CELEBRATING OR NOT, THE 150TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE NAMING OF BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO
COULD THE RECOGNITION OF WASHINGTON IRVING, EVER BECOME WHAT STEPHEN LEACOCK'S LEGACY, HAS IMPRINTED ON ORILLIA?
NOTE: SHORT VIDEO OF THE 150TH ANNIVERSARY, OF BRACEBRIDGE'S OFFICIAL NAMING, WILL BE PUBLISHED WITH TOMORROW'S BLOG
From my office window, at the former Herald-Gazette, on 27 Dominion Street, in Bracebridge, I could look down the street, and see to the top of what was once known as Tanbark Hill, marked by the silhouette of that unique, amalgamated architecture, of Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School; just after the turn of Quebec Street, down into the "Hollow." I watched this street scene change over the four seasons, and each had its interesting maturity of illumination, on the mixed residential area of old homes, two churches, an apartment, and a legal office at its northern corner. It was a wonderful place in which to write, but it had its resident distractions. The staircase just outside the door, was constantly being thumped upon, by a parade of employees and guests, and the newsroom next door, was always a din of conversation, and at times, yelling, when an interview turned adverse all of a sudden. From this vantage point, I could watch when my new bride, Suzanne, was walking from school, where she taught, to meet me for lunch. I would like to sit in that same office today, to rekindle some of those old sensations, of being a young writer, in charge of one of Muskoka's oldest newspapers. Maybe I fancied myself a fledgling author of fiction, because that's what I really wanted to write then, especially from that upstairs office, with the framed view of the neighborhood; where we lived with three cats and great anticipation for our first child, Andrew. Whenever I ponder about Washington Irving, and his relationship to the Town of Bracebridge, I can't help thinking about this office; and how much I thought about the town's folk characteristics, and history, while I wrote news and feature stories about it for The Herald-Gazette and The Muskoka Sun.
I wrote several features from that office, about Washington Irving, while sitting comfortably at that desk, with a charming view, with the aroma of that antiquated building, reminding me of my own antiquarian interests. My first published pieces on this same story, in the mid 1980's, were inspired somewhat, by that office, with the smell of ink and typewriters, and the noise of community echoing the hallway's connecting offices.
I would be aghast, seriously so, if even one Bracebridge town councillor, reacted with regret, the municipality had missed this rather significant anniversary; being the 150th anniversary of the naming of the town's post office, in August 1864, by federal civil servant, William Dawson LeSueur. (You can archive back several blogs, to learn more about Dr. LeSueur's role in changing the history of the former "North Falls.") Even if they had some regret, I wouldn't expect they'd wish to admit it to the public.
The granting of the name, "Bracebridge," of course, was taken from the Washington Irving book, of the same name, "Bracebridge Hall," published in 1822, as a continuation of the earlier "Sketch Book," released in 1819. While LeSueur intended the naming to be a fitting memorial, in Canada, to the literary accomplishments of Washington Irving, who had died some time earlier, it was lost on the local citizenry, who were, at the time, just trying to survive the harsh environs of what was then, frontier Ontario. The fact that LeSueur didn't explain his intentions, after bestowing this literary provenance, has meant one hundred and fifty years of confusion about whether the postal authority's intervention had been a good one, or one that is still contributing to hard feelings. Some residents today, who know their community history, still refuse to accept the rejection of "North Falls," by LeSueur in 1864. It's what the citizens had desired, and to them, LeSueur changed history on a whim, without consultation.
So while I have donned my party hat, which is really just the hat I wear every day, and just now had a celebratory sip of orange juice, and by the way, I clicked my heels the best I could (for an old fellow), in modest celebration of this 150th anniversary, I am not awaiting any phone call from the town, begging for a chance to jump on this bandwagon. Well, there really isn't a bandwagon, at all, so jumping upon it, would be pointless. I was pleased the local media published my letters to the editor, this week, and especially my monthly column in "Curious; The Tourist Guide."
I feel that after all these years of saddling up to both Washington Irving, and William Dawson LeSueur, that I owed it to their memory, to acknowledge an anniversary, that otherwise, would have been ignored by the town's governance. As well, the anniversary has been bypassed by the other historians of town, who have better things to do obviously, than try to decipher what a postal clerk from the 1860's, was up to, daring to give our pioneer hamlet a name established by an American author. I was disappointed in 1999, when the town couldn't be bothered, even considering, (for a second in time), a future relationship with their own provenance. I think they thought I invented it! So seeing as I was not the accepted historian, in their favor at the moment, to put forth such an issue, and the fact I lived and worked in Gravenhurst, it was infinitely more comfortable for my critics, to just leave this unwanted history, to fade back into obscurity, once Mr. Currie was tired of bouncing off the political enclave. It no longer troubles me, in this fashion, that local politicians would rather establish a committee, to consider financing a bronze sculpture of Santa Claus, at a potential cost of $40,000, for eventual placement on the main street. It is the way it is, and as they wish to keep history in their own way, I will satisfy myself, by being keeper of this Irving-LeSueur heritage; unless, at some point, a new council decides it's time to bury the proverbial hatchet, and celebrate a wonderful, ever-giving provenance. I just won't hold my breath for a response.
Leacock versus Irving - Why not?
If Bracebridge wanted to, in case they had a bone to pick with the City of Orillia, they could always fire off a press release, stating with considerable accuracy, "Yea, well our Washington Irving is better known than your Stephen Leacock!" It would, afterall, be the truth. While Stephen Leacock's work is respected in Canada, it is not as well known internationally, as could be said of the literary accomplishments of Washington Irving. But then, for there to be a literary comparison, and the bragging as to which festival is bigger and better, well, Bracebridge would have to, first of all, be mildly aware of who Washington Irving actually was. Now that, to me, is sad. It's just not the same, squaring off Leacock against Santa Claus.
If the business community, and the local Chamber of Commerce, decided it was worth pursuing, I would go to the ends of the earth to assist. If a town committee wanted to know more about Irving, I would be delighted to attend a meeting. But I will not attempt to sell them on what rightfully belongs to them, as stewards, by repeating the mistakes of 1999, I made, by applying to submit a proper proposal to council. They have their trusted heritage sources, and I'm not one of them. As for the business community and the citizens, politics aside, they deserve to know more about this important heirloom relationship.
It does fascinate me, to think that one day, there would be a "Washington Irving Festival," in the summer season, to parallel the "Stephen Leacock" celebrations in Orillia; which I think are fabulous. Actually, it was Leacock's "Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town," that inspired me to write again, back in 1991, when I went into my one and only writing funk. Suzanne handed me a copy of Leacock's book, complaining that my misery, at not being able to write, was extending the bad vibes to everyone in the family. I read it cover to cover in one day. I started writing again the next day. I soon had the template for what became first, the "Historic Sketches of Bracebridge," and then "Muskoka Sketches," published weekly in "The Muskoka Advance." So when I suggest a new rivalry between Orillia and Bracebridge, between great writers of their day, I'm not suggesting Leacock isn't just as important to me as Irving.
In case there are some Gravenhurst readers, and hobby historians joining today's blog; how about a three town writer's festival. W.D. LeSueur, of course, named Gravenhurst, in 1862 (when post office was granted), after a book written by British poet / philosopher, William Henry Smith, author of "Gravenhurst, or Thoughts on Good and Evil." (For more information on Smith, you can archive back three blogs, and check out the bottom "archive" section from Aug. 2012). Think about the possibilities. Three communities in a row, celebrating connections with revered authors. The only thing stopping this, is political will and a stubbornness against anything "out-of-the-box." I tried to get some movement from Gravenhurst councillors, to celebrate the 150th anniversary of their official naming by LeSueur, two years ago, and it was just as unremarkable, as when I first approached the Town of Bracebridge. So while it would be a great literary run, north and south, to honor Irving, Smith, alongside what is already being done to celebrate Stephen Leacock, it will take many devoted individuals, volunteers, and the support of the business community. Suzanne told me this morning, by looking at my teeth (as if I was a horse), that I've still got some good years left, just in case it takes a while yet to catch on.
Don't get me started on Paul Rimstead. I'd sooner see a statue of former Toronto Sun columnist, Paul Rimstead, who became one of the best read, and loved writers in Canada. Rimstead went to Bracebridge High School, played pool with hockey star, Roger Crozier, at Joe's Billiard's on Manitoba Street, and got his first newspaper itch, working in Bracebridge, as a stringer for the Orillia Packet and Times. He used to chase after the trucks of the Bracebridge Fire Department, on his bike, to get the big scoop. Yes sir, I would much prefer to see a tribute to Washington Irving, and Paul Rimstead, than, I'm sorry to say this, because I'm going to make the naughty list, "Santa Claus." It's just not the way I see Bracebridge being celebrated. But then, I'm just an historian.
WASHINGTON IRVING, FROM HIS OWN INTRODUCTION TO THE SKETCH BOOK
Before I record a few observances by the young author, Washington Irving, as an introduction to The Sketch Book, I'd like to make one aspect of the whole naming-thing, clear. There are those historians, who have also made the mistake, of assuming, that the real honor here, is with the book "Bracebridge Hall," because this is where LeSueur borrowed the name, in 1864, for the new post office. What LeSueur intended by his actions, was to honor the author, more so, than with just one book. He named the hamlet as a memorial tribute to Washington Irving, and the vehicle to do this, was to use the title of one of Irving's books. So thusly, the town's name is an international tribute to Irving, and all of his work, including The Sketch Book, and his stories, such as "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and "Rip Van Winkle." The book "Bracebridge Hall," was just a lead-in, to the bigger story.
"I was always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child, I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument, of the town-crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding country. I made myself familiar with all the places famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages and great men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, from where I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe I inhabited." So noted Washington Irving of his curious youth.
"This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exercises of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships bound to distant climes, with what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the earth.
Farther reading and thinking, though they brought this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own country; and had I been merely influenced by a love of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere the gratification; on no other country have the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine."
Irving writes, "It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving passions gratified. I have wandered through different countries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher, but rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers, of the picturesque, stroll from the window of one print shop to another; caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails me, at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the great objects, studied by every regular traveller who would make a book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky landscape-painter, who had travelled on the Continent, but following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins; but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's or the Coliseum; the Cascade of Terni, or the Bay of Naples; and had not a single glacier or volcano in his whole collection."
To begin "The Sketch Book," Irving uses his character traveller, "Geoffrey Crayon, Gent." who is also the story teller in the second book, "Bracebridge Hall," noting, "In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. We drag, it is true, 'a lengthening chain,' at each remove of our pilgrimage; but the chain is unbroken; we can trace it back link by link; and we feel that the last of them still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes - a gulf, subject to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, that makes distance palpable, and return precarious.
"Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the fast blue line of my native land fade away, like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world, and its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all that was most dear to me in life; what vicissitudes might occur in it - what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it again? Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence; or when he may return; or whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood?"
Then there is the famous opening, to one of Irving's best known, and celebrated stories:
"In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators of the Tappaan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas, when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural fort, which by some is called Greensburg, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given it, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps, about three miles, there is a little village; there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility.
I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting, was in a grove of tall walnut-trees, that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.
"From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen, has long been known by the name, 'Sleepy Hollow,' and its rustic lands are called the Sleepy Hollow boys, throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, that the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.
"The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief, of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the revolutionary war, and who is ever and anon, seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and the valley, and especially to the vicinity of a church, that is at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning the spectre, allege, that the body of the trooper, having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the hollow, like a midnight blast, is owning to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.
"Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of 'The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow'."
I would like to include today's blog, with one of my favorite quotes, taken from W.D. LeSueur, the chap who created this belated memorial tribute to Washington Irving. I have long followed LeSueur's model of criticism, and critical thought, and it has helped me enormously as an historian. I challenge today, what I would never have, as an underling historian, feeling the weight of protocol on my shoulders. I have found since, thanks to Dr. LeSueur, a much better approach to accepted history; to not accept it in the first place, as undeniable fact. Even the essay above, must always stand the scrutiny of my peers over time.
"Criticism should be the voice of impartial and enlightened reason. Too often what passes for criticism, in the voice of hireling adulation or hireling enmity. Illustrations of this will occur to everyone, but there is no use in blaming criticism, which, as has been said, is an intellectual necessity of the age. The foregoing remarks have been made in the hope that they may help to clear away some prevalent misconceptions by showing the organic connection, so to speak, that exists between criticism as a function, or as a mode of intellectual activity, and the very simplest intellectual processes. Such a mode of regarding it should do away with the odium that in so many minds attaches to the idea of criticism. Let us all try to be critics according to the measure of our abilities and opportunities. Let us aim at seeing all we can, at gaining as many points of view as possible. Let us compare carefully and judge impartially, and we may depend upon it; we shall be the better for the very effort."
Thank you so much for joining this special 150th anniversary blog. It means a lot to me, to have you along for the journey. We'll go a little further into Sleepy Hollow, before this anniversary series concludes, in the next several days.
FROM THE ARCHIVES-August 2012
GRAVENHURST DESERVES THIS RECOGNITION - BUT HOW TO USE IT?
THE GOOD RELATIONS WE COULD FOSTER IN THE LITERARY WORLD
"THE STREAM TO THE TREE - I SHINE, YOU SHADE, AND SO THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD IS MADE."
"RESTED OR MOVED UPON ITS BROW, AND LO! IT SOFTENS INTO BEAUTY NOW - BLOOMS LIKE A FLOWER. WITH US 'TIS MUCH THE SAME - FROM MAN TO MAN, AS THE DEEP SHADOWS ROLL, BREAKS FORTH THE BEAUTY OF THE HUMAN SOUL."
"I WAS QUITE ALONE WITH MY LOVE. I GOT ON THE BED BEHIND HIM, THE BETTER TO PROP HIM, IN WHAT SEEMED AN EASY SLEEP - THE HANDS AND FEET STILL WARM. HIS HEAD PASSED GRADUALLY FROM THE PILLOW TO MY BREAST, AND THERE THE CHERISHED HEAD RESTED FIRMLY; THE BREATHING GREW GENTLER AND GENTLER. NEVER SHALL I FORGET THE GREAT AWE, THE BROODING PRESENCE WITH WHICH THE ROOM WAS FILLED. MY HEART LEAPT WILDLY WITH A NEW SENSATION, BUT IT WAS NOT FEAR. ONLY IT WOULD HAVE SEEMED PROFANE TO UTTER EVEN MY ILLIMITABLE LOVE, OR TO CALL UPON HIS NAME. THE HEAD GREW DAMP AND VERY HEAVY; MY ARMS WERE UNDER HIM. THEN THE SLEEP GREW QUIET, AND AS THE CHURCH CLOCK BEGAN TO STRIKE TEN, I CAUGHT A LITTLE SIGH, SUCH AS A NEW-BORN INFANT MIGHT GIVE IN WAKING - NOT A TREMOR, NOT A THRILL OF THE FRAME, AND THEN VI CAME BACK WITH CLARA'S NURSE, (WHO HAVE A PECULIAR LOVE AND ADMIRATION FOR HIM, I HAD SAID MIGHT COME UP). I TOLD THEM HE WAS GONE, AND I THANKED GOD FOR THE PERFECT PEACE IN WHICH HE PASSED AWAY. HE WAS BURIED IN THE BRIGHTON CEMETERY, IN A SPOT AT PRESENT STILL SECLUDED, AND OVER WHICH THE LARKS SING JOYOUSLY. THERE, A PLAIN GREY GRANITE HEADSTONE RISES TO HIS PURE AND CHERISHED MEMORY, WITH JUST HIS NAME AND TWO DATES, AND THIS ONE LINE, LONG ASSOCIATED WITH HIM IN MY MIND, AND WHICH ALL WHO KNEW HIM HAVE FELT TO BE APPROPRIATE. 'HIS SOUL WAS LIKE A STAR, AND DWELT APART'."
THE TWO LINES OF POETRY COMMENCING TODAY'S BLOG, WERE WRITTEN BY WILLIAM HENRY SMITH. THE PASSAGE ABOVE WAS COMPOSED BY LUCY SMITH, ON THE PASSING OF HER POET / PHILOSOPHER HUSBAND, AND HIS BURIAL IN BRIGHTON, ENGLAND.
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO, THIS COMING JULY / AUGUST, THE NEW POST OFFICE IN OUR HAMLET BY THE BAY, WAS GIVEN THE TITLE "GRAVENHURST," AFTER A BOOK WRITTEN BY WILLIAM HENRY SMITH, FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1862, THE YEAR W.D. LESUEUR GRANTED OUR POSTAL STATUS. HE BORROWED THE NAME, FROM A BOOK HE HAD REVIEWED (MOONLIGHTING AS A LITERARY CRITIC), ENTITLED "GRAVENHURST; OR THOUGHTS ON GOOD AND EVIL," BY MR. SMITH. WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN CONSIDERED A GREAT HONOR, AND A SIGNIFICANT LITERARY PROVENANCE, WAS NEVER FULLY EXPLAINED BY LESUEUR, AND THUS, FOR MOST OF THE PAST ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS, NOT MUCH WAS KNOWN ABOUT THE AUTHOR, OR THE HONOR PROVIDED TO AN UNSUSPECTING HAMLET IN CANADA.
IN 2000, I PUT TOGETHER A SMALL RESEARCH PROJECT ABOUT WILLIAM SMITH, AND PUBLISHED A SEVEN PART SERIES ON THE AUTHOR, AND WHAT IT HAS, AND SHOULD MEAN TO THE PRESENT TOWN OF GRAVENHURST. ALTHOUGH IT WAS ALLUDED TO IN THE 1967 PUBLICATION OF "LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS," IT STILL NOTED THERE WAS A POSSIBILITY, THE NAME OF OUR TOWN COULD HAVE BEEN TAKEN FROM A BOOK BY WASHINGTON IRVING, ENTITLED "BRACEBRIDGE HALL." AS I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT MANY TIMES BEFORE, THIS WASN'T THE CASE, EXCEPT IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHERE THE NAME WAS INDEED TAKEN FROM THE IRVING BOOK, IN 1864, ALSO BY POSTAL AUTHORITY, W. D. LESUEUR. IN 2000 WE MANAGED TO PURCHASE A COPY OF THE SECOND, "MEMORIAL" EDITION, FOR THE TOWN, FROM THE 1870'S, WHICH IS IMPORTANT BECAUSE IT CONTAINS THE ABOVE DESCRIPTION BY LUCY SMITH, OF HER HUSBAND'S PASSING. I DID PROVIDE THE TOWN A COPY OF THE SERIES OF ARTICLES THAT HAD APPEARED IN THE GRAVENHURST BANNER. SINCE, THE HISTORY OF SMITH AND THE NAMING OF GRAVENHURST, HAS APPEARED IN MUSKOKA TODAY AND CURIOUS; THE TOURIST GUIDE. STILL NOT ENOUGH TO STIR MUCH INTEREST.
"There comes a time when neither fear nor hope are necessary to the pious man; but he loves righteousness for righteousness' sake, and love is all in all. It is not joy at escape from future perdition that he now feels; nor is it hope for some untold happiness in the future: it is a present rapture of piety, and resignation, and love - a present that fills eternity.
"It asks nothing, it fears nothing; it loves and it has no petition to make. God takes back His little child unto Himself - a little child that has no fear, and is all trust."
The lines above were penned by William Smith, a writer well respected during his period in England. His wife, in her memorial, wrote about how full of affection he was for his young days. "(Hammersmith, England) Here is another glimpse of the enjoyments of those early days. The cheerful drawing room in the Hammersmith home had a window at both ends. Round the one that looked into the garden, clustered the white blossoms or hung the luscious - a swan-egg - the like of which was never met in later years! From the other window the children could watch the following spectacle, which my husband evidently enjoyed recalling in a notice of 'Mr. Knight's Reminiscences, published in 1864'." William Smith himself, writes, from his childhood experiences, "Very pleasant is this looking back over a period of history through which we too have lived. Give a boy a telescope, and if he is far enough away from home, the first or the greatest delight he has, in the use of it, is to point it back, to the house he lives in. To see the palings of his own garden, to see his father at work in it, or a younger brother playing in it, is a far greater treat than if you were to show him the coast of France or any other distant object. And so it is with the past in time. If the telescope of the historian brings back to us, events through which we have lived, and which were already fading away in the memory, he gives to us quite a peculiar pleasure."
One of his childhood reminiscences I enjoyed reading, addresses the matter of changes in the means of transportation, progress on wheels and steam innovation: "This great revolution in our mode of traveling, the substitution of the steam engine for the horse, will soon be matter of history, and older men will begin to record, with that peculiar zest which belongs to the recollection of youth, the aspect which the highway roads leading out of London, presented in their time. The railway-train rushing by you at its full speed is sublime - it deserves no timid epithet. You stand perhaps in the country, on one of those little bridges thrown over the line for the convenience of the farmer, who would else find his fields hopelessly bisected. A jet stream is seen on the horizon, a whir of a thousand wheels grows louder and louder on the ear, and there rushes under your feet the very realization of Milton's dream, who saw the chariot of God, instinct with motion, self-impelled, thundering over the plains of heaven. You look around, and already in the distant landscape the triumphal train is bearing its beautiful standard of ever-rising clouds, white as the highest that rest stationary in the sky, and of exquisitely involved movement. For an instant the whole country is animated as if by the stir of battle; when the spectacle has quite passed, how inexpressibly flat and desolate and still, have our familiar fields become! Nothing seems to have a right to exist that can be so still and stationary."
Smith writes, "Yet grand as this spectacle is, we revert with pleasure to some boyish recollections of the high road, and to picturesque effects produced by quite other means. We are transported in imagination to a bay-window that commanded the great western road - the Bath Road, as people at the time often called it. Every evening came, in rapid succession, the earth tingling with the musical thread of their horses, seven mail-coaches out of London. The dark red coach, the scarlet guard standing up in his solitary little dickey behind the tramp of the horses, the ring of the horns - can one ever forget them. For some miles out of London, the guard was kept on his feet, blowing on his horn, to warn all slower vehicles to make way for his Majesty's mails. There was a turnpike within sight of us; how the horses dashed through it! With not the least abatement of speed. If some intolerable blunderer stopped by the way, and that royal coachman had to draw up his team, making the splinter-bars rattle together, we looked upon it as almost an act of treason. If the owner of that blockading cart had been immediately led off to execution, we boys should have though he had but his just deserts. Our mysterious seven were still more exciting to the imagination when, in the dark of winter nights, only the two vivid lamps could be seen borne along by the trampling coursers. No darkness checked the speed of the mail; a London fog which brought ordinary vehicles to a standstill, could not altogether subdue our royal mails. The procession came flaring with torches, men shouting before it, and a man with a huge link at the head of each horse. It was a thrilling and a somewhat fearful scene."
Other than the kindness shown by the publishers of the Gravenhurst Banner, Muskoka Today, and Curious; The Tourist Guide, the only time I was asked to do a full presentation on William Henry Smith, and his connection to Gravenhurst, Ontario, was at a lecture series sponsored by the Muskoka Lakes Museum, in Port Carling. The theme that night was, "Why no one cares about William Smith," or why Bracebridge has little or no interest in their literary provenance, to Washington Irving. So the small crowd in attendance heard about two years of wasted research, on my part, to provide a link no one wanted. Pretty sad right? Two literary shining stars, in world literature, and regardless how aggressively or enthusiastically I pitched the ideas, to council and the business association, on ways to capitalize, on this provenance, of which they are entitled to exploit, I never got five minutes of council time in either town. You'd think that would be a clear message, to "buzz off!" So what's different in 2012? Well, in Gravenhurst, we are presently celebrating 125 years since incorporation. A municipal thing! Historic! Not enough to warrant a parade. But I think I read that we're having one anyway. Yet by golly, having a 150 year anniversary, this summer, to commemorate the naming of our town, (by adopting the name "Gravenhurst" for our post office, ) back in 1862, must be worth half a parade, a crumb of ceremonial cake, or a single nearly deflated ballon that thanks W.D. LeSueur, for connecting us to William Henry Smith. Watch. The only way you're going to find out much about this Smith fellow, is via this blogsite. I will be writing a special feature for the July issue of Curious; The Tourist Guide, which you can find online or at shops around Muskoka.
For posterity, if nothing else, I intend on publishing, online, a meaty history, with a lot of provenance included, about the handiwork of LeSueur, and the reasons we should all be honored, to have the name of our town associated, with the legacy of one of the world's finest writers. I plan to launch the series of articles, beginning on Canada Day. I'm hoping by this time, that we have been successful on some of the British contacts we're presently trying to make, to find out even more about Mr. Smith. With all the other Royalty Celebrations going on this year, and in Canada, we'll have our own taste of Britain right here in Gravenhurst. I don't have money to throw a party or anything, or get a plaque made up, but I hope we can make what appears online, robust enough, and festive, to attract a few readers. I think it's important. I'm betting I can convince you, just how important. Just watch me. Right here. On Ted Currie's Gravenhurst blog. We'll hoist a make-believe pint, in the pub of choice, to a fine poet…..we really should know.
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