In the spot to which I allude the visitor stands on a broad, safe path, made of shingles, between the rock over which the water rushes and the rushing water.  He will go in so far that the spray, rising back from the bed of the torrent, does not incommode him.  With this exception, the farther he can go in the better; but circumstances will clearly show him the spot to which he should advance.  Unless the water be driven in by a very strong wind, five yards make the difference between a comparatively dry coat and an absolutely wet one.  And then let him stand with his back to the entrance, thus hiding the last glimmer of the expiring day.  So standing, he will look up among the falling waters, or down into the deep, misty pit, from which they re-ascend in almost as palpable a bulk.  The rock will be at his right hand, high and hard, and dark and straight, like the wall of some huge cavern, such as children enter in their dreams.  For the first five minutes he will be looking but at the waters of a cataract—­at the waters, indeed, of such a cataract as we know no other, and at their interior curves which elsewhere we cannot see.  But by-and-by all this will change.  He will no longer be on a shingly path beneath a waterfall; but that feeling of a cavern wall will grow upon him, of a cavern deep, below roaring seas, in which the waves are there, though they do not enter in upon him; or rather, not the waves, but the very bowels of the ocean.  He will feel as though the floods surrounded him, coming and going with their wild sounds, and he will hardly recognize that though among them he is not in them.  And they, as they fall with a continual roar, not hurting the ear, but musical withal, will seem to move as the vast ocean waters may perhaps move in their internal currents.  He will lose the sense of one continued descent, and think that they are passing round him in their appointed courses.  The broken spray that rises from the depths below, rises so strongly, so palpably, so rapidly that the motion in every direction will seem equal.  And, as he looks on, strange colors will show themselves through the mist; the shades of gray will become green or blue, with ever and anon a flash of white; and then, when some gust of wind blows in with greater violence, the sea-girt cavern will become all dark and black.  Oh, my friend, let there be no one there to speak to thee then; no, not even a brother.  As you stand there speak only to the waters.

Two miles below the falls the river is crossed by a suspension bridge of marvelous construction.  It affords two thoroughfares, one above the other.  The lower road is for carriages and horses, and the upper one bears a railway belonging to the Great Western Canada Line.  The view from hence, both up and down the river, is very beautiful, for the bridge is built immediately over the first of a series of rapids.  One mile below the bridge these rapids end in a broad basin called the whirlpool, and, issuing out of this, the current turns to the right through a narrow channel overhung by cliffs and trees, and then makes its way down to Lake Ontario with comparative tranquillity.