Would they not go to the battle-field of Lundy’s Lane? asked the driver at a certain point on their return; but Isabel did not care for battle-fields, and Basil preferred to keep intact the reminiscence of his former visit.  “They have a sort of tower of observation built on the battle-ground,” he said, as they drove on down by the river, “and it was in charge of an old Canadian militia-man, who had helped his countrymen to be beaten in the fight.  This hero gave me a simple and unintelligible account of the battle, asking me first if I had ever heard of General Scott, and adding without flinching that here he got his earliest laurels.  He seemed to go just so long to every listener, and nothing could stop him short, so I fell into a revery until he came to an end.  It was hard to remember, that sweet summer morning, when the sun shone, and the birds sang, and the music of a piano and a girl’s voice rose from a bowery cottage near, that all the pure air had once been tainted with battle-smoke, that the peaceful fields had been planted with cannon, instead of potatoes and corn, and that where the cows came down the farmer’s lane, with tinkling bells, the shock of armed men had befallen.  The blue and tranquil Ontario gleamed far away, and far away rolled the beautiful land, with farm-houses, fields, and woods, and at the foot of the tower lay the pretty village.  The battle of the past seemed only a vagary of mine; yet how could I doubt the warrior at my elbow?—­grieved though I was to find that a habit of strong drink had the better of his utterance that morning.  My driver explained afterwards, that persons visiting the field were commonly so much pleased with the captain’s eloquence, that they kept the noble old soldier in a brandy and-water rapture throughout the season, thereby greatly refreshing his memory, and making the battle bloodier and bloodier as the season advanced and the number of visitors increased.  There my dear,” he suddenly broke off, as they came in sight of a slender stream of water that escaped from the brow of a cliff on the American side below the Falls, and spun itself into a gauze of silvery mist, “that’s the Bridal Veil; and I suppose you think the stream, which is making such a fine display, yonder, is some idle brooklet, ending a long course of error and worthlessness by that spectacular plunge.  It’s nothing of the kind; it’s an honest hydraulio canal, of the most straightforward character, a poor but respectable mill-race which has devoted itself strictly to business, and has turned mill-wheels instead of fooling round water-lilies.  It can afford that ultimate finery.  What you behold in the Bridal Veil, my love, is the apotheosis of industry.”

“What I can’t help thinking of,” said Isabel, who had not paid the smallest attention to the Bridal Veil, or anything about it, “is the awfulness of stepping off these places in the night-time.”  She referred to the road which, next the precipice, is unguarded by any sort of parapet.  In Europe a strong wall would secure it, but we manage things differently on our continent, and carriages go running over the brink from time to time.