Drill Shed - 1886

Fire in the Drill Sheds

          It was Saturday evening and my thoughts were nice and still,

          When I saw a fire in the drill shed, very much against my will.

          Then the fire bell sounded; then the firemen came,

          And they worked with might and skill until they subdued the flames.

          I am so sorry for the drill sheds, and the beautiful trees

          And the Virginia creeper that used to bow to the breeze.

          We are sorry for the redcoats, and for Major Moore's swords;

          For Bandmaster Robinson's music, which we all so much adored.

          But we will soon have another drill shed, and our flag will float in the breeze;

          Then every heart that weepeth now shall sweetly be at ease.

          God bless our noble chief and firemen with long and peaceful lives;

          May they enter heaven at last, where there are no hasty drives.

                             -Mrs. Rebecca Jackson.

                             Appeared in the Spectator, May 26, 1886.

          During the early evening hours of May 20, 1886, there were only five people within the walls of the Drill Shed of Hamilton's crack militia unit, the Thirteenth Battalion.

          The three sons of the the Thirteenth's Bandmaster      Robinson were upstairs in the band room with Sergeant Evans, being outfitted with new uniforms.

          When Walter Robinson was leaving the Drill Shed to go home, he noticed smoke and flames slowly running along the eaves of the building. Rushing back inside to warn his brothers, George and Willie, Walter then telephoned the fire department and then began to assist Sergeant Evans move the Thirteenth Band instrument and music out of the boardroom.

          Caretaker Harris, hearing of the fire, opened the main front gate of the drill shed so the firemen could quickly enter the building to begin fighting the flames.

          Unfortunately, a passerby on James street north, seeing the open gate, ran into the yard and opened the drill shed's Main door:

          “The effect was instantaneous and appalling. The draught created by the opening of the door smote the flames, which, now, instead of crawling, leaped and flew along the timbers, and in a few seconds the whole interior was one sheet of fire.”

          “A Big Conflagration : the !3^th Battalion's Drill Shed and Armoury Gone”

             Spectator. May 24, 1888.

          Meanwhile Sergeant Evans and the three Robinson boys worked heroically to save the music and instruments of the Thirteenth Battalion Band. Gathering up armfuls of music sheets, they were able to make three trips from the band room to the street before the accumulation of dense smoke in the Drill Shed prevented any further attempts to save more music:

          “Young Willie Robinson, coming out for the last time, was almost buffeted in the face by the advancing sheet of flame. With a snare drum under his arm, he cleared the staircase at a bound, and escaped into the open air with a scorched face and a sprained ankle. The retreat of the others down the stairs was cut off and they were obliged to jump out of the front windows.”

          Upon arrival at the scene, Chief Aitchison quickly perceived that the Drill Shed could not be saved and directed the efforts of his men to prevent the fire from spreading:

           “The heat was so intense that the crowd was driven back, unable to endure it, and the branch men working on the south side were almost baked alive and were on the point of succumbing when Chief Aitchison instructed them to lie flat on the ground behind the fence and play on the flames from that sheltered position>

          There being no wind, the flames shot up over a hundred feet in the air, meanwhile

          “Thousands of fiery tongues were thrust out between the boards and timbers, whilst overhead for many blocks around, hung a heavy black cloud of smoke, blotting out the last rays of daylight.

          Chief Aitchison had immediately ordered the clearance of gun powder and prepared ammunition from the gun sheds, which were separate structures from main Drill Shed itself. With the assistance of some city policemen and ordinary citizens, this order was accomplished in short order, much to the relief of all concerned.

          Another important rescue was completed by Captain   Zealand. His first though upon arrival at the fire was of the regimental colors of the Thirteenth Battalion. Breaking a window of the officers' quarters, he groped his way through the smoke to where he knew the colors were stored, retrieved them and brought them to safety.

          The battalion's regimental papers were saved by a young French Canadian citizen, Peter Legaire, who risked his life to literally snatch the precious documents from the flames.

          After the fire was brought under control, it was time to fully assess what had been in the conflagration.

          Bandmaster Robinson lost more than anyone else. He told a Spectator reporter that nearly the music he had accumulated over the years had been consumed by the flames:

          “There are many original compositions and I don't know how many arrangements of my own, besides an immense quantity of printed music, very little of which has been saved. Besides several instruments and nearly all the music, all the new helmets which we imported from England for wearing at the Knight Templars' demonstration in St. Louis next fall, have been destroyed. Fortunately the new uniforms were not in the building.”

          The battalion itself lost all the great coats, rifles, belts, leggins and helmets which were stored in the armories. The officers' quarters were completely destroyed with the loss of valuable paintings, glassware, electro-plated tableware etc. All the officers lost their swords, while Col. Gibson lost his personal collection of revolvers which were kept at the officers' quarters.

          Major Moore was interviewed by a Spectator reporter about the militia's losses :

          “I think $4,000 is a small estimate of our loss as a body. We had some very valuable pictures in our officers' quarters and some that were not worth much in themselves, and yet that money could not buy, on account of the tender memories connected with them that made them dear to us. We had relics there from every officer that has ever belonged to the battalion, things that money cannot buy.”

          Hamilton's wooden drill shed had been built in 1863, while the brick additions which formed the gun sheds and armories had been added in 1877.

          On May 25, 1886, Mayor McKay called a public meeting to consider the question of rebuilding the drill shed and armories. Held in the Council Chambers at City Hall, the meeting was largely attended by prominent citizens including all the officers of the Thirteenth Battalion.

          Mayor McKay began by declaring the necessity of bringing the matter of rebuilding the Drill Shed before the Dominion Government as soon as possible. He also told the representatives of the Thirteenth Battalion that there was general sympathy among Hamiltonians over the losses sustained by the soldiers in the recent fire.

          Lawyer Frank Mackelcan told the gathering that the losses in the fire were not only to the battalion but to the public in general :

           “It is necessary in the interests of the country at large that there should be a drill shed here, for Hamilton is a frontier town, and in case of a call to arms, the the Thirteenth would be one of the first regiments called out.

          Lawyer Mackelcan believed that Hamilton could call on the federal government to replace a building which years before was given by the citizens of Hamilton. Timing of the request was of the utmost importance, since it was necessary for parliament to place a sufficient appropriation for the purpose in the budget before the session ended.

          In a resolution read by Mr. Mackelcan, the citizens of Hamilton respectfully asked the federal government to rebuild the drill shed at the earliest possible date, and to include estimates to that end in the budget which was then being worked out.

          The resolution also directed Mayor McKay to telegraph the city members of parliament of both Hamilton ridings, and Senators Turner and McInness to urge that the matter be pressed forward without delay.

          Mr. Adam Brown seconded the motion and recommended that the government proceed with the building as quickly as possible in the interests of keeping the local volunteer militia unit together:

          “Unless the drill shed be rebuilt at once and thoroughly equipped, there was danger of the Thirteenth battalion going to pieces, and the government should be plainly informed of this danger.”

          “The New Drill Shed : Resolution Passed at a Public Meeting”

             Spectator. May 26, 1886

          Lieutenant-Colonel  John Morison Gibson spoke to the meeting on behalf of the Thirteenth battalion. He was thankful for the sympathy of the itizens over the battalion's loss, but he denied that the Thirteenth would go to pieces if a new drill shed were not immediately erected:

           “If necessary the battalion would drill in the open air and find other plans to store our arms and stores. But a new drill shed and armory is eminently desirable, and unless prompt action is taken to ensure its erection, there is danger of a long and dangerous delay.”

          Adam Brown was able to respond to Lieutenant-Colonel Gibson's remarks. He explained that his reference to the danger of the regiment going to pieces without a new drill shed was not intended to reflect upon the zeal and resolve of the officers and men of the Thirteenth battalion. He only wished to point out to the elected officials the bad effects a delay in reconstruction could cause.

          Major J. J. Mason rose to declare that not only should the drill shed be rebuilt, it should be larger than the old one, fronting on both James and Hughson streets.

          On February 3, 1887, the plans of the proposed new Drill Shed arrived in Hamilton and were taken to the caretaker's house in the old Drill Shed yard, where local contractors were allowed to study them carefully with a view to tendering for some of the work.

          To be constructed of brick, the new Drill Shed would have dimensions of 255 by 100 feet, with frontage on both James and Robert streets. The drill yard was contained in the enclosure to the south, while the armories were also placed in the south side of the shed. Orderly and store were located at the west side of the building, while the officers' quarters were over the armories in the southwest corner of the building.

          The drill proper was 200 by 80 feet in size, and included a gallery at each end for spectators or for use as bandstands.

          Finally, the building featured square towers at each of the corners facing James street. The roof was expected to be of iron, but the newly-arrived plans called for a wooden truss structure with shingles. There was also a display or ornamental gable in the center of the Robert street side.

          The materials to be used in the construction of the new drill shed were to be of the finest red brick, with facings of Credit Valley sandstone, and the thresholds, steps and curbing of the proposed building were to be made out of Hamilton limestone.

          The Spectator reporter who had access to the government plans was enthusiastic in his praise for them:

          “The structure will undoubtedly be one of the finest and most complete of its kind in the Dominion, and will be an attractive addition to our already large collection of handsome public buildings.”

          On Friday evening, September 15, 1888, the members of the Thirteenth battalion mustered at their temporary headquarters at the old Canada Life building on James street north, near the Main street intersection.

          Headed by the band, the regiment paraded north on James street to the nearly-completed Drill Hall, where, after depositing their rifles and other accoutrements, a trip was made back to the temporary headquarters where the members of the regiment, in the words of a Spectator reporter picked up “the balance of the paraphernalia of war.”

          “Their New Quarters : the Thirteenth Battalion Moves into the New Drill Hall”

          Spectator.    September 15, 1888.

          The same article in the Spectator noted that the formal opening of the new Drill Hall on James street north occurred just two years and four months after the May 23, 1886 fire which had destroyed the old drill shed “and with its fiery extinguishment perished the time-honored cradle of martial ardor in this city for the last quarter of a century. Here it was that in the exciting times of the Fenian raid in 1866 the battalion, many of whose members are numbered with the dead, mustered to march to the frontier and repel the invaders.”

          The formal opening of Hamilton's new Drill Hall was scheduled for Wednesday, October 17, 1888 with the Thirteenth Battalion Band giving a free public concert.

          The building had been constructed at a cost of nearly $50,000 by the local contractor, M. A. Pigott, working under the direction of C. W. Mulligan, the federal government's supervising architect.

          Over 2,500 citizens attended the opening band concert and all comfortably fit within the Drill Hall's immense dimensions :

          “The battery boys in their smart blue and gold uniforms and the officers and men of the battalion in their red coats lent a gay and festive appearance to the scene, which was highlighted by an array of flags and Chinese lanterns on the walls.”

          “Opening the Armory : An Immense Gathering at the Band Concert”

             Spectator.  October 18, 1888.

          The Thirteenth Battalion band was at his finest musical form at the concert to mark the opening of the Drill Hall and the audience response to their efforts was most favorable:

          “Seats were placed for those who wanted to be seated, but by far the greater portion of the crowd promenaded around the parade ground, seeing and being seen, and feeling as happy as big, smiling sunflowers. Everyone was there with his cousin or his aunt or his sister or some other fellow's sister, and they promenaded and chatted and listened to the music, and recalled the old-time concerts in the old-time shed when the people used to stumble around the rutty old mud floor and be just as merry without the insinuating odor of tarred cedar blocked flooring permeating the atmosphere. And several young people were flirting, but they weren't caught at it.”

          The band's programme included a clarinet solo by Walter Robinson, the Concert Aria by Bergson. Walter received a hearty encore from the crowd.

          The highlight number of the evening, in the Spectator's man's opinion, was , “the popular and descriptive piece, Payday at the Old Plantation (which) was heard to much better advantage than in the open air and the thunderous applause that followed it showed how thoroughly delighted the audience were with the manner in which it was played.”

          The evening was a pronounced success, auguring well for Hamilton's military preparedness as the nineteenth century drew to a close.

          Saturday afternoon, November 24, 1888, the Thirteenth Battalion underwent its first formal inspection since moving into its new quarters.

          In the months after the fire at the old drill shed, the Spectator reported that regiment was reduced  to a shadow of its former self:

          “And only the indomitable spirit zeal and perseverance of a handful of officers succeeded in keeping the corps together during the period when it was without proper equipment or a suitable place to drill in.”

          “Our Citizen Soldiery : Annual Inspection of the Thirteenth Battalion”

             Spectator. November 26, 188.

          The Thirteenth battalion had been down to its lowest numerical level in the famed militia unit's history, being barely able to muster one quarter of its full strength for drills during the previous spring. The officers were able to help the corps withstand this crisis and by November the battalion have been restored enough to present a very favorable impression to the inspecting officer, Colonel Otter, the country's deputy adjutant-general.

          The inspection was held at the Crystal Palace grounds where 355 members of the Thirteenth battalion paraded in review under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Gibson. While the inspecting officers passed up and down the lines, the battalion's band played as all the regiment's soldiers presented arms;

          “The movement being performed with a precision  and unison that drew expressions of approval from the immense crowd that surrounded the field.”

          After the usual inspection of arms and accoutrements, the regiment broke into column and march past manoeuvrings:

          “The ground was rather rough and some of the companies were a little soggy, but, on the whole, this showy evolution was well done.”

          The finale of the performance on that inspection day was the trial of a new attack in extended order which the Thirteenth did not execute properly:

          “However, it is rather an intricate movement and no opportunity has been afforded of practicing it sufficiently.”

          In his remarks, Col. Otter expressed his delight in the tremendous improvement the Thirteenth battalion had made since the previous year's inspection. The only parts of the Thirteenth's performance in the inspecting officer's opinion were the marching past and the extended order manoeuvrings.

          Colonel Otter felt that the completion of the new Drill Hall would benefit the regiment's efficiency:

           “You have now the advantage here of an excellent drill shed, and from what Col. Gibson tells me of the programme for the coming winter, I have not the least doubt that every advantage will be taken of it so far as you are able to do so. The corps in Montreal and Toronto excel you because they have competition and something to work against, and we all know that in every sphere of life, such fair and honorable competition is always an advantage to everyone concerned. I am very glad, indeed, to have had the pleasure of inspecting you.”

3 A.M. James St. N. - 1887

“Perhaps some of you who always keep good, respectable hours would like to know what Hamilton looks like in the wee sma’‘oors ayont the twelve, when all good, honest, easy-going people are sleeping. If you feel like it, just come along with me.”

        “About Night Hawks : Life in the Streets When the Night Begins to Wane”

                                        Hamilton Spectator.

                                                March 19, 1887.

With the above paragraph, a reporter with the Hamilton Spectator, writing under the pseudonym Jehosaphat Jefferson, began an article about what Hamilton was like during the long nights of March, 1887.

After leaving his desk at the Spectator office, Jehosaphat Jefferson ventured out onto James street :

“Now we are on the street. Quite a difference to what it was yesterday afternoon when I met you in this same spot. Then it was lighted by sunshine and alive with people and resounding with bustle and turmoil and trample of feet and jangle of wagons and the tinkle of street car bells and the hum of cheery voices. Now, everything is quiet and solemn and strange. As the city lies before you with its silent streets lined with tall and gloomy buildings, that take on a Mysterious character in the pale, cold moonlight as they stretch away along either side of the thoroughfares which, as far as you can see, are deserted, except for the solitary figure of a policeman standing like a bronze statue over there at the corner, and only adding an additional element of solitariness to the scene by his stately and dignified presence.”

        As Jehosaphat Jefferson made his way along the darkened streets of Hamilton in March, 1887, he thought about sleep and its effect on the city:

“Beneficent King Nod stretched his magic wand over the silent city that lies before you, and slowly and peacefully it has sunk into rest and stillness, as a fevered giant might under the charm of a soothing opiate – all the passions, prejudices, ambitious, the mental and physical energies of 40,000 people have stopped dead in their tracks.”

Reporter Jefferson headed towards the north end of the city :

“We will go down James street now. You see it stretching away down there to where the white frozen surface of the bay is glistening on one side of the street bathed in moonlight, and the other smothered in deep shadow that extends to the middle of the roadway. Do you notice how quiet it is; there is scarcely a sound of any kind to be heard, except the noise of our footsteps which awake the little echoes that go skipping along in advance of us, and riot among the gables of the tall buildings and fling themselves bodily against the resonant window panes as if they took a malicious delight in waking up the grave, dignified piles of architecture and wanted to show how much they despised a dull time.”

The reporter dropped into No. 1 police station at the city hall, but as nothing was doing there, he went back out on the street :

“The sky away over there in the east is beginning to have a brighter tinge than the rest, though it is a long time till daylight yet – Jeruslaem! What in creation has broke loose now? There is a deafening, strident, reverberating clang in the air above us, shattering the silence all into ‘pi’ and the sound waves go rolling down the empty streets like balls in a bowling alley, and bring up, with a rattle of echoes at the end. It is the clock in the bell tower striking the hour. Twice more the bell gives tongue and then in the stillness that follows, some vagrant rooster away over in Corktown toots its kazoo.”

The reporter then ran into a gang of drunken young men on their way home from the barroom :

“Ah me! But aren’t they a sick-looking crowd as they move slowly along, balancing themselves on the dizzy eminence of a twelve foot sidewalk?”

The large buildings in the downtown Hamilton area had a particularly threatening aspect to the Spectator man as he walked about the streets in the middle of the night:

“Do you notice how the buildings seem to take on an individuality at night that you never noticed when the streets were full of people? Some of them you imagine have a gaunt and hungry look, while other little fat structures have a bulging in their sides and a contented, sleepy look about them, as if they had gorged themselves with the little pygmies of humanity that throng around them in the daytime and were resting after it. The most of them have their blinds pulled close, but here and there a light burning dimly in an upstairs window makes the building look as if it was keeping one eye open.”

Jefferson noted that usually one could go up James street from King to Cannon street, and never meet a soul during the middle of the night, unless one ran into a gang of drunken toughs:

“They will sometimes try to pick a quarrel by purposely jostling you as you go through them, but if you keep cool and turn it off with a joke, you’re all right. Then, like as not, they become oppressively friendly and won’t let you go away until you go in somewhere and ‘take sumpin’ at the jostler’s expense.”

Occasionally, the reporter would meet a threesome walking along the late night streets, a gentleman with a young girl on his arm, her mother, “or a stout, old chaperon,” on the other arm:

“The chaperon is generally doing all the talking, and the young girl trips along with a dreamy look on her face, and her thoughts roaming off in a delicious reverie as she reviews the events of the evening in a mirage of girlish imagination. The group flits past, leaving the breath of delicate perfume in the air, and the reporter rambles on in another delicious reverie, while in the mirage of his imagination, there floats a dainty vision of a fleecy, white cloak, a pretty young face with a stray curl of gold on the cheek and a pair of lovely eyes that look out at him with a sparkle of innocent curiosity>”

Quite another type of young lady was seen passing along the street by herself :

“a rustle of rich silk, a jingle of bangles, the clicking step of a high-heeled bottine, a glitter of jewelry, a form, graceful and divinely tall, a close-wrapped cloak, a handsome, passionate face – now white and drawn – with a pair of eyes that burn like coals, approaches and a sickening odor of musk and cheap perfume fills the air as he hurries past, looking straight before her.”

The Spectator reporter finally decided to head home as he began to hear the market wagons beginning to rumble down the mountain.

Passing by a policeman on a corner, the reporter greeted him by saying:

“ ‘Good night, old hoss.’

“ ‘Good morning, you mean,’ replied the policeman. “Be off to your roosts, you young nighthawk, or I’ll run ye in.’

Times Building - 1888

“Last evening, the new building of the Times Printing Company was decked with flags and flowers and thronged with the youth, beauty and innocence of the town, preparatory to being turned over to the use of devils and devoted to ways that are inky. (To prevent possible misunderstanding it may be necessary to explain that the latter part of the above sentence refers exclusively to the small and smutty urchins who run printing offices, bully reporters, patronize editors and set all creation at defiance.”

                   “A Housewarming”

                     Spectator. April 3, 1888.

          The formal opening of the Times Printing Company's new building, situated on the southwest corner of Hughson and King William streets in downtown Hamilton, was the occasion for a celebratory supper and dance.

          The new, red brick building, the design of Hamilton architect William Stewart, was three stories in height, with a 12 foot basement, the ceiling of which was some four feet above the level of the sidewalk:

          “The external appearance of the building is massive and bold in its treatment. It is well-proportioned, and presents a fine specimen of street architecture. It is surmounted with a pleasing design of galvanized cornice work, painted and sanded in imitation of Ohio freestone. Standing twenty-eight feet above the main roof is a flagstaff, surmounted with gold gilt mouldings and a gold gilt iron ball. Inside of this ball were placed by the acrchitect written upon vellum paper, a full list of the proprietors of the Times, the staff of the paper and other employees of the company, a list of the contractors for the building, including the name of the architect, also a copy of the daily and weekly Times and Spectator.”

          “Evening Times : Ready to Move into New Quarters”

             Evening Times. April 3, 1888.

          The ground floor window and the basement windows facing King William and Hughson streets were highly attractive, made of plate glass with wheel-cut ornamentation emblematic of Canada. Handsome gold-finished signs decorated the front of the building in provisions for the signs which had been included in the architect's overall design.

          The main entrance to the Times building was at the corner of Hughson and King William streets. This entrance led into hall, which opened to a newsboys' waiting room, mail room, bookkeepers' room, manager's room and wash room for the company's employees.

          Beyond the entrance hall, through two folding doors, was a large room, over 900 square feet in area, used as a general office:

          “The general office is handsomely finished in natural woods, varnished and polished and presents a very fine and cheerful appearance.  The ceiling of the general office is handsomely and heavily paneled and molded in stucco work, being divided off into ten separate panels. A neat and handsome counter extends the whole length of this room and is surmounted with a neat and ornamental brass and enriched plate glass railing, got up in the highest style of the art.” (Times)

          In the basement, the press room, boiler and engine room, coal vaults and ash pits were situated. Well-lighted and ventilated, the basement ran the whole length of the building.

          The second floor of the Times building contained the job room, while the news room was on the third floor. Also on the third floor were the reporters' and proof readers' rooms, several editorial rooms and wash rooms.

          Access to all floors was via steam elevator. Verbal communication throughout the building was possible via silver-mounted speaking tubes:

          “The Times Printing Company have not spared any expense in making this building as complete as possible for their own special business and for the general comfort and health of their employees, and the building, inside and outside, certainly reflects great credit upon all parties in connection with its erection.”

          Just before 8 p.m., Monday, April 2, 1888, lights were first turned on in the new Times building in anticipation of the arrival of those invited to the special grand opening supper and fancy dress ball:

          “The effect of a brilliant illumination with gas upon the colored decorations was marvelous. The whole of the second floor, with the exception of the ample dressing room for ladies, was devoted to the ball. Skillful fingers had made and willing hands had hung an abundance of flowers among the flags and bunting, which were displayed to the very best advantage.” (Times April 3, 1888)

          The decorations had transformed the second floor of the

 new Times building into a festive area for dancing. The unfurnished rooms with bare white walls had been covered with decorative touches :

           “Upon the walls hung the flags of great nations. Prominent, of course, was the Union Jack of Old England, with the Stars and Stripes of the United States, the German flag and many others draped and almost covering the walls. Small flags were set where they would look the prettiest. From the walls to the rows of pillars, bunting of every color was hung in festoons, looped up here and there with bunches of beautiful roses, peonies, poppies and wreathes of flowers. Overall were the rays of mellow light from the clusters of gas jets. The finest decorations of the ball-room were the company. A better-looking and better-dressed party of ladies and gentlemen have not been seen at any of the balls of the season.”

          Over 400 people danced throughout the evening to music supplied by J. B. Nelligan, beginning with the Grand March at 9:15 o'clock.

          While the second floor of the new Times Building was devoted to dancing, the third floor had been fitted up for the supper, catered by Newport:

          “Tables sufficient to accommodate 200 people were spread in the large room on the third floor. The walls and ceiling of the room were as white as snow, as were the table covers. The table decorations consisted of large, hot house plants and cut flowers which, with the elegant glass and silver ware and pyramids of Charlotte Russe jellies and other articles of the caterer's handiwork, made a scene that could not well be improved upon.”

          Also on the third floor, three rooms were set aside for euchre and other games, and each was occupied throughout the evening:

          “It was pleasant to leave the ball room for a few minutes, have a game of cards, and then return to the merry dance, to be succeeded by other sets at the euchre tables. Some played checkers, others dominoes; no one sat still for any length of time – it wasn't that sort of a ball – everyone was too full of enjoyment to be quiet.”

          The ceremonial opening of the Times Printing Company's grand new building  with a fancy dress ball and supper was deemed to be a grand success. The clock was nearly 3:45 a.m. When Nelligan's  band struck up “God Save the Queen” to announce the end of the festivities. The thoroughly satisfied, if tired, crowd then began to disperse.

          The following day, the Times editor, H. F. Gardiner, wrote a lengthy editorial, which appeared inder the headline, “Out of the Old Home Into the New'” in which he discussed the role of the Times in Hamilton:

          “The Times is a successful newspaper today because no pains of expense are spared to keep its readers informed of everything of importance that happens, whether at home or abroad, at the earliest possible moment. It discusses public topics fearlessly, and in the interests of the people as a whole. It presents the news of the city in an attractive form, and its local and foreign commercial intelligence can always be relied on. For these reasons, it enjoys the confidence of the advertising public, and in consequence of a steady pursuit of this policy, it is today in a position to congratulate itself and its patrons on having formally taken possession of its new commodious building. The old structure was good enough while the business of the institution was in comparative childhood, but it as been evident for a long time that the ever-increasing business of the Times Printing Company demanded more space. That room has been obtained in the handsome new structure now nearly completed. It has been the desire of the proprietors to provide such a building as will enable them in future to still more efficiently serve their patrons than they have been able to do in the past, while at the same time affording increased comfort to their employees. In this they have succeeded beyond a peradventure as the large number of citizens who are familiar with the old place of business and who have inspected the new can testify”

                   “Out of Old Home Into the New”

                       Evening Times. April 3, 1888.

Police Raid - 1881

Police Raid - 1881

        “Cock fighting has been quite prevalent in and about Hamilton for some time, and the sports had got to feel so secure that they neglected ordinary precaution against surprise. For two or three weeks mysterious convocations of bird fanciers have been noticed, and it was discovered that sundry well-known fighting birds were receiving unusual care, and that a main of extraordinary proportions was being arranged, became evident to the experienced detective.”

A Cockfight Spoiled : The Raid of the Police on the Sports at Rock Bay”

Hamilton Spectator. March 18, 1881.

Around midnight, Wednesday, March 16, 1881, Hamilton Police Chief A. D. Stewart, Detective Gates and Constables McNair and Spohn hired a hack (taxi) to take them, accompanied by a Spectator reporter, out along York street towards the west end of the bay where the Rock Bay hotel was located.

The police had learned that a major cock fight was to be held there. When several sports were spotted sulking about the side streets with their birds in bags over their shoulders, Chief Stewart decided that it was time to move.

Getting out of the hired wagon some distance from the hotel, the policemen silently approached the location where it was rumoured that the cock fight was to be held.

The continued barking of a dog in the vicinity almost gave them away, but, as noted by a Spectator reporter covering the event noted, “after some some difficulty and a good deal of moral suasion, the policemen succeeded in quieting the dog, and approached the hotel without being noticed.”

Creeping towards a hotel window, Chief Stewart and his men peeked through some window blinds and saw a pair of birds being put in a pit, a space about 14 feet square located next to the bar. Men were observed placing bets of upwards of ten dollars per battle, and large quantities of cash were seen being exchanged.

As the police looked on, a bird named Tom Kelly was being prepared for his bout. Tom was a locally famous rooster, and cries of “Five to one on Tom Kelly” could be heard.

At this point, as described by the Spectator man, the chief, after posting a man at every exit, strolled up to the hotel’s main entrance, “and performed a well-executed Masonic rap.”

Suddenly someone shouted, ‘the police, by God!” Pandemonium then reigned as all inside made a rush for one of the exits.

The exit covered by Detective Gates was the first to be approached. After the door was thrown open, the detective coolly remarked, “you needn’t run, boys; there’s no need to hurry.”

The crowd then assembled at an alternate exit where “the gentle and kind-hearted Constable Spohn blocked that potential escape route.

The windows then were approached, thinking that they were only possible way to get out of the hotel remaining.

Again as delineated by the Spectator coverage of the chaotic scene, “sashes were carried away, and people began to drop out of the second storey windows. One well-known young man caught his pantaloons upon a nail, and hung suspended in the air for a time. They scattered in all directions, some concealing in the bar, other behind fences, and others making big time for home across the ice.”

Back inside the hotel, everything was in a state of confusion. Chairs and tables were upset and the temporary bar set up within the cockpit itself was smashed.

Those unable to escape by the windows, pulled up their collars and pulled down the hats in a vain attempt to walk past the policemen without being recognized.

However, as recounted by the Spec’s young man, “they were all spotted. “You needn’t run, Jimmy,’ or ‘good evening, Harry,’ or ‘what’s your hurry, Billy?’ from the officers proclaimed to them that they were recognized. But still they felt that they were wanted at home right away, and for home they picked, as fast as possible.”

Overcoats, umbrellas, canes, hats and game birds were all left behind in the crowd’s haste to escape.

Of the fifty to sixty men attending the cockfight at the Rock Bay hotel, forty names were secured by the police. As noted in the Spectator article informing everyone about the bust, “the list embraces many men who are considered to be quite respectable, and who are frequently seen in devout attitudes at church.”

The thirty-two game birds which were confiscated at the hotel presented Chief Stewart with a dilemma as to their disposal. The usual procedure was to wring their necks and donate the carcasses to charity to be cooked into a free meal for the poor.

As game bird meat was very tough,  and as the birds were very valuable, it was suggested that the birds be sold at auction, and the money so raised then donated to charity.

The birds were taken to No. 3 police station to await their fate.

The following morning after the raid, police court proceedings were frequently interrupted by defiant crows from the incarcerated fowls. Finally, the somewhat exasperated Police Court Magistrate Cahill gave notice that the birds would immediately be turned over to Thomas Burrows to be auctioned off.

The Saturday morning auction was attended both by a Spectator reporter and what he described as a crowd of  “motley description which embraced representatives from all quarters of the city. The sporting element was decidedly present, and the proceedings were enlivened by a fistic set-to between two members of the first families of Corktown.”

          There was suspicion among some suspicion that some of the birds included in those being offered at auction were not among the ones confiscated in the raid. The sentiment told the Spectator man was that “dunghills had been substituted for the game birds which originally occupied the bags.”

          The representative for the Spectator, although having arrived well before the advertised starting time of the auction, was unable to make his way through the dense crowd to see and hear the auctioneer well.

          Then he was recognized and was allowed to pass through the crowd.

          “Let the gintleman in” someone in the crowd said, “It’s mesilf seen him at the fight, and shure, he’s come to buy his birds.”

          “The words were magic,” the reporter later wrote. He was jostled through the crowd to a prime spot up front, and he noted that “great is the power of similarity of tastes.”

          After a few birds had been auctioned off, a large, dark bird, with a white neck, was brought forward to loud cries of “dunghill” and “no good” from the crowd.

          Mickey Flynn then yelled out, “on me father’s estate in Donegal, there was jest hundreds of burrds like them kilt for nothing iles but manurin’ the fields around the castle.”

          An acquaintance of Mickey Flynn interrupted fim, shouting, “manure the peat bog around yer mother’s cabin, ye mane, Mick! Shut yer face, an’ don’t be stritchin’ yer long bow here.’

          When a large bird with long legs was presented for sale, someone in the crowd shouted, “ ‘E looks like Joe Gates, blow me tigh if he don’t.”

          Joseph Gates, the detective who assisted Chief Stewart in the raid, was a less than popular figure with many in crowd.

          After the large bird had been compared in looks with the detective, someone in the crowd shouted “well, thin, he isn’t much use av he’s like like him.”

          Unbeknownst to the two making the observations, Detective Gates himself moved in behind them. As observed by the Spec man, their comparisons of the bird and the detective were “silenced by a tap on the head from the redoubtable Joe himself.”

          When another bird was offered for sale, someone in the crowd yelled, “there’s not a crow in him, he’s a silent bird!”

          “Faith, thin, he’ll do to send to Parlymint,” cried out someone else, “tisn’t them as crows the most as does the most anyhow or ye’d be a fine bird, Patsy!”

          As the auction proceeded, the crowd became more and more restive.

          Sam McNair, who was assisting the auctioneer, held up a rooster and shouted, “here’s a $25 bird!”

          Several in the crowd disagreed and gave vent to prolonged shouts of derision. One cried out, “does his mother know he’s out?”

          McNair, resenting the sarcasm, shot back, “be aisy, or ye’ll be out yerself.”

          The argument continued and a fist fight was only narrowly averted.

          Finally, all the birds were auctioned off. The total receipts were $26.95, far below what was expected.

Nonetheless, the money was turned over to charity bringing an end to that part of the raid aftermath. All left was for the appearances of all those in attendance at Rock Bay to appear in police court to face their charges.

Carters - 1881

       There was a class of workers in nineteenth century Hamilton whose occupation made them highly visible to the community at large. These workers were called carters, or draymen, whose small, heavy wagons were available for hire to transport materials of any kind.

        These men, often laughingly referred to as “Knights of the Wagon,” generally made their "headquarters" on an open lot on the north side of Main street, between John and Hughson streets.

A Spectator reporter was assigned the task to visit the carters’ stand and write about the culture of those well-known local characters.

“They are an odd lot of snaps, those carters,” he later wrote, “and the square in front of the court house is sometimes the scene of some very amusing incidents and practical jokes.”

 When business was slow, the carters were known to get involved in animated parliamentary discussions of the burning issues of the day. The discussions usually began in a relatively calm manner, but, on occasion, could end up with fists flying.

On Wednesday January 12, 1881, the young man from the Spectator made his appearance at the carters’ stand, and the following Saturday, his observations were printed in the newspaper, in a column with a headline which read “The Carters’ Parliament : Discussing the Affairs of the World on the Stand.”

Bould Doolin, a carter from the Corktown neighbourhood was the main speaker on the day of the Spectator man’s visit, his subject as usual, being the Irish Question.

“Now, see here, me byes,” he said, I want yes to understand I’ve thravelled all over the United States and had my residence for six weeks an’ a day in New York city, an’ I’ve got this Irish biz down fine. What thim countrymin of mine need is fur to have a fair show, an’no favour, an’ a chance fur to pay fur what land they’ve got. But while them miserable thieves an’ rubbers av English landlords kin-“

“Come off, Doolin!” interrupted another carter loudly, “you’re off your base.”

“Ah sure, and I’m tellin’ the truth, so I am” responded Doolin, “what did Jimmy Redpath say the other day in New York, eh? Did yez read that me bye? An’ thin they talk about sendin’ missionaries to Africa. Bedad, they’d do betther and kape their money at home an’ send it to the poor Irishmen they’ve starved out.”

“Put your name right off,” suggested Jimmy Brick, a carter from the west end.

The carters’ stand was often the site of peculiar incidents, such as the one involving the “amorous lady.”

While the carters were well into a game of craps beside their wagons, a well-dressed lady came walking along the street and invited herself into the game, shouting “knuckle down” and “fun evens” with the best of them.

She then engaged a couple of the carters in conversation and, within five minutes, had proposed to one of them. Demanding an immediate acceptance of her proposal because she was about to leave for Manitoba the following morning, the lady was visibly disappointed to learn that the object of her affections was already married.

However, the lady tried again, turning her attention to Martin Behan “who she saluted and hailed with several pet names.

By this time, a crowd of draymen and passersby had gathered to observe the lady’s advances towards the somewhat embarrassed Martin Behan.

One of Behan’s fellow carters loudly offered to give the lady ten cents if she would give Martin a kiss. As described by the Spectator reporter, “nothing loath, she consented, and made a grab for Martin. That gentleman, however, had concluded he did not want anymore osculatory exercise just then and ran away.”

What followed was a ludicrous chase down Main street, “Martin ran for dear life, up and down the street, over and under the carters’ wagons, his coat tails streaming in the wind, and close behind him was the amorous female, who was terribly in earnest and bound to win the ten cents or kill herself in the attempt.”

The gathered crowd was convulsed with laughter, and even the second storey windows of buildings in the vicinity were filled with amused spectators observing poor Martin’s discomfiture.

Finally, Martin made his escape. The lady, who the Spectator reporter suspected “was a trifle in liquor,” ended her chase and went on her way without the ten cents.

Just another day in the carters’ stand!

Secret Boxing Match - 1886

“In the faint grey of light of dawn yesterday, groups of men emerged from the house and streets of the city and climbed the mountain steps. When the summit was reached, they waited around for upwards of an hour, glancing suspiciously at one another and exchanging remarks under their breath. Their talk was evidently about a fight that was going to take place and which they had come to witness.”

                             In the 24-foot Ring : Prize Fight Near Hamilton Yesterday

                                Hamilton Spectator. August 3, 1886

          When the crimson sky in the east brightened into gold, the sixty or seventy men gathered on the mountain brow began to grow restive. A difficulty over money had prevented the fight’s organizers from proceeding.

          Finally, the crowd was invited to enter a large barn in a nearby field, with each person obliged to show a red ticket for he had previously purchased for a dollar.

          However, the fight did not take place in the barn. As noted by the Spectator reporter observing the proceedings noted, “the invitation into that convenient edifice was merely a bluff to draw money from several persons who wanted to see the show for nothing.”

          After the crowd filed out of the barn, two men in a buggy dove up and told the crowd to follow them.

          The Spectator man later wrote that the route taken led the party off the beaten track, “they drove down up the stone road running south from the Mountain View hotel, and about a quarter mile from the hotel, alighted, tied the horse to a fence and crossed a field to the left.”

          After another field and some woods were crossed, the party came to an area where a space had been cleared for the fight. The reporter observed that “stakes were driven into the ground and ropes stretched from stake to stake until a 24-foot ring was completed.”

          When the fight was about to begin, nearly one hundred men were present, but each one who was asked to act as a referee for the fight refused point-blank.

          The fighters then declared their intention to go on with the match anyway, leaving it up to the crowd as a whole to decide the outcome of the match. Given that decision, an east end market gardener reluctantly agreed to accept the duty of refereeing the fight.

          The match was then ready to begin.

          The combatants were not well-matched in size.

          Jack Dempsey, of Detroit, was the larger of the two at 5 feet, 6 inches in height and 130 pounds in weight. The other fighter, Enoch Taylor, a young Englishman currently living in Hamilton, was only 5 feet 2 inches in height and 110 pounds in weight.

          Just before the start of the match, Enoch Taylor was interviewed by the Spectator reporter.

          “I haven’t had half an hour’s training for this fight,” he claimed. “My brother is the only person in Hamilton that I care to spare with for practice, and I haven’t been able to practice with him on account of an accident that happened to his hand two or three days ago. If I’m beaten, it’s because my wind won’t hold out – that’s all I’m afraid of.”

          After both men, in the words of the reporter, “stripped to the buff,” the fight began. It seemed that Dempsey, despite being handicapped by a broken bone in his right forearm, would have things very much his own way.

          In the Spectator writer’s account of the match, he wrote : “ one of his (Dempsey’s) tremendous body blows caught Taylor just above the belt. Taylor gasped and uttered a long groan and retched as f about to vomit; he staggered back and reeled, but recovered just in time to dodge a blow that would have landed on his jugular and probably would have laid him out.”

          After the third round, Taylor seemed to recover his wind and his determination, inflicting a deep cut on Dempsey’s lower lip.

          The action was savage for the rest of the bout, with Taylor seeming to get fresher with each passing round.

          At the end of the match, the two combatants were described in some detail by the man from the Spec : “when the fight was over, Dempsey’s face, neck and breast were covered with blood and his face was puffy and bruised; the only mark on Taylor’s face was the cut on his left temple, but his chest and sides bore the marks of hard punishment.”

          Enoch Taylor was more closely examined a few minutes later, and it was discovered that one of Dempsey’s harder blows, aimed at his opponent’s body, missed, and connected instead with Taylor’s head. Taylor’s right forearm, which already had one minor broken bone, was found to have two broken bones, causing him to be unable to use his right glove at all.

          The ultimate decision on the fight was that it was a draw.

          As described by the reporter, “both men took the decision philosophically. With the assistance of their seconds, they dressed hastily; the stakes were drawn, and the crowd had dispersed before the mists had rolled away from the hillside.”