Books: Life in Canada Fifty Years Ago

C >> Canniff Haight >> Life in Canada Fifty Years Ago

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

Let us skip over a period of about forty years from the first
settlement, and have a look at the people and how they lived. The log
houses, in very many cases had been transformed into comfortable and
commodious dwellings. The log barns and hovels, too, had given place to
larger frame barns and sheds, many of which are still to be seen around
the country. The changes wrought in those short years were wonderful,
and having followed the pioneer hither and noted his progress, let us
step into one of these homes and take a seat with the family gathered
around the spacious fire-place, with its glowing fire blazing up
cheerfully through the heaped-up wood, and note the comforts and
amusements of the contented circle. How clearly the picture stands out
to many of us. How well we remember the time when, with young and
vigorous step, we set our feet in the path which has led us farther and
farther away.

"A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows."

Now, please understand me in this matter. We have not a particle of
sympathy with the ordinary grumbler, by which we mean that class of
persons whose noses are not only stuck up at any and every encroachment
on their worn-out ideas of what is right and wrong, but, like crabbed
terriers, snap at the heels of every man that passes. Nor do we wish you
to think that we place our fathers on a higher plane of intellectual
power and worth than we have reached or can reach. The world rolls on,
and decade after decade adds to the accumulative brain force of
humanity. Men of thought and power through all the ages have scattered
seed, and while much of it has come to naught, a kernel here and there,
possessed of vital force, has germinated and grown. You remember what
the great Teacher said about "a rain of mustard seed which a man took
and sowed in his field, which indeed is the least of all seeds, but when
it is grown it is the greatest among herbs, and becometh a tree, so that
the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof." Any man
who looks around him must acknowledge that we are going ahead, but
notwithstanding this, every careful observer cannot fail to see that
there is growing up in our land a large amount of sham, and hence, as
Isaiah tells us, it would be well for us to look more frequently "into
the rock whence ye are hewn, and to the hole of the pit whence ye are
digged." Let us not only treasure the recollection of the noble example
which our fore-fathers set us, but let us imitate those sterling
qualities which render their names dear to us.

"It is a common complaint perpetually reiterated," remarks a racy
writer, "that the occupations of life are filled to overflowing; that
the avenues to wealth or distinction are so crowded with competitors
that it is hopeless to endeavour to make way in the dense and jostling
masses. This desponding wail was doubtless heard when the young earth
had scarcely commenced her career of glory, and it will be dolefully
repeated by future generations to the end of time. Long before Cheops
had planted the basement-stone of his pyramids, when Sphinx and Colossi
had not yet been fashioned into their huge existence, and the untouched
quarry had given out neither temple nor monument, the young Egyptian, as
he looked along the Nile, may have mourned that he was born too late.
Fate had done him injustice in withholding his individual being till the
destinies of man were accomplished. His imagination exulted at what he
might have been, had his chance been commensurate with his merits, but
what remained for him now in this worn-out, battered, used-up hulk of a
world, but to sorrow for the good times which had exhausted all
resources?

"The mournful lamentation of antiquity has not been weakened in its
transmission, and it is not more reasonable now than when it groaned by
the Nile. There is always room enough in the world, and work waiting for
willing hands. The charm that conquers obstacles and commands success is
strong will and strong work. Application is the friend and ally of
genius. The laborious scholar, the diligent merchant, the industrious
mechanic, the hard-working farmer, are thriving men, and take rank in
the world; while genius by itself lies in idle admiration of a fame that
is ever prospective. The hare sleeps or amuses himself by the wayside,
and the tortoise wins the race."

RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY DAYS.

PATERNAL MEMORIES--A VISIT TO THE HOME OF MY BOYHOOD--THE OLD QUAKER
MEETING-HOUSE--FLASHES OF SILENCE--THE OLD BURYING GROUND--"TO THE
MEMORY OF ELIZA"--GHOSTLY EXPERIENCES--HIVING THE BEES--ENCOUNTER WITH
A BEAR--GIVING "THE MITTEN"--A "BOUNDARY QUESTION"--SONG OF THE
BULLFROG--RING--SAGACITY OF ANIMALS--TRAINING DAYS--PICTURESQUE SCENERY
OF THE BAY OF QUINTE--JOHN A. MACDONALD--A PERILOUS JOURNEY--AUNT JANE
AND WILLET CASEY.

More than forty-five years have elapsed since my father departed this
life, and left me a lad, the eldest of six children, to take his place,
and assist my mother as well as I could in the management of affairs.
Twenty years later mother was laid by his side, and before and since all
my sisters have gone. For a number of years the only survivors of that
once happy household, the memory of which is so fresh and dear to me,
have been myself and brother. Upper Canada was a vastly different place
at the time of my father's decease (1840) from what it is now. The
opportunities he had when young were proportionately few. I have been a
considerable wanderer in my day, and have had chances of seeing what the
world has accomplished, and of contrasting it with his time and
advantages. If his lines had fallen in another sphere of action he would
have made his mark. As it was, during his short life--he died at the age
of 42--he had with his own hands acquired an excellent farm of 250
acres, with a good, spacious, well-furnished house, barns, and out-
buildings. His farm was a model of order and thorough tillage, well
stocked with the best improved cattle, sheep, and hogs that could be had
at that time, and all the implements were the newest that could be
procured. He was out of debt, and therefore independent, and had money
at interest. This, it seems to me, was something for a man to accomplish
in twenty years. But this was not all. He was acknowledged to be a man
of intelligence superior to most in those days, and was frequently
consulted by neighbours and friends in matters of importance; a warm
politician and a strict temperance man. He was one of the best speakers
in the district, always in request at public meetings, and especially
during an election campaign. Into political contests he entered with all
his might, and would sometimes be away a week or more at a time,
stumping--as they used to term it--the district. In politics he was a
Reformer, and under the then existing circumstances I think I should
have been one too. But the vexed questions that agitated the public mind
then, and against which he fought and wrote, have been adjusted. An old
co-worker of his said to me many years after at an election: "What a
pity your father could not have seen that you would oppose the party he
laboured so hard to build up. If a son of mine did it I would disinherit
him as quick as I would shove a toad off a stick." I said to my old
friend that I supposed the son had quite as good a right to form his
opinions on certain matters as his father had. Political and religious
prejudices are hard things to remove. I remember a deputation waiting on
my father to get him to consent to be a candidate for an election which
was on the eve of taking place, but he declined, on the ground that he
was not prepared to assume so important a position then, nor did he feel
that he had reached a point which would warrant him in leaving his
business. He added that after a while, if his friends were disposed to
confer such an honour upon him, he might consider it more favourably.
Peter Perry was chosen, and I know my father worked hard for him, and
the Tory candidate, Cartwright, was defeated. This reminds me of a
little bit of banking history, which created some noise in the district
at the time, but which is quite forgotten now. A number of leading
farmers, of whom my father was one, conceived the idea of establishing a
"Farmers' Joint Stock Bank," which was subsequently carried out, and a
bank bearing that name was started in Bath. John S. Cartwright, the then
member, through whom they expected to get a charter, and who was
interested in the Commercial Bank at Kingston, failed to realize their
expectations in that particular, and the new bank had to close its
doors. The opening was premature, and cost the stockholders a
considerable sum of money. This little banking episode helped to defeat
Mr. Cartwright at the next election.

Over thirty years have passed since I left my old home, and change after
change has occurred as the years rolled along, until I have become a
stranger to nearly all the people of the neighbourhood, and feel strange
where I used to romp and play in boyhood.

The houses and fields have changed, the woods have been pushed further
back, and it is no longer the home that is fixed in my memory. My visits
have consequently become less and less frequent. On one of these
occasions I felt a strong inclination one Sabbath morning to visit the
old Quaker Meeting House about three miles away. After making my
toilette and breakfasting, I sallied forth, on foot and alone, through
the fields and woods. The day was such as I would have selected from a
thousand. It was towards the last of May--a season wherein if a man's
heart fail to dance blithely, he must indeed be a victim of dulness. The
sun was moving upward in his diurnal course, and had just acquired
sufficient heat to render the shade of the wood desirable. The heaven
was cloudless, and soft languor rested on the face of nature, stealing
the mind's sympathy, and wooing it to the delights of repose. My mind
was too much occupied with early recollections to do more than barely
notice the splendour and the symphonies around me. The hum of the bee
and the beetle, as they winged their swift flight onwards, the song of
the robin and the meadow lark, as they tuned their throats to the
praises of the risen sun, and the crowing of some distant chanticleer,
moved lazily in the sluggish air. It was a season of general repose,
just such a day, I think, as a saint would choose to assist his fancy in
describing the sunny regions whither his thoughts delight to wander, or
a poet would select to refine his ideas of the climate of Elysium. At
length I arrived at the old meeting-house where I had often gone, when a
lad with my father and mother.

It was a wooden building standing at a corner of the road, and was among
the first places of worship erected in the Province. The effects of the
beating storms of nearly half a century were stamped on the unpainted
clapboards, and the shingles which projected just far enough over the
plate to carry off the water, were worn and partially covered with moss.
One would look in vain, for anything that could by any possibility be
claimed as an ornament. Two small doors gave access to the interior,
which was as plain and ugly as the exterior. A partition, with doors,
that were let down during the time of worship, divided the room into
equal parts, and separated the men and women. It was furnished with
strong pine benches, with backs; and at the far side were two rows of
elevated benches, which were occupied on both sides by leading members
of the society. I have often watched the row of broad-brims on one hand,
and the scoop bonnets on the other, with boyish interest, and wondered
what particular thing in the room they gazed at so steadily, and why
some of them twirled one thumb round the other with such regularity. On
this occasion I entered quietly, and took a seat near the door. There
were a number of familiar faces in the audience. Some whom I had known
when young were growing grey, but many of the well-remembered faces were
gone. The gravity of the audience and the solemn silence were very
impressive; but still recollections of the past crowded from my mind the
sacred object which had brought the people together. Now I looked at the
old bayonet marks in the posts, made by the soldiers who had used it as
a barrack immediately after the war of 1812. Next, the letters of all
shapes and sizes cut by mischievous boys with their jacknives in the
backs of the seats years ago arrested my attention, and brought to mind
how weary I used to get; but as I always sat with my father, I dared not
try my hand at carving. Then, the thought came: Where are those boys
now? Some of them were sober, sedate men sitting before me with their
broad-brimmed hats shadowing their faces; others were sleeping in the
yard outside; and others had left the neighbourhood years ago. Then I
thought of the great Quaker preacher and author, Joseph John Gurney,
whom I had heard in this room, and of J. Pease the philanthropic English
banker. Then another incident of quite a different character came to my
recollection. An old and well known Hicksite preacher was there one
Sunday (always called First Day by the friends), and the spirit moved
him to speak. The Hicksite and orthodox Quakers were something like the
Jews and Samaritans of old--they dealt with one another, but had no
religious fellowship. The old friend had said but a few words, when one
of the leaders of the meeting rose and said very gravely: "Sit thee
down, James;" but James did not seem disposed to be choked off in this
peremptory way, and continued. Again the old friend stood up, and with
stronger emphasis said: "James, I tell thee to sit thee down;" and this
time James subsided. There was nothing more said on the occasion, and
after a long silence, the meeting broke up. On another occasion, a young
friend, who had aspired to become a teacher, stood up, and in that
peculiar, drawling, sing-song tone which used to be a characteristic of
nearly all their preachers, said: "The birds of the air have nests, the
foxes have holes, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head;"
and then sat down, leaving those who heard him to enlarge and apply the
text to suit themselves. There was nothing more said that day. And so my
mind wandered on from one thing to another, until at length my attention
was arrested by a friend who rose and took off his hat (members of the
society always sit with their hats on), and gave us a short and touching
discourse. I have heard some of the most telling and heart-searching
addresses at Quaker meetings. On this occasion there was no attempt--
there could be none from a plain people like this--to tickle the ear
with well-turned periods or rhetorical display. After the meeting was
over, I walked out into the graveyard; my father and mother and two
sisters lie there together, and several members of my father's family.
There is a peculiarity about a Quaker burying-ground that will arrest
the attention of any visitor. Other denominations are wont to mark the
last resting place of loved ones by costly stones and inscriptions; but
here the majority of the graves are marked with a plain board, and many
of them have only the initials of the deceased, and the rank grass
interlocks its spines above the humble mounds. I remember my father
having some difficulty to get consent to place a plain marble slab at
the head of his father and mother's grave. But were those who slumbered
beneath forgotten? Far otherwise. The husband here contemplated the
lowly dwelling place of the former minister to his delight. The lover
recognised the place where she whose presence was all-inspiring reposed,
and each knew where were interred those who had been lights to their
world of love, and on which grave to shed the drop born of affection and
sorrow. Although the pomp, the state, and the pageantry of love were her
ransom, yet hither, in moments when surrounding objects were forgotten,
had retired the afflicted, and poured forth the watery tribute that
bedews the cheek of those that mourn "in spirit and in truth." Hither
came those whose spirits had been bowed down beneath the burden of
distress, and indulged in the melancholy occupation of silent grief,
from which no man ever went forth without benefit. I thought of
Falconer's lines:--

"Full oft shall memory from oblivion's veil
Relieve your scenes, and sigh with grief sincere?"

After lingering for some time near the resting place of the dear ones of
my own family, I turned away and threaded my way thoughtfully back.

During another visit to the neighbourhood of my birth, after having tea
with the Rev. H---, Rector of ----, I took a stroll through the
graveyard that nearly surrounds the old church, and spent some time in
reading the inscriptions on the headstones. There were numbers that were
new and strange, but the most of them bore names that were familiar.
Time, of course, had left his mark, and in some cases the lettering was
almost gone. Many of those silent sleepers I remembered well, and had
followed their remains to the grave, and had heard the old Rector
pronounce the last sad rite: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to
dust," long years ago. As I passed on from grave to grave of former
friends and neighbours,

"Each in his narrow cell forever laid,"

many curious and pleasing collections were brought to mind. I came at
last to the large vault of the first Rector, who was among the first in
the Province. I recollected well the building of this receptacle for the
dead, and how his family, one after another, were placed in it; and then
the summons came to him, and he was laid there. A few years later, his
wife, the last survivor of the family, was put there too, and the large
slabs were shut down for the last time, closing the final chapter of
this family history, and--as does not often happen in this world--they
were taking their last sleep undivided. But Time, the great destroyer,
had been at work during the years that had fled, and I was sorry to find
that the slabs that covered the upper part of the vault, and which bore
the inscriptions, were broken, and that the walls were falling in. There
were no friends left to interest themselves in repairing the crumbling
structure, and in a few years more the probabilities are that every
vestige of the last resting-place of this united couple will be gone. It
is not a pleasing thought, and yet it is true, that however much we may
be loved, and however many friends may follow us with tears to the
grave, in a few short years they will be gone, and no one left to care
for us, or perhaps know that we ever lived. I have stood of an evening
in the grand cemetery of Pere la Chaise, Paris and watched the people
trooping in with their wreaths of _immortelles_ to be placed on the
tombs of departed friends, and others with cans of water and flowers to
plant around the graves. Here and there could be seen where some loved
one had been sprinkling the delicate flowers, or remained to water them
with their tears. This respect paid to the memory of departed ones is
pleasant, and yet, alas, how very few, after two or three generations
are remembered. The name that meets the eye on one stone after another
might as well be a blank for all we know of them. Anyone who has visited
the old churchyards or ruined abbeys in England must have felt this, as
his gaze has rested on time-worn tablets from which every mark had long
since been obliterated,

"By time subdued (what will not time subdue)!"

Turning away from the vault, and passing down the yard, I came to a
grave the headstone of which had fallen, and was broken. I turned the
two pieces over, and read: "To the memory of Eliza ----." And is this,
thought I, the end of the only record of the dear friend of my boyhood;
the merry, happy girl whom every one loved? No one left after a score of
years to care for her grave? So it is. The years sweep on. "Friend after
friend departs," still on, and all recollection of us is lost; on still,
and the very stones that were raised as a memorial disappear, and the
place that knew us once knows us no more forever. I turned away, sad and
thoughtful; but after a little my mind wandered back again to the sunny
hours of youth, and I lived them over. Eliza had been in our family for
several years, and was one of the most cheerful, kind-hearted girls one
could wish to see. She had a fine voice, and it seemed as natural for
her to sing as a bird. This, with her happy disposition, made her the
light and life of the house. She was like the little burn that went
dancing so lightly over the pebbles in the meadow--bright, sparkling,
joyous, delighting in pranks and fun as much as a kitten.

"True mirth resides not in the smiling skin--
The sweeted solace is to act no sin."
--HERRICK.

I do not think Eliza ever intentionally acted a sin. On one occasion,
however, this excess of spirit led her perhaps beyond the bounds of
maidenly propriety; but it was done without consideration, and when it
was over caused her a good deal of pain. The mischievous little
adventure referred to shall be mentioned presently.

We had some neighbours who believed in ghosts; not an uncommon thing in
those days. Eliza, with myself, had frequently heard from these people
descriptions of remarkable sights they had seen, and dreadful noises
they had heard at one time and another. She conceived the idea of making
an addition to their experiences in this way, and as an experiment made
a trial on me. I had been away one afternoon, and returned about nine
o'clock. It was quite dark. In the meantime she had quietly made her
preparations, and was on the look out for me. When my horse's feet were
heard cantering up the road, she placed herself that I could not fail to
see her. On I came, and, dashing up to the gate, dismounted; and there
before me on the top of the stone wall was something, the height of a
human figure draped in white, moving slowly and noiselessly towards me.
I was startled at first, but a second thought satisfied me what was up,
and that my supernatural visitor was quite harmless. I passed through
the gate, but my pet mare did not seem inclined to follow, until I spoke
to her, and then she bounded through with a snort. After putting her in
the field, and returning, I found the ghost had vanished. But I was
quite sure I had not done with it yet; and as I drew near the house I
was in momentary expectation that it would come out upon me somewhere. I
kept a sharp look-out, but saw nothing, and had reached the porch door
to go in, when, lo, there stood the spectre barring my way! I paused and
glanced at its appearance as well as I could, and I must confess if I
had been at all superstitious, or had come on such an object in a
strange place, I think I should have been somewhat shaken. However, I
knew my spectre, boldly took hold of it, and found I had something
tangible in my grip. After a brief and silent struggle, I thrust open
the door, and brought my victim into the room. My mother and sisters,
who knew nothing of what had been going on, were greatly alarmed to see
me dragging into the house a white object, and, womanlike, began to
scream; but the mystery was soon revealed. She had made up some thick
paste, with which she had covered her face, and had really got up quite
a sepulchral expression, to which the darkness gave effect; and being
enveloped in a white sheet, made, we thought, a capital ghost. This did
not satisfy her, and was only a preliminary to her appearance on the
first suitable occasion to our neighbours. It was not long before they
encountered the ghost on their way home after dark, and were so badly
frightened that in the end I think Eliza was worse frightened than they.
Eliza never had any confidants in these little affairs, and they were
over before any one in the house knew of it. This was the end, so far as
she was concerned, of this kind of amusement.

Some time after this another little episode of a similar nature
happened, but this time Eliza was one of the victims. We had a near
neighbour, an old bachelor, who had a fine patch of melons close at
hand. Eliza and a cousin who was on a visit had had their eyes on them,
and one day declared they were going that night to get some of Tom's
melons. Mother advised them not to do it, and told them there were
melons enough in our own garden without their going to steal Tom's. No,
they didn't want them, they were going to have a laugh on Tom;--and so
when it was dark they set off to commit the trespass. They had been away
but a few minutes when mother--who by the way was a remarkably timid
woman, and I have often wondered how she got up enough courage to play
the trick--put a white sheet under her arm and followed along the road
to a turn, where was a pair of bars, through which the girls had passed
to the field. Here she paused, and when she fancied the girls had
reached their destination she drew the sheet around her, rapped on the
bars with a stick, and called to them. Then, folding up the sheet, she
ran away home. She was not sure whether they had seen her or not. The
sheet was put away, and, taking up her knitting, she sat down quietly to
await their return, which she anticipated almost immediately. A long
time elapsed, and they did not appear. Then mother became alarmed, and
as she happened to be alone she did not know what to do. Though she had
gone out on purpose to frighten the girls, I do not think she could have
been induced to go out again to see what was keeping them. After a while
Mary came in, and then Eliza, both pale, and bearing evidence of having
had a terrible fright. Mother asked them what in the world was the
matter. "O, Aunt Polly!" they both exclaimed, "we have seen such an awful
thing tonight." "What was it?" They could not tell; it was terrible!
"Where did you see it?" "Over by the bars! Just as we had got a melon we
heard an awful noise, and then we saw something white moving about, and
then it was gone!" They were so badly frightened that they dropped down
among the vines, and lay there for some minutes. They then got up, and,
making a detour, walked home; but how, they never could tell. Mother was
never suspected by them, and after a time she told them about it. There
were no more ghosts seen in the neighbourhood after that.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15