Chapter 2

Come, now, my gentle Muse, once more, Come with me to the days of yore, And let us wake, with friendly hand The memories of that distant land, The past; and while thy minstrel weaves A chaplet from the Sybil leaves Of recollection--let the light Of truth upon his lines be bright. May he with reverential tread Approach the dwellings of the dead, Seeking for some sweet flower of good Within their solemn solitude: And if he finds in fadeless bloom Around some well remember'd tomb, Some cherish'd record of the past Which has defied time's rudes blast, And down futurity's deep vale Shed fragrance on the passing gale, Love's labor, then, the task will be, My gentle Muse, for thee and me. 'Mongst those of old remember'd well, John Wade doth in my memory dwell, A wit of most undoubted feather-- A mighty advocate of leather-- A solemn man too, when required. With healing instincts deeply fired, He with claw-instrument could draw Teeth deftly from an aching jaw, And ready was his lancet too When nothing short of blood would do; Relieved he many a racking pain, When shall we see his like again? And William Tormey, stern and straight, A man who came ere '28, Chief of the men who kept the fire on And hammer'd the strong bands of iron, Which first securely bound together The old lock gates through wind and weather, The old Town Council minutes bear The record that his name is there. And Thomas Hanly, loud the praise I gave him in my early days For bread, that Eve might tempted be To eat, had it grown on that tree, On which hung the forbidden fruit Whose seed gave earth's ills their sad root. Friend Tom dealt in the rising leaven In the old days of '27, With "Jemmy Lang," an ancient Scot, Who ne'er the barley bree forgot; An honest, simple man was he As ever loved good company; And Tom McDermott, while I twine The names of yore in song of mine, Can I forget a name like thine? Ah, no! although thine ashes rest Beneath our common mother's breast, No name more spotless doth engage My muse, or grace my tuneful page. Stern Matthew Connell, fiery Celt, Below the present Bywash dwelt, Beside John Cowan, o'er whose grave The grass of '32 did wave. No man got in a passion faster Than did old Bytown's first postmaster; Yet was he a most upright man, And well the old machinery "ran" When mail bags came on horse's back Before we had a railway track, And their arrival on each morn Was signall'd by an old tin horn. Peace to his shade! in '32 The cholera Matthew Connell slew. Kind reader, let me pass awhile, Beside the "Bywash," deem'd so vile, Then called "the Creek"--though now the pest-- The festering miasmatic nest Of Boards of Health, who dread infection-- My very heart's sincere affection Clings fondly to that old creek still; For oft in boyhood's joyous thrill, O'er its ice-bosom in wild play I chased the ball in youth's bright day. With young companions loved and dear! How few of such, alas! are here To listen to the bye-gone story Of the old Creek's vanish'd glory! 'Twixt "wooden lock" and Rideau Street, Young Bytown oft was wont to meet-- To struggle in the "shinny game;" Ah! then it was a place of fame, Full sixty feet from shore to shore, While now it measures scarce a score; Modern improvement has prevail'd-- Its fair proportions are curtail'd; Its banks filled in, more space to gain. Its stream, by many a filthy drain, Which once was rapid, always clear, Changed into color worse than beer, To cool and icy scowling scan, Of rigid, total abstinence man. Gone is its fair renown of yore, It's schoolboy battles all are o'er, Which made it then a "Campo Bello" For many an embryo daring fellow-- Too young to know what men of sense Have called the art of self-defence; There buttons flew, from stitching riven, Black eyes and bloody noses given-- Even conflicts national took place, Among old Bytown's youthful race. Why not? for children bigger grown I rave sometimes down the gauntlet thrown For cause as small, and launch'd afar The fierce and fiery bolts of war, Simply to find out which was best. Cæsar or Pompey by the test. In those past combats "rich and rare" Luke Cuzner always had his share. For Luke in days of _auld lang syne_ Did most pugnaciously incline, Never to challenge slack or slow, And never stain'd by "coward's blow." The Joyces too, Mick, John and Walter, In battle's path did seldom falter, But "Jimmy," in those days of grace Held a peacemaker's blessed place, Nor has he wander'd far astray From the same calm and tranquil way. The belt was worn by any one Who had the latest battle won, 'Till Simon Murphy's springing bound Lit on that ancient battle ground, And from that hour he was King Of our young pugilistic ring! But here I'd like to pause a minute And go to Hull--there's something in it That to the hour of life's December I shall endeavor to remember. The old "Columbian" schoolhouse, where In childhood's dawn I did repair; It was a famous strict old school Sway'd by the ancient birchen rule, The place where youthful ignorance brought us, The spot where famed James Agnew taught us; A Scot was he of good condition, A man of nerve and erudition, A strict disciplinarian, who Knew well what any boy could do, And woe to him who did not do it For he got certain cause to rue it. No sinner ever dreaded Charon, Nor was the mighty rod of Aaron, By ancient Egypt's magic men, In Pharoah's old despotic reign, More feared as symbol of a God Than was by us James Agnew's rod; With it he batter'd arithmetic, Lore practical and theoretic Latin too, and English grammar Into your head, a perfect "crammar," Was Agnew's most persuasive rod, Nor less his magisterial nod. How would such stern tuition suit In our Collegiate Institute? Amongst the unforgotten few Who rise to memory's magic view, While winging on her backward flight, My schoolfellow, Alonzo Wright, Appears a lad of slender frame, I cannot say he's still the same, Except in soul, for that sublime Has soar'd above the touch of time, And in "immortal youth" appears, Unchanged by circumstance or years, A good fellow, this was his name At school, methinks he's still the same. May he give powers of swift volition To all who offer opposition To him in the approaching "scrimmage," For what is but a brazen image At best, a people's approbation, Which sometimes with the situation, Changes as egg in hand of wizard, Or color in chameleon lizard. There too, are Job and David Moore, Bill Northgraves mentioned not before, Who in the little school-house red On early education fed. And Thomas Curtis Brigham, too, Lennox and Christopher in view, Arise before my sight, Strongly defined in memory's light, And Wright both Ruggles and Tiberias, And Wyman who was seldom serious, Poor fellow! in life's manly bloom He slept in an untimely tomb. Time fails me, or I fain would tell Of many more remembered well, But end I here my present strain Till memory wakes it up again.