make this canon grewsome, the keepers of the show places make the most of the late Captain Webb.  So vivid were their narratives that our sympathetic party felt his presence continually, saw the strong swimmer tossed like a chip, saw him throw up his hands, saw the agony in his face at the spot where he was last seen.  There are several places where he disappeared, each vouched for by credible witnesses, so that the horror of the scene is multiplied for the tourist.  The late afternoon had turned gray and cold, and dashes of rain fell as our party descended to the whirlpool.  As they looked over the heaped-up and foaming waters in this eddy they almost expected to see Captain Webb or the suicide of the night before circling round in the maelstrom.  They came up out of the gorge silent, and drove back to the hotel full of nervous apprehension.

King found no telegram from Irene, and the place seemed to him intolerable.  The artist was quite ready to go on in the morning; indeed, the whole party, although they said it was unreasonable, confessed that they were almost afraid to stay longer; the roar, the trembling, the pervading sense of a blind force and rage, inspired a nameless dread.  The artist said, the next morning at the station, that he understood the feelings of Lot.

XV

THE THOUSAND ISLES

The occupation of being a red man, a merchant of baskets and beadwork, is taken up by so many traders with a brogue and a twang at our watering-places that it is difficult for the traveler to keep alive any sentiment about this race.  But at a station beyond Lewiston our tourists were reminded of it, and of its capacity for adopting our civilization in its most efflorescent development.  The train was invaded by a band of Indians, or, to speak correctly, by an Indian band.  There is nothing in the world like a brass band in a country town; it probably gives more pleasure to the performers than any other sort of labor.  Yet the delight it imparts to the listeners is apt to be tempered by a certain sense of incongruity between the peaceful citizens who compose it and the bellicose din they produce.  There is a note of barbarism in the brassy jar and clamor of the instruments, enhanced by the bewildering ambition of each player to force through his piece the most noise and jangle, which is not always covered and subdued into a harmonious whole by the whang of the bass drum.

There was nothing of this incongruity between this band of Tuscaroras and their occupation.  Unaccustomed to associate the North American Indian with music, the traveler at once sees the natural relation of the Indians with the brass band.  These Tuscaroras were stalwart fellows, broad-faced, big-limbed, serious, and they carried themselves with a clumsy but impressive dignity.  There was no uniformity in their apparel, yet each one wore some portion of a martial and resplendent