‡‡‡‡‡‡how the cotton wool ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡crash ‡‡‡‡‡‡pulled her from ‡‡‡‡‡‡starched sheets to the ‡‡‡‡‡‡lung-stopping chill ‡‡‡‡‡‡of the january night
‡‡‡‡‡‡how her shoes squeaked ‡‡‡‡‡‡in the snow
and looking at the
suspension bridge ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡lying
broken-backed against the ice
like an injured dragon ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡grandmother
must have wondered at
each of her magic crossings
but writes here ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡only the suspension bridge ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡fell down
A crowd flowed onto the Suspension Bridge. Another onto Prospect Point. A third onto the Three Sisters Islands —all along the railings in the gorge. Across the river, a thousand more poured down to Table Rock. And up the shore, a hundred others— men, women and children— stood by the dock at Truesdale’s cottage, waiting to see me off. There were no clouds that morning, and so much light it seemed ten suns were whirling as I stepped into the skiff—in a tossing sea of handkerchiefs— and waved to them (while Russell blew a kiss) amidst the general hurrah.
Then we set out—with Truesdale straining the tiller against the single, headstrong sail— and Billy Holleran, a strong, strapping boy, manning the furious oars. The barrel rode upright behind us, bucking to run its course —and was jerked back to correction by the stern instruction of our rope. A quarter way out, we stopped on an island where I changed my clothes: no hat or dress now, but a blouse left open at the throat, and a skirt hemmed just below the knee. I made them turn away while I backed in through the rim— then they fastened down the lid, rolled me to the shore, turned me upright— pushed me in.
Four boats now. And behind the first, the towed barrel, weighed down with me— yet still intractable. And in the last, a cameraman recording every stroke as they rowed a mile across to the Point of No Return— where the river starts to churn, and a sailor knows he’d better bend his back —or else go over. There they knocked. And cut the rope. They must have pulled hard then to turn themselves south, but I went north—(a half mile more before I’d reach the brink). I careened and spun. Once it tossed me clear up out of the water. I went unbidden—and unwelcome—where it rushed me.
I wished I could have watched from some place overhead and heard the voices racing down the shore— passing on the message— dock to island, island to rock, rock to bridge: “She’s coming!” I would have liked to see them turn their heads— wave after wave, as each new group heard the murmur and craned their necks to catch a glimpse. I’d have liked to see the trolley racing down the shore, and the incline railway rushing down the gorge —so the ones who’d waved from Truesdale’s dock could be standing on the rocks below the Falls, looking up—to see if anything would come.
from Queen of the Mist, a novel in verse about the first person to go over Niagara in a barrel
Hut on Goat Island Used By Francis Abbott. the Hermit of Niagara, from 1829-1831. Sketch by C. Breckinridge Porter
It was the leafy month of June,
And joyous Nature, all in tune, ‡‡With wreathing buds was drest,
As toward Niagara‘s fearful side ‡‡A youthful stranger prest;
His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe
And scarce he seemed his breath to draw, ‡‡While bending o‘er its brim,
He marked its strong, unfathomed tide, ‡‡And heard its thunder-hymn.
His measured week too quickly fled,
Another, and another sped,
And soon the summer rose decayed,
The moon of autumn sank in shade;
Years filled their circle, brief and fair,
Yet still the enthusiast lingered there, ‡‡Till winter hurled its dart:
For deeper round his soul was wove
A mystic chain of quenchless love,
That would not let him part. Continue reading “The Hermit of the Falls by Lydia Huntley Sigourney”→
