A GREAT CONFLAGRATION.
The 7th of April, 1849, will be fresh in the memory of many old
Torontonians. It was an unusually fine spring day, and a large number of
farmers' teams thronged the old market, then the only place within the
city where meat was allowed to be sold. The hotel stables were crowded,
and among them those of Graham's tavern on King and George Streets. At
two o'clock in the afternoon, an alarm of fire was heard, occasioned by
the heedlessness of some teamster smoking his after-dinner pipe. It was
only a wooden stable, and but little notice was taken at first. The
three or four hand-engines which constituted the effective strength of
the fire brigade of that day, were brought into play one by one; but the
stable, and Post's stable adjoining, were soon in full blaze. A powerful
east wind carried the flames in rear of a range of brick stores
extending on the north side of King Street from George to Nelson (now
Jarvis) Street, and they attacked a small building on the latter street,
next adjoining my own printing office, which was in the third story of a
large brick building on the corner of King and Nelson Streets,
afterwards well-known as Foy & Austin's corner. The _Patriot_ newspaper
was printed there, and the compositors and press-men not only of that
office, but of nearly all the newspaper offices in the city, were busily
occupied in removing the type and presses downstairs. Suddenly the
flames burst through our north windows with frightful strength, and we
shouted to the men to escape, some by the side windows, some by the
staircase. As we supposed, all got safely away; but unhappily it proved
otherwise. Mr. Richard Watson was well known and respected as Queen's
Printer since the rebellion times. He was at the head of the profession,
universally liked, and always foremost on occasions of danger and
necessity. He had persisted in spite of all remonstrance in carrying
cases of type down the long, three-story staircase, and was forgotten
for a while. Being speedily missed, however, cries were frantically
raised for ladders to the south windows; and our brave friend, Col.
O'Brien, was the first to climb to the third story, dash in the
window-sash--using his hat as a weapon--but not escaping severe cuts
from the broken glass--and shouting to the prisoner within. But in vain.
No person could be seen, and the smoke and flames forcing their way at
that moment through the front windows, rendered all efforts at rescue
futile.
In the meantime, the flames had crossed Nelson Street to St. James's
buildings on King Street; thence across King Street to the old city hall
and the market block, and here it was thought the destruction would
cease. But not so. One or two men noticed a burning flake, carried by
the fierce gale, lodge itself in the belfry of St. James's Cathedral,
two or three hundred yards to the west. The men of the fire brigade were
all busy and well-nigh exhausted by their previous efforts, but one of
them was found, who, armed with an axe, hastily rushed up the
tower-stairs and essayed to cut away the burning woodwork. The fire had
gained too much headway. Down through the tower to the loft over the
nave, then through the flat ceiling in flakes, setting in a blaze the
furniture and prayer-books in the pews; and up to the splendid organ not
long before erected by May & Son, of the Adelphi Terrace, London, at an
expense of L1200 sterling, if I recollect rightly. I was a member of the
choir, and with other members stood looking on in an agony of suspense,
hoping against hope that our beloved instrument might yet be saved; but
what the flames had spared, the intense heat effected. While we were
gazing at the sea of fire visible through the wide front doorway, a
dense shower of liquid silvery metal, white hot, suddenly descended from
the organ loft. The pipes had all melted at once, and the noble organ
was only an empty case, soon to be consumed with the whole interior of
the building, leaving nothing but ghostly-looking charred limestone
walls.
Next morning there was a general cry to recover the remains of poor
Watson. The brick walls of our office had fallen in, and the heat of the
burning mass in the cellar was that of a vast furnace. But nothing
checked the zeal of the men, all of whom knew and liked him. Still
hissing hot, the burnt masses were gradually cleared away, and after
long hours of labour, an incremated skeleton was found, and restored to
his sorrowing family for interment, with funeral obsequies which were
attended by nearly all the citizens.
Shortly afterwards, Col. O'Brien's interest in the _Patriot_ newspaper
was sold to Mr. Ogle R. Gowan, and it continued to be conducted by him
and myself until, in 1853, we dissolved partnership by arbitration, he
being awarded the weekly, and I the daily edition.