CHAPTER IV

NIAGARA AND WHITE COAL

At night I stood upon a steel suspension bridge that hung high above the mighty river it spanned. Electric lamps shed light even down to the water, visible as streaks of foam moving in the eddies. A deep bass drummed unceasing in the ear, and I knew this muffled thunder came out of the great ghostly cloud lying in the darkness away up stream. The deep bass was a background of sound for the treble of crickets piping on the precipitous banks, black with dense vegetation.

Crossing the bridge, you enter the light and bustle of an American city, with its stores and saloons and hotels, its girls without hats and its men without waistcoats.

That night, in cosy quarters on the Canadian side, I was lulled to sleep by the subdued, dull roar, which next morning greeted my awakening. From the hotel window I had my first glimpse of Niagara Falls—of a section, rather, for an outhouse obstructed the view. I saw a wall of water glistening in the sunlight—green transparency the upper part, opaque whiteness the lower, with a cloud of rolling vapour at the base. From a balcony I saw all—the straight American falls on the left, the recessed Canadian falls on the right, and the intervening island. At that distance Niagara Falls are peaceful and beautiful. Leisurely the water curves from the top in flashing emerald; slowly and softly it descends in thick, broken, snowy coils; indolently it evaporates at the bottom into pale fog.

The American portion seems small beside the far sweep of the Canadian. Look curiously and you will see one thin thread of water detached from the main body of the American falls. During the afternoon I was one of a party of friends on the island, close to the top of that thread.

Entering a house divided into dressing-rooms, we, under instruction, exchanged the whole of our own attire for strange, picturesque costumes—enormous boots of felt tied to the feet with string, blue woollen knickerbockers, a blue woollen jacket, and an oilskin hat that covered the ears. Others of the party accepted outer suits of oilskins, so that they looked like fishermen in northern latitudes equipped for a hurricane. It was a hot afternoon, and I declined to be burdened with those waterproof additions. “Oh, very well,” said the attendant with composure; and he went on munching his chewing-gum.

Out in the roadway we stood in a group to be photographed. Two carriages came to a standstill in our proximity, and the ladies within them laughed, and laughed yet again, as they gazed upon us. Beginning to descend a flight of wooden steps, we met an old man coming up, an old man who, arrayed like my companions in oilskins, looked to have had a recent narrow escape from drowning. Wet and glistening, he walked with bent back and heavy footsteps, a saturated moustache assisting his melancholy aspect. He was, it seemed, to be our guide, and soon we were following him down the staircase, which was spiral, and contained within a wooden tower.

At the bottom, thunder stunned our ears, and only by signals and grimaces could we communicate one with another. The thunder never ceased as we followed a downward path cut in the rugged cliff. Presently, at a bend in the path, we saw a frightening sight. I felt like a helpless insect watching the disruption of the universe. The bottom of that thread of Niagara Falls was immediately before us, edge on. Oh, the weight and speed of the endless world of waters smashing down upon the huge boulders! I strove to look upwards to the full height of that grey cataclysm; but the spray was blinding.

Following our guide to the right, we soon were upon a rustic bridge spanning rocks washed by a running riot of waves. The fine rain became a deluge of great spots of heavy water, which hurt my shoulders like pellets of lead. Bitterly did I regret my refusal of the oilskins.

Now we were in front of the waterfall, gasping, with bowed heads, clutching by both hands at wooden rails draped with slimy weed, and shuffling shamelessly along the deluged planks. So we made our way over several bridges—shuddering, blinded, deafened; and as we crept up wooden stairs—a pitiful procession of bent, helpless, suffering men—I found myself doubting the wisdom of making this excursion when so high a wind was blowing.

Somehow we gained a footing on another bridge, and when I forced open my eyes it was to find ourselves between a cliff of rock and a cliff of water. Still were we bombarded by violent rain; still did thunder numb our brains; still was my poor body pierced with cold. But chiefly were our senses afflicted by the wind. In that awful cloister the atmosphere seemed thin and insufficient, and to be moving so quickly as to leave us no time to breathe it.

My right arm was clutched by the man ahead. Instinctively I gripped the man behind. And so we dragged one another through several moments of amazement, blindness, and repressed fear—suddenly to emerge, with a chorus of laughter, into dry, still, sunny air. For there was no rain that day, and no wind—brilliant sunshine pouring from the blue American sky. The only thunder was caused by water falling 167 feet on rugged rock in unending millions of tons. We had passed round the base of the thin, detached thread of the American falls. We had visited the Cave of the Winds. I should not like to take that heroic shower-bath every morning.

As we reascended the pathway to the tower—dripping, aglow, delighted—we turned our heads, and beheld an unbroken rainbow shining in the clouds of vapour that rolled across the river.

All of that is but one experience of Niagara. Afterwards we went on board the _Maid of the Mist_, where special clothing was once more proferred us; and this time I dressed in accordance with suggestion. On the little steamer’s deck we soon were seated, cowled and habited like a company of friars, with only our faces showing. The stout little craft crept cautiously towards the cataract. Soon we were cruising through the clouds and into the white confusion of eddies, our craft riding perceptibly deeper in water of a buoyancy reduced by myriad intermingled bubbles of air. From the _Maid of the Mist_ we saw the might and majesty of the Niagara Falls from a fresh, if somewhat hazy, point of view.

Niagara is certainly a most unsuitable place for a river. First, there is that appalling, unavoidable tumble down a precipice; then, when equilibrium and composure have been recovered, and dignified progress is resumed between verdant cliffs clothed with flowers and innocence, more geographical treachery is met with. Out of the left bank a bay has been scooped, and water entering there is doomed to rush round and round, entrapped and helpless, carrying branches, leaves, and other floating objects in a monotony of aimless circles. This is the whirlpool, and residents of the neighbourhood tell you grim stories of men in canoes, women in barrels, and derelict human corpses travelling for weary hours in those dizzy waters, until some chance eddy at last brought them within reach of rescuing arms.

Still lower down, the river knows the grievous disadvantage of a channel inadequate to its bulk. Forsaking their parallel relation, the banks deflect in gradually converging lines. At once the water takes alarm. Its face puckers into wrinkles of distress, then is bedabbled with foam; and anon the panic-river, blanched with terror, flings itself forward in delirious haste, white wave climbing over white wave until, at the point of greatest restriction, one sees high piles of struggling water.

Between the whirlpool and the rapids I noted strong men on the rocky banks fishing with thick rods in the fierce current. Out on the Queenston heights locusts droned in the trees on the battlefield, and wild grapes were growing on slopes that commanded a far view of fair scenery.

I have concluded my cursory sketch of Canada’s greatest coal mine—white-coal mine. For a remarkable change has come over the character of Niagara Falls. In my school-days it was merely one of the wonders of the world, and of no more practical account than the Sphinx. Now it is a thing of infinite utility, and has as definite a commercial value as the bullion in the Bank of England.

In the history of mankind no fact is more quaint, I think, than that the greatest achievements of civilisation should be dependent, almost entirely, upon the carboniferous strata in the crust of the earth. Coal, as a means of producing steam, has long been the vital, indispensable factor in human affairs. What would become of the world, people have anxiously asked, when our stock of the grimy mineral should be exhausted? Nay, against that evil day we have long been eagerly awaiting the discovery of an alternative source of heat, the automobile almost suggesting that man has at last put his finger on the substitute. Coal’s great rival has been found; but it is not oil. It happens to be (and this is another quaint fact in the history of mankind) the waterfall.

Who would have thought it? Who could have dreamed that water would prove the substitute—the superior substitute—for fire? It was so natural to suppose that coal could only be deposed by something that was, at any rate, inflammable. We failed to remember that steam and the piston-rod are but means to an end; that end being—power. In the waterfall we find power ready-made.

To convert mechanical energy into the electric current and utilise that current for practical purposes of illumination, was a great achievement, now more than thirty years old. To convert mechanical energy into the electric current, dispatch that current to a distant point, and there re-convert it, without serious leakage, into mechanical energy, was a far greater achievement, now about fifteen years old. Just exactly how it all happens I will not attempt to explain, there being many things concerning electricity that are not known to science, as well as many things that are known to science but not to me.

In visiting the power-houses at Niagara I went behind the scenes, so to speak, and saw everything. Also I saw nothing—energy being invisible. A power-house is a shining palace of repose and polished machinery. Each gallery of dynamos is a cloister of peace, where a poet might compose verses to his lady’s eyes. Huge turbines hum softly in the trim wheel-pit—so deep, so quiet. The giant generator slumbers in a death-like stillness only to be attained by machinery revolving at the pace of twenty-six miles a second. At Niagara one stands in the clean presence of a volume of power measurable by the united strength of a million men.

White coal gives forth no smoke, dirt, or smell—which reminds me of an instructive personal experience.

I was at Hamilton, a city of between seventy and eighty thousand inhabitants, and situated amid delightful scenery at the western end of Lake Ontario. With its hills and magnificent views, Hamilton suggests a small Edinburgh, and (because of its tree-planted avenues and public gardens) an Edinburgh built on Garden-City lines. The train had lately taken me through the orchards and vineyards of the Niagara Peninsula, and here, in the market-place of Hamilton, I found glowing produce from that region—tons of peaches (selling for a few cents the large basketful), and great consignments of apples, pears, plums, and other fruits, massed with pyramids of vegetables and glorious clusters of flowers, so that, in passing along the bustling avenues, I walked amid the most seductive perfumes.

“This, then, is the Fruit City?” I suggested to the resident of Hamilton who accompanied me.

“That is a new name,” he replied, “for the Birmingham of Canada.”

At this I could not help laughing as I looked around at Hamilton, a city bathed in unpolluted sunshine and almost innocent of factory chimneys.

“Birmingham,” I pointed out, “is a manufacturing centre.”

“Exactly,” said my companion; and he went on to tell me of Hamilton’s four hundred large factories, which annually produce I don’t know how many million dollars’ worth of cotton goods, farm implements, boots, furniture, and goodness knows what.

Still was I mystified when dinner-bells rang in the part of the city whither we had wandered, and from out great buildings there poured swarms of high-spirited toilers, who mounted their thousands of bicycles and swept hungrily over the hill.

I began to understand. The machinery in those factories was worked by the water plunging down the Niagara escarpment, over forty miles away. This was a sunny, white-coal Birmingham. I prefer it to the smoky, black-coal Birmingham.

When I first crossed the Atlantic, some nine years ago, the Americans were deriving light and power from Niagara, but the Canadians had merely begun preparations to that end, preparations which, by the way, provided a touch of romance. For a temporary breakwater had been constructed some distance above the Falls, thus laying bare a strip of the river bed, and on that area of polished rock, which during countless ages had been swept by a terrific force, little toddling children were engaged in innocent frolics.

Driving last year amid smiling homesteads, I saw the great steel cable which, suspended from a succession of lofty metal towers, transmits the power of the falls to municipalities of Western Ontario, a share even going to Toronto, which is more than eighty miles from the famous cataract.

The palatial power-houses, the illuminated cities, the smokeless factories, the superb systems of electric tramways—all combine to make a strong appeal to the imagination. Yet Niagara, with its yield of 400,000 horse-power, is but a sample of the Dominion’s unnumbered sources of force. Note this portentous fact—Canada’s supply of white-coal, which is fifty per cent. cheaper than black coal, greatly exceeds that of any other country. In Ontario, prospectors have surveyed readily-available sources to the extent of 3,500,000 horse-power. Some idea of British Columbia’s wealth of waterfalls is conveyed to everyone who travels through that glorious region. Quebec measures its available horse-power by tens of millions.

“When all the coal on the earth shall have been consumed by our machines,” said M. Fabrèques, an eminent French engineer, “Canada will be mistress of the world.” At the time those words were written, water-power and fire-power stood, or were supposed to stand, on an economic equality. The superiority of white-coal has since been demonstrated.

Thus to the future expansion of Canada’s manufactures, who so rash as to prophesy a limit?