The Niagara flows out of Lake Erie, a broad, deep river; but for several miles its course is tranquil, and its shores perfectly level.

By degrees its bed begins to sink, and the glassy smoothness is disturbed by a slight ripple.

The inverted trees, that before lay so softly still upon its bosom, become twisted and tortured till they lose their form, and seem madly to mix in the tumult that destroys them.

The current becomes more rapid at every step, till rock after rock has chafed the stream to fury, making the green one white.

This lasts for a mile, and then down sink the rocks at once, one hundred and fifty feet, and the enormous flood falls after them.