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.
“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.”
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.
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 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,
[Illustration: MOODE FAREWELLS’ TAVERN, NEAR OSHAWA, 1812.]
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 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 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 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 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:
“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.”
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 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 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
OLD JEFF.
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 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:
“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.”
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.
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 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 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 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
[Illustration: DANIEL CONANT’S LUMBER MILL.] 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 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.