Two hours sufficed to exhaust the wonders of Erie, and Miselle gladly took the cars for Buffalo, and on the road thither fell in with a good Samaritan, who solaced her weary faintness with delicate titbits of grouse, shot and roasted upon an Ohio prairie. At Buffalo waited the Eastern-bound cars of the New-York Central Railway; but only twenty miles farther on, thundered Niagara, and Miselle could not choose but obey the sonorous summons. So, after spending the night at a "white man's" hotel in Buffalo, the next morning found her standing, an insignificant atom, before one of the world's great wonders. One or two other travellers, however, have mentioned Niagara; and Miselle refrains from expressing more than her thanks for the kindness which enabled her to fulfil her darling wish of standing behind the great fall on the Canada side. Truly, it is no empty boast that places Americans preeminent over the men of every other nation in their courtesy to women; and Miselle would fain most gratefully acknowledge the constant attention and kindness everywhere offered to her, while never once was she annoyed by obtrusive or unwelcome approach; and not the vast resources of her country, not the grandeur of Niagara, give her such pride and satisfaction as does the new knowledge she has gained of her countrymen. THE SPANIARDS' GRAVES AT THE ISLES OF SHOALS. O sailors, did sweet eyes look after you, The day you sailed away from sunny Spain? Bright eyes that followed fading ship and crew, Melting in tender rain? Did no one dream of that drear night to be, Wild with the wind, fierce with the stinging snow, When, on yon granite point that frets the sea, The ship met her death-blow? Fifty long years ago these sailors died: (None know how many sleep beneath the waves:) Fourteen gray headstones, rising side by side, Point out their nameless graves,-- Lonely, unknown, deserted, but for me, And the wild birds that flit with mournful cry, And sadder winds, and voices of the sea That moans perpetually. Wives, mothers, maidens, wistfully, in vain Questioned the distance for the yearning sail, That, leaning landward, should have stretched again White arms wide on the gale, To bring back their beloved. Year by year, Weary they watched, till youth and beauty passed, And lustrous eyes grew dim, and age drew near, And hope was dead at last. Still summer broods o'er that delicious land, Rich, fragrant, warm with skies of golden glow: Live any yet of that forsaken band Who loved so long ago?