The Cloudy Morning Had Given Place To A Glorious Day, Abounding In
Varieties Of Light And Shade; A Slight Shower
Had fallen, and the
sparkling rain-drops hung from every leaf and twig; a rainbow spanned the
Niagara river, and
The leaves wore the glorious scarlet and crimson tints
of the American autumn. Sun and sky were propitious; it was the season and
the day in which to see Niagara. Quarrelsome drosky drivers, incongruous
mills, and the thousand trumperies of the place, were all forgotten in the
perfect beauty of the scene - in the full, the joyous realisation of my
ideas of Niagara. Beauty and terror here formed a perfect combination.
Around islets covered with fair foliage of trees and vines, and carpeted
with moss untrodden by the foot of man, the waters, in wild turmoil, rage
and foam: rushing on recklessly beneath the trembling bridge on which we
stood to their doomed fall. This place is called "The Hell of Waters," and
has been the scene of more than one terrible tragedy.
This bridge took us to Iris Island, so named from the rainbows which
perpetually hover round its base. Everything of terrestrial beauty may be
found in Iris Island. It stands amid the eternal din of the waters, a
barrier between the Canadian and American Falls. It is not more than
sixty-two acres in extent, yet it has groves of huge forest trees, and
secluded roads underneath them in the deepest shade, far apparently from
the busy world, yet thousands from every part of the globe yearly tread
its walks of beauty.
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