We determined to spend a day at Niagara, and, taking another steamer here, passed over to Lewiston, on the American side of the lake, at the mouth of the Niagara River. From Lewiston a railway runs to within a mile of the Falls, following the edge of the precipitous cliffs on the east side of the narrow ravine, through which the river rushes to pour itself into Lake Ontario. Glad to escape the eternal clanging of the engine bell warning people to get out of the way as the train steamed along the streets, we walked across the suspension bridge to the Canadian side of the river, and forward to the Clifton House. We heard the roar of the cataract soon after leaving the station, and caught glimpses of it from time to time along the road; but at last we came out into the open, near the hotel, and saw, in full view before us, the American wonder of the world. Our first impression was certainly one of disappointment. Hearing so much from earliest childhood of the great Falls of Niagara, one forms a most exaggerated conception of their magnitude and grandeur. But the scene rapidly began to exercise a charm over us, and as we stood on the edge of the Horseshoe Fall, on the very brink of the precipice over which the vast flood hurls itself, we confessed the sublimity of the spectacle. We returned continually to gaze on it, more and more fascinated, and in the bright clear moonlight of a beautiful summer’s night, viewed the grand cataract at its loveliest time. But newer subjects before us happily forbid any foolish attempt on our part to describe what so many have tried, but never succeeded, in painting either with pen or pencil. On the Lewiston steamer we had made the acquaintance of Captain ——, or, more properly speaking, he had made ours. The gallant captain was rather extensively got up, his face smooth shaven, with the exception of the upper lip, which was graced with a light, silky moustache. He wore a white hat, cocked knowingly on one side, and sported an elegant walking cane; the blandest of smiles perpetually beamed on his countenance, and he accosted us in the most affable and insinuating manner, with some remark about the heat of the weather. Dextrously improving the opening thus made, he placed himself in a few minutes on the most intimate terms. Regretting exceedingly that he had not a card, he drew our attention to the silver mounting on his cane, whereon was engraved, “Captain ——, of ——.” Without further inquiry as to who we were, he begged us to promise to come over and stay with him at his nice little place, and we should have some capital “cock shooting” next winter. The polite captain then insisted on treating us to mint-juleps at the bar, and there introduced us with great ceremony to a tall, angular man, as Major So-and-so, of the Canadian Rifles.
The major was attired in a very seedy military undress suit, too small and too short for him, and he carried, like Bardolph, a “lantern in the poop,” which shone distinct from the more lurid and darker redness of the rest of his universally inflamed features. His manner was rather misty, yet solemn and grand withal, and he comported himself with so much dignity, that far was it from us to smile at his peculiar personal appearance. We all three bowed and shook hands with him with an urbanity almost equal to that of our friend the captain.
Both our new acquaintances discovered that they were going to the same place as ourselves, and favoured us with their society assiduously until we reached the Clifton House.
After viewing the Falls, we had dinner; and then the captain and major entertained us with extraordinary stories.
The former related how he had lived at the Cape under Sir Harry Smith, ridden one hundred and fifty miles on the same horse in twenty-four hours, and various other feats, while the “major” obscurely hinted that he owed his present important command on the frontier to the necessity felt by the British Government that a man of known courage and talent should be responsible during the crisis of the Trent affair.
We returned to Toronto the next day, and lost no time in proceeding on our way to Red River, travelling as fast as possible by railway through Detroit and Chicago to La Crosse, in Wisconsin, on the banks of the Mississippi.
We found the sleeping-cars a wonderful advantage in our long journeys, and generally travelled by night. A “sleeping-car” is like an ordinary railway carriage, with a passage down the centre, after the American fashion, and on each side two tiers of berths, like those of a ship. You go “on board,” turn in minus coat and boots, go quietly to sleep, and are awakened in the morning by the attendant nigger, in time to get out at your destination. You have had a good night’s rest, find your boots ready blacked, and washing apparatus at one end of the car, and have the satisfaction of getting over two hundred or three hundred miles of a wearisome journey almost without knowing it. The part of the car appropriated to ladies is screened off from the gentlemen’s compartment by a curtain; but on one occasion, there being but two vacant berths in the latter, Treemiss was, by special favour, admitted to the ladies’ quarter, where ordinarily only married gentlemen are allowed—two ladies and a gentleman kindly squeezing into one large berth to accommodate him!
At one of the small stations in Wisconsin we met the first Red Indian we had seen in native dress. He wore leather shirt, leggings, and moccasins, a blanket thrown over his shoulders, and his bold-featured, handsome face was adorned with paint. He was leaning against a tree, smoking his pipe with great dignity, not deigning to move or betray the slightest interest as the train went past him. We could not help reflecting—as, perhaps, he was doing—with something of sadness upon the changes which had taken place since his ancestors were lords of the soil, hearing of the white men’s devices as a strange thing, from the stories of their greatest travellers, or some half-breed trapper who might occasionally visit them. And we could well imagine the disgust of these sons of silence and stealth at the noisy trains which rush through the forests, and the steamers which dart along lakes and rivers, once the favourite haunt of game, now driven far away. How bitterly in their hearts they must curse that steady, unfaltering, inevitable advance of the great army of whites, recruited from every corner of the earth, spreading over the land like locusts—too strong to resist, too cruel and unscrupulous to mingle with them in peace and friendship!
At La Crosse we took steamer up the Mississippi—in the Indian language, the “Great River,” but here a stream not more than 120 yards in width—for St. Paul, in Minnesota. The river was very low, and the steamer—a flat-bottomed, stern-wheel boat, drawing only a few inches of water—frequently stuck fast on the sand bars, giving us an opportunity of seeing how an American river-boat gets over shallows. Two or three men were immediately sent overboard, to fix a large pole. At the top was a pulley, and through this a stout rope was run, one end of which was attached to a cable passed under the boat, the other to her capstan. The latter was then manned, the vessel fairly lifted up, and the stern wheel being put in motion at the same time, she swung over the shoal into deep water.
The scenery was very pretty, the river flowing in several channels round wooded islets; along the banks were fine rounded hills, some heavily timbered, others bare and green. When we reached Lake Pippin, an expansion of the Mississippi, some seven or eight miles long, and perhaps a mile in width, we found a most delightful change from the sultry heat we had experienced when shut up in the narrow channel. Here the breeze blew freshly over the water, fish splashed about on every side, and could be seen from the boat, and we were in the midst of a beautiful landscape. Hills and woods surround the lake; and, about half way, a lofty cliff, called the “Maiden’s Rock,” stands out with bold face into the water. It has received its name from an old legend that an Indian maiden, preferring death to a hated suitor forced upon her by her relatives, leaped from the top, and was drowned in the lake below. Beyond Lake Pippin the river became more shallow and difficult, and we were so continually delayed by running aground that we did not reach St. Paul until several hours after dark.