REVERIES OF AN OLD PRINTER
“I am dreaming ‘a
dream’ of the olden time,” when Hamilton was but little more than a village in
population, and its boundaries were Wellington street on the east and the
Bowery (now Bay street south) on the west, and all on the other side was farms
and cow pasture. From the mountainside down to the bay was a gentle slope, with
here and there a gully to carry off the surplus water that at times flowed down
from the mountain in torrents. What a delightful picture would the old town
have made for later generations to feast their eyes upon, had there been some
technical student to put it on canvas. But then we had no technical schools in
those days, nor indeed did Hamilton have a respectable common school, for it
was before the building of the Central school, or the coming of Dr. Sangster.
And this calls to mind that only a few weeks ago, the last of that small galaxy
of learned women, who was one of the first teachers under Dr. Sangster, ended
life’s journey. Not one of them is left to tell the story of the early days in
the Central school, and even of pupils but few are left to answer at roll call
at the next reunion. Boys and girls were not privileged in those days to spend
long years in the school room, except in the case of the children of parents
who were fortunate in business, and could stand the expense, for it was
necessary to have the boys learn a trade and help in support of the family, for
the families were larger and the earnings of the father smaller than they are
now, and the girls were needed in the homes to help mother care for the younger
children. My ancient Hamilton readers will recall those days, for it was in
their younger days that the foundations of the wealth and prosperity were laid
that the children of the present are enjoying.
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What is more natural for an old-timer than
that he should go back to his youth when he fails of anything interesting to
talk about? He thinks that there is nothing like the old times and the old town
in which he spent his boyhood days. They are pleasant memories to him, even if they do not interest those
who are living in this new world of the present. The time will come when they
will be retelling to the future generations of the days when Hamilton had a
Goodenough mayor, and when the railroad corporations were trying to gobble up
what was left of the ancient mountain that was the pride of this old town away
back in the early days when Lady Simcoe, the literary wife of the first
governor-general of Canada, so beautifully described it in her history of the
Head of the Lake, when she came sailing into Burlington bay through a shallow
entrance in the north end of the beach. How many of the present generation are
aware of the fact that the bay was originally called Geneva lake or Macassa
bay, and that it was on the 16th of June, 1792, that the name was
changed to Burlington bay by proclamation of Governor Simcoe? In the
topographical description of Upper Canada, issued in the year 1813, it was said
of Burlington bay that it was as “beautiful and romantic a situation a any in
the interior of America, particularly if we include with it a marshy lake which
falls into it, and a noble promontory that divides them.” From unwritten
history, it has been handed down that Captain Zealand was the first sailorman
to enter the bay, with the good rig Rebecca and Eliza, through the creek that
wound round from Wellington square into Macassa bay. It was also said that in
the early days, there existed a barracks or fort on the sand strip on the north
end somewhere in the vicinity of the power house of the beach trolley line.
Sixty or seventy years ago there were some evidences of a fort having once been
located there, but the advancing civilization blotted them out. Lady Simcoe in
her diary speaks of an Indian encampment having once been located in the
neighborhood. Somewhere in an old encyclopedia, the story is told that thousands
of years ago the waters from Lake Erie and its tributary of streams came down
through Dundas Valley, out into the bay, and then over the sand strip into Lake
Ontario, and on ward flowed to the sea, and that at the time, there was no
Niagara Falls beyond the overflow of water from the lower end of Lake Erie. Be
that as it may, the ancient geologist who told the story has been dead so long
that there is nothing in the present histories to prove to the contrary.
However, in Lady Simcoe’s day, Burlington bay was bountifully stocked with fine
sea salmon, and was the favorite fishing grounds of the Indians who had settled
at the head of the lake. Then it was that the mountainside was covered with a
wealth of forest trees that added beauty to the picture, and was the pride of
the early settlers. The greed for money despoiled the forest trees and changed
the green verdure into a bald-faced stone quarry. For the love of Mike, don’t
permit the further despoliation by the railroad company turning what is left as
a beauty spot into a freight yard.
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FROM SCOTLAND’S BARD
Our kind friend, Mr. William Murray, never
forgets the Muser on anniversary occasions, and with pleasure, we give his
greeting:
Athol Bank, Hamilton, Oct. 19
Congratulations, free from froth,
To Colonel Richard Butler, both
Our
Muser and amuser,
Upon his reaching eighty-three
(The very age of merry me),
With
never an accuser.
And joy to both himself and wife,
So long without a streak of strife,
On
this their wedding day;
(The sixtieth no less), with love
From all there’er they write or rove,
Or
with Spectator’s play.
And may the wondrous couple still
Continue marching up the hill,
With ne’er an ounce of strength decreased.
For twenty annunis more, at least,
Free
from worry.
WILLIAM
MURRAY
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