1883-08-13 - Excursion to Niagara Falls

Idle Spectator joins a group excursion to Niagara Falls :

Who does not love to go to picnics? Where is the man who will not rejoice if he is able to leave his work and the dust and turmoil of the city far behind, and roam at will in the picnic bush; to listen to the sweet songs of the birds in the trees; to watch the country maiden and her devoted swain gazing in open-mouthed ecstasy at all that is going on around; to see papa, mama and the little ones reclining at ease beneath the overhanging boughs of a stately beech, dining off cold chicken, ham sandwiches, cake, a soul-correcting apple pie and a mind-destroying bottle of ice cold milk? The Idle Spectator has been there and he likes it. All day Saturday he wandered around Bender’s grove, Niagara Falls, and watched the Grand Trunk Railway’s employees with their wives, sweethearts, sisters, and friends, picnicking and enjoying themselves to the heart’s content.

          The Idle Spectator left Hamilton on the 8 o’clock train. It was crowded. He was unable to get a seat, and had to content himself with standing on the bottom step of a car platform. His companions in misery were a mild-eyed woman, a cynical-looking young man; a sweet young girl who amused herself on the way with pinning pieces of newspaper to his coat-tail; a negro; an Irishman who contentedly smoked a short clay pipe, and persisted in blowing smoke – a vile smoke it was too – right in the Idle Spectator’s face; a small boy with a basket and a woman with a crying baby. The passage down was marked with but one interruption. There was a hot box on one of the cars and fears were entertained that it would set fire to the train, but a couple of pails of water poured over it at Merritton put an effectual damper on it.

And this is Niagara Falls. A long, low, red brick station with a wide veranda in front. It is almost depopulated now but in a minute or two the platform is crowded with an anxious bustling throng, laden with shawls and baskets. On the other side of the depot is the town proper. A row of saloons, hotels, cigar shops and a news depot where the Police Gazette is not sold, front the railway station. The Thirteenth battalion band comes out now and starts for Bender’s grove. The crowd follows. So does the Idle Spectator. The road to the grove is a long, dusty one, winding along the beautiful blue Niagara’s bank and the Idle Spectator resolutely tramped every step of the way.

Here is the grove at last, thank goodness, and while the crowd disperses, the band makes straight for the stand, gets in position and proceeds to attack the programme. The Idle Spectator starts off on a tour of discovery and wanders around the Falls and suspension bridge for an hour or more. Here and there along the bridge, visitors left records of their presence in the shape of scribbled rhymes and names. Some person who has at one time or another read Max Adeler’s Out of the Hurly-Burly has written here a verse from that book. It was –

“The death angel smote Alexander McGlue,

          And gave him protracted repose;

    He wore a check shirt and a number nine shoe,

          And he had a pink wart on his nose.”

Nothing is told though about the interview afterwards with Alexander’s widow. That estimable woman called on the editor of the veracious country weekly in which the obituary poem was printed and declared that he never wore check shirts that his boots were only number seven, and that he never had a pink wart, a blue wart, a red wart, a black wart or any other kind of wart on his nose, or on any other portion of his body. Then the poet said, Why hadn’t he? It’s not my fault if he hadn’t. I once knew a man named McGlue, who had a pink wart on his nose and I supposed all other McGlues would be the same. Am I responsible if this one hadn’t?”

          It is very fascinating to stand on the bridge and look down at the deep blue waters, flicked with long streaks of foam, that roll rapidly underneath. The water seems to draw one to it, to seem anxious to welcome one in its cold embrace. The Idle Spectator was never so near committing suicide in his life as he was on Saturday, when he stood on the passengers’ suspension bridge and gazed at the mighty Niagara underneath. The inoffensive young man who prides himself on his talent for sarcasm is here expected to say it’s a pity he didn’t. It was 11:45 when he started back to the town, inspected the whirlpool where Capt. Webb was drowned, crossed over the bridge into Manchester and turned up at Hamfield’s dining rooms at the Grand Trunk depot at one o’clock for dinner. Mr. Chas. Stiff, Superintendent of the Grand Trunk railway, occupied the chair.

          Among those present were….(extended list).

          Before the eatables were attacked, Mr. Stiff read letters of regret from…. and said that as the hour was late and the games were now in progress, there would be no speech-making, and that immediately after dinner, the toast of the Queen would be proposed, and the party would then proceed to the picnic grounds. After dinner, then, the Queen was heartily honoured and Mr. Howard sang the National Anthem. Then a break was made for the grove. Here the games were in progress. They were started at 1 o’clock by a football match between two twelves of Grand Trunk employees, captained respectively by W. Hyndman and E. Sinclair. The game never came off. When the redoubtable kickers were about to wrestle with the inflatable leather, a dozen young men from the Falls turned up and declared it their intention of doing a kick act too. As there was every prospect of having a free fight over the affair, the game was declared a draw and the money was divided between the two Grand Trunk employees’ twelves. The competitions for the other prizes were then proceeded with and resulted as follows: …

          The Thirteenth band played on the grounds all day and got away with a lengthy programme. A quadrille band had been engaged for dancing, and over on the platform, merry couples whirled away to the captivating strains, undeterred by the sweltering heat.

Altogether the affair was a great success. Mr F. Armstrong remarked to the Idle Spectator that the crowd was too large for a thoroughly enjoyable time to be had. But the people were all quiet and orderly, there was little or no bad conduct on the grounds. The general committee of management, of which…., deserve the greatest credit for the thorough manner in which they made the arrangements and the complete success with which those arrangements were carried out. There were between 5,000 and 6,000 people on the grounds in the afternoon. Four trains conveyed them thither and three of those trains were from Hamilton. It took 66 cars and eight engines to bring the crowd down, and the last train carried 2,600 people.

1883-11-11 - At Police Station No. 3

The Idle Spectator ventured along King William Street, to Police Station on a cold night in November, 1883. His impressions appeared in the Hamilton Spectator of November 11, 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.

1883-06-11 Spectator Managing Editor Has a Discussion With Idle One

“Say, my girl’s got back on me,” said the new reporter with the sad moustache and the Oscar Wilde hair, coming into the editorial rooms and interrupting the managing editor in an editorial on the grand display of dudology – which, by the way, is currently supposed to be the missing link so long sought after by Charles Darwin – at the band concert the other evening, “ gone clean back on me and gone off with another fellow. “My heart is broke.”

“That’s all right,” responded the managing editor, “but that does not explain your absence from this office for the last few weeks. Where have you been ? I want you to understand that this thing must cease, cease right now, or we shall be compelled to substitute some other mighty intellect for yours. You’re kind of smart, you know; you have a pretty wit, you’re brilliant in epigram, your humour is immense, your satire keen, and your sarcasm as withering as an autumn leaf; but you don’t attend to your work right, and unless you brace up we shall be compelled in the classic language of the Evening Times to give you the grand bounce.

“This will not occur again,” said the aspirant for journalistic honours, “ but I’ve been feeling so bad over my girl’s cruel desertion of me that it’s made me quite sick. Have you ever known what it is to love, and to love unrequitably; to waste all the tender attractions of a young and yearning heart upon an object that cared naught for its joy or its sorrow?”

“Yes, I’ve been there,” said the managing editor feelingly, as thoughts of a recent breach of promise case in which he had played one of the principal parts, flashed across his mind, “ I have been there and I can sympathise with you. Excuse this tear. But how did it happen? Give me a pointer on the row.”

“Don’t you give me away and I’ll tell you all about it. You see I’ve been going with that girl for a long while and I’m pretty badly mashed upon her – stuck for all I’m worth, as you might say. Soon after we first commenced, keeping steady company, I taught her how to smoke cigarettes. And I you it was fine. We’d stroll up and down some of the fine avenues smoking and she’d call me ‘old man’ and ‘old fellow’ and say I was a ‘fine old card’, just like one fellow ‘ud say to another.

“Well, just before we had this row, she sent me a note saying: “ My dear Jim – she always calls me Jim because it ain’t my name – “when night begins to throw her sable mantle over the earth and pin it with a star, meet me sure. Something very, very important. Mind ten o’clock. Till then farewell.” I went to see her of course, and as I had no cigarettes I gave her a cigar that some fellow had brought me down town through the day. Well, sir, the darn thing had powder in it and it went off with a bang, an’ you’d a gone right off and died if you’d a gone right off and died if you’d seen the circus that girl went through. She turned a summersault and fell over the sidewalk an’ I helped her up and she blamed me for it, and said I’d put up the job on her an’ now she wont speak to me. She’s going with a blooming red-headed dude now with little sprouts of red hair on his face that look like the electric light – a horseshoe over the mouth and half a one on each cheek. Say, I’m agoin’ to get square on that fellow if it takes me a year. Have you got room for a conundrum?”

“Yes, spit it out. Conundrums are awfully discouraging, and I noticed since you commenced giving them to me that the number of deaths in Hamilton has increased wonderfully. But I guess we can stand another.”

“What is the remarkable dead-head pass on record.

“ I give up. Better ask Spackman, he’s a –“

“ Oh never mind him. Thermopylae.”

“ That’s not so bad. Keep ‘em up to that standard and you’ll have a brilliant future before you yet,” and the managing editor settled down to his editorial while the new reporter with the sad moustache and the Oscar Wilde hair went gaily out to hunt for news.”