BYTOWN.

CHAPTER I.

In '28, on Patrick's Day,
At one p.m., there came this way
From Richmond, in the dawn of spring,
He who doth now the glories sing
Of ancient Bytown, as 'twas then,
A place of busy working men,
Who handled barrows and pickaxes,
Tamping irons and broadaxes,
And paid no Corporation taxes;
Who, without license onward carried
All kinds of trade, but getting married;
Stout, sinewy, and hardy chaps,
Who'd take and pay back adverse raps,
Nor ever think of such a thing
As squaring off outside the ring,
Those little disagreements, which
Make wearers of the long robe rich.
Such were the men, and such alone,
Who quarried the vast piles of stone,
Those mighty, ponderous, cut-stone blocks,
With which Mackay built up the Locks.
The road wound round the Barrack Hill,
By the old Graveyard, calm and still;
It would have sounded snobbish, very,
To call it then a Cemetery—
Crossed the Canal below the Bridge,
And then struck up the rising ridge
On Rideau Street, where Stewart's Store
Stood in the good old days of yore;
There William Stewart flourished then,
A man among old Bytown's men;
And there, Ben Gordon ruled the roast,
Evoking many a hearty toast,
And purchase from the throngs who came
To buy cheap goods in friendship's name.
Friend Ben, dates back a warm and true heart
To days of Mackintosh and Stewart.
Beside where Aumond and Barreille
Their fate together erst did try,
In the old "French Store," on whose card
Imprimis was J. D. Bernard.
"Grande Joe," still sturdy, stout and strong.
Long be he so! Will o'er my song,
Bend kindly, and perhaps may sigh,
While rapidly o'er days gone by,
He wanders back in memory.
Aye, sigh, for when he look's around,
How few, alas! can now be found,
Who heard the shrill meridian sound
Of Cameron's bugle from the hill,
How few, alas! are living still—
How few who saw in pride pass on
The Sappers with their scarlet on,
Their hackle plumes and scales of brass,
Their stately tread as on they pass.
I seem to see them through the shade
Of years, in warlike pomp arrayed,
Marching in splendid order past,
Their bugles ringing on the blast,
Their bayonets glittering in the sun,
The vision fades, the dream is done.
Below the Bridge, at least below,
Where stands the Sappers' structure now,
You had to pass in going down
From Upper to the Lower Town;
For, reader, then, no bridge was there,
Where afterwards with wondrous care,
And skilful hands; the Sappers made
That arch which casts into the shade
All other arches in the land,
By which Canals and streams are span'd;
The passing wayfarer sees nought
But a stone bridge by labor wrought,
The Poet's retrospective eye
Searching the depths of memory,
A monument to Colonel By,
Beholds, enduring as each pile
Which stands beside the Ancient Nile,
As o'er the past my vision runs,
Gazing on Bytown's elder sons,
The portly Colonel I behold
Plainly as in the days of old,
Conjured before me at this hour
By memory's undying power;
Seated upon, his great black steed
Of stately form and noble breed.
A man who knew not how to flinch—
A British soldier every inch.
Courteous alike to low and high
A gentleman was Colonel By!
And did I write of lines three score
About him, I could say no more.
Howard and Thompson then kept store
Down by "the Creek," almost next door,
George Patterson must claim a line
Among the men of auld lang syne;
A man of very ancient fame,
Who in old '27 came.
One of the first firm doth remain,
He is our worthy Chamberlain,
Who ne'er in life's farce cut a dash
On other people's errant cash;
Who guards, as it is right well known,
Better than e'er he did his own,
The people's money, firm and sure,
To the last cent, safe and secure.
And opposite across the street,
A friend or foe could always meet
A man deserving hero's title,
Uncompromising Watson Litle!
A stern upholder of the law
Who ne'er in justice found a flaw,
With well charged blunderbuss in hand
He asked not order or command,
But sallied forth semper paratus
To aid the Posse Comitatus!
"Peace to his ashes!" many a score
Of heads he smashed in days of yore!
Where is the marble slab to show
Where Watson Litle's dust lies low?
Close by "the Creek," on the south side
Of Rideau Street, did then reside
John Cuzner, a British tar,
For pluck renown'd both near and far!
Nor would I willingly forget
While tracing recollections met
Of other days, and from the past
Collecting memories fading fast,
Of lines our earliest purveyor,
John MacNaughton, the Surveyor,
The only one who then was quite
At home with the theodolite,
And boxed the trembling compass well,
Before the days of Robert Bell.
A little further up the street,
James Martin's name the eye did greet
A round faced Caledonian, who
Good eating and good drinking knew;
And "Four-pence-half-penny" McKenzie
Daily vended wolsey linsey,
Next door to one of comic cheer
Acknowledged the best auctioneer,
That ever knock'd a bargain down,
Or bidder if he chanced to frown;
He set himself up in the end
As Carleton's most worthy friend
And by vox populi was sent
To Parliament to represent
The men of Carleton, one and all,
In ancient Legislative Hall.
And by "The Tiger" sleek and fat,
Our old friend "Jimmy Johnston" sat,
The corner stock'd with silks and ribbon,
Was kept and owned by Miss Fitzgibbon.
A good stand it has ever been
For commerce in this busy scene;
Stand oft of idler and of scorner,
I mean the modern "Howell's Corner,"
Called after "Roderick of the sword,"
Once well known Chairman of School Board.
And down below near Nicholas Street,
A quiet man each morn you'd meet
At ten a.m., his pathway wending,
With steps to Ordnance office bending,
A mild man and an unassuming,
Health and good nature ever blooming
Seem'd stamped upon his smiling face,
Where time had scarcely left its trace;
Semper idem let me beg
Thy pardon, honest William Clegg!
Nor must, although his bones are rotten,
The ancient Mosgrove be forgotten,
A man of kindly nature, he
Has left a spot in memory
While gazing on each vanish'd scene
That still remains both fresh and green
For when in heat of hurling bent
The ball oft through his window went,
He pitch'd it to us out again,
And ask'd no payment for the pane.
On Sussex Street, James Inglis flourish'd,
A cannie Scot, and well he nourish'd
A very thriving dry goods trade,
And "piles" of good hard silver made,
Almost amongst the forest trees,
By furs from Aborigines.
No "Hotel" then was in the town,
"The British" in its old renown,
Of our Hotels the ancient mother
Had not one stone laid on another;
Donald McArthur in a cavern
Of wood sustained his ancient tavern,
And there the best of cheer was found
Within old Bytown's classic ground;
And now I'll close my roll of fame
With a most well-remember'd name,
A man of dignity supreme
Rises to view in memory's dream,
Ultra in Toryism's tariff,
Was Simon Fraser, Carleton's Sheriff,
Personified by the third vowel,
Forerunner of W.F. Powell,
A high and most important man
In the renown'd old Fraser Clan,
Who well had worn the Highland tartan,
For he was bold as any Spartan,
And did his duty mildly, gravely,
And wore the sword and cocked hat bravely.

CHAPTER II.

Come, now, my gentle Muse, once more,
Come with me to the days of yore,
And let us wake, with friendly hand
The memories of that distant land,
The past; and while thy minstrel weaves
A chaplet from the Sybil leaves
Of recollection—let the light
Of truth upon his lines be bright.
May he with reverential tread
Approach the dwellings of the dead,
Seeking for some sweet flower of good
Within their solemn solitude:
And if he finds in fadeless bloom
Around some well remember'd tomb,
Some cherish'd record of the past
Which has defied time's rudes blast,
And down futurity's deep vale
Shed fragrance on the passing gale,
Love's labor, then, the task will be,
My gentle Muse, for thee and me.
'Mongst those of old remember'd well,
John Wade doth in my memory dwell,
A wit of most undoubted feather—
A mighty advocate of leather—
A solemn man too, when required.
With healing instincts deeply fired,
He with claw-instrument could draw
Teeth deftly from an aching jaw,
And ready was his lancet too
When nothing short of blood would do;
Relieved he many a racking pain,
When shall we see his like again?
And William Tormey, stern and straight,
A man who came ere '28,
Chief of the men who kept the fire on
And hammer'd the strong bands of iron,
Which first securely bound together
The old lock gates through wind and weather,
The old Town Council minutes bear
The record that his name is there.
And Thomas Hanly, loud the praise
I gave him in my early days
For bread, that Eve might tempted be
To eat, had it grown on that tree,
On which hung the forbidden fruit
Whose seed gave earth's ills their sad root.
Friend Tom dealt in the rising leaven
In the old days of '27,
With "Jemmy Lang," an ancient Scot,
Who ne'er the barley bree forgot;
An honest, simple man was he
As ever loved good company;
And Tom McDermott, while I twine
The names of yore in song of mine,
Can I forget a name like thine?
Ah, no! although thine ashes rest
Beneath our common mother's breast,
No name more spotless doth engage
My muse, or grace my tuneful page.
Stern Matthew Connell, fiery Celt,
Below the present Bywash dwelt,
Beside John Cowan, o'er whose grave
The grass of '32 did wave.
No man got in a passion faster
Than did old Bytown's first postmaster;
Yet was he a most upright man,
And well the old machinery "ran"
When mail bags came on horse's back
Before we had a railway track,
And their arrival on each morn
Was signall'd by an old tin horn.
Peace to his shade! in '32
The cholera Matthew Connell slew.
Kind reader, let me pass awhile,
Beside the "Bywash," deem'd so vile,
Then called "the Creek"—though now the pest—
The festering miasmatic nest
Of Boards of Health, who dread infection—
My very heart's sincere affection
Clings fondly to that old creek still;
For oft in boyhood's joyous thrill,
O'er its ice-bosom in wild play
I chased the ball in youth's bright day.
With young companions loved and dear!
How few of such, alas! are here
To listen to the bye-gone story
Of the old Creek's vanish'd glory!
'Twixt "wooden lock" and Rideau Street,
Young Bytown oft was wont to meet—
To struggle in the "shinny game;"
Ah! then it was a place of fame,
Full sixty feet from shore to shore,
While now it measures scarce a score;
Modern improvement has prevail'd—
Its fair proportions are curtail'd;
Its banks filled in, more space to gain.
Its stream, by many a filthy drain,
Which once was rapid, always clear,
Changed into color worse than beer,
To cool and icy scowling scan,
Of rigid, total abstinence man.
Gone is its fair renown of yore,
It's schoolboy battles all are o'er,
Which made it then a "Campo Bello"
For many an embryo daring fellow—
Too young to know what men of sense
Have called the art of self-defence;
There buttons flew, from stitching riven,
Black eyes and bloody noses given—
Even conflicts national took place,
Among old Bytown's youthful race.
Why not? for children bigger grown
I rave sometimes down the gauntlet thrown
For cause as small, and launch'd afar
The fierce and fiery bolts of war,
Simply to find out which was best.
Cæsar or Pompey by the test.
In those past combats "rich and rare"
Luke Cuzner always had his share.
For Luke in days of auld lang syne
Did most pugnaciously incline,
Never to challenge slack or slow,
And never stain'd by "coward's blow."
The Joyces too, Mick, John and Walter,
In battle's path did seldom falter,
But "Jimmy," in those days of grace
Held a peacemaker's blessed place,
Nor has he wander'd far astray
From the same calm and tranquil way.
The belt was worn by any one
Who had the latest battle won,
'Till Simon Murphy's springing bound
Lit on that ancient battle ground,
And from that hour he was King
Of our young pugilistic ring!
But here I'd like to pause a minute
And go to Hull—there's something in it
That to the hour of life's December
I shall endeavor to remember.
The old "Columbian" schoolhouse, where
In childhood's dawn I did repair;
It was a famous strict old school
Sway'd by the ancient birchen rule,
The place where youthful ignorance brought us,
The spot where famed James Agnew taught us;
A Scot was he of good condition,
A man of nerve and erudition,
A strict disciplinarian, who
Knew well what any boy could do,
And woe to him who did not do it
For he got certain cause to rue it.
No sinner ever dreaded Charon,
Nor was the mighty rod of Aaron,
By ancient Egypt's magic men,
In Pharoah's old despotic reign,
More feared as symbol of a God
Than was by us James Agnew's rod;
With it he batter'd arithmetic,
Lore practical and theoretic
Latin too, and English grammar
Into your head, a perfect "crammar,"
Was Agnew's most persuasive rod,
Nor less his magisterial nod.
How would such stern tuition suit
In our Collegiate Institute?
Amongst the unforgotten few
Who rise to memory's magic view,
While winging on her backward flight,
My schoolfellow, Alonzo Wright,
Appears a lad of slender frame,
I cannot say he's still the same,
Except in soul, for that sublime
Has soar'd above the touch of time,
And in "immortal youth" appears,
Unchanged by circumstance or years,
A good fellow, this was his name
At school, methinks he's still the same.
May he give powers of swift volition
To all who offer opposition
To him in the approaching "scrimmage,"
For what is but a brazen image
At best, a people's approbation,
Which sometimes with the situation,
Changes as egg in hand of wizard,
Or color in chameleon lizard.
There too, are Job and David Moore,
Bill Northgraves mentioned not before,
Who in the little school-house red
On early education fed.
And Thomas Curtis Brigham, too,
Lennox and Christopher in view,
Arise before my sight,
Strongly defined in memory's light,
And Wright both Ruggles and Tiberias,
And Wyman who was seldom serious,
Poor fellow! in life's manly bloom
He slept in an untimely tomb.
Time fails me, or I fain would tell
Of many more remembered well,
But end I here my present strain
Till memory wakes it up again.

CHAPTER III.

I cross the Ottawa once more.
From Hull again to Bytown's shore.
And for a moment I behold
The river as it was of old,
Swelling, majestic in its pride,
A glorious stream from side to side!
A "Grand River" was Ottawa then,
The pride of ancient lumbermen,
By slabs and sawdust undefiled.
The joy of nature's dusky child,
Who's matchless, perfect bark canoe
Oft o'er its crystal bosom flew—
Not bridged all o'er like shaking bogs
By endless booms of dirty logs,
Which to the thrifty and the wise
Are doubtless marks of enterprise,
And evidences too of health,
Of pocket and commercial wealth,
Yet sadly, sometimes out of place,
And serious blots on Nature's face.
What would big Indian "Clouthier" say—
The red-skinn'd Samson could he stray
From the happy hunting ground away—
Could he behold the stream to-day—
The great Kah-nah-jo, where the God
Of the Algonquins used to nod
In dreamy slumber 'mid the smoke
Which from the mighty cataract broke,
Hemm'd in by sawmills, booms and piers—
The features of a thousand years
Of beauty ruthlessly defaced—
The landmarks of the past displaced,
And little left to tell the story
Of Ottawa's departed glory;
But water running where it ran
When the red deer chase began.
'Twould startle even Philemon Wright
With all his wisdom and foresight.
Could he arise, good man of old,
And modern Ottawa behold,
He'd feel himself a stranger too—
'Mid scenes of wonder strange and new—
In Hull, of little worth for tillage,
The spot on which he built his village.
Return I now, this slight digression
Was worth the time, I've an impression;
Clouthier, the Indian, was a giant,
And "Squire Wright," strong, self-reliant,
Was he who o'er the border came
And gave to Hull its ancient fame;
A man of enterprise and spirit
Who in this history well doth merit,
Such place of prominence as can
Be given to such a stirring man.
On the way back I see the ground
Where ferrying Odium was found,
And afterwards, next in progression,
Friend John Bedard came in possession,
And certainly much money made
By a successful carrying trade.
The place seems alter'd, art and skill
Have built up Wright and Batson's mill
At the old wharf, or near at hand,
Where the first steamer used to land,
Before even that small craft could ride
At any wharf on Bytown's side.
And not far off, in days of yore
A cottage stood—'tis there no more,
And if there ever was a spot
Where friend and foe a welcome got—
Where generous hospitality
Presided o'er the banquet free,
And friendship's hand for rich and poor
Was ever opening the door—
That spot was where that cottage stood,
Embowered in the cedar wood,
And he who there resided with
An open heart, was old Ralph Smith!
In memory I behold him now,
With sparkling eye and lofty brow,
And round the table amply spread,
Are Patton, Henry, Ralph and Ned,
And Dolly—blessed be her shade!
Who, such nice things for schoolboys made,
And made them feel just as no other
On earth could do except their mother.
But I must hurry, or I own,
I ne'er shall reach the Upper Town,
For there I'll find an ancient throng
To link together in my song,
And I shall wake them up ere long.
'Mongst those of olden time who came
Was one whose engineering fame
Was brilliant—let none call be braggart
While speaking thus of John MacTaggart,
A genius of the highest grade
In that most scientific trade,
Who plann'd with wise, consummate skill,
Even from the lock-gates lowest sill
To Kingston Mills, the undertaking
Which cost such time and cash in making,
Rideau Canal, the work of years,
And England's Royal Engineers.
Brother of Isaac, once known hero
As Corporation Engineer,
Or Street Surveyor in that time
When Ottawa's fur was not so prime,
Whom well of old the writer knew,
And as he comes up for review—
Like volume taken from the shelf—
He harm'd no one but himself,
Is all his bitterest foe can say
Of Isaac who has passed away.
And James Fitzgibbon, where is he?
Beneath the weeping willow tree,
Retired, quiet-going man
Who ne'er his head 'gainst faction ran.
And close upon his fading track
I see the shadow of James Black,
Who once on Rideau Street kept store
In the remember'd days of yore,
A stirring, active man was he,
Genteel, polite to a degree,
That customers were always fain
Who saw him once to call again;
His wife in the old churchyard lay—
Her epitaph I know to-day.
And there stands Thomas Burrows, too,
As he appeared before my view,
Leaning upon his garden gate
Beside the Creek in '28;
He held of trust, an office high
Under the reign of Colonel By.
And Tom McDonald, as we then
Were wont to call the best of men;
A man of spirit rare was he
Who never had an enemy.
And there, too, Captain Victor goes
With most aristocratic nose,
And manners haughty with the ring
Of ton when George the Fourth was king.
And Lieut. Pooley, for whose skill
The "Gully" bridge is named so still,
Ask Lyman Perkins, if you doubt it,
And he will tell you all about it.
And Dr. Tuthill, who with skill
Could cure more readily than kill,
Physic'd, emetic'd, too, and clyster'd,
And con amore, bled and blister'd,
In the old Hospital, which stood
Unscathed by tempest, fire, or flood,
For fifty years, to be down cast,
By chance, or carelessness, at last,
Theme for conjecture, most prolific,
Another phase of the Pacific
Railway which will cause a broil,
Unless 'tis built on British soil!
And there, too, Joseph Coombs was found,
With solemn step his march around
Among the patients, pacing slowly—
Disciple of the meek and lowly,
Who afterwards oft turned the key
On many a goodly company.
In that strong work of mason's trowel,
Ruled now by Alexander Powell.
And William Addison, no more—
As trim a soldier as e'er wore
The uniform, or bravely bore
His head erect, with step as light
As wings that touch the air in flight.
Well had he won and kept from harm
The honor'd stripes upon his arm.
Such men as he have been the stay
Of Britain in her darkest day!
And Sergeant Johnston who, with skill,
The raw and awkward squad could drill—
A warrior in air and tone,
Who had his country service done—
Straight as a ramrod, and his might
Of voice would Lambkin's soul delight.
And brave John Murphy—champion John!
I can't forget as I pass on.
As fine a fellow as e'er wore
The scarlet coat in days of yore.
With upright form of manliest grace,
With wondrous beauty in his face,
And perfect symmetry of limb;
Appollo might have envied him!
And then he was as brave and true
As e'er the sword or bayonet drew,
Full many a battle did he fight,
His injured comrade's wrongs to right;
For well he knew each mood and tense
Of the old art of self-defence;
And woe to him who dared a fling
With bold John Murphy in the ring.
There many a pugilistic martyr
Met his match and caught a Tartar.

CHAPTER IV.

Near where the George Street market stood
Lived William Northgraves, then a good
And skilful watch-maker, who's chime
Did regulate the march of time,
And Arthur Hopper, sporting blade,
Was in the same time serving trade,
Though guiltless of the modern tricks
Of time serving in politics;
He made gold rings for bridal matches,
As well as cleaned and mended watches.
And last of old watchmakers three,
I mention mild Maurice Dupuis,
Who's even tenor ne'er did vary
From the upright and exemplary,
At Corcoran's corner, now the stand
For carters, very near at hand,
Dwelt one who's unforgotten name
Is worthy of poetic fame;
With scientific sleight he bled,
And then anatomized the dead.
With hand so wonderfully skill'd,
Victims delighted to be killed,
Came willingly to yield up life,
An offering to Tom Hickey's knife;
So high his sense of honor ran,
The butcher in the gentleman
Merged so completely, you'd be lost,
Which in him to admire the most;
By ancient poets it was sung
Those whom the gods love all die young,
Tom Hickey's early death did prove
That those die young whom all men love.
I must not here omit the name
Of Heubach from my roll of fame,
He passes under memory's scan
A simple minded honest man,
With manners quiet, mild and bland,
An emigrant from fatherland.
And Joseph Nadeau, far and near
Famed 'mongst the boys for good La Tir
And old John Cochran stern and tall,
Immoveable as a stone wall!
Staunch to his principles stood he,
No matter what the cost might be;
Oh! for a few of his old stamp,
To trim with fire the waning lamp!
And Louis Grison, worthy man,
In "Maville's village," first began
His little trade, which wider spread
As ancient Bytown went ahead.
Two rows of houses built of wood,
Near Enoch Walkley's brewery stood
With narrow little street between,
This was the village that I mean.
Then William Graham kept the peace
Of all the town with perfect ease;
Potato whiskey then was cheap,
And we had little peace to keep.
Such monstrous practice was unknown
As kicking when a man was down,
Though many a stunning blow was felt,
None ever struck below the belt;
The ring was form'd, and fair play
Reign'd without challenge at each fray,
And never yet, that I could hear,
Did constable e'er interfere,
Or even think that amongst crimes
Rank'd this brave pastime of old times.
Then Martin Hennessy was young,
A Hercules with sinews strung;
You might as well an anvil "lick,"
Or stand against a horse's kick
And fear not shattered rib or jaw
As risk a smash from Martin's paw.
I've seen him in the days of yore
His fist crash through a panel door.
Martin soon ran his wild race out,
For "Doctor" Whitney with a "clout"
Of a great bludgeon laid him out
Heady for post mortem and bier,
Thus ended Martin's rough career.
Ah! those were happy halcyon days,
Well worthy of immortal lays.
Here I must summon from the band
Of the departed shadowy land
George Parsons, and his name entwine
In this poetic wreath of mine.
Beside the creek his name I meet
On the west side of William street,
Twas called "the lane," ere legislation
Gave it its present designation;
Admirers of steeds fleet and game
Will not forget George Parson's name.
And I would be worse than a Turk,
Did I forget George Robert Burke,
A man who mingled not in strife,
Nor ever did in all his life
An act to cause a blush of shame
On any face that bears his name!
Nor can I Archie Foster pass,
Too soon departed, too, alas!
A man of feelings warm and kind—
A friend who never left behind
A friendly act, if in his power
To act the friend in trouble's hour,
Ah! 'twas a melancholy day
When Archie Foster passed away.
And now a man with learning's grace
And mildness pictured in his face
Stands forth in retrospection's ray
As if it was but yesterday,
It is the good Hugh Hagan's shade
Who's precepts many a scholar made.
Nor would my reminiscent eye
While scanning erudition's sky,
Fail to perceive through cloud and storm
Friend James Maloney's stately form—
A fixed star in the Teacher's heaven
Since the old days of '27,
When learning's every art and rule,
In the old Mathematic School,
According to education laws
He taught—and ne'er forget the "taws."
The handle was just two feet long,
And well he trounced the noisy throng!
At the west border of the swamp
Where cedars grew mid mosses damp,
Just at the corner where to-day
Ben Huckell doth his name display,
In other days dwelt William May,
A member of the old "Alliance"
Which easily put at defiance
The conflagrations that were seen
"Like Angel's visits far between,"
For Bytown then was almost free
From an Insurance Company!
Poor fellow! by a sudden stroke
Death's gloomy shadow o'er him broke,
Upon that well remembered day—
When the old town was wild and gay.
From verdant vale to sunny ridge,
On which the new Suspension Bridge
Was opened—and crowds congregated
To see it then "inaugurated."
To use a word from Uncle Sam,
The concourse was a perfect jam.
'Twas built by Alexander Christie,
From the land of mountains misty;
And though the whirlwind and the storm
For years have revelled on its form—
Though ponderous loads for many a year
Have passed it o'er from from far and near,
It stands in strength unshaken still,
A monument of art and skill;
Long may the builder dash the tide
Of Jordan's swelling surge aside;
And when the lot of all mankind
Overtakes him, may he safely find
A bridge across to Canaan's shore,
To pass in peace death's valley o'er.
While rambling backwards up life's hill,
I meet the stern Paul Joseph Gill,
A man with much tuition fraught,
Who youth at the old creek side taught,
Where Thomas Dowsley doth display,
His maps of land for sale to-day.
Paul Joseph Gill could with a frown
Keep juvenile offenders down;
His ruler flat I can't forget,
My fingers seem to tingle yet,
As recollection o'er me brings
That ruler amongst other things,
Which come around me link by link,
While of the vanished past I think.
John Frost, too, rises up before
My vision of the time that's o'er;
He built upon foundation damp,
In Lower Town's great cedar swamp,
Which stretched from Sussex Street to where
That engineering structure fair—
The fond-admiring eye doth greet,
Spanning the stream at Ottawa Street.
And "Sandy" Graham, strange it is,
That I thus far his name should miss,
While tracing from the scenes gone by
Each unforgotten memory
Sandy was, aye, a joyous blade,
And many a good stroke of trade
He with commercial wisdom made,
In other times when he was young,
And Yankee silver round was flung
With lavish hand by low and high
In the good days of Colonel By.
And William Hunton, who came late,
If I am right, in '28,
And many a good quart of whiskey,
To make the old Bytonians frisky—
And many a pound of Twankay tea
And Muscovado vended he,
For Howard and Thompson in the time
When cash was plenty and trade prime.
Friend Tom a little later came,
A youth then of quite slender frame.
In form he's something still the same—
Though time has taken from his heel
The spring it used of old to feel.
And streaked his locks with silver, too,
Which long withstood all time could do,
Yet in the dream that's passed away
I see Tom Hunton of to-day.

CHAPTER V.

And John McGraves, the chandler, why
Could I so long have passed him by?
By accident I've turned a leaf
Which brings him out in bold relief
A plain and unassuming man
Was John; his candles never ran.
And many in this ancient place
Owed him a debt for a clean face.
William Kipp, too, doth memory greet,
In a small shop on Rideau Street,
A man of gentlemanly kind,
With a well-cultivated mind;
And Commissary Strachan, too,
And Oriel, who had much to do
Paying the debts of Waterloo,
And many another battle field
Where Britons fought and did not yield.
And old John Ring, "good gracious me!"
I had almost forgotten thee—
Thou "Silky" John of other years,
Gone from this dreary vale of tears,
A passing shade, and more's the pity,
For thou wert ever gay and witty.
And Charles Baines, an old time lawyer,
Stood here professional top sawyer;
He owned a bull dog, arrant thief!
Who plundered Agar Yielding's beef;
And when friend Yielding sought for law,
To deal with canine of such maw,
"Why, there is just one simple way,"
Said Charley, "Make the owner pay;"
"I thank you for your judgment brief,"
Said Agar, "pay me for the beef."
"Seven and sixpence worth of prog,
Was bolted by your big bull dog."
"All right," said Charley, like a flash,
And quickly handed o'er the cash;
But, as friend Yielding turned to go,
"Come back," said Charley, "for you owe
Just seven and sixpence for advice,
So hand it over in a trice."
While on the past I now reflect,
I well and clearly recollect
John Wilson, who kept office here,
And afterwards a Judge austere
Of the Queen's Bench or Common Pleas,
Sat with much dignity and ease.
'Tis past, I shall not here relate
Young Robert Lyon's luckless fate,
Nor shall I stir the tomb and tell
Why he an early victim fell
At folly's shrine, as he who bends
A martyr to ill-judging friends,
Will always fall; but end I here
This record of his short career.
Honor, indeed! thy shrine appears,
Surrounded by a sea of tears.
George Shouldice is a man of old,
Henry was too, who 'neath the mould
Lies slumbering in solemn rest—
He many a pompous body drest
With garments fine and quite exotic,
When fashion was not so despotic.
And Charles Friel, an early man
With Bytown's history began,
A man of ready tongue and wit,
A politician who could hit
And sway with eloquence the throng,
Which shouts alike for right or wrong.
Father of Henry James, who died.
Just as his eye of hope descried
The goal he labored to attain—
The honors he had fought to gain.
Tis no uncommon thing to find
A little man with full grown mind:
And 'mongst those who have gone to rest—
Who of their chances made the best
In life's o'er turning changing reel,
I freely rank Henry J. Friel.
And Daniel Fisher, too, is gone,
Of Scotia's children he was one
Who clothed the naked in his day—
That is, the naked who could pay.
I have a friendly feeling yet
For him, for I can ne'er forget
The jacket blue which first I wore
In the old cherished days of yore,
That jacket which I don'd with pride.
Caused me to feel a man beside
The urchin in the pinafore
Which I had just arisen o'er;
In Daniel Fisher's shop 'twas made—
Headquarters of the fig-leaf trade.—
In that most ancient grand device
Which had its rise in Paradise.
I see as on I hurry past,
Pat Duggan, who blew vulcan's blast,
And friend Kehoe, who with hand neat
Fitted the shoes to horse's feet;
And John McGivern, the baker,
And Robert Wanless, harness-maker;
And William Atkins, who is still
Holding his own upon the hill
Of life, though slowly wending
Towards the goal that has no ending;
And Silas Burpee, pious man,
Who in the early ages ran
With drums and belts and wheels complete
A turning mill on old York Street—
Upon the very spot, now thought of
Where gander's head George Shouldice shot off,
With an old smooth-bore, but would not
That day attempt a second shot;
'Twas wise of George, a second shot
Might have consigned to luckless pot,
His marksman's name, and half a shilling,
His renown in the art of killing.
It was a stirring place of trade
Where famous spinning tops were made.
And splendid water power was found
Where now there's nought but solid ground,
Covered with numerous loads of wood,
A costly item bad or good.
In modern times—of old it stood,
Maple at ninety cents a cord,
Just four and six-pence, by my word!
And Julius Burpee, gone! well, well!
He kept the old Rideau Hotel,
Where man and beast could get the best
And truly find the traveller's rest.
Julius still might living be
Were it not for the "barley bree."
And Edward Darcey too, appears.
And Jeffry Nolan, who in years
Gone by, was stout and strong in fight.
And in the conflict always right,
Before the days when frolic's King
McDougall "made Dungarven ring!"
Frank's arm then, as mine, was strong,
None but himself in all the throng
So far the ponderous sledge could hurl,
Until at last with dexterous whirl,
"The school master" defiant came
And walked off champion of the game.
From first to last I've found him true,
McDougal ciamar tha sibhn dieugh?
And Charles Sparrow, where, oh, where
Is he who once was Bytown's Mayor,
Ere, J.B. Turgeon took the chair?
Lost 'mid the overwhelming blaze
Of changes new; gone from the gaze
Of public life, like many a man
Who, once for public honors ran.
And George and Robert Lang are gone,
Men of intelligence and tone,
Who held positions marked and high
In Bytown's old society.
Nor has amongst the ancient few
Captain McKinnon from my view—
Though long a tenant of the tomb—
Faded into oblivion's gloom.
If Roderick Stewart now was near,
He'd pour into my listening ear
A tale I would delight to hear,
Of other men of other times,
Who's names may have escaped my rhymes.
The Captain lived, a man discreet,
Near where the ancient arch did meet
O'er famous little Sussex Street,
For there a tragedy took place
Which here the muse with truth shall trace.
A boy stood near that arch of old
Upon a wintry day—'twas cold,
Tired of sleighing down the hill,
He for a moment there stood still,
That boy sits now with pen in hand,
From memory's photographic land
Painting in colors fair and true
The vanished scenes which once he knew.
As thus he rested taking breath,
He little dreamed of blood or death.
Up Rideau Street a man there came,
Charles McStravick was his name.
A tall, lithe, active fellow, he,
As in a thousand you could see;
A white blanket capote he wore,
And jauntily himself he bore,
He stepped beneath the arch, and then
Rushed at him fiercely two strong men.
Both with surprise and dread were scan'd.
One had a loaded whip in hand,
The other a short bludgeon bore,
And in a moment, all was o'er!
Three blows, a crash, a stream of blood.
All of the victim bad or good
In life, was in an instant crushed
To dust—off the assailants rushed,
And none can tell from then 'till now
The hands that laid McStravick low,
Nor does he who relates the story
Know more of that occurrence gory
My history would be faithless here
Did "Happy Jimmy" not appear,
An innocent good natured soul
As ever loved the flowing bowl—
An institution of the day
That like himself hath passed away,
Was "Happy Jimmy," he who made
A vagrant's life a merry trade.

CHAPTER VI.

And now, kind reader, I behold
Before me, as in days of old,
Bold Paddy Whelan, Wexford Paddy
Surely of noisy men the daddy;
A man of most Herculean form,
Who roamed through sunshine and through storm,
And sounded loud in other days
His notes in Hamnett Pinhey's praise—
And well he might sing with loud swell,
"The Lamb of March" deserved it well!
A man of learning, wit, and sense,
No shallow thing of vain pretence,
The true stamp of the current guinea
Bore March's Father, Hamnett Pinhey.
To "Muddy Little York" went he,
The Independent and the Free
To represent with power effective
Amid the wisdom most collective,
In the old days of Compact Rule
Ere Grittism yet had gone to school;
Dalhousie District's Archives too,
Can show what he was wont to do.
Paddy, though not of genus feræ,
Was yet a queer lusus naturæ;
His vital organs played beneath
A shield of solid bone 'till death,
Without a yielding space between,
Where ribs in other men are seen,
Though not a feathered bird, his toes
Were web'd as well the writer knows,
And joined in one in style most rare
His molars and incisors were;
His voice, when at its loudest swell,
Was like a railway whistle's yell;
In stature he was six feet tall,
So there is Paddy for you all!
But strike I now a strain sublime,
A touch heroic into rhyme.
As memory doth with truth uncoil
The history of old Bob Boyle,
A British soldier, bold and free,
Of the old Ninety-Ninth was he,
Who bravely fought and 'scaped from harm,
At Lundy's Lane and Crysler's Farm,
And gallantly his bayonet bore,
At Fort Niagara, and the shore
Of Sackett's Harbor trod of yore,
When "Uncle Sam," our friend and brother,
Or cousin, kicked up such a "bother"
In 1812, and tried
In vain to lower Britain's pride,
By cutting from her parent side,
By a Cæsarean operation,
The proudest offspring of the nation!
The Union Jack, thank heaven! still
Floats proudly over vale and hill,
Of this Dominion grand of ours;
And shattered be the vital powers,
By fatal stroke, like that which slew,
Sennacherib's Assyrian crew,
Of him who's traitor hand shall dare
To furl one fold that flutters there!
And palsied be the traitor tongue,
And from its root uptorn and wrung,
That dares to utter but one word
To weaken the soul-anchored cord,
Which binds Canadians heart and hand
In love to the old Mother Land!
Bob Boyle, "I thank thee" that thy name
Hath stirred the patriotic flame,
In days like these, when treason's veil
Drops when passions fierce assail,
And leaves exposed to public view
The traitor double-dyed in hue!
Hear, spawn of disaffection's thrall!
Rouge, Annexationist and all
This—ere the Union Jack shall fall,
The path of treason red with blood
Shall sink beneath a crimson flood,
While o'er it from the highest crag,
Will wave the glorious meteor flag!
I've wandered somewhat from my track,
But quietly I now come back;
Into my train of thought there blew
A passing spark, away it flew,
And I was gone before I knew—
Like nitro-glycerine it sprung,
And from the pathway I was flung.
Yet no uncertain sound give I,
I risk it as a prophecy.
By George Street north, I pass and see
There Pierre Desloges, a man was he,
But little known beyond the spot
Where first he built his little cot.
And Alexander Ethier too,
A carpenter, both good and true
Beside him dwelt, where busy feet,
Pass onward to Dalhousie Street.
And now I think it passing strange
That in wild fancy's flitting range
I have not seen and mark'd before
John Litle standing at his door—
In Sussex Street where erst, kept he
An Inn of quite a good degree
Of excellence in the old time
Which has evoked this lengthy rhyme,
John was a man of sturdy frame
As any that hath borne his name.
Even Brave Bob Elliot would delight
His prowess to behold in fight;
And Robert Elliott was not slow
To give or to resent a blow
In other days, when not as now.
The olive branch of peace is seen
Between the orange and the green.
And Richard Stethem in the haze
Of Bytown's distant early days
Before my vision doth appear,
To claim his right of entry here.
And Robert Stethem, too, his brother,
Of village denizens another;
John Miller too, of leather fame,
Who from the County Wexford came,
And first made here such boots and shoes
As fashion could not now refuse
In this fastidious age to take
And wear them for their matchless make.
And how have I not had before
James Anderson, a man of yore,
Who pitched his tent in days gone by
'Mong Bytown's ancient company,
An honest hearted jovial Scot
As e'er in exile cast his lot
'Mongst those who pioneered the track
Down which my memory's muse looks back.
And now as I stretch forth my hand
In search of one from Paddy's land,
A man of wit and humour rare,
I touch him still and find him there.
From Erin, scarcely from Armagh,
To Carleton came Denis McGrath,
Loud has his North Hibernian tongue
Upon the Byward market rung
For six and thirty years; in truth,
I've known him since the days of youth,
John Litle can my tale review
Of Denis, he will find it true.
And John Macdonald, of the Isles,
With face clad in perennial smiles,
Knight of the knock-down hammer, he
Claims passing notice now from me—
A well read man, for truth to tell,
He studied Burns and Byron well;
And which two of the wizard few
Have touched with tuneful hand so true.
The throbbing pulses of the soul,
Which vibrate 'neath their wild control.
Friend John Macdonald, here's my hand,
Thou relic of the vanished land!
Michael McBean I can't pass by,
He kept of old a grocery—
Just opposite McDougal's gate,
Where the big auger hangs in state.
Richard McCann, too, did abide
In peace the Sappers' Bridge beside,
In house we ne'er shall see again,
Once tenanted by Andrew Main—
A cannie, sober, honest Scot,
Was Andrew Main—an humble lot,
With patient industry he bore,
Till fortune smiled, and then a store
He opened, in extensive way,
Where William Fingland keeps to-day.
Peter A. Egleson to boot,
The young idea how to shoot,
On George Street north, in days gone by
Taught in his own academy;
At length the birch he threw aside,
And floated proudly on the tide
Of commerce—and his name appears
Where it was found in other years.
Next Richard Thomas comes to view,
And Nat and Jonas Barry too,
All plasterers of the old time
Who made their bread by sand and lime.
Joachim Valiquette, a baker,
And Joseph Valiquette, shoemaker,
A votary of the rod and line
When summer evenings are fine,
He like a nightingale can sing
A holy strain—as well as bring
From well known spot—a goodly string
Of fish upon a Thursday night
That Friday may be kept all right.
Gone is our friend Peter Riel
Whom old Bytonians once knew well;
An innocent good man was he,
Given sometimes to a little spree;
Once member of the Council here,
He gave forth many a loyal cheer,
And sat triumphal carriage on,
In state with Queen Victoria's Son,
When Albert Edward came this way
A royal visit here to pay.
My song complete would not appear
Unless "the Major's" name were here;
His regimental number now
I can't recall—but this I know,
He bravely marched with battle brand
Among the guardians of the land,
Ready alike to fall or stand
As duty's accents gave command;
Far might yon seek, and find not then
A soul more genial amongst men,
A lot unmarked by mortal ills
Is all I wish to Major Wills.