As fast as half a dozen trees were cut down, a
_factory_ was raised up; stumps still contest the ground with
pillars, and porticos are seen to struggle with rocks. It looks
as if the demon of machinery, having invaded the peaceful realms
of nature, had fixed on Lockport as the battle-ground on which
they should strive for mastery. The fiend insists that the
streams should go one way, though the gentle mother had ever led
their dancing steps another; nay, the very rocks must fall before
him, and take what form he wills. The battle is lost and won.
Nature is fairly routed and driven from the field, and the
rattling, crackling, hissing, spitting demon has taken possession
of Lockport for ever.
We slept there, dismally enough. I never felt more out of humour
at what the Americans call improvement; it is, in truth, as it
now stands, a most hideous place, and gladly did I leave it
behind me.
Our next stage was to Lewiston; for some miles before we reached
it we were within sight of the British frontier; and we made our
salaams.
The monument of the brave General Brock stands on an elevated
point near Queenstown, and is visible at a great distance.
We breakfasted at Lewiston, but felt every cup of coffee as a
sin, so impatient were we, as we approached the end of our long
pilgrimage, to reach the shrine, which nature seems to have
placed at such a distance from her worshippers on purpose to try
the strength of their devotion.
A few miles more would bring us to the high altar, but first we
had to cross the ferry, for we were determined upon taking our
first view from British ground.
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