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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