Chapter XXVIII

"And when in other climes we meet,
Some isle or vale enchanting,
And all looks flowery, wild and sweet,
And naught but love is wanting,
We think how blest had been our fate,
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die 'mid scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us."

Shout, reader, on the hill-tops of deliverance, for you and I are out of Wimbledon. We have left behind us the Pimbles, the Mumbles, the Simcoes, and their multitudinous voices grow indistinct in the distance, as, borne by the rushing steam-steed, we fly on our way in search of our fair traveller, who has got the start of us by several hours. We hardly know whether to go up the Hudson, or hold straight on over the Erie road for Niagara; but as we have no particular desire to see the former, our remembrances of its picturesque scenery being marred by the unpleasant circumstances under which we first beheld it, we incline to the latter course.

So world-wondered-at Niagara shall be our destination, where Florence Howard and her father are already arrived and installed occupants of a regally-furnished suite of apartments at the Clifton House on the Canada side of the river.

The new arrival had created quite a sensation; as new arrivals at these fashionable watering-places, where the masses resort to display themselves and behold and comment upon the display of others, always do. As Florence, dressed with simple grace, leaned on the arm of her noble-looking father, and entered the spacious dining-saloon, where hundreds of both sexes, all flaunted out in the gayest and richest attire, were already seated at the splendidly laid tables, every eye levelled a critical glance on her garb and figure. Many an elegant lady, in startling silks and astonishing ear-jewels, turned her nose sublimely skyward and exclaimed "No great fetch,--these folks!" Gentlemen, in surprising pants and prodigious vest buttons, said, with a princely contempt, "Aw, an unsawphistawcated country gawl!"

But there were some, the precious few, who graced the saloons of the Clifton House, not to gorge themselves on its spicy viands, or grow inebriate over its sparkling wines, or yet to display their spindling limbs encased in miraculous tights, their alarming waistcoats and elephantine fob-chains; but who had come to look on and admire the wonderful cataract, with its surrounding scenery of wildness and grandeur; who marked the elegant bearing of an accomplished lady in the sweet open countenance, simple dress, and graceful movements of the "new arrival."

Florence seemed wholly regardless of the volleys of glances directed toward her during the sumptuously-served dinner. She retired before dessert, so great was her impatience of a nearer view of the sublime spectacle visible from the piazzas of the Clifton House.

On Table Rock she stood, with her father's arm cast protectingly around her, and gazed, tremulous with intense emotion, on the tremendous sweep of rushing waters over the mighty horse-shoe fall, down, down forever, upon the floods that boiled and surged like fathomless seas of angry foam in the depths below. Then she turned to the lofty American fall, spanned by its brilliant rainbow, like the bright wing of the Spirit of the Waters cast beauteously o'er her stupendous creation of power and sublimity.

Florence gazed till the shades of evening obscured the magnificent scene, and then, clinging to her father's arm, returned to the hotel. On gaining her room, she tossed off her bonnet and shawl and seized her journal.

"Are you not going to tea?" asked her father.

"No," answered she, almost sharply. "I cannot so suddenly descend to the actual, or come in so quick contact with the grossness of earth after the god-like sublimity I have been contemplating."

Her father called her a little enthusiast, and walked away. Left to herself she drew forth her journal.

"Eventful day!" she wrote. "I have stood among the mists of Niagara. Fain would I voice the tumult flood of emotions that rushed over my soul as I gazed on its wondrous sublimity: but language is impotent, and I am weak,--weaker than usual; I think from reaction of my overstrained powers.

"I could lie down and weep like a tired child. The tremendous roar of the mighty waters is in my ear as I write. O, Niagara, Niagara! what henceforth will be to me the brightest scene our country can afford--for I have looked on thee, and what is left me now?"

She closed her book, and, stepping out on the piazza, leaned her arms over the balustrade, and stood with her gaze riveted on the boiling cataracts, now flashing like sheets of burnished silver in the soft moonlight. While she was thus occupied a young lady approached and accosted her.

"You are just arrived at the Falls, I fancy," said she, with a pleasant smile.

"I arrived to-day," answered Florence, politely.

"You do not know me," remarked the young lady; "but I think I have seen you before."

Florence gazed on the eloquent features, but she did not detect a resemblance to any person she had ever known.

"You have the advantage of me," she said; "I do not recollect you."

"Probably not," returned the young lady; "but did you never reside in a village called Wimbledon, at a beautiful mansion styled 'Summer House?'"

"I have just come from there," said Florence, gazing with surprise in the face of her fair interrogator.

"So I thought," remarked the young lady, "and your name, excuse my boldness, is Florence Howard. Mine is Ellen Williams. I once resided in Wimbledon, and saw you several times at the village church. You, probably, did not notice me, or, if you did, my features would be easily forgotten. Not so yours. I recognized you the moment you entered the dining hall. How do you like Niagara?"

"O, I am charmed, spell-bound!" exclaimed Florence. "Its glorious sublimity thrills to the centre of my soul."

"Your enthusiasm reminds me of a young painter and poet we have had here several weeks," said Miss Williams; "he left us only this morning. I was down to the Suspension Bridge to-day, and read some verses he left in pencil on the painted railings. His sketches of the Falls from different points of view were very fine. He was very handsome, and had a sweet name. I believe half the ladies were dead in love with him, but he never bestowed a single encouraging glance on all their attempts to win his favor."

"Quite an insensible young man, I should think," said Florence, smiling. "What did you say was his name?"

"Lindenwood," returned Miss Williams. "I do not know whence he came, but from some remote part of the country, I think."

Florence heard none of the young lady's words after the name was mentioned, and it is difficult to say into what awkwardness her emotion might have betrayed her, had not her father appeared at this juncture and called her to her room. She recollected herself sufficiently to bid good-evening to Miss Williams as she hastened away leaning heavily on her father's arm.

Fastening her door, she dropped on a sofa, and exclaimed, "Alas, alas! one day too late at Niagara."