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Upper Canada Sketches

<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> <div class="blockquot">Paring bees—Mirth and jollity—Dancing and games—Playing “forfeits”—Anti-Slavery Act—Canada’s proud distinction—Refugee slaves—“Uncle Tom”—Old Jeff—Story of a slave. </div> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “It came from Heaven—it reigned in Eden shades; It roves on earth, and every crack invades; Childhood and age alike its influence own; It haunts the beggar’s nook, the monarch’s throne; Hangs o’er the cradle, leans above the bier, Gazed on old Babel’s tower—and lingers here.” </div> </div></div> A PARING bee is still an ordinary occurrence in the autumn in the rural districts of this Province, though less frequent than when the process of preserving apples by evaporation was unknown. There is almost a superfluous abundance of apples in the fall, especially of the softer kinds, and those which will not keep are utilized by being dried for use after the hardier varieties are gone. These dried apples form a staple article of diet among Canadians, especially in the North-West and in the lumber camps. {121} There is much fun and jollity at these paring bees. After the apples are gathered in the fall, and sweet cider has been pressed out, one of the house-holders of a group will send out invitations for a paring bee. These invitations are invariably given verbally, and extend to all young lads and lasses, as well as to the married people in the vicinity, not forgetting the school-master. On the night appointed, those living at greater distances come in carriages, but never on horseback; the nearer ones on foot. Horses are put away, and all gather in the kitchen. This is generally one of the largest rooms in the farm-house, and for this occasion it has been cleared of its every-day impedimenta, and a long table placed in the middle of the room. The young men do the paring with paring machines. This machine as at first used, before the patented iron article came into use, was of home construction. It consisted of a wooden pulley, about eight inches in diameter, over which a belt ran on a smaller pulley of about three inches. By turning the large pulley great speed was given to the smaller one, to which the fork for holding the apple was attached. The knife for the paring of the apple was held in the hand of the operator. Some of the young men became very skilful in manipulating the knife, and their reputation kept them in requisition at every bee. It is almost incredible how quick one of these experts was{122} at paring an apple. With his home-made machine he could very quickly empty a bushel basket as he deftly and smoothly divested the apples of their skins. Three or four parers were usually employed during the evening. Along the table the young lasses were seated, and before them were heaped the pared fruit. As a division of labor, the first in order only quartered the apples, and pushed them on to her next neighbor, who, in turn, did the coring; and thus many bushels were pared, quartered and cored in the one evening. They were then strung upon linen thread by the younger persons of the party, who were not supposed to be sufficiently skilful to pare, quarter or core the fruit. Long darning needles with strong linen thread, cut in long lengths, were used. These were driven through the apple quarters, and a string so formed. It did not usually take long for the lads and lasses to be promiscuously inter-mixed, for no quaker-meeting formality was permitted at a paring bee. Sallies of wit never went unheeded by the willing ears. Should one be too sober, he or she would be quickly brought to a sense of duty by a light blow from a quarter of an apple discharged from a neighbor’s dexterous hand. It was the duty of the older members of the party to hang the strings of apples, as fast as they were ready, <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ill_017.jpg" width-obs="600" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /> <div class="caption">MOODE FAREWELLS’ TAVERN, NEAR OSHAWA, 1812. BARCLAY, CLARK & CO. LITHO. TORONTO </div> </div> {123} upon poles near the kitchen ceiling. From fifteen to twenty bushels of closely pared, cored and strung apples was not an uncommon result of an evening’s work. Thus in a single evening the household was provided with dried fruit for a year’s use. Paring, quartering, coring and stringing at last done, the company rise. A great heap of apple skins, seeds, and cores remain. The next step is to wash the hands in the apple litter, for this is supposed to be a means of preventing the apple juice pressed into the wrinkles of the hands from staining them when they become dry. And so all must thoroughly rub the hands in the apple litter. The lasses scarcely need the caution, for they do not want their hands stained. All “take hold” and clear the room, and in a few minutes it is put to rights, and the company sit upon benches and chairs around the room. The good housewife has prepared her lunch, and each one receives a plate, most likely laden with a slice of pumpkin pie, a bit of cheese and some cakes. Then someone comes around with a pitcher of sweet cider. There is no stint to the amount of food or drink anyone might partake of, and slice after slice of savory pumpkin pie disappears. Enough at last, and the room is again cleared. The table is now removed, and according to the religious scruples of the company, they divide. Those{124} who dance take a large room to themselves, someone produces from a green bag a well-worn violin, and it is a matter of only a few minutes before a voice is calling off: “Salute your partners,” “All promenade down the centre,” “All join hands,” etc., and such calls so familiar to many of us now in Ontario. I am not going to say there was as much style about the dance as nowadays, nor were there any long trains to the ladies’ dresses to get entangled under the gentlemen’s feet, but for genuine fun I am free to say the dignified dances of the present day are at a discount. As quickly as one set gets through an eight-hand reel there is another ready to take its place, and so the dance goes on. But we must turn to the other party, still out in the capacious kitchen, whose religious scruples do not permit them to dance. Even if so, they do not fail to glance furtively through the door now and again at the graceful dancers, and almost wish their theology would allow them to join in! A feature peculiar to America is now to be enacted in the kitchen, and it is simply a play among the boys and girls. A “kissing bee” it finally came to be called, and, as time went on, grew less fashionable, though it lingers yet. In those days it was one of our institutions, and must not pass away without a remark. Someone is chosen as judge, and blindfolded and placed in a{125} chair. Two are chosen to lead the victims to the judge, and the hands of the former are held over the judge’s head with the words, “Heavy, heavy, what hangs over?” The judge asks “Fine, or superfine?”—fine, of course, being for the lads, and the superfine for the lasses. Gravely the judge proceeds to pronounce the sentence. We will take one sentence from the judge, at random, among many from memory, which will give an idea of the general tenor of the judicial decisions. Allow the hand above his head to be superfine in this particular case. Sentence: “She must make a double-twisted lord-o’-massy with John Jones.” Now, John Jones knows what this means, and is not averse to kissing a pretty girl, for the judge generally knows his company, and the run of the sweethearts, and usually sends such together. Jones seizes the girl’s hands, elevates her arms to one side, and kisses her on one cheek, turns the hands over and elevates them again to the other side this time, and kisses her again through their arms on the other cheek. Then the next one comes up for sentence. Various sentences were of course given, but they invariably ended in kissing, much to the delight of the young men present. Thus the jollity and fun went on, but even so with this peculiarity of American kissing I wish to unequivocally record the fact that no impropriety was{126} ever indulged in or thought of. Perhaps kissing in this general and public way cannot commend itself, but to the participants in those days it was fun, and no harm came from it, and, so far as I can see, it had just about as many arguments to sustain it as the mazy dance has, where they all go “promenading down the centre.” The blindfolded judge has at last pronounced upon everyone in the room, and a change of the play is sought. Charlie is present and has brought his guitar. Now this Charlie is a wealthy farmer’s son (a farmer who owns his two hundred and fifty acres and stock, and is worth $30,000 at least), who, becoming rather proficient at the school, has been away a term to the old Normal School at Toronto. It must have been at the Normal he learned the guitar and began cultivating the incipient moustache which appears upon his upper lip like a streak of soft down. Still it is a moustache, and as such it is worth cultivating. And Charlie crosses his legs and proceeds to tune his guitar, amidst the good-humored gibes of the young ladies intently looking on. He gets the tune after all, and commences to hum an air and now and again give the instrument another turn of the screws. Boldly Charlie strikes out, and it is all about “Mrs. Fogarty’s Christmas cake.” At the termination of each{127} verse the applause of handclapping follows, and Charlie is spurred on to renewed efforts. The chorus comes in from this distance of years in my memory: <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “There were plums and prunes and cherries, And nuts and candies and cinnamon too; There were caraway seeds in abundance, And the crust it was nailed on with glue, And it would kill a man twice If he ate him a slice Of Mrs. Fogarty’s Christmas cake.” </div> </div></div> Well done, Charlie! and he’s free to go home with the prettiest girl in the group, and said prettiest girl is not at all averse to accept of Charlie’s company. This is a faithful picture of one of the scenes of the days of my boyhood. From out of the assemblage of those paring bees have sprung much of the bone and sinew of our glorious Province (the freest and best under heaven). The lads have become our M.P.’s, our wealthy merchants and staunch landowners, and many, I am sorry to say, have gone to the United States and given that country the benefit of their untamable Canadian energies and sturdy physique, while others fill the professional walks in our own land. The first Act which passed the Legislature of {128}Upper Canada in 1792 was an Anti-slavery Act. Canadians can therefore claim the proud distinction for their flag—the Union Jack of 1801—that it has never floated over legalized slavery. There are numerous instances in our records of negroes brought with the U. E. Loyalists to Canada, or who came of their own freewill, remaining as devoted servants with their masters and one-time owners until their death—not a few of these freed slaves devoting all their earnings to support their beloved masters or provide them with comforts and luxuries in their old age; and others, to secure themselves from being separated from their old masters during their lives, binding themselves by indentures to serve them for life. Canada is truly a land of freedom. Once within her borders the hunted slave, who had committed no crime, could claim the protection of its laws and know that he was a free man. Therefore when ill-treated it is obvious that slaves would escape from slavery and come to Canada—crossing at any part of the three-thousand-mile line boundary between the United States and Canada, and here finding security and freedom. About Chatham, in the western part of Ontario, there were many such escaped slaves, who had reached there by what was known as the “underground railway.” These men made very good citizens and{129} settlers. They were usually quiet, self-respecting, respectable, law-abiding, religious people—excellent servants, and often devoted to those whom they served. Winters in the northern States and Canada east of Toronto are not conducive to their pleasure, for the negro is really and truly a child of the sun. Thus the more western townships, which are sunny and have milder winters, suit them best. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom, in her great book, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” lived for some years in Chatham. Several, however, have settled and left kindly memories behind them in the neighborhood of Oshawa. One of these was <h3>OLD JEFF.</h3> About 1865 there came to this locality an intensely black negro. He had been a cotton-picker in Alabama, and had run away from slavery. How he got away he never would tell, but said he followed the north star. Without permission from anyone he went into the woods, just south of Cedar Dale shop, and in a thicket built himself a hut by inclining poles together like the letter A, covering them with dirt and using one unstopped end as a door. In this hut he dwelt by himself with his big dog for about seven years, when he died. Charitably{130} disposed persons used to give him food and clothes, for he was too old to work. He was very polite and harmless, and indeed became quite a favorite in the neighborhood. There seemed to be some hidden romance in his history which he never would tell, and during his latter days, although he had been anxious to get away from the South, he pined to go back. In the words of the old song: <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “I’ve hoed in fields of cotton, I’ve worked along the river, I thought if I got away I’d ne’er go back any longer; But times have changed the old man, And his head is bending low, For my heart’s turned back to Dixie, And I must go.” </div> </div></div> The late Mrs. F. W. Glen had a water-color drawing of old Jeff’s hut, which was prized highly for its faithful reproduction of the picturesque but rude dwelling. Poor old Jeff! the remains of his hut are still standing in the thicket. My father, in his earlier years, had a black man as a general servant. He lived so long in Canada that his story may be included in this sketch.{131} He was born about the year 1814 in one of the counties in Virginia, which was so storm-swept during the great rebellion from 1861 to 1865. His home was in the track which Gen. Sheridan despoiled so effectually that he was able to boast, “Even a crow flying over must carry its own rations.” But during the first forty years of this poor slave’s life it smiled and produced grains and grasses and cattle in abundance. There his home was on the farm, where the system of agriculture is more like ours. The “plantations” proper are farther south, and the negroes employed on them are looked upon by the farmer slaves as belonging to an inferior race. “Only a plantation nigger” is a common saying among those employed on the Virginia farms. Owned by the head of one of the first families of Virginia, he had to thank him, too, for being the author of his existence. There were other sons born to this proud first family of Virginia. As they grew up they became sensitive of their slave half-brother, and induced their father to sell him. His new master farmed one thousand acres of land, but only about one-half of this was arable, the rest being broken and used mainly for sporting in the scrub. On this one-thousand-acre farm sixty slaves, male and female, were kept, and the new master thought seriously of making his new slave{132} foreman. The old overseer, however, strongly resisted being put under a “nigger,” and his opposition, when putting it in such light in that day, was sufficient to keep the new slave out of the position. Digressing here just a little, we can discover what would be the wealth of one of the first families of Virginia, who as fire-eaters made such boasts afterwards. The one thousand acres could then be bought for $15,000, as they may be now; sixty slaves, at an average of $500, some being old and decrepit and others young, would be worth $30,000; stock and farming implements, say, $5,000. Total, $50,000. It is interesting to know what the capital of one of those great men who talked so much at the time of the war would be. The slave whose fortunes we are following was made a teamster and given a six-horse team to make one trip per week with a large canvas-covered waggon to Fredericksburg and home again. He sold the grain and brought the money home to his master at the end of every trip. On setting out on his journey he was always given fifteen bushels of oats for his six horses on the trip. The jealous overseer, trying to find a pretext to whip the new slave, stole two bags of oats from his load before he set out. This he did two weeks in succession. The consequence was that{133} the horses came home on the second trip looking somewhat gaunt and not quite up to the mark. Next morning after returning he was awakened by the overseer, carrying a big whip and some ropes, and ordered to go with him to his master. Arriving at the master’s house, the overseer charged him with having sold the oats and starved the team. The accused protested his innocence, and established it beyond doubt. “A black girl has told me,” he said, “where the overseer has hidden the oats, over the back part of the granary, between the ceiling and the outside boards.” His master at once forbade the whipping, and told him to go and find the trap, which he did straightway. He always asserted that while his master was at home he got on well enough, for he was a kindly-disposed man. But in an evil day for the poor slave the master went away “to the Springs” for his health, ordering him to continue teaming, and instructing him to hand the money to a near neighbor, not to the foreman. As soon as the overseer returned he, however, demanded the cash, but the man refused, and paid it over according to his master’s orders. Then the overseer took the slave off the road and put him ploughing with a three-horse team. After he had ploughed a few days, he came to him one day{134} on horseback, just after dinner, carrying a bundle of gads. On riding up to him he dismounted, and ordered him to “haul off.” For the first time in his life this poor slave asserted his manhood, and refused, declaring that “he had done nothing, and would not be whipped.” At this juncture the overseer pulled out a pistol, and placed it to the breast of the slave, who looked the overseer steadily in the eye, and said, “That’s the death I want to die, and not be killed by inches, as you have killed many hereabout.” It was too much even for the brutal overseer, who remounted and threatened he “would have satisfaction from him before sundown, if it cost him his life”; and so rode away, leaving him to go on with his ploughing. The overseer returned at nightfall with his brother and brother-in-law, and ropes enough “to tie down a horse,” as the old ex-slave expressed it, and a big whip. “Now, haul off, will you?” and the overseer made an effort to catch his victim, who dropped his reins and bolted from the plough handles for the woods, with the three in full chase after him. He was too fleet for them, however, and gained the shelter of the woods. For three weeks he hung about the neighborhood, fed by the other slaves, and waiting for his master to come home. Then the overseer <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ill_018.jpg" width-obs="600" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /> <div class="caption">DANIEL CONANT’S LUMBER MILL. BARCLAY, CLARK & CO. LITHO. TORONTO </div> </div> {135} advertised him as a runaway slave, and offered $100 for his arrest. “Any mean, poor white man, I knew, now might take me,” the old man said, “and so I walked to London during the night.” How pathetically the humble old ex-slave described his aversion to leave home and his friends! He stopped at London a week, working for wages. Being once more frightened, and not hearing that his master had returned home, he “followed the north star by night” and slept during the day, until he came to Harrisburg, Pa. From Harrisburg to Charlotte, N.Y., he walked during the day-time, boldly inquiring his way to Canada, but always careful to keep going north. He says he always had heard of Canada among the slaves, but thought it was “a land where the wild geese go to, and was covered over with feathers.” Liberty, the old man said, was sweet, and he had made up his mind to risk making a living in Canada, even if it might be a poor one. At Charlotte, N.Y., he found a small vessel about to sail for Colborne, Ont., and he bargained for his passage by working at loading before they set out, and was to help unload on getting over. It was late in the fall, he said, and when he once set foot in Canada he did not wait to help unload the boat for fear they might take him back to Charlotte, as they wished him to go for another trip. This was in 1854, when{136} the Grand Trunk Railroad was under construction, and things were booming in Ontario. He quickly got a job as teamster, and worked at that until the road was completed. About this time (1856) he became a servant of my father’s and lived with the family many years, and it was from his own lips I gathered the story of his life as I have told it. Only about three weeks before his death he induced the writer to communicate with his friends in Virginia, giving his assumed name, James King, by which he always had been known here. A reply came at once, telling his real name, (which the old man confessed was right), and asking him to come back and see his friends, intimating, too, that he might be profited by his visit. His dread of slavery was too great, however, and he absolutely refused to go, but enquired most earnestly for his white half-brother, whom, the writer suspects, would now be glad, seeing that the great battle of slavery had been fought, to aid him. But it was not to be. James King, the slave, in whose veins flowed Virginia’s best blood, died of inflammation on the 20th day of October, 1895, in the land where he had sought and found freedom. After a silence of thirty-eight years it seemed hard that the poor old ex-slave could not have gone to see his friends, and thus had a few bright days at the close of his long and lonely life.{137} <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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