CHAPTER VII.
Though strictly not of Bytown fame,
I can't forget John Egan's name,
It well deserves what I can give,
To make it unforgotten live;
For 'mongst the sons of enterprise,
Who rose with Bytown's early rise,
When "Norway Pine" was number one,
John Egan stands almost alone—
The king of the Grand River, then
The Wellington of lumber men
A man of boundless energy,
And vast capacity was he,
All difficulties had to fly,
And cower before his dauntless eye!
Right well may Aylmer mourn and boast
The enterprising son she lost,
Upon the day when from earth's toil
He "shuffled off the mortal coil."
And N.H. Baird, of old was here,
A scientific engineer;
And Finland, the contractor, who
With coach and four the streets drove through,
The grandest carriage of the kind
E'er seen in Bytown—with behind—
In gorgeous and artistic glare,
A lion and an eagle—where
Is friend Perkins? he can still
Remember that old eagle's bill.
And Captain Andrew Wilson, O!
I've got an old sea lion now,
Who saw the flash of Nelson's eye,
Amid the smoke of victory,
Both at Trafalgar and the Nile.
Aye, saw the hero's dying smile
Of triumph, when his cruise was o'er,
And to the vast eternal shore,
Launched forth by death's o'erwhelming gale
His gallant spirit spread its sail!
O'er flowing bowl with might and main,
He fought his battle's o'er again,
Talked of chain shot, and "Stinkpot's" stench,
And hated cordially the French,
Whom he believed were but created
To be by sailors killed and hated
What e'er he was, what passage o'er,
He took to the mysterious shore,
Old Charon never cleft the wave.
Yet with a soul more true and brave!
And Baptiste Homier, when alive,
I think had children twenty-five,
Presided o'er a tavern neat,
On the south side of Rideau street.
A place well known both near and far,
And there John Johnston kept the bar,
Related backward up the stream,
To him who had the lucky dream;
With the old Chief, who in "a fix"
Was found before old '76.
Colonial history has told
The story in the days of old.
The Indian dreamed, the General lost
His uniform, but to his cost
The wily chieftain quickly found
The General's dream, bought solid ground,
And Martin, James, and Darby Keally
From the green land of the "Shillaly."
Richard Fitzsimmons, too, was found,
The Paganini of sweet sound
In days gone by, with memories big,
And well he danced an Irish jig.
Most incomplete would be my tale,
Did I not draw aside the veil,
And bring from distant vistas through,
The ancient fiddler into view.
While strolling downward by the locks,
One of those reminiscent knocks
I felt, which brought my eye before
Another of the men of yore;
I gazed, as the dim shadow neared,
And then before my sight appeared
The recollection of a name,
'Twas Commissary Ashworth came.
And not far off, with business look
And pen in hand o'er ponderous book,
I see another friend of youth
Noted for probity and truth;
'Tis Thomas Donelly, worthy man!
Whom now with memory's eye I scan.
Still as the mist of memory clears,
I meet the men of other years;
Another page I now unfold,
And Captain Bolton I behold,
Or Major Bolton, if you will,
Who lived upon the "Major's Hill,"
Which got his rank and bears it still.
It used to be in days gone by,
"The Colonel's Hill," a rank more high,
And worthy of the ancient trees,
Whose foliage rustled in the breeze,
Where pigeons, in their annual flight,
Were wont by thousands to alight,
O! many a fusilade I've seen,
Of flint locks in its bowers green;
It got the name recorded here,
From Colonel By, who first lived there;
'Twas then a grove of thickest shade,
What civilization's hand hath made,
The Indian, with its withering skill,
It has done for the "Colonel's Hill."
Who comes, so centaur like in grace,
Good spirits pictured in his face?
'Tis Isaac Smith, let truth not vary,
A gentleman from Tipperary,
Beloved by all, 'twere hard to mate him,
He had no enemies to hate him,
His friends were neither scarce nor few
They numbered every soul he knew.
Who e'er remembers Isaac Smith,
Mounted top boots and breeches with,
Upon his stately old black mare
Will recollect a horseman rare.
Christopher Carlton, where art thou?
Come here, old friend, I want thee now
To ramble back with me again
To where of old McPherson and Crane,
And Francis Clemow, too, I think,
Did business at the Basin's brink.
And Bindon Burton Alton, who
Has vanished from terrestial view;
The poet with the flashing eye—
The true born son of minstrelsy!
Who sang so sweetly, memory still
Trembles with the undying thrill.
Which throbbed in melting tones of fire
From Bindon Burton Alton's lyre,
Alas! alas! that such a soul
Should sink a victim to the bowl.
Thomas MacKay, who's worthy name
Is well known even to modern fame.
The worth which honest men revere
Deserves a fitting record here.
With mighty gangs he excavated
The ancient quarry situated
On west side of "the Major's Hill."
Which modern hands find hard to till;
The stones from thence by powder rent
To build the seven Canal Locks went.
The Sappers' Bridge, too, was erected
By blocks of limestone thence ejected.
Like many another rising man.
Mackay for ancient Russell "ran"
To use a term, which means to-day
That he runs best who best can pay!
The declaration found him seated
And his antagonist defeated.
New honors came his name to greet,
A Legislative Councillor's seat
Was given next to Russell's pride,
Clad with which dignity he died.
And no more upright man has e'er
Deserving of the post sat there.
And William Stewart, too, who's name
Elsewhere has graced my roll of fame,
Was as the reader will remember,
For Bytown long ago a member,
Good representative he made,
And his constituents ne'er betrayed,
We were by taxes lightly rated
When Bytown was incorporated,
By the Bill by him presented
When he this village represented
In '47, the year, no other,
When to that stingy old step mother,
The County of Carleton we were tied
And had our temper sorely tried.
This was before Lord Sydenham's reign
Which gave that legislative strain
To our Colonial Constitution,
And made a legal institution,
The Bill Municipal in Legislation,
The often tinkered act which rules the nation.
And James Stewart, a medico
Of the old school of long ago,
A votary of potent pill,
And lancet too for many an ill.
And not a whit more given to kill
His patients, say these truthful rhymes.
Than M.D's of more modern times,
And now I think it only fair
To mention here Doctor O'Hare,
Who of old Bytown formed a part,
And practised the assuaging art
Before the time of Scanlon's tarry,
Before the days of Edward Barry
Who in his person did combine
The medical and legal line,
Exhibiting as his degree
Upon his card J.P.M.D."
He gave to Bytown's sporting men
Such Fox-hunt as we ne'er again
Shall see; ah! 'twas a joyful day,
When Barry with tin horn away,
In glory on "Bob Logie's" back,
Followed the variegated pack
Yelping in chorus o'er the plain,
We'll never see such sport again!
Who would at length the story hear,
Can ask the Sheriff, he was there,
And bravely in his headlong way
Did "Shamrock" carry him that day,
Close in the terror stricken wake
Of Reynard, over bush and brake,
James Fraser, too, can tell the tale,
For he went over hill and dale,
And swamp and fence and ditch and bush,
Foremost in the determined rush.
To get up first and win the brush,
While loud above the yelling din,
Sounded the Doctor's horn of tin,
That hunt the public health to save
Was the best prescription e'er he gave.
CHAPTER VIII.
Can I, an ancient friend, pass by,
Who even to-day still greets my eye,
And brings up among modern men
The dearly cherish'd past again?
'Tis far, far back, I scarce can fix
The date, perhaps, 'twas '26,
When he, in Huntly, on a farm,
Once tried his unaccustomed arm
At work for which 'twas never made,
In that most independent trade.
He left Bucolics, trees, and all,
And moved away to Montreal,
To teach, as better him did suit,
"The young idea how to shoot."
And many a youth has blest the day
Of Alexander Workman's sway.
I'll say no more, lest I should be
Accused, perhaps, of flattery.
'Twould scarcely here be out of place
If Edward Griffin's smiling face
I should present in colors true—
In good Samaritanic view;
The patron of Joe Lee, whose name
Is known to histrionic fame;
Who play'd at Shylock on the stage,
When tragedy was more the rage
Than in this sad degenerate age.
And where art thou, my friend, George Story,
A man of yore, though not yet hoary?
The even tenor of thy way
Hast thou maintain'd for many a day;
They tell us within human range
That mortal things are given to change,
It may be so, yet thou art still
But little changed, though down the hill
Quietly gliding, still thou hast
An air about thee of the past;
Who knew thee thirty years ago
At the first glance would know thee now.
And Thomas Story—modest man—
As well as any other can,
Or, he may think, much better too,
Suit habit's taste in me or you,
In coat artistically made
According to that ancient trade,
Which had its rise in solitude,
Where Adam lived before the flood—
Is still Tom Story of the past,
Long may his life's fair measure last
And Sandy Mowat, here's a line
To thee, in memory of lang syne;
Fond wert thou of the target ground—
Fond of a rifle and a hound;
Dost thou remember Bearbrook's brink
And the old shanty without "chink,"
Or door to stop the piercing gale
That whirled along the snow-clad vale,
Where Peter McArthur, you and I,
Once slept beneath a wintry sky;
While through the roof in splendor bright
We saw the guardians of the night—
The snow-storm of the coming day—
The savage wounded buck at bay—
And how we lost and found our way?
Dost thou forget the strain of glee
That from deep slumber's arms roused thee?
Dost thou remember who did ride
The bounding wounded buck astride,
And whose the crimsoned hunting knife
That ended there the quarry's life.
Then "Eastman's Springs" were little known
To few beyond we three alone.
And Malcolm Ferguson, oh why,
Should memory's record pass thee by?
An artist of the gentle trade,
By whom Bytonians were arrayed
Most fashionably in old times.
When dross among the social crimes
Held not the rank which modern art
Hath given it in fashion's mart.
An agile fireman, danger-proof,
As ever struggled up a roof,
Or to the midnight summons sprang
When the alarm signal rang;
As cat or squirrel of active limb—
A "ridge-pole" was a street to him.
The old extinguishers of flame
Will well remember Malcolm's name.
As the long past I wander through,
Michael O'Reilly comes to view;
A man of stature, somewhat brief,
Who largely dealt of old in beef,
In that cheap time when scanty coin
Was ample for the fattest loin,
Rounds, chops, and beefsteaks were not gold
In those delightful days of old.
'Tis true the tallow-candle's light
Was all the ray that cheered the night,
Before our first assizes term
Was dignified by actual sperm—
The real thing—no "Belmont's" then
Were found among the sons of men.
Another name remembrance brings,
The muse of old John Darcey sings,
In numbers almost a magician—
A wonderful arithmetician,
Whose mode with all others "collided,"
Who added, multiplied, divided,
And even substracted by such rules
As ne'er were known or taught at schools.
No learned professor of the birch
E'er left John Darcey in the lurch;
No pedagogue was ever able
To con his arithmetic table.
And Edward Darcey—no relation—
Except in name, to old Equation,
A son of Crispin, a sole nailer,
Who owned a curly dog called "Sailor"—
A noble, liver-hue'd retriever,
Who'd make one almost a believer
In canine intellectual merit
Which dogs as well as men inherit.
Louis Pinard, in ancient times,
Was always ready with the "dimes"—
Excuse the slang—which a disgrace is—
At gallopping or trotting races,
And A.P. Lesperance beside him,
A good horse kept, and well could ride him,
When horsemanship was more in fashion
Than sitting still and laying lash on,
In four-wheeled vehicle at ease,
Which modern Jehuism doth please.
And Galipean, who kept good whiskey,
And old Jamaica to make frisky
The visitors to his retreat,
On the east side of Sussex Street,
Close to the very spot, I think,
Where now James Thompson deals in mink,
Otter and other kinds of fur,
Prime and unprime, without demur.
'Twas at this inn one afternoon
In '33, the month was June,
That Martin Hennessy once tried
On horseback up the stairs to ride.
And would have done so, but for this,
A pistol shot that did not miss,
Which gave him, oh, most foul disgrace!
A charge of buckshot in the face,
Which spoiled his beauty without doubt.
And knocked his "dexter peeper" out.
And E.S. Lyman, old cathartic!
With lengthy form and features arctic—
Dispenser of blisters, pills and potions,
Boluses and specific lotions,
And panaceas in variety
To cram the ailing to satiety—
Succeeded Auld, Apothecary,
A scientific quoiter, very,
Who righted phisiologic faults
With Calomel and Epsom Salts,
And made prescriptions up with skill
Of aqua pura, which doth still
Maintain its place as chief ingredient,
In every mixture, quite expedient,
He kept his drug shop at the spot
Where hospitality has got
Her Shiboleth from land of Tara,
Under the rule of Pat. O'Meara!
And Richard Kneeshaw, man of science,
Who placed in reason such reliance,
As made him almost think salvation
Could not be found in revelation:
Chemist and druggist by profession,
He held within his mind's possession
Vast stores of knowledge, ever breeding
Ideas new from constant reading.
And Henry Bishoprick, a wise man,
Who acted druggist and exciseman,
And seized at loaded pistol's muzzle
Contrabandistas, who could puzzle
An ordinary Gager's cunning
When tea and whiskey they were running.
And William Henry Baldwin, too,
Who first appeared in public view
At the old Albion, where in state,
Bob Graham rules the roast of late;
Son of a U.E. Loyalist,
Who found his way out of the mist
Republican which played such tricks
With loyalty in '76,
He came, as many another came
To Canada, in Britain's name,
To live his life and die beside
The flag that's still his country's pride!
Thomas Gillespie Burns, "T.G.,"
I have not quite forgotten thee;
Thou wert an early importation
From Erin's Isle, and thy migration
Did little damp in heart or hand
Thy love for the old parent land,
Who's green is greener in its pride
Of bloom than all the world beside!
Thy boast has always been true blue—
To British institutions true!
And William Rogerson, 'tis well
That I of him should something tell—
A tall, majestic, looking son
Of Caledonia—he was one,
In early times, who carried on
The lumber traffic with a will,
When such names as Price and McGill
Were standards in the staple trade
Which Bytown Ottawa hath made.
And William Dunning, who kept store
The first old County Gaol before,
Where now the Albion proudly stands
And flourishes in other hands,
And Clements Bradley, who lived near
The border long ago, was here;
An agriculturist of yore,
Who settled near the Rideau's shore,
And opened 'mid primeval trees
A pathway for the passing breeze.
Full half a century has flown
Since the first tree he tumbled down,
And yet his strength seems still unspent,
His step is firm, his back unbent.
CHAPTER IX.
Pierre Rocque, thou ancient man of stone!
I had almost let thee alone;
But 'twere not well to leave behind,
A man of such a rocky kind;
Thy Christian name is stone—that's hard,
Rock is thy surname, saith the Bard
Thou art an adamantine card.
And Baptist Cantin, too, it seems,
Appears 'mongst recollections' dreams,
A carpenter of worth and note,
Who ne'er asked sixpence for his vote.
Helaire Pinard presents his face,
And cheerfully I give him place,
A quiet, rare man, be it known,
Who minds no business but his own.
Joseph Paquette, to thee I give
A line to make thy memory live,
'Mid earliest recollections, thou
Art not the one least thought of now;
Something far better than mere fame
Is thine, it is an honest name!
Thomas E. Woodbury, who made
Tin cans and stovepipes, when the trade
And town was in an infant state,
Back in the days of '28.
And Fletcher, an old Yankee, who
Taught school and flogged his scholars, too
With a good health-inspiring cat,
My blessing on his old white hat!
Tho' scarce, entitled like the rest
By early advent, I think best
To name "The Orator of the West,"
James Spencer Lidstone, child of song,
The "man of memory," vast and long,
Who had, reader you need not start,
All Milton's Paradise by heart;
Strange mixture he of prose and rhyme,
Ridiculous, and the sublime
In him were singularly blended;
Where one began or the other ended,
It would be difficult to tell.
He played his part in each so well,
James Spencer Lidstone, fare thee well!
And 'mongst the ancient sons of fame
Who says that Dinny Cantlin's name
Does not deserve a line or two
In these old chronicles most true?
Dinny was just four feet in length,
Although a man of pith and strength,
His arm was always ready, too,
All rowdyism to subdue.
When special constable one day,
He captured in some sudden fray
A fellow six feet high, or taller,
And held him firmly by the collar;
And Dinny, as he upward gazed
At the colossus, o'er him raised,
Exclaimed, "escape now, if you can,
You're in the clutches of a man!"
Dinny had a commanding eye,
His hat was eighteen inches high
Come next to view, Denis O'Neill,
A ship carpenter, who laid the keel
Of many a vessel in his day,
And still he clinks and caulks away.
James Finch, too, who died here of late,
Was one of those of '28,
Or '27 it may be,
Comes nearer to the certainty;
James Finch sledged stoutly with a will,
In the old forge on "Major's Hill,"
In '29, he once lay still
For fifteen minutes on the ground
Insensible to sight or sound,
'Twas a stone that almost killed him quite,
In a most lively faction fight
In Bytown's celebrated fair,
When stones flew thickly through the air,
I can't forget it, I was there;
Its history I'll not jot down
Until I get to Upper Town.
And Charles Rowan, well I know,
The reader sought for him ere now,
What shall I of friend Charlie say,
Who came from Connaught all the way?
Who well can speak the celtic tongue
In which the Irish mintrels sung.
When famous Malachi of old
The collar wore of beaten gold,
Torn fiercely from the haughty Dane
By his right arm in battle slain!
Charlie is mild and full of meekness,
Horses with him have been a weakness:
A clipper spanking between traces
He used to drive at trotting races,
And then his powers of selection
In liquor almost touch perfection.
Next comes James Whitty, man of old,
Who once was a young sailor bold,
A quiet, little Wexford man,
Who warmed his jacket at Japan,
And "dashed his buttons" gaily, too,
In China with the pig-tailed crew;
Ere he in times that are no more
On Ottawa's bosom tugged an oar.
John Ashfield now in sight appears,
A gunsmith of the faded years;
Just as flint locks began to lapse,
He came in with percussion caps.
Here, too, is William Graham, the same,
Who from Fermanagh County came,
And many a hard earned shilling made
By groceries and general trade;
Father of him once called "Black Bill,"
That we might designate him still,
From him of Madawaska note,
Who oft on timber was afloat,
And who has claim in song of mine
To something o'er a passing line.
Companion of my early youth,
When time with us was young; and truth
Was all we knew in life's fair spring,
Thy name doth recollections bring
Long slumbering in "oblivions vale,"
'Till waked by memory's passing gale;
With thee I strayed in days of yore
Beside old "Goodwood's" pleasant shore;
Each unforgotten scene by thee
Is brought to life again for me;
A child again with thee I stand,
Among that childish happy band,
Who thought not, dreamt not, that the day
Of early bliss would pass away;
No retrospect can be more fair
That that I see behind me there,
Friend William Graham, I wish thee well,
But this to thee I need not tell.
Who is he with the cassock on,
Who bursts my second sight upon,
A merry twinkle in his eye,
Not sanctimonious, nor yet sly,
His country, one can scarcely miss
Such pure Hibernian brogue is his?
Tis surely Father Heron's gait,
Bytown's first priest in '28.
Close in canonical degree,
John Cannon's stately form I see,
In bigotry no stern red-tapist,
Favorite of Protestant and Papist;
A jovial blade with soul elastic,
No gloomy-faced ecclesiastic,
He ruled his congregation well,
Nor taught them that the path to hell
Was thronged by those who made digression
From penance, fasting and confession.
And there with academic birch,
Stands Anslie of the English Church,
Who preached in Hull and Bytown too,
Of old, to many a godless crew,
Assembled on each Sabbath day
To pass an idle hour away,
Though doubtless some went there to pray,
While here I pass in swift review
The reverend and pious few,
Who stood as finger posts of yore,
Pointing the way to Canaan's shore,
John Carroll surely should appear,
And take his proper station here,
An honest Wesleyan was he,
Who never knew hypocrisy.
George Poole in days more distant still,
In the little church on "Sandy Hill,"
Which gave its name to "Chapel Street,"
His congregation oft did meet.
And John C. Davidson, also,
Was one of those who long ago
'Mid primal darkness, thick and gross,
Unfurled the banner of the cross;
A Methodist both sound and prime
He was esteemed in the old time,
'Till something gave his faith a lurch,
And he bolted to the English Church,
In which 'tis said that he is quite
"A burning and a shining light."
CHAPTER X.
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.