Project Canterbury

The Life of John Travers Lewis, D.D.
First Archbishop of Ontario

By His Wife

London: Skeffington and Son, no date.



Written by Clement Sherwood Lewis, eleventh and only surviving child of the late Archbishop of Ontario.

The writer was born at Kingston to the sound of the alarm bells occasioned by a threatened invasion of Fenians--stimulated doubtless by envy, hatred and malice, for no other reason was ever advanced by them--who attempted to cross the border below the city. During troublous times like these, when roads were infested by suspicious characters and isolated homes barred doors and windows at sunset, my father walked one evening into the country to visit the lady who had consented to be my godmother at the christening on the following day.

This gentlewoman of U.E. Loyalist pioneer stock, lived alone in a large stone house not far from Rockwood Asylum. That night when she sat down at the piano and began to play, as she felt for the pedals her foot rested on something soft and, glancing in the mirror behind her, she saw the reflected figure of a man crouched beneath the piano. Her fingers fell with discord on the jangling keys, but with presence of mind and courage she continued playing. Presently a groan sounded from beneath the piano and her finger trembled again, just as she heard the well-remembered steps of the Bishop entering the hall.

She sprang from her seat, ran to him exclaiming," Under the piano," and fainted. Father placed her gently in a chair, strode into the drawing-room, and saw the red [141/142] head of a wild-eyed French Canadian peering from beneath the instrument. He sternly asked, "What are you doing there?" and the red-haired man replied, without moving, and with the utmost politeness, that he "had been listening to madam execute the classics." He had heard from his friends at Rockwood of madam's fame as a musician, and not wishing to intrude had taken this unconventional method of satisfying his craving for melody, but as the concert aparently was now over, he "would emerge," and did. At this point my godmother, who had now recovered, emerged also, exclaiming "Man, you are crazy. Go back to your asylum." Whereupon he flushed to the roots of his red hair and drawing himself up declared angrily: "Madam had not executed the classics but murdered the music instead, until, becoming desolated, hehadgroaned aloud in anguish, thus alarming madam also." But here madam, seizing an umbrella, began to belabour her redheaded musical critic so heartily that he fled to "his friends at Rockwood," who promptly collared and locked him up for the dangerous lunatic he had proved himself to be by attempting to burn down a church after threatening its organist with a knife, because the latter would not allow him to secrete himself within the organ and howl at the top of his voice during the voluntary. [This Asylum was run upon social lines. At certain times in the year--one evening in the week--the inmates were allowed to dance, and occasionally leaders of Society would come in for the novelty of finding strange partners who were interesting, but not mischievous.]

The earliest recollections of my father are of long winter evenings at Ottawa in the seventies. On frosty nights when the snow lay deep, and the north wind moaned through the leafless trees surrounding the house and we sat before the log fire, he would sometimes enter from his study, [142/143] gaze through the frosty panes and tell stories of early days and adventures.

Curled up in an armchair to escape observation--it being long past my bedtime, I would watch his tall slight figure, in Bishop's apron and gaiters, walking up and down in the firelight, or standing in its glow, with small hands grasping the lapels of his coat. [The Archbishop's small hands, for which he occasionally apologised, were the result, he said, of the canings of his early days at Porter and Hamblin School, Cork, where the boys used to crush up their fingers and apply something to harden the palm of the hand, so that the vitality of the switch would not be so acute. When the Archbishop was preaching in the Parish Church of Eastbourne, many, many years after, a lady was asked how she liked the sermon: "I could not listen to it," she said, "for looking at the very small hands of the Bishop and wondering whether they were real."]

He would perhaps talk of Shandon Church in Ireland, and of its tower, about whose base he had played as a boy; of his father (my grandfather) who was curate, and afterwards Rector of St. Anne's, and of its famous bells; of the crowded churchyard when the famine fever and cholera came and carts rumbled over rough cobblestones to the cry of "Bring out your dead!" and how returning one day for the nursery dinner he found a cart before the door to take his father away, although he had left him alive and well a few hours previously.

On such a night during the hard winter and hard times of seventy-six, when the board walks creaked with the cold crunching of tired feet of men--and women too-- seeking work or shelter, and who were never turned away without a word of cheer, or something more substantial, from him, he told of troublous times in southern Ireland. After he left Garry Cloyne Castle, where he was born, and where "half the tenants," he said, with a twinkle [143/144] in his eyes," could not, and the other half would not," pay their rents.

Fifty years ago passions and prejudices ran high throughout scattered Canada, whose parts were linked together neither by religion, politics, nor policy. Imperialists were against Continentalists, Free Church opposing Churchmen, and Orange and Catholic enmity flared up at least twice a year.

Bitterness has since become modified, for perhaps men's mind have broadened with the process of the suns, or is it that we take our religion and politics less seriously, the struggle for life having become harder, and that we are less interested in matters outside the level of our daily wants and necessities.

However that may be, looking back half a century one feels "there were giants in those days," and Canada was indeed fortunate to have in troublous times such leaders as MacDonald and Tupper, and Proconsuls like Lords Dufferin or Lome and Lansdowne, with all of whom my father was "persona grata," and something more.

When a youngster, the writer saw and listened to all of these men from a seat in the corner of his father's study, where, no doubt, he often had no business to be.

My first recollection of Lord Duffenn's aristocratic face and figure was not in a study, but at a wedding breakfast. My eldest sister had been married that morning, and I, at the age of six, sat propped in a high chair at table directly opposite to Lord Dufferin who, after a short speech from my father, rose to cut the cake--one of those tall three or four storied affairs built round like the Tower of Babel.

Lord Dufferin's shining eye-glass with its broad black ribbon fascinated me--and I watched him intently. When he removed the first slice, a mouse ran out across the table. [144/145] Wide-eyed with astonishment, his eye-glass fell, and was shattered on a glass decanter. I jumped back. More mice followed, one running up his sleeve, and his glass eye dropped out and rolled about the neck of a revered aunt who sat next me and clutched her where the hair is short. She gave a scream, her teeth fell out into my fingerbowl and I went over backwards. I ran shrieking to my room, into which I was promptly locked by the scandalised domestics. I do not know whether Lord Dufferin recovered his eye, but I know my aunt did her teeth, for thereafter, whenever I was presented before her she showed them at me with a grimness of visage that baffles all description.

My father graduated from Trinity College, Dublin, and was ordained to the curacy of Newtown-Butler. About a year later his poor parishioners--and I gathered few were anything else but poor--hearing of his resolve to migrate overseas to British North America as it then was, gave an entertainment in his honour, and, after much speech-making, presented him with a watch suitably engraved. He was greatly touched at the time, but did not realise how touched he had been, until returning home he found the watch had been stolen before he left the building.

But, "as compensation, no doubt," his front door was broken open a few nights later, and a keg of moonshine was rolled in, to the cry of "Good Luck to your Honour!" from the outer darkness. Considering the penalty of fine or imprisonment which its possession entailed, this last expression of devotion was not without its embarrassment, which found its vent upon one dark evening, when it was poured out on one of the little hillocks which abounded.

Two or three years later, on a beautiful summer's [145/146] day, my uncle, the Honourable John Hamilton, Senator, and head of the vast lumbering concern which bore his name, drove father, my sister and myself, from Hawksbury to L'Original to catch the river boat for Ottawa, there being no railways through the wilderness in those days. The rough corduroy road passed through dense maple and birch timber, with only a few clearings of wood cutters and, at long intervals, the log houses and snake fences of pioneer settlers. Approaching one of these homesteads, my father asked Mr. Hamilton to stop, and he went to the door, but returned disappointed at finding no one at home. As we drove on, he recounted how, during his first winter as a missionary in Canada, he was called to conduct a funeral service of a farmer's child who had been caught in a blizzard returning from school, and perished. They lived some thirty miles distant, and his journey there alone, with a team of horses and light cutter, nearly ended in his own death and funeral.

The road, laid deep in snow by the blizzard, was almost impassable and at times invisible. While passing a ditch, the horses went too close to the edge and drifted over, upset the cutter, and threw him out head foremost. As he drew his outstretched arms from the snow his gauntlets came off and were lost. With bare hands he tried to right the sleigh, but a heavy fur coat impeding his efforts, he recklessly flung it off and managed to right the cutter as the wildly plunging horses darted forward. He scrambled on behind, trying to stop the frightened animals, but in vain, and so abandoned gauntlets and coat in an open sleigh at thirty below zero. Soon both hands were numbed and the fingers partially frozen. And with the reins about his neck and numbed hands thrust beneath his light clerical coat, he urged the team onward through ever deepening drifts, stamping his feet to keep warm and [146/147] prevent himself, chilled to the bone, from sleeping. For some time he fought valiantly against the drowsiness which might seduce him to sleep, which would betray him to death. He remembered the snow beginning to fall in heavy flakes, and felt the milder air on his face, but knew nothing more until awakened in a cold bath and recognised the kindly rugged face of a farmer bending over him. Then he fainted again.

It appears the horses, undriven by man, but guided by Providence, turned down a narrow side road and thus passed the only inhabited dwelling for twenty-four miles. The farmers heard the bells, came out and stopped the passing team just in time and, being experienced settlers, plunged him into a cold bath, thus saving his life. These good people nursed him with kindly Christian care for over six weeks, and it is not unfitting for the only surviving member of his family to recall that a direct descendant of these good Samaritans is to-day, appropriately enough, one of the most influential and generous members of the Red Cross in all Canada.

After the assassination of D'Arcy McGee and the hanging of his murderer, Whalan, I remember hearing my father tell my brother.Travers the strange story of "his friend the murderer." A woman had been poisoned and father was called from Brockville to visit her husband, in custody, accused of the deed.

He described the prisoner as a manly, earnest fellow, with a benevolent countenance, and kindly manner. My father was much prepossessed, and listened with interest and sympathy to the prisoner's expressions of horror over the accusation and his most reasonable explanations of innocence, and gave him what comfort he could.

But the night before his trial he visited the prisoner again, who told him an additional story, and this [147/148] multiplying of his defence puzzled my father's logical mind. He put some straight questions to the now nervous wreck before him, who thereupon confessed the truth of his crime--the most despicable of all crimes--that of poisoner.

Next morning father was called away to the bedside of a dying woman in Prescott. Meanwhile the man was tried, pleaded not guilty and acquitted, the judge remarking that he left court without any stain on his character.

Returning to town, my father met the man leaving court to catch the west-bound express. An hour or two afterwards this train was derailed. No one was injured save the man who had committed the murder, who was killed.

When we lived near the Parliament Buildings at Ottawa overlooking the river, our next door neighbour was Dr. (afterwards Sir Charles) Tupper "the war horse of Cumberland," who not infrequently used to call in passing between his home and office in the Western Block when he was Minister of Railways and Canals. Sometimes the Prime Minister, Sir John MacDonald, might accompany him, though more often Sir John would drop in unexpectedly at odd moments to rest and talk with my father over old times, when both were Kingstonians together.

I recollect one hot afternoon when the House was sitting and the smoke of many bush fires darkened the sun and hung in a blue haze over the Laurentian Hills, Sir John and my father sat in the darkened library talking of the heat and the destruction of so much valuable timber, which had been burning unceasingly for the past week. During a pause in the conversation, Sir John turned to where I was sitting, curled up with a book in my corner, and said: "Youngster, if you can tear yourself away from your friend. Dr. Smith, run over next door and telephone [148/149] Kirkpatrick that he will find me at the Bishop's and ask him whether he got my note."

This I joyfully did, because the telephone was a great curiosity in those days and Dr. Tupper's was one of the first installed, or, at any rate, that I had ever seen.

When Mr. Kirkpatrick entered fanning himself with a newspaper, Sir John, throwing his head back with that characteristic poise which distinguished him, asked: "George, have you my note?" Yes, Sir John," he answered, smiling, and laid it on the table before my father, who read aloud: "After having kicked up so much dust in Kingston, I have decided to knock you into a cocked hat."

"Dust in Kingston" referred to a recent election there, and "cocked hat" to Mr. Kirkpatrick's nomination to the speakership of the House of Commons, which he occupied with much distinction, long afterwards becoming Sir George and Lieutenant-Governor of Ontario.

The summer of the British Association's meeting in Montreal was a notable one in many respects in Canada.

One great event was the extension of the Canadian Pacific Railway as far as the Rcckies, an achievement brought about by overcoming many difficulties, financial and physical, not least the political nagging and hostility of a powerful group led by Blake, whose political successor, curiously enough, was to duplicate unnecessarily, in part at least, that system some twenty years later.

Many members of the British Association, including my father, were taken by special train, as guests of the company, as far as the rail head near Calgary and also to many points of interest in eastern Canada. Not the least interesting of these excursions was the one to the phosphate and asbestos mine near Buckingham on the Ottawa River.

[150] It was an interesting party to which I in some way managed to attach myself. Beside Sir John and my father, the party included Dr. Sir Charles Tupper, emphatic of speech and manner, the cautious and reticent Sanford Fleming, viewing all things through the eye of an engineer, father of the Pacific cable, and not yet knighted; one-armed Dr. Grant of Queen's University, philosopher, traveller and ardent imperialist; another Dr. Grant, a noted medical man who operated on H.R.H. Princess Louise that winter's night when the horses bolted, overturning her sleigh, on the way to the opening of Parliament, and H.R.H. was injured by flying glass; Herbert Spencer, who seemed tired and consequently rather cross; and Donald Smith, not yet created Lord Strathcona, but already a railway director, a Member of Parliament and a financial genius.

Comfortable large carriages on old-fashioned swaying leather springs awaited the special train from Ottawa and Montreal to convey the party to the mine, which were under the supervision of a young American railway official with sandy hair and short goatee, whose alert eyes under puckered lids saw to everything with remarkably smooth efficiency, and who lived to become a K.C.V.O., President and Chairman of the Canadian Pacific Railway, and a Baron of the United Kindom with the title of Lord Shaugh-nessy, under whose guidance the infant Canadian Pacific grew into the greatest of all travel systems by land and sea until it girdled more than half the globe.

Several mines were inspected and steep hills climbed by rough road during the morning which was decidedly hot, and by the time lunch was served in a large tent, the party were both tired and hungry. So were the mosquitoes which swarmed everywhere, and Sir John, while fanning himself between courses, told my father the [150/151] story of a man who was sleeping under a mosquito bar and when one side of the bar was accidently raised the mosquitos swarmed in on that side so thickly they shoved him out of bed.

The return journey was made during the cool of the evening in our comfortable swaying barouche containing the Prime Minister, my father, Dr. Sir Charles Tupper, and Herbert Spencer. As we drove at sundown through the cool pine-scented air of the forest-clad hills, Sir John and my father discussed the strange geological formation in which the crystals of phosphate were embedded, and Spencer described at length and in detail to the, I suspected, bored Dr. Tupper the symptoms of insomnia which troubled him and from which he was a chronic sufferer.

The writer sat on the box beside the driver, a powerfully built, but extraordinarily short French habitant who knew no English except his name, Peter McLaren. He was as short of speech as of stature and when the horses suddenly came to a halt, and someone asked, "What's the matter," he leisurely lit his pipe, handed the lines to me, produced a formidable-looking axe from beneath the seat, pointed with it across the road and said laconically, "bear." Sure enough I saw from my high seat on the box a small black bear clinging to the lower branches of a tree.

After a short wait, our driver emerged from the brush as leisurely as he had entered it. "But where is the bear?" demanded Spencer irritably. "Dead," answered the driver, and displayed his bloodtained axe over the heads of his astonished passengers.

"That man," observed Sir John dryly, reminds me of the gentleman who was so short he could not tell whether he had a head- or a stomach-ache."

Apropos of this, my father told of a great business man [151/152] and captain of industry who, in reply to his formal engraved card of invitation to dinner, replied shortly, "The undersigned will be on hand at the time appointed," and let it go at that.

"Our driver's methods may not be precipitant, but his results are effective," remarked Spencer, "and more satisfactory than that of the man whom my friend Huxley tells of, who, when viewing the Coliseum by moonlight after being warned of pickpockets, felt someone brush against him in the dark with a watch in his hand. Being a prompt sort of a person, he knocked the man down, seized his watch and made off home." "And quite right too," said someone, "and highly commendable."

"Yes, yes," returned Spencer; "quite so, but this man on arriving home found he had two watches."

A reception committee and brass band greeted us at the station, the band playing with more enthusiasm than discretion, occasional discords jarring on the musical ear (for he was musical) of Herbert Spencer.

Noticing his evident distress, someone, by way of consolation, I suppose, volunteered the information that the score, at least, was by a famous composer--which indeed it was, though he lived in the last century. Whereupon Spencer inquired apprehensively, "Is he composing yet?" "No," interjected Sir John, shaking his head gravely, "he is decomposing," and mentioned the great man's name. "Well, well," said Spencer laughing, "no doubt he is extinct, but the immortal part of him, his work, lives."

As the train pulled out of the station and the Prime Minister waved his good-bye to the cheering crowd, my father told the story of Emperor Augustus, who, when he lay dying, turned to those about him and said: "Why weep ye? Have I done well?" They answered, "Yes." "Nunc Plaudite," said he, and died.

[153] "A perfect exit, bishop, a perfect exit," repeated Sir John thoughtfully, which indeed was to apply with perfect truth to his own exit some six years later after the last and the greatest of his many victories.

In the spring of the early eighties, I accompanied my father on a confirmation tour of the head waters of the Ottawa River.

Warm weather had come in earnest after a winter of heavy snow and a late spring. The population of the Upper Ottawa in those days was composed principally of lumberjacks, half-breeds, and Indians with a sprinkling of pioneer farmers grouped in settlements.

Towards one of these latter we made our way for more than one hundred miles beyond the railway's end by wagons and canoes. A lake had to be crossed before reaching the furthest settlement. Here we found the large bateau of a French Canadian oblate Priest manned by a swarthy crew of half-breed voyageurs. The kindly old priest offered us a passage over the lake, which my father accepted. The old priest had no English, and apparently father could not understand his brand of French, but the difficulty was solved by addressing him in Latin, the soft continental pronunciation of Trinity College, Dublin, being understood immediately.

And so the French priest and Anglican bishop conversed affably in a very new country by the aid of a very old language. The French crew were puzzled at hearing the Latin, connected in their mind only with prayers, and concluded they were either praying together or against each other, and their skipper jokingly advised the crew in patois to hurry over the lake before the collection--"maybe two would be taken up."

We landed late in the afternoon and bade adieu to our jolly voyageurs, and were met by a large crowd of settlers, [153/154] half-breeds and Indians. They reported that the rising of north waters had swept away part of the village, including the log church and school house.

The river was still rising, and the roar of the rapids where it entered the lake hard by left no doubt of it. This was their bishop's first visit for nearly two years, and accounted in part for the large congregation and confirmation class awaiting him. And so it was decided to hold a service out there on the bank of the river with the green grass for carpet, a surrounding stately grove of maples for a wall, the starry sky for a ceiling and the murmuring roar of the rapids for accompaniment and voluntary. A huge maple stump sawed across and level, provided the Holy Table, and great bonfires were lit among the surrounding trees.

When the sun had sunk across the lake, behind a growing mass of dark thunder-clouds, the glare of bonfires lit up the crowded grove and shone on the white lawn sleeves and scarlet hood of the bishop addressing a sea of upturned faces. On his right were drawn up the Confirmation Class of nearly forty adults and children, and to the left squatted rows of Indians--the firelight playing on their bright shawls and brilliant headgear--who stared stolidly before them, their dark eyes apparently looking at nothing, but seeing everything.

Towards the close of the service, the gathering storm burst in wild uproar over the lake, though no drop of rain fell that night on the leafy cathedral. We had no soloist, and the congregation proved the choir.

During a lull in the storm the words of the 147th Psalm rose above the cadency and drone of the rapids: "Who covereth the heavens with clouds, and prepareth rain for the earth: and maketh the grass to grow upon the mountains. He giveth snow like wool: and scattereth [154/155] the hoar-frost like ashes. He casteth forth His ice like morsels: who is able to abide His frost? He sendeth out His word, and melteth them: He bloweth with His wind, and the waters flow."

... A blinding flash split asunder the clouds, its vivid glare lighting up the wild combers on the lake and the tossing branches overhead. Another and another succeeded, followed by deafening peals of thunder, and as it died away over lake and forest, five hundred voices took up the song to the majestic swing of the Grand Chant and sent it up through the swaying branches rolling towards the stars. . . . "Ye dragons, and all deeps) Fire and hail, snow and vapours: wind and storm fulfilling his words: Mountains and all hills; fruitful trees and all cedars; Beasts and all cattle: worms and feathered fowls; Young men and maidens, old men and children, praise the name of the Lord: for His name only is excellent, and His praise above Heaven and earth."

The music ceased, and as the last echo of the now rapidly retreating storm rumbled and died away, the quiet voice of the bishop was heard asking that "where two or three are gathered together in My name, Thou will grant their request." The blessing followed, and the strange congregation dispersed and returned by portage, packhorse and train through forest and mountain to their distant homes and strangely isolated lives.


It cannot fail to interest those who were personally acquainted with the Brigadier-General E. A. B. Travers, C.B., Madras Staff Corps, for six years Assistant Military Secretary for India at the Horse Guards, who died of diphtheria, to know that the deceased [155/156] officer had no fewer than eight brothers, all of whom entered Her Majesty's Military service, namely:

1. Captain Robert W. Travers, 24th Regiment, served in the Punjaub Campaign, 1848-9, including the passage of the Chenab, Battle of Sadalaport, killed in the Battle of Chilliariwallah.

2. Lieutenant Thomas M. Travers, 51st Bengal Native Infantry, died from service in India on passage home.

3. General James Travers; V.C., C.B., entered the Bengal Army, nth June, 1838, served throughout the Afghanistan War, 1840-2, in the 2nd Grenadiers and Skinner's Horse (now 1st Bengal Cavalry), thanked in front of the line and name brought to the special notice of the Indian Government by General (afterwards Sir William) Nott, for his services in the action of Secunder-abad; served in the Sutley campaign, 1846; commanded and brought the Nusseeree Ghoorka Battalion out of the Battle of Sobraon. Commanded the Cavalry Bhopal Contingent in attack and defeat of insurgents in 1846, received thanks of the Government of India for his services on that occasion; Commanded field force against the rebel Shunker Singh 1856, and received the thanks of the Indian Government and of the Agent Governor-General of Central India for the "complete success which attended these operations "; Commanded at Sudore when the Mutiny broke out at that Station on the 1st July, 1857. Horse three times shot under him and name brought to the special notice of the Government of India by Colonel (afterwards Sir Henry) Durand, for "the manner in which the attack was met and the soldierly withdrawal was effected in the face of superior numbers," when our position became no longer tenable in consequence of the disaffection of [156/157] our own troops; received the thanks of the Indian Government and awarded the Victoria Cross for his services on this occasion.

Has been wounded, five times mentioned in despatches, twice brought to the special notice of the Government for India for services in contact with the enemy, and on three occasions received its acknowledgments for services in the field. Promoted to Major by Brevet for Afghanistan; received the C.B. and medals for Candaliar, Ghuzni and Cabul, also for Sobraon and Indian Mutiny. Held the appointments of Adjutant, Second-in-command and Commandant of the Bhopal Contingent composed of Artillery, Cavalry and Infantry. Political Agent with Command of Cavalry, Western Malwa. Commandant of Central India Horse (three regiments) and Political Assistant to Agent Governor-General of Central India. Commanded Sangor District and received the thanks of the late Lord Sandhurst, Commander-in-Chief for the manner in which he had conducted the duties of this command; Commanded Meerut division and First Division, 1st Camp of Exercise at Delhi and received the acknowledgements of Lord Napier of Magdala, Commander-in-Chief, for the manner in which he had exercised the duties connected with these commands.

4. Captain Eaton J. Travers, 32nd Bengal Native Infantry; Siege of Mooltan; appointed to the 1st Punjab Infantry, engaged frequently with the hill tribes. Received the thanks of the Governor-General. Killed at the siege of Delhi in 1857.

5. Henry F. Travers, Assistant-Commissary General.

6. John N. Travers, E.B., Ordnance Department, retired.

7. Horace N. Travers, Assistant-Commissary General. Died in the West Indies.

[158] 8. Major Joseph O. Travers, 17th Regiment. Served in the Crimea and received the Legion of Honour for conspicuous conduct in the attack on the Redau; Aide-de-camp to Brigadier-General Macpherson in the Afghan War. General Travers's father (Major-General Sir Robert Travers) was one of six brothers who all served in the profession of arms, namely:

1. Major-General Sir Robert Travers, C.B., K.C.M.G., K.C.F.M., etc. Services: Campaign in Holland, 1799. Ferrol, 1880. Commanded detachment of the 95th in attack of Spanish Lines, and Buenos Ayres, 1807. Commanded 95th Rifle (Brigade) Regiment in the battles of Bolica and Vimiera, 1808. Served in the retreat to Corunna. Commanded 10th Regiment in the various attacks on the East Coast of Spain. In 1817 was appointed resident of Cephalonia; resigned in 1823 and was presented by the inhabitants with an address and a gold sword value £500. Was four times severely wounded, received pension for wounds of £300 a year. Killed by a fall from his horse in 1834.

2. Commander John Travers, R.N., severely wounded in Lord Howes's action 1st June, 1794. Died in the West Indies.

3. Major J. Conway Travers, K.H., Rifle Brigade. Services: Siege and capture of Copenhagen in 1807; action of Bonavente, 1808; Corunna, 1809; storming of redoubt, San Francisco; siege and storm of Cuidad Rodrigo and Badajoz, 1812; Battle of Salamanca, capture of Madrid, New Orleans, 1815. Severely wounded and received a pension of £200 a year for his wounds. Died 1841.

4. Rear-Admiral Sir Eaton S. Travers, K.H., upwards of one hundred times engaged with the enemy, eight times mentioned in despatches for gallant conduct [158/159] (see Byrnes' Naval Biography) Wounded and died 1858.

5. Major Joseph Oates Travers, Rifle Brigade. Services: Walcheren Expedition, 1799. In the several actions under Sir R. Abercromby; twice severely wounded; received pension for wounds; many years Magistrate at Portsmouth; portrait placed in Town Hall. Died 1865.

6. Captain Nicholas C. Travers, Rifle Brigade. Services: Buenos Ayres, 1807; campaign under Sir John Moore, 1808-9 ' Corunna; Battle of Salamanca; capture of Madrid, siege of Burgos, battle of Vittoria, Pyrenees, Vera, New Orleans. Twice severely wounded. Died 1871.

Twenty-two sons of the above six brothers have served in the Army, namely:

9. Sir Robert Travers's nine sons already mentioned.

10. Captain J. Stewart Travers, nth Regiment. Died 1859.

11. Major J. Conway Travers, Royal Marines. Services: Baltic, 1854-5; China, 1857-8; as Adjutant and Aide-de-camp to Brigadier-General Holloway C.B. Adjutant, Woolwich Division, 1859-61; Aide-de-camp to Inspector-General of Royal Marines, 1862-6. Baltic and China Medals.

12. Colonel John Travers, Royal Artillery. Served throughout the Crimean War. Medal and clasps. Retired.

13. Major-General Joseph Oates Travers C.B., Royal Marines. Services: Spain during the Carlist war; coast of Syria, 1841 (medal); Baltic, 1854-5 (medal); Brigade Major to Royal Marines in China, 1857-8; wounded in action with the "Braves," 1858; Assistant Quartermaster-General to the expedition; wounded at capture of the Faku Fort, 1860; twice mentioned in despatches; C.B. (medal and three clasps) Assistant Adjutant-General [159/160] to the Royal Marines at Headquarters; Inspector-General 1867-9. Died 1869.

14. Lieutenant Lyon Conway Travers, late Ceylon Rifles. Served in the Punjab Campaign; siege and capture of Mooltan; Battle of Goojerat; Medal. Retired.

15. Colonel Frederick J. Travers, Royal Artillery. Served as Military Secretary and Aide-de-camp to Sir George Grey when Governor of New Zealand and Cape of Good Hope. Retired.

16. Lieutenant William Travers, Rifle Brigade. Served during the Indian Mutiny, wounded at Caunpore. Died 1865.

17. Captain Joseph Oates Travers, 70th Regiment. Killed by an accident in New Zealand.

18. Captain Robert Travers, 19th Regiment. Died.

19. General Eaton Travers, Royal Artillery. Retired.

20. Captain Frank Travers, 60th Rifles. Retired.

21. Colonel James Travers, 3rd West India Regiment. Died.

22. Lieutenant Joseph Travers, Indian Army. Died.

In the perusal of the Archbishop's life, it will be remarked that he always chose the hardest things of life, which had to be fought to be won. Surely the life of John Travers, Archbishop of Ontario, sometime Primate of all Canada, rises as a beacon pointing Excelsior, and provokes the thought--Where to-day can we find a family of so many under one flag, one stroke of oar, guiding such a wave of bravery, fighting here on earth under the Church Militant?

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