IN order to reach the “Cave of the Winds”—I don’t see why it should be so styled, for the winds never caved there yet—I had to descend a winding stairway within a wooden tower at the north western margin of the island. On arriving at the base of the tower, I found myself on a shelf about forty feet above the water-line below the Falls, with the American Fall on my right hand and the Horse-shoe Fall on my left. The “Cave of the Winds” is simply a vacant space between the great perpendicular wall of rock over which the torrent leaps, on the American side, and the broad sheet of descending water itself. A flight of wooden steps takes the visitor down nearly to the water level, behind the foaming, dashing folds of this fearful curtain; and from the foot of the stairs a narrow plank walk extends some distance, to a point where the sheet of water is again parted by a projecting rock at the brink far above. The visitor, after reaching this welcome recess in the furious torrent, can pass out and take a seat on a great heap of rocks at the foot of the mighty cataract, where he hears nothing but the eternal thunder of waters and a cloud of mist hides the whole world from his view!

Pardon me for coming down from the sublime to the common-place, and for stating that a suit of water-proof clothes is provided for the visitor.

At a little house near the entrance to the “Cave of the Winds” I met a man whom I asked where the guide was.

“I am one of the guides,” said he: “but you don’t want to go down into the Cave of the Winds?”

“Yes, I had rather thought of going down,” I replied.

“O, dear me!” he said, decidedly. “You can’t go down!”

“Why?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t let you go down for a thousand dollars! you would be drowned, certain. Just step this way and take a look down.—Did you lose your leg in the army?”

“Yes,” I replied, as we walked to the head of the wooden stairway, “at the battle of Antietam, in Meade’s Division, Hooker’s Corps—got struck with a rifle ball, and the leg was amputated the same day about six hours after; I draw a pension of eight dollars a month, but can’t wear an artificial leg on account of the shortness of the stump; I am never troubled by change of weather—am twenty-two years old and my name is John Smith.—That place down there is the Cave of the Winds, is it?—Well, it’s a much milder looking place than I had expected to find it.”

It will be perceived that I gave all this voluntary information to save time, by sparing the guide the trouble of asking the usual questions; for every hour a man stays at Niagara costs him from two to five dollars, if he is economical.

“What do you think of it?” he asked, in a loud voice, so as to be heard above the roar of the cataract.

“A fine place,” I coolly shouted.

“Wouldn’t think of going down, now, I hope?”

“I’ll go down now, by all means,” I calmly yelled.

“O, no; it would be recklessness,” he shouted. “We’ve never lost any one here yet, and we don’t want to.”

He didn’t want me “lost.”

“No danger,” I shrieked.

“I can’t give my consent,” he yelled, decidedly.

“If you don’t,” I screamed, “I’ll jump down without it. I’ve traveled eighteen hundred miles for the sole purpose of going down in the Cave of the Winds, and I’ll not return to my free home in the Rocky Mountains without it! Give me a water-proof suit!”

That began to tell on him. A man who lived in a free home among the Rocky Mountains might be dangerous. So he yelled, in a softer tone:

“Well, if you will only go to the foot of the stairs, and will not try to follow the walk to that heap of stones out there, I’ll give you the water-proof clothes, and you may go down.”

“John Smith never rejected any thing like a reasonable compromise,” I replied; “so I will promise to go no further than the foot of the steps. Get me the water-proofs.”

He gave me the oil-cloths, and I donned them and carefully descended into the famous Cave of the Winds, and stood on the frail plank walk, between the thundering torrent and the black, rocky wall over which it tumbled. As I began to descend, I felt as though I was leaving the face of the earth for ever; but who can describe my emotions as I stood at the very heels of the raving and raging cataract? Who shall describe that awful place? It exceeded all the wild storms I had ever dreamed of. The spray dashed into my face, and fairly blinded me; while the fierce, unceasing wind rushed violently upon me from all sides, took the very breath from me, and seemed about to snatch me up from the frail plank on which I stood, and hurl me under the mighty torrent! It was wildly, fearfully bewildering. The wind and spray and the roar of the cataract fairly took away from me the senses of sight and hearing; I was conscious that the water had thrust its way beneath my water-proof clothes, and that I was wet all over, but could not feel the dampness; I could scarcely command my mind so as to think or reason. I scarcely knew whether I felt, thought, or was conscious at all, so absorbed were all my faculties in that eternal storm. I fancy that, if one were to remain there long, he would lose all consciousness, sink prostrate, tumble from the walk, plunge under the wild torrent, and be no more.

On returning to the face of the earth again, and removing my water-proof clothes, I realized how wet I was. I fancied it would not help my cough very much, but although I got wringing wet four different times during the few days of my sojourn at Niagara, it never injured me: which is a strong point in favor of the water-cure system; i. e., if it don’t cure, it, at least, is not quite certain to kill.

“What is your charge?” I asked of the proprietor.

“Nothing at all,” was the reply. “We charge visitors two dollars each when we attend them through the whole walk; but, under the circumstances, we won’t charge you any thing.”

“I am willing to pay, if——”

“No, no; not a cent. If any one ought to pay, I ought to pay you ten dollars for the privilege of seeing you go down there. You are the first and only one-legged man that ever ventured into the Cave of the Winds.”

I returned to my hotel, took a lemonade, changed my clothes, imbibed another lemonade, took dinner, then another lemonade, and was about to start for the river again, when the host said:

“Are you going to see Leslie walk the rope?”

“Walk the rope? Where?” I queried.

“Just below the railroad bridge—the large suspension bridge, two miles below.”

“At what time?”

“Four o’clock. You will have an hour or two yet to get there.”

“I will go, by all means,” I said, much delighted at this opportunity. “I thank you for mentioning it.”

I went out, and walked leisurely down to the Suspension Bridge. I found a great many people collected on the bridge, and on either shore, and observed that there was a rope stretched across from bank to bank, not far from the bridge.

This bridge is one of the grandest of structures. It is an iron bridge with a single span of eight hundred feet, and is suspended two hundred and fifty feet above the water. The trains run over on top of it, while on a level with the bank are a carriage-way and a walk for pedestrians.

I paid twenty-five cents to be admitted upon the bridge, in order to view the feats of Mr. Leslie. It was crowded with spectators, but I succeeded in getting a good position, from which I could see the rope.

Not long after, Mr. Leslie, arrayed in the garb of a circus actor, and carrying a long pole in his hands, as a man is apt to carry a fence-rail when constructing a worm fence, made his appearance on the American shore, stepped boldly out upon the rope, over the fearful abyss, and walked leisurely toward Canada. He moved nimbly till he had traveled more than half the length of the rope, when he seemed to lose his confidence for awhile, stopped, and tottered from side to side. At this point, the ladies all became pale, a great many of them said, “O, Lord!” fervently, and turned away; while we stronger-hearted men gazed on with the most absorbing interest and anxiety. Leslie soon regained his composure and equilibrium, and resumed his perilous walk.

On reaching the Canada side, he was saluted with thunders of applause from both shores and the bridge; and, after resting awhile, and taking a glass of lemonade (probably), he again stepped upon the rope, balancing-pole in hand, and a coffee-sack over his head. He thus again accomplished the fearful walk, and was again greeted with cheers. Then he went out upon the rope, with only the balancing-pole, stopped about the middle, and performed some gymnastic feats. He laid his pole carefully down—one end resting on the main rope, and the other on one of the guys—hung there by his hands a moment, two hundred and fifty feet above the foaming waters, that were still angry from their recent leap, then hung suspended by one hand, then by his chin, then by his feet, and finally by one foot. To use the very mildest expression, it looked dangerous.

His hanging suspended by one foot was his last feat for that day; the crowd soon after dispersed, and I got into an omnibus and returned to Niagara.