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HomeMy WebLinkAbout2198Articles taken from the Whitby Chronicle March 28, April 11, April 18 and April 25, 1884, written by Ross Johnston (Treveller) Traveller, “Our County”, Whitby Chronicle 28 (Friday, 28 March 1884) BALSAM “Traveller” hob-a-nobbing with old acquaintances—Vivid memories of incidents a quarter century old—Splendid outbuildings on the fine farms between Ashburn and Balsam—A canine encounter. Ashburn, Mar. 24, '84—Taking my departure from Mr. Heron’s I started Westward with a light heart, and although the snow was deep, and the weather sharp, I suffered neither from the one nor the other.... Took a run south and saw friend Alex. Wilson and his busy household, then retracing my steps made various calls on my way towards Balsam. This road is much travelled. The farms on both sides are fine, and the people apparently prosperous. Had a good friendly talk with Mrs. Geo. Ogilvie, and getting well warmed again pushed onward. There must be a large number of steam threshers in South Ontario, as I have frequently found three or four puffing away in various directions within a small circle. Hillon! whose splendid barn is this on the rising ground westward on the south side? It belongs to Mr. John Davidson (son of J.I. Davidson, Esq.) and is a credit to the Township. It is neatly and substantially built, stone foundation, well ventilated and tastily painted. I would have made a closer inspection, only that this was threshing day, and every body busy in and around the place. The dwelling house is primitive, but will soon give place to another more in keeping with its present environments. Is that the proper word to use Mr. Editor? Or is there too much of a Darwinian smack about it? At any rate the premises are in a state of evolution, and will soon develop into a beautiful homestead. Called and took dinner at residence of Mr. James Whiting, or Wighton. Don’t exactly know how to spell it, but that did not hinder me from eating a good hearty meal, to which I felt I was being made welcome. Still going westward I came to the Pickering Town line, where a jog occurs in the road, and I found myself directly in front of the very fine residence and farm buildings of J.I. Davidson, Esq., so well known all over the Province as a stock raiser. Here on the side of the road is a sort of impromptu post office, into which transcient [sic] letters or newspapers can be dropped by the stage man or others for the convenience of the neighborhood. Called to see Mr. Davidson, but found he was from home, and so I resolved to call another time. There being no hotel in the neighborhood, I began to feel a little nervous as to my whereabouts for the night. The matter was soon set at rest to my entire satisfaction, by the kindness of Mrs. John Anson, whose guest I became. I spent a most enjoyable evening in the society of the family, consisting of Mrs. Anson, her daughter, and two sons. Before settling down for the night I made a few business calls in the vicinity, and had the mortification of encountering the first really bad dog I have met in my travels. All my arts failed in bringing him to a respectful attitude. He seemed determined to test the quality or flavor of my lower extremities at all hazards. Being a man of peace, I was very reluctant to depart from my usual modes of procedure, but “necessity has no law,” as saith the proverb, and “self defense is the first law of nature,” as saith another proverb; and concluding too, that the interests and even the honor of the Whitby Chronicle were at stake, I resolved on “carrying the war into Africa,” and proceeded at once to make a few very pointed remarks with the brazen point of my umbrella upon the ribs of the enemy. This appeared to be a wholly unexpected procedure, and had the effect of throwing the enemy into confusion, of which my hind foot took the advantage in applying sundry well merited kicks in front and rear. This led to a cessation of hostilities, and in leaving, I could not but reflect that “a man is respected as he respects himself.” Returning to Mrs. Anson’s I found a hearty welcome, and had a good long talk. She and her husband the late John Anson (counterpart of Sir John A. Macdonald) came here from Aberdeen 48 years ago last September, and had many difficulties to contend with, as had all the early settlers. Great and wonderful changes have taken place since then. The tangled wilderness has given place to the cultivated field and grassy meadow, and the howl of the wolf is replaced by the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle. Miss Anson did me the honor of informing me that she had read all Traveller’s letters. She did not know how very helpful that bit of information was to me. It has helped me ever since. Kind words are not lost. Traveller. Traveller, “Our County”, Whitby Chronicle 28 (Friday, 11 April 1884) BALSAM Balsam again—Dogs and pins—A good Scotch story—The village worthies. Balsam, April 7, ‘84—Having been allowed to draw breath, and to visit the Court House and Gaol, and see friend Tonald and some more of the boys, and to listen to the echoes reported by Tonald and the sparrows, I now return to Mrs. Anson’s, my former stopping place. In the morning after breakfast I took a short cut across the field for the purpose of interviewing Mr. Davidson, and in happening to turn my head over my shoulder and glance downward, perceived for the first time an opening where there should be none at the back of my leg, evidently the results of the previous evening’s encounter with that bad dog. Well, I harbor no malice, and am willing to “let by-gones be by-gones,” and am thankful matters are no worse. A short halt and a couple of pins well applied put me in presentable shape again. Generally have a stock on hand. Got the habit in boyhood of picking up stray pins, and it has stuck to me ever since. Grandfather used to say “a pin a day is a groat a year,” and I used in those days to think a groat a matter of some importance, but cannot remember ever realizing a groat by the practice, not directly at least, but habits of economy have an indirect as well as a direct bearing, and should be greatly encouraged by parents or others in bringing up children. What becomes of all the pins? Ah, that is a question too mysterious for me to pry into. It is withal a weighty question. Weighty? Yes, weighty. It is so at least in regard to some kinds of pins. If you don’t believe it just tickle your wife’s ear with a straw some baking day, and see what you think of the weight of the rolling-pin. But this will never do. On reaching Mr. Davidson’s I found he had just gone over to Mrs. Anson’s by the regular road, so being anxious to see him I retraced my steps, and hunted him down at last in Mrs. Anson’s sitting room, spinning yarns like an old sailor. I must venture to repeat one of them here, even at the risk of great mistakes, and certainly with a great loss of effect. It was about a noted Scotch minister who came to preach occasionally in the neighborhood (if I mistake not) where Mr. Davidson lived when in Scotland. On one of these occasions the day was warm and the house crowded, and the minister warming with his subject, got soon to the boiling point. Suddenly there was an ominous pause, after which, the minister instead of resuming the thread of his discourse, burst out in a loud and excited tone, as follows: “Beadle, beadle, where’s the beadle? Come here Sandy and let down the windows and let in some air. I believe if I were preaching in a bottle ye’d come and ram in the cork.” He then proceeded with his sermon as if nothing had happened to annoy him. At the close of the service however, an old lady edged her way up to the minister, and said, “Ah man, ye let the deil get the upper hand o’ ye the day. He’s been lang trying to gae ye a thraw, but he fairly whummpit ye over this time. Let it be a lesson to ye for the time to come.” But if I stay here listening to Mr. Davidson’s yarns I will never get to Balsam, so, having transacted my business with him, I make a fresh start and go right down to the little village before halting. Here I find Mr. Ira Palmer in charge of his general store and the village post office. The latter adds the large sum of $36 to his annual income. Mr. Palmer being without opposition, and in the centre of a populous neighborhood, does an excellent business. He has been over 19 years in business here and knows the ins and outs of affairs very fully. His stock is large for a country store and embraces a little of almost everything and a good deal in some special lines. Mr. James Waddingham is village blacksmith, and is not allowed to stand at the smithy floor with his hands in his pockets waiting for a job. He has to stay inside and keep at work, and he knows how to do it. Then across the road on the north side I find Foster Hutchinson, Esq., whose familiar face gave me great pleasure. He is at present a general agent and dealer in agricultural implements. This is too limited a sphere for a man of his experience and ability. He should be filling a more important position and Traveller’s wish is that he soon may. There was an office of the Ontario and Quebec R.R. here during the summer and fall, and in fact the office is here still but not in active operation. It is kept in the building formerly occupied as a store by said Foster Hutchinson. There is a Primitive Methodist Church in the place. The building is a small wooden structure, and unpainted. This is not to say that the worship offered here is less earnest and sincere than that ascending from more costly structures. And yet it would be pleasing to note in so apparently prosperous a community, a little more attention paid to the outward indications of an inward zeal. The school house is a mile east of the village and is, or rather was at that time presided over by Miss Madden, a most estimable young lady from Port Perry or Prince Albert. I learned she was just leaving to give place to a male teacher. Most arduous and trying is the position of a teacher in a country school, or any other school for that matter. Miss Madden was evidently carrying away with her the love of her little flock, as testified by some of themselves in answer to my questions on the road. I always like to have a word with the children when the opportunity offers. Had a game of marbles with a little urchin lately and enjoyed it splendidly. Rather small business for a man of my years you say. Well, yes, rather, but more enjoyable and less dangerous than some of the games attempted of late by other old boys of a different school. Time up again. Will therefore defer other calls till next week. Traveller. Traveller, “Our County”, Whitby Chronicle 28 (Friday, 18 April 1884) BALSAM A unique industry—More famous than “Jarvis section,” the colony of Joneses at Balsam— Home help for school children—The dignity of labour. Balsam, Apl. 14, ‘84—I have been for some time back engaged in the manufacturing line of business, the main works being located (as they ought to be) in the County Town, from which weekly shipments of the manufactured article have been distributed in all directions. The N.P. has done me neither good nor ill as far as I know, as it does not take cognizance of my line of goods. What branch of manufactures is it you ask? Well, seeing you are a member of the Town Council and might perhaps use your influence in securing me a bonus, I don’t mind telling you. It is the manufacture of bone dust. Where do the supplies come from? Local sources mainly. That is, within South Ontario so far, but may have to extend business by and by, and take in a wider range. How is your stock? Low, very low, the bones gathered during the fall and early in the winter are nearly all ground up and shipped, and I will soon have to go rummaging through the Town for fresh material, or else shut down the mills until supplies come in again from the country. We’ll proceed, however, with the grinding while any bones remain, and will now turn in the balance of the Balsam grist. After wandering about a while in the neighborhood of the village, I found my way southward into what may fairly be called the Jones section. Talk of Smiths, or Browns, why, neither of them begins to compare with the Jones family either in lineal, square, or cubic measure. If you don’t believe it, just take a run out some day into this Jones colony and see for yourself, or, if your day-dreams won’t allow of your leaving your editorial chair in day time just wait till evening, tie a cord of moonbeams around you and swing yourself over till you land on top of this high rail fence, get a-straddle of it and look around. Here you will find John E. Jones, John C. Jones, John L. Jones, Joseph Jones, Samuel Jones, all heads of families living on fine farms, almost within reach of the point of my old umbrella, with others at no great distance, besides any number of the new generation rushing rapidly up to increase the ranks and keep bright the honor of the family name. Well, let ‘em. They are a respectable lot of people, and the name of Jones is a name of high repute. Let no one throw doubt on this assertion by throwing the name of “Paul Jones the Pirate” in my teeth. He was no Jones at all. His name was John Paul, and the appropriating by him of the name Jones was like his other acts, an act of piracy, and shows clearly the respect in which the name was really held. Hold up old fellow. Don’t get luny. You are getting on too much steam. Cool off a bit. Thank you, I will with pleasure, especially as it is getting late. Must run down however, and see Mr. O.W. Disney, as his name appears in my honor list and his respected father has pointed out his residence to me. Here I am just in time to share the family meal, and a good square meal I got. Better still, all anxiety as to my whereabouts for the night is relieved by the kind invitation to remain, which invitation I was glad enough to accept, being weary and worn. Soon felt refreshed however, as after tea the children and I got on very familiar terms, two on my knees and two or three more around me, we soon got to know each other thoroughly. Very rarely have any difficulty in making friends with children or dogs. Found Mr. Disney a man of intelligence and shrewdness. Was specially pleased to notice the interest taken both by him and his good wife in the school studies of the children. This is a department of home duty that I fear is much neglected. A little personal attention on the part of parents by way of enquiry, help, or encouragement, has to my certain knowledge a very beneficial effect on the child. It can not well be otherwise. When a child at school knows that father or mother will in the evening enquire into the lessons of that or the following day, that child is much more likely to give attention to the lessons, and to the instructions of the Teacher, then if there was no expectation of such home enquiry. There would be few complaints as to the inefficiency of Teachers if parents (as in Mr. and Mrs. Disney’s case) would attend to their own proper share of their children’s training. But I must hasten. I find that Mr. Disney, while attending to his children’s studies, does not neglect looking after the welfare of his domestic animals. Went with him to the barn, stables and other outhouses, and held the lantern while he attended to the feeding and bedding of the horses and cattle. Everything betokens careful management accompanied with liberal and kind treatment. Mr. Disney neither starves his animals nor wastes their food. He has several fine specimens of horse-flesh, cows and fat cattle. I jotted down several details at the time, but have either lost or mislaid my jottings, Well, no matter. After a good night’s rest, and a hearty breakfast I took leave of my kind friends and started forth once more for another day of toil. Another day of toil. Well, what of that? Is there any disgrace in honest toil? Nay verily. The disgrace is that anyone with ability to work should eat the bread of idleness and fatten like a drone on honey that others have toiled to gather. There is a dignity in labor, at 1east so thought the immortal Milton. Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed, which declares his dignity. And the regard of Heaven on all his ways; While other animals inactive range, And of their doings God takes no account. Ho, turn off the belt there, and stop the machinery. We are running double time with no supplies. Right. We will be guided by good counsel, and save the shaking of the bone bags till another time. Good night. Traveller. Traveller, “Our County”, Whitby Chronicle 28 (Friday, 25 April 1884) BALSAM Gretna Green—Purloining peat—Sermon from the sun—An octogenarian theologian— Old acquaintances—Advantages of living in town—Whitby the favourite. Balsam, April 21, ‘84—A delightful morning was that on which I left Mr. Disney’s. Old Sol shone out bright and clear. He gave a kindly smile to every object he looked down on, and every object returned that smile in its own way, and in accordance with its own nature, but all beautiful. “I shine,” says the sun. “I also shine” says the snow-clad peak, and every glistening knoll takes up the echo and repeats it; and the snow laden shrubs catch the sound and repeat it to the trees, until every dazzling branch and silver-tipped twig finds a tongue, and repeats the echo to the winds, which carry it along the valleys and up to the hilltops, until all nature becomes vocal with the repeating echo “I also shine.” The listening sun as he ascends the heavens hears the echo, and with beaming face replies “Ye shine because I shine.” “Yes,” comes echoing back from every glittering snowflake that covers plain and hill-top, shrub and tree. “We shine because thou shinest; our smiles are but the reflection of thine own.” “Nay,” says an icicle dangling from the edge of a rock, “I shine with my own light. See how clear and bright I am, not only on the surface, like the snow, but to the centre, like the diamond; and from mine inner self I give out light to others.” “Ha proud icicle, thou must learn a lesson of humility; thou forgettest thine origin,” replied the sun, and, withdrawing for a moment the rays of light that had penetrated the icicle and given it much glory, the poor icicle thus deprived of the sunshine looked black as ebony against the white background of the snow-drifted rock. Again shone forth the sun in his full glory, and smiled benignantly on the icicle with a warm, loving smile, which fairly melted the icicle’s cold heart and dissolved it in a flood of tears. This is a little sermon for little folks, without a text, but with many hidden applications, having a wide range, and suited to many relations in life both religious and secular: but I leave the young readers of “Traveller’s” letters (and the older heads may help them if they will) to make these applications in their own individual ways. Travelling onward, and musing as I went, I met some groups of children on their way to school. Busy memory took me back to boyhood, and spread out before me the shores of the Solway, “Where Betsey and I on the sands often wandered, and watched the big waves in their march from the deep.” It showed me also the old school house at Gretna Green with its floor of flagstones, its “black hole” under the stairway, a sort of purgatory for specially naughty children, from which they were expected to issue with purified dispositions, to be manifested by better behaviour. Their outward purity was not intensified by the process however, as the “black hole” was used as a coal house. But coal did not constitute the common fuel at Gretna School. Peat was the fuel in general use in those days, and each scholar was expected to bring his and her proper quota for the daily consumption. Just stand with me at the cross-roads a minute and watch the troups of children coming from different points along the different roads, all marching towards the school house and with a peat under his or her arm or over the shoulder as a short stick of cord-wood might be carried. I almost laugh outright now at the quaint remembrance. Not in every case did the peat come from the parental peat-stack. There were some young scape- graces then as now, and not infrequently the bouncing peat had been abstracted on the sly from the private peat-stack of the master. Doubtless the above mode of supplying school fuel, has, like the run-away marriages so frequent at that time, given place to something less romantic but more in accordance with the practical spirit of the age. Could I only, like our genial friend Tim O’Day, have the opportunity of revisiting my native land, the first place I would seek for, after the dear old homestead, would be the old school house and its precincts at Gretna Green. But I must recall my wandering thoughts from those grand old muses and places, lest the spirit of the past get too powerful a hold on me; in which case I might perhaps get somebody’s cow by the tail, and applying the old umbrella to her ribs go galloping with her down the lane. Have made several calls in the course of these meditations, or reflections, or whatever else you choose to call them, and here I am near the residence of Mr. Rich. Butler, so I will run in and see the old gentleman. I find him in rather feeble health, but able to be about. The weight of years is getting heavy on him as he is 84, but his mind is clear and well informed and he can talk like an old theologian when he likes, and tell you the distinctive features of the Antinomian and Arminian schools. He came from England to this country in 1832 and settled in the neighborhood of Columbus, but afterwards removed to this place where he has remained over 40 years. He still lives in the old log house which he built on first coming to the farm, and he expects to remain here until he hears the call of the Master “Come up higher.” Mrs. Butler is also well advanced in years, but seems in more vigourous health than her husband. Had a friendly chat with the good old people, and bade them good-bye. My next call was at the residence of Mr. Alex. Wilkin with whom, and his good lady I spent a pleasant half hour, and got well warmed. I found that as readers of the Chronicle they were already well acquainted with “Traveller,” and I will not deny that the appreciative way in which they spoke of him gave me much inward satisfaction. From this I went northward, finally halting at the neat and tidy homestead of Mr. John Ellis. Had expected to have to push on over east to Ashburn or elsewhere for the night, but receiving from Mr. and Mrs. Ellis an invitation to remain which I felt was from the heart I had no hesitation in becoming their guest for the night, nor had I reason to regret it, as their treatment of Traveller was most kind. We were not long in discovering that we were to some extent old acquaintances, and we had a good talk about the days gone by, and the people of those days we mutually knew. Mr. Ellis is an uncle of our townsman Arthur H. Ellis, and Mrs. Ellis is a sister of Aaron Ross, Esq., so well known in our Town and County. A nice snug residence in the Town of Whitby would just be the thing for Mr. and Mrs. Ellis, where they could spend the evening of their days in the enjoyment of those social and religious privileges which are brought within easier reach in a town than in the country generally. There are many others besides Mr. and Mrs. Ellis who would find great advantages in taking up their abode in our County Town. But time is up again, so good night. Traveller