of the largest districts in the Province; but county after county was
cut away from it on all sides, until it was greatly shorn of its
proportions. Before this clipping had begun, the courts were held
alternately in Kingston and Adolphustown. The old Court-House still
stands [Footnote: It has been taken down since, and a town hall for the
use of the township, erected on its site.] and is as melancholy a
monument of its former importance as one could wish to see. The town
which the original surveyors laid out here, and which early writers
mention, I have never been able to find more of than the plot. It must
have flourished long before my day.
But what about Prince Edward county? Of course you know that it was set
off in 1833, and that the first Court of Assize was held in this town--
then Hallowell--in 1834. I am not able to say much about its early
history; though I am sure there are many incidents of very great
interest connected with it, probably lost for the want of some friendly
hand. Land was taken up in this neighbourhood by Barker, Washburn,
Spencer, Vandusen, and others about the year 1790. Patents were issued
by the Government in 1802-3-4. At a meeting held at Eyre's Inn, on the
14th of February, 1818, at which Ebenezer Washburn, Esq., presided, I
learn that there was in the township of Hallowell at that time but two
brick-houses, one carding, and fulling mill, one Methodist Chapel--now
known as the old Chapel at Conger's Mill--one Quaker Meeting House.
Preparations were being made to build a church. [Footnote: Known as St.
Mary Magdalene. The Rev. W. Macaulay, I think, was the first rector, and
he lived to a good old age.] Orchards were beginning to be planted, and
other improvements. The first settlers paid at the rate of one shilling
per acre for their land. Four-fifths of the entire Midland district, in
1818, was a dense forest. We can hardly realise the fact that seventy
years ago there was probably not a soul living in this fair county.
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.
Time passed on, and Eliza's love of mischief drove her into another kind
of adventure. She was a girl of fine presence; fair, with bright black
eyes and soft black hair, which curled naturally, and was usually worn
combed back off the forehead. The general verdict was that she was
pretty. I have no doubt if she had had the opportunity she would have
made a brilliant actress, as she was naturally clever, possessing an
excellent memory and being a wonderful mimic. She would enter into a bit
of fun with the abandon of a child, and if occasion required the
stoicism of a deacon, the whole house might be convulsed with laughter,
but in Eliza's face, if she set her mind to it, you could not discern
the change of a muscle. Her features were regular, and of that peculiar
cast which, when she was equipped in man's attire, made her a most
attractive-looking beau. About half a mile away lived a poor widow with
a couple of daughters, and very nice girls they were, but one was said
to be a bit of a coquette. Eliza conceived the idea of giving this young
lady a practical lesson in the following manner. She dressed herself in
father's clothes, and set about making the girl's acquaintance. She
possessed the necessary _sang-froid_ to carry on a scheme of this
kind with success. The affair was altogether a secret. Well, in due
course a strange young man called about dark one evening at the widow's
to make enquiries respecting a person in the neighbourhood he wished to
find. He gave out that he was a stranger, and was stopping at ----, a
few miles away; asked for a drink of water, and to be allowed to rest
for a few moments; made himself agreeable, chatted with the girls, and
when he was leaving was invited to call again if he passed that way. He
did call again in a short time, and again and again, and struck up a
regular courtship with one of the girls, and succeeded to all appearance
in winning her affection. Now, the question presented itself, when
matters began to take this shape, how she was to break it off, and the
affair was such a novelty that she became quite infatuated with it, and
I have no doubt would have continued her visits if an accident had not
happened which brought them to an abrupt termination. On her return one
night she unexpectedly met father at the door, and as there was no
chance for retreat, she very courteously asked if he could direct her to
Mr. ----. It happened to be raining, and father, of course quite
innocently, asked the stranger in until the shower was over. She
hesitated, but finally came in and took a seat. There was something
about the person, and particularly the clothes, that attracted his
attention, but this probably would have passed if he had not, observed
that the boots were on the wrong feet; that is to say, the right boot
was on the left foot, _et vice versa_. Knowing Eliza's propensities
well, he suspected her, and she was caught. Enjoying a romp now and then
himself he called mother, and after tormenting poor Eliza for a while,
let her go. This cured her effectually. But the poor girl never knew
what became of her lover. He came no more, and she was left to grieve
for a time, and I suppose to forget, for she married a couple of years
after. The secret was kept at Eliza's request, after making a clean
breast of it to mother, for a long time. She married not long after
this, and was beloved by everyone. She was a devoted wife, and had
several children, none of whom are now living. Poor Eliza! I thought of
Hamlet's soliloquy on Yorick as I stood by her unkept grave, with its
headstone fallen and broken. "Those lips that I have kissed I know not
how oft--where be your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment."
All gone, years ago! And they live only in the sweet recollections of
the past.
My father used to keep a large number of bees either in wood or straw
hives, mostly of the former; and indeed most all our neighbours kept
them too, and I remember a curious custom that prevailed of blowing
horns and pounding tin pans when they were swarming, to keep them from
going away. I never knew my father to resort to this expedient, but it
was wonderful to see him work among them. He would go to the hives and
change them from one to another, or go under a swarm, and without any
protection to his face or hands, shake them into the hive, and carry it
away and put it in its place. They never stung him unless by accident.
If one of them got under his clothes and was crowded too much, he might
be reminded that there was something wrong, but the sting only troubled
him for a minute or two. With me it seemed if they got a sight of me
they made a "bee line" for my face. After father's death they soon
disappeared, as I would not have them about. We sometimes found bee
trees in the woods, and on one occasion chopped down a large elm out of
which we got a quantity of choice honey. I remember this well; for I ate
so much that it made me sick, and cured me from wanting honey ever
after.
Another incident connected with the afternoon's work in robbing the
bees. It was quite early in the spring, and though the snow had pretty
much disappeared from the fields, yet there was some along the fences
and in the woods. We left the house after dinner with a yoke of oxen and
wood-sleigh freighted with pails and tubs to bring back our expected
prize, and the afternoon was well spent before John--our hired man--had
felled the tree, and by the time we had got the comb into the vessels it
was growing dark. Just as everything had been got into the sleigh, and
we were about to leave, we were startled by a shrill scream on one side,
something like that made by a pair of quarrelsome tom-cats, only much
louder, which was answered immediately by a prolonged mew on the other.
The noise was so startling and unexpected that John for a moment was
paralyzed. Old Ring, a large powerful dog, bounded away at once into the
woods, and Buck and Bright started for home on the trot. I was too sick
to care much about wild cats, or in fact anything else, and lay on my
back in the straw among the pails and tubs, but I heard the racket, and
what appeared a struggle with the dog. We did not see Ring until next
morning, and felt sure that he had been killed. The poor old fellow
looked as though he had had a hard time of it, and did not move about
much for a day or two. The wild cat or Canadian lynx is a ferocious
animal. The species generally go in pairs. I have frequently heard them
calling to one another at apparently long distances, and then they would
gradually come together. A man would fare very badly with a pair of
them, particularly if he was laid on his back with a fit of colic.
Like most lads, I was fond of shooting, and used frequently to shoulder
my gun and stroll away through the fields in quest of game. On one
occasion, somewhere about the first of September, I was out hunting
black squirrels, and had skirted along the edge of the woods and corn
fields for some distance. I had not met with very good success. The
afternoon was warm, and I was discussing in my mind whether I should go
further on or return home. Looking up the hill, I saw a couple of
squirrels, and started after them at a sharp pace. On my right was a
corn field and as I stepped along the path near the fence, I had a
glimpse of something moving along on the other side of it, but I was so
intent on watching the squirrels that I did not in fact think of
anything else for the moment. As I drew near the tree I saw them go up.
Keeping a sharp look-out for a shot, I chanced to look down, and there
before me, not two rods away, sat a large red-nosed bear. The encounter
was so unexpected that it is hardly necessary to say I was frightened,
and it was a moment or two before I could collect my wits. Bruin seemed
to be examining me very composedly, and when I did begin to realize the
position the question was what to do. I was afraid to turn at once and
run. Having but one charge of small shot in my gun, I knew it would not
do to give him that, so we continued gazing at each other. At length I
brought my gun to full cock, made a step forward, and gave a shout. The
bear quietly dropped on his fore legs and moved off, and so did I, and
as the distance widened I increased my speed. The little dog I had with
me decamped before I did, having no doubt seen the bear. I ran to a
neighbour's who had a large dog. One of the boys got his gun, and we
went back in a somewhat better condition for a fight; but when the dog
struck the scent he put his tail between his legs and trotted home,
showing more sense probably than we did. However, we saw nothing of the
bear, and returned. Some days after a neighbour shot a large bear, no
doubt the same one.
Very early in the history of mankind it was pronounced to be not good
that man should be alone, and ever since then both male and female have
seemed to think so too. At all events there is a certain time in life
when this matter occupies a very prominent place in the minds of both,
and it was no more of a novelty when I was young than now. The same
desires warmed the heart, and the same craving for social enjoyment and
companionship brought the young together, with the difference that then
we were in the rough, while the young of the present have been touched
up by education and polished by the refinements of fashionable society.
I do not think they are any better at the core, or make more attentive
companions. Now, when a young gentleman goes to see a young lady with
other views than that of spending a little time agreeably, he is said to
be paying his addresses, or, as Mrs. Grundy would say: It is an
_affaire d'amour_. When I was young, if a boy went to see a girl
(and they did whenever they could) he was said to be sparking her. If he
was unsuccessful in his suit you would hear it spoken of in some such
way as this: "Sally Jones gave Jim Brown the mitten;" and very often the
unlucky swain was actually presented with a small mitten by the
mischievous fair one whom he had hoped to win, as a broad hint that it
was useless for him to hang around there any longer. Sunday afternoon
was the usual time selected, and in fact it was the only time at their
disposal for visiting the girls. There were favourite resorts in every
neighbourhood, and girls whose attractions were very much more inviting
than others, and thither three or four young gallants, well-mounted and
equipped in their best Sunday gear, might be seen galloping from
different directions of a Sunday evening. Of course it could not in the
nature of things happen that all would be successful, and so after a
while one unfortunate after another would ride away to more propitious
fields, and leave the more fortunate candidate to entertain his lady-
love until near midnight. Sometimes tricks were played on fortunate
rivals by loosing their horses and starting them home, or hiding their
saddles; and it was not a pleasant conclusion to such a delightful visit
to have to trudge through the mud four or five miles of a dark night, or
to ride home barebacked, as the best pants were likely to get somewhat
soiled in the seat. However, these little affairs seldom proved very
serious, and it would get whispered around that Tildy Smith was going to
get married to Pete Robins.
When I had grown to be quite a lad I got a lesson from Grandfather C---
that never required repeating. Those who are acquainted with the Quakers
know that they do not indulge in complimentary forms of speech. A
question is answered with a simple yes or no. My father's people were of
this persuasion, and of course my replies whenever addressed were in the
regular home style. It does not follow, however, that because the
Friends as a people eschew conformity to the world both in dress and
speech, that there is a want of parental respect. Quite the contrary.
Their regular and temperate habits, their kindness and attention to the
comfort and well-being of one another, make their homes the abode of
peace and good-will, and, though their conversation is divested of the
many little phrases the absence of which is thought disrespectful by
very many, yet they have gained a reputation for consistency and
truthfulness which is of more value than ten thousand empty words that
drop smoothly from the lips but have no place in the heart. During a
visit to my grandfather, the old gentleman asked me a number of
questions to which he got the accustomed yes or no. This so displeased
him that he caught me by the ear and gave it a twist that seemed to me
to have deprived me of that member altogether, and said very sharply,
"When you answer me, say SIR." That Sir was so thoroughly twisted into
my head that I do not think the old man ever spoke to me after that it
did not jump to my lips.
Another anecdote, of much the same character as that related above, and
quite as characteristic of the men of those days, was told me by an old
man not long since--one of the very few of the second generation now
living (Paul. C. Petersen, aged 84). Mr. Herman, one of the first
settlers in the 4th Concession of Adolphustown, bought a farm, which
happened to be situated on the boundary line between the above-named
township and Fredericksburgh, in those days known as 3rd and 4th town.
It seems that in the original survey, whether through magnetic
influence, to which it was ascribed in later years, but more probably
through carelessness, or something more potent, there was a wide
variation in the line which should have run nearly directly north from
the starting point on the shore of the Bay of Quinte. However, as time
wore on, and land became more valuable, this question of boundary became
a serious thing, and in after years resulted in a series of law suits
which cost a large sum of money. Mr. Herman held his farm by the first
survey, but if the error which had been made in a direction north was
corrected, he would either lose his farm or would have been shoved over
on to his neighbour west, and so on. He was not disposed to submit to
this, and as he was getting old he took his eldest son one day out to
the original post at the south-east corner of his farm on the north
shore of Hay Bay, and said to him: "My son, this (pointing out the
post), is the post put here by the first survey,--and which I saw
planted--at the corner of my lot, and I wish you to look around and mark
it well." While the son was looking about, the old man drew up his arm
and struck him with the flat of his hand and knocked him over. He at
once picked him up, and said: "My son, I had no intention of hurting
you, but I wanted to impress the thing on your mind." Shortly after he
took the second son out, and administered the same lesson. Not long
after the old man passed away, and I remember well that for years this
matter was a bone of contention.
Most Canadians are familiar with the musical bullfrogs which in the
spring, in a favourable locality, in countless numbers call to each
other all night long from opposite swamps. These nightly concerts become
very monotonous. The listener, however, if he pays attention, will catch
a variety of sounds that he may train into something, and if of a
poetical turn of mind might make a song that would rival some of those
written to bells. I used to fancy I could make out what they were
calling back to one another, and have often been a very attentive
listener. There was an old man in the neighbourhood who very frequently
came home drunk, and we used to wonder he did not fall off his horse and
get badly hurt or killed; but the old horse seemed to understand how to
keep under him and fetch him and his jug home all right. We had a little
song which the frogs used to sing for him as he got near home.
Old Brown--old Brown 1st baritone, last word drawn out.
Been to town--been to town 2nd--answer same key.
With his jug-jug-jug 3rd--high key in which more join.
Coo-chung--coo-chung 4th--baritone in which several join.
Chuck-chuck-chuck. 5th--alto from different quarters.
Chr r r r r r r r.-- 6th--chorus, grand, after which
there is a pause, and then an old
leader will start as before.
Old Brown--old Brown
Get home--get home,
Your drunk, drunk, drunk,
Coo chung-cooo chung
Chuck-chuck-chuck.
Chr r r r r r r r.
Many curious stories are told respecting the sagacity of animals, among
which the dog takes a prominent place. My father had a large dog when I
was a youngster that certainly deserves a place among the remarkable
ones of his race. Ring was a true friend, and never of his own accord
violated the rules of propriety with his kind, but woe to the dog who
attempted to bully him. He possessed great strength, and when driven
into a contest, generally made short work of it, and trotted away
without any show of pride over his defeated contestant. He was in the
habit of following my father on all occasions and although frequently
shut up and driven back, was sure to be on hand at the stopping point to
take charge of the team, etc. On the occasion I am about to mention, my
father and mother were going on a visit to his brothers some twenty-four
miles distant. Before starting in the morning the decree went forth that
Ring must stop at home, and he was accordingly shut up, with
instructions that he was not to be let out until after dinner. It was
necessary to do this before any preparations were made for going away,
for the simple reason that it had been done repeatedly before, and when
there was the least sign of a departure, experience had taught him that
the best plan was to keep out of the way, in which he generally
succeeded until too late to capture him. On this occasion Ring was
outwitted. The horses were put to the sleigh, and away they trotted. On
the journey they stopped at Picton for a time, when the team was driven
into the tavern yard and fed, during which time other teams were coming
and going. After about an hour they started again, driving through the
village, and on towards their destination. Some five or six hours after,
when all possible chance of Ring's following seemed to have passed, he
was let out. The dog seemed to know at once what had been going on, and
after a careful inspection, discovered that father and mother, with the
horses and sleigh, were gone. He rushed about the place with his nose to
the ground, and when he had settled which way they had gone, set off in
full chase up the road, and a few minutes before they had reached my
uncle's, Ring passed them, on the road, wagging his tail, and looking as
if he thought that was a good joke. The singular point is how the dog
discovered their route, and how, hours after, he traced them up into the
tavern yard and out through a street, and along a road where horses and
sleighs were passing all the time; and how he distinguished the
difference of the horses' feet and sleigh runners from scores of others
which had passed to and fro in the meantime. It is a case of animal
instinct, or whatever it may be called, beyond comprehension.
Many years ago my father-in-law (the late Isaac Ingersoll, Esq.), a
prominent man in the District, and a wealthy farmer, widely known, had
frequent applications from parties in Kingston for a good milch cow. In
those days milk was not delivered, as now, at every door in towns, and
it became a necessity for every family to have a cow. The wealthier
people wanted good ones, and as the old gentleman was known to keep good
stock, he was enabled to get good prices. On one occasion he sold a cow
to a gentleman in the town above named, and sent her by steamboat down
the Bay of Quinte, a distance of over thirty miles. A week after, the
old man was surprised one morning to find this cow in his yard. She had
made her escape from her new master, and returned to her old quarters
and associates. She was sent back, and after a time got away and
travelled the thirty miles again, and was found in the yard. The second
journey of course was not so difficult, but by what process did she
discover, in the first place, the direction she was taken, and pursue a
road which she had never travelled, back to her old quarters. At her new
home she was, if anything, better fed and cared for; why should she
embrace the first opportunity to steal away and seek her old companions?
Who can explain these things? In this case there is an attachment
evinced for home and associates, and a persistence in returning to them,
most remarkable, and in the case of the dog, an intelligence (or what
you may be pleased to call it), which enabled him to trace his master,
and overtake him, which is altogether beyond human ken.
There is the irrepressible cat, too. Every household is troubled from
time to time with one or more of these animals, which from their
_snuping_ propensities become a nuisance. I have on more than one
occasion put one in a bag and carried it miles away, and then let it go,
rather than kill it outright; but it was sure to be back almost as soon
as myself.
The 4th of June, the anniversary of the birth of King George III., as
well as that of the very much more humble individual who pens these
lines, for many years was the day selected for the annual drill of the
militia of the Province. It was otherwise known as general training-day,
and ten days or more previously, the men belonging to the various
battalions were "warned" to appear at a certain place in the district.
Each individual was subject to a fine of 10s or more if not on the
ground to answer to his name when the roll was called. On the morning of
that day, therefore, men on foot, on horseback and in waggons were to be
seen wending their way to the "training ground," or field, in close
proximity to a tavern. It was an amusing spectacle to see a few hundred
rustics, whose ages ranged from 16 to 40, in all kinds of dress, with
old muskets that had been used in the Revolutionary War or in that of
1812--fusees that many a year, as occasion required, had helped to
contribute to the diminished larder--drawn up in a line, and marched
round the field for a time. The evolutions were such as might be
expected from a crowd of raw countrymen, and often got tangled up so
that a military genius of more than superhuman skill would have been
puzzled to get them in order again.
There was no other way to do it, but to stop and re-form the line. Then
would come the word of command: "Attention. Brown fall back. Johnson
straighten up there. That will do. Now men, at the word 'Right about,'
each man has to turn to his right, at the word 'Left about,' each man
turns to his left. Now then: Attention--Right about face." Confusion
again, some turning to the right and others to the left. A few strong
phrases follow--"As you were"--and so the thing goes on; the men are
wheeled to the right and left, marched about the field, and, after being
put through various steps, are brought into line again. The commanding
officer, sword in hand, looks along the serried ranks, the sergeants
pass along the line, chucking one's head up, pushing one back, bringing
another forward, and then rings out the word of command again:
"Atten_tion_! Shoulder arms! Make ready, present, fire!" Down come
the old guns and sticks in a very threatening attitude, a random pop
along the line is heard, then "Stand at ease"--after which the Colonel,
in his red coat, wheels his charger about, says a few words to the men,
and dismisses them. The rest of the day was spent by every man in
carousing, horse-racing, and games, with an occasional fight. After the
arduous duties of the day, the officers had a special spread at the
tavern, and afterwards left for home with very confused ideas as to the
direction in which they should proceed to reach it.
Fifty years ago, shaving the beard, in Canada at all events, was
universal. If a man were to go about as the original Designer of his
person no doubt intended, a razor would never have touched his face. But
men, like other animals, are subject to crotchets, and are wont to
imitate superiors, so when some big-bug like Peter the Great introduced
the shears and razor, men appeared soon after with cropped heads and
clean chops. I do not remember that I ever saw a man with a full beard
until after I had passed manhood for some years, except on one occasion
when I was a youngster at school in the old school house on the
concession. A man passed through the neighbourhood--I do not remember
what he was doing--with a long flowing beard. We had somehow got the
idea that no men except Jews wore their beards, and the natural
inference with us was that this man was one of that creed. He was as
much of a curiosity to us as a chimpanzee or an African lion would have
been, and we were about as afraid of him as we would have been on seeing
either of the other animals.
The township of Adolphustown, in the county of Lennox, is the smallest
township in the Province. Originally the counties of Lennox and
Addington, Frontenac, Hastings and Prince Edward were embraced in the
Midland District. These counties, as the country advanced in population,
were one after another set off, the last being the united counties of
Lennox and Addington, separated from Frontenac, and with the town of
Napanee as its capital. The township in my young days was known as
fourth town, as the townships east of it as far as Kingston were known
as first, second and third town. Immediately after the American War, the
land along the Bay of Quinte, embracing these townships, with fifth,
sixth and seventh town to the west, were taken up, and the arduous task
of clearing away the bush at once began. The bay, from its debouche at
Kingston, extends west about seventy miles, nearly severing at its
termination the county of Prince Edward from the main land. The land on
either hand, for about thirty miles west of Kingston, is undulating,
with a gradual ascent from the shore, but when Adolphustown is reached,
Marysburgh, in the county of Prince Edward, on the opposite side of the
bay, presents a bold front, its steep banks rising from one to two
hundred feet. From the Lake of the Mountain, looking across the wide
stretch of water formed by the sharp detour of the bay in its westerly
to a north-easterly course for fifteen or twenty miles, the observer has
one of the most charming scenes in America spread out before him. In the
distance, the lofty rocky shore of Sophiasburgh, with its trees and
shrubs crowding down to the water's edge, stretch away to the right and
left. To the west, the estuary known as Picton Bay curves around the
high wooded shore of Marysburgh, and beneath and to the east, the four
points of which the township of Adolphustown is composed reach out their
woody banks into the wide sweep of the bay like the four fingers of a
man's hand. For quiet, picturesque beauty, there is nothing to surpass
it. On every hand the eye is arrested with charming landscapes, and
looking across the several points of the township you have dwellings,
grain fields, herds of cattle, and wood. Beyond you catch the shimmer of
the water. Again you have clumps of trees and cultivated fields, and
behind them another stretch of water, and so on as far as the eye can
reach. The whole course of the bay, in fact, is a panorama of rural
beauty, but the old homes that were to be seen along its banks twenty-
five and thirty years ago have either disappeared altogether or have
been modernized. It is now very nearly one hundred years since the first
settlers found their way up it, and it must have been then a beautiful
sight in its native wildness, the clear green water stretching away to
the west, the sinuosities of the shore, the numberless inlets, the
impenetrable forest and the streams that cut their way through it and
poured their contingents into its broad bosom, the islands here and
there, upon which the white man had never set his foot, water fowl in
thousands, whose charming home was then for the first time invaded,
skurrying away with noisy quake and whir, the wood made sweet with the
song of birds, the chattering squirrel, the startled deer, the silent
murmur of the water as it lapped the sedgy shore or gravelly beach--
these things must have combined to please, and to awaken thoughts of
peaceful homes, in the near future to them all.
The Bay of Quinte, apart from its delightful scenery, possesses an
historical interest. It is not known from whence it received its name,
but there is no doubt it is of French origin. Perhaps some of the old
French voyageurs, halting at Fort Frontenac, on their way west, as they
passed across it, and through one of the gaps that open the way to the
broad expanse of Lake Ontario, may have christened it. Be this as it
may, it was along its shores that the first settlers of the Province
located. Here came the first preachers, offering to the lonely settler
the bread of life. On its banks the first house devoted to the worship
of God was erected, and the seed sown here, as the country grew, spread
abroad. Here the first schoolmaster began his vocation of instructing
the youth. The first steamboat was launched (1816) upon its waters at
Ernesttown, near the present village of Bath. Kingston, for a long time
the principal town of the Province, then composed of a few log houses,
was the depot of supplies for the settlers. It has a history long
anterior to this date. In 1673, Courcelles proceeded to Cataraqui with
an armed force to bring the Iroquois to terms, and to get control of the
fur trade. Then followed the building of Fort Frontenac. The restless
trader and discoverer, La Salle, had the original grant for a large
domain around the fort. Here, in 1683, La Barre built vessels for the
navigation of the lake, and the year following held a great council with
the Five Nations of Indians, at which Big Mouth was the spokesman. The
fort was destroyed by Denonville in 1689, and rebuilt in 1696. It was
again reduced by Colonel Bradstreet in 1758.
In Adolphustown many of the first settlers still lived when I was a boy,
and I have heard them recount their trials and hardships many a time.
Besides the U. E. Loyalists there were a number of Quaker families which
came to the Province about the same time, leaving the new Republic, not
precisely for the same reasons, but because of their attachment to the
old land. During the war, these people, who are opposed to war and
bloodshed, suffered a good deal, and were frequently imprisoned, and
their money and property appropriated. This did not occur in Canada, but
they were subject to a fine for some time, for not answering to their
names at the annual muster of the militia. The fine, however, was not
exacted, except in cases where there were doubts as to membership with
the society. This small township has contributed its quota to the
Legislature of the country. T. Dorland represented the Midland District
in the first Parliament of the Province, and was followed by Willet
Casey, when Newark or Niagara was the capital. The latter was succeeded
several years later by his son, Samuel Casey, but, as often happens,
there was a difference in the political opinions of the father and son.
The father was a Reformer, the son a Tory; and at the election, the old
gentleman went to the poll and recorded his vote against his son, who
was nevertheless elected. The Roblins, John P---, who represented the
county of Prince Edward, and David, who sat for Lennox and Addington,
were natives of the township. The Hagermans, Christopher and D---, were
also fourth town boys, with whom my mother went to school. The old
homestead, a low straggling old tenement, stood on the bay shore a few
yards west of the road that leads to the wharf. I remember it well. It
was destroyed by fire years ago. The father of Sir John A. Macdonald
kept a store a short distance to the east of the Quaker meeting-house on
Hay Bay, on the third concession. It was a small clap-boarded building,
painted red, and was standing a few years ago. I remember being at a
nomination in the village of Bath, on which occasion there were several
speakers from Kingston, among them John A. Macdonald, then a young
lawyer just feeling his way into political life. He made a speech, and
began something in this way: "Yeomen of the county of Lennox and
Addington, I remember well when I ran about in this district a
barefooted boy," &c. He had the faculty then, which he has ever since
preserved, of getting hold of the affections of the people. This
_bonhommie_ has had much to do with his popularity and success. I
recollect well how lustily he was cheered by the staunch old farmers on
the occasion referred to. A few years later a contest came off in the
county of Prince Edward, where I then resided. In those days political
contests were quite as keen as now; but the alterations in the law which
governs these matters has been greatly changed and improved. The
elections were so arranged that people owning property in various
counties could exercise their franchise. The old law, which required
voters to come to a certain place in the district to record their vote,
had been repealed; and now each voter had to go to the township in which
he owned property, to vote. Foreign voters were more numerous then than
now, and were looked after very sharply. On this occasion there was a
sharp battle ahead, and arrangements were made to meet property owners
at all points. There were a number from Kingston on our side, and it
fell to me to meet them at the Stone Mills Ferry, and bring them to
Picton. The ice had only recently taken in the bay, and was not quite
safe, even for foot passengers. There were six or seven, and among them
John A. Macdonald, Henry Smith, afterwards Sir Henry, and others. In
crossing, Smith got in, but was pulled out by his companions, in no very
nice plight for a long drive. The sleighing was good, and we dashed
away. In the evening I brought them back, and before they set off across
the bay on their return, John A. mounted the long, high stoop or
platform in front of Teddy McGuire's, and gave us an harangue in
imitation of ----, a well-known Quaker preacher, who had a marvellous
method of intoning his discourses. It was a remarkable sing-song, which
I, or any one else who ever heard it, could never forget. Well John A.,
who knew him well, had caught it, and his imitation was so perfect that
I am inclined to think the old man, if he had been a listener, would
have been puzzled to tell t'other from which. We had a hearty laugh, and
then separated.
[Illustration: SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD'S EARLY HOME.]
I have often heard my mother tell of a trip she made down to the Bay of
Quinte, when she was a young girl. She had been on a visit to her
brother Jonas Canniff (recently deceased in this city at the age of
ninety-two), who had settled on the river Moira, two miles north of the
town of Belleville, then a wilderness. There were no steamboats then,
and the modes of conveyance both by land and water were slow and
tedious. She was sent home by her brother, who engaged two friendly
Indians to take her in a bark canoe. The distance to be travelled was
over twenty miles, and the morning they started the water in the bay was
exceedingly rough. She was placed in the centre of the canoe, on the
bottom, while her Indian _voyageurs_ took their place in either
end, resting on their knees. They started, and the frail boat danced
over the waves like a shell. The stoical yet watchful Indians were alive
only to the necessities of their position, and with measured stroke they
shot their light bark over the boisterous water. Being a timid girl, and
unaccustomed to the water, especially under such circumstances, she was
much frightened and never expected to reach her home. There was
considerable danger, no doubt, and her fears were not allayed by one of
the Indians telling her if she stirred he would break her head with the
paddle. The threat may not have been unwise. Their safety depended on
perfect control of the boat, and in their light shell a very slight
movement might prove disastrous. Her situation was rendered more
unpleasant by the splashing of the water, which wet her to the skin.
This she had to put up with for hours, while the Indians bravely and
skilfully breasted the sea, and at last set her safely on the beach in
front of her father's house. When they came to the shore one of the
Indians sprang lightly into the water, caught her in his arms and placed
her on dry land. This trip was literally burned in her memory, and
though she frequently mentioned it, she did so with a shudder, and an
expression of thankfulness for her preservation.
Of the old people who were living in my boyhood there are few more
thoroughly fixed in my memory, with the exception, perhaps, of my
grandfathers Canniff and Haight, than Willet and Jane Casey. There were
few women better known, or more universally respected, than Aunt Jane.
This was the title accorded to her by common consent, and though at that
time she had passed the allotted term of three-score years and ten, she
was an active woman--a matron among a thousand, a friend of everybody,
and everybody's friend. Her house was noted far and wide for its
hospitality, and none dispensed it more cordially than Aunt Jane. In
those days the people passing to and fro did not hesitate to avail
themselves of the comforts this old home afforded. In fact, it was a
general stopping place, where both man and beast were refreshed with
most cheerful liberality.
[Illustration: AUNT JANE, AGE 92]
Jane Niles, her maiden name, was born at Butternuts, Otsego County, in
the central part of New York State, 1763; so that at the commencement of
the American Revolution she was about eleven years old. She was married
in 1782. The following year, 1783, the year in which peace was
proclaimed, her husband, Willet Casey, left for Upper Canada, and
located in the fourth town on the shore of the Bay of Quinte. After
erecting a log house and a blacksmith shop, he returned for his wife. He
was taken seriously ill, and nearly a year passed before he was able to
set out again for the new home in the wilds of Upper Canada (which was
reached early in the year 1785), where, after a long and prosperous
life, he ended his days.
Aunt Jane was a tall and well proportioned woman, of commanding presence
and cheerful disposition; a woman of more than ordinary intelligence,
and a good conversationalist. She had been a close observer of passing
events, and possessed a wonderfully retentive memory. It was an epoch in
one's life to hear her recount the recollections of her early days.
These ran through the whole period of the American War, and many scenes
which are now historical, that she had witnessed, or was cognizant of,
were given with a vividness that not only delighted the listener but
fixed them in his memory. Then, the story of the coming to Canada, with
her first babe six months old, and the struggles and hardships in the
bush, which in the days of which I speak she delighted to linger over,
was a great treat to listen to. There were few of the first families she
did not know, and whose history was not familiar to her, and in most
cases she could give the names and ages of the children. The picture
given of her in this volume is a copy from a daguerrotype taken when she
was ninety-two years old. For several years before her demise she did
not use spectacles, and could read ordinary print with ease, or do fine
needlework. She retained her faculties to the last, and died at the age
of ninety-six.
She had eleven children, five of whom died young. Her eldest daughter,
Martha, known as Patty Dorland, attained the age of ninety-two. Then
followed Samuel, Elizabeth, Thomas, Mary and Jane. These, with the
exception of Thomas and Mary Ingersoll, my wife's mother, died many
years ago. Thomas Casey died at Brighton, in January of this year, aged
eighty-seven, and Mary Ingersoll on the first of June, aged eighty-five,
the last of the family.
Willet Casey was an energetic man. He accumulated a large property, and
in my boyhood there were not many days in the week that the old man
could not be seen driving along the road in his one-horse waggon in some
direction. He was one of the first representatives for the Midland
District, when Newark was the capital of the Province. His son Samuel, a
number of years subsequently, represented the district, and later, his
grandson, Dr. Willet Dorland, represented the County of Prince Edward.
NOTE: At the time my book was going through the press, I was under the
impression that the fish known in this country as a Sucker was the same
as the Mullet, but had no intention that the latter name should find its
way into the text in place of Sucker. See page 41. According to
Richardson, one of the best authorities we have, the Sucker is of the
Carp family, the scientific name of which is _Cyprinus Hudsonius_,
or Sucking Carp.
On page 127, "and, as their lives had theretofore," read heretofore.