Recollections of Bytown and Its Old Inhabitants

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.

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.

C?sar 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.

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.