John George Bowes

David Miller could only hope to be remembered this way.

The Irishman in Canada, a chatty 1872 tome about Canadians who (among other things) were not Scottish, relates this remarkable story about John George Bowes, the 10th mayor of Toronto, who served from 1851 to 1853.

Bowes was a man of many talents, having come to Toronto as a successful merchant. But none impressed the author of this book so much as his ability to flatten three local soldiers in a Hulk-like rage.

Of middle height and of exceedingly well knit frame, [Bowes] was fond of manly exercises and was, in expressive colloquial language, an ugly customer in a row. Character lives in all we do, and the secret of his success may be extracted from the following incident, perhaps as certainly as from a heavy business transaction.

Having occasion when mayor to visit the garrison, he took with him a member of the Council. There existed at the time a species of feud between the military and the civilians. While Bowes and his friend were walking about the garrison, making observations in regard to certain projected civic improvements, they were set upon by five soldiers who had marked them for an easy prey. The warriors had made a grand mistake. Bowes handled three of them.

The first he struck went right down, Bowes having caught him under the chin. Two of the soldiers rushed at him, but before they had time to touch him—one! two! and they were reeling back several feet. Meanwhile the first had risen and sought to close with his antagonist. To this under ordinary circumstances, Bowes would have had no objection. He had now however to keep his eye on more than one. The soldier struck him on the breast but the blow had no more effect on that iron frame than a pea shot against, or the rat-tat of a drummer boy on a drum. The next moment a blow over the right temple again sent the man of war to the ground. On came his comrades to avenge his fall.

By this time Bowes’ blood was thoroughly up; it ran lightning; the veins his companion observed, occupied though he was, stood out on his forehead; with his great manelike head of hair he was suggestive of a lion at bay. His blows rained on his foes who felt his knuckles as though he wore iron gauntlets. In a few minutes he was able to come to his friend’s assistance and the enemy fled.

It would have been easy to find out the soldiers—for there was not one of them on whom Bowes had not put his sign manual, and to have had them punished. But though mayor of the city, feeling for them that kind of affectionate tenderness we have for people whom we have well beaten, he refused to have them arrested.

Candidates for 2010 are well-advised to redouble their manly exercises. As for Miller: there’s still time.