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PEN  AND  PENCIL  SKETCHES 


Landmarks 


A  SERIES  OF  ARTICLES  DESCRIP- 
TIVE OF  QUAINT  PLACES  AND 
INTERESTING  LOCALITIES  INj*j* 
THE  SURROUNDING  COUNTY^ 
WRITTEN  BY  MRS.  DICK-LAUDER, 
MRS.  CARR,  j*  R.  K.  KERNIGHAN 
(THE  KHAN),  J.  E.  WODELL,  J.  W. 
STEAD,  J.  McMONIES,  ^  OTHERS. 
ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  LR.  SEAVEY 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  SPECTATOR 
PRINTING  COMPANY,  LIMITED^* 
HAMILTON,  EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED 
AND  NINETY-SEVEN 


HO- 


X 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  following  series  of  articles  were  first  published  in  the 
Hamilton  Spectator.  They  were  originally  issued  under  the  title  of 
"  Delving  Among  Ruins,"  and  dealt  more  particularly  with  the 
history  of  architectural  relics  which  were  the  fast  disappearing  sou- 
venirs of  events  and  incidents  in  the  early  history  q^.this  district. 

- 
As  the  series    continued,  so    much  valuable    and    interesting   material 

came  to  light  that  the  primary  scope  of  the  articles  was  considerably 
extended,  and  eventually  resulted  in  the  collection  of  much  general 
information  that  may  prove  useful  to  the  local  historian  of  the 
future  who  undertakes  to  throw  his  literary  searchlight  on  the  dim 
and  distant  past.  So  general  was  the  interest  evinced  by  the  public 
in  these  literary  and  artistic  gleanings  that  it  was  decided  to  re- 
publish  them  in  a  more  permanent  and  collected  form,  with  such 
slight  emendations  as  the  exigencies  of  serial  publication  rendered 
necessary. 

THE   EDITOR. 


-\ 

CONTENTS 


PAGE 

An   Historic   Village             ......  9 

Old   Residences  at  Ancaster                  „              .              .              .  .14 

The   Leeming   Parsonage                 .              .              .              .              .  19 

St.  John's   Church,  Ancaster                .              .              .              .  .  .     25 

Ancaster  in  the  Victorian  Era      .....  32 

The  Old  Red  Mill                    .             .             .             .             ,  .38 

The  Terryberry  Inn            ......  43 

A  Forgotten  House  of  Peace                            .              .              .  .49 

Historic  Homes  on   the   Mountain               ....  53 

On  the  Outskirts  of  the  City                .              .              .              .  58 

North  of  Hamilton   Bay     ......  70 

By   Medad's  Marshy   Shores  .....        7^1 

At-ti-wan-dar-o-ni-a              .              .              .              .              .             ..  81 

Indian   Relics  and   Remains  .....       86" 

Rock  Chapel  and   Vicinity              .....  93 

The  Fools'  College      .              .              .             .              .              .  -103 

Early  History  of  Dundas                .                            .              .              .  108 

Its   Prehistoric  Buildings          .              .              .              .              .  1 1  r 

A  City  that  was  not  Built             .              .              .              .  118 

Legends  of  Romulus                 .              .              .              .              .  .121 

An  Ancient  Trojan             .....  124 

A  Battlefield  of   1812                 .              .              .              .              .  .130 

Albion   Mills  Ravine           .....  133 

Early   Days  in   Saltfleet            .              .              .              .              .  .      137 

The  Caledonia  Stage  Road            .                             .  144 


QUAINT  OLD  ANCASTER 


An  Historic  Village  and  its  Decayed  Industries,  ^  Old  Resi- 
dences of  Ancaster.  *&  The  Leeming  Parsonage.  &  St. 
John's  Church  and  its  Picturesque  Churchyard.  <£  An- 
caster in  the  Victorian  Era.  &  The  Old  Red  Mill. 


WENTWORTH    LANDMARKS 


CHAPTER  I 


AN     HISTORIC     VII-I.AGE 


"I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 

Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill. 
The  s/leepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 
The  meal  sacks  on  the  whi'ten'd  floor. 

The    dark      round    of    the      dripping 

wheel. 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal." 
— Tennyson. 

HEN  heaven,  as- 
sisted by  the 
powers  that  be, 
orders  up  that 
electric  continua- 
tion of  the  Beck- 
ett drive,  which 
is  to  strike  An- 
caster  amidships, 
it  may  prove  a 
Jehemiah  to 
trace  up  this  old 
Jerusalem,  to  re- 
pair its  breaches 
by  pulling  down 
the  present  ghast- 
ly array  of  spec- 
ters in  stones, 
and  replacing 

them      with      the 

smart  villa  residence  and  the  awe-in- 
spiring summer  boarding  house;  also, 
perhaps,  carrying  out  the  expressed 
opinion  of  experts  that,  as  a  healthy 
and  desirable  location  for  an  idiot  or 
inebriate  asylum,  old  Ancaster  stands 
first  on  the  list,  offering  unrivalled 
advantages  in  the  shape  of  wide  hor- 
izons, church  and  water  privileges  and 
congenial  society. 

At  any  rate  the  railway  is  an  ac- 
complished fact  as  far  as  the  survey, 
against  whose  pegs  we  often  lately, 
in  the  elegant  words  of  a  defunct 
bishop,  "stub  our  toes"  when  medi- 
tating along  the  Mohawk  trail  in  the 
dusk.  Thus,  if  the  matter  ends  in 
pegs,  we  can  at  least  remember  that 


we  once  had  a  survey,  just  as  the 
crankiest  female  who  stalks  grimly 
down  the  vale  of  years,  an  unappro- 
priated blessing,  can  surely  recall  the 
time  when  she  had  her  one  offer  of 
marriage! 

*  *    * 

One  thing  generally  leads  to  anoth- 
er, as  the  man  said  when  he  launched 
out  and  bought  a  paper  collar,  so  who 
can  say  that  new  life  may  not  once 
more  flow  to  the  aged  village,  now 
high  and  dry  on  old  time's  sand  banks, 
bringing  back  her  bright  meridian 
bloom  and  vigor  of  70  years  ago?  Fan- 
ned by  the  breath  of  electricity  to 
spring  like  a  Phoenix  from  her  bed  of 
ashes — ashes,  understand,  being  prin- 
cipally the  matter  choking  up  the  old 
place  with  a  fire  record  unequalled 
since  the  days  of  Sodom,  making  her 
an  object  of  terror  to  her  friends,  de- 
rision to  her  foes  and  a  hoo-doo  to  the 
guileless  insurance  agent. 

It  is  rather  melancholy,  on  a  sum- 
mer's day,  to  stand  on  the  high  bridge 
and  watch  the  waters  slouching  by 
like  a  gang  of  crystal  dwarfs  out  of  a 
job,  idling  and  playing,  and  painting 
the  "beautiful,  waving  hair  of  the 
dead"  grass  green  among  the  fallen 
ruir.s,  which  a  few  years  ago  were  in- 
stinct with  the  hum  of  industry,  pour- 
ing forth  at  stated  hours,  with  jangle 
of  bells,  a  cheerful,  clattering  stream 
of  bread  winners,  giving  life  and  ani- 
mation to  the  scene,  in  contrast  to  the 
occasional  man  who  now  meets  the 
casual  glance  up  street  in  the  sunny 
noon  hours. 

*  *    * 

These  mill  ruins  cannot  in  them- 
selves be  found  deeply  interesting  to 
lovers  of  antiquity  because  of  their 
comparative  modernity,  though  they 
occupy  the  sites  of  the  more  ancient 
buildings,  the  Union  mill  for  example. 
Fire  took  a  hand  in  at  an  early  date 


TO 


WEXTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


and  began  removing  the  village  build- 
ings, sometimes  singly,  at  others  in 
groups,  according  to  the  direction  of 
the  wind — as  for  instance  when  the 
stable  of  the  Barley  hotel  caught  fire 
and  swept  up,  regardless  of  interven- 
ing obstacles,  to  the  next  inn  on  the 
corner,  kept  by  one  Tidy  in  a  right 
tidy  manner  they  say.  Some  still  talk 
of  a  grand  military  ball  which  was 
held  there  more  than  half  a  century 
ago,  and  which  apparently  was  a  very 
tidy  affair.  How  indeed  could  it  help 
being  so,  with  redcoats  galore,  and 
pretty  girls  from  far  and  near,  for  in 
those  days  people  came  from  Hamil- 
ton to  Ancaster  for  their  gaieties,  as 
well  as  their  clothes  and  groceries? 
We  are  quite  sure  that  on  this  even- 
ing long  ago  the  candles  shone  o'er 
fair  women  and  brave  men,  while 

Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  looked  love   to   eyes  which 

spake   again — 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell. 

All  the  "first  families"  were  there, 
Crookes,  Cooleys,  Cheps  and  many 
more  of  the  familiar  names  which 

Have    been    oarved 
For  many  a  year 
On    the  'tomb. 

A  dim  echo  from  that  far-off  night 
repeats  that  the  fairest  debutante  of 
the  evening  was  a  sister  of  Sheriff 
Murton,  whose  family  then  resided  in 
the  original  Hermitage  house.  Our 
genial  sheriff  himself  had  to  remain 
at  home,  and  go  early  to  bed,  as  he 
was  not  old  enough  to  frivol,  or  no 
doubt  he  would  have  been  there,  too. 

The  officers,  after  the  custom  of 
those  days,  danced  the  first  three 
dances  in  their  swords  and  spurs, 
greatly  to  the  detriment  of  their  fair 
partner's  gowns. 

*    *    * 

Somewhere  about  the  year  of  grace 
1820,  the  "man-of-the-time"  came  and 
took  up  his  abode  in  the  village, 
where  he  henceforth  lived,  and  where 
he  died  and  is  buried,  after  having 
contributed  much  to  the  advancement 
of  Ancaster  in  many  ways. 

This  enterprising  pioneer  was  named 
Job  Loder,  and  he  was  the  builder  and 
owner  of  all  the  mills  and  water  priv- 
ileges of  the  whole  place  for  many 
years,  running  grist  mills,  saw  mill, 
carding  and  woolen  mills  all  along  the 
stream  on  the  site  of  the  present 
ruins. 

Mr.   Loder  also  had  a  general   store. 


close  to  his  house  in  the  village,  where 
he  did  a  rushing  business,  giving  con- 
stant employment  to  four  clerks  and 
a  typewriter.  No,  not  a  typewriter;  I 
forgot  it  was  seventy  years  ago! 
Finally  the  old  gentleman  made  so 
much  money  that  he  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  it,  so  he  sold  out  his 
mills  and  water  privileges  to  a  person 
named  Russell,  who  is  still  spoken  of 
by  the  older  people  as  a  man  of 
wealth,  enterprise  and  many  misfor- 
tunes— a  man  with  many  irons  in  the 
fire,  one  of  whose  schemes  was  that 
Ancaster  should  supply  Hamilton  with 
water,  going  so  far  as  to  have  a  sur- 
vey made,  but  there,  for  some  reason, 
want  of  water  perhaps,  the  matter 
stuck.  He  then  formed  a  company  to 
open  a  carpet  manufactory  in  Ancas- 
ter, but  that  also  withered  in  the 
bud,  and  rag  carpet  weaving  is  as  far 
as  we  have  got  yet.  Mr.  Russel's 
house  is  still  with  us,  and  must  have 
been  a  very  desirable  residence,  as  he 
had  a  beautiful  farm  at  the  back, 
stretching  all  along  the  east  side  of 
the  village,  from  the  lover's  lane  to 
the  lime  kiln,  watered  by  the  crystal 
Yuba,  and  wooded  beautifully  in  those 
days  like  an  English  park.  He  lived, 
'tis  said,  in  good  style,  giving  employ- 
ment to  many,  and  judging  from  his 
bill  of  sale,  date  1853,  he  had  every- 
thing requisite  to  make  home  pleasant, 
from  cut-glass  decanters  and  "four 
post  beds  with  crimson  damask  hang- 
ings," down  to  martingales  and  stable 
buckets. 

A  strange  and  sad  misfortune  befell 
this  prosperous  man  as  he  was,  on 
one  occasion,  hurrying  through  a  win- 
ter journey  to  Lower  Canada  on  some 
contract  business,  of  which  the  point 
was  that  he  had  to  get  to  Montreal 
ahead  of  some  rival  contractor.  It 
was  a  practical  illustration  of  the  old 
saw,  "Most  haste,  worse  speed,"  for, 
on  taking  some  adventurous  short 
cut  over  the  river  near  Prescott,  the 
ice  gave  way,  the  horses  were  drown- 
ed, and  Mr.  Russel  only  was  saved 
after  hours  of  frightful  suffering,  half 
submerged,  clinging  to  the  ice,  and 
finally  the  poor  man  proved  to  be  so 
terribly  frost-bitten  that  both  his 
arms  had  to  be  amputated.  This  cir- 
cumstance would  have  been  enough 
trouble  for  one  incarnation  surely,  but 
it  was  followed  after  a  time  by  a 
ghastly  sequel  in  the  Ancaster  woolen 
mill,  when  Mr.  Russel's  only  daughter, 
a  .bright  and  handsome  girl,  accom- 
panied by  her  lover  from  Toronto,  and 


AN      HISTORIC      VILLAGE 


II 


a  gay  party  of  friends,  was  being 
shown  over  the  mill  one  day  by  the 
foreman.  - 

Sleeves,  then,  apparently,  must  have 
partaken  of  the  present  fashion  some- 
what, for  as  the  poor  girl  stepped 
lightly  along  under  the  whirring 
bands,  a  revolving  upright  shaft 
caught  her  sleeve,  and  before  she 
could  be  rescued  had  either  torn  her 
arm  off,  or  mangled  it  so  badly  as  to 
render  amputation  necessary. 

Later  on,  it  is  remembered,  that  the 
woolen  mill  was  destroyed  by  fire,  and 
the  air  grew  thick  with  trouble,  as  the 
insurance  company  kicked  like  Jesu- 
run,  and  actually  had  Mr.  Russel  im- 
prisoned and  tried  in  Hamilton,  on 
the  word  of  his  coachman,  who  swore 
he  had  bribed  him  to  fire  the  build- 
ing. The  jury  refused  to  convict 
on  this  evidence,  however,  and  he  was 
honorably  acquitted.  After  this  the 
mills  were  sold  separately  and  passed 
through  several  hands,  the  woolen 
mill  being  bought  on  one  occasion  by 
Robert  Smiley,  the  founder  of  the 
Hamilton  Spectator.  Its  final  owner 
was  the  late  James  Watson,  of  Ham- 
ilton, during  whose  reign  it  finally 
collapsed,  going  up  to  heaven  in  a 
chariot  of  fire  one  fine  evening  in  the 
seventies. 

Of  all  the  mills  that  have  come  and 
gone  in  Ancaster,  the  grist  mill  alone  is 
left,  like  Elijah,  as  our  one  industry, 
and  is  a  thriving  and  prosperous  one, 
t<>  all  appearance,  under  the  energetic 
rule  of  Mr.  Jackson.  Long  may  it 
flourish!  That's  enough  about  mills; 
now  for  more  interesting  matter. 


poplar  trees,  and  beyond  them  the 
quaintest  of  houses,  in  which  several 
things  made  an  unfading  impression  on 
the  youthful  mind.  One  was  the  ven- 
erable lady  of  the  mansion,  whose 
chair  was  placed  directly  underneath 
a  large  oil  painting  of  herself,  as  a 
blooming  matron  in  the  year  1822.  The 
other  unforgotten  things  were  an  im- 
mense antique  secretary  with  quaint 
crystal  handles,  and  a  truly  ravishing 
piece  of  antiquity  as  well  as  handsome 
bit  of  furniture,  which  was  an  aged 
spinnet,  with  spindle  legs,  and  a  curi- 
ously carved  and  inlaid  body,  and  a  row 
of  old  yellow  keys.  This,  we  were  told 
by  its  aged  mistress,  came  from  New 
York,  and  was  the  first  musical  instru- 
ment brought  to  Upper  Canada. 

It  seems  a  strange  coincidence,  after 
that  glimpse  so  long  ago,  to  be  asked 
ot  write  round  a  cut  of  the  Loder 
homestead  in  our  village,  and  the  task 
is  a.  pleasant  one,  made  easy  by  the 
kind  courtesy  of  the  present  owner  and 
his  charming  wife;  of  this  it  is  un- 
necessary to  say  more  than  merely  to 
mention  that  the  writer  called  there 
timidly  on  behalf  of  the  "editorial 
department,"  intending  to  remain  five 
minutes  and  ask  three  questions,  and 
stayed  two  hours  and  twenty  minutes 
by  the  antique  clock,  and  asked  400. 
*  *  * 

Mr.  Loder's  house  was  built  by  his 
father  in  1820,  and  remains  practically 
the  same  to-day,  only  we  grieve  to  re- 
cord that  it  is  a  case  of 

Alas!  for  'the  shade. 
The  poplars  are  felled. 


Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat; 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw. 

It  has  always  been  a  puzzle  why 
some  events  of  our  early  lives  are 
merely  glanced  over,  as  it  were,  by  the 
senses,  and  then  tossed,  without  more 
ado,  into  the  mental  waste  paper 
basket,  while  others,  perhaps  less  sig- 
nificant in  themselves,  remain  ever  im- 
pressed on  the  memory,  bright  and  un- 
crushed  by  the  passing  over  of  the 
heavy  ammunition  wagons  of  later  life. 
The  writer  refers  to  one  of  these  little 
untarnished  mental  pictures  of  many 
years  ago,  being  invited  by  the  Mrs. 
Clergyman  of  that  era,  to  accompany 
her  in  some  parochial  calls — one  of 
these,  and  only  one,  stands  out  clearly 
still,  with  a  foreground  of  grand  old 


Within,  the  very  sight  of  the  wood- 
work— the  low  ceilings,  the  wide  old- 
fashioned  fireplaces  built  for  big  logs, 
the  small  bright  brass  knobs  on  all  the 
doors — carry  one  over  the  sea  to  some 
of  the  remembered  old  homesteads  of 
Devonshire  and  Norfolk.  The  illusion 
begins  on  the  doorstep  even,  and  is 
heightened  by  entering  in  opposite  to 
the  most  enticing  low-arched  passage, 
resembling  a  cave,  into  which  the 
waves  would  wash  at  high  tide,  and 
which  led  away  from  the  hall  to  re- 
gions unknown,  that  we  secretly  long- 
ed to  explore.  The  drawing-room  fire- 
place is  peculiarly  interesting,  being 
somewhat  in  the  Queen  Anne  style, 
and  the  high  mantel  was  most  fitting- 
ly surmounted  by  just  such  a  tall  pil- 
lared clock  as  Cruickshanks  frequently 
pictures  in  his  early  sketches,  early 


12 


\VENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


Georgian  we  take  it  to  be.  It  was 
rendered  doubly  interesting-  by  the 
fact  that  it  was  too  old  to  go. 

On  each  side  of  this  silent  relict 
Btood  large  silver  candlesticks,  such  as 
always  play  a  part  in  our  baby  recol- 
lections of  being  carried  down  to  des- 
sert, infrequently,  in  one's  nightshirt, 
and  thinking  that  the  wine,  seen  glint- 
ing in  the  decanters  by  tall  candle- 


Sheba!  A  long  mirror,  with  heavy  top 
and  carved  and  gilded  frame,  fur- 
nished one  with  many  thoughts.  What 
must  its  reflections  have  been,  hang- 
ing observantly  there  for  more  than 
70  years,  a  silent  satire  on  man,  fum- 
ing through  his  little  hour,  and  then 
puff!  out  he  goes,  like  a  snuffed  can- 
dle, while  the  placid  mirror  main- 
tains an  unruffled  surface,  and  calmly 


THE    OLD    KNITTING    MILL. 


light,  looked  like  Joseph's  coat  of  many 
colors. 

*    *    * 

Time  and  space  would  fail  us  to  tell 
of  the  miniatures  we  saw,  in  the  black 
frames  of  a  by-gone  age,  the  old  china 
and  the  antique  bronze  lamp  that 
looked  like  Nelson's  monument  in  Tra- 
falgar square.  The  crimson  curtains 
etill  hang  quaintly  draped  in  the  style 
of  70  years  ago,  and  smiling  down  on 
all  her  former  possessions  is  the  por- 
trait of  1822.  Truly  an  unexpected 
and  delightful  oasis  this,  to  find  in  a 
Canadian  village!  Everything  in  the 
house  seemed  to  be  at  least  70  years 
old,  and  some  of  the  things  more  aged 
still.  The  massive  fire-irons,  the  ven- 
erable well-worn  pair  of  bellows,  the 
cupboard  in  the  wall  hard  by  the  par- 
lor mantel  shelf,  with  glass  doors,  like 
the  one  in  the  Fairchild  family,  where 
Mrs.  Cutshorter  kept  the  jointed  doll, 
left  no  spirit  in  us,  like  the  Queen  of 


surveys  the  new-comers?  Old  clocks 
and  old  mirrors  have  a  particular  fas- 
cination owing  to  their  air  of  superior 
individuality,  for — 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth. 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of 

birth; 

Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  stood. 
As  if,   like  God,  it  all  things  saw. 

The  old  fireplaces  have  wide  chim- 
neys, which  formerly  were  cleaned  by 
a  sweep  dragging  a  smaller  sweep  up 
and  down,  and  regarding  this  Mr. 
Loder  tells  an  amusing  story  of  the 
fright  a  strange  young  relative  on  a 
visit  received,  in  consequence  of  this 
mode  af  chimney  sweeping.  One  after- 
noon this  little  lad  came  flying  forth 
from  the  Doder  home,  as  if  he  had 
been  fired  as  a  projectile,  and  rush- 
ing down  the  street,  and  up  to  the  old 
Andruss  house,  burst  in,  crying  breath- 


AN     HISTORIC      VILLAGE 


lessly:  "Oh,  Aunt  Andruss,  the  devil 
is  in  Aunt  Phoebe's  house!"  "Why, 
dear  me,  what  makes  you  think  so?" 
cries  Aunt  Andruss,  all  in  a  twitter. 
"Oh,  I  know,  I  know  he  is,  for  I  saw 
his  feet  sticking  down  the  chimney." 
*  *  * 

Ancaster  saw  plenty  of  life  during 
the  rebellion  of  1837,  when  it  was  quite 
a  frequent  thing  for  all  the  inns,  five 
in  number,  and  many  of  the  private 
houses,  to  be  full  over  night  of  red- 
coats passing  towards  the  west.  The 
old  spinnet  played  a  part  in  the  rebel- 
lion itself,  when  on  one  occasion  a 
wing  of  militia,  500  strong,  under  Col. 


Dennistown,  bivouacked  over  night  in 
the  village  on  their  march  through  the 
country.  The  soldiers  were  billeted 
throughout  the  village,  while  the  col- 
onel and  some  of  his  officers  judicious- 
ly selected  the  Loder  house  as  likely 
to  offer  good  cheer.  During  the  even- 
ing the  colonel  discoursed  sweet  music 
an  the  spinnet,  listtened  to  intently 
by  the  small  son  of  the  house,  who,  on 
the  principle  before  referred  to,  still 
has  the  incident  hanging  fresh  and 
bright  in  his  mental  picture  gallery. 
Heigh-ho!  shall  we  ever  hear  the 
jingle  of  the  spurs  again  through  our 
old  streets?  ALMA  DICK  LAUDER. 


THE    RUINED    TANNERY. 


CHAPTER  II 


OLD     RESIDENCES     OF     ANCASTER 


"  Green  rollers  breaking-, 
On  an  ancient  shore." 

*  *    * 

Come  out  and  hear  the  waters 

Shoot,   the  owlet  hoot,  the  owlet  hoot: 

Ton  crescent  moon,  a  golden  boat. 

Hangs  dim  behind  the  tree.  O! 

The  dropping-  thorn  makes  white 

The  grass,  O  sweetest  lass. 

And  sweetest  lass; 

Come  out  and  smell  the  ricks  of  hay 

Adown  the  croft  with  me,  O! 

— Old  English  Song. 

*  » 

ES,  come,  come  up 
the  winding  moun- 
tain road,  higher 
and  higher  still, 
through  ever  purer, 
fresher  air,  up  to 
old  Ancaster,  all  in 
this  leafy  month  of 
June,  while  "the 
roses  bloom  and  the  cuckoo  sings  all 
day."  Come,  and  drink  full  measure 
of  the  healing  beauty  of  the  early  sum- 
mer which,  like  a  great  green  wave, 
has  broken  in  spray  of  blossom,  and 
streams  of  emerald  on  leaf  and  grass 
through  all  the  sunny  land. 

*  *    * 

Enter  with  reverence  this  cathedral 
of  the  rolling  year,  so  full  of  pictures 
and  carvings  and  delicate  tracery  and 
vistas  pleasant  to  the  eye. 

Bend  to   hear  the    pulse     of     nature's 

heart  beat, 
And  in  it  find  the  truest  voice  of  God. 

Here  in  the  green  temple,  surrounded 
by  miracles,  it  is  easier  to  understand 
our  own  Tennyson  when  he  writes  of 
the— 

Flowers  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the   crannies; 

Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  mv 
hand 

Little  flower,  but  if  I  could  under- 
stand 

"What  you  are,  root  and  all.  and  all  in 
all. 

I   should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


It  is  a  royal  progress,  that  gradual 
ascent  to  Ancaster,  and  even  the  no- 
bodies must  turn  their  heads  in  right 
royal  fashion  from  side  to  side  to 
greet  the  "woodsey  smell"  of  the 
mossy  fern  carpet  spread  over  the 
rocks  there  in  the  shade,  to  catch  a 
breath  from  "the  far  off  greenhouses 
of  God" — to  quote  the  Khan's  beauti- 
ful conception — "To  look  deep  into  the 
rocky  gorge  where  the  bridge  crosses 
over  a  real  Hieland  stream  foaming 
down  in  haste  after  rains,  round  bould- 
ers and  over  hollows  to  join  fortunes 
with  the  Tuba  hastening  from  its  work 
above  at  Ancaster." 


Just  here  the  road  begins  to  crawl, 
and  so  do  the  horses,  giving  time  to 
enjoy  all  the  beauteous  vale  of  foun- 
tains, which  lies  revealed,  perhaps  in 
level  beams  of  evening,  to  the  never 
satisfied  eye.  A  wonderful  old  basin 
it  is  which  meets  the  downward  glance 
with  a  strange  story  of  the  conflict  of 
time  seamed  and  furrowed  on  its  aged 
face;  so  water- worn,  so  evidently  once 
the  head  of  Lake  Ontario,  that  a  very 
limited  imagination  could  picture  it 
overflowing  with  a  wild,  dark  play  of 
waters  in  which  strange  saurians 
swam  and  sported — a  dusky  chaos, 
spreading  from  rim  to  rim  of  the  val- 
ley, where  now  the  peach  and  apple 
bloom,  and  the  happy  fields  spread  out 
beside  the  streams,  and  where  the  dis- 
tant spires  of  Dundas,  that  Sleeping 
Beauty  in  her  wood,  make  the  behold- 
er cordially  endorse  the  entry  made 
long  ago  by  William  Chambers,  of 
Chambers'  Journal  fame,  in  his  notes 
on  Canadian  Travel:  "Passed  by  Dun- 
das,  a  place  to  live  and  die  in."  Clear 
case  of  love  at  first  sight,  from  a  car 
window!  Presumably  it  was  good  luck 
and  water  privileges,  more  than  inher- 
ent good  taste,  which  led  the  earliest 
forefathers  of  the  hamlet  to  form  a 
nucleus  at  Ancaster,  but  it  is  hard  to 
imagine,  looking  back  from  the  turn 
of  the  mountain,  how  they  could  pos- 


OLD     RESIDENCES     OF     ANCASTER 


sibly  have  made  a  better  selection. 
It  is  not,  at  this  era,  very  progressive, 
but  its  claim  to  general  prettiness  has 
never  been  disputed. 


It  would  appear  also  that  there  has 
always  been  an  unusual  percentage  of 
good  looks  amongst  the  Ancastrians 
in  days  gone  by,  as  well  as  to-day. 
Perhaps  unknowingly  they  acted  on 
the  advice  of  a  famous  doctor  who, 
when  he  lay  a-dying  said  to  his  as- 


So  here  we  have  a  living  exemplar  of 
the  fame  of  Ancaster  in  one  respect  at 

least. 

»    *    * 

Some  people  have  an  erroneous  idea 
that  there  is  a  jail  at  Ancaster.  It  is 
true  that  there  were  prisoners  in  real 
sad  earnest  here  once  upon  a  time, 
abiding  for  a  space  in  an  old  log 
building  down  street,  near  the  grist 
mill,  and  tradition  farther  whispers 
that  they  were  deserters  from  our  own 
forces  in  the  war  of  1812,  and  that 


THE   TISDALE   HOUSE,   THE   OLDEST   RESIDENCE   IN   ANCASTER. 


sembled  confreres  round  the  bed,  "I 
am  going,  but  I  leave  three  fine  doc- 
tors behind  me,"  (the  confreres  bridled 
consciously),  "air,"  said  he,  "and  ex- 
ercise and  gruel."  (Collapse  of  con- 
freres!) While  on  the  subject  perhaps 
it  would  be  allowable  to  recall  the  fact 
that  Ancaster  claims  the  privilege  of 
being  the  birthplace  of  the  hand- 
somest judge  in  Ontario  (Judge  Rob- 
ertson), who  was  born  in  the  red 
brick  house  (recently  shown,  incident- 
ally, in  one  of  the  views  of  Ancaster 
given  in  the  Spectator),  formerly  occu- 
pied by  Dr.  Cragie,  of  old-time  re- 
nown, which  stands  on  an  eminence  at 
the  entrance  to  the  village  on  the  left, 
beautiful  for  situation,  and  still  shel- 
tered by  a  few  of  the  grand  old  firs. 


they  were  taken  back  to  headquarters 
at  Burlington  and  shot. 


The  little  octagon  building  called  the 
lockup,  and  which  couldn't  really 
lock  up  anything  tight  enough  to  pre- 
vent its  getting  out  if  it  wished,  start- 
ed out  in  life  gaily  as  a  toll-gate 
house  when  the  stone  road  was  first 
constructed,  somewhere  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  30's;  upon  the  removal  of 
the  toll-gate  to  another  part  of  the 
road  in  1834,  it  reverted  to  type  for  a 
time,  though  memory,  who  has  just 
stepped  in,  recalls  a  little  crined-up 
old  woman  who  sojourned  therein  for 
a  time,  and  who  used  to  hide  her  food 
in  the  oven  when  a  visitor  called  and 


i6 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


SS» 


THE    SYMONDS  HOUSE. 


proceed  to  cut  large  slices  of  things 
more  substantial  than  ice,  by  patheti- 
cally exhibiting  a  heel  of  bread  and  a 
teapot  without  any  tea  in  particular, 
and  no  nose  to  speak  of — only  a  little 
old  shadow  of  a  woman,  dear  to  mem- 
ory for  the  sake  of  the  past,  long 
since  passed,  we  hope,  to  an  old 
woman's  home,  where  the  teapot,  hot 
and  strong,  is  a  chronic  institution. 
*  *  * 

One  or  two  people  have  been  locked 
up  there,  presumably  on  parole  d' 
honneur,  and  in  winter  many  a  tramp 
finds  warmth  and  shelter  and  a  bite 
to  eat  within  the  oJd  octagonal. 


Passing  east  from  the  village  bastile, 
along  the  old  Mohawk  trail,  there  may 
presently  be  seen,  across  a  little  stretch 
of  grass,  an  aged  two-leaved  gate, 
which  yields,  rather  unwillingly,  to 
pressure,  and  sliding  back  gives  en- 
trance to  an  unguarded  paradise. 


Neglected,  poor,  forgotten,  fallen 
from  all  prosperous  days,  nature  with 
kindly  hand  is  doing  her  best  to  con- 
ceal as  well  as  beautify,  with  an  al- 
most tropical  luxuriance  of  growth, 
beginning  even  at  the  threshold 
where,  as  the  foot  sinks  in  the  long, 
lush  grass,  vague  snatches  of  song 
come  to  mind  unbidden,  as  the  scent 
of  certain  forgotten  perfumes  seems 
possessed  of  an  electric  power  which 
can  call  up  the  past,  and  cry  resur- 


rection to  hosts  of  memories,  long 
sepulchred  in  peace,  and  so  pass  on, 
murmuring: 

I   held  my  way  through  D.efton  wood, 

And  on  to  Wandor  hall; 
The  dancing  leaf  let  down  the  light 

In  hovering  spots   to   fall. 

And  also — 

O  many,  many,  many, 
Ll't'tle  homes  above  my  head; 

And  so  many,  many,  many 
Dancing  blossoms  round  me   spread. 


There  is  greater  or  less  degree  of 
eeriness  attending  a  sudden  return  to 
an  abandoned  sitting-room  after 
everyone  has  gone  to  bed.  The  fire 
has  died  down  to  red  embers,  and  the 
pushed  back  chairs  somehow  have  a 
startled  look  as  if  the  individuality  of 
the  inanimate  had  stepped  in  and 
filled  the  interval  to  the  exclusion  of 
the  human  presence.  All  seems  the 
same,  yet  not  the  same,  in  the  room 
we  left  an  hour  before. 


So  it  somewhat  Is  with  the  empty 
house  of  those  kxng  passed  away.  The 
quiet  phantoms  seem  impalpably  to 
hover  beneath  the  roof  tree  and  in  the 
places  which  now  for  long  have  known 
them  no  more. 


Passing  inward  from  the  two-leaved 
gate,    paradise   unfolded,  even   greener, 


OLD     RESIDENCES     OF     ANCASTER 


richer  in  wealth  of  climbing,  branch- 
ing, flowering  things,  a  medley  and 
a  network  of  trailing  vines  and  blos- 
soming shrubs  through  which  the  sun 
peeped  laughing. 

*    *    * 

There  were  lilacs,  lilacs,  sweeter 
sweetest,  many  tinted,  everywhere, 
and  the  bonnie  hawthornes  rested  their 
trays  of  snow  on  the  tottering  fence's 
old  grey  heads,  while  the  plentiful 
sprinkling  of  grave,  stately  forest 
trees  whispered  softly  in  the  rising 
wind  to  each  other  of  what  different 
times  they  could  recall  if  they  wished 


old  gentleman  showed  excellent  taste 
in  his  selection  of  a  building  site  on 
which  to  place  his,  then,  handsome 
house.  A  more  charming  spot  of  the 
kind  could  hardly  be  imagined,  cheer- 
ful to  a  degree,  and  possessing  many 
beautiful  peeps  away  to  blue  distance 
above  Dundas,  or  Flamboro,  with 
prettiest  imaginable  foreground  of 
home  scenery. 


A  house  set  on  a  hill  and  surround- 
ed with  fine  old  trees  has  still  inflinite 
capabilities  even  when  neglect  and  age 
have  started  in  to  do  their  worst. 


THE    OLD   TOLL,   HOUSE. 


of  what  was,  before  change  and  death 
.and  mutability  wrought  havoc  with 
the  old  house  on  the  hill. 


Early  in  the  thirties  an  English 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Symonds, 
who  had  made  a  considerable  fortune 
in  the  West  Indies,  happened,strange- 
ly  enough,  to  settle  for  a  time  at  An- 
caster,  where  he  became  the  possessor 
oi  a  very  beautiful  estate,  about  500 
acres  in  all,  extending  north  to  t  he 
brow  of  the  mountain,  including  the 
land  on  and  around  the  present  lime 
kilns,  and  the  farms  of  Dougherty  and 
MacNiven  abutting  on  the  Lovers' 
Lane.  Abundantly  watered,  richly 
wooded,  close  to  the  haunts  of  man, 
and  yet  practically  miles  away,  it 
must  have  been  a  goodly  heritage.  The 


Though  empty  now,  not  swept  nor 
garnished,  still  a  glance  at  the  silent 
rooms  with  their  high  ceilings,  goodly 
proportions  and  well-sized  windows 
reveals  undeniably  the  fact  that  the 
old  place  was  designed  and  built  by  a 
gentleman,  for  gentlefolk  to  live  in — 
and  here,  sui  juris,  the  West  Indian 
gentleman  and  his  wife  and  sons,  and 
his  friend  Dr.  Rolph,  who  had  a  house 
close  by,  spent  several  years  in  lavish 
style,  with  all  that  heart  could  desire, 
including  blood  horses  in  the  stable, 
and  a  black  Pompey  in  the  house, 
brought  from  the  West  Indian  home, 
until  the  time  came  that  their  act  on 
the  Ancastrian  stage  being  finished, 
they  passed  into  the  wings,  and  the 
house  changed  hands,  although  its  de- 
cadence did  not  begin  for  many  years 
after.  The  largest  room,  which  runs 


WENTWOKTII      LANDMARKS 


almost  the  whoile  length  of  the  house, 
and  must  have  been  the  drawing- 
room,  is  still  fascinating  in  decay. 
There  are  four  large  windows,  and 
one  end  of  the  room  is  largely  taken 
up  by  a  huge  high-mantled  old  fire- 
place which  agrees  well  with  the  ap- 
parently—judging from  design— an- 
tique paper  which  still  clothes  the 
walls.  What  a  picture  that  room 
might  yet  be,  furnished  in  bright 
chintz,  with  flowers  everywhere,  and 
fire-light  playing  amongst  the  pictures 
on  the  walls  of  a  stormy  winter's 
nisrht! 


One  feels  for  houses  that  have  known 
good  days  and  handsome  furniture, 
almost  as  if  they  felt  their  degrada- 
tion themselves,  and  shivered  o'  nights 
in  the  cold  and  darkness.  This  par- 
ticular old  Wandor  hall  looks  to  have 
passed  beyond  the  stage  of  having 
even  a  friendly  mouse  to  run  over  its 
old  floor?  and  keep  it  in  touch  with 
sentient  things,  but  a  ghost  there  well 
may  be,  and  perhaps  in  the  winter 
dusk,  coming  from  the  radiant  fire-lit 
drawing-room  suddenly,  a  black, 
shadowless  Pompey  might  be  met. 
climbing  the  stairs  with  noiseless  feet, 
bearing  an  impalpable  jug  of  hot 
water  to  a  massa  dead  this  fifty  years 
and  more! 


One  of  the  extinctest  of  Ancaster's 
many  extinct  industries  is  that  of 
charcoal  burning,  which  was  carried 
on  with  much  success  for  a  number  of 
years  in  the  kilns  at  the  foot  of  the 
village,  which  still  remain  to  form  a 
quaintly  pretty  picture  in  their  red 
rotundity  against  the  background  of 
richest  green.  There  is  a  nice  old 
world  ring  about  the  word  "charcoal 
burner"  which  carries  the  thoughts 
very  far  away  to  the  Black  Forest  per- 
haps, where  it  is  a  staple  industry.  It 
made  pleasant  the  dewy  evening  air  in 
Ancaster  when  the  kilns  were  lighted 
up,  and  the  white  smoke  crawled  out, 
and  lay  in  cloud  strata  acrosts  the  low 
lands,  sending  a  healthy,  pungent  odor 
even  into  the  houses. 


Close  by  Tweedle-Dum  and  Tweedle- 
Dee,  as  these  two  kilns  have  long  been 
called,  stands  a  house  which  claims 
to  be  of  some  antiquity,  and  which  at 
present  is  undergoing  a  thorough  over- 
hauling at  the  hands  of  its  new  owner. 
but  the  very  oldest  house  in  Ancaster 
is  said,  •  by  competent  authority,  to  be 
what  was  formerly  known  as  the  Tjjs- 
dalg.  house,  but  which  now  forms  part 
ota  store. 

ALMA  DICK    LAUDER. 


THE   CHARCOAL  KILNS. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE     LEEMING     PARSONAGE 


We   may   build   more    splendid   habita- 
tions, 

Fill   our   rooms  with     painting     and 
with   sculpture; 

But  we   cannot 

Buy   with  gold   the   old  associations! 
Ceiling  and  walls  and  windows  old, 
Covered  with  cobwebs,  blackened  with 
mould! 

— Anon. 


not  even  tallow  dips,  and  is  waiting 
now  for  the  railway  before  she  gets 
any,  but  it  is  easy  to  fancy  how  "hor- 
rible"the  roads  and  village  streets  must 
have  been  for  many  months  of  the 
year  at  the  time  when  the  first  mis- 
sionary built  the  old  parsonage,  so 
closely  bordering  on  80  years  ago. 


ANS  CHRISTIAN 
ANDERSON  tells 
a  charming  tale  of 
the  goloshes  of  for- 
tune, which  pos- 
'sessed  the  power 
of  transporting  the 
wearer  at  a  wish 
back  to  any  past 
jKSage  of  the  world. 
For  example,  into 
the  dubious  delights 
of  those  "good  old 
times"  familiarised  by  the  very  minute 
and  particular  pencil  of  Hogarth! 

*  *    * 

It  is  quite  one  thing  to  love  and  rev- 
erence the  days  gone  by,  that  smooth- 
ed the  path  and  carved  the  way  for 
the  feet  of  posterity  with  such  pains- 
taking labor;  but  it  is  a  vastly  differ- 
ent matter  to  wish  to  have  been  our- 
selves a  part  and  parcel  of  those  times. 
Far  preferable  appears  the  unpreju- 
diced birdseye  view  of  them  which  we 
can  still  obtain  if  the  glass  is  rightly 
focussed  through  breaks  in  the  roll- 
ing vapors  of  time  while  seated  at  our 
ease  in  the  balloon  of  tradition. 

*  *    * 

For  instance,  the  councilor  who,  in 
the  fairy  tale,  was  longing  for  "the 
good  old  times"  as  he  unwittingly  drew 
on  the  goloshes,  exclaimed  as  soon  as 
he  stepped  out  on  the  street,  "Why. 
this  is  Horrible  (with  a  capital  H)! 
How  dreadfully  dirty  it  is,"  for  the 
whole  pavement  had  vanished  and 
there  were  no  lamps  to  be  seen. 

Ancaster   has   never  had  any  lamps, 


The  reason  why  a  site  nearly  two 
miles  from  the  church  was  selected  is 
hard  to  account  for,  except  on  the  sup- 
position that  all  the  land  in  or  around 
the  village  was  fully  appropriated,  a 
very  large  portion  of  it  being  in  the 
hands  of  the  ubiquitous"  Matthew 
Crooks.  Those  two  additional  miles, 
over  a  mud  road,  must  have  added  a 
considerable  item  to  the  ministerial 
duties,  not  to  mention  the  ministerial 
backache. 


To-day  the  AncasFer  plains,  as  they 
have  always  been  called,  strike  one  as 
being  rather  hot  and  dry  and  compar- 
atively shadeless,  and  at  no  time  do 
they  appear  to  have  been  wooded  with 
heavy  timber,  like  the  lands  falling 
north  and  south  on  either  side  of  them. 
In  those  early  days,  which  saw  Rev. 
Ralph  Leeming  and  his  people  build- 
ing the  first  parsonage,  we  are  told 
that  all  the  plains  were  covered  with 
a  thick  growth  of  scrub,  full  of  game; 
and  through  which  the  red  deer  wan- 
dered in  the  summer  dawns  and  passed 
unchallenged  from  water  course  to 
water  course.  Bears  were  then  a  mere 
circumstance  in  the  daily  round,  and 
wolves,  even,  lurked  and  howled 
through  the  winter  nights,  and  some- 
times, growing  bold  with  hunger, 
would  raid  the  ill-protected  sheep 

folds. 

*    *    * 

Over  the  fields  to  the  south  of  the 
old  building  to-day  there  is  a  damp, 
woodsey  swale,  where  picturesque  trees 
still  grow,  and  romance  still  lingers, 


20 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


but  the  wolves  and  deer  and  bears  are 
gone  lang  syne,  and  only  a  stray  fox 
or  coon  call  in  occasionally  just  for  a 
chat  to  remind  it  of  the  good  old  times 
when  a  modified  form  of  jungle  law 
kept  things  on  the  square  among  the 
beasts  of  the  Canadian  forest. 


The  four  hundred  acres  of  the  clergy 
reserve  lands  lay  a  whole  concession 
back,  and  much  farther  to  the  south- 
east than  the  22  acres  of  glebe  where 
Mr.  Leeming  raised  his  home.  They 
embraced  a  fine  tract  of  valuable  land 


green   is  of  how  many  feet  of  timber 
they  would  cut  up  into  at  the  mill! 


It  appears  reasonably  certain  that 
the  glebe  land  attached  to  the  old  par- 
sonage was  one  of  the  free  grants  by 
which  the  government  so  liberally  en- 
ticed settlement  in  old  times.  If  the 
early  worms  who  first  came  west  had 
just  been  content  with  sitting  on  their 
fences  and  growing  up  with  these  gov- 
ernment grants  perhaps  it  would  have 
amounted  to  the  same  thing  at  this 
end  of  80  years,  instead  of  conscienti- 


THE  OLD  PAKSONAGE— ONE  OF  THE  EARLIEST  BUILDINGS  ERECTED  IN  ANCASTER. 


ric"h  in  pine  forest,  now  vanished  long 
years  since,  gone,  alas!  alas!  where  all 
the  woods  which  should,  in  proper 
hands,  be  the  glory  and  pride  of  Can- 
ada, are  so  rapidly  following.  A  race 
apparently  has  arisen  "who  knew  not 
Joseph,"  and  whose  one  graceless 
thought  on  finding  themselves  the  own- 
ers of  cool,  dim  forest  lands  where,  in 
their  father's  days,  peace  and  beauty, 
bird  and  beast  dwelt,  heedless  of 
change  or  the  passing  over  of  destruc- 
tion, or  the  drying  up  of  the  life-giv- 
ing springs  which  rose  in  strength  and 
purity  among  their  pleasant  hills,  is 
how  much  will  it  fetch  in  hard  cash? 
Imagine  the  horrible  desert  a  human 
mind  must  be  whose  first  thought  at 
sight  of  those  glorious  panoplies  of 


ously  working  themselves  to  death  for 
the  benefit  of  a  thankless  posterity! 
*    *    * 

The  little,  old,  decaying,  neglected 
wooden  building  with  its  strong  ribs 
and  huge  chimney,  which  forms  the 
subject  of  our  sketch,  is  not  only  an 
object  of  intrinsic  interest,  but  entitled 
to  respect  as  having  headed  the  list  as 
the  pioneer  parsonage  in  these  parts 
and  those  times.  It  would  be  interest- 
ing to  know  if  any  record  was  built  in 
with  the  foundation  stone,  no  doubt 
laid  with  a  good  man's  prayers,  but 
even  a  vandal  might  regret  doing  any- 
thing to  hasten  the  work  of  decay. 
Almost  as  soon  kill  a  person  to  find 
out  what  they  were  going  to  have  died 
of — sooner  in  some  cases. 


THE      DEEMING     PARSONAGE 


21 


It  must  have  been  a  very  pleasant 
home  when  all  was  young,  cheerful 
and  bright  in  the  summer  weather  and 
finely  sheltered  from  the  west  in  snows 
and  winds  by  a  beautiful  grove  of  wal- 
nut, maple  and  willow  trees,  which 
have  of  late  years  fallen  before  the  ax. 
*  *  * 

The  originaJ  house  was  twice  the 
size  of  the  front  portion  now  remain- 
ing, and  must  have  been  quite  roomy 
and  comfortable,  especially  for  a  cou- 
ple, for  neither  of  the  first  missionaries 
who  inhabited  it  followed  the  usual 
path  of  clerics  in  one  respect,  and 
there  were  no  small  deacons  and 
deaconesses  round  their  tables.'  Cer- 
tainly the  man  who  approved  the 
building  of  the  very  remarkable  stair- 
case, which  remains  quite  intact,  could 
not  seriousbr  have  contemplated  hav- 
ing a  nursery  located  at  the  top  of  it. 
I  have  seldom  seen  a  greater  proof  of 
upright  character  than  is  borne  out  in 
wooden  testimony  by  that  astonishing 
stair.  A  man  dwelling  at  the  top  of  it 
would  require  to  be  all  that  St.  Paul 
says  a  bishop  should  be.  A  hasty  tem- 
per even  might  alone  precipitate  the 
occupant  headlong  or  feet  first  down 
into  the  room  below  if  he  did  not  stick 
in  the  window  on  the  way,  or  keep  on 
till  he  reached  the  custards  in  the 
cellar.  It  is  awe  inspiring  in  the  bold 
way  it  breaks  at  once  abruptly  down, 
simply  a  stepping  off  into  chaos.  First 
down  sheer  from  two  doors  opposite, 
each  other  in  two  wings  and  then  a 
main  descent  broken  into  angles,  and 
variegated  with  cupboards  and  twisted 
and  turned  and  cork-screwed  in  a  truly 
wonderful  manner  considering  that 
land  and  timber  were  as  hay  and  stub- 
ble in  those  days.  It  is  a  dream  of  a 
stair.  A  night  horse  in  wood  and  cup- 
boards, like  the  troubled  fancies  of  a 
corkscrew  pursued  by  ghost  or  devil 
pell-mell  down  the  stair  of  slumber. 


If  any  dweller  beneath  that  roof  tree 
through  the  long  years  ever  indulged 
in  toddy,  he  would,  if  a  prudent  man, 
keep  the  bottle  upstairs  on  the  "chim- 
blay  piece,"  like  Mrs.  Gamp,  and  boil 
the  kettle,  lastly  and  in  conclusion,  on 
the  bedroom  fire,  and  subsequently 
avoid  the  "stair  heid,"  also  the  sair 
heid,  if  he  could. 

*    *    * 

The  builders  of  the  old  houses,  round 
Ancaster,  at  least,  seem  to  have  been 
very  sensible  on  the  subject  of  air  and 


sunshine,  as  they  made  so  many  win- 
dows that  the  rooms  can  never  have 
been  dark  or  dull  even  in  autumn 
weather,  with  the  combined  light  from 
without  mingling  with  the  glow  of  the 
big  open  fires  within.  A  fine  garden, 
containing  all  necessary  kitchen  sup- 
plies, and  fruit  and  flowers  formed  a 
notable  feature  of  the  early  parson- 
age home.  No  doubt  in  it  the  missionary 
found  some  relaxation  from  the  work 
in  the  other  vineyard,  and  a  pleasant 
haven  of  peace  and  change  after  the  in- 
terminable journeys  to  his  outlying 
stations  at  Dundas,  Barton,  Hamilton 
and  Wellington  Square.  Here  no  doubt 
some  of  the  pleasant,  old-fashioned 
English  flowers  basked  away  the  sum- 
mer days  in  the  sun — seeds  brought  in 
so  many  cases  direct  from  the  old 
gardens  at  home.  It  is  on  record  that 
Mr.  Leeming  gave  home  and  shelter 
for  many  a  day  to  a  runaway  slave 
and  his  wife,  who  in  some  manner  had 
made  their  escape  from  the  south.  It 
was  kind  and  characteristic  of  the 
man  to  take  them  in,  even  though  he 
had  not,  like  Walt  Whitman  at  a  later 
day,  to  sit  beside  them  while  they  ate 
or  slept  with  a  loaded  rifle.  Mr.  Leem- 
ing remained  in  charge  of  the  Ancaster 
mission  for  ten  years— 1818  to  1828— 
when  the  long  stress  of  roads  and 
weather  and  anxiety,  which  had  been 
gradually  doing  its  sapping  and  min- 
ing work,  affected  his  health  so  seri- 
ously that  he  was  forced  to  give  up  his 
charge  into  the  hands  of  his  successor, 
Mr.  Miller,  and  seek  the  more  genial 
climate  of  the  southern  states.  After 
some  years  he  again  took  up  duty  for 
a  time  at  Carleton  Place,  near  Ottawa, 
but  the  last  years  of  his  life  were 
spent  peacefully  in  a  country  home 
near  Dundas.  His  grave  is  near  the 
south  wall  of  St.  John's  church,  An- 
caster, nearly  opposite  a  handsome 
memorial  window  in  memory  of  himself 
and  his  wife.  A  proof  that  this,  his 
first  charge,  ever  held  a  place  in  his 
heart  and  memory  exists  in  the  fact 
that  he  left  a  handsome  bequest  of 
more  than  $2,000  to  begin  and  forward 
the  building  of  the  present  rectory. 
Mrs.  Leeming  was  a  member  of  the  old 
Dundas  family  of  Hatt. 


There  was  once  a  great  lawyer  who 
had  three  kinds  of  handwriting,  one 
that  the  public  could  read,  one  that 
only  his  clerk  could  read,  and  one  that 
nobody  could  read.  To  this  latter 
class,  it  is  said,  belonged  the  hand- 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


THE    FIREPLACE. 


writing  of  the  Rev.  Ralph  Leeming, 
which  probably  in  some  degree  ac- 
counts for  his  leaving  no  journals, 
documents  or  registers  of  the  churchly 
doings  of  those  times,  which  would  now 
have  been  so  interesting  a  phonograph 
to  sound  in  our  ears  the  echoes  of 
olden  days,  floating  round  the  people's 
church  and  the  minister's  hearthstone. 


It  is  said  that  any  record  he  did 
make  was  of  the  unsubstantial  order, 
namely  a  scrap  of  paper  strung  on  a 
wire  like  a  minnow,  very  handy  for 
hasty  reference,  but  not  much  service 
to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the  genera- 
tions following  after.  Mr.  Leeming 
was  of  the  muscular  Christian  order, 
big,  kindly  and  benevolent,  whose 
"graciousness"  still  retains  the  favor 
of  the  very  few  old  people  now  left 
who  can  remember  him  and  his  pleas- 
ant parsonage  home. 
*  *  * 

All  his  journeys  biMng  mad''  t.i  r.f: 
cessity,  on  horseback,  It  was  impera- 
tive that  he  should  keep  a  couple  of 
good  mudsters,  warranted  to  stand 
wear  and  tear,  and  able  to  show  the 
winter  wolves  a  clean  pair  of  heels  on 
occasion.  One  old  man,  alive  and  vig- 


orous, and  the  best  of  company  to- 
day, remembers  about  75  years  ago,  in 
the  month  of  June,  of  Mr.  Leeming 
coming,  on  horseback,  to  pay  a  friend- 
ly visit  to  his  father,  in  the  course  of 
which  it  was  arranged  that  the  hard- 
worked  ministerial  nag,  scarcely  recov- 
ered perhaps  with  recent  tussels  with 
the  mud  which  bubbled  in  the  spring 
those  times,  was  to  be  left  at  pasture 
In  the  rich  farm  lands,  and  its  place 
to  be  supplied  meanwhile  from  the 
farm  stock.  Unfortunately  the  church- 
ly quadruped  did  not  know  when  it 
was  well  off,  and  proved  to  be  a  sort 
of  progressive  eucher  party  on  four 
legs. 

*    *    * 

After  a  time,  not  satisfied  with  rich 
pastures  and  rest  beside  waters  of 
comfort,  the  unhallowed  desire  arose 
to  see  what  was  in  the  world  beyond 
the  fences  guarding  the  pale.  Like  that 
other  progressive  biped  in  the  Garden 
of  Eden,  one  kick  over  was  enough, 
and  in  both  cases  rather  too  much.  The 
top  rail  off,  the  rest  was  easy,  as  it 
generally  is,  and  the  church  horse 
found  himself  in  a  pleasant  garden, 
full  of  forbidden  fruits  (for  which  he 
did  not  care  particularly,  as  he  could 
have  them  if  he  liked).  But  there,  on 


THE      L.EEMING      PARSONAGE 


the  sunny  side,  were  surely  some , 
strange  objects,  the  like  of  which  had  i 
never  come  'his  way  before.  No  time 
must  be  lost  without  a  satisfactory  in-j 
vestigation,  so  he  draws  near,  puts ' 
down  his  head  and  sniffs,  draws  back,' 
thinks  better  of  it  for  a  quarter  of  a  I 
second,  then  stoops  and  sniffs  again,! 
and  then  gives  it  an  irrevocable  push 
and  starts  back  in  a  fright.  Out  swarm 
the  dusky  hordes  of  the  avenging  bees] 


A  CURIOUS  STAIRWAY. 


' 


as  the  hive  tips  over,,  and  fasten  tooth 
and  nail  on  the  head  and  neck,  up 
the  nostrils  and  down  the  throat  of 
the  astonished,  plunging  horse,  who 
dashes  off  wild  and  mad  to  escape 
from  this  new  and  terrible  thing  which 
has  come  to  him  in  his  headlong  flight, 
overturning  as  many  as  thirty  or  forty 
skips  of  bees,  who  all  hurry  to  join 
their  comrades  in  arms  until  it  was 
hard  to  distinguish  horse  hide  from 
bees.  The  impromptu  steeplechase  of 
this  Mazeppa  round  the  astonished 
garden  and  across  the  sunny  plains 
lasted  nearly  twenty  minutes  from 


start  to  finish,  when  he  fell  to  risp  no 
more,  the  victim  of  a  misdirected  spirit 
of  enquiry.  Some  one  remembers 
hearing  (in  Arcady)  of  a  phantom 
night  horse  which  was  to  be  met  at 
times  tearing  over  the  fields  and  roads 
not  two  miles  from  Ancaster  village, 
but  was  severely  snubbed  for  giving 
credence  to  this  tale,  and  told  that 
Canada  was  far  too  young  a  country 
to  have  anything  in  it  so  interesting, 
but  here  in  a  beehive  lies  the  key 
to  the  legend.  No  doubt  it  was  the 
ghost  of  this  horse,  who  had  "met 
the  thing  too  much."  Thus  we  gen- 
erally find  truth  at  the  bottom  of  the 
well,  or  in  amongst  the  bees  after  all! 


The  great  object  in  house-building 
In  the  early  days  of  Canada  West  seems 
to  have  been  to  use  as  much  wood, 
and  in  as  solid  a  manner,  as  possible. 
<  It  is  not  usual  to  make  one's  first  en- 
trance  into  a  house  through  the  cellar, 
but  to  leave  the  cellars  of  these  old- 
timers  unvisited  would  be  to  miss  half 
the  point.  They  are  so  solid,  so  un- 
changed, where  all  is  changed,  only  a 
little  whitewash  and  a  few  shelves 
wanted  to  bring  them  up  to  date  again. 
The  cellar  beneath  the  old  parsonage 
strikes  the  beholder  at  first  sight  as 
having  a  large  open  fireplace  in  the 
center,  but  on  running  to  look  up  the 
chimney,  only  a  massive  floor  appears 
over  'head,  and  the  flying  buttresses  of 
stone  which  so  readily  suggest  ingle 
nooks,  resolve  themselves  into  two 
strong  shoulders  fashioned  to  bear  the 
weight  of  the  big  center  chimney  of 
the  dwelling. 

*  *    * 

Across  the  ceiling  run  the  firm 
beams  that  hold  the  flooring,  sound 
and  good  to-day,  and  still  wearing  the 
bark  shirts  they  brought  with  them 
from  the  forest  glades  that  lay  so  near 
to  hand,  just  over  the  ridge,  below 
the  plains 

*  *    * 

If  the  cellar  could  talk  perhaps  we 
should  hear  lots  of  domestic  items. 
Here  the  vegetables  from  the  fine  gar- 
den would  find  refuge  from  the  frosts 
of  winter.  Here,  on  a  shelf  perhaps, 
In  the  draught  'twixt  door  and  win- 
dow the  ministerial  Betty,  coming 
carefully  down  the  steep  stairs  on 
those  far-off  Saturday  afternoons, 
would  place  the  Sunday  custards  all  in 
a  row,  and  other  good  things  ready 
for  the  refreshing  of  his  weary  rever- 


24 


WENTWORTII       LANDMARKS 


ence  on  the  morrow.  Life  in  the  early 
times  had  one  agreeable  element  which 
is  sadly  lacking  now  in  country  places, 
and  the  deprivation  of  many  comforts, 
the  want  of  accustomed  things  con- 
genial, which  must  have  been  over- 
whelmingly painful  to  some  imported 
natures,  had  at  least  one  redeeming 
feature  in  the  fact  that  domestic  ser- 
vants were  plentiful  and  cheap! 

*  *    * 

One  can  but  faintly  imagine  what  a 
change,  at  the  best  of  times,  life  must 
have  been  for  gentlewomen  of  culture 
and  education,  transplanted  from  the 
refined  surroundings  of  English  life, 
and  set  down  in  the  raw  air  of  that 
dawn  of  Canada. 

*  *    * 

No  doubt  the  early  graves  in  our  old 
church  yards  cover  the  bones  of  many 
an  uncalendared  saint  or  martyr,  and 
the  hearth  stones  of  the  aged  homes 
could  tell  of  a  few  pints  of  quiet  tears 
dropped  on  their  rough  faces,  while 
seeing  in  the  beech  and  maple  embers 
odd  fancies  of  the  homes  beyond  the 
sea.  So  always  it  seems  to  be  the 
world  over,  from  Eden  downwards, 
that  the  man  goes  forth  to  the  exile 
of  foreign  lands,  and  the  woman  fol- 
lows him.  Thus  did  Eve  get  even  with 
her  Adam  for  sneaking  and  telling 
tales  on  her. 

*  *    * 

Those  early  colonial  women  are 
worthy  of  most  lavish  praise!  What 
must  they  not  have  endured  and  suf- 
fered in  the  rough,  new  land  of  their 
adoption  with  six  weeks  of  tossing 
ocean  between  them  and  the  dear  Brit- 
ish homes  left  for  long,  perhaps  for- 
ever. 

*  *    * 

The  inborn  loyalty  of  Canadians  is 
not  hard,  or  far,  to  trace  to  those  who 
strongly  believe  in  the  permanent  ef- 
fects of  pre-natal  influence.  Through 
those  long  months  of  weakness  and 
hours  cf  pain  the  very  soul  would  ache 
and  pine  for  the  familiar  scenes  and 
faces  in  the  home  beyond  the  wave, 
crossed  and  recrossed  a  score  of  times 
a.  day  by  love  on  mighty  wings,  as  the 
old  German  song  says: 

That  which  ails   me  past  all  healing 
Is   that  here   alone  I   s'tand; 

Far  from  father,  far  from  mother. 
Far  from  home  and  native  land. 
****** 

Ah!  were  I    to   home  returning, 
Ah!  how  gladly  would  I  fly. 


Home  to  father,  ho'me  to  mother, 
Home    to  native   rocks   and    sky. 
*    *    * 

So  the'  old  parsonage,  it  is  pretty  cer- 
tain, knew  homesick  tears  within  its 
walls  once  upon  a  time.  The  effect 
upon  posterity,  however,  has  been  un- 
deniable and  immense.  Is  there  an- 
other nation  on  the  globe  who  won't 
put  out  their  plants,  or  take  off  their 
flannels  until  May  24  except  loyal 
Canucks?  Fanny  Kemble  in  the  States, 
and  our  own  queen  of  Canadian  au- 
thoresses, Mrs.  Trail,  the  aged,  have 
given  vivid  flash  pictures  of  the  lives 
endured,  nobly  and  well,  in  those  early 
days,  by  gentlewomen  fresh  from  the 
well-oiled  life  of  England.  They  were 
not  new  women  at  all;  they  didn't 
want  to  be  emancipated;  they  wouldn't 


ALEX.  KITCHIE'S  TOMB. 

have  known  what  to  do  with  a  tele- 
phone, and  a  she-biker,  in  tan  gaiters, 
would  have  made  them  blush,  but  they 
were  very  noble  in  their  devotion,  and 
make  one  think  of  the  Princess  of  the 
Day  Dream: 

And  on  her  lover's  arm   she  leant. 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold; 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 
And    many  a  merry  wind  was  borne. 

And,  streamed  through  many  a  golden 

bar, 
The   twilight  melted  into  morn. 

And  o'er  the  hills  and  £ar  away, 
Beyond    their   utmost    purple    rim, 

Be-yond   the   night,   across    the    day, 
Thro'  all  the  world  she  followed  him. 
*    *    * 

And  posterity  only  hopes  Adam  duly 
appreciated  the  sacrifice. 

AL.MA   DICK   LAUDER. 


CHAPTER  IV 


ST.     JOHN   S     CHURCH,     ANCASTER 


Sleep,   thou     art     named     eternal!      Is 
there  then 

No  chance  of  waking  in   thy  noiseless 
realm? 

Oome   there  no  fretful  dream  to  over- 
whelm 

The    feverish    spirits     of       o'erlabored 

men? 
****** 

Shall  pain  indeed  lie  folded 
With   tired  arms  around  her  head, 
And  memory  be  stretched  upon  a  bed 
Of  ease,   whence  she  shall  never     rise 

again? 
O  sleep,    that   art   eternal!     Say,   shall 

love 
Breathe   like   an   infant  slumbering   at 

the  breast? 
Shall  hope     there  cease    to  throb;  and 

shall  the  smart 
Of   things     impossible   at   length     find 

rest? 
Thou  answerest  not!  The  poppy-heads 

above 
Thy  calm    brow   sleep — how   cold,   how 

still   thou   art! 

—^Sonnet. 

*  *    * 

ITHOUT  doubt 
the  Lord  might 
have  made  a 
better  berry 
than  the 

s  t  r  a  w  b  e  rry, 
said  the  fam- 
ous Dr.  Bote- 
ler,  but  with- 
out doubt  He 
never  did. 
Doubtless  God 
might  have 
made  a  more 

1  restful,  pretty  and  attractive  burial 
ground  than  the  one  surrounding  St. 
John's  church,  Ancaster,  but  doubt- 
less He  never  did.  When  William 
Chambers,  of  Edinburgh,  embalmed 
Dundas  in  his  diary  as  a  place  to  live 
and  die  in,  he  might  have  added  An- 
caster to  his  eulogium  as  a  place  in 
which  to  be  buried,  and  doubtless  he 
would  have  done  so  had  he  seen  it. 

*  *    * 

The    stiffly      tapering      line  of  ever- 


greens which  help  to  shelter  the  silent 
land  from  the  glare  of  sinking  suns 
and  the  bite  of  wintry  winds  also  serve 
to  conceal  the  charms  which  stretch 
away  behind  them  warmly  to  the 
south,  and  in  the  grey  church's 
shadow  towards  the  sunrise.  It  may 
perhaps  be  conceded  that  the  majority 
of  rural  churchyards  in  Canada,  or 
any  comparatively  new  country,  have 
a  bald  uniformity  of  type  sufficient  to 
give  any  but  a  dreamless  sleeper  the 
nightmare.  Strange  anomalies  they 
are,  some  of  them;  neither  neat  town 
cemetery,  nor  neglected  country 
churchyard,  but  a  mix-up  of  both, 
commingling  a  dash  of  town  primness 
with  the  untidy  want  of  finish  which 
is  the  characteristic  of  country  things 
in  general. 

Sometimes  the  site  seems  to  have 
been  selected  on  account  of  its  flatness 
and  aridity  and  complete  absence  of 
large  shade  trees,  places  which  in  the 
summer  heat  suggest  vague  thoughts 
of  dried  apples  in  a  paper  bag,  and 
vain  speculation  in  the  frivolous  mind, 
as  to  what  a  dust  an  unwatered  resur- 
rection would  raise. 


But  there  are  many  exceptions  to  be 
found,  especially  in  the  Gore  district. 
Here,  at  St.  John's,  for  instance,  pass- 
ing round  the  corner  of  the  church  by 
the  path  beneath  the  big  fir  tree  on 
the  right,  surroundings  appear  which 
well  might  furnish  a  Canadian  Gray 
with  material  for  another  elegy. 


Ah!  that  narrow  path  beneath  the 
firs!  A  via  dolorosa  indeed  leads  here, 
watered  by  the  tears  of  generations. 
Along  it  and  by  this  way  alone,  for 
more  than  70  years,  the  precious  seed 
garnered  by  death  has  been  carried 
and  sown,  with  sorrow,  in  corruption, 
to  be  raised  again,  with  joy,  in  glory. 
A  host  is  encamped  here  in  these  green 
tents — forgotten  and  remembered,  un- 
lamented  in  death,  as  they  were  un- 


WENT WORTH      LANDMARKS 


appreciated  in  life;  cherished  still 
warmly  in  the  heart  of  hearts — for- 
given and  understood  now  too  late — 
under  new  and  costly  monuments,  or 
sunken  down,  down,  unmarked  and 
unknown,  forgotten  of  all  living.  Truly 
a  multitude  are  here,  and  the  uneven 
earth  gives  testimony  that  it  is  honey- 
combed with  graves  which  appear  not, 
and  those  who  walk  over  them  only 


The  very  first  tomb  close  to  the  path- 
way takes  one  back  quite  to  the  early 
days  by  the  dates  on  its  long,  ram- 
bling face.  It  is  to  the  memory  of 
Jane,  wife  of  Henry  Schoolcraft,  Esq., 
born  at  St.  Mary's  Falls  in  1800.  She 
died,  it  farther  appears,  at  Dundas  in 
1842  in  the  arms  of  her  sister,  Mrs. 
McMurray,  during  a  visit  at  the  house 
of  the  rector  of  this  parish,  while  her 


ST.   JOHN'S  CHURCH,  ANCASTER. 


know  by  the  billowing  hollows  of  the 
turf  that  they  tread  on  sacred  ground. 

Thus  o'er  the  gleaming  track  of  life 
the  generations  run — 

Do  they  to  clouded  darkness  pass,  01 
to  a  brighter  sun? 

Does  nothing  spiritual  live?  Can  soul 
become  a  sod? 

Ts  man  on  earth  an  orphan?  Is  crea- 
tion void  of  God? 


And  from  those  lands  so  near  to  heav- 
en have  wondrous  voices  come 

Of  God's  eternal  Fatherhood  and  man's 
celestial  home. 


husband  was  absent  in  England  and 
her  children  at  a  distant  school.  She 
was  the  eldest  daughter  of  John  John- 
son, Esq.,  and  Susan,  daughter  of 
Wankopeeo,  a  celebrated  war  chie 
and  civil  ruler  of  the  Ojibbeway  tribe. 
The  inscription  runs  on  to  state  that 
"carefully  educated  and  of  polished 
manners  and  conversation,  she  was 
easily  fitted  to  adorn  society,  yet  of 
retiring  and  modest  deportment.  Early 
imbued  with  principles  of  true  piety, 
she  patiently  submitted  to  the  illness 
which  for  several  years  marked  her 
decline  and  was  inspired  through  sea- 


1.1 


-•^-V--iafe^-jr=^!  :-•/•: 

S--^.S^ riTf^j? •:'  i*'  3 

'-^^^f:~-^f"-'  2  \Z" '? 

^jx^     ^zjr'i*  •.' 


ST.     JOHN'S     CHURCH,     ANCASTER 


29 


sons  of  bodily  and  mental  depression 
with  the  lively  hope  of  a  blessed  im- 
mortality." 

The  inscription  ends  with  a  long 
poem  beginning,  "Here  rests,  by  kin- 
dred hands  enshrined." 

The  mention  of  this  lady's  grand- 
father being  an  Ojibbeway  war  chief 
conjures  up  a  vision  of  war  paint  and 
feathers  and  takes  one  back  a  long 
way  into  the  last  century. 


Perhaps  the  oldest  gravestone  in 
good  preservation  in  the  churchyard 
is  one  very  massive  slab  serving  to 
keep  green  the  memory  of  "Alexander 
Ritchie  and  Mary  Lucia,  his  wife,  who 
both  departed  this  life  at  Ancaster  on 
the  llth  of  April,  A.  D.  1823."  It 
would  be  nice  to  know  more  about  this 
couple  who,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  found 
their  lives  together  lovely  and  pleas- 
ant, as  it  seems  they  were  not  death- 
divided  for  even  a  day,  which  might 
be  looked  upon  as  the  very  height  of 
blessedness,  or  the  reverse,  just  as  the 
case  might  be.  Though  dead,  and  under 
the  big  slab  for  more  than  65  years, 
they  have  only  at  a  comparatively  re- 
cent date  found  a  final  rest  under  the 
oaks  and  roses  in  St.  John's  church- 
yard, having  been  removed  from  the 
old  Hatt  burying  ground  about  a  mile 
away. 


The  glory  of  the  churchyard  is  its 
grove  of  oaks  which  are  sprinkled 
here  and  there  amongst  the  graves 
and  even  close  up  to  the  chancel  win- 
dows— very  beautiful  trees  and  grow- 
ing more  oracular  every  year,  with 
bushier  heads  and  sturdy,  rugged 
boles— where  they  stand  grouped  thick- 
ly together  with  interlacing  boughs 
down  near  the  eastern  boundary  fence, 
an  old  and  mossy  one,  in  the  oldest 
part  of  the  yard  as  well  as  the  fair- 
est— very  peaceful,  very  quiet,  very 
overgrown  with  great  bushes  of  sweet 
White  syringa,  and  roses,  almost  re- 
*  -verted  to  type  by  now,  nodding  over 
beds  of  lily-of-the-valley,  sending  up 
its  rank  green  spears  like  signals  from 
the  dead  below.  Here  the  birds  sing 
and  fly  all  summer  long  and  the 
shadows  play  in  the  sunlight,  and  it 
is  so  enchantingly  peaceful  that  it 
seems  to  take  away  all  gruesome 
shrinking  from  being  dead — only  we 
feel  sorry  for  the  people  under  the  big 
tombs,  for  they  seem  more  dead  and 
far  away  than  those  who  have  only  a 


sheet  of  earth  and  a  green  quilt  be- 
tween them  and  the  light  and  warmth 
of  the  air  and  sunshine  Down  here, 
right  in  amongst  the  oaks,  are  several 
old  upright  slabs,  dated  more  than  60 
years  ago.  Most  of  them  are  of  the 
Gurnett  family,  one  of  the  real  old 
pioneers,  who,  coming  originally  from 
France,  where  their  name  was  then  De 
Gurney,  settled  for  a  longer  or  shorter 
space  in  the  south  of  England,  and 
finally  some  of  the  family  crossed  the 
ocean  and  took  root  at  young  An- 
caster. They  evidently  brought  French 
wit  and  English  push  with  them,  for 
one  of  them  was  editor  and  founder  of 
the  Gore  Gazette  in  the  twenties,  and 
another  attained  civic  honors  as 
mayor  of  Toronto,  and  so  the  succeed- 
ing generations  as  they  pass  are  laid 
In  a  most  pleasant  resting  place  there 


GRAVE  OF  LIEUT.  MILNE,  K.N.,  IN  ANCAS- 
TER CEMETERY. 


beneath    the    green    canopy      of      oak 
leaves  in  this  still  garden  of  the  souls. 

Then  be  not  fearful  of  the  thought  of 

change, 
For  though  unknown  the  tones   that 

are   to   be, 
Yet  shall   they  prove  most  beautifully 

strange. 


In  the  old  portion  of  the  churchyard, 
in  the  southeast  corner,  beneath  a 
very  heavy  tombstone  of  the  fashion 
of  the  day,  lies  anchored  for  time  a 
British  heart  of  oak,  high  and  dry 
enough  now  under  the  shadow  of  the 
oak  trees,  far  from  the  sea  he  loved, 
and  over  which  he  sailed  and  fought 
under  Lord  Nelson  when  the  century 
was  young.  He  who  put  in  at  last  to 
this  quiet  haven  in  1826,  was,  so  the 
legend  above  him  runs,  Lieut.  Milne, 
of  the  Royal  navy,  born  at  Falkirk  in 
1766. 


3° 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


ONE    OF    THK    OLDEST    TOMBSTONES   IN 

ANCASTER    CEMETERY— THAT    OF 

LEMUEL  GURNETT. 

The  Tiffany  monument,  a  tall  shaft 
surmounted  by  an  urn,  is  rather  a 
conspicuous  and  venerable,  not  to  say 
mossy,  object,  not  far  from  the  oak 
trees  either.  Here  rest  many  of  the 
Tiffanys,  notably  Dr.  Oliver  Tiffany, 
who  also  left  a  remembrance  to  pos- 
terity in  the  name  "Tiffany's  Falls," 
given  to  a  water  fall  on  his  property, 
not  far  from  the  village.  This  old 
gentleman  died  in  May,  1835,  aged  72 
years,  and  the  old  records  state  that 
more  than  600  people  came  to  his  fun- 
eral. 

*    *    * 

Some  of  the  inscriptions  on  the 
stones  are  utterly  obliterated  by  moss 
and  weather.  Two  simple  ones,  just 
behind  the  chancel,  excite  curiosity 
by  their  brevity — only  two  initials  on 
each  and  the  date  1823. 


And  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 
His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the   hills. 


One  memory  has  been  kept  very  un. 
faded.  in  so  far  as  oeing  writ  in  stone 
can  preserve  it,  through  the  storms  of 
70  years.  The  swirling  snows  of  all 
those  winters  have  remembered  to 
seek  it  out  low  down  there  amongst 
the  rustling  sere  grasses,  and  tracing 
out  the  inscription  with  their  softest 


white  fingers,  have  clothed  it  always 
new  in  a  pure  white  covering,  meet 
for  the  virgin  dust  which  rests  there, 
far  from  home  and  kindred.  The  birds 
know  it  too,  and  trill  their  sweet  mat- 
ing songs  every  spring  above  the 
Stranger's  Tomb.  The  wild  rose  bush 
throws  caressing  arms  across  the  slab, 
guarding  its  treasure  there  through 
such  long  flights  of  time,  and  the 
grasses  creep  up  to  listen  to  the  winds 
blowing  soft  above  it,  and  whispering 
to  the  flowers  of  what  they  saw  so  long 
ago.  The  sun  in  his  noonday  glory 
seeks  it  out,  and  even  in  the  evening 
shadows  sends  a  beam  to  kiss  the  pa- 
thetic inscription  into  warmth,  and 
bring  out  in  fresh  relief  the  ancient 
quaintness  o>f  the  carved  weeping  wil- 
lows at  each  corner  of  the  slab  that 
look  se  formal,  as  if  their  hair  was 
parted  in  the  middle  into  exactly  eleven 
strands  on  each  side,  and  in  between 
which  is  carved  also,  on  a  stiff,  box- 
like  pedestal,  an  urn  bearing  the  name 
"Eliza."  Bordering  the  slab  all  round 
Is  cut  an  ornate  wreath  of  oak  leaves 
and  acorns,  within  which  the  fast 
blackening  letters  tell  that  this  dark, 
ponderous  stone  is  sacred  to  the  mem- 
ory of  "Eliza  M.  Johnson,  daughter  of 
Elisha  Johnson,  Esq.,  of  Rochester, 
New  York,  U.S.A.,  who  departed  this 
life  15  September,  1827,  in  the  18th  year 
of  her  age — a  stranger's  grave,  hon- 
ored by  her  respected  local  friends." 
Then  below  is  the  hymn,  "The  hour 
of  my  departure's  come,"  etc. 


This  young  lady  died  while  on  a 
visit  at  the  house  of  Matthew  Crooks, 
and  one  of  the  invitations  to  her  fun- 
eral has  been  preserved.  A  curious- 
looking  document  it  is,  folded  in  paper 
sealed  with  a  huge  black  seal,  and 
printed  card  enclosed,  of  a  make  and 
texture  to  stand  a  long  life  of  seventy 
years'  esclusion,  printed  presumably 
by  Editor  Gurnett,  and  requesting  the 
recipient  to  attend  the  funeral  of  Miss 
Eliza  Maria  Johnson,  eldest  daughter, 
etc.,  fro'm  the  house  of  Matthew 
Crooks,  Esq.,  Ancaster,  to  the  place  of 
interment  at  11  o'clock  a.m.,  on  Sept. 
15,  1827. 

*    *    * 

They  evidently  believed  in  those 
times  that  in  the  place  where  the  tree 
fell  there  it  should  lie,  and  certainly 
this  young  stranger  has  slept  well  in 
St.  John's  churchyard  these  seven  de- 
cades nearly  past. 


ST.     JOHN'S     CHURCH,     ANCASTER 


31 


While  the  pioneers  of  the  Gore  dis- 
trict were  planting-  and  building  and 
trading  and  clearing  and  making 
homes  and  names  for  themselves  and 
posterity,  they  were  not  forgotten 
spiritually  by  the  mother  church  of 
the  old  land  beyond  the  seas.  Thus, 
during  the  summer  of  1818,  by  Sir 
John  Cockburn's  desire,  the  society 
for  the  propagation  of  the  gospel  in 
foreign  parts,  sent  out  to  these  sheep 
in  the  wilderness  Rev.  Ralph  Leeming 
as  first  missionary  to  Ancaster  and 
parts  adjacent.  Mr.  Leeming,  who 
was  a  native  of  Yorkshire,  had  grad- 
uated at  St.  Bee's  college,  and  been 
ordained  by  the  Bishop  of  London. 
Ancaster  being  the  most  important 
place,  with  the  exception  of  Niagara 
and  muddy  little  York,  in  those  days, 
he  naturally  made  his  headquarters 
there,  visiting  Hamilton,  Barton, 
Flamboro  and  Wellington  Square  at 
stated  intervals,  generally  through 
roads  that  must  be  left  to  the  imagin- 
ation, and  always  on  horseback.  Not 
long  after  his  arrival  he  caused  the 
first  parsonage  of  Ancaster  to  be 
built  for  his  accommodation,  of  which 
more  hereafter. 


The  first  services  were  held  in  a 
hall  or  school  house,  built  of  logs,  not 
far  from  the  present  site  of  the 
church.  Soon  after  1820,  the  Rousseau 
family,  having  presented  the  land  for 
the  purpose,  the  first  frame  church 
was  built  on  the  Nehemiah-  plan  by 
the  united  efforts  of  both  Church  of 
England  and  Presbyterian  people, 
who  jointly  held  services  there  for 
some  years,  the  first  Scotch  minister 
not  being  appointed  to  Ancaster  be- 
fore 1826,  until  which  year  Mr.  Leem- 


ing cured  all  the  souls  and  provided 
for  all  the  services,  and  perhaps  that 
is  the  reason  that  he  left  no  scrape  of 
a  pen  behind  him  to  enlighten  us  as 
to  the  churchly  doings  of  those  first 
days— whom  he  buried,  whom  he  mar- 
ried, whom  he  christened,  what  their 
names  were;  all,  all  is  lost,  passed  long 
since  unrecorded  to  the  land  of  for- 
gotten things.  The  first  church  had 
no  chancel,  and  two  white  glass  win- 
dows, high  up  above  the  pulpit,  fac- 
ing the  gallery,  which  ran  across  the 
west  end  over  the  door.  What  music 
they  had  we  do  not  know,  as  the 
organ  was  not  obtained  until  the 
fifties.  One  wide  aisle  alone  ran  down 
the  center,  and  on  one  side  sat  the  men 
and  on  the  other  the  women,  a  relic 
of  cathedral  custom.  'After  some 
years,  the  money  was  advanced  by 
Job  Loder  to  enable  the  Anglicans  to 
buy  out  the  Presbyterians'  interest  in 
the  church,  who  then  set  about  the 
building  of  their  own,  and  shortly 
after  the  church  was  consecrated 
and  christened  by  its  present  name  of 
St.  John's.  But  here,  regrettably, 
Mr.  Leeming's  pen  failed  to  record  im- 
pressions! Mr.  Leeming  retired  from 
active  service  as  far  as  Ancaster  and 
the  other  places  mentioned  were  con- 
cerned, in  1830,  although  he  lived  to 
be  a  very  old  man,  dying  in  1872,  at 
the  age  of  83.  His  grave  lies  on  the 
south  side  of  the  church,  and  is  mark- 
ed by  a  handsome  monument  as 
well  as  a  memorial  window.  The 
church  of  his  creation  survived,  with 
the  addition  of  a  stone  chancel,  until 
Feb.  28,  1868,  when  it  caught  fire 
through  some  defect  in  the  heating 
department  and  went  after  the  un- 
written records. 

ALMA  DICK  LAUDER. 


MRS.    SCHOOLCRAFT'S  TOMB. 
(Daughter  of  Chief  Johnston.) 


CHAPTER  V 


ANCASTER     IN     THE     VICTORIAN     ERA 


Ye  hasten  to  the  dead!  What  seek  ye 

there. 

Ye  restless  thoughts  and  busy  purposes 
Of  the  idle  brain,  which  the  world's 

livery  wears. 
O  thou  quick  heart  which  pantest     to 

possess 

All   that  anticipation  feigneth  fair! 
Thou  vainly  curious  mind  that  wouldst 

guess 
Whence  thou  didst  come,  and  whith- 

sr  thou  mayst  go, 
And  that  which  never  yet  was  known 

wouldst  know — 
Oh,    whither   hasten   ye   that   thus     ye 

press 
With  such  swift  feet  life's    green  and 

pleasant    path, 
Seeking    alike    from    happiness    and 

w.oe 

A.  refuge  in  the  "cavern  of  grey  death? 
O  heart  and  mind,  and  thoughts!  What 

thing   do   you 

Hope  to  inherit  in  the  grave  below? 
—Shelley. 

*  *    * 

NCASTER  in 

June,  1837,  so  says 
tradition,  had  a 
grand  demonstra- 
tion in  honor  of 
our  gracious  maj- 
esty's coronation. 
A  few  of  the  old 
people  in  the  land 
can  still  recall 
the  fireworks  and 
the  fun  of  that 
June  night,  for 
fun  was  funnier 
60  years  ago,  and 
not  so  frequent, 
so  it  made  a  more 
lasting  impres- 
sion, and  there 
was  plenty  of 
wood  for  bonfires 
in  those  good  old 

days   and   no   electricity    to    put    their 

fireworks  to  the  blush. 

*  »    * 

Watching  the  loyal  Ancastrians  of 
1897  jubilating  round  a  grand  bonfire 
on  Gabel's  hill,  forming  one  of  the 


&*.-*-  -e 


links  in  the  fiery  chain  understood  to 
be  stretching  from  Halifax  to  Van- 
couver last  Tuesday  night,  also  to  be 
astonishing  the  inhabitants  of  Mars, 
somehow  time  seemed  to  be  bridged 
over  in  some  strange,  real  way,  as 
with  a  hand  stretched  out  from  the 
dimness  of  the  past  so  long  gone,  tak- 
ing with  it  the  major  part  of  all  who 
could  have  recalled  the  gala  doings 
on  that  night  at  t'other  end  of  60  years 
ago. 

*  *    * 

As  the  vivid  light  of  the  bonfire 
danced  gleefully  over  the  dewy  fields, 
and  waked  up  the  sleeping  woods  by 
plucking  their  green  sleeves  with  its 
rosy  fingers,  it  glinted,  too,  on  the 
Scotch  church  towers  and  walls,  and 
flickered  up  and  down  the  shining 
granite  pillars  of  the  newer  tombs, 
and  over  the  flowery  coverlets  of  many 
a  one,  maybe,  who  was  young  and  gay 
on  that  coronation  night,  but  who  fin- 
ished their  life  work  long,  long  ago; 
and  "Home  have  gone;  and  ta'en  their 
wages,"  leaving  only  a  shadow  here, 
where  the  sea  of  human  life  breaks 
round  this  shora  of  death  with  such  a 
softened  sound. 

*  *    * 

Our  common  expressions  become 
from  use  so  hackneyed  that  we  lose 
sight  of  the  original  weight  and 
beauty.  Thus  those  touching  words, 
"Sacred  to  the  Memory,"  slip  glibly  off 
our  tongues  without  much  realisation 
of  their  true  significance,  or  how  ex- 
quisite, how  pathetic,  how  expressive 
are  those  tender  lingerings  over  the 
memory  of  the  dead.  A  sacred  place 
in  memory,  and  a  narrow,  narrow  niche 
on  Mother  Earth's  brown  breast  is  all 
the  dearest  claim  from  us  till  time 
shall  be  no  more. 


Quite  in  the  early  days  of  Ancaster, 
before  the  rearing  of  church  walls, 
the  Presbyterians  and  Episcopalians 
alike  worshipped  in  a  hall  adjoining 


ANCASTER     IN      THE     VICTORIAN     ERA 


33 


one  of  the  hotels  which  stood  on  the 
left  hand  side  of  the  street  going  up 
the  village,  hard  by  the  site  of  the 
present  town  hall.  In  1826  the  Church 
of  Scotland  sent  its  first  missionary 
minister  to  establish  a  soul  cure  at 
Ancaster,  and  she  apparently  made  a 
wise  selection  in  the  person  of  Rev. 
George  Sheed,  whose  name  is  vener- 


manifested  such  disgust  on  one  oc- 
casion, when  entertaining  a  young  pro- 
bationer of  a  later  school,  who  hung 
heavily  in  hand  conversationally,  put- 
ting the  old  minister  hard  to  it,  till  at 
length  he  asked,  "Will  ye  hae  a 
smoke?"  "Oh,  no!  I  never  use  to- 
bacco in  any  form,"  was  the  reply. 
(A  pause.)  "Will  ye  no  tak'  a  glass  o' 
toddy?'"  (Look  of  horror.)  "Oh,  I 
never  touch  spirits."  Then,  contem- 
plating him  quietly  over  his  spec- 
tacles, the  old  gentleman  demanded, 
in  a  politely  suppressed  voice,  "D'ye 
eat  hay?"  "Oh,  no,  I  never  eat  hay," 
in  a  very  astonished  tone,  on  which 
the  minister  burst  forth  in  a  voice  of 
thunder,  "Aweel,  then,  gang  ye'er 
ways  hame,  my  man,  ye're  neither 
guid  company  for  man  nor  beast!" 


THE   PRESBYTERIAN   CHURCH. 

ated  even  to  this  day  by  those  who 
know  him  only  by  tradition,  or  the 
fact  that  he  was  the  minister  who  mar- 
ried their  parents.  This  good  man 
came  straight  from  the  land  o'  cakes, 
where  even  to  this  day  there  are  in- 
frequent ministers  to  be  found  who 
can  not  only  minister  to  the  soul  op- 
pressed by  sin  or  sorrow,  but  drink  a 
glass  of  toddy  when  they're  damp,  as 
they  very  often  are  in  Scotland,  and 
even  dance  a  good  Scotch  reel,  able, 
like  true  men,  to  use  the  good  things 
of  life  without  abusing  them,  remem- 
bering that  great  David  danced  before 
the  ark,  and  David's  greater  Son  turn- 
ed water  into  wine.  It  was  one  of  these 
sturdy,  old-fashioned  men  of  God  who 


Tradition  says  that  this  first  Scotch 
minister  of  Ancaster  was  not  only 
"guid  company,"  but  a  splendid  man 
and  an  indefatigable  worker  for 
church  and  people.  His  home  was  a 
mile  and  more  from  the  village  in  the 
beautiful  valley  near  the  Sulphur 
Springs,  in  the  original  Hermitage 
house,  of  which  an  illustration,  taken 
from  an  old  sketch,  is  here  given. 
*  *  * 

An  ideal  manse  it  must  have  been, 
standing  there  amongst  the  woods  and 
waters,  surrounded  by  a  garden  where 


34 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


the  minister  worked  at  his  leisure,  and 
containing  within  its  walls  pleasant 
rooms  with  small-paned  windows  and 
large  fireplaces,  up  from  which  the 
wood  smoke  curled  through  the  red 
chimneys.  Life  was  pleasant  there 
in  those  old  days,  tradition  saith,  and 
delving  ami  studying  were  varied  now 
and  then  by  cosy  little  dinner  parties, 
where  the  bachelor  minister  was  the 
best  of  company  and  most  jovial  of 
hosts,  but  whether  they  had  toddy 
after  dinner  tradition  does  not  say. 
"Aiblins"  they  had,  and  made  the 
floors  shake  with  reels,  too,  perhaps. 
*  *  * 

The  great  object  and  desire  of  the 
minister's  life,  unhampered  by  matri- 
monial cares,  as  the  man  of  God 
should  be,  was  to  see  the  accomplish- 
ed fact  of  a  church  at  Ancaster  for 
his  people,  the  Episcopalians  having 
now  for  some  years  been  established 
in  St.  John's,  at  the  head  of  the  vil- 
lage. Headed  by  the  indefatigable 
minister  and  most  materially  assisted 
by  Col.  Chep,  William  Notman  and 
other  pioneer  families,  the  first  church 
rose  gradually  near  the  place  occu- 
pied by  the  present  building.  It  was 
built  entirely  of  wood  and  was  doubt- 
less a  source  of  unmingled  pride  and 
congratulation  in  its  younger  days  to 
all  the  assistant  Nehemiahs,  '  which 
makes  it  a  trifle  sad  to  have  to  record 
that,  in  spite  of  the  edifying  dis- 
courses that  had  saturated  its  walls 
for  years,  and  the  earnest  prayers 
which  must  have  invisibly  perforated 
its  roof  in  their  upward  flight  through 
countless  Sabbaths,  it  fell  from  grace 
and  survived  its  usefulness  as  a 
church  in  the  eyes  of  later  genera- 
tions and  the  estimation  of  the  pres- 
bytery and  was  sold,  removed  into 
the  next  lot  and  turned  into  a  cigar 
factory.  Imperial  Caesar,  turned  to 
clay,  little  knows  to  what  strange 
uses  he  may  come. 

Fire,  however,  quivering  hotly  with 
burning  indignation,  entered  a  speedy 
protest,  and  carried  off  the  poor,  little 
degraded  church  up  to  heaven  in  a 
sheet  of  flame  one  December  night 
some  fifteen  years  ago. 


Rather  a  sad  part  in  this  church's 
early  history  is  that,  like  Moses,  Mr. 
Sheed  was  not  permitted  to  enjoy  the 
fruit  of  his  labor.  Never  within  the 
walls  which  he  had  watched  arise 
was  his  voice  to  be  heard  in  prayer 


or  sermon!  He  had  built,  but  another 
should  inhabit.  He  had  labored,  but 
that  others  should  enjoy  the  fruit  of 
his  labor.  The  opening  ceremony  of 
that  church  was  indeed  a  solemn 
function,  being  the  beloved  minis- 
ter's funeral,  his  death  occurring  be- 
fore the  completion  of  the  interior 
work,  a  temporary  floor  of  boards 
over  the  beams  was  laid  in  haste 
that  he  might  be  brought  within  his 
church  once,  at  least,  and  he,  being 
dead,  would  yet  speak  to  the  hearts 
of  his  people  there  for  the  first  and 
last  time. 

*  *    * 

Then  they  carried  him  forth  and 
buried  him,  the  first  inhabitant  of 
that  pretty  graveyard  (perish  the 
word  "cemetery"  as  ever  inapplicable 
to  country  churchyards!)  and  his 
sepulchre  is  with  us  to  this  day,  be- 
ing of  the  ponderous  kind,  built  to 
withstand  summer  suns  and  winter 
rages.  It  guards  well  beneath  that 
massive  slab  and  firm  stone  walls  the 
precious  germ  of  life  immortal,  which 
has  oeen  hidden  away  there  in  earth's 
safe  keeping  since  five  years 
before  those  coronation  bonfires 
blazed.  The  legend  on  the  slab  tells 
that  he  was  an  A.M.,  also  a  native  of 
Aberdeen,  and  that  he  planted  and 
faithfully  watched  over  the  church 
for  the  space  of  six  years,  when  he 
was  removed  to  his  reward  Nov.  26, 
1832,  aged  43;  also  that  it  was  erected 
by  his  friends  as  a  memorial  of  his 
worth  as  a  man  and  his  zeal  and 
abilities  as  a  minister,  and  below  tha^ 
deep-cut  letters  run  "The  righteous 
shall  be  had  in  everlasting  remem- 
brance." 

*  *    * 

In  the  old  register  of  St.  John's 
church,  Ancaster,  one  of  the  numerous 
N.B.'s  is,  "On  Sunday,  Dec.  2,  1832,  at- 
tended the  Presbyterian  church  in  the 
morning  at  funeral  sermon  for  Rev. 
Mr.  Sheed."  Things  were  different 
then,  but  nowadays  it  would  speak 
pretty  well  of  his  "worth  as  a  man"  if 
other  clergy  shut  their  churches  in 
order  to  attend  his  funeral  sermon! 


The  completing  touch  to  the  church 
was  the  bell,  which  was  purchased  by 
subscription,  headed  by  Col.  Chep  with 
his  usual  liberality.  He  also  attended 
personally  to  the  purchase  and  sent 
one  of  his  teams  to  meet  it  at  Ham- 
ilton. It  is  now  the  only  thing  remain- 


ANCASTER     IN     THE     VICTORIAN     ERA 


35 


ing  of  the  original  church,  but,  unfor- 
tunately from  some  defect  in  the  hang- 
ing- arrangement  it  cannot,  since  its  re- 
moval to  the  new  church,  be  tolled  at 
furerals,  which  is  a  pity,  as  it  pos- 
sesses a  remarkably  good  tone  for  its 
size.  It  is  very  much  to  be  regretted 
that  it  bears  no  inscription  of  any 
kind  except  the  maker's  name,  "E. 
Force,  New  York,  1835." 

*    *    * 

How  much  the  past  generations 
might  have  done  for  us  if  they  had 
only  been  a  trifle  more  explicit.  Brev- 
ity may  be  the  soul  of  wit,  but  we 
would  like  a  little  more  body  regard- 
Ing  facts  occasionally.  How  much 
more  satisfactory,  for  instance,  a  re- 
membered inscription  on  the  tenor  bell 
in  the  eight  chimes  of  Skerborne 
Minster,  Dorsetshire,  England,  where 
anyone  with  a  good  head  many  read  to 
this  day  the  declaration  on  the  bell 
which  has  been  chiming  sweetly  every 
day  for  three  hundred  years: 

"By  Wolsey's  gift  I  measure   time     to 

all. 
To  mirth,  to  grief,  to  prayer  I  call." 

What  an  additional  interest  some  of 
the  donors  names  would  give  to  this 
young  bell  of  '35! 


Bell!    thou   soundest   solemnly 
When    on    Sabbath    morning, 
Fields  deserted  lie! 


Bell!  thou  soundest  mournfully: 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  "by! 


appears  quite  possible  to  pass  hun- 
eds  of  times  along  the  Sulphur 
Springs  road,  which  runs  below  the 
church,  and  yet  remain  oblivious  of 
the  rural  beauty  hiding  behind  that 
prosaic  picket  fence  and  playing  hide- 
and-seek  there,  among  the  granite 
shafts  and  old  flat  tombstones,  all  in 
the  sweet  June  weather  with  the  sun- 
light and  the  bees.  The  birds  have 
found  it  out  long  ago,  and  they,  too, 
find  homes  there  where  the  tall  grasses 
rustle  and  the  bumble  bees  drone 
above  the  silent  company.  There  where 
there  is  so  lavish  an  out-pouring 
wealth  of  ox-eyed  daisies  glancing  so 
shyly  at  the  grand  blue  sky,  where  the 
pink  clovers  nod  their  heavy  heads 
and  blush  hotly  at  the  bold  stare  of 
the  sweet  Williams,  while  the  stone 
crop  clusters  cuddling  round  the 


lowly    or    forgotten     dead, 
them  in  a  yellow  maze. 


wrapping 


"Thou  blessed  one!"  the  angel  said. 

"I  bring  thy  time  of  peace; 
When  I  have  touched  thee  on  the  eyes 

Life's  latest  ache  shall  cease." 
*    *    * 

Peace,  indeed,  is  everywhere  in  this 
most  pleasant  place,  this  unhonored 
prophet,  where  no  footfall  seems  ever 
to  linger  except  on  Sundays  or  to  a 
funeral.  What  a  lot  mortals  sometimes 


OLD  BELL   DATED   1835.       • 

lose  by  stretching  their  necks  out  into 
the  distance  and  overlooking  quite  the 
good  things  at  the  door! 

*  *    * 

Here  on  this  sacred  Pisgah  see  under 
what  fair  horizon  the  exquisite  home 
stretch  of  country  spreads  far  to  north 
and  west,  all  with  verdure  clad,  de- 
lightful to  the  ravished  eye,  indeed! 
What  a  setting  to  those  clustered 
tombstones;  what  a  sleeping  room  for 
all  the  days  of  time  is  here! 

*  *    * 

Just  here,  pausing  by  the  graves  of 
a  household  on  the  outskirts  of  an  un- 
ruffled sea  of  clover,  listen  to  the  pulse 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


THE   OLD   MANSE. 

of  nature  beat,  and  watch  the  sun 
throwing  slanting  shadows  and  fret- 
work of  headstones  and  railings  over 
the  gilt  buttercups  and  blue  vervain 
and  clusters  of  white  honey  clover,  and 
drawing  a  gleam  like  a  big  diamond 
from  one  polished  obelisk  close  by  on 
which  appears,  below  a  name,  once 
known  in  Arcady,  the  simple  comment, 
"She  made  home  pleasant."  What 
higher  tribute,  or  more  flattering  to 
female  virtue  was  ever,  could  ever,  be 
paid  by  the  most  courtly  husband- 
lover.  This  multum  in  parvo  in  its 
very  brevity  covers  every  inch  of 
ground.  A  woman  may,  in  the  words 
of  St.  Paul,  give  all  her  goods  to  feed 
the  poor  and  her  body  to  be  burnt,  but 
if  she  is  not  a  gracious  woman  who 
makes  home  pleasant  she  won't  retain 
favor,  or  have  nice  things  cut  upon 
her  tombstone! 

*  *    * 

How  Scotch  it  is  here!  If  only  the 
daisies  were  gorse  and  the  pink  clover 
heather,  it  might  pass  muster  as  a 
little  God's  acre  somewhere  in  the 
Hielands,  or  in  that  enchanted  border- 
land over  which  High  Cheviot  throws 
the  shadows  of  his  lordly  shoulders  in 
the  waning  western  sun. 

*  *    * 

The  names  on  most  of  the  stones 
sure  came  from  Caledonia,  stern  and 


wild.  Such  a  record  of  Frasers,  An- 
dersons, Caulders,  Pringles,  Forbeses 
and  Robertsons,  with  here  a  Turnbull. 
there  a  Campbell,  Chapman,  Kerr  and 
Kelly.  It  would  scarcely  be  safe  to 
play  The  Campbells  Are  Coming  on 
the  pipes  in  yon  kirkyard! 

*  *    * 

Past  griefs  are  perished  and  over, 
Past  joys  have  vanished  and  died. 

Past  loves  are  fled  and  forgotten. 
Past  hopes  have  been  laid  aside. 

*  *    * 

One  of  the  most  interesting  burial 
mounds  stands  against  the  eastern 
fence  and  is  surrounded  by  a  railing, 
or  rather  say  an  old  picket  fence,  fast 
going  to  decay.  The  enclosure  has 
literally  to  be  crawled  into  beneath  a 
tangle  of  entwining  greenery,  which 
announced  that  here  at  least  lay  a 
time-healed  sorrow,  or  the  resting 
place  of  someone  far  from  home  and 
kindred. 

By  holding  down  the  screen  of 
boughs  by  force,  an  upright  slab  of 
white  marble,  with  a  unicorn's  head 
crest  carved  in  either  corner,  reluc- 
tantly gives  up  its  story  so  far  as  to 
tell  that  here  lies  one  Capt.  Alexan- 
der Roxburgh,  who  was  born  June  18, 
1784,  and  died  Sept.  19,  1856.  Then  the 
released  boughs  fly  back  to  hide  the 
name  and  date  and  all  but  a  narrow 
rim  of  the  slab  besides. 

*  *    * 

Next  to  this  sits  a  massive  death 
chest  of  quaint  and  venerable  aspect 
for  Canada,  claiming  to  hold  the  dust_ 
of  Euphemia  Melville,  wife  of  C 
A.  Roxburgh,  of  the  Glengarry  L, 
infantry,  and  daughter  of  Alex 
Melville,  Esq.,  of  Barqular,  Scot! 
who  died  in  the  prime  of  life  at  St. 
Margaret's  cottage  on  Oct.  27,  1834. 
"A  gentle,  amiable  and  most  affec- 
tionate wife;  a  kind,  anxious  and 
most  exemplary  mother;  a  sincere 
Christian  and  an  excellent  woman 
lies  here."  So  she  evidently  made 
home  pleasant  to  whoever  she  may 
have  been  in  those  old  days. 

*  *    * 

While  these  two  souls  have  been  so 
long  in  eternity,  time  has  not  been 
idle  with  the  place  where  they  left 
their  bodies.  In  sooth  a  most  pleas- 
ant place,  where  the  good  couple  rest 
well  in  honorable  sepulchre,  while  the 
sun  kisses  the  great  slab  and  makes 
it  a  pleasant  place  to  sit  while  medi- 
tating at  leisure  amongst  the  tombs. 


ANCASTER     IN      THE     VICTORIAN     ERA 


37 


It  is  so  high  and  so  solid  that  it 
stands  up  like  a  rock  among  green 
seas,  ever  encroaching  from  the  north 
in  waves  of  sweet  briar  roses  so  fresh 
and  young,  coquetting  willingly 
enough  with  the  lusty  honey  bees, 
but  haughtily  throwing  back  their 
dainty  pink  faces  from  the  rough 
familiarities  of  a  close  pressing  squad 
of  those  sturdy  Black  Brunswickers, 
the  wild  brambles,  who  will  oe  lus- 
cious and  sweet  enough  themselves  in 
days  to  come  when  the  rose's  bloom  is 
over. 

*  *    * 

One  enormous  plant  of  burdock 
thrusts  up  his  enormous  Panama  hat 
of  a  face  so  broad  and  cool,  just  as  if 
he  had  as  good  a  right  to  watch  the 
dead  couple  as  his  betters. 

*  •    •  . 

The  birds  appear  to  resent  the  brief 
intrusion,  especially  a  cat  bird  who 
comes  down  quite  close  to  see  what  it 
is  all  about,  and  dances  upon  the 
boughs  of  a  tree  overhanging  from  a 
neighboring  garden,  crying,  "Hey! 
What  d'ye  want?  Eggs,  hey?"  like  a 
deaf  old  woman. 

*  *    * 

Investigation  receives  a  check  at  a 
most  interesting  point,  when,  in  a 
rather  lonely  corner,  there  is  the  most 
beautiful  mausoleum  imaginable,  erect- 
ed by  kind  nature  over  somebody,  but 
she  will  not  tell  us  who,  and  she  has 
thrown  all  her  heart  into  her  handi- 
work here  and  formed  it  so  firmly  and 
well  out  of  colls  and  coils,  and  grace- 
^^^taving  tendrils  and  utterly  dense 

•  ^npenetrable  masses  of  the  lithe- 
•svild  grape  vine.  "Merrily,  mer- 
^Pnall  I  sleep  now!"  No  amount  of 
sunlight  could  throw  any  light  on  this 
subject,  or  only  barely  enough,  assist- 
ed by  a  stick  and  much  poking  and 
prying  to  suffice,  after  the  eye  became 
accustomed  to  the  green  gloom  within 
to  reveal  a  remaining  portion  of  a  tot- 
tering wooden  fence,  once  entered  by 
a  small  gate  as  the  remaining  hinge 
reluctantly  testified,  and  a  slab  of  the 
fashion  of  a  by-gone  day  raised  table- 
wise  from  the  ground,  and  covered 
deeply  with  heaps  of  the  leaf  mould  of 
many  an  autumn  from  its  protecting 
vine  above — and  it  keeps  its  secret 
past,  only  saying  in  effect  up  through 
the  jasper  light: 

"Having  but  little  eaten,  drunk  but 
little,  and  deeply  suffered.  After  weary 
waiting  at  last  now  I  am  dead.  Ye  are 
all  coming  surely  to  this." 


There  is  still  living  in  Ancaster  a 
venerable  person  in  the  ninety-seventh 
year  of  his  age  who  for  more  than  40 
years  was  an  elder  and  officebearer  in 
this  church.  We  have  much  pleasure 
in  adding  that  the  old  gentleman  oc- 
casionally saws  wood  for  two  hours  at 
a  time,  for  exercise,  not  being  able  to 
walk  far  now. 

*    *    * 

Time  flies  amongst  the  tombs,  and 
from  near  cottage  homes  the  smoke 
begins  to  curl  up  against  the  trees  as 
the  shadows  lengthen  to  evensong, 
across  the  grassy  lane  and  the  gold- 
spattered  field,  where  the  buttercups 
drill,  and  away  to  the  marsh,  where 
green  grow  the  rushes  O,  and  the 
pussy-willows  grow  tall  and  slim, 
playing  in  the  cool  black  loam.  Three 
little  children  in  red  frocks  playing 
beneath  the  thorns  on  a  queer  bank 
below  furnish  the  foreground  with 
local  color,  while  distance  lends  de- 
cided enchantment  as  one  of  them  is 
howling  dismally,  an  incipient  woman 
perhaps,  "crying  for  she  doesn't  know 
what,  and  won't  be  happy  till  she  gets 
it."  They  unconsciously  make  a 
beautiful  picture  of  peace  and  sum- 
mer, in  which  they  are  assisted  by  a 
black  cow,  in  the  field  of  the  cloth  of 
gold,  and  a  roan  horse  and  a  fat 
brown  one,  all  standing  at  ease,  in  at- 
titudes to  delight  the  soul  of  Auguste 
Bonheur,  with  the  lush  pastures 
stretching  away  over  gray  fences  and 
sprouting  cornfields,  under  stately 
ehns  and  past  motherly  orchard  trees 
away  to  the  fringe  of  woods  and  jag- 
ged pines  melting  into  the  blue  dis- 
tance of  the  Flamboro  heights. 


REV.   GEO.   BHEED'ri   TOMB. 

Already  the  dew-damp  is  in  the  air, 
and  soon  it  will  be  night,  calm  and 
holy,  over  the  little  graveyard  on  the 
upland.  The  sentinel  stars  will  watch, 
where,  bivouacked  in  silence,  minister 
and  people  lie  waiting  for  the  clear 
dawning  of  a  greater  jubilee. 

ALMA  DICK  LAUDER. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE     OLD     RED     MILL 


All  along  the  valley  stream  that 
flashest  white, 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deep- 
ening of  the  night." 


A  charming  country  walk  near  An- 
caster,  though  few  there  be  that  walk 
it,  may  be  enjoyed  by  following  the 
historic  stream,  that,  by  the  way, 
really  ought  to  have  a  name  (sup- 
pose we  christen  it  the  Yuba,  pro  tern), 
which,  after  its  escape  from  the  grist 
mill  and  the  clutches  of  Mr.  Jackson, 
makes  a  hurried  dive  across  the  road, 
crawls  beneath  the  bridge  on  its 
hands  and  knees,  and  turning  to  the 
left,  then 

Chatters   over,  stony  ways 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles — 

only  pausing  a  moment  to  lave  the 
feet  of  the  old  willows,  and  then  off 
in  haste,  cutting  its  way  through  the 
meadows,  rushing  past  the  hanging 
wood,  and  ducking  under  bending 
alders  in  a  curved,  deep,  rocky  chan- 
nel, a  miniature  riVer  of  Niagara, 
where  one  lingers  with  delight  on 
these  autumn  evenings,  'twixt  the 
gloamin'  and  the  mirk,  just  after  the 
jolly  miller  up  stream  has  opened  the 
gates  of  Yuba  dam,  and  the  flood,  set 
free  from  work,  comes  racing  joyously 
down  to  play  at  hide-and-seek  all 
night  long  with  the  moonbeams;  then 
come  farther  down  the  rocky  bed,  and 
see  the  grand  plunge  presently,  over 
the  Red  Mill  fall,  and  hearken  how 
the  water  voices  go  echoing  on 
through  the  vale  below,  answering 
back  deeply  to  the  deepening  of  the 
night. 

*    *    * 

So  it  has  been  probably  for  ages, 
and  so  it  will  most  likely  continue  to 
be  after  we  have  all  been  ages  in  the 
beyond  with  our  toilsome  days  for- 
gotten, but  the  Red  Mill,  which  has 
watched  the  Yuba  flashing  ever  since 
the  century  was  young,  will  have 
passed  away  entirely,  it  is  to  be  fear- 


ed, before  many  more  season  light 
on  it,  unless,  indeed,  President  Mills 
could  induce  the  women  of  the  Went- 
worth  Historical  society,  the  old  post- 
oiTice  being  out  of  the  running,  to  buy 
the  aged  ruin  for  their  museum,  and 
paint  its  faded,  red  coat  afresh,  and 
repair  its  breaches,  and  mend  the 
rent,  36  feet  high  and  broad  in  propor- 
tion in  its  poor  old  back,  and  restore 
again  the  teeth  which  the  old  fellow 
has  dropped  out  in  the  shape  of  grind 
stones  now  lying  prone.  It  hardly 
even  answers  to  its  name  now,  for  the 
snows  and  rains  and  suns  amongst 
them  have  blistered  and  frozen  and 
washed  away  nearly  all  that  once 
was  red  of  it. 

*    *    * 

Most  wine,  some  cheese,  a  few  men, 
and  all  buildings,  mellow  and  improve 
with  age,  up  to  a  certain  point,  be- 
yond which,  the  wine,  past  perfection, 
becomes  too  crusty;  the  cheese,  from 
first  being  an  elegant  ruin  covered 
with  creepers,  collapses,  its  dancing 
days  over,  into  a  motionless  heap  of 
acrid  dust;  Shakespeare  has  toj 
what  happens  to  the  men;  and 
for  ourselves  how  rapidly  the] 
ings,  once  neglect  sets  in,  lapse 
irrevocable  decay. 


The  Red  Mill  stands  on  the  left-hand 
side  of  the  old,  and  once  only,  road 
from  Ancaster  to  the  village  of  Dun- 
das,  a  road  with  many  interesting  as- 
sociations of  early  days  and  indus- 
tries, but  few  feet  now  pass  that  way. 
It  stands  in  a  valley,  clothed  within 
fifty  years  from  end  to  end  with 
stately  forests  and  even  yet  the  most 
picturesque  perhaps  in  Ontario,  re- 
calling by  its  extensive  panorama  of 
hill  and  dale,  crag  and  water,  with 
the  blue  and  silver  binding  of  the  dis- 
tant lake,  on  a  smaller  scale,  the 
valley  of  the  Tay  in  Scotland.  It  was 
not  the  pioneer  mill  of  this  part  of  the 
country,  as  some  suppose.  The  first 


THE     OLD     RED     MILL 


39 


one,  which  was  really  the  reason  for 
Ancaster's  existence,  was  built 
soon  after  1790  at  Ancaster,  of  whose 
prosperity  it  was  the  forerunner.  At 
the  close  of  the  war  of  independence 
in  1783,  three  strong  young  men  arose, 
and  leaving  their  home  in  Pennsyl- 
vania to  their  elder  brother,  who  had 
fovight  under  Gen.  Washington,  with 
distinction  during  the  war,  turned 
their  steps  northward,  and,  after 
many  days'  hard  journey,  heard  the 
roar  of  Niagara  and  saw  the  forests  of 
the  King's  domain  rising  on  their 
sight.  Following  the  trail,  from  the 
river  boundary  it  led  them  on  to  find 
homes  in  the  woods  near  Ancaster, 
where  they  henceforth  lived  and  mar- 
ried, and  where  they  died,  leaving 
numerous  descendants,  who  occupy 
the  old  sites  to-day.  At  that  time 
there  was  no  mill  of  any  kind  nearer 
than  Niagara,  so  the  early  settlers, 
including  the  Pennsylvania!!  brothers, 
concluded  to  try  a  boat,  which  they 
did,  and  kept  it  at  the  Beach,  there 
being  no  canal  then  of  course,  and 
had  many  a  toilsome  journey  in 
ox  wagons  with  their  wheat  to  get  it 
aboard  the  boat,  which  they  then  pro. 
ceeded  to  row  down  the  lake  to  Nia- 
gara, returning  with  the  flour  in  the 
same  way,  a  three  days'  business  most 
likely — perhaps  longer.  Before  1790 
saw  the  light  these  dwellers  in  the 
wilderness  had  begun  to  tire  of  this 
rapid  transit  milling  business,  and 
suddenly  concluded  to  form  a  com- 
pany among  themselves,  call  a  bee, 
dam  the  Yuba,  and  erect  a  mill  of  their 
own— all  which  was  done  with 
promptitude,  and  soon  the  Union  mill 
was  an  accomplished  fact,  the  only 
hitch  being  to  find  a  man  capable  of 
acting  as  miller  at  the  start.  How- 
ever, an  old  gentleman  named  Horn- 
ing, grandfather  or  great  grandfather 
of  ex-M.P.  Joseph  Rymal,  rose  to  the 
occasion  and  the  breach  was  filled. 
A  very  few  years  after  this  the  Red 
Mill  arose  out  of  the  forest  in  the 
valley,  its  builder  and  maker  being 
the  original  Hatt,  whose  bones  are 
with  us  to  this  day  and  lie  in  an  aged 
burying  ground  on  a  farm  close  to  the 
village.  The  present  owner  of  the  mill 
well  remembers  hearing  the  old  people 
tell  in  his  young  days  hoiw  they  came 
from  far,  in  ox  wagons,  to  have  their 
milling  done  here,  bringing  hams  and 
butter  and  feathers  with  them  for 
payment. 

*    *    * 

Perhaps    the    fact   of    there   being    a 


contemporary  distillery,  mighty  con- 
venient, close  by  on  the  'Yuba,  may 
have  lent  a  zest  and  given  local  color 
to  those  early  and  laborious  milling 
transactions.  The  oldest  inhabitant's 
grandfather,  so  he  tells  me,  used  to 
say  it  was  good  booze  they  made  in 
those  times,  and  the  price,  25  cents  a 
gallon,  is  enough  to  make  some  peo- 
ple swear  they  have  lived  too  late. 


Tradition  also  says  that  when  the 
men  of  old  were  making  the  road 
above  the  Red  Mill,  known  as  the 
Devil's  elbow,  they  kept  a  boy  in  con- 
stant employment  trotting  to  and  fro 
between  them  and  the  distillery,  with 
a  gallon  pail  in  each  hand.  It  is  pre- 
sumed that  there  was  water,  occa- 
sionally, in  the  left-hand  pail,  but  the 
facts  of  the  case  are  very  much  ob- 
scured by  circumstances,  and  the 
mists  which  Father  Time  is  so  fond 
of  breathing  forth  in  the  wake  of  old 
days.  The  Women's  Temperance  Set- 
us-all-to-rights  union  might  contend 
that  these  partially  unearthed  nug- 
gets of  folklore  throw  a  side  light 
upon  the  undeniable  fact  of  the  elbow 
having  remained  in  the  possession  of 
the  devil  ever  since  as  a  marvel  of 
stony  and  unconquerable  badness. 
Strange  sounds  have  been  heard 
round  that  rocky  curve  at  night,  and 
'tis  whispered  that  twice  a  year,  at 
the  full  of  the  moon,  those  road  mak- 
ers of  the  good  old  times  are  forced, 
by  one  they  must  not  disobey,  to  re- 
turn, and  put  in  ghostly  statute  lab- 
or, replacing  all  the  stones  and  uncov- 
ering all  the  ruts,  supplied  by  a  fiery 
eyed  spook  boy  with  phantom  whiskey 
from  a  phantom  pail.  This  is  a  suffi- 
cient explanation  of  the  fact  why  the 
statute  labor  done  there  by  earthly 
hands  never  makes  the  road  any  bet- 
ter. 

«    *    * 

Within  the  old  building  nothing  but 
crumbling  decay  meets  the  eye, 
though  the  soundness  of  the  massive 
beams  seem  rather  to  accentuate  the 
ruin  of  all  else.  The  enormous  rent  in 
the  west  wall  marks  where  the  36-foot 
water  wheel  made  things  hum,  within 
the  last  eighty  years,  and  did  good 
business,  having  three  run  of  stones 
working  simultaneously  with  a  capa- 
city of  turning  out  twenty  barrels  of 
flour,  and  from  30  to  35  barrels  of  pot 
barley  per  diem,  besides  chopping. 
The  water  power  supplied  by  the  Yuba 
was  rated  by  an  experienced  mill- 


4° 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


wright  at  25  horse-power,  and  was 
carried  into  the  mill  across  the  road 
by  a  long  flume,  down  which,  alas! 
through  someone's  blunder,  in  not  at- 
tending to  the  turning  off  of  the  power, 
the  cruel  frost  came  creeping  one 
bitter  night,  and  had  such  a  battle 


or  more  correctly  speaking,  the  second 
story  of  the  mill,  and  into  the  presence 
of  a  motley  heap  of  "has  beens,"  the 
most  interesting  of  which  are  the 
ancient  and  original  flour  buckets,  and 
the  two  remaining  grind  stones,  lying 
side  by  side  in  rest,  after  their  busy 


X 


—  —      -  -  v  ^» 

RUINS   OF   A  WOOLEN   MILL   NEAR   ANCASTER 


royal  with  the  old  king  of  the  mill 
that  by  morning  he  was  shattered  and 
useless;  hence  the  rent  in  the  wall, 
through  which  his  body  was  removed, 
leaving  a  fearsome,  yawning  chasm 
behind  him  in  the  earth,  heaped  round 
by  a  chaos  of  fallen  stones,  not  hewn 
and  trim,  but  round  and  rough  just  as 
they  came  from  mother  earth's  brown 
breast.  Using  both  hands  and  feet  to 
clamber  up  the  ladder-like  stairway, 
we  pass  into  the  second  circle  of  chaos, 


days.  By  these  we  make  a  long  pause, 
for  are  they  not  the  very  same  ones 
that  were  put  in  when  the  mill  was 
built,  and  helped  to  do  the  first  day's 
work.  And  here  they  are  still,  with 
the  sunlight  glinting  at  them  round  the 
broken  wall,  and  the  rains  pattering 
down  on  their  seamy  granite  faces 
through  the  big  holes  in  the  roof, 
Still  here,  good  for  another  century  ol 
toil,  but  where  are  the  vanished  gen- 
erations they  have  helped  to  feed? 


THE     OLD     RED     MILL 


Over  the  road  from  the  mill  decays 
another  veteran  (of  the  distillery,  only 
a  bit  of  foundation  remains),  the 
house  that  Hatt  built  for  the  miller 
and  his  family,  which  is  now  used  as 
a  stable,  and  has  slight  savor  of  form- 
er interest,  with  the  exception  of 
an  old-time  stone — rough  stone,  too — 
chimney,  reaching  to  the  ground  and 
visible  from  the  outside.  It  must 
have  been  a  pleasant  home  in  old 
days,  when  the  hills  lifted  their  green 
crowns  all  round  about,  and  though 
man  may  have  been  distant,  Nature, 
who  is  God,  was  near,  even  at  the 
door.  Beautiful  exceedingly  to  dwell 
there,  in  daily  companionship  with 
the  grey  rocks,  to  watch  the  light 
come  creeping  up  the  valley  in  those 
young  summer  dawns,  or  to  see  the 
sunsets  dying  on  the  hills,  and  to  hear 
the  Yuba,  in  its  rocky  cradle,  go  sing- 
ing1 down  the  night;  but,  perhaps  like 
Galilee  of  an  older  day,  "they  cared 
for  none  of  these  things;"  perhaps  the 
Devil's  elbow  was  too  near,  and  it  was 
eerie  on  winter  nights,  when  the  trees 
crackled  queerly,  and  weird  noises 
echoed  from  the  rocky  glens  and  lone- 
ly hills. 

*    *    * 

The  mill  has  seen  many  changes  in 
its  long  days,  and  known  many  dif- 
ferent owners.  For  some  30  years  be- 
fore it  passed  into  the  present  proprie- 
tor's hands,  it  belonged  to  one  Isaac 
Kelly,  and  before  that  again  to  a 
Gillespie,  and  earlier  still,  to  a  man 
named  Cox,  of  whom  we  can  relate 
that  all  was  not  grist  that  came  to 
his  mill,  because  he  ground  pepper 
and  spice,  and  coffee,  too.  Between 
1820  and  1827  it  appears  to  have  been 
in  the  hands  of  the  ubiquitous  Mat- 
thew Crooks,  whose  fingers  seemed  to 
be  in  all  those  early  pies,  and  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  a  gentleman  in  a 
faded  brown  suit,  and  with  an  ancient 
weightiness  hanging  to  his  every 
word,  who  has  just  come  out  of  his 
home,  where  he  maintains  a  dignified 
i  privacy  and  seldom  goes  abroad,  to 
pass  this  evening  at  my  fireside  by 
i  special  invitation,  has  just  been 
|  narrating  in  his  punctilious,  prosy, 
•|  polite  old  way,  with  regard  to  the  Red 
Mill,  how  that  he  remembers,  in  the 
year  1827,  when  he  was  just  beginning 


to  circulate  round  amongst  the  neigh- 
bors, hearing  a  long  story  of  how,  "by 
virtue  of  two  writs  of  fieri  facias  is- 
sued out  of  his  majesty's  court  of 
King's  bench,  etc.,  against  the  lands 
and  tenements  of  Matthew  Crooks,  by 
one  William  Crooks,"  and  so  on — (it 
is  a  little  hard  to  keep  up  with  these 
old  gentlemen  when  they  mount  and 
ride  off  into  the  old  days  again) — "and 
so  farther  are  taken  in  execution  as 
belonging  to  said  Matthew  Crooks," 
says  the  old  gentleman,  "various  lands 
and  buildings,  including,"  mark  you. 
"including  lastly,"  says  the  old  gen- 
tleman, shaking  a  shriveled  finger  in 
my  face — he  had  some  more,  but  he 
didn't  shake  them — "lastly  the  red 
grist  mill  with  two  run  of  stones  in 
complete  repair  and  in  good  order  for 
manufacturing  flour;  an  extensive 
distillery,  with  a  range  of  pens  and 
stables  for  fatting  hogs  and  cattle; 
carding  machines,  two  fulling  mills, 
clothier  shops,  one  store  house,  three 
dwelling  houses  for  miller,  clothier 
and  distiller,  and  such  quantity  of 
land  as  will  be  necessary  to  secure 
all  water  privileges,  mills,  etc.,  afore- 
said." All  this  property,  the  old  gen- 
tleman further  informed  me,  was  to 
have  been  sold  at  the  court  house  in 
the  town  of  Hamilton,  on  Saturday, 
the  14th  day  of  July  (1827),  at  12  noon, 
to  the  highest  bidder,"  but  added  that 
it  was  postponed  "until  Saturday,  the 
17th  day  of  November,  by  order  of 
William  M.  Jarvis,  sheriff  of  the  Gore 
district."  This  is  what  my  old  friend 
has  just  told  me  about  the  matter, 
and  his  authority  there  is  no  disput- 
ing, because  he  happens  to  have  a 
copy  of 

THE   GORE   GAZETTE 

and 

Ancaster,    Hamilton,    Dundas    and 
Flamborough   Advertiser, 

Published    by      George      Gurnett,      at 
Ancaster. 

On  Saturday;  they  did  everything 
worth  doing  "on  Saturday"  in  those 
days,  and  it  was  published  on  Satur- 
day. Oct.  20.  1827. 

ALMA   DICK   LAUDER. 


ANNALS  OF  BARTON 


The  Terryberry  Inn.  •*  A  Forgotten  House  of  Peace.  •** 
Descriptions  of  Places  of  Interest  in  the  Outskirts  of  the 
City.  <&  The  Old  Roman  Catholic  Cemetery.  <£  The 
Brewery  That  Was.  ^  The  Tragedy  of  Burlington 
Heights,  jfi  Old  Cholera  Burial  Grounds. 


u 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE     TERRYBERRY     INN 


I,  too.  with  my  soul  and  body, 
We,  a  curious  trio,  picking, 

Wandering   on   our  way, 
Through  these  doors  amid  the  shadows. 
With  the  apparitions  pressing, 
Pioneers!     O,  Pioneers! 

—Whitman. 


Un-ordinary  sensations  are  not  al- 
ways pleasant.  For  instance,  we  would 
mildly  protest  at  a  chubby  snail  drop- 
ping down  our  backs  and  object  to 
snakes  in  our  boots  as  tending  to  pro- 
duce sensations,  un-ordinary,  but  not 
pleasant.  Yet  admit,  for  the  sake  of 
argument,  that  most  of  us  are  suffi- 
ciently akin  to  the  supernatural  as  to 
enjoy  having  our  flesh  made  to  creep, 
much  as  we  object  to  things  creeping 
on  our  flesh! 

Well,  one  of  these  wild  November 
evenings,  desiring  to  feel  creepy,  I 
took  my  soul  and  body,  and  went  to 
meditate  an  hour  in  the  dusk  amongst 
walls  once  bright  with  the  fires  of 
hospitality,  but  now,  by  Time's  hard 
fists,  battered  into  clinks  through 
which  the  night  wind  whistled  and 
the  moonlight  poured  in  floods.  But 
we  had  to  wait  awhile  for  that,  for 
we  got  there  first  in  a  glory  of  sun- 
set, which  made  the  sky  flame  to  the 
zenith,  and  all  the  brimming  dykes 
along  the  roads  and  the  ditches  in 
the  fields  blush  rosy  red. 

In  at  the  broken  gateway,  over  the 
oblong  patch  of  green,  fringed  with 
ragged  bushes,  and  up  on  to  the  an- 
cient porch  where  many  an  early  set- 
tler has  lingered  in  the  twilights  long 
ago,  passing  through  the  battered 
doorways  and  avoiding  a  fearsome 
black  hole  in  the  floor,  we  stand  amid 
the  shadows  under  the  roof  tree,  once 
known  far  and  wide  to  the  pioneers 
of  Canada  West  as  Terryberry's  tav- 


Situated  on  the  main  road  from  Ni- 
agara to  Ancaster,  this  commodious 
house  must  have  been  hailed  with  de- 
light by  those  early  travelers  through 


the  forest,  and  we  fancy  there  must 
have  been  good  cheer  there  then,  and 
that  man  and  beast  alike  found  com- 
fort in  that  inn,  now  a  palsied,  tot- 
tering old  relic  with  both  feet  in  the 
grave  of  forgotten  things,  but  once 
so  young  and  trim  and  snug  and 
warm!  Once,  these  worm-eaten  rafters 
rang  with  laughter,  and  up  that  aged 


THE  RUINED  PORCH. 

stairway  what  merry  feet  may  not 
have  twinkled!  Those  rows  of  vacant 
windows  through  which  the  dusk  will 
soon  steal  creepily,  to  fill  the  empty 
nooks  and  crannies  with  strange 
shapes,  once  smiled  back  like  rows  of 
diamonds  to  the  rising  sun!  But  be- 
fore going  farther  in,  let  us  glance  at 
the  old  stable,  or  as  much  of  it  as  re- 
mains, across  the  yard  on  the  west 
side  of  the  house.  Not  very  much,  or 
very  large  now,  but  built  in  the  mas- 


44 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


THE   OLD  TERKYBEKBY  INN. 


sive  fashion  of  a  day  when  wood  was 
no  object.  A  more  interesting  find 
was  an  ancient  well,  a  real  old  timer, 
discovered  by  lifting  a  heap  of  mossy 
boards  lying  in  a  corner  of  the  yard 
near  the  house,  then  kneeling,  peer- 
ing down  into  the  watery  past  which 
lay  sulking  far  below,  covered  with  a 
stagnant,  diphtheria-typhoid-suggest- 
ing scum.  The  round  stones  which 
formed  the  sides  were  loosely  put  to- 
gether, and  green  and  dank  with  age 
and  disuse.  In  former  times  we  im- 
agine a  young  oaken  bucket  hung  by 
that  well,  and  there,  like  enough,  at 
eventides,  some  rural  Jacob  drew 
water  for  and  looked  love  into  the  eyes 
of  his  Rachel,  thus  combining  business 
with  pleasure.  We  did  not,  frankly 
speaking,  like  the  look  of  this  particu- 
lar "palmy  well,"  and  shut  the 
boards  down  again  with  a  reverential 
bang,  and  went  back  to  the  house. 


The  porch  is  a  perfect  curiosity  in 
itself,  being  Grecian  in  design  and 
lathed  and  plastered  beneath  the  peat- 
red  dome  and  flat  side  pieces.  Quite 
a  work  of  art  in  its  day,  and  pretty 
and  quaint  enough  to  copy  now.  On 
it,  so  the  story  goes,  an  early  settler 
stood  one  day,  and  shot  an  Indian 
who  was  skulking  through  the  forest 
on  what  are  now  the  asylum  fields. 
The  reason  why  has  become  detached 


from  the  legend,  but  presumably  he 
had  one,  beyond  the  fact  that  there 
were  plenty  more  Indians  where  that 
one  came  from,  redmen  and  firewood 
both  abounding  in  those  early  days. 

The  old  house  even  now,  in  more 
than  half  ruins,  has  an  impalpable 
charm  of  its  own,  and  throws  a  glamor 
over  one,  especially  when  viewed  at 
the  dying  of  the  day,  which  suits  it 
somehow  better  than  the  garish  sun- 
light. They  built  well  and  comfortably 
to  live  in  then,  and  the  Terryberry 
tavern  contrasts  favorably  in  plan 
and  execution  with  some  of  the  mod- 
ern horrors  of  architectural  triumph 
to  be  seen  among  us — those  shells, 
gaudy  with  stained  glass,  and  breath- 
less with  coal  furnaces. 


Here,  in  the  old  house,  the  sun  must 
have  been  a  welcome  guest,  admitted 
at  all  the  tall,  high  windows,  and  the 
splendid  wood  fires  that  roared  up 
the  chimneys  in  all  the  rooms  but  one 
must  have  kept  life  fresh  and  healthy. 
The  hall  is  broad  and  long,  running 
back  through  the  entire  length  of  the 
house,  and  the  stair  is  broad  and  low- 
stepped,  and  apparently  once  boasted 
handsome  bannisters  up  the  side  and 
all  along  the  upper  hall;  but,  like  the 
frames  of  the  windaws,  they  are  gone, 
and  only  the  top  railing  and  curious 
old  posts  remain  to  show  what  was. 


•M 


' 


THE     TERRYBERRY     INN 


On  the  left-hand  side  of  the  entrance 
is  the  most  old-fashioned  room  in 
Canada.  Low,  and  wainscoted  in  dark 
wood,  except  where  a  large  break  in 
the  wall  lets  in  old  Boreas  "fra*  a'  the 
airts  the  wind  can  blaw,"  and  framed 
the  mild  face  of  a  large  white  cow 
who  looked  so  ghostly  in  the  gloamin', 
and  seemed  to  take  such  an  interest 
in  our  proceedings  that  we  set  her 
down  as  the  reincarnation  of  the  or- 
iginal Terryberry.  Above  the  old  fire- 


flreplace,  in  the  thickness  of  which 
we  discovered  two  more  cupboards, 
one  with  delightful  three-cornered 
shelves  (woe  to  the  nation  when  her 
people  build  cupboard  houses,  look 
out  for  decadence!),  we  stood  in  a 
large  room  which  had  suffered  the 
loss  of  its  fireplace,  as  the  chimney, 
in  some  winter  gale,  had  found  it  cold 
upon  the  roof,  and  so  simply  slidden 
down  into  the  fireplace  below,  which 
it  choked  up,  and  left  a  ghastly  heap 


AN   OLD-FASHIONED   FIREPLACE. 


place  were  a  couple  of  those  quaint 
chimney  cupboards,  in  wihich  the  early 
builders  seem  to  have  delighted,  and 
where  they  kept  their  wills  and  their 
"baccy. 

*    *    * 

On  the  left  hand  side  a  big  cupboard 
runs  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor,  and 
is  imagined  to  have  been  the  whisky 
cupboard,  being  the  biggest  we  saw, 
and  that  this  was  the  bar-room;  so 
we  played  that  it  was  that  way  any- 
how, and  the  white  cow  never  said 
one  word  to  contradict  us. 

A  marrow  door  leading  straight  out 
on  to  the  green  further  confirmed  us 
in  this  belief.  Passing  through  a 
doorless  doorway  on  the  right  of  tl-e 


of  rubbish  over  besides;  and  also  was 
the  means  of  preventing  us  from 
opening  the  door  of  cupboard  number 
six,  a  big  one  on  the  right  side,  be- 
tween the  fireplace  and  the  east  win- 
dow. Possibly  it  was  the  one  where 
they  kept  the  family  skeleton,  and  has 
never  been  opened  yet.  A  window, 
also,  opposite  the  fireplace,  looked  out 
to  the  south,  across  the  brown  fields 
to  lacey  silhouettes  of  trees  against 
the  paling  sky. 

Over  the  hall  from  the  bar-room 
were  two  more  good-sized,  well-light- 
ed rooms,  containing  curious  corner 
fireplaces  (and  cupboards,  it  goes 
without  saying).  Through  them  we 
passed  into  the  back  of  the  hall,  under 


46 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


the  broad  staircase,  to  find  ourselves 
confronted  by  a  yawning  black  de- 
census  avernus,  down  which  we  had 
to  go,  of  course,  though  it  was  un- 
pleasantly dusky,  and  we  only  had 
three  matches,  and  one  of  them  was 
a  toothpick — besides  not  knowing 
what  might  befall  us  below  in  the 
way  of  holes  and  broken  steps  and 
spooks.  We  need  not  have  feared 
those  cellar  stairs,  for,  truly,  "they 
dreamed  not  of  a  perishable  home  who 
thus  could  build,"  for  each  separate 
step  was  a  huge  solid  beam  of  wood, 
with  no  give  to  it.  So  in  time  we  got 
landed  below  in  the  damp,  finding  a 
great  deal  of  darkness  in  our  hands 
when  we  got  down,  but  fully  rewarded 
in  various  ways,  such. as  seeing  a  place 
under  the  foot  of  a  chimney,  where 
probably  the  first  potatoes  who  set- 
tled in  Barton  found  a  temporary  rest- 
ing place. 

*    *    * 

It  was  easier  to  ascend  the  bannis- 
terless  stairway  to  the  second  story, 
where  the  first  thing  noticeable  was 
the  charming  broad  landing  in  front 
of  a  big  window,  and  the  thought 
flashed  of  what  a  cosy  corner  it  may 
once  have  been,  and  might  again  be, 
"just  built  for  two,"  though  capable 
of  containing  half  a  dozen. 

Here  an  the  right  hand  are  three 
rooms,  more  cupboards,  and  a  myster- 
ious look  down  at  the  back  of  one 
fireplace,  through  a  hole  made  doubt- 
less by  that  chilly  chimney  in  its  de- 
scent to  the  room  below.  A  large  at- 
tic seemed  to  extend  the  whole  size  of 
the  house,  and  was  well  lighted  by 
several  windows  and  the  huge  gaps 
which  the  departed  chimneys  had 
omitted  to  take  with  them  in  their 
downward  flight.  Here  research  was 
baffled  and  nipped  in  the  second  story, 
so  to  speak,  as  we  had  not  brought 
our  ladder,  and  Father  Time,  or  some- 
body, had  made  off  with  the  stairs, 
and  we  had  to  content  ourselves  with 
bringing  away  a  mental  photograph 
of  the  hole  where  they  had  been. 
Turning  to  the  left  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  we  passed  in  at  a  shaky  grey 
door — and,  by-the-bye,  such  curiosities 
in  the  way  of  latches  and  hasps  were 
never  seen — and  exclaimed:  "What  a 
charming  drawing  room  this  would 
make!" — for  behold  a  large,  long  room, 
still  pinky  with  the  last  flush  of  sun- 
set, towards  which  its  four  tall  win- 
dows gaze.  Out  into  the  center  of 
the  room  a  huge  old  fireplace  stuck 
its  feet,  and  round  three  sides  ran  the 
rickety  remains  of  a  low  fixed  fender, 


where  the  pretty,  long-ago  girls,  not 
hello  girls,  nor  yet  bloomer  bicycle 
females,  sat  at  the  vanished  balls, 
with  the  firelight  dancing  on  their 
glossy  curls,  waiting  for  the  gay  mili- 
tia man  to  pick  them  out.  Those  old 
walls  have  heard  the  fiddles  scraping, 
to  be  sure,  and  seen  many  capers  acted 
by  those  long  dead  and  gone.  We  may 
well  fancy  how  the  old  place  must 
have  buzzed  with  excitement  during 
the  war  of  1812,  and  gone  wild  with 
triumph  over  the  battle  of  Stony 
Creek.  It  was  here  before  the  war 
broke  out  that  the  militia  met  for 
drill,  and  livened  up  the  green  before 
the  door  with  their  red  coats,  and 
clanked  their  swords  up  the  steps, 
under  the  Grecian  porch,  on  their  way 
to  the  bar.  And  later  on  those  walls 
no  doubt  rang  with  news  of  a  victory 
greater  than  Stony  Creek, for  they  were 
in  their  hey-day  when  the  thunders  of 
Waterloo  shook  the  world.  Hither 
also  came  sprinklings  of  the  regulars, 
and  here  most  probably  the  American 
prisoners  when  on  their  way  from 
Stony  Creek  to  the  jail  in  Ancaster 
called  a  halt.  Some  of  the  wounded 
soldiers  after  the  battle  must  certain- 
ly have  been  brought  here  also,  for 
it.  is  common  tradition,  or  rather  a 
matter  of  history  that  the  original 
old  wooden  Barton  church  was  at  that 
time  converted  into  a  hospital  and 
that  some  of  the  soldiers  died  there 
of  their  wounds  and  were  buried  in 
the  then  new  churchyard.  To  the 
tavern,  'tis  said,  one  day  in  war  times 
came  Governor  Simcoe  on  his  way  to 
or  from  Ancaster,  in  state,  attended 
by  his  staff,  and  it  was  on  this  occa- 
sion, 'tis  further  recorded  by  the  old- 
est inhabitant's  great  maiden  grand- 
aunt,  that  one  of  the  officers,  a  gay 
young  blade,  afterwards  high  in  the 
service,  occasioned  some  scandal  by 
clanking  and  jingling  down  the  solid 
steps  in  the  wake  of  the  pretty  bar- 
maid, going  a  message  to  a  cask  which 
stood  by  the  chimney  foot,  hard  by 
the  potatoes,  and  behind  which  he 
Doldly  kissed  her,  not  once  nor  twicfe. 
which  is  interesting  history,  proving 
that  boys  were  boys  in  1814,  all  the 
same  as  in  '96.  What  apparitions 
haunt  the  old  house,  to  be  sure!  The 
gallant  young  officer  has  mustered 
with  the  spirit  army  long,  long  ago, 
and  as  for  the  pretty  maid, 

"  The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  which  he  then  pressed. 

In    the    cellar." 

— O.  W.  Holmes,  sligMly  altered  to  suit 
the  circumstances. 


THE     TERRYBERRY     INN 


47 


INTERIOR   OF   THE   BALLROOM. 


These  old  tales  are  apt  to  be  a  lit- 
tle mixed,  but  we  are  safe  to  accept 
this  one,  and  conclude  that  here  are 
very  few  old  cellars  that  haven't  seen 
some  kissing  in  their  day;  but  they 
never,  never  tell.  It  would  give  a 
zest  to  a  kiss,  in  the  eyes  of  most 
men,  If  they  had  to  risk  their  necks 
and  bump  their  heads  down  a  dark 
stair  to  get  one!  Ah!  those  must  have 
been  the  good  old  times,  when  whisky 
was  cheap  and  red  coats  plenty,  and 
'twas: 

Then  hey!  for  boot  and  spur,  lad, 
And   through   the  woods   away; 

Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad. 
And  every  dog  his  day. 


But  here  comes  the  big  November 
moon  poking  her  yellow  face  in  at  the 
empty  sockets  of  the  windows,  and 
painting  strange  splatters  of  white- 
ness on  the  dusky  walls.  If  she  could 
only  open  her  silver  lips  and  tell  all 
she  knows  of  the  tide  of  life  which 
ebbed  and  flowed  for  so  many  years 
round  these  old  walls,  since  the  far- 
off  nights  when  she  and  the  wolves 
watched  them  rising  out  of  the  forest 
beside  the  Indian  trail,  as  the  wolves 
called  the  road  for  many  years  after1 
They  had  a  great  respect  for  the  moon 
and  held  concerts  in  her  honor,  and 
thought  her  a  big  and  beautiful  bright 


thing,  but  wise  heads  nowadays  say 
she  is  nothing  but  a  cinder  on  the 
high  road  to  extinction.  However  that 
may  be,  she  has  not  lost  her  strange 
power  of  animating  the  inanimate, 
evolving  gruesome  things  from  the 
corners  of  these  empty  rooms,  throw- 
ing a  beam  over  there  near  the  ball 
room  door  that  has  a  queer  gleam, 
like  a  white  dress;  and  a  glance  up- 
wards, towards  the  deserted  attic,  has 
the  effect  of  making  one's  ears  rise 
up  and  try  to  flee,  pushing  one's  scalp 
in  front  of  them.  So,  prithee,  let's 
begone,  for,  truly: 

"  All  houses,   wherein  men 
Have  lived  and  died 
Are    haunted    houses" — 

Especially  by  moonlight. 
*    *    * 

O  strong  hands,  so  long  dust!  O 
stout  hearts,  so  many  years  at  home 
with  God!  we  would  fain  wave  the 
mists  of  time  aside  and  get  a  clearer 
view  of  your  far-off  past!  But  we  can 
only  guess  you  lived  and  loved,  suf- 
fered, hoped  and  toiled,  as  men  do 
still. 

You  peaceful  pioneers!  we  can  see 
you  gathered  round  the  glowing  logs 
in  those  genial  fireplaces  at  Terryber- 
ry's,  spinning  your  hunting  yarns  and 
war  stories  at  your  ease,  undisturbed 
by  the  marital  telephone  darling  at 


48 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


your  ears.  A  manly,  stalwart  race, 
you — unspoilt  by  riches,  unwithered 
by  self-feeder  stoves  and  flat  pies. 
Your  faces,  mayhap,  were  scorching  at 
that  glorious  blaze,  while  your  backs 
were  cold;  but,  O  pioneers!  they  were 
straight,  not  yet  hunched  up  like  a 
racoon  on  the  trot,  as  the  coming  race 
will  be  from  the  "scorching"  of  to- 
day! 

*    *    * 

Perhaps  you  missed  much  by  living 
too  soon,  but  we  hope  that  such  a 
share  of  health  and  freedom  was  yours 
in  those  fresh,  strong  young  days,  so 
full  of  action,  as  almost  to  make  up 
for  having  ante-dated  the  X-rays,  the 
electric  button,  and  the  Local  Council 
of  Women.  Lucky  pioneers! 


All  honor  to  the  memory  of  these 
early  settlers  of  our  land,  the  youth- 
ful, sinewy  race,  who  bore  not  only 
the  brunt  of  danger  and  hardships  of 
life,  past  our  comprehension,  but 
fought  and  bled  and  died  for  their 
country  in  her  hour  of  need!  May 
their  dreamless  sleep  be  sweet  to  them 
in  their  scattered  and  forgotten 
graves,  until 

Still  with  sound  of  trumpet 
Far.   far  off  the   daybreak  call — 
Hark!   How  .loud   and  clear  I  hear     i't 

wind, 

Swift!  to  the  head  of  the   army! 
Swift!  spring  to  your  places, 
Pioneers!    O,    Pio,neers! 

— WMtman. 

—ALMA  DICK  LAUDER. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


A     FORGOTTEN     HOUSE     OF     PEACE 


Rest,  rest,  a  perfect  rest, 
'Shed  over   brow   and   breast: 
Rest,  rest  at  the  heart's  core 

Till   time   shall   cease; 
Sleep   that  no  pain  shall  wake: 
Night  that  no  morn  shall  break 
Till  joy    shall    overtake 

Their  perfect  peace. 

—Christina  Rosetti. 

If  there's  a  dear  spot  in  Erin,  as  the 
song  says,  there  is  also  a  pathetic  lit- 
tle spot  in  Barton  of  which  few  have 
ever  heard,  and  fewer  still  would  care 
anything  about.  It  is  so  old  now,  so 
lonely,  so  unthought  of,  and  uncared 
for,  so  off  the  beaten  track,  and  the 
inhabitants  have  dwelt  therein  silently 
through  such  long  years  of  waiting 
that  it  is  little  wonder  they  hold  no 
place  or  part  in  the  thoughts  of  the 
younger  generations,  who,  without 
them,  had  never  been. 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  going 
through  the  world  with  one  eye  in  a 
sling,  so  to  speak,  and  the  other  half 
shut,  and  in  this  way  missing  a  big 
sh'are  of  the  fun,  and  the  battle,  and 
the  beauty,  and  the  pathos,  and  the 
common  objects  of  the  country,  as  we 
go.  Hundreds  of  people  in  a  year  pass 
over  the  mountain  road  through  Bar- 
ton, quite  unaware  of  the  fact  that  it 
is  leading  them  in  the  early  footsteps 
of  Indians,  Jesuits,  pioneer  settlers, 
and  the  soldiers  of  King  George, 
through  one  of  the  most  interesting 
and  historic  parts  of  Canada. 

The   cruel  Iroquois  nation   from     the 


States,  who  depopulated  Canada  in  old 
Indian  days,  when  Fort  Orange,  on  the 
present  site  of  Albany-on-the-Hudson, 
was  the  one  and  only  trading  post  be- 
tween Montreal  and  New  Amsterdam 
(New  York),  no  doubt  pursued  their 
victories  along  this  trail,  following  it 
through  where  Ancaster  came  in  later 
times,  to  where  it  turns  up  to  Fiddlers' 
Green,  and  so  passes  onward  to  the 
Grand  river. 

*    *    * 

The  noble  Jesuits  passed  to  and  fro 
by  it,  with  their  lives  in  their  hands, 
carrying  their  spiritual  warfare,  under 
a  commission  generally  sealed,  sooner 
or  later,  with  their  blood,  into  the 
midst  of  the  filthy  aborigines.  But, 
as  Kipling  says,  "that  is  another 
story,"  and  the  time  we  want  to  speak 
of  was  of  later  date,  being  in  the  days 
already  mentioned  elsewhere,  when  the 
first  settlers  had  carved  themselves  out 
new  homes  in  the  forest  near  where 
Barton  (old)  church  now  stands. 

The  three  strong  men  from  Pennsyl- 
vania, spoken  of  elsewhere,  who  left 
Washington  at  the  height  of  his  glory, 
and  journeyed  northward  through  the 
wilds,  because  they  preferred  to  live 
under  British  institutions,  were  newly 
come  here  and  formed  the  nucleus  of  a 
vigorous  settlement  by-and-bye.  The 
crop  that  never  fails  under  any  possi- 
ble circumstances  began  to  spring  up 
around  the  parent  tree,  so  one  of  the 
most  apparent  needs  of  the  settlement 
became  a  schoolhouse,  and  this  we  can 
picture  being  supplied  out  of  the  vir- 
gin forest  in  about  24  hours,  old  time, 
by  a  bee. 

Christians,  apparently,  did  not  hate 
one  another  so  well  in  those  primitive 
days  as  they  do  now,  and,  probably, 
Episcopalians  could  speak  of  a  Scotch 
church  without  calling  it  "a  Presby- 
terian place  of  worship,"  with  a  super- 
cilious sniff,  as  a  lanky,  low-browed 
curate  did  lately  in  our  hearing;  so 
this  new  school  house  was  used  for  the 
minds  of  the  children,  on  week  days, 


5° 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


and  the  benefit  of  everybody's  soul  on 
Sundays.  This  was  away  along  about 
the  year  of  grace  1790.  In  later  days 
they  found  leisure  and  ambition  to 
build  them  a  real  church,  but  not  for 
a  good  many  years.  Then  another 
bee  hummed,  and  the  first  Barton 
church  arose,  standing  back  in  what 
is  now  the  burial-ground,  considerably 
behind  the  present  deserted  building, 
which  replaced  it,  we  believe,  about 
'49  or  '50. 


bushes  on  the  knoll  which  marks  the 
desolate  spot.  A  high  fence  and  about 
three  acres  of  Barton  clay,  in  a  state 
of  liquidation,  had  to  be  crawled  over 
and  waded  through  in  the  first  place, 
but  mud  is  a  mere  circumstance  when 
interest  is  aroused  and  antiquity  the 
goal.  A  more  eerie  spot  seen  on  that 
dusky  afternoon  could  not  well  be  im- 
agined. All  the  tints  were  brown  and 
sere,  and  all  the  tones  were  sad  and  in 
a  minor  kev.  The  wind  moaned  through 


V 


IN  THE  DESERTED  GBAVEYARD. 


This  is  a  digression,  but  long  before 
a  church  was  thought  of,  or  at  least 
built,  "that  dark  mother,-  always  glid- 
ing near  with  soft  feet,"  had  found 
out  this  settlement  in  the  woods,  and 
the  people  had  remembered  how  to  die, 
and  thus  there  comes  to  be  with  us  to 
this  day  that  little  quaint  God's  acre 
on  the  grassy  hillock,  which  so  many 
pass,  but  few  suspect  contains  im- 
mortal seed. 

*    *    * 

A  great  soft  mass  of  blue-black  rain 
cloud  was  spreading  itself  all  over  the 
west,  and  making  the  dark  November 
day  darker,  when  we  reached  the  cross- 
roads just  beyond  the  church,  and  saw 
before  us  in  the  distance  the  clump  of 


the  thicket,  and  the  field  round  about 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  weeping  for 
its  own  ugliness,  for  the  tears  stood  all 
over  its  wet  brown  face  in  puddles 
and  runnels,  while  the  distance  be- 
came blurred  by  splashes  of  rain, 
blowing  along  slowly  from  the  west. 

Being  naturally  honest,  however 
rich,  we  paused  to  remove  as  much  as 
possible  of  the  good  man's  farm  from 
our  boots,  with  the  aid  of  a  stick,  and 
then  pushed  aside  the  branches  and 
stood,  feeling  rather  awe-struck,  within 
this  ancient  city  of  the  dead. 

It  is  now  the  one  wooded  part.where  it 
evidently  once  was  the  only  cleared 
space,  in  a  circle  of  woods.  The  trees 
and  bushes  have  grown  up  so  thickly 


A  FORGOTTEN  HOUSE  OF  PEACE 


51 


that  only  by  getting  down  on  hands 
and  knees  can  the  few  remaining 
headstones  be  deciphered.  The  bushes 
scratched  and  clawed  mysteriously,  as 
if  they  resented  any  intrusive  prying 
into  the  treasure  they  have  guarded 
night  and  day  so  well.  The  ground 
is  here  all  humps  and  hollows,  and 
suggests  the  idea  that  one  Is  treading 
on  sunken  graves,  which  is  no  doubt 
the  case,  as  here  and  there  crops  up 
a  tottering  headstone,  half  buried  in 
the  mould.  In  the  middle  of  the  knoll 
are  three  graves,  comparatively  young 
and  fresh,  only  75  years  having  come 
and  gone  since  the  last  of  them  was 
carried  along  the  path  through  the 
wood,  and  put  here  for  a  good  long 
rest.  The  lettering  on  a  few,  merely 
initials,  is  evidently  amateur  work.cut 
laboriously  by  some  loving  hand,  long 
before  marble  works  arose  in  the  land. 
It  is  probable  that  many  a  one  who 
lies  here  never  had  a  tombstone  at  all, 
perhaps  only  a  rough  bit  of  granite  or 
a  wooden  headboard. 

Tombstones,  like  flax  shirts,  were  of 
home  manufacture  in  those  times. 
Three,  there  to  be  seen,  one  of  which 
has  fallen,  certainly  answer  to  that 
description,  being  plain  slabs  of  Cana- 
dian granite,  roughly  hewn  into  a 
shape  at  the  top,  and  all  bearing,  for 
inscription,  two  letters  only.  No  dates, 
no  hopes  for  the  future,  or  regrets  for 
the  lest,  merely  on  the  fallen  one  a 
plainly  cut  M.  R.,  and  on  the  two  re- 
maining upright.though  tottering.S.R., 
and  again  M.  R. 

*    *    * 

How  we  should  like  to  raise  a  corner 
of  that  curtain  of  oblivion  and  see  the 
simple  ceremony  with  which  the  one 
tired  first  was  put  away  to  sleep  sound 
in  that  new  bed,  by  the  hand  of  the 
"strong  deliveress,"  as  the  master  poet 
of  the  days  to  be,  calls  death — an  old 
man,  by  chance,  it  was,  soon  defeated 
in  his  wrestle  with  those  strong  young 
days,  and  pleased  and  willing  to  hear 
his  curfew  ring;  or  may  be  there  was 
a  heart-break  there,  healed  long  since; 
and  perhaps  there  was  put  in  the 
ground  that  day  a  wee,  wee  box,  a  tiny 
coffiin,  so  rough  without,  so  tenderly 
soft  within,  torn  from  the  arms  of 
some  Rachel  weeping,  with  the  secret, 
endless,  ever-springing  tears,  such  as 
the  mothers  of  dead  babies  only  know. 
Can't  we  see  her  still,  away  back 
through  all  the  years,  by  the  light  of 
her  own  feeble  home-made  candle,  as 
she  stands  in  the  doorway  of  her  log 
home,  looking  out  into  the  night,  down 


A  TUBE  GBOWING  OUT  OF  A  GRAVE. 

through  which  the  rain  falls  drearily, 
and  each  drop  as  it  patters  on  the 
leaves,  smites  the  wounded  heart,  and 
the  sorrow  gushes  forth  afresh  of  her 
little  "golden  son"  sleeping  alone  there, 
out  in  the  dismal  forest,  while  her 
breast  is  so  soft,  and  her  arms  so 
empty!  Poor  Rachel!  She  has  long 
been  comforted! 

*    *    * 

The  ancient  family  of  Hess  appear  to 
he  well  represented  in  the  silent  house 
of  assembly.  Many  can  still  remember 
their  farm  house  as  being  one  of  the 
old  land  marks,  trodden  down  by  the 
march  of  "improvement"  within  com- 
paratively recent  years.  It  stood,  still 
flanked  by  some  gnarled  stragglers  of 
its  old  orchard,  on  King  street  west, 
between  Queen  and  Caroline  streets, 
where  a  trim  new  row  now  makes  a 
bad  apology  for  its  departed  quaint- 
ness. 

Here,  in  this  old  burial  place,  lies 
the  dust  of  the  first  arrival  of  the 
handsome,  well-known  Rousseau 
family,  one  of  the  makers  of  Ancaster. 
As  his  name  tells,  he  was  a  French- 
man, and  emigrating  from  France 
after  the  revolution  of  1793,  finally 


52 


WEXTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


drifted  to  Ancaster,  where  his  descend- 
ants to  the  fifth  generation  still  reside. 
He  died  previous  to  the  war  of  1812, 
and  the  fact  of  his  body  being  taken 
from  Ancaster  all  the  way  to  the  burial 
place  in  Barton,  proves  conclusively 
that  it  was  the  first,  and  for  many 
years  the  only,  house  of  peace  in  these 
parts.  The  adjacent  graves  of  the 
Hess's  recall  an  interesting  circum- 
stance concerning  these  two  families. 
It  appears  that  "Monsieur"  Rousseau^ 


A  PREHISTORIC  TOMBSTONE. 

at  the  time  of  his  death,  owned  a  very 
considerable  amount  of  real  estate  in. 
or  rather,  near,  the  village  of  Hamil- 
ton, which  in  those  days  was  not 
thought  much  more  valuable  than  real 
estate  in  Ancaster  would  be  to-day.  In 
his  will  he,  very  unfortunately,  left 
his  widow  full  control  of  his  property. 
She,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
made  a  calamitous  hash  of  the  things 
committed  to  her  charge,  regardless  of 
the  interests  of  her  husband's  heirs, 
against  whose  wishes  she  caused  to  be 
sold  200  acres  of  the  estate,  a  strip  nf 
land  extending  from  Charles  street  to 
where  the  present  Hess  street  stands. 
and  on  the  north  to  the  bay,  to  one 
Jacob  Hess,  who  appeared  to  be  as 
wide-awake  to  his  own  interests,  as 
the  previous  Mr.  Jacob,  with  whose 
business  transactions  we  were  all  early 
made  familiar.  The  story  goes  that 
long  after  the  mismanaging  widow  had 
been  gathered  to  her  departed  hus- 
band, and  stowed  safely  away  at  his 
side  on  the  grassy  hillock,  the  heirs  of 
a  later  day  attempted  to  prove  a  flaw, 
and  recover  their  property,  now  passed 
into  various  hands.  However,  fTe. 


considerable  litigation,  conducted  for 
them  by  John  Hilyard  Cameron,  and 
after  a  large  sum  of  money  had  been 
already  expended  on  examining  the 
will  and  other  law  preliminaries,  the 
heirs  decided  to  let  well  alone,  and  the 
claim  was  abandoned.  Thus,  as  the 
one-who-knew-everything  tells  us,  the 
evil  that  men  (and  women)  do,  lives 
after  them;  but  we  hope  sincerely  the 
poor  old  dame  is  not  getting  "het 
shins  for't  the  day,"  for  having  proved 
herself  an  unjust  steward,  minus  his 
astuteness.  It  would  be  hard  to  hear 
the  mistakes  and  false  steps  of  a  life- 
lime  commented  on  by  injured  descend- 
ants, over  one's  head,  when  it  had 
been  lying  low  some  eighty  years, 
under  the  dark  leaves  and  ever-en- 
( reaching  bushes  of  that  burial 
mound. 

*    *    * 

This  old-time  place,  so  full  of  name- 
less  graves,  those  ships  that  have  gone 
down  in  the  night,  leaving  no  trace  be- 
hind, fastens  itself  on  one  as  sad  and 
pathetic  in  the  last  degree.  Far  more 
belittling  to  human  vanity  than  any 
amount  of  meditation  among  modern 
tombs.  No  display  of  costly  marbles 
or  lying  epitaphs  here;  nothing  but  the 
rotting  leaves  and  bare,  damp  boughs, 
black  against  the  autumn  sky,  to  come 
between  us,  and  this  gaunt  reality  of 
life  and  death,  that  bugbear  at  which 


•  .     *      -     ^jc^'    ,     vsr*— •*    x-     j" 

'          ''••  -i ^'  -  '-V> 

.       :-';"r 


we  squirm  and  shrivel,  and  cry  out  in 
fear,  while  Nurse  Nature  only  smiles, 
pointing  to  the  wintry  branches  over- 
head, where  she  has  long  been  busy, 
fastening:  on  the  chrysalis  leaves, 
ready  painted  in  delicate  and  wondrous 
hues,  and  now  wrapped  up  closely, 
tenderly  as  a  dead  babe,  and  gummed 
so  firm  and  so  secure,  to  sleep,  in 
warmth  and  safety,  till  the  spring's 
sweet  kiss  shall  call  them  forth  to 
Jight  and  beauty. 

ALMA    DICK    LAUDER. 


CHAPTER  IX 


ffmy. 

m 


s§£f&va 

-"xCfcvJwv.:  f., 

Sftfe^Vv*- 
HBiJ.Wn  :  -^-'%>i,. 


n& 


O  M  E  people 
will  know  the 
location  of  the 
flag-staff  shown 
in  this  initial 
scene;  other 
people  will  not. 
Without  intend- 
ing at  all  to  ad- 
vertise a  place 
which  has,  sad 
to  say,  been 
turned  into  a 
money  -  making 
spot,  it  would 
be  a  good  thing 
for  the  reputa- 
tion of  Hamil- 
ton, if  not  only 
all  her  own 
people,  but  all 

the  strangers  who  come  within  her 
gates,  could  be  able  to  climb  the  moun- 
tain and  view  the  valley  and  surround- 
ing hills  from  the  point  of  observation 
around  the  flag-pole.  It  is  at  the 
northwest  point  of  the  Chedoke  park 
property,  and  right  alongside  of  it  one 
gazes  down  a  precipice  over  which  it 
would  be  death  to  tumble,  for  it 
drops  into  the  bed  of  the  Chedoke  falls 
basin,  where  huge  boulders  lie  moss- 
covered  and  water-washed,  and 
where  the  vegetation  of  an  almost 
natural  wilderness  flourishes  all  season 
long.  To  the  north  and  west,  away 
across  the  valley  of  the  marsh  and 
bay,  tower  the  hills  of  Flamboro,  taking 
on  hues  of  all  colors  as  the  summer 
season  advances  and  the  crops  along 
their  fertile  sides  ripen.  To  the  west 
nestles  Dundas,  and  to  the  east  the 
city  lies.  The  flag-pole  has  been  there 
many  a  long  year,  as  has  also  the  resi- 
dence, built  by  a  Great  Western  rail- 
way magnate  for  his  own  private  use. 
It  was  a  bold  conceit,  the  building  of 
that  fine  house  up  there  on  the  moun- 
tain's edge,  and  it  meant  the  expendi- 
ture of  a  great  deal  of  money,  but 
those  were  the  days  when  money  was 


more  easily  made  than  now,  and 
there  were  fewer  ways  of  spending  it. 
Throughout  the  residence  was  built  in 
fine  style,  and  there  are  some  bits  of 
interior  there  antique  enough  to  be 
almost  curious. 

*  *    * 

In  the  day  when  that  house  was  built 
there  were  no  numerous  bakeshops, 
no  grand  hotels,  and  few  of  the  con- 
veniences known  in  this  day  around 
the  city.  For  this  reason  there  was 
built  in  the  Chedoke  house  a  great 
kitchen  and  bake  room.  The  artist 
shows  the  picture  of  the  bake  oven. 
There  on  the  hot  bricks  the  bread  was 
baked  and  browned  and  in  the  great 
cavity  behind  the  two  doors  above  the 
stroking  of  hams  and  other  meats  was 
dore.  The  floor  in  front  of  the  bake 
ovens  is  made  of  great  slabs  of  stone, 
and  close  by  in  the  room  is  a  pump 
running  down  into  a  spring  of  the 
finest  clear,  cold  water.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  room  is  a  dresser.  Not  one 
of  the  small  pieces  of  furniture  that 
we  know  in  this  day,  but  one  of  the 
old  kind  that  takes  up  nearly  the  whole 
space  of  the  side  wall  and  reaches 
almost  to  the  ceiling. 

*  *    * 

The  grounds  up  there  simply  abound 
with  old  buildings.  There  was  room 
enough  and  seemed  to  be  money 
enough  for  every  department  of  the  es- 
tablishment to  be  under  a  separate 
roof.  The  chickens,  the  pigs,  the 
horses  and  all  the  other  animals  had 
homes  of  their  own  and  all  separate. 
Nor  were  they  poorly  constructed 
places  either,  all  being  well  enough 
built  to  have  served  as  habitations  for 
human  beings.  They  had  a  chapel 
there  too;  at  least  it  was  a  chapel 
when  it  wasn't  something  else.  Billiard 
tables  are  said  to  have  found  a  home 
in  it,  and  the  floor  was  too  good  a  one 
to  be  left  idle  when  the  sound  of  music 
was  heard  and  the  young  people 
wanted  to  dance.  The  stairway  to 


54 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


this  part  of  the  establishment  leads  up 
from  the  outside  and  is  still  in  exist- 
ence, as  the  picture  shows. 


But  by  no  means  all  the  glories  of 
ancient  architecture  center  about  the 
houses  at  Chedoke.  There  are  other 
places  within  a  stone's  throw  almost 
that  are  much  more  picturesque  and 
beautiful.  The  old  family  home  of  the 
Buchanans  is  one  of  these  set  in  the 
midst  of  a  grand  old  grove  of  trees  and 
looking  quaint  and  beautiful  as  one 
approaches  it.  It  cannot  be  called  the 
house  of  seven  gables,  but  it  nearly 
approaches  it,  there  being  five  along 
its  front.  From  the  outside  one  begins 
to  fee}  the  spell  of  the  gothic  in  archi- 
tecture, and  once  in  the  house  the  im- 
pression is  soon  firmly  fixed  that  when 
he  had  the  house  built  Hon.  Isaac 
Buchanan  was  in  everything  a  disciple 
of  the  old  European  style.  There  does 
not  seem  to  be  a  thing  in  the  place  in 
which  it  was  possible  at  all  to  make  a 
curve  that  is  not  curved,  and  with  the 
Gothic  curve,  too.  Fire  places,  win- 
dow arches,  windows,  doors  and  even 
ceiling  decorations  are  all  the  same 
and  the  impression  is  more  pleasing 
than  otherwise. 

*    *    » 

Hon.  Isaac  Buchanan,  whose  name 
and  memory  are  so  closely  linked  to 
the  past  history  of  Hamilton,  is  dead 
— long  since  gathered  to  his  fathers. 


His  good  wife,  who  endeared  herself 
to  countless  numbers  of  persons  in  her 
life  time,  has  also  gone  to  her  reward, 
and  for  many  years  now  the  old  Buch- 
anan homestead  has  been  that  in  name 
only.  Auchmar  they  called  the  house 
and  Clairmont  park  distinguished  the 
cool,  shady  grove  surrounding  the 
house.  The  whole  place  was  vacant 
for  several  years  after  the  Buchanan 
family  moved  into  the  city,  and  then 
a  cultured  English  gentleman  named 
Capt.  Trigg  became  its  owner.  He  has 
had  repairs  made,  and  while  he  re- 
mains there  it  is  sure  that  the  olden 
time  beauty  of  the  place  will  remain. 

*    *    * 

Almost  the  first  thing  that  is  calcu- 
lated to  impress  one  when  approach- 
ing Clairmont  park  is  the  massive 
stone  wall  surrounding  the  grounds. 
From  a  distance  It  gives  the  impres- 
sion of  a  little  walled  fort.  And, 
strangely  enough,  in  the  whole  wall 
there  is  not  an  angle,  every  change 
in  direction  being  arrived  at  by  a 
graceful  curve,  which,  though  it  wast- 


HISTORIC     HOMES     ON     THE     MOUNTAIN 


55 


ed  ground  space,  greatly  added  to  the 
general  beauty  of  the  place.  In  keep- 
ing- with  the  massive  wall  surrounding 
the  grounds,  there  is  not  an  entrance 
to  the  house,  either  by  window  or 
door  that  is  not  securely  guarded  by 
iron  bars,  which,  in  this  day,  give  one 
the  idea  of  a  prison,  but  which,  no 
doubt,  at  the  time  the  house  was 
built,  were  regarded  as  quite  the  proper 
thing  in  the  line  of  safety.  It  was 


and  gold  ornamentation.  Across  the 
hallway  from  this  is  the  ball  room. 
Capt.  Trigg  does  not  use  this  room  as 
a  ball  room  any  more.  It  has  become 
his  preaching  room,  and  for  a  consid- 
erable time  he  held  religious  service 
there  every  Sunday. 


The  same  scale  of  magnificence  that 
marks  the  arrangement  of  everything 


-L^.^w^r 
THE  BUCHANAN  HOMESTEAD. 


all  right  then;  it  looks  strange  now. 
The  eastern  entrance  to  the  house  is 
next  the  conservatory,  and  the  visitor 
is  at  once  ushered  into  a  most  cathe- 
dral-like main  hallway  running  the 
full  length  of  the  house,  east  and  west, 
from  the  conservatory  at  one  end  to 
the  reception  and  ball  room  at  the 
other,  making  a  full  distance  of  per- 
haps SO  feet.  The  hall  is  cathedral- 
like  because  its  celling  is  Gothic.  Nor 
is  it  gloomy,  as  one  might  imagine. 
The  effect  is  not  gloom;  it  is  some- 
thing different — a  dim,  religious  light. 

*    *    * 

At  the  western  end  of  the  hall  is  the 
reception  room,  and  a  beautiful  room 
it  is,  with  its  great  windows  opening 
out  on  the  grounds,  its  curiously  carv- 
ed window  arches  and  its  rich  white 


on  the  upper  floors  applies  to  the 
basement,  which,  as  Capt.  Trigg  says, 
is  roomy  enough  to  hide  a  whole  regi- 
ment of  soldiers  and  still  have  space 
for  more.  There  are  great  vaults  and 
roomy  store  rooms  beneath  the  whole 
house,  and  the  construction  work 
down  there  is  on  a  par  with  that  in 
every  other  part  of  the  place. 

»    *    * 

Hon.  Isaac  Buchanan  was  a  man 
who  was  daring  in  enterprise  and  as 
successful  as  he  was  daring.  Nor  did 
the  marks  of  his  individuality  cease 
there.  He  was  peculiar  in  his  unlim- 
ited generosity  and  perhaps  no  man 
ever  gave  more  genuine  pleasure  and 
enjoyment  in  the  distribution  than  did 
he.  When  he  came  to  Hamilton  it 
was  as  the  partner  and  Canadian  rep- 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


FOR  THE   BIRDS  AT   AUCHMAR. 


resentative  of  a  great  firm  of  Scotch 
merchants.  He  helped  to  make  not 
only  this  city,  but  this  country,  what 
it  is  to-day.  His  was  one  of  the  first 
voices  raised  in  approval  of  the  G. 
W.  R.  enterprise,  and  he  became  one 
of  the  directors  of  that  road.  He  was 
always  giving  to  the  churches  and  re- 
ligious objects,  and  his  gift  of  a  thous- 
and pounds  for  the  establishment  of 
branches  of  the  Free  Church  of  Scot- 
land in  Canada  will  be  long  remem- 
bered. In  1837  he  was  a  prominent 
figure  in  the  quelling  of  the  Macken- 
zie rebellion,  and  for  several  years  he 
represented  Hamilton  in  the  house  of 
parliament.  His  last  appearance  in 
political  life  was  in  1865,  when  he  was 
opposed  by  Major  McElroy.  The  elec- 
tion continued  two  days  and  the  vot- 
ing was  open.  At  the  close  of  the 
poll  on  the  second  day  Mr.  Buchanan 
was  ahead  by  14  votes  and  a  protest 
was  entered.  Before  anything  was 
done  in  it,  however,  he  resigned  and 
retired  to  private  life.  It  was  at  the 
close  of  election  campaigns  that 
Auchmar  was  best  known  by  the  peo- 
ple, for  then  it  was  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Buchanan  were  to  be  seen  at  the'ir 
best,  receiving  their  friends  and  mak- 


ing them  happy.  Many  has  been  the 
reception  to  his  constituents  held  in 
the  park  grounds,  and  many  has  been 
the  cheer  sent  up  from  the  throats  of 
the  hundreds  of  people  gathered  for 
the  success  of  the  man  they  all  loved' 
and  honored. 

*    *    * 

Nor  has  Auchmar  been  limited  as  to 
guests  to  the  plebeian  class,  if  that 
term  will  be  allowed  in  this  age  of 
democracy.  On  many  an  occasion  has 
its  solid  walls  sheltered  and  its 
charming  host  and  hostess  entertain- 
ed the  great  men  and  women  of  the 
old  world.  Lord  Monck,  Col.  Lord 
Russell,  Sir  Francis  Hincks,  Sir  Geo. 
E.  Cartier  and  many  another  such 
have  been  honored  guests  in  the  now 
old  house  at  different  times,  while  Sir 
John  A.  Macdonald  was  a  frequent 
visitor  there.  Nor  is  this  all,  for  it 
is  said  that  during  the  time  imme- 
diately following  the  unfortunate 
Ridgeway  affair  the  wounded  men, 
who  happened  to  come  that  way, 
were  taken  in  and  sheltered,  and  dur- 
ing the  time  the  regulars  were  sta- 
tioned in  the  city  the  officers  had  no 
better  entertainers  than  the  master 
and  mistress  of  Auchmar.  The  master 


HISTORIC     HOMES     ON     THE     MOUNTAIN 


57 


died   on   Oct.   1,   1883, 
lives  after  him. 


but     his     name 


Away  back  of  the  Buchanan  home- 
stead, several  concessions  south,  there 
is  an  old,  weather-beaten  frame  build- 
ing1 which  is  best  known  as  the  Rymal 
homestead  and  which  marks  the  birth- 
place of  Honest  Joe,  whose  name  is  as 
well  known  in  county  politics  as  the 
alphabet  to  the  school  children.  The 
old  place  stands  on  a  hill  and  overlooks 
broad  acres  of  fertile  rolling  land  on 
all  sides.  Old  Jacob  Rymal,  the  build- 
er of  the  place,  came  to  this  country  in 
the  very  early  years  of  the  present 
century,  and  he  was  of  sturdy  United 
Empire  Loyalist  stock.  The  first  house 
he  lived  in  was  one  of  the  original  log 
dwellings  of  which  so  few  are  left. 
Then  as  things  prospered  he  built  the 
frame  clapboard  structure.  Beyond 
the  fact  that  the  house  was  the  home 


of  Honest  Joe,  it  is  famous  for  but 
one  thing.  Grandfather  Jacob  Rymal 
and  William  Lyon  Mackenzie  were  fel- 
low members  of  the  Upper  Canada 
house  of  parliament  and  friends.  At 
the  time  when  Mackenzie  started  his 
famous  rebellion  in  Toronto  in  1837  the 
Rymal  house  came  into  some  promin- 
ence. When  William  Lyon  was 
beaten  at  Toronto  and  had  to  run  for 
his  life,  he 'came  through  the  woods 
to  the  house  of  his  friend,  Jacob 
Rymal.  There  he  was  sheltered  for  an 
hour  or  two  and  furnished  with  a 
horse.  On  this  horse  he  escaped  by  the 
old  Indian  trail  road  to  Niagara  and 
the  American  side.  It  is  not  on  record 
whether  he  returned  the  horse  or  not. 
Descendants  of  the  Rymal  family  still 
occupy  the  old  house,  and  it  looks  as 
if  it  would  continue  to  be  the  Rymal 
homestead  for  some  years  to  come 
yet.  J.  E.  W. 


RYMAL   HOMESTEAD. 


CHAPTER  X 


ON     THE     OUTSKIRTS     OF     THE     CITY 


ARDLY  would  a 
person  go  into  a 
burying  ground 
on  pleasure  bent, 
and  yet  that  is 
what  artist  and 
writer  did  in  their 
pleasureable  task 
of  delving  among 
ruins.  Just  a  bit 
tired  of  the  coun- 
try side  and 
wanting  a  breathing  spell  before  start, 
ing  out  from  the  city  in  other  direc- 
tions for  new  fields  of  research,  they 
have  taken  a  day  off,  and  in  among 
the  tombs  of  worthies  long  since  dead 
have  sat  them  down  upon  old  moss- 
grown  stones  to  think  and  muse  a 
while.  But  not  in  the  modern  city  of 
the  dead  has  their  leisure  hour  been 
spent.  Rather  where  graves  have  lost 
all  likeness  to  their  former  selves; 
where  tablets  lie  about  in  rare  con- 
fusion, not  one  among  a  score  serv- 
ing its  proper  office,  marking  the  spot 
particular  where  this  or  that  one  lies; 
and  where  the  careless  hand  of  time, 
unchecked,  has  done  its  wrecking 
work,  making  the  former  well-kept 
ground  a  wilderness  where  none  would 
go  of  choice,  save  those  who  love  the 
night  and  deeds  of  darkness. 

*    *    * 

And  this  spot  lies  within  the  city 
limits,  out  on  the  King  street  road,  as 
it  dips  into  the  deep  ravine  of  the 
Dundas  marsh  to  the  west.  It  is  the 
old  Roman  Catholic  burying  ground, 
first  used  about  the  year  1850,  and  left 
to  ruin  and  decay  in  1875,  just  21  years 
ago.  Those  years  have  done  their 
work  of  mischief  with  the  place,  and 
it  is  to-day  all  over  just  what  the 
picture  shows  it  in  a  single  spot. 
Many  a  stone  lies  broken  on  the 
ground,  many  a  grave  is  sunken  in. 
Some  of  the  bodies  have  been  taken 
to  the  newer  cemetery  across  the  bay; 
others  are  there  still,  as  if  no  friend 


were  left  alive  among  their  kin  to 
care  for  human  clay.  For  years  the 
clergy  of  the  Roman  Catholic  church 
have  tried  to  impress  upon  their 
people  that  these  bodies  should  be  re- 
moved, but  still  some  are  there  in 
spite  of  pleas  and  protestations.  The 
place  is  no  longer  guarded,  fences  are 
down  and  vandal  hands  have  aided  in 
the  general  work. 

The  picture  shows  a  vault — the  only 
one — its  side  walls  crumbling  in,  its 
door  of  iron  bars  loose,  hanging  on 
its  hinges  and  from  above  its  portal  a 
nameplate  gone.  It  was  the  last  long 
resting  place  of  the  Larkin  family, 
but  since  its  dead  have  been  removed 
its  purpose  seems  to  be  to  serve  the 
ends  of  vagrants,  thieves  and  others, 
fearful  not  of  spirits,  man  or  Deity. 
More  than  one  criminal  has  found 
refuge  in  its  long,  narrow  cells  where 
once  has  lain  a  body,  stilled  in  death; 
more  than  one  vagrant  tramp  has 
sought  its  shelter  in  the  storms  of 
winter,  glad  enough  of  even  such  a 
hiding  place  from  the  cutting,  chilling 
blast. 

*    *    * 

Thanks  to  the  good  records  kept,  it 
is  not  a  trying  task  to  tell  all  about 
the  burial  places  of  the  Roman  Catho- 
lics of  the  city.  The  books  go  back 
to  1838,  and  from  then  on  till  about  1850 
it  will  be  a  surprise  to  many  to  know 
that  the  dead  found  their  last  resting- 
place  beneath  St.  Mary's  cathedral. 
Not  so  very  long  ago  a  great  pile  of 
bones  was  taken  from  the  ground  in 
excavating  a  furnace  cellar  in  the 
basement,  and  they  were  reinterred 
with  reverential  care  in  another  spot. 
In  1849  Bishop  Gordon,  of  the  cathe- 
dral, began  an  agitation  for  a  ceme- 
tery ground,  and  the  record  says  that 
on  the  day  of  Aug.  19,  1849,  he  called 
together  the  following  influential  mem- 
bers of  his  congregation  to  deal  with 
the  matter:  J.  G.  Larkin,  Timothy 
Murphy,  Donald  Stuart,  J.  L.  Egan, 
C.  J.  Tracey,  Maurice  Fitzpatrick,  Wm. 


ON      THE     OUTSKIRT%  OF     THE     CITY 


59 


S^SMj^^Sm^SE 


is»^w:vr:  r*«B® 


OLD  BARTON   STONE   CHURCH. 


Harris,  Charles  Warmall,  Timothy 
Brick,  T.  Clohecy,  John  O'Grady,  Den- 
nis Nelligan,  Thomas  Beatty,  Neal 
Campbell  and  S.  McCurdy.  These  men 
were  constituted  a  cemetery  commit- 
tee, and,  not  coming  to  any  satisfac- 
tory agreement  with  the  City  council 
for  the  purchase  of  a  part  of  the  gen- 
eral cemetery  ground,  they  purchased 
the  King  street  site  from  Richard 
Blackwell.  The  record  goes  on  and  tells 
of  all  the  interments,  with  very  full 
description  of  each  person  buried.  It 
was  then  the  beginning  of  cholera  time 
and  page  after  page  is  filled  with 
names  of  victims  of  the  dread  scourge. 
Those  were  the  days  when  doctors' 
certificates  were  not  required  in  cases 
of  death,  and  in  many  a  case  the  cause 
of  death  is  recorded  in  the  book  "un- 
known." Judging  from  the  large 
number  of  cases  recorded  "smother- 
ed," it  looks  as  if  the  day  of  "heart 
disease"  recording  had  not  arrived.  In 
1874  the  cemetery  had  served  its  time 
and  a  new  one  was  opened  across  the 
bay — one  of  the  prettiest  and  best 
equipped  to  be  found  anywhere.  The 
church  still  owns  the  King  street 
ground,  but  has  no  use  for  it.  It  is 


for  sale,  and  the  day  may  yet  come 
when  the  plow  will  remove  all  trace 
of  grave  and  monument,  and  garden 
stuffs  will  grow  where  grave  grass 
once  did  nourish. 

*    *    * 

Writing  of  burying  grounds  and 
their  surroundings,  there  is  another 
one  worth  considering  quite  near  the 
city  on  the  mountain  top.  It  is  the 
old  Barton  stone  church  premises  on 
the  back  road  over  the  mountain.  Both 
church  and  burying  ground  are  his- 
toric in  their  way.  At  the  time  the 
church  was  built,  somewhere  about 
1822,  the  road  on  which  it  was  situated 
was  the  main  highway  of  the  county 
from  Ancaster  way  to  Niagara  Falls. 
Over  that  road  in  even  earlier  years 
the  Indians  had  traveled,  it  being,  in 
fact,  the  original  Indian  trail.  Staunch 
U.  E.  Loyalist  families,  including  the 
Muirheads,  Bonds,  Kerns,  Fillmans, 
Frenchs,  Gourlays  and  others  had  set- 
tled about  this  place,  and  they  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  building  a  meeting- 
house for  themselves.  They  clubbed 
together  and  held  building  bees.  In 
this  way  the  stone  was  quarried,  haul- 
ed, put  in  place  and  the  church  edifice 


6o 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


built.  At  that  time  the  now  aged 
and  revered  Canon  Bull,  of  Niagara 
Falls,  was  a  student  at  college,  and 
Dean  G-eddes  was  in  office  in  the  city 
below  the  mountain  brow.  The  then 
new  church  became  a  part  of  his 
charge  and  for  some  time  he  supplied 
its  pulpit.  Then  Canon  Bull  was  or- 
dained for  the  priesthood  of  the 
church,  and  this  became  his  charge. 
There  was  nothing  very  remarkable 
about  the  history  of  the  place.  The 
little  ones — now  the  men  and  women 


cemetery  around  it  is  well  filled  with 
graves  and  the  headstones  tell  of  lives 
passed  out  into  the  great  eternity  both 
years  ago  and  in  recent  dates.  Amongst 
the  most  ancient  are  the  Fillman  plot, 
1822,  and  the  French  plot,  1825.  An  old- 
fashioned  stone  fence  surrounds  the 
church  and  cemetery,  and  the  whole 
place  bears  the  stamp  of  historic  in- 
terest. It  is  a  dearly  loved  spot  to  all 
the  old  residents,  and  they  all  still 
speak  with  reverence  of  the  old  stone 
church  of  Barton  on  the  mountain. 


THE   BBEWBRY   THAT   WAS. 


workers  of  Holy  Trinity  church— were 
christened  there,  they  were  some  of 
them  married  there,  and  others  of  them 
were  laid  beneath  the  sod  there.  W. 
Muirhead,  who  is  one  of  the  few  old 
ones  left,  remembers  the  church  in  its 
prime.  His  daughter  played  the 
organ  and  the  choir  used  to  meet  at 
his  house  once  a  week  for  practice. 
Then  there  came  a  time  when  the  peo- 
ple began  to  populate  further  east, 
and  it  was  decided  to  build  another 
church  in  that  direction.  This  was  done 
and  the  old  church  was  closed  about 
twenty  years  ago.  To-day  its  windows 
are  boarded  up,  its  walls  are  showing 
the  effects  of  Time's  destroying  hand, 
and  as  each  year  passes  it  will  become 
a  more  and  more  interesting  relic  of 
the  days  and  times  that  were.  The 


From  a  cemetery  to  a  church,  and 
from  the  church  to  an  old  brewery 
seems  a  rather  peculiar  line  of  succes- 
sion, but  it  means  nothing.  They  are 
all  in  the  relic  and  ruin  line,  and  to- 
day around  the  old  brewery  ruin  mem- 
ory is  just  as  sweet  and  wholesome 
as  it  is  about  the  church  or  cemetery, 
at  least  in  the  minds  of  some  people. 
The  old  brewery  relic  is  down  in  the 
valley  at  the  junction  of  Main  and 
King  streets  in  the  west  end  of  the 
city,  and  it  is  rapidly  disappearing. 
The  ruin  is  so  old  that  it  is  a  hard 
matter  to  get  any  authentic  informa- 
tion as  to  its  inception  as  a  beer  man- 
ufactory. It  has  changed  hands  many 
times,  too,  and  so  far  as  history  goes 
back,  every  proprietor  seems  to  have 
been  a  German.  The  place  is  certain- 


f, 


ON     THE     OUTSKIRTS     OF     THE     CITY 


ly  much  over  50  years  old,  and  it  was 
in  operation  up  to  within  fifteen  years 
ago,  John  Eydt  being  the  last  proprie- 
tor. Twenty-nine  years  ago  the  pro- 
prietor was  Edmund  Ekhardt.  That 
was  just  at  the  close  of  the  stay  of 
the  rifle  brigade  here,  and  for  two 
years  previous  to  that  time  it  had 
been  vacant.  The  quality  of  the  beer 
made  there  was  such  that  the  place 
was  a  regular  hangout  for  the  sol- 
diers when  off  duty.  Eckhardt  died 
by  an  accident,  falling  from  his  deliv- 
ery wagon  and  breaking  his  neck.  His 
widow  afterward  married  Archie 
Coutts,  the  hackman,  being  still  mis- 
tress of  his  house.  The  glory  of  the 
brewery  was  its  beer.  There  are  men 
in  the  city  to-day  who  delight  to  tell 
of  their  experiences  up  there.  When 
the  place  was  in  its  prime  it  was  the 
most  popular  resort  for  miles  around. 
The  grounds  around  it  were  well  kept 
and  the  proprietor  had  a  large  space 
fixed  up  as  a  summer  garden.  There 
the  young  men  of  the  city  used  to  as- 
semble and  drink  beer  that  was  beer, 
so  they  say.  They  could  get  half  a 


gallon  of  it  for  10  cents,  and  when  they 
finished  it  they  were  just  as  sober 
and  as  bright  as  when  they  started. 
It  was  beer  made  out  of  barley  and 
hops,  pure  and  simple,  and  the  people 
liked  it.  The  entrance  to  the  garden 
was  by  a  vine-covered  arch,  and  over 
the  arch  was  a  big  sign  which  read, 
"Positively  no  beer  sold  on  Sunday." 
If  what  the  men  who  patronised  the 
place  say  is  true,  there  never  was  a 
place  in  the  city  before,  nor  has  there 
been  one  since,  that  could  equal  it. 
There  is  little  of  it  left  to-day.  The 
picture  shows  the  ruin  and  in  a  few 
years  it  will  all  be  gone.  The  ground 
now  belongs  to  the  Pattison  estate, 
and  is  used  as  pasture  land.  The 
place  is  said  to  have  been  built  by  a 
German  named  Muntzeimer,  and 
among  the  men  who  ran  it  afterward 
were  Messrs.  Beck,  Schwartz,  Schuch, 
Fletcher,  Ekhardt  and  Eydt.  It  is 
now  a  pretty  ruin  and  many  amateur 
photographers  have  taken  snap  shots 
of  it  to  add  to  their  collections. 

J.   E.  W. 


THE   OLD  CHOLEKA  CEMETEKY   ON   THE    HEIGHTS. 


CHAPTER  XI 


BURLINGTON      HEIGHTS 


Not  anywhere  else  in  or  near  the 
city  of  Hamilton  is  it  at  all  likely 
that  a  more  historically  gruesome 
ground  can  be  found  than  that  around 
Burlington  Heights  and  the  Desjar- 
dins  canal.  Nor  is  it  likely  that  in 
any  other  district  of  similar  size  here- 
abouts so  much  money  has  been  spent. 
And  all  this  is  simply  in  the  tale  of 
the  last  half  century — not  going  back 
to  the  times  before  Hamilton  was. 
The  other  day  a  farmer,  plowing  in  a 
field  on  the  side  of  the  heights  over 
the  canal,  unearthed  a  skeleton.  Un- 
doubtedly it  was  that  of  an  Indian: 
possibly  that  of  a  warrior,  and  if  rec- 
ords only  went  back  far  enough  the 
story  of  the  hills  might  be  one  of  wars 
and  conflicts,  of  tribe  extinctions  and 
horrible  butcheries;  for  the  heights 
have  ever  been  regarded  as  an  unusu- 
ally fine  strategic  point,  and  for  that 
purpose  they  were  undoubtedly  used. 
But  their  more  modern  day  history  is 
sufficient  in  itself  for  a  chapter  in 
melancholy  and  figures,  and  it  can 
best  be  started  off  by  a  sketch  of  the 
canal — that  canal  which  is  the  God- 
given  right  of  the  Dundas  man,  and 
which,  from  its  inception  to  the  pres- 
ent time,  he  has  guarded  with  the 
earne  care  he  would  his  purse. 


Somewhere  about  the  year  1816  the 
government  granted  a  royal  charter 
tor  the  cutting  of  a  channel  through 
the  Beach,  at  the  lake  end  of  Hamil- 
ton bay  and  another  one  of  the  same 
kind  for  a  canal  through  Burlington 
heights  and  up  to  the  town  of  Dun- 
das.  Those  were  the  days  when  steam 
power  for  general  use  was  a  visionary 
project  and  when  nearly  all  carrying 
was  done  by  sailing  vessels  and  canal 
boats.  For  that  reason  the  cutting 
of  the  Canal  to  Dundas  was  a  wonder- 
ful thing  for  the  town,  as  it  made  it 
the  head  of  navigation  and  brought 
all  kinds  of  boats  to  its  very  doors, 
metaphorically  speaking.  But  though 


the  charter  was  granted  in  1816,  the 
work  was  not  completed  in  1832,  and 
when  it  was  done  it  was  in  a  very 
different  way  than  appears  to-day. 
Persons  traveling  out  the  town  line 
road  north  of  the  present  canal  bridge 
will  have  noticed  the  apparently  clear 
waterway  turning  north  some  distance 
from  the  present  canal  outlet.  This 
waterway  is  crossed  by  the  town  line 
road  and  further  north  again  by  the 
London  division  of  the  Grand  Trunk 
system,  and  further  to  the  north  and 
east  again  by  the  Toronto  branch 
tracks  of  the  same  railway.  The  old 
waterway,  which  can  readily  be  traced 
by  its  clearness  and  freedom  from  the 
ever-present  rushbeds,  was  the  orig- 
inal course  of  the  canal,  which  found 
Its  outlet  into  the  bay  at  a  point  be- 
hind the  Valley  Inn  and  at  the  place 
where  the  Toronto  branch  tracks  run 
B,long  on  the  high  embankment.  Get- 
ting into  the  bay  there  the  channel 
wound  its  way  due  south,  being  span- 
ned by  a  swing  bridge  where  the  pres- 
ent plains  road  bridge  crosses  it,  and 
getting  out  into  deep,  clear  water  past 
the  point  of  land  at  Bayview.  It  was 
a  circuitous,  winding  way,  but  the  eas- 
ier way,  from  an  engineering  stand- 
point, there  being  no  great  hills  to  cut 
through.  By  this  way  the  commerce 
of  the  great  lakes  came  and  went  to 
Dundas  town,  and  Dundas  town,  in 
consequence,  began  to  feel  very  much 
up  on  itself. 

*    *    * 

Next  to  earthquakes  they  do  say  that 
railway  engineering  and  buildings  are 
the  best  medium  for  changing  the 
topography  of  a  country.  People  in 
Hamilton  will  readily  admit  that  the 
building  of  railways  about  and  in  this 
oity  has  done  a  wonderful  lot  to  make 
differences  in  the  looks  of  things,  and 
the  same  can  truthfully  be  said  of  the 
Burlington  heights  region.  In  the 
early  days  of  the  winding  Dundas 
canal  there  were  no  railways.  Had 
there  been  it  is  not  likely  there  ever 


BURLINGTON      HEIGHTS 


66 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


would  have  been  a  canal.  But  there 
were  no  railways,  and  the  canal  was, 
and  so  long  as  the  railways  stayed 
away  Dundas  and  the  canal  had  their 
inning.  When  the  railway  came  it  was 
different.  This  was  in  the  beginning 
of  the  fifties,  and  the  railway  in  pros- 
pect was  the  Great  Western.  It  want- 
ed to  get  into  the  city  of  Hamilton  and 
the  city  wanted  it  to  come.  These  two 
things  being  so,  nothing  like  an  old 
canal  outlet  was  going  to  make  any 
difference.  The  picturesque  turning, 
winding  channel  must  be  blocked. 
Railway  engineers  figured  that  it  would 
be  cheaper  to  close  up  the  old  outlet 
than  bridge  it,  even  if  it  was  necessary 
that  a  new  outlet  should  be  cut,  just 
the  canal  width  at  some  other  point 
through  the  hill.  With  this  end  in  view 
negotiations  were  commenced  with  the 
canal  company.  The  proposition  was 
that  the  railway  was  to  be  allowed  to 
fill  in  the  old  outlet  and  cut  a  new 
one,  which  would  make  the  canal  pas- 
sage very  much  shorter  (the  present 
outlet).  For  shortening  up  the  arti- 
ficial waterway  the  railway  received 
no  less  than  $65,000  from  the  canal 
company,  and  this  was  merely  a  small 
part  of  the  amount  required  to  finish 
the  work.  Figures  are  not  obtainable 
as  to  the  actual  cost  of  filling  in  the 
ravine  and  old  outlet  of  the  old  canal 
and  making  the  new  canal,  but 
it  must  have  been  enormous.  It  is 
known  and  remembered  that  the  fill- 
in  of  the  old  canal  bed  was  a  long 
and  tedious  work,  the  marsh  being  ex- 
tremely absorbent  just  there,  taking 
in  all  kinds  of  things  and  still  show- 
ing nothing  for  it. 


Then  it  was  that  the  face  of  nature 
around  the  heights  began  to  change. 
The  railway  ran  along  the  east  side  of 
the  hills  and  on  the  top  was  the  King's 
highway.  At  the  new  canal  outlet  the 
canal  company  built  a  bridge  on  the 
high  level,  one  long  suspension  span, 
a  picture  of  which  is  shown  with  this 
article.  The  railway  company,  too, 
built  a  bridge  at  a  much  lower  level — 
a  swing  bridge,  so  as  to  allow  vessels 
to  pass  through  the  canal  to  the 
metropolis — Dundas.  This  was  about 
the  year  1853,  and  it  was  from  this 
time  that  the  day  of  Dundas  began  to 
decline.  With  the  railway  it  was 
easier,  and  in  the  end  cheaper,  to  do 
shipping  from  Hamilton,  and  the  swing 
bridge  at  the  canal  making  it  incon- 


venient at  times  for  vessels  to  get  into 
the  canal,  they  gradually  came  to 
make  Hamilton  their  stopping  point. 
Of  course,  Dundas  people  did  not  like 
this,  but  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any 
way  for  them  to  stop  it.  However, 
there  came  a  day  when,  so  it  was  said, 
they  saw  a  chance  to  have  their  re- 
venge on  both  railway  and  city  in  an 
indirect  way.  In  1857,  during  a  high 
wind  storm,  one  August  night,  the  high 
level  suspension  bridge  across  the 
canal  was  blown  down.  Then  to  get 
into  Hamilton  it  was  necessary  to 
drive  around  by  Dundas,  and  the  Dun- 
das people  were  not  slow  to  see  that 
if  the  farmers  could  be  persuaded  in 
some  way  to  come  there  instead  of  to 
Hamilton  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
them.  They  had  to  rebuild  the  high 
level  bridge,  but  they  did  it  in  such 
a  way,  and  after  it  was  built  kept  it 
in  such  state  of  repair  that  people  had 
no  vivid  hankering  for  driving  over  it. 
This  was  the  argument  used  in  court 
when  the  Hamilton  and  Milton  Road 
company  went  to  law  with  the  canal 
company,  and  there  were  many  peo- 
ple who  believed  it. 

The  legal  action  arose  in  this  way: 
The  toll  road  company,  using  the  high 
level  road  and  bridge,  discovered  that 
owing  to  the  bad  condition  the  bridge 
was  in  it  was  losing  business,  farmers 
going  around  by  Dundas.  The  canal 
company  did  not  seem  anxious  to 
make  the  necessary  repairs1  and  finally, 
after  a  long  continued  argument,  the 
toll  company  purchased  and  secured 
privileges  over  land  along  the  east  of 
the  hill.  Its  intention  was  to  make  a 
new  road  there,  cross  the  canal  with 
a  low  level,  permanent  bridge  and  go 
around  the  heights  to  the  north  on 
either  side.  In  fact  the  work  pro- 
gressed to  the  bridge  before  any  op- 
position came,  and  then  the  canal 
people  kicked.  An  injunction  was  se- 
cured and  the  work  stopped  while 
the  matter  was  fought  out  in  the 
courts.  It  was  said  that  the  Great 
Western  railway  people  had  combined 
with  the  toll  road  company  and  ad- 
vanced $15,000  to  defend  the  toll  com- 
pany's action,  it  being  understood  that 
the  railway  hoped,  by  the  success  of 
the  toll  company  in  getting  a  perman- 
ent bridge  across  to  do  away  with  its 
swing  bridge,  which  was  a  nuisance, 
and  substitute  a  permanent  one.  But 
the  time  was  not  just  then  ripe,  and 
the  canal  company  won  its  case,  the 
toll  road  company  being  ordered  for 


BURLINGTON      HEIGHTS 


67 


the    time   being   to   stop   its    low    level 
bridge  work.     This  was  in  1871. 

The  low  level  bridge  work,  however, 
was  far  enough  completed  to  allow 
traffic  over  it,  and  traffic  there  was,  as 
two  men,  at  least,  have  every  reason 
to  know.  The  structure  was  of  wood 
and  close  to  the  railway  bridge.  It 
was  a  shaky  affair  at  best,  and  in 
crossing  one  had  to  drive  most  care- 
fully. On  March  16,  1874,  two  men 


ceased  to  be  the  promenade  of  masted 
vessels  of  merchandise.  And  this 
brings  ordinary  history  to  present 
date,  though  even  now  they  will  not 
leave  things  as  they  are.  and  by  the 
coming  of  the  T.,  H.  and  B.  another 
high  level  road  bridge  is  to  come, 
while  a  second  low  level  railroad  bridge 
takes  its  place. 

But   there  is  another   history  of   the 
bridges.     It  is  told  in  the  issue  of  the 


THE  NEW  T.  H.  &  B.  BKIDGE  OVEK  THE  CANAL— THE  PKESENT  KOAD  BRIDGE  AND 
G.  T.  B.  BRIDGE  IN  THE  BACKGROUND. 


from  Carlisle,  John  Moore  and  Francis 
Gray,  had  been  in  the  city  with  loads 
of  wood.  Driving  down  the  hill  on 
their  return  with  their  heavy  wagons 
they  went  onto  and  through  the 
frail  bridge  structure,  landing  in 
the  canal.  Three  of  the  horses  were 
drowned  and  the  fourth  had  to  be  shot. 
The  men  were  not  seriously  hurt.  In 
the  same  year,  by  act  of  parliament, 
the  road  company  was  allowed  to  cross 
the  canal  by  a  low  level,  permanent 
bridge  and  the  old  high  level  bridge 
was  torn  down  soon  afterward.  Of 
rourse,  a  permanent  railway  bridge 
followed,  and  from  that  day  the  canal 


Spectator  for  March  13.  1857.  On 
March  12  of  that  year,  early  in  the 
evening,  the  train  on  the  Great  West- 
ern, Toronto  branch,  went  through 
the  bridge  and  down  into  the  canal, 
which  was  covered  with  a  two-foot 
coat  of  ice.  There  were  95  persons  on 
the  train,  and  of  that  number  at  least 
60  were  either  killed,  drowned  or  died 
shortly  afterward  from  injuries  re- 
ceived. It  was  an  appalling  railway 
horror,  and  so  far  as  the  evidence 
went  before  the  coroner's  jury  there 
seemed  to  be  no  one  to  directly  blame. 
As  nearly  as  can  be  made  out  the 
engine  left  the  track  just  before  it 


68 


WKNTWOKTH       LANDMARKS 


reached  the  bridge,  running  into  the 
structure  on  the  ties  and  breaking  it 
through.  A  broken  axle  was  said  to 
have  been  the  real  cause  and  the  jury 
blamed  no  one.  So  terrible  was  the 
accident  that  people  all  over  America 
were  interested  in  the  details,  and 
Frank  Leslie's  Illustrated,  of  April  4 
of  that  year,  contained  a  long  illus- 
trated account  of  it,  referring  to  it  as 
the  most  awful  railway  catastrophe 
the  world  had  at  that  time  ever  seen. 
The  letter  press  of  the  report  was 
taken  from  the  daily  issues  of  the 
Spectator,  and  they  vividly  describe 
the  fatality  in  all  its  harrowing  de- 
tails. The  illustration  here  shown  is 
from  a  wood  cut  in  the  New  York 
weekly.  The  Coroner's  jury  was  sit- 
ting on  that  accident  for  over  a  month, 
holding  sessions  one  might  say  daily. 
On  March  22,  less  than  two  weeks 
after  the  accident,  a  new  bridge  was  in 
place,  tested  and  in  operation.  Fol- 
lowing the  accident  also  came  the 
statement  that  the  government  in- 
tended introducing  a  bill  at  the  next 
session  of  parliament  to  provide  for 
the  inspection  of  all  railways  by  gov- 
ernnlent  engineers.  Newspaper  re 
ports  of  the  time  also  state  that  after 
the  new  bridge  was  put  in  running 
order  many  railway  passengers  re- 
fused to  ride  over  it  and  the  trains 
were  stopped  to  let  those  people  get 
out  and  walk  across.  Since  then  there 
have  been  several  other  railway  hor- 
rors, not  on  the  bridge,  but  in  that 
vicinity,  and  for  this  the  locality  has 
become  unenviably  famous. 
*  *  * 

If  there  is  any  place  about  the  city 
where  spirits  should  come  from  then 
graves  at  midnight  and  flit  about  in 
the  darkness  it  is  the  heights.  Just  as 
if  the  loss  of  life  there  by  railway  hor- 
rors was  not  sufficient,  there  Is  a  bury, 
ing  ground  there — away  up  on  the  high 


level  to  the  north  of  the  canal.  This 
bleak,  barren  looking  spot  is  the  last 
resting  place  of  countless  cholera  vic- 
tims who  died  in  the  city  of  the  dread 
scourge  in  the  years  1849  and  1854.  No 
drearier  spot  could  be  found  for  a 
burying  ground.  Perhaps  a  dozen  fir 
trees  are  there;  stunted  and  forlorr 
looking,  their  branches  sighing  in  the 
wind  as  in  keeping  with  the  eternal 
fitness  of  things.  To  the  west  from  the 
cemetery  the  marsh  lies  in  the  hollow 
and  the  snakelike  canal  shows  itself 
through  the  rush  bed  maze.  Mists 
rise  from  the  dead  waters  in  early 
morning  and  night  and  malaria  and 
fever  seem  to  breed  there.  Not  a  head 
stone  shows  in  the  cemetery;  even  the 
fences  are  down.  "What  are  these 
little  hills,  papa?"  asked  the  Spectator 
artist's  little  girl  as  she  jumped  from 
one  to  another.  "They  are  graves," 
she  was  told,  and  at  once  she  stopped 
her  jumping  and  was  serious.  "And 
what  are  those  holes?"  she  asked  again, 
pointing  to  somewhat  larger  hollows. 
"They  are  graves,  too,"  was  the  re- 
ply. "That  big  hole,  too?"  she  queried 
again,  in  wonderment,  pointing  to  a 
hollow  fully  fifteen  feet  square.  "Yes." 
"Oh,  papa,  nobody  ever  was  as  big  as 
that,"  she  replied,  incredulous. 

Innocent  little  thing.  She  did  not 
know  that  in  that  dread  time  though 
at  first  the  dead  wagon  came  over  from 
the  city  with  one  body  at  a  time,  the 
day  soon  came  when  they  were  taken 
in  twos  and  threes,  and  finally  in  cart 
loads,  to  be  dumped  in  great  holes  and 
covered  up.  And  there  the  mounds 
and  holes  are  still,  mute  references  to 
that  awful  time  when  the  death-tipped 
wand  of  pestilence  was  held  above  the 
city.  This,  in  brief,  is  the  history  of 
the  heights,  not  perhaps  complete  in 
detail,  but  fairly  correct  in  general 
outline.  J.  E.  W. 


NORTH  OF  HAMILTON  BAY 


The  Valley  Inn  and  the  Old  Channel  Through  the  Heights* 
&  Brown's  Wharf.  &  By  Medad's  Marshy  Shores.  «^ 
Remains  of  a  Prehistoric  Indian  Village.  £•  Relics  From 
its  Ossuaries.  £•  Legends  of  the  Lake. 


CHAPTER  XII 


NORTH     OF     HAMILTON     BAY 


OTHING  can  be 
truer  than  this, 
that  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  in- 
animate as  well 
as  animate,  the 
phr  ase  holds 
good,  "Each  gives 
place  to  each." 
There  never  was 
anything  so  good 
but  that  some- 
thing better  was 
born  to  supersede 
it.  It  is  this  con- 
dition  that  causes  ruins,  and  the  point 
is  so  happily  illustrated  in  the 
scene  of  the  initial  letter.  It  is  the 
heights  north  of  the  canal  mouth  as 
it  appeared  not  long  ago.  The  old 
frame  building  in  the  back  ground 
was  once  the  home  of  a  man  who  is 
now  living  in  a  city  residence  much 
more  pretentious;  the  pile  of  stone 
blocks  in  the  foreground  is  all  that  is 
left  of  the  old  suspension  bridge  so 
much  talked  of.  They  were  the  anchor 
stones  of  one  of  the  cables.  There  are 
better  ways  of  building  bridges  now, 
and  men  have  laid  the  piers  deep  in 
the  rock  on  either  side  of  the  cut  and 
erected  a  newer,  more  modern  piece  of 
bridge  construction.  But  one  other  evi- 
dence of  the  old  days  remains  there. 
That  is  the  telegraph  poles  and  wires, 
the  latter  strung  across  the  chasm, 
and  at  that  point  ever  humming 
rr-ournfully,  no  matter  how  zephyr-like 
the  breeze  may  be  elsewhere. 


where  the  water  came  from,  bubbling 
perhaps  from  some  natural  spring  or 
leaking  out  in  a  hundred  places  from 
some  broad  marsh  land. 

That  same  spirit  of  exploration  came 
over  this  man  when  first  he  saw  that 
arm  of  Hamilton  bay,  leading  up 
through  dense  rush  beds,  past  the  Val- 
ley Inn,  spanned  by  two  bridges  and 
losing  itself  somewhere  away  north- 
east between  the  hills.  One  knows  it 
must  come  from  somewhere,  and  that 
it  is  not  mere  stagnant  bay  water, 
wandered  up  the  valley  and  lost.  It 
has  a  current,  which  the  open  water- 
way through  the  rush  bed  shows,  and 
the  current  must  have  a  starting 
point.  But  inviting  and  beautiful  as 
that  place  is  now  in  summer,  it  was 
a  veritable  paradise  for  the  exploring 
youngster  many  years  ago,  before  the 
old  canal  mouth  was  closed  up  and 
the  railway  ran  across  there.  In  those 
davs  there  were  two  ways  to  go.  If 
one  did  not  care  for  the  northeast  trip 
he  could  turn  northwest  and  find  him- 
self in  the  maze  of  the  great  Dundas 
marsh,  shut  in  all  about  by  the  giant 
hills.  Now  the  railway  fill  spans  that 
gap,  and  though  the  open  water-way 
leading  past  the  Valley  Inn  has  never 
become  weed-choked,  it  leads  but  to 
the  steep  bank  of  the  fill-in.  It  is  a 
peaceful  looking  little  place,  that  Val- 
ley Inn,  nestling  at  the  water's  edge 
in  the  valley,  just  at  the  junction  of 
all  traveled  roads,  and  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  what  is  known  as  that  sweet 
calm  in  the  lives  of  its  inhabitants. 


When  this  man  was  a  small  boy  he 
was  like  nearly  every  other  small  boy 
— most  heartily  fond  of  exploration. 
Around  the  home  of  his  childhood  were 
innumerable  creeks  and  streams,  some 
navigable  on  an  inch  plank,  others 
only  by  bare  legs.  Those  creeks  and 
streams  led  somewhere,  and  into  the 
heart  of  great  shady  forests  this  man 
would  wade  till  he  found  the  place 


There  are  two  ways  of  describing 
locations  in  the  country  north  and 
west,  of  Hamilton.  Either  a  place  is 
on  the  hill  or  in  the  valley;  there  is 
nothing  on  the  flat,  because  there  is 
no  flat,  speaking  topographically  of 
the  land.  The  heights,  where  the 
winds  blow,  the  vales,  where  streams 
flow,  and  you  have  it  all.  And  if  it  is 
a  mill  of  any  sort  that  has  to  be  lo- 


NORTH     OF     HAMILTON     BAY 


AT    THE    VALLEY    INN. 


cated  the  water-fed  valley  is  sure  to 
be  the  spot.  All  the  valleys  have  their 
distinctive  names,  and  one  of  them, 
north  of  the  bay,  is  called  Apple- 
garth's  hollow.  Applegarth  may  have 
owned  a  few  hills  as  well,  but  they  do 
not  christen  the  hills.  This  hollow,  or 
course,  has  its  stream  (perhaps  it  is 
the  stream  that  runs  into  the  bay 
past  the  Valley  Inn),  and  it  also  has 
its  mill.  That  mill  is  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  pieces  of  ruin  to  be  found 
anywhere  about  the  country.  It  was 
built  some  time  long  enough  ago  to 
have  had  several  owners  and  pass 
into  the  ruin  stage  some  ten  or  twelve 
years  ago.  Its  stone  walls  are  actual- 
ly falling  to  pieces,  and  yet  inside 
there  is  a  full  and  complete  milling 
plant,  looking  as  if  it  was  waiting  for 
the  owner  to  come  along,  open  the  big 
sluice-gate,  let  in  the  rushing  stream 
to  turn  the  big  wheel  and  start  it  all 
going.  But  that  will  never  happen 
Its  day  is  done,  and  a  few  more  years 
at  most  will  see  it  a  pile  of  rubbish. 

Last  spring,  when  the  freshets  came, 
the  water  rushed  in  on  the  great  wheel, 
filled  the  wheel-pit  and  out  came  a 
great  block  of  stone  from  the  build- 
ing's side.  Another  and  another  fol- 
lowed, and  in  a  few  hours  the  world, 
or  that  portion  of  it  that  chose  to 
come  and  look,  could  see  the  ponderous 
wheel  through  the  hole,  hanging  for- 
lorn-looking and  still,  save  for  the 
water-drip  from  its  paddles.  To-day  the 
ice  king  has  the  old  wheel  bound  fast, 
and  the  wheel-pit  is  hung  with 
tering  crystals. 


John  Applegarth,  one  of  the  original 
settlers  in  that  district,  built  the  mill, 
and  for  years  ran  it.  Since  then  it 
has  had -several  masters,  but  none  bet- 
ter than  its  first.  John  Applegarth  was 
known  the  country  over  as  a  white 
man.  He  was  one  of  those  men  not 
now  often  found,  who,  if  a  man  came 
to  him  for  work,  would  never  turn 
him  away.  If  he  had  no  work  for  him 
to  do  he  would  give  him  a  job  any- 
way and  start  some  new  work  to  keep 
him  going.  He  and  his  sons  had  a 
grocery  and  bakery  in  Hamilton, 
where  they  disposed  of  the  products  of 
the  mill.  The  family  is  all  scattered 
now — most  of  them  in  California, 
one  in  England,  and  one,  a  daughter, 
in  Hamilton  on  a  visit.  Close  by  the 
mill  in  the  valley  is  a  great  elm  tree. 
It  has  three  giant  trunks,  springing 
from  one  parent  shoot  at  the  ground 
surface.  It  knows  all  the  history  of 
the  valley,  for  it  was  born  there.  It 
must  know  something  of  the  hill-top 
history,  too,  for  for  many  years  its 
topmost  branches  have  been  kissed  by 
the  sunshine  before  it  threw  its  beams 
over  the  hill.  The  trees  are  among  the 
most  enduring  of  nature's  many  short- 
lived creations  and  more  enduring 
than  man's  best  effort;  if  they  could 
but  speak! 

*    *    * 

There  is  no  one  who  has  lived  In 
Hamilton  a  summer  who  has  not 
heard  of  Brown's  wharf.  If  there  was 
nothing  else  by  which  it  might  be 
identified  than  a  half  sunken  pile, 
water  washed  and  weather  beaten,  it 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


would  still  be  Brown's  wharf,  and  for 
the  reason  that  it  has  a  past  history. 
There  was  a  time,  not  so  very  many 
years  ago,  when  the  old  wharf  was  a 
busy  place,  both  winter  and  summer. 
It  was  built  somewhere  about  forty 
years  ago  by  Alexander  Brown,  an 
early  settler,  and  it  soon  became  the 
shipping  point  for  the  whole  country 
north  of  the  bay.  Those  were  the 
days  when  the  Ontario  Navigation 


for  many  men,  but  the  day  of  coal 
came  and  the  cutting  of  wood  ceased. 
The  steamers  Ocean  and  Persia  were 
two  Hamilton  boats  which  clung  to 
wood  for  fuel  purposes  for  a  longer 
time  than  any  others.  Of  course  the 
wharf  was  a  great  shipping  point.  Be- 
fore the  Intercolonial  railway  was 
built  Sir  William  Rowland's  flour  mills 
at  Waterdown  were  supplying  a  great 
part  of  the  flour  for  the  maritime  prov. 


^-^f"-^^:-  -3:"-—:  r/j"~  ^rlf'-^'^L'-r^ 


j^vy«<r»',^"_V  ~v  •         ^i 
THE    OLD    APPLEGARTH    MILL. 


company's  steamers  (now  the  Riche- 
lieu) came  to  Hamilton.  They  were 
the  days,  too,  when  all  the  lake  boats 
burned  wood,  and  as  the  country 
around  Hamilton  was  heavily  timber- 
ed, they  shipped  much  of  the  fuel  here. 
For  years  Mr.  Brown  had  a  contract 
with  the  Richelieu  people  to  supply 
their  boats  with  fuel,  and  in  one  year 
the  contract  amounted  to  4,500  cords. 
Other  boats  wooded  up  there,  too,  and 
5,000  cords  a  season  was  an  easy  esti- 
mate of  the  amount  taken  from  the 
old  wharf.  The  farmers  worked  at 
the  wood  in  the  winter,  hauling  it  to 
the  wharf,  where  Mr.  Brown  took 
charge  of  it.  It  meant  employment 


inces,  and  it  was  all  shipped  by  boat 
from  Brown's  wharf.  Lumber  was 
another  article  shipped  In  large  quan- 
tities, and  among  the  young  men  who 
earned  a  living  at  that  business  were 
the  White  brothers,  one  of  whom  is 
now  Dr.  White,  of  Hamilton.  They 
were  lumber  measurers  in  those  days, 
laying  foundations  for  future  great- 
ness with  measuring  sticks  in  hand. 
The  lumber  wagons,  drawn  by  great 
Clydesdale  horses,  used  to  come  in 
trains  all  the  way  back  of  Puslinch 
township,  near  Guelph.  With  the  big 
shipping  and  the  presence  of  the  sail- 
ors came  that  time-honored  necessity 
— a  tavern  and  a  bakery.  Their  pro- 


NORTH     OF     HAMILTON      BAY 


73 


prietors  did  big  business  while  the 
boom  was  on;  none  when  it  was  over. 
To-day  the  wharf  is  getting  some- 
what dilapidated  in  appearance.  It  is 
not  out  of  use  entirely,  this  fall  be- 
tween 15,000  and  20,000  barrels  of 
apples  being  shipped  from  there,  but 
it  looks  as  if  it  had  seen  better  days, 
which  it  certainly  has.  It  Is  a  good 
place  for  fishing,  and  that  is  what  it 


is  mostly  used  for  in  these  days  of 
its  degenerateness.  It  may  have 
another  busy  day;  it  may  not.  But 
whatever  happens — whether  it  has  a 
second  youth  or  is  washed  and  beaten 
to  pieces  by  wind  and  wave — it  will 
always  be  known  in  reality,  or  as  a 
memory  of  the  past,  as  Brown's 
wharf.  J.  E.  W. 


VIEW   ALONG   THE   SHORE   OF  LAKE   MEDAD. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


BY     MEDAD  S     MARSHY     SHORES 


OME  60  years  ago 
Richard  Thomson> 
one  of  the  old 
-pioneers  of  East 
-Flamboro,  with 
•William  Rose,  an- 
other old  resident, 
announced  to  his 
•boys,  James  and 
Aleck,  the  Rice 
boys  and  the 
-writer,  that  they 
would  take  us  to 
see  Lake  Medad. 
So  on  a  fine  May 
morning  we  start- 
3d  from  the  front 
edge  of  his  back 
clearing,  lot  3, 
fourm  concession.  On  lot  2  we  di- 
verged into  the  forest,  and  after  some 
delay  struck  a  faint  footpath,  which 
could  not  have  been  retained  long  if 
certain  remembered  landmarks  had 
not  occasionally  appeared  on  the  wind- 
ing path.  There  was  a  large  tree, 
whose  foundation  was  on  a  large  rock 
about  five  feet  high  and  whose  im- 
mense roots  reached  the  ground  down 
the  sides  of  the  rock.  Another  further 
on  was  our  walking  through  a  hollow 
tree,  and  lastly  striking  a  spring,  the 
rivulet  from  which  they  said  was  one 
of  the  feeders  of  the  lake.  On  wind- 
ing up  a  hemlock  ridge  we  emerged 
from  the  woods  into  a  small  clearing, 
the  only  house  visible  being  a  small  log 
one  surrounded  by  fruit  trees  and  oc- 
cupied by  an  old  colored  man  named 
Solomon,  who,  from  the  wonderful 
stories  and  mysterious  doings  related 
to  us  of  him  by  our  guides  impressed 
us  boys  as  being  the  embodiment  of 
his  namesake's  wisdom. 

Some  doubt  arose  then  as  to  where 
we  should  descend  a  precipitous  na- 
tural stone  cliff  that  surrounded  the 
lake  on  that  side,  and  which  probably 
was  not  more  than  30  or  40  feet  high, 
but  to  our  youthful  minds  was  invest- 
ed with  the  dignity  of  a  mountain. 


On  gaining  the  bottom  another  diffi- 
culty arose  as  to  where  we  should 
penetrate  the  dense  forest  to  strike 
the  right  landing,  so  as  to  see  the 
lake  to  the  best  advantage. 

At  last  a  log  in  the  brushwood  was 
discovered,  on  which  we  walked  In- 
dian file,  having  had  direction  to  be 
careful  not  to  step  off  it,  as  the  soil 
was  so  treacherous  that  we  might 
sink  out  of  sight.  Leaving  it  we 
stepped  or  were  lifted  across  danger- 
ous places,  and  forced  our  way 
through  the  thick  underwood,  not  ob- 
serving the  lake  till  we  were  within  a 
few  feet  of  it.  Then,  as  we  had 
fortunately  struck  the  right  wharf  or 
landing,  which  was  a  large  prostrate 
cedar,  fallen,  perhaps,  in  the  1700s, 
and  fully  one-third  protruding  from 
the  bushes  into  the  water.  Its  top 
was  worn  flat  by  constant  use.  Here 
and  there  short  upright  limbs  were 
found,  to  which  in  after  years 
rafts  and  boats  were  tied.  (There  were 
none  at  that  time  about  the  shores.) 

The  great  beauty  of  the  large  ex- 
panse of  clear,  bright,  spring  water 
surrounded  by  the  dark  green  over- 
hanging foliage  of  dense  forest,  was 
a  scene  never  to  be  forgotten,  and 
now  in  after  life  I  confess  that  no 
scene,  not  even  that  of  Niagara  Falls, 
could  be  compared  to  it.  Having  no 
fishing  tackle,  we  had  to  content 
ourselves  with  observing  the  various 
shoals  of  sunfish,  shiners  and  perch, 
and  then  hungry,  tired,  but  happy, 
we  went  home  again.  LANTERN. 


The  description  above  of  Lake  Medad 
as  it  was  sixty  years  ago  would  not  do 
as  a  description  for  to-day.  Not  only 
has  time  but  farm  settlement  changed 
the  appearance  of  things.  Sixty  years 
ago  one  had  to  go  through  dense  woods 
to  reach  the  lake  from  the  fourth  con- 
cession; now  it  would  be  necessary  to 
go  a  considerable  distance  out  of  the 
true  line  to  find  a  woods  dense  enough 


BY     MEDAD'S     MARSHY     SHORES 


75 


1(1  y?i  \  "  #' 
•  i  i'l  i  \  > .  i  * 

>  ifM   ^> 
i*  %••  -  .1  ^ 


76 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


to  hide  cleared  land  on  its  farther  side. 
There  are  boats  on  the  lake  now  and 
a  wharf.  The  old  cliff  spoken  of  is 
still  there,  but  badly  disfigured  by  the 
action  of  both  air  and  light,  for  the 
stone  in  it  is  soft.  About  the  lake 
now  are  farm  houses  and  for  the  most 
part  well  cleared,  well  tilled  farm 
lands.  Down  about  the  lake  edge  and 
all  around  is  the  marsh  land,  soft  and 
soggy  now  as  sixty  years  ago,  and  this 
is  thickly  wooded  with  hemlock,  birch 
and  cedar.  Good  roads  from  all  parts 
of  the  surrounding  country  lead  to  the 
place,  and  it  has  become  a  veritable 
Mecca  for  picnic  parties  during  the 
summer  season. 


*    *    * 


Some  people  have  said  that  Lake 
Medad  is  the  basin  or  crater  of  some 
long  extinct  volcano,  and  the  forma- 
tion pretty  well  justifies  the  belief.  But 
all  that  must  have  been  in  the  days 
even  perhaps  before  Noah  had  occasion 
to  change  his  business  from  farming 
to  navigating.  It  is  a  queer  fact, 
however  it  may  be  accounted  for,  that 
the  lake  basin  is  placed  away  up  on 
the  hills  behind  the  valley  of  the  bay, 
and  that  by  actual  measurement  the 
hard  bottom  is  not  struck  until  a 
depth  of  nearly  80  feet  has  been 
reached.  Of  course  there  is  not  an  80- 
foot  depth  of  water.  The  water  at  its 
•deepest  point  is  never  more  than  20 
feet  deep,  but  there  is  a  substance  be- 
low the  water  that  is  in  many  places 
almost  as  yielding,  and  it  is  through 
this  substance  that  the  greater  depth 
is  reached.  All  .around  the  lake  basin 
is  the  marsh  or  bog  land,  so  soft  in 
places  that  at  this  season  of  the  year 
when  spring  dampness  prevails  a  pole 
may  be  thrust  down  into  it  to  almost 
any  depth  with  the  greatest  ease.  It 
gives  one  a  very  insecure  sensation  to 
walk  on  the  spongy  substance,  but  it  is 
safe  enough,  there  being  no  record  of 
anyone  ever  having  disappeared  be- 
neath its  surface. 

*    *    * 

Around  all  places  where  the  original 
aborigine  of  this  country  has  been 
found  to  have  existed,  we  people  of 
these  latter  days  have  been  pleased  to 
weave  all  sorts  of  mysteries  and  ro- 
mances. Lake  Medad  has  not  been 
left  alone  in  this  respect,  and  the  im- 
aginative mind  will  be  able  to  fairly 
revel  in  myth  and  legend  about  its 
banks,  on  its  placid  waters,  in  its 
dense  adjoining  swamp  growth  or  on 
the  hill  to  the  south  overlooking  it  all 


—that  same  hill  down  which  Lantern 
and  his  friend  clambered  some  60  years 
ago.  For  Lake  Medad  and  its  imme- 
diate vicinity  was  in  one  age  of  the 
world's  history  one  of  the  great  gath- 
ering places  of  the  original  Indian 
peoples.  They  seemed  to  have  been 
fascinated  with  the  spot  and  not  only 
lived  but  buried  their  dead  there.  No 
doubt  they  had  their  legends  and  stor- 
ies regarding  its  even  earlier  history 
and  formation,  and  it  is  a  pity  some 
record  of  their  knowledge  has  not  been 
handed  down  to  us  of  this  day.  As  it 
is,  the  place  is  most  interesting  to  the 
relic  hunter,  and  many  a  valuable  In- 
dian find  has  been  made  around  there. 
Rut  that  is  another  story. 


There  is  one  thing  which  the  trav- 
eler to  Lake  Medad  cannot  fail  to  note 
as  he  walks,  rides  or  drives  over  the 
winding-  road.  A  short  distance  be- 
yond Waterdown  he  passes  over  a 
bridge  spanning  a  swift-running  creek, 
the  waters  of  which  are  tumbling  over 
the  stones  in  a  mad  race  for  their  final 
absorption  in  Hamilton  bay.  But  a 
short  distance  further  along  the  road 
he  crosses  another  bridge  over  another 
creek,  whose  waters  are  turned  in  the 
opposite  direction  and  seek  their  out- 
let in  Lake  Medad.  Somewhere  be- 
tween these  two  points  is  the  great 
ridge;  the  backbone  of  the  hills,  mak- 
ing the  fall  north  and  south.  The 
waters  that  tumble  into  the  bay 
have  this  advantage  over  the 
waters  flowing  into  Lake  Medad — they 
remain  in  full  view  of  all  the  world 
till  they  reach  the  ocean. 


And  now  gather  the  children  about 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  when 
creeping  shadows  grow  longer  and 
longer  and  the  world  without  looks 
weird  and  ghost-like,  and  tell  them 
this,  in  a  deep  sepulchral  tone  and 
with  eyes  wide  open:  The  waters  flow 
into  the  lake  and  are  never  seen  again. 
They  rush  on  in  high  glee,  dancing 
over  the  stones  in  the  creek  bed, 
sparkling  in  the  bright  sunlight,  play- 
ing tag  about  the  little  eddies,  never 
thinking  for  a  moment  of  their  ter- 
rible fafe  until  suddenly  they  find 
themselves  swallowed  up  in  the  lake 
expanse  and  can  find  no  way  of  es- 
cape. Night  comes  and  the  wind 
sighs  through  the  marsh  trees  making 
uncanny  sounds;  the  imprisoned 


BY      MEDAD'S     MARSHY     SHORES 


77 


INDIAN   RELICS. 

1— Clay  pipe  found  at  Lake  Medad. 

2— Totem  pipe. 

3 — Totem  pipe  of  death's  head. 

4 — Brass  ring  found  on  10th  concession  of  East  Flam- 
boro,  probably  received  from  a  French  priest  200  years 
ago.  . 


5 — Iron  bracelet,  Lake  Medad. 
6 — Flint  spear  head, 5  inches  long. 
7— Red  pipestone  necklace.  •*  **• 
8— Blue-green  glass  bead  necklace. 
9 — Conch  shell  necklace. 


waters  lap  the  boggy  shore  in  mourn- 
ful melancholy;  other  waters  come 
rushing  in,  just  as  they  did,  thought- 
less and  joyous,  and  they  give  way, 
sinking  to  the  depths,  never  to  be 
seen  again.  For  though  Lake  Medad 
takes  all  the  waters  it  can  get  it 
never  willingly  gives  up  any,  so  far 
as  mortal  eye  can  see.  Down  below 
somewhere  there  may  be  an  outlet, 
and  in  some  dark  subterranean  pas- 
sage, some  great  fissure  in  the  founda- 
tion rocks  of  the  earth,  it  may  escape, 
but  to  where  no  one  knows.  The  lake 
takes  and  takes,  but  never  gives. 


It  has  been  a  popular  delusion  with 
many  people  that  to  fall  into  the  lake 
meant  sure  disappearance  for  good. 
This  is  not  so.  Twice  in  the  history 
of  this  generation  have  the  waters 
there  claimed  human  victims,  but  in 
both  cases  the  bodies  have  been  yield- 
ed up  again  after  a  brief  period.  In 
both  cases  the  drowned  ones  were 


skaters — boys  who  ventured  on  the  ice 
when  it  was  not  safe.  In  fact  the 
bog  bottom  is  stable  enough  to  hold 
tools  that  have  been  dropped  in  by 
the  ice  cutters  during  the  winter,  and 
in  summer  picnic  parties  go  in  bath- 
ing along  the  shore  without  danger 
of  disappearance  in  the  soft  bottom. 


When  the  water-power  for  the 
Waterdown  mills  began  to  fail  some 
years  ago  it  was  thought  by  the 
Waterdown  people  that  if  they  dug  a 
canal  from  Lake  Medad  to  the  Water- 
down  creeks  they  would  be  sure  to 
have  a  perpetual  and  efficient  water 
supply.  So  sure  were  they  that  the 
canal  was  dug  and  opened,  but  the 
vain  hope  of  the  men  who  did  the 
voork  was  never  realised.  At  first  there 
was  a  great  rush  of  water  and  every- 
thing went  well,  but  very  soon  the 
lake  level  dropped  to  the  level  of  the 
bottom  of  the  canal  and  no  more  water 
came.  This  showed  that  though  many 


78 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


springs  and  creeks  ran  into  the  lake, 
sufficient  to  keep  it  full,  it  would 
stand  no  large  draw  off  and  was  quite 
well  able  to  dispose  of  all  its  own 
surplus  in  its  own  way,  whatever  that 
way  is.  And  so  the  Waterdown  people 
were  disappointed  and  had  to  turn  to 
steam-power  for  their  salvation  and 
the  lake  saved  itself.  It  has  to  give 
up  some  of  itself  in  the  winter  time, 
though,  for  there  is  no  ice  to  the  farm- 
ers round  those  parts  like  Lake  Me- 
dad  ice,  and  there  are  busy  scenes 
there  during  the  ice  harvest  season.  - 


And   now,   in   this   day,   when   every- 


thing in  the  shape  of  natural 
beauty  is  sacrificed  for  the  sake  of 
utility,  some  utilitarian  has  discover- 
ed that  the  bog  of  the  lake  is  rich  with 
Portland  cement  mlarl,  and  that  there 
is  enormous  wealth  in  it.  A  Hamilton 
company  has  been  formed  and  there 
is  promise  that  at  some  day  not  far 
distant  the  spot,  so  long  saved  in  its 
natural  beauty,  will  become  the  seat 
of  an  industry;  that  the  hand  of  the 
capitalists,  careless  of  everything  save 
wealth,  will  destroy  the  last  traces  of 
original  loveliness  about  the  place  and 
that  the  Lake  Medad  of  old  will  live 
only  as  a  memory. 

J    .  E.  W. 


1 — Bone  necklace,  Dr.  McGregor. 

2 — Tally  bone,  Dr.  McGregor. 

3— Grooved  necklace  bone,  G.  Allison. 

4— Indian  scalps,  Lake  Medad,  G.  Allison. 
5  -Grey  granite  axes,  early  make,  Dr.  McGregor. 
6 — Perforated  granite  axes,  later  make,  Dr.  Mc- 
Gregor. 


7— Conch  shell,  breastplate,  Dr.  McGregor. 

8— Curiously   marked    slate   gorget,   or  breast 

plate,  Dr.  McGregor. 

9— Highly  polished  green  slate  totem,  Dr.  Mc- 
Gregor. 

10— Hunting  arrowhead. 
11 — War  arrowhead. 


. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


AT-TI-WAN-DAR-O-NI-A 


No  wigwam  smoke  is  curling  there; 
The  very  earth  is  scorched  and  bare, 
And  they  pause  and  listen  to  catch  a 

sound 
Of  breathing  life,  but  there  comes  not 

one. 
Save     the    fox's    bark  and  the  rabbits 

bound.  •    ' 

— Whittier. 

*  *    * 

T-TI-WAN-DAR- 
O-NI-A,  thou  land 
of  the  fierce  and 
warlike  At-ti- 
wan-dar-o  n, 
win  ere  are  thy 
children  now,  and 
who  can  write 
their  nation's  his- 
tory? If  thy 
great  forest  trees, 
[with  proudly  wav, 
ling  tops  with- 
standing tempest 
blasts  of  many 
centuries,  could 
only  speak  their 
'!/J  story  it  would 
enrich  the  coun- 
try's history.  Could  but  a  voice  intel- 
ligible be  given  the  lapping  -waves  of 
these  thy  mighty  inland  waters,  tales 
might  be  told  to  feed  the  fancy  of  a 
multitude.  Tales  of  life  in  days  and 
times  unknown,  unheard  of;  before  the 
Indian  age,  when  peoples  of  great 
tribes  now  extinct  both  in  name  and 
nature,  peopled  thy  broad  and  fertile 
acres,  lived  out  their  little  spans  of 
life,  fulfilled  their  missions  in  the 
strange  economy  of  nature  and  pass- 
ing from  the  stage  of  action  were  lost 
— forgotten.  At-ti-wan-dar-o-ni-a,  who 
were  thy  peoples?  What  their  his- 
tories? And  At-ti-wan-dar-o-ni-a  an- 
swers not,  save  by  the  unintelligible 
babblings  of  her  many  brooks,  the  lap- 
ping waves  along  her  sandy  shores 
and  mournful  music  from  her  giant 
trees  as  tempest  blasts  rush  through 

them. 

*  *    * 

La  Salle,  the  lion  hearted,  brave  ex- 


9 


plorer,  has  told  of  At-ti-wan-dar-o-ni-a. 
He  penetrated  its  forests,  sailed  over 
its  waters,  and,  if  history  be  correct, 
actually  came  to  Lake  Medad,  where 
he  found  a  great  encampment  of  its 
people.  The  early  Jesuit  missionaries 
followed  and  spent  long  winters  in  its 
great  forests,  learned  the  native 
language  and  listened  to  the  old  men 
of  the  tribes  repeat  the  stories  of  their 
race  as  handed  to  them  by  their  fath- 
ers. They  listened  to  the  legends,  too; 
stories  of  history  then  grown  so  anci- 
ent that  even  the  Indians  themselves 
in  telling  them  would  not  vouch  at  all 
times  for  their  truthfulness.  They  had 
no  written  language,  these  early  peo- 
ples; no  way  of  saving  records  but  by 
the  telling  of  the  story  from  father  to 
son,  thus  down  from  generation  to  gen- 
'  eration  until  all  was  lost,  save  the 
scraps  gathered  by  the  Jesuits  and 
other  early  pioneers  and  saved  by  them 
in  writing.  What  we  know  now  of 
them  can  be  but  guessed  at  by  the 
relics  found  within  their  graves.  They 
are  a  race  almost  entirely  lost  to  his- 
tory. 

*    *    * 

Authentic  records  tell  us  that  these 
At-ti-wan-dar-o-ni-a  were  a  mighty 
race.  They  peopled  all  the  land  with- 
in Niagara's  fruitful  peninsula  and 
many  miles  upon  the  American  side. 
It  is  told  that  they  were  warlike,  too, 
and  battled  much  with  tribes  upon 
the  west  and  south  of  their  lands.  Yet 
they  were  peaceful  with  their  north- 
ern and  eastern  neighbors,  the  Hurons 
and  Iroquois,  and  would  not  enter  into 
.conflict  with  them,  gaining  for  them- 
selves by  this  the  name  of  neutrals. 
Though  the  Hurons  and  Iroquois  were 
always  at  war,  it  was  an  understood 
thing  that  when  they  met  upon  At-ti- 
wan-dar-on  territory  both  were  safe 
and  no  fighting  was  to  be  done.  But 
an  evil  day  came  to  the  Neutrals.  They 
had  practically  exterminated  a  Michi- 
gan tribe  of  Indians  in  one  of  their 
western  raids  early  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  in  a  very  few  years  were 


82 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


EARLY    JESUIT    MAP. 


treated  to  the  same  fate  themselves. 
The  Iroquois  became  jealous  of  them 
and  seizing  as  an  excuse  for  hostili- 
ties the  fact  that  the  Neutrals  had 
granted  some  favor  to  the  Hurons, 
made  war  upon  them,  practically  wip- 
ing them  out  of  existence,  at  any  rate 
as  an  important  power.  It  was  thus 
in  Indian  life  that  each  gave  place  to 
each,  not  in  a  peaceful  way  but  with 
war  and  bloodshed.  It  was  thus  that 
the  wind-dried,  sun-scorched  At-ti- 
wan-dar-on  hunters  and  warriors  of  the 
peninsula  came  to  be  regarded  by  the 
Indian  orators  of  that  day  as  the  dead 
leaves  of  the  forest,  withered  and  scat- 
tered abroad.  As  they  had  given,  so 
they  took  the  inhuman,  horrible  tor- 
tures inflicted  upon  them  by  their  con- 
querors with  stoical  indifference,  en- 
during without  a  murmur  the  pains  of 
torment  until,  when  overcome  by  sheer 
exhaustion,  they  would  fall  or  become 
insensible  and  a  murderous  stone  or 
flint  tomahawk  would  cleave  their 
skulls. 

*    *    * 

The  old  map  printed  herewith  forms 


a  link  between  the  busy  present  and 
long-forgotten  past  about  this  neigh- 
borhood. It  is  a  map  made  by  the 
Jesuits  and  the  comments  upon  it  in 
the  French  tongue  are  those  of  these 
early  workers  for  the  church.  There 
is  Lake  "Erie  at  the  bottom,  the  wind- 
ing Grand  river  to  the  left,  the  rush- 
ing Niagara  to  the  right  and  Lake  On- 
tario on  the  north,  with  Hamilton  bay 
nestling  in  between.  The  comments 
regarding  land  and  hunting  are  very 
explicit.  In  the  lower  left  hand  cor- 
ner, so  the  map  says,  there  is  excellent 
land,  while  higher  up  it  is  inclined  to 
be  low  and  marshy.  Away  up  again 
— possibly  the  land  beneath  the  Flam- 
boro  heights — the  comment  is  fairly 
good  land.  There  is  but  one  village 
marked  on  the  map  and  it  occupies  a 
position  suspiciously  close  to  Lake 
Medad.  A  comment  says  that  it  was 
at  this  village  and  about  it  that  there 
was  grand  hunting,  and  this  can  be 
readily  believed,  for  game  of  all  sorts 
—big  and  little — would  naturally  seek 
its  quiet  sides  at  all  seasons  as  a 
watering  place. 


AT-TI-WAN-DAR-0-NI-A 


KB 


84 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


This  bank  in  which  tJh-e  dead  were  laid 
Was  sacred  when  its  soil  was  ours; 

But  now   the  wheat   is  green  and  hiffh 
On  clods  that  hid  the  warrior's  breast, 

And  scattered   in   the  furrows  lie 
The  weapons  of  his  rest. 


No  man  can  know  Indian  history 
without  a  reference  to  the  relics  of  the 
Indian  age.  No  county  in  Canada  is 
more  prolific  of  Indian  relics  than  this 
county  of  Wentworth,  and  no  part  of 
the  county  furnishes  better  results  for 
the  relic  hunters  than  that  part  now 
known  as  the  Flamboros  and  Beverly. 
Not  every  man  has  a  taste  for  relic 
hunting;  with  some  men  it  is  a  mania. 
Some  of  the  men  with  the  mania  live 
about  the  village  of  Waterdown  and 
they  have  learned  to  love  their  pastime 
by  their  visits  to  Lake  Medad  and  its 
vicinity.  There  are  relic  collections  in 
and  about  Waterdown  that  are  worth 
thousands  of  dollars  and  will  be  in- 
valuable historically  before  many 
years.  For  it  must  be  remembered 
that  as  the  years  have  gone  by  the 
old  Indian  mementos  have  been  un- 
earthed rapidly  and  valuable  finds  are 
even  now  few  and  far  between.  Geo. 
Allison  is  one  of  the  most  enthusiastic 
of  Waterdown' s  Indian  relic  hunters 
and  his  collection  is  one  well  worth 
spending  many  hours  with.  Dr.  Mc- 
Gregor, the  warden  of  Wentworth 
county,  is  another  enthusiastic  collect- 
or, but  he  has  never  yet  had  time  to 
get  his  collection  in  shape.  The  late 
Luke  Mullock,  who  began  collecting  in 
1865,  left  another  large  and  interesting 
collection  at  the  time  of  his  death  four 
years  ago. 

*    *    * 

But  why  write  of  the  Indians  as  a 
race  that  is  past  and  dead?  Men  in 
this  day  are  interested  only  in  persons 
and  things  that  appear  as  in  the  pres- 
ent. Let  the  vision  of  the  past  en- 
shroud you  until  it  lives  again  in  your 
minds  as  an  active  present.  Come  in 
ycur  vision  to  Lake  Medad,  and,  un- 
noticed, watch.  This  is  the  year  1600 
and  the  face  of  the  virgin  earth  is  as 
yet  practically  unchanged  by  man's 
hand  or  design.  A  great  forest  sur- 
rounds the  little  lake,  and  in  the  forest 
shade  roam  the  animals  of  the  earth — 
deer,  bears,  wolfs,  foxes — all  these  and 
others  too.  The  waters  of  the  lake 
sparkle  in  the  sunlight  and  in  its  clear 
depths  reflects  the  passing  cloud,  the 
faces  of  the  Indians  who  come  to  rob 
it  of  its  abundance,  or  of  the  many  ani- 


mals who  clamber  down  the  rocky 
paths  to  reach  its  edge  and  slake  their 
thirst.  Back  from  the  lake  and  on 
the  hiil  overlooking  it  from  the  north- 
east are  habitations.  Not  houses  but 
teepees,  conical  shaped  and  made  of 
skins  roughly^  sewn  together  with 
needles  such  as  are  shown  in  the  pic- 
ture. In  semi-circle  the  teepees  are 
placed,  just  as  the  crosses  on  the  pic- 
ture show,  the  only  opening  being  that 
toward  the  lake.  It  is  early  fall  and 
all  the  villagers  are  home.  The  child- 
ren play  around  upon  the  grass  in 
nature's  g*arb,  the  men,  too,  play  and 
nature's  garb  adorns  their  persons  also. 
But  their  play  is  not  the  play  of  child- 
ren. They  are  gamesters,  and  in  their 
Indian  games  they  risk  all  they  pos- 
sess, even  sometimes  themselves. 
Where  did  they  get  their  gaming 
tendencies?  No  one  knows.  Mayhap 
'twas  born  inherent  in  the  human  race 
frcm  Adam's  day.  At  any  rate  the 
Indian  was  no  worse,  no  better,  than 
the  white  man  who  followed  him,  in 
this  particular. 

*    *    * 

The  women  are  the  only  ones  at 
work.  They  are  also  the  only  ones 
who  boast  of  clothing,  wearing  about 
their  thighs  a  skin  or  woven  covering, 
showing  the  inherent  shame  of  Mother 
Eve,  come  down  through  many  cen- 
turies. They  are  seated  on  the  ground 
and  before  them  are  great  rough  stones 
hollowed  out  in  the  center — mortars  in 
which  the  corn  is  ground  and  which 
the  picture  illustrates.  (Mr.  Allison 
has  a  curiosity  in  his  front  yard  at 
Waterdown  to-day  in  the  shape  of  a 
great  stone  about  five  feet  long  and  a 
foot  thick  with  several  mortar  holes  in 
it.  It  is  a  relic  of  this  Indian  village 
locality.)  It  comes  evening  in  the  vil- 
lage and  the  fires  are  lighted.  Why? 
To  keep  away  the  prowling  wolf,  the 
bear  and  other  -animals.  The  sun  goes 
down,  its  last  light  glinting  through 
the  forest  trees;  shadows  lengthen,  and 
in  an  hour  the  mournful  murmur  of 
the  night  breeze  is  heard  gently  sway- 
ing the  tree  tops  and  fanning  the 
flames  of  the  camp  fires.  The  moon 
comes  up  in  all  her  silver  glory,  the 
stars  shine  brightly,  blinking  in  the 
faces  of  the  Indian  children  lying  on 
their  backs  and  gazing  heavenward  in 
infantile  wonderment  at  the  grand  dis- 
play. "What  are  these  lights?"  they 
ask  of  the  old  men,  and  the  old  men 
answer  that  they  are  the  lights  of  the 
gmat  spirit  land. 


AT-TI-WAN-DAR-O-NI-A 


A  yelping  howl  sounds  through  the 
still  air,  making  the  children  shiver, 
the  mothers  start  and  the  men  look 
that  their  weapons  are  at  hand.  It  is 
the  wolf's  snarling  cry.  The  night 
birds  skim  swiftly  through  the 
shadowed  air;  they  call  to  each  other 
from  the  trees.  There  is  a  crackling  of 
branches  down  by  the  lake  on  its 
farther  side  and  it  tells  of  some  wild 
animal  disputing  human  rights  to 
forest  territory,  and  coming  to  the  lake 
for  water.  The  strange,  uncanny 
sounds  of  night;  the  paradox  of  forest 
stillness.  Sleep  comes  and  with  it  rest, 
except  to  him  who  watches.  And  this 
is  At-ti-wan-dar-o-ni-a,  in  miniature 
and  in  a  single  phase  of  life,  so  many 
sided  within  its  borders. 
*  *  * 

Another  day  comes — another  phase 
of  life  in  At-ti-wan-dar-o-ni-a.  There 
are  rushings  to  and  fro  wiithin  the  vil- 
lage. With  paint  stones  rubbing  the 
men,  the  warriors  are  decorating  their 
faces.  The  chiefs  are  assembling,  the 
war  chant  is  being  sung.  A  foreign 
southern  tribe  is  pressing  toward  the 
borders  of  their  land  and  the  signal 
for  conflict  has  come.  The  days  of 
fasting  are  over,  the  chiefs  come  out 
and  lead  thetir  forces  off,  through  for- 
est, up  hill  and  down,  along  valleys, 
free  and  easy  in  march  while  in  their 
own  territory,  catlike  and  wary  when 
following  strange  and  unknown  paths 
in  the  land  of  the  enemy.  They  meet 
in  conflict.  "With  stone  tomahawk  and 
cruel  flint-headed  war  arrow  they  bat- 
tle. Here  is  a  brave  in  whose  breast 
an  arrow  shaft  sticks.  An  At-ti-wan- 
dar-o-ni  rushes  up,  pulls  it  out — head- 
less. The  jagged  flint  head  remains 
within  the  wound  to  hurry  death. 


Scalps  are  torn  from  heads  of  dying 
warriors,  prisoners  are  taken.  The 
enemy  routed.  Homeward  they  go,  re- 
joicing in  victory,  and  long  before 
they  reach  the  confines  of  the  peaceful 
Medad  village  the  children,  women 
and  old  men  have  heard  and  hurry  out 
to  meet  them.  For  days  the  song  of 
victory  fills  the  air  and  echoes  from 
the  hills.  It  is  a  mournful  sound,  this 
cry  of  rejoicing,  to  the  sad-hearted 
prisoners.  They  know  some  awful  fate 
awaits  them  and  they  steel  their  brave 
hearts  to  meet  it.  Here  is  an  At-tt- 
wan-dar-o-ni-a  mother  whose  only  son 
was  slain  in  the  battle.  She  picks  out 
the  noblest  of  the  prisoners  as  a  sac- 
rifice for  his  death.  The  stake  Is 
driven,  the  pile  of  tinder  wood  piled 
high  around  it.  The!  day  comes.  From 
his  confinement  lashed  to  a  tree  and 
guarded  by  the  ever  watchful  braves 
the  captive  is  led  forth.  He  is  bound 
to  the  stake  and  the  old  woman,  with 
glowing,  heated  stones,  singes  his 
limbs.  He  is  spit  upon,  cruel  thrusts 
are  made  into  his  quivering  body 
with  sharp  spear  points.  Hours  pass 
and  still  the  preliminary  torture  con- 
tinues. Blood  streams  from  the  cap- 
tive's many  wounds,  but  cry  out  he 
will  not.  With  face  firm  set  and  rigid 
form  he  stands,  voiceless  and  emotion- 
less. At  last  the  fire  brand  is  applied; 
quick  shoot  the  flames  about  his  weak- 
ening form,  the  sickening  odor  of  his 
burning  flesh  seems  but  to  add  a  fury 
more  intense  to  the  fiendishness  of  his 
tormentors.  His  head  bends  forward, 
and  as  it  does  the  tomahawk  crashes 
into  his  skull  and  all  is  over.  Thus 
passes  another  day,  another  phase  of 
life  in  fair  At-ti-wan-dar-o-ni-a. 

J.  E.  W. 


PESTLE    AND    MORTAR  (Two  Feet  in  Diameter). 
G.  Allison  Collection. 


CHAPTER  XV 


INDIAN     RELICS     AND     REMAINS 


"A  warrior  race,   but  they  are   gone, 
With    their   old    forests,     wide      and 

deep; 
And  we  .have  built  our  .homes  upon 

Fields  where  their  generations  sleep. 

Their  rivers   slake  our   thirst  at  noon, 

Upon  their  fields  our  harvest  waves: 

Our  lovers  woo   beneath  their   moon — 

Ah,    let    us  spare,     at     least,      their 

graves." 

— Bryant. 
*    *    * 

When  we     left     At-ti-wan-dar-o-ni-a 
and  its  people  last  week  there  was  war 
in  the  land.     Victory  had  come  to  the 
At-ti-wan-dar-ons,  and     the    savagery 
of  the  people  was  being  shown  in  the 
torment  to  which  they  subjected  their 
captives.    It  reads  unreal;  pity  it  were 
not.     All    that   has   been   written,    and 
more,  but  poorly  describes    that    bar- 
barity characteristic  of  the  Indian  na- 
ture.    But   there   are   other   phases   of 
life  in  At-ti-wan-dar-o-ni-a  more  pleas- 
ant to  view,  happier  to  describe.    It  is 
winter  and   deep   snows   cover   mother 
earth.     The  forest  trees  are  bare  and 
the  Indians  have  deserted  their  teepees 
and  taken  to  the  lodge  houses.    These, 
built  of  bark  and  skins,  were  the  rudest 
sort  of  protection   from  the   cold,   and 
in  them  lived  the  population  of  the  vil- 
lage.      Through     those     long     winter 
months  the  men  hunt  and  the  women 
and    men,    too,    spend    their    idle    time 
making     amulets,     totems    and     other 
trinkets.  The  men  are  fond  of  smoking, 
and  their  time  is  spent  largely  in  shap- 
ing stone  pipes  and  drilling  out  their 
stems.     It   is   a   time   of   peace   within 
the  village  and  also  a  time   of  suffer- 
ing.      There     are     no     stovepipes     in 
the  rude  lodge  house,  and  from  end  to 
end    the   air   is     heavily     laden     with 
pungent  smoke  from   the  several  fires 
smouldering  on  the  hard  ground  floor. 
Eyes  may  smart,  but  there  is  no  help 
for  it  unless  the  suffering  one  is  will- 
ing to  rush  out  in  the  cold,  icy  air  and 
there  endure  another  sort  of  suffering. 
Sometimes  the  snows  are  too  deep  for 
hunting,  and  poverty,  even  to  starva- 
tion, comes  to  the  camp.     Then  again 
the  life  of  filth  and  dirt  breeds  pestil- 


ence, and  smallpox  carries  off  its  vic- 
tims by  the  hundred,  sometimes  de- 
vastating every  lodge  within  the  na- 
tion's limits.  No  happy  life  is  theirs 
at  times  like  these.  And  this  is  another 
phase  of  At-ti-wan-dar-on  life. 

Then  came  the  Jesuits,  following 
close  upon  the  French  explorers,  and 
the  end  of  Indian  life  drew  near.  For 
a  glittering  glass  bead  the  red  man 
would  give  up  in  exchange  furs  and 
skins  of  greatest  value.  His  eye  was 
always  for  the  bauble,  and  he  had  no 
real  appreciation  of  commercial  val- 
ues. In  a  recent  address  at  a  Cana- 
dian club  banquet  Sanford  Evans 
talked  of  men  being  subdued  by 
nature.  In  truth  this  could  be  said 
of  Indian  character.  Of  nature  the 
Indian  asked  nothing  more  than  he 
needed  for  himself  and  each  day's  sub- 
sistence. He  was  content  to  let  the 
forest  remain,  the  treasures  of  the 
rocks  lie  uncovered,  the  cataract  run 
on  unharnessed,  the  fields  continue  in 
almost  virgin  fertility.  His  present 
needs  supplied,  it  mattered  little  to 
him  what  happened  or  what  came 
after.  When  civilisation  did  appear  his 
heart  was  broken.  He  was  a  remnant 
of  another  time,  his  life  wrapped  up  in 
memories  of  other  and  to  him  far  bet- 
ter days.  English  succeeded  French, 
and  the  Indian,  robbed  of  his  lands, 
was  placed  upon  reserves  or  driven 
with  the  wild  animals  of  his  native 
forests  away  north  and  west  where 
civilisation's  march  had  not  disturbed 
the  original  face  of  things,  and  where 
he  might  die  as  he  had  lived,  and  as 
his  fathers,  too,  had  done  before  him, 
a  savage,  free  and  unfettered.  In  how 
many  a  white  man's  heart  there  some- 
times comes  that  Indian  yearning  for 
freedom;  for  a  getting  away  from  the 
conventionalities  prescribed  in  civilisa- 
tion's law,  binding  men  down  by  rule 
and  precept  to  a  course  of  life  to  them 
distasteful  and  unnatural. 

*    *    * 

The  Landscape  on  another  page  is  but 
a  short  distance  from  the  Indian  vil- 


INDIAN      RELICS     AND     REMAINS 


S7 


»N  Hi  V  \  \\\\\>\\\  'xV5\r>  <  «  -»:       V 
$l  M in  v\\X Vi v  C a\^)^  f^'-^  x   '• 


88 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


1— Bone  and  shell  necklace. 

2 — Colored  glass  necklace. 

3 — Glass  necklace. 

4— Perfect  specimen  soapstone  pipe. 


5 — Colored  flint  spear  heads. 
6— Small  totem  pipe. 

7  to  10— Specimens  of  pottery  patterns  showing  reg- 
ular designs. 


lage  shown  last  week.  It  is  quite  near 
to  Lake  Medad  and  has  been  at  one 
time  a  great  burying  ground  among 
the  At-ti-wan-dar-ons.  They  had  queer 
ideas,  these  Indians,  in  the  burying  of 
their  dead.  When  the  spirit  of  the 
brave  fled  from  its  clay  prison,  that 
clay  was  allowed  to  remain  where  it 
was  in  the  teepee,  and  for  weeks  and 
even  months  the  relatives  would  con- 
tinue their  mourning  in  the  teepee  un- 
til the  stench  from  the  body  compelled 
its  removal.  They  had  no  respect  for 
the  flesh,  but  adored  the  bones  of  their 
dead,  and  when  at  last  the  bodies  were 
taken  from  the  teepees  they  were 
pk.ced  in  mid  air,  strapped  to  planks 
suspended  between  tall  poles,  far 
erough  away  from  the  ground  to  keep 
away  wild  animals  who  would  destroy 
the  bones  and  beautifully  convenient 
for  the  eagles,  crows  and  other  car- 
rion birds  who  would  pick  those  bones 
clean  and  leave  them  to  be  whitened 
by  the  air,  sun  and  rain.  After  this 
would  come  the  great  burial  time. 
The  bones  of  many  a  brave  would  be 


gathered  in  a  heap  and  carried  with  all 
care  and  solemnity  to  the  burial  field, 
there  to  be  interred.  In  with  the  bones 
were  buried  the  weapons  of  the  war- 
rior, his  wampun  strings,  his  totem 
pipes,  his  beads,  and  other  trinkets. 
Mother  earth  thus  covered  his  remains 
and  they  saw  not  the  light  of  day 
again  till  the  relic  hunter,  to  whom 
even  graves  are  not  sacred,  found 
them  out.  It  is  a  queer  thing,  too, 
how  the  discoveries  of  these  Indian 
ossuaries  are  made.  The  plow  has  un- 
covered many  a  pile,  particularly  in 
dry  seasons  when  the  steel  cuts  deep 
in  the  soil.  Perhaps  one  of  the  most 
peculiar  unearthings,  and  one  giving 
positive  proof  of  antiquity,  was  made 
by  one  of  the  Waterdown  collectors 
some  few  years  ago.  The  collector 
was  out  looking  for  relics  when  he 
came  across  a  great  tree  recently 
blown  down  and  torn  out  by  the  roots. 
In  the  hole  where  the  trunk  had  been 
he  began  digging  out  of  curiosity,  and 
soon  unearthed  an  ossuary,  finding 
many  bones  and  many  relics.  The  tree 


INDIAN     RELICS     AND     REMAINS 


89 


Is  believed  to  have  been  all  of  150 
years  old,  and  how  long  it  was  before 
it  began  to  push  its  little  leaves  above 
the  earth  that  the  bones  were  buried 
can  only  be  guessed  at. 


It  has  often  been  remarked  that 
many  of  the  relics  found  about  Water- 
down  are  of  stone  and  shell  uncommon 


world's  history  discovered  the  rich  cop- 
per mines  there  and  worked  them. 
From  these  Indians  would  come  the 
stones  and  shells,  and  the  At-ti-wan- 
dar-ons  would  spend  their  spare'  time 
shaping  them  with  rude  tools.  It  has 
also  been  a  matter  for  much  conjec- 
ture how  they  managed  to  drill  the 
holes  of  the  pipe  stem  for  several 
inches  through  the  solid  stone.  Re- 


1,  2  and  3 — Copper  charms. 
5,  6  and  7— Totem  pipes. 


4— Bone  needle. 
8 — Metal  fish  book. 


in  these  parts,  and  the  question  has 
always  been.  Where  did  the  At-ti- 
wan-dar-ons  get  them?  The  most 
probable  solution  of  the  problem  is  that 
they  were  secured  in  trade  or  in  battle 
with  the  Indians  of  the  south  and  west 
of  the  continent.  It  is  known  that  the 
southern  Indians — those  who  inhabited 
the  land  around  the  Gulf  of  Mexico 
and  had  plenty  of  the  famous  conch 
shells,  came  as  far  north  as  Lake  Su- 
perior. Indians  at  some  stage  of  the 


search  has  pretty  well  proven  that  this 
v.as  done  with  some  hollow,  hardened 
leed,  fine  sand  and  water,  the  reed 
being  used  as  a  drill  and  the  sharp 
sand  to  cut  the  stone.  The  process  was 
necessarily  slow,  and  it  must  have 
taken  months  to  drill  the  stems  of 
some  of  the  pipes  they  made. 


The      Indian      love     of    finery     and 
baubles    was    quickly    seized    upon    by 


9o 


\V  EN  T\VOKTH       LANDMARKS 


the  French  explorers  and  traders,  and 
there  can  be  no- doubt  but  that  the 
cheap  glass  beads  found  in  many  of 
the  ossuaries  were  accepted  in  ex- 
change for  articles  thousands  of  times 
their  value  in  the  European  and  other 
markets.  These  beads  must  have  been 
made  in  France  specially  for  the  In- 
dian trade,  as  from  their  pattern,  size 
and  shape  they  never  could  have  been 
popular  in  the  old  world.  They  are  of 
the  commonest  glass,  some  striped  in 
many  colors,  others  plain.  Some  are 
round  and  others  long  and  tubular. 
The  Jesuit  missionaries  left  their  Im- 
print and  the  memory  of  the  Nazarene 
there,  too,  for  on  some  totem  pipes  the 
shape  of  a  rude  cross  is  to  be  found 
chipped  in  the  stone,  and  brass  rings 
with  the  cross  on  have  also  been  found. 


One  of  the  most  gruesome  finds  ever 
made  near  Medad  was  that  of  a  skull 
with  a  portion  of  the  scalp  and  hair 
clinging  to  it.  Mr.  Allison  was  the 
finder.  He  was  digging  one  day  in  an 
old  ossuary,  when  he  discovered  an 
old  metal  pot  turned  upside  down. 
On  raising  this  he  found  beneath  the 
skull,  scalp  and  hair,  along  with  some 
spearheads  and  other  relics.  Another 
curious  incident  in  relic  hunting  oc- 
curred to  Dr.  McGregor.  One  day 
several  years  ago  he  found  a  broken 
pipe.  The  stem  was  gone  and  a  pecu- 
liar thing  about  the  bowl  was  that  it 
had  some  tobacco  leaf  in  it.  Several 
years  afterward  another  collector  was 
looking  at  the  doctor's  broken  bowl 
and  remarked  that  he  had  the  stem 
for  it.  Sure  enough  the  stem  was 
produced  from  his  collection,  fitting 
the  break  in  the  bowl  exactly.  It  had 
been  found  at  a  different  time  and  in 
a  different  ossuary. 


From  the  southern  Indians  the  At- 
ti-wan-dar-ons  most  likely  learned  all 
they  knew  of  pottery  making  and  they 
have  left  some  rude  specimens  in  clay 
of  the  work  they  did.  Very  few  per- 
fect clay  bowls  are  now  found,  they 
being  most  of  them  broken  by  the 
plows  when  they  are  turned  over.  The 
picture  which  appears  at  the  end  of  this 
article  represents  a  very  recent  find 
in  the  sands  of  Hamilton  Beach. 
It  was  unearthed  by  some  workmen  in 
excavating  for  the  foundations  of  a 
house  early  this  spring,  and  from  its 
appearance  looks  as  if  it  might  have 


been  used  as  an  idol.  Many  of  the 
etone  totems  found  are  very  beauti- 
fully polished  and  well  made.  They 
were  used  by  families  as  tokens  of 
family  connection  and  distinction. 
Nearly  all  the  bone  beads  and  breast 
ornaments  found  are  beautifully  pol- 
ished and  this  can  have  been  done 
only  by  constant  contact  with  the 
bare  skin  of  the  wearers. 


Following  is  another  sketch  from 
the  Spectator's  correspondent,  Lan- 
tern, on  his  second  visit  to  Lake  Me- 
dad. J.  E.  W. 


My  second  visit  to  the  lake  was 
perhaps  a  few  years  later.  Then, 
without  the  aid  of  guides,  the  Thomp- 
son, Rice  and  Culp  boys  and  my  broth- 
er Robert  and  myself,  made  the  ex- 
cursion alone.  On  a  beautiful  May 
morning  we  all  met  at  Fort  Stanix. 
(This  place  may  not  be  familiar  to 
many  of  your  readers.)  Owing  to  some 
clearings  that  had  been  made  on  lot 
No.  2,  we  experienced  much  difficulty 
in  getting  on  the  right  trail,  but  after 
many  unsuccessful  efforts  we  at  last 
discovered  our  landmark — the  tree  on 
the  rock.  From  thence  on  we  made  up 
for  lost  time;  but  on  reaching  the 
borders  of  the  cliff  or  quarry  we  failed 
to  strike  the  proper  entrance,  but  fin- 
ally struck  one,  which,  with  the  same 
difficulties  of  the  former,  we  had  to 
overcome.  We  were  well  rewarded, 
however,  as  it  was  the  upper  landing, 
then  so  called.  The  wharf  was  a  fal- 
len cedar  like  the  other,  but  projecting 
farther  out  into  the  lake.  The  scene 
from  it  was  more  beautiful  than  the 
other,  as  from  it  almost  the  entire 
surface  of  the  lake  was  presented  to 
our  view.  After  gazing  on  its  unrip- 
pled  surface,  watching  numerous  flocks 
of  wild  ducks  swiftly  swimming  to  the 
farther  shores,  we  began  fishing.  We 
had  a  supply  of  hooks,  lines  and  bait, 
and  our  next  work  was  to  get  poles — a 
rather  hard  job,  as  the  only  jack-knife 
in  the  crowd  was  an  old  one,  and 
nearly  worn  out  at  that. 

However,  we  were  soon  all  out  on 
the  log  as  far  as  we  dare  go.  Then 
the  fun  commenced.  As  fast  as  the 
hook  reached  the  water  a  sunfish  was 
secured.  Very  soon  our  bait  was  all 
gone,  and  large  strings  of  very  little 
sunfish,  one  or  two  small  perch  and  a 


INDIAN     RELICS     AND     REMAINS 


91 


shiner  was  our  catch.  We  were  proud 
boys,  returning  to  our  starting  point, 
happy,  but  tired  and  hungry.  Granny 
Rice  cheered  us  when  she  asked  us  in 
and  gave  us  all  a  well-buttered  potato 
cake.  Did  my  readers  ever  eat  one? 
If  not,  let  them  ask  some  old  Irish- 
woman to  bake  one  of  them,  and  if  she 


has   the   knack   old    Granny    Rice   had 
they  will  relish  it. 

I  think  probably  some  of  our  folks 
were  glad  to  see  us  safely  home,  as 
the  yielding  treachery  of  the  shores  of 
Lake  Medad  were  widely  known  and 
feared.  Yet,  withal,  I  never  heard  of 
a  death  or  casualty  there. 

LANTERN. 


THE    LATE    LUKE    MULLOCK'S    COLLECTION    OF    MEDAL    RELICS. 


1— Conch  shell  and  red  pipestone  necklace. 

2— Copper  finger  ring. 

3  and  6— Totem  pipes. 

4— Highly  polished  bone  spoon,  five  inches. 


5— Totem. 

7 — White  wampum  beads. 
8 — Paint  stone. 
9 — Bone  needle,  five  inches. 
10 — Flint  arrow  head. 


UNEARTHED  AT  HAMILTON  BEACH. 


ON  THE  FLAMBORO  PLATEAU 


Picturesque  Rock  Chapel.  ^  A  Pilgrimage  Through  Crooks' 
Hollow — Once  an  Industrial  Center,  Now  a  Silent  Val- 
ley Filled  with  Ruins.  &  The  History  of  Fool's  College. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


ROCK     CHAPEL     AND     VICINITY 


T     IS      not      likely 
that   in    the    whole 
of      Ontario,       and 
i^  perhaps  in  all  Can- 

Xok  ada,      there      is      a 

/&     ^    ,  1\    space    of   earth     as 
/~     ^V  small      in     size     as 

««  8k          Wentworth    county 

Jajs  E^       containing          the 

ffiji  H^     same      number     of 

/cK  ^V   beautiful        scenes, 

^ — ^^^^"  the  same  variety 
of  interesting  drives  and  the  same  or 
as  many  delighting  historic  incidents, 
whether  in  mere  association  with  the 
deeds  and  presence  of  illustrious  men 
long  since  dead  or  in  moss-covered, 
storm-beaten  relics  of  things  and  times 
that  have  been  but  now  are  not,  save 
in  the  memories  of  grey-headed  men 
and  women  who,  though  they  exist  in 
the  present,  have  their  greatest  joy  in 
the  long  dead  past.  To  the  man  who 
is  fortunate  enough  to  own  a  horse 
and  rig;  to  the  wheelmen  and  women; 
to  the  pedestrian;  to  the  artist;  the 
camera  fiend — to  everyone  fond  of  na- 
ture and  history,  Wentworth  county  is 
in  nearly  every  part  a  veritable  mine 
of  enjoyment;  and  though  the  days  are 
now  shortening  and  the  weather  can- 
not always  be  depended  on,  still  a 
drive,  ride  or  walk  in  almost  any  di- 
rection from  the  city  will  surely  lead 
to  some  of  the  points  and  places  of 
interest. 

And  even  if  it  does  not  do  this,  the 
general  scenery,  the  glory  of  the  trees 
in  their  autumn  foliage,  the  deep  ra- 
vines with  their  clear  water  creek  bot- 
toms, fed  by  the  thousands  of  bubbling 
springs  from  the  hill  sides — these  and 
the  Indian  summer  haze  that  casts  a 
quietening,  misty  shade  over  the 
farther  scenes,  all  go  to  make  the  most 
pleasant  sort  of  a  day's  outing.  These 
are  the  days  when  the  squirrel  and 
chipmunk  are  most  busy,  gathering 
their  winter  store;  these  the  days  when 
in  the  golden  sunlight  great  spider- 
webs  float  like  silver  threads,  lazily 
through  the  air.  This  is  the  time  when 


to  the  butternut  and  walnut  trees  come 
the  merry  nutting  parties;  this  the 
time  when  the  good-natured  farmer  has 
tapped  his  first  cider  barrel  and  is 
anxious  that  its  contents  shall  be 
sampled.  In  many  respects  this  is  the 
loveliest  season  of  all  our  seasons,  and, 
perhaps,  for  that  reason,  the  shortest. 
It  is  the  gathering-in  time.  The  barns 
are  filling  up  with  grain,  the  pits  of 
potatoes  in  the  fields  raise  their 
mounds  of  roof  above  the  level,  with 
wisps  of  straw  stuck  in  them  for  venti- 
lators. Mother  is  potting  the  flowers 
from  the  front  garden,  father  is  patch- 
ing up  the  clap-boards  on  the  sheds 
and  the  boys  are  in  the  fields  husking 
corn  and  gathering  the  late  apples.  In 
th©  marsh  the  muskrat  is  building  his 
house,  little  circles  of  water  among  the 
rushes,  with  centers  of  built-up  rush- 
weed  telling  of  his  abode.  And  all  this 
because — because  the  end  of  summer  is 
near;  the  glories  of  autumn  are  even 
now  fading.  Some  of  the  hill-side  trees 
have  already  lost  their  leafy  coverings 
and  their  branches  stand  out  against 
the  sky,  ragged-looking  and  uncouth. 
There  are  but  a  few  weeks  yet  and  the 
wind  will  sigh,  the  air  will  thicken,  the 
sun  seem  to  grow  cold  and  winter  will 
reign. 

*    *    * 

On  the  road  between  Hamilton  and 
that  nestling  little  village  Rock  Chapel, 
or,  as  it  is  vulgularly  known,  Monkey- 
town,  there  is  an  almost  historic 
curiosity.  It  is  almost  historic  because 
of  its  age  and  it  is  a  curiosity  because 
of  its  peculiar  proof  of  right  to  his- 
toric reference.  Just  before  the  turn  in 
the  winding  road  that  leads  directly 
into  the  village,  and  standing  on  the 
right  of  the  roadway,  are  the  ruins  of 
an  old  stone  cottage.  Nothing  but  the 
four  walls  are  now  standing,  each  one 
with  gaping  apertures  telling  where  in 
years  long  past  doors  and  windows 
once  had  place.  A  few  oaken  rafters, 
blackened  and  weather-beaten,  stretch 
overhead  from  wall  to  wall  as  if  to 
hold  them  in  place,  and  on  either  wall 


9\ 


\VENT\VORTH      LANDMARKS 


CUBIOUS    OLD    COTTAGE    EUIN. 


of  the  north  and  south,  the  red  brick 
tiers  of  former  fire-place  chimneys  are 
crumbling  away.  Back  of  the  ruins  is 
an  orchard,  sloping  down  the  hillside 
into  the  deep  ravine  below,  and  in  all 
around  there  is  ample  evidence  of  long 
disuse.  Dozens  of  squirrels  and  chip- 
munks scramble  here  and  there  among 
the  loose  and  fast  loosening  stones, 
chattering  away  and  cheekily  showing 
their  sharp  teeth  to  the  intruder.  All 
the  wood  about  the  ruin  is  blackened 
and  charred.  This  because  one  night 
many  years  ago  the  cottage  was  burn- 
ed. From  the  time  of  the  fire  it  has 
been  deserted,  and  the  curious  proof 
that  this  intervening  period  has  been 
a  long  one  is  seen  in  the  picture.  When 
the  fire  occurred  it  wiped  out  every 
vestige  of  flooring  in  the  place  and  the 
earth  beneath  became  the  more  appro- 
priate bottom  work  for  the  ruin.  Out 
of  the  earth  in  time  came  a  tiny  shrub 
and  as  year  by  year  passed,  sheltered 
v.  ithin  the  four  stone  walls,  it  flourish- 
ed till  it  became  a  young  tree  and  its 
head  overtopped  the  walls  surrounding 
it.  Still  it  grew,  till  to-day,  there 
stands  within  that  ruin  a  locust  tree 
more  than  thirty  feet  high,  with  wide- 
spreading  branches. 
This  tree  had  its  earth  rest  at  the 


place  where,  in  the  house  that  was,  the 
cellar  stairway  began.  Another  locust, 
to  be  more  pretentious  than  its  fellow, 
lodged  itself  in  the  old  fire-place,  just 
as  if  to  glory  over  the  downfall  of  the 
fire  demon  in  his  own  home.  Some 
ruthless  hand  has  cut  this  tree  down, 
but  another  one  is  'taking  its  place.  In 
fact,  the  whole  interior  of  the  four 
walls  is  now  full  of  vegetation,  and  the 
view  it  presents,  both  from  the  road 
and  upon  close  inspection,  is  decidedly 
picturesque.  In  one  place  the  bricks 
of  the  chimney-place  come  in  the  way 
of  the  locust  tree  branch.  The  locust 
branch  did  not  change  the  course  of  its 
growth,  and  to-day  it  reaches  out  far 
beyond  the  chimney  wall,  having  push- 
ed the  bricks  from  its  pathway,  turn- 
ing them  right  and  left  and  forcing  its 
way  through. 

There  are  not  many  people  around 
those  parts  now  who  know  much  of  the 
old  cottage.  As  a  child,  one  farmer, 
now  forty-five  years  old,  can  recall 
having  played  about  in  it,  and  it  cer- 
tainly is  much  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury old.  The  fire  occurred  more  than 
twenty-five  years  ago,  and  since  that 
time  the  place  has  been  deserted  by 
man  and  occupied  by  nature — a  much 
more  lovely  occupant.  Even  the  child- 


ROCK     CHAPEL     AND     VICINITY 


95 


THE  FIREPLACE  AND  THE  TBEE. 

ren  around  know  that  Ward  Hopkins 
built  the  cottage,  and  they  will  tell 
you  that  at  the  time  of  the  fire  Joe 
Anderson  and  his  wife  lived  in  it. 
That  it  is  part  of  the  Erb  estate  is 
well  known  out  there,  and  that  it  is 
owned  by  two  girls  and  a  boy,  children 
of  J.  S.  Hatton,  of  Toronto,  can  be 
sworn  to  by  those  who  have  at  differ- 
ent times  leased  the  land  on  which  it 
stands.  Perhaps  there  is  nothing  more 
to  tell  than  this.  It  is  most  likely  the 
cottage  has  no  more  right  to  recogni- 
tion in  history  than  the  fact  that  it  is 
old  and  can  prove  it  by  the  miniature 
forest  within  its  ruins.  What  of  it? 
That  is  enough. 

*    *    * 

It  was  not  called  Rock  chapel  be- 
cause it  was  built  of  stone,  but  be- 
cause its  foundation  was  the  solid 
ledge  of  rock  that  just  at  that  point 
on  the  mountain  side  juts  out  to  the 
earth's  surface.  Thus  is  the  apparent 
paradox  in  connection  with  the  ancient 
Methodist  meeting  house  cleared  away. 
The  chapel,  instead  of  being  rock  built, 


is  of  wood,  with  clap-boarded  sides  that 
boast  and  glory  in  the  fact  that  they 
have  never  been  painted.  Everybody 
has  heard  of  it  and  thousands  of  sight- 
seers have  viewed  it  as  they  drove  past 
over  the  winding  road  leading  by  the 
saw  mill,  Hopkins'  and  Webster  falls. 
It  doesn't  look  much — more  like  a 
barn  than  a  church,  but  its  interest  is 
not  in  looks.  It  has  a  history.  The 
curious  one  who  will  trouble  himself 
to  get  down  on  hands  and  knees  at  the 
northeast  corner  of  the  old  church  will 
find  there  a  stone.  Not  one  of  those 
fancy  things  with  beautifully  trimmed 
front  and  beveled  edges,  such  as  are 
seen  nowadays  on  the  northeast  corners 


"•*.  To  YE.  GALL&IVY    - 

IN    BOOK    CHAPEL. 

of  large  and  important  buildings,  but 
an  ordinary  sort  of  stone,  moss-covered 
and  crumbling  away.  A  close  exam- 
ination of  the  end  of  the  stone  will  re- 
veal the  almost  obliterated  figures— 
1822— cut  in  the  stone.  That  means  that 
for  74  years  the  building  has  stood  on 
the  little  hill  through  the  blasts  of 
winter  and  the  heats  of  summer,  and 
still  stands,  a  double  sort  of  monu- 


96 


WEXTWOKTII      LANDMARKS 


ment  to  the  cause  of  Methodism  and  to 
the  thoroughness  of  the  work  done 
upon  it  by  its  builders.  If  in  all  the 
doings  of  their  lives  those  old  fathers 
were  as  thorough  as  in  their  work  on 
the  old  chapel,  no  one  need  for  a  mo- 
ment worry  about  their  present  con- 
dition. The  reward  for  such  con- 
tinued good  effort  could  be  nothing 
short  of  heaven. 

When  the  Rock  chapel  was  built 
there  was  not  another  church  in  the 
country  for  miles,  and  for  many  years 
the  First  Methodist  church — then  a 
frame  building — and  Rock  chapel  en- 


of  all  kinds  on  every  Sunday.  Then 
the  Methodists  got  it  and  had  trouble 
over  it.  It  was  in  the  time  of  the  split 
when  Wesley  Methodists  and  Metho- 
dist Episcopals  were  at  war.  The 
Methodist  Episcopals  claimed  the  build- 
ing, and  were  bound  to  have  it.  The 
Wesley  Methodists  were  positive  the 
place  should  be  theirs  and  they  were 
ready  to  fight  for  it.  Fight  they  did 
before  peace  came,  and  the  building 
was  theirs.  There  came  a  day  when 
the  one  side  was  in  the  church  and 
the  other  side  outside  on  the  grass.  It 
was  a  battle-day.  The  windows  were 


joyed  the  proud  distinction  of  being  the 
only  two  churches  around.  The  old 
church  out  at  Rock  Chapel  was  not 
built  specially  for  the  Methodists.  It 
was  everyone's  meeting-house — the 
place  where  Anglican,  Baptist,  Presby- 
terian, Methodist  or  any  other  might 
come  and  hold  meetings.  That  was 
how  i't  came  to  be  built.  Everyone 
felt  he  had  a  share  in  it  and  everyone 
helped.  The  timbers  were  hewn  and 
fitted  by  hand,  and  all  the  other  work 
done  in  pretty  much  the  same  man- 
ner. It  was  opened — the  finest  build- 
ing for  miles  around — and  for  years  its 
walls  re-echoed  the  words  of  preachers 


stormed  from  without;  they  were 
raised  and  the  enemy  would  have 
forced  their  way  in  had  not  the  inside 
party  pounded  every  hand  that  appear- 
ed on  the  window  sills  or  pricked  them 
with  penknives  till  they  were  glad 
enough  to  let  go. 

The  victory  ultimately  was  with  the 
Wesleyans,  and  many  a  good  preacher 
came  there  to  minister  to  the  people. 
Among  them  were  Revs.  Ryerson, 
James  Spencer,  W.  Jeffers,  S.  Rose 
(father  of  Justice  Rose),  Francis  Cole- 
man  (now  residing  in  Hamilton  on  the 
retired  list)  and  many  others.  Every 
preacher  in  those  days  had  a  circuit, 


ROCK     CHAPEI.     AND     VICINITY 


99 


which  he  covered  week  after  week  on 
horseback.  The  circuit  of  the  Rock 
chapel  district  extended  over  thirty 
miles,  and  the  preacher  there  always 
had  plenty  of  work  to  do.  There  was  a 
little  gallery  in  the  church  in  those 
days,  since  removed,  and  taking  it  all 
in  all,  it  was  quite  a  respectable  sort  of 
meeting  place.  W.  J.  Morden,  whose 
grandfather  was  one  of  the  first  set- 
tlers in  that  district,  at  one  time  at- 
tended church  there,  and  as  a  lad  at- 
tended the  Sunday  school.  In  connec- 
tion with  the  times  that  were  Mr. 
Morden's  uncle,  an  old  man,  still  liv- 
ing near  the  church,  tells  of  having  one 
night  borrowed  a  lumber  wagon — the 
only  vehicle  in  the  neighborhood — and 
hitching  his  team — also  the  only  team 
around — driving  all  the  way  to  the 
First  Methodist  church  in  the  city  to 
a  tea  meeting.  Of  course  he  would 
not  have  done  it  had  it  not  been  that 
his  best  girl  occupied  the  other  half 
of  the  lumber  wagon  seat.  That  was 
their  big  excursion  for  the  season. 


Finally  the  church  became  too  old- 
fashioned,  and  a  new  one  was  planned 
and  erected,  but  still  the  old  building 
was  not  allowed  to  go  unused.  The 
young  people  of  the  neighborhood 
bought  it  for  a  song,  and  up  to  the 
present  time  it  is  used  for  a  concert 
hall,  a  public  meeting-house  and  a  poll- 
ing booth.  The  gallery  has  been  done 
away  with,  and  a  second  story  put  on. 
On  the  old  pillars  now  hang  election 
posters  and  directions  to  voters,  and  as 
these  things  are  seen  one  cannot  help 
but  feel  that  the  place  is  degenerating. 
There  are  many  clap-boards  off  the 
sides,  the  wind  has  blown  the  shingles 
from  the  roof  in  spots,  while  the  many 
broken  window  panes  tell  of  neglect. 
Some  day  there  will  be  a  windstorm — 
a  thunderstorm.  The  old  building,  tired 
of  standing  so  many  years  will  lie 
down;  the  lightning  will  strike  it,  and 
flames  will  consume  its  dross.  It,  too, 
will  live  only  in  memory  some  day,  but 
may  that  day  be  afar  off.  J.  E.  W. 


THE    ANCIENT    DISTILLERY. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


INDUSTRIAL     RUINS     IN     CROOKS       HOLLOW 


HE  Rock  Chapel 
road  is  by  no 
means  depend- 
ent for  celeb- 
rity solely  upon 
the  old  cottage 
ruin  and  the 
older  church 
building  pictur- 
ed in  the  last 
chapter.  It  has 
other  glories 
well  worth 
m  e  n  t  i  o  n  ing. 
They  will  come 
in  for  their  share  of  recognition  as  this 
historic  story  proceeds.  While  out  in 
the  Rock  chapel  district  one  would  be 
very  foolish  to  return  to  the  city  with- 
out visiting  the  falls  along  the  road- 
side. In  traveling  along,  up  hill  and 
down,  it  will  not  be  noticed  particu- 
larly that  the  ups  are  more  than  the 
downs,  and  not  until  Rock  chapel 
itself  is  reached  and  a  glimpse  of  the 
city  away  down  in  the  valley  below, 
lit  up  in  the  afternoon  sunlight, 
caught  through  the  trees  bordering  the 
ravine  edge,  will  it  be  discovered  that 
the  altitude  there  is  away  up.  Not 
quite  to  the  heights  level,  but  pretty 
near  it.  In  at  least  three  places  on  the 
road  great  deep  ravines,  with  almost 
perpendicular  sides,  creep  up  between 
the  hills  and  almost  touch  the  road  side. 
Inlets  perhaps  they  were  of  some  great 
lake  in  prehistoric  days,  but  now  the 
watercourses  of  the  creeks  above  and 
the  homes  of  the  wildest  sort  of  wood- 
land scenery.  The  first  of  these  creeks, 
feeling  its  way  through  the  marshy 
meadow  land  and  reaching  down  the 
easy  slope  to  the  ravine  edge,  is  that 
running  through  John  Borer's  property, 
and  making,  as  it  goes  tumbling  down 
the  rocky  ravine  end,  what  is  known  as 
the  Saw  Mill  fall.  It  is  easy  to  get  at 
and  well  worth  looking  at.  Next  along 
the  road  and  much  nearer  to  Greens- 
ville  is  the  Hopkins'  fall — the  deepest 
one  around,  the  water  making  a  drop 


of  80  feet.  All  these  creeks  were  at 
one  time  in  their  history  the  homes  of 
manufacturing  concerns  and  grist 
mills.  Only  one  of  them  is  now  in 
use  and  that  is  the  one  leading  to  Web- 
ster's falls,  quite  near  to  Greensville. 

*    *    * 

It  must  have  been  somewhere  near 
the  year  1800  that  James  Crooks  came 
to  this  part  of  the  country,  and  in  his 
wanderings  through  what  is  now  the 
county  of  Wentworth,  came  across 
the  fertile  valley  of  the  creek  that  fed 
what  is  now  known  as  Webster's  falls. 
People  talk  about  gold  mines  being 
bonanzas  now-a-days.  In  that  day,  and 
to  the  far-seeing  mind  of  James  Crooks 
the  water  running  through  that  little 
valley  was  the  biggest  bonanza  for 
miles  around,  and  he  at  once  set  to 
work  to  acquire  the  property  surround- 
ing it.  In  time  he  secured  the  right  of 
ownership  to  about  300  acres  all  around 
the  creek.  At  a  point  a  short  distance 
west  of  Greensville  that  now  is  and 
upon  the  borders  of  the  stream  he  at 
once  began  the  building  up  of  what  he 
intended  was  to  become  the  business 
and  commercial  center  of  the  county. 
Mills  of  all  kinds  were  erected  and 
businesses  of  all  sorts  began  to  boom 
around  the  prosperous  place,  until  at 
one  time  the  locating  of  the  county 
government  buildings  in  that  spot  was 
seriously  contemplated.  Its  boom  came 
after  that  of  historic  Ancaster,  and 
while  it  lasted  brought  thousands  of 
dollars  to  the  pockets  of  Mr.  Crooks, 
who  afterwards  became  Hon.  James 
Crooks,  and  to  the  pockets  of  his 
children.  Then  the  water-power  which 
ran  all  the  industries  began  to  fail. 
Hamilton  started  in  to  show  what  it 
could  do  in  the  way  of  becoming  an 
industrial  center  and  the  day  of  the 
little  manufacturing  center  in  the  val- 
ley to  the  northwest  was  past.  Gradual- 
ly the  place  went  into  decay,  until  to- 
day there  is  but  one  industry  in  opera- 
tion, all  the  rest  being  in  various  con- 
ditions of  ruin. 


INDUSTRIAL     RUINS     IN     CROOKS       HOLLOW 


STUTT'S    PAPER    MILL. 

(Old  Darnley  Grist  Mill). 


CROOKS'  HOLLOW  CKEEK. 


Crooks'  hollow  the  place  is  now  call- 
ed, and  its  most  peculiar  historic  in- 
terest consists  in  its  many  ruins.  One 
of  the  first  buildings  to  be  erected  there 
was  the  Darnley  grist  mill.  That  was 
in  1813,  and  even  to-day,  though  the 
place  is  no  longer  a  grist  mill  and  has 
been  thoroughly  remodeled  as  a  paper 
mill,  the  stone  over  the  main  doorway 
has  chiseled  in  it  the  original  date  of 
erection — 1813,  just  at  the  close  of  the 
war.  That  mill  is  now  the  only  one 
running  in  Crooks'  hollow,  J.  Stutt  & 
Sons  turning  out  paper  there,  and 
claiming  to  do  a  good  business.  The 
mill  stands  right  at  the  roadside,  which 
winds  down  from  Greensville  through 
the  hollow  and  up  the  long  hill  on  the 
other  side,  being  lost  to  sight  from  be- 
low behind  a  heavy  clump  of  trees, 
and  passing  on  by  the  old  Crooks'  resi- 
dence. The  building  is  a  most  pic- 
turesque old  one,  its  side  wall  shown 
in  the  picture  standing  up  against  the 
edge  of  the  creek,  the  waters  of  which, 
through  the  low  hanging  branches  of 
the  trees  along  its  edge  can  be  seen 


breaking  into  foam  as  they  tumble 
down  a  cascade  a  short  distance  be- 
yond. A  rustic  old  bridge  spans  the 
creek  just  at  the  mill,  and  it  is  from 
this  that  all  sorts  of  beautiful  views 
can  be  obtained. 

There  is  another  peculiar  old  mark- 
ing on  the  Stutt  mill.  It  is  over  a 
large  window  adjoining  the  main  door- 
way, and  is  shown  in  the  cut.  The 
markings  are  without  doubt  Masonic, 
but  though  inquiry  was  made  all 
around  the  place  from  old  people  and 
young  people,  no  one  seemed  to  know 
just  what  they  were  intended  for.  The 
square  and  compass  and  double  tri- 
angle were  plainly  Masonic,  but  no  one 
knew  why  the  letter  B  should  have  been 
cut  in  the  stone.  It  has  been  suggest- 
ed that  this  was  intended  as  the  mark 
of  Barton  lodge,  Hamilton,  but  though 
Barton  lodge  was  in  existence  some 
years  before  the  old  mill  was  built, 
there  is  no  record  in  the  lodge  history 
to  show  that  the  Barton  men  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  corner  or  other 
stone-laying  of  the  mill.  Another  sug- 


102 


\V  E  X  T  WORTH       1 .  A  X  1  >  M  A  It  K  S 


gestion  has  been  that  the  stonemason 
who  put  in  the  stone  was  a  Mason  and 
that  he  wanted  to  let  the  world  know 
the  mill  was  built  under  proper  care. 
To  do  it  he  cut  the  two  Masonic  em- 
blems in  the  stone  and  added  his  own 
initial,  which  may  stand  for  Brown, 
Boggs,  Bell  or  any  other  fashionable 
or  unfashionable  name.  Whatever  it 


MASONIC    MAKKS. 
(Stutt's  Mill.) 

stands  for,  it  has  been  for  years  the 
cause  of  much  fruitless  conjecture,  and 
even  if  it  has  no  real  significance,  is 
a  curio  in  itself. 

About  eleven  years  ago  the  old  mill, 
which  was  turned  into  a  paper  mill  in 
the  sixties,  was  the  scene  of  an  ap- 
palling fataJlity.  One  day  the  boiler 
in  the  engine  room  exploded,  tearing 
out  the  old  -walls  and  instantly  killing 
one  of  Mr.  Stutt's  sons,  who  was  work- 
ing around  at  the  time.  That  has  been 


the  horrible  event  of  Crooks'  hollow, 
and  to-day  the  inhabitants  use  it  as  a 
date-mark  from  and  to  which  to  trace 
the  times  of  other  events  of  less  im- 
portance. Everything  about  the  mill 
speaks  of  other  days  and,  in  vivid  con- 
trast, everything  inside  tells  of  the 
days  that  are.  All  kinds  of  modern 
paper-making  machinery  is  there  and 
it  is  almost  worth  the  trouble  of  the 
trip  to  go  through  the  place. 


On  the  opposite  side  of  the  road 
from  the  paper  mill  is  to  be  seen 
a  skeleton  of  two  crumbling  end  wal.s 
of  stone,  taken  out  of  the  adjoining 
hill  side.  This  is  all  that  is  left  of  a 
famous  old  distillery  that  was  in 
operation  in  1823,  and  has  been,  for 
over  twenty  years  in  its  present  ruin- 
ed condition.  Following  the  creek  bot- 
tom down  a  short  distance  on  its  left^ 
hand  shore  will  be  seen  a  barn  with 
an  old-time  stone  foundation.  That 
old  stone  foundation  is  all  that  is  left 
of  what  was  the  first  paper  mill  in  On- 
tario. It  was  built  a  short  time  be- 
fore the  Barber  mills,  and  earned 
from  the  government  the  bonus  offered 
to  the  mill  turning  out  the  first  sheet 
of  paper  in  this  part  of  the  land.  It  was 
known  as  the  Hellwell  mill,  being  run 
by  a  man  of  that  name  for  a  long  time. 
It  afterward  changed  hands,  a  Mrs. 
Bansley  taking  it  over.  About  eighteen 
years  ago  it  was  burned  down,  and 
afterwards  was  disposed  of  to  a 
farmer,  who  heartlessly  built  up  a 
frame  barn  upon  its  ruins.  J.  E.  W. 


GOOD    EVIDENCE. 

(Stutt's  Mill.) 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


THE        FOOLS 


COLLEGE 


ERY  much  that  is 
of  interest  in  this 
district  cannot  be 
picked  up  in  one  trip 
over  the  Rock 
chapel  road.  Take, 
for  instance,  the 
church  building  at 
the  left  hand  corner 
of  the  road  traveled 
as  one  leaves  the 
town  line.  At  first  glance  one  would 
never  imagine  it  had  a  history  worth 
considering.  If  you  were  to  meet  with 
any  of  the  sons  of  this  present  decade 
they  would  tell  you  it  was  an  Anglican 
mission,  presided  over  by  Rev.  A.  E. 
Irving,  of  Dundas,  but  that  would  not 
be  all.  True,  it  is  now  a  church,  fixed 
up  and  remodeled  for  the  purpose,  but 


there  was  a  time  when  it  had  another 
name.  That  name  was  Fools'  college, 
not  in  a  slang  sense  by  any  means, 
but  seriously  named  by  the  builder 
thereof  at  its  christening.  That  was  in 
the  year  18 — ,  but  what  use  bothering 
with  dates?  It  was  in  the  day  when 
Father  Stock  and  J.  H.  Smith,  county 
school  inspector,  were  young  fellows, 
kicking  up  their  heels  around  the  coun- 
try side  like  the  untrained  colts  that 
they  were.  That  is  guarantee  enough 
of  old  age  for  all  general  purposes.  In 
that  day  the  young  minds  of  the  coun- 
try had  a  hungering  and  thirsting  after 
knowledge  generally  and  "book 
larnin'  "  in  particular.  The  govern- 
ment had  just  commenced  that  very 
praiseworthy  distribution  of  funds  for 
the  erection  and  maintenance  of  Me- 


FOOL'S    COLLEGE. 
(Now  a  Church.) 


io4 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


CEMETERY  (on  the  hill). 


A  GRIST  MILL  RELIC. 


OLD  BOARDING  HOUSE. 


chanics'  institutes,  and  this  building- 
was  erected  specially  for  that  purpose. 
Albert  B.  Palmer,  of  Millgrove,  and 
father  of  John  Palmer,  of  this  city, 
was  the  builder,  and  it  was  he  who 
gave  it  its  peculiar  name.  The  cus- 
tom in  those  days  was  to  break  a  bot- 
tle of  liquor  over  every  new  building 
at  its  completion  and  give  it  at  the 
same  time  a  name,  and  it  so  happened 
that  when  the  time  came  to  do  this 
with  this  building  no  one  had  thought 
of  a  name.  In  the  dilemma  Palmer 
came  to  the  rescue.  "Do  you  want  a 
name  for  it?"  asked  he,  as  he  stood 
with  bottle  in  hand,  ready  to  throw. 
"I'll  name  it,"  and  as  he  threw  the  bot- 
tle, smash  against  the  wall,  he  cried 
out,  "Fools'  college,"  and  Fools'  col- 
lege it  remained  in  name  ever  after- 
ward. 

Shortly  after  the  advent  of  the  Me- 
chanics institute  library,  all  the  young 
men  of  the  neighborhood  took  the  de- 
bating fever  and  a  debating  school  was 
started.  The  men  divided  themselves 
into  two  sections,  called  the  Meadow 
Mice  (those  living  in  the  valley)  and 
the  Mountain  Rats  (those  living  on  the 
hills).  Many  a  night  did  these  two  sec- 
tions fight  oratorically  In  Fools'  col- 
lege on  all  those  subjects  so  dear  to 


the  debater's  heart,  even  to  the  present 
day.  Single  or  married  life,  which? 
The  pen  or  the  sword,  which?  Nature 
or  art.  which?  These  and  many  more 
were  the  matters  troubling  the  youth- 
ful minds  of  the  period.  It  was  there 
Inspector  Smith  made  the  first  speech 
of  his  life,  and  that  he  has  improved 
since  may  be  known  from  the  fact  that 
on  that  occasion  his  address  lasted 
about  one  and  one-half  minutes.  His 
opponent  on  that  occasion  made  much 
sport  of  him  in  his  round,  and  this 
angered  the  inspector-to-be.  His  blood 
began  to  boil,  and  by  the  time  it  was 
again  his  turn  to  talk  he  was  mad 
enough  to  have  fought.  But  he  didn't. 
He  talked,  and  did  so  well  and  in  such 
marked  contrast  to  his  first  effort  that 
for  a  long  time  afterward  it  was  said 
of  him,  "If  you  want  Smith  to  make  a 
good  speech  just  get  him  mad."  De- 
bates were  often  held  with  the  city  de- 
bating clubs,  and  the  Fools'  college 
men  say  yet  that  in  those  challenge  af- 
fairs they  had  their  full  share  of  vic- 
tories. Then  came  the  day  when  the 
Mechanics'  institute  outlived  its 
greatest  usefulness,  and  finally  the 
College  of  the  Fools  became  the  church 
as  it  is  to-day.  That  is  the  history,  and 
it  is  no  mean  one. 


THE     FOOLS       COLLEGE 


I05 


WOOLEN    MILL    FRAGMENTS. 


WOOL,    WOOL. 

JOHN    DAVIES    &    CO, 

are  now  prepared  to  pay 

HIGHEST    PEICES    IN    CASH 

for  any  quantity  of  Wool. 


FARMERS 

Support  Canadian  manufacture.     Buy  cloth 
in  exchange  for  wool  at  manufac- 
turers' prices. 


Back  of  Stutts'  paper  mill  and  up 
the  bank  of  the  creek  can  now  be  seen 
a  tall  chimney  place  of  stone,  and  that 
is  all  that  remains  to  tell  the  story  of 
a  five-story  grist  mill.  This  place  was 
some  time  after  its  erection  turned 
into  a  woolen  mill  and  run  by  T  Ber- 
kenshaw.  It  then  changed  again  and 
became  a  cotton-batting  mill,  run  by 
two  men  named  Kerbin  &  Wright,  and 
fir  ally,  about  eighteen  years  ago, 
was  pulled  down,  nothing  being  left 
but  the  big  chimney-place  to  tell  the 
tale  of  where  it  stood.  On  the  same  side 
of  the  creek  a  little  lower  down  at  one 
time  stood  the  foundry  and  carding 


mills  of  John  Davies  and  Co.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  about  this,  as  a  short 
time  ago  the  bill  here  reproduced  was 
found  pasted  upon  a  board  in  its  ruins. 
Unfortunately  the  date  of  the  bill  was 
torn  off. 

Just  across  the  creek  from  this  ruin 
will  be  seen  a  small  piece  of  the  wall 
of  T.  &  J.  Crooks'  steam  and  water 
saw  mill  and  out  in  front  of  the  Stutt 
mill  now  in  use  and  adjoining  the  old 
distillery  ruin  is  all  that  is  left  of  an 
old  oil,  bark  and  tannery  premises. 
Away  back  of  them  all — even  behind 
the  chimney  ruin  of  the  old  grist  mill — 
is  a  long,  low,  two  story  frame  house, 
still  in  use,  which  at  one  time  was  the 
boarding-house  for  many  of  the  mill 
hands  about  the  place. 


Away  beyond  the  hill  to  the  west 
is  the  old  Crooks'  residence  and  on 
the  hill  looking  down  upon  the  water- 
power  that  brought  so  much  money  to 
the  Crooks  family,  is  their  family  bury- 
ing ground.  It  is  a  curious  old  place, 
this  burying  ground,  not  kept  very 
well  in  repair.  The  top  of  the  hill  is 


io6 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


r.ot  more  than  twenty  yards  across, 
and  this  top  is  fenced  in.  Within  the 
enclosure  are  several  tall  trees  and  the 
graves  of  the  departed  members  of  the 
Crooks  family  along  with  those  of 
some  of  their  friends.  The  last  one 
interred  there,  according  to  the  head- 
stones, was  Frances,  a  daughter  of 
Hon.  James  Crooks.  Her  body  was 
brought  from  Toronto  and  buried  on 
the  bleak  hill  top  in  January,  1895,  she 
being  at  the  time  of  her  death  66 
years  old.  The  tomb  of  Hon.  James 
Crooks,  the  founder  of  the  settlement, 
is  unadorned  by  any  monument,  but 
over  the  mound  of  earth  is  gathered  an 
enormous  pile  of  great  stones,  as  if  to 
insure  for  the  mouldering  clay  freedom 
from  the  maraudings  of  any  ghouls 
who  might  come  to  desecrate  the  place. 
Among  the  other  graves  there  is  that 
of  Thomas  Angus  Blair,  who  is 
described  as  being  late  captain  of  the 
Fifth  Royal  Scots  Fusileers.  He  was 
born  at  Blair,  Ayrshire,  Scotland,  in 
1811,  and  died  ait  Crooks'  hollow  in  1857. 


There  are  many  other  graves,  and  as 
descendants  of  the  Crooks  family  die 
their  bodies  are  interred  there.  Hon. 
James  died  in  1861,  and  James,  a  son, 
in  1850.  Hon.  Adam  Crooks,  another 
son,  died  at  Guelph,  and  was  buried 
there.  The  power  of  the  family  is 
gone  from  the  place  forever.  They  own 
but  a  fragmentary  portion  of  their 
former  inheritance  there,  and  their 
present  glory  is  in  their  unique  bury- 
ing ground,  away  on  the  top  of  the 
bleak  hill,  from  which,  if  there  be 
such  things  as  spirits,  they  may  look 
down  upon  what  was  once  theirs,  but 
hias  now  become  the  property  of  others 
and  has  for  the  most  part  fallen  into 
decay  and  ruin.  This,  then,  is  the 
s'tory  of  Crooks'  Hollow  and  its  ruins. 
Much  more  could  be  written,  but  for 
the  sightseer  what  has  been  written  is 
enough  to  furnish  food  for  a  day's  out- 
ing- and  this  done,  the  artist  and  writer 
have  completed  their  task.  Go  and  see 
it  all  for  yourself.  J.  E.  W. 


CROOKS'    SAW    MILL   BUIN. 


THE  VALLEY  CITY 


The  Faded  Glory  of  a  Town  Once  the  Head  of  Navigation 
From  the  Sea,  <&  Its  Canal  Basin,  Old  Buildings,  and 
Industries  That  Are  But  a  Memory. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


EARLY     HISTORY     OF     DUNDAS 


w  ATTS,  Hairs  and 
Heads — these  are 
three  of  the  oldest 
families  in  the  his- 
toric town  of  Dun- 
das,  and  they  in 
their  various 
branches  know  a 
good  deal  of  the 
records  of  the 
place.  In  their 
honor  streets  are 
named  and  big 
business  blocks 

are  christened. 
But  family  names  are  not  the  most 
interesting  things  in  the  old  town,  nor 
are  the  pretty  modern  day  scenes  pic- 
tured in  the  lately  published  Pic- 
turesque Dundas.  To  regard  the  Val- 
ley City  from  its  really  interesting 
point  of  view  one  must  see  the  old 
with  the  new,  the  ruin  alongside  the 
modern  up-to-date,  and  perhaps  there 
is  no  other  town  in  Canada  pos- 
sessing so  much  of  the  one  with  an 
equal  showing  of  the  other.  When 
they  compiled  a  hymn  book  for  the 
Anglican  church  they  entitled  it  a  col- 
lection of  Hymns,  Ancient  and  Mod- 
ern. A  fitting  descriptive  name  for 
Dundas  town  would  be  A  Collection  of 
Houses,  Ancient  and  Modern. 


They  call  the  place  the  Valley  City 
and  that  is  quite  right.  In  only  one 
way  can  it  be  reached  or  departed 
from  on  the  level— that  is  by  the  canal 
route.  All  other  ways  lead  the  trav- 
eler up  and  down  hill;  nevertheless, 
they  are  all  pleasant  ways  and  well 
worth  traveling.  It  took  its  name — 
Dundas — from  the  name  of  the  long 
military  highway  opened  up  by  Gov- 
ernor Simcoe  from  the  St.  Lawrence 
to  London  and  christened  after  Henry 
Dundas  (Viscount  Melville),  secretary 
of  war  in  the  Duke  of  Portland's  cab- 
inet. That  Dundas  street,  then  the 
way  of  the  warrior,  is  now  known  bet- 


ter among  county  councilors  and  others 
as  the  Governor's  road,  and  is  used 
solely  by  followers  of  the  peaceful  art 
of  farming  and  pleasant  pastime  of 
bicycling  or  driving.  At  the  time  when 
the  tramp  of  armed  men  was  more 
common  in  the  colony  than  now,  Dun- 
das was  quite  a  place,  and  only  the 
advent  of  steam  railways  saved  it 
from  losing  all  its  natural  loveliness 
and  becoming  a  great  and  bustling 
center  of  trade  and  commerce.  Lucky 
accident  that  discovered  the  value  of 
steam  and  saved  Dundas!  It  has  been 
all  evolution  in  the  town  in  the  valley 
until  finally  the  place  seems  to  have 
discovered  its  mission  and  settled 
down  to  fulfil  that  mission  as  a  beau- 
tiful outskirt  of  Hamilton,  with  a  suf- 
ficiency of  manufacturing  and  other 
business  to  warrant  its  existence  as  an 
incorporated  town. 


In  those  earlier  days  when  the  val- 
ley people  were  flighty  and  soaring  as 
the  mighty  hills  about  their  homes 
in  enterprise  they  projected  and  suc- 
cessfully carried  through  the  Desjar- 
dins  canal  scheme,  and  for  years 
fondly  clung  to  the  delusive  hope 
that  their  town  was  to  be  the  future 
great  city  of  the  province.  They  had 
good  enough  right  to  be  aspiring,  too, 
for  at  that  time,  with  the  shipping 
they  had,  their  port  was  the  busiest 
along  Ontario's  shores.  It  was  in 
those  days  that  the  sight  of  from 
twelve  to  fifteen  large  masted  boats — 
grain,  lumber  and  general  carriers 
from  seaport  places  on  the  St.  Law- 
rence river — gathered  in  the  canal 
basin  was  no  uncommon  thing.  In 
those  days  the  shores  of  the  basin 
were  lined  with  great  warehouses, 
where  grain  and  other  products  were 
stored  for  shipment.  From  Gait, 
Guelph,  Preston  and  all  other  inland 
centers  in  Dundas  direction  the 
farmers  brought  their  stuff  to  the  canal 
for  shipment,  and  it  was  no  uncommon 


EARLY     HISTORY     OF     DUNDAS 


sight  in  the  busy  season  to  see  as 
many  as  a  hundred  teams  toiling 
down  King  street  through  the  town 
to  the  warehouses  at  the  canal.  It 
used  also  to  be  the  headquarters  for 
importations  by  water,  and  many  a 
ship  load  of  emigrants  first  set  foot 
on  Canadian  soil  from  the  basin 
wharves.  Many  of  the  poor  wretches, 
too,  died  about  there,  and  their  bones 


that  at  that  time  lay  to  the  west  of 
the  town.  Since  that  time,  however, 
both  canal  and  marsh  have  been 
gradually  undergoing  the  evolution 
process,  and  to-day  hundreds  of  acres 
of  land  used  for  wheat  growing  was 
at  that  time  far  under  water.  The 
drying  up  is  going  on  even  more  rap- 
idly now  than  ever  before,  and  the 
day  is  sure  to  come  when  the  finest 


*i 
RUINS    OF    THE    OLD    OATMKAL    MILL. 


to  the  number  of  several  hundred 
bodies  mingle  with  the  dust  of  cholera 
victims  in  the  dismal  cemetery  on  the 
heights,  their  deaths  being  due  to  ship 
fever.  James  Reynolds,  now  an  old 
man,  was  an  engineer  on  the  canal 
nearly  50  years  ago,  and  handled  many 
o"  the  vessels  whose  prows  were  point- 
ed toward  the  canal  mouth  from  the 
lake.  The  steamer  Queen  of  the  West 
was  one  of  the  first  boats  to  ply  the 
mad  waters,  and  there  were  many 
others. 


The  canal   was  a  fine  piece  of  work, 
dredged    through    the   immense   marsh 


garden  land  in  the  country  will  be 
found  in  the  marsh  land  in  the  valley 
between  the  heights  and  Dundas. 
Coote's  paradise  they  call  that  piece 
of  country  even  to  this  day,  though 
most  people  now  who  use  the  name 
do  not  know  what  It  means.  In  all 
past  time  the  marsh  has  been  noted 
as  the  gathering  place  of  water  fowl, 
and  in  the  early  days  when  the  men 
of  war,  stationed  at  York  and  other 
places,  wanted  good  shooting  they 
would  come  there  for  It.  Capt.  Coote, 
of  the  King's  regiment — the  Eighth — 
was  one  of  these  sport  lovers,  and  so 
great  was  his  passion  and  so  assidu- 
ously did  he  follow  the  sport  at  this 


1  iO 


WENTWORTII      LANDMARKS 


place   that  is   was   nick-named   Coote's 
paradise. 

*  *    * 

Of  course,  when  the  boom  of  ship- 
ping was  on,  the  Dundas  people  em- 
barked in  all  kinds  of  manufacturing 
ventures,  and,  having  an  abundance 
of  water  power  handy,  factories  of  all 
kinds  sprang  up  on  every  hand.  They 
were  mostly  of  stone,  hewn  from  the 
rocky  hills  around,  and  for  that  rea- 
son they  will  stand,  making  the  town 
the  picturesque  spot  it  is.  On  nearly 
every  street  of  the  place  ruins  of  some 
kind  or  other  are  to  be  found,  and 
each  ruin  represents  a  step  in  the 
evolution  of  the  place.  Back  of  the 
cotton  mills  and  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
leading  up  to  Col.  Gwyn's  residence 
is  a  good  specimen,  which  in  some 
degree  illustrates  them  all.  It  is  all 
that  is  left  to  tell  the  story  of  an  oat- 
meal and  flour  mill  that  flourished  in 
the  fifties.  Down  about  the  canal  ba- 
sin and  along  the  banks  of  the  creek 
leading  from  Ancaster,  the  deserted 
places  are  most  numerous,  and  wher- 
ever they  appear  they  lend  a  charm 
and  beauty  to  the  scene.  It  is  out  in 
the  valley  city,  too,  that  the  great 
iron  gates  now  hanging  at  the  Dun- 
durn  park  entrance  once  used  to 
hang,  and  'tis  said  the  big  stone 
blocks  on  which  they  rested  are  still 
to  be  seen. 

*  *    * 

But    what   has    V-een    written    here    is 


not  intended  to  go  beyond  the  canal 
and  its  influence  upon  the  town.  Old 
residents  will  talk  of  its  past  glories; 
present  day  residents  see  it  merely  as 
a  sort  of  recreation  spot  where  boating 
may  be  indulged  in  in  summer  and 
where  in  winter  there  is  good  skating. 
To-day  the  basin,  instead  of  being  filled 
as  of  yore  with  grain  laden  vessels  wait- 
ing the  springtime  and  opening  of 
navigation  to  go  on  their  way  to  Mon- 
treal, is  a  deserted  looking  spot,  ice 
and  snow  covered,  its  pile  lined  side 
breaking  away  and  ceasing  to  be  of 
value  in  keeping  back  the  caving  shore 
line.  Nothing  in  the  shape  of  shipping 
but  a  steam  yacht  and  a  few  sail  boats 
now  float  on  its  waters  and  the  enter- 
prise of  the  town  is  turned  in  differ- 
ent directions.  And  yet,  even  with 
other  industries,  the  excitements  of  the 
old  days  are  not  to  be  found.  To-day 
the  townspeople  find  all  their  fun  in 
the  summer  season  on  but  three  oc- 
casions— the  Bertram  picnic,  the 
House  of  Providence  picnic,  and  the 
great  fall  fair.  The  rest  of  their  sum- 
mer time  they  spend  in  humdrum  mo- 
notony, though  in  the  midst  of  scenes 
unexcelled  by  nature  in  any  other  part 
of  the  world.  So  beautiful,  so  wonder- 
ful in  fact  that  artists  even  from  far 
away  Japan  have  made  the  place  their 
home  and  spent  their  best  efforts  upon 
the  work  they  found  so  lavishly  dis- 
tributed in  and  around  the  corpora- 
tion confines.  J.  E.  W. 


CHAPTER  XX 


ITS     PREHISTORIC     BUILDINGS 


OWN  in  the 
valley  where 
dreamy  Dundas 
lies  there  are 
many  misty 

landmarks  of 
long  gone  times, 
having  their 
counter  part  s 
and  verifying 
evidences  only 
in  the  musty 
archives  of  the 
county  regis- 
trar's office. 
There  has  been 
many  and  many 
a  traveler  stum- 
ble over  deep 
planted  stones  on  some  of  the  road 
sides  out  there,  and  it  has  never  oc- 
curred to  them  that  the  stone  they  fell 
over  was  valuable  at  all.  But  they 
are.  Some  of  these  are  on  the  old 
York  road  and  bear  the  initials  G.  R., 
standing  for  George  Rolph,  a  well- 
known  early  settler  in  the  valley,  but 
dead  now  some  years.  They  date  back 
to  the  year  1824.  It  was  a  fashion 
in  the  early  days  to  mark  by  these 
stones  the  remarkable  things  of  the 
time,  and  when  Sir  Allan  MacNab 
bought  the  big  iron  gates  that  now 
swing  on  the  rusty  hinges  at  Dun- 
durn  park,  Mr.  Rolph,  who  then  owned 
them,  planted  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot 
from  which  they  were  taken.  This 
stone  is  in  a  vacant  lot  near  Gordon 
Wilson's  store,  and  it  marks  the  old 
entrance  to  Mr.  Rolph's  property.  If 
anyone  is  inquisitive  enough  he  may 
find  in  the  wall  of  Dundurn  near  the 
gate  an  inscription  which  tells  the 
date  when  the  huge  stone  balls  over- 
mounting  the  gate  posts  at  Dundurn 
were  cut  from  the  rock  in  Dundas. 


The  records  of  things  that  have 
been  in  Dundas  are  scattered  abroad. 
In  the  town  hall  out  there  they  say 


they  have  no  information  as  to  the 
opening  of  the  canal,  but  Inspector 
Smith,  who  has  his  recreation  in  ruin 
delving,  has  documents  which  tell  the 
day  and  date  of  the  opening,  and  also 
rehearse  the  names  of  the  steamers 
and  other  craft  that  on  opening  day 
made  their  way  to  the  basin  and  help- 
ed to  make  the  affair  more  glorious. 
Miss  Rolph,  daughter  of  George  Rolph, 
referred  to  above,  also  has  a  fund  of 
information  which  she  is  collecting 
with  the  zest  of  an  antiquary. 


Away  out  on  the  road  leading  to 
the  driving  park,  on  one's  right  hand 
side,  there  at  the  present  time  stands 
an  unpretentious  little  brown  house, 
right  out  to  the  fence  line.  No  one 
lives  there,  nor  has  anyone  for  some 
years,  and  the  place  is  getting  a  very 
weather-beaten  look.  Down  on  a  level 
with  the  walk  there  is  a  grated  win- 
dow, hardly  large  enough  for  a  man's 
head  to  go  through,  and  on  the  inside 
in  the  basement  there  is  a  small  com- 
partment divided  off  from  the  rest  of 
the  place  by  a  heavy  stone  partition. 
No  one  in  Dundas  seems  to  be  able 
to  say  with  absolute  assurance  that 
this  place  was  at  one  time  a  court 
house,  and  that  the  partitioned  off 
basement  part  a  cell;  but  every 
one  believes  it,  and  its  appearance 
would  indicate  that  the  belief  is  well 
founded.  The  rambler  can  get  into 
the  basement  by  climbing  the  fence 
and  going  down  the  steps  shown  in 
the  picture  to  the  door  in  the  rear. 
There  is  not  much  in  the  basement 
now.  First  thing  to  greet  the  inquisi- 
tive eye  is  an  old  cider  press,  but  that 
has  been  put  there  in  rather  recerat 
times.  In  the  cell  at  the  right  of  the 
picture  there  is  no  mark  of  any  kind 
save  that  of  the  hand  of  time,  which 
shows  in  the  dilapidated  condition  of 
the  doorway.  No  prisoner  who  may 
have  been  confined  there  awaiting  his 
call  to  the  court  room  above  ever  ex- 


1  12 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


< 


ITS     PREHISTORIC     BUILDINGS 


TI3 


THE    OLD    LOO    JAIL. 


pressed  his  feelings  as  prisoners  are 
usually  supposed  to  do  by  scribbling 
on  the  whitewashed  walls,  and  the  his- 
tory of  the  place,  from  all  that  can 
be  gleaned  in  and  around  it,  is  pretty 
much  a  blank. 

«    *    * 

There  is  another  building — a  log 
structure  back  of  the  old  court  house 
and  nestling  in  a  ravine  with  pine 
trees  all  about.  This  is  what  is  said  to 
have  been  the  jail  proper — the  town 
jail,  for  they  had  a  county  jaii  at  that 
time  just  outside  the  town.  The  old 
log  building  is  still  in  commission,  but 
not  as  a  jail.  It  is  now  a  barn,  and 
the  business-like  hen  has  taken  up  her 
abode  there,  cackling  and  scratching 
about  just  as  if  no  one  else  in  the 
world  had  ever  had  troubles  but  her- 
self. Judge  Snider  is  the  happy  pos- 
sessor of  a  painting  portraying  these 
two  fast  crumbling  relics  of  the  ju- 
dicial past. 

*    *    * 

When  one  begins  delving  among 
ruins  the  more  one  delves  the  more  is 
discovered  th<at  calls  for  further  delv- 
ing. Dundas  was  not  always  known 
as  Dundas,  and  there  is  evidence  grav- 
en in  solid  silver  to  prove  there  was 
once  another  name  by  which  the  place 


was  known.  The  Hatt  family  was 
spoken  of  as  one  of  the  oldest  in  the 
place  in  the  last  chapter,  and  they 
were  there  before  1817.  On  the  first 
day  of  January  in  that  year  Richard 
and  Mary  Hatt  presented  a  solid  sil- 
ver communion  service  to  the  English 
church  there.  It  was  a  noble  gift  and 
made  of  sterling  metal,  and  even  to- 
day it  is  in  use  in  the  church  on  Hatt 
street.  Rev.  E.  A.  Irving,  the  rector 
of  the  church  there,  keeps  the  three 
pieces  safeguarded  in  his  house,  but 
kindly  allowed  a  Spectator  artist  to 
sketch  them.  They  are  very  heavy, 
and  as  far  as  appearance  go  might 
not  have  been  in  use  more  than  20 
years.  But  their  antiquity  and  also 
the  old  name  of  the  place  is  proven  by 
the  engraving  on  them.  The  wording 
is  as  follows: 

The  Gift  of 
RICHA-RD  AND  MARY  HATT. 

of  Ancaster, 

For  the  use  of  the  church  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Coote's  Paradise.  District  of 
Gore,   Upper  Canada,   Janu- 
ary 1,  1817. 

This  appears  on  both  the  tray  and 
goblets.  The  box  in  which  the  set  is 
kept  is  an  old-fashioned  one,  too,  made 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


of    solid    British    oak,    and    lined    with 
now  faded  silk. 


There  is  another  curiosity  resting  in 
a  back  shed  on  the  church  grounds, 
displaced  by  the  more  modern  in 
church  architecture.  It  is  one  of  the 
old-fashioned  pulpit  desks,  made  of 
black  walnut  and  standing  on  a  pedes- 
tal about  six  feet  high.  Steps  lead  up 
from  the  floor  to  the  pulpit  box,  and 
there  about  ten  feet  above  his  audi- 
ence the  rector  used  to  preach. 


The  Haltts  brought  the  communion 
service  out  from  England  when  they 
came,  and  when  they  presented  it  to 
the  church  there  was  no  church  build- 


ing. Meetings  were  in  those  days  held 
from  house  to  house,  and  when  occa- 
sion came,  from  time  to  time,  the 
faithful  used  the  gift  in  their  worship. 
It  was  used  in  the  present  church  for 
the  first  time  on  the  first  Sunday  in 
January,  1844.  The  church  was  built 
in  the  previous  year.  For  some  time 
previous  to  this  services  were  held  in 
a  building  down  by  the  canal  basin, 
called  the  Free  church,  Dr.  Stark, 
Archdeacon  McMurray  and  others  of 
all  denominations  holding  service 
there.  Rev.  Mr.  Osier,  father  of  B. 
B.  Osier,  succeeded  Rev.  Mr.  McMur- 
ray. The  first  person  in  charge  was 
Rev.  Ralph  Leeming,  a  missionary, 
who  was  there  in  1818,  and  married  a 
member  of  the  Hatt  family. 

J.   E.   W. 


A    COMMUNION    SERVICE    PRESENTED    TO    COOTE'S    PARADISE    IN    1817. 


ill?! 


'MftH  I  --.:  i;-.i  - :  \r\W     \  1 
f  ¥ll'i  -  *  i i:  - W\\  P^ 

ii  li '/flrJHHfcjJ  BS     •    •    '  \    ^r-iSK\\    U ^--~ 


•SJPti.--  -  ^fff^sV' 


'^jmi:-  * 


The  City  of  Romulus,  Planned  on  Metropolitan  Lines,  But 
Never  Realized  the  Hopes  of  Its  Founder.  £•  Reminis- 
cences of  a  Centenarian  Trojan.  ^  A  Troy  Without 
Its  Helen. 


CHAPTER  XX! 


A     CITY     THAT     WAS     NOT     BUILT 


HERB  are  few 
persons  aware 
of  the  fact  that 
out  in  the  wilds 
of  Beverly 
township  there 
is  a  large  city 
all  laid  out 
ready  to  be 
built,  but  '  be- 
yond a  few 
stray  log  build- 
ings of  a  more  than  usually  substan- 
tial character,  and  the  nicely  colored 
plan  of  the  burg  which  exists  some- 
where there  is  nothing  remaining  to 
indicate  the  originally  high  aspirations 
of  the  place.  It  can  scarcely  be  called 
a  dead  city,  because  it  never  reached 
urban  importance,  except  in  the  mind 
of  the  founder,  who,  with  his  imme- 
diate relatives,  now  sleep  the  long 
sleep  among  the  ruins  of  his  hopes. 
To  that  extent,  if  not  a  dead  city,  it 
may  be  called  a  city  of  the  dead.  The 
following  article  on  the  forgotten  me- 
tropolis, which  is  situated  two  miles 
west  of  Rockton,  is  from  the  pen  of 
the  poet  of  Rushdale  farm: 

THERE    WERE    GIANTS    IN    THOSE    DAYS. 

The  man  who  founded  Romulus  was 
one  of  them.  A  giant  in  courage,  en- 
durance and  resource — he  towered 
above  his  fellowmen  as  the  great  white 
pines  of  Beverly  once  towered  above 
the  black  birches  and  the  beeches  that 
grew  at  their  feet.  This  man  was 
Henry  Lamb,  a  Pennsylvanian  of 
Highland  Scotch  descent,  a  U.  E. 
Loyalist  as  well,  who,  spurning  a  bast- 
ard flag  in  a  land  of  rebels,  moved 
north  with  all  his  belongings  and  set- 
tled in  the  very  heart  of  the  great 
Gore  district.  The  stupendous  ob- 
stacles in  his  path  never  for  a  moment 
daunted  this  old  hero.  Prom  the  door 
of  the  rude  shack  which  he  had  built 
to  shelter  him  and  keep  the  wolves  out, 
he  could  not  see  more  than  50  yards 
in  any  direction,  and  naught  but  the 


moon  and  stars  by  night  and  the  sun 
by  day  shining  above  his  little  clear- 
ing reminded  him  that  the  universe 
was  big  and  God  was  great.  All  alone 
in  his  splendid  isolation,  in  the  superb 
stillness  and  the  Titantic  uproar  of  the 
forest,  in  the  sweet  safety  and  terrible 
peril  of  the  bush,  he  conceived  of 
great  things.  He  set  words  to  the 
splendid  music  of  peerless  pines,  the 
tapering  tamaracks,  the  heaped-up 
hemlocks,  the  majestic  maples,  the 
honest  old  oaks,  the  bizarre  birches 
and  the  cold  calm  cedars,  and  he  be- 
gan to  chant  that  hymn  all  over  the 
world.  He  spread  his  rude  map  of 
British  North  America  out  on  the  top 
ot  a  stump  and  laid  a  two-ounce  bul- 
let on  the  spot  where  the  deserted 
hamlet  of  Romulus  now  stands.  By 
the  map  he  saw  that  he  was  located  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  British  domains 
in  America,  right  on  the  great  high- 
wa,y  from  Quebec.  This  land  was 
bound  to  have  towns  and  cities.  Why 
not  have  a  great  city  right  here  under 
the  bullet?  He  would  build  it.  He 
bore  the  brand,  not  of  Cain,  but  of  a 
Icyal  subject  and  a  true  man,  on  face 
and  forehead.  Why  should  he  not 
build  a  city?  The  wolves  crept  nearer 
and  howled  in  derision,  and  the  owls 
hooted  with  contempt,  but  he  paid  no 
heed.  He  took  up  2,000  acres  of  land 
around  the  bullet  and  named  the  new 
city  Romulus.  Why,  it  is  hard  to 
tell.  Did  the  big  she  wolf  with  hang- 
ing lugs  and  golden  eyes  that  looked 
at  him  through  the  chinks  of  his  cabin 
every  night  put  the  idea  into  his  head? 
No  one  knows — but  Romulus  it  was 
and  Romulus  it  is,  although  you  will 
look  vainly  in  the  postofflce  directory 
for  it.  It  is  a  melancholy  ruin — far 
more  desolate  than  the  majestic  for- 
est that  Henry  Lamb  found.  Now 
there  is  nothing  but  tumbling  walls 
and  broken  roofs  and  weed  hidden 
paths  and  cold  and  barren  fireplaces. 

Lamb  hied  him  to  England  and  ad- 
vertised in  the  principal  London,   Bir- 


A     CITY     THAT     WAS     NOT     BUILT 


T19 


mingham,  Manchester  and  Liverpool 
papers  for  artisans  and  workers  in 
every  art  and  profession.  He  promised 
them  a  house  and  lot  and  firewood  free 
and  immunity  from  taxes  for  25  years. 
He  promised  them  plenty  of  game  and 
fish.  He  gave  a  free  site  for  a  Church 
of  England  cathedral  at  the  west  end 
of  the  town  and  another  site  for  the 
bishop's  palace  and  Roman  Catholic 
cathedral  in  the  east  end,  and  free 
sites  and  building  material  for  churches 
of  all  other  denominations.  He  gave 
a  market  square,  a  cricket  ground,  a 
race  course;  promised  to  erect  a  first- 
class  theater,  concert  hall  and  ball- 
room, and  even  advertised  for  an  effl- 


woods.  His  became  the  great  half- 
way house  between  the  head  of  navi- 
gation— Dundas — and  the  great  Ger- 
man and  Mennonite  settlement  in  what 
is  now  Waterloo  county.  His  wife  was 
hostess,  his  brother,  Major  Lamb,  his 
right  hand  man,  and  besides  he  had 
four  stalwart  sons,  Lemuel,  Charles, 


© 


1— THE    LAMB    HOMESTEAD. 
2-DOVETAILED    LOGS    IN    THE    WALL. 


cient  chief  of  police.  He  came  back  and 
built  the  first  and  biggest  hewn  log 
house  in  Beverly,  erected  a  huge  stone 
milk  house  over  a  living  stream  of 
water,  a  house  big  enough  to  furnish 
the  milk,  butter  and  cheese  of  the  new 
city;  opened  a  tavern,  built  a  church 
and  whooped  her  up  generally.  Set- 
tlers clustered  round  him,  a  road  was 
built  past  his  very  door,  the  wagon 
wheels  knocked  chips  off  the  corner 
of  his  house,  and  the  lights  in  his  win- 
dow were  a  beacon  for  the  weary 
travelers  through  the  wolf-infested 


Henry, 


and  one  daughter,  the 


late  Mrs.  Andrew  Van  Every- 

What  would  have  happened  had  the 
first  three  lived  twenty  years  longer 
than  they  did  it  is  hard  to  tell.  The 
hardships  and  terrors  of  the  American 
revolution,  the  great  hejira  north- 
ward, the  perils  and  dangers  of  the 
unknown  woods  had  sapped  their 
strength  and  they  died  within  a  short 
time  of  one  another.  And  these  two 
heroes  and  that  one  heroine  sleep  side 
by  side  and  are  the  only  occupants  of 
one  of  the  strangest  a«d  most  pathetic 


T2O 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


graveyards  in  the  world.  Henry  Lamb 
built  his  city  on  a  rock,  and  he  and  his 
were  determined  to  be  buried  in  the 
middle  of  the  town.  The  bodies  were 
placed  in  their  rude  coffins  side  by 
side  on  the  top  of  the  ground  and 
were  covered  with  tons  of  great  stones. 
A  stone  wall  was  built  around  them, 
and  this  filled  in  and  over  with  soil, 
so  that  when  it  was  finished  it  formed 
a  cairn  18x27  feet  at  the  base  and  ten 
feet  high.  There  they  slept  peacefully 


like  the  ancient  Egyptian  kings  and 
queens  in  the  pyramidal  tombs,  and 
every  night  the  wolves  foregathered 
above  them  and  fought  for  the  highest 
seats  of  the  mighty.  To-day  these 
graves  are  unkempt  and  the  wall  in 
ruins.  Groundhogs  make  their  homes 
there  down  among  the  dead  men's 
bones  and  the  wind  and  weather  of 
three-quarters  of  a  century  have  left 
the  cairn  only  four  feet  high. 

THE   KHAN. 


GEAVES    OP    HENRY    LAMB,    HIS    WIFE    AND    HIS    BROTHER    MAJOR    LAMB 


CHAPTER  XXII 


LEGENDS       OF       ROMULUS 


f^rrr.  EGAR  DING 
the  home  of 
Henry  Lamb 
as  he  first  es- 
tablished it,  I 
1  should  have 
said  that  it 
I  was  a  fort,  or 
I  more  properly 
a  stockade.  The 
property  reach- 
ing as  far  as 
the  dam,  east 
]  as  far  as  the 
Bishop's  pal- 
~*  ace,  south  be- 
yond the  mill,  and  north  bordering 
what  is  now  the  old  orchard.  It  was 
enclosed  with  a  hewn  log  wall  in 
some  places  ten  feet  high.  It  was 
really  the  rancherio  of  South  America 
and  the  kraal  of  South  Africa.  As 
Lamb  kept  the  first  tavern  in  the  Gore 
district  he  early  recognised  that  men 
who  relied  on  their  rifles  for  fresh 
meat,  and  whose  gorge  rose  against 
fried  bear,  boiled  black  venison,  and 
stewed  ground  hog;  looked  upon  hens 
amd  eggs  as  the  greatest  luxury  on  top 
of  earth. 

Therefore  Henry  Lamb  kept  hogs, 
and  the  great  tide  of  humanity,  prin- 
cipally German,  that  flowed  west,  look- 
ed upon  Romulus  as  the  land  of  plenty. 
Here  the  first  pig's  foot  was  pickled; 
in  that  old  and  solemn  house  the  first 
slippery,  gummy  head  cheese  was 
made;  in  that  front  yard  the  first  intes- 
tines were  scientifically  cleansed  under 
the  supervision  of  an  old  Dutchman 
who  had  hob-nobbed  with  Van  Der 
Bilt  and  Jacob  Astor.  And  this  leads 
up  to  my.  story: 

The  Indians,  "our  friends  and  allies," 
as  the  British  government  kindly  called 
them,  but  painted  barbarians  just  the 
same,  whose  descendants  to  this  day 
preserve  as  heirlooms  the  scalps  their 
enemies,  not  their  fathers,  wore  at 
Stony  Creek  and  Queenston  Heights, 
used  to  drop  down  in  a  friendly  way 
on  the  unsophicticated  U.  E.  Loyalist. 


They  visited  Henry  Lamb  once,  and 
only  once.  Some  travelers  found  him 
bandaged  with  weasel  skins,  which  in 
those  days  were  supposed  to  cure  any- 
thing from  a  sore  nipple  to  Bright's 
disease,  and  asked  him  what  was 
wrong. 

"Injuns,"  he  said;  "I  had  to  fight 
like  the  devil.  A  man  might  as  well 
lose  his  life  as  his  pork." 

This  saying  has  been  handed  down 
to  this  day  in  Beverly. 


Henry  Lamb  is  a  mystery.  Even 
his  sons  could  tell  nothing  about  him, 
or  little  about  his  antecedents,  and 
what  added  to  their  terror  of  this  re- 
markable man  was  the  fact  that  one 
grf-at  room  at  the  top  of  the  log  cas- 
tle was  always  closed.  The  door  was 
double  locked,  the  windows  heavily 
curtained.  No  one  entered  that  room 
but  Henry  Lamb  and  'his  associates, 
and  these  associates  came  from  afar. 
Weary  and  travel-stained  they  came 
through  the  bush,  and  put  up  their 
horses  in  the  great  log  corral.  They 
looked  like  other  men,  but  there  was 
something  uncanny  about  them. 

The  rough  an'd  dangerous  bully  of 
the  bush,  whose  only  law  was  his 
strong  right  hand,  was  different  when 
these  men  came  near.  The  wolf  de- 
fier,  the  bear  hunter,  the  bartender, 
the  hostler,  the  money  lender,  the 
lay  reader,  the  ready  fighter,  the  man 
whose  expressive  oaths  are  yet  a  leg- 
acy, became  in  the  presence  of  these 
men  a  genial  gentleman  of  the  old 
school,  with  subdued  speech  and  man- 
ner of  the  old  regime.  Lamb's  wife, 
a  scion  of  one  of  the  oldest  French 
families,  the  De  Bouchervilles,  don- 
ned her  best  old  silk  and  put  on  the 
manners  of  the  grande  dame  that  she 
was  (her  French  school  books  are 
preserved  in  Beverly),  and  the  best 
in  the  house  was  theirs— these  stran- 
gers! 

They  were  strange  people  these; 
they  came  from  the  north  and  the 


122 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


m?  rr 

'rr  L  e=^=rt-rr^V!^zv7 /r-C- £^--r_r. '•  ~ 


.  -*_ijL~_  .<  a~i     .JLi-i    i    K-".- 

" 


_,j7m^*~~*~t_-_ 

BUILDING    ON    THE    SITE    CHOSEN   FOK   THE    CATHOLIC   CATHEDRAL. 


south,  the  east  and  the  west.  One  of 
them  one  night  turned  his  back  to  the 
fire,  parted  his  coat  tails  and  recited 
Virgil.  Another,  a  Cambridge  man, 
gave  Sophocles'  Chariot  Race,  and 
when  his  weird  and  strange  compan- 
ions broke  into  a  more  or  less  discor- 
dant shout  of  eulogy,  a  she  wolf 
screamed  in  the  yard.  Later,  one  by 
one  they  went  upstairs  into  that  se- 
cret room.  The  settlers  shook  their 
heads,  the  Pennsylvania  Dutch  talked 
of  witchcraft,  good  Catholics  crossed 
themselves,  an  old  Indian  employed 
about  the  place  cut  his  wrist,  and  let 
the  blood  fall  drop  by  drop  on  a  bur- 
dock leaf.  Crafty  hunters  watched 
the  curtained  window,  daring  wolf 
killers  studied  the  men  who  went  up 
those  stairs.  But  all  was  silent,  save 
when  that  silence  was  punctuated 
with  unholy  laughter.  Then  these 
men,  Lamb  at  their  head,  would  come 
down  stairs  and  eat  and  eat  and  eat, 
and  drink  and  drink  and  drink  just 
like  common  folks.  Other  folks  shook 
their  heads.  No  good  would  come  of 
it.  One  night  after  the  orgies  were 
over,  Henry  Lamb,  Judge  O'Reilly 
(father  of  ex-Mayor  O'Reilly),  and 
another  whose  name  I  cannot  get, 
stole  out  of  the  house  alone.  They 
bore  a  box  between  them  containing 
all  of  Henry  Lamb's  wealth  in  crowns, 
half  crowns  and  florins.  They  buried 
the  box  in  the  hen  house  (right  under 
the  hens),  and  then  Henry  Lamb 
mounted  a  horse  and  disappeared 
through  the  moonlit  forest  on  his  way 
to  New  York  to  take  a  degree  of  soine 


kind  as  a  Royal  Arch  Mason.  He  was 
gone  four  months,  and  when  he  re- 
turned his  crowns,  half  crowns  and 
florins  were  safe  under  a  wagon  box 
full  of  superior  fertiliser,  almost  equal 
to  guano. 

*    *    * 

Major  Lamb  died  first.  The  location 
of  the  romantic  burying  ground  is  in 
this  wise:  He  was  very  dropsical  and 
had  traveled  round  the  world  seeking 
health,  and  had  once,  as  he  always 
boasted,  had  an  audience  with  the 
Pope.  Knowing  that  he  was  going 
to  die  four  days  before  his  demise,  he 
bid  them  put  him  in  the  old  chariot 
which  had  come  from  Philadelphia  and 
drive  him  round  the  city.  "I  wish  to 
be  buried  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
a  knoll — and  there  he  was  buried  on 
the  solid  rock,  for  the  rock  is  very 
near  the  surface  all  over  that  locality, 
except  where  there  is  such  a  knoll. 
When  Henry  Lamb  died  Judge  O'Reilly 
and  two  other  men  visited  the  great 
log  castle,  broke  open  the  door  of  the 
secret  room,  stripped  it  of  everything 
within  and  departed,  to  the  great  re- 
lief of  the  people  in  the  little  locality. 

That  room  is  the  haunted  room,  and 
no  man  in  his  senses  would  go  into  it 
alone  or  sleep  in  it  for  all  the  farms 
in  Beverly, 

Just  this  side  of  the  old  house  is  a 
culvert,  over  which  the  people  drive 
to-day.  I  often  wonder  if  the  wheels 
ever  wake  the  old  ghosts  or  if  the  peo- 
ple who  ride  over  the  culvert  ever 
think  that  they  are  driving  through  a 
city  that  lived  in  a  great  man's  brain, 


LEGENDS     OF     ROMULUS 


I23 


and.  that  some  day  in  another  world 
he  will  show  them  his  opera  house  and 
his  skating  rink.  No!  They  are  won- 
dering what  the  price  of  potatoes  is  in 
Gait! 

*    *    * 

The  splendid  property  was  divided 
among  the  children,  but  the  mighty 
boom  had  burst;  Moses  was  dead,  and 
there  was  no  Joshua.  The  government 
moved  the  road  to  the  other  side  of  the 
milk  house  and  the  dairy  was  turned 
into  a  tavern.  A  lean-to  barroom 
and  a  great  fireplace  were  built  against 
the  south  wall,  and  there  are  their 
ruins  to  be  seen  to-day.  The  old 
milk  house  still  stands  stout  and 
strong  with  the  pure  and  blessed 
water  flowing  through  it,  but  the  bar- 
room is  a  melancholy  and  rotted 
wreck.  Talking  about  this  stream  of 
water  reminds  me  that  about  the  last 
man  who  kept  tavern  there  before 
Watty  Barons  got  it  was  a  man 
named  Strahan.  There  was  a  trap-door 
to  reach  the  water  which  flowed  be- 
.  neath  the  floor.  Mrs.  Strahan  was 
found  drowned  in  it  one  morning. 
There  were  rumors  that  she  had  been 
pushed  in,  but  nothing  was  ever  done 
about  it.  There  was  no  use  making 
a  fuss.  The  ruins  of  Laimb's  mill  that 
furnished  so  much  lumber  for  the  dis- 
trict are  still  to  be  seen  directly  south 
of  the  old  hotel.  The  mill  is  built  on 
the  solid  rock,  worn  smooth  as  glass, 
and  on  its  surface  may  be  seen  scratch- 
ed deep  lines  from  northwest  to  south- 
east by  the  glaciers  of  ages  unknown. 
The  old  Mowberry  tavern  stands  on 
the  site  of  the  proposed  Catholic 
cathedral  and  is  still  in  good  repair. 


The  old  Lamb  homestead  is  a  won- 
derful old  building.  There  are  four 
great  six-foot  fireplaces  in  -it— two  up- 
stairs and  two  down.  They  say  that 
walls  have  ears.  Oh,  if  they  only  had 
a  tongue,  what  rare  old  stories  would 
those  walls  tell!  As  I  passed  from 
room  to  room  ghosts  seemed  to  flit 
noiselessly  before  me,  and  as  I  went 
upstairs  I  noticed  two  ax  marks  on  the 
old  bannister  rail,  made  in  a  desperate 
fight  one  wild  winter's  night.  I 
would  hate  to  sleep  all  night  alone  in 
that  house. 

It  may  be  interesting  to  know  that 
the  village  of  Rockton  was  once  part 
of  the  estate  of  Lemuel  Lamb,  and  it 
came  near  being  called  Lambville. 
When  Hemon  Gates  Barlow  was  treas- 
urer and  chief  magistrate  of  Beverly 
his  wife  gave  a  party  at  which  were 
present  Mrs.  Belden,  Mrs.  Andrew 
Kernighan,  Mrs.  Pettinger,  the  Misses 
McVane,  Miss  Kate  and  Miss  Aggie 
Barrie,  Mrs.  Seth  Holcomb,  Mrs.  Kirk- 
patrick  and  other  ladies.  The  late 
Mrs.  Cranly  was  waiting  on  the  table. 
A  government  official  had  arrived  to 
establish  a  postoffice  and  he  was  in- 
troduced to  the  ladies,  had  tea  with 
them,  and  stated  his  mission^  None 
of  the  ladies  liked  the  name  of  Lamb- 
ville, and  in  the  midst  of  an  animated 
discussion  as  to  what  would  be  a  good 
appellation,  Mrs.  Cranly  sang  out: 

"Call  it  Rocktown — divil  a  better 
name  you'll  get  than  that!" 

And  amid  screams  of  laughter  the 
little  village  received  its  postoffice 
name  of  Rockton.  THE  KHAN. 


BUINS    OP    THE    ROMULUS    GRIST    MILL. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


AN       ANCIENT       TROJAN 


E  wandered  down  the 
old  Troy  road  (not  the 
old  Kent  road),  looking 
about  for  interesting- 
thing's.  It  was  early 
morning,  and  the  bright 
warm  sun  shone  strong 
and  clear  over  the 
snow-covered  earth,  making  fields, 
fences  and  housetops  sparkle  as  if  be- 
decked with  diamonds.  The  smoke 
from  many  a  farm  chimney  went 
shooting  straight  heavenward  like  in- 
cense in  the  frost-laden  air,  and  there 
was  a  wonderful  quiet  all  around.  Our 
good  friends  the  farmers  are  not  es- 
pecially early  risers  in  the  winter  time, 
though  they  may  make  up  for  it  in 
summer,  and  for  some  time  along  the 
up  hill  and  down  dale  road  the  only 
sounds  that  greeted  us  as  we  passed 
farm  house  after  farm  house  was  the 
patient  mooing  of  the  cows  and  the 
£*rking  of  the  collie  dogs.  But  there 
w&s  life  inside  the  houses,  as  the  smoke 
showed,  and  as  our  watch  hands  show- 
ed beyond  the  half-past  eight  o'clock 
all  along  the  way  was  dotted  by  the 
figures  of  the  youngsters  hurrying  off 
to  school.  The  school  bell  soon  after- 
ward broke  the  universal  stillness, 
and  another  day  had  begun  in  earnest. 

*    *    * 

I  wanted  to  go  into  the  schoolhouse 
and  have  a  talk  with  the  teacher  on 
the  subject  of  Ontario's  school  sys- 
tem, but  the  artist,  he  wouldn't  have 
it  that  way.  Just  as  soon  as  he  dis- 
covered he  was  in  Troy  his  artistic 
soul  yearned  to  see  the  ruins  of  the 
walls  of  the  historic  old  place,  and  as 
soon  as  he  located  these  he  bethought 
him  of  the  noble  Helen  and  wanted 
to  knock  at  every  door  to  see  if  she 
might  not  be  somewhere  in  hiding. 
We  asked  at  the  postoffice,  but  they 
said  there  wasn't  a  Helen  any  more  in 
Troy,  so  he  had  to  be  satisfied  for  the 
time  with  his  snow-covered  walls  and 
an  old  stone  bridge.  The  walls  did 
not  at  any  time  in  their  history  sur- 


round Troy,  but  marked  the  confines 
of  a  grist  mill,  which,  like  many  an- 
other, has  had  its  day  and  fallen  in 
the  march  of  the  ages.  It  stood  at 
the  right  of  the  main  road,  by  a  bridge 
spanning  a  wide  and  fast  flowing 
creek,  whose  source  was  somewhere 
north  in  the  Beverly  swamp.  Just 
below  the  bridge  was  a  cascade,  much 
narrowed  and  made  the  more  fierce 
by  ice  bounds,  and  below  this  again 
was  another  old  bridge,  with  loose, 
piled  stone  supports  and  abutments. 
These  were  enough  for  the  artist  for 
a  little  while,  and  the  writer  left  him 
and  wandered  about  to  find  something 
more  interesting.  And  he  found  it,  or 
rather  him. 

*    *    * . 

Thou  everpresent  shadow  in    the  path 

of  man. 

Thy  steps  are   lagging,  slow; 
Thou  and  thine     icy     bosom     friend, 

gaunt  death. 
Taint   all   with   dissolution's   clammy 

breath. 

And  make  men     fear    thee     ere     they 
know 

Old  Age. 

The  children,   not  yet  entered     in     the 

course  of  life- 
Yet  full  of  youthful  glee— 
Oft   see   thy  power      in      grandame's 

trembling   hand, 
In  grandpa's   Shaking   limbs   as  near 

they  stand — 

All   fullsome  evidence    of  thee, 
Old  Age. 

i 
And  thus   thy  darkening  form   Is  seen 

through  all  our  life, 
A  spectral   token  drear 
Of  what  we  all  must  come  to — every 

one— 
Before  our  life  work  here  on  earth  is 

done. 

So  thou  and  gaunt  old  death  appear, 
Old  Age. 

Directly  alongside  the  school  house  in 
Troy  is  a  little  frame  cottage  set  on 
stone  foundation  that  tells  one  of  a 
capacious  cellar  below.  In  the  school 
yard  the  youngest  of  the  present  gen- 


AN     ANCIENT     TROJAN 


I25 


ADAM    MISENEB,    THE    CENTENARIAN    OP    TROY 


126 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


eration  play  about;  from  the  cottage 
window  in  winter  and  leaning  against 
the  line  fence  in  summer  the  oldest 
man  in  many  a  county  watches  them 
and  has  pleasant  thoughts  of  his  own 
childhood,  so  long  gone  from  him. 
This  was  my  find,  and  a  most  happy 
find  it  was,  for  though  Uncle  Adam 
Misener  is  so  old — 99  years  on  Feb.  20 
of  this  year — he  is  young  enough  in  ac- 
tivity to  pass  for  a  much  younger 
man,  and  in  conversation  is  a  most 
delightful  companion.  When  the 
Psalmist  wrote,  "The  days  of  our  years 
are  three  score  years  and  ten;  and  if 
by  reason  of  strength  they  be  four 
score  years,  yet  is  their  strength  labor 
and  sorrow,  for  it  is  soon  cut  off  and 
we  fly  away,"  he  certainly  did  not  in- 
clude Uncle  Misener,  for  though  he  is 
long  past  the  allotted  span  of  life's 
years  his  strength,  according  to  his 
own  statement,  is  not  yet  labor  and 
sorrow. 

*    *    * 

"I  sawed  and  split  all  the  wood  we 
are  using  last  summer,  besides  attend- 
ing to  the  garden,"  said  he,  cheerfully. 
"Didn't  it  tire  me?  I  wouldn't  work 
till  I  got  tired.  I  would  take  rests  In 
between.  But  I  will  not  be  able  to  do 
so  much  next  summer,"  he  went  on. 
And  then  he  dramatically  described 
what  he  called  "his  first  stroke."  It 
came  one  day  last  fall  when  he  was 
alone  in  the  diningroom  lying  on  the 
sofa.  The  room  was  warm  and  he  had 
been  dosing.  "I  got  up,"  he  said,  "to 
open  a  door,  but  before  I  had  taken  a 
step  I  lost  my  breath,  and  with  the 
feeling  that  my  pulse  had  stopped 
there  was  a  great  flash  in  my  eyes  and 
I  fell  on  the  floor.  I  got  over  it  all 
right,  but  I  haven't  been  the  same 
since,  and  have  had  one  or  two  more 
strokes.  The  doctor  says  It 
would  have  settled  me  the  first  time 
if  it  had  been  a  little  harder." 


Uncle  Adam  comes  of  sturdy  stock. 
His  grandfather,  also  named  'Adam, 
was  a  Hollander,  and  came  to  America 
In  1720,  settling  in  New  Jersey.  One 
of  his  sons,  Nicholas— the  father  of  the 
present  Adam — married  a  pretty  Irish 
girl  named  Jane  McLean  right  after 
the  American  revolution,  and  in  1793 
he  started  out  from  New  Jersey  with 
a  yoke  of  oxen,  one  cow,  a  mare,  his 
wife  and  a  ten  weeks'  old  baby  to 
tramp  to  Canada.  The  wife  rode  on  the 
mare,  which  was  harnessed  to  the  cow, 


and  carried  the  baby  in  her  arms  as 
far  as  Oswego.  From  that  port,  just 
to  give  dlverseness  to  the  trip,  the 
father,  mother  and  child  boarded  a 
little  vessel  and  set  sail  for  Niagara, 
sending  the  cattle  around  by  shore. 
They  landed  at  Niagara  on  July  4,  1793, 
and  went  to  Crowland  township,  in 
Welland  county.  After  a  stay  of  40 
days  there  the  father  walked  to  To- 
ronto (then  known  as  Little  York), 
took  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  the 
British  ruler,  paid  a  fee  of  $4  and 
walked  back  home,  the  happy  pos- 
sessor of  a  land  patent.  In  Crowland 
township  he  cut  down  the  forest  and 
built  him  a  log  hut.  There  he  cleared 
land  and  planted  apple  tree  seeds 
which  in  time  grew  into  fine  fruit  trees, 
some  of  which  may  be  seen  there  yet. 
And  there  also  was  Uncle  Adam  born. 


Uncle  Adam  was  a  slip  of  a  boy 
when  the  battle  of  Lundy's  Lane  was 
fought,  and  as  his  father's  house  was 
but  very  few  miles  from  the  scene  of 
hostilities,  and  he  was  around  at  the 
time,  he  heard  a.  good  deal  of  the  row, 
though,  like  a  good  sensible  boy,  he 
did  not  get  in  the  thick  of  it.  He  will 
tell  you  now,  if  you  care  to  ask  him 
about  it,  how  he  and  his  sisters  were 
out  in  his  father's  field  picking  peas 
on  the  day  of  the  battle.  They  had 
heard  there  was  to  be  an  engagement 
scon  and  were  looking  for  it.  It  start- 
ed about  half  an  hour  before  sundown, 
and  as  the  old  man  now  says,  with  a 
wave  of  his  arms,  "when  I  tell  about 
it  I  get  the  same  feeling  I  had  then." 
The  first  noise  the  youngsters  heard 
was  the  bang  of  a  32-pounder  which 
nearly  soared  them  out  of  their  wits. 
Then  came  a  rattle  like  hail  on  a  roof, 
dying  away  and  coming  thicker  and 
faster,  just  as  the  storm  might  increase 
01  subside.  This  was  the  musketry  dis- 
charge, and  every  once  in  a  while 
would  roar  out  like  a  great  thunder 
peal  the  big  piece  of  ordnance. 

*  *    * 

Afterward  the  children  went  to  the 
battle  ground,  saw  the  blood-stained 
earth,  counted  42  bullet  holes  in  one 
fence  rail,  gathered  a  great  store  of 
emptied  cartridges  and  went  home 
with  their  little  hearts  sorrowful  and 
their  minds  full  of  wonderment,  just 
the  same  as  little  Peterkin. 

*  *    * 

One   day  when  he  was   a  small  boy 


AN     ANCIENT     TROJAN 


I27 


Uncle  Adam  lost  the  sight  of  one  eye. 
It  happened  in  a  peculiar  way,  too.  He 
was  playing  knife  with  some  other 
boys,  and  when  he  came  to  "eyes" 
the  blade  of  his  knife  went  too  far, 
blotting  out  the  sight  forever.  When 
one  considers  that  even  now  at  99 
years  of  age  Uncle  Adam  is  just  be- 
ginning to  use  glasses,  though  for 
nearly  all  his  life  the  strain  of  sight 


knots  for  torches,  and  one  night,  when 
my  partner  quit  work,  he  went  right 
home  instead  of  calling  at  my  house 
and  waking  me  up.  When  he  left  he 
threw  the  pine-knot  embers  into  the 
creek,  as  he  thought.  A  little  while 
afterwards  I  woke  up  and  my  room 
was  all  of  a  glare.  I  looked  out  of  the 
window  just  in  time  to  see  the  mill 
roof  fall  in  and  a  great  sheet  of  flame 


'iSM^-sa^Ji^'r^     ;'„•--; 


EUINS    OF    THE    OLD    MILL. 


has  been  upon  one  eye,  one  cannot  but 
wonder. 

*  *  * 

"March  13,  eighteen  and  eighteen," 
as  he  puts  it  himself,  was  the  time 
when  the  old  man  first  came  to  Bever- 
ly. There  were  at  that  time  seven 
families  in  the  place  and  sixty-three 
names  on  the  assessment  roll,  and 
forest  abounded  everywhere.  Like 
nearly  everyone  else  in  those  early 
days,  Uncle  Adam  had  to  have  a  mill 
of  some  kind.  He  had  a  saw  mill,  and 
with  it  bad  luck.  It  had  been  running 
but  a  month  when  it  burned  down  with 
all  the  product  of  the  month's  sawing. 
He  tells  how  the  fire  occurred:  "I 
went  in  with  another  young  man  in 
the  mill  business,  and  we  kept  it  run- 
ning all  the  time,  he  working  from 
noon  till  midnight  and  I  from  mid- 
night till  noon.  At  night  we  used  pine 


catch  the  piles  of  lumber  we  had  cut. 
The  pine-knot  embers  got  into  some 
sawdust." 

*    *    * 

Three  years  after  settling  there 
Uncle  Adam  married  Miss  Mary  Mil- 
ler, who  died  five  years  afterward.  In 
3831  he  married  Miss  Ellen  Coleman, 
who  died  in  April,  1895,  at  the  good  old 
z-ge  of  ninety-five  years.  Ten  children 
were  the  joy  of  Uncle  Adam's  wedded 
life,  and  but  one  of  them  has  died  as 
yet.  The  sturdiness  of  the  Misener 
stock  may  be  judged  when  it  is  said 
that  of  twelve  brothers  and  sisters,  of 
v  hich  Adam  is  one,  all  but  two  have 
lived  to  be  over  eighty  years  old.  One 
of  these  two  died  young  of  scarlet 
fever  and  the  other  at  seventy-nine 
years.  A  sister— Elizabeth— died  a 
month  ago,  having  reached  ninety- 
three  years,  and  now  Uncle  Adam  is 


128 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


the  only  one  left  of  his  father's  fam- 
ily. But  he  has  perpetuated  his  fam- 
ily's name,  for  last  November  there 
were  in  the  little  cottage  at  dinner  no 
IPSS  than  five  generations  represent- 
ed. Mrs.  Clement,  271  Mary  street,  is 
a  daughter  of  Uncle  Adam. 

I  cannot  begin  to  tell  you  all  the  in- 
teresting talk  I  had  with  the  old  man 
as  we  sat  by  his  kitchen  fire  that 
morning.  He  told  me,  and  I  can  readily 
believe  it  from  the  steadiness  of  his 
hand,  that  he  shaves  himself  yet.  I 
learned  that  all  his  long  life  he  has 
been  a  staunch  Reformer  In  politics, 
and  but  twice  since  1818  has  missed 


recording  his  vote  for  Reform  candi- 
dates. He  admitted  that  he  would 
like  very  much  to  live  till  he  had 
passed  the  100  year  mark,  though  he 
sometimes  thinks  that  one  of  those 
strokes  will  carry  him  off  before  that 
time  comes.  I  gave  him  a  paper  to 
read,  and  as  he  sat  by  the  fire  the 
artist,  back  from  his  ruined  walls  and 
his  search  for  Helen,  sketched  him  as 
he  sat,  he  not  knowing  a  thing  about 
it,  so  interested  was  he  in  reading 
about  the  developments  of  the  Cretan 
trouble.  Goodly,  kindly  old  Uncle 
Adam:  may  he  live  to  pass  the  century 
mark.  J.  E.  W. 


A    TROJAN    BRIDGE. 


WHERE  THE  BATTLE  WAS  FOUGHT 


Saltfleet's  Claim  to  Historic  Remembrance*  «^  The  Battle- 
Ground  and  Its  Environs.  <£  The  Romantic  Ravine  at 
Albion  Mills.  «£*  A  Post  Mortem  on  -Certain  Stony 
Creek  Remains. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


A     BATTLEFIELD     OF      l8l2 


Travelers  who  journey  to  Niagara 
Falls  or  the  villages  and  towns  between 
on  the  Queen's  highway,  cannot  fail 
to  have  noticed,  a  short  distance  west 
of  Stony  Creek  and  to  the  south  of  the 
ro&d,  a  long,  rambling  sort  of  wooden 
structure  which  would  not  present  an 
appearance  of  habitation,  were  it  not 
that  the  surroundings  of  vineyards, 
apple  and  peach  trees  and  other 
products  of  luscious  fruit  show  that 
man  is  somewhere  very  near,  and  that, 
in  all  likelihood,  he  is  to  be  found  In 
the  big  wooden  building  before  men- 
tioned. That  frame  structure,  odd  as 
it  looks,  has  a  history,  and  a  lively 
one;  the  chief  events  being  connected 
with  the  great  battle  of  Stony  Creek 
in  1812.  In  and  around  that  house  oc- 
curred some  strange  events,  such  as 
have,  not  infrequently,  changed  the 
whole  course  of  a  country's  history. 

That  big,  wooden  house,  84  years 
ago,  was  the  homestead  of  James  Gage 
and  the  scene  of  the  repulse  of  the 
American  soldiers,  under  Gen.  Winder, 
by  Col.  Harvey  and  his  small  force  of 
Britishers  and  faithful  Indians.  But 
for  that  set-back  for  the  American 
troops,  Canada — or  this  part  of  it — 
might  have  been  a  northern  hump  on 
the  back  of  the  great  American  repub- 
lic, geographically  speaking.  In  those 
days  of  guerilla  warfare  the  face  of 
nature  on  all  sides  of  the  Gage  farm 
presented  a  different  aspect  from  what 
it  does  to-day.  Then,  the  road  wound 
around  to  the  south  of  the  big  wooden 
house  and  Gage's  store  close  by,  while 
the  present  roadway  had  not  evoluted 
from  the  cedar  swamp  that  spread  It- 
self to  the  north.  Because  of  these 
things,  Gage's  home  was  picked  out  by 
the  American  officers  as  being  both 
commodious  and  comfortable  and  also 
commanding  an  excellent  view  of  the 
surrounding  country.  True,  nature 
took  a  rise  out  of  it  a  little  to  the 
south,  but  the  hill  failed  to  have  the 
compensating  comforts  of  a  home,  and 
the  Yankees  were  not  dwellers  in  tents, 
especially  when  they  could  get  such  a 


nice,  cosey  place  as  Gage's,  with  the 
ccncomitant  of  having  plenty  to  eat. 

It  is  an  old,  old  story,  familiar  to 
many,  that  lingers  round  and  about  the 
old  homestead  of  the  Gages.  The 
winds  that  whistled  under  the  eaves, 
along  the  big  verandas  and  round 
the  chimneys  tell  it,  the  floors  and  the 
stairways  tell  it,  and  the  surrounding 
landscape  bears  mute  testimony  to  the 
stirring  events  of  that  time.  One  day 
the  Americans  came  along,  and  Gen. 
Winder  and  his  officers  took  possession 
of  the  Gage  house,  turning  the  owner 
and  his  family  into  the  cellar.  That 
night,  when  the  Yankees  least  expected 
it,  the  British  and  the  Indians  came 
down  upon  them.  The  Indians,  with 
thtir  yells  and  war  whoops,  made  the 
Americans  fear  several  tribes  of  red 
men  were  upon  them,  and  they  fled  in 
double-quick  order. 

The  famous  and  historical  house  will 
be  seen  no  more  in  its  present  form, 
as  the  present  owner,  D;  A.  Fletcher, 
has  torn  down  one  half  of  the  build- 
nig  and  converted  what  was  left  into 
a  more  modern  structure.  Standing, 
as  it  did,  on  rising  ground,  the  house's 
prominence  brought  out  more  plainly 
its  venerable  and  nearly-a-century  air. 
It  had  not  worn  a  coat — that  is,  a  coat 
of  paint — for  several  years,  perhaps 
not  less  than  forty,  and  there  was  a 
decided  let-me-lean-against-you  style 
from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  por- 
tion facing  the  road.  The  building  was 
70  feet  long  and  30  feet  wide.  On  the 
north  side  was  a  piazza,  running  the 
length  of  the  house,  which  was  of  two 
stories.  The  front  of  the  building, 
which  still  faces  south,  as  it  did  when 
the  road  ran  a  short  distance  from  it, 
had  a  piazza,  and  a  veranda  running 
along  more  than  two-thirds  of  it. 
Years  ago,  a  former  owner,  Col.  Nelson, 
added  to  the  single  story,  and  the  front 
has  the  appearance  of  two  houses,  the 
western  portion  having  a  doorway  with 
a  somewhat  ornate  arch — as  orna- 
mentation went  in  those  days. 

So  much   for  the  exterior.     The     in- 


A  BATTLEFIELD  OF   l8l2 


OLD  FKONT  OF  HEADQUARTERS,  NOW  THE  BACK  OF  THE  HOUSE. 


terior  was  very  much  what  would  be 
expected  from  such  a  big  structure. 
Taking  the  basement  first,  the  visitor 
descended  to  it  on  big  blocks  of  stone 
for  steps.  The  earthen  floor  showed 
that  many  thousands  of  feet  had 
passed  over  it,  for  it  was  hard  as  a 
rock.  The  cellars  were  roomy  and  not 
so  bad  a  place  for  a  refuge.  In  the 
eastern  end  of  the  basement  the 
Gages  made  their  home,  while  the  Am-, 
erican  officers  had  possession  of  the 
upper  rooms  and  had  a  pleasant  time, 
when  they  were  not  dodging  bullets. 
In  the  northeast  corner  of  the  cellar 
was  a  sort  of  recess,  in  which  James 
Gage  made  his  bed  during  the  dark 
days  of  the  Yankees'  visit.  Up-stairs 
were  big  hallways,  roomy  corridors 
end  apartments  of  large  size.  There 
was  enough  room  in  the  corridors  and 
halls  to  find  room  for  several  families. 
The  rooms  had  no  striking  feature, 
and  how  much  they  had  been  changed 
since  the  days  of  the  Gages  cannot  be 
told.  One  large  room  of  that  time  is 
now  divided  into  two  by  a  partition. 

A  locksmith  of  nowadays  would  look 
with  horror  upon  the  locks  and  keys 
used  in  that  house.  Under  the  stairs 
in  the  main  portion  of  the  building  was 
a  cupboard,  which  has  a  history,  and 
also  a  lock  and  key  to  make  the  lock- 
smith's stout  heart  quail.  The  case  of 
the  lock  was  nearly  two  inches  across, 
and  the  bolt  was  big  enough  to  be  used 
in  a  bank  safe.  The  key — well,  there 
was  material  in  it  for  several  keys  of 
the  1896  pattern.  The  shank  was  nearly 


an  inch  thick,  and  several  inches  long. 
They  say  the  keysmith  was  a  black- 
smith; the  key  bears  out  the  state- 
ment. 

Although  it  was  wood,  wood  every- 
where in  the  old  building,  there  was 
no  likelihood  that  anything  less  than 
an  earthquake  would  bring  it  down. 
One  reason  for  its  stability  was  that 
evory  three  feet,  along  the  whole  length 
of  the  east  end,  a  beam  12x12  inches 
was  placed  across  the  structure;  while 
dcwn  in  the  cellar  at  one  end  was  an 
immense  slab  of  stone,  a  foot  thick 
and  twelve  to  fifteen  feet  long,  which 
made  a  portion  of  the  foundation. 

Another  relic  of  the  past  soon  disap- 
peared with  the  half  of  the  old  house 
— James  Gage's  old  store,  which  now 
stands  a  short  distance  away  to  the 
southwest.  It  is  now  nothing  but  a 
shell  and  will  make  good  kindling 
wood.  Along  the  front,  over  the  front 
door,  can  yet  be  faintly  seen  the  words: 
"J.  Gage's  Store."  Some  time  ago  they 
were  painted  out,  and  soon  the  whole 
concern  will  be  blotted  out. 

Opposite  the  big  house  is  shown  the 
stump  of  a  tree  to  which  was  speared 
by  the  Indians  one  of  the  American 
sentries.  A  short  distance  away  was 
found  what  appears  to  be  a  spear- 
head, although  it  is  not  said  it  is  the 
identical  one  that  impaled  the  Yankee 
soldier. 

A  visit  to  the  old  home  is  not  com- 
plete without  a  climb  to  the  top  of  the 
hill  at  the  rear,  down  «vhich  the  In- 
dians ran  and  scared  off  the  American 


132 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


soldiers  that  night.  Mr.  Fletcher,  the 
present  owner  of  the  house  and  land, 
says  that  with  the  aid  of  a  telescope, 
on  a  fine  day,  Hamilton,  Toronto, 
Guelph  and  St.  Catharines-  can  be 
seen.  Mr.  Fletcher  came  into  posses- 


sion of  the  property  last  May,  and  be- 
fore him  it  belonged  to  the  Gage,  Nel- 
son, Glover,  Williams  and  Fisher  fam- 
ilies, Mr.  Fletcher  purchasing  it  from 
George  S.  Fisher. 


1  and  2— Lock  on  cellar  door,  10  inches  long.  3— Key,  6  inches  long.  4— Fluted  brass  door  latch. 
5—Wrought  iron  extension  pot  hook,  used  at  soldiers  camp  fire.  6— Sword  or  spear  blade,  found 
under  the  tree  where  one  of  the  seutries  was  buried. 


CHAPTER   XXV 


ALBION       MILLS       RAVINE 


There's  a  fascination  frantic 
In  a  ruin  that's  romantic. 
Do  you  think  this  is  sufficiently  de- 
cayed? 

HE  South  Rid- 
ing- of  Went- 
worth,  from  a 
picturesque  and 
historic  point  of 
view,  presents  no 
point  of  greater 
interest  and 
beauty  than  the 
Mount  Albion 
ravine,  at  the 
head  of  which 
stands  the  grist 
mill,  and,  on  the 
level  ground 
above  it,  the  remains  of  other  build- 
ings erected  early  in  the  present  cen- 
tury. The  road  which  leads  around 
it  is  a  favorite  drive,  consequently  the 
place  is  familiar  to  the  residents  of 
both  town  and  country.  To  see  it  at 
its  most  impressive,  when  it  forms  a 
picture  not  soon  or  easily  forgotten, 
is  to  see  it  when  the  nights  are  moon- 
lit, when  the  "lamp  of  heaven"  swings 
just  high  enough  to  throw  long  lanes 
of  light  to  the  bottom  of  the  dark  ra- 
vine. Standing  on  the  bridge  which 
spans  the  water  where  it  takes  its 
first  leap  downward,  one  might  fancy 
the  silent  mill  a  fortress,  guarding 
grimly  the  mouth  of  the  pass.  The 
pass  itself — half  hidden,  half  revealed— 
i-?  filled  with  strange,  lurking  figures, 
and  a  suppressed  murmur  of  voices. 
We  know  the  figures  are  only  shadows 
cast  by  the  somber  swaying  pines,  and 
the  voices  are  the  voices  of  nature  em- 
bodied in  the  trees,  and  running  water; 
yet  heard  in  connection  with  the  idea 
of  a  fortress,  they  make  us  think  of 
soldiers  preparing  for  the  attack,  in 
obedience  to  orders  passed  along  the 
line.  Aided  by  imagination  the  sounds 
take  meaning  and  grow  distinctly  on 
the  ear.  A  ray  of  moonlight  flashes 
on  some  bright  object  among  the 


shadows.  Firearms  surely!  and  in- 
stinctively we  turn,  half  expecting  to 
hear  an  awful  salute  from  the  fortress. 
An  owl  hoots  dismally  that  weird  note 
which  turns  the  thoughts  to  death  and 
disaster.  The  grey  bird  flits  past  the 
face  of  a  rock  that  rises  to  a  height 
of  80  feet,  and  from  the  top  of  which  a 
young-  girl  cast  herself  to  death,  rather 
than  face  desertion  on  the  part  of  her 
lover,  who,  when  the  wedding  feast  was 
ready,  failed  to  appear.  Out  of  the 
gloom  where  the  bird  has  vanished 
comes  another  mournful  cry  and  the 
gorge  is  filled  with  ghostly  echoes 

We  are  now  in  a  mood  to  thoroughly 
believe  all  the  tales  in  connection  with 
a  house  that  once  stood  a  short  dis- 
tance from  the  mill,  and  of  which  noth- 
ing remains  but  a  part  of  the  chim- 
ney and  a  reputation  for  having  been 
"haunted."  One  of  the  stories,  clearly 
authenticated,  is  that  a  woman  who 
was  sleeping  one  night  in  an  upper 
loom  of  the  house,  awoke  suddenly  to 
find  the  clothes  slipping  from  the  bed. 
She  pulled  them  up,  and  again,  as  if 
drawn  by  .an  unseen  hand,  they  went 
slowly  creeping  towards  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  Three  times  was  this  repeated, 
and  the  third  time  the  process  was  ac- 
companied by  an  impatient  jerk.  The 
woman  shrieked  and  fled  down  the 
stair,  where  she  fell  in  a  swoon  from 
which  she  did  not  recover  for  hours. 
Another  story  runs  in  this  wise:  A 
gentleman  whose  name  I  shall  not  pub- 
lish, but  who  is  a  good  judge  of  the 
supernatural,  was  driving  with  some 
ladies  past  the  house  after  dark.  The 
horses  suddenly  stopped  and  snorted 
as  if  in  terror.  An  apparition  (white, 
of  course),  passed  by  the  side  of  the 
carriage.  The  ladles  screamed  and  the 
gentleman  valiantly  struck  at  it  with 
his  whip.  The  whip  lash  cut  right 
through  it,  without  causing  its  ghost- 
ship  any  apparent  inconvenience,  for 
it  continued  on  its  way  to  the  house, 
and  the  horses,  relieved  of  its  presence, 
started  on  again.  By  daylight  our  im- 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


pressions  of  the  place  are  less  roman- 
tic, and  more  realistic.  The  hum  of 
machinery  and  the  dumping  of  bags 
over  the  mill  door  is  a  scene  which 
does  not  admit  of  any  frills  of  fancy.  We 
even  gaze  on  the  "Lovers'  Leap"  with 
nineteenth  century  apathy,  and  think 
for  what  a  trifle  a  woman  will  cast 
away  life!  Let  us  hope  that  for  Jane 
Riley  "the  bitter  lesson  taught  by 
time"  will  be  sweetened  in  an  eternity 
blest  by  the  presence  of  "Joseph,"  and 
all  danger  of  further  trouble  avoided 
by  the  fact  that  there  is  there  "no 
marrying  or  giving  in  marriage." 


Alas,  poor  Jane   Riley,   for  Joseph  she 

did  die 
By  jumping   off   that   dizzy   brink   full 

sixty    cubits    high.  — Slater. 

The  above  lines  are  all  that  is  avail- 


able  of  a  poem  (?)  written  by  on 
Slater,  at  the  time  of  the  sad  occur 
rence.  In  speaking  of  Slater  my  in 
formant  said:  "He  was  a  smart  mai 
and  did  not  know  it."  I  carefully  madi 
a  note  of  it.  Slater  should  be  one  o 
the  features  of  picturesque  and  histori< 
Wentworth.  "A  smart  man"  is  rar< 
enough;  but  "a  smart  man  unconsci 
ous  of  his  smartness"  should  be  re 


ALBION      MILLS     RAVINE 


J35 


garded  as  an  antique,  if  not,  indeed, 
as  an  extinct  species.  Joseph's  mother 
said:  "Let  the  blame  rest  on  my  should- 
ers," which  was  very  magnanimous; 
and  goes  to  prove  that,  like  the  aver- 
age mother-in-law-elect,  she  objected 
to  her  son's  choice  of  a  wife.  Some 
years  later,  when  in  apparently  good 
health,  she  suddenly  shrieked:  "Jane's 
hand  is  on  my  shoulder,"  and  fell  dead 
on  the  floor.  Jane  had  evidently  taken 


for  John  Secord  by  a  millwright  whose 
descendants  have  made  the  name 
familiar  throughout  the  country. 
Squire  Secord  employed  as  a  miller  a 
colored  man  named  Owen.  One  Sat- 
urday the  millwright  happened  into 
the  mill,  and  detecting  with  practiced 
ear  an  unusual  sound,  ordered  the  mil- 
ler to  stop  a  certain  stone.  Owen  de- 
murred. He  was  willing  to  take 
chances  on  the  stone,  and  his  employer 


i 

sSWEferaSG*^--^    ^  * 


A    VERY    OLD    WAREHOUSE. 


her  at  her  word.  As  for  the  ghost- 
ridden  house,  we  refused  to  listen  to 
explanations,  though  we  are  inclined 
to  agree  with  Dickens  when  he  says: 
"They  were  afraid  of  the  house  and 
believed  in  its  being  haunted;  and  yet 
they  would  play  false  on  the  haunting 
side  so  surely  as  they  got  an  oppor- 
tunity. The  Odd  girl  was  in  a  state 
of  real  terror,  and  yet  she  invented 
many  of  the  alarms  she  spread  and 
made  many  of  the  sounds  we  heard." 


It  is  difficult  to  find  out  just  when 
the  first  mill  was  built  at  Mount  Al- 
bion. There  was  one  there  in  1814 
which  was  repaired  and  set  in  order 


agreed  with  him.  For  the  sequel  I  can- 
not do  better  than  give  it  in  the  exact 
words  of  "Hans:"  "It  was  very  tempt- 
ing to  the  miller  to  let  the  mill  run 
on  till  Sunday  morning.  He  felt  a  lit- 
tle guilty,  but  there  was  a  fine  head 
of  water,  and  the  mill  was  making 
rapid  work.  When  daylight  looked  in 
at  the  windows  his  guilty  sensations 
sat  more  lightly  upon  him.  Pretty 
soon,  before  the  neighbors  had  risen  to 
witness  his  transgressions,  he  would 
shut  off  the  water.  Leaving  the  stone 
flat  he  went  below,  where  the  chopped 
grain  was  being  discharged.  "While 
there  a  fearful  crash  was  heard  above 
— a  sudden  vibration  and  a  hiss  which 
sent  a  thrill  of  horror  through  him.  He 


136 


WENTWORTH      LAX DM AUKS 


THE    LOVERS'    LEAP. 

sprang  to  an  open  window,  through  it, 
and  up  the  hill  as  fast  as  his  legs  would 
carry  him.  Gasping  for  breath  he 
looked  down  on  the  mill.  Guilt  and 
fear  had  nearly  overpowered  him.  By 
and  bye  he  ventured  back  and  thrust 
his  head  through  the  open  window. 
He  saw  no  smoke  and  smelt  no  brim- 
stone. So  creeping  to  the  foot  of  the 


stair  he  found  one  half  of  the  mill- 
stone poised  at  the  top,  while  the  other 
had  gone  into  a  bin  of  grain."  Others 
affirm  that  the  negro  turned  white  with 
fright,  and  never  quite  returned  to  his 
original  color.  At  any  rate  he  was 
never  again  "cotched"  breaking  the 
Sabbath.  The  next  to  own  the  mill  was 
Peter  Reed,  whose  sons,  Adam  and 
Peter  Reed,  the  latter  ex-reeve  of 
Saltfleet,  are  now  resident  in  the  town- 
ship. He,  while  quarrying  a  pit  for  a 
new  mill  wheel,  struck  a  vein  of  gas, 
which,  however,  was  not  utilised  until 
the  property  became  Mr.  Crooks',  when 
it  was  piped  and  brought  in  to  light  the 
mill.  They  also  attempted  to  carry  it 
to  the  storeroom,  which  is  a  very  old 
building  indeed,  and  every  nail  used  in 
the  building  of  it  hand  wrought.  Mr. 
Cook,  whose  son,  James  Cook,  owns  the 
property,  suffered  great  losses  by  fire. 
He  had  a  large  farm  as  well  as  the 
mill  property,  and  his  barns  were  burn- 
ed to  the  ground  three  times  about  the 
year  1860.  A  number  of  horses  and 
cattle  were  destroyed  each  time.  In 
fact,  all  that  was  in  the  buildings, 
with  the  exception  of  one  horse,  which, 
unaided,  struggled  out  of  the  flames, 
but  with  both  eyes  completely  destroy- 
ed. After  the  third  fire  suspicion  of 
incendiarism  fell  on  an  inmate  of  the 
house,  a  girl  whom  the  Scotch  would 
call  "a  natural,"  and  who  was  employ- 
ed to  do  rough  work  about  the 
kitchen.  She  imagined  that  her  rights 
were  not  properly  defined,  and  took 
this  way  of  adjusting  the  matter.  One 
narrator  says  it  was  because  her  mis- 
tress would  not  allow  her  to  share  her 
bed  with  a  youthful  and  orphaned  pig. 
She  was  arrested  and  taken  to  Hamil- 
ton. Not  being  in  the  days  of  patrol 
wagons,  constable  and  prisoner  walked 
together  along  the  street.  A  friend 
of  the  former  met  them,  and  having 
some  information  to  impart  to  the  con- 
stable, stopped  him.  He  said  to  his 
prisoner:  "Walk  on  a  few  steps  and  I 
will  catch  you."  He  hasn't  caught  her 
yet.  TONY  REEK. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


EARLY     DAYS     IN     SALTFLEET 


Listen,  ye  men  of  the  cities, 

To  a  page  from  the  long  ago, 
Nor  deem  it  a  thousand  pities 

That  the  story's  simple  flow 
Throbs  not  with  the  blood  of  warfare, 

Political  heat  and  strife, 
But  is  only  a  homely  record 

Of  the   early  settler's    life. 

ND  it  came  to  pass 
that  there  rose  up 
out  of  the  land  of 
the  Philistines,  one 
named  Adam, whose 
surname  was  Green. 
After  journeying 
many  days  he 
came  to  the  creek 
which  is  called  Stony,  and  flows 
through  the  land  of  promise,  and  there 
he  abode,  he  and  his  children  and  his 
grandchildren,  even  unto  the  fourth 
and  fifth  generation.  Otherwise,  or  in 
nineteenth  century  parlance,  Ensign 
Green,  of  Gen.  Burgoyne's  army,  left 
his  home  in  the  state  of  New  Jersey 
and  came  to  the  province  of  Ontario, 
where  on  June  11,  in  the  year  1791,  he 
staked  his  claim  and  became  the  first 
settler  in  that  part  of  the  country 
known  later  as  the  village  of  Stony 
Creek.  To  his  grandson,  Sa,muel  Green, 
a  gentleman  vigorous  in  mind  and 
body,  and  bordering  on  80  years,  I  am 
indebted  for  my  knowledge  of  many 
incidents,  handed  down  from  father  to 
son,  in  connection  with  the  pioneers  of 
the  township  of  Saltfleet.  "Why  did  he 
leave  New  Jersey?"  came  as  a  natural 
question.  "Because  he  had  to,"  was 
the  blunt  reply.  This  was  refreshing, 
and  furnished  food  for  thought.  Hav- 
ing been  taught  to  regard  the  U.  E. 
Loyalist  as  a  man  who,  for  pure  love 
of  the  mother  country,  had,  when  the 
United  States  gained  their  independ- 
ence, shaken  the  dust  of  republicanism 
from  his  loyal  feet,  and  of  his  own  free 
will  and  accord  had  turned  him  to  a 
land  that  seeks  no  greater  independ- 
ence than  that  furnished  by  the  pro- 
tection of  the  British  crown,  to  say 


that  he  left  "because  he  had  to"  strips 
the  U.  E.  L.  of  the  romantic  halo 
through  which  he  shines  a  splendid 
figure  of  faithful  adherence  to  allegi- 
ance. 

*  *    * 

In  the  days  of  the  early  settlers  scien- 
tific cooking  would  have  labored  under 
difficulties.  Wheat  ground  by  hand 
in  a  hollowed  buttonwood  log,  and  sift- 
ed through  a  wolf  skin,  which,  punched 
full  of  small  holes  and  stretched  on  a 
wooden  frame  served  the  purpose  of  a 
sieve,  turned  out  a  brand  of  flour  that 
a  scientific  cook  wouldn't  care  to  fool 
with.  Such  an  one  was  the  mill  made 
by  Adam  Green,  and  the  settlers  as 
they  gathered  in  and  formed  a  neighf 
borhood  had  either  to  use  it  or  shoulder 
their  grain  and  take  the  Mohawk  trail 
to  Niagara,  where  even  there  It  was 
not  sifted,  only  ground.  Succeeding 
this  primitive  affair,  and  during  the 
next  40  or  50  years,  nine  different  mills 
were  erected  on  the  creek  north  of  the 
falls.  At  that  time  the  volume  of 
water  was  great  enough  to  turn  a 
mill  wheel  all  through  the  summer 
months.  Now  its  feeble  trickle  dries 
up  completely,  and  its  course  is  naught 
but  a  bed  of  stones  at  that  season  of 
the  year.  Some  day,  when  even  that  is 
filled  up  and  built  over,  and  all  trace 
of  the  creek  erased,  future  generations 
will  wonder  to  what  the  place  is  in- 
debted for  its  name.  People  from 
commonplace,  thriving  villages  flout 
the  idea  of  a  future  growth,  and  jeer 
at  our  stagnation  and  our  toll  gate. 
Let  them!  Stony  Creek  will  live  in 
history  when  the  thrifty  village  that 
never  had  a  battle  ground  or  a  toll  gate 
is  forgotten.  We  don't  deny  its  broken- 
down,  out-at-elbows  look.  That  is  its 
patent  of  nobility.  It  is  only  plebian- 
ism  that  must  needs  look  sleek  and  re. 
spectable. 

*  *    * 

The  children  of  the  first  settlers  had 
peculiar  school  privileges.  Their  teach- 
ers were  mostly  men  from  the  Eastern 


'3* 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


RUINS    OF    THE    OLD    CHURCH   AT    STONY    CREEK. 


States  who,  traveling  westward,  would 
engage  a  room  in  some  log  dwelling 
house  and  announce  their  intention  of 
keeping  a  school  for  a  term  of  three 
months.  Each  scholar  signed  an  agree- 
ment to  pay  so  much,  and  the  teacher 
dealt  out  knowledge  in  proportion  to 
the  amount  paid,  and  "boarded  round" 
among  the  families.  Some  of  the  teach- 
ers were  Puritans.  Others  were  men 
out  of  the  army,  who  flogged  the  boys 
most  unmercifully,  believing  that  the 
absorption  of  knowledge  is  made  easier 
if  taken  with  large  doses  of  beech  gad. 
School  books  were  a  scarce  article  anl 
writing  material  consisted  of  a  quill 
p*en,  and  for  ink  the  juice  of  the 
squawberry.  The  first  school  house 
erected  bore  over  the  door  the  date 
1822.  After  that  better  teachers  were 
available,  but  it  was  at  considerably 
later  date  than  the  building  of  the 
school  that  geographies  were  intro- 
duced, and  also  Kirkham's  grammar. 
In  those  days  the  minister  of  education 
wasn't  continually  grinding  out  school 
books  and  Bibles  to  suit  the  times;  nor 
teachers  with  relentless  faces  ordering 


the  last  grist  from  the  educational 
mill.  The  first  school  house  and  the 
first  church,  or  Methodist  chapel,  were 
built  in  different  corners  of  the  present 
burying  ground.  Not  a  trace  of  them 
remaineth.  Even  the  second  erections 
for  teacher  and  preacher  are  in  ruins. 


Spiritually  the  wants  of  the  peop'.e 
were  provided  for  in  much  the  same 
way  as  their  schooling.  Once  in  two 
or  three  months  a  Methodist  preacher 
or  "circuit  rider,"  oame  in  from 
Niagara  and  delivered  a  sermon 
straight  from  the  shoulder.  Lacking 
that,  they  ministered  to  each  other. 
Kent  and  Gorman,  settlers  who  follow- 
ed close  on  the  heels  of  Green,  being 
the  presiding  elders.  On  one  occasion 
the  promised  preacher  not  having  ar- 
rived, prayer  and  praise  were  conduct- 
ed by  Mr.  Kent.  Upon  leaving  the 
church  they  were  confronted  with  the 
following  lines,  painted  with  lamp- 
black on  a  shingle  and  set  up  at  the 
door: 


EARLY      DAYS     IN      SALTFLEET 


'39 


On  a  certain  Sabbath  day, 

There    came    no    preacher    with   us    to 

pray; 

So  Satan,  out  of  pity,  sertt 
His   faithful   servant,    William   Kent. 


Which    would    argue    that    Mr. 
had  an  enemy. 


Kent 


The  oldest  building  in  the  village  is 
the  Exchange  hotel.  Its  exterior  has 
been  somewhat  altered,  but  in  many 
respects  it  is  the  same  as  when  built 
in  1813.  Another,  the  Canada  house, 
was  built  in  the  neighborhood  of  65 


slowly  on  the  veranda.  Naturally,  cas- 
ual visitors  decided  at  a  glance  that 
the  Canada  house  was  doing  the  busi- 
ness of  the  place.  Hostelries  were  as 
thick  as  blackberries  half  a  century 
ago,  and,  owing  to  the  large  amount  of 
teaming,  drove  a  thriving  trade.  Now 
these  old  buildings  are  an  eyesore, 
gaunt  and  hungry  looking,  and  totter- 
ing to  decay — with,  of  course,  a  few  ex- 
ceptions. 

*    *    * 

Very  few  of  the  old  dwelling  houses 
are  left  standing.    One,  the  Van  Wag- 


<*-7jLx5^-V^?'S:  SSTC,^3^        /i  /  ^ 


es=S=5i*SS*5!^i*:ctiSe3;?e&?3fc  /, 


THE    VAN    WAGNEE    HOMESTEAD, 


years  ago.  It  boasted  a  dark  room, 
and  doubtless  many  gentlemen  of  Ham- 
ilton, prominent  in  political  circles, 
have  pleasant  recollections  of  holding 
"a  flush"  or  a  "full  house"  within  its 
friendly  seclusion.  One  of  the  proprie- 
tors of  its  early  days  was  wont  to 
spread  his  web  with  consummate  skill 
for  the  trapping  of  unwary  travelers. 
He  had  two  vehicles  which  he  kept  in 
the  yard  to  make  it  appear  that  the 
stable  was  full.  To  one  of  these  he 
would  hitch  his  horse  ^before  anyone 
else  was  astir  in  the  morning,  and  drive 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  before  the 
house,  the  numerous  tracks  just  made 
making  it  look  as  though  a  great  deal 
of  traffic  stopped  at  his  door.  Then  on 
the  principle  of  throwing  a  sprat  to 
catch  a  salmon,  the  usual  loafers  were 
given  cigars  and  told  to  smoke  them 


ner  house,  is  still  to  the  fore,  and  in 
close  proximity  to  the  modern  resi- 
dence occupied  by  Townsend  Van 
Wagner  and  family.  It  was  built  80 
years  ago  by  the  father  of  the  oldest 
present  generation,  a  man  who,  as  one 
of  his  descendants  expresses  it,  "came 
to  this  country  backwards,"  having 
rowed  in  a  rowboat  all  the  way  from 
Albany,  N.Y.  His  family  are  too  well 
known  to  make  further  comment  neces- 
sary; and  I  feel  while  dwelling  on 
these  incidents  of  the  past  that  I  may 
be  spoiling  material  that  under  Hans' 
treatment  would  have  been  a  thing  of 
beauty  and  a  joy  forever.  From  Col. 
Van  Wagner,  should  the  occasion  arise, 
we  may  expect  to  see  the  fruits  of  the 
spirit  which  animated  his  ancestors 
when  they  fought  for  the  British  gov- 
ernment in  the  wars  of  the  revolution. 


1 4o 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


•M  *. 


'<$m$kto 

»>if|«tl 

^mM/b,w'$u 

ISi 


THE    BED    HILL    ROAD. 


While  on  the  subject  of  schools  I  for- 
got to  make  mention  of  one  that  30  or 
40  years  ago  was  considered  the  best 
country  school  in  the  county.  I  refer 
to  the  one  known,  as  its  successor  also 
is,  as  the  "Red  Hill  school" — called  so 
from  the  color  and  texture  of  the  soil 
which  forms  the  bluff  on  which  the 
school  house  stands.  In  those  days  the 
attendance  averaged  100,  and  such 
teachers  as  Harte,  Smith  and  Cameron 
(now  Rev.  T.  Cameron,  of  Toronto), 
were  employed  at  a  salary  of  $500  a 
year.  They  grounded  the  older  schol- 
ars in  Greek  roots  and  Latin  verbs, 
and  turned  out  pupils  that  have  since 
done  credit  to  themselves  and  their 
early  teaching.  Aid.  Henry  Carscallen, 
Q.C.,  was  an  attendant  for  some  years, 
and  his  father  was  trustee  of  the 
school  for  more  than  half  a  century. 

Ex- Warden  J.  W.  Jardine  and  ex- 
Warden  J.  W.  Gage  are  familiar 
names  that  were  on  the  old  school 
roll,  only,  of  course,  without  the  pre- 
fix which  signifies  municipal  honors. 


Fifty  years  .  ago  the  red  clay 
or  chalk  before  mentioned  was 
used  for  making  figures  on  the 
blackboard,  which  consisted  of  some 
roughly  planed  pine  boards  nailed  to 
the  wall.  The  building  itself  was 
wooden,  and  part  of  it  moved  from  its 
foundation  serves  as  a  woodshed  in 
connection  with  the  new  school  house 
of  to-day.  The  road  leading  past  it 
was  an  Indian  trail  leading  from  Lake 
Ontario  to  the  Grand  river.  It  is  pic- 
turesque in  the  extreme,  particularly 
in  the  region  of  Vine  Vale  farm  and 
round  about  Mount  Albion.  When  the 
world  was  younger  (we  will  not  be  par- 
ticular as  to  dates),  that  part  of  the 
road  was  not  thought  safe  to  travel  on 
after  sundown.  The  cry  of  the  wolver- 
ine and  "painter"  was  often  heard  at 
nightfall,  and  different  men  could  tell 
thrilling  tales  of  hairbreadth  escapes. 
The  trees  hung  over  the  roads  on  both 
sides,  and  one  night  Col.  Gourlay,  rid- 
ing back  on  horseback,  heard  an  omin- 
ous rustling  in  the  branches  overhead, 


EARLY     DAYS     IN     SALTFLBET 


followed  by  that  terrible  cry,  half 
warning-,  wholly  defiant.  The  colonel 
rode  a  little  further  down  the  road,  dis- 
mounted and  tied  his  horse.  Before  the 
fierce  wild  animal  in  the  tree  knew 
what  it  was  all  about,  he  was  looking1 
into  the  business  end  of  a  revolver,  and 
with  a  very  determined  man  at  the 
other  end  of  it.  He  came  down  out  of 
the  tree,  and  unlike  the  generality  of 
wild  animals,  had  two  legs  instead  of 
four.  From  that  night  the  road  was 
free  of  wolverines  and  "painters." 

It  has  even  been  called  picturesque. 
To  prove   it  I   will   tell   of     a     remark 


feet  was  "hitting-  the  pipe."  In  the 
gutter  and  on  the  veranda  played  a 
group  of  dirty  children;  dogs  basked 
dreamily  in  the  sun.  The  lady  was 
delighted.  "It  looks,"  said  she,  "like 
one  of  those  dear,  dirty  Italian  vil- 
lages." As  an  example  of  the  small- 
ness  of  human  nature,  we,  who  a  mo- 
ment before  were  going  to  disclaim  all 
knowledge  of  the  place  and  pretend  we 
lived  at  Winona  or  on  the  mountain — 
anywhere — took  the  compliment  as  a 
compliment  to  ourselves,  and  began  to 
point  out  other  interesting  "bits."  Mod- 
esty forbade  us,  however,  claiming  kin- 


OLD    HOUSE    ON    THE    BATTLEFIELD. 

This  building  is  on  the  north  side  of  the  road  and  was  in  existence  some  time  before  the 
battle  was  fought. 


made  by  a  lady — a  southern  lady — 
traveling  from  Hamilton  to  Grimsby 
camp  ground  via  the  H.,  G.  and  B. 
The  car  stopped  at  the  company's  wait- 
ing room,  which  is  situated  in  a  part 
of  the  village  calculated  to  impress  a 
stranger  with  a  sense  of  its  pictur- 
esque loveliness.  Next  door  to  it  is  a 
building,  once  an  hotel  (see  sketch), 
then  a  boarding  house  for  navvies 
working  on  the  construction  of  the  T., 
H.  and  B.  The  roof  of  the  veranda 
was  on  this  occasion  covered  with 
orange  peels,  banana  skins  and  other 
refuse  of  a  fruity  nature.  At  a  win- 
dow appeared  a  pair  of  very  large  bare 
feet,  presumably  the  property  of  a 
person  born  under  warmer  skies  than 
ours,  being  a  study  in  brown. 
Wreaths  of  smoke  curled  from  the  win- 
dow in  evidence  that  the  owner  of  the 


ship  with  the  owner  of  the  feet.  Visit- 
ors of  a  material  nature,  who  see  no 
beauty  except  when  it  represents  dol- 
lars and  cents'  worth,  we  take  up  into 
a  high  mountain  (like  Satan),  and  show 
them  the  country  lying  between  it 
and  the  lake.  It  is  a  picture  which 
never  fails  to  call  forth  exclamations 
of  delight,  as,  indeed,  how  could  it 
fail  to  do?  And  if  it  happens  to  be 
summer  time  the  pleasure  of  the  visitor 
is  redoubled.  Vineyards  and  orchards 
stretching  to  the  east  and  west  fur- 
on  the  north  side  by  the  lake  and  a  blue 
Ihie  of  hills.  To  the  south  peach  trees 
and  lusty  grape  vines  clamber  up  the 
lusty  grape  vines  clamber  up  the 
mountain  side  to  mingle  with  up-lying 
fields  of  young-  wheat,  trembling  a  sil- 
ver grey  in  the  light  stirring  of  the 
wind.  The  beach,  crescent  shaped, 


142 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


lying  like  a  huge  sickle  sharply  divid- 
ing the  lake  and  the  bay,  and  the  bay 
itself  resting  like  a  pearl  in  the  shadow 
of  the  hilLs,  has  been  compared,  in  its 
beauty,  with  the  Bay  of  Naples.  In 
looking  over  the  country  from  the 
brow  of  the  mountain,  one  would  like 
to  be  able  to  call  up  a  Mohawk  chief 
from  the  shades  of  the  departed  and 
show  him  the  difference  a  century  has 
made.  Perhaps  he  would  view  it  with 
the  calm  indifference  common  to  the 
Indian.  If  so,  we  would  point  out  to 
him  the  electric  car  gracefully  describ- 
ing the  curves  of  his  erstwhile  trail. 
That  would  move  him,  and  cause  him 
to  mutter  in  the  language  of  the  Mo- 


hawk something  about  "the  horrors 
that  we  know  not  of."  Still  we  need 
not  go  back  that  far  to  make  the 
street  car  a  matter  of  surprise,  and  we 
find  it  difficult  now  to  believe  that 
only  three  years  ago  we  "staged  it"  to 
Hamilton — said  stage,  by  the  way,  al- 
ways "smelled  to  heaven,"  and  inclin- 
ed one  to  think  that  the  last  occupant 
must  have  been  on  his  way  to  the 
mortuary,  and  the  horses  gave  one  the 
impression  of  having  aged  through 
fast  living  rather  than  an  accumula- 
tion of  years.  But  I  am  forgetting.  It 
is  of  the  past,  the  long  past,  that  I 
should  be  writing. 

TONY  REEK. 


A    MILL    OF    YE    OLDEN    TIME. 


THE  STAGE  COACH  DAYS 


Recollections  of  Life  on  the  Old  Post  Road  Between  Ham- 
ilton and  Caledonia.  <£  The  Wayside  Inn  Ruins  that 
Mark  the  Route  Through  Barton  and  Glanford. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


THE     CALEDONIA     STAGE     ROAD 


With  a  pull  of  the  line  and  a  crack  of 

the  whip 

We're   off  on   the   Caledonia   stage; 
Give  modern-day  cares  and  worries  the 

slii* 

And  live  for  an  hour  in  another  age. 

I 
If  the  road  is  good  we  may  get  there 

soon; 
If    it    isn't    we'll    possibly    have    to 

walk; 
But,    speedy    or    slow,    grant    this    one 

boon— 
Sit  down  and  listen  to  old  men  talk. 


UCH  as  one  may 
rejoice  that  his  life 
has  been  set  in  the 
immediate  present 
in  this  century  of 
wonderful  things 
»*»•  there  is  a  mine"  of 
interesting  incident  to  be  opened  up 
and  delved  into  when  one  considers  the 
earlier  years  of  the  century  around 
this  neighborhood  in  almost  any  di- 
rection. As,  for  instance,  the  records 
of  the  old  stage  coach  days  along  the 
road  over  the  mountain  and  into  Cale- 
donia. We  people  of  this  day  know 
next  to  nothing  of  the  real  old-fash- 
ioned stage  coach  other  than  what  we 
read  about  it  in  the  school  books,  but 
there  are  plenty  of  the  old  folks  left 
who  knew  no  other  mode  of  travel  in 
their  younger  days.  And  an  interest- 
Ing  method  of  travel  it  used  to  be,  too, 
particularly  in  the  springs  and  falls 
of  the  years.  For  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  in  stage  coach  days  the 
science  of  road  building  in  this  land 
vras  a  thing  undreamed  of,  and  the 
best  roads  of  the  country  were  those 
known  as  plank  roads.  These  were 
good  enough,  in  the  summer,  when 
everything  was  dry,  and  in  the  winter, 
when  everything  was  frozen  up,  but 
in  the  spring  and  fall — well,  they  were 
different.  That  Caledonia  road,  now 
so  beautifully  kept  by  a  generous  toll 
road  company,  was  one  of  those  plank 
roads  in  the  early  days,  and  from 


what  the  old  people  say  it  had  a  rec- 
ord for  wickedness  in  spring  and  fall 
seasons.  The  stage  would  leave  Ham- 
ilton in  the  early  morning,  four  big, 
heavy  horses  pulling  it,  and  at  Terry- 
berry's  hotel  the  change  of  beasts 
would  be  made.  When  the  roads  were 
very  bad  it  would  be  impossible  for 
passengers  to  travel  to  Caledonia 
without  saying  something  to  each 
other,  or  in  some  way  coming  to- 
gether. If  they  refused  to  be  sociable 
In  any  other  way  a  lurch  of  the  stage 
would  throw  them  unceremoniously  in 
a  heap.  The  mud  of  the  road  was 
so  deep  and  soft  at  these  times  of  the 
year  that  the  coach  would  sink  to  the 
hubs  in  many  places,  and  it  was  no 
uncommon  things  for  passengers  to 
have  to  get  out  and  walk  for  miles  of 
the  way.  And  yet  there  are  some  of 
us  who  fall  to  appreciate  modern 
methods  of  travel  and  make  our  lives 
unhappy  by  grumbling  and  growling 
because  street  cars  or  trains  are  too 
slow. 

*    *    * 

If  there  are  any  people  around  this 
part  of  the  country  who  ought  to  re- 
joice at  the  progres-s  their  pet  reform 
has  made  within  50  years  they  are  the 
temperance  people.  According  to  what 
the  old  folks  tell  us  there  was  a  time 
when  no  less  than  fifteen  hotels  lined 
the  road  from  John  Clark's,  at  the  top 
of  the  mountain,  to  Caledonia.  Now 
there  are  but  two.  And  more  than 
that;  in  those  days  there  was  practi- 
cally no  license  law,  and  the  man  who 
wanted  to  drink  could  do  it  at  any 
time  of  the  day  or  night,  and  not  get 
the  very  best  sort  of  liquor  for  his 
drinking  either.  Shortly  before  1856, 
Jacob  Terryberry,  who  died  last  fall, 
went  out  into  Glanford  township  and 
cast  his  eyes  upon  about  400  acres  of 
beautifully  timbered  land.  It  pleased 
him  and  he  bought  it.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  money  in  the  lumber  busi- 
ness in  those  days,  and  in  a  short 
time  Mr.  Terryberry  had  saw  mills 


THE     CALEDONIA     STAGE     ROAD 


'45 


THE    ANCIENT    HESS    HOSTLERY. 


going-  and  mill  hands  at  work  all  over 
his  property.  Being  a  good  business 
man,  and  not  given  to  wasting  where 
he  could  by  any  means  save,  he  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  building  a  big  hotel, 
where  his  mill  hands  could  board  and 
where  the  traveling  public  could  get 
all  the  accommodation  they  liked,  liquid 
and  other  sorts.  So  he  sought  him  out 
a  builder — John  Dickenson  by  name, 
and  father  of  John,  the  present  M.L.A. 
for  South  Wentworth.  To  him  he 
gave  his  orders,  and  in  a  short  time 
100,000  bricks  were  put  in  place,  and 
the  big  hotel  became  an  accomplished 
fact,  as  the  picture  will  show.  In  its 
day  that  hotel  did  a  great  business, 
but  with  the  decline  of  the  lumber 
trade  and  the  loss  of  stage  traffic,  it 
ceased  to  pay  and  was  shut  up.  It  Is 
a  curious  thing,  too,  that  the  man 
who  built  the  place — Mr.  Dickenson— 
happened  to  be  a  license  commissioner 
for  the  riding  when  the  license  was 
cut  off  and  the  place  closed  up. 


In  the  earlier  days  the  postoffice  of 
the  township  was  in  the  Terryberry 
place,  too.  It  was  stationed  right  in 
the  bar,  so  'tis  said,  and  it  was  this 
fact  that  led  to  Its  removal.  There 
came  a  growth  in  the  religious  and 
temperance  sentiment  of  the  commun- 
ity, and  it  was  thought  unwise  that 
the  preacher  and  his  flock  should  have 
to  walk  into  a  bar-room  to  get  letters. 


It  may  even  be  surmised  that  such  a 
condition  of  affairs  might  have  led  to 
some  very  wicked  deception  on  the 
part  of  some  of  the  good  appearing 
people,  who  may  have  been  glad 
enough  of  the  postofflce  excuse  to  get 
into  the  bar-room  and  leave  their 
thirsts  behind  them.  Whatever  was 
thought  an  agitation  was  begun,  led 
by  Rev.  Canon  Bull,  who  is  so  in- 
timately identified  with  the  early  his- 
tory of  a  large  part  of  Wentworth 
county,  for  the  removal  of  the  post- 
offlce to  some  more  congenial,  heaven- 
blessed  spot.  No  one  could  think  of 
any  place  better  than  Mr.  Dickenson's 
and  he  was  finally  persuaded  to  be- 
come postmaster.  He  has  held  this 
position  ever  since,  all  through  the 
long  regime  of  the  wicked  Tory  govern- 
ment, and  will  likely  continue  to  hold 
it  till  he  dies,  unless  his  own  party 
turns  him  out  of  office.  The  position 
brings  him  in  $18  a  year,  which  is 
quite  an  item. 

*    *    * 

It  was  over  sixty  years  ago  that 
Jacob  Hess,  at  that  time  not  a  very 
young  man,  sailed  into  Hamilton  bay 
in  a  boat,  bound  for  the  city  of  Dun- 
das.  Hamilton  was  a  mighty  small 
place  at  that  time,  but  its  prospects 
looked  well,  and  as  Mr.  Hess  looked 
from  the  boat  to  the  shore  his  eye 
was  pleased  with  the  scene.  He  was 
looking  for  a  place  to  settle,  and  he 
had  peculiar  ideas  of  his  own  about 


WENTWORTH      LANDMARKS 


the  sort  of  place  he  wanted.  There 
was  one  thing  he  was  bound  to  have 
on  his  premises,  and  that  was  a  living 
spring.  With  this  idea  in  his  head  he 
carefully  examined  the  shore  of  the 
bay  till  he  came  to  a  place  where  a 
swift  running,  business-like  little 
stream  of  cold  spring  water  made  its 
way  into  and  was  lost  in  the  larger 
body.  That  was  what  he  was  after, 
and  at  the  source  of  that  stream  he 
determined  to  pitch  his  tent,  wherever 
that  source  might  be. 
*  *  * 

Like  an  African  explorer  striking 
into  the  jungle,  he  started  along  the 
banks  of  the  stream.  It  was  no  easy 
task  he  had  set  himself,  for  there  was 
an  abundance  of  wild  growth  and 
underbrush  along  its  edge,  and  he 
eventually  found  himself  up  against 
the  side  of  the  mountain,  looking  up 
many  feet  at  the  place  where  the  water 
came  tumbling  joyously  over  the 
rocks.  Up  the  side  he  clambered,  and 
once  on  the  table  land  followed  the 
water  course  again.  Three  days 
through  the  dense  woods  he  followed 
the  stream.  East  and  west,  but  ever 
southerly,  it  led  him,  until  at  last  he 
found  what  he  started  out  to  discover 
— the  place  where  it  bubbled  up  out 
of  the  rocks.  There  he  stopped,  built 
him  a  log  hut  and  took  up  land.  We 
know  the  spring  now  as  the  Hess 
spring.  It  tumbles  its  waters  over 
Chedoke  falls,  and  it  isn't  so  very 
many  years  ago  that  some  interested 
persons  tried  to  get  the  city  aldermen 
to  buy  the  water  course  as  a  feeder 
for  a  high  level  reservoir.  It  still 
flows,  though  the  man  who  discovered 
its  source  has  long  since  been  gather- 
ed to  his  fathers,  and  a  new  owner  is 
master  of  its  destiny.  Water  flows 
and  time  goes  on  forever. 


Jacob  Hess  was  one  of  the  interest- 
Ing  old  men  of  his  time.  He  was  one 
of  the  pioneers  who  found  it  necessary 
to  use  the  old  Indian  trail  to  Niagara 
Falls  when  he  wanted  to  get  his  grist 
ground,  and  before  his  death  he  often 
told  how  he  shouldered  his  first  bag 
of  wheat  and  tramped  along  the  trail 
all  the  way  to  the  Falls,  there  getting 
it  ground  and  tramping  back  again 
with  the  bag  of  flour.  When  he  first 
built  his  log  house  he  and  his  family 
had  to  sit  up  at  night  fearful  lest 
wolves  or  other  wild  animals  would  in 
some  way  get  in  at  them.  But  the 


scene  quickly  changed.  The  timbered 
land  was  cleared  away  and  a  frame 
house  took  the  place  of  the  log  shanty. 
Then  one  of  the  boys  built  a  hotel  on 
the  Caledonia  road  (everyone  seemed 
to  have  a  hotel  in  those  days).  The 
Hess  tavern  was  a  curious  old  place 
and  still  stands,  an  old  frame  wreck 
on  the  main  road.  It  has  long  since 
been  deserted  as  a  hotel  and  to-day 
its  only  occupant  is  Jim  Jones,  the 
central  market  pickle  prince.  He  may 
be  found  there  on  any  day  but  a 
market  day  and  Sunday,  making 
pickles  in  what  used  to  be  the  bar- 
room. 

*    *    * 

Just  where  the  town  line  crosses  the 
stone  road,  making  a  four-corners, 
there  is  a  section  known  as  Ryck- 
man's  Corners.  It  received  that  name 
many  years  ago,  when  Samuel  Ryck- 
man  came  along  and  received  in  pay- 
ment for  his  services  'to  the  govern- 
ment large  tracts  of  land.  In  all  he 
owned  about  700  acres  of  soil,  at  that 
time  heavily  timbered.  He  was  one 
of  the  earliest  settlers  in  that  local- 
ity, having  come  from  Pennsylvania, 
where  his  parents  lived.  He  was  a 
good  Hollander  and  a  land  surveyor. 
There  was  plenty  of  land  around  this 
part  of  the  country  at  that  time  in 
need  of  survey,  and  he  was  appointed 
crown  land  surveyor  for  a  large  dis- 
trict. Thus  he  acquired  his  large 
property.  Building  a  log  house  and 
barn  on  the  northeast  corner  of  the 
cross  roads,  he  lived  an  honest  life, 
raised  a  family  of  worthy  children, 
and  ultimately,  at  the  age  of  70,  and 
in  the  year  1846,  died.  One  of  his  sons 
was  Major  Ryckman,  another  one 
Ward  Ryckman  and  another  Hamil- 
ton Ryckman.  The  major  received  a 
piece  of  his  father's  estate  a  short 
distance  down  the  town  .line,  there 
living  out  his  life,  following  in  his 
father's  footsteps  as  to  raising  a  fam- 
ily of  worthy  sons,  among  them  being 
S.  S.  Ryckman,  ex-M.P.,  and  W.  H. 
Ryckman.  Ward'  Ryckman  became 
famous  in  early  history  as  the  owner 
of  the  noted  Victoria  mills,  which 
supplied  the  lumber  from  which  many 
a  Hamilton  house  still  standing  has 
been  built.  Hamilton,  the  other  son, 
stuck  to  the  old  homestead,  and  he 
also  aided  in  perpetuating  the  family 
name  by  his  sons  George,  Edward, 
John  and  some  more.  Hamilton  did 
not  make  farming  his  hobby  by  any 
means.  He  branched  out  as  a  railway 


THE     CALKDOXIA     STAGE     ROAD 


147 


contractor       and     became     respons'ble 


for   the   building   of   large   sect 
the   Michigan     Central     railv 
fixed    up    the   old   homestr 
brick  front  on  it,  and  *" 
lived     until     growr 
wife   was   a   Mi? 
William   Ga?-- 
town  line 
school^ 


of 

re 


*   tlie 
.a  Union 
*    his    good 
oeing  75  years 
younger. 


..ays  of  the  past  there  were 


hte  north  is  the  Fenton  homestead, 
and  it  isn't  at  all  likely  that  the  gen- 
eral public  knows  that  there,  in  a 
low  lying  piece  of  ground,  is  a  gas 
well  that  to  this  day  supplies  the 
Fenton  house  with  heat  and  fuel.  In 
connection  with  the  well  a  good  story 
is  told.  Years  ago  some  master  mind 
conceived  the  idea  that  if  he  bored 
far  enough  on  the  Fenton  property  he 
would  strike  oil.  A  company  was 
formed  and  boring  began.  After  a 
time,  however,  no  oil  being  struck, 
and  funds  running  low,  the  sharehold- 
ers did  not  want  to  produce  the  neces- 


TEKRYBERRY'S    BIG    HOTEL. 


no  burying  grounds,  such  as  are  now 
known,  and  it  was  a  common  custom 
for  every  family  to  have  its  own 
burial  place  somewhere  on  the  farm. 
The  Ryckman  burial  ground  is  to  be 
seen  yet,  a  little  to  the  north  of  the 
homestead,  and  the  many  tombstones 
there  of  members  and  friends  of  the 
family  and  connection  are  mute  evi- 
dences of  a  past  that  in  this  day  oan 
hardly  be  understood,  much  less  ap- 
preciated. At  one  time  the  Ryckman 
burial  ground  and  that  other  one  of 
the  old  Barton  church  were  the  only 
two  in  the  country  round. 


Next  to  the  Ryckman  homestead  to 


sary  cash  for  further  exploration. 
Then  the  cunning  manipulators  of 
the  scheme  poured  coal  oil  down  the 
hole,  pumped  it  out  again,  and  shout- 
ed: "We  have  struck  oil."  Of  course 
more  money  was  at  once  forthcoming 
and  boring  went  on  again.  Finally, 
however,  when  the  hole  was  down 
many  thousands  of  feet,  the  job  was 
given  up  as  a  bad  one  and  the  hole 
plugged.  One  day  it  was  opened 
again,  and  a  flow  of  gas  noticed. 
From  that  time  till  now  it  has  proved 
a  source  of  profit  and  pleasure  to  the 
Fenton  family.  There  are  all  sorts  of 
mineral  waters  on  the  property,  and 
it  may  be  there  will  some  day  be  a 
fortune  on  the  place  for  its  owner. 

J.   E.   W. 


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