And can Niagara not rebel, with all its force and power,
When crumbling Nature shall give way at the appointed hour?
Must its fierce torrent tamely hush—its giant rocks then fall?
The still voice of my soul replied, ‘Yes, yes, frail mortal, all!’
Then let me meekly bow the head before such Power Divine—
The only Power that never ends—Niagara’s God and mine!”
I am sure you will not quarrel with me, reader, for introducing these graphic and eloquent lines, and for growing sentimental over my remembrance of Niagara Falls. They are too grand to be passed over lightly. Thus far, since my arrival at Niagara, you have not found much of the John Smithian tone in my narrative.
I had heard a good deal about the “Cave of the Winds,” and thought I would like to visit it. So, after standing for a full hour, wrapped up in the glories of the thundering cataract, I inquired of a respectable-looking gentleman where the “Cave of the Winds” was?
“You must go over on Goat Island to see that,” he said; “but I hope you don’t think of going down?”
“O, yes,” I replied.