And now, kind reader, westward ho!
Across the Sappers' Bridge we go;
When first in youth I cross'd it o'er,
The arch was wood, "and nothing more"—
As Edgar A. Poe doth remark
About that raven big and dark—
The wooden span, I mean, stretched o'er
The channel's width from shore to shore,
On which skilled artificers laid
The arch of stone, so truly made,
And strong, that it to-day appears,
After the crush of forty years
And more, impervious to decay,
As if 'twere built but yesterday.
I stand upon the western side,
And see in all its verdant pride
The hill crowned with its ancient trees,
Who's foliage rustled in the breeze
For centuries, all branching wide,
Standing untouched on every side;
A spot where the Algonquin magi,
May have reclined "sub tegmine fagi;"
For when across the Sapper's Bridge,
The prospect was a fine beech ridge,
And "Gibson's corner," in old time,
For squirrel hunting was most prime,
"Prime" is a somewhat slangy phrase
For these high philologic days,
And in connexion, be it stated,
With a spot to science dedicated.
J.H.P. Gibson's astral lecture
Will place this fact beyond conjecture.
Bound that old spot now thronged by all,
Has many a chipmonk met his fall
By dart from youthful sportsman's bow,
Which laid the striped beech-nutter low.
No central Ottawa was then,
As now, resort of busy men—
The first stone of our centre town
By Mason's hand was not laid down;
A forest path across the hill
To Bank Street led—the place was still;
No noisy vehicle passed there,
The dwellers of the wood to scare.
The road for carriages led round
Old Bytown's ancient burial ground,
Upon the hill's south eastern base,
Of which there is not now a trace;
And spreading off in endless green
To the canal the bush was seen—
The ancient forest—then the deer
To Bank Street Church's site was near,
And ruffed-grouse, wrongly named partridges,
Whirled and drum'd between the ridges,
Black ducks and Teal did oft alight
In ponds round Corkstown from their flight,
And when the swamp down Slater Street
Was cleared, a dozen snipes would greet
At every step the sportman's eye,
O! glorious spot of days gone by.
To listen, ah! 'twas splendid fun!
To Commissary Oriel's gun,
As with a quick well practiced eye
He made the quivering feathers fly!
There was not then one cabin sill
Laid down on famed Ashburnham Hill,
Who's heights with pine and hemlock crowned,
Towered o'er the wooded landscape round.
Then Bradish Billings farmed away
Where his descendants live to-day,
A man of enterprising fame,
Who from the land of pumpkin's came,
And pitched his tent in honor's track
Beneath the glorious Union Jack!
Then Colonel By was in a jam
Erecting the first hogsback dam,
Which vanished with Spring's sweeping flood;
But science made the structure good
By the advice of one, no civil
Engineer, with whom a level
Or other instrument of science,
Had not the most remote alliance.
'Twas built as he proposed—I'm sorry
His name from memory I can't worry,
If Lyman Perkins was beside me,
To it he certainly could guide me.
For he has got, of ancient bore,
A well authenticated store.
Now first among our old landmarks,
Comes Laird of Bytown, Nicholas Sparks,
Who came across in '26
From Hull, his lucky fate to fix
Upon a bush farm which he bought
For sixty pounds—and little thought,
While grumbling at a price so high,
That fortune had not passed him by.
He little dreamed of Ottawa now,
When 'mongst the stumps his wooden plough
Stir'd the first sod in times of old;
He knew not then, that 'twas not mould
He turne'd up, and tilled, but gold.
'Tis not my business here to flatter,
Or with enconiums to bespatter
The shadows of departed men
Whom we shall never see again.
Yet I may say, who knew him well,
And of him would not falsehood tell,
That as poor human nature ran,
He was an honest upright man,
"Close fisted" as the need occurred,
Yet one who always kept his word.
Whate'er the cost—I say no more
Of Nicholas Sparks—who for the shore
Unknown, has shaken out his sail
Where riches are of no avail
To win calm sea or favoring gale
And Lyman Perkins, what of thee,
Will pass for current coin from me?
Thou art a man of early date—
Of '27 or '28—
in Bytown's history, and 'tis said,
Though hard to drive, thou may'st be led,
That is, if one could just agree
In view and argument with thee;
When standing in the days of yore
At "Pooley's Bridge," thine eye ran o'er
The picture with a prescient glance;
Experience taught thee that thy chance
Was then—thy foresight came
To aid thee in life's winning game.
Although no silver spoon was in
Thy mouth, when to this world of sin
Thou camest, thou hast forged from fate
A path in life most fortunate;
To praise thee I shall take no pains,
Thy enterprise has brought thee gains—
'Tis something to be born with brains!
Daniel O'Connor there doth stand,
One of the old departed band—
Another of the pioneers
Of Bytown in its early years;
In memory's magic glass I see
Him as he first appeared to me
In '28 when passing down
Through the main street in Upper Town.
A merchant of a distant date
Before the days of '28,
And County Treasurer was he,
Long, too, a Carleton J.P.,
Ere Courts of Justice were installed,
When Bytown "Nepean Point" was called;
In politics he was a Tory,
And thus doth end of him my story.
Nathaniel Sherrold Blasdell, too,
Who once a blacksmith's bellows blew
In the old forge, which in the shade
Of the Russell House still undecayed,
Stands firm a landmark of the past,
How long will such old memories last?
He, too, was one of those who's hand
Built up the bulwarks of the land,
I say unto such men as he,
Requiescat in pace.
And Doctor Rankin, there he goes,
With solemn brow and turned out toes
Upon his mottled bob-tailed horse,
Who's canter said, the patients worse,
Or better, as the trusty steed
Did indicate by passing speed.
John Burrows, too, with serious air,
Sung hymns and offered frequent prayer,
And taught a Sunday School with might,
To spread religion's early light,
He held a post in other years
Among the Royal Engineers,
With Colonel By, a right-hand man,
His course of favor he began,
And once owned much of the wild land
Upon which Ottawa doth stand.
John Ghitty is a favorite name,
His old hotel was known to fame,
And travellers from far and near,
Called at his temple of good cheer.
A mason of most high degree,
In the craft's early dawn was he.
So much respected was he here,
That unbought friendship o'er his bier
Shed many a sad regretful tear.
And surly old James Doran, too,
A warrior of Waterloo,
Kept with a despot's iron hand,
The best hotel in all the land;
Who entered there of human kind
Was forced to leave his dog behind,
For Doran had a frowning face
For each and all the canine race.
And Daniel Fisher, who kept store
On Wellington's west side of yore,
A most experienced auctioneer
In somewhat more contracted sphere,
Than circles trade's expanding flow
Round Bermingham, McLean and Rowe
And Michael Burke, who kept a still—
And made beer down below the hill
Where malt and hops together came,
And gave the "Brewery Hill" its name—
That hill with pathway to the right,
Where Bank Street ends upon the height.
And many a barrel of his beer
Went down, the Irish heart to cheer,
When ancient crowds did celebrate
St. Patrick's Day in '28.
But patriotism's spirit rose;
From words contention went to blows,
And ere the little "scrimmage" ended
A crack that never could be mended,
Was in a luckless cranium made,
By one whom justice never paid;
I cannot tell what colored ribbon
He wore—his name was Dan McGibbon.