The “_Trent_ affair”--Excitement in Canada--Bombastic
“fire-eaters”--Thriving banks--High rates of interest--Railway
building--The bonus system--A sequestered hamlet--A “psychologist”
and his entertainment--A mock duel--A tragic page of family
history.
“There is no other land like thee,
No dearer shore;
Thou art the shelter of the free;
The home, the port of liberty
Thou hast been and shalt ever be
Till time is o’er.
Ere I forget to think upon
My land, shall mother curse the son
She bore!”
The event known as the “_Trent_ affair,” November 8th, 1861, when the
American man-of-war _San Jacinto_, commanded by Captain Wilkes, stopped
the British mail steamship _Trent_ in the open sea, boarded her, and
arrested the Confederate commissioners, Mason and Slidell, then on their
way to England to plead the cause of the South and seek its recognition
as a belligerent power, caused considerable excitement in Canada. The
Northern States were much elated over this grave breach of the law of
nations, but Great Britain was indignant, and demanded the instant
release of the captives, a declaration of war as the alternative. Troops
were sent to Halifax and Quebec, one regiment riding from Halifax to
Quebec in the midst of winter, there being no Intercolonial Railway at
that date. All Canadians of military age were enrolled, and the
excitement caused thereby seemed almost to deprive many of their
reasoning powers.
There was much bombastic talk, and it certainly appeared as if a lot of
our fire-eaters wanted war and a chance to distinguish themselves, and
in no instance did this class of the community suppose that the United
States could or would strike back. No, they evidently believed we were
simply to band together and “eat up” the people of the Northern States.
A well-known practising physician of Oshawa boasted that he with ten
thousand men could march right through to Washington.
However, Lincoln’s firm wisdom prevailed, the American Government,
quietly acquiescing in Great Britain’s demand, gave up the captives, and
the war-cloud passed.
Among the many who had enlisted in the Northern army were several from
Oshawa. Robert Warren, son of John B. Warren, died from exposure, and
his body was found after an engagement, begrimed with dust and smoke, by
his schoolmate, Dr. John Wall, who was serving as surgeon in the army in
Virginia. John cared for the body of his friend, and brought it home to
Oshawa for burial. Ah, how many of our poor fellows were buried where
they fell!
“On fame’s eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
Which glory with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.”
The Grand Trunk Railway carried military equipments from Quebec and
Montreal to Toronto that winter and did a thriving business. Officers
guarded these stores on the cars. One cold day one of these officers
fell out of the Grand Trunk car, going up Scarboro’ Heights, and landed
in the snow. Making his way, bareheaded, to Jerry Annis’s house, it
being the nearest, he got him to drive him to Toronto, eleven miles
away.
At this period in Canada very many of the industries were carried on by
bank capital. That is to say, endorsed notes were made for three months,
discounted, and renewed from quarter to quarter. By the capital thus
raised manufacturing, lumbering, tanning, and like industries, were
carried on.
At this time of writing, when loans are current at five per cent., it
seems almost incredible that only thirty years ago business men and
manufacturers depended upon chartered banks for their capital--renewing
their notes quarterly--and by so doing paid the interest quarterly in
advance, making interest at ten and one-half to eleven per cent. per
annum. Such, however, was the case, and the banks throve by that manner
of doing business.
Banks usually succeed in Canada. Those old institutions that helped very
materially to develop the country, but which failed, failed because of
making too great loans upon real estate, and having a lot of it thrown
on their hands. Banks, however, though in deep water, may keep on for
years, until someone expresses fears of their solvency. Said an old
manager of the Bank of Upper Canada to me, “A bank is like a woman, all
right until someone says something against her character.”
From my earliest recollection, the general saying to express soundness
emphatically was “As good as the Bank of Upper Canada.” The old Bank,
however, kept on taking over real estate, distilleries, sawmills,
foundries and such, until they had to liquidate at, I think, about
thirty cents on the dollar. During the excitement caused by the _Trent_
affair, A. S. Whiting and E. C. Tuttle, who just previously had started
a large and important manufactory of hand harvest tools, such as
scythes, forks, hoes and rakes, were succeeding nicely. William L.
Gilbert, of Winsted, Conn., was endorsing their notes. They applied to
the Ontario Bank for twenty thousand dollars as a part of their capital.
Gilbert’s credit was above suspicion--he was a millionaire--but the
prospect of war from the _Trent_ affair frightened the Ontario Bank
people, and Whiting and Tuttle had to arrange with my father to make the
endorsation until people got rid of their temporary madness. This is an
instance of the peculiar state of affairs in Upper Canada, financially,
during 1862. Some of our branch lines of railways, too, were in part
built by using bank capital and discounted notes.
The Grand Trunk Railway, in the first instance, was built by British
capital and the loans (which afterwards became gifts) of the millions of
the Government of Canada. The great Canadian Pacific Railway, too, was
built by capitalists, with generous aid from the Government, but the
branch lines asked for bonuses from the different municipalities which
they touched. Townships, villages and cities issued bonds, borrowed the
money, and gradually provided a sinking fund from the taxes received, by
which in time to pay off the bonds.
In the abstract it seems unfair and uncalled for that a township had to
pay for the railway in advance in order to get it to touch that
township, and then, when it came, be charged stiff freight and passenger
rates by the same grateful railway. It was “a bitter pill to swallow,”
but it had to be taken. Those municipalities which did not “swallow the
pill” are to-day “in the lurch,” as we say in Canada. I paid one of them
a visit a little time ago, and I give herewith a sketch of my
experiences:
The long, uninterrupted winter was dragging its slow length along
without a break. Even the January thaw, as always foretold by the oldest
inhabitant, had not come to the hamlet during that winter. Snow fell
once or twice during the week with unerring regularity. Roadways had
been beaten and tracked in the snow, and the faithful villagers had
tramped through it from day to day. Nothing, in fact, had happened to
break the monotony of this quiet village hamlet for the entire winter
season. Perhaps the last noted occurrence was just as the snow came,
when the deacon’s horse ran away and came bounding back into the village
without the deacon or anyone else holding the lines, and the robes
partly in and partly out of the cutter. That occurrence for a time had
been food for gossip among the quiet villagers, some stoutly averring
that the deacon was drunk, while others, putting it mildly, said, “The
deacon was took bad in his head suddenly, as he sometimes was wont to
be, and couldn’t guide his horse.” Just how it was was still a mooted
point, even as late as the dreaded Ides of March--the time of my visit
to this quiet place. It seems no one had died, there were but few
births, and only one or two young fellows had spunk enough to do any
right-down earnest courting for the whole live-long stormy winter.
Happenings there were none. Well, business called me to this little
rural hamlet in the gusty month of March--this peaceful village, removed
from the path of the iron horse, an out-of-the way place altogether.
During the general upheaval of things in Ontario, when most towns and
villages were up and about to secure railway communication, the deacon
of this little place and a few other fore-handed citizens strongly
objected to giving “any bonus for any number of railways, be they one or
more,” so the village has gone without a railway. Excellent people they
are indeed, and they change so very slowly and deliberately that old Rip
Van Winkle could not possibly have found a better place wherein or
whereabout to take that long memorable nap of his.
Even were Rip to change, his neighbors would not, for in the twenty
years, while he calmly slumbered, the weekly “sewing circles” would
infallibly be held; and around and about the sewing circles everything
in this wayside, or rather out-of-the-way-side, hamlet revolved. When
Mrs. Dobson put on her new striped stuff dress for the first time, and
came down to the “circle,” every eye was upon her, and she had no rest
until she told where she obtained it, how much it cost per yard, and how
many yards it took for the dress. Particularly is this worthy of mention
to enable those remote from this village of snow-trodden paths to
realize fully its unchangeableness, and its hunger for something out of
the ordinary to give food for talk and thought. A boy of fourteen had
driven me from the railway station, twelve miles away, as he carried the
meagre leather bag, denominated by grace Her Majesty’s Mail, in a
square-boxed sleigh drawn by one horse--such a sleigh as in New England
they term a “pung.”
At the village hostelry I am domiciled within four wooden-sided,
clap-boarded, white-painted walls, where I am “ated and slaped,” and all
for $1.00 per day. After the ample evening tea, and over a quiet pipe in
the corner of the bar, while conning a paper two days old, the voluble
and voluminous landlady asks if I will not “go and hear the professor
to-night?”
Not having been at the weekly sewing circle for that week, I am not
posted, and in my innocence ask of the professor, “And what’s to be
heard from him?”
“He’s a psychologist, sir, and they all say he can make people do just
what he chooses to make them do. He’s going to speak to-night in the
Temperance
[Illustration: AUTHOR’S FATHER LOADING HIS SCHOONERS WITH LUMBER BY
RAFTING, ON LAKE ONTARIO.]
Hall, just across the way; all the village will be there, and I think
you would be amused, sir, if you chose to go.”
“Thanks, madam, for the information, and I’ll certainly go.”
The Temperance Hall is jammed--well, that’s the ordinary way of putting
it; but in this case it is pressed in full much the same as they press
cotton in the rude bales on the home plantations down south, before they
are sent away to the big cotton presses in the cities.
“A stranger? Well, we must let him in, for perhaps he’s a friend of the
prof.”
“Can’t quite claim the honor, but would like to get in.”
Stepping over the tops of the long seats, I get in, and make my way up
near the professor.
Now, this professor is one of those nondescripts who comes from nowhere
in particular. He opens his mouth and gives vent to sound in a steady
volume, but says nothing in particular. His speech is all about
psychology and its wonders and what he proposes to do. Some ten minutes
of this, then he invites up half a dozen young men from the gathering
for experiments. Applicants for experiment are seated on chairs on the
platform before the professor. The latter looks one of these steadily in
the eye for a couple of minutes and then makes a few undulatory motions
back and forth before his eyes with his right hand and touches his
forehead with his fingers. Already he has the spell, and sits staring
into vacancy as if he were about to have an extra large photograph
taken. All in turn are “spelled,” and all are a success save one, who is
requested to take his seat again among the people. And now the fun
commences. One fellow the professor assures is hunting, and he hands him
his cane for a gun. A flock of ducks!--down the fellow goes and crawls
on hands and knees. He fires, and the recoil of the gun throws him
prostrate on the stage. Up he gets and at it he goes again. During the
half hour I sat there, I think the fellow bagged as big a bag of ducks
as usually falls to the lot of a sportsman nowadays. Another youth sees
an excellent opportunity for a swim, and quickly doffs coat, vest, and
would doff more if not quickly stopped by the wonderful professor.
Prostrate he falls on the platform and goes through all the motions of a
genuine swim, with feet drawn up, again extended, and the long drawn
stroke of the arms regularly and in natural order repeated--a perfect
fac-simile of a swim. The “spelled” No. 3 came next, and fancied that
the glass of water which the professor extended to him contained
excellent port wine; his lips smacked and his eyes sparkled. But he
must propose a toast, which was something about Johnny Jones’ girl, and
young Mac cutting Jones out. This local hit brought down the house, and
it was fully five minutes before the audience could be got into quiet
again. Now Jones and Mac were the other two “spelled” subjects on the
platform, and of course a duel had to be fought. The far-seeing
professor, smelling such duels from afar, had provided two huge
corn-stalks, which he handed to the duellists for swords. Each one feels
carefully the keen edge of the lethal weapons, and prepares himself for
the fray. Seconds are chosen from the other “spelled” ones on the
platform, who for the moment leave their ducks, their swimming and their
glasses of port wine to see that the Marquis of Queensberry’s rules are
faithfully carried out.
“No thrusts below the belt, and on no account any hits below the belt”
And Jones’ girl all this time is looking on. She had gotten herself up
elaborately for the occasion; without a doubt her wardrobe had been duly
dissected and priced and deplored and praised at the last “circle.”
Jones’ girl’s mother is there, too, sitting just behind her.
“The low, mean fellow, to make such an exhibition of himself! I would
never let him go home with me again! Send back his ring, Mirandy. The
idea!--to get up before all the people here and fight with
corn-stalks!”
The laughter before pent up, controlled, held in, kept down, now bursts
the bonds. Human nature in this village of snow-paths could hold in no
longer. It’s just a broad ha! ha!! ha!!! and for the girls (all except
Jones’ girl) a te! he!! he!!! The old deacon joins in--it’s even too
much for his gravity. In the deacon’s case the explosion was rather
serious. He began with a cough and a sneeze, got red in the face--got
redder--his sides shook--a blast from his nose--then the explosion, ho!
ho!! ho!!! ho!!!!
If the house was brought down before, it was “fetched” now--the fun was
so hilarious--for those people hadn’t had a good laugh that winter. Some
of the other girls, whose beaux are yet to be found, are heard to
exclaim: “The absurd fellow! I wonder that she can countenance him at
all!”
But the duel--“Three paces. Now at the word, one--two--three,” and the
whacks of the corn-stalks resound. It is a spectacle to arouse laughter
from even a hypochondriac.
“Time!--first round, no blood; well, seconds, look after your
principals.”
While the duellists are resting the professor goes on to speak his
piece. He has been “a close student of human nature. It’s mental
alchemy, stored away in the great human store-house. An observer like
me can bring it out--a great science, ladies and gentlemen--and I shall
give one more exhibition before this highly intelligent community
to-morrow evening.”
And well he may, for the house this evening has paid him seventy dollars
at least.
While this speech is going on, the professor keeps hold of one of the
hands of Jones’ opponent in the duel, and manages to rub some red paint
or pigment on his wrist while he is talking.
“Take your places, gentlemen! All ready at the word. One--two--three,”
and such a pounding of corn-stalks--pounded so effectually that they fly
in fragments all over the hall.
“Blood!--first blood! Honor is satisfied, gentlemen; Jones is the
winner. Shake hands, gentlemen--that’s according to the Marquis of
Queensberry’s rules--yes, that’s it! Seconds, take care of your
principals.”
And Jones’ girl is all smiles, and will evidently allow the hero to see
her home to-night.
More applicants for the “spell” come up as I walk over the seat-backs to
the door, making my way back to mine hostelry and to bed.
This is a faithful picture of life as I saw it in a remote Ontario
village--a village too mean to pay a single dollar to get a railway, and
which therefore was beaten in the race. The tedium of a winter’s life
therein, snow-bound and with its humdrum, is not an experience to be
coveted.
If you like the picture, you can find such a place for a winter’s
residence next winter, easily; but I fancy most readers will agree with
me in saying that the deacon, the fore-handed citizens and the village
generally made a serious mistake in not securing railway communication
when it was to be had.
Villages, as well as citizens, to keep up in the race nowadays, must be
alive and moving, or both are soon left far behind by their neighbors’
ambitions.
SOME FAMILY HISTORY.
There came to the Whitbies from one of the Midland counties of England a
bachelor accompanied by his widowed sister and her little girl.
Possessing capital, he bought one of the best farms of these favored
townships. It was a glebe of about one hundred and fifty acres, without
any waste land within its borders, and was nicely built upon. Here the
bachelor brother farmed thoroughly and well, while the sister presided
over the household and looked after the education and care of her
growing daughter. Of their former history no one knew aught.
The man was a jolly good fellow, open-handed, free and hospitable. They
used to say that no visitor ever came to the home and went away dry
unless he chose to. Not that I mean to say this English gentleman
bachelor was a drinker, only that, according to the light of those days,
the rites of hospitality were administered when the tankard kept pace
with the choicest dishes of the table.
There are probably few living now who were alive and partakers of this
bachelor’s kindnesses. The farm was bought in the late forties, and he
and his sister left it for their English home once more about 1863.
But to follow more intimately their fortunes in Ontario, we must speak
now of the young daughter. Admirers of this English-Canadian belle will
even to this day aver that she was surpassingly beautiful. None of that
day had more to be thankful for in this particular, while her charm of
manner was even in excess of her beauty. Naturally, suitors came. Among
those who were truly fascinated was a young English barrister, even then
known as a pushing, rising fellow. Indeed, he has risen by sheer
downright hard work, as well as ability, till to-day he is one of the
high officials of our Canadian courts, and pre-eminently a successful
man. This man proposed duly, and after mature deliberation and
consultation with the mother, was accepted. Before the knot was tied,
however, he said to the beautiful girl that he would immediately after
marriage expect to receive full control of her property. Once more the
affianced girl and her mother consulted, and their conclusion was that
he had come courting the $8,000 which she possessed in her own right,
and not her particularly, but only as an accessory, so he was jilted.
Next came a long-haired, tall minister, who pressed his suit with all
the ardor his glib tongue was capable of, and he won.
They were married and lived together a couple of years, and two children
were born to them. The minister went on with his duties, and, outwardly,
all seemed to go fairly well, but those most intimate with the family
always felt that there was some mystery connected with him; yet, suspect
as much as they might, they could not charge him with any
irregularities. A perfect specimen of a man he was, endowed with high
social qualities, and capable of taking a high place in the ministry.
One fine day, however, he went out from the ministerial home for a
morning walk, leaving the young wife and two babes to await his coming
to dinner. Dinner that day waited and continued to wait, and is still
waiting after the lapse of thirty-four years, for it is a literal fact
that no one, so far as is known on earth, ever saw the minister and
husband after he crossed the threshold that morning in 1863 for a walk.
Back to the mother and uncle on the farm went the young mother. A few
months in silence, then came the record of a criminal trial for murder
in a neighboring state, where a minister had been tried for his life,
but by some technical legal flaw got off. Reading the trial record it
was clearly brought out that this fiend had cut his wife’s throat from
ear to ear, as she lay in bed, and in such a manner as to make it
thought she had committed suicide. In refutation of that theory, it was
most clearly shown that the former wife could not, no matter how much
disposed, do the deed herself, but that the fiend of a husband did it,
and that he afterwards fled to Ontario and to the Whitbies, and married
our most beautiful maid. This was too much for the mother and uncle.
Their beautiful farm was sold, and back to the Midland counties of
England again they went, taking the young deserted wife and the two
fatherless babes with them.
The bachelor brother has lately been gathered to his fathers, and the
sister has become a very old woman. The deserted wife, now the mother of
a young man and a young woman, is in her early old age, retaining still
much of the beauty of her earlier years, while she learns to grow old
gracefully. In deeds of charity and kindnesses to her neighbors her
time is occupied, and she is seemingly happy in the love of her
children. Her home-life in the Whitbies is never thought of. Lately,
however, a resident near her Canadian home called upon her, and found
that she had kept her property intact from her graceless
minister-husband, and was surrounded by such outward comfort and even
splendor as grand old England alone can give.
Even surrounded with these pleasant accessories, she is said to have
inquired very minutely about her home across the water, and of those who
were once her friends and neighbors, while a sigh escaped her as she sat
and gazed as if looking far across the broad Atlantic, where she had
spent so many happy, as well as unhappy, days in her home in Ontario.