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!