On the Canada side, a carriage-road winds its way in a serpentine course up the steep, high shore; and, on stepping from the boat I was immediately assailed by half-a-dozen drivers of carriages, who expressed a curiosity to know whether I desired to ride up or not. But I replied that I lived “just over the hill,” and would walk up. One of them winked at the other, and I passed on. On gaining the top of the high shore, I visited Table Rock, from which prominent point I had an excellent view of the whole cataract. I was again assailed by cabmen. “Do you want to go to Lundy’s Lane?” “Do you want to go to the Burning Springs?” “Do you want to go to the Suspension Bridge?” “Do you want to go to Brock’s Monument?” I was asked in a second. “Yes, but I’m going to walk,” I replied. “Walk! You can’t! It’s four miles to Lundy’s Lane.” [It’s only a little over a mile, reader. J. Smith.] “It’s five miles to the Burning Springs.” [It’s only one and a half. J. Smith.] “It’s ten miles to Brock’s Monument.” [It’s only five or six. J. Smith.] “It’s three and a half to the Bridge.” [It’s only two. J. Smith.] “Is that all? Then I’ll walk, certainly.” They left me—having probably come to the conclusion that I was a heathen. I was told that there was a place on the Canada side similar to the “Cave of the Winds,” where one could go behind the sheet of water. Desiring to see all that was to be seen, I went into an adjacent building, in which was a museum, got a water-proof suit, and, with others, explored this dangerous place. It is a fact worthy of remark, that the Canadian in charge of the place, did not offer a single objection to my venturing upon the perilous walk; nor did he offer a single objection to accepting the fee of two dollars. Why? ’Cause I was a “Yankee.” We walked fifty feet behind the sheet of water, on a narrow and slippery path. The wind and spray here, as in the “Cave of the Winds,” formed a perfect tempest. It is really surprising that so few accidents happen at this place. Many ladies visit it. I believe only one person ever fell from the path, and that was a gentleman. He lost his footing, rolled down a steep and slippery declivity, fell under the resistless torrent, and, of course, never breathed again. Having returned to the building and removed my water-proof clothes, I went into the museum awhile, where I saw a mummy, a native of Egypt, that had reached the remarkable age of three thousand years, and there wasn’t a gray hair in his head. He had a healthy and vigorous appearance, and looked as though by being careful about his diet, and avoiding damp weather, he might live a thousand years yet. I also saw the skeleton of a mammoth that had been discovered at the bottom of an oil-well. It was chiefly made of the best seasoned oak timber, and constructed with an eye to strength and beauty combined. On leaving the building, I saw a very black seventeen-year old negro sitting lazily in a buggy, and I approached him and asked: