City Hall Clock Tower - November 20, 1883

“The Idle Spectator : He Takes a Trip Up the City Hall Tower”

Hamilton Spectator.    November 20, 1883.

          “About five minutes to 12 o’clock on Saturday night, the Idle Spectator, who was lounging lazily around the streets seeking what he might devour, turned his laggard steps towards the city stables, where the bell tower rises stately and tall in all its red brick grandeur, and waited somewhat contently for an appearance of the man who was to turn the hands of the city clock around and make them conform with standard time.

          “Two minutes had scarcely passed when a figure comes through the night, bearing a lantern that glimmers like a fallen star and approaches the idle one. He is accompanied by an assistant and a sad, meek-voice man, with a fierce beard, who carries a Globe watch, whose cash principles conform excellently well, my masters with the silence of the night.

          “Across the bottom of the tower we go in Indian file; a little door is opened and then, the ascent commences. Up, up, up, till the brain reels, and one tired foot almost refuses to follow the other. Still up. The dust flies from the boards that have not been touched by human feet for goodness only knows how long, and mingles with the air we breathe. It gets in our nostrils, down our throat, and finally the nasal organ commences to twitch ominously, a tingling sensation runs through it, there is a slight facial contortion on the Idle Spectator’s overwrought feelings and nasal muscles which find relief in a powerful explosion; in other words, a sneeze.

          “But still up. Here’s the little nook where the great iron-tongued bell hangs and brazenly records the progress of time’s fleet foot. The light of the lantern that glimmers on it as we pass shows that something is agitating his serene highness, and presently a horrible sound, like the bursting of a cannon, falls on our ears, and for an instant, the tympanum seems likely to give way under the shock, but the sound floats out through the wide-opened shutters, and as far and wide as it can go marks the dawn of another Sunday morning.

          “Up a ladder now and we step into a small place where the tick-tick is heard, and the light of the lantern falls on the clock machinery, all brass and steel, polished and shining, and reflecting a thousand times over the lantern’s rays.

          “The man with the lantern sets it down on one side of the vast cogwheels and other clock machinery of an abnormal size, and proceeds to pull out a brass pin out of something and turn a wheel, marked somewhat like the dial of a clock, around. Nineteen little notches are covered in this way, and the deed is done, and in nineteen seconds, we have grown nineteen minutes older. Just exactly how, we don’t know, but the time shows it to be the case, and we puzzle our brains trying to figure it out as we stand there.

          “Presently, the man with the sleek, sad voice, and fierce beard, takes out his Globe watch, and remarks in a tone of voice that shows how guileless and innocent he is : ‘I set this watch at 12, at 19 minutes to 12. Just see what good time it keeps.’ And without looking at the face, he hands it to the assembled ones for inspection.

          “ ‘Why,’ says the man with the lantern, ‘it’s at 12 now!’

          “ ‘Eh? Dear me ! So it is ! I must have forgotten to wind it up,’ and he proceeded to turn the stem around, but without the least effect. The watch, like Oliver Mowat, won’t go. ‘Something’s broken, I guess,’ he says confusedly, and sinks back in confusion.

          “Through the window, we can see the Canada Life and Provident Loan clock, and note that they, too, have been swung around. In a dull, gray sky, the silvery moon shines for a moment through a break in the clouds, and then hides her pale, sweet face.

“Downstairs again, and for a moment we stand beside the huge bell. From the south, a cool, fresh breeze is lazily blowing. It sweeps through the rafted chamber and stirs the network of spider webs overhead.

“The moon breaks out for another instant, then quickly vanishes again, and we go down dusty steps. The door at last. The breeze takes the lingering smell and dust away, and we breathe more freely.

“The night is almost transparent and a light gray, and through its translucency we walk slowly homeward and seek our little beds.”

A Sunday Sail on the Bay - July 1883

On Monday, July 30, 1883, a newspaper article, written under the pseudonym of The Idle Spectator, appeared in which the narrator described at length his Sunday sailing experiences on Hamilton Bay:

“A fine breeze blew across the bay. Over in the east, the sun was coming up. The beams fell on the water making it like a vast sheet of shimmering gold. Very few people were around Bastien’s boathouse when we went down. There were not enough of us to make it worthwhile getting a yacht, so we contented ourselves with Bastien’s lugger which, by the way, is a very good one. We hoisted the sail and in a minute were off.”¹

¹ “The Idle Spectator : Goes for a Sunday Sail and Tells All About It.”

Hamilton Spectator.   July 30, 1883.

The sailors headed west from Bastien’s boathouse in the direction of Carroll’s Point and the former house and property of the Carroll family:

“Rock Bay looms up right ahead of us. Suddenly, Jack shouts, ‘Stand by your halyards,’ and then, ‘hower away.’ In a few minutes everything is made taut. Jack and one of the other fellows strip and go in for a swim, while Harry and I jump to the shore and wander along the bank. We walk around Carroll’s Point and sit down to rest under the shade of a big tree. Then we light our pipes and lie at our ease.

“There is an old Indian legend connected with this place. Ages and ages ago, when all Hamilton was a howling wilderness, a fair young squaw and a handsome young brave dwelt near this spot and loved each other with all the ardor and passion that has ever characterized the dusky race. They quarreled, just as lovers quarrel now-a-days, and to make him jealous, she flirted, is such a thing as flirtation was in vogue at that time. In a mad moment, when he was in despair, he sought the top of the bank and making an awful leap, plunged headfirst into the bay. The water was not very deep then, and his head stuck in the mud, while his feet waved romantically above the water’s edge. Before assistance could come, he suffocated. The fair young squaw went crazy over his death, and the story runs that she plunged in the same way and was drowned in the self-same spot.

“But it is said that on the third of every August, the ghastly tragedy is gone through again. Spirit forms dark in color leap into the bay; spirit forms pick the bodies up, and if you stay very quiet and listen attentively, you can hear a low, sad, wailing strain coming from the forest above. It is the funeral of the two lovers and the sweet soft cadenza you hear is the song of Indian spirits chanting the lovers’ requiem.”¹

After the stopover at Carroll’s Point, the sailing party headed across the bay to the Beach Strip and Dynes’ hotel:

“Here is Dynes’ at last. A sad-eyed man with a carbuncle on his nose stands on the wharf. He glares at me and makes me feel uncomfortable. In the garden a couple of girls wearing gigantic hoops which tilt their dresses up and down as they walk, revealing low slippers and striped hose, are strolling up and down, trying to pick up a flirtation with someone.”¹

After securely tying up Bastien’s lugger, the sailing party headed towards Dynes’ hotel:

“The stoop of the house is crowded. All classes of the community are represented there. The city tough, collarless, tieless with red face and hat pulled down over his eyes; the young bank clerk who puts on a jersey and stocking cap and calls himself a yachtsman; the sturdy mechanic who has come down here for day’s rest after his week’s hard work; the sporting man with his plug hat and flashy, horsey attire; the young clerk who has driven his girl down for a day’s fun in an economical way. A way up the road, three or four young fellows are playing ball. Over on the grass by the fence, a sturdy philosopher sits contently smoking a pipe and watching the scene. Presently, the dinner bell rings, and we rush in to dine.”¹

When the young men from the city entered Dynes’ hotel, they ran into the establishment’s proprietor, Old John Dynes’ himself:

“Old John is famous for his dinners. There he sits on the stoop at the back of the house. He is a middle-sized, gray-headed man with a round, red, good-natured face. He is always smiling. His heart, like his body, is immense. There is a kindly look on his face that tells you this. It has always been like this with him and it makes him popular. He has had his reverses in life and his friends have stood by him, and helped him through. His new place place is not nearly so homelike and comfortable as his little old pine house that seemed, like its owner, to welcome everyone with a smiling front. But old John is there just the same as of old, happy and bearing fortune’s buffets and rewards with equal thanks.”¹

After the meal at Dynes’, the young men sailed down the canal and to the piers extending out into Lake Ontario:

“Just after we got there, the train came down with a crowd. Very few ladies were there; clerks and artisans most of them, though a few of the gentler sex graced the scene. We strolled up and down the piers in front of the Ocean house and along the shore.

“Time went around lively and it was 8 o’clock before we started to return. Already the shadows were falling. Across the bay, we could see lights here and there shining like stars. The wind carried us quickly onward. Presently Jack started singing Abide With Me. We all joined in and our voices rolled out the beautiful hymn in perfect unison.

“Half past ten o’clock at last, and we have just reached Bastien’s wharf. Silently we tie the lugger to the moorings and pull in. We walk slowly up and we feel that though a dogmatic person would say we had fractured the Sabbath, it is only when we revel in all the glory of God’s handiwork that we realize to the full His goodness. His greatness, His grandeur and revere and love him as we ought.”¹