Grand Trunk Railway Station - November 1982

A full reprint of an article appearing in the Hamilton Herald on November 26, 1892.

A Herald reporter spending an hour at the Stuart Street passenger station of the Grand Trunk Railway.

          Are you in the habit of visiting the Stuart street railway station on a Sunday afternoon? If not, try it sometime. A pleasant hour may be spent there, especially if you are a physiogemist; if perchance a mind reader, you will be more than repaid for the time devoted to the study of many phases of character to be met. To fully realise the scene, arrange to be on the platform half an hour before the train is due. Lots of time will then be afforded for observation, for the trains are, as a matter of course, always behind. The crowd you will find there present as many views as do the prismatic rays of the crystal in a kaleidoscope.

          One group is standing around the scenery of some dramatic company. There are woods and cottages and flats and drawing rooms and mechanical effects. There is always a fascination about stage paraphernalia; it is full of mystery. It is hard to realise that the daub of paint, put on the canvas apparently quite promiscuously, presents so many brilliant effects when scene on the stage in the full glare of gas and electricity. Walking up and down, and ever and anon watching the scenery with careful eye is the man who has charge of the effects. Ask him why he does not rest content, now that the property is in the railway’s keeping. He will tell you a sorry tale of mishaps caused by officials, who have no thought of the morrow and the inconvenience caused by the handling of the ‘stuff’ It is very easy to wipe a moon out of existence and spill the horizon.

          On the other side of the platform is a well known citizen. Do not think he is about to take a journey. Oh, no; he is an ardent believer in Sunday observance, and has only come down for his Sunday paper. “I must have a Sunday paper,” he says. After a perusal of the same, it is more than probable that he sits down and indites a letter to the city papers, complaining about cigars being sold on Sunday, and wants to know what the police are doing.

          A little excitement takes place, and a dozen voices announce that “she’s a-coming.” There is no scientific evidence why a train should be classed in the feminine gender, but, usage, which governs all things has so willed it, and “she” will continue for as many years as Rider Haggard’s heroine. Well, the train has arrived. All make for a position near the railway exit, or the dinging room, and note the people as they pass.

          Here is a funny-looking fellow with a merry twinkle in his eye, and in that state of bliss described as “feeling good.” You have heard his voice before, but unless you are initiated you fail to recognise the face. Surely it  is Tradgedus Murderus, the celebrated artist who played the villain with the Smashed Pane or Bloody Patty Knife. How different he looks on the stage to what he does on the (railway) platform. But he carries his heart on his sleeve, that is, his speech betrays his call. He inquires from a companion, “What’s the hour, Horatio?” and is told that “It lacks four, my lord.” “Good, let’s to a hostlery.”

          Stand aside, please. Here comes a lady with three children – one carrying a birdcage, one a dog, the other crying. It is M’lle Scanticlothed, of the Highstockingistique Constellation. You fail to recognise her, for last night, her hair was a beautiful blonde – a mass of bewitching curls clustering around her big forehead. Now it is a shade between black and red – is frowsy, unkempt, and her whole appearance is tawdry.

          Hello, what have we here? Who are these men, dressed alike – silk hats, long overcoats, frayed and baggy trousers, rings on fingers, shoes down at the heels, massive diamondsset in dirty scarfs? They are the members of the Newfirst Aggregation of Lookwellonthestageandoff Minstrels. Their manager lags behind, but the effulgence of his diamonds is dazzling. One of them finds out that they cannot leave for Toronto till nearly seven o’clock.

          “What, 7 o’clock. Oh, Jerryganimples. That’s not so.”

          “That’s right, pard,” says one. “don’t you know you’re on the G.T.R. now. It’s a regular Grand Trundle Railway. Why it takes longer to reach Toronto than it does to reach New York.”

          There are two men who command a second glance. They appear to be blessed with this world’s goods, and one would judge were travelling for pleasure. “Let’s have a look at the city,” says one. They stroll out to the cab stand, and the first object that meets the eye is a row of dirty, squalid and ramshackle residences. In the window of one is a sign reading, “Pork and beans at all hours.” To the west, the outlook is not tempting – sandbanks, smoke and dirt. To the east, the eyes reach the summit of the hill – nothing more is to be seen.

          “Is this Hamilton?”

          “Yes.”

          “I’ve had enough. Let’s go and drink it in.” Perhaps some day, an enterprising company will build a first class hotel in the vicinity, and thus give visitors a better impression of the city. The appearance of the surroundings at the Stuart Street Station advertises the city more than any carnival – the trouble is, it advertises it the wrong way.

          There is always to be found one gentleman at the station, and he is the cynosure of attraction. Previous to the arrival of the train, he smokes an expensive cigar, permeating the air with fragrance, and as the wreaths of smoke curl heavenward, assume fantastic shapes and pass into nothingness, he is continually being saluted by all who pass him. He has a smile and nod for all. Who is he? Has he been appointed by those in authority to confer the freedom of the city upon all comers? No; although nearly all who alight grasp him by the hand and beam upon him. The gentleman’s nomenclature is Anglo-France – Thomas Reche – be sure and pay proper emphasis to the final e. One Sunday, Rhea went out to her way to see “ Mons. Reches” Haystead, of the Josie Mills Company, nearly exploded when he found that Rhea had got first possession of the manager’s hand.

          Don’t become alarmed if you hear a crash near one of the car windows. It is only a family jar over a teacup. Mater has sent pater for a cup of tea; business at the counter delays him until the train is nearly ready to move. Then a rush is made; the wife puts out her hand to take the cup, the baby does likewise. Result – cup and contents fall to the ground, and then follows a scene. Husbands who read this can surmise what is said; to bachelors ignorance is certainly bliss.

          At the extreme end of the platform stands an emigrant family alone. Alone without a friend. They have severed all friendly ties in the Old Country, with the object of carving out a fortune in the New. They will encounter many disappointments, for every country has quicksands and whirlpools.

          If you are a dog fancier, you will find lots of entertainment. Last Sunday, a gentleman had a s setter attached to a chain. It was a fine animal. Upon asking its value, the owner replied, “six hundred and fifty dollars will not buy that dog.” Many ladies carry pet dogs with them. Of course, there is some law against canines being allowed to travel in the same car with their owners, but that law may easily be evaded. There is a theory that gold earrings strengthen the eyesight. It is a positive fact that a silver coin tends to weaken the eyesight of a conductor.

          During the interval while the passengers are in the dining room, take a walk through the cars. Don’t be diffident, push aside all modesty; exercise all the bonhomie you possess, and adapt yourself to the wants of the occasion. Here are squalling children, exasperated mothers, infuriated fathers. The care of youngsters when travelling is quite a task. They want to be either eating, drinking or running from one end of the car to the other, so be careful you don’t trip up a little fellow whose mother a moment before has threatened to skin him alive; if you do, look out. But surely there are not many children travelling on Sunday? Heaps of them. The railway companies have smoking and sleeping cars attached to the train, why not have one set apart for children – a sort of miniature kindergarten, presided over by a qualified teacher? Parents could then be free of their children, a great nuisance would be abated, and the wee ones would be delighted.

          Quite an incident came under the notion of the writer while looking into one of the trains last Sunday afternoon. In one car were seated two defenders  - one of the country, the other of the faith. One in broadcloth, the other wearing the uniform of the United States army. One can always get along better with a soldier than a parson. The former’s manner is a genial character, the latter’s repellent – you don’t like to approach him. Besides the fighting man’s history, although somewhat colored, generally relates to territory that may be traced out on a map. The parson’s territory lies in faith land, a place from which no traveller has yet returned. This is a tangible world, and we prefer to accost the veteran. Here is the epitome of a hurried conversation:

          “Is this Hamilton? I’m going to Arizona. Why I know a comrade who came back from this city. His name was Bill Nixon. He was a typesetter. Do you know a man of that name?”

          “Oh, yes. He is now mayor – rather milk inspector, relief officer et cetera et cetera.”

          “Well, well. Bill was a white man all through. Many a night, while waiting for the enemy during the American war, he used to read Dickens’ books to us fellows.’

          “Will you have a cigar?”

          “Say, I don’t mind telling you how I work the cigar racket. At every starting place I light a new cigar. By the time I reach a stopping place, the stub is only left. Well, as each new comer gets aboard, the first person his eye strikes is me. He sees an old soldier smoking a stub; then he hands out a fresh one. Well, good-bye. Tell Bill you had a chat with me.” In the excitement the name of the traveller was never asked for.

                   In a short time, the passengers hurry to the cars. There is a clang, a rumbling noise, “now, we’re off.” Off where? Who can tell, with such a heterogeneous gathering, it is safe to assume that they are not all bound for one objective point. There are people of all nationalities. In a few hours, it will be impossible to locate them; they are lost in this vast World of Life, and perhaps some have passed into the Valley of Death, for in this age of rapid transit and ever-recurring events, no one can tell of the morrow.

                   You must visit the station one Sunday.