Few men in Toronto have done more for the beautifying of our city. The Adelaide Buildings on King Street were long the handsomest, as they were the best built, of their class. His house, at the corner of Jarvis and Gerrard Streets, set an example for our finest private residences. The St. Lawrence Hall, which is considered by visitors a great ornament to the city, was erected from plans suggested by him. And among religious edifices, Trinity Church and St. James's Cathedral are indebted to him, the former mainly and the latter in part, for their complete adaptation in style and convenience, to the services of the Church to which he belonged and which he highly venerated. To Trinity Church, especially, which was finished and opened for divine service on February 14th, 1844, he gave himself up with the most unflagging zeal and watchfulness, examining the plans in the minutest details, supervising the work as it progressed, almost counting the bricks and measuring the stonework, with the eye of a father watching his infant's first footsteps. In fact, he was popularly styled "the father and founder of Trinity Church," a designation which was justly recognised by Bishop Strachan in his dedication sermon.[13]
As a friend, I had something to say respecting most of his building plans, and fully sympathized with the objects he had in view; one of the fruits of my appreciation was the following poem, which, although of little merit in itself, is perhaps worth preserving as a record of honourable deeds and well employed talents:
THE POOR MAN'S CHURCH.
Wake, harp of Zion, silent long, Nor voiceless and unheard be thou While meetest theme of sacred song Awaits thy chorded numbers now! Too seldom, 'mid the sounds of strife That rudely ring unwelcome here, Thy music soothes this fever'd life With breathings from a holier sphere. The warrior, wading deep in crime, Desertless, lives in poets' lays; The statesman wants not stirring rhyme To cheer the chequer'd part he plays: And Zion's harp, to whom alone, Soft-echoing, higher themes belong, Oh lend thy sweet aerial tone— 'Tis meek-eyed Virtue claims the song.
Beyond the limits of the town A summer's ramble, may be seen A scattered suburb, newly grown, Rude huts, and ruder fields between. Life's luxuries abound not there, Labour and hardship share the spot; Hope wrestles hard with frowning care, And lesser wants are heeded not. Religion was neglected too— 'Twas far to town—the poor are proud— They could not boast a garb as new, And shunn'd to join the well-drest crowd. No country church adorned the scene, In modest beauty smiling fair, Of mien so peaceful and serene, The poor man feels his home is there. Oh England! with thy village chimes, Thy church-wed hamlets, scattered wide, The emigrant to other climes Remembers thee with grateful pride; And owns that once at home again, With fonder love his heart would bless Each humble, lowly, haloëd fane That sanctifies thy loveliness. But here, alas! the heart was wrung To see so wan, so drear a waste— Life's thorns and briars rankly sprung, And peace and love, its flowers, displaced. And weary seasons pass'd away, As time's fast ebbing tide roll'd by, To thousands rose no Sabbath-day, They lived—to suffer—sin—and die! Then men of Christian spirit came, They saw the mournful scene with grief; To such it e'er hath been the same To know distress and give relief. They told the tale, nor vainly told— They won assistance far and wide; His heart were dull indeed and cold Who such petitioner denied. They chose a slightly rising hill That bordered closely on the road, And workmen brought of care and skill, And wains with many a cumbrous load. With holy prayer and chanted hymn The task was sped upon its way; And hearts beat high and eyes were dim To see so glad a sight that day. And slowly as the work ascends, In just proportions strong and fair, How watchfully its early friends With zealous ardour linger near. 'Tis finished now—a Gothic pile, —Brave handiwork of faith and love— In England's ancient hallowed style, That pointeth aye, like hope, above: With stately tower and turret high, And quaint-arch'd door, and buttress'd wall, And window stain'd of various dye, And antique moulding over all. And hark! the Sabbath-going bell! A solemn tale it peals abroad— To all around its echoes tell "This building is the house of God!"
Say, Churchman! doth no still, small voice Within you whisper—"while 'tis day Go bid the desert place rejoice!" Your Saviour's high behest obey: "Say not your pow'rs are scant and weak, What hath been done, may be anew; He addeth strength to all who seek To serve Him with affection true."
Alderman Dixon was not only a thorough-going and free-handed Churchman, but was very popular with the ministers and pastors of other religious denominations. The heads of the Methodist Church, and even the higher Roman Catholic clergy of Toronto, frequently sought his advice and assistance to smooth down asperities and reconcile feuds. He was every man's friend, and had no enemies of whom I ever heard. He wrote with facility, and argued with skill and readiness. His memory was exceedingly retentive; he knew and could repeat page after page from Dryden's "Virgil" and Pope's "Homer." Any allusion to them would draw from him forty or fifty lines in connection with its subject. Mickle's "Lusiad" he knew equally well, and was fond of reciting its most beautiful descriptions of scenery and places in South Africa and India. He was an enthusiastic book-collector, and left a valuable library, containing many very rare and curious books he had brought from Dublin, and to which he made several additions. It is now in the possession of his eldest son, Archdeacon Dixon, of Guelph.
With the Orange body, Alderman Dixon exercised considerable influence, which he always exerted in favour of a Christian regard for the rights and feelings of those who differed from them. On one occasion, and only one, I remember his suffering some indignity at their hands. He and others had exerted themselves to induce the Orangemen to waive their annual procession, and had succeeded so far as the city lodges were concerned. But the country lodges would not forego their cherished rights, and on "the 12th"—I forget the year—entered Toronto from the west in imposing numbers. At the request of the other magistrates, Alderman Dixon and, I think, the late Mayor Gurnett, met the procession opposite Osgoode Hall, and remonstrated with the leaders for disregarding the wishes of the City Council and the example of their city brethren. His eloquence, however, was of no avail, and he and his colleague were rudely thrust aside.