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.”