This old lady sat in the corner at the forward end of the car. She had come from Ohio, and her talk ran equally as well upon ordinary sublunary things as upon those of more elevated character. The Sphinx, or the Delphic Oracle, or who was Junius?—it made no difference, for she was equally at home on all these. Our ball-going city chaps quickly saw a place and time for fun. First, they chaffed her, and squarely they got their answers back, rather to their discomfiture. They hit upon politics finally. Just what hers were I did not make out, but at this subject she rose in her might, and standing with the index finger boldly extended, laid it down right volubly—rather more than the ball-going boys bargained for, and to the infinite amusement of all the other passengers.
Our uniformed conductor touched her gently upon the shoulder and requested her to sit down. Silence for a few moments followed, but the fun was too much for the boys to lose it, and she as a talking-machine ran too easily to quit. Again upon her feet, again the index finger, and another request to sit down. Her station reached at last, the conductor and brakeman with alacrity help her off and deposit her parcels with her on the platform. The conductor raises his hand, a “toot” from the locomotive, and away. The conductor jumps aboard, heaves a great sigh, and almost audibly says—if not in words, at anyrate in thought and action—“I’m glad to get rid of that talking-machine.”
“Supper! Twenty minutes for supper!” and for fifty cents we get a substantial, good meal and are not particularly hurried. That reminds me to say that those places where they give the traveller a good meal are always known and commented upon and sought after. Cornwall, for instance, is noted in many travellers’ memories for its pies. So the traveller who happens there at the time of blueberries—ye gods, he’ll have a feast for a king! Then again, of some railway restaurants I am sorry to defame our our fair country by saying that they consume very much of the traveller’s precious twenty minutes before they wait on him, and he pays his fifty cents for a sight of the empty dishes and the seductive odor of cooked meat in the room behind the screens, but not yet served up to the pilgrim having only twenty precious minutes. The eating-house at Orangeville did not on some former occasions strike me as being particularly alert to save the traveller’s precious lunch time.
The ancient maiden lady has gone; so has my single lady, and as most of us now remaining in the car are passengers for destinations far away, we have gradually settled down for a really comfortable journey. Most of the seats are now occupied by only one person, and he or she can lounge at ease. But hold! there’s a woman crying bitterly. What’s the trouble? Word soon goes around the car that this poor woman has been robbed of her purse and her railway ticket as well, and she weeps deeply and unfeignedly, as if her heart would break. There are whisperings among the ladies, and soon one of them has interviewed her. A gentleman approaches and consults with the weeper and the lady. Result, this gentleman gets into the passage in the middle of the car, and makes a little speech. Assures us he’s from Illinois, and has seen this woman on his train all the way. Knew she had a ticket; in fact, saw her with it. Says she had a through ticket from Chicago to some place away down in Maine. Had a little money besides, but while crossing the river at Detroit and Windsor some mean thief stole ticket and purse. Had only a few quarters left in a pocket, which the thief did not get. With these quarters has paid her fare since the robbery so far, but now her money is all gone, and she has not a friend in this part of the world. “And now, look a-here, ladies and gentlemen, let’s give the poor woman a lift; a dollar a piece won’t hurt any of us, and here goes.” Taking off his soft felt hat and putting a dollar greenback in it, around the car he goes with the hat extended. Dollars and half-dollars fall into the hat as the tour of the car is made, and he comes to the weeping woman and unceremoniously dumps the whole lot into her lap. “There, there, now; dry up your tears—you’re all right now, and you can pay your fare through.” This woman’s sudden change from bitter weeping to smiles through her tears was a pleasure to see, and I can fancy something kept rising in the throats of many of the passengers, which it took a good deal of swallowing to keep down. So the world is not so bad after all, and Canadians have hearts and open purses when assured that the need is a true one.
“Did you say the next station is mine, conductor?” Well, I will put on my great-coat and go out into the darkness, for it is eleven o’clock, and I leave this coach with its peculiarities of human nature, not doubting but the next one I step into will contain its quota, peculiar enough, though possibly in other ways.
CHAPTER XVI.
Drinking habits in the early days—Distilleries and mills—Treating prevalent—Drinking carousals—Delirium tremens—“One-Thousand-and-One Society”—Two gallon limit—Bibulous landlords—Whiskey fights—Typical Canadian pioneers—Clearing the farm—Sons and daughters married—Peaceful old age—Asleep in death—Conclusion.
“Great God! we thank Thee for this home—
This bounteous birth-land of the free;
Where wanderers from afar may come
And breathe the air of liberty.”
IN early days the great majority of the men in Upper Canada partook more or less—usually more—of ardent spirits or beer. Fifty years ago there were three distilleries in Oshawa, and they continued to do a flourishing and paying business, as most distilleries did in those days throughout the country generally. The operative who could extract the most alcohol from a given amount of grain was then the great man, one whose services were most sought in that business, and who likewise commanded the largest pay.
