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Rh You better realize the height of the precipice, and the tremendous force of the torrent. Skirting the base of the Table-Rock, you arrive at the point of entrance, behind the vast sheet of water, which those who desire to traverse, provide themselves with fitting apparel, which is here kept for that purpose. This magnificent cavern is often tenanted by rushing winds, which drive the spray with blinding fury in the face of the approaching pilgrim. Clad in rude garments, and cap of oil-cloth, with coarse shoes,—the most unpicturesque of all figures,—he approaches, striking his staff among the loose fragments that obstruct his way. The path is slippery and perilous, the round, wet stones betray his footing, and sometimes cold, slimy and wriggling eels coil around his ancles. Respiration is at first difficult, almost to suffocation. But the aiding hand and encouraging voice of the guide are put in requisition, and almost ere he is aware, he reaches Termination-Rock, beyond which all progress is hazardous. This exploit entitles him to a certificate, obtained at the house where his garb was provided, and signed by the guide. But should he fail of attaining this honor, by a too precipitate retreat from this cavern of thunders, he is still sure of a magnificent shower-bath.

From the Pavilion Hotel, which occupies the site of another of that name, destroyed by fire a few years since, is a striking prospect of the Horse-shoe Fall, and of the river above it. The deep flood rolls on in