Thursday 8 November 2012

1907-05-04



Seventy- four years ago William Alford was born in a house that stood on the corner of Rebecca and Hughson streets, and in the house on the opposite corner, a few years later, was born the girl who was destined to be his wife and the partner of his joys and sorrows. As neighborhood children, they scrapped to their hearts’ content, so that when they joined hands in wedlock more than half a century ago, they were ready to settle down into amicable relations with each other and live in perfect Happiness and rear their children to be a comfort to them. The partnership continued for over fifty years, and then the good wife and mother crossed the river of death to join the children who had gone before, and to await the coming of the husband of her youth and maturer years when he would enter the terminal station at the end of life’s journey. The writer and Bill Alford were boys together in the long ago when almost every boy and girl in Hamilton knew each other. Bill used to run with the old fire department. He was a jolly fellow when young, and his more than three score years have not subdued his nature. He started life as an employee of the Great Western railway when it was first opened from the Niagara to the Detroit river, and he punched tickets and conducted trains till a few weeks ago, when he began to think that for the few remaining years he had to tarry here he might as well take life leisurely. He was a prudent man all these years, and he wisely laid by each pay day a part of his earnings, so that when old age or sickness or accident might come upon him, he would not have to worry about how to make ends meet. There are not many seventy-four year old native Hamiltonians living now, nor are there many in active life who began with William Alford when the Great Western road first opened. If we mistake not, his father, Elisur Alford, was also a native of Hamilton. He was one of the prominent business men in the early days of Hamilton, and owned the property on King street on which stands a part of the Thomas C. Watkins business house. He died in 1835, at the age of twenty-eight years, and his grave is one of the two now marked by stone monuments in the old grave yard of the First Methodist church. The vandals who desecrated the graves of the pioneers of Methodism in Hamilton and used their tombstones for a footpath spared the two monuments under the locust trees, and left undisturbed the decayed bones of those who in the long ago worshipped in the old church that was organized in a log cabin by Class Leader Springer.

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          Forty years ago, when this Old Muser was on his way back to visit Hamilton, the home of our boyhood, we met William Alford, who was then a train officer on the Grand Trunk road; and our next meeting was a few days ago when he was in Hamilton. His heart is as warm as ever, and his memory is bright in the history of his native town. He has noted all the changes that have taken place in Hamilton from the time when it was but little more than a straggling village, and he is as loyal to the old town as in the days of his boyhood. He has kept in touch with its progress by his daily reading of the Spectator, for he is one among its ancient subscribers. Bill is a Tory and all that the name expresses. Indeed, so grounded in the faith is he that he would not read a Bible that he had reason to believe was printed in a Grit printing office. As the old Methodist preachers would exclaim : “And of such is the Kingdom of Heaven!” He is now on the retired list in Brantford, which town has been his home for the last thirty-five years. Only two of his children are living, one son in Kansas City, Mo., and a daughter who keeps house for him. Here in Hamilton, he has a daughter-in-law, the widow of one of his sons, and the veteran conductor comes down occasionally to enjoy a day with his grandchildren. His cheerful disposition makes brightness and sunshine wherever he is. May he enjoy health while he lives, and when making his last run, may he have a through ticket to the home above, where dwells his wife and children.

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          In the Hamilton Bee, published in 1845, there is an extract from a quaint sermon delivered by an Anglican minister, a graduate from Oxford University. They had a fashion sixty and seventy years ago of occasionally preaching some very plain sermons, especially on the questions of gambling and drinking. A round of such discourses from the pulpits in this godly city might stir up as much discussion as did the descriptive sermon, To Hell and Back – which edified our churchgoers a few Sundays ago. “I am not one of your fashionable, fine-spoken, mealy-mouthed preachers,” said the eccentric Anglican minister: “I tell you the plain truth. What are your pastimes? Cards and dice (this was in the days before bridge, whist was the fashionable game, fiddling and dancing, guzzling and gluttony! Can you be saved by cards and dice? No! Will the 4 knaves give you a passport to heaven? No! Can you fiddle yourselves to damnation among the goats? You may guzzle wine here, but you will want a drop of water to cool your parched tongues hereafter. Will the prophets and martyrs rant and swear, and shuffle and cut with you? No! They are no shufflers. You will be cut in a way that you little expect. Lucifer will come with his reapers and sickles and forks, you will be cut down and bound, and carted and pitched into hell. I will not oil my lips with lies to please you; I will tell you the plain truth. Profane wretches! I have seen and heard you wrangle and brawl and tell another, “I’ll see you d----d first!” But I tell you the day will come when you will pray to Beelzebub to escape his clutches. And what do you think will be his answer? “I’ll see you dead first!”

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          In the good old days away back in the first half of the last century, when Hamilton’s civic affairs were managed by a board of police, there were no such monkey shines as we had an exhibition of in the council chamber the other night. When members disagreed on matters of legislation, they did not pass the lie or swear at each other; they simply settled their disputes in the fashion taught by John Martin in his boxing school across the street from the old town hall. Tom Gillespy represented the second ward in the board of police and was somewhat a noted character in those early days. He was a man of some wealth, and was gifted with a knowledge of how to govern a people by legislative means. But better than all, he had studied the science of old John Martin and had the Marquis of Queensbury rules at the tips of his fingers; in fact, he had all of the physical science culture that could knock out an adversary in a square stand up battle, and he was also a handy man with his fists in a general rough-and-tumble encounter. One night the board of police was in session, and there being important matters brought up for consideration, a number of the leading ward heelers were present to look after their special interests. Jimmy Mullin, a tavern keeper, was a mover in public affairs in those days, and wherever he was, he always made himself prominent. Tom Gillesby was making a speech before the board when Jimmy got inquisitive and began asking questions. Tom’s reply did not suit Jimmy. Things began to warm up, till finally Tom concluded that eloquence was lost on Jimmy, so he let fly his left digit and jarred Jimmy’s ivories. Jimmy was one of Corktown’s bravest and best, and for a time, the two mixed up to the delight of those present. Business was suspended by the board, and as boxing was an art in those days in which the average man was interested, the other members of the board would not permit any interference with the exhibition. Barney Mullin, a son of Jimmy’s, got into an argument with George Duffield, an old whaler, who boasted that he once rode a hundred miles on the humpback of a whale. Barney was too much for old George, and the bystanders interfered. While this second battle was in progress, Tom Gillesby and Jimmy Mullin were wearing each other out, till finally Tommy hit Jimmy below the belt and a foul was called. That way of settling disputes in the council chamber might have been alright sixty or seventy years ago, but Hamilton has progressed in the refinements of life, and its representatives settle their little misunderstandings with the tongue instead of muscle.

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          Sixty-two years ago, the village of Waterdown aspired to metropolitan fame in being the place of publication of a newspaper, entitled Myself.  That any copy of it has been preserved is doubtful, yet it would be interesting now to know what the character of Myself was. Evidently, it was not intended that it should be printed at regular intervals, for here is the edition’s salutatory: “I have been determined to speak this long time, and now all I wish is that you will hear what I have to say. I will not say much, but will tell you a little of all that’s going on; and maybe, I won’t say what will please everybody; but one thing is certain, I shall try to please Myself, who is the proprietor and editor of this paper. I will issue as often as convenient; be pointed by Myself whose office is at home, where you will always here from me when you are not at your home minding your own business. I shall devote Myself to all kinds of information good for the people. I will print job work, and advertise cheap.” Here is a copy of an advertisement, which must not be taken as evidence that Waterdown had no schoolmasters seventy years ago : I, druggist of this town, dealeth in mole candals, shugar plums, comes, mous traps, hard sider, and sick matters. Teeth extracted, blud drawn, pills mixtures made, hebsom salts and corns cut, and all other things on reasonable terms. N. B. – And my missus goes out as midwife in the cheapest way possible.” A copy of Myself would be a rare literary treasure in these days.

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          The journeymen stone cutters of Hamilton, early in the month of April, 1845, organized a society for benevolent purposes as well as for the establishing of a regular scale of wages. This was probably the first labor union organized in Hamilton; so the stone cutters can date back their society sixty-two years. Wages at that time were $1.50 a day, free of all expenses for sharpening tools. There was quite a demand for stone cutters, as many of the best buildings were erected from the mountain stone.

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          Night is beautiful in itself, but still more beautiful in its associations: it is not linked, as day is, with our cares and our toils, the business and the littleness of life. The sunshine brings with it action. We rise in the morning and our task is before us, but night comes and with it rest. After a day spent in the battle of life, a struggle during the long hours from early morning till the evening sun goes down: how restful the thought that sustains the toiler that home and wife and children await him to brighten the few hours when the cares of business may be laid aside. Work makes the man, though at times the toiler fancies he could be happier were it a little less strenuous. If we have sleep, and ask not of our dreams forgetfulness, our waking is in solitude, and our employment is thought. Imagination has thrown her glory round the midnight – the orbs of heaven, the shadows are but poetic dreams. Even in the center of our dear old city – the pride of every true Hamilton – where the moonlight falls upon pavement and roof, the heart is softened and the mind elevated amid the loneliness of the night’s deepest and stillest hours. Such dreams are for the young; those who knew Hamilton in the long ago, when the summer nights were spent on the bay, drifting with the wind that gently flapped the sails of the small craft in which a dozen or more with voice and guitar filled the air with melody and sang the songs that evoked tears and laughter. Drifting with the tide or with the wind the memories of the long ago come back to the old-timer, and he hums, with quavering voice, Would I Were a Boy Again.

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          Sixty-five years ago, there was a frame Methodist chapel on John street, the membership of which had withdrawn from the old church on the corner of King and Wellington streets. This was the first Methodist church, built in the business center of the town and now known as the Wesley church. The Bickles, the Watkins brothers, Edward Jackson, Dennis Moore and other families prominent in Methodism in those days were among the members that worshipped in the frame church on John street. One Sunday evening, in April, 1845, a sailor from the lake district was wandering up town and hearing the hearty singing and praying in the chapel as he was passing by, he concluded to enter and enjoy: but Jack had taken too much liquor aboard and it had made him at enmity with the world, and as a result, he butted in at the wrong time, which created a scene. Brothers John Bickle and Charles Magill, two muscular young Christians who would tolerate the profaning of the sacred temple, tackled the sailor and with persuasive eloquence besought him to depart in peace and their blessing would go with him. Jack had just enough liquor stowed away to make him feel ugly, and he was going to remain right there till Gabriel blew his trumpet. Sam Ryckman, the town constable, was summoned, and with the aid of the Brothers Bickle and Magill, poor Jack was bounced out and spent the Sunday night in the cold, damp cells under the engine house. The next morning Captain Armstrong, an old salt himself, lectured the sailor on the sin of drunkenness, especially on Sunday, and fined him $2 for the misdemeanor. As the vessel in which Jack shipped was about to leave port that Monday afternoon, the mate had to pay Jack’s fine and get him released.

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