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.”