p, coming for miles and miles. All away to the horizon on our right
was a wonderful confusion of bright green and white water. As we stood
watching it with our faces to the top of the Falls, our backs were
towards the sun. The majestic valley below the Falls, so seen through
the vast cloud of spray, was made of rainbow. The high banks, the riven
rocks, the forests, the bridge, the buildings, the air, the sky, were
all made of rainbow. Nothing in Turner's finest water-colour drawings,
done in his greatest day, is so ethereal, so imaginative, so gorgeous in
colour, as what I then beheld. I seemed to be lifted from the earth and
to be looking into Heaven. What I once said to you, as I witnessed the
scene five and twenty years ago, all came back at this most affecting
and sublime sight. The 'muddy vesture of our clay' falls from us as we
look. . . . I chartered a separate carriage for our men, so that they might
see all in their own way, and at their own time.

"There is a great deal of water out between Rochester and New York, and
travelling is very uncertain, as I fear we may find to-morrow. There is
again some little alarm here on account of the river rising too fast.
But our to-night's house is far ahead of the first. Most charming halls
in these places; excellent for sight and sound. Almost invariably built
as theatres, with stage, scenery, and good dressing-rooms. Audience
seated to perfection (every seat always separate), excellent doorways
and passages, and brilliant light. My screen and gas are set up in front
of the drop-curtain, and the most delicate touches will tell anywhere.
No creature but my own men ever near me."

His anticipation of the uncertainty that might beset his travel back had
dismal fulfilment. It is described in a letter written on the 21st from
Springfield to his valued friend, Mr. Frederic Ouvry, having much
interest of its own, and making lively addition to the picture which
these chapters give. The unflagging spirit that bears up under all
disadvantages is again marvellously shown. "You can hardly imagine what
my life is with its present conditions--how hard the work is, and how
little time I seem to have at my disposal. It is necessary to the daily
recovery of my voice that I should dine at 3 when not travelling; I
begin to prepare for the evening at 6; and I get back to my hotel,
pretty well knocked up, at half-past 10. Add to all this, perpetual
railway travelling in one of the severest wi