I have now come to the fourth part of my eventful life, which shall be related with the same particularity and pains that I took with those parts which have gone before; both because the matter is of great importance in itself, and because, though fortune went prosperously with me, I was not unvisited by those vicissitudes which are vouchsafed to warn us that the world is no continued city.

Having so narrowly escaped from the perdition of the falls, the first thing I did was to return thanks with my wife and Charles for the wonderful salvation, and we invited Mr. and Mrs. Hoskins to join in the worship, not doubting they would gladly do so. But the old lady declined, making an excuse which was singular, to the effect that she never could think of saying her prayers in the open air; her husband's reply was still more heathenish; “I ain't partikler,” said he, “about praying, so you can shout away for all, while I looks at ‘em water privileges.”

With that he walked down towards the bottom of the hollow into which the river was tumbling, leaving Mrs. Hoskins with us, who, although she took no audible part in the worship, sat hard by until it was over.

We then began to consider how we were to get home, and what we should do for food, the basket with our provisions having gone over the cataract with the scow and my wife's shawl. The afternoon being by this time far spent, our prospects were very disheartening, and we all began to condemn the rashness with which, without sufficient knowledge, we had ventured to explore the unknown course of a stream so considerable, laying the blame on Mr. Hoskins for the haste with which he had given in to the scheme.