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
