Chapter III

"And "Little Johnny Robertson,"

But lately from amongst us gone,

Took both his "sneeshin" and his glass,

And let the tide of fortune pass.

And Ewen Cameron, who died

By cholera in manhood's pride;

A Caledonian lithe and strong,

As fancy paints the dauntless throng,

Who dashed with claymore down the slope,

On red Culloden's grave of hope.

And Peter Aylen, who could tell

The path he trod of yore as well

As I, who from an early day

Knew Peter Aylen's every way?

'Tis not my purpose to indite

A history of his life; or write

A record of his strange career,

To interest the reader here.

Howe'er his stirring life you scan,

You'll find that Aylen was a man!

Afraid of nought that ever wore

The human shape on Ottawa's shore!

Chief of the "shiners," it was said,

Cæsar or nothing—never led—

But always foremost in the fray,

Was ever Peter Aylen's way.

A heavy lumberer Peter was,

When lumbering was like pitch and toss,

To-day success, to-morrow loss.

But let him rest, he sleeps beside

The Ottawa's majestic tide!

Perhaps I'd better mention here

Who and what the "shiners" were,

Who gave of yore such sturdy thumps,

And brought forth phrenologic bumps

Unknown to scan of craniology,

With bludgeons or aid of geology.

A band of Irish raftsmen, who

Were to each other always true,

Combined together, war they made,

To banish from the lumber trade

All French-Canadian competition

By dooming it to abolition;

They made the wild attempt, at least,

To extirpate poor Jean Baptiste.

Among their victims they enrol'd him,

And made the place too hot to hold him,

Yet were the tales that rumor told,

Worse than the shiners' acts of old,

Though memory's charged with many a fray

That happened in the early day,

When shiners with an iron hand

Reigned here the terror of the land!

Few were the victims of the strife—

If any—and the loss of life,

Was fanciful much more than real

In that blood-letting old ordeal.

Among the medico's of old,

Doctor Stratford I behold,

Who foolishly I thought deemed best

To emigrate towards the West,

And leave behind a work which few

Could with a single lancet do

When venesection—old idea,

Combined with the Phamacopeiæ

Was patent as a panacea

For almost every mortal ill,

Like calomel jalap, or blue pill.

He disappeared from healing fame,

And young Edward Vancortlandt came;

For he was young and active, too,

When first he met the minstrel's view,

And striding rapidly did go

Along full forty years ago!

VanCortlandt's had a long career

Since first he bled and blistered here;

His own hand hath his fortune made—

His own hand the foundation laid—

And if success, with hoards of wealth

He has not now—the public health

Has never suffered at his hand;

Nor has the mystic spirit land

Been peopled by the shades of those

Who in their last dissolving throes,

Gave evidence that power to kill

Was mingled with Vancortlandt's skill—

When to that distant coast he'll steer,

No crowd of ghosts will hover near,

And cry out. "Van, you sent us here!"

Edward McGillivray, how is this,

That I by accident should miss

So long an ancient name like thine,

'Twould be unpardonable, if mine

The fault to leave thy well-known name

Unwritten in my roll of fame?

Bytown was young, and so wert thou,

Years long before the "Shannon's" prow

Cleft Ottawa's bosom on her way

To Grenville in our early day.

No steam whistle's discordant yell

Shrieked on the evening zephyr's swell;

But from her deck the cannon's din

Told Bytown that the boat was in,

And at the sound the signal man

His banner up the flagstaff ran.

It was a good old time when thou

Bought beavers at a price which now,

When beaver skins are somewhat rare,

Would cause even Chauncey Bangs to stare.

Yes, 'twas a fine old time for trade,

Money was plenty—easy made,

And thou wert, aye, a canine blade.

Patrick Delaney home has gone

From earthly toil, and he was one

Of those who in the distant past,

His lot in Upper Town had cast.

James Elder, a majestic Scot!

On whom of old it was my lot

To look with veneration's eye.

Kept Bytown's staid academy;

And here I dwell with fond delight,

And view again with memory's sight

The stately teacher in his chair,

King of the throng assembled there.

Now Allan Cameron comes to view,

And William Stubbs, there he is too.

Wellington Wright, too, I behold,

And wild Jack Adamson, the bold.

The Anderson's, both James and John,

And Stephen Lett, my mother's son,

Who stood upon Parnassus' crown

By might of Genius, and looked down

To where with errant steps I strayed

Around its base beneath the shade.

And many more were pupils there,

Where are they? "echo answers, where?"

In fancy I away have stepped

From where his school James Elder kept,

In that old house remembered well,

After, as Joseph Kirk's Hotel,

Ere it was haunted by a sound

Which shed such melody around,

Sweet almost as the songs of Zion,

From violin of Robinson Lyon,

Who drew such music from its strings,

Scotch reels, strathspeys and highland flings,

And Irish jigs in variation,

As made one feel that "all creation"

Could scarcely match his wizard spell,

'Twas he that played the fiddle well!

And Edward Malloch, gone to rest,

Was not the worst, nor yet the best,

Perhaps, 'mongst those of other days

To whom I dedicate these lays.

I knew him well in '25,

When Richmond Village was alive,

While Bytown's head was scarcely seen,

Emerging from the forest green.

A captain of Artillery

In '37's hot time was he,

When Louis Joseph Papineau

Sought British power to overthrow;

And William L. McKenzie tried

O'er loyalty and truth to ride;

Each found the path, for what he wanted,

Too hot to walk in—and "levanted;"

Von Shoultz, a soldier abler, riper,

Remained behind and "paid the piper!"

Even I, poetic man of peace,

Have often marched and stood at ease,

Beside the Richmond guns, brought here

To thunder o'er the

Grande Chaudière

,

At the great Union celebration,

The new bridge's inauguraton;

One thing is certain, those brass guns

Were ne'er seen more by Richmond's sons.

They fell prey to official nabbing,

And Governmental red tape grabbing,

Like plunder from the vanquished harried,

To Montreal off they were carried!

Malloch was member many a year

For Carleton when votes were not dear—

When damaged eyes, and smashed proboscis

Would follow, as the smallest losses.

The offer of a vile bank note

As price of an elector's vote.

Gold, said the sage, perhaps 'twas law,

On Dian's lap the snow can thaw;

And gold has purchased many a seat

Where the "collective wisdom" meet,

And many go to represent

The weight of cash corrupt which sent

Them wandering wickedly astray

From honor's seldom trodden way.

Where now, is Turner, who of yore,

Kept school near the old Ottawa's shore?

And Heath who came across the line

In able teaching here to shine?

And old John Stilman, who shoes made,

And flourished in St. Crispin's trade?

William McCullough, where is he?

Gone to the unknown country—

A steady, harmless, quiet man,

Who here in '32 began

A race unmixed with hate or strife,

Which ended only with his life.

And Reuben Traveller, who's tongue

Oft in the old assizes rung—

Though given to mirth, a wondrous crier,

Who lived near John Sweetman, the dyer

'Twas all the same, for either side

Or both old Reuben Traveller cried—

Cried for the man who won law's race—

Cried for the man who lost his case—

Cried for the criminal acquitted—

Cried for the guilty when outwitted—

He cried for loss or gain of pelf—

For every one except himself;

Reuben was a celebrity,

We seldom meet with such as he.

John Rochester, a man of old,

Who's life a tale of goodness told,

He steered through time from envy free,

You'd scarcely find an enemy,

Who o'er his honored dust would dare

Defame the ashes resting there;

For such as he laws ne'er were made,

Peace to his gentle vanished shade!

Well, will it be for James and John

If they walk the same path upon

Which their departed sire trod

With love alike to man and God!

James Joynt is 'mong the living yet

A printer of the old

Gazette

.

Who plied the typographic trade

Ably in Bytown's first decade.

And taught the art of Caxton well,

And thoroughly to John George Bell,

Who in our village made a racket,

In the old columns of the

Packet

,

Where every one got "tit for tat"

From dear departed "Old White Hat!"

Who thought Reformers could not err,

And laid the lash on Dawson Kerr,

Whom he in bitter hues did paint

A sinner, and called him "the saint."

A journal of more modern date

Than the

Gazette

, who's early fate,

Was Phoenix-like to rise resplendent

From ashes of the

Independent

,

Which had at periods now and then,

Emitted Sparks from Johnston's pen,

Which meteor-like shot forth in pride,

Blazed, flickered, then collapsed and died.

And Robert Hardy's name I find,

In the old days long left behind.

James Matthews, too, in death's repose,

In early times was one of those

Who helped to build the ancient town,

Which modern taste is pulling down,

Assisted now and then by fires,

Past recollections primal pyres.

John Bennett, cord-wainer of yore,

And volunteer in Rifle corps,

With muzzle-loaders past and gone,

Gallant and brave old Number One!

Our civic army's primal rib,

Once called by Alexander Gibb,

"The Sleepy's," in the good old time

When he dealt in both prose and rhyme,

And made opponents fume and fret

With caustic in the old

Gazette

—

Rhyme, too, in which a critic's claw

Could scarcely fasten on a flaw,

His verse was standard like his law.