The Death of Captain Webb by William Topaz McGonagall

Alas brave Captain Webb has acted the part of a fool
By attempting to swim the mighty Niagara whirlpool,
Which I am sorry to say and to relate,
Has brought him to an untimely fate.

’Twas in the year Eighteen hundred and eighty-three,
With the people of America he did agree,
For $10,000, to swim through that yawning whirlpool;
But alas! He failed in doing so — the self-conceited fool.

Captain Webb, he courted danger for the sake of worldly gain
And the thought of gaining for himself — world wide fame;
And although many people warned him not to throw his life away,
He rushed madly to his fate without the least dismay.

Which clearly proves he was a mad conceited fool,
For to try to swim o’er that fearful whirlpool,
When he knew so many people had perished there,
And when the people told him so, he didn’t seem to care.

Had it not been for the money that lured him on
To the mighty falls of Niagara, he never would have gone
To sacrifice his precious life in such a dangerous way;
But I hope it will be a warning to others for many a long day.

On Tuesday the 24th of July, Webb arrived at the falls,
And as I view the scene in my mind’s eye, my heart it appalls
To think that any man could be such a great fool,
Without the help of God, to think to swim that great whirlpool;

Whereas, if he had put his trust in God before he came there,
God would have opened his blinded eyes and told him to beware;
But being too conceited in his own strength, the devil blinded his eyes,
And all thought of God and the people’s advice he therefore did despise.

But the man the forgets God, God will forget him;
Because to be too conceited in your own strength before God it is a sin;
And the devil will whisper in your ear — there’s no danger in the way,
And make you rush madly on to destruction, without the least dismay.

At half-past three o’clock Webb started for the river,
Which caus’d many of the spectators with fear to shiver,
As they wondered in their hearts if he would be such a fool
As to dare to swim through that hell — whirlpool.

Webb was received by the people with loud and hearty cheers;
And many a heart that day was full of doubts and fears;
A many a one present did venture to say –
“He only came here to throw his life away.”

The Webb entered a boat, in waiting, and was rowed by the ferry-man;
And many of the spectators seem’d to turn pale and wan;
And when asked by the boatman how much he’d made by the channel swim,
He replied $25,000 complete every dim.

Have you spent it all? Was the next question McCloy put to him,
No, answered Webb, I have yet $15,000 left, every dim;
“Then” replied McCloy, “You’d better spend it before you try this swim;”
Then the captain laugh’d heartily but didn’t answer him.

When the boat arrived at point opposite the “Maid of the Mist”
The captain stripped, retaining only a pair of red drawers of the smallest grist;
And at two minutes past four o’clock Webb dived from the boat;
While the shouts and applause of the crowd on the air seem’d to float.

Oh, Heaven! it must have been an awe inspiring sight,
To see him battling among that hell of waters with all his might,
And seemingly swimming with ease and great confidence;
While the spectators held their breath in suspense.

At one moment he was lifted high on the crest of a wave;
But he battled most manfully his life to save;
But alas! all his struggling prov’d in vain,
Because he drown’d in that merciless whirlpool God did so ordain.

He was swept into the neck of that hell — whirlpool,
And was whirl’d about in it just like a light cotton spool;
While the water fiend laughingly cried ”Ha! ha! you poor silly fool,
You have lost your life, for the sake of gain, in that hell — whirlpool

I hope the Lord will be a father to his family in their distress,
For they ought to be pitied, I really must confess;
And I hope the subscribers of the money, that lured Webb to his fate,
Will give the money to Mrs. Webb, her husband’s loss to compensate.

Source: Hunt, Chris. McGonagall Online. The Death of Captain Webb.

This poem is featured in episode 3 of the Niagara Falls History and Poetry podcast

Previously published in The Real McGonagall: Poetic Gems Selected from the Works of William McGonagall, 1948.

Lines to Harriet by Traveller

On the hill beside the river
Stands a building dear to me,
By its threshold one bright morning
There I first saw Harriet C.

Then that house was new and cheerful,
Now its walls are sad to see.
Years have passed and it’s decaying—
Where is charming Harriet C.?

When we watched the mighty cataract
She would closer cling to me,
And our hearts nigh ceased their throbbing—
Then I loved sweet Harriet C.

Time passed on and we were parted,
It softened much our childish glee
And I’ve never, never since then
Seen my lovely Harriet C.

But I’m standing by the schoolhouse
Where her form I first did see,
And my heart is sadly asking—
Where is gentle Harriet C.?

Source: Zavitz, Sherman. Niagara Falls: Historical Notes. St. Catharines, Looking Back Press, 2008. First published in the Niagara Falls Review as part of the Historical Notes series.

The historical note about the school is reproduced below with the permission of Sherman Zavitz.

The Schoolhouse on Clifton Hill: Who Was Harriet C?

A school on Clifton Hill? While such a building would certainly seem out of place there now, in fact a one-room schoolhouse once stood on this thoroughfare, long before it became the now famous Street of Fun.

A roughcast structure, it was built around 1835 and was located on the south side of the street where the Comfort Inn Fallsway is now located. In 1848, after all the property on the south side of the hill was purchased by local entrepreneur Samuel Zimmerman, the building was moved to the other side of the street.

The school served the area along the Niagara River from Dufferin Islands (as they are now called) to the Whirlpool. This included the little community of Clifton, which at that time was centered around the Clifton Hill, Victoria Avenue area. Clifton was established in 1832 by Capt. Ogden Creighton, a British half-pay officer.

The following year, a hotel was built at the foot of Clifton Hill where Oakes Garden Theatre presently stands. As happened with the hill, the hotel took its name from the community in which it was located. The Clifton House became Niagara’s most renowned 19^thcentury hotel.

Some of the teachers at this early school included William Pointer, Miss Tobias and a Mr. Williams. Around 1849, the teacher was Mr. McMullen, who also had a side job. The owner of a hansom carriage, every time an excursion party arrived at the nearby Falls, he would rush out of the school and become a tour guide, leaving his niece to take over his teaching duties.

The last teacher at this school was Marsena Biggar, who was there from 1851 to 1853. During the fall of 1851, Marsena might very well have taken his pupils down the road to the Clifton House to hear the famous singer Jenny Lind. Known as the Swedish Nightingale, she was a guest at the hotel for a number of weeks that autumn and would occasionally present a concert from its balcony.

The little schoolhouse on Clifton Hill closed at the end of 1853. The school section had been divided into two and new stone schoolhouses had been built. One of these was just to the north along Victoria Avenue, near Bender Hill. Open for only three years, it was replaced in 1857 by Simcoe Street School. The other was on Buchanan Avenue (now Fallsview Boulevard) where the Hilton Hotel now stands. It was used until the opening of Falls View School in 1910.

In February of 1857, an interesting letter appeared in a Buffalo newspaper. It was from an anonymous gentleman (he signed his name “Traveller”) in Lockport, New York, who told how several years earlier he had paid a visit to the old Clifton Hill schoolhouse. He had been a pupil there in its early years and wandering around the closed building naturally brought back many memories, including those of an infatuation he had had with another pupil he identifies only as Harriet C.

Moved by the nostalgic experience and lamenting his lost love, he wrote a poem, which was published along with the letter.

Entitled “Lines to Harriet,” [above] are a few of the verses.

Just who was Harriet C.? While we can’t be absolutely certain, it was likely Harriet Crysler, who was born here in 1831. The Crysler family home stood where the Victoria Avenue Library is now. Harriet died in 1903.

Nicola Tesla Dreaming on Goat Island by E. R. Baxter III

In Yugoslavia at the age of six he dreamed
about Niagara and a waterwheel—and years
later dreamed of throwing electricity all
over the world, without wires, to far planets,
people taking what they needed from the air—
Tesla, who championed the alternating current
that lights the earth, who drove Edison mad,
who drove Edison into the public electrocution
of cats and dogs at lectures to demonstrate
the satanic danger of alternating current—
Tesla, who invented the radio before Marconi,
who held computer patents in the 1800s, who
believed high voltage cables running under
classroom floors would stimulate the intellect
of dull students. Who, during the last years
of his life, became a caretaker of park pigeons,
feeding them, even from between his lips,
as they fluttered around his feet, alighted
on his hat, his shoulders, his outstretched
arms, a Saint Nicola of Alternating Current,
gone to the birds. Who now sits brooding
in bronze on Goat Island, larger than life,
still attracting the occasional pigeon as he
sits, open book on his lap, pretending to read
but looking over the heads of wandering tourists
to watch the rush of water surging toward the Falls,
the volume diminishing over the years—dreaming
that soon all the water will stop flowing,
that it will all be turned into electricity,
transforming the earth into a planetary fireball
of lightning, illuminating the furthest reaches
of the dark universe, beyond our imaginations.

Source: E. R. Baxter III. Niagara Lost and Found: New and Selected Poems. Yarmouthport, MA: Abyss Publications, 2013.

Read about E.R. Baxter III

Read about Nicola Tesla

Sir Isaac Brock to His Soldiers by Charles Mair

Ye men of Canada !
Subjects with me of that Imperial Power
Whose liberties are marching round the earth :
I need not urge you now to follow me,
Though what befalls will try your stubborn faith
In the fierce fire and crucible of war.
I need not urge you, you have heard the voice
Of loyalty, and answered to its call.
Who has not read the insults of the foe—
The manifesto of his purposed crimes ?
That foe, whose poison-paint, false liberty,
Runs o’er his body politic and kills
Whilst seeming to adorn it, fronts us now !
Threats our poor Province to annihilate,
And should we find the red men by our side—
Poor injured souls, who but defend their own—
Calls back Extermination from its hell,
To stalk abroad, and stench your land with slaughter.
These are our weighty arguments of war,
Wherein armed Justice will enclasp its sword,
And sheath it in its bitter adversary ;
Wherein we’ll turn our bayonet-points to pens,
And write in blood :—Here lies the poor invader ;
Or be ourselves struck down by hailing death :
Made stepping stones for foes to walk upon—
The lifeless gangways to our country’s ruin.
For now we look not with the eye of fear ;
We reck not if this strange mechanic frame—
Stop in an instant in the shock of war.
Our death may build into our country’s life,
And failing this, ’twere bettor still to die
Than live the breathing spoils of infamy.
Then forward for our cause and Canada !
Forward for Britain’s Empire—peerless arch
Of Freedom’s raising, whose majestic span
Is axis to the world ! On, on, my friends !
The task our country sets must we perform—
Wring peace from war, or perish in its storm !

Source: George W. Ross (ed.) Patriotic Recitations and Arbor Day Exercises. Toronto : Warwick & Rutter, 1893.

Read about Sir Isaac Brock

Read about the War of 1812

Read about Brian Deines’ painting of Sir Isaac Brock

Visit Brian Deines’ website

Lundy’s Lane by William Thomas White

July it was, and the sun’s fierce heat
On road and meadow glistened and beat.

Glistened and beat till the hillside brown
Shrivelled and parched in its angry frown.

Till the dust lay white ‘neath the creaking wain,
And never a zephyr to promise the rain.

Backward from Queenston, backward for aye,
The hostile invaders had passed on their way.

While hot on their rear like a hound on the track,
By the way he retreated brave Riall came back.

By the way he retreated from Chippewa fight,
Outnumbered and beaten that terrible night.

And now where the ground softly slopes from the plain.
And the fragrance of orchards breathes o’er Lundy’s Lane,

At the point where it joins with the old Portage road,
His scanty battalions defiantly stood.

In front lay the foe ; to his challenge they come,
But behind hear the beat of the patriot drum !

For Drummond is marching that pitiless day.
And the feet of his soldiers are swift for the fray.

Undaunted by numbers, by odds undismayed,
“Form the line with the guns in the centre,” he said.

Six o’clock, and the sun as it sunk to its rest.
Like a circle of blood shot its glow from the West.

One instant its gleam on their battle ranks broke ;
The next it was lost in the batteries’ smoke.

And they grappled, they struggled, they fought and they fell,
‘Mid the flash of the bayonet, the hiss of the shell.

One to four ! they are Britons in blood and in bone,
And the land that they fight for they know is their own.

One to four ! shall they perish when wisdom says “Fly?”
On ! Forward like heroes ! for valor says ” Die.”

One to four ! and the twilight in horror shrinks down,
And over the dead casts her mantle of brown.

One to four ! and there fades the last glimmer of light,
And they fought hand to hand for the guns in the night.

And the flashes of flame shot their glare o’er the gloom,
And the cannons re-echoed the cataract’s boom.

And the smoke of their volleys strewn far o’er the plain
Seemed the ghosts of the fallen contending again.

Rose the moon, pallid orbed, her pale course to pursue,
Belated, reluctant, aghast at the view !

So their hands from the slaughter a moment they stay,
A moment they stand statue-like in its ray.

A moment of breathing—a moment—no more,
Then bellowed the cannons their grape as before.

Till the foe, horror-smitten at blood so out-poured,
Withdrew with the bayonet, withdrew with the sword.

So, baffled and vanquished, they sullenly fled,
And night and the victors kept watch with the dead.

Source: George W. Ross (ed.) Patriotic Recitations and Arbor Day Exercises. Toronto : Warwick & Rutter, 1893.

About William Thomas White

Read about the Battle of Lundy’s Lane

Category: Niagara History & Folklore

The Death of Captain Webb by William Topaz McGonagall

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Lines to Harriet by Traveller

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Nicola Tesla Dreaming on Goat Island by E. R. Baxter III

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Sir Isaac Brock to His Soldiers by Charles Mair

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Lundy’s Lane by William Thomas White

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