The recent talk about turnin’ Niagara Falls into a mere mill power on the one hand, or keepin’ it as a perpetual show place on the other, reminds me that a once prominent New Yorker got up a big scheme in connection with Niagara. I allude to Major Noah, the old-time editor and politician, who made things lively around town in his day.
Major Noah was a Jew, and avowed his descent and was proud of it, and not only bragged that he was a Jew, but did all he could, as far as he was concerned, to blow the horn for the Jews generally and to take all the American Jews under his special care and protection–a kind of New York American champion who would utterly have annihilated Judge Hilton had he lived in his time.
Well, Noah conceived the idea that the American Indians were really the descendants of the lost tribes of Israel, and so he took a huge likin’ to the whole American continent. And then he conceived the idea that it was destined to be the home of his race, and that the United States in general and New York State in particular was destined to be their new Palestine.
Takin’ a trip to Niagara one summer with some friends, Major Noah was much struck with the appearance and position of Grand Island, just above Navy Island. It commanded a magnificent view of the Falls, was far enough removed from ‘em at the same time, and had soil that was capable of cultivation and was quite “roomy,” comprisin’ over 18,000 acres. Altogether, it struck Noah as just the place to make a head settlement for and commencement of his new Palestine. So he entered into negotiations for its purchase, and finally perfected his arrangements, puttin’ up some of his own money, too, and he began to build a city. The designs for the layin’ out of the city where grand, considerin’ they were drawn up half a century ago, before street railroads had been perfected. All the streets were to cross each other at right angles, and in the centre there was to be a splendid temple–a miniature second edition of the grand first Temple.
The city was to be surrounded by high walls for defense in case of need, and the police regulations were to be excellent. There were plenty of amusements to be provided, and as for fresh air there was plenty of that, and of fresh water, right in the vicinity of the Falls.
At first Major Noah thought of callin’ this city “the New Jerusalem.” But that was too long. Finally he hit upon “Ararat,” and he stuck to that. The city was named in the programmes or circulars, “Ararat, a city of refuge for the Jews.”
Well, the name was all right and the plans for the city were all right, and the title deeds for the island itself for all right, but the Jews ‘emselves, the parties for whom all this was designed, were not “all right.” They didn’t enthuse worth a dollar. They rather pooh-poohed the scheme than otherwise; rather laughed at Major Noah’s enthusiasm, and threw cold water on it, though, dear knows, there was enough cold water all around the island already.
The rich New York Jews didn’t put their hands into their pockets as Noah hoped they would. Grand Island didn’t seem a bit “grand” to ‘em, and they didn’t propose, as one of ‘em expressed it, “to build a Noah’s Ark for that Ararat.” So the kind-hearted, enthusiastic and really well-meanin’ Major Noah’s scheme for the final settlement of his people fell through, although the island still remains.
A little bit of love romance connecting’ with New York may be worth relatin’ in this connection.
A young Englishman came over here, and for some time was quite a favorite in New York society. He was rich and handsome, of good family and intelligent. He went into good society in New York, and fell in love with a young lady who lived on White street, then quite a fashionable residence.
It was understood for a while that the handsome young Englishman and the young lady in White street were engaged to be married. Then for some reason or other, or perhaps without any good reason, the engagement was broken off and the young lady married somebody else. The Englishman disappeared the day after the weddin’, and it was thought had returned to England.
But he had not. He wandered off from New York alone, and reachin’ Niagara Falls was so impressed with its beauties, that he remained there the rest of his life. He first stayed at one of the boardin’ houses near the Falls, goin’ to the Falls every day and every night. Then he tried to hire a house on the “Three Sisters Island,” but couldn’t succeed in so doin’. At last he came across an old house on Iris Island which suited his fancy, and he hired that, and in that old house he lived alone for over two years, with no companions but some old books and two dogs. Then a family hired a house near his, and tried to be sociable. As that was just the very thing he didn’t want, the Englishman moved off, and built himself a sort of a hut near Prospect Point. In Summer time, of course, he lived chiefly out of doors, wanderin’ around with his dogs, but in Winter he would stay in his hut, sometimes for a week at a time. He built a big fireplace in his hut, and kept up a ragin’ fire, and he would solace his long, lonely evenings by singin’ and playin’ on the violin. He was quite friendly with any man he would meet outside of this hut, would talk splendidly, and be very entertainin’. But he never asked anybody inside his hut at all, and he never was known to speak to a woman–always avoided the sex–transacted all his dealin’s with men only.
He grew to love Niagara Falls. The water seemed to have taken the place of the woman he had loved and lost, and the Falls had this great advantage over any possible woman–they never went back on him; they never deceived him; they were always there, and were always just what they seemed, and nothin’ else. So he kept company with the Falls all the time. He never seemed afraid of ‘em.
There was at this time an extension of a bridge near the Falls, by a single beam of timber carried out ten feet or so over the abyss of waters, over which it hung, shakin’, and only guarded by a rude sort of a parapet. Most men, except a Sam Patch or a Blondin, would have been afraid to pass on this beam by day. But the handsome hermit used to pass over it in the darkness of night, and would even hang on to it by his hands, with nothin’ but his fingers between him and eternity.
He also used to be very fond of goin’ bathin’–used to bathe every day. One day in June–one rather chilly day, by the by–a man employed by the ferry company saw the handsome hermit go into the water, from which he never came out alive. Probably he had been seized by a fit of cramps caused by the chilliness of the waters. At any rate he drowned.
The next day the people searched for his body and found it in the Whirlpool Rapids. There it was tossed about, to and fro, and apparently strugglin’ just as if it was still alive. It would appear for awhile, then disappear, then appear somewhere else again, as if it was really alive and divin’ and strugglin’ with the waters, a live corpse.
It was a strange and fearful sight, and was continued for two days and two nights. The third day the people got hold of the body, which was nothin’ now but a battered heap of mangled flesh and broken bones. But as soon as they took the body to the hut near Prospect Point the faithful dogs recognized it as their master’s at once, and howled piteously.
They buried the once handsome hermit near his hut. His real name was Francis Abbott, and he was the son of an English clergyman. Some of the children of the lady he was to have married are livin’ in this city. One of them is a Pine street real estate broker.
