Idle Spectator at the Court House - 1883

 First published in the Spectator. December 17, 1883

        “There goes a sitter,” said a constable at the county court, Friday, while a criminal case was going on, to a Spectator reporter.

        “A what?” asked the reporter, with a surprised look.

        “A sitter, I said,” continued the court officer. “You are surprised, no doubt, but I will explain to you the meaning of my remark. A sitter is a man who is a sort of ornament in a courtroom. No trial is complete without him. He is an individual who has developed a morbid curiosity for anything and everything that savours of sensationalism. He comes in when court opens, leaves at noon recess, returns sharp on time, and stays until the court crier acquaints the spectators that the business of the day is over.

        “What is there so attractive in the dry court proceedings that will make men put in day after day in listening to the legal inquiries?”

        “That’s a conundrum to me. The court lounger will listen with utmost attention to all that is said. He is a regular bureau of information, and is ready to tell you the merits of a case. He knows the calibre of the average juryman, and will not hesitate to express his opinion as to the result of a jury’s deliberation. He is invariably correct, strange to say. You see he has nothing better to do than to study human nature. And where will you find a better place to exercise that desire than in a courtroom ?”

        “Are you ever annoyed by these people?”

        “Sometimes. They are inclined to b garrulous, and if they find a person on whom they can press their convictions, they become quite enthusiastic. The height of a court lounger’s ambition is reached when he finds somebody who will sit and listen patiently to his learned explanation of the law. Should an individual be so uncharitable as to express a contrary opinion, the sitter will expostulate. He is grieved and will argue to suit the occasion, for or against, as the case may be. He has an excellent opinion of his abilities and his superficial knowledge of the law.”

        A young man, with straight black hair plastered down carefully over his forehead, was pointed out to the reporter as one of the ‘regulars.’ The trial of a young man for highway robbery was going on at the time, and the scribe approached the sitter and succeeded in getting him into conversation. “Billy’s horribly rattled,” he said, “and he don’t know whether he’s going to get off or get sent down. He thinks his chance is about equal. Now, I’m putting up money to say that he’ll be found not guilty, and I’ve said that from the first. This here’s a peculiar case, but Billy, he’s all right this time.” And sure enough, Billy was all right, for the jury found him not guilty, and the judge discharged him.

A Walk Up the Mountain - 1883

The Idle Spectator Goes for a Walk Up the Mountain

From the July 23, 1883 Spectator

“Where can the best view of the city be had”, asked the Idle Spectator on Saturday, of a stalwart policeman on James Street. “Up on the mountain,” he said, as he went after a small boy who was kicking an empty fruit can along the pavement to nobody’s pleasure but his own. “Up on the mountain” is a simple and easy thing to speak, but it means a great deal. Imagining that there was some easy way of making the ascent, the Spectator sauntered along the shady side of James street. Upon the well-kept lawns of the elegant residences, which are met with uptown, children were romping, and young ladies and gentlemen were displaying their shapes and aristocratic languor, in lazy lawn tennis. Under the shade of rich foliage, in front of one of the mansions, he saw a silken hammock. It must have been silk to be consistent with the character of the dainty occupant. She lay, half reclining, in her charming swing, a light flowing robe of embroidered muslin setting off her graceful figure. From beneath the immaculate folds could be seen peeping a tiny toe of a captivating slipper, and just the shade of an instep arrayed in delicate blue hose. If a small foot and an arching instep are indicative of aristocratic birth, she threw all competitors out at first base. She was reading a book as he passed, and the careless glance she turned upon the Spectator convinced him that, even though he had a five-cent bouquet in his coat, he was nothing but a clod of the valley anyhow. Farther on the road the ascent became more abrupt, and the Idler, who is inimical to exertion at this season of the year, saw with considerable alarm that wagoners were hitching lead horses to their vehicles in order to haul them up the declivity. The stairs leading to the plateau above are an ingenious piece of work and look easy. At first, they come in groups of four, five and eight steps at a time as if to lure the victim onward. Then they come in gales of from 20 to 40 steps, making fat men and women gasp and pant and perspire as if they were engaged in a six-day walk with no intervals for rubbing down or drinks. There are seats at every staging, but the knowledge that one has to climb higher completely nullifies any sense of rest upon them. If someone would open a restaurant and a beer stand halfway up, with beds and ice cream, where tired people and thirsty humanity may rest and regale itself, he would surely make a fortune and paralyse the house at the top. The summit reached, Hamilton lies at your feet a pretty picture. The most remarkable thing is that a city, where stone is so abundant should present such a red bricky appearance. Looking from the mountain, the streets seem as if they were lined with red brick houses, with a stone church thrown in here and there by way of contrast. Brick or stone, it is a prettily laid out city, and should be seen from the top of the James street stairway to be fully appreciated and admired. Another feature which excites remark is the rural appearance which the tree-lined streets give the city, the houses in many places seeming to be under green canopies of rich foliage. From east to west, from north to south, the landscape presents a scene which would fill Brother Phipps with delight, only expressible in pocket companion Latin. The Beach with its houses shining in the sun, against a thin streak of blue lake water beyond; Burlington bay with its wooded banks, and its sail dotted surface, make up a charming background for the engaging picture. In the cool of the evening is the time to view the scene. When the Idle Spectator climbed the 255 steps which intervene between the base and the top, the sun was shining with strength enough to knock the tar out of a puddler, and the air was as hot as a politician at a caucus, but the view was fully worth the exertion. In building the stairs, the workmen should have planed away the angularities of the banisters so that fatigue could be obviated by sliding down. Milliners would get out sliding hats and dressmakers would devise sliding skirts. The energy of the people would be stimulated. Picnics could be held on the mountain, and among the sports could be a sliding race, first man down to win a canvass-covered ham or other delicacy. London and Toronto having no mountain, only mere hills, would be struck out and would turn green with jealousy. Six-day sliding matches could be arranged at intervals. Capital and travel would be attracted. Hanlan would come to manage the new hotel. The city would give him a license and he wouldn’t go to Chicago. There’s millions in it. The man who was culling stone in the mountain quarry said it would be a good scheme. But as some one might stick fish-hooks in the banister some dark night and kill the amusement, he would not be willing to risk his money on the venture. Just then the Idle Spectator got mixed up in a drove of sheep coming down the mountain road, and, as the wild-eyed dog that accompanied them displayed a disposition to nibble his heels, he got away from the neighbourhood as quickly as possible. No attempt has been made to clear away the wreck which the recent flood left the mountainside, but it is probable something will be done before long. Descending the Cherry street stairs, which are comparatively easy of ascent, the Spectator halted at the pumping house while a very obliging man helped him to a glass of water just pumped from the limpid depths of Lake Ontario. The high-level engine within was moving with stately grace forcing the water up the mountainside. “We don’t run at night now, said the man. “Last summer we ran night and day, but this summer, the rain fall has been so great that we only require to run during the day to keep up the supply in the reservoir.” “ Do many people go up the mountain,” asked the Spectator. “Yes, a great many go up to see the picture. I call it seeing the picture to go on the mountain and look at the city, and a pretty picture it is. As the Spectator stretched his limbs in a King street car and thought of the mountain view, he re-echoed the engineman’s words “and a pretty picture it is.”

No. 3 Police Station - November 1883

Under the veil of night, in this city, there is a hidden amount of misery that is never thought of by citizens who toast their slippered feet at the grate, and pass the evening in the pleasant home circle. Last night a Spectator reporter dropped into No. 3 police station, and spent an hour in conversation with the sergeant on duty there. At an early portion of the hour, a young man slipped into the room, pushed his nose through a hole in the iron railing which runs along the sergeant’s desk, and queried:

“What is Bill McVigh charged with?”

“Aggravated assault,: replied the sergeant.

“Can I bail him out?”

“No! ”

The young man went out. Shortly afterwards a little old woman came quietly in, edged round to the end of the railing, and in a weak tone asked:

“Can I see Willie?’

“Who is Willie?” inquired the sergeant.

The woman hesitated for a few moments, and then replied, “He is my boy, his name is McVigh, and I want to speak to him.”

The sergeant explained that it was against orders.

“The poor boy,” said the mother, “he left home to go to work this morning and did not return to dinner or supper. I only heard he was arrested a short time ago. The poor boy is not used to sleeping in jail, and I want to bail him out. Say, sergeant, can I send him something to eat?”

The sergeant replied in the affirmative and the little old woman went out for a half an hour, and then two policemen and a drunk came in with a bang. When the handcuff was removed, the sergeant asked, “What is your name?’

“My name is Ted McCarthy, and I’m a far-down from Monaghan. I’m of the 6^th regiment of the line, and I have played with the mitts with Jim Mace. You’re a Mick yourself; I can tell by your mug.” After firing off a lengthy biography of himself, the sergeant commenced to go through his pockets.

“Dynamite!” yelled Ted, as he made a leap backwards; but his pockets were emptied, and revealed $1.27 in small change and a clay pipe.

“Would you like to go to your chamber?” asked the sergeant.

“Let me tell you a story first, that will make you laugh,” said Mr. McCarthy.” We waked a hunchback once, and to make the corpse lie level in the coffin, we tied the head and feet down with ropes. There was lots of whiskey and tobacco, and we had a big time. But one of the boys cut the rope that held the head down, and the corpse sat up and looked at us. Didn’t we all run!”

Ted was astonished that his story did not take, and he walked out the back door to his cell, singing “No Irish Need Apply.” And when the reporter left the station a short time afterwards, Ted was still singing that once popular air.