THE HERITAGE OF HAMILTONIANS
If the ancient
Hamiltonians who lived in the first half of the last century could only see
with the natural eye the heritage they planned and provided for the Hamiltonian
of the present day, it would certainly be a surprise to them. A few of the
old-timers are still living, but it is doubtful if many of them even know or
appreciate the changes that have and are taking place everyday. It is not many
years since the went end was almost a desert waste, given over to the town cow
for a pasture lot and to the brick makers by day, and to the burning kilns and
the unfortunates who sought their warmth by night as they crouched around the
hot kilns and slept and dreamt of the happy days of childhood when home and
comfort were theirs. All is changing now, and the fine homes, broad streets and
concrete walks, brilliantly lighted by night by electric power from Niagara
Falls, are making a paradise out of what was once the most forlorn spot in this
beautiful valley. An enterprising man who saw the possibilities in the future
of that waste territory bought up a few tracts of land and spent money freely
and judiciously in laying blocks and streets, building sidewalks, sewer, water
and gas mains, and when he had changed the whole landscape and made it fit for
the homemaker, then he parceled it out into building lots and invited the
Hamilton out to see what a charming place he had prepared for them. Conditions
were put in the deeds that would make it impossible for one neighbor to
interfere with the rights and comforts of the other, and indeed every
reservation was made to guarantee a location for a desirable home. There were
doubting Thomases a plenty who said the enterprising shorthorn breeder was
wasting his good money to no purpose and that it would be many a long day
before people would be lured to make a home in the west end. But he had the
faith that builds up cities, and in less than half a dozen years, nearly every
lot was sold, fine houses built for first-class citizens, and the man who
planned all this laid the foundation for the fortune he has made in less than a
dozen years, for he did not stop his promotion of land projects with his west
end deal, but is extending his conquests to the north shore of the bay and of
old Ontario.
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Now the McKittrick syndicate is
putting the finishing touches in the way of improving the remainder of the west
end valley and preparing it for the present and future of Hamiltonians. There
is money galore behind this syndicate, and what has been left undone by the
former proprietor will be enlarged upon. A trip to the west end will open one’s
eyes as to the possibilities at no late date of joining hands with the ancient
town of Dundas, and bringing it into the sunlight of this growing and ambitious
city. The time was when Dundas was IT, and Hamilton was only the Head of the
Lake. After Desjardin built the canal, Dundas was the principal shipping point
for all the country west and north of it. The first sailing vessel that was
built in this section was the work of a Scotchman whose son is now at the head
of the Lake Carriers’ association, and lives in Detroit, and it was a proud day
for Dundas when it came floating down the raging Desjardin canal and out into
the broad bay at Burlington. Old Captain Peace, who spent his life as a sailor
on the upper lakes, made Dundas his terminal point, and young Dan, Hamilton’s
ancient tobacconist, slept many a night at the masthead to get beyond the reach
of the mosquitoes that bred by the million in the broad bosom of the “Dundas
marsh.” Well, the ancient marsh will be drained in time, and may become an
extension to the McKittrick syndicate, and through the canal furnish an outlet
to the west end to the open sea of Burlington bay. Who knows?
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Hamilton is a city of great
possibilities, for it is not only building in the valley down to the waterside,
but is climbing the mountain heights and reaching out toward the Grand river,
and in time may take the shores of Lake Erie in as one of its suburbs. There
are as many families living on the mountain brow today as the assessors could
count up for the entire population of ancient Hamilton when John Fisher was
elected the second mayor. Who was John Fisher? Some belated Hamiltonian may
ask. John Fisher was an enterprising Yankee boy who crossed the Niagara river
long before a suspension bridge joined New York state to Canada and came to
Hamilton and started the first foundry and machine shop, and built the first
threshing machine in Canada. That was John. Count up the number of factories
today in this progressive town and the thousands of hands employed, both men
and women, and you can figure out the results of that one little foundry and
machine shop, on the corner of James and Merrick streets, the present site of
the Royal hotel, that John Fisher built away back in the year 1838. Hamilton was
the home of the stove foundry business when you and I were boys, my old
Hamiltonian; and it was with a feeling of sadness that I took a stroll through
the northwest quarter of the town the other day and saw more than one of the
old shops deserted, with the windows boarded up and the neighbourhood in which
they are located as quiet as a country graveyard. But the men have fooled away
this profitable branch of the molder’s trade. And from all appearance, it has
gone forever. Still, there is something doing over in that quarter, and to take
the place of the foundries, there are numerous large factory buildings occupied
by other trades. The star of enterprise has arisen in the east end, and all
along the bay front, down as far as the sandstrip (now politely called the
Beach) that used to join this old town and the ancient village of Wellington
Square, the line of smokestacks gives one an idea of the present and future
greatness that is possible for the home of our youth. Hamilton is the nursery
for the factory wealth of Canada, and Montreal pops in and walks away with all
the profits. Montreal deserves all it can rake in if our own capitalists will
sit idly by and see the rich cream of industry float down the St. Lawrence. And
speaking of Montreal reminds us that its enterprising moneyed men are spending
their wealth broadcast and gathering in a harvest of dividends. Out in the
central part of Illinois, which this old Muser called home for a quarter of a
century, Montreal capital has constructed hundreds of miles of electric railway
that covers the richest part of the state.
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But now let us get back to Hamilton
and to what it is doing as a manufacturing town. The ancient ones will remember
when Lover’s Lane was the eastern terminal of the corporate limits. The present
generation will not know it by that name, but if we tell them that it is now
better known as Wellington street, then they will be able to locate it. Lover’s
Lane was a dear old name to the ancient bucolics who used to do their sparking,
by the silvery light of the moon, till such time as they could see their way
clear to take each other for better or worse. It required $6 then to buy a
marriage license and at least a one note to pay the preacher for the marriage
ceremony. And, by the way, we see that by the late law the marriage license fee
has been raised again from $2 to $6, only part of which goes to the government
and part to some political appointee for issuing it. Why should the issuing of
such an important document be given to some favorite shopkeeper? Really, the government
might better offer a premium to the young man who has courage enough to marry
in these days, when it takes seven cents to buy a one pound loaf of bread and
forty cents a pound for butter to make it palatable. If you are rich enough to
own a motor car, or even a faithful old horse, take a trip down Main street
east – which, by the way, is one of the finest residence streets in the city,
take it and by and large out as far as the Delta, where Jackson, an old negro
slave made his home nearly a century ago, and you will be surprised at the
growth of your home town; and, mind you, it has nearly all been accomplished
within the past fifteen years, during which time the population has more than
doubled. Broad avenues, lined with handsome homes, with beautiful lawns and
flower beds, where only yesterday, you may say, the town cow used to chew its
cud and lazily dream of the time when the owner would call to drive it home,
with its rich bag of milk to trickle down the family throat. Ah! these are
memories of the past that will never return. Turn your motor to the north and
get down into the factory district, where you will find massive buildings
covering acres of ground, and wanting still more of mother earth for
extensions. You, my old Hamiltonian, can remember the time when land down there
could be bought at ridiculously low prices : now you might cover an acre of it
with one-dollar Dominion bank bills and the owners would only laugh at you for
thinking he was going to throw away for nothing. The early pioneers who located
that land thought it dear at almost any price. It was old Colonel Land, if our
history is not forgotten, who purchased a hundred acres of land in the early
days, not far from King and Wellington streets, for a barrel of salt pork and
some other trifles. Down in that district are more than four hundred factories,
representing hundreds of millions of wealth, and giving labor to thousands of
skilled workmen, who have prospered so that they are able to live well on eight
and nine hours for a day’s work when their fathers found it hard scratching to
make both ends meet with a ten and twelve hour day. This old town is
prospering, and with no serious setbacks it will yet become the greatest
industrial city in Canada.
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