Archibald Forbes - "Camps, Quarters, and Casual Places"

Edward Bellamy - "The Duke of Stockbridge"

John Fiske - "The War of Independence"

Matilda Betham Edwards - "East of Paris"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Englishwoman in America

I >> Isabella Lucy Bird >> The Englishwoman in America




Round the door of the Clifton House were about twenty ragged, vociferous
drosky-drivers, of most demoralised appearance, all clamorous for "a
fare." "We want to go to Goat Island; how much is it?" "Five dollars."
"I'll take you for four dollars and a half." "No, sir, he's a cheat and a
blackguard; I'll take you for four." "I'll take you as cheap as any one,"
shouts a man in rags; "I'll take you for three." "Very well." "I'll take
you as cheap as he; he's drunk, and his carriage isn't fit for a lady to
step into," shouted the man who at first asked five dollars. After this
they commenced a regular _melee_, when blows were given and received, and
frequent allusions were made to "the bones of St. Patrick." At last our
friend in rags succeeded in driving up to the door, and we found his
carriage really unfit for ladies, as the stuffing in most places was quite
bare, and the step and splash-boards were only kept in their places by
pieces of rope. The shouting and squabbling were accompanied by Niagara,
whose deep awful thundering bass drowns all other sounds.

We drove for two miles along the precipice bank of the Niagara river: this
precipice is 250 feet high, without a parapet, and the green, deep flood
rages below. At the Suspension Bridge they demanded a toll of sixty cents,
and contemptuously refused two five-dollar notes offered them by Mr.
Walrence, saying they were only waste paper. This extraordinary bridge,
over which a train of cars weighing 440 tons has recently passed, has a
span of 800 feet, and a double roadway, the upper one being used by the
railway. The floor of the bridge is 230 feet above the river, and the
depth of the river immediately under it is 250 feet! The view from it is
magnificent; to the left the furious river, confined in a narrow space,
rushes in rapids to the Whirlpool; and to the right the Horse-shoe Fall
pours its torrent of waters into the dark and ever invisible abyss. When
we reached the American side we had to declare to a custom-house officer
that we were no smugglers; and then by an _awful_ road, partly covered
with stumps, and partly full of holes, over the one, and through the
other, our half-tipsy driver jolted us, till we wished ourselves a
thousand miles from Niagara Falls. "There now, faith, and wasn't I nearly
done for myself?" he exclaimed, as a jolt threw him from his seat, nearly
over the dash-board.

We passed through the town bearing the names of Niagara Falls and
Manchester, an agglomeration of tea-gardens, curiosity-shops, and monster
hotels, with domes of shining tin. We drove down a steep hill, and crossed
a very insecure-looking wooden bridge to a small wooded island, where a
man with a strong nasal twang demanded a toll of twenty-five cents, and
anon we crossed a long bridge over the lesser rapids.

The cloudy morning had given place to a glorious day, abounding in
varieties of light and shade; a slight shower had fallen, and the
sparkling rain-drops hung from every leaf and twig; a rainbow spanned the
Niagara river, and the leaves wore the glorious scarlet and crimson tints
of the American autumn. Sun and sky were propitious; it was the season and
the day in which to see Niagara. Quarrelsome drosky drivers, incongruous
mills, and the thousand trumperies of the place, were all forgotten in the
perfect beauty of the scene--in the full, the joyous realisation of my
ideas of Niagara. Beauty and terror here formed a perfect combination.
Around islets covered with fair foliage of trees and vines, and carpeted
with moss untrodden by the foot of man, the waters, in wild turmoil, rage
and foam: rushing on recklessly beneath the trembling bridge on which we
stood to their doomed fall. This place is called "The Hell of Waters," and
has been the scene of more than one terrible tragedy.

This bridge took us to Iris Island, so named from the rainbows which
perpetually hover round its base. Everything of terrestrial beauty may be
found in Iris Island. It stands amid the eternal din of the waters, a
barrier between the Canadian and American Falls. It is not more than
sixty-two acres in extent, yet it has groves of huge forest trees, and
secluded roads underneath them in the deepest shade, far apparently from
the busy world, yet thousands from every part of the globe yearly tread
its walks of beauty. We stopped at the top of a dizzy pathway, and,
leaving the Walrences to purchase some curiosities, I descended it,
crossed a trembling foot-bridge, and stood alone on Luna Island, between
the Crescent and American Falls. This beauteous and richly-embowered
little spot, which is said to tremble, and looks as if any wave might
sweep it away, has a view of matchless magnificence. From it can be seen
the whole expanse of the American rapids, rolling and struggling down,
chafing the sunny islets, as if jealous of their beauty. The Canadian Fall
was on my left; away in front stretched the scarlet woods; the
incongruities of the place were out of sight; and at my feet the broad
sheet of the American Fall tumbled down in terrible majesty. The violence
of the rapids cannot be imagined by one who has not seen their resistless
force. The turbulent waters are flung upwards, as if infuriated against
the sky. The rocks, whose jagged points are seen among them, fling off the
hurried and foamy waves, as if with supernatural strength. Nearer and
nearer they come to the Fall, becoming every instant more agitated; they
seem to recoil as they approach its verge; a momentary calm follows, and
then, like all their predecessors, they go down the abyss together. There
is something very exciting in this view; one cannot help investing Niagara
with feelings of human agony and apprehension; one feels a new sensation,
something neither terror, wonder, nor admiration, as one looks at the
phenomena which it displays. I have been surprised to see how a visit to
the Falls galvanises the most matter-of-fact person into a brief exercise
of the imaginative powers.

As the sound of the muffled drum too often accompanies the trumpet, so the
beauty of Luna Island must ever remain associated in my mind with a
terrible catastrophe which recently occurred there. Niagara was at its
gayest, and the summer at its hottest, when a joyous party went to spend
the day on Luna Island. It consisted of a Mr. and Mrs. De Forest, their
beautiful child "Nettie," a young man of great talent and promise, Mr.
Addington, and a few other persons. It was a fair evening in June, when
moonlight was struggling for ascendancy with the declining beams of the
setting sun. The elders of the party, being tired, repaired to the seats
on Iris Island to rest, Mr. De Forest calling to Nettie, "Come here, my
child; don't go near the water." "Never mind--let her alone--I'll watch
her," said Mr. Addington, for the child was very beautiful and a great
favourite, and the youthful members of the party started for Luna Island.
Nettie pulled Addington's coat in her glee. "Ah! you rogue, you're
caught," said he, catching hold of her; "shall I throw you in?" She sprang
forward from his arms, one step too far, and fell into the roaring rapid.
"Oh, mercy! save--she's gone!" the young man cried, and sprang into the
water. He caught hold of Nettie, and, by one or two vigorous strokes,
aided by an eddy, was brought close to the Island; one instant more, and
his terrified companions would have been able to lay hold of him; but no--
the hour of both was come; the waves of the rapid hurried them past; one
piercing cry came from Mr. Addington's lips, "For Jesus' sake, O save our
souls!" and, locked in each other's arms, both were carried over the fatal
Falls. The dashing torrent rolled onward, unheeding that bitter despairing
cry of human agony, and the bodies of these two, hurried into eternity in
the bloom of youth, were not found for some days. Mrs. De Forest did not
long survive the fate of her child.

The guide related to me another story in which my readers may be
interested, as it is one of the poetical legends of the Indians. It took
place in years now long gone by, when the Indians worshipped the Great
Spirit where they beheld such a manifestation of his power. Here, where
the presence of Deity made the forest ring, and the ground tremble, the
Indians offered a living sacrifice once a year, to be conveyed by the
water spirit to the unknown gulf. Annually, in the month of August, the
sachem gave the word, and fruits and flowers were stowed in a white canoe,
to be paddled by the fairest maiden among the tribes.

The tribe thought itself highly honoured when its turn came to float the
blooming offering to the shrine of the Great Spirit, and still more
honoured was the maid who was a fitting sacrifice.

Oronto, the proudest chief of the Senecas, had an only child named Lena.
This chief was a noted and dreaded warrior; over many a bloody fight his
single eagle plume had waved, and ever in battle he left the red track of
his hatchet and tomahawk. Years rolled by, and every one sent its summer
offering to the thunder god of the then unexplored Niagara. Oronto danced
at many a feast which followed the sacrificial gift, which his tribe had
rejoicingly given in their turn. He felt not for the fathers whose
children were thus taken from their wigwams, and committed to the grave of
the roaring waters. Calma, his wife, had fallen by a foeman's arrow, and
in the blood of his enemies he had terribly avenged his bereavement.
Fifteen years had passed since then, and the infant which Calma left had
matured into a beautiful maiden. The day of sacrifice came; it was the
year of the Senecas, and Lena was acknowledged to be the fairest maiden of
the tribe. The moonlit hour has come, the rejoicing dance goes on; Oronto
has, without a tear, parted from his child, to meet her in the happy
hunting-grounds where the Great Spirit reigns. The yell of triumph rises
from the assembled Indians. The white canoe, loosed by the sachems, has
shot from the bank, but ere it has sped from the shore another dancing
craft has gone forth upon the whirling water, and both have set out on a
voyage to eternity.

The first bears the offering, Lena, seated amidst fruits and flowers; the
second contains Oronto, the proud chief of the Senecas. Both seem to pause
on the verge of the descent, then together rise on the whirling rapids.
One mingled look of apprehension and affection is exchanged, and, while
the woods ring with the yells of the savages, Oronto and Lena plunge into
the abyss in their white canoes. [Footnote: I have given both these
anecdotes, as nearly as possible, in the bombastic language in which they
were related to me by the guide.]

This wild legend was told me by the guide in full view of the cataract,
and seemed so real and life-like that I was somewhat startled by being
accosted thus, by a voice speaking in a sharp nasal down-east twang:
"Well, stranger, I guess that's the finest water-power you've ever set
eyes on." My thoughts were likewise recalled to the fact that it was
necessary to put on an oilskin dress, and scramble down a very dilapidated
staircase to the Cave of the Winds, in order to "do" Niagara in the
"regulation manner." This cave is partly behind the American Fall, and is
the abode of howling winds and ceaseless eddies of spray. It is an
extremely good shower-bath, but the day was rather too cold to make that
luxury enjoyable. I went down another steep path, and, after crossing a
shaky foot-bridge over part of the Grand Rapids, ascended Prospect Tower,
a stone erection 45 feet high, built on the very verge of the Horse-shoe
Fall. It is said that people feel involuntary suicidal intentions while
standing on the balcony round this tower. I did not experience them
myself, possibly because my only companion was the half-tipsy Irish
drosky-driver. The view from this tower is awful: the edifice has been
twice swept away, and probably no strength of masonry could permanently
endure the wear of the rushing water at its base.

Down come those beauteous billows, as if eager for their terrible leap.
Along the ledge over which they fall they are still for one moment in a
sheet of clear, brilliant green; another, and down they fall like
cataracts of driven snow, chasing each other, till, roaring and hissing,
they reach the abyss, sending up a column of spray 100 feet in height. No
existing words can describe it, no painter can give the remotest idea of
it; it is the voice of the Great Creator, its name signifying, in the
beautiful language of the Iroquois, "The Thunder of Waters." Looking from
this tower, above you see the Grand Rapids, one dizzy sheet of leaping
foamy billows, and below you look, _if you can_, into the very caldron
itself, and see how the bright-green waves are lost in foam and mist; and
behind you look to shore, and shudder to think how the frail bridge by
which you came in another moment may be washed away. I felt as I came down
the trembling staircase that one wish of my life had been gratified in
seeing Niagara.

Some graves were recently discovered in Iris Island, with skeletons in a
sitting posture inside them, probably the remains of those aboriginal
races who here in their ignorance worshipped the Great Spirit, within the
sound of his almighty voice. We paused on the bridge, and looked once more
at the islets in the rapids, and stopped on Bath Island, lovely in itself,
but desecrated by the presence of a remarkably hirsute American, who keeps
a toll-house, with the words "Ice-creams" and "Indian Curiosities" painted
in large letters upon it. Again another bridge, by which we crossed to the
main land; and while overwhelmed at once by the beauty and the sublimity
of the scene, all at once the idea struck me that the Yankee who called
Niagara "an almighty fine water privilege" was tolerably correct in his
definition, for the water is led off in several directions for the use of
large saw and paper mills.

We made several purchases at an Indian curiosity-shop, where we paid for
the articles about six times their value, and meanwhile our driver took
the opportunity of getting "summat warm," which very nearly resulted in
our getting something _cold_, for twice, in driving over a stump, he all
but upset us into ponds. Crossing the suspension-bridge we arrived at the
_V. R._ custom-house, where a tiresome detention usually occurs; but a few
words spoken in Gaelic to the Scotch officer produced a magical effect,
which might have been the same had we possessed anything contraband. A
drive of three miles brought us to the whirlpool. The giant cliffs, which
rise to the height of nearly 300 feet, wall in the waters and confine
their impetuous rush, so that their force raises them in the middle, and
hurls them up some feet in the air. Their fury is resistless, and the
bodies of those who are carried over the falls are whirled round here in a
horrible dance, frequently till decomposition takes place. There is
nothing to excite admiration about the whirlpool; the impression which it
leaves on the mind is highly unpleasing.

Another disagreeable necessity was to visit a dark, deep chasm in the
bank, a very gloomy spot. This demon-titled cavity has never felt the
influence of a ray of light. A massive cliff rises above it, and a narrow
stream, bearing the horrible name of Bloody Run, pours over this cliff
into the chasm. To most minds there is a strange fascination about the
terrible and mysterious, and, in spite of warning looks and beseeching
gestures on the part of Mr. Walrence, who feared the effect of the story
on the weak nerves of his wife, I sat down by the chasm and asked the
origin of the name Bloody Run. I will confess that, as I looked down into
the yawning hole, imagination lent an added horror to the tale, which was
bad enough in itself.

In 1759, while the French, who had in their pay the Seneca Indians,
hovered round the British, a large supply of provisions was forwarded from
Fort Niagara to Fort Schlosser by the latter, under the escort of a
hundred regulars. The savage chief of the Senecas, anxious to obtain the
promised reward for scalps, formed an ambuscade of chosen warriors,
several hundred in number. The Devil's Hole was the spot chosen--it seemed
made on purpose for the bloody project. It was a hot, sultry day in
August, and the British, scattered and sauntered on their toilsome way,
till, overcome by fatigue or curiosity, they sat down near the margin of
the precipice. A fearful yell arose, accompanied by a volley of bullets,
and the Indians, breaking from their cover, under the combined influences
of ferocity and "fire-water," rushed upon their unhappy victims before
they had time to stand to their arms, and tomahawked them on the spot.
Waggons, horses, soldiers, and drivers were then hurled over the
precipice, and the little stream ran into the Niagara river a torrent
purple with human gore. Only two escaped to tell the terrible tale. Some
years ago, bones, arms, and broken wheels were found among the rocks,
mementos of the barbarity which has given the little streamlet the terror-
inspiring name of Bloody Run.

After depositing our purchases at the Clifton House, where the waiter
warned us to put them under lock and key, I hoped that sight-seeing was
over, and that at last I should be able to gaze upon what I had really
come to visit--the Falls of Niagara. But no; I was to be victimised still
further; I must "go behind the great sheet," Mr. and Mrs. Walrence would
not go; they said their heads would not stand it, but that, as an
Englishwoman, go I must. In America the capabilities of English ladies are
very much overrated. It is supposed that they go out in all weathers,
invariably walk ten miles a day, and leap five-barred fences on horseback.
Yielding to "the inexorable law of a stern necessity," I went to the Rock
House, and a very pleasing girl produced a suit of oiled calico. I took
off my cloak, bonnet, and dress. "Oh," she said, "you must change
everything, _it's so very wet_." As, to save time, I kept demurring to
taking off various articles of apparel, I always received the same reply,
and finally abandoned myself to a complete change of attire. I looked in
the mirror, and beheld as complete a tatterdemallion as one could see
begging upon an Irish highway, though there was nothing about the dress
which the most lively imagination could have tortured into the
picturesque. The externals of this strange equipment consisted of an oiled
calico hood, a garment like a carter's frock, a pair of blue worsted
stockings, and a pair of India-rubber shoes much too large for me. My
appearance was so comic as to excite the laughter of my grave friends, and
I had to reflect that numbers of persons had gone out in the same attire
before I could make up my mind to run the gauntlet of the loiterers round
the door. Here a negro guide of most repulsive appearance awaited me, and
I waded through a perfect sea of mud to the shaft by which people go under
Table Rock. My friends were evidently ashamed of my appearance, but they
met me here to wish me a safe return, and, following the guide, I dived
down a spiral staircase, very dark and very much out of repair.

Leaving this staircase, I followed the guide along a narrow path covered
with fragments of shale, with Table Rock above and the deep abyss below. A
cold, damp wind blew against me, succeeded by a sharp pelting rain, and
the path became more slippery and difficult. Still I was not near the
sheet of water, and felt not the slightest dizziness. I speedily arrived
at the difficult point of my progress: heavy gusts almost blew me away;
showers of spray nearly blinded me; I was quite deafened and half-drowned;
I wished to retreat, and essayed to use my voice to stop the progress of
my guide. I raised it to a scream, but it was lost in the thunder of the
cataract. The negro saw my incertitude and extended his hand. I shuddered
even there as I took hold of it, not quite free from the juvenile idea
that "the black comes off." He seemed at that moment to wear the aspect of
a black imp leading me to destruction.

The path is a narrow, slippery ledge of rock. I am blinded with spray, the
darkening sheet of water is before me. Shall I go on? The spray beats
against my face, driven by the contending gusts of wind which rush into
the eyes, nostrils, and mouth, and almost prevent my progress; the
narrowing ledge is not more than a foot wide, and the boiling gulf is
seventy feet below. Yet thousands have pursued this way before, so why
should not I? I grasp tighter hold of the guide's hand, and proceed step
by step holding down my head. The water beats against me, the path
narrows, and will only hold my two feet abreast. I ask the guide to stop,
but my voice is drowned by the "Thunder of Waters." He guesses what I
would say, and shrieks in my ear, "_It's worse going back._" I make a
desperate attempt: four steps more and I am at the end of the ledge; my
breath is taken away, and I can only just stand against the gusts of wind
which are driving the water against me. The gulf is but a few inches from
me, and, gasping for breath, and drenched to the skin, I become conscious
that I have reached _Termination Rock_.

Once arrived at this place, the clouds of driving spray are a little
thinner, and, though it is still very difficult either to see or breathe,
the magnificence of the temple, which is here formed by the natural bend
of the cataract and the backward shelve of the precipice, makes a lasting
impression on the mind. The temple seems a fit and awful shrine for Him
who "rides on the wings of mighty winds," and, completely shut out from
man's puny works, the mind rises naturally in adoring contemplation to Him
whose voice is heard in the "thunder of waters." The path was so very
narrow that I had to shuffle backwards for a few feet, and then, drenched,
shivering, and breathless, my goloshes full of water and slipping off at
every step, I fought my way through the blinding clouds of spray, and,
climbing up the darkened staircase, again stood on Table Rock, with water
dripping from my hair and garments. It is usual for those persons who
survive the expedition to take hot brandy and water after changing their
dresses; and it was probably from neglecting this precaution that I took
such a severe chill as afterwards produced the ague. On the whole, this
achievement is pleasanter in the remembrance than in the act. There is
nothing whatever to boast of in having accomplished it, and nothing to
regret in leaving it undone. I knew the danger and disagreeableness of the
exploit before I went, and, had I known that "going behind the sheet" was
synonymous with "going to Termination Rock," I should never have gone. No
person who has not a very strong head ought to go at all, and it is by
every one far better omitted, as the remaining portion of Table Rock may
fall at any moment, for which reason some of the most respectable guides
decline to take visitors underneath it. I believe that no amateur ever
thinks of going a second time. After all, the front view is the only one
for Niagara--going behind the sheet is like going behind a picture-frame.

After this we went to the top of a tower, where I had a very good bird's-
eye view of the Falls, the Rapids, and the general aspect of the country,
and then, refusing to be victimised by burning springs, museums, prisoned
eagles, and mangy buffaloes, I left the Walrences, who were tired, to go
to the hotel, and walked down to the ferry, and, scrambling out to the
rock farthest in the water and nearest to the cataract, I sat down
completely undisturbed in view of the mighty fall. I was not distracted by
parasitic guides or sandwich-eating visitors; the vile museums, pagodas,
and tea-gardens were out of sight: the sublimity of the Falls far exceeded
my expectations, and I appreciated them the more perhaps from having been
disappointed with the first view. As I sat watching them, a complete
oblivion of everything but the falls themselves stole over me. A person
may be very learned in statistics--he may tell you that the falls are 160
feet high--that their whole width is nearly four-fifths of a mile--that,
according to estimate, ninety million tons of water pass over them every
hour--that they are the outlet of several bodies of water covering one
hundred and fifty thousand square miles; but unless he has seen Niagara,
he cannot form the faintest conception of it. It was so very like what I
had expected, and yet so totally different. I sat there watching that sea-
green curve against the sky till sunset, and then the crimson rays just
fell upon the column of spray above the Canadian Fall, turning it a most
beautiful rose-colour. The sun set; a young moon arose, and brilliant
stars shone through the light veil of mist, and in the darkness the
cataract looked like drifted snow. I rose at length, perfectly unconscious
that I had been watching the Falls for nearly four hours, and that my
clothes were saturated with the damp and mist.

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