As The Stewardess Was Upstairs, And Too Ill Herself To Attend Upon Any
One, I Did What I Could For Them, Getting Them Pillows, Camphor, &C., Only
Too Happy That I Was In A Condition To Be Useful.
One of them, a young
married woman with a baby of three months old, was alarmingly ill, and, as
The poor infant was in danger of being seriously injured by the rolling of
the ship, I took it on my lap for an hour till the gale moderated, thereby
gaining the lasting kindly remembrance of its poor mother. I am sure that
a white infant would have screamed in a most appalling way, for, as I had
never taken a baby in my arms before, I held it in a very awkward manner;
but the poor little black thing, wearied with its struggles on the floor,
lay very passively, every now and then turning its little monkey-face up
to mine, with a look of understanding and confidence which quite
conciliated my good will. It was so awfully ugly, so much like a black
ape, and so little like the young of the human species, that I was obliged
while I held it to avert my eyes from it, lest in a sudden fit of foolish
prejudice and disgust I should let it fall. Meanwhile, the Southern lady
was very ill, but not too ill, I am sorry to say, to box the ears of her
slaves.
The gale moderated about nine in the morning, leaving a very rough, foamy
sea, which reflected in a peculiarly dazzling and disagreeable way the
cloudless and piercing blue of the sky. The saloon looked as magnificent
as by candle-light, with the sunshine streaming through a running window
of stained glass.
Dinner on a plentiful scale was served at one, but out of 300 passengers
only about 30 were able to avail themselves of it. Large glass tubs of
vanilla cream-ice were served. The voyage was peculiarly uninteresting, as
we were out of sight of land nearly the whole day; my friend the widow did
not appear, and, when I attempted to write, the inkstand rolled off the
table. It was just sunset, when we reached Buffalo, and moored at a wharf
crowded with large steamers receiving and discharging cargo. Owing to the
gale, we were two hours too late for the Niagara cars, and I slept at the
Western Hotel, where I received every attention.
Buffalo is one of the best samples of American progress. It is a regularly
laid out and substantially built city of 65,000 inhabitants. It is still
in the vigour of youth, for the present town only dates from 1813. It
stands at the foot of Lake Erie, at the opening of the Hudson canal, where
the commerce of the great chain of inland lakes is condensed. It is very
"going ahead;" its inhabitants are ever changing; its population is
composed of all nations, with a very large proportion of Germans, French,
and Irish. But their national characteristics, though not lost, are seen
through a medium of pure Americanism. They all rush about - the lethargic
German keeps pace with the energetic Yankee; and the Irishman, no longer
in rags, "guesses" and "spekilates" in the brogue of Erin. Western
travellers pass through Buffalo; tourists bound for Canada pass through
Buffalo; the traffic of lakes, canals, and several lines of rail centres
at Buffalo; so engines scream, and steamers puff, all day long. It has a
great shipbuilding trade, and to all appearance is one of the most
progressive and go-ahead cities in the Union.
I left Buffalo on a clear, frosty morning, by a line which ran between
lumber-yards [Footnote: Lumber is sawn timber.] on a prodigious scale and
the hard white beach of Lake Erie. Soon after leaving the city, the lake
becomes narrow and rapid, and finally hurries along with fearful velocity.
I knew that I was looking at the commencement of the rapids of Niagara,
but the cars ran into some clearings, and presently stopped at a very
bustling station, where a very officious man shouted, "Niagara Falls
Station!" The name grated unpleasantly upon my ears. A man appeared at the
door of the car in which I was the only passenger - "You for Lewiston,
quick, this way!" and hurried me into a stage of uncouth construction,
drawn by four horses. We jolted along the very worst road I ever travelled
on - corduroy was Elysium to it. No level was observed; it seemed to be a
mere track along waste land, running through holes, over hillocks and
stumps of trees. We were one hour and three-quarters in going a short
seven miles. If I had been better acquainted with the neighbourhood, I
might, as I only found out when it was too late, have crossed the bridge
at Niagara Falls, spent three hours in sight of Niagara, proceeding to
Queenston in time for the steamer by the Canada cars!
On our way to Lewiston we met forty of these four-horse stages. I caught a
distant view of the falls, and a nearer one of the yet incomplete
suspension bridge, which, when finished, will be one of the greatest
triumphs of engineering art.
Beyond this the scenery is very beautiful. The road runs among forest
trees of luxuriant growth, and peach and apple orchards, upon the American
bank of the Niagara river. This bank is a cliff 300 feet high, and from
the edge of the road you may throw a stone into the boiling torrent below;
yet the only parapet is a rotten fence, in many places completely
destroyed. When you begin to descend the steep hill to Lewiston the drive
is absolutely frightful. The cumbrous vehicle creaks, jolts, and swings,
and, in spite of friction-breaks and other appliances, gradually acquires
an impetus which sends it at full speed down the tremendous hill, and
round the sharp corner, to the hotel at Lewiston.
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