1917-05-05

THE VACANT CHAIR

          There are thousands of them today in Canadian homes, and there will be thousands more before this murderous war is ended. And when we count up the havoc in our small Canadian army, with not more than four hundred thousand men in arms, what must the slaughter be in foreign lands that have sent their bravest and best by the million. “With colors flying and drums a-beating” they march to battle with all the heroism of young manhood, a large percentage never to return, and the remaining few who may have passed through the storm of shot and shell, maimed and crippled for life, or broken down by disease, to return home to be a burden to themselves and a charge to their families. Only those who have passed through a battle can realize its realities. This is Canada’s first experience of war, and it has been a cruel experience. Hamilton sent of its bravest and best young men over ten thousand to fight the battles of the motherland, and to red the casualty lists as reported in the daily papers makes one’s heart sick. The wail of mourning from homes in almost every street of the city of wives and mothers is heard, and they cannot be comforted. In many homes, there is a vacant chair that will never again be filled by the loved ones who went forth in all the joyousness of youth when the tap of the drum called him to arms. The brave hearted volunteered; the chicken-hearted shirked and spends his nights in the pool room or at the picture shows. The garb of mourning crowds the sidewalks, and the demand for mourning goods keeps on increasing. It is a hard proposition to deal with, and it remains for those who are beyond the fighting ago to see that in every house where there is a vacant chair that the wife or mother will not be neglected. Hamilton has done grandly thus far, and no thanks to the shirkers, who do not even contribute a dollar to patriotic purposes.

          What has become of the poets and songwriters of half a century ago that one never hears nowadays a patriotic song to give cheer to desolate hearts? For a time at the beginning of the war It’s a Long Way to Tipperary was whistled in the streets by the boys and yodeled by the girls; and while it was not a war song, yet it had a bright, catchy air, and went off with a swing that made it popular. The soldier boys sang it as they marched through the streets when leaving home to prepare for war, and everybody joined in the chorus, and the bands played it with a swing that warmed one’s heart. It was a long, long way to Tipperary but the life of the song left with the soldier boys. Nothing has come to take its place. Don’t you remember that soul-stirring old Irish war song that thrilled the hearts of the ancient warriors The Minstrel Boy? Let us refresh our memory with a verse:

          “The minstrel boy to the war is gone.

           In the ranks of death you’ll find him:

           His father’s sword he had girded on,

           And his wild hare slung behind him.

           ‘Land of song,’ said the warrior bard,

           ‘Tho’ all the world betrays thee,

           One sword at least thy rights shall guard,

           One faithful heart shall praise thee!’ ”

          The name of the writer of that song is lost, but the song itself will live forever. About the only war song that thrills the blood in the trenches is the Marseillaise, the national anthem of the French and the Russians. Like the Scottish bagpipes, its wild music makes one forget the horrors of war, and inspires its followers to deeds of bravery. The British Grenadiers, written in the sixteenth century, as old as it is, holds its place as an ancient war song. It was a favorite with Lieut. Robinson, the veteran bandmaster, and rarely did the Royal Thirteenth band appear in public during the past forty or fifty years that its patriotic strains did not make the old soldiers straighten up and get in step with the “tow, row, row.” Here is the song that has been sung by many a veteran as he marched into the field of battle, four hundred years ago. :

          “Some talk of Alexander,

                   And some of Hercules.

           Or of Hector and Lysander,

                   And such great names as these :

           But of all the world’s great heroes

                   There’s none that can compare

           With a tow row row row row row,

                   To the British Grenadiers.

           When’er we are commanded

                   To storm the palisades.

           Our leaders march with fusees,

                   And we with hand grenades;

          We throw them from the glaels

                   And the enemies ears,

           Sing two row row row row row,

                   The British Grenadiers.

           Then let us fill a bumper

                   And drink a health to those

           Who carry caps and pouches,

                   And wear the louped clothes,

           May they and their commanders

                   Live happily all their years.

           With a tow row row row row row,

                   For the British Grenadiers.”

          The Vacant Chair became a classic in song during the American civil war. It was sung in the homes of the north by the wives, mothers and sisters of the absent ones who were on the firing line and by the boys in blue on the tented field. The words and music were by George F. Root, who was the author of many a war lyric during the dark days of 1861-65. It is one of those heart songs that will live forever, for in every home there is a vacant chair to remind of some loved one who has gone out never to return.

          We shall meet, but we shall miss him,

                   There will be one vacant chair;

          We shall linger to caress him,

                   While we breathe our evening prayer.

          When a year ago we gathered,

                   Joy was in his mild blue eye,

          But a golden cord is severed,

                   And our homes in ruin lie.

          At our fireside, sad and lonely,

                   Often will the bosom swell

          At remembrance of the story

                   How our noble Willie fell;

          How he strove to bear our banner

                   Thro’ the thickest of the fight,

          And upheld our country’s honor,

                   In the strength of manhood’s might.

          True, they tell us wreaths of glory

                   Evermore will be deck his brow,

          But this soothes the anguish only

                   Sweeping o’er our heartstrings now,

          Sleep today, O early fallen,

                   In thy green and narrow bed,

          Dirges from the pine and cypress

                   Mingle with the tears we shed.

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          WAR SONGS THAT LIVE IN MEMORY

          There a few war songs that are as bright today as when they were sung and played half a century ago. Marching Through Georgia, Dixie, The Bonnie Blue Flag, The Dying Volunteer, Song of a Thousand Years, Tenting Tonight, When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again. They come back to the writer of these musings as a reminder of the days when he shouldered a musket and tramped to the music of fife and drum.

          We’re tenting tonight on the old camp ground,

                   Give us a song to cheer

          Our weary hearts, a song of home,

                   And friends we love so dear,

          Many are the hearts that are weary tonight,

                   Wishing for the war to cease;

          Many are the hearts looking for the right

                   To see the dawn of peace.

          How many of our brave Hamilton boys are singing that heart song tonight, with their thoughts back here in the old home, as they pray and fight for that peace that will bring honor to the old flag?

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          THE SONG OF ALL SONGS

          Home, Sweet Home. It is sung in every home all over the world, and could very appropriately be adopted as the national anthem of all people and all tongues. It has brought back many a wanderer back to his or her senses and planted their feet one more in the path of right. Who can sing its simple heart words  and not feel the tender influences of the home of their childhood? Here is a little incident of the civil war : Two brigades, a Confederate and a Federal, by chance were marching in a certain part of Virginia, not knowing the whereabouts of each other. A broad valley separated them, and both encamped for the night, tired and weary after a hard day’s march. As was customary, the evening dress parade was never omitted by either army when it was possible to have it. The federal brigade was encamped on the hill across the valley, and on the other side was the Confederate brigade. It was a beautiful location for an artillery duel, but not a gun was fired from either side. The massed bands of the brigades played at each other, one answering Marching Through Georgia with the saucy notes of Dixie; and when the Federals played the national anthem, the Confederates replied with the Bonnie Blue Flag. The byplay was kept up for some time, and all in a good-natured way, when the Federals struck up that song of all songs, Home, Sweet Home, the Confederates caught up the strains, and the boys of both brigades joined in the singing the dear old song of home. They were enemies on the firing line, but here they were at peace. They sang the song of Home, Sweet Home, the song that reached the heart. It is needless to say that not a hostile gun was fired that night. There was no need of placing a picket. The next morning both brigades moved out from camp, each going its own way, and years afterward the story was told at regimental reunions when Federal and Confederate had “shaken hands across the bloody chasm.”

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          HAMILTON’S ANCIENT BELLS.

          What a lonely time poor old Robinson Crusoe must have had on that desert island, with only his man Friday to keep him company, when he was led to exclaim :

          Ye valleys and rocks never heard,

                   Nor sighed at the sound of a knell,

          Nor smiled when the Sabbath appeared,

                   At the sound of the church-going bell.

          Pity the man or woman who cries out against the cheerful tones of the call to work to work, to school, to pray. Long before the siren notes of the steam whistle, bells announced the arrival and departure of steamboats to and from ancient Hamilton; and right cheerily did they sound. Old-timers will remember the days when Captain Sutherland, of the steamer Magnet, and Captain Masson, of the steamer Rochester, when they stepped into the pilot houses of their respective boats, rang out a merry peal to warn belated passengers that time was up: and as the laggers were making all speed down James street, the jolly old captains would make the bell almost yell out to the belated ones that they could not wait another second. There was music in the ancient bells, and they rang out in wild alarm when danger threatened. What boyhood memories are quickened in the old-timers even today at the tinkle of a cow bell! It is not often one hears that almost forgotten sound in the streets of Hamilton, but go out into woods where some old-fashioned farmer pastures his cattle and there the distant tinkle of the bell awakens memories of other days, and one sighs for the days gone by.

          Beautiful bells ! O beautiful bells!

                   Ringing so sweetly again and again!

          Welcomes of joy and weary farewells,

                   Chiming in sunlight and rain.

          Long, long ago, so dear to me,

                   O happy and pure was the message you bore

          Loud o’er the vale, and soft o’er the sea,

                   O could I but hear you once more!

          Beautiful bells! Merry or sad,

Telling your message of goodness to all;

          Whisper of moments hopeful and glad,

                   Vanished beyond our recall!

          Voice of the morn and voice of the night,

                   Waken, O waken the mem’ries of old;

          Bring to my heart your dreams of delight,

                   Visions of beauty untold!

          Beautiful bells! O beautiful bells!

                   Ringing so sweetly again and again!

          Welcomes of joys and weary farewells,

                   Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful bells!

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          ST. ANDREW CHURCH BELL

          The first church bell in this ancient city was in the belfry of St. Andrew church (now St. Paul). St. Andrew was the first Presbyterian church  built in Hamilton and was dedicated in 1834, and in the belfry of the old frame building was placed the first bell to call saint and sinner to prayers. It was cast in Scotland and sent to Hamilton as a gift to the new church; and this reminder by friends in the old land made that bell very dear to the hearts of the old-time worshippers who had left their native land to make a new home in Canada. For many years, it was the town bell for all purposes. When the present St. Paul church was built, that historic bell was transferred to the new belfry, and held the place of honor until a few years ago, when it had to give place to the chimes; then it was placed in the chapel belfry, where its silver note can yet be heard to call to prayer and Sabbath school.

          And speaking of chimes reminds us that the first chime of bells in Hamilton was the gift of Richard Juson, one of the leading business men in the town away back in the old days. He was the owner of the nail factory that used to occupy the site of the present Burrow, Stewart and Milne foundry, on the corner of Hughson and Cannon streets, and also proprietor of the leading hardware store, the site of the present department store of the G. W. Robinson company. That chime of bells lacked one of a full staff, and it never has been filled.

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ST. LUKE’S CURCH BELL

          The second bell in Hamilton of which we have any history was the one in use at Williams and Cooper’s carriage factory on King street west, and now occupied by Aitchison & Co. That old stone pile is one of the ancient landmarks and the oldest inhabitant remembers it when he was a boy. There is no record of when it was built, for it has always had the weather-beaten appearance it presents today, with its little old belfry perched on the top, in which was installed the first bell that ever awakened echoes in the old town. Our first recollection of the Williams & Cooper factory dates back nearly seventy years, with its army of apprentices and very few expert workmen. The boys had to learn the trade in those days by a long apprenticeship, and when they had served their time their places in the factory were filled by more young apprentices. It was a sort of training school to furnish expert carriage makers for western Canada and for the border towns in the United States. Indeed, the few industrial shops in Hamilton seemed to be of the same class, for as soon as a boy was out of his time, the employers had no more use for him, and he had to hike away from home to where his expert services were appreciated and better paid for. In the old days, Hamilton boys learned their trades, and go where they would, they could always find work. Some of the leading printers in the city of Chicago forty and fifty years ago were Hamilton boys, and if they did not own job offices of their own, they were generally superintendents in the large printing concerns.

          But what has all this to do with the story of the bell on Williams & Cooper’s carriage factory? Not a thing, excepting that it adds a little to the history of old-time Hamilton. Those were the days when Bay street south was called the bowery, for that was the name given to it on the map by the early settler of that farm when he cut it up into town lots. Land was cheap then, and the original builders of the Williams & Cooper factory were able to buy a whole square and plant their building in the center of the block. But let us get back to the bell lest we forget where we were at. The original bell that used to call the boys and men to work and tell them when to quit, and to ring the fire alarm when some house was going to blazes, must have been put up that little belfry nearly 100 years ago, and met its fate one night in the early 50s, when it went cracked in its effort to arouse the inhabitants to the fact that the watchman that someone was being made homeless. It was an extremely cold night, and the frost in the air was so severe that the watchman at the factory heard its fate while he was ringing the bell. It almost broke his heart; it was like a death in the family. Tom Gray was the chief of the fire department and a member of the city council, and on his motion in the council, the city clerk, who was Thomas Beasley, was instructed to buy a new bell and have it hung in the old belfry. That bell did duty for Williams & Cooper till they sold out, and finally it came down to the Aitchison company.

Judge Gauld is a sentimental fellow even if his daily life is spent in cracking the severe problems of the law, and when the Rev. E. Napier R. Burns died, he bethought himself of that ancient bell up in that little belfry on that old old stone carriage factory as a memorial that would be an appropriate gift to St. Luke’s Episcopal church, of which Mr. Burns was the rector at the time of his death. Judge Gauld and Mr. Burns had read law together before Mr. Burns entered the holy orders, and there was an affection uniting them that was even closer than often exists between brothers. It was a happy thought, and the judge put it into practice. That bell now hangs in the belfry of St. Luke’s church as a memorial to the rector who devoted his life to daily work among the congregation, and making that selection of Hamilton the better for having lived in it. It is such thoughtful acts that draw people closer together.

There are few older bells in Hamilton than the one that calls the congregation of St. Luke to prayers. When St. Mary’s Catholic church was built some time about the year 1835, a bell was necessary addition for no Catholic church is complete without a bell to call the faithful to prayer three times a day – morning, noon and night. Go where one will in any part of the world and the sound of the Angelus is heard. A few years ago when making a tour of Ireland, we were much impressed with the reverence of the people when the Angelus rang. For the moment everything came to a standstill, the rich man devoutly raising his silk hat and poor Pat his silk hat and poor Pat his caubeen while they devoutly made the sign of the cross and repeated a simple prayer. Well, one morning St. Mary’s church was consumed by fire and the bell was broken to pieces when nit fell from the belfry to the ground. When the new cathedral was built, another bell took its place, and for the sixty years or more has rung out its call to prayers three times a day, and tolled the sad requiem for the departed ones from the flock.