The 7th of April, 1849, will be fresh in the memory of many old Torontonians. It was an unusually fine spring day, and a large number of farmers' teams thronged the old market, then the only place within the city where meat was allowed to be sold. The hotel stables were crowded, and among them those of Graham's tavern on King and George Streets. At two o'clock in the afternoon, an alarm of fire was heard, occasioned by the heedlessness of some teamster smoking his after-dinner pipe. It was only a wooden stable, and but little notice was taken at first. The three or four hand-engines which constituted the effective strength of the fire brigade of that day, were brought into play one by one; but the stable, and Post's stable adjoining, were soon in full blaze. A powerful east wind carried the flames in rear of a range of brick stores extending on the north side of King Street from George to Nelson (now Jarvis) Street, and they attacked a small building on the latter street, next adjoining my own printing office, which was in the third story of a large brick building on the corner of King and Nelson Streets, afterwards well-known as Foy & Austin's corner. The Patriot newspaper was printed there, and the compositors and press-men not only of that office, but of nearly all the newspaper offices in the city, were busily occupied in removing the type and presses downstairs. Suddenly the flames burst through our north windows with frightful strength, and we shouted to the men to escape, some by the side windows, some by the staircase. As we supposed, all got safely away; but unhappily it proved otherwise. Mr. Richard Watson was well known and respected as Queen's Printer since the rebellion times. He was at the head of the profession, universally liked, and always foremost on occasions of danger and necessity. He had persisted in spite of all remonstrance in carrying cases of type down the long, three-story staircase, and was forgotten for a while. Being speedily missed, however, cries were frantically raised for ladders to the south windows; and our brave friend, Col. O'Brien, was the first to climb to the third story, dash in the window-sash--using his hat as a weapon--but not escaping severe cuts from the broken glass--and shouting to the prisoner within. But in vain. No person could be seen, and the smoke and flames forcing their way at that moment through the front windows, rendered all efforts at rescue futile.

In the meantime, the flames had crossed Nelson Street to St. James's buildings on King Street; thence across King Street to the old city hall and the market block, and here it was thought the destruction would cease. But not so. One or two men noticed a burning flake, carried by the fierce gale, lodge itself in the belfry of St. James's Cathedral, two or three hundred yards to the west. The men of the fire brigade were all busy and well-nigh exhausted by their previous efforts, but one of them was found, who, armed with an axe, hastily rushed up the tower-stairs and essayed to cut away the burning woodwork. The fire had gained too much headway. Down through the tower to the loft over the nave, then through the flat ceiling in flakes, setting in a blaze the furniture and prayer-books in the pews; and up to the splendid organ not long before erected by May & Son, of the Adelphi Terrace, London, at an expense of £1200 sterling, if I recollect rightly. I was a member of the choir, and with other members stood looking on in an agony of suspense, hoping against hope that our beloved instrument might yet be saved; but what the flames had spared, the intense heat effected. While we were gazing at the sea of fire visible through the wide front doorway, a dense shower of liquid silvery metal, white hot, suddenly descended from the organ loft. The pipes had all melted at once, and the noble organ was only an empty case, soon to be consumed with the whole interior of the building, leaving nothing but ghostly-looking charred limestone walls.

Next morning there was a general cry to recover the remains of poor Watson. The brick walls of our office had fallen in, and the heat of the burning mass in the cellar was that of a vast furnace. But nothing checked the zeal of the men, all of whom knew and liked him. Still hissing hot, the burnt masses were gradually cleared away, and after long hours of labour, an incremated skeleton was found, and restored to his sorrowing family for interment, with funeral obsequies which were attended by nearly all the citizens.

Shortly afterwards, Col. O'Brien's interest in the Patriot newspaper was sold to Mr. Ogle R. Gowan, and it continued to be conducted by him and myself until, in 1853, we dissolved partnership by arbitration, he being awarded the weekly, and I the daily edition.