“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.