THE MAGIC OF "SLEEPY HOLLOW" - THE SUBTLE ENCHANTMENTS WE OVERLOOK AS CASUAL PASSERSBY
BRACEBRIDGE WAS ITS OWN KIND OF "SLEEPY HOLLOW," AND I LOVED IT
I CAN NEVER, EVER FORGET, THE COARSE, RIPPING BELLOW OF MY MOTHER'S OUTDOOR VOICE, AS SHE CALLED UP THE BACK SLOPE OF THE WEBER SANDPIT, ON ALICE STREET, TO REMIND ME IT WAS TIME TO COME INSIDE. I HATED BEING INSIDE. EVEN ON RAINY DAYS. BLIZZARDS WOULDN'T KEEP ME INDOORS EITHER. SO JUST BECAUSE THE MOONLIGHT OWNED THE LATE EVENING, SHOULDN'T HAVE MEANT A FORCED RETIREMENT FOR ME. THE HUNT'S HILL GANG WOULD BE PLAYING HIDE 'N SEEK IN THE TALL GRASSES OF THE HILLSIDE, BEHIND OUR APARTMENT, AND THE FRINGE AROUND THE FORMER CONSTRUCTION SAND-PIT, HAD MANY INTERESTING PORTALS CARVED INTO THE LANDSCAPES, GOOD FOR TEMPORARY SAFE HAVENS. THE SMELL OF THE EARTH, THE RICH SCENT OF THE WILLOWY FIELD GRASSES, AS THEY COMBED OVER THE HILLSIDE, COVERING THE SMALL HOLLOWS AND DIMPLES WE CREATED WITH OUR EXCAVATIONS, LOOKING FOR BURIED TREASURE. I CAN'T WELL DESCRIBE, ALL THE DEEP GOOD FEELINGS I HAD BACK THEN, JUST THAT I NEVER WANTED THEM TO END. IT'S NOT THE OVERVIEW I MIGHT WRITE FOR A COMMUNITY HISTORY, WHERE FACTS ARE ALL IMPORTANT. THE ONLY FACT WE CARED ABOUT, BACK THEN, WAS THAT WE WERE BEING ENTERTAINED, BY THE MOST BASIC QUALITIES OF TOPOGRAPHY AND NATURE. IT WAS A UNIVERSAL SORT OF FEELING, THAT WE HAD SOMEHOW, ESCAPED OUR FETTERS. IT WAS A LIBERATION FROM THE SAME OLD, SAME OLD. UNTIL THAT IS, MERLE BELLOWED FOR THE THIRD TIME, AND FEARING SHE WOULD RUN UP THE CARTWAY TO THE SANDPIT, AND EMBARRASS ME WITH A SCOLDING, IN FRONT OF MY MATES, I AMBLED MY WAY RELUCTANTLY, BACK TO THE LEVEL OF THE REAR PARKING LOT, AND SURRENDERED MY ADVENTURE TO PARENTAL AUTHORITY.
I always adored the profound seasonal changes that came in mid to late August. There was a dark green patina to the hill and valley landscape, that reminded the voyeur of maturity, and the coming harvest. It was the month before the annual Bracebridge Fall Fair, when all the kids got to be in the opening parade, that marched through the downtown, and then on to Jubilee Park, in "The Hollow." The little gardens in nicely bordered backyards, and the colorful flower gardens, set out front of those unpretentious bungalows, up on Bracebridge's Alice Street, always seemed more storied in August, than at any other time of the year. It was a combination of azure sky, and kinder, milder sun.
There was a distinct and welcome chill first thing in the morning, after so many days of humid weather; days when I was up early to deliver the Toronto Telegram to neighbor houses. I'd have to set up camp, initially on the sidewalk on front of our apartment, to put the Saturday sections of the paper together. It was a heavy load so I needed things to take my mind off the chore of toting that full bag all over Hunts Hill. There was the smell of freshly cut grass, and just-out-of-the-oven muffins, as I walked down the street, toward the Muskoka River. Then there was the delightful aroma of bacon and eggs, some householder was cooking-up for breakfast. I would hear the conversation on front stoops, as a few residents chose to have their coffee outside. The sound of an AM radio, playing country music, and then, further along, another radio with a news broadcaster giving the daily weather report. I knew it, even as a kid, that one day, these recollections of just how quaint it was to live here, would be important and relevant. So I drank it all in, and enjoyed what it meant to be a kid in a small town, in rural Ontario. I was still a little green, for this hinterland residency. I still had the footprint of a city kid. By the late 1960's, when this neighborhood, on the Hunt's Hill side of town, we had only lived in Bracebridge for three years. My parents weren't at all sure we should even stay here. About once a month there would be a discussion about moving back to Burlington where there were more jobs. I was far more committed than they were, at that point. I was enthralled by the enclosure of nature, and I spent much of my free time, gad-abouting in the local woodlands, letting myself be enchanted by the good graces of Muskoka.
I spent a lot of my free time, wandering these neighborhoods, looking for mates to play ball, or road hockey. But I didn't mind at all, just exploring on my own, whether it was deep in The Grove, Bamford's Woods, or along the shore of the North Branch of the Muskoka River, from Bass Rock to Wilson's Falls. As I have always possessed an over-active imagination, I felt so liberated, growing up in Bracebridge, where opportunity for adventure abounded. I would be over in Bamford's woods early in the morning, on August days like this, and before coming home for dinner, I might have travelled five or six miles, of woodland trails, wherever the landscape looked promising, and the trail inviting. I suppose I wasn't lot different than Washington Irving, as was his folly, to wander into the strange solitude of "Sleepy Hollow," and in the valley of the Hudson River, that he found so delightfully haunted, and generously spirited. I always came home fully charged with stories, garnered from unbridled exploration. When I finally arrived at the door of our residence, my mother would rush to the entrance, to intercept me, before I could step one foot inside, with my muddy, wet shoes, and the likelihood, that I was also covered with burrs and the dirt of the ages. I had to be cleaned-off at the door, and my pockets emptied of all the treasure, dead or alive, found during the day's encounters and investigations.
I'd often arrive at the Bass Rock rapids, early enough on cool August mornings, to see the last traces of mist rising off the water, and drifting up into the shadows of tall pines. There was the length of a fallen pine, that the local teenagers sat on, to smoke and watch the girls swimming in the calm bay to the west of the channel. The woodpecker holes were everywhere on the trunk, but it still made a comfortable place to sit and watch to the north, as the seasonal fast water, of Bass Rock, at this time of the year, was not much more than a dimpling of the river, in an around the rocks of the shallows. There was always a murmur, if not a roar, and if you listened carefully, it was as if you could hear the river whispering, with the windsong of the shoreline evergreens in the August breeze. The reflections in the water were as abstract as the clouds of the sky, brought down to earth, and the craggy rock faces, at times of the day, looking like ogres emerging from the woodland darkness.
I interpreted these natural scenes, and the neighborhood realities, differently than my mates. It actually brings me to this point, in my life, where I am still trying to explain what has no explanation; offering what can only be considered, feeble overviews of what I believe, were the resident enchantments of growing up in a town, where rivers merge, and cataracts roar, and the sounds of water never cease to amaze; heard and felt as a pulse vibration, even blocks away from the thunderous decline. It was on these maturing August days, that I liked to visit my old friend, the artist / barber, William "Bill" Anderson, who had his shop situated in the corner store-front, of the Patterson Hotel, of the former Queen's Hotel, on Manitoba Street. My mother would send me to see Bill no less than once a month, but sometimes, twice, if we had some extra money after groceries. Bill sensed that I was in no hurry on those Saturday mornings, so he took his time giving me a trim. This allowed me to watch him paint a little, at his easel, in the corner of the room, where there was always at least one landscape project on the go. He had attained quite an age, by this point of the late 1960's, early 70's, and there was no way a hair-cut was going to get in the way of a nice cup of tea, (for him, not me), and a few dabs at his painting, in between cutting strands of my hair. What should have been a fifteen minute cut, and comb, took about an hour. I think he sensed I liked watching the artist at work. I can so clearly recall Bill working at chairside, gently clipping my locks, and then seeing him dart away, when the inspiration struck, as to a brush stroke, or coloration, required on his landscape. Every time he did this, it guaranteed me another ten minutes in the chair, to watch art and artist mature. I would have stayed the whole day. So forgive me if I have a more romantic, sentimental opinion of Bracebridge than most. If I went up the street, to Ted Smith's Esso station, my old school chum, Ross Smith, might be working on one of his landscapes, of Camel Lake (which he adored), situated just inside the door. He tended the gas pumps, and Bill Anderson cut hair, between painting jags. Ross would jump up when a car drove up to the pumps, slowly setting his brush down, to tend a customer. The regular customers, loved to come into the station, just to see what Ross was working on, that particular day. Then there was the artist / pharmacist, Robert Everett, at Everett's Drug Store, further down on Manitoba Street, a well known Muskoka artist, who once used to paint on the wood tops of cigar boxes, when they became available after the product inside was sold.
No, I shouldn't be condemned as a lifelong romantic, because this was ingrained in me, charmingly, as a hometown kid.
I've written about this frequently, but it does need to be presented once more. There was an allure of the north and south branches of the Muskoka River, that was intrusive for someone like me; the wanderer of the neighborhoods. I had to cross the north branch of this black, snaking river, at least four times each day, going and coming from school, including at lunch hour, when I'd run the four or so blocks home. If I went downtown in the evening, then it would mean I had stared at the river six times. I never crossed it once, over the Hunt's Hill bridge, that I wasn't spellbound by its darkness, and the fact, that on certain days, you could look down and see the concrete and iron debris of the second of three bridges thus far. I would always then, look at the remnants of the former bridge, and recall the story of how three children were drowned in the water below, when their mother mistakenly took a wrong turn; crashing off the shore, on River Road, down into the strong current of the river. The story was re-told over and over, by our parents, so that we would keep off that river bank, no matter what the temptation. The attraction then, were the plethora of pop bottles, that had got wedged into the shoreline rocks, undoubtedly coming from the crowds at Bass Rock, upstream, and cast offs from the pop machine, anchored in front of the Muskoka Trading grocery store, on Thomas Street; a stone's throw from the bridge. We wanted the money from the pop bottle returns, and we most definitely were willing to risk getting swept away by the current, to recover these empties for their deposits. I'd even bring home stubby beer bottles, for my dad, who often times suffered the disgrace of having to take back a twenty-four, of bottles, with several missing. Our old fridge used to freeze the beer, and break the bottles in the process. So I'd win Ed's favor, by bringing him some back-up bottles, to make up a solid twenty-four, when he made his weekly returns. Wasn't really worth the risk, but we were very sure of ourselves. We never lost one of the Hunts Hill gang to misadventure.
I watched that hollow of the Muskoka River through all the seasons, and all the years, right up until our family moved south in 1989. I studied its moods, and how it appeared on the brightest days of August, and the coldest days of January. I would look over the railing during winter storms, when the heavy snow would reflect, and double in the darkness of the water, but then quietly disappear, as if passing into another dimension. On rainy days, I used to like hearing the sound, a heavy fall made on the surface of the quickly moving river water, and then how it looked on those bitterly cold mornings of late January, when the steam looked like the spirit of the river, wafting the same route, toward the brink of the town falls, into Bracebridge Bay. The play of imagination was spirited by these interactions between voyeur and nature. I couldn't stop myself, from manifesting all kinds of fantastic scenarios, having something or other, to do with local forests and the watershed. It was harmless, good fun. Today, I'm so glad I spent those sojourns, in these special places; and that I paid attention to my hometown the way it was then. Where it was commonplace to find freshly baked pies, cooling on window sills, and smell the intoxicating vapor of tomatoes being canned, in warm, bright country kitchens. A network of neighborhoods where colorful laundry flapped loudly, cheerfully, as a sort of local folk art, on long clothes' lines, and where, late into the August evenings, folks gathered in front yards, or back, on verandahs, and on sideyard patios, to socialize with friends and family, and where you were always welcome, if you happened to pass that way. The smell of hamburgers on a charcoal barbecue. The sound of kids on bikes. The car radios blaring, while parked at Lil & Cec's Variety Store, on upper Toronto Street, and the sound of swallows swooping after bugs.
In its own way, it was my Sleepy Hollow. Not by Washington Irving's definition, but by mine. It was unique by what it possessed, and just as curious, by what it didn't have, that seemed of no real consequence. It was a small town, full to overflowing with interesting characters, local notables, and the class of whirling dervishes, young and old, who couldn't, or rather wouldn't, settle down, until they finally nodded off in the middle of a job; only to be awoken by a significant other, just to be reminded it was time for bed. I used to be one of that bred of unsettled hearts, always preparing for my next move. On those perfect August nights, of full sky and ceaseless starscape, I'd lay out on a blanket until well after midnight, on the apartment lawn, up at 129 Alice Street, and fantasize about my own inter-galactic travels, one day. I used to like to see the moonlight reflect off the Muskoka River, and hear the echo of the train horn, blasting through the valley below Hunt's Hill. The colder the night, the more it sounded as if the train was coming right up Alice Street, like the fabled Polar Express, just to pick me up. I would, of course, have jumped aboard.
There were August afternoons, when I'd sit on the platform of the old Bracebridge Train Station, looking down upon the river, and its rippling of current, passing under the Hunt's Hill bridge, pondering mindfully, what it would be like, as a leaf cast on top, to wind down its snaking length to Lake Muskoka, and onward to Georgian Bay and even beyond. It was a voyage of the fantastic. I'd stay at the station long enough to watch several trains, one with freight, and one with passengers, pass me by, and judging by the huge white dials of the clock tower, of the former federal building on Manitoba Street, I'd know it was time to go home for dinner. Merle would be getting nervous, that while hunting empties, I had fallen into the river, and been swept over the falls. She also had an over-active imagination.
During these years, although I knew about "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and the story of "Rip Van Winkle,' both by author Washington Irving, I had no idea of the connection to Bracebridge, Ontario. It was just my hometown. A good place for a kid like me. So when now, I spend my time working on research like this, developing this literary provenance between Washington Irving, and Bracebridge, it is just as fantastic as I remember, on all those occasions, when I celebrated the small town life, so much different than what I had experienced in the cityscape of Southern Ontario. So forgive me these excesses of rekindling, what was special to me in those years, and what is still held near and dear so many years later. It is always a pleasure to re-visit those old portals, of once, at least the ones still accessible to a gad-about writer, and to reminisce about all the characteristics, that today, remind me of Irving's profiles of the Historic Hudson River Valley and its ghost ships, and of Sleepy Hollow, and its strange magic; of what I had long experienced, in the woodlands, and along the pine shores, of this little burg in South Muskoka.
Here are some portions of Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," as published within the stories contained in "The Sketch Book," of 1819. It is in this compilation, that the first reference to "Bracebridge Hall," is written. This month, of course, marks the 150th anniversary, of the naming of Bracebridge, courtesy postal authority, William Dawson LeSueur, as a memorial tribute to the recently deceased author. It was officially named in August 1864. (You can archive back through this week's blogs, to learn more about the exploits of the man who named the community, and the writer, and books, it is named after.)
There are, as a matter of interest, other communities, like Irving, Texas, that even celebrate "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and the ride of the "Headless Horseman," on Hallowe'en, for the entertainment of young trick or treaters. It is Bracebridge's literary entitlement, to celebrate Irving's stories. It has had the connection for the past 150 years, but never cared to develop it, to its literary potential. Maybe one day.
Now in the words of Washington Irving.
Double click on picture to enlarge.
"BRACEBRIDGE HALL," WAS THE BOOK - WASHINGTON IRVING, THE AUTHOR, WAS THE ONE, GIVEN THE MEMORIAL TRIBUTE
MAKE NO MISTAKE, W.D. LESUEUR, WAS MAKING A STATEMENT WHEN HE NAMED BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO; A TOWN WITH A GRACE OF NATURE
TOMORROW A LOOK AT IRVING'S SLEEPY HOLLOW
NOTE: The video above, was put together this week, by son Robert, who provided most of the photographic work, companion sound, and composition. Son Andrew was kind enough to take some photographs, of Bracebridge, for me, on a trip to town this week. The opening images of Manitoba Street, observed from the Queen's Hill, looking onto the traditional downtown retail community, have been taken from a watercolor painting, done by Gravenhurst artist, and known print-maker, Frank Johnston, who painted hundreds of similar historic-themed art pieces, throughout Muskoka; there are also images in the video, of the workers of Bracebridge's Bird's Woollen Mill, taking a few minutes for a group photograph, and several graphics of landscapes done by Bracebridge's famous painting barber, William "Bill" Anderson, who had his barbershop, art studio, in the corner storefront, of the former Patterson Hotel, opposite the clock tower of the old federal building. The record cover, used in the video, is entitled "Washington Irving - The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," read by Hurd Hatfield, directed by Paul Kresh, and presented by Arthur Luce Klein, as released by Spoken Arts Records, of New York. The video, is a simply produced overview, that wraps up in only a minute or so, what it has taken me years to polish, as far as editorial content. (Robert has agreed to help me craft a similar video, to highlight some of the work, created by artist Frank Joh)nston; coming soon.
October 2013
BRACEBRIDGE CIRCA 1864- DID THE SETTLERS KNOW WHO WASHINGTON IRVING WAS - OR HAD THEY HEARD OF "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW"
AMERICAN CIVIL WAR - A NEW NAME FOR "NORTH FALLS"
AYE, IT'S LOOKING LIKE AN OLD FASHIONED HALLOWEEN'S COMING DOWN THE PIKE.....WITH ALL THE BELLS AND WHISTLES MOTHER NATURE HAS TO OFFER. ACCORDING TO PRELIMINARY REPORTS, THERE WILL BE A MAJOR WEATHER EVENT FOR THAT SPECIAL, HAUNTED EVENING TO END OCTOBER. IT'S EXPECTED TO BE A BLUSTERY HALLOWEEN THIS YEAR. BETTER DRESS FOR COLD, RAIN, AND WIND. SO IF YOU WERE PLANNING ON BEING A GHOST, MAKE SURE THE SHEET DOESN'T BECOME A SAIL....OR YOU'LL BE GONE, "UP, UP AND AWAY," AS THE SONG SAYS.
"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 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 OF RURAL PORT, 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 PROSPERITY 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 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."
THIS IS THE OPENING OF WASHINGTON IRVING'S BEST KNOWN SHORT STORY; "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW," PUBLISHED IN AND AROUND 1819, IN THE COLLECTED STORIES KNOWN AS "THE SKETCH BOOK," AS "FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER."
"THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING WAS ONE OF THE BRIGHTEST EVER LED BY AN AUTHOR. HE DISCOVERED HIS GENIUS AT AN EARLY AGE; WAS GRACIOUSLY WELCOMED BY HIS COUNTRYMEN; ANSWERED THE LITERARY CONDITIONS OF THE PERIOD WHEN HE APPEARED; WON EASILY, AND AS EASILY KEPT, A DISTINGUISHED PLACE IN THE REPUBLIC OF LETTERS; WAS GENEROUSLY REWARDED FOR HIS WORK; CHARMED HIS CONTEMPORARIES BY HIS AMIABILITY AND MODESTY; LIVED LONG, WISELY, HAPPILY, AND DIED AT A RIPE OLD AGE, IN THE FULLNESS OF HIS POWER AND HIS FAME. HE NEVER LEARNED THE MOURNFUL TRUTH WHICH THE LIVES OF SO MANY AUTHORS FORCE UPON US: 'SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESSED;' HE NEVER FELT THE ILLS WHICH SO OFTEN ASSAIL THE SOULS OF SCHOLARS; 'TOIL, ENVY, WANT, THE POISON AND THE JAIL;' HE NEVER WROTE FOR HIS BREAD LIKE (BEN) JOHNSON AND (OLIVER) GOLDSMITH, AND NEVER HUNGERED LIKE OTWAY AND CHATTERTON; BUT LIVED IN LEARNED CASE, SURROUNDED BY FRIENDS, MASTER OF HIMSELF AND HIS TIME - A PROSPEROUS GENTLEMAN. BORN UNDER A LUCKY STAR, ALL GOOD THINGS SOUGHT HIM OUT, AND WERE TURNED BY HIM TO DELIGHTFUL USES. HE MADE THE WORLD HAPPIER BY HIS GIFTS AND THE WORLD HONORS HIS MEMORY."
THE FOLLOWING WAS OFFERED, AS A BRIEF BIOGRAPHY, IN THE 1893 COLLECTED WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, BY WELL KNOWN AUTHOR, RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. THE BOOKS WERE FOUND AT AN HISTORIC FARMSTEAD, IN BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, AT AN AUCTION IN THE MID 1980'S, FOR THE EWING FAMILY OF ZISKA ROAD. THEY WERE AMONG HUNDREDS OF OLD BOOKS I PURCHASED AT THE FARM SALE, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE MOST REMARKABLE I'D EVER ATTENDED AS AN ANTIQUE DEALER.
IN 1864, WHEN POSTAL AUTHORITY (HISTORIAN AND LITERARY CRITIC), WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR, REJECTED THE NAME "NORTH FALLS," AND SELECTED THE NAME "BRACEBRIDGE" INSTEAD, WERE CITIZENS IN THE TINY RIVERSIDE HAMLET, AWARE OF THE PROVENANCE OF THE CHOSEN NAME? THOSE WHO UNDERSTOOD AND APPRECIATED THE PARALLEL? CONSIDERING THAT "THE SKETCH BOOK," AND THE BOOK "BRACEBRIDGE HALL," WERE POPULAR TITLES EVEN BY THE MID 1820'S, IT'S TO BE EXPECTED THAT SOME OF THE SETTLERS, WHO HAD SOME BASIC SCHOOLING, WOULD HAVE KNOWN THE NAME WASHINGTON IRVING. THE QUESTION MORE SO, IS WHETHER ANY OF THE CITIZENS, AT THE TIME, QUESTIONED THE NAME "BRACEBRIDGE" IN THE FIRST PLACE; OR HAD ANY REAL CONCERN, ABOUT WHY, THE TITLE "NORTH FALLS" HAD BEEN DROPPED AS THE NAME OF THE HAMLET? WAS THERE ANY SIGNIFICANT PROTEST ABOUT THE POST OFFICE'S INTERFERENCE, OR WAS IT SIMPLY THE CASE, THERE WAS TOO MUCH ELSE TO BE CONCERNED ABOUT, IN TERMS OF BASIC SURVIVAL, TO GET EMOTIONAL ABOUT THE SIGN TO BE RAISED OVER THE PIONEER POST OFFICE?
YET WE HAVE TO ASSUME THAT SOME OF THE EARLY MOVERS AND SHAKERS, WHO DESIRED THE NAME NORTH FALLS, DID APPRECIATE THE WASHINGTON IRVING CONNECTION, AND THE IRONY OF AN AMERICAN WRITER'S BOOK, BEING ADOPTED AS THE NAME OF A FLEDGLING CANADIAN COMMUNITY, DURING THE CLOSING YEARS OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR. CONSIDER THE FACT THAT CITY NEWSPAPERS, WERE MAKING IT TO THE SETTLEMENTS IN MUSKOKA, VIA THE MAIL, AS WE KNOW FOR FACT, THAT ONE MEMBER OF THE SHEA FAMILY, FROM THE TINY FARM COMMUNITY, IN UFFORD (THREE MILE LAKE), WAS GETTING A MONTREAL NEWSPAPER, CIRCA 1864, THAT HE HAD TO PICK UP AT THE SOUTH FALLS POST OFFICE......A HELL OF A LONG CANOE PADDLE FROM HIS LOG CABIN. SO THE INHABITANTS OF THIS REGION OF MUSKOKA, EVEN BEFORE THE FREE LAND GRANTS OF THE LATE 1860'S, HAD ACCESS TO THE NEWS OF THE WORLD, AND WHAT WAS GOING ON IN AMERICA AT THIS TIME. WAS THERE CONCERN THE BATTLE COULD PUSH NORTHWARD? CONCERN ABOUT WHETHER THE VICTORS, OF THE NORTH-SOUTH CONFLICT, WOULD THEN TURN THEIR ATTENTION ON CANADA? WHO REALLY KNOWS, BECAUSE NOTHING WAS DOCUMENTED, TO SUGGEST THIS KIND OF CONCERN, UNREST, OR PROTEST, ABOUT THE AMERICAN INFILTRATION OF LITERATURE, FOISTED ON AN UNSUSPECTING, NORTHERN HAMLET. TRUTH IS, THE STORY OF "BRACEBRIDGE HALL," IS ACTUALLY ABOUT IRVING'S STAY IN ENGLAND, AND VERY MUCH, A PROTESTATION, OF AMERICA TURNING ITS BACK ON THE MOTHERLAND, AND ITS TRADITIONS, AS A RESULT OF THE SPLIT CAUSED BY THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. IRVING ARGUED THAT THE AFTERMATH OF A WAR, DIDN'T JUSTIFY SEVERING ALL RELATIONS WITH ANCESTRAL AND CULTURAL REALITIES, AND ALL ITS CHARMING CHARACTERISTICS AND INHERENT TRADITIONS. SO BRACEBRIDGE HALL IS VERY MUCH A BRITISH CULTURAL PROMOTION, AND THUS, ACTUALLY WORKED PRETTY WELL AS A TRIBUTE TO A FLEDGLING SETTLEMENT IN SOUTH MUSKOKA, AS A MAJORITY OF THE FIRST SETTLERS WERE OF BRITISH NATIONALITY.
LESUEUR WAS CLEVER THIS WAY, AND THOUGHT THE COMMUNITY WOULD GROW TO BE PROUD OF THE PROVENANCE OF A NAME, AND THE AUTHOR WHO MADE IT A LEGENDARY ONE IN WORLD LITERATURE.
THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, HOWEVER, OPTED INSTEAD, TO ALLIGN ITSELF AS A SISTER COMMUNITY, TO THE LINCOLNSHIRE MUNICIPALITY OF BRACEBRIDGE, IN ENGLAND INSTEAD, IN THE EARLY 1990'S, EVEN THOUGH THERE WAS NO HISTORIC RELATIONSHIP IN THE NAME. LESUEUR ADMITED, DURING A BRIEF INTERVIEW, SHORTLY BEFORE HIS DEATH, THAT HE HAD INDEED BORROWED IRVING'S TITLE, TO NAME "BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO." ALTHOUGH THERE HAS BEEN SOME WILD SPECULATION OVER THE YEARS, INCLUDING THE OFTEN SPUN YARN, THAT THE NAME HAD BEEN INSPIRED BY THE EXPANSE OF SILVER BRIDGE, ACROSS THE CATARACT OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER....."BRACE" AND "BRIDGE." JUST NOT SO.
SO DESPITE YEARS OF AVOIDANCE AND CONTRARY DEBATE, AND THE REFUSAL OF THE COMMUNITY LEADERSHIP TO EXPLORE MORE THOROUGHLY, THE PROSPERITY AND GOODWILL, ATTACHED TO THE NAME WASHINGTON IRVING, I BECAME, CIRCA 1998-99, THE FIRST HISTORIAN-ADVOCATE IN MUSKOKA, DEMANDING A NEW CENTURY RELATIONSHIP WITH WASHINGTON IRVING. HISTORIANS WITH PENS CAN DO THESE THINGS WITHOUT A MAYOR'S EXPRESS WRITTEN PERMISSION....AND I'VE GONE THROUGH A FEW MAYORS IN MY DAY. AND I'VE HAD TO STEP OVER A FEW HISTORIANS ON THE WAY. IT'S WHY I DON'T GET INVITED TO THE ANNUAL HISTORIANS' BALL. BUT BECAUSE I BELIEVE BRACEBRIDGE HAS MADE THE MISTAKE OF IGNORING THIS HISTORIC RELATIONSHIP, WITH ONE OF THE BEST KNOWN AUTHORS IN THE WORLD, (BECAUSE OF THAT ORIGINAL REFUSAL OF "NORTH FALLS,") I CAN NEVER, IN GOOD CONSCIENCE, ABANDON THIS PROVENANCE.....EVER.....UNTIL LIKE IRVING AND LESUEUR, I TOO, HAVE BECOME AN ETCHED NAME ON THE TOMBSTONE, IN THE FAMILY PLOT....."PUSHING UP THE DAISIES!"
SO WITHOUT HAVING BEEN COMMISSIONED TO DO SO, HERE IS JUST ONE OF MANY JOYS OF BEING CONNECTED TO THE LEGACY OF WASHINGTON IRVING....."THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW." I HAVE NOT RE-PUBLISHED THE STORY IN FULL, BECAUSE IT WOULD TAKE MANY MORE DAYS TO DO SO.......AND IT WAS IRVING'S WORK AFTERALL....NOT MINE. SO I'VE FOUND KEY PASSAGES TO INFILL THE SPLENDIDLY HAUNTED TALE OF A TEACHER AND THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. (WITH THE HOPE THAT ONE DAY, BRACEBRIDGE BUSINESSES WILL BAND TOGETHER AND HOST A WEEK LONG CELEBRATION OF THIS STORY, OF WHICH THEY ARE INHERENTLY BLESSED, AND ENTITLED, BY AUTHOR ASSOCIATION)
"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 OF 'SLEEPY HOLLOW,' AND ITS RUSTIC LADS ARE CALLED THE 'SLEEPY HOLLOW BOYS,' THROUGHOUT ALL THE NEIGHBOURING 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 OWN POW-WOW; THERE BEFORE THE COUNTRY WAS DISCOVERED BY MASTER HENDRICK HUDSON. CERTAIN IT IS, 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 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 NIGHT-MARE, WITH HER WHOLE NINE FOLD, SEEMS TO MAKE IT THE FAVORITE SCENE OF HER GAMBOLS."
I CAN SO CLEARLY REMEMBER, OUR FIRST FEW MOMENTS IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHEN WE ARRIVED AS A DESTITUTE FAMILY, FLEEING THE CITY FOR A NEW LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. IT WAS THE SPRING OF 1966, AND MY FATHER ED, HAD JUST ACCEPTED A POSITON WITH BRACEBRIDGE'S "SHIER'S LUMBER COMPANY," ONE OF THE AREA'S BEST KNOWN BUILDING SUPPLY COMPANIES. WE HAD EXPERIENCED CAR PROBLEMS ON THE WAY NORTH, AND A FLAT TIRE JUST SOUTH OF BRACEBRIDGE, THAT VERY NEARLY SENT US CAREENING INTO MUSKOKA ROCK AT ROADSIDE. TIRED FROM OUR TRAVEL NORTHWARD, IN A BEAT UP JALOPY, A VAUXHALL, WE ARRIVED OVER THE SILVER BRIDGE, STARING UP THE MAIN STREET OF OUR NEW TOWN, LOOKING AT THE HISTORIC CLOCK TOWER OF THE OLD FEDERAL BUILDING, AND MY MOTHER MERLE, WITH A LONG, CONTENTED SIGH, SAID, WE ARE HOME....THIS IS OUR "SLEEPY HOLLOW." IT WASN'T ALL THAT PROFOUND AT THE TIME, BECAUSE WE WERE JUST TOO TIRED TO UNDERSTAND HOW PROPHETIC HER STATEMENT WAS.....AND SHE DIDN'T KNOW THE DEPTH OF HER OWN FAMILY ANCESTRY THEN, THAT LOW AND BEHOLD, WAS ROOTED IN THAT SAME AREA OF THE HUDSON RIVER VALLEY. SHE WAS KINFOLK OF THE VANDERVOORT FAMILES, OF HOLLAND, WHO HAD BEEN AMONGST THE FIRST SETTLERS OF THE PRESENT STATE OF NEW YORK. I SUPPOSE THIS IS ANOTHER REASON I CONTINUE TO DRAW INSPIRATION FROM IRVING'S TALES, GROWN FROM THE SAME REGION OF PIONEER AMERICA.
IN THE WORDS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, AND WITH THE COVER OF THE BOOK OPENED TO THE PAGE, WHERE SOME OTHER READER LEFT OFF, IN THE LATE EVENING OF A PAST HALLOWEEN; WE RETURN TO SLEEPY HOLLOW, AND THE GOOD FOLKS' BELIEF IN THE APPARITION KNOWN, AS THE "HEADLESS HORSEMAN," THE HESSIAN TROOPER WHO HAD LOST HIS HEAD IN A REVOLUTIONARY WAR BATTLE....AND HAD BEEN BURIED WITHOUT, IN A CHURCHYARD PLOT.....WHERE IT IS SAID, HE RISES ON MOONLIT NIGHTS LIKE THIS, TO SEEK OUT WHAT RIGHTFULLY BELONGS TO HIM.
IRVING'S CHARACTER, ICHABOD CRANE, THE NEW SCHOOL TEACHER TO THE VILLAGE OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, CARRIED AFFECTIONS FOR THE DAUGHTER OF ONE OF THE MOST PROMINENT MEN OF THE BUSINESS COMMUNITY, AND BY SHOWING HIS AFFECTIONS, HAD GOT UNCOMFORTABLY IN THE WAY, OF HER MORE AGGRESSIVE, CAPABLE ADMIRER, BROM BONES, WHO IT IS SAID, WOULD GO TO ANY LENGTH TO WIN THE SUBJECT OF HIS AFFECTIONS.....INCLUDING THE DISPATCHING OF THE PEDAGOGUE, THE WEAK KNEED, CLUMSY, ANNOYING, GREEDY, MR. CRANE. BUT DID THIS MANIFEST AS AN EFFORT BY A JEALOUS SUITOR, OR WAS THE HESSIAN A PARANORMAL A REAL FORCE OF THE SUPERNATURAL, TO BE RECKONED WITH?
"IT WAS AS I HAVE SAID, A FINE AUTUMNAL DAY; THE SKY WAS CLEAR AND SERENE, AND NATURE WORE THAT RICH AND GOLD LIVERY WHICH WE ALWAYS ASSOCIATE WITH THE IDEA OF ABUNDANCE. THE FORESTS HAD PUT ON THEIR SOBER BROWN AND YELLOW, WHILE SOME TREES OF THE TENDERER KIND, HAD BEEN NIPPED BY THE FROSTS INTO BRILLIANT DYES OF ORANGE, PURPLE AND SCARLET. STREAMING FILES OF WILD DUCKS BEGAN TO MAKE THEIR APPEARANCE HIGH IN THE AIR; THE BARK OF THE SQUIRREL MIGHT BE HEARD FROM THE GROVES OF BEECH AND HICKORY-NUTS, AND THE PENSIVE WHISTLE OF THE QUAIL, AT INTERVALS FROM THE NEIGHBORING STUBBLE FIELD," WROTE IRVING.
"THE SMALL BIRDS WERE TAKING THEIR FAREWELL BANQUETS. IN THE FULNESS OF THEIR REVELRY, THEY FLUTTERED CHIRPING AND FROLICKING FROM BUSH TO BUSH, AND TREE TO TREE, CAPRICIOUS FROM THE VERY PROFUSING AND VARIETY AROUND THEM. THERE WAS THE VERY HONEST COCK-ROBIN, THE FAVOURITE GAME OF STRIPLING SPORTSMEN, WITH ITS LOUD QUERILOUS NOTE, AND THE TWITTERING BLACKBIRDS FLYING IN SABLE CLOUDS; AND THE GOLDEN WINGED WOODPECKER, WITH HIS CRIMSON CREST, HIS BROAD BLACK GORGET, AND SPLENDID PLUMAGE; AND THE CEDAR-BIRD, WITH ITS RED-TIPT WINGS AND YELLOW-TIPT TAIL, AND HIS LITTLE MONTEIRO CAP OF FEATHERS; AND THE BLUE JAY, THAT NOISY COXCOMB, IN HIS GAY LIGHT BLUE COAT AND WHITE UNDERCLOTHES, SCREAMING AND CHATTERING, NODDING, AND BOBBING, AND BOWING, AND PRETENDING TO BE ON GOOD TERMS WITH EVERY SONGSTER OF THE GROVE.
"AS ICHABOD JOGGED SLOWLY ON HIS WAY, HIS EYE, EVER OPEN TO EVERY SYMPTON OF CULINARY ABUNDANCE, RANGED WITH DELIGHT OVER THE TREASURES OF JOLLY AUTUMN. ON ALL SIDES HE BEHELD VAST STORE OF APPLES, SOME HANGING IN OPPRESSIVE OPULENCE ON THE TREES; SOME GATHERED INTO BASKETS AND BARRELS FOR THE MARKET; OTHERS HEAPED UP IN RICH PILES FOR THE CIDER-PRESS. FARTHER ON HE BEHELD GREAT FIELDS OF INDIAN CORN, WITH ITS GOLDEN EARS PEEPING FROM THEIR LEAFY COVERTS, AND HOLDING OUT THE PROMISE OF CAKES AND HASTY-PUDDING; AND THE YELLOW PUMPKINS LYING BENEATH THEM, TURNING UP THEIR FAIR ROUND BELLIES TO THE SUN, AND GIVING AMPLE PROSPECTS OF THE MOST LUXURIOUS OF PIES; AND ANON, HE PASSED THE FRAGRANT BUCKWHEAT FIELDS, BREATHING THE ODOUR OF THE BEEHIVE, AND HE BEHELD THEM, SOFT ANTICIPATIONS STOLE HIS MIND OF DAINTY SLAP-JACKS, WELL BUTTERED AND GARNISHED WITH HONEY OR TREACLE, BY THE DELICATE LITTLE DIMPLED HAND OF KATRINA VAN TASSEL (THE GIRL HE WISHED WOULD RETURN HIS AFFECTIONS)."
WASHINGTON IRVING, AT HIS DESK, WRITES OF CRANE, "THUS FEEDING HIS MIND WITH MANY SWEET THOUGHTS AND SUGARED SUPPOSITIONS, HE JOURNEYED ALONG THE SIDES OF THE RANGE OF HILLS, WHICH LOOK OUT UPON SOME OF THE GOODLIEST SCENES OF THE MIGHTY HUDSON. THE SUN GRADUALLY WHEELED HIS BROAD DISK DOWN INTO THE WEST. THE WHOLE BOSUM OF THE TAPPAAN ZEE LAY MOTIONLESS AND GLASSY, EXCEPTING THAT HERE AND THERE A GENTLE UNDULATION WAVED AND PROLONGED THE BLUE SHADOW OF THE DISTANT MOUNTAIN. A FEW AMBER CLOUDS FLOATED IN THE SKY, WITHOUT A BREATH OF AIR TO MOVE THEM. THE HORIZON WAS OF A FINE GOLDEN TINT, CHANGING GRADUALLY INTO A PURE APPLE GREEN, AND FROM THAT INTO THE DEEP BLUE OF THE MID-HEAVEN. A SLANTING RAY LINGERED ON THE WOODY CRESTS OF THE PRECIPICES THAT OVERHUNG SOME, PARTS OF THE RIVER, GIVING GREAT DEPTH TO THE DARK GRAY AND PURPLE OF THEIR ROCKY SIDES. A SLOOP WAS LOITERING IN THE DISTANCE, DROPPING SLOWLY DOWN WITH THE TIDE, HER SAIL HANGING USELESSLY AGAINST THE MAST; AND AS THE REFLECTION OF THE SKY GLEANED ALONG THE STILL WATER, IT SEEMED AS IF THE VESSEL WAS SUSPENDED IN THE AIR."
IRVING NOTES, WITH KEEN OBSERVATION, OF HIS CHARACTER'S PASSAGE, THAT "IT WAS TOWARD EVENING THAT ICHABOD ARRIVED AT THE CASTLE OF THE HEER VAN TASSLE, WHICH HE FOUND THRONGED WITH THE PRIDE AND FLOWER OF THE ADJACENT COUNTRY. OLD FARMERS, A SPARE LEATHERN-FACED RACE, IN HOMESPUN COATS AND BREECHES, BLUE STOCKINGS, HUGE SHOES AND MAGNIFICENT PEWTER BUCKLES. THEIR BRISK, WITHERED LITTLE DAMES, IN CLOSE CRIMPED CAPS, WITH LONG-WAISTED GOWNS, HOMESPUN PETTICOATS, WITH SCISSORS AND PIN-CUSHIONS, AND GAY CALICO POCKETS HANGING ON THE OUTSIDE. BUXOM LASSES, ALMOST AS ANTIQUATED AS THEIR MOTHERS, EXCEPTING WHERE A STRAW HAT, A FINE RIBAND, OR PERHAPS A WHITE FROCK, GAVE SYMPTOMS OF CITY IN MOTIVATIONS. THE SONS, IN SHORT SQUARE-SKIRTED COATS, WITH ROWS OF STUPENDOUS BRASS BUTTONS, AND THEIR HAIR GENERALLY QUEUED IN THE FASHION OF THE TIMES, ESPECIALLY IF THEY COULD PROCURE AN EELSKIN FOR THE PURPOSE, IT BEING ESTEEMED THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRY AS A POTENT NOURISHER AND STRENGTHENER OF THE HAIR.
"BROM BONES, HOWEVER, WAS THE HERO OF THE SCENE, HAVING COME TO THE GATHERING ON HIS FAVORITE STEED, 'DAREDEVIL,' A CREATURE, LIKE HIMSELF, FULL OF METTLE AND MISCHIEF AND WHICH NO ONE BUT HIMSELF COULD MANAGE. HE WAS, IN FACT, NOTED FOR PREFERRING VICIOUS ANIMALS, GIVEN TO ALL KINDS OF TRICKS WHICH KEPT THE RIDER IN CONSTANT RISK OF HIS NECK, FOR HE HELD A TRACTABLE WELL-BROKEN HORSE, AS UNWORTHY OF A LAD OF SPIRIT.
"FAIN WOULD I PAUSE TO DWELL UPON THE WORLD OF CHARMS THAT BURST UPON THE ENRAPTURED GAZE OF MY HERO, AS HE ENTERED THE STATE PARLOUR OF VAN TASSEL'S MANSION. NOT THOSE OF THE BEVY OF BUXOM LASSES, WITH THEIR LUXURIOUS DISPLAY OF RED AND WHITE; BUT THE AMPLE CHORUS OF A GENUINE DUTCH COUNTRY TEA-TABLE, IN THE SUMPTUOUS TIME OF AUTUMN. SUCH HEAPED-UP PLATTERS OF CAKES OF VARIOUS AND ALMOST INDESCRIBABLE KINDS, KNOWN ONLY TO EXPERIENCED DUTCH HOUSEWIVES."
IRVING ADDS, "OLD BALTUS VAN TASSEL MOVED ABOUT HIS GUESTS WITH A FACE DILATED WITH CONTENT AND GOOD HUMOUR, ROUND AND JOLLY AS THE HARVEST MOON. HIS HOSPITABLE ATTENTIONS WERE BRIEF, BUT EXPRESSIVE, BEING CONFINED TO A SHAKE OF THE HAND, A SLAP ON THE SHOULDER, A LOUD LAUGH, AND A PRESSING INVITATION TO 'FAIL TO, AND HELP THEMSELVES'. AND NOW THE SOUND OF THE MUSIC FROM THE COMMON ROOM, OR HALL SUMMONED TO THE DANCE."
"ICHABOD PRIDED HIMSELF UPON HIS DANCING AS MUCH AS UPON HIS VOCAL POWERS," IRVING CHARACTERIZES OF THE TEACHER. "NOT A LIMB, NOT A FIBRE ABOUT HIM WAS IDLE; AND TO HAVE SEEN HIS LOOSELY HUNG FRAME IN FULL MOTION, AND CLATTERING ABOUT THE ROOM, YOU WOULD HAVE THOUGHT ST. VITUS HIMSELF, THAT BLESSED PATRON OF THE DANCE, WAS FIGURING BEFORE YOU IN PERSON." "WHEN THE DANCE WAS AT AN END, ICHABOD WAS ATTRACTED TO A KNOT OF THE EAGER FOLKS, WHO WITH OLD VAN TASSEL, SAT SMOKING AT ONE END OF THE PLAZA, GOSSIPING OVER FORMER TIMES, AND DRAWING OUT LONG STORIES ABOUT THE WAR," RECORDS THE AUTHOR, OF CRANE'S MOVEMENT ABOUT THE HOME.
"THE REVEL NOW GRADUALLY BROKE UP. THE OLD FARMERS GATHERED TOGETHER THEIR FAMILIES IN THEIR WAGONS, AND WERE HEARD FOR SOME TIME RATTLING ALONG THE HOLLOW ROADS, AND OVER THE DISTANT HILLS. SOME OF THE DAMSELS MOUNTED ON PILLIONS BEHIND THEIR FAVORITE SWAINS, AND THEIR LIGHT-HEARTED LAUGHTER, MINGLING WITH THE CLATTER OF HOOFS, ECHOED ALONG THE SILENT WOODLANDS, SOUNDING FAINTER AND FAINTER, UNTIL THEY GRADUALLY DIED AWAY - AND THE LATE SCENE OF NOISE AND FROLIC WAS ALL SILENT AND DESERTED," WRITES IRVING. "ICHABOD ONLY LINGERED BEHIND, ACCORDING TO THE CUSTOM OF COUNTRY LOVERS, TO HAVE A TETE-A-TETE WITH THE HEIRESS; FULLY CONVINCED THAT HE WAS NOW ON THE HIGH ROAD TO SUCCESS. WHAT PASSED AT THIS INTERVIEW I WILL NOT PRETEND TO SAY, FOR IN FACT I DO NOT KNOW. SOMETHING HOWEVER, I FEAR ME, MUST HAVE GONE WRONG, FOR HE CERTAINLY SAILED FORTH, AFTER NO VERY GREAT INTERVAL, WITH AN AIR OF QUITE DESOLATE AND CHAPFALLEN - OH, THESE WOMEN, THESE WOMEN! COULD THAT GIRL HAVE BEEN PLAYING OFF ANY OF HER COQUETISH TRICKS? WAS HER ENCOURAGEMENT OF THE POOR PEDAGOGUE ALL A MERE SHAM TO SECURE HER CONQUEST OF HIS RIVAL? HEAVEN ONLY KNOWS."
"IT WAS THE VERY WITCHING TIME OF NIGHT THAT ICHABOD, HEAVY-HEARTED AND CREST-FALLEN, PURSUED HIS TRAVEL HOMEWARDS, ALONG THE SIDES OF THE LOFTY HILLS WHICH RISE ABOVE TARRY TOWN, AND WHICH HE HAD TRAVERSED SO CHEERILY IN THE AFTERNOON. THE HOUR WAS AS DISMAL AS HIMSELF. FAR BELOW HIM, THE TAPPANN ZEE SPREAD ITS DUSKY AND INDISTINCT WASTE OF WATERS, WITH HERE AND THERE A TALL MAST OF A SLOOP, RIDING QUIETLY AT ANCHOR UNDER THE LAND. IN THE DEAD HUSH OF MIDNIGHT, HE COULD EVEN HEAR THE BARKING OF THE WATCHDOG FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HUDSON; BUT IT WAS SO VAGUE AND FAINT AS ONLY TO GIVE AN IDEA OF HIS DISTANCE FROM THIS FAITHFUL COMPANION OF MAN. NOW AND THEN, TOO, THE LONG-DRAWN CROWING OF A COCK, ACCIDENTALLY AWAKENED WOULD SOUND FAR, FAR OFF, FROM SOME FARM-HOUSE, AWAY AMONG THE HILLS - BUT IT WAS LIKE A DREAMING SOUND IN HIS EAR. NO SIGNS OF LIFE OCCURRED NEAR HIM, BUT OCCASIONALLY THE MELANCHOLY CHIRP OF A CRICKET, OR PERHAPS THE GUTTURAL TWANG OF A BULL-FROG FROM A NEIGHBORING MARSH, AS IF SLEEPING UNCOMFORTABLY, AND TURNING SUDDENLY IN HIS BED. ALL THE STORIES OF GHOSTS AND GOBLINS THAT HE HAD HEARD IN THE AFTERNOON, NOW CAME CROWDING UPON HIS RECOLLECTION. THE NIGHT GREW DARKER AND DARKER; THE STARS SEEMED TO SINK DEEPER IN THE SKY, AND DRIVING CLOUDS OCCASIONALLY HID THEM FROM HIS SIGHT. HE HAD NEVER FELT SO LONELY AND DISMAL. HE WAS MOREOVER, APPROACHING THE VERY PLACE WHERE MANY OF THE SCENES OF GHOST STORIES HAD BEEN LAID. IN THE CENTRE OF THE ROAD STOOD AN ENORMOUS TULIP-TREE, WHICH TOWERED LIKE A GIANT ABOVE ALL THE OTHER TREES OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD, AND FORMED A KIND OF LANDMARK. ITS LIMBS WERE GNARLED AND FANTASTIC, LARGE ENOUGH TO FORM TRUNKS FOR ORDINARY TREES, TWISTING DOWN ALMOST TO THE EARTH, AND RISING AGAIN, INTO THE AIR. IT WAS CONNECTED WITH THE TRAGICAL STORY OF THE UNFORTUNATE ANDRE, WHO HAD BEEN TAKEN PRISONER HARD BY; AND WAS UNIVERSALLY KNOWN BY THE NAME OF MAJOR ANDRE'S TREE. THE COMMON PEOPLE REGARDED IT WITH A MIXTURE OF RESPECT AND SUPERSTITION PARTLY OUT OF SYMPATHY FOR THE FATE OF ITS ILL-STARTED NAMESAKE, AND PARTLY FROM THE TALES OF STRANGE SIGHTS AND DOLEFUL LAMENTATIONS TOLD CONCERNING IT."
I WILL J RE-JOIN THE ADVENTUROUS TRAVELS OF ICHABOD CRANE, IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF STORIED "SLEEPY HOLLOW," IN TOMORROW'S BLOG. PLEASE CATCH PART TWO OF THREE OF THIS TRIBUTE TO WASHINGTON IRVING, AND THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, THAT CARRIES THE PROVENANCE OF HIS GOOD NAME.
IT IS KNOWN, BY THE WAY, THAT AUTHOR CHARLES DICKENS, HIMSELF, WAS A BIG FAN OF THE WORK OF WASHINGTON IRVING, CONFESSING TO A COLLEAGUE ONCE, THAT HE OFTEN "RETIRED TO BEDLAM," WITH ONE OF HIS BOOKS, "TUCKED UNDER HIS ARM." NOT A BAD PROVENANCE THEN, WOULDN'T YOU SAY, TO HAVE BEEN AFFORDED A NAME ASSOCIATED WITH WASHINGTON IRVING?"
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