The road is intolerable, and the people look savage. Just before we
arrived at Lewistown, as I observed before, we descended a very high
hill, down which the road is truly dangerous, and at whose base the town
is handsomely situated. On the Canada side, directly opposite, is
Queenstown, full in view. It forms a pretty cluster of houses, all built
since the late war, as the town was burnt by the British, as well as
Buffalo. From the inn at which we stopped is a fine view of the colossal
monument of General Brock, situated on the heights of Queenstown. It is
formed of a round column, rising 130 feet high, terminated by an
appropriate emblem. It is erected within a few rods of the spot where
this brave officer fell, and must have cost no small trifle to the king.

We arrived at this place about half after three in the afternoon of a
rainy and disagreeable day. There is something truly grand all along the
_frontier_ as far as I have seen it. But great nations should have great
landmarks. Towards evening I walked down to the river, which is but a
short distance, but having spent its wrath, and left the upper region,
as it were, it gradually expands, and flows quietly to wed its destined
bride, _Ontario_. I could distinctly see the very spot on which poor
Brock fell, for it was pointed out by a white-painted post, standing a
few rods from the monumental column. It was from this height immediately
opposite where I stood, that the British troops surprised our brave
soldiers while taking a refreshment, and rushed upon them with such
terrible fury as to cause them to leap the precipice, the first pitch of
which is nearly 100 feet, surrounded by huge crags and rocks. But there
was no alternative--for death behind them, by the bayonet, was sure.
Many of these poor fellows were killed by the leap, while others clung
to the rocks and there received the balls of the enemy, who, with
deliberate aim, amused themselves by sending them into the dreadful
abyss below. The thought that the theatre of this dreadful carnage was
before me, caused me to shudder and cry aloud, "O the merciless horrors
of war!"

On the morning of the 14th I was called up early to take stage for
Rochester, distant eighty miles, fare $3.25. We started at 5 o'clock,
six of us, and arrived at the wonderful mushroom of the west at 5 in the
afternoon, over the great ridge road, the finest I have ever travelled.
This road is truly remarkable. It seems to me that when old