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RECOLLECTIONS
OF
BYTOWN
AND ITS
OLD INHABITANTS
BY
WILLIAM PITTMAN LETT.
OTTAWA:
"CITIZIEN" PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY, SPARKS STREET
1874.
INTRODUCTION.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
"A smile or a grasp of the hand passing on."
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."
WILLIAM PITTMAN LETT.
OTTAWA, MARCH, 1873.
BYTOWN.
CHAPTER I.
In '28, on Patrick's Day,
At one p.m., there came this way
From Richmond, in the dawn of spring,
He who doth now the glories sing
Of ancient Bytown, as 'twas then,
A place of busy working men,
Who handled barrows and pickaxes,
Tamping irons and broadaxes,
And paid no Corporation taxes;
Who, without license onward carried
All kinds of trade, but getting married;
Stout, sinewy, and hardy chaps,
Who'd take and pay back adverse raps,
Nor ever think of such a thing
As squaring off outside the ring,
Those little disagreements, which
Make wearers of the long robe rich.
Such were the men, and such alone,
Who quarried the vast piles of stone,
Those mighty, ponderous, cut-stone blocks,
With which Mackay built up the Locks.
The road wound round the Barrack Hill,
By the old Graveyard, calm and still;
It would have sounded snobbish, very,
To call it then a Cemetery--
Crossed the Canal below the Bridge,
And then struck up the rising ridge
On Rideau Street, where Stewart's Store
Stood in the good old days of yore;
There William Stewart flourished then,
A _man_ among old Bytown's men;
And there, Ben Gordon ruled the roast,
Evoking many a hearty toast,
And purchase from the throngs who came
To buy cheap goods in friendship's name.
Friend Ben, dates back a warm and true heart
To days of Mackintosh and Stewart.
Beside where Aumond and Barreille
Their fate together erst did try,
In the old "French Store," on whose card
_Imprimis_ was J. D. Bernard.
"_Grande Joe_," still sturdy, stout and strong.
Long be he so! Will o'er my song,
Bend kindly, and perhaps may sigh,
While rapidly o'er days gone by,
He wanders back in memory.
Aye, sigh, for when he look's around,
How few, alas! can now be found,
Who heard the shrill meridian sound
Of Cameron's bugle from the hill,
How few, alas! are living still--
How few who saw in pride pass on
The Sappers with their scarlet on,
Their hackle plumes and scales of brass,
Their stately tread as on they pass.
I seem to see them through the shade
Of years, in warlike pomp arrayed,
Marching in splendid order past,
Their bugles ringing on the blast,
Their bayonets glittering in the sun,
The vision fades, the dream is done.
Below the Bridge, at least below,
Where stands the Sappers' structure now,
You had to pass in going down
From Upper to the Lower Town;
For, reader, then, no bridge was there,
Where afterwards with wondrous care,
And skilful hands; the Sappers made
That arch which casts into the shade
All other arches in the land,
By which Canals and streams are span'd;
The passing wayfarer sees nought
But a stone bridge by labor wrought,
The Poet's retrospective eye
Searching the depths of memory,
A monument to Colonel By,
Beholds, enduring as each pile
Which stands beside the Ancient Nile,
As o'er the past my vision runs,
Gazing on Bytown's elder sons,
The portly Colonel I behold
Plainly as in the days of old,
Conjured before me at this hour
By memory's undying power;
Seated upon, his great black steed
Of stately form and noble breed.
A man who knew not how to flinch--
A British soldier every inch.
Courteous alike to low and high
A gentleman was Colonel By!
And did I write of lines three score
About him, I could say no more.
Howard and Thompson then kept store
Down by "the Creek," almost next door,
George Patterson must claim a line
Among the men of auld lang syne;
A man of very ancient fame,
Who in old '27 came.
One of the first firm doth remain,
He is our worthy Chamberlain,
Who ne'er in life's farce cut a dash
On other people's errant cash;
Who guards, as it is right well known,
Better than e'er he did his own,
The people's money, firm and sure,
To the last cent, safe and secure.
And opposite across the street,
A friend or foe could always meet
A man deserving hero's title,
Uncompromising Watson Litle!
A stern upholder of the law
Who ne'er in justice found a flaw,
With well charged blunderbuss in hand
He asked not order or command,
But sallied forth _semper paratus_
To aid the _Posse Comitatus_!
"Peace to his ashes!" many a score
Of heads he smashed in days of yore!
Where is the marble slab to show
Where Watson Litle's dust lies low?
Close by "the Creek," on the south side
Of Rideau Street, did then reside
John Cuzner, a British tar,
For pluck renown'd both near and far!
Nor would I willingly forget
While tracing recollections met
Of other days, and from the past
Collecting memories fading fast,
Of lines our earliest purveyor,
John MacNaughton, the Surveyor,
The only one who then was quite
At home with the theodolite,
And boxed the trembling compass well,
Before the days of Robert Bell.
A little further up the street,
James Martin's name the eye did greet
A round faced Caledonian, who
Good eating and good drinking knew;
And "Four-pence-half-penny" McKenzie
Daily vended wolsey linsey,
Next door to one of comic cheer
Acknowledged the best auctioneer,
That ever knock'd a bargain down,
Or bidder if he chanced to frown;
He set himself up in the end
As Carleton's most worthy friend
And by _vox populi_ was sent
To Parliament to represent
The men of Carleton, one and all,
In ancient Legislative Hall.
And by "The Tiger" sleek and fat,
Our old friend "Jimmy Johnston" sat,
The corner stock'd with silks and ribbon,
Was kept and owned by Miss Fitzgibbon.
A good stand it has ever been
For commerce in this busy scene;
Stand oft of idler and of scorner,
I mean the modern "Howell's Corner,"
Called after "Roderick of the sword,"
Once well known Chairman of School Board.
And down below near Nicholas Street,
A quiet man each morn you'd meet
At ten a.m., his pathway wending,
With steps to Ordnance office bending,
A mild man and an unassuming,
Health and good nature ever blooming
Seem'd stamped upon his smiling face,
Where time had scarcely left its trace;
_Semper idem_ let me beg
Thy pardon, honest William Clegg!
Nor must, although his bones are rotten,
The ancient Mosgrove be forgotten,
A man of kindly nature, he
Has left a spot in memory
While gazing on each vanish'd scene
That still remains both fresh and green
For when in heat of hurling bent
The ball oft through his window went,
He pitch'd it to us out again,
And ask'd no payment for the pane.
On Sussex Street, James Inglis flourish'd,
A cannie Scot, and well he nourish'd
A very thriving dry goods trade,
And "piles" of good hard silver made,
Almost amongst the forest trees,
By furs from Aborigines.
No "Hotel" then was in the town,
"The British" in its old renown,
Of our Hotels the ancient mother
Had not one stone laid on another;
Donald McArthur in a cavern
Of wood sustained his ancient tavern,
And there the best of cheer was found
Within old Bytown's classic ground;
And now I'll close my roll of fame
With a most well-remember'd name,
A man of dignity supreme
Rises to view in memory's dream,
Ultra in Toryism's tariff,
Was Simon Fraser, Carleton's Sheriff,
Personified by the third vowel,
Forerunner of W.F. Powell,
A high and most important man
In the renown'd old Fraser Clan,
Who well had worn the Highland tartan,
For he was bold as any Spartan,
And did his duty mildly, gravely,
And wore the sword and cocked hat bravely.