Galt in the Spring of 1834—Its principal Citizens—New arrivals—Dr Miller—Improving prospects of the Settlement—A travelling Menagerie visits the Village—A fearful calamity comes swiftly and fatally down— Terrible ravages of the Cholera—Graphic description by Mr. Alex. Burnett, written at the time— Painful incidents of the fearful ordeal— The Village left a pitiful scene of mourning and woe.

The spring of 1834 found Galt an active village of about two hundred and fifty inhabitants, with a gradually developing country around it, and improving prospects. Besides Messrs. Dickson and Shade, the following are remembered among the citizens of that day:—

Messrs. William Stewart, minister; James Strang, minister; Thomas Rich, builder; Thos. G. Chapman, builder; Andrew Malcom, cabinet-maker; Joseph Purvis, blacksmith; John Legge, shoemaker; Alonzo Bliss, chair-maker: Paul G. Huffman, chair maker; James Welch, farmer; Samuel Hogg, clerk; John Hall (afterwards of Ayr); Thomas Turley, (with Shade); William Shepherd, carpenter; Henry McCrum, clerk; William Kay, waggon maker; John Cheeseman, carpenter; H. G. Barlow, innkeeper; Jarvis Barraclough, miller; Robert Cranston, farmer; James K. Andrews, merchant; James Fargus, merchant; James Smith, saddler; Archibald Hunter, blacksmith; John Veitch, plasterer; James Harris, brewer; Augustus Harris, brewer; David Shiel, farmer; John Warnock, miller; James C. Longan, tailor; Andrew Goodell, teamster; John Garrison, fiddler; Robert Turnbull, tailor; Joseph Simmonds, wool carder; Matthew Palmer, workman; William Wyllie Wilkinson, pail maker; John Davison, butcher and Andrew Scott, machinist.

Besides these gentlemen there had been recently added to the population three others, who afterwards became closely associated with its history: these were, Dr. Robert Miller, Walter H. Benn, and Alex. Burnett.

Dr. Miller was born in the parish of Stewarton, in Ayrshire, Scotland. He was educated at Andrew’s College and the University of Glasgow, where he took the degree of Master in Surgery in 1832. He arrived in Quebec on the 10th June of the same year, and came gradually westward, looking for a suitable place to commence practice. At Toronto, he was detained nearly four weeks by an attack of fever, and hearing in the meantime that a physician was needed in Dumfries, he determined to have a look at the place. He came up by way of Ancaster, Brantford, and Paris. A letter, received from the Doctor, says:—

“Between the prairie and Galt, I think there were only two houses in sight of the road. I arrived at Galt about the 18th August, 1832. The appearance of the village was very discouraging. So far as I remember, there were only about twenty-six buildings in all, including the flour-mill, saw-mill, distillery, two stores, hotel, school-house, and two blacksmith shops. With regard to the number of houses, I am writing from recollection, and may not, therefore, be altogether correct. But I think I am pretty near the mark.”

The Doctor came, saw, and remained. In settling in Galt, he found he had a wide field all to himself. Dr. Stimson had practised in the village for a short time, but had gone to London, whence he afterwards removed to St. George. Except Dr. Cattermole, who settled in Guelph about the same time that Dr. Miller came to Galt, there was no medical man nearer than Dundas, Brantford, or Woodstock.

Through his skill and success, Dr. Miller became widely known as a physician, and for many years his two shaggy French ponies—one white and the other black—were among the most noted “institutions” of the village. The white one, which was universally known as Sawbones, had an unusally rough and shaggy coat, but had the merit of being able to “rack” with astonishing speed. In 1850, Dr. Miller took the degree of M. D. at the University of New York, and in 1860 became a Member of the Royal College of Physicians, London. After making a competency, he retired and took up his residence permanently in London, England, but, until quite recently, retained property in Galt, and every few years has returned for a brief space to the scene of his early practice and success.

The easy-going, genial, oratorical Benn—with his “warmest side of the fire,” and the “biggest potato in the pot”—who does not remember him? He was a native of the County of Kerry, Ireland, and came to Galt in 1832, as foreman in Mr. James Smith’s (a brother of Sidney and Henry Smith) harness and shoe shop. Having walked from Dundas up through Beverly swamp, he put up at a little inn in the neighbourhood of what is now the village of Sheffield. Bright and early the next morning he set out for Galt. Reaching it shortly after sunrise, few of the villagers were astir, and Benn crossed the bridge and was making for Dickson’s hill, thinking the bulk of the village must be on the opposite side of the steep, and could not be seen.

Here he encountered Mr. Archibald Hunter, the village blacksmith, whose smithy stood at the east end of the bridge, a little north of Lutz’s drug store. Hunter had sallied out without his cap, to take a breath of the morning air.

“The top of the morning to you,” said Benn, in that off-hand way for which he was remarkable, and without waiting for an answer to his salutation, followed it up with the question, “How far is it to Galt?"

Hunter eyed the new comer for a moment, and seeing he was in earnest, replied, “Hoot, toot, man, theres Galt ahint you.” Benn’s surprise at this unexpected answer may be better imagined than described.

Mr. Burnett, who was destined to take an active and leading part in the growing political movements of the period, was born in Aberdeen, Scotland. He emigrated in 1832, spent about eighteen months in New York State, and then, crossing over to Niagara, determined to make his way to Guelph, which was beginning to attract much attention. On his way thither, he remained over night in Galt, and being offered employment in Smith’s shoe shop, already referred to, he determined to accept of it. He has ever since resided in Galt or its neighbourhood.

It was not until 1830 that the chief influx of settlers into Dumfries took place. During that and three or four succeeding years, the township filled up rapidly. These circumstances had their effect upon the village, whose prospects had never previously looked so promising as in the spring of 1834. As the summer came in, the buoyant feeling continued. Promising crops, new settlers, new buildings—these, and other circumstances, seemed to indicate a brighter era for Galt, when suddenly, like a bolt out of a clear sky, the most terrible calamity which ever befell the locality came swiftly and fatally down upon its ill-fated inhabitants.

Amusements in the nature of travelling companies were then almost unknown in the new settlements of Upper Canada, and the announcement that a menagerie of wild beasts would exhibit in Galt on the 28th July, caused universal interest far and near. For nearly twenty miles around, the coming exhibition was talked about, until it became the topic of absorbing interest.

When the day arrived, there was—considering the circumstances—a large attendance, people coming from Waterloo, Beverly, Woolwich, Blenheim, and other places more distant than could have been attracted by anything less exciting than a menagerie was in those early times. The day proved intensely warm, in fact a regular “scorcher,” and from all accounts, the collection of wild animals was meagre, and the dens and their occupants extremely filthy. The odor was so marked as to detract seriously from the comfort of the audience, and the entertainment was hardly over, when rumours began to prevail, that the company had brought the much-dreaded disease of cholera with them to the village.

The report first arose from the illness of one of the showmen. He had been brought to the village a day or two before the menagerie arrived, and fears that his complaint was cholera induced some of the villagers to go to Mr. Shade, who was the only magistrate at the time, and ask him to consider whether the exhibition should not be

Mr Alexander Burnett.

prevented. Mr. Shade, however, doubted whether he had the power to do so, and seemed, besides, rather disinclined to interfere with an exhibition which appeared to add importance to the village, and would certainly cause the circulation of a good deal of money. After examining the showman, Dr. Miller pronounced his complaint to be real Asiatic cholera. Shortly afterwards, the Doctor said to Mr. William Buchanan, of Branchton, who had been in at the show from the country: "Go home! You’ll hear of this. That man’s dying of Asiatic cholera!"

His fears, unfortunately, proved too true. That frightful plague, in its worst form, had been introduced by the menagerie, and already the seeds of death were developing in many of those who had attended the fatal entertainment.

The exhibition took place on Monday, and by Wednesday night and Thursday, the cholera was raging with almost unparalleled malignity and fatality. The harrowing scenes which occurred can never be erased from the memories of those who passed through them. The agony of the stricken, the swiftness of death, the rude board coffins and the hasty burials—in some cases within a few minutes after the last breath was drawn—turned the recently hopeful village into a very charnel-house, from which many fled in despair, whilst all but a few were paralysed with fear.

Chiefly before Friday night, but certainly within a week, nearly one-fifth of all the villagers had fallen victims to the plague, whilst not a few from the country, who were present at the exhibition, had also succumbed to the ruthless destroyer. Dr. Miller, who had seen one hundred persons per day die of cholera in Montreal, declared that “he had never seen a place of the same population as Galt suffer so much, nor the disease appear so virulent.” Such wide-spread mortality, in so small a community, and in so brief a space of time, recalled the ravages of the plague in London, and is almost unprecedented on this continent.

The whole circumstances connected with this dire event in the history of Galt were graphically described by Mr. Alex. Burnett, in a letter written at the time to a gentleman named Mitchell, in Hamilton, whose acquaintance he had made six months before, when on his way to take up his residence in the village. The following is Mr. Burnett’s letter, which is doubly interesting in consequence of its being the production of an eye-witness, and written at the time:

“Were I able to give you any idea of the state of things in Galt during the cholera, I would, but do not find myself equal to the task. Yet having once begun, I shall make a feeble effort; what is wanting you can fill up for yourself. .

“On Monday, the 28th July, all was life, and each was on the tiptoe of expectation. There was to be, and was, exhibited such a collection of wild animals as never was in these parts before. Towards noon, the steady and honest Dutchmen of Waterloo, began to canter into the village, with their well-fed horses, and thrifty wives, attended by plainly-dressed, chubby-cheeked children. Dumfries, from its utmost verge, poured in its tribute of sturdy Scotch, studded here and there with a whiskey-loving wight, who was glad to make the show his pretended errand, although he in truth only wanted something to wet his wizzen. Beverly, Blenheim, and more distant townships, sent in their sight-seeing sons and daughters.

“In the afternoon all was bustle and confusion, nothing doing, nothing saying, but—‘Have you been in at the beasts!’ ‘What a beast the Lion is!’ and ‘how large that there Bear!’ and ‘what creatures the monkeys are!’ So passed the afternoon, with now and then an enquiry about the showman who had come to Galt sick with the cholera; but this was hushed down lest it might injure the Show, or hurt the stir of the tavern. Things went along until the gathering dispersed, the sun setting on many a son of intemperance, rolling homewards under the influence of the 'wee drap o’ barley bree.’ Those more regardless of their home, and equally regardless of themselves, hung about the tavern and the village, while by their joint efforts the loud voice of mirth had given way to the rude and boisterous roar of riot. Such was the state of things when I bade one and all of them ‘good-night,’ went to bed and slept soundly.

“Tuesday was just like other days, with various conjectures as to the value of the establishment of beasts, what cash they might have got, and so on.

“Wednesday came, and with it a certain dubious expression might be seen on the countenances of some of the villagers. Others, thoughtless of the lurking foe, followed their usual avocations. Before noon there were to be seen clusters of three and four together, whispering their doubts and fears, even then afraid to speak the name of the horrid pest aloud. The Doctor of the village appeared to be more than usually busy, by his pony standing by hours at his door, saddled and girth unslackened. Soon after noon the secret was out! The cholera, with all its horror and all its malignity, was upon us. Two persons had died, and several were sick. By sundown three more had fallen, and others were victims to the scourge. Fear now began to lay her timorous hand upon us, and each thought he felt symptoms that he never felt before. Our sleep was unsound and unrefreshing. Long and dreary was the night, while with doubt and anxiety the morning came.

“That (Thursday) morning the sun rose upon nine of our neighbours and acquaintances who had settled all their worldly affairs and paid the debt of nature. These were unburied, and yet lay as death had met them. Now was the hour of trial. The arm of industry became powerless, and the hum of business ceased to meet the ear. Nought was heard but the sound and stroke of the coffin-maker’s hammer, as he nailed the rude and unsmoothed boards together, that the dead might be gathered to their fathers who had gone before them. Even the noise of the waggons to and from the burying-ground, struck you as having something ominous in the sound they made. Now and then your attention was arrested by the echo of the distant trampling of a coming horse, whose lathered sides and expanded nostrils showed his headlong haste, while the anxious features and sunken visage of the rider, told he was no messenger of fun, or heedless follower of a thoughtless frolic. He came for the assistance of the Doctor, but alas! how vain! The demon of Death, now triumphing in his strength, and glorying in the number of his victims, laughed to scorn the healing art, and bade defiance to the powers of drug or medicine. Yet still, glad to cling to hope, the Doctor was sought and sent for.

“So passed Thursday, and the sun of that day had not set when the last of thirty-five unceremonious burials had taken place in the neighbouring burying-ground—those from our village and suburbs in the short space of thirty-six hours! Twilight came, when all who had a chance reluctantly prepared for bed—yes, reluctantly, for, believe me, each had a secret dread and heart-felt fear that ere to-morrow’s dawn, he or she should also be numbered with the dead. The night passed slow and restless.

“With the morning of Friday, those who were first stirring were afraid and yet anxious to know what had been the events of the last few hours. On enquiry, glad was the heart when it was heard that few comparatively had been attacked, and fewer dead. Hope, the steady friend of man, again beamed in our eyes, while our hearts beat high with exultation. It seemed as if the monster Pestilence, had gorged itself with the number of its victims, and fatigued its energies with the work of destruction. Those who were under its power appeared to have greater strength to struggle for existence. It was less quick in its action and operation. Yet, steady to its purpose, and unrelenting in its grasp, some near and dear ones were suddenly attacked, and unexpectedly carried off, which cases, as they occurred, nearly extinguished the rising flame of hope. Nevertheless, it was abating.

“Saturday, Sunday and Monday it sought its prey and found them, although fewer in number. Two or three showed symptoms of recovery, and two actually recovered. From out among the little circle of villagers, thirty-three had gone to their long homes. Among these was the smiling infant, the man of grey hairs and experience, the stripling just budding into manhood, and the maiden blooming into woman’s state, just beginning to be conscious of her power and influence over the rougher part of creation; the man of steady habits and sedate behaviour, with the intemperate and the profligate, fell easy victims to the dreadful and afflictive malady.

“Oh, my dear sir, this was the time to divest us of our highflying notions of our consequence and importance. This was the time I felt the curse of being a bachelor. My fears and anxieties were centred in myself, and became a burden to me, bearing me almost to despondency and despair. I was alone and none to care for, and no one to care for me, or such as me. The husband and the father divided his cares and his fears amongst his family. He saw in his wife a sympathizing nurse in sickness, and an interested friend whispering hope in approaching death. His wife, in turn, looked to him as her protector and friend, while the children, who were conscious of their danger, looked to each and both for succour and support. Life’s cares are said to be comforts. I believe it. Happy he who has one who is sharer of his joys and partner of his sorrows!”

This graphic picture of the cholera in Galt, however sad and sombre, comes short of the dread reality. The mournful scenes which occurred, especially during Thursday and Friday, those who have survived can scarcely yet recall without a shudder. The violence of the disease was unprecedented. In some instances death occurred within two, and even in little over one hour after the first symptoms. An aged negro named Milo, who was hostler in the hotel, was among the first victims; but Mr. Andrew Simpson, who then occupied it, and his niece, were soon after stricken down. There were five or six persons all lying dead in this single building at one time.

This was the worst infected place in the village, and one Marshall, a cooper, undertook, for a consideration, to clean it out. Passing down the street some time afterwards, Mr. Burnett called to Marshall that he had not burned Simpson’s clothes, which were lying on a wheelbarrow in the yard. Not much more than an hour afterwards, on returning, Mr. Burnett was saluted by Walter H. Benn, who was then standing on the bridge, spade in hand:

“Come on, come on!” said Benn. “Another of our fellow mortals gone! Death was written on your forehead and mine before we were born! ”

Then, turning on his heel, he started for the graveyard to prepare a place for poor Marshall, who had been attacked and died during Mr. Burnett’s absence of a little over an hour. It was not uncommon to meet persons before dinner and learn they were buried before night, and the cry of everyone became, “Who next?”

Mr. Strang’s church was stripped of its temporary board seats, and turned into a hospital, where as many as possible of those attacked were taken. Dr. Miller was soon overdone with work, and at his solicitation, one Dr. McQuarrie came to Galt and rendered good service. Most valuable assistance was also given by Dr. John Scott, then a young man of about twenty-one years of age, who, with his father and other members of his family, had fortunately arrived from Roxboroughshire, Scotland, about ten days previously. He was a brother of Mr. Andrew Scott, of Galt, and afterwards became widely known in Berlin as a skilful practitioner and public-spirited citizen.

Dr. Scott was one of the most fearless of the little band who fought the cholera inch by inch, with their lives in their hands, until it finally disappeared. Besides those whose names have been already mentioned, Messrs. Thos. G. Chapman, Thomas Rich, Alonzo Bliss, Andrew Malcom, Robert Cranston, James Welch, Thomas Shannon and Joseph Simmons (a brother-in-law of Chapman’s) rendered very active assistance. Mr. Chapman’s team continued all one night carting off the dead, and at times some of those who were not terrified by the cholera, were so worn out with fatigue and excitement in preparing graves, attending the sick, and removing the dead to their final resting-place, that they fell asleep at their posts.

An incident well illustrates the condition of terror into which the little community was thrown. The remedy which was generally used for the cholera was brandy, to which was added in most cases, certain drugs which increased its fiery, heating qualities. For some time almost every family kept a bottle of this mixture ready for use.

One day a well-known citizen ran hurriedly up to Mr. Rich’s door, declared he had the cholera, and excitedly asked for the medicine. The applicant was in the habit of using stimulants, and Mr. Rich gave him, therefore, an unusually large dose, fearing that otherwise no effect would be produced. Before he could return across the lot, the sufferer fell down on the grass, roaring and groaning, not so much with the cholera, as with the intense burning sensation and feeling of intoxication stealing over him. The remedy was a severe one, but the gentleman, who still lives in a neighbouring county, highly respected and in comfortable circumstances, frequently declared that nothing but this immense dose of brandy mixture saved his life.

Some stories long current about the cholera cannot be traced to any reliable source. But the floating rumour that four men who died of the pest were buried in one grave, near the eastern end of the stone bridge on the macadamised road, north of the town, is perfectly true. Two of those buried were named Lamberton and Vincent, and among those who took part in the burial was Alonzo Bliss, to whom reference has already been made. On returning home, Bliss said to his wife, “If cholera is catching, I will take it.” This prediction, alas, proved too true. The next morning he was dead.

The particular locality of the quadruple grave is marked by the two tall pine trees which stand opposite to each other like sentinels, on the road side. Opinions differ as to which side of the road the grave is on, but the weight of testimony favours the view that it is near the foot of the tree on the south side.

Such were the ravages of the cholera in 1834 in Galt and vicinity. On that fatal morning the menagerie entered the village, its future had never previously looked more hopeful; within a few days it was nearly decimated, and a pitiful scene of mourning and woe. For several weeks the feelings of the villagers bordered on despair, but time —the healer of the deepest sorrow—came ultimately to their relief, and although nothing could ever obliterate from the minds of eye-witnesses, this dark and terrible chapter in the history of Galt, before hoary Christmas came round—such are the visissitudes of human feeling— a stranger might have come into the village without finding anything to remind him of the fearful death-scathing through which it had passed.