I cross the Ottawa once more.
From Hull again to Bytown's shore.
And for a moment I behold
The river as it was of old,
Swelling, majestic in its pride,
A glorious stream from side to side!
A "Grand River" was Ottawa then,
The pride of ancient lumbermen,
By slabs and sawdust undefiled.
The joy of nature's dusky child,
Who's matchless, perfect bark canoe
Oft o'er its crystal bosom flew--
Not bridged all o'er like shaking bogs
By endless booms of dirty logs,
Which to the thrifty and the wise
Are doubtless marks of enterprise,
And evidences too of health,
Of pocket and commercial wealth,
Yet sadly, sometimes out of place,
And serious blots on Nature's face.
What would big Indian "Clouthier" say--
The red-skinn'd Samson could he stray
From the happy hunting ground away--
Could he behold the stream to-day--
The great Kah-nah-jo, where the God
Of the Algonquins used to nod
In dreamy slumber 'mid the smoke
Which from the mighty cataract broke,
Hemm'd in by sawmills, booms and piers--
The features of a thousand years
Of beauty ruthlessly defaced--
The landmarks of the past displaced,
And little left to tell the story
Of Ottawa's departed glory;
But water running where it ran
When the red deer chase began.
'Twould startle even Philemon Wright
With all his wisdom and foresight.
Could he arise, good man of old,
And modern Ottawa behold,
He'd feel himself a stranger too--
'Mid scenes of wonder strange and new--
In Hull, of little worth for tillage,
The spot on which he built his village.
Return I now, this slight digression
Was worth the time, I've an impression;
Clouthier, the Indian, was a giant,
And "Squire Wright," strong, self-reliant,
Was he who o'er the border came
And gave to Hull its ancient fame;
A man of enterprise and spirit
Who in this history well doth merit,
Such place of prominence as can
Be given to such a stirring man.
On the way back I see the ground
Where ferrying Odium was found,
And afterwards, next in progression,
Friend John Bedard came in possession,
And certainly much money made
By a successful carrying trade.
The place seems alter'd, art and skill
Have built up Wright and Batson's mill
At the old wharf, or near at hand,
Where the first steamer used to land,
Before even that small craft could ride
At any wharf on Bytown's side.
And not far off, in days of yore
A cottage stood--'tis there no more,
And if there ever was a spot
Where friend and foe a welcome got--
Where generous hospitality
Presided o'er the banquet free,
And friendship's hand for rich and poor
Was ever opening the door--
That spot was where that cottage stood,
Embowered in the cedar wood,
And he who there resided with
An open heart, was old Ralph Smith!
In memory I behold him now,
With sparkling eye and lofty brow,
And round the table amply spread,
Are Patton, Henry, Ralph and Ned,
And Dolly--blessed be her shade!
Who, such nice things for schoolboys made,
And made them feel just as no other
On earth could do except their mother.
But I must hurry, or I own,
I ne'er shall reach the Upper Town,
For there I'll find an ancient throng
To link together in my song,
And I shall wake them up ere long.
'Mongst those of olden time who came
Was one whose engineering fame
Was brilliant--let none call be braggart
While speaking thus of John MacTaggart,
A genius of the highest grade
In that most scientific trade,
Who plann'd with wise, consummate skill,
Even from the lock-gates lowest sill
To Kingston Mills, the undertaking
Which cost such time and cash in making,
Rideau Canal, the work of years,
And England's Royal Engineers.
Brother of Isaac, once known hero
As Corporation Engineer,
Or Street Surveyor in that time
When Ottawa's fur was not so prime,
Whom well of old the writer knew,
And as he comes up for review--
Like volume taken from the shelf--
He harm'd no one but himself,
Is all his bitterest foe can say
Of Isaac who has passed away.
And James Fitzgibbon, where is he?
Beneath the weeping willow tree,
Retired, quiet-going man
Who ne'er his head 'gainst faction ran.
And close upon his fading track
I see the shadow of James Black,
Who once on Rideau Street kept store
In the remember'd days of yore,
A stirring, active man was he,
Genteel, polite to a degree,
That customers were always fain
Who saw him once to call again;
His wife in the old churchyard lay--
Her epitaph I know to-day.
And there stands Thomas Burrows, too,
As he appeared before my view,
Leaning upon his garden gate
Beside the Creek in '28;
He held of trust, an office high
Under the reign of Colonel By.
And Tom McDonald, as we then
Were wont to call the best of men;
A man of spirit rare was he
Who never had an enemy.
And there, too, Captain Victor goes
With most aristocratic nose,
And manners haughty with the ring
Of _ton_ when George the Fourth was king.
And Lieut. Pooley, for whose skill
The "Gully" bridge is named so still,
Ask Lyman Perkins, if you doubt it,
And he will tell you all about it.
And Dr. Tuthill, who with skill
Could cure more readily than kill,
Physic'd, emetic'd, too, and clyster'd,
And _con amore_, bled and blister'd,
In the old Hospital, which stood
Unscathed by tempest, fire, or flood,
For fifty years, to be down cast,
By chance, or carelessness, at last,
Theme for conjecture, most prolific,
Another phase of the Pacific
Railway which will cause a broil,
Unless 'tis built on British soil!
And there, too, Joseph Coombs was found,
With solemn step his march around
Among the patients, pacing slowly--
Disciple of the meek and lowly,
Who afterwards oft turned the key
On many a goodly company.
In that strong work of mason's trowel,
Ruled now by Alexander Powell.
And William Addison, no more--
As trim a soldier as e'er wore
The uniform, or bravely bore
His head erect, with step as light
As wings that touch the air in flight.
Well had he won and kept from harm
The honor'd stripes upon his arm.
Such men as he have been the stay
Of Britain in her darkest day!
And Sergeant Johnston who, with skill,
The raw and awkward squad could drill--
A warrior in air and tone,
Who had his country service done--
Straight as a ramrod, and his might
Of voice would Lambkin's soul delight.
And brave John Murphy--champion John!
I can't forget as I pass on.
As fine a fellow as e'er wore
The scarlet coat in days of yore.
With upright form of manliest grace,
With wondrous beauty in his face,
And perfect symmetry of limb;
Appollo might have envied him!
And then he was as brave and true
As e'er the sword or bayonet drew,
Full many a battle did he fight,
His injured comrade's wrongs to right;
For well he knew each mood and tense
Of the old art of self-defence;
And woe to him who dared a fling
With bold John Murphy in the ring.
There many a pugilistic martyr
Met his match and caught a Tartar.