by Frank Galgay
And on that bright Easter morn, that Mary O’Connor and John Desmond were publicly married in the old Chapel, with the elite of the town, including General Skerritt, present to honour the ceremony; when the smiling old Bishop patted the blooming cheeks of the happy bride, she knew there was one at least present beside her devoted husband who in his heart gave her credit for being the means under heaven, of averting an outrage that would have remained forever a blot on the fair name of St. John’s.
Rambling Thoughts About Christmas in Newfoundland Years Ago
by William Whittle
“LET’S DANCE AND SING and make good cheer, for Christmas comes but once a year.”
Among the many festivals to be found in the Christian calendar there is none that touches the heart with greater love and veneration, and none that is so universal in its celebration, than that of Christmas. And this was the case in Newfoundland a century ago, and even up to a more recent date. Although our forefathers had a hard time of it in trying to gain a foot-hold in the land of “cod, fog, and fish, ” by which flattering name it was known to the outside world, having almost to burrow in the ground to avoid the clutches of the law; although every day witnessed the sickening sight so some poor creature being whipped through the streets for the crime (?) of stealing a loaf of bread or a ten-penny nail; although it was an everyday scene, in the harbour, to see some poor fellow run up the foreyard arm of a man-of-war and flogged for some trifling offence; although the tread-mill flourished, and the press-gang paraded the streets, still, on the coming around of each anniversary of the glorious festival of Christmas, the people of Saint John’s forgot for the nonce their great troubles and persecutions, and the season became one of unrestrained festivity and jollification. But I fear the people of St. John’s have grown lukewarm in their welcome of this, the greatest of all anniversaries, although the spirit survives, and must, naturally, survive.
A great many of the sports and ceremonies had long ceased to be performed at the time I was ushered “into this breathing world, ” still I was fortunate in having for parents those who dearly loved old Terra-Nova, and whose memories were well stored with anecdote and history of ye olden times, handed down from sire to son for many generations. Consequently, on each Christmas-eve, when the Christmas candles were lighted, and chairs drawn up in front of the Christmas “backjunk, ” the Yule-log of Newfoundland and as the “Mighty flame Went roaring up the chimney wide, ” we were told the oft-repeated stories of early life in Newfoundland—some of them enchanting, some of them too sombre to be repeated at this time. It is no wonder, then, that I take as much boyish delight on each return of this great festival, amid the worry, hurry, and scurry of this busy city, as I did years ago in my island-home, when I plead with all a child’s persistence to be allowed to “sit up” on Christmas-eve that I might attend the midnight Mass— “That only night of all the year Saw the stoled priest his chalice rear.”
Vividly do I recall the scene of the great body of worshippers, as they wended their way to the house of God, in the crisp morning air, to offer up their thanksgiving to the God of mercy who had allowed them to see another Christmas Day, while from many a home along the route came sharp and clear notes and words of the beautiful Adeste Fideles, and the nails in clapboard and shingle cracked in unison and harmony. (There are two customs that I have mentioned which the rising generation will never know much about—the Midnight Mass, and the Yule-log or “back-junk.”)
Life in St. John’s one hundred years ago in a social point of view, was unique indeed. The ringing of the nine o’clock bell at night was the signal for all persons in the street to retire to their respective homes; and “presently the constable walked the rounds to see good order kept; and to take up loose people.” What change has come over the scene! True, in my days of boyhood, the nine o’clock gun was the signal for all good little boys to hurry home. True, Paddy Fitzgerald still cries out the hours of the night and morning; still, what was then a signal to retire for the night seems now to be a summons to go forth to festivities; for though, as I have said, the watchman still calls the hours of night and morning, the lights still glare out, and at the “very witching hour of night, ” when even the ghosts of all departed Newfoundlanders hie themselves to their respective resting places, the modern Newfoundlander is only then bracing himself up for the true enjoyment which alone comes with the quietness and stillness of night! I find no fault with with these innovations; but I do find fault with the natural tendency of time to blot out old customs and silence ancient sports, as it has done in St. John’s. It is too much promoted by the spirit of today, and they who would have no man enjoy himself, without being able to give a reason for it, are enemies of society and are robbing life of more than half its beauty and many of its virtues. I love these ancient sports and ceremonies, such as were practised years ago in St. John’s. I love commemorations, and no one of them comes around that I do not feel the better for its occurrence. I love them for their own sake; I love them for what they teach. I love to think of the fools (not the natural ones). I recall their antics, and as I do, the “owen-shooks” cause me to laugh heartily. To laugh heartily now-a-days is to be considered coarse, perhaps vulgar. One must sit up straight, listen attentively, and look wise. Pshaw!
For the commemoration of this day we are certainly all the better. Although the younger generation of St. John’s, indeed of the whole Island for that matter, will probably never realize the great mirth that once attended the return of this glad season, when the ear was “cocked” to hear the gun that announced the first family who had partaken of dinner on Christmas Day; when the “I wish you a Merrie Christmas” was the “open sesame” to all the good things in the larder; when the Christmas-box was bestowed; when the poor and needy were made, at the hands of the charitable, to forget the misery and toils of the past year. I remember, when a boy, playing one Christmas-eve in the basement of the Church of England Cathedral, where my father was cutting “a gang” of rigging for the church-ship Hawk. In running around the basement, chased by my companions, my way was suddenly blocked by boards placed upon empty barrels, and upon the boards were stored “mountains” of beef and loaves of sweet, white bread. Running aback to father, I asked what it meant, and he told me it was to be distributed among the poor on Christmas morning! Blessed charity!
I recall tonight in my bachelor’s quarters, the Christmas-days of my childhood, —days which were made the season for gathering together the family connections, and by so doing, cementing more closely the bonds of affections,: once more to sit around the family hearthstone, “that rallying place of the affections, ” there to feel young again, and once more live over the days of childhood! O Glorious days of childhood! Who does not desire to recall them? And with them the recollections of those festivals, those tarrying-places on the great journey of life. It is pleasing to forget the cares and torments of the present, and live over again, in sweet imagination, the days of our youth, knowing that we shall meet those who, like ourselves, have wandered abroad into the great world without, and no time in the year furnishes “food for reflection” so abundantly as this season of Christmas. Glorious Christmas time! At your return the records of other days that may be fading from the tablets of the memory are once more renewed; the beloved dead are again restored to us for a short hour, or our hearts dwell with them in their cold, cold graves, where we laid them years ago!
I did not intend to fall into a moralizing vein, which is commonplace; I started out with the intention of giving the younger readers of the Telegram an idea of the sports and ceremonies that went to make up the sum of the Christmas holiday season of St. John’s many years ago, and to recall to the minds of the “old standards” those good old sports wherewith they passed the season. Of the hearty mirth in these good old days there can be little doubt; the humour was of the most innocent and the finest quality. Amid all the absurdity that surrounded many of them there was much real feeling at the bottom. And what made the interesting days
between Xmas-eve and Twelfth Day more enjoyable was the fact that the humble received no rude check from those to whom knowledge had opened her stores and wealth her coffers. And all that had good effect, for nothing so harmonizes the differences between the poor and the rich as a reciprocal kindness of feeling on such occasions. The labouring classes in those days had enlarged privileges granted them, if not by positive law, at least by well-established custom. So, folly was, as it were, “crowned, and disorder had license.” The younger generation remember the “fools.” Their time of appearing out was from Christmas Day to Twelfth Day. They had full sway until the disguise was made a cloak by which to revenge some petty spite. They then were ordered to be numbered, and finally, were allowed out only on condition they should appear unmasked. This was the command that terminated this old custom in St. John’s. It was not, I believed, a statuary law, but merely the will of a stipendiary magistrate, the late Mr. Justice Carter. Some years after they had ceased to appear, one came out on the “Cross” on Christmas Day. He struck right and left, and finally ran into the arms of a policeman who locked him up.
I remember some years ago, just about Christmas time, one of my brothers, who was quite a genius in that line, making a full-rigged brig, and giving to a person who was to be the “fool” on New Year’s Day, to be used in the decorations of his cap, with the understanding that the brig was to be mine at the end of the day. Well, bright and early on New Year’s morning I presented myself at the door of the “fool, ” fully two hours before the hour came for him to dress. Finally out he came, “dressed to kill, ” or “mash, ” as the saying goes now. His milk-white shirt sleeves were literally covered with ribbons; his pantaloons were of the heaviest broadcloth; and his cap surmounted with my coveted prize—the full-rigged brig. Down Limekiln-hill he went with the fleetness of a deer— and there was method in this, as he was anxious that few should know where he emerged from. And down I went after him. Up Playhouse-hill he ran until his eye lit on someone, who like himself, was swift afoot. Then commenced the chase. Up lanes, “across lots, ” down lanes in and out of the crowd, until the person chased sought shelter in some hallway. Yet, his haven was not secure, for with his shoulder against the door, the “fool” was determined that it should yield. Then came a critical moment, for I saw an impending danger to the spars of the brig; then came the cry and warning, “Stoop! stoop!” He obeys the command, the door is forced open, the victim secured, a few friendly taps on the legs, and they shake hands and walk out together. From Playhouse-hill to the Mall, from the Mall to the Tickle, many times that day did I follow that “fool.” Wherever the crowd was greatest there was I, like Mr. Fezziwig in Dickens’ Christmas Carol, in their midst. At last, late at night, when the “fool, ” weary, tired, all “played-out, ” sought his home, I was made the happy owner of the full-rigged brig.
How well they kept from each other the knowledge of what each one was to wear! Odd costumes were discussed for weeks on street corners, at firesides, and at friendly parties, but each one kept his secret in regard to his own dress. And it is safe to say, no belle ever dressed for the “Irish ball” that had as many come to criticise her taste or admire her appearance as a popular “fool” had.
“Munn” Carter, I remember, was always a conspicuous “fool, ” and one who could handle himself well, for Munn was a fellow whom every would-be boxer did not want to tackle. Davey Foley was always the owner of a stylish rig, while his friend, Mosey Murphy, appeared, I think, as an “owen-shook.” The “owen-shook” was always a terror to encounter, for he rarely was merciful to anyone who made him draw upon his wind, and woe to the man who disputed his right of give a sound castigation for the trouble incurred.
I must hasten to speak of the most important of these sports and ceremonies—the mummers. Those who did not live previous to the “Fire” (1846), never saw the grand celebration, when some two or three hundred of the most stalwart followers that ever trod the deck of a ship, donned their silk dresses, their costly bonnets and rich laces, and, marshalled by their escorts, promenaded the streets, calling upon the governor, the clergy and the mercantile fraternity. So important were these celebrations deemed by our ancestors, and such was the earnestness bestowed upon their preparation, that the most costly garments were loaned from the wardrobes of the “finest ladies in the land” for the purpose.
The reign of the mummers, like that of the “fools, ” was put an end to, owing to a street row between them and the spectators, in which the latter received the worst of it. For, as I have said, both the “fools” and mummers were composed of the “bone and sinew” of the town. Many a time have I seen a “fool, ” whom the mob tried to “run, ” pull off his cap, take the handle of his “swab” and clean out some two or three hundred persons. Those were occasions when the spectators calculated without their host. Instead of a “lark being behind the disguise, it proved to be a Jackman, a Dawney, or a Curtin! But, as to the mummers. The “fools” escorting the ladies, were attired in blue trousers, with gold or red stripes on the sides, their white shirts completely covered with artificial flowers and ribbons, while from their sides hung swords which were loaned them from the barracks for the occasion. Young men and boys, as ladies dressed, often extravagantly, were thus escorted through the streets. One of the older customs was to drag a Yule-log along with them. The procession invariably started from the Custom-house, in recent years, and after marching through the principal streets, put up at the house of Bill Cody, who lived in the direction of the Riverhead Bridge, for dinner, where the wassail-bowl was drawn upon, and many a bumper drank to Father Christmas.
Lash’s Annual Cake Raffles in the Old December Days
by James J. Galway
WHEN FOND RECOLLECTIONS PRESENT toour view scenes in old St. John’s, during the Christmas seasons of half a century ago, none is presented more vividly than those associated with Lash’s famous cake raffles.
The building in which the raffles were held is still on Water St. It is in the block between the Bank of Nova Scotia on the east corner and the Kodak Store on the west, and is now occupied by the Valley Nurseries Ltd., with office quarters of other firms upstairs.
The founders of the firm were the brothers J. & G. Lash, both being expert bakers and confectioners. In the late 70’s two of the younger generation, the brothers Jeff and Mort Lash, sons of one of the original founders, succeeded to the business and conducted it under the old name until just before the fire of 1892.
The firm was celebrated for its high class products in the bakery and confectionery line, and conducted, besides, a first class saloon and a billiard room; but the most outstanding part of their business was the annual cake lottery, followed by a cake raffle, with which they featured the festive season.
Christmas since then, to most St. John’s people who remember those old December days, do not seem the same at all without Lash’s famous lottery and raffles, no more than summer to most of us if the annual regatta were abandoned for ever.
The ground flat of the Lash building consisted of the retail double-window shop at the front, with the portioned off saloon at the rear. The bakery was in the basement which was approached by a back en-entrance from Stabb Rowe’s Cove. The shop had two parallel counters, partially covered with glass cases which, as well as the shelves, large glass containers and glass cake dishes, were always well stocked with the firm’s own local made confectionery, and with their high grade bakings of washington pies, jam tarts, light and dark cakes, ordinary loaves of bread and the famous penny bun.
The store was generally attended by an attractive young lady and was the essence of cleanliness and tidiness. It was always brightly lit up in the night time with gas as the illuminant, no electric light then existing, and reflected a brilliant radiance from its polished furnishings and mirrors.
The attractive displays of the confections and pastries, particularly under the gas light after the shades of evening fell, drew sighs of despair from the small boy as he realized his inabil
ity to be able to buy and devour them all, whilst his greatest ambition was for the day to arrive when he could earn enough to go in and purchase a washington pie.
True we have many shops with such displays today, but they are not the same to us as Lash’s, have no association with the name, and so can never supplant the esteem and admiration we felt for Lash’s when we were boys. The saloon was usually entered from the hall door, tho’ it had a connecting one from the shop. A long mahogany counter ranged along the east side, and this branch was always stocked with a plentiful supply of “ales, wines and spiritous liquors” of the best brands. A private drinking room, with several tables, was also enclosed in the saloon.
Another neat young lady assistant attended to the requirements of thirsty patrons in the department during the regular licensed hours from 6 in the morning till 10 at night, except in the winter months when the legal hours were 7 a.m. to 9 p.m.
None, or at least very few of the Old Tom drinkers frequented Lash’s. It catered mostly to what was considered a more exclusive class whose favourite drinks were Bass’ Ale, Guiness’ Stout, or Scotch Whiskey and Cognac, with occasional imbibings of Champagne on birthdays or other gala occasions. “Silver Thaw, ” a mixture of wine and whiskey, “Thunder, ” a blending of brandy and port wine, and “Negus, ” hot port wine only, were other varieties appreciated by patrons at times. Then, on frosty days particularly, many a customer relished a drink of “Mulled Porter, ” an appetizer which was created by plunging a red hot poker into a pewter mug filled with the beverage.