1902-07-26 Saturday Musings

Saturday Musings Spectator July 26 07, 1902

        What is the world coming to? A great Canadian banking institution has issued a peremptory order that none of its clerks who are not in a receipt of $1,500 a year will be permitted to marry and remain in service of the bank. Other banks, we understand, allow marriage when the clerk gets $1,000 a year. And now comes the New York Central railway forbidding kissing in train sheds or stations, or on the platforms of cars. If the bank persists in its prohibitory law – and there are some laws that prohibit- what is to prevent other companies or institutions employing labor from forbidding their men to marry? Here is Hamilton, according to the last census. We have nearly 3,00 of surplus (ILLEGIBLE) anxiously awaiting the time when some bank clerk or other young man with even much less than a thousand dollars salary will come along and make formal proposals for a life partnership. Why should not bank clerks marry unless they are above the thousand dollar class? It is more than likely that the ancestors of a majority of them fell in love and married and lived on a salary not more than half that prescribed by the bank officials, and their future lives were prosperous and happy, even though they had to cut the corners pretty close in their younger days. The fathers and mothers of bank clerks, and of every other class of workmen, studied in the school of economy, and if they are living now, it is on Easy Street, where the cares and burdens of life rest lightly on their shoulders. The early settlers of Hamilton did not begin life on $1,000 a year, not even half that amount, yet they left a godly heritage to their children.

        The chances are that some soured old dyspeptic was the author of that rule promulgated by the managers of the bank. He has no memory of the past, for his mind and soul have become so absorbed in money-making that he has forgotten the dear old mother who trained him in his youth, and the bright, young girl to whom he gave his hand and heart half a century ago. There was an apostle of old, named Paul, who delivered a pronouncement against marriage, but he had the good sense to qualify his objections. And even Paul could not stop his followers from mating, and it is doubtful if the order issued by the bank officials is going to reduce the demand for marriage licenses to any remarkable extent. In the name of the 3,000 surplus female population of Hamilton, the Spectator raises its voice in protest against any such prohibitory law. Prohibit bank clerks, and all other young men from playing the horses and betting on the rise or fall of stocks or produce; stop them from educating their appetites up to the high ball standard (ILLEGIBLE) from risking their salaries on a pair of fascinating jacks when there is a fat jackpot to be opened; prohibit these things, and the life of the young men will be brighter, but stop monkeying with marriage, which is the most sacred relation in life. Rather encourage young men to begin life in company with pure women, who will inspire them to higher ideas, than in the ordinary education acquired in bachelors’ clubs. It is the fast young clerks who make free use of the funds of the bank, not the man who are happily married and spend their evenings at home with their families. “Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.” And young fellows without home or family ties are more apt to be the ones led astray.

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        Fancy Senator Chauncey Depew, the head official of the New York Central road, sanctioning an order that prohibits kissing. The old fellow has lately renewed his youth by taking to himself a second Mrs. Depew, yet he would prevent tender osculations in the sheds or stations or on the platforms of the trains that are just ready to pull out. There is always the last moment when lovers separate, and what is more tempting than a pair of ruby lips? But we will not go into this subject for fear of being led to think unkindly of Chancey Depew, and the New York Central. Uncle Joe Wallace down at the Grand Trunk, or our own more youthful friend, Mr. Backus, at the T. H. & B. station, would never for a moment think of issuing such prohibitory orders. In fact, they rather enjoy the tender osculations they see almost every hour of the day.

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        Were it not for the reckless drivers of delivery wagons, the bicyclists who are wheeling against time, and the people who have appendicitis instead of the old-fashioned stomach ache that used to come in the green fruit season, the doctors and undertakers would have hard scratching to make a living in this healthy city, where the climate is always salubrious, and the health officers have nothing to do but draw their salaries. While all of Canada and part of the country south of us have been deluged with July rains, Hamilton has had just enough of the downpour to give its citizens a rest from watering flower gardens and lawns, and give the horses and drivers of water carts a holiday. The sun never ceases to shine upon this blessed city at the hours when sunshine is in order, and even though last month and this are memorable on the record books of the weather clerks, yet fans – the baseball kind – have not gone out of fashion nor has the improvident young man been compelled to keep his winter overcoat out of pawn. Happy Hamiltonians! Though ribald Toronto pencil pushers may throw stones at this city and say all manner of unkind about it, yet is there is such a place as heaven on this earth, it is located in the valley between our towering mountain and the cool waters of the bay. Still, with all our blessings, the police should put a stop to bicycle racing and the fast driving of delivery wagons in the streets. Give the doctors and the undertakers a chance to take a summer vacation.

1905-11-04 Saturday Musings

Saturday Musings Spectator November 04, 1905

        The veteran soldiers of the British army, the men who served during the American was of 1861-1865, the boys who shouldered a musket to put down the Riel rebellion, the raid of the Fenians in 1866, now and then tell stories of their first baptism under fire; and the true soldier will tell you that the first crack of a musket or a rifle took all the bravado out of him, and gladly would he be back at the home fireside and leave the glory to the other fellows. The boys in khaki who went from Hamilton to South Africa have probably more adventures to tell for war, with its improved arms that can shoot at a long distance, has got to be hell indeed. One of the boys who went out with the Hamilton contingent tells of his first experience under fire. “Our officers,” said the returned warrior, “kept us back, for we were not numerous enough, nor had we much confidence in our own courage to face the leaden hail of the Boers. Those old fellows were brought up with the musket, and their religious frenzy had no fear of the inexperienced young fellows who had rallied under the colours of Old England. It was prudent on the part of our officers, for the first murderous volley from those Boer sharpshooters sounded like the rattle of musketry along the line when our home regiment are out on the 24^th of May and firing the national salute; but the sharp ping of the bullets as they whistled over our heads made us duck down like we used to bow our heads in certain parts of the church service when we were good boys and attended the cathedral down on James street. Our volley penetrated the ranks of the Boers, while theirs whistled past our ears and respected our sacred Canadian persons. It was the first I had faced fire, nor was the only one that dodged. I had often heard of the old Crimean soldiers tell their experiences, and everyone of them confessed to having been a dodger. It is a physical effect, independent of the will. If you could only feel how each shot electrifies you! It is like a whip on a racer’s legs. The balls whistle past you, turn up the earth around you, kill one, wound another, and in time you hardly notice them. You grow intoxicated; the smell of gunpowder mounts to your brain. Your eye becomes bloodshot, and your look is fixed on the enemy. There is something of all the passions in that terrible passion excited in a soldier by the sight of blood and the tumult of battle. Your comrade is shot down by your side, and this arouses the demon within you; you want to avenge his death. Every soldier testifies to the peculiar intoxication that is produced by being in battle. There is an infatuating influence about the smell of powder, the shrill whistle of a bullet, and the sight of human blood, that instantly transforms men from cowards to heroes and devils. None can tell of the nature and mystery of that influence, but those who have been on the firing line themselves. Did I ever kill an enemy? Well, that’s a question that no soldier wants to answer, even to himself. I hope not. It was the fellows who were always sick when the long roll sounded or who dodged when trouble was coming who did all the killing. The fellows who faced the bullets didn’t kill anybody.”

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        In the year 1859, a young lady, whose home was in Toronto, in a fit of disgust with the worthiness of her surroundings, decided to enter a convent and spend her life in preparation for the world beyond the river of death. She was the daughter of a Protestant father and mother, and the parents and friends were much opposed to the course she had taken. She had traveled in France, and while being educated in a convent in Paris had seen Catholicism in its most attractive form. She had fallen in love with the spirituality of the nuns, and on her return to Toronto decided to renounce the world and retire from it. There was a jar somewhere in her home life – it may have been a disappointment in a love affair – but whatever the cause she went quietly out from home one day leaving a note to her parents, telling them of her decision. Naturally her Protestant parents rebelled and made every effort to secure an audience with their daughter, to try and persuade her to give up what to them was a mere fantasy of the brain. The girl was accomplished in all that made life bright and pleasant: fortune was in store for her, her father being prominent in business affairs. The newspapers discussed the question pro and con, and it became the theme of general conversation in Toronto. The Leader of that city took the ground that as the young had arrived at that age when she should be the judge of her own future, that no one, not even her parents, had the right to try and coerce her into their way of thinking. The pursuit of her parents became a matter of public interest, and she was taken from one convent to another to avoid their getting a sight of her. Evidently, the girl had decided for herself, and there was no evidence that she repented or had any desire to return to home and the world.

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        Men think it a hardship nowadays if they have to pay 5 per cent for the use of money on mortgage, yet there are old-timers who can remember the hard times in the latter part of the ‘50’s when they had to pay 12 per cent, and put up first-class landed security to get it. The banks could demand almost any interest on short loans, while private parties with money had no difficulty in getting as high as one and a half to two per cent a month from very needy borrowers. Money is now so cheap that a man has to have a big wad of it if he expects to live on interest. There are some, however, who get fabulous interest for small loans.

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        The death of Donald Dawson the other day recalls to memory of old-timers an experience that Donald had when he was a police officer in 1859. Nancy Duggan picked up a two dollar bill in the market, which had been dropped by someone in front of Kilgour’s stall. A bystander notified the constable of the find, and he went and demanded the money. Nancy refused to give it to anyone but the loser, but afterwards handed it over to Donald. Nancy then had the policeman brought before the police magistrate on the charge of forcibly taking the money from her, but the evidence was not strong enough to convince Ald. Browne, who presided that day in the police court, that any force had been used, and he dismissed the case. As there was no claimant for the two dollars, Ald. Browne decreed that the money should be turned over to her.

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        In the month of August, 1859, there was a rumour of a mysterious occurrence having taken place in the custom house of this city. There was quite a discrepancy between the returns of shippers and the manifests of vessels passing through the Burlington canal, the returns affecting the amount of canal tolls very seriously. An inquiry had been in progress for several days, and things were looking dark for some of the officials who had charge of that department of the customs. But suddenly the labour of the inquiry board was brought to a close, someone who had access to the customs house during the night having stolen the incriminating papers and destroyed them. As the proof was gone, there was nothing further to investigate, but those connected with that department felt that their tenure of office was uncomfortably insecure. The thing was hushed up, but a hint was thrown out that any further discrepancies in canal tolls would become a serious matter.

       

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        The first Catholic church built in Caledonia was formally dedicated on Saturday, July 31, 1859, by the Rt. Rev. Dr. Farrell, bishop of Hamilton, assisted by the Revs. Ladge and Northgreaves. Pontifical high mass was celebrated. The choir from St. Mary’s church, Hamilton, rendered the music, and the sermon was provided by Father Northgreaves. To the Rev. Father McNulty was due the credit of raising the funds for the erection of the church. It was a brick building and accommodated about 600 people. There was a large attendance of Protestants and Catholics at the destination, and the collections during the day’s services cleared up whatever shortage there was in the subscription list.

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        More than half a century ago Wm. Edgar, a native of Annan, Dumfrieshire, Scotland, came to Hamilton, arriving here early in 1854, and to the end of his long life, which occurred the other day, he was identified with the growth and prosperity of his adopted city. In his Scotland home, he was connected with the United Presbyterian church, but after his arrival here he associated himself with the Congregational church, and was a liberal contributor to the building of the present edifice in 1859 and a warm supporter of the Rev. Thomas Pullar, who was pastor of the church for a number of years. For fifteen years, he was superintendent of the Sunday school and treasurer of the church. Shortly after locating in Hamilton, he formed a partnership in the building business with David Edgar, his brother, and William Sharp, which continued until he engaged in the lumber business on the corner of York and Caroline streets. Later he was connected with Hugh Melville in the manufacture of furniture, barrels etc. This factory building was near the corner of Queen and Barton streets, and was burned down in 1864. The big chimney of the old factory is still standing. He then resumed the lumber business for a time, and then sold out and went to North Carolina at the close of the war to work some iron mines in which he had large interest, but which did not turn a financial success. Returning to Hamilton, he went into the manufacture of engines at the Beckett shops, and at one time was associated with the late William Turnbull in the foundry business on Mary street. He was what might be called a diversified man, and he plunged ahead until old age called a halt on his endeavours to make money. In the days when the Sons of Temperance and the Good Templars were working to redeem Hamilton from its drinking habits, William Edgar was active in both organizations. For several years he represented St. Mary’s ward in the City council. In his younger days, he was a Liberal in his political views, but at the time of the election of the Hon. Issac Buchanan to parliament he changed his politics and became an ardent Conservative. At the age of 85 years, he ended life’s journey and joined the large majority at the end of York street.

1902-05-10 Saturday Musings

Saturday Musings Spectator May 10, 1902

        It is a cheering sight, on a Saturday night, to see the crowd of men and women, the majority of them being in the morning of life, going in and out of the savings banks in Hamilton. They have received the wages for the week’s work, a potion of which is laid by for the proverbial rainy day which is almost sure to come in everyone’s life. Fortunate is he or she if there’s a comfortable nest egg laid aside in the bank, for while money is said to be the root of all evil, it is a powerful factor in brightening the lives of its possessors, if they know how to use it judiciously. The man or woman who forms the habit of laying by something, be it ever so little, on pay day, may always be relied upon to put it good use. The faculty for saving induces thrift and economy, and one may safely bet his last penny that such persons will never end their days in the house of refuge, or any other home of charity. There is an air of independence about the young people as they range in front of the bank counters and hand in their books and the small amount of their deposit. They have no great sums to lay by, but there is a satisfied smile on each face as they look at the figures, and in time the bottom will be reached and the total carried over to the top of the next page. To do this each pay day means self-denial, but the time may come when they will be thankful that savings banks were established to help the industrious and the frugal. What a contrast there is between the young man coming out of the savings bank on Saturday, and that other young man who makes a break for the saloon as soon as he draws his week’s pay. They may be of the same age and of equal skill in the workshop. Follow them on down through the years and see where they come out. The one that began life by making regular visits to the savings bank has some capital, be it little or much, to start him in business, while the one who tarried too long at the high ball emporium or spent the evenings in developing his muscle in punching billiard balls is preparing for the time when his employers will have no further use for him because he has passed the allotted time in this new century, when men are condemned to starve or be shot when they pass the age of forty-five. Try the savings bank, boys, in the morning of life, and when the years come upon you, there will be no mourning because of misspent days.

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          Those who love  real vocal music, without any trembling in the voice that denotes chills cultivated in the Dundas swamps, had rare treat in the Westminister Abbey choir that sang so sweetly in Association hall last Tuesday evening. It was not a large audience that greeted the singers, but it was an appreciative, judging from the clamorous encore after almost every number on the program. There was melody and harmony in the voices that the old English songs ring out, and not in the rendering of the entire program was there a dissonant note. Each voice was so well balanced that the listener could hardly distinguish the alto from the tenor, and even the bass, usually a part that stands out prominently, was so softly modulated that the whole setting of the songs blended grandly. Such singing is rare nowadays, for so many fads have been introduced that the natural tones seem lost in the wobbling. Many of Hamilton’s young singers have sweet voices, and it would be pleasing to hear them were it not for the tremolo that creates discord when two or more try to sing a duet or quartet. The really good singers never attempt any such fads.

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          Speaking of singing brings up the new fad that is being introduced in Methodist churches – surpliced choirs. Wouldn’t that jar the old fathers of Methodism? Fancy a denomination that was founded by Wesley as a protest against the ritualism of the Anglicans now forgetting its early simplicity and bedecking its singers in surplices and mortar board hats. One of the reasons given for the change is that young ladies in the choirs are becoming so vain that they try to outdo each other in the creations of the milliner’s art and in the gay colours of the gowns they wear. To suppress this tendency to frivolity and pride, the official boards decrees that surplices must be worn so that there will be no rivalry in dress. From the organ loft to the pulpit is only a step, so the next thing Methodists can prepare for is to see their minister robed in a black gown while he is preaching of the humility of the early Christians who planted the seeds of Methodism in Canada.