The tower is ascended by means of a winding stairway; and a surly old cove, who pretends that he was in the battle of Lundy’s Lane—but I’ll bet my hat he wasn’t—stays there and acts as guide. He accompanied me to the top of the tower, and showed me a telescope supported on a pivot. With this I proceeded to sweep the wide, wide landscape before me, and I began to ask the old “soldier” a few questions. He was very reticent, and his answers were not only very brief, but also very vague, ambiguous, and unsatisfactory. I soon discovered why. His tongue had to be greased with a trifle of change—for he was only employed by the owner of the tower, who kept a drinking-saloon at the bottom—that is, the _base-meant_.
“Is that Brock’s Monument?” I queried, perceiving a tall column of masonry in the direction of Lake Ontario.
“A-hem,” he replied, reluctantly, and with an apparent difficulty of articulation—“I—I—it bothers my head to talk much, ever since I got my wound in this battle. That is Brock’s—A-hem—I—Visitors usually gives me—a—a—they generally—a little—a—a—ahem——”
“O, to be sure,” said I. “It’s perfectly right they should not forget your services.”
I gave him a quarter, and found his speech much improved. Still, it was not so fluent as I could have desired, and I further touched it up in this way:
“Yes, sometimes,” he replied, distinctly, brightening up.
“The gentleman below keeps something, does he not?”
“Yes, I believe he—Yes, he keeps a little on hand.”
“Then,” said I, “we will take a little of a good article when we go down. It always does me good to take a little something strengthening that way with an old soldier—especially one who, like yourself, has that graceful military air that can leave no doubt of his having served his country with distinction.”
This was certainly piling it on pretty strong, but not too much so, it seemed, for he took it all with as good a grace as a toper would take his “bitters” in the morning. He grew extremely affable, and gave me all the information I wanted; and more, too, for I am satisfied he made up about thirty-nine or forty lies and told me—among which was this one: That he was captured at Lundy’s Lane and taken before General (then Colonel) Winfield Scott—whom he pronounced the noblest soldier that ever lived—and that the latter gave him a drink of most excellent rum, and said to him: “You have an air of greatness about you—you have. Are you not a British general in disguise?”