At the bottom, thunder stunned our ears, and only by signals and grimaces could we communicate one with another. The thunder never ceased as we followed a downward path cut in the rugged cliff. Presently, at a bend in the path, we saw a frightening sight. I felt like a helpless insect watching the disruption of the universe. The bottom of that thread of Niagara Falls was immediately before us, edge on. Oh, the weight and speed of the endless world of waters smashing down upon the huge boulders! I strove to look upwards to the full height of that grey cataclysm; but the spray was blinding. Following our guide to the right, we soon were upon a rustic bridge spanning rocks washed by a running riot of waves. The fine rain became a deluge of great spots of heavy water, which hurt my shoulders like pellets of lead. Bitterly did I regret my refusal of the oilskins. Now we were in front of the waterfall, gasping, with bowed heads, clutching by both hands at wooden rails draped with slimy weed, and shuffling shamelessly along the deluged planks. So we made our way over several bridges—shuddering, blinded, deafened; and as we crept up wooden stairs—a pitiful procession of bent, helpless, suffering men—I found myself doubting the wisdom of making this excursion when so high a wind was blowing. Somehow we gained a footing on another bridge, and when I forced open my eyes it was to find ourselves between a cliff of rock and a cliff of water. Still were we bombarded by violent rain; still did thunder numb our brains; still was my poor body pierced with cold. But chiefly were our senses afflicted by the wind. In that awful cloister the atmosphere seemed thin and insufficient, and to be moving so quickly as to leave us no time to breathe it. My right arm was clutched by the man ahead. Instinctively I gripped the man behind. And so we dragged one another through several moments of amazement, blindness, and repressed fear—suddenly to emerge, with a chorus of laughter, into dry, still, sunny air. For there was no rain that day, and no wind—brilliant sunshine pouring from the blue American sky. The only thunder was caused by water falling 167 feet on rugged rock in unending millions of tons. We had passed round the base of the thin, detached thread of the American falls. We had visited the Cave of the Winds. I should not like to take that heroic shower-bath every morning. As we reascended the pathway to the tower—dripping, aglow, delighted—we turned our heads, and beheld an unbroken rainbow shining in the clouds of vapour that rolled across the river.