very extraordinary, anyhow. It is worth the price of admission to hear
the guide tell the story nine times in succession to different parties,
and never miss a word or alter a sentence or a gesture.

Then you drive over the Suspension Bridge, and divide your misery
between the chances of smashing down two hundred feet into the river
below and the chances of having the railway train overhead smashing down
on to you. Either possibility is discomforting taken by itself, but,
mixed together, they amount in the aggregate to positive unhappiness.

On the Canada side you drive along the chasm between long ranks of
photographers standing guard behind their cameras, ready to make an
ostentatious frontispiece of you and your decaying ambulance, and your
solemn crate with a hide on it, which you are expected to regard in the
light of a horse, and a diminished and unimportant background of sublime
Niagara; and a great many people _have_ the ineffable effrontery or the
native depravity to aid and abet this sort of crime.

Any day, in the hands of these photographers, you may see stately
pictures of papa and mamma, Johnny and Bub and Sis, or a couple of
country cousins, all smiling hideously, and all disposed in studied and
uncomfortable attitudes in their carriage, and all looming up in their
grand and awe-inspiring imbecility before the snubbed and diminished
presentment of that majestic presence, whose ministering spirits are the
rainbows, whose voice is the thunder, whose awful front is veiled in
clouds, who was monarch here dead and forgotten ages before this hackful
of small reptiles was deemed temporarily necessary to fill a crack in
the world's unnoted myriads, and will still be monarch here ages and
decades of ages after they shall have gathered themselves to their blood
relations, the other worms, and been mingled with the unremembering