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diff --git a/14908-h/14908-h.htm b/14908-h/14908-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b6a8e5 --- /dev/null +++ b/14908-h/14908-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4001 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Recollections Of Bytown And Its Old Inhabitants, By William Pittman Lett. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + } + HR { width: 33%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Recollections of Bytown and Its Old +Inhabitants, by William Pittman Lett + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Recollections of Bytown and Its Old Inhabitants + +Author: William Pittman Lett + +Release Date: February 4, 2005 [EBook #14908] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RECOLLECTIONS OF BYTOWN *** + + + + +Produced by Alicia Williams and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team (https://www.pgdp.net). + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>RECOLLECTIONS</h1> +<h4>OF</h4> +<h1>BYTOWN</h1> +<h4>AND ITS</h4> +<h3>OLD INHABITANTS</h3> +<h4>BY</h4> +<hr style="width: 10%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: .1em;" /> +<h3>WILLIAM PITTMAN LETT.</h3> +<hr style="width: 10%; margin-top: .1em; margin-bottom: 1em;" /> +<br /> +<br /> +<h5>OTTAWA:</h5> +<h5>"CITIZIEN" PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY, SPARKS STREET</h5> +<h6>1874.</h6> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<h3>INTRODUCTION.</h3> + +<p style="text-indent: 1em;">As no book, small or great—gay or grave, witty or sublime, +scientific, dramatic, poetic, tragic, historical, metaphysical, philosophical, +polemical, wise or otherwise—can be considered complete, +particularly at the beginning, without a preface; I have deemed it +expedient that the contents of the following pages should be dignified +by a few lines of an introductory nature.</p> + +<p style="text-indent: 1em;">It was not my intention when I commenced these reminiscences +to publish them in their present form, neither had I any idea of +their extending beyond a few hundred lines. That I have changed +my mind is entirely owing to the solicitations of friends desirous of +having them in compact shape, and not to any particular ambition +of my own to write a book.</p> + +<p style="text-indent: 1em;">I do not pretend to present the reader with anything perfect +in rhythm, polished in measure, or labored in style of construction. +I have aimed at the truth, and imagine I have hit it.</p> + +<p style="text-indent: 1em;">My object has been, simply, to gather together as many of the +names and incidents connected with Bytown's early history as memory +alone could recal. My desire has been to rescue from oblivion—as far +as my humble efforts could conduce to such a desirable end—what +otherwise might possibly have been forgotten. In the contemplation +of those names and incidents, I have often, recently, overlooked the +fact that I now live in a City with nearly thirty thousand inhabitants, +and that its name is Ottawa. It has, nevertheless, been to me a +pleasant labor of love to walk in memory among the men and the +habitations of byegone times.</p> + +<p style="text-indent: 1em;">Doubtless, of the inhabitants of dear old Bytown, there are some +among the dead and others among the living, whose names may not be +found in this little work. These broken links in the chain will be +to me a source of regret. To the shades of the departed and to the +ears of the living, whom I would not willingly have overlooked +without</p> + +<blockquote>"A smile or a grasp of the hand passing on."</blockquote> + +<p style="text-indent: 1em;">I shall only say, as an atonement for the unwitting lapses of +an imperfect memory, in the language once used by a friend and +countryman in my hearing, as he passed a very pretty girl: +"Remember, my dear, that I do not pass you with my heart."</p> + + +<p style="text-align: right; font-variant: small-caps; font-size: 95%;">William Pittman Lett.</p> + +<p style="font-variant: small-caps; font-size: 95%;">Ottawa, March, 1873.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h2>BYTOWN.</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +In '28, on Patrick's Day,<br /> +At one p.m., there came this way<br /> +From Richmond, in the dawn of spring,<br /> +He who doth now the glories sing<br /> +Of ancient Bytown, as 'twas then,<br /> +A place of busy working men,<br /> +Who handled barrows and pickaxes,<br /> +Tamping irons and broadaxes,<br /> +And paid no Corporation taxes;<br /> +Who, without license onward carried<br /> +All kinds of trade, but getting married;<br /> +Stout, sinewy, and hardy chaps,<br /> +Who'd take and pay back adverse raps,<br /> +Nor ever think of such a thing<br /> +As squaring off outside the ring,<br /> +Those little disagreements, which<br /> +Make wearers of the long robe rich.<br /> +Such were the men, and such alone,<br /> +Who quarried the vast piles of stone,<br /> +Those mighty, ponderous, cut-stone blocks,<br /> +With which Mackay built up the Locks.<br /> +The road wound round the Barrack Hill,<br /> +By the old Graveyard, calm and still;<br /> +It would have sounded snobbish, very,<br /> +To call it then a Cemetery—<br /> +Crossed the Canal below the Bridge,<br /> +And then struck up the rising ridge<br /> +On Rideau Street, where Stewart's Store<br /> +Stood in the good old days of yore;<br /> +There William Stewart flourished then,<br /> +A <i>man</i> among old Bytown's men;<br /> +And there, Ben Gordon ruled the roast,<br /> +Evoking many a hearty toast,<br /> +And purchase from the throngs who came<br /> +To buy cheap goods in friendship's name.<br /> +Friend Ben, dates back a warm and true heart<br /> +To days of Mackintosh and Stewart.<br /> +Beside where Aumond and Barreille<br /> +Their fate together erst did try,<br /> +In the old "French Store," on whose card<br /> +<i>Imprimis</i> was J. D. Bernard.<br /> +"<i>Grande Joe</i>," still sturdy, stout and strong.<br /> +Long be he so! Will o'er my song,<br /> +Bend kindly, and perhaps may sigh,<br /> +While rapidly o'er days gone by,<br /> +He wanders back in memory.<br /> +Aye, sigh, for when he look's around,<br /> +How few, alas! can now be found,<br /> +Who heard the shrill meridian sound<br /> +Of Cameron's bugle from the hill,<br /> +How few, alas! are living still—<br /> +How few who saw in pride pass on<br /> +The Sappers with their scarlet on,<br /> +Their hackle plumes and scales of brass,<br /> +Their stately tread as on they pass.<br /> +I seem to see them through the shade<br /> +Of years, in warlike pomp arrayed,<br /> +Marching in splendid order past,<br /> +Their bugles ringing on the blast,<br /> +Their bayonets glittering in the sun,<br /> +The vision fades, the dream is done.<br /> +Below the Bridge, at least below,<br /> +Where stands the Sappers' structure now,<br /> +You had to pass in going down<br /> +From Upper to the Lower Town;<br /> +For, reader, then, no bridge was there,<br /> +Where afterwards with wondrous care,<br /> +And skilful hands; the Sappers made<br /> +That arch which casts into the shade<br /> +All other arches in the land,<br /> +By which Canals and streams are span'd;<br /> +The passing wayfarer sees nought<br /> +But a stone bridge by labor wrought,<br /> +The Poet's retrospective eye<br /> +Searching the depths of memory,<br /> +A monument to Colonel By,<br /> +Beholds, enduring as each pile<br /> +Which stands beside the Ancient Nile,<br /> +As o'er the past my vision runs,<br /> +Gazing on Bytown's elder sons,<br /> +The portly Colonel I behold<br /> +Plainly as in the days of old,<br /> +Conjured before me at this hour<br /> +By memory's undying power;<br /> +Seated upon, his great black steed<br /> +Of stately form and noble breed.<br /> +A man who knew not how to flinch—<br /> +A British soldier every inch.<br /> +Courteous alike to low and high<br /> +A gentleman was Colonel By!<br /> +And did I write of lines three score<br /> +About him, I could say no more.<br /> +Howard and Thompson then kept store<br /> +Down by "the Creek," almost next door,<br /> +George Patterson must claim a line<br /> +Among the men of auld lang syne;<br /> +A man of very ancient fame,<br /> +Who in old '27 came.<br /> +One of the first firm doth remain,<br /> +He is our worthy Chamberlain,<br /> +Who ne'er in life's farce cut a dash<br /> +On other people's errant cash;<br /> +Who guards, as it is right well known,<br /> +Better than e'er he did his own,<br /> +The people's money, firm and sure,<br /> +To the last cent, safe and secure.<br /> +And opposite across the street,<br /> +A friend or foe could always meet<br /> +A man deserving hero's title,<br /> +Uncompromising Watson Litle!<br /> +A stern upholder of the law<br /> +Who ne'er in justice found a flaw,<br /> +With well charged blunderbuss in hand<br /> +He asked not order or command,<br /> +But sallied forth <i>semper paratus</i><br /> +To aid the <i>Posse Comitatus</i>!<br /> +"Peace to his ashes!" many a score<br /> +Of heads he smashed in days of yore!<br /> +Where is the marble slab to show<br /> +Where Watson Litle's dust lies low?<br /> +Close by "the Creek," on the south side<br /> +Of Rideau Street, did then reside<br /> +John Cuzner, a British tar,<br /> +For pluck renown'd both near and far!<br /> +Nor would I willingly forget<br /> +While tracing recollections met<br /> +Of other days, and from the past<br /> +Collecting memories fading fast,<br /> +Of lines our earliest purveyor,<br /> +John MacNaughton, the Surveyor,<br /> +The only one who then was quite<br /> +At home with the theodolite,<br /> +And boxed the trembling compass well,<br /> +Before the days of Robert Bell.<br /> +A little further up the street,<br /> +James Martin's name the eye did greet<br /> +A round faced Caledonian, who<br /> +Good eating and good drinking knew;<br /> +And "Four-pence-half-penny" McKenzie<br /> +Daily vended wolsey linsey,<br /> +Next door to one of comic cheer<br /> +Acknowledged the best auctioneer,<br /> +That ever knock'd a bargain down,<br /> +Or bidder if he chanced to frown;<br /> +He set himself up in the end<br /> +As Carleton's most worthy friend<br /> +And by <i>vox populi</i> was sent<br /> +To Parliament to represent<br /> +The men of Carleton, one and all,<br /> +In ancient Legislative Hall.<br /> +And by "The Tiger" sleek and fat,<br /> +Our old friend "Jimmy Johnston" sat,<br /> +The corner stock'd with silks and ribbon,<br /> +Was kept and owned by Miss Fitzgibbon.<br /> +A good stand it has ever been<br /> +For commerce in this busy scene;<br /> +Stand oft of idler and of scorner,<br /> +I mean the modern "Howell's Corner,"<br /> +Called after "Roderick of the sword,"<br /> +Once well known Chairman of School Board.<br /> +And down below near Nicholas Street,<br /> +A quiet man each morn you'd meet<br /> +At ten a.m., his pathway wending,<br /> +With steps to Ordnance office bending,<br /> +A mild man and an unassuming,<br /> +Health and good nature ever blooming<br /> +Seem'd stamped upon his smiling face,<br /> +Where time had scarcely left its trace;<br /> +<i>Semper idem</i> let me beg<br /> +Thy pardon, honest William Clegg!<br /> +Nor must, although his bones are rotten,<br /> +The ancient Mosgrove be forgotten,<br /> +A man of kindly nature, he<br /> +Has left a spot in memory<br /> +While gazing on each vanish'd scene<br /> +That still remains both fresh and green<br /> +For when in heat of hurling bent<br /> +The ball oft through his window went,<br /> +He pitch'd it to us out again,<br /> +And ask'd no payment for the pane.<br /> +On Sussex Street, James Inglis flourish'd,<br /> +A cannie Scot, and well he nourish'd<br /> +A very thriving dry goods trade,<br /> +And "piles" of good hard silver made,<br /> +Almost amongst the forest trees,<br /> +By furs from Aborigines.<br /> +No "Hotel" then was in the town,<br /> +"The British" in its old renown,<br /> +Of our Hotels the ancient mother<br /> +Had not one stone laid on another;<br /> +Donald McArthur in a cavern<br /> +Of wood sustained his ancient tavern,<br /> +And there the best of cheer was found<br /> +Within old Bytown's classic ground;<br /> +And now I'll close my roll of fame<br /> +With a most well-remember'd name,<br /> +A man of dignity supreme<br /> +Rises to view in memory's dream,<br /> +Ultra in Toryism's tariff,<br /> +Was Simon Fraser, Carleton's Sheriff,<br /> +Personified by the third vowel,<br /> +Forerunner of W.F. Powell,<br /> +A high and most important man<br /> +In the renown'd old Fraser Clan,<br /> +Who well had worn the Highland tartan,<br /> +For he was bold as any Spartan,<br /> +And did his duty mildly, gravely,<br /> +And wore the sword and cocked hat bravely.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +Come, now, my gentle Muse, once more,<br /> +Come with me to the days of yore,<br /> +And let us wake, with friendly hand<br /> +The memories of that distant land,<br /> +The past; and while thy minstrel weaves<br /> +A chaplet from the Sybil leaves<br /> +Of recollection—let the light<br /> +Of truth upon his lines be bright.<br /> +May he with reverential tread<br /> +Approach the dwellings of the dead,<br /> +Seeking for some sweet flower of good<br /> +Within their solemn solitude:<br /> +And if he finds in fadeless bloom<br /> +Around some well remember'd tomb,<br /> +Some cherish'd record of the past<br /> +Which has defied time's rudes blast,<br /> +And down futurity's deep vale<br /> +Shed fragrance on the passing gale,<br /> +Love's labor, then, the task will be,<br /> +My gentle Muse, for thee and me.<br /> +'Mongst those of old remember'd well,<br /> +John Wade doth in my memory dwell,<br /> +A wit of most undoubted feather—<br /> +A mighty advocate of leather—<br /> +A solemn man too, when required.<br /> +With healing instincts deeply fired,<br /> +He with claw-instrument could draw<br /> +Teeth deftly from an aching jaw,<br /> +And ready was his lancet too<br /> +When nothing short of blood would do;<br /> +Relieved he many a racking pain,<br /> +When shall we see his like again?<br /> +And William Tormey, stern and straight,<br /> +A man who came ere '28,<br /> +Chief of the men who kept the fire on<br /> +And hammer'd the strong bands of iron,<br /> +Which first securely bound together<br /> +The old lock gates through wind and weather,<br /> +The old Town Council minutes bear<br /> +The record that his name is there.<br /> +And Thomas Hanly, loud the praise<br /> +I gave him in my early days<br /> +For bread, that Eve might tempted be<br /> +To eat, had it grown on that tree,<br /> +On which hung the forbidden fruit<br /> +Whose seed gave earth's ills their sad root.<br /> +Friend Tom dealt in the rising leaven<br /> +In the old days of '27,<br /> +With "Jemmy Lang," an ancient Scot,<br /> +Who ne'er the barley bree forgot;<br /> +An honest, simple man was he<br /> +As ever loved good company;<br /> +And Tom McDermott, while I twine<br /> +The names of yore in song of mine,<br /> +Can I forget a name like thine?<br /> +Ah, no! although thine ashes rest<br /> +Beneath our common mother's breast,<br /> +No name more spotless doth engage<br /> +My muse, or grace my tuneful page.<br /> +Stern Matthew Connell, fiery Celt,<br /> +Below the present Bywash dwelt,<br /> +Beside John Cowan, o'er whose grave<br /> +The grass of '32 did wave.<br /> +No man got in a passion faster<br /> +Than did old Bytown's first postmaster;<br /> +Yet was he a most upright man,<br /> +And well the old machinery "ran"<br /> +When mail bags came on horse's back<br /> +Before we had a railway track,<br /> +And their arrival on each morn<br /> +Was signall'd by an old tin horn.<br /> +Peace to his shade! in '32<br /> +The cholera Matthew Connell slew.<br /> +Kind reader, let me pass awhile,<br /> +Beside the "Bywash," deem'd so vile,<br /> +Then called "the Creek"—though now the pest—<br /> +The festering miasmatic nest<br /> +Of Boards of Health, who dread infection—<br /> +My very heart's sincere affection<br /> +Clings fondly to that old creek still;<br /> +For oft in boyhood's joyous thrill,<br /> +O'er its ice-bosom in wild play<br /> +I chased the ball in youth's bright day.<br /> +With young companions loved and dear!<br /> +How few of such, alas! are here<br /> +To listen to the bye-gone story<br /> +Of the old Creek's vanish'd glory!<br /> +'Twixt "wooden lock" and Rideau Street,<br /> +Young Bytown oft was wont to meet—<br /> +To struggle in the "shinny game;"<br /> +Ah! then it was a place of fame,<br /> +Full sixty feet from shore to shore,<br /> +While now it measures scarce a score;<br /> +Modern improvement has prevail'd—<br /> +Its fair proportions are curtail'd;<br /> +Its banks filled in, more space to gain.<br /> +Its stream, by many a filthy drain,<br /> +Which once was rapid, always clear,<br /> +Changed into color worse than beer,<br /> +To cool and icy scowling scan,<br /> +Of rigid, total abstinence man.<br /> +Gone is its fair renown of yore,<br /> +It's schoolboy battles all are o'er,<br /> +Which made it then a "Campo Bello"<br /> +For many an embryo daring fellow—<br /> +Too young to know what men of sense<br /> +Have called the art of self-defence;<br /> +There buttons flew, from stitching riven,<br /> +Black eyes and bloody noses given—<br /> +Even conflicts national took place,<br /> +Among old Bytown's youthful race.<br /> +Why not? for children bigger grown<br /> +I rave sometimes down the gauntlet thrown<br /> +For cause as small, and launch'd afar<br /> +The fierce and fiery bolts of war,<br /> +Simply to find out which was best.<br /> +Cæsar or Pompey by the test.<br /> +In those past combats "rich and rare"<br /> +Luke Cuzner always had his share.<br /> +For Luke in days of <i>auld lang syne</i><br /> +Did most pugnaciously incline,<br /> +Never to challenge slack or slow,<br /> +And never stain'd by "coward's blow."<br /> +The Joyces too, Mick, John and Walter,<br /> +In battle's path did seldom falter,<br /> +But "Jimmy," in those days of grace<br /> +Held a peacemaker's blessed place,<br /> +Nor has he wander'd far astray<br /> +From the same calm and tranquil way.<br /> +The belt was worn by any one<br /> +Who had the latest battle won,<br /> +'Till Simon Murphy's springing bound<br /> +Lit on that ancient battle ground,<br /> +And from that hour he was King<br /> +Of our young pugilistic ring!<br /> +But here I'd like to pause a minute<br /> +And go to Hull—there's something in it<br /> +That to the hour of life's December<br /> +I shall endeavor to remember.<br /> +The old "Columbian" schoolhouse, where<br /> +In childhood's dawn I did repair;<br /> +It was a famous strict old school<br /> +Sway'd by the ancient birchen rule,<br /> +The place where youthful ignorance brought us,<br /> +The spot where famed James Agnew taught us;<br /> +A Scot was he of good condition,<br /> +A man of nerve and erudition,<br /> +A strict disciplinarian, who<br /> +Knew well what any boy could do,<br /> +And woe to him who did not do it<br /> +For he got certain cause to rue it.<br /> +No sinner ever dreaded Charon,<br /> +Nor was the mighty rod of Aaron,<br /> +By ancient Egypt's magic men,<br /> +In Pharoah's old despotic reign,<br /> +More feared as symbol of a God<br /> +Than was by us James Agnew's rod;<br /> +With it he batter'd arithmetic,<br /> +Lore practical and theoretic<br /> +Latin too, and English grammar<br /> +Into your head, a perfect "crammar,"<br /> +Was Agnew's most persuasive rod,<br /> +Nor less his magisterial nod.<br /> +How would such stern tuition suit<br /> +In our Collegiate Institute?<br /> +Amongst the unforgotten few<br /> +Who rise to memory's magic view,<br /> +While winging on her backward flight,<br /> +My schoolfellow, Alonzo Wright,<br /> +Appears a lad of slender frame,<br /> +I cannot say he's still the same,<br /> +Except in soul, for that sublime<br /> +Has soar'd above the touch of time,<br /> +And in "immortal youth" appears,<br /> +Unchanged by circumstance or years,<br /> +A good fellow, this was his name<br /> +At school, methinks he's still the same.<br /> +May he give powers of swift volition<br /> +To all who offer opposition<br /> +To him in the approaching "scrimmage,"<br /> +For what is but a brazen image<br /> +At best, a people's approbation,<br /> +Which sometimes with the situation,<br /> +Changes as egg in hand of wizard,<br /> +Or color in chameleon lizard.<br /> +There too, are Job and David Moore,<br /> +Bill Northgraves mentioned not before,<br /> +Who in the little school-house red<br /> +On early education fed.<br /> +And Thomas Curtis Brigham, too,<br /> +Lennox and Christopher in view,<br /> +Arise before my sight,<br /> +Strongly defined in memory's light,<br /> +And Wright both Ruggles and Tiberias,<br /> +And Wyman who was seldom serious,<br /> +Poor fellow! in life's manly bloom<br /> +He slept in an untimely tomb.<br /> +Time fails me, or I fain would tell<br /> +Of many more remembered well,<br /> +But end I here my present strain<br /> +Till memory wakes it up again.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +I cross the Ottawa once more.<br /> +From Hull again to Bytown's shore.<br /> +And for a moment I behold<br /> +The river as it was of old,<br /> +Swelling, majestic in its pride,<br /> +A glorious stream from side to side!<br /> +A "Grand River" was Ottawa then,<br /> +The pride of ancient lumbermen,<br /> +By slabs and sawdust undefiled.<br /> +The joy of nature's dusky child,<br /> +Who's matchless, perfect bark canoe<br /> +Oft o'er its crystal bosom flew—<br /> +Not bridged all o'er like shaking bogs<br /> +By endless booms of dirty logs,<br /> +Which to the thrifty and the wise<br /> +Are doubtless marks of enterprise,<br /> +And evidences too of health,<br /> +Of pocket and commercial wealth,<br /> +Yet sadly, sometimes out of place,<br /> +And serious blots on Nature's face.<br /> +What would big Indian "Clouthier" say—<br /> +The red-skinn'd Samson could he stray<br /> +From the happy hunting ground away—<br /> +Could he behold the stream to-day—<br /> +The great Kah-nah-jo, where the God<br /> +Of the Algonquins used to nod<br /> +In dreamy slumber 'mid the smoke<br /> +Which from the mighty cataract broke,<br /> +Hemm'd in by sawmills, booms and piers—<br /> +The features of a thousand years<br /> +Of beauty ruthlessly defaced—<br /> +The landmarks of the past displaced,<br /> +And little left to tell the story<br /> +Of Ottawa's departed glory;<br /> +But water running where it ran<br /> +When the red deer chase began.<br /> +'Twould startle even Philemon Wright<br /> +With all his wisdom and foresight.<br /> +Could he arise, good man of old,<br /> +And modern Ottawa behold,<br /> +He'd feel himself a stranger too—<br /> +'Mid scenes of wonder strange and new—<br /> +In Hull, of little worth for tillage,<br /> +The spot on which he built his village.<br /> +Return I now, this slight digression<br /> +Was worth the time, I've an impression;<br /> +Clouthier, the Indian, was a giant,<br /> +And "Squire Wright," strong, self-reliant,<br /> +Was he who o'er the border came<br /> +And gave to Hull its ancient fame;<br /> +A man of enterprise and spirit<br /> +Who in this history well doth merit,<br /> +Such place of prominence as can<br /> +Be given to such a stirring man.<br /> +On the way back I see the ground<br /> +Where ferrying Odium was found,<br /> +And afterwards, next in progression,<br /> +Friend John Bedard came in possession,<br /> +And certainly much money made<br /> +By a successful carrying trade.<br /> +The place seems alter'd, art and skill<br /> +Have built up Wright and Batson's mill<br /> +At the old wharf, or near at hand,<br /> +Where the first steamer used to land,<br /> +Before even that small craft could ride<br /> +At any wharf on Bytown's side.<br /> +And not far off, in days of yore<br /> +A cottage stood—'tis there no more,<br /> +And if there ever was a spot<br /> +Where friend and foe a welcome got—<br /> +Where generous hospitality<br /> +Presided o'er the banquet free,<br /> +And friendship's hand for rich and poor<br /> +Was ever opening the door—<br /> +That spot was where that cottage stood,<br /> +Embowered in the cedar wood,<br /> +And he who there resided with<br /> +An open heart, was old Ralph Smith!<br /> +In memory I behold him now,<br /> +With sparkling eye and lofty brow,<br /> +And round the table amply spread,<br /> +Are Patton, Henry, Ralph and Ned,<br /> +And Dolly—blessed be her shade!<br /> +Who, such nice things for schoolboys made,<br /> +And made them feel just as no other<br /> +On earth could do except their mother.<br /> +But I must hurry, or I own,<br /> +I ne'er shall reach the Upper Town,<br /> +For there I'll find an ancient throng<br /> +To link together in my song,<br /> +And I shall wake them up ere long.<br /> +'Mongst those of olden time who came<br /> +Was one whose engineering fame<br /> +Was brilliant—let none call be braggart<br /> +While speaking thus of John MacTaggart,<br /> +A genius of the highest grade<br /> +In that most scientific trade,<br /> +Who plann'd with wise, consummate skill,<br /> +Even from the lock-gates lowest sill<br /> +To Kingston Mills, the undertaking<br /> +Which cost such time and cash in making,<br /> +Rideau Canal, the work of years,<br /> +And England's Royal Engineers.<br /> +Brother of Isaac, once known hero<br /> +As Corporation Engineer,<br /> +Or Street Surveyor in that time<br /> +When Ottawa's fur was not so prime,<br /> +Whom well of old the writer knew,<br /> +And as he comes up for review—<br /> +Like volume taken from the shelf—<br /> +He harm'd no one but himself,<br /> +Is all his bitterest foe can say<br /> +Of Isaac who has passed away.<br /> +And James Fitzgibbon, where is he?<br /> +Beneath the weeping willow tree,<br /> +Retired, quiet-going man<br /> +Who ne'er his head 'gainst faction ran.<br /> +And close upon his fading track<br /> +I see the shadow of James Black,<br /> +Who once on Rideau Street kept store<br /> +In the remember'd days of yore,<br /> +A stirring, active man was he,<br /> +Genteel, polite to a degree,<br /> +That customers were always fain<br /> +Who saw him once to call again;<br /> +His wife in the old churchyard lay—<br /> +Her epitaph I know to-day.<br /> +And there stands Thomas Burrows, too,<br /> +As he appeared before my view,<br /> +Leaning upon his garden gate<br /> +Beside the Creek in '28;<br /> +He held of trust, an office high<br /> +Under the reign of Colonel By.<br /> +And Tom McDonald, as we then<br /> +Were wont to call the best of men;<br /> +A man of spirit rare was he<br /> +Who never had an enemy.<br /> +And there, too, Captain Victor goes<br /> +With most aristocratic nose,<br /> +And manners haughty with the ring<br /> +Of <i>ton</i> when George the Fourth was king.<br /> +And Lieut. Pooley, for whose skill<br /> +The "Gully" bridge is named so still,<br /> +Ask Lyman Perkins, if you doubt it,<br /> +And he will tell you all about it.<br /> +And Dr. Tuthill, who with skill<br /> +Could cure more readily than kill,<br /> +Physic'd, emetic'd, too, and clyster'd,<br /> +And <i>con amore</i>, bled and blister'd,<br /> +In the old Hospital, which stood<br /> +Unscathed by tempest, fire, or flood,<br /> +For fifty years, to be down cast,<br /> +By chance, or carelessness, at last,<br /> +Theme for conjecture, most prolific,<br /> +Another phase of the Pacific<br /> +Railway which will cause a broil,<br /> +Unless 'tis built on British soil!<br /> +And there, too, Joseph Coombs was found,<br /> +With solemn step his march around<br /> +Among the patients, pacing slowly—<br /> +Disciple of the meek and lowly,<br /> +Who afterwards oft turned the key<br /> +On many a goodly company.<br /> +In that strong work of mason's trowel,<br /> +Ruled now by Alexander Powell.<br /> +And William Addison, no more—<br /> +As trim a soldier as e'er wore<br /> +The uniform, or bravely bore<br /> +His head erect, with step as light<br /> +As wings that touch the air in flight.<br /> +Well had he won and kept from harm<br /> +The honor'd stripes upon his arm.<br /> +Such men as he have been the stay<br /> +Of Britain in her darkest day!<br /> +And Sergeant Johnston who, with skill,<br /> +The raw and awkward squad could drill—<br /> +A warrior in air and tone,<br /> +Who had his country service done—<br /> +Straight as a ramrod, and his might<br /> +Of voice would Lambkin's soul delight.<br /> +And brave John Murphy—champion John!<br /> +I can't forget as I pass on.<br /> +As fine a fellow as e'er wore<br /> +The scarlet coat in days of yore.<br /> +With upright form of manliest grace,<br /> +With wondrous beauty in his face,<br /> +And perfect symmetry of limb;<br /> +Appollo might have envied him!<br /> +And then he was as brave and true<br /> +As e'er the sword or bayonet drew,<br /> +Full many a battle did he fight,<br /> +His injured comrade's wrongs to right;<br /> +For well he knew each mood and tense<br /> +Of the old art of self-defence;<br /> +And woe to him who dared a fling<br /> +With bold John Murphy in the ring.<br /> +There many a pugilistic martyr<br /> +Met his match and caught a Tartar.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +Near where the George Street market stood<br /> +Lived William Northgraves, then a good<br /> +And skilful watch-maker, who's chime<br /> +Did regulate the march of time,<br /> +And Arthur Hopper, sporting blade,<br /> +Was in the same time serving trade,<br /> +Though guiltless of the modern tricks<br /> +Of time serving in politics;<br /> +He made gold rings for bridal matches,<br /> +As well as cleaned and mended watches.<br /> +And last of old watchmakers three,<br /> +I mention mild Maurice Dupuis,<br /> +Who's even tenor ne'er did vary<br /> +From the upright and exemplary,<br /> +At Corcoran's corner, now the stand<br /> +For carters, very near at hand,<br /> +Dwelt one who's unforgotten name<br /> +Is worthy of poetic fame;<br /> +With scientific sleight he bled,<br /> +And then anatomized the dead.<br /> +With hand so wonderfully skill'd,<br /> +Victims delighted to be killed,<br /> +Came willingly to yield up life,<br /> +An offering to Tom Hickey's knife;<br /> +So high his sense of honor ran,<br /> +The butcher in the gentleman<br /> +Merged so completely, you'd be lost,<br /> +Which in him to admire the most;<br /> +By ancient poets it was sung<br /> +Those whom the gods love all die young,<br /> +Tom Hickey's early death did prove<br /> +That those die young whom all men love.<br /> +I must not here omit the name<br /> +Of Heubach from my roll of fame,<br /> +He passes under memory's scan<br /> +A simple minded honest man,<br /> +With manners quiet, mild and bland,<br /> +An emigrant from fatherland.<br /> +And Joseph Nadeau, far and near<br /> +Famed 'mongst the boys for good <i>La Tir</i><br /> +And old John Cochran stern and tall,<br /> +Immoveable as a stone wall!<br /> +Staunch to his principles stood he,<br /> +No matter what the cost might be;<br /> +Oh! for a few of his old stamp,<br /> +To trim with fire the waning lamp!<br /> +And Louis Grison, worthy man,<br /> +In "Maville's village," first began<br /> +His little trade, which wider spread<br /> +As ancient Bytown went ahead.<br /> +Two rows of houses built of wood,<br /> +Near Enoch Walkley's brewery stood<br /> +With narrow little street between,<br /> +This was the village that I mean.<br /> +Then William Graham kept the peace<br /> +Of all the town with perfect ease;<br /> +Potato whiskey then was cheap,<br /> +And we had little peace to keep.<br /> +Such monstrous practice was unknown<br /> +As kicking when a man was down,<br /> +Though many a stunning blow was felt,<br /> +None ever struck below the belt;<br /> +The ring was form'd, and fair play<br /> +Reign'd without challenge at each fray,<br /> +And never yet, that I could hear,<br /> +Did constable e'er interfere,<br /> +Or even think that amongst crimes<br /> +Rank'd this brave pastime of old times.<br /> +Then Martin Hennessy was young,<br /> +A Hercules with sinews strung;<br /> +You might as well an anvil "lick,"<br /> +Or stand against a horse's kick<br /> +And fear not shattered rib or jaw<br /> +As risk a smash from Martin's paw.<br /> +I've seen him in the days of yore<br /> +His fist crash through a panel door.<br /> +Martin soon ran his wild race out,<br /> +For "Doctor" Whitney with a "clout"<br /> +Of a great bludgeon laid him out<br /> +Heady for <i>post mortem</i> and bier,<br /> +Thus ended Martin's rough career.<br /> +Ah! those were happy halcyon days,<br /> +Well worthy of immortal lays.<br /> +Here I must summon from the band<br /> +Of the departed shadowy land<br /> +George Parsons, and his name entwine<br /> +In this poetic wreath of mine.<br /> +Beside the creek his name I meet<br /> +On the west side of William street,<br /> +Twas called "the lane," ere legislation<br /> +Gave it its present designation;<br /> +Admirers of steeds fleet and game<br /> +Will not forget George Parson's name.<br /> +And I would be worse than a Turk,<br /> +Did I forget George Robert Burke,<br /> +A man who mingled not in strife,<br /> +Nor ever did in all his life<br /> +An act to cause a blush of shame<br /> +On any face that bears his name!<br /> +Nor can I Archie Foster pass,<br /> +Too soon departed, too, alas!<br /> +A man of feelings warm and kind—<br /> +A friend who never left behind<br /> +A friendly act, if in his power<br /> +To act the friend in trouble's hour,<br /> +Ah! 'twas a melancholy day<br /> +When Archie Foster passed away.<br /> +And now a man with learning's grace<br /> +And mildness pictured in his face<br /> +Stands forth in retrospection's ray<br /> +As if it was but yesterday,<br /> +It is the good Hugh Hagan's shade<br /> +Who's precepts many a scholar made.<br /> +Nor would my reminiscent eye<br /> +While scanning erudition's sky,<br /> +Fail to perceive through cloud and storm<br /> +Friend James Maloney's stately form—<br /> +A fixed star in the Teacher's heaven<br /> +Since the old days of '27,<br /> +When learning's every art and rule,<br /> +In the old Mathematic School,<br /> +According to education laws<br /> +He taught—and ne'er forget the "taws."<br /> +The handle was just two feet long,<br /> +And well he trounced the noisy throng!<br /> +At the west border of the swamp<br /> +Where cedars grew mid mosses damp,<br /> +Just at the corner where to-day<br /> +Ben Huckell doth his name display,<br /> +In other days dwelt William May,<br /> +A member of the old "Alliance"<br /> +Which easily put at defiance<br /> +The conflagrations that were seen<br /> +"Like Angel's visits far between,"<br /> +For Bytown then was almost free<br /> +From an Insurance Company!<br /> +Poor fellow! by a sudden stroke<br /> +Death's gloomy shadow o'er him broke,<br /> +Upon that well remembered day—<br /> +When the old town was wild and gay.<br /> +From verdant vale to sunny ridge,<br /> +On which the new Suspension Bridge<br /> +Was opened—and crowds congregated<br /> +To see it then "inaugurated."<br /> +To use a word from Uncle Sam,<br /> +The concourse was a perfect jam.<br /> +'Twas built by Alexander Christie,<br /> +From the land of mountains misty;<br /> +And though the whirlwind and the storm<br /> +For years have revelled on its form—<br /> +Though ponderous loads for many a year<br /> +Have passed it o'er from from far and near,<br /> +It stands in strength unshaken still,<br /> +A monument of art and skill;<br /> +Long may the builder dash the tide<br /> +Of Jordan's swelling surge aside;<br /> +And when the lot of all mankind<br /> +Overtakes him, may he safely find<br /> +A bridge across to Canaan's shore,<br /> +To pass in peace death's valley o'er.<br /> +While rambling backwards up life's hill,<br /> +I meet the stern Paul Joseph Gill,<br /> +A man with much tuition fraught,<br /> +Who youth at the old creek side taught,<br /> +Where Thomas Dowsley doth display,<br /> +His maps of land for sale to-day.<br /> +Paul Joseph Gill could with a frown<br /> +Keep juvenile offenders down;<br /> +His ruler flat I can't forget,<br /> +My fingers seem to tingle yet,<br /> +As recollection o'er me brings<br /> +That ruler amongst other things,<br /> +Which come around me link by link,<br /> +While of the vanished past I think.<br /> +John Frost, too, rises up before<br /> +My vision of the time that's o'er;<br /> +He built upon foundation damp,<br /> +In Lower Town's great cedar swamp,<br /> +Which stretched from Sussex Street to where<br /> +That engineering structure fair—<br /> +The fond-admiring eye doth greet,<br /> +Spanning the stream at Ottawa Street.<br /> +And "Sandy" Graham, strange it is,<br /> +That I thus far his name should miss,<br /> +While tracing from the scenes gone by<br /> +Each unforgotten memory<br /> +Sandy was, aye, a joyous blade,<br /> +And many a good stroke of trade<br /> +He with commercial wisdom made,<br /> +In other times when he was young,<br /> +And Yankee silver round was flung<br /> +With lavish hand by low and high<br /> +In the good days of Colonel By.<br /> +And William Hunton, who came late,<br /> +If I am right, in '28,<br /> +And many a good quart of whiskey,<br /> +To make the old Bytonians frisky—<br /> +And many a pound of Twankay tea<br /> +And Muscovado vended he,<br /> +For Howard and Thompson in the time<br /> +When cash was plenty and trade prime.<br /> +Friend Tom a little later came,<br /> +A youth then of quite slender frame.<br /> +In form he's something still the same—<br /> +Though time has taken from his heel<br /> +The spring it used of old to feel.<br /> +And streaked his locks with silver, too,<br /> +Which long withstood all time could do,<br /> +Yet in the dream that's passed away<br /> +I see Tom Hunton of to-day.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +And John McGraves, the chandler, why<br /> +Could I so long have passed him by?<br /> +By accident I've turned a leaf<br /> +Which brings him out in bold relief<br /> +A plain and unassuming man<br /> +Was John; his candles never ran.<br /> +And many in this ancient place<br /> +Owed him a debt for a clean face.<br /> +William Kipp, too, doth memory greet,<br /> +In a small shop on Rideau Street,<br /> +A man of gentlemanly kind,<br /> +With a well-cultivated mind;<br /> +And Commissary Strachan, too,<br /> +And Oriel, who had much to do<br /> +Paying the debts of Waterloo,<br /> +And many another battle field<br /> +Where Britons fought and did not yield.<br /> +And old John Ring, "good gracious me!"<br /> +I had almost forgotten thee—<br /> +Thou "Silky" John of other years,<br /> +Gone from this dreary vale of tears,<br /> +A passing shade, and more's the pity,<br /> +For thou wert ever gay and witty.<br /> +And Charles Baines, an old time lawyer,<br /> +Stood here professional top sawyer;<br /> +He owned a bull dog, arrant thief!<br /> +Who plundered Agar Yielding's beef;<br /> +And when friend Yielding sought for law,<br /> +To deal with canine of such maw,<br /> +"Why, there is just one simple way,"<br /> +Said Charley, "Make the owner pay;"<br /> +"I thank you for your judgment brief,"<br /> +Said Agar, "pay me for the beef."<br /> +"Seven and sixpence worth of prog,<br /> +Was bolted by <i>your</i> big bull dog."<br /> +"All right," said Charley, like a flash,<br /> +And quickly handed o'er the cash;<br /> +But, as friend Yielding turned to go,<br /> +"Come back," said Charley, "for you owe<br /> +Just seven and sixpence for advice,<br /> +So hand it over in a trice."<br /> +While on the past I now reflect,<br /> +I well and clearly recollect<br /> +John Wilson, who kept office here,<br /> +And afterwards a Judge austere<br /> +Of the Queen's Bench or Common Pleas,<br /> +Sat with much dignity and ease.<br /> +'Tis past, I shall not here relate<br /> +Young Robert Lyon's luckless fate,<br /> +Nor shall I stir the tomb and tell<br /> +Why he an early victim fell<br /> +At folly's shrine, as he who bends<br /> +A martyr to ill-judging friends,<br /> +Will always fall; but end I here<br /> +This record of his short career.<br /> +Honor, indeed! thy shrine appears,<br /> +Surrounded by a sea of tears.<br /> +George Shouldice is a man of old,<br /> +Henry was too, who 'neath the mould<br /> +Lies slumbering in solemn rest—<br /> +He many a pompous body drest<br /> +With garments fine and quite exotic,<br /> +When fashion was not so despotic.<br /> +And Charles Friel, an early man<br /> +With Bytown's history began,<br /> +A man of ready tongue and wit,<br /> +A politician who could hit<br /> +And sway with eloquence the throng,<br /> +Which shouts alike for right or wrong.<br /> +Father of Henry James, who died.<br /> +Just as his eye of hope descried<br /> +The goal he labored to attain—<br /> +The honors he had fought to gain.<br /> +Tis no uncommon thing to find<br /> +A little man with full grown mind:<br /> +And 'mongst those who have gone to rest—<br /> +Who of their chances made the best<br /> +In life's o'er turning changing reel,<br /> +I freely rank Henry J. Friel.<br /> +And Daniel Fisher, too, is gone,<br /> +Of Scotia's children he was one<br /> +Who clothed the naked in his day—<br /> +That is, the naked who could pay.<br /> +I have a friendly feeling yet<br /> +For him, for I can ne'er forget<br /> +The jacket blue which first I wore<br /> +In the old cherished days of yore,<br /> +That jacket which I don'd with pride.<br /> +Caused me to feel a man beside<br /> +The urchin in the pinafore<br /> +Which I had just arisen o'er;<br /> +In Daniel Fisher's shop 'twas made—<br /> +Headquarters of the fig-leaf trade.—<br /> +In that most ancient grand device<br /> +Which had its rise in Paradise.<br /> +I see as on I hurry past,<br /> +Pat Duggan, who blew vulcan's blast,<br /> +And friend Kehoe, who with hand neat<br /> +Fitted the shoes to horse's feet;<br /> +And John McGivern, the baker,<br /> +And Robert Wanless, harness-maker;<br /> +And William Atkins, who is still<br /> +Holding his own upon the hill<br /> +Of life, though slowly wending<br /> +Towards the goal that has no ending;<br /> +And Silas Burpee, pious man,<br /> +Who in the early ages ran<br /> +With drums and belts and wheels complete<br /> +A turning mill on old York Street—<br /> +Upon the very spot, now thought of<br /> +Where gander's head George Shouldice shot off,<br /> +With an old smooth-bore, but would not<br /> +That day attempt a second shot;<br /> +'Twas wise of George, a second shot<br /> +Might have consigned to luckless pot,<br /> +His marksman's name, and half a shilling,<br /> +His renown in the art of killing.<br /> +It was a stirring place of trade<br /> +Where famous spinning tops were made.<br /> +And splendid water power was found<br /> +Where now there's nought but solid ground,<br /> +Covered with numerous loads of wood,<br /> +A costly item bad or good.<br /> +In modern times—of old it stood,<br /> +Maple at ninety cents a cord,<br /> +Just four and six-pence, by my word!<br /> +And Julius Burpee, gone! well, well!<br /> +He kept the old Rideau Hotel,<br /> +Where man and beast could get the best<br /> +And truly find the traveller's rest.<br /> +Julius still might living be<br /> +Were it not for the "barley bree."<br /> +And Edward Darcey too, appears.<br /> +And Jeffry Nolan, who in years<br /> +Gone by, was stout and strong in fight.<br /> +And in the conflict always right,<br /> +Before the days when frolic's King<br /> +McDougall "made Dungarven ring!"<br /> +Frank's arm then, as mine, was strong,<br /> +None but himself in all the throng<br /> +So far the ponderous sledge could hurl,<br /> +Until at last with dexterous whirl,<br /> +"The school master" defiant came<br /> +And walked off champion of the game.<br /> +From first to last I've found him true,<br /> +McDougal <i>ciamar tha sibhn dieugh</i>?<br /> +And Charles Sparrow, where, oh, where<br /> +Is he who once was Bytown's Mayor,<br /> +Ere, J.B. Turgeon took the chair?<br /> +Lost 'mid the overwhelming blaze<br /> +Of changes new; gone from the gaze<br /> +Of public life, like many a man<br /> +Who, once for public honors ran.<br /> +And George and Robert Lang are gone,<br /> +Men of intelligence and tone,<br /> +Who held positions marked and high<br /> +In Bytown's old society.<br /> +Nor has amongst the ancient few<br /> +Captain McKinnon from my view—<br /> +Though long a tenant of the tomb—<br /> +Faded into oblivion's gloom.<br /> +If Roderick Stewart now was near,<br /> +He'd pour into my listening ear<br /> +A tale I would delight to hear,<br /> +Of other men of other times,<br /> +Who's names may have escaped my rhymes.<br /> +The Captain lived, a man discreet,<br /> +Near where the ancient arch did meet<br /> +O'er famous little Sussex Street,<br /> +For there a tragedy took place<br /> +Which here the muse with truth shall trace.<br /> +A boy stood near that arch of old<br /> +Upon a wintry day—'twas cold,<br /> +Tired of sleighing down the hill,<br /> +He for a moment there stood still,<br /> +That boy sits now with pen in hand,<br /> +From memory's photographic land<br /> +Painting in colors fair and true<br /> +The vanished scenes which once he knew.<br /> +As thus he rested taking breath,<br /> +He little dreamed of blood or death.<br /> +Up Rideau Street a man there came,<br /> +Charles McStravick was his name.<br /> +A tall, lithe, active fellow, he,<br /> +As in a thousand you could see;<br /> +A white blanket <i>capote</i> he wore,<br /> +And jauntily himself he bore,<br /> +He stepped beneath the arch, and then<br /> +Rushed at him fiercely two strong men.<br /> +Both with surprise and dread were scan'd.<br /> +One had a loaded whip in hand,<br /> +The other a short bludgeon bore,<br /> +And in a moment, all was o'er!<br /> +Three blows, a crash, a stream of blood.<br /> +All of the victim bad or good<br /> +In life, was in an instant crushed<br /> +To dust—off the assailants rushed,<br /> +And none can tell from then 'till now<br /> +The hands that laid McStravick low,<br /> +Nor does he who relates the story<br /> +Know more of that occurrence gory<br /> +My history would be faithless here<br /> +Did "Happy Jimmy" not appear,<br /> +An innocent good natured soul<br /> +As ever loved the flowing bowl—<br /> +An institution of the day<br /> +That like himself hath passed away,<br /> +Was "Happy Jimmy," he who made<br /> +A vagrant's life a merry trade.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +And now, kind reader, I behold<br /> +Before me, as in days of old,<br /> +Bold Paddy Whelan, Wexford Paddy<br /> +Surely of noisy men the daddy;<br /> +A man of most Herculean form,<br /> +Who roamed through sunshine and through storm,<br /> +And sounded loud in other days<br /> +His notes in Hamnett Pinhey's praise—<br /> +And well he might sing with loud swell,<br /> +"The Lamb of March" deserved it well!<br /> +A man of learning, wit, and sense,<br /> +No shallow thing of vain pretence,<br /> +The true stamp of the current guinea<br /> +Bore March's Father, Hamnett Pinhey.<br /> +To "Muddy Little York" went he,<br /> +The Independent and the Free<br /> +To represent with power effective<br /> +Amid the wisdom most collective,<br /> +In the old days of Compact Rule<br /> +Ere Grittism yet had gone to school;<br /> +Dalhousie District's Archives too,<br /> +Can show what he was wont to do.<br /> +Paddy, though not of <i>genus feræ,</i><br /> +Was yet a queer <i>lusus naturæ</i>;<br /> +His vital organs played beneath<br /> +A shield of solid bone 'till death,<br /> +Without a yielding space between,<br /> +Where ribs in other men are seen,<br /> +Though not a feathered bird, his toes<br /> +Were web'd as well the writer knows,<br /> +And joined in one in style most rare<br /> +His molars and incisors were;<br /> +His voice, when at its loudest swell,<br /> +Was like a railway whistle's yell;<br /> +In stature he was six feet tall,<br /> +So there is Paddy for you all!<br /> +But strike I now a strain sublime,<br /> +A touch heroic into rhyme.<br /> +As memory doth with truth uncoil<br /> +The history of old Bob Boyle,<br /> +A British soldier, bold and free,<br /> +Of the old Ninety-Ninth was he,<br /> +Who bravely fought and 'scaped from harm,<br /> +At Lundy's Lane and Crysler's Farm,<br /> +And gallantly his bayonet bore,<br /> +At Fort Niagara, and the shore<br /> +Of Sackett's Harbor trod of yore,<br /> +When "Uncle Sam," our friend and brother,<br /> +Or cousin, kicked up such a "bother"<br /> +In 1812, and tried<br /> +In vain to lower Britain's pride,<br /> +By cutting from her parent side,<br /> +By a Cæsarean operation,<br /> +The proudest offspring of the nation!<br /> +The Union Jack, thank heaven! still<br /> +Floats proudly over vale and hill,<br /> +Of this Dominion grand of ours;<br /> +And shattered be the vital powers,<br /> +By fatal stroke, like that which slew,<br /> +Sennacherib's Assyrian crew,<br /> +Of him who's traitor hand shall dare<br /> +To furl one fold that flutters there!<br /> +And palsied be the traitor tongue,<br /> +And from its root uptorn and wrung,<br /> +That dares to utter but one word<br /> +To weaken the soul-anchored cord,<br /> +Which binds Canadians heart and hand<br /> +In love to the old Mother Land!<br /> +Bob Boyle, "I thank thee" that thy name<br /> +Hath stirred the patriotic flame,<br /> +In days like these, when treason's veil<br /> +Drops when passions fierce assail,<br /> +And leaves exposed to public view<br /> +The traitor double-dyed in hue!<br /> +Hear, spawn of disaffection's thrall!<br /> +Rouge, Annexationist and all<br /> +This—ere the Union Jack shall fall,<br /> +The path of treason red with blood<br /> +Shall sink beneath a crimson flood,<br /> +While o'er it from the highest crag,<br /> +Will wave the glorious meteor flag!<br /> +I've wandered somewhat from my track,<br /> +But quietly I now come back;<br /> +Into my train of thought there blew<br /> +A passing spark, away it flew,<br /> +And I was gone before I knew—<br /> +Like nitro-glycerine it sprung,<br /> +And from the pathway I was flung.<br /> +Yet no uncertain sound give I,<br /> +I risk it as a prophecy.<br /> +By George Street north, I pass and see<br /> +There Pierre Desloges, a man was he,<br /> +But little known beyond the spot<br /> +Where first he built his little cot.<br /> +And Alexander Ethier too,<br /> +A carpenter, both good and true<br /> +Beside him dwelt, where busy feet,<br /> +Pass onward to Dalhousie Street.<br /> +And now I think it passing strange<br /> +That in wild fancy's flitting range<br /> +I have not seen and mark'd before<br /> +John Litle standing at his door—<br /> +In Sussex Street where erst, kept he<br /> +An Inn of quite a good degree<br /> +Of excellence in the old time<br /> +Which has evoked this lengthy rhyme,<br /> +John was a man of sturdy frame<br /> +As any that hath borne his name.<br /> +Even Brave Bob Elliot would delight<br /> +His prowess to behold in fight;<br /> +And Robert Elliott was not slow<br /> +To give or to resent a blow<br /> +In other days, when not as now.<br /> +The olive branch of peace is seen<br /> +Between the orange and the green.<br /> +And Richard Stethem in the haze<br /> +Of Bytown's distant early days<br /> +Before my vision doth appear,<br /> +To claim his right of entry here.<br /> +And Robert Stethem, too, his brother,<br /> +Of village denizens another;<br /> +John Miller too, of leather fame,<br /> +Who from the County Wexford came,<br /> +And first made here such boots and shoes<br /> +As fashion could not now refuse<br /> +In this fastidious age to take<br /> +And wear them for their matchless make.<br /> +And how have I not had before<br /> +James Anderson, a man of yore,<br /> +Who pitched his tent in days gone by<br /> +'Mong Bytown's ancient company,<br /> +An honest hearted jovial Scot<br /> +As e'er in exile cast his lot<br /> +'Mongst those who pioneered the track<br /> +Down which my memory's muse looks back.<br /> +And now as I stretch forth my hand<br /> +In search of one from Paddy's land,<br /> +A man of wit and humour rare,<br /> +I touch him still and find him there.<br /> +From Erin, scarcely from Armagh,<br /> +To Carleton came Denis McGrath,<br /> +Loud has his North Hibernian tongue<br /> +Upon the Byward market rung<br /> +For six and thirty years; in truth,<br /> +I've known him since the days of youth,<br /> +John Litle can my tale review<br /> +Of Denis, he will find it true.<br /> +And John Macdonald, of the Isles,<br /> +With face clad in perennial smiles,<br /> +Knight of the knock-down hammer, he<br /> +Claims passing notice now from me—<br /> +A well read man, for truth to tell,<br /> +He studied Burns and Byron well;<br /> +And which two of the wizard few<br /> +Have touched with tuneful hand so true.<br /> +The throbbing pulses of the soul,<br /> +Which vibrate 'neath their wild control.<br /> +Friend John Macdonald, here's my hand,<br /> +Thou relic of the vanished land!<br /> +Michael McBean I can't pass by,<br /> +He kept of old a grocery—<br /> +Just opposite McDougal's gate,<br /> +Where the big auger hangs in state.<br /> +Richard McCann, too, did abide<br /> +In peace the Sappers' Bridge beside,<br /> +In house we ne'er shall see again,<br /> +Once tenanted by Andrew Main—<br /> +A cannie, sober, honest Scot,<br /> +Was Andrew Main—an humble lot,<br /> +With patient industry he bore,<br /> +Till fortune smiled, and then a store<br /> +He opened, in extensive way,<br /> +Where William Fingland keeps to-day.<br /> +Peter A. Egleson to boot,<br /> +The young idea how to shoot,<br /> +On George Street north, in days gone by<br /> +Taught in his own academy;<br /> +At length the birch he threw aside,<br /> +And floated proudly on the tide<br /> +Of commerce—and his name appears<br /> +Where it was found in other years.<br /> +Next Richard Thomas comes to view,<br /> +And Nat and Jonas Barry too,<br /> +All plasterers of the old time<br /> +Who made their bread by sand and lime.<br /> +Joachim Valiquette, a baker,<br /> +And Joseph Valiquette, shoemaker,<br /> +A votary of the rod and line<br /> +When summer evenings are fine,<br /> +He like a nightingale can sing<br /> +A holy strain—as well as bring<br /> +From well known spot—a goodly string<br /> +Of fish upon a Thursday night<br /> +That Friday may be kept all right.<br /> +Gone is our friend Peter Riel<br /> +Whom old Bytonians once knew well;<br /> +An innocent good man was he,<br /> +Given sometimes to a little spree;<br /> +Once member of the Council here,<br /> +He gave forth many a loyal cheer,<br /> +And sat triumphal carriage on,<br /> +In state with Queen Victoria's Son,<br /> +When Albert Edward came this way<br /> +A royal visit here to pay.<br /> +My song complete would not appear<br /> +Unless "the Major's" name were here;<br /> +His regimental number now<br /> +I can't recall—but this I know,<br /> +He bravely marched with battle brand<br /> +Among the guardians of the land,<br /> +Ready alike to fall or stand<br /> +As duty's accents gave command;<br /> +Far might yon seek, and find not then<br /> +A soul more genial amongst men,<br /> +A lot unmarked by mortal ills<br /> +Is all I wish to Major Wills.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER VII.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +Though strictly not of Bytown fame,<br /> +I can't forget John Egan's name,<br /> +It well deserves what I can give,<br /> +To make it unforgotten live;<br /> +For 'mongst the sons of enterprise,<br /> +Who rose with Bytown's early rise,<br /> +When "Norway Pine" was number one,<br /> +John Egan stands almost alone—<br /> +The king of the Grand River, then<br /> +The Wellington of lumber men<br /> +A man of boundless energy,<br /> +And vast capacity was he,<br /> +All difficulties had to fly,<br /> +And cower before his dauntless eye!<br /> +Right well may Aylmer mourn and boast<br /> +The enterprising son she lost,<br /> +Upon the day when from earth's toil<br /> +He "shuffled off the mortal coil."<br /> +And N.H. Baird, of old was here,<br /> +A scientific engineer;<br /> +And Finland, the contractor, who<br /> +With coach and four the streets drove through,<br /> +The grandest carriage of the kind<br /> +E'er seen in Bytown—with behind—<br /> +In gorgeous and artistic glare,<br /> +A lion and an eagle—where<br /> +Is friend Perkins? he can still<br /> +Remember that old eagle's bill.<br /> +And Captain Andrew Wilson, O!<br /> +I've got an old sea lion now,<br /> +Who saw the flash of Nelson's eye,<br /> +Amid the smoke of victory,<br /> +Both at Trafalgar and the Nile.<br /> +Aye, saw the hero's dying smile<br /> +Of triumph, when his cruise was o'er,<br /> +And to the vast eternal shore,<br /> +Launched forth by death's o'erwhelming gale<br /> +His gallant spirit spread its sail!<br /> +O'er flowing bowl with might and main,<br /> +He fought his battle's o'er again,<br /> +Talked of chain shot, and "Stinkpot's" stench,<br /> +And hated cordially the French,<br /> +Whom he believed were but created<br /> +To be by sailors killed and hated<br /> +What e'er he was, what passage o'er,<br /> +He took to the mysterious shore,<br /> +Old Charon never cleft the wave.<br /> +Yet with a soul more true and brave!<br /> +And Baptiste Homier, when alive,<br /> +I think had children twenty-five,<br /> +Presided o'er a tavern neat,<br /> +On the south side of Rideau street.<br /> +A place well known both near and far,<br /> +And there John Johnston kept the bar,<br /> +Related backward up the stream,<br /> +To him who had the lucky dream;<br /> +With the old Chief, who in "a fix"<br /> +Was found before old '76.<br /> +Colonial history has told<br /> +The story in the days of old.<br /> +The Indian dreamed, the General lost<br /> +His uniform, but to his cost<br /> +The wily chieftain quickly found<br /> +The General's dream, bought solid ground,<br /> +And Martin, James, and Darby Keally<br /> +From the green land of the "Shillaly."<br /> +Richard Fitzsimmons, too, was found,<br /> +The Paganini of sweet sound<br /> +In days gone by, with memories big,<br /> +And well he danced an Irish jig.<br /> +Most incomplete would be my tale,<br /> +Did I not draw aside the veil,<br /> +And bring from distant vistas through,<br /> +The ancient fiddler into view.<br /> +While strolling downward by the locks,<br /> +One of those reminiscent knocks<br /> +I felt, which brought my eye before<br /> +Another of the men of yore;<br /> +I gazed, as the dim shadow neared,<br /> +And then before my sight appeared<br /> +The recollection of a name,<br /> +'Twas Commissary Ashworth came.<br /> +And not far off, with business look<br /> +And pen in hand o'er ponderous book,<br /> +I see another friend of youth<br /> +Noted for probity and truth;<br /> +'Tis Thomas Donelly, worthy man!<br /> +Whom now with memory's eye I scan.<br /> +Still as the mist of memory clears,<br /> +I meet the men of other years;<br /> +Another page I now unfold,<br /> +And Captain Bolton I behold,<br /> +Or Major Bolton, if you will,<br /> +Who lived upon the "Major's Hill,"<br /> +Which got his rank and bears it still.<br /> +It used to be in days gone by,<br /> +"The Colonel's Hill," a rank more high,<br /> +And worthy of the ancient trees,<br /> +Whose foliage rustled in the breeze,<br /> +Where pigeons, in their annual flight,<br /> +Were wont by thousands to alight,<br /> +O! many a fusilade I've seen,<br /> +Of flint locks in its bowers green;<br /> +It got the name recorded here,<br /> +From Colonel By, who first lived there;<br /> +'Twas then a grove of thickest shade,<br /> +What civilization's hand hath made,<br /> +The Indian, with its withering skill,<br /> +It has done for the "Colonel's Hill."<br /> +Who comes, so centaur like in grace,<br /> +Good spirits pictured in his face?<br /> +'Tis Isaac Smith, let truth not vary,<br /> +A gentleman from Tipperary,<br /> +Beloved by all, 'twere hard to mate him,<br /> +He had no enemies to hate him,<br /> +His friends were neither scarce nor few<br /> +They numbered every soul he knew.<br /> +Who e'er remembers Isaac Smith,<br /> +Mounted top boots and breeches with,<br /> +Upon his stately old black mare<br /> +Will recollect a horseman rare.<br /> +Christopher Carlton, where art thou?<br /> +Come here, old friend, I want thee now<br /> +To ramble back with me again<br /> +To where of old McPherson and Crane,<br /> +And Francis Clemow, too, I think,<br /> +Did business at the Basin's brink.<br /> +And Bindon Burton Alton, who<br /> +Has vanished from terrestial view;<br /> +The poet with the flashing eye—<br /> +The true born son of minstrelsy!<br /> +Who sang so sweetly, memory still<br /> +Trembles with the undying thrill.<br /> +Which throbbed in melting tones of fire<br /> +From Bindon Burton Alton's lyre,<br /> +Alas! alas! that such a soul<br /> +Should sink a victim to the bowl.<br /> +Thomas MacKay, who's worthy name<br /> +Is well known even to modern fame.<br /> +The worth which honest men revere<br /> +Deserves a fitting record here.<br /> +With mighty gangs he excavated<br /> +The ancient quarry situated<br /> +On west side of "the Major's Hill."<br /> +Which modern hands find hard to till;<br /> +The stones from thence by powder rent<br /> +To build the seven Canal Locks went.<br /> +The Sappers' Bridge, too, was erected<br /> +By blocks of limestone thence ejected.<br /> +Like many another rising man.<br /> +Mackay for ancient Russell "ran"<br /> +To use a term, which means to-day<br /> +That he runs best who best can pay!<br /> +The declaration found him seated<br /> +And his antagonist defeated.<br /> +New honors came his name to greet,<br /> +A Legislative Councillor's seat<br /> +Was given next to Russell's pride,<br /> +Clad with which dignity he died.<br /> +And no more upright man has e'er<br /> +Deserving of the post sat there.<br /> +And William Stewart, too, who's name<br /> +Elsewhere has graced my roll of fame,<br /> +Was as the reader will remember,<br /> +For Bytown long ago a member,<br /> +Good representative he made,<br /> +And his constituents ne'er betrayed,<br /> +We were by taxes lightly rated<br /> +When Bytown was incorporated,<br /> +By the Bill by him presented<br /> +When he this village represented<br /> +In '47, the year, no other,<br /> +When to that stingy old step mother,<br /> +The County of Carleton we were tied<br /> +And had our temper sorely tried.<br /> +This was before Lord Sydenham's reign<br /> +Which gave that legislative strain<br /> +To our Colonial Constitution,<br /> +And made a legal institution,<br /> +The Bill Municipal in Legislation,<br /> +The often tinkered act which rules the nation.<br /> +And James Stewart, a medico<br /> +Of the old school of long ago,<br /> +A votary of potent pill,<br /> +And lancet too for many an ill.<br /> +And not a whit more given to kill<br /> +His patients, say these truthful rhymes.<br /> +Than M.D's of more modern times,<br /> +And now I think it only fair<br /> +To mention here Doctor O'Hare,<br /> +Who of old Bytown formed a part,<br /> +And practised the assuaging art<br /> +Before the time of Scanlon's tarry,<br /> +Before the days of Edward Barry<br /> +Who in his person did combine<br /> +The medical and legal line,<br /> +Exhibiting as his degree<br /> +Upon his card J.P.M.D."<br /> +He gave to Bytown's sporting men<br /> +Such Fox-hunt as we ne'er again<br /> +Shall see; ah! 'twas a joyful day,<br /> +When Barry with tin horn away,<br /> +In glory on "Bob Logie's" back,<br /> +Followed the variegated pack<br /> +Yelping in chorus o'er the plain,<br /> +We'll never see such sport again!<br /> +Who would at length the story hear,<br /> +Can ask the Sheriff, he was there,<br /> +And bravely in his headlong way<br /> +Did "Shamrock" carry him that day,<br /> +Close in the terror stricken wake<br /> +Of Reynard, over bush and brake,<br /> +James Fraser, too, can tell the tale,<br /> +For he went over hill and dale,<br /> +And swamp and fence and ditch and bush,<br /> +Foremost in the determined rush.<br /> +To get up first and win the brush,<br /> +While loud above the yelling din,<br /> +Sounded the Doctor's horn of tin,<br /> +That hunt the public health to save<br /> +Was the best prescription e'er he gave.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +Can I, an ancient friend, pass by,<br /> +Who even to-day still greets my eye,<br /> +And brings up among modern men<br /> +The dearly cherish'd past again?<br /> +'Tis far, far back, I scarce can fix<br /> +The date, perhaps, 'twas '26,<br /> +When he, in Huntly, on a farm,<br /> +Once tried his unaccustomed arm<br /> +At work for which 'twas never made,<br /> +In that most independent trade.<br /> +He left Bucolics, trees, and all,<br /> +And moved away to Montreal,<br /> +To teach, as better him did suit,<br /> +"The young idea how to shoot."<br /> +And many a youth has blest the day<br /> +Of Alexander Workman's sway.<br /> +I'll say no more, lest I should be<br /> +Accused, perhaps, of flattery.<br /> +'Twould scarcely here be out of place<br /> +If Edward Griffin's smiling face<br /> +I should present in colors true—<br /> +In good Samaritanic view;<br /> +The patron of Joe Lee, whose name<br /> +Is known to histrionic fame;<br /> +Who play'd at Shylock on the stage,<br /> +When tragedy was more the rage<br /> +Than in this sad degenerate age.<br /> +And where art thou, my friend, George Story,<br /> +A man of yore, though not yet hoary?<br /> +The even tenor of thy way<br /> +Hast thou maintain'd for many a day;<br /> +They tell us within human range<br /> +That mortal things are given to change,<br /> +It may be so, yet thou art still<br /> +But little changed, though down the hill<br /> +Quietly gliding, still thou hast<br /> +An air about thee of the past;<br /> +Who knew thee thirty years ago<br /> +At the first glance would know thee now.<br /> +And Thomas Story—modest man—<br /> +As well as any other can,<br /> +Or, he may think, much better too,<br /> +Suit habit's taste in me or you,<br /> +In coat artistically made<br /> +According to that ancient trade,<br /> +Which had its rise in solitude,<br /> +Where Adam lived before the flood—<br /> +Is still Tom Story of the past,<br /> +Long may his life's fair measure last<br /> +And Sandy Mowat, here's a line<br /> +To thee, in memory of lang syne;<br /> +Fond wert thou of the target ground—<br /> +Fond of a rifle and a hound;<br /> +Dost thou remember Bearbrook's brink<br /> +And the old shanty without "chink,"<br /> +Or door to stop the piercing gale<br /> +That whirled along the snow-clad vale,<br /> +Where Peter McArthur, you and I,<br /> +Once slept beneath a wintry sky;<br /> +While through the roof in splendor bright<br /> +We saw the guardians of the night—<br /> +The snow-storm of the coming day—<br /> +The savage wounded buck at bay—<br /> +And how we lost and found our way?<br /> +Dost thou forget the strain of glee<br /> +That from deep slumber's arms roused thee?<br /> +Dost thou remember who did ride<br /> +The bounding wounded buck astride,<br /> +And whose the crimsoned hunting knife<br /> +That ended there the quarry's life.<br /> +Then "Eastman's Springs" were little known<br /> +To few beyond we three alone.<br /> +And Malcolm Ferguson, oh why,<br /> +Should memory's record pass thee by?<br /> +An artist of the gentle trade,<br /> +By whom Bytonians were arrayed<br /> +Most fashionably in old times.<br /> +When dross among the social crimes<br /> +Held not the rank which modern art<br /> +Hath given it in fashion's mart.<br /> +An agile fireman, danger-proof,<br /> +As ever struggled up a roof,<br /> +Or to the midnight summons sprang<br /> +When the alarm signal rang;<br /> +As cat or squirrel of active limb—<br /> +A "ridge-pole" was a street to him.<br /> +The old extinguishers of flame<br /> +Will well remember Malcolm's name.<br /> +As the long past I wander through,<br /> +Michael O'Reilly comes to view;<br /> +A man of stature, somewhat brief,<br /> +Who largely dealt of old in beef,<br /> +In that cheap time when scanty coin<br /> +Was ample for the fattest loin,<br /> +Rounds, chops, and beefsteaks were not gold<br /> +In those delightful days of old.<br /> +'Tis true the tallow-candle's light<br /> +Was all the ray that cheered the night,<br /> +Before our first assizes term<br /> +Was dignified by actual sperm—<br /> +The real thing—no "Belmont's" then<br /> +Were found among the sons of men.<br /> +Another name remembrance brings,<br /> +The muse of old John Darcey sings,<br /> +In numbers almost a magician—<br /> +A wonderful arithmetician,<br /> +Whose mode with all others "collided,"<br /> +Who added, multiplied, divided,<br /> +And even substracted by such rules<br /> +As ne'er were known or taught at schools.<br /> +No learned professor of the birch<br /> +E'er left John Darcey in the lurch;<br /> +No pedagogue was ever able<br /> +To con his arithmetic table.<br /> +And Edward Darcey—no relation—<br /> +Except in name, to old Equation,<br /> +A son of Crispin, a sole nailer,<br /> +Who owned a curly dog called "Sailor"—<br /> +A noble, liver-hue'd retriever,<br /> +Who'd make one almost a believer<br /> +In canine intellectual merit<br /> +Which dogs as well as men inherit.<br /> +Louis Pinard, in ancient times,<br /> +Was always ready with the "dimes"—<br /> +Excuse the slang—which a disgrace is—<br /> +At gallopping or trotting races,<br /> +And A.P. Lesperance beside him,<br /> +A good horse kept, and well could ride him,<br /> +When horsemanship was more in fashion<br /> +Than sitting still and laying lash on,<br /> +In four-wheeled vehicle at ease,<br /> +Which modern Jehuism doth please.<br /> +And Galipean, who kept good whiskey,<br /> +And old Jamaica to make frisky<br /> +The visitors to his retreat,<br /> +On the east side of Sussex Street,<br /> +Close to the very spot, I think,<br /> +Where now James Thompson deals in mink,<br /> +Otter and other kinds of fur,<br /> +Prime and unprime, without demur.<br /> +'Twas at this inn one afternoon<br /> +In '33, the month was June,<br /> +That Martin Hennessy once tried<br /> +On horseback up the stairs to ride.<br /> +And would have done so, but for this,<br /> +A pistol shot that did not miss,<br /> +Which gave him, oh, most foul disgrace!<br /> +A charge of buckshot in the face,<br /> +Which spoiled his beauty without doubt.<br /> +And knocked his "dexter peeper" out.<br /> +And E.S. Lyman, old cathartic!<br /> +With lengthy form and features arctic—<br /> +Dispenser of blisters, pills and potions,<br /> +Boluses and specific lotions,<br /> +And panaceas in variety<br /> +To cram the ailing to satiety—<br /> +Succeeded Auld, Apothecary,<br /> +A scientific quoiter, very,<br /> +Who righted phisiologic faults<br /> +With Calomel and Epsom Salts,<br /> +And made prescriptions up with skill<br /> +Of <i>aqua pura</i>, which doth still<br /> +Maintain its place as chief ingredient,<br /> +In every mixture, quite expedient,<br /> +He kept his drug shop at the spot<br /> +Where hospitality has got<br /> +Her Shiboleth from land of Tara,<br /> +Under the rule of Pat. O'Meara!<br /> +And Richard Kneeshaw, man of science,<br /> +Who placed in <i>reason</i> such reliance,<br /> +As made him almost think salvation<br /> +Could not be found in revelation:<br /> +Chemist and druggist by profession,<br /> +He held within his mind's possession<br /> +Vast stores of knowledge, ever breeding<br /> +Ideas new from constant reading.<br /> +And Henry Bishoprick, a wise man,<br /> +Who acted druggist and exciseman,<br /> +And seized at loaded pistol's muzzle<br /> +Contrabandistas, who could puzzle<br /> +An ordinary Gager's cunning<br /> +When tea and whiskey they were running.<br /> +And William Henry Baldwin, too,<br /> +Who first appeared in public view<br /> +At the old Albion, where in state,<br /> +Bob Graham rules the roast of late;<br /> +Son of a U.E. Loyalist,<br /> +Who found his way out of the mist<br /> +Republican which played such tricks<br /> +With loyalty in '76,<br /> +He came, as many another came<br /> +To Canada, in Britain's name,<br /> +To live his life and die beside<br /> +The flag that's still his country's pride!<br /> +Thomas Gillespie Burns, "T.G.,"<br /> +I have not quite forgotten thee;<br /> +Thou wert an early importation<br /> +From Erin's Isle, and thy migration<br /> +Did little damp in heart or hand<br /> +Thy love for the old parent land,<br /> +Who's green is greener in its pride<br /> +Of bloom than all the world beside!<br /> +Thy boast has always been true blue—<br /> +To British institutions true!<br /> +And William Rogerson, 'tis well<br /> +That I of him should something tell—<br /> +A tall, majestic, looking son<br /> +Of Caledonia—he was one,<br /> +In early times, who carried on<br /> +The lumber traffic with a will,<br /> +When such names as Price and McGill<br /> +Were standards in the staple trade<br /> +Which Bytown Ottawa hath made.<br /> +And William Dunning, who kept store<br /> +The first old County Gaol before,<br /> +Where now the Albion proudly stands<br /> +And flourishes in other hands,<br /> +And Clements Bradley, who lived near<br /> +The border long ago, was here;<br /> +An agriculturist of yore,<br /> +Who settled near the Rideau's shore,<br /> +And opened 'mid primeval trees<br /> +A pathway for the passing breeze.<br /> +Full half a century has flown<br /> +Since the first tree he tumbled down,<br /> +And yet his strength seems still unspent,<br /> +His step is firm, his back unbent.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER IX.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +Pierre Rocque, thou ancient man of stone!<br /> +I had almost let thee alone;<br /> +But 'twere not well to leave behind,<br /> +A man of such a rocky kind;<br /> +Thy Christian name is stone—that's hard,<br /> +Rock is thy surname, saith the Bard<br /> +Thou art an adamantine card.<br /> +And Baptist Cantin, too, it seems,<br /> +Appears 'mongst recollections' dreams,<br /> +A carpenter of worth and note,<br /> +Who ne'er asked sixpence for his vote.<br /> +Helaire Pinard presents his face,<br /> +And cheerfully I give him place,<br /> +A quiet, rare man, be it known,<br /> +Who minds no business but his own.<br /> +Joseph Paquette, to thee I give<br /> +A line to make thy memory live,<br /> +'Mid earliest recollections, thou<br /> +Art not the one least thought of now;<br /> +Something far better than mere fame<br /> +Is thine, it is an honest name!<br /> +Thomas E. Woodbury, who made<br /> +Tin cans and stovepipes, when the trade<br /> +And town was in an infant state,<br /> +Back in the days of '28.<br /> +And Fletcher, an old Yankee, who<br /> +Taught school and flogged his scholars, too<br /> +With a good health-inspiring cat,<br /> +My blessing on his old white hat!<br /> +Tho' scarce, entitled like the rest<br /> +By early advent, I think best<br /> +To name "The Orator of the West,"<br /> +James Spencer Lidstone, child of song,<br /> +The "man of memory," vast and long,<br /> +Who had, reader you need not start,<br /> +All Milton's Paradise by heart;<br /> +Strange mixture he of prose and rhyme,<br /> +Ridiculous, and the sublime<br /> +In him were singularly blended;<br /> +Where one began or the other ended,<br /> +It would be difficult to tell.<br /> +He played his part in each so well,<br /> +James Spencer Lidstone, fare thee well!<br /> +And 'mongst the ancient sons of fame<br /> +Who says that Dinny Cantlin's name<br /> +Does not deserve a line or two<br /> +In these old chronicles most true?<br /> +Dinny was just four feet in length,<br /> +Although a man of pith and strength,<br /> +His arm was always ready, too,<br /> +All rowdyism to subdue.<br /> +When special constable one day,<br /> +He captured in some sudden fray<br /> +A fellow six feet high, or taller,<br /> +And held him firmly by the collar;<br /> +And Dinny, as he upward gazed<br /> +At the colossus, o'er him raised,<br /> +Exclaimed, "escape now, if you can,<br /> +You're in the clutches of a man!"<br /> +Dinny had a commanding eye,<br /> +His hat was eighteen inches high<br /> +Come next to view, Denis O'Neill,<br /> +A ship carpenter, who laid the keel<br /> +Of many a vessel in his day,<br /> +And still he clinks and caulks away.<br /> +James Finch, too, who died here of late,<br /> +Was one of those of '28,<br /> +Or '27 it may be,<br /> +Comes nearer to the certainty;<br /> +James Finch sledged stoutly with a will,<br /> +In the old forge on "Major's Hill,"<br /> +In '29, he once lay still<br /> +For fifteen minutes on the ground<br /> +Insensible to sight or sound,<br /> +'Twas a stone that almost killed him quite,<br /> +In a most lively faction fight<br /> +In Bytown's celebrated fair,<br /> +When stones flew thickly through the air,<br /> +I can't forget it, I was there;<br /> +Its history I'll not jot down<br /> +Until I get to Upper Town.<br /> +And Charles Rowan, well I know,<br /> +The reader sought for him ere now,<br /> +What shall I of friend Charlie say,<br /> +Who came from Connaught all the way?<br /> +Who well can speak the celtic tongue<br /> +In which the Irish mintrels sung.<br /> +When famous Malachi of old<br /> +The collar wore of beaten gold,<br /> +Torn fiercely from the haughty Dane<br /> +By his right arm in battle slain!<br /> +Charlie is mild and full of meekness,<br /> +Horses with him have been a weakness:<br /> +A clipper spanking between traces<br /> +He used to drive at trotting races,<br /> +And then his powers of selection<br /> +In liquor almost touch perfection.<br /> +Next comes James Whitty, man of old,<br /> +Who once was a young sailor bold,<br /> +A quiet, little Wexford man,<br /> +Who warmed his jacket at Japan,<br /> +And "dashed his buttons" gaily, too,<br /> +In China with the pig-tailed crew;<br /> +Ere he in times that are no more<br /> +On Ottawa's bosom tugged an oar.<br /> +John Ashfield now in sight appears,<br /> +A gunsmith of the faded years;<br /> +Just as flint locks began to lapse,<br /> +He came in with percussion caps.<br /> +Here, too, is William Graham, the same,<br /> +Who from Fermanagh County came,<br /> +And many a hard earned shilling made<br /> +By groceries and general trade;<br /> +Father of him once called "Black Bill,"<br /> +That we might designate him still,<br /> +From him of Madawaska note,<br /> +Who oft on timber was afloat,<br /> +And who has claim in song of mine<br /> +To something o'er a passing line.<br /> +Companion of my early youth,<br /> +When time with us was young; and truth<br /> +Was all we knew in life's fair spring,<br /> +Thy name doth recollections bring<br /> +Long slumbering in "oblivions vale,"<br /> +'Till waked by memory's passing gale;<br /> +With thee I strayed in days of yore<br /> +Beside old "Goodwood's" pleasant shore;<br /> +Each unforgotten scene by thee<br /> +Is brought to life again for me;<br /> +A child again with thee I stand,<br /> +Among that childish happy band,<br /> +Who thought not, dreamt not, that the day<br /> +Of early bliss would pass away;<br /> +No retrospect can be more fair<br /> +That that I see behind me there,<br /> +Friend William Graham, I wish thee well,<br /> +But this to thee I need not tell.<br /> +Who is he with the cassock on,<br /> +Who bursts my second sight upon,<br /> +A merry twinkle in his eye,<br /> +Not sanctimonious, nor yet sly,<br /> +His country, one can scarcely miss<br /> +Such pure Hibernian brogue is his?<br /> +Tis surely Father Heron's gait,<br /> +Bytown's first priest in '28.<br /> +Close in canonical degree,<br /> +John Cannon's stately form I see,<br /> +In bigotry no stern red-tapist,<br /> +Favorite of Protestant and Papist;<br /> +A jovial blade with soul elastic,<br /> +No gloomy-faced ecclesiastic,<br /> +He ruled his congregation well,<br /> +Nor taught them that the path to hell<br /> +Was thronged by those who made digression<br /> +From penance, fasting and confession.<br /> +And there with academic birch,<br /> +Stands Anslie of the English Church,<br /> +Who preached in Hull and Bytown too,<br /> +Of old, to many a godless crew,<br /> +Assembled on each Sabbath day<br /> +To pass an idle hour away,<br /> +Though doubtless some went there to pray,<br /> +While here I pass in swift review<br /> +The reverend and pious few,<br /> +Who stood as finger posts of yore,<br /> +Pointing the way to Canaan's shore,<br /> +John Carroll surely should appear,<br /> +And take his proper station here,<br /> +An honest Wesleyan was he,<br /> +Who never knew hypocrisy.<br /> +George Poole in days more distant still,<br /> +In the little church on "Sandy Hill,"<br /> +Which gave its name to "Chapel Street,"<br /> +His congregation oft did meet.<br /> +And John C. Davidson, also,<br /> +Was one of those who long ago<br /> +'Mid primal darkness, thick and gross,<br /> +Unfurled the banner of the cross;<br /> +A Methodist both sound and prime<br /> +He was esteemed in the old time,<br /> +'Till something gave his faith a lurch,<br /> +And he bolted to the English Church,<br /> +In which 'tis said that he is quite<br /> +"A burning and a shining light."<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER X.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +And now another man I seek,<br /> +Who lived on George Street, by the creek,<br /> +Lo! memory's telescopic eye<br /> +At once John Taillon's shade brings nigh,<br /> +And as his form approaches near,<br /> +His laugh I almost seem to hear.<br /> +One of those lost with much regret,<br /> +James Leamy, I would not forget,<br /> +Though not a man of '28,<br /> +His early and untimely fate—<br /> +His merry life and tragic fall,<br /> +Are in the memory of all.<br /> +And Andrew Leamy in his time,<br /> +Was head of many a stirring "shine;"<br /> +A man of mark he might be singled,<br /> +In whom the good and bad commingled,<br /> +In equal balance in such way,<br /> +That each in turn had its sway;<br /> +He's gone! the grass grows o'er his head;<br /> +The muse deals gently with the dead.<br /> +James Devlin, where are you old man,<br /> +Whose fingers o'er the catgut ran?<br /> +Professor of the art to foil<br /> +Both "treason, stratagem and spoil,"<br /> +In days which now are but a riddle,<br /> +When William Murphy played the fiddle<br /> +So merrily, long, long ago,<br /> +To trip of "light fantastic toe."<br /> +Fond were you of the rod and line<br /> +When sport and profit did combine<br /> +In other days, when mighty Bass<br /> +And Pickerel lay upon the grass<br /> +Beside you, as with practised hand,<br /> +You hauled the scaly kings to land<br /> +Night-lines and gill-nets, may they be<br /> +Accurst—have ruined you and me!<br /> +And left us nought but "tommy cods"<br /> +As trophies for our idle rods.<br /> +Who is he with such pompous air—<br /> +Such magic curl of scented hair,<br /> +With glass stuck tightly o'er one eye<br /> +To scan the common passer by,<br /> +While every air betokens well<br /> +The presence of a "howling swell?"<br /> +'Tis Henry Howard Burgess, O!<br /> +To him Dundreary's self were slow.<br /> +And Thomas Burgess, too, was here,<br /> +A swell, though not quite so severe.<br /> +And the two Johnston's, born twins,<br /> +As like each other as two pins,<br /> +Clerks in the Ordnance Office were<br /> +And surely a most proper pair.<br /> +John Grant, too, who quite early came,<br /> +A constable of ancient fame,<br /> +Who kept the peace, right well, 'tis true,<br /> +When he had nothing else to do.<br /> +Few were the summonses he got,<br /> +Warrants fell seldom to his lot;<br /> +The town was not by courts infested,<br /> +People liked not to be arrested,<br /> +And seldom were—for to the Ring<br /> +Complainants did their troubles bring,<br /> +And there found justice, sometimes too much<br /> +Redress, of which they oft did rue much.<br /> +J.B. Lavois, with thee I close<br /> +My lengthy memories of those<br /> +I knew of old in Lower Town,<br /> +Though last, not least in size, I own.<br /> +A butcher of the olden time,<br /> +Who furnished roasts and steaks most prime,<br /> +In the old George Street Market House,<br /> +Where cats held many a grand carouse,<br /> +Ere rats to Bytown emigrated<br /> +In swarms pestiferous and hated.<br /> +And if I have forgotten one,<br /> +Whom memory could not fasten on,<br /> +Let him feel no neglecting smart,<br /> +I have not passed him with my heart,<br /> +I've done my best 'neath friendship's spoil,<br /> +So Lower Bytown now farewell!<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h2>UPPER TOWN.</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +And now, kind reader, westward ho!<br /> +Across the Sappers' Bridge we go;<br /> +When first in youth I cross'd it o'er,<br /> +The arch was wood, "and nothing more"—<br /> +As Edgar A. Poe doth remark<br /> +About that raven big and dark—<br /> +The wooden span, I mean, stretched o'er<br /> +The channel's width from shore to shore,<br /> +On which skilled artificers laid<br /> +The arch of stone, so truly made,<br /> +And strong, that it to-day appears,<br /> +After the crush of forty years<br /> +And more, impervious to decay,<br /> +As if 'twere built but yesterday.<br /> +I stand upon the western side,<br /> +And see in all its verdant pride<br /> +The hill crowned with its ancient trees,<br /> +Who's foliage rustled in the breeze<br /> +For centuries, all branching wide,<br /> +Standing untouched on every side;<br /> +A spot where the Algonquin <i>magi</i>,<br /> +May have reclined "<i>sub tegmine fagi</i>;"<br /> +For when across the Sapper's Bridge,<br /> +The prospect was a fine beech ridge,<br /> +And "Gibson's corner," in old time,<br /> +For squirrel hunting was most prime,<br /> +"Prime" is a somewhat slangy phrase<br /> +For these high philologic days,<br /> +And in connexion, be it stated,<br /> +With a spot to science dedicated.<br /> +J.H.P. Gibson's astral lecture<br /> +Will place this fact beyond conjecture.<br /> +Bound that old spot now thronged by all,<br /> +Has many a chipmonk met his fall<br /> +By dart from youthful sportsman's bow,<br /> +Which laid the striped beech-nutter low.<br /> +No central Ottawa was then,<br /> +As now, resort of busy men—<br /> +The first stone of our centre town<br /> +By Mason's hand was not laid down;<br /> +A forest path across the hill<br /> +To Bank Street led—the place was still;<br /> +No noisy vehicle passed there,<br /> +The dwellers of the wood to scare.<br /> +The road for carriages led round<br /> +Old Bytown's ancient burial ground,<br /> +Upon the hill's south eastern base,<br /> +Of which there is not now a trace;<br /> +And spreading off in endless green<br /> +To the canal the bush was seen—<br /> +The ancient forest—then the deer<br /> +To Bank Street Church's site was near,<br /> +And ruffed-grouse, wrongly named partridges,<br /> +Whirled and drum'd between the ridges,<br /> +Black ducks and Teal did oft alight<br /> +In ponds round Corkstown from their flight,<br /> +And when the swamp down Slater Street<br /> +Was cleared, a dozen snipes would greet<br /> +At every step the sportman's eye,<br /> +O! glorious spot of days gone by.<br /> +To listen, ah! 'twas splendid fun!<br /> +To Commissary Oriel's gun,<br /> +As with a quick well practiced eye<br /> +He made the quivering feathers fly!<br /> +There was not then one cabin sill<br /> +Laid down on famed Ashburnham Hill,<br /> +Who's heights with pine and hemlock crowned,<br /> +Towered o'er the wooded landscape round.<br /> +Then Bradish Billings farmed away<br /> +Where his descendants live to-day,<br /> +A man of enterprising fame,<br /> +Who from the land of pumpkin's came,<br /> +And pitched his tent in honor's track<br /> +Beneath the glorious Union Jack!<br /> +Then Colonel By was in a jam<br /> +Erecting the first hogsback dam,<br /> +Which vanished with Spring's sweeping flood;<br /> +But science made the structure good<br /> +By the advice of one, no civil<br /> +Engineer, with whom a level<br /> +Or other instrument of science,<br /> +Had not the most remote alliance.<br /> +'Twas built as he proposed—I'm sorry<br /> +His name from memory I can't worry,<br /> +If Lyman Perkins was beside me,<br /> +To it he certainly could guide me.<br /> +For he has got, of ancient bore,<br /> +A well authenticated store.<br /> +Now first among our old landmarks,<br /> +Comes Laird of Bytown, Nicholas Sparks,<br /> +Who came across in '26<br /> +From Hull, his lucky fate to fix<br /> +Upon a bush farm which he bought<br /> +For sixty pounds—and little thought,<br /> +While grumbling at a price so high,<br /> +That fortune had not passed him by.<br /> +He little dreamed of Ottawa now,<br /> +When 'mongst the stumps his wooden plough<br /> +Stir'd the first sod in times of old;<br /> +He knew not then, that 'twas not mould<br /> +He turne'd up, and tilled, but gold.<br /> +'Tis not my business here to flatter,<br /> +Or with enconiums to bespatter<br /> +The shadows of departed men<br /> +Whom we shall never see again.<br /> +Yet I may say, who knew him well,<br /> +And of him would not falsehood tell,<br /> +That as poor human nature ran,<br /> +He was an honest upright man,<br /> +"Close fisted" as the need occurred,<br /> +Yet one who always kept his word.<br /> +Whate'er the cost—I say no more<br /> +Of Nicholas Sparks—who for the shore<br /> +Unknown, has shaken out his sail<br /> +Where riches are of no avail<br /> +To win calm sea or favoring gale<br /> +And Lyman Perkins, what of thee,<br /> +Will pass for current coin from me?<br /> +Thou art a man of early date—<br /> +Of '27 or '28—<br /> +in Bytown's history, and 'tis said,<br /> +Though hard to drive, thou may'st be led,<br /> +That is, if one could just agree<br /> +In view and argument with thee;<br /> +When standing in the days of yore<br /> +At "Pooley's Bridge," thine eye ran o'er<br /> +The picture with a prescient glance;<br /> +Experience taught thee that thy chance<br /> +Was then—thy foresight came<br /> +To aid thee in life's winning game.<br /> +Although no silver spoon was in<br /> +Thy mouth, when to this world of sin<br /> +Thou camest, thou hast forged from fate<br /> +A path in life most fortunate;<br /> +To praise thee I shall take no pains,<br /> +Thy enterprise has brought thee gains—<br /> +'Tis something to be born with brains!<br /> +Daniel O'Connor there doth stand,<br /> +One of the old departed band—<br /> +Another of the pioneers<br /> +Of Bytown in its early years;<br /> +In memory's magic glass I see<br /> +Him as he first appeared to me<br /> +In '28 when passing down<br /> +Through the main street in Upper Town.<br /> +A merchant of a distant date<br /> +Before the days of '28,<br /> +And County Treasurer was he,<br /> +Long, too, a Carleton J.P.,<br /> +Ere Courts of Justice were installed,<br /> +When Bytown "Nepean Point" was called;<br /> +In politics he was a Tory,<br /> +And thus doth end of him my story.<br /> +Nathaniel Sherrold Blasdell, too,<br /> +Who once a blacksmith's bellows blew<br /> +In the old forge, which in the shade<br /> +Of the Russell House still undecayed,<br /> +Stands firm a landmark of the past,<br /> +How long will such old memories last?<br /> +He, too, was one of those who's hand<br /> +Built up the bulwarks of the land,<br /> +I say unto such men as he,<br /> +<i>Requiescat in pace</i>.<br /> +And Doctor Rankin, there he goes,<br /> +With solemn brow and turned out toes<br /> +Upon his mottled bob-tailed horse,<br /> +Who's canter said, the patients worse,<br /> +Or better, as the trusty steed<br /> +Did indicate by passing speed.<br /> +John Burrows, too, with serious air,<br /> +Sung hymns and offered frequent prayer,<br /> +And taught a Sunday School with might,<br /> +To spread religion's early light,<br /> +He held a post in other years<br /> +Among the Royal Engineers,<br /> +With Colonel By, a right-hand man,<br /> +His course of favor he began,<br /> +And once owned much of the wild land<br /> +Upon which Ottawa doth stand.<br /> +John Ghitty is a favorite name,<br /> +His old hotel was known to fame,<br /> +And travellers from far and near,<br /> +Called at his temple of good cheer.<br /> +A mason of most high degree,<br /> +In the craft's early dawn was he.<br /> +So much respected was he here,<br /> +That unbought friendship o'er his bier<br /> +Shed many a sad regretful tear.<br /> +And surly old James Doran, too,<br /> +A warrior of Waterloo,<br /> +Kept with a despot's iron hand,<br /> +The best hotel in all the land;<br /> +Who entered there of human kind<br /> +Was forced to leave his dog behind,<br /> +For Doran had a frowning face<br /> +For each and all the canine race.<br /> +And Daniel Fisher, who kept store<br /> +On Wellington's west side of yore,<br /> +A most experienced auctioneer<br /> +In somewhat more contracted sphere,<br /> +Than circles trade's expanding flow<br /> +Round Bermingham, McLean and Rowe<br /> +And Michael Burke, who kept a still—<br /> +And made beer down below the hill<br /> +Where malt and hops together came,<br /> +And gave the "Brewery Hill" its name—<br /> +That hill with pathway to the right,<br /> +Where Bank Street ends upon the height.<br /> +And many a barrel of his beer<br /> +Went down, the Irish heart to cheer,<br /> +When ancient crowds did celebrate<br /> +St. Patrick's Day in '28.<br /> +But patriotism's spirit rose;<br /> +From words contention went to blows,<br /> +And ere the little "scrimmage" ended<br /> +A crack that never could be mended,<br /> +Was in a luckless cranium made,<br /> +By one whom justice never paid;<br /> +I cannot tell what colored ribbon<br /> +He wore—his name was Dan McGibbon.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +George William Baker, better known<br /> +As "Captain Baker" in the town.<br /> +Who oft the mailbag's lock untied<br /> +Long after Matthew Connell died—<br /> +Long after Helen Denny's hand<br /> +Sent postal letters o'er the land;<br /> +An Englishman of good degree,<br /> +A Justice of the Peace was he,<br /> +And Captain of Artillery—<br /> +If memory has not gone astray—<br /> +He was in his life's early day,<br /> +He shewed his claims to education<br /> +In County Council legislation,<br /> +Where he in intellectual pride<br /> +Sat long by Hamnett Pinhey's side,<br /> +Our Local Parliament's since then<br /> +Have seldom witnessed two such men<br /> +Paymaster Rudyerd, too, I scan,<br /> +A most important gentleman,<br /> +Who carried in the days of old<br /> +The Governmental bags of gold;<br /> +Yet never did one less resemble<br /> +He, of the twelve who did dissemble,<br /> +And for the thirty pieces paid,<br /> +His master cruelly betrayed.<br /> +And John McCarthy, who can say<br /> +That he's a man of yesterday?<br /> +Through the dim maze of vanished year<br /> +His name to memory appears,<br /> +A dealer in strong leather ware<br /> +That stood the worst of wear and tear<br /> +Since paths of '27 he trod,<br /> +His eye hath seen the grassy sod<br /> +O'er many a friend—let's hope no foe—<br /> +With whom he started long ago,<br /> +In the long race down life's steep hill<br /> +On which he treads securely still.<br /> +Captain Letreton, too, I see,<br /> +An officer of high degree.<br /> +The owner, ere the days of rats,<br /> +Of that wide district called "the Flats"<br /> +In modern times, where I behold,<br /> +A pinery as in days of old.<br /> +And Isaac Firth, an old John Bull,<br /> +Of milk of human kindness full,<br /> +Of rotund form and smiling face,<br /> +Who kept an entertaining place<br /> +For travel-worn and weary fellows<br /> +Who landed where Caleb S. Bellows,<br /> +Out on "the Point" his habitation<br /> +Built in a pleasant situation,<br /> +Before the days when piles of lumber<br /> +Did first fair nature's face encumber;<br /> +Quite near the spot where first with skill<br /> +John Perkins built his little mill,<br /> +Where Philip Thompson many a year<br /> +Ago, commenced his bright career,<br /> +And took the ebbing of the tide,<br /> +Which into golden waves did glide;<br /> +He man'd his craft and steered her well<br /> +O'er placid calm and tossing swell,<br /> +And independent of the gale<br /> +Hath snap'd his oar and furled his sail.<br /> +'Twas just above "the whitefish hole,"<br /> +How dear that spot is to my soul!<br /> +There Allan Cameron and I<br /> +Together many a day did hie,<br /> +To haul the silvery shining prey<br /> +From out the whirling eddy's spray;<br /> +In July, '32, to land,<br /> +I drew two barrels with my own hand,<br /> +The trophies of the hook and line<br /> +In the dear days of auld lang syne<br /> +That was the fatal month and year<br /> +When cholera was rampant here;<br /> +Malignant Asiatic type,<br /> +Which from the book of life did wipe<br /> +The name of many a sturdy one<br /> +'Twixt rise and setting of the sun.<br /> +Dread terror brooded o'er the land,<br /> +While the destroying angel's hand<br /> +Smote here and there each deadly blow,<br /> +Which laid in dust the proudest low!<br /> +As I remember—those fared worst,<br /> +Who in that dismal time were curst<br /> +With dangerous and insatiate thirst.<br /> +And H.V. Noel, surely here<br /> +His name is worthy to appear;<br /> +'Mongst those whom I so long have known,<br /> +Tis strange that he has not outgrown<br /> +The friendship of the early few<br /> +Into who's confidence he grew,<br /> +By the unchanging honest course<br /> +He steered for better or for worse,<br /> +Well has he worn, long may he bear<br /> +Up stoutly 'gainst the world's care!<br /> +John Cruickshank of the kirk, who prayed<br /> +Beneath the old white birch's shade—<br /> +The old white birch—that sacred trust!<br /> +Improvement's hand hath to the dust<br /> +Upturned to make frontal space<br /> +For temple of more modern grace,<br /> +A grander altar than of yore,<br /> +The ancient "Black mouth's" knelt before.<br /> +And Robert Sheriff, stately man,<br /> +Who the Crown Timber Office "ran"—<br /> +To use a well worn Yankee phrase<br /> +Unknown in Bytown's early days.<br /> +And A.J. Christie, what shall I<br /> +Say of this old celebrity?<br /> +An M.D. of exceeding skill<br /> +Who dealt in lancet, leech and pill,<br /> +Cantharides and laudanum, too,<br /> +When milder measures would not do;<br /> +A polished scholar and a sage,<br /> +A thinker far before his age,<br /> +A writer of sarcastic vein<br /> +And philosophic depth, who's train<br /> +Of thought was comprehensive, deep,<br /> +Peace to his ashes! let him sleep!<br /> +In ancient times his prophet eye<br /> +Saw Bytown's future destiny,<br /> +Fools laughed and disbelieved the seer<br /> +Who's second sight saw triumph near—<br /> +A scene which fortune did fulfil<br /> +The Parliament on "Barrack Hill!"<br /> +And Lawyer Hagerman I knew,<br /> +When lawyers little had to do—<br /> +Their briefs were few, their fees were brief,<br /> +And brief had been their Sunday beef,<br /> +Had they nought else to fill their maw<br /> +Than the proceeds of briefless law;<br /> +For litigation had not then<br /> +Curst Bytown's early race of men!<br /> +And Robert Drummond, Engineer,<br /> +Who built across the "<i>Grande Chaudiere</i>"<br /> +The old "Swing Bridge," which many a day<br /> +Amid the "Kettle's" curling spray,<br /> +From side to side did gently sway.<br /> +The adamantine iron tether<br /> +Which chained two provinces together,<br /> +Ere legislation's fiat came<br /> +With moral might to do the same.<br /> +Well's and McCrea of lumbering note,<br /> +Who had on many a stream afloat<br /> +Vast rafts of red pine timber, when<br /> +White pine was little thought of; then<br /> +Oak, elm, cedar and red pine<br /> +And staves, together did combine,<br /> +With now and then a mast or spar,<br /> +To make up what would go at par,<br /> +At Stadacona—old Quebec—<br /> +Where brave Montgomery got a check<br /> +In a most bootless, foolish strife,<br /> +Which cost him his undaunted life—<br /> +Where Arnold got a broken thigh,<br /> +Ere at West Point his treachery<br /> +Brought Major Andre without hope<br /> +To Washington's relentless rope!<br /> +To Wolfe I'd like to wander back,<br /> +But 'twill not do, so to my track<br /> +I now reluctantly return,<br /> +Who next is ready for the urn?<br /> +Adam Hood Burwell is the man,<br /> +An English Churchman he began,<br /> +But ended a most shining light,<br /> +A mystic, full-fledged Irvingite,<br /> +With pinions rustling for a sphere<br /> +Of usefulness he found not here.<br /> +Another of the reverend throng<br /> +I'll introduce, 'tis S.S. Strong,<br /> +A man who's memory I recall<br /> +As one respected here by all,<br /> +An honor to his cloth and race,<br /> +With whom no strange fire left its trace,<br /> +Upon the shrine where truth he found,<br /> +Who preached and practiced precepts sound,<br /> +Nor wore his shoes on hallowed ground.<br /> +William and Hugh Calder's names<br /> +Arise, and now present their claims<br /> +To immortality in rhyme,<br /> +Both merchants of the olden time.<br /> +John Anderson, a merchant was,<br /> +And dealt with profit and with loss<br /> +In groceries and dainty "grub,"<br /> +With wine, Jamaica, rum and shrub,<br /> +That had no leaves upon its stem,<br /> +Though beads like dewdrops did begem<br /> +Its ruby rippling diadem.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +"And "Little Johnny Robertson,"<br /> +But lately from amongst us gone,<br /> +Took both his "sneeshin" and his glass,<br /> +And let the tide of fortune pass.<br /> +And Ewen Cameron, who died<br /> +By cholera in manhood's pride;<br /> +A Caledonian lithe and strong,<br /> +As fancy paints the dauntless throng,<br /> +Who dashed with claymore down the slope,<br /> +On red Culloden's grave of hope.<br /> +And Peter Aylen, who could tell<br /> +The path he trod of yore as well<br /> +As I, who from an early day<br /> +Knew Peter Aylen's every way?<br /> +'Tis not my purpose to indite<br /> +A history of his life; or write<br /> +A record of his strange career,<br /> +To interest the reader here.<br /> +Howe'er his stirring life you scan,<br /> +You'll find that Aylen was a man!<br /> +Afraid of nought that ever wore<br /> +The human shape on Ottawa's shore!<br /> +Chief of the "shiners," it was said,<br /> +Cæsar or nothing—never led—<br /> +But always foremost in the fray,<br /> +Was ever Peter Aylen's way.<br /> +A heavy lumberer Peter was,<br /> +When lumbering was like pitch and toss,<br /> +To-day success, to-morrow loss.<br /> +But let him rest, he sleeps beside<br /> +The Ottawa's majestic tide!<br /> +Perhaps I'd better mention here<br /> +Who and what the "shiners" were,<br /> +Who gave of yore such sturdy thumps,<br /> +And brought forth phrenologic bumps<br /> +Unknown to scan of craniology,<br /> +With bludgeons or aid of geology.<br /> +A band of Irish raftsmen, who<br /> +Were to each other always true,<br /> +Combined together, war they made,<br /> +To banish from the lumber trade<br /> +All French-Canadian competition<br /> +By dooming it to abolition;<br /> +They made the wild attempt, at least,<br /> +To extirpate poor Jean Baptiste.<br /> +Among their victims they enrol'd him,<br /> +And made the place too hot to hold him,<br /> +Yet were the tales that rumor told,<br /> +Worse than the shiners' acts of old,<br /> +Though memory's charged with many a fray<br /> +That happened in the early day,<br /> +When shiners with an iron hand<br /> +Reigned here the terror of the land!<br /> +Few were the victims of the strife—<br /> +If any—and the loss of life,<br /> +Was fanciful much more than real<br /> +In that blood-letting old ordeal.<br /> +Among the medico's of old,<br /> +Doctor Stratford I behold,<br /> +Who foolishly I thought deemed best<br /> +To emigrate towards the West,<br /> +And leave behind a work which few<br /> +Could with a single lancet do<br /> +When venesection—old idea,<br /> +Combined with the Phamacopeiæ<br /> +Was patent as a panacea<br /> +For almost every mortal ill,<br /> +Like calomel jalap, or blue pill.<br /> +He disappeared from healing fame,<br /> +And young Edward Vancortlandt came;<br /> +For he was young and active, too,<br /> +When first he met the minstrel's view,<br /> +And striding rapidly did go<br /> +Along full forty years ago!<br /> +VanCortlandt's had a long career<br /> +Since first he bled and blistered here;<br /> +His own hand hath his fortune made—<br /> +His own hand the foundation laid—<br /> +And if success, with hoards of wealth<br /> +He has not now—the public health<br /> +Has never suffered at his hand;<br /> +Nor has the mystic spirit land<br /> +Been peopled by the shades of those<br /> +Who in their last dissolving throes,<br /> +Gave evidence that power to kill<br /> +Was mingled with Vancortlandt's skill—<br /> +When to that distant coast he'll steer,<br /> +No crowd of ghosts will hover near,<br /> +And cry out. "Van, you sent us here!"<br /> +Edward McGillivray, how is this,<br /> +That I by accident should miss<br /> +So long an ancient name like thine,<br /> +'Twould be unpardonable, if mine<br /> +The fault to leave thy well-known name<br /> +Unwritten in my roll of fame?<br /> +Bytown was young, and so wert thou,<br /> +Years long before the "Shannon's" prow<br /> +Cleft Ottawa's bosom on her way<br /> +To Grenville in our early day.<br /> +No steam whistle's discordant yell<br /> +Shrieked on the evening zephyr's swell;<br /> +But from her deck the cannon's din<br /> +Told Bytown that the boat was in,<br /> +And at the sound the signal man<br /> +His banner up the flagstaff ran.<br /> +It was a good old time when thou<br /> +Bought beavers at a price which now,<br /> +When beaver skins are somewhat rare,<br /> +Would cause even Chauncey Bangs to stare.<br /> +Yes, 'twas a fine old time for trade,<br /> +Money was plenty—easy made,<br /> +And thou wert, aye, a canine blade.<br /> +Patrick Delaney home has gone<br /> +From earthly toil, and he was one<br /> +Of those who in the distant past,<br /> +His lot in Upper Town had cast.<br /> +James Elder, a majestic Scot!<br /> +On whom of old it was my lot<br /> +To look with veneration's eye.<br /> +Kept Bytown's staid academy;<br /> +And here I dwell with fond delight,<br /> +And view again with memory's sight<br /> +The stately teacher in his chair,<br /> +King of the throng assembled there.<br /> +Now Allan Cameron comes to view,<br /> +And William Stubbs, there he is too.<br /> +Wellington Wright, too, I behold,<br /> +And wild Jack Adamson, the bold.<br /> +The Anderson's, both James and John,<br /> +And Stephen Lett, my mother's son,<br /> +Who stood upon Parnassus' crown<br /> +By might of Genius, and looked down<br /> +To where with errant steps I strayed<br /> +Around its base beneath the shade.<br /> +And many more were pupils there,<br /> +Where are they? "echo answers, where?"<br /> +In fancy I away have stepped<br /> +From where his school James Elder kept,<br /> +In that old house remembered well,<br /> +After, as Joseph Kirk's Hotel,<br /> +Ere it was haunted by a sound<br /> +Which shed such melody around,<br /> +Sweet almost as the songs of Zion,<br /> +From violin of Robinson Lyon,<br /> +Who drew such music from its strings,<br /> +Scotch reels, strathspeys and highland flings,<br /> +And Irish jigs in variation,<br /> +As made one feel that "all creation"<br /> +Could scarcely match his wizard spell,<br /> +'Twas he that played the fiddle well!<br /> +And Edward Malloch, gone to rest,<br /> +Was not the worst, nor yet the best,<br /> +Perhaps, 'mongst those of other days<br /> +To whom I dedicate these lays.<br /> +I knew him well in '25,<br /> +When Richmond Village was alive,<br /> +While Bytown's head was scarcely seen,<br /> +Emerging from the forest green.<br /> +A captain of Artillery<br /> +In '37's hot time was he,<br /> +When Louis Joseph Papineau<br /> +Sought British power to overthrow;<br /> +And William L. McKenzie tried<br /> +O'er loyalty and truth to ride;<br /> +Each found the path, for what he wanted,<br /> +Too hot to walk in—and "levanted;"<br /> +Von Shoultz, a soldier abler, riper,<br /> +Remained behind and "paid the piper!"<br /> +Even I, poetic man of peace,<br /> +Have often marched and stood at ease,<br /> +Beside the Richmond guns, brought here<br /> +To thunder o'er the <i>Grande Chaudière</i>,<br /> +At the great Union celebration,<br /> +The new bridge's inauguraton;<br /> +One thing is certain, those brass guns<br /> +Were ne'er seen more by Richmond's sons.<br /> +They fell prey to official nabbing,<br /> +And Governmental red tape grabbing,<br /> +Like plunder from the vanquished harried,<br /> +To Montreal off they were carried!<br /> +Malloch was member many a year<br /> +For Carleton when votes were not dear—<br /> +When damaged eyes, and smashed proboscis<br /> +Would follow, as the smallest losses.<br /> +The offer of a vile bank note<br /> +As price of an elector's vote.<br /> +Gold, said the sage, perhaps 'twas law,<br /> +On Dian's lap the snow can thaw;<br /> +And gold has purchased many a seat<br /> +Where the "collective wisdom" meet,<br /> +And many go to represent<br /> +The weight of cash corrupt which sent<br /> +Them wandering wickedly astray<br /> +From honor's seldom trodden way.<br /> +Where now, is Turner, who of yore,<br /> +Kept school near the old Ottawa's shore?<br /> +And Heath who came across the line<br /> +In able teaching here to shine?<br /> +And old John Stilman, who shoes made,<br /> +And flourished in St. Crispin's trade?<br /> +William McCullough, where is he?<br /> +Gone to the unknown country—<br /> +A steady, harmless, quiet man,<br /> +Who here in '32 began<br /> +A race unmixed with hate or strife,<br /> +Which ended only with his life.<br /> +And Reuben Traveller, who's tongue<br /> +Oft in the old assizes rung—<br /> +Though given to mirth, a wondrous crier,<br /> +Who lived near John Sweetman, the dyer<br /> +'Twas all the same, for either side<br /> +Or both old Reuben Traveller cried—<br /> +Cried for the man who won law's race—<br /> +Cried for the man who lost his case—<br /> +Cried for the criminal acquitted—<br /> +Cried for the guilty when outwitted—<br /> +He cried for loss or gain of pelf—<br /> +For every one except himself;<br /> +Reuben was a celebrity,<br /> +We seldom meet with such as he.<br /> +John Rochester, a man of old,<br /> +Who's life a tale of goodness told,<br /> +He steered through time from envy free,<br /> +You'd scarcely find an enemy,<br /> +Who o'er his honored dust would dare<br /> +Defame the ashes resting there;<br /> +For such as he laws ne'er were made,<br /> +Peace to his gentle vanished shade!<br /> +Well, will it be for James and John<br /> +If they walk the same path upon<br /> +Which their departed sire trod<br /> +With love alike to man and God!<br /> +James Joynt is 'mong the living yet<br /> +A printer of the old <i>Gazette</i>.<br /> +Who plied the typographic trade<br /> +Ably in Bytown's first decade.<br /> +And taught the art of Caxton well,<br /> +And thoroughly to John George Bell,<br /> +Who in our village made a racket,<br /> +In the old columns of the <i>Packet</i>,<br /> +Where every one got "tit for tat"<br /> +From dear departed "Old White Hat!"<br /> +Who thought Reformers could not err,<br /> +And laid the lash on Dawson Kerr,<br /> +Whom he in bitter hues did paint<br /> +A sinner, and called him "the saint."<br /> +A journal of more modern date<br /> +Than the <i>Gazette</i>, who's early fate,<br /> +Was Phoenix-like to rise resplendent<br /> +From ashes of the <i>Independent</i>,<br /> +Which had at periods now and then,<br /> +Emitted Sparks from Johnston's pen,<br /> +Which meteor-like shot forth in pride,<br /> +Blazed, flickered, then collapsed and died.<br /> +And Robert Hardy's name I find,<br /> +In the old days long left behind.<br /> +James Matthews, too, in death's repose,<br /> +In early times was one of those<br /> +Who helped to build the ancient town,<br /> +Which modern taste is pulling down,<br /> +Assisted now and then by fires,<br /> +Past recollections primal pyres.<br /> +John Bennett, cord-wainer of yore,<br /> +And volunteer in Rifle corps,<br /> +With muzzle-loaders past and gone,<br /> +Gallant and brave old Number One!<br /> +Our civic army's primal rib,<br /> +Once called by Alexander Gibb,<br /> +"The Sleepy's," in the good old time<br /> +When he dealt in both prose and rhyme,<br /> +And made opponents fume and fret<br /> +With caustic in the old <i>Gazette</i>—<br /> +Rhyme, too, in which a critic's claw<br /> +Could scarcely fasten on a flaw,<br /> +His verse was standard like his law.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +John Cobb, I'll take a glance at thee,<br /> +Firm standard of Free Masonry!<br /> +Mine eye delights to rest upon<br /> +Thy iron frame, old "Uncle John."<br /> +If honesty and simple truth<br /> +E'er "flourished in Immortal youth,"<br /> +Where time can ne'er their glories rob,<br /> +They rest with thee, my friend, John Cobb!<br /> +And Dudley Booth, what shall I say<br /> +Of this strange mortal passed away?<br /> +His was a genius burning bright<br /> +With brilliant and uncertain light—<br /> +Proud in inventive dignity,<br /> +And dark in inmate mystery,<br /> +It flickered only, when sublime,<br /> +It might have left a light for time,<br /> +And wondering mortals to admire,<br /> +Tis gone! I saw its flame expire.<br /> +And John R. Stanley was among<br /> +Old Bytown's well remembered throng,<br /> +Whom memory's tuneful measure bears<br /> +Back from the shades of other years.<br /> +R.W. Cruice in ancient days<br /> +Was fond of mirth and sporting ways;<br /> +I had almost forgot to tell<br /> +How he on horseback cut a swell,<br /> +And made a fleet and daring rush<br /> +At Barry's hunt and won "the brush,"<br /> +When sportsmen gathered full of glee<br /> +Around the famed J.P., M.D.<br /> +And here diverging from my road<br /> +Into a little episode,<br /> +I'll tear at once with gesture brief<br /> +From memory's book a comic leaf,<br /> +A tale from cobweb's volume hoary<br /> +Of this Sangrado in his glory,<br /> +Many will recollect the story.<br /> +Edward Barry, grave J.P.,<br /> +Sometimes was given to a spree,<br /> +Which interfered with the precision<br /> +Of magisterial decision.<br /> +So Edward Barry jumped the hedge<br /> +And took the frigid temperance pledge;<br /> +But soon the Justice of the Peace<br /> +Found himself often ill at ease;<br /> +Pains through his gastric regions ran,<br /> +Too hard even for a temperance man.<br /> +Then Barry M.D., in a trice,<br /> +Gave Barry J.P. an advice,<br /> +After a careful diagnosis,<br /> +Which placed him on a bed of roses,<br /> +And eased his pains beyond description—<br /> +A dose of brandy the prescription—<br /> +Oft as required to be repeated—<br /> +With which the learned J.P. was treated;<br /> +And history affirms that he<br /> +Oft took the prescribed remedy.<br /> +John Cameron, oft called "Black John,"<br /> +Comes o'er my dream of old, as one<br /> +Who should not now forgotten be<br /> +In this memorial strain by me,<br /> +In days of yore, his true-nosed hounds<br /> +To the Chaudiere with certain bounds,<br /> +Oft chased the anther'd buck before<br /> +Their deep-mouthed yells to Ottawa's shore.<br /> +He was a sportsman keen and true,<br /> +Who dearly loved the "view halloo!"<br /> +And Graves, who near the old Scotch Kirk<br /> +Dwelt 'neath the shadow of the "birk;"<br /> +And Isaac Cluff appears in view,<br /> +A loyalist, both staunch and true;<br /> +James "Kennedy, the carter," too,<br /> +Who the first truck through Bytown drew<br /> +With the assistance of a horse,<br /> +I mean, to be exact, of course.<br /> +And "old Ben. Rathwell," now I've hit on,<br /> +A true and honest hearted Briton,<br /> +As ever crossed Atlantic's wave<br /> +To found a home and find a grave.<br /> +And William Colter now doth rise<br /> +Before my retrospective eyes,<br /> +A saddler far from democratic—<br /> +Professor most aristocratic,<br /> +In art which claims the highest feather<br /> +Among the fashioners of leather;<br /> +An active springing step had he<br /> +As now his form appears to me;<br /> +Early he went to that far bourne<br /> +"From whence no travellers return."<br /> +Thomas M. Blasdell, step this way,<br /> +And tell me how you feel to-day?<br /> +You thought I'd pass and let you go,<br /> +Old twisted groove! but 'tis not so,<br /> +Like charcoal, brimstone and salpetre.<br /> +I'll touch you off now in short metre.<br /> +'Tis long since first your eye, my man,<br /> +Along the rifle barrel ran;<br /> +The "crotch" or "globe" was all the same,<br /> +If you could only see the game.<br /> +Or the "bulls-eye," the missile flew<br /> +Into its centre straight and true,<br /> +In the old days when practiced eye<br /> +Was light, shade and trajectory.<br /> +Does your keen eye obey your will,<br /> +Is your hand quite as steady still<br /> +As when you knocked the turkey's o'er,<br /> +At twenty rods in days of yore?<br /> +My blessing day and night upon<br /> +The memory of the time that's gone.<br /> +And Sergeant Major Ritchie, there<br /> +He stands before my vision, where<br /> +In youth I used to see him stand<br /> +On Barrack Hill with cane in hand.<br /> +For many a year ere death's disaster<br /> +He held the post of Barrack Master,<br /> +And amongst people who reflected<br /> +Most highly always was respected.<br /> +I had almost forgotten one<br /> +Who's name should not be left alone<br /> +In dark oblivion's envious shade<br /> +While I the silent past invade—<br /> +To light up the forgotten gloom;<br /> +To rescue from time's early tomb<br /> +And touch with friendly hand, and give<br /> +To fading memories power to live.<br /> +'Mongst men of enterprising fame,<br /> +I can't pass George Buchanan's name;<br /> +He built our first old timber slide,<br /> +Down which the red pine cribs did glide;<br /> +And afterwards with strength and skill,<br /> +And an indomitable will,<br /> +At the great Rapids of the <i>Chats</i>,<br /> +Suspended nature's changeless laws,<br /> +And by an artificial path<br /> +Triumphed o'er the cataract's wrath!<br /> +While standing quietly on shore,<br /> +Watching the freight the current bore,<br /> +A sudden crash from careless oar<br /> +Ended his enterprising life,<br /> +And made a widow of his wife.<br /> +The public mourned, its great heart bled,<br /> +With genuine sorrow for the dead.<br /> +'Tis but as yesterday to me,<br /> +The history of that tragedy.<br /> +Ere to the fair green now I go,<br /> +I'll stir up the old "Buffalo."<br /> +John Heney, who his mark has made<br /> +In speculation's shifting trade,<br /> +And built up with both brick and stone,<br /> +Memorials, which, when he is gone,<br /> +In Ottawa will securely stand,<br /> +Proofs of his enterprising hand.<br /> +Some years ago in learned debate,<br /> +In Council Hall he sat in state.<br /> +And in his record there you'll find,<br /> +Nothing unfriendly or unkind.<br /> +And while as gently I jog on,<br /> +I cannot, pass by "honest John!"<br /> +"Shaun Rhua," designating name,<br /> +Who from the County Cavan came,<br /> +And in the Upper Town first started.<br /> +Young, enterprising, and light hearted.<br /> +At Civic Board for many a year,<br /> +For By Ward doth his name appear;<br /> +And I can say, who ought to know,<br /> +As far as my researches go,<br /> +No public act has stain left on<br /> +The well-earned name of "honest John!"<br /> +Turk, Jew, and heathen all the same,<br /> +Speak kindly of John Heney's name.<br /> +Mark Bishoprick has gone at last,<br /> +An aged pilgrim from the past,<br /> +Burdened with many years he stood<br /> +Almost alone in solitude,<br /> +A record of an age that's gone,<br /> +Who's lengthened shadow rested on<br /> +The present, ere the distant light<br /> +Sunk into everlasting night.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>CORKSTOWN.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">"Mother McGinty won't forget</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">To keep the tally mark."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 15em; font-variant: small-caps; font-size: 90%;">(Old Song.)</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +In days of yore, within a call<br /> +Of where stands now the City Hall,<br /> +A village built of mud and wood,<br /> +In all its glory, Corkstown stood,<br /> +Two rows of cabins in the swamp—<br /> +Begirt by ponds and vapors damp<br /> +And aromatic cedar trees<br /> +Who's branches caught the passing breeze—<br /> +Stretched upward on the western side<br /> +Of the "Deep Cut," where then were plied<br /> +The spade and pickaxe side by side;<br /> +For, by the shade of Colonel By,<br /> +Who shaped this city's destiny!<br /> +There delved full many a hard case in,<br /> +That channel to the Canal Basin.<br /> +There, then dwelt many a sturdy blade,<br /> +Adepts at handling the spade,<br /> +And bruisers at the wheeling trade,<br /> +As witness the vast mounds of clay<br /> +Remaining on the banks to-day.<br /> +Lovers of poteen strong and clear,<br /> +In preference to rum or beer,<br /> +Sons of the sod who'd knock you down<br /> +For half a word 'gainst Cork's own town,<br /> +And kick you then for falling too,<br /> +To prove that the old mountain dew<br /> +Had frolic in it raw and strong,<br /> +As well as music, love and song.<br /> +And there in whitewashed shanty grand,<br /> +With kegs and bottles on each hand,<br /> +Her face decked with a winning smile,<br /> +Her head with cap of ancient style,<br /> +Crowned arbiter of frolic's fate,<br /> +Mother McGinty sat in state,<br /> +And measured out the mountain dew<br /> +To those whom strong attraction drew<br /> +Within the circle of her power,<br /> +To while away a leisure hour.<br /> +She was the hostess and the host,<br /> +She kept the reckoning, ruled the roast,<br /> +And swung an arm of potent might<br /> +That few would dare to brave in fight;<br /> +Yet was she a good-natured soul,<br /> +As ever filled the flowing bowl;<br /> +In sooth she dealt in goodly cheer,<br /> +Half-pints of whiskey, quarts of beer,<br /> +Strong doses of sweet peppermint,<br /> +Fine old Jamaica without stint,<br /> +And shrub—a cordial then well known—<br /> +Her thirsty customers poured down,<br /> +Nor dreamed of headaches, or of ills,<br /> +For nought killed then, but doctors' pills!<br /> +The song, the dance, and glass went round,<br /> +The precincts of that classic ground;<br /> +And when bent on a tearing spree,<br /> +Filled full of grog and jollity,<br /> +The bacchanalian rant they made<br /> +Would please even old Anacreon's shade,<br /> +While o'er them the athletic charms<br /> +Of the stern hostess's bare arms,<br /> +Struck terror and kept order in<br /> +The revel's hottest, wildest din!<br /> +For cash or credit bartered she,<br /> +The prime ingredients of a spree;<br /> +And he stood always above par<br /> +Who never stone threw at the bar;<br /> +And when a man had spent his all,<br /> +She chalked the balance on the wall.<br /> +Figures or letters she knew not,<br /> +But what a customer had got<br /> +By hieroglyphics well she knew,<br /> +For there exposed to public view<br /> +Each debtor's tally great and small<br /> +Appeared upon the bar-room wall.<br /> +A short stroke for a half-pint stood,<br /> +A longer for a quart was good,<br /> +While something like an Eagle's talon<br /> +Upon her blackboard was a gallon.<br /> +And woe to him, who soon or late<br /> +His tally did not liquidate;<br /> +For when her goodly company<br /> +Were all assembled for a spree,<br /> +She read off each delinquent's score,<br /> +And at his meanness loudly swore,<br /> +And threatened when he next appeared,<br /> +Unless the entry all was cleaed,<br /> +To lay on future drinks a stricture,<br /> +And photograph, perhaps, his picture<br /> +In pewter, for the unpaid tally,<br /> +As given, I think, in C. O'Malley.<br /> +Old Corkstown was a merry place<br /> +On pay-day, when the soaking race<br /> +Assembled full of fun and glee<br /> +At Mother McGinty's for a spree,<br /> +No total abstinence was known<br /> +In those days in that little town,<br /> +Nor many nasal organs tainted<br /> +For lack of time to get them painted;<br /> +No moderate drinker showed his face<br /> +Within that much resorted place,<br /> +For temperance had not then began<br /> +To trench upon the rights of man,<br /> +Sure had he trod on danger's edge<br /> +Who dared there to propose the pledge.<br /> +Such monstrous doctrine there had been<br /> +Followed by "wigs upon the green."<br /> +None there refused the offered glass,<br /> +Or dared to let the bottle pass<br /> +For, <i>casus belli</i> this was strong,<br /> +Unless with a good roaring song<br /> +The recreant could in his defence<br /> +Atone for such <i>most strange</i> offence.<br /> +Sometimes, nay oft, upon the street<br /> +Antagonistic friends would meet<br /> +By chance, or by some other charm,<br /> +To try each other's strength of arm,<br /> +And without legal process settle<br /> +Disputes, like men of taste and mettle;<br /> +And while strict "Fair Play" ruled the fight,<br /> +It was a sort of rough delight<br /> +For youthful souls while hanging round<br /> +That ancient famous battle ground,<br /> +To note who first the claret drew—<br /> +who first down his opponent threw—<br /> +Who first produced the limner's dyes<br /> +Beneath his neighbor's damaged eyes,<br /> +Or sowed the trodden ground beneath<br /> +With smashed incisors, like the teeth,<br /> +The dragon's tusks of ancient ken<br /> +From which sprung hosts of armed men.<br /> +Such pastime was a frequent thing,<br /> +The entertainment of the ring,<br /> +Without equestrian or clown<br /> +Was often seen in Cork's own town,<br /> +And best, for impecunious boys<br /> +Who boasted few of modern joys,<br /> +Who daily went to see the play<br /> +Had no admission fee to pay.<br /> +But gone is Corkstown, vanished too<br /> +The whitewashed shanty from our view,<br /> +Where once the minstrel's youthful eyes<br /> +Beheld strange orgies with surprise.<br /> +In dust its stalwart hostess now,<br /> +Reposes, placid is the brow<br /> +That once frowned terror o'er the throng<br /> +While revelling in the dance and song,<br /> +Gone with them are the fading dyes<br /> +Which tinged fair childhood's happy skies,<br /> +The brilliant firmament of youth<br /> +Has vanished, and but leaves the truth<br /> +Written wherever mortals range<br /> +That things below are doomed to change.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>THE FAIR OF 1829.</h3> +<br /> +<br /> +Now, reader, you and I must start<br /> +Together with both hand and heart,<br /> +Off to the far-famed level of green,<br /> +Which once in verdure lay between<br /> +The old Scotch Kirk, and where now Hall<br /> +Confectionery sells to all;<br /> +And we shall pass as something new,<br /> +Old scenes before us in review,<br /> +And I shall fire up these rhymes<br /> +With battles of the good old times;<br /> +And out of what I shall relate<br /> +No single case for magistrate,<br /> +Or stern judge to adjudicate<br /> +Arose, for then, a bloody nose,<br /> +Or broken head, between fair foes,<br /> +Was counted neither loss nor gain,<br /> +Nor thought of 'till they met again.<br /> +'Twas in the glorious olden time<br /> +When smashing craniums was no crime—<br /> +When people got no invitation<br /> +At half-past nine for presentation<br /> +Of damaged eye and broken skin,<br /> +To answer for nocturnal sin<br /> +Before that tribunal where bail<br /> +Can't always keep one out of jail.<br /> +'Twas in July in '29,<br /> +If true this memory of mine,<br /> +At early morn upon that green<br /> +Were many tents of canvas seen<br /> +Within which might be found good cheer<br /> +In whiskey kegs and kegs of beer;<br /> +And on a little table, too,<br /> +Tin measures were exposed to view,<br /> +For thirsty souls their clay to slake,<br /> +And draughts of inspiration take—<br /> +For then the numbers were but few,<br /> +Who shun'd the sparkling mountain dew,<br /> +And people under no pretence<br /> +Could dream of total abstinence:<br /> +Even John B. Gough's most magic sway<br /> +Had failed in Bytown's early day.<br /> +Vast was the throng assembled there<br /> +At Bytown's first and greatest Fair,<br /> +And merry were the antics seen<br /> +Upon that famous ancient green.<br /> +'Twas not to buy or sell they came<br /> +From far and near, the blind and lame,<br /> +The grave, the merry, sad and gay,<br /> +Upon that old eventful day;<br /> +They all assembled, wild and free,<br /> +To have a ranting, roaring spree!<br /> +And, by the shadows of the past!<br /> +Frolic flew furious and fast,<br /> +And many a head was pillowed on<br /> +Old mother earth ere set of sun.<br /> +A fiddler here the catgut drew,<br /> +And there a highland piper, too,<br /> +Shrieked forth with loud and stirring bar,<br /> +The boding battle-notes of war!<br /> +And lavishly the whiskey flew<br /> +Among that mirth devoted crew,<br /> +As oft into the tents they ran<br /> +To renovate the inner man.<br /> +'Twas twelve o'clock, and all was well,<br /> +"And merry as a marriage bell,"<br /> +Thought one might see just here and there<br /> +Legs seeming somewhat worse of wear,<br /> +And in the air perhaps might hear<br /> +The prescient sounds of conflict near,<br /> +For Irish accents there were many,<br /> +Cork, Tipperary, and Kilkenny.<br /> +'Twas afternoon, and frolic's pacing<br /> +Was then diversified by racing,<br /> +Then soon was cleared of busy feet<br /> +The race course, old Wellington street,<br /> +Bets then were made, and up the money,<br /> +Pat Ryan's horse, and Davy's pony,<br /> +Together entered for the match—<br /> +Perhaps it would be called a "scratch"<br /> +Race in the turfs expressive phrase<br /> +Unknown in Bytown's early days.<br /> +Fair, free and gallantly they started,<br /> +And headlong up the street they darted,<br /> +While loudly sounded cheer on cheer<br /> +As swift the winning post they near;<br /> +They ran together without check,<br /> +And passed it almost neck and neck,<br /> +So close, the judges, though they tried,<br /> +The winning horse could not decide.<br /> +The race was o'er and down the brakes,<br /> +Each party shouted for the stakes;<br /> +And loud and fierce the clamor rose,<br /> +And words soon lost themselves in blows;<br /> +The very stones began to speak,<br /> +And skulls, of course, began to break,<br /> +And black thorns and maple sticks<br /> +Played such fantastic ugly tricks,<br /> +That soon the well thronged battle plain<br /> +Was strewn with bodies of the slain—<br /> +The "Kilt," who fell to rise again<br /> +Without the doctor's mystic aid,<br /> +And plunge once more into the raid.<br /> +Stones flew in showers, the windows shook<br /> +Around that famous Donnybrook,<br /> +While Tipperary's battle yell,<br /> +Did loudly o'er the conflict swell!<br /> +And many a celt with accent racy<br /> +Roared for a Sleavin or a Casey!<br /> +And fierce the struggle raged around<br /> +Where the seven Sleavin's stood their ground—<br /> +Seven brothers, back to back they stood<br /> +Like hero's, though their streaming blood<br /> +Told how they bravely turned at bay<br /> +'Gainst hundreds in that savage fray!<br /> +O'erpowered at last they did retreat<br /> +Face to the foe, still in defeat,<br /> +Defiant as they moved along<br /> +Pursued by the relentless throng!<br /> +They reached their home, shut fast the door,<br /> +And stood within upon the floor,<br /> +Ready to meet the coming foe,<br /> +Who in their vengeance were not slow.<br /> +Stones showered from the assailing crew,<br /> +In pieces every window flew,<br /> +Then, with a loud and savage yell<br /> +They rushed to storm the citadel!<br /> +A gun-barrel through a broken pane<br /> +Made the invaders pause again,<br /> +A sharp axe sticking through another,<br /> +Their thirst for slaughter seemed to smother;<br /> +A battle council then took place,<br /> +And very soon there was no trace,<br /> +Of conflict or of bloody fray<br /> +Round where the Sleavin's stood at bay!<br /> +Thus ended By-town's first old Fair,<br /> +A Donnybrook most rich and rare;<br /> +This annal of the olden time<br /> +Was not premeditated crime,<br /> +It sprung from what forms quite a part<br /> +Of every genuine Irish heart,<br /> +A sort of <i>Faugh a-Ballagh</i> way<br /> +That sticks to Irishmen to-day.<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> +<br /> +<div style="margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%; white-space: nowrap;"> +<h3>LINES</h3> +<br /> +<p style="text-align: center;"><i>Recited by the author in "Her Majesty's Theatre,"<br /> +at a Festival of the Mechanics' Institute<br /> +in March, 1868.</i></p> +<br /> +<br /> +In such a gay and festive scene as this,<br /> +My worthy friends, it may not be amiss<br /> +To mingle with the general notes of glee,<br /> +A rhyme or too, even if not poesy.<br /> +Indulge me while in rude unpolished verse,<br /> +The promptings of the muse I now rehearse,<br /> +And O! deal gently with me while I try<br /> +To bring the vanished past before your eye,<br /> +Fond recollections rapidly takes wing<br /> +The fading scenes of other days to sing,<br /> +The good old days, the dear old times of yore,<br /> +Which you and I, alas! shall see no more:<br /> +When all around the spot on which I stand<br /> +Was trackless forest and primeval land—<br /> +The "Barrack Hill," a wilderness all o'er,<br /> +And Lower Town to Rideau's ancient shore<br /> +A gloomy cedar swamp, the haunt of deer,<br /> +In which the ruffed grouse drum'd when spring was near,<br /> +While here and there a giant pine on high<br /> +Towered with its spreading branches to the sky!<br /> +I have the little village in my eye,<br /> +Before the locks were built by Colonel By,<br /> +Before the Sappers threw the ponderous arch,<br /> +O'er the Canal, to aid improvement's march,<br /> +Ere by the muscular canaller's spade<br /> +The ground was broken where the "Deep Cut's" made—<br /> +Long ere the iron bond of union span'd<br /> +The vast <i>Kah-nah-jo</i>, wonder of our land!<br /> +Here mighty Ottawa, in its grandest phase<br /> +Bears some resemblance to its better days,<br /> +Ere sawdust, slabs, and stern improvement gave<br /> +A turbid deathstroke to its limpid wave!<br /> +That good old time, 'tis pleasant to recal,<br /> +When one religion almost served for all—<br /> +When men together could in friendship join—<br /> +When battered buttons passed for genuine coin—<br /> +And silver pieces, do not think it strange,<br /> +Were cut in too, and four, to make small change,<br /> +When banks were few, suspensions heard of not,<br /> +And specie was the only cash we got,<br /> +Hard silver with no discount on our dollars,<br /> +Ere brokers reigned, or flourished paper collars.<br /> +Tho' dim the light of learning's genial rays<br /> +Amongst the masses in those bygone days—<br /> +Tho' daily papers, modern luxury's food,<br /> +The bold apostles of the public good,<br /> +The tribunes of the people were not found<br /> +On guard our infant liberties around,<br /> +Tho' institutions based on mental light,<br /> +Shed scanty radiance o'er that primal night,<br /> +Tho' science, wealth and philosophic lore<br /> +Were <i>rara aves</i> upon Ottawa's shore;<br /> +Tho' commerce scarce had spread her gilded wings,<br /> +The herald of a costlier state of things;<br /> +Tho' such an institution as our own,<br /> +Was to our early pioneers unknown,<br /> +An institution, let me say, in short,<br /> +Worthy of every patriot's support;<br /> +Established on a comprehensive base.<br /> +Where every man of worth may find his place—<br /> +temple of intelligence to give<br /> +To mind the sustenance on which to live,<br /> +Tho' all such modern glories then were rare,<br /> +Yet old Bytonians did not badly fare.<br /> +Churches were few in that benighted time,<br /> +Seldom was heard the Sabbath's welcome chime—<br /> +Yet brotherhood abounded in the land,<br /> +And charity with soft and tender hand<br /> +Relieved distress, and made the weeper smile,<br /> +Scarce conscious of the good she did the while,<br /> +And not the worst among poor sons of men,<br /> +Money was plenty in the village then,<br /> +For Mother Britain with a lavish hand<br /> +Scattered her treasures over all the land.<br /> +Simplicity then held her peaceful reign,<br /> +And vice and crime were seldom in her train.<br /> +No litigation marked our young career,<br /> +No Police Magistrate with brow severe,<br /> +And frown of justice upon trembling crime,<br /> +Made culprits shiver in that happy time;<br /> +Neighbor to neighbor owed so little grudge,<br /> +Disputes were settled then without the Judge—<br /> +The learned profession boasted not one gown,<br /> +And but one lancet was in all the town—<br /> +And it was busy, and got wondrous praise,<br /> +For venesection flourished in those days.<br /> +People owed little, and were seldom sued,<br /> +No bailiff marred our ancient solitude;<br /> +Duns were a nuisance in our soil not grown,<br /> +Fifteen per cent, was totally unknown!<br /> +Things then were taken as they happened quite,<br /> +And insults were decided by a fight,<br /> +In boyhood I have witnessed many a fray<br /> +Within the ring by daylight and fair play—<br /> +No constable poked his unwelcome nose<br /> +Between the pastime of two transient foes,<br /> +Who choose like Sayers and Heenan to decide<br /> +Their difference with strong sinews on each side.<br /> +We had no sidewalks then, not much taxation,<br /> +No lock-up, county gaol, no corporation,<br /> +No aldermanic wisdom, and no mayor,<br /> +To fill with dignity the civic chair;<br /> +No tax collector with his pressing bill<br /> +To cause consumption in an empty till;<br /> +Corrupt electors trod not freedom's ground,<br /> +No purchaseable franchise could be found—<br /> +Money was not the "altar and the God,"<br /> +Before which manhood bowed a venal clod!<br /> +The reign of truth, ere politics was made<br /> +By infamy a money-making trade!<br /> +No costly vehicles with horses gay,<br /> +In gilded trappings graced that ancient day;<br /> +Pedestrianism was fashionable then,<br /> +For boys were boys, as 'twas, and men were men.<br /> +And girls were what they always were, the best<br /> +Blossoms in the gardens of the blest!<br /> +One steamer only cleft the Ottawa's spray,<br /> +But did not, like the "Queen," come every day.<br /> +No railroad engine snorted o'er the plain,<br /> +Dragging along behind its ponderous train—<br /> +No telegraphic line with speed of light<br /> +Scattered intelligence with lightning flight;<br /> +No gas-flame shed its artificial ray,<br /> +Turning nocturnal darkness into day—<br /> +The tallow candle blazed away supreme,<br /> +And of the age of coal oil did not dream;<br /> +Yet, 'twas "a gay old time," a happy time,<br /> +And could I strike an upward note sublime,<br /> +I'd strain my very heartstrings with the blast<br /> +Of glory that I'd give the fine old past!<br /> +But times are changed, and things are altered too,<br /> +Fair civilization bursts upon our view;<br /> +The old men of the old time have been laid<br /> +In peace beneath the weeping willow's shade;<br /> +The middle-aged are in the yellow leaf,<br /> +Life's evening evanescent, sad and brief—<br /> +The little children who flourished then<br /> +Are now the mothers of our land, and men—<br /> +The wilderness has vanished, the old trees<br /> +Have disappeared before improvement's breeze;<br /> +Commercial enterprise is busy now,<br /> +The Ottawa's breast is cleft by many a prow,<br /> +The roaring, rushing locomotives scour<br /> +Along the track at forty miles an hour—<br /> +The electric current cleaves the ambient air,<br /> +Shooting the rays of thought round everywhere,<br /> +Darting like sunbeams to the left and right,<br /> +The swift-winged messengers of mental light!<br /> +Disturbing 'neath the billows of the deep,<br /> +The ocean monsters from their dreamy sleep;<br /> +Cleaving resistless through the watery waste<br /> +A miracle not dreamt of in the past,<br /> +Annihilating time, and leaving space,<br /> +Like Noah's dove, without a resting place!<br /> +Thy fame, too, "old brown Bess," hath passed away,<br /> +And rifled guns in war and peace hold sway,<br /> +And Britain's wooden walls with all their glories,<br /> +Are now but one of fame's immortal stories!<br /> +But while I cast my wondering eyes around<br /> +How grand the sight which doth their vision bound;<br /> +A city stands in fair and youthful grace,<br /> +Where once old Bytown had its primal place;<br /> +And lo! in grandeur towering the skies<br /> +In marbled splendor upon yonder hill,<br /> +Our Legislative Temples proudly rise,<br /> +A columned glory of the artist's skill!<br /> +Thanks to our gracious Queen, who's royal hand<br /> +Made Ottawa chief city of the land!<br /> +Thanks to the men who fought through good and ill<br /> +The fight of right, and bravely battled still;<br /> +Who stood unshaken, firm in their adhesion,<br /> +Till victory crowned Her Majesty's decision!<br /> +God bless our New Dominion! may it be<br /> +Granted a proud and happy destiny;<br /> +Ontario and Quebec go hand in hand<br /> +With Nova Scotia and New Brunswick's land;<br /> +Those noble borderers of the rushing wave<br /> +Grand, fitting birthplace of the free and brave!<br /> +May Newfoundland, British Columbia true,<br /> +Prince Edward Island join the Union, too,<br /> +And the vast regions of the far North-West,<br /> +Awake to form a nation great and blest!<br /> +May all in common brotherhood unite<br /> +To live in peace, or for our freedom fight<br /> +Beneath the flag for which our fathers died,<br /> +And left us as their legacy and pride!<br /> +May heaven give strength and energy to those<br /> +Who from political convulsion's throes—<br /> +A proud example to the sons of earth,<br /> +Brought union and an empire into birth!<br /> +May wisdom guide them as they onward steer<br /> +The vessel of the State in her career—<br /> +Smooth be the wave and gentle be the gales<br /> +That fill our ark of safety's well trim'd sails—<br /> +Strong be the vision of the pilot, too,<br /> +To keep the port of union full in view,<br /> +Until the anchor's cast, the sails are furled,<br /> +A spectacle of envy to the world!<br /> +</div> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Recollections of Bytown and Its Old +Inhabitants, by William Pittman Lett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RECOLLECTIONS OF BYTOWN *** + +***** This file should be named 14908-h.htm or 14908-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/9/0/14908/ + +Produced by Alicia Williams and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team (https://www.pgdp.net). + + +Updated editions will replace 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