tory stands a stone building, called
the Terrapin Tower, the door of which had been nailed up because of
the decay of the staircase within it. Through the kindness of Mr.
Townsend, the superintendent of Goat Island, the door was opened for
me. From this tower, at all hours of the day, and at some hours of
the night, I watched and listened to the Horseshoe Fall. The river
here is evidently much deeper than the American branch; and instead of
bursting into foam where it quits the ledge, it bends solidly over,
and falls in a continuous layer of the most vivid green. The tint is
not uniform; long stripes of deeper hue alternating with bands of
brighter colour. Close to the ledge over which the water rolls, foam
is generated, the light falling upon which, and flashing back from it,
is sifted in its passage to and fro, and changed from white to
emerald-green. Heaps of superficial foam are also formed at intervals
along the ledge, and are immediately drawn into long white striae.
[Footnote: The direction of the wind with reference to the course of a
ship may be inferred with accuracy from the foam-streaks on the
surface of the sea.] Lower down, the surface, shaken by the reaction
from below, incessantly rustles into whiteness. The descent finally
resolves itself into a rhythm, the water reaching the bottom of the
fall in periodic gushes. Nor is the spray uniformly diffused through
the air, but is wafted through it in successive veils of gauze-like
texture. From all this it is evident that beauty is not absent from
the Horseshoe Fall, but majesty is its chief attribute. The plunge of
the water is not wild, but deliberate, vast, and fascinating. From
the Terrapin Tower, the adjacent arm of the Horseshoe is seen
projected against the opposite one, midway down; to the imagination,
therefore, is left the picturing of the gulf into which the cataract
plunges.

The delight which natural scenery produces in some minds is difficult
to explain, and the conduct which it prompts can hardly be fairly
criticised by those who have never experienced it. It seems to me a
deduction from the completeness of the celebrated Thomas Young, that
he was unable to appreciate natural scenery. 'He had really,' says
Dean Peacock, 'no taste for life in the country; he was one of those
who thought that no one who was able to live in London would be
content to 'live elsewhere.' Well, Dr. Young, like Dr. Johnson, had a
right to his delights; bu