When this order came by telegraph to the colonel of Brockville District, I delivered it personally and took occasion to inform him that if he would give me a commission in the company going on active service I was prepared to join at a moment’s notice. This request pleased the veteran (he was out in the rebellion) giving me a hearty grip. “You’re the right sort. I accept your services and shall have a commission for you within a week.”
A few days after I was much gratified when I received a large envelope containing my promised commission, the same being initialled by the Hon. James Morris, the speaker of the Legislative Council and resident of Brockville; a short time thereafter while visiting his home he entered the telegraph office to send a message. I took this opportunity of thanking him for the commission he sent me. He glared at me for a second or two and said, “The commission is not for you; it is for John Murray the butcher.” “Oh! indeed, I beg pardon. I was under the impression it was for J. M.—— gentleman.” I did not get this off in a resentful mood; it was merely repeating the language of the document. Of course I handed it over to my namesake, the rightful owner, a very respectable man of the town, when my military ambitions came to an end.
The services of the flank companies were not required after the causes belle had been removed and Canada once more resumed her usual peace footing.
The Old Soldier and the Parson.
About forty odd years ago when I was acting in the capacity of telegraph, express and steamship agent at Brockville, the following incident happened, which may be worth recalling: One day an old gentleman entered the office and desired me to furnish a steamship ticket to Liverpool. He informed me he was on his way to revisit his native land which he had not seen for many years. He was in the army previous to settling in one of the back townships. Although well on in years he looked hale and hearty, straight as an arrow and a remarkably handsome old fellow.
After completing his purchase and about to depart, he observed a pair of Fairbanks scales and requested me to weigh him, as he would like to see whether he lost or gained on the voyage. Whilst occupied in this, another old gentleman walked in attentively watching the operation; he also requested me to do a similar favor for him. He proved very much lighter and somewhat disappointed, and remarked: “Well, you are heavier than I, but I think I can beat you in length of years.” “How old are you?” brusquely querried the old soldier. “I am 84,” looking triumphantly at his questioner. “My young friend I am 85. I am heavier than you, older than you and (whispering in his ear) can look at the girls yet!”
Singular enough, the name of the latter was Mr. Young, the former the Rev. Wm. Smart, a well-known and respected clergyman, whose chief weakness was a certain vanity in his length of years, coupled with activity and good health on which he greatly prided himself. He was therefore, considerably humiliated at being thus so badly taken down and his dignity ruffled by the above remark.