MORE ABOUT THE UNION STATION.
The vast, smoky building facing the Esplanade between York and Simcoe
streets is a great theater in which are enacted some of the strangest
scenes in life in this city. Through it day and night a tide of human
life with all its joy and misery, with all its wealth and poverty, flows
continually. East, west and north, day and night, trains go thundering
on their way, infusing fresh blood and vigor throughout all the land.
The station and its surroundings are like some mighty fort stocked with
inexhaustible supplies, sending out hourly sorties against the unlocked
resources of a great country, and coming back triumphantly, laden with
spoil for the enriching of the nations. At almost any hour of the day or
night the scene at the Union station is an interesting one, especially
to the student of human nature. Here are to be seen people of all
nationalities, Canadians and Americans predominant of course, but in
the busy throng can often be seen Swedes, Norwegians, Italians, Greeks,
Hungarians, Danes, Germans, Spaniards, Frenchmen, Gipsies and Jews,
mingling strangely under the great roof. The most interesting scenes are
those witnessed on the arrival and departure of the great express trains
for the east and west. Early in the morning the big express for Montreal
and all points east leaves the station. For an hour beforehand the yard
men begin to “make up” the train and the people arrive. Sitting patiently
on their dunnage bags and rough boxes in a corner are a group of
FRENCH CANADIAN LUMBERMEN
on their way home to Quebec from the Michigan pineries. Their faces are
all bright with the expectation of being so soon back with the old folks
at home, all bright, expectant and happy, save one, who sits with his
chin in his hands and a look of sadness on his swarthy face. And why?
Because Baptiste, his young, his only brother, who had accompanied him
to the woods full of strong life and hope had been struck dead by a
falling tree not a month ago, and lay in a nameless grave beneath the
dark shadows of the Michigan woods. And this has taken all the joy and
light from the homecoming of Louis, who is wondering how he will face the
old mother at home and tell her for the first time of the tragedy which
has robbed her of her best-loved child. The crowd begins to thicken along
the platform. As I walk down through them I notice a party of prominent
politicians in a group, and on enquiry I learn that they are a deputation
to Ottawa for the purpose of interviewing the government, which will
doubtless take their suggestions into its most serious consideration.
Here is a portly merchant on his way to Montreal to look after large
consignments of goods, and to the last moment is closely attended by
his clerk, to whom he continually pours forth instructions. The nobby
gentleman, nonchalantly smoking his cigar as he coolly paces up and down,
is a
COMMERCIAL TRAVELER
about to launch himself on the unsuspecting country merchant. He has
just seen that his cases of samples have been put on board, he travels
according to the commercial tariff, the little leather bag contains
luxuries for the trip, and he feels perfectly confident and at home. He
chats with the conductor, nods to the brakesman, and offers a cigar to
the porter of the Pullman. As he stops to adjust his glasses, he rolls
his cigar in his mouth and looks up at the murky ceiling with the air
of a man who is ready for anything or anybody. These young fellows you
see there are students on their way home. By their looks they have spent
their last night in Toronto in great shape, and even now they appear
somewhat enthusiastic as they pace to and fro arm in arm. Here is a
lady bound for the distant burgh of Oshawa. She is loaded down with
flower-pots and parcels. She is red in the face, and her nose is sharp.
She is industriously trotting up and down after an official. The official
is industriously scurrying here and there to keep out of her way.
Finally, by a skilful flank movement, she captures him, and with an air
of triumph, enquires:
“What time does the 7.45 train go out, sir?”
“At 7.45, ma’am.”
“Will it go out on time?”
“Sharp on time.”
“D’ye think I would have time to go up to Smither’s store before it
starts?”
“Depends how far it is,” and the official dashes off on an imaginary
errand to escape further questioning, while the lady mentally makes up
her mind that she will write to the papers about the discourtesy of these
officials. Soon all is bustle and ferment. The old lady is hustled here
and there in a sad way. The elbow of a porter knocks a twig from one of
her plants, and she immediately sets up an outcry, which is successfully
drowned by the rumbling of
THE BIG BAGGAGE-CART,
filled with luggage, which comes lumbering along the platform, making
a lane through the throng. People out of breath come dashing into the
station, and make a bee-line for the ticket office regardless of all
obstacles. The gong sounds. Its discordant notes start the throng into
livelier motion. More people arrive out of breath and somewhat excited.
A married couple plunge along dragging a train of children after them,
who are continually getting between people’s legs. The conductor walks
up and down beside the train, answering questions pleasantly, and
nodding and chatting to acquaintances. More people arrive. The last of
the baggage has been passed into its especial car. The mails are on
board. Most of the passengers are in their seats, and, bare-headed, are
leaning out of the windows viewing the scene without. The gong sounds
again, and then a tall, red-whiskered man, with a voice like a fog-horn,
calls “A-a-all-l-l, aboard for Belleville-lle, Kingston, Montreal-l-l,
and a-a-all-l points east.” The rest of the intending passengers make
a rush for their seats, there is hand-shaking through the windows, a
pretty girl standing well back kisses her hand at a certain window, the
conductor sings cheerily, “All aboard!” the locomotive goes “Toot, toot!
fizz-whizz, fizz-whizz!” the great wheels revolve, and the morning train
for the east is gone.