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.