-tops of deliverance, for you and I are out of
Wimbledon. We have left behind us the Pimbles, the Mumbles, the Simcoes,
and their multitudinous voices grow indistinct in the distance, as,
borne by the rushing steam-steed, we fly on our way in search of our
fair traveller, who has got the start of us by several hours. We hardly
know whether to go up the Hudson, or hold straight on over the Erie road
for Niagara; but as we have no particular desire to see the former, our
remembrances of its picturesque scenery being marred by the unpleasant
circumstances under which we first beheld it, we incline to the latter
course.
So world-wondered-at Niagara shall be our destination, where Florence
Howard and her father are already arrived and installed occupants of a
regally-furnished suite of apartments at the Clifton House on the Canada
side of the river.
The new arrival had created quite a sensation; as new arrivals at these
fashionable watering-places, where the masses resort to display
themselves and behold and comment upon the display of others, always do.
As Florence, dressed with simple grace, leaned on the arm of her
noble-looking father, and entered the spacious dining-saloon, where
hundreds of both sexes, all flaunted out in the gayest and richest
attire, were already seated at the splendidly laid tables, every eye
levelled a critical glance on her garb and figure. Many an elegant lady,
in startling silks and astonishing ear-jewels, turned her nose sublimely
skyward and exclaimed "No great fetch,--these folks!" Gentlemen, in
surprising pants and prodigious vest buttons, said, with a princely
contempt, "Aw, an unsawphistawcated country gawl!"
But there were some, the precious few, who graced the saloons of the
Clifton House, not to gorge themselves on its spicy viands, or grow
inebriate over its sparkling wines, or yet to display their spindling
limbs encased in miraculous tights, their alarming waistcoats and
elephantine fob-chains; but who had come to look on and admire the
wonderful cataract, with its surrounding scenery of wildness and
grandeur; who marked the elegant bearing of an accomplished lady in the
sweet open countenance, simple dress, and graceful movements of the "new
arrival."
Florence seemed wholly regardless of the volleys of glances directed
toward her during the sumptuously-served dinner. She retired before
dessert, so great was her impatience of a nearer view of the sublime
spectacle visible from the piazzas of the Clifton House.
On Table Rock she stood, with her father's arm cast protectingly around
her, and gazed, tremulous with intense emotion, on the tremendous sweep
of rushing waters over the mighty horse-shoe fall, down, down forever,
upon the floods that boiled and surged like fathomless seas of angry
foam in the depths below. Then she turned to the lofty American fall,
spanned by its brilliant rainbow, like the bright wing of the Spirit of
the Waters cast beauteously o'er her stupendous creation of power and
sublimity.
Florence gazed till the shades of evening obscured the magnificent
scene, and then, clinging to her father's arm, returned to the hotel. On
gaining her room, she tossed off her bonnet and shawl and seized her
journal.
"Are you not going to tea?" asked her father.
"No," answered she, almost sharply. "I cannot so suddenly descend to the
actual, or come in so quick contact with the grossness of earth after
the god-like sublimity I have been contemplating."
Her father called her a little enthusiast, and walked away. Left to
herself she drew forth her journal.
"Eventful day!" she wrote. "I have stood among the mists of Niagara.
Fain would I voice the tumult flood of emotions that rushed over my soul
as I gazed on its wondrous sublimity: but language is impotent, and I am
weak,--weaker than usual; I think from reaction of my overstrained
powers.
"I could lie down and weep like a tired child. The tremendous roar of
the mighty waters is in my ear as I write. O, Niagara, Niagara! what
henceforth will be to me the brightest scene our country can afford--for
I have looked on thee, and what is left me now?"
She closed her book, and, stepping out on the piazza, leaned her arms
over the balustrade, and stood with her gaze riveted on the boiling
cataracts, now flashing like sheets of burnished silver in the soft
moonlight. While she was thus occupied a young lady approached and
accosted her.
"You are just arrived at the Falls, I fancy," said she, with a pleasant
smile.
"I arrived to-day," answered Florence, politely.
"You do not know me," remarked the young lady; "but I think I have seen
you before."
Florence gazed on the eloquent features, but she did not detect a
resemblance to any person she had ever known.
"You have the advantage of me," she said; "I do not recollect you."
"Probably not," returned the young lady; "but did you never reside in a
village called Wimbledon, at a beautiful mansion styled 'Summer House?'"
"I have just come from there," said Florence, gazing with surprise in
the face of her fair interrogator.
"So I thought," remarked the young lady, "and your name, excuse my
boldness, is Florence Howard. Mine is Ellen Williams. I once resided in
Wimbledon, and saw you several times at the village church. You,
probably, did not notice me, or, if you did, my features would be easily
forgotten. Not so yours. I recognized you the moment you entered the
dining hall. How do you like Niagara?"
"O, I am charmed, spell-bound!" exclaimed Florence. "Its glorious
sublimity thrills to the centre of my soul."
"Your enthusiasm reminds me of a young painter and poet we have had here
several weeks," said Miss Williams; "he left us only this morning. I was
down to the Suspension Bridge to-day, and read some verses he left in
pencil on the painted railings. His sketches of the Falls from different
points of view were very fine. He was very handsome, and had a sweet
name. I believe half the ladies were dead in love with him, but he never
bestowed a single encouraging glance on all their attempts to win his
favor."
"Quite an insensible young man, I should think," said Florence, smiling.
"What did you say was his name?"
"Lindenwood," returned Miss Williams. "I do not know whence he came, but
from some remote part of the country, I think."
Florence heard none of the young lady's words after the name was
mentioned, and it is difficult to say into what awkwardness her emotion
might have betrayed her, had not her father appeared at this juncture
and called her to her room. She recollected herself sufficiently to bid
good-evening to Miss Williams as she hastened away leaning heavily on
her father's arm.
Fastening her door, she dropped on a sofa, and exclaimed, "Alas, alas!
one day too late at Niagara."