It
is altogether too absurd, said an old-time Hamilton newspaper reporter, to say
that man is not perfect. Who is there who has not met with perfect strangers,
some who were perfect rascals, and not a few who were perfect fools. The world
has not changed much in this matter of perfection since the writer of the above
gave vent to his feelings. The perfection most desired is never attained in
this world, for it would be contrary to human nature when a man smites you on
one cheek to turn unto him the other that he may swat you a second time; and
until we can get up to that condition, perfection is impossible. But of perfect
rascals and perfect fools, there is no end, the world is full of them, and each
one of us must be mighty careful in our daily life if we are not placed in one
of the lists. Charity suffereth long and in kind, but one never gets over the
idea that he ought to be placed in the list of angelic beings.
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There was a suspicion in the long ago
that now and then some man of business who was pulling against the tide would
dispose of his stock of goods to a fire insurance company, and thus get out of
his financial difficulties. In looking over an old Hamilton newspaper, a
suggestive item shows up. A merchant engaged in the rag business was about to
remove, and as he had $1,000 insurance on his stock, the night before he was to
give up possession, the building and stock were consumed by fire. There had
been no fire in the premises and the only way to account for the conflagration
was to charge it up to some wicked incendiary who wanted to see rags go up in
smoke. The rag merchant got his insurance, but the owner of the building, not
having it insured, had a total loss. Such things have often happened since
insurance companies were first organized, and were likely to continue to the
end of the chapter.
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When Colin C. Ferrie was mayor of
Hamilton in the year 1847, the City Council appropriated $400 as pay for his
services, Mr. Ferrie declined to accept any remuneration and suggested to
council that the amount be divided equally between the chief officers of the
city as an increase to their meager salaries.
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The City council of 1849 was an
economical body and were very careful in the matter of creating new offices. At
the beginning of the year an appropriation was made for police service, the
high bailiff being allowed$400 a year; an assistant $300, and two policemen
$100 each. In order to keep down expenses, the council dispensed with the
services of the health officer, one assistant bailiff, and a laborer, their
duties to be performed by the police force. After ten o’clock at night, the
police force of two men went home to bed, as it was supposed that no
Hamiltonian would be on the streets at such a late hour.
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To have the contract for keeping the
chimneys of Hamilton clean must have been a bonanza in the old days, judging
from the spirited manner in which applicants bid for the job. In the year 1849,
when the city was way below the the ten thousand mark in population, there were
no less than eight aspirants, and the bids ranged from $100 to $380 for the
year, and Thomas Husband was the lucky man, he having bid the highest. The men
who managed the taxpayers’ money in those days looked after the city’s
interest, and instead of handing out the office of master chimney sweep at a
fat salary, they made the men who got the job pay a bonus for keeping
Hamilton’s chimneys in drawing order.
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Thackeray once said : “ I vow and believe that the cigar has been
one of the greatest creature comforts of my life – a kind companion, a gentle
stimulant, an amiable anodyne, a cementer of friendship. May I die if I abuse
that kindly weed has given me so much pleasure.” So it is with many of the
baneful things of life; they give temporary pleasure if used in moderation, but
when indulged to excess, then comes the penalty. That tobacco is a poison,
there is no gainsaying, yet if used sparingly, one might live a hundred years,
and, after all, die of old age. In these days of scientific discovery, there
are germs of disease in everything we eat or drink, yet we keep right on in the
good old way, satisfying the cravings of hunger or tickling the palate with some
delicious dish, even if the penalty is a sour stomach or a prolonged fit of
indigestion. Indeed, there is no luxury which is no open to some objection as
the use of tobacco. Medical science has proven that tobacco used in excess has
a directly harmful influence on the healthy system; but then science tells us
the same thing about nearly every pleasure of the appetite indulged in. It is a
fact, however, and not to be gainsaid , that excessive smoking affects the
rhythm in the beating of the heart and produces an affection of the eyes, which
impairs the vision and reduces the power of distinguishing colors, and a man of
sense who indulges in the use of the weed will call a halt when he feels those
symptoms. From the days when Walter Raleigh first learned the luxury of tobacco
from the noble redmen of the American forests down to the present time, its use
has been a solace to millions and will continue its mission of comfort to the
end of the chapter. Any old soldier who has stood sentry on the midnight picket
line in front of the enemy will tell you how much comfort he enjoyed with his
pipe. It was not always safe to smoke on the picket line at night, for the glow
of the pipe was a sure mark for the enemy’s sharpshooter, and whizz would come
a leaden messenger past one’s face as a warning. And even then, rather than
forgo the companionship and pleasure of the pipe, the soldier would be face
downward to the ground and cover his pipe with his cap to hide the glow from
the enemy’s picket. The writer of these Musings was once an inveterate smoker,
but thirteen years ago, he had to forgo the pleasures of a cigar and become a
total abstainer because of the results from its use; yet we would not say
unkind things about the soothing weed, only warn those who cannot stand it to
avoid tobacco. One of the great evils of tobacco in the present day is the cigarette.
Boys begin it before they have outgrown knee pants, and grow up to be nervous
wrecks. Young men indulge in cigarettes to the disgust of those who are
compelled to walk behind them on the streets. One rarely sees a man advanced in
years ever smoking a cigarette. Some constitutions are altogether intolerant of
tobacco, even when used to a limited extent, and the sensible course for such a
one is to give it up altogether. Prof. Huxley said : “There is no more harm in
a pipe than there is in a cup of tea.” That may be true to a limited extent,
especially if one will only use a pipe as he does a tea cup. Other scientists
tolerate the tobacco habit because of its soothing effect. The rabid opponents
of the use of tobacco go to extremes in saying unkind things about it, and
compare it as a twin evil of intoxicating liquors. This is pure rot. Whoever
heard of a smoker’s family suffering from poverty because of his indulging in
the soothing weed. Not so with the hilarious highball tosser’s family; his
daily indulgence brings sooner or later want and suffering. The worst that can
be said of the tobacco habit is that the smoking of cigars is costly when
indulged to excess, and that the money might be used to a better purpose. But
if a man indulges in liquor, he must pay the bill. It is a blessing that women
have not acquired a taste for cigars.
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Don’t you remember that old fountain
in front of the court house, with a basin almost of the proportions of a
small-sized pool? Some time ago, we told in these musings of the pranks of a
jolly lot of fellows who used to meet at Beatty’s tavern and hatch out practical
jokes on the unwary ones who fell in their way. That gang, you remember one Saturday night,
tarried long at the beer mug, and in the witching hour, when church yards yawn
etc., they persuaded one of their number, a respectable undertaker by
profession, to strip off and take a plunge in the pond, and while he was
disporting like a mermaid in the water, they stole his clothes and a friendly
policeman had to come to his aid so that he could get back to the tavern. It
was the town joke for awhile, but the undertaker never forgave the plumber who
planned the bath. This was the humorous side. But the old fountain pond had its
tough story to tell now and then. At the noon hour on a July day in the ‘60’s,
one of the unfortunates that Tom Hood wrote so pathetically about, who had been
led from the paths of virtue by some scheming scoundrel who laughed at her
calamities, plunged into the pond in hope that in another world her sin might
be forgiven. This life was dark and dreary to her, for her conduct, she had become
a castaway. Strong drink was her only solace, for under its influence, the
present was forgotten. Once she was an innocent babe, the beloved of a fond
mother’s heart, and in her youth gave promise of a bright and happy womanhood.
Her education was not neglected, for she stood well in her classes in the
public schools. As she grew up, the constraints of home life, she thought, were
too exacting, and the evening hours were spent away from the protecting and
watchful care of father and mother. But it is needless to follow up the
history. A street education s bad for the boy or girl, and it generally leads
to evil. Tired and disgust with the life she was leading, as she was passing
down John street on that July day in company with another girl, a companion in
vice, the thought came to her that death in the court house square pond was
preferable, and she jumped in. There was less than three feet of water in the
pond, yet she made a desperate effort to bury herself in it, hoping to die from
suffocation. Constable McElroy, who witnessed the girl’s effort at suicide,
pulled her out of the pond and took her and her associate to the cells. Disease
and drink accomplished within a few months the desired end, and the poor
unfortunate found rest and peace in mother earth. What a lesson such lives
should teach, yet there scores and hundreds of girls in this city of churches
who are following in the footsteps of the one who tried to commit suicide in
the fountain pond.
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Did you ever see such cold weather in
June? is a common inquiry one hears in the street, the workshop and the home.
Go where you will, the same chilly remarks are to be heard, and this starts the
old stagers to open up the cells of memory that they may recall the summerless
summers of other days. It would seem as though in the revolving of the earth on
its axis that this Canada of ours must have stuck upon an iceberg out in the
Arctic seas and there it has become so firmly fixed that the sun has no power
whatever to thaw it out, and thus we are up against November weather when we
should be reveling in straw hats and linen dusters. Fancy burning money in the house
furnace these leafy days in June, when the roses should be in full bloom for
bridal purposes. There is one satisfaction, however, even if one must suffer in
chilly weather; the ice man will not be able to work off his last winter’s crop
at $3 a month per family. A couple of ancient Hamiltonians met suspiciously
near Colonel Alderman Phelan’s annex last Thursday morning, and the prolific
subject, the weather, came up for discussion. “Do you remember ,” said one of
the patriarchs, “the cold June we had in ’59 and the cold summer that followed
which ruined the crops and brought disaster to the house of hundreds of farmers
who were in debt for their land? Let me see, if I remember rightly, it was on
the night of June 6th, and the morning of the 7th. The
crops in the fields and in the gardens
were blackened with the frosts, as though a great fire had swept over the land
and burned the life out of every growing thing, and even the animals huddled
together in the pasture fields to keep themselves warm.” “I remember that
terrible frost, old boy, “ responded the other but you are wrong in your dates,
for it occurred on the night of the 3rd of June, and the morning of
the 4th. I have good cause to remember it, for it about broke me up,
and as a result, I had to sell my farm and move to town and get a job on William
Hendrie’s contract in digging the ditches for the water mains at seventy-five
cents a day, and glad I was able to get the work to keep my little family from
want.” A noggin of whiskey was bet on the date and to warm them up, the morning
being chilly, they slipped into the Royal annex, and the smiling alderman
handed down a bottle of the best. Then they went out to hunt up the proof , and
sure enough the old patriarch who helped lay the water mains was right, for
that destructive June frost was the night of the 3rd. Memory is not
always a safe thing to bet one, but the old boy had proof in an old copy of the
Spectator, which the handsome young man in the Spectator counting room furnished
him to look at.
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