New Year's Eve 1907

“Ring Out Old, Welcome the New : the Closing Scenes of the Year 1907 and Ushering In of 1908 : Very Noisy, But Orderly : There Were a Great Many People on the Streets Yesterday Morning”

1908-01-02 Herald

     The 31^st of December, 1907 was a windy, cold early winter’s day in Hamilton.

          Citizens out and about the downtown streets would suddenly get caught in a flurry of cold air whipping between the buildings and across the intersections.

          A Hamilton Herald reporter beginning his assignment of documenting the New Year’s celebrations observed the effects of the windy conditions in great detail :

“The old year, like a mischievous Puck, spent its last day running about the streets, full of tricks and surprises; now blowing someone’s hat down the street with its owner in full career after it, or rushing round a corner with such startling suddenness as to take one’s breath away; whisking loose pieces of paper in the air in merry sport, and playing other pranks that any aged and respectable person should have been ashamed of.”

Fortunately, the reporter noted, for those who wished to celebrate the arrival of the new year outdoors, the “mischievous Puck” of 1907 had settled down considerably as the clock ticked towards the midnight hour :

“In its closing hours, its manner became more gentle, as though to atone for the frolics of the day, and, as the end drew near, it became peaceful, clam, majestic and set forth all its myriad lights to make bright the way of the newly born year.”

Many Hamiltonians spent the last evening of 1907 in rather civilized ways. Most of the larger churches had evening services to mark the end of one year and the arrival of another.

At other locations, a lovely meal was followed by some dancing after which the celebrants made their way home.

But in the city core, the scene was anything but sedate.

Downtown Hamilton was a noisy, rowdy location as the arrival of the new year approached closer and closer. The sidewalks, and even the roadways, were jammed with a pulsating flow of humanity, loudly ready to greet 1908 with a bang.

Here follows the Herald man’s experience of the greeting given the year 1908 along James and King streets :

Such a noise and confusion as greeted the new year was enough to frighten it out of his senses. Every description of noise that was made at Babel, and several that have been discovered since, were let loose all at once. In the quiet that rested on all before the hour was struck, the bells of St. Paul’s sweetly chimed out Blest Be the Tie That Binds, The Maple Leaf Forever and Auld Lang Syne, but as the bell in the city hall tower began to perform its last office for the year, whistles screeched, bugles were blown, fish horns were tooted, drums were beaten and several unnamed nose-making devices were set in motion, and, last but not least, some bagpipes took up their station at the corner of King and James streets and did their worst.

It was the most noisy reception a new year has had in this city for many years. Between 1500 and 200 men and boys gathered about the center of the city, and, forming themselves into bands, paraded up and down King and James streets, demonstrating to all and sundry that they, at least, possessed good lung power even though their performance did not do much to their musical taste. And for an hour or two after midnight, some of the more hardy spirits continued to parade the streets spasmodically, thumping a drum or fitfully blowing a bugle of fish horn.”

The young man from the Herald undoubtedly joined in the celebrations but was clearheaded enough to pen a fitting conclusion to his article :

“Today a number of dusty parcels labelled “Resolutions” that had been carefully packed away on the shelves of memory’s storehouse early last year were brought out, dusted and carefully put back in their places again to begin another year’s accumulation of dust. The bright weather made it ideal for New Year’s calls and all day the streets were filled with a merry hurrying crowd. In the evening the theatres all did a thriving business. And so the first day of the new year passed away.”

Hamilton Cemetery - 1905

On Saturday, May 15, 1905, an article appeared in that day’s Hamilton Spectator under the headline, “Speaking of the Dead : An Afternoon With Those Who Rest From Their Labours.”

        In the article, the reporter recorded his impressions of the Hamilton Cemetery at the end of York street after a visit on a beautiful spring day.

        Reflecting the general pride that the citizens of Hamilton felt regarding the cemetery, the grounds were kept in immaculate condition in particular for the mourners visiting the grave sites of departed loved ones.

        As the reporter put it in describing that mourners “reach out beyond time’s quickly vanishing space and touch the loves of spirit forms in the great beyond, and as they do, the memory of the dead makes better men and women of us all. And we like to be made better: we like to believe in that purer spirit world, hoping our kin and friends are there: and thinking of this, we drop a tear for the dead and plant flowers on their graves.”

        The month of May was one of the busiest times of the year at the Hamilton Cemetery. The workmen were beginning to clip the grass and plant fresh, green sod on graves put in over the winter.

        In the spring, especially as the warm weather returned, York street would be the location of a steady procession of what the reporter described as “mourning-draped women and sable-clothed little ones,” who would be carrying little spades, rakes and potted flowers to decorate the graves of their departed loved ones.

        While at the cemetery, the reporter noticed “many a sad scene – no, not sad but tender.” The grave mounds would be raked very carefully, “as if the noise might disturb the sleeper. The tones are hushed and softened. The mother’s voice, which in the home has sometimes been irritable and harsh, has become sweet and melodious , and the little one who has tried her patience so, and on so many occasions, is awed and wonders why this change. It sees the flowers planted on the mound and sees it watered too, with tears from mother’s eyes as with dropping head she bends.

        “It feels the mist gathering in its own bright eyes, and a great, holy quiet comes over them both – mother and child. And who will dare to say that a loving husband’s, tender father’s, spirit is not hovering near them? ‘Who loves not the memory of his dead loves not his God,’ is a truism, daily proven within the cemetery limits.”

        The northwest corner of the cemetery was the location Potter’s Field, where there were no gravestones. A numbered pine board provided the only identification from most of the graves of Hamilton’s unfortunate poor. The names for the graves could only be obtained through application at the superintendent’s office.

        A few of the graves in Potters’ Field did have a few simple name stones, such as the one which read, “Mary. Mother’s Girl. Aged 8 Years.” The Spectator man speculated that Mary “was taken and mother’s aching grief-stricken heart lives in the memory of her smile, her cheerful willingness, her kindly spirit, and to her still, though in the spirit world, she is mother’s girl.”

        There was another marker in Potter’s Field, a large, impressive stone, with just a Christian name engraved on it. The reporter speculated that “she was polluted and thought herself despised. She loved, with guilty love, a soldier of the British army, and followed him. And the soldier? He had some manhood about him. Above her grave, he reared the monument which bears alone her Christian name.”

        One other grave in Potter’s Field was marked. On the soil of a recently filled-in mound, the children of the grave’s occupant had gathered little pebbles and formed letters with them in the fresh soil. The stones formed the words, “At Rest, Mother.” The reporter noted that it was “a fleeting memorial, but how much it meant to them, whose tenderest earthly friend lies buried there.”

        During the spring afternoon spent at the cemetery, the reporter witnessed two burials.

        One, in Potter’s Field, had neither mourners nor priest in attendance. A curious group of bystanders watched while a pine shell was unloaded from a hearse and lowered into a freshly-dug grave.

        When asked who was being buried, the driver of the hearse replied, “A House of Refuge case. Had the hearse out and used it because it was dirty. If it had been clean, I’d have used the wagon instead.”

        At the other end of the cemetery, there was another burial. This one was complete with a long line of carriages and a host of mourners. After the minister completed a beautiful graveside prayer for the dead, the old grave-diggers went to work filling up the hole, while many of the mourners stood around, weeping.

        There were many interesting gravestones in Hamilton Cemetery, especially the one which marked the final resting place of Alexander Burnfield and George Knight, the engineer and fireman of the locomotive involved in the Desjardins canal accident of March, 1857.

        That monument featured a model of a locomotive placed on top, with the following inscription carved into the side:

        “Life’s railway’s o’er, each station’s past;

         In death, we’re stopped and cease at last;

         Farewell, dear friends, and cease to weep;

         In Christ, we’re safe, in Him we sleep.”

        Two large family vaults, for the Watkins and Tuckett families, were cut right into the embankments which cut across the cemetery grounds. These embankments were actually earthworks constructed during the War of 1812, and were used as shelters from which the British sallied forth to fight at the Battle of Stoney Creek.

        In 1905, the Hamilton Cemetery was a popular spot, which one could visit for the purpose of prayer and meditation, especially concerning loved ones at rest there.

        The cemetery was also a spot where one could get a feeling for the local history of the city.

        Finally, the Hamilton Cemetery was the final resting spot for mortals from all levels of Hamilton society, whether rich or poor, now all equal in death.

       

"Shooting" - James & King William 1913

About 9 p.m., during the evening of May 16, 1913, a large crowd suddenly gathered at the corner of King William street and James street, where, as a Spectator reporter on the scene noted, each man, woman and child “stared into each other’s face, each wondering what the rest of the throng was looking at.”

        The cause of the gathering was the sound of an ear-splitting shriek, which came from the direction of the Lister building.

        A young man, obviously in high spirits, had lifted the window of one of the windows of the large building, and screamed as loudly as possible. The scream, which the Spectator man observed as being “a war whoop,” was “the signal for a small army to run for the corner.”

        When Police Constable Emerson arrived at the scene and saw the quickly gathering crowd, he immediately put in a call from a street police call box to No. 3 police station which was located just a few blocks east of the intersection.

        Within minutes, Deputy Chief Whatley and a squad of policemen arrived the street opposite the Lister Chambers black with gaping citizens.

        After screaming out the window, the young man had ducked back into the room before anyone could see him. Fearing that the building might be searched by the police, the partygoers in that room quickly vacated the premises. The screamer along with his friends simply mingled with the large crowd.

        For awhile the crowd on James street north continued to stand around wondering if anything further would happen.

        Then one of the “partying” young men said to another, in a loud stage whisper. “he’s dead alright. That bullet went right through his lung. I think we had better make our getaway. I felt his pulse before we came out, and he was dead. Must have been killed instantly.”

        The other young men replied, also in a tone loud enough to attract the attention of eavesdroppers in the vicinity, “Well, it was clearly a case of self-defense. He hit me with an iron bar and I shot him on the spur of the moment.”

        Many people in the crowd overheard the conversation and one of them tipped off the police on scene.

Just before the constables could make their way through the crowd to make arrests, the young men hopped into the back seat of a friend’s automobile, which then roared off towards the north at what the Spectator man observed as being “at a hurricane clip.”

        Several people broke away from the crowd, attempting to catch up with the fleeing young men, believing that two murderers were making an escape.

However, after all the rooms of the immense Lister building were searched, no murder scene, or even evidence of any violence, could be found.

In the end, both the police and the gathered crowd were victims of a foolish practical joke.

Later, the police were able to discover the identities of the pranksters, but did not take any specific action. Instead, a warning was placed in all three Hamilton daily newspapers that any further incidents of that sort would be dealt with severely.

Aviation - 1911

1911 – Aviation

       During the last week of July, 1911, people who entered or left the east end of the city of Hamilton saw a small army of men swarming all over a field owned by a man named Arthur O’Heir.

          All the trees, long grass and stones had been cleared off the field to prepare a runway for the upcoming five day aviation meet.

          The meet, which began on Thursday, July 27, 1911, was held to demonstrate the practicality of the recently invented airplane. To that end, members of the Canadian Aeronautical Society were present to take official measurements of heights reached and distances traveled by the airplanes entered in the meet.

          As an indication of the volatile world affairs situation of 1911, there were also tests of what was termed “the utility of air-machines in warfare.” For example, bombs were dropped from the flying machines in mid-air and wireless messages were exchanged between the airborne pilots and men on the ground.

          The meet was officially opened by Hamilton Mayor George Lees, accompanied by members of the Hamilton Board of Trade.

          For most of the crowd present, estimated at over 3,000 people, it was their first opportunity to see airplanes in flight.

The excitement among the spectators was palpable. People climbed over fences, lined the Beach road with rigs and automobiles, and even lined the mountain brow in order to catch a glimpse of the “birdmen.”

A reporter for the Hamilton Times described the first flight of the meet made by Charles F. Willard in a Curtis Bi-plane as follows : “the sudden elevation of machine and man was greeted with loud cheering from the spectators, who stared breathlessly upward as the venturesome young airman sped along at a tremendous rate and took all sorts of sensational dips over the land and sea.”

On the second day, an English aviator, J. V. Martin, narrowly missed being involved in a serious accident.

Upon take off, the airplane developed engine trouble and the machine was barely able to raise over the tree tops at the end of the take off and landing strip.

Martin then circled over the bay and made a forced landing in the middle of a marsh near the airfield. His assistants rushed over to help him carry the plane to the road, from which he took off again, managing to keep his machine between the overhead wires on poles placed on each side of the road.

The crowd gathered on O’Heir’s field could not see the forced landing and, for a few moments, it was feared that the pilot may have gone down in the bay. Soon, however, the buzz of the machine was heard, and then Martin and his plane appeared over the trees. The pilot then made a safe landing to the relief and loud applause of the crowd.

Another feature of the second day of the aviation meet was the attempt to set a new altitude record for what the Times called the Canadian “cloud navigator,” J. A. D. McCurdy.

McCurdy’s flight was described in the Times as follows : “(McCurdy) rose until his machine looked like a speck in the sky, but at a height of 3,000 feet, he struck a cold wave and was forced to descend. His teeth were chattering when he landed.”

After the flight, McCurdy was interviewed by a reporter with the Canadian Press in which he gave his opinion on the potential use of airplanes in warfare.

“Aeroplanes will be used in wars,” he predicted, “but not for shooting, dropping bombs and destructive purposes. The flying machine will do the scouting work. Airships are practically safe from shot and shell after they reach an altitude of 2,000 feet.”

On that subject, a Spectator editorial weighed in, saying “while aviation may be the most seductive, as well as dangerous, of sports, it is yet far distant from the goal of real utility. There is little likelihood that any present day grownups will live to see the time when for instance, His Majesty’s mails will be carried from place to place through air rather than along the surface of earth and water.”

The third afternoon of Hamilton 1911 aviation meet was cancelled because of high winds. By the early evening hours, the winds were still blowing very steadily, but not as dangerously for the flyers as they were earlier in the day.

Despite the fact that refunds were provided because of the cancellation, a large crowd remained at the O’Heir farm in case it was decided that conditions might improve enough to allow a flight.

Finally, Pilot Willard was prepared to attempt a flight in what the Times called “a daring attempt to conquer the elements invisible.”

Willard’s take off was excellent, but he got his plane out over the bay, it started to lose altitude rapidly. As happened the previous day, the plane was forced to land in the marsh at the mouth of the Red Hill Creek, out of sight of the crowd.

Many in the crowd, including Willard’s wife, feared that a fatality had occurred. Thankfully after five minutes or so, Willard, who had abandoned his damaged plane, was seen being driven into the grounds in an automobile to sustained applause of the assembled and the relief of his wife’s concerns.

In a subsequent interview, Willard said, “One cannot appreciate, until they are up in the air, the strength of the winds as they sweep across the mountain, and it is almost as much as life is worth to try and make a flight when they are unusually strong.”

Back in the city’s downtown core and neighbors, a peculiar wave of aviation fever had swept over the hearts of citizens during that windy afternoon.

There had been many rumors that one of the airplanes from the meet would be making an aerial pass over Hamilton’s downtown core.

Then, what looked to be the shapes of three flying machines appeared in the sky towards Beach Road. As described in the Times, “crowds gathered at the corners in all parts of the city and on housetops, and even those with opera glasses and telescopes were under the impression that they were getting a free exhibition of aerial navigation.”

It turned out that the “flying Machines” that were causing all the excitement were actually box-kites, which at a distance, did indeed have the shape of biplanes, sort of.

Many citizens found it hard to believe that the kites were not airplanes, convinced that it was because of the high winds that the “planes” could not get very high in the air.

The kites were of unknown origin, but some suspected that they were flown by organizers of the meet to attract more ticket buyers.

The next day, July 31, 1911, J. A. D. McCurdy actually did make a flight over the downtown residential and business areas of Hamilton.

His “fancy” flying antics were full of dramatic showmanship. McCurdy was buzz low over the heads of those in gasoline launches on the bay. A reporter for the Hamilton Herald who witnessed McCurdy, flying at 65 miles an hour, come within 15 feet of those one the boats, wrote that “the shrieks when they though the aviator was about to fall could be heard for blocks.”

On the last day of the aviation meet, a bailiff appeared on the grounds with papers calling for the seizure of McCurdy’s plane.

The meet had not generated enough revenue to turn a profit. One of the aviators, the Englishman, Martin, had abruptly left after a dispute over his $500 appearance fee.

When local creditors heard about Martin’s departure, they decided that perhaps they had better make sure that they were not going to be “stiffed” by the promoters of the meet.

One creditor group had contracted to take out and then replace a number of farmers’ fences around the O’Heir farm location so that an airship of sufficient length could be created.

The manager of the aviation meet, in an interview, claimed that all accounts owing would have been settled if the creditors had shown up, as arranged, at the proper time in the lobby of the Waldorf Hotel.

The manager further claimed that the fence contractors were trying to get paid in full, although they had no intention of replacing the fences after the conclusion of the meet. He also argued that the planes were the personal property of the aviators and could not possibly be held against debts of the organizers of the meet.

A resolution of the difficulty was eventually reached, and McCurdy’s plane was released for his attempt to establish a new Canadian record for long distance flying.

Two aviators, McCurdy and Willard, would attempt to successfully fly from Hamilton to Toronto. McCurdy would fly the shorter route, directly across the lake, while Willard would use the “iron compass,” the railroad lines between the two cities.

The Hamilton to Toronto flights were held on a hot Wednesday half holiday afternoon.

Hamilton’s Beach Strip was crowded with thousands of people seeking rest and recreation, and in the words of the press, thinking only of “their fishing, their evening luncheon and their picnic pleasure.”

There had been no formal announcement of the departure times for either McCurdy or Willard. The only people to witness the take off of the two aviators were mechanics and a stray newspaper reporter or two at the O’Heir field.

At one minute after 6 p.m., Willard’s plane ascended and headed northward across the bay.

Along the Beach Strip, the cry of “Here come the Flyers!” could be heard, as people scrambled to get the best vantage point to watch Willard follow the Beach strip and then head off towards Burlington.

J. A. D. McCurdy, with a faster plane, decided to wait ten minutes, and then take off, heading directly to Toronto across Lake Ontario. He planned to arrive at the same time in the Hogtown as Willard.

As the ten minute delay was up, someone at the O’Heir farm called to McCurdy saying that he would bet the pilot five dollars that Willard was going to arrive in Toronto first.

McCurdy at that point finally started his plane and began his take off, and as he rose in the air, McCurdy shouted over the motor’s roar that he accepted the bet.

Sixty-five minutes after take off, Willard was spotted by Torontonians coming into the city from the west. From his airplane, Willard could see the large crowds gathered along the lakeshore from Mimico to the Canadian National Exhibition grounds.

As the original plan had been for McCurdy and Willard to arrive at the same, McCurdy, who was familiar with Toronto, was chosen to lead Willard up the Don Valley to the Donlands air field.

However, when Willard arrived in Toronto, he was exhausted from the flight and simply decided to land in the Exhibition grounds.

While there were thousands who saw Willard’s plane coming from the west, only a few boys playing cricket actually saw Willard’s plane land. It did not take long though for a great crowd to rush up from all directions to greet the flyer and inspect his plane.

When asked why he landed where he did, Willard said, “I got tired of fighting against the wind, my shoulders feel as if they are broken, as the straps cut into my flesh with the pressure I had to exert to keep myself braced. This was the first place I saw which was suitable for a landing as the smoke completely concealed the city from sight so that not even the houses were visible.”

McCurdy was spotted only a few minutes after Willard’s landing. He noted that he too had a problem with visibility as he arrived in Toronto saying, “the smoke and haze was so thick over the city that I could not see even as far as King street, and I could not make out the Don Valley at all. I could see the motor boats and other vessels in the harbour.”

McCurdy said that he had to keep circling the harbour looking for a place to land claiming that “as I neared the city, I could distinctly feel the warm air ascending, and to avoid the air movements that this creates, I kept out over the harbour.”

McCurdy finally put his plane down at the end of Fisherman’s Inlet, near the Cherry Street bridge.

With that landing, the July 1911 saga of  pioneer Canadian aviators demonstrating their daring skills in Hamilton and Toronto came to an end. 

Organized Crime - 1909

1909 – Black Hand

        Early in the month of September, 1909, Salvatore Sanzona, a fruit dealer on James Street North, received the following letter :

          “We pray bring $1,000 when go to Dundas or you will be in peril of your life. No money on your person we wreck your house. Think, bring money when go to Dundas. We find you no money we take your life.”

          The letter, badly written, was unsigned but drawn all over it were several crosses and black hands, which were supposed to indicate death.

          Sanzone, a large good-natured Italian, immediately went to the police with the letter. At first, thinking Sanzone was the victim of some kind of joke, the police refused to act.

          Sanzone’s persistence and obvious fear soon changed their minds and a plan was devised to capture the extortioners.

          Sanzone was told to make his normal trip to Dundas with the money. The police would meet Sanzone’s wagon at a dark spot on the way and hide in the back under a tarpaulin. Another Italian was to accompany Sanzone to write down any words spoken.

          The next morning the plan was put into effect.

          The three detectives, Inspectors Sayers, Coulter and Bleakley, managed to hide themselves beside the bananas and under the tarp but were most uncomfortable as the wagon rattled along King street towards Dundas.

          When the wagon reached the point where the Hamilton and Dundas Electric Railway crossed the Dundas road, just beyond the Halfway House, a masked man rushed out from behind the bushes and stopped Sanzone’s horse.

          Two other masked men then approached, revolvers in hand, and demanded in Italian that Sanzone turn over the $1,000.

          As the roll of bills was handed over, the men dropped their guard for a moment while they were examining the money.

          At this point, Sanzone pulled back the tarpaulin and the three detectives jumped out of the rig, revolvers drawn. He three extortionists ran away as several shots were fired.

          Two of the criminals were almost immediately captured, but the third man almost managed to get away.

          Detective Bleakley saw that he was heading towards the railway track. As luck would have it, a radial electric railway car happened along heading in the same direction.

          Beakley sprinted alongside the car and then jumped on the front platform. When the train neared the fugitive, Bleakley ordered the engineer to stop, jumped off and with his revolver drawn captured his man.

          The three men were identified as Ernest Speranzo, Camelo Columbo and Samuel Wolfe. The Spectator account of the incident labeled the men as “hardened criminals” and surmised that “the recent agitation against the Mafia in the States has driven them to try Canada for a field,” and predicted that “a crusade will begin against suspicious foreigners, especially Italians.”

A month after the incident, Salvatore Sanzone was in the news again. He had received another letter, again demanding money under the threat of death. This time, after the identity of the letter writer was established, a charge was laid. The Spectator identified the man charged and concluded that “all the Black Hand operations in this city have been engineered by John Tagierino, an Italian store keeper from Sherman Avenue North.

Tagierino caused quite a sensation at the police court when he made his appearance to answer the charge of uttering a threatening letter. When some evidence was given against him, he jumped up and down, shouting in his own language, and then retired to a corner of the prisoner’s dock, sobbing.

His case was remanded and Tagierino was kept in custody.

In late October, the three men captured on the Dundas Road were put on trial.

The strain of having to give evidence almost proved too much for Sanzone. He almost collapsed with a heart attack while waiting the court’s anteroom. Dr. Wallace had inject him with morphine so that the trial could proceed.

All three men were convicted with Judge Snider sentencing each to ten years in the Kingston penitentiary.

Tagierino’s trial came up just before Christmas 1909. The Spectator reporter at the trial commented on the proceedings as follows :

          “The prisoner looked a mere shadow of his former self. He was weak and thin and a pathetic scene was enacted when his two year old son toddled to the dock and the father leaned over the rail and kissed him. The little boy was laughing and playing around the court and his father sat back in the dock and sobbed aloud. Tears streamed down his cheeks all morning.”

While Tagierino pleaded not guilty, Crown Attorney felt he had a strong case. Referring to the events leading to the charge as a “Black Hand outrage,” Washington stated that “if practices of that kind were allowed, such men could prey upon their countrymen, and if the business once got a foothold in this country, it would be a serious matter.”

When the jury retired, eleven of the twelve jurors opted immediately for a guilty verdict, but the twelfth juror insisted that he evidence that the evidence be gone over once more.

Feeling that there was a grave doubt as to the defendant’s guilt, this juror flatly refused to go along with the decision f his fellow jurors. Sitting back in his chair, he lit his pipe and declared that he would sit there all winter before he would change his mind.

After a two and a half four standoff, the others caved in and John Tagierino was found innocent and released.

         

Tramps - 1909

        For a week in February, 1909, the Hamilton Spectator sent one of its reporters out to investigate what it termed “the tramp element” which was becoming problematic in the city at the time.

          Dressed as a hobo, the reporter spent considerable time with the local “vag” population, learning about their methods of panhandling. The reporter also stayed at some of cheap lodging houses which tramps in Hamilton frequented.

          The first installment of the Spectator's series of articles on the tramp problem appeared on February, 26, 1909. Ironically, this was the day after the shooting death of Ethel Kinrade, whose murder, at first, was widely rumored to have been perpetrated by a member of the Hamilton's transient population.

          In 1909, the city of Hamilton was widely recognized by professional tramps as a haven for hobos. Unlike many other cities in Canada and the United States, the local authorities in Hamilton were considered to be lax in their treatment of “vags” and the city's population was viewed as being charitably inclined.

          The reporter's initial investigations led him to three of the larger lodging houses in the city – the Bethel Mission, 124 King William Street, at Mary street, The People's Lodging House, 51 Merrick street, at York, and the Workingman's Home, 46 Jackson street east. At these places, transients could obtain meals at 5, 10 or 15 cents each.

          While admitting that cheap lodging houses would always be needed for those too weak physically or mentally to work, the reporter felt that some of the proprietors actively encouraged the existence of professional tramps, noting that these places were “infested with all the filth, disease and vermin that such spots could gather through contact with men who, through laziness and pure cussedness of spirit, hardly know what the word bath means, who nearly always sleep with their shoes on, and who, in fact, slip through each day and night with an minimum amount of energy and labor possible. Wrecks who would sell soul and honor for a glass of beer or whiskey, and to whom the satisfaction of that great craving for alcohol  is even greater than cleanliness and self-respect.”

          The Bethel Mission was considered the best of the cheap lodging houses. Capable of handling one hundred and nineteen people, the Bethel Mission was located in a very dilapidated building, directly across from #3 police station. The beds were very small and rundown. The sheets and pillowcases were, according to the reporter, “in keeping with the surroundings, (looking like they had been) badly damaged by fire and water in some conflagration.

          The rooms at the Bethel Mission were small, partitioned off , cubby holes, just large enough to hold a single iron bedstead and room to undress. The partitions were six feet high and covered on top with wire netting.

          At the Bethel Mission, the meals sold for as little as five cents each, for which the lodger got two slices of bread and a cup of tea. Meat only appeared on the 10 and 15 cent menu.

          The quality and quantity of food provided was so low that the proprietors made good profits from their kitchen operation. With the only expenses being the wages of a cook and the 'food' provided, the proprietors made between 15 to 20 per night. Other than the cook, the only other paid employee was a porter who served the meals and, presumably, “looked after” the rooms.

          The clientele of the Bethel Mission were usually penny poor, so that the method by which they paid for their bed and meal was the use of lodging house tickets. The down and out person would be given a stack of these tickets and be sent out to the residential areas of the city.

          The ticket would contain a space for the date, the name of the lodging house, a line where the person who signed their name would pledge to pay the Bethel Mission for one meal and one bed.

          The ticket for the People's Lodging House included the motto, “Help those who cannot help themselves,” and a biblical quotation,  Let your light so shine before men, that they, seeing your good works, may glorify your Father which is in Heaven.” The ticket for the People's Lodging House also included the admonition, “This cannot be commuted or transferred.”

          Despite this warning, the practice of bartering these tickets was widespread. An experienced vag would spend an evening securing as many ticket commitments as possible, and then would resell them at reduced prices to those who actually had a little hard cash which had usually been procured by begging on the streets.”The Spectator reporter noted that the goal of this entrepreneurship was little disguised, “with cash in hand , it is custom to repair to the nearest tavern.”

          The Workingman's Home, on Jackson street was the most respectable of the city's lodging houses, if only for the fact that it was necessary to ring the doorbell to be admitted, which the man from Spec noted was “a custom not in vogue at the other places.”

          An innovation at the Workingman's Home was the use of iron cots, placed on top of each other, which the reporter were “in the shape of double deckers or old-fashioned bunks.” When the reporter attempted to try one of the beds to see how comfortable it might be, he was warned not to try “by an old soldier with his years of service over, now aged and fit for little but a healthy consumption of alcohol.” The reporter accepted his advice.

          The worst lodging house conditions were at the People's Lodging House, Ed Leonard proprietor. The house had recently been visited twice by the city health inspector who had sternly ordered a clean up.

          The house was located exactly at the sharp corner where Merrick and York streets met, and had entrances from both streets. The People's Lodging House included a general store, in which, the Spec man noted, “is gathered a nondescript collection of miscellaneous articles.”

          Beside the “store” was the kitchen where the chef and second cooks turned out servings which the reporter labeled as “appetizing dainties.” On the day the reporter was present he noticed that there were “two pieces of fat pork in a granite pot over the gas stove,” and that “the odor from the sizzling pots, mingled with the general smell of the place, was almost unbearable.”

          The general sitting room of the People's Lodging House consisted of a stove and benches with a large wash sink in one corner. Two badly damaged wash basins provided the only toilet facilities in the place. The rooms were ark and badly ventilated, yet despite the deplorable conditions, the People's Working Lodge was the most frequented of all the lodging houses in Hamilton.

          A week before this particular lodging house was visited by the press, a full-scale fight broke out among the patrons, nearly wrecking the place. “Drunken brawls were not uncommon happenings during the night the reporter stayed at the People Lodging House, particularly one noted wrote about where “a strapping big Scotchman, much the worse of wear and liquor, hooked up with another big hulk of the same size and a fearful two round bout resulted, the mischief maker coming out of the fray in pretty bad shape, the owner of a badly smashed nose, black eye and cut head.”

          That same night, another “guest” in a drunken stupor blindly hurled a chair across a room catching an innocent bystander on the wrist. According to the reporter who witnessed the incident, the bystander, a diminutive Englishman, who was one of the few in the establishment who actually had a job. “showed all the gameness possessed by the English,” and despite being held back by a damaged wrist, broke the chair thrower's nose and sent him to bed with two large cuts on his head and wrist.

          The denizens of the lodging houses were sad cases for the most, as viewed by the Spec man who noted that “when all moral obligations have ceased, the mind has wilted, hope fled, and liquor is responsible for any passion displayed, trouble is bound to arise.”

          According the the information given to the reporter, fully eight out of ten were of English, Scotch or Irish birth, “most of them still clinging to their old country's ideas and speech. Most of them possess a vacant lifeless stare, shiftless to the core, incapable of arousing any energy except when drunk, yet withal, alive to their own interests and well capable of taking care of number one when it is time to get a bed, a bite to eat, and a drop to drink.”

          The editorial accompanying the Spectator reporter's investigation began with a reference to the rumor that the previous day's Kinrade murder on Herkimer street was committed by a professional bum. The Kinrade's home was in an area considered “easy pickings” by the tramps. The writer of the editorial lamented the “notoriously sympathetic” attitudes of Hamilton citizens who, he felt, were being exploited to the hilt by what he called “the idle and shiftless” segment of society.

          The editorial called for a public agency to deal with “appeals for assistance” from those in need in Hamilton so that individual homes in the city would not be prey to beggars knocking at their kitchen doors pleading for a hot meal.

          The second major installment of the Spectator reporter's investigation dealt with the methods of panhandling used by the tramp element.

          Upon arrival in Hamilton, the tramp would secure a fistful of lodging house tickets, and would then be directed to the areas of the city most likely to be canvassed successfully.

          Hamilton at the time was flooded with tickets which, when signed, could be used either for a bed or a meal, or resold to the lodging house keeper, often for 5 cents cash in exchange for a 25 cent pledge, the pledge which, of course, was always collected.

          An energetic tramp could easily summon up two dollars' worth of pledges in one evening:

          “The most proficient beggars of the lot have been known to make as much as eleven or twelve dollars a week, which is divided between the favorite lodging house and the salon.”

          The tramps generally found out from each other which homes to avoid. Mayor McLaren's residence was definitely taboo, as were any of the policemen's homes, “as the officer of the law generally makes it pretty warm for the caller.” Most of the tramps were generally harmless, but occasionally some were desperate characters.

          The Wellington street south area was particularly vulnerable to visits by members of the tramp element as many vags hopped off  T. H. & B. freight train cars  which had been stopped in that area. One householder was held up by a vag brandishing a revolver. In another case, a vag called at a home and was called into the kitchen to be served a hot meal. Figuring that he had a vulnerable woman at his mercy, this particular hobo attempted a sexual assault. Unfortunately for the tramp, the “girl” was “big and masculine, and grabbing the tough by the coat collar, threw him bodily into the back yard, closing the door in his face.”

          In the final installment of the series on the tramp nuisance, the Spectator's young man addressed the suggested remedies which had been proposed to deal with the problem.

          Since the articles started to appear, there had been a mass exodus of tramps from the city. The articles, combined with the numerous rumors surrounding the Kinrade murder case, had made Hamilton a very problematic location for “weary Willies.”

          In fact, Proprietor Daniels of the Bethel Mission warned his clients to not solicit pledges for the lodging house tickets for a while, saying “don't go out tonight and don't ask any person to sign any tickets for a few days. If any of you haven't the price of a night's lodging, I will overlook it tonight.”

          Most took the advice, but one unfortunate vag persisted in his begging rounds. Knocking at one door, he pleaded for the price of a bed and was invited in by the lady of the house. Entering the front hall, he walked directly into the arms of a city policeman who marched him off to the station. Although the tramp had said he was broke and had not eaten in two days, it was found that he had 30 cents cash on him and that his pockets were jammed with “buttered bread and other eatables.”

          The reporter pleaded with householders to never give in to the entreaties of tramps:

          “This class of men never starve and are really never in want.”