And now another man I seek,
Who lived on George Street, by the creek,
Lo! memory's telescopic eye
At once John Taillon's shade brings nigh,
And as his form approaches near,
His laugh I almost seem to hear.
One of those lost with much regret,
James Leamy, I would not forget,
Though not a man of '28,
His early and untimely fate--
His merry life and tragic fall,
Are in the memory of all.
And Andrew Leamy in his time,
Was head of many a stirring "shine;"
A man of mark he might be singled,
In whom the good and bad commingled,
In equal balance in such way,
That each in turn had its sway;
He's gone! the grass grows o'er his head;
The muse deals gently with the dead.
James Devlin, where are you old man,
Whose fingers o'er the catgut ran?
Professor of the art to foil
Both "treason, stratagem and spoil,"
In days which now are but a riddle,
When William Murphy played the fiddle
So merrily, long, long ago,
To trip of "light fantastic toe."
Fond were you of the rod and line
When sport and profit did combine
In other days, when mighty Bass
And Pickerel lay upon the grass
Beside you, as with practised hand,
You hauled the scaly kings to land
Night-lines and gill-nets, may they be
Accurst--have ruined you and me!
And left us nought but "tommy cods"
As trophies for our idle rods.
Who is he with such pompous air--
Such magic curl of scented hair,
With glass stuck tightly o'er one eye
To scan the common passer by,
While every air betokens well
The presence of a "howling swell?"
'Tis Henry Howard Burgess, O!
To him Dundreary's self were slow.
And Thomas Burgess, too, was here,
A swell, though not quite so severe.
And the two Johnston's, born twins,
As like each other as two pins,
Clerks in the Ordnance Office were
And surely a most proper pair.
John Grant, too, who quite early came,
A constable of ancient fame,
Who kept the peace, right well, 'tis true,
When he had nothing else to do.
Few were the summonses he got,
Warrants fell seldom to his lot;
The town was not by courts infested,
People liked not to be arrested,
And seldom were--for to the Ring
Complainants did their troubles bring,
And there found justice, sometimes too much
Redress, of which they oft did rue much.
J.B. Lavois, with thee I close
My lengthy memories of those
I knew of old in Lower Town,
Though last, not least in size, I own.
A butcher of the olden time,
Who furnished roasts and steaks most prime,
In the old George Street Market House,
Where cats held many a grand carouse,
Ere rats to Bytown emigrated
In swarms pestiferous and hated.
And if I have forgotten one,
Whom memory could not fasten on,
Let him feel no neglecting smart,
I have not passed him with my heart,
I've done my best 'neath friendship's spoil,
So Lower Bytown now farewell!
UPPER TOWN.
CHAPTER I.
And now, kind reader, westward ho!
Across the Sappers' Bridge we go;
When first in youth I cross'd it o'er,
The arch was wood, "and nothing more"--
As Edgar A. Poe doth remark
About that raven big and dark--
The wooden span, I mean, stretched o'er
The channel's width from shore to shore,
On which skilled artificers laid
The arch of stone, so truly made,
And strong, that it to-day appears,
After the crush of forty years
And more, impervious to decay,
As if 'twere built but yesterday.
I stand upon the western side,
And see in all its verdant pride
The hill crowned with its ancient trees,
Who's foliage rustled in the breeze
For centuries, all branching wide,
Standing untouched on every side;
A spot where the Algonquin _magi_,
May have reclined "_sub tegmine fagi_;"
For when across the Sapper's Bridge,
The prospect was a fine beech ridge,
And "Gibson's corner," in old time,
For squirrel hunting was most prime,
"Prime" is a somewhat slangy phrase
For these high philologic days,
And in connexion, be it stated,
With a spot to science dedicated.
J.H.P. Gibson's astral lecture
Will place this fact beyond conjecture.
Bound that old spot now thronged by all,
Has many a chipmonk met his fall
By dart from youthful sportsman's bow,
Which laid the striped beech-nutter low.
No central Ottawa was then,
As now, resort of busy men--
The first stone of our centre town
By Mason's hand was not laid down;
A forest path across the hill
To Bank Street led--the place was still;
No noisy vehicle passed there,
The dwellers of the wood to scare.
The road for carriages led round
Old Bytown's ancient burial ground,
Upon the hill's south eastern base,
Of which there is not now a trace;
And spreading off in endless green
To the canal the bush was seen--
The ancient forest--then the deer
To Bank Street Church's site was near,
And ruffed-grouse, wrongly named partridges,
Whirled and drum'd between the ridges,
Black ducks and Teal did oft alight
In ponds round Corkstown from their flight,
And when the swamp down Slater Street
Was cleared, a dozen snipes would greet
At every step the sportman's eye,
O! glorious spot of days gone by.
To listen, ah! 'twas splendid fun!
To Commissary Oriel's gun,
As with a quick well practiced eye
He made the quivering feathers fly!
There was not then one cabin sill
Laid down on famed Ashburnham Hill,
Who's heights with pine and hemlock crowned,
Towered o'er the wooded landscape round.
Then Bradish Billings farmed away
Where his descendants live to-day,
A man of enterprising fame,
Who from the land of pumpkin's came,
And pitched his tent in honor's track
Beneath the glorious Union Jack!
Then Colonel By was in a jam
Erecting the first hogsback dam,
Which vanished with Spring's sweeping flood;
But science made the structure good
By the advice of one, no civil
Engineer, with whom a level
Or other instrument of science,
Had not the most remote alliance.
'Twas built as he proposed--I'm sorry
His name from memory I can't worry,
If Lyman Perkins was beside me,
To it he certainly could guide me.
For he has got, of ancient bore,
A well authenticated store.
Now first among our old landmarks,
Comes Laird of Bytown, Nicholas Sparks,
Who came across in '26
From Hull, his lucky fate to fix
Upon a bush farm which he bought
For sixty pounds--and little thought,
While grumbling at a price so high,
That fortune had not passed him by.
He little dreamed of Ottawa now,
When 'mongst the stumps his wooden plough
Stir'd the first sod in times of old;
He knew not then, that 'twas not mould
He turne'd up, and tilled, but gold.
'Tis not my business here to flatter,
Or with enconiums to bespatter
The shadows of departed men
Whom we shall never see again.
Yet I may say, who knew him well,
And of him would not falsehood tell,
That as poor human nature ran,
He was an honest upright man,
"Close fisted" as the need occurred,
Yet one who always kept his word.
Whate'er the cost--I say no more
Of Nicholas Sparks--who for the shore
Unknown, has shaken out his sail
Where riches are of no avail
To win calm sea or favoring gale
And Lyman Perkins, what of thee,
Will pass for current coin from me?
Thou art a man of early date--
Of '27 or '28--
in Bytown's history, and 'tis said,
Though hard to drive, thou may'st be led,
That is, if one could just agree
In view and argument with thee;
When standing in the days of yore
At "Pooley's Bridge," thine eye ran o'er
The picture with a prescient glance;
Experience taught thee that thy chance
Was then--thy foresight came
To aid thee in life's winning game.
Although no silver spoon was in
Thy mouth, when to this world of sin
Thou camest, thou hast forged from fate
A path in life most fortunate;
To praise thee I shall take no pains,
Thy enterprise has brought thee gains--
'Tis something to be born with brains!
Daniel O'Connor there doth stand,
One of the old departed band--
Another of the pioneers
Of Bytown in its early years;
In memory's magic glass I see
Him as he first appeared to me
In '28 when passing down
Through the main street in Upper Town.
A merchant of a distant date
Before the days of '28,
And County Treasurer was he,
Long, too, a Carleton J.P.,
Ere Courts of Justice were installed,
When Bytown "Nepean Point" was called;
In politics he was a Tory,
And thus doth end of him my story.
Nathaniel Sherrold Blasdell, too,
Who once a blacksmith's bellows blew
In the old forge, which in the shade
Of the Russell House still undecayed,
Stands firm a landmark of the past,
How long will such old memories last?
He, too, was one of those who's hand
Built up the bulwarks of the land,
I say unto such men as he,
_Requiescat in pace_.
And Doctor Rankin, there he goes,
With solemn brow and turned out toes
Upon his mottled bob-tailed horse,
Who's canter said, the patients worse,
Or better, as the trusty steed
Did indicate by passing speed.
John Burrows, too, with serious air,
Sung hymns and offered frequent prayer,
And taught a Sunday School with might,
To spread religion's early light,
He held a post in other years
Among the Royal Engineers,
With Colonel By, a right-hand man,
His course of favor he began,
And once owned much of the wild land
Upon which Ottawa doth stand.
John Ghitty is a favorite name,
His old hotel was known to fame,
And travellers from far and near,
Called at his temple of good cheer.
A mason of most high degree,
In the craft's early dawn was he.
So much respected was he here,
That unbought friendship o'er his bier
Shed many a sad regretful tear.
And surly old James Doran, too,
A warrior of Waterloo,
Kept with a despot's iron hand,
The best hotel in all the land;
Who entered there of human kind
Was forced to leave his dog behind,
For Doran had a frowning face
For each and all the canine race.
And Daniel Fisher, who kept store
On Wellington's west side of yore,
A most experienced auctioneer
In somewhat more contracted sphere,
Than circles trade's expanding flow
Round Bermingham, McLean and Rowe
And Michael Burke, who kept a still--
And made beer down below the hill
Where malt and hops together came,
And gave the "Brewery Hill" its name--
That hill with pathway to the right,
Where Bank Street ends upon the height.
And many a barrel of his beer
Went down, the Irish heart to cheer,
When ancient crowds did celebrate
St. Patrick's Day in '28.
But patriotism's spirit rose;
From words contention went to blows,
And ere the little "scrimmage" ended
A crack that never could be mended,
Was in a luckless cranium made,
By one whom justice never paid;
I cannot tell what colored ribbon
He wore--his name was Dan McGibbon.
CHAPTER II.
George William Baker, better known
As "Captain Baker" in the town.
Who oft the mailbag's lock untied
Long after Matthew Connell died--
Long after Helen Denny's hand
Sent postal letters o'er the land;
An Englishman of good degree,
A Justice of the Peace was he,
And Captain of Artillery--
If memory has not gone astray--
He was in his life's early day,
He shewed his claims to education
In County Council legislation,
Where he in intellectual pride
Sat long by Hamnett Pinhey's side,
Our Local Parliament's since then
Have seldom witnessed two such men
Paymaster Rudyerd, too, I scan,
A most important gentleman,
Who carried in the days of old
The Governmental bags of gold;
Yet never did one less resemble
He, of the twelve who did dissemble,
And for the thirty pieces paid,
His master cruelly betrayed.
And John McCarthy, who can say
That he's a man of yesterday?
Through the dim maze of vanished year
His name to memory appears,
A dealer in strong leather ware
That stood the worst of wear and tear
Since paths of '27 he trod,
His eye hath seen the grassy sod
O'er many a friend--let's hope no foe--
With whom he started long ago,
In the long race down life's steep hill
On which he treads securely still.
Captain Letreton, too, I see,
An officer of high degree.
The owner, ere the days of rats,
Of that wide district called "the Flats"
In modern times, where I behold,
A pinery as in days of old.
And Isaac Firth, an old John Bull,
Of milk of human kindness full,
Of rotund form and smiling face,
Who kept an entertaining place
For travel-worn and weary fellows
Who landed where Caleb S. Bellows,
Out on "the Point" his habitation
Built in a pleasant situation,
Before the days when piles of lumber
Did first fair nature's face encumber;
Quite near the spot where first with skill
John Perkins built his little mill,
Where Philip Thompson many a year
Ago, commenced his bright career,
And took the ebbing of the tide,
Which into golden waves did glide;
He man'd his craft and steered her well
O'er placid calm and tossing swell,
And independent of the gale
Hath snap'd his oar and furled his sail.
'Twas just above "the whitefish hole,"
How dear that spot is to my soul!
There Allan Cameron and I
Together many a day did hie,
To haul the silvery shining prey
From out the whirling eddy's spray;
In July, '32, to land,
I drew two barrels with my own hand,
The trophies of the hook and line
In the dear days of auld lang syne
That was the fatal month and year
When cholera was rampant here;
Malignant Asiatic type,
Which from the book of life did wipe
The name of many a sturdy one
'Twixt rise and setting of the sun.
Dread terror brooded o'er the land,
While the destroying angel's hand
Smote here and there each deadly blow,
Which laid in dust the proudest low!
As I remember--those fared worst,
Who in that dismal time were curst
With dangerous and insatiate thirst.
And H.V. Noel, surely here
His name is worthy to appear;
'Mongst those whom I so long have known,
Tis strange that he has not outgrown
The friendship of the early few
Into who's confidence he grew,
By the unchanging honest course
He steered for better or for worse,
Well has he worn, long may he bear
Up stoutly 'gainst the world's care!
John Cruickshank of the kirk, who prayed
Beneath the old white birch's shade--
The old white birch--that sacred trust!
Improvement's hand hath to the dust
Upturned to make frontal space
For temple of more modern grace,
A grander altar than of yore,
The ancient "Black mouth's" knelt before.
And Robert Sheriff, stately man,
Who the Crown Timber Office "ran"--
To use a well worn Yankee phrase
Unknown in Bytown's early days.
And A.J. Christie, what shall I
Say of this old celebrity?
An M.D. of exceeding skill
Who dealt in lancet, leech and pill,
Cantharides and laudanum, too,
When milder measures would not do;
A polished scholar and a sage,
A thinker far before his age,
A writer of sarcastic vein
And philosophic depth, who's train
Of thought was comprehensive, deep,
Peace to his ashes! let him sleep!
In ancient times his prophet eye
Saw Bytown's future destiny,
Fools laughed and disbelieved the seer
Who's second sight saw triumph near--
A scene which fortune did fulfil
The Parliament on "Barrack Hill!"
And Lawyer Hagerman I knew,
When lawyers little had to do--
Their briefs were few, their fees were brief,
And brief had been their Sunday beef,
Had they nought else to fill their maw
Than the proceeds of briefless law;
For litigation had not then
Curst Bytown's early race of men!
And Robert Drummond, Engineer,
Who built across the "_Grande Chaudiere_"
The old "Swing Bridge," which many a day
Amid the "Kettle's" curling spray,
From side to side did gently sway.
The adamantine iron tether
Which chained two provinces together,
Ere legislation's fiat came
With moral might to do the same.
Well's and McCrea of lumbering note,
Who had on many a stream afloat
Vast rafts of red pine timber, when
White pine was little thought of; then
Oak, elm, cedar and red pine
And staves, together did combine,
With now and then a mast or spar,
To make up what would go at par,
At Stadacona--old Quebec--
Where brave Montgomery got a check
In a most bootless, foolish strife,
Which cost him his undaunted life--
Where Arnold got a broken thigh,
Ere at West Point his treachery
Brought Major Andre without hope
To Washington's relentless rope!
To Wolfe I'd like to wander back,
But 'twill not do, so to my track
I now reluctantly return,
Who next is ready for the urn?
Adam Hood Burwell is the man,
An English Churchman he began,
But ended a most shining light,
A mystic, full-fledged Irvingite,
With pinions rustling for a sphere
Of usefulness he found not here.
Another of the reverend throng
I'll introduce, 'tis S.S. Strong,
A man who's memory I recall
As one respected here by all,
An honor to his cloth and race,
With whom no strange fire left its trace,
Upon the shrine where truth he found,
Who preached and practiced precepts sound,
Nor wore his shoes on hallowed ground.
William and Hugh Calder's names
Arise, and now present their claims
To immortality in rhyme,
Both merchants of the olden time.
John Anderson, a merchant was,
And dealt with profit and with loss
In groceries and dainty "grub,"
With wine, Jamaica, rum and shrub,
That had no leaves upon its stem,
Though beads like dewdrops did begem
Its ruby rippling diadem.
CHAPTER III.
"And "Little Johnny Robertson,"
But lately from amongst us gone,
Took both his "sneeshin" and his glass,
And let the tide of fortune pass.
And Ewen Cameron, who died
By cholera in manhood's pride;
A Caledonian lithe and strong,
As fancy paints the dauntless throng,
Who dashed with claymore down the slope,
On red Culloden's grave of hope.
And Peter Aylen, who could tell
The path he trod of yore as well
As I, who from an early day
Knew Peter Aylen's every way?
'Tis not my purpose to indite
A history of his life; or write
A record of his strange career,
To interest the reader here.
Howe'er his stirring life you scan,
You'll find that Aylen was a man!
Afraid of nought that ever wore
The human shape on Ottawa's shore!
Chief of the "shiners," it was said,
Cæsar or nothing--never led--
But always foremost in the fray,
Was ever Peter Aylen's way.
A heavy lumberer Peter was,
When lumbering was like pitch and toss,
To-day success, to-morrow loss.
But let him rest, he sleeps beside
The Ottawa's majestic tide!
Perhaps I'd better mention here
Who and what the "shiners" were,
Who gave of yore such sturdy thumps,
And brought forth phrenologic bumps
Unknown to scan of craniology,
With bludgeons or aid of geology.
A band of Irish raftsmen, who
Were to each other always true,
Combined together, war they made,
To banish from the lumber trade
All French-Canadian competition
By dooming it to abolition;
They made the wild attempt, at least,
To extirpate poor Jean Baptiste.
Among their victims they enrol'd him,
And made the place too hot to hold him,
Yet were the tales that rumor told,
Worse than the shiners' acts of old,
Though memory's charged with many a fray
That happened in the early day,
When shiners with an iron hand
Reigned here the terror of the land!
Few were the victims of the strife--
If any--and the loss of life,
Was fanciful much more than real
In that blood-letting old ordeal.
Among the medico's of old,
Doctor Stratford I behold,
Who foolishly I thought deemed best
To emigrate towards the West,
And leave behind a work which few
Could with a single lancet do
When venesection--old idea,
Combined with the Phamacopeiæ
Was patent as a panacea
For almost every mortal ill,
Like calomel jalap, or blue pill.
He disappeared from healing fame,
And young Edward Vancortlandt came;
For he was young and active, too,
When first he met the minstrel's view,
And striding rapidly did go
Along full forty years ago!
VanCortlandt's had a long career
Since first he bled and blistered here;
His own hand hath his fortune made--
His own hand the foundation laid--
And if success, with hoards of wealth
He has not now--the public health
Has never suffered at his hand;
Nor has the mystic spirit land
Been peopled by the shades of those
Who in their last dissolving throes,
Gave evidence that power to kill
Was mingled with Vancortlandt's skill--
When to that distant coast he'll steer,
No crowd of ghosts will hover near,
And cry out. "Van, you sent us here!"
Edward McGillivray, how is this,
That I by accident should miss
So long an ancient name like thine,
'Twould be unpardonable, if mine
The fault to leave thy well-known name
Unwritten in my roll of fame?
Bytown was young, and so wert thou,
Years long before the "Shannon's" prow
Cleft Ottawa's bosom on her way
To Grenville in our early day.
No steam whistle's discordant yell
Shrieked on the evening zephyr's swell;
But from her deck the cannon's din
Told Bytown that the boat was in,
And at the sound the signal man
His banner up the flagstaff ran.
It was a good old time when thou
Bought beavers at a price which now,
When beaver skins are somewhat rare,
Would cause even Chauncey Bangs to stare.
Yes, 'twas a fine old time for trade,
Money was plenty--easy made,
And thou wert, aye, a canine blade.
Patrick Delaney home has gone
From earthly toil, and he was one
Of those who in the distant past,
His lot in Upper Town had cast.
James Elder, a majestic Scot!
On whom of old it was my lot
To look with veneration's eye.
Kept Bytown's staid academy;
And here I dwell with fond delight,
And view again with memory's sight
The stately teacher in his chair,
King of the throng assembled there.
Now Allan Cameron comes to view,
And William Stubbs, there he is too.
Wellington Wright, too, I behold,
And wild Jack Adamson, the bold.
The Anderson's, both James and John,
And Stephen Lett, my mother's son,
Who stood upon Parnassus' crown
By might of Genius, and looked down
To where with errant steps I strayed
Around its base beneath the shade.
And many more were pupils there,
Where are they? "echo answers, where?"
In fancy I away have stepped
From where his school James Elder kept,
In that old house remembered well,
After, as Joseph Kirk's Hotel,
Ere it was haunted by a sound
Which shed such melody around,
Sweet almost as the songs of Zion,
From violin of Robinson Lyon,
Who drew such music from its strings,
Scotch reels, strathspeys and highland flings,
And Irish jigs in variation,
As made one feel that "all creation"
Could scarcely match his wizard spell,
'Twas he that played the fiddle well!
And Edward Malloch, gone to rest,
Was not the worst, nor yet the best,
Perhaps, 'mongst those of other days
To whom I dedicate these lays.
I knew him well in '25,
When Richmond Village was alive,
While Bytown's head was scarcely seen,
Emerging from the forest green.
A captain of Artillery
In '37's hot time was he,
When Louis Joseph Papineau
Sought British power to overthrow;
And William L. McKenzie tried
O'er loyalty and truth to ride;
Each found the path, for what he wanted,
Too hot to walk in--and "levanted;"
Von Shoultz, a soldier abler, riper,
Remained behind and "paid the piper!"
Even I, poetic man of peace,
Have often marched and stood at ease,
Beside the Richmond guns, brought here
To thunder o'er the _Grande Chaudière_,
At the great Union celebration,
The new bridge's inauguraton;
One thing is certain, those brass guns
Were ne'er seen more by Richmond's sons.
They fell prey to official nabbing,
And Governmental red tape grabbing,
Like plunder from the vanquished harried,
To Montreal off they were carried!
Malloch was member many a year
For Carleton when votes were not dear--
When damaged eyes, and smashed proboscis
Would follow, as the smallest losses.
The offer of a vile bank note
As price of an elector's vote.
Gold, said the sage, perhaps 'twas law,
On Dian's lap the snow can thaw;
And gold has purchased many a seat
Where the "collective wisdom" meet,
And many go to represent
The weight of cash corrupt which sent
Them wandering wickedly astray
From honor's seldom trodden way.
Where now, is Turner, who of yore,
Kept school near the old Ottawa's shore?
And Heath who came across the line
In able teaching here to shine?
And old John Stilman, who shoes made,
And flourished in St. Crispin's trade?
William McCullough, where is he?
Gone to the unknown country--
A steady, harmless, quiet man,
Who here in '32 began
A race unmixed with hate or strife,
Which ended only with his life.
And Reuben Traveller, who's tongue
Oft in the old assizes rung--
Though given to mirth, a wondrous crier,
Who lived near John Sweetman, the dyer
'Twas all the same, for either side
Or both old Reuben Traveller cried--
Cried for the man who won law's race--
Cried for the man who lost his case--
Cried for the criminal acquitted--
Cried for the guilty when outwitted--
He cried for loss or gain of pelf--
For every one except himself;
Reuben was a celebrity,
We seldom meet with such as he.
John Rochester, a man of old,
Who's life a tale of goodness told,
He steered through time from envy free,
You'd scarcely find an enemy,
Who o'er his honored dust would dare
Defame the ashes resting there;
For such as he laws ne'er were made,
Peace to his gentle vanished shade!
Well, will it be for James and John
If they walk the same path upon
Which their departed sire trod
With love alike to man and God!
James Joynt is 'mong the living yet
A printer of the old _Gazette_.
Who plied the typographic trade
Ably in Bytown's first decade.
And taught the art of Caxton well,
And thoroughly to John George Bell,
Who in our village made a racket,
In the old columns of the _Packet_,
Where every one got "tit for tat"
From dear departed "Old White Hat!"
Who thought Reformers could not err,
And laid the lash on Dawson Kerr,
Whom he in bitter hues did paint
A sinner, and called him "the saint."
A journal of more modern date
Than the _Gazette_, who's early fate,
Was Phoenix-like to rise resplendent
From ashes of the _Independent_,
Which had at periods now and then,
Emitted Sparks from Johnston's pen,
Which meteor-like shot forth in pride,
Blazed, flickered, then collapsed and died.
And Robert Hardy's name I find,
In the old days long left behind.
James Matthews, too, in death's repose,
In early times was one of those
Who helped to build the ancient town,
Which modern taste is pulling down,
Assisted now and then by fires,
Past recollections primal pyres.
John Bennett, cord-wainer of yore,
And volunteer in Rifle corps,
With muzzle-loaders past and gone,
Gallant and brave old Number One!
Our civic army's primal rib,
Once called by Alexander Gibb,
"The Sleepy's," in the good old time
When he dealt in both prose and rhyme,
And made opponents fume and fret
With caustic in the old _Gazette_--
Rhyme, too, in which a critic's claw
Could scarcely fasten on a flaw,
His verse was standard like his law.
CHAPTER IV.
John Cobb, I'll take a glance at thee,
Firm standard of Free Masonry!
Mine eye delights to rest upon
Thy iron frame, old "Uncle John."
If honesty and simple truth
E'er "flourished in Immortal youth,"
Where time can ne'er their glories rob,
They rest with thee, my friend, John Cobb!
And Dudley Booth, what shall I say
Of this strange mortal passed away?
His was a genius burning bright
With brilliant and uncertain light--
Proud in inventive dignity,
And dark in inmate mystery,
It flickered only, when sublime,
It might have left a light for time,
And wondering mortals to admire,
Tis gone! I saw its flame expire.
And John R. Stanley was among
Old Bytown's well remembered throng,
Whom memory's tuneful measure bears
Back from the shades of other years.
R.W. Cruice in ancient days
Was fond of mirth and sporting ways;
I had almost forgot to tell
How he on horseback cut a swell,
And made a fleet and daring rush
At Barry's hunt and won "the brush,"
When sportsmen gathered full of glee
Around the famed J.P., M.D.
And here diverging from my road
Into a little episode,
I'll tear at once with gesture brief
From memory's book a comic leaf,
A tale from cobweb's volume hoary
Of this Sangrado in his glory,
Many will recollect the story.
Edward Barry, grave J.P.,
Sometimes was given to a spree,
Which interfered with the precision
Of magisterial decision.
So Edward Barry jumped the hedge
And took the frigid temperance pledge;
But soon the Justice of the Peace
Found himself often ill at ease;
Pains through his gastric regions ran,
Too hard even for a temperance man.
Then Barry M.D., in a trice,
Gave Barry J.P. an advice,
After a careful diagnosis,
Which placed him on a bed of roses,
And eased his pains beyond description--
A dose of brandy the prescription--
Oft as required to be repeated--
With which the learned J.P. was treated;
And history affirms that he
Oft took the prescribed remedy.
John Cameron, oft called "Black John,"
Comes o'er my dream of old, as one
Who should not now forgotten be
In this memorial strain by me,
In days of yore, his true-nosed hounds
To the Chaudiere with certain bounds,
Oft chased the anther'd buck before
Their deep-mouthed yells to Ottawa's shore.
He was a sportsman keen and true,
Who dearly loved the "view halloo!"
And Graves, who near the old Scotch Kirk
Dwelt 'neath the shadow of the "birk;"
And Isaac Cluff appears in view,
A loyalist, both staunch and true;
James "Kennedy, the carter," too,
Who the first truck through Bytown drew
With the assistance of a horse,
I mean, to be exact, of course.
And "old Ben. Rathwell," now I've hit on,
A true and honest hearted Briton,
As ever crossed Atlantic's wave
To found a home and find a grave.
And William Colter now doth rise
Before my retrospective eyes,
A saddler far from democratic--
Professor most aristocratic,
In art which claims the highest feather
Among the fashioners of leather;
An active springing step had he
As now his form appears to me;
Early he went to that far bourne
"From whence no travellers return."
Thomas M. Blasdell, step this way,
And tell me how you feel to-day?
You thought I'd pass and let you go,
Old twisted groove! but 'tis not so,
Like charcoal, brimstone and salpetre.
I'll touch you off now in short metre.
'Tis long since first your eye, my man,
Along the rifle barrel ran;
The "crotch" or "globe" was all the same,
If you could only see the game.
Or the "bulls-eye," the missile flew
Into its centre straight and true,
In the old days when practiced eye
Was light, shade and trajectory.
Does your keen eye obey your will,
Is your hand quite as steady still
As when you knocked the turkey's o'er,
At twenty rods in days of yore?
My blessing day and night upon
The memory of the time that's gone.
And Sergeant Major Ritchie, there
He stands before my vision, where
In youth I used to see him stand
On Barrack Hill with cane in hand.
For many a year ere death's disaster
He held the post of Barrack Master,
And amongst people who reflected
Most highly always was respected.
I had almost forgotten one
Who's name should not be left alone
In dark oblivion's envious shade
While I the silent past invade--
To light up the forgotten gloom;
To rescue from time's early tomb
And touch with friendly hand, and give
To fading memories power to live.
'Mongst men of enterprising fame,
I can't pass George Buchanan's name;
He built our first old timber slide,
Down which the red pine cribs did glide;
And afterwards with strength and skill,
And an indomitable will,
At the great Rapids of the _Chats_,
Suspended nature's changeless laws,
And by an artificial path
Triumphed o'er the cataract's wrath!
While standing quietly on shore,
Watching the freight the current bore,
A sudden crash from careless oar
Ended his enterprising life,
And made a widow of his wife.
The public mourned, its great heart bled,
With genuine sorrow for the dead.
'Tis but as yesterday to me,
The history of that tragedy.
Ere to the fair green now I go,
I'll stir up the old "Buffalo."
John Heney, who his mark has made
In speculation's shifting trade,
And built up with both brick and stone,
Memorials, which, when he is gone,
In Ottawa will securely stand,
Proofs of his enterprising hand.
Some years ago in learned debate,
In Council Hall he sat in state.
And in his record there you'll find,
Nothing unfriendly or unkind.
And while as gently I jog on,
I cannot, pass by "honest John!"
"Shaun Rhua," designating name,
Who from the County Cavan came,
And in the Upper Town first started.
Young, enterprising, and light hearted.
At Civic Board for many a year,
For By Ward doth his name appear;
And I can say, who ought to know,
As far as my researches go,
No public act has stain left on
The well-earned name of "honest John!"
Turk, Jew, and heathen all the same,
Speak kindly of John Heney's name.
Mark Bishoprick has gone at last,
An aged pilgrim from the past,
Burdened with many years he stood
Almost alone in solitude,
A record of an age that's gone,
Who's lengthened shadow rested on
The present, ere the distant light
Sunk into everlasting night.
CORKSTOWN.
"Mother McGinty won't forget
To keep the tally mark."
(OLD SONG.)
In days of yore, within a call
Of where stands now the City Hall,
A village built of mud and wood,
In all its glory, Corkstown stood,
Two rows of cabins in the swamp--
Begirt by ponds and vapors damp
And aromatic cedar trees
Who's branches caught the passing breeze--
Stretched upward on the western side
Of the "Deep Cut," where then were plied
The spade and pickaxe side by side;
For, by the shade of Colonel By,
Who shaped this city's destiny!
There delved full many a hard case in,
That channel to the Canal Basin.
There, then dwelt many a sturdy blade,
Adepts at handling the spade,
And bruisers at the wheeling trade,
As witness the vast mounds of clay
Remaining on the banks to-day.
Lovers of poteen strong and clear,
In preference to rum or beer,
Sons of the sod who'd knock you down
For half a word 'gainst Cork's own town,
And kick you then for falling too,
To prove that the old mountain dew
Had frolic in it raw and strong,
As well as music, love and song.
And there in whitewashed shanty grand,
With kegs and bottles on each hand,
Her face decked with a winning smile,
Her head with cap of ancient style,
Crowned arbiter of frolic's fate,
Mother McGinty sat in state,
And measured out the mountain dew
To those whom strong attraction drew
Within the circle of her power,
To while away a leisure hour.
She was the hostess and the host,
She kept the reckoning, ruled the roast,
And swung an arm of potent might
That few would dare to brave in fight;
Yet was she a good-natured soul,
As ever filled the flowing bowl;
In sooth she dealt in goodly cheer,
Half-pints of whiskey, quarts of beer,
Strong doses of sweet peppermint,
Fine old Jamaica without stint,
And shrub--a cordial then well known--
Her thirsty customers poured down,
Nor dreamed of headaches, or of ills,
For nought killed then, but doctors' pills!
The song, the dance, and glass went round,
The precincts of that classic ground;
And when bent on a tearing spree,
Filled full of grog and jollity,
The bacchanalian rant they made
Would please even old Anacreon's shade,
While o'er them the athletic charms
Of the stern hostess's bare arms,
Struck terror and kept order in
The revel's hottest, wildest din!
For cash or credit bartered she,
The prime ingredients of a spree;
And he stood always above par
Who never stone threw at the bar;
And when a man had spent his all,
She chalked the balance on the wall.
Figures or letters she knew not,
But what a customer had got
By hieroglyphics well she knew,
For there exposed to public view
Each debtor's tally great and small
Appeared upon the bar-room wall.
A short stroke for a half-pint stood,
A longer for a quart was good,
While something like an Eagle's talon
Upon her blackboard was a gallon.
And woe to him, who soon or late
His tally did not liquidate;
For when her goodly company
Were all assembled for a spree,
She read off each delinquent's score,
And at his meanness loudly swore,
And threatened when he next appeared,
Unless the entry all was cleaed,
To lay on future drinks a stricture,
And photograph, perhaps, his picture
In pewter, for the unpaid tally,
As given, I think, in C. O'Malley.
Old Corkstown was a merry place
On pay-day, when the soaking race
Assembled full of fun and glee
At Mother McGinty's for a spree,
No total abstinence was known
In those days in that little town,
Nor many nasal organs tainted
For lack of time to get them painted;
No moderate drinker showed his face
Within that much resorted place,
For temperance had not then began
To trench upon the rights of man,
Sure had he trod on danger's edge
Who dared there to propose the pledge.
Such monstrous doctrine there had been
Followed by "wigs upon the green."
None there refused the offered glass,
Or dared to let the bottle pass
For, _casus belli_ this was strong,
Unless with a good roaring song
The recreant could in his defence
Atone for such _most strange_ offence.
Sometimes, nay oft, upon the street
Antagonistic friends would meet
By chance, or by some other charm,
To try each other's strength of arm,
And without legal process settle
Disputes, like men of taste and mettle;
And while strict "Fair Play" ruled the fight,
It was a sort of rough delight
For youthful souls while hanging round
That ancient famous battle ground,
To note who first the claret drew--
who first down his opponent threw--
Who first produced the limner's dyes
Beneath his neighbor's damaged eyes,
Or sowed the trodden ground beneath
With smashed incisors, like the teeth,
The dragon's tusks of ancient ken
From which sprung hosts of armed men.
Such pastime was a frequent thing,
The entertainment of the ring,
Without equestrian or clown
Was often seen in Cork's own town,
And best, for impecunious boys
Who boasted few of modern joys,
Who daily went to see the play
Had no admission fee to pay.
But gone is Corkstown, vanished too
The whitewashed shanty from our view,
Where once the minstrel's youthful eyes
Beheld strange orgies with surprise.
In dust its stalwart hostess now,
Reposes, placid is the brow
That once frowned terror o'er the throng
While revelling in the dance and song,
Gone with them are the fading dyes
Which tinged fair childhood's happy skies,
The brilliant firmament of youth
Has vanished, and but leaves the truth
Written wherever mortals range
That things below are doomed to change.
THE FAIR OF 1829.
Now, reader, you and I must start
Together with both hand and heart,
Off to the far-famed level of green,
Which once in verdure lay between
The old Scotch Kirk, and where now Hall
Confectionery sells to all;
And we shall pass as something new,
Old scenes before us in review,
And I shall fire up these rhymes
With battles of the good old times;
And out of what I shall relate
No single case for magistrate,
Or stern judge to adjudicate
Arose, for then, a bloody nose,
Or broken head, between fair foes,
Was counted neither loss nor gain,
Nor thought of 'till they met again.
'Twas in the glorious olden time
When smashing craniums was no crime--
When people got no invitation
At half-past nine for presentation
Of damaged eye and broken skin,
To answer for nocturnal sin
Before that tribunal where bail
Can't always keep one out of jail.
'Twas in July in '29,
If true this memory of mine,
At early morn upon that green
Were many tents of canvas seen
Within which might be found good cheer
In whiskey kegs and kegs of beer;
And on a little table, too,
Tin measures were exposed to view,
For thirsty souls their clay to slake,
And draughts of inspiration take--
For then the numbers were but few,
Who shun'd the sparkling mountain dew,
And people under no pretence
Could dream of total abstinence:
Even John B. Gough's most magic sway
Had failed in Bytown's early day.
Vast was the throng assembled there
At Bytown's first and greatest Fair,
And merry were the antics seen
Upon that famous ancient green.
'Twas not to buy or sell they came
From far and near, the blind and lame,
The grave, the merry, sad and gay,
Upon that old eventful day;
They all assembled, wild and free,
To have a ranting, roaring spree!
And, by the shadows of the past!
Frolic flew furious and fast,
And many a head was pillowed on
Old mother earth ere set of sun.
A fiddler here the catgut drew,
And there a highland piper, too,
Shrieked forth with loud and stirring bar,
The boding battle-notes of war!
And lavishly the whiskey flew
Among that mirth devoted crew,
As oft into the tents they ran
To renovate the inner man.
'Twas twelve o'clock, and all was well,
"And merry as a marriage bell,"
Thought one might see just here and there
Legs seeming somewhat worse of wear,
And in the air perhaps might hear
The prescient sounds of conflict near,
For Irish accents there were many,
Cork, Tipperary, and Kilkenny.
'Twas afternoon, and frolic's pacing
Was then diversified by racing,
Then soon was cleared of busy feet
The race course, old Wellington street,
Bets then were made, and up the money,
Pat Ryan's horse, and Davy's pony,
Together entered for the match--
Perhaps it would be called a "scratch"
Race in the turfs expressive phrase
Unknown in Bytown's early days.
Fair, free and gallantly they started,
And headlong up the street they darted,
While loudly sounded cheer on cheer
As swift the winning post they near;
They ran together without check,
And passed it almost neck and neck,
So close, the judges, though they tried,
The winning horse could not decide.
The race was o'er and down the brakes,
Each party shouted for the stakes;
And loud and fierce the clamor rose,
And words soon lost themselves in blows;
The very stones began to speak,
And skulls, of course, began to break,
And black thorns and maple sticks
Played such fantastic ugly tricks,
That soon the well thronged battle plain
Was strewn with bodies of the slain--
The "Kilt," who fell to rise again
Without the doctor's mystic aid,
And plunge once more into the raid.
Stones flew in showers, the windows shook
Around that famous Donnybrook,
While Tipperary's battle yell,
Did loudly o'er the conflict swell!
And many a celt with accent racy
Roared for a Sleavin or a Casey!
And fierce the struggle raged around
Where the seven Sleavin's stood their ground--
Seven brothers, back to back they stood
Like hero's, though their streaming blood
Told how they bravely turned at bay
'Gainst hundreds in that savage fray!
O'erpowered at last they did retreat
Face to the foe, still in defeat,
Defiant as they moved along
Pursued by the relentless throng!
They reached their home, shut fast the door,
And stood within upon the floor,
Ready to meet the coming foe,
Who in their vengeance were not slow.
Stones showered from the assailing crew,
In pieces every window flew,
Then, with a loud and savage yell
They rushed to storm the citadel!
A gun-barrel through a broken pane
Made the invaders pause again,
A sharp axe sticking through another,
Their thirst for slaughter seemed to smother;
A battle council then took place,
And very soon there was no trace,
Of conflict or of bloody fray
Round where the Sleavin's stood at bay!
Thus ended By-town's first old Fair,
A Donnybrook most rich and rare;
This annal of the olden time
Was not premeditated crime,
It sprung from what forms quite a part
Of every genuine Irish heart,
A sort of _Faugh a-Ballagh_ way
That sticks to Irishmen to-day.
LINES
_Recited by the author in "Her Majesty's Theatre," at a
Festival of the Mechanics' Institute in March_, 1868.
In such a gay and festive scene as this,
My worthy friends, it may not be amiss
To mingle with the general notes of glee,
A rhyme or too, even if not poesy.
Indulge me while in rude unpolished verse,
The promptings of the muse I now rehearse,
And O! deal gently with me while I try
To bring the vanished past before your eye,
Fond recollections rapidly takes wing
The fading scenes of other days to sing,
The good old days, the dear old times of yore,
Which you and I, alas! shall see no more:
When all around the spot on which I stand
Was trackless forest and primeval land--
The "Barrack Hill," a wilderness all o'er,
And Lower Town to Rideau's ancient shore
A gloomy cedar swamp, the haunt of deer,
In which the ruffed grouse drum'd when spring was near,
While here and there a giant pine on high
Towered with its spreading branches to the sky!
I have the little village in my eye,
Before the locks were built by Colonel By,
Before the Sappers threw the ponderous arch,
O'er the Canal, to aid improvement's march,
Ere by the muscular canaller's spade
The ground was broken where the "Deep Cut's" made--
Long ere the iron bond of union span'd
The vast _Kah-nah-jo_, wonder of our land!
Here mighty Ottawa, in its grandest phase
Bears some resemblance to its better days,
Ere sawdust, slabs, and stern improvement gave
A turbid deathstroke to its limpid wave!
That good old time, 'tis pleasant to recal,
When one religion almost served for all--
When men together could in friendship join--
When battered buttons passed for genuine coin--
And silver pieces, do not think it strange,
Were cut in too, and four, to make small change,
When banks were few, suspensions heard of not,
And specie was the only cash we got,
Hard silver with no discount on our dollars,
Ere brokers reigned, or flourished paper collars.
Tho' dim the light of learning's genial rays
Amongst the masses in those bygone days--
Tho' daily papers, modern luxury's food,
The bold apostles of the public good,
The tribunes of the people were not found
On guard our infant liberties around,
Tho' institutions based on mental light,
Shed scanty radiance o'er that primal night,
Tho' science, wealth and philosophic lore
Were _rara aves_ upon Ottawa's shore;
Tho' commerce scarce had spread her gilded wings,
The herald of a costlier state of things;
Tho' such an institution as our own,
Was to our early pioneers unknown,
An institution, let me say, in short,
Worthy of every patriot's support;
Established on a comprehensive base.
Where every man of worth may find his place--
temple of intelligence to give
To mind the sustenance on which to live,
Tho' all such modern glories then were rare,
Yet old Bytonians did not badly fare.
Churches were few in that benighted time,
Seldom was heard the Sabbath's welcome chime--
Yet brotherhood abounded in the land,
And charity with soft and tender hand
Relieved distress, and made the weeper smile,
Scarce conscious of the good she did the while,
And not the worst among poor sons of men,
Money was plenty in the village then,
For Mother Britain with a lavish hand
Scattered her treasures over all the land.
Simplicity then held her peaceful reign,
And vice and crime were seldom in her train.
No litigation marked our young career,
No Police Magistrate with brow severe,
And frown of justice upon trembling crime,
Made culprits shiver in that happy time;
Neighbor to neighbor owed so little grudge,
Disputes were settled then without the Judge--
The learned profession boasted not one gown,
And but one lancet was in all the town--
And it was busy, and got wondrous praise,
For venesection flourished in those days.
People owed little, and were seldom sued,
No bailiff marred our ancient solitude;
Duns were a nuisance in our soil not grown,
Fifteen per cent, was totally unknown!
Things then were taken as they happened quite,
And insults were decided by a fight,
In boyhood I have witnessed many a fray
Within the ring by daylight and fair play--
No constable poked his unwelcome nose
Between the pastime of two transient foes,
Who choose like Sayers and Heenan to decide
Their difference with strong sinews on each side.
We had no sidewalks then, not much taxation,
No lock-up, county gaol, no corporation,
No aldermanic wisdom, and no mayor,
To fill with dignity the civic chair;
No tax collector with his pressing bill
To cause consumption in an empty till;
Corrupt electors trod not freedom's ground,
No purchaseable franchise could be found--
Money was not the "altar and the God,"
Before which manhood bowed a venal clod!
The reign of truth, ere politics was made
By infamy a money-making trade!
No costly vehicles with horses gay,
In gilded trappings graced that ancient day;
Pedestrianism was fashionable then,
For boys were boys, as 'twas, and men were men.
And girls were what they always were, the best
Blossoms in the gardens of the blest!
One steamer only cleft the Ottawa's spray,
But did not, like the "Queen," come every day.
No railroad engine snorted o'er the plain,
Dragging along behind its ponderous train--
No telegraphic line with speed of light
Scattered intelligence with lightning flight;
No gas-flame shed its artificial ray,
Turning nocturnal darkness into day--
The tallow candle blazed away supreme,
And of the age of coal oil did not dream;
Yet, 'twas "a gay old time," a happy time,
And could I strike an upward note sublime,
I'd strain my very heartstrings with the blast
Of glory that I'd give the fine old past!
But times are changed, and things are altered too,
Fair civilization bursts upon our view;
The old men of the old time have been laid
In peace beneath the weeping willow's shade;
The middle-aged are in the yellow leaf,
Life's evening evanescent, sad and brief--
The little children who flourished then
Are now the mothers of our land, and men--
The wilderness has vanished, the old trees
Have disappeared before improvement's breeze;
Commercial enterprise is busy now,
The Ottawa's breast is cleft by many a prow,
The roaring, rushing locomotives scour
Along the track at forty miles an hour--
The electric current cleaves the ambient air,
Shooting the rays of thought round everywhere,
Darting like sunbeams to the left and right,
The swift-winged messengers of mental light!
Disturbing 'neath the billows of the deep,
The ocean monsters from their dreamy sleep;
Cleaving resistless through the watery waste
A miracle not dreamt of in the past,
Annihilating time, and leaving space,
Like Noah's dove, without a resting place!
Thy fame, too, "old brown Bess," hath passed away,
And rifled guns in war and peace hold sway,
And Britain's wooden walls with all their glories,
Are now but one of fame's immortal stories!
But while I cast my wondering eyes around
How grand the sight which doth their vision bound;
A city stands in fair and youthful grace,
Where once old Bytown had its primal place;
And lo! in grandeur towering the skies
In marbled splendor upon yonder hill,
Our Legislative Temples proudly rise,
A columned glory of the artist's skill!
Thanks to our gracious Queen, who's royal hand
Made Ottawa chief city of the land!
Thanks to the men who fought through good and ill
The fight of right, and bravely battled still;
Who stood unshaken, firm in their adhesion,
Till victory crowned Her Majesty's decision!
God bless our New Dominion! may it be
Granted a proud and happy destiny;
Ontario and Quebec go hand in hand
With Nova Scotia and New Brunswick's land;
Those noble borderers of the rushing wave
Grand, fitting birthplace of the free and brave!
May Newfoundland, British Columbia true,
Prince Edward Island join the Union, too,
And the vast regions of the far North-West,
Awake to form a nation great and blest!
May all in common brotherhood unite
To live in peace, or for our freedom fight
Beneath the flag for which our fathers died,
And left us as their legacy and pride!
May heaven give strength and energy to those
Who from political convulsion's throes--
A proud example to the sons of earth,
Brought union and an empire into birth!
May wisdom guide them as they onward steer
The vessel of the State in her career--
Smooth be the wave and gentle be the gales
That fill our ark of safety's well trim'd sails--
Strong be the vision of the pilot, too,
To keep the port of union full in view,
Until the anchor's cast, the sails are furled,
A spectacle of envy to the world!