HOW DID I GET MY START IN THE ANTIQUE TRADE? IT WASN'T SO MUCH DIFFERENT THAN MR. WAY'S EARLY DAYS!
IT WAS SEEDED IN CHILDHOOD - BY THE ENCOURAGEMENT, AND INSISTENCE OF OUR PARENTS
My father liked O'Keefe Ale, at least three pints each night, shooting the breeze with his mates at the local watering hole, and watching hockey, football and baseball in season, on the black and white boob tube that never stopped flickering and rolling. As for work, he was a career lumberman, with Tepsons, Weldwood, and Consumers' Lumber, in Southern Ontario, in the late 1950's and early 1960's. My mother worked at a Bank Of Commerce branch, in the Hamilton area, and we lived in an apartment up at 2138 Harris Crescent, owned by the Nagy family, who still maintain ownership of the three level building, to this day, nestled in a quiet area of a thriving city.
On Sundays back then, my father used to drive us, (meaning my mother and I) to parks and historic sites throughout Southern Ontario, but I can't explain why. The odd aspect of this, is that my parents had no interest in antiques, and a very thin appreciation for Canadian history at all; but for some reason, of educational immersion, they were determined to expose their son to historic sites like Fort Henry, Fort York, Fort Niagara, Queenston Heights, site of a major battle of the War of 1812, Upper Canada Village, Martyrs Shrine in Midland, Sainte Marie Among the Hurons, and Algonquin Park. We stopped at every historic site, when we travelled south to Florida, and my father's favorite place was "St. Augustine," where he liked to see all the heritage architecture, at oceanside.
To this day, I don't know why he decided history was good for his kid, because he and my mother were entirely modernists in every way, including our spartan apartment furnishings, which were as contemporary as that year's Eaton's catalogue. It was very strange, and I remember thinking this, years later, after we had moved north to Bracebridge, where my mother had a very brief nostalgic spell, liking some old pieces, such as a 1920's china cupboard and two press back chairs, she had purchased one afternoon, on an outing with a friend, to a local yard sale,(circa 1968 or so). I loved those antique items, and it came as quite a shock, a decade later, when I came home one night from staying in Toronto, and found she had thrown the press back chairs out with the garbage. She gave the china cupboard away one day, to another apartment resident, who fancied it, while visiting for coffee; so Merle just began emptying its contents, and told the woman she could move it out immediately. I had always assumed it would be my inheritance. I was an only child afterall.
Even to the ends of their lives, my parents had little to no interest in anything of a vintage nature, except family photographs, and a few pieces from her parents; which included several items of jewellry, and one little framed print of a mountain scene. Yet, what they had offered me, by motoring to historic sites almost every Sunday in the good weather, was an introduction to bygone eras, and it took hold of me forever. It was like they planned this, as a way to encourage my career choices. I went to university as they insisted, and they really did insist, and graduated with a degree in Canadian history. I soon became one of the founders of a local historical society in Bracebridge, and participated in the founding of the town's first museum, in the early 1980's. I had my first antique shop, with my parents as minor partners, on the "gift-ware" side of the shop, in the fall of 1977, and had my first columns on antiques and collectables published in the Bracebridge Examiner, back in the spring of 1978. I have been writing about history and antiques since then. I just can't figure out, for the life of me, what my parents really intended, for their young son, and if they really believed exposure to the early forts of Upper Canada, as well as other significant historic sites, would destine me to become an historian, and an antiquarian. I would feel pretty good about this, if it was actually the case, that it was clearly intentional, and not just the happenstance of my father, just being bored on Sunday afternoons, during my childhood; with no other places to go! Regardless, it was a neat way to introduce me to history at a young age, even though they could take it or leave it as a recreational pursuit. If like British Antique Dealer, Reginald Way, I had been brought up in an antique-loving household, where heirloom pieces were cherished, I could easily recognize the results of their influences on my professions today. I do remember one very early debacle, that may have seriously influenced my mother, away from antiques and keepsakes, in general. I didn't understand it at the time, but I do now!
My grandfather, Stanley Jackson, invited my mother to his Toronto house, a short time after his wife "Blanche" had passed away, and because he intended to sell the big house, he had built himself, he wanted to give family members an opportunity to take some household items that were important to them, or that they fancied for their own homes. I remember getting there, with my parents, and my mother becoming very upset, soon inside the door, when she saw what she would later describe, as a "animal show" with her sisters' families grabbing things and falling over themselves, to pull pictures off the walls, and lamps free of their outlets. I remember looking through the basement door, and seeing about a dozen family members with their arms full of things, and thinking to myself, that I should do the same; but what did I want. I saw someone carrying my grandfather's violin, and this enraged my mother, who was standing behind me, sobbing about the carnage going on around her. It was shortly after this, that she grabbed me by the arm, and my father, and told Stanley on the way out, that she was very disappointed to see what was happening inside. I don't think Stanley had thought it would turn into such a frenzy of antique and collectable hunting, in what was still a house in mourning. I'm pretty sure my mother told him it was particularly disrespectful to her mother, that he hadn't waited longer, before clearing out the house, and a lot of precious memories. This is what my mother did collect. Memories! She didn't have to dust them off every day. It was one thing to have a clutter of memories, versus a clutter of household items, which she couldn't have cared less about. A few days later, Stanley showed up at our Burlington apartment, with a small bag full of his wife's jewelry, he had kept aside for Merle, and this print, I referred to earlier, of a mountain scene, under glass, in a small white frame. I inherited these pieces that have next to no material value, and are entirely of sentimental interest. I'm not sure if this is the main reason my mother had little regard for material possessions, but I think it was a contributing factor, for sure. So as far as a youth surrounded by antiques, Mr. Way was far more immersed in the profession, than I can claim. My introduction in history, was by traveling to historic sites instead.
THE ANTIQUE TRADE AS IT WAS IN MR. WAY'S DAY IN ENGLAND
The material published below, is taken from one of my favourite biographies regarding the antique profession. I have used it over many years, at times when I get frustrated by the antique and collectable trade, for dozens of reasons that pop up throughout any business year. Reginald Way always puts me back on track, and the profession in perspective, and thus, I can't do without this small format, hardcover book, that reminds me I'm part of a world tradition, of antique buying and selling, going back many centuries; and I must be patient with the ups and downs that have characterized the trade for this same period.
(IN THE BEGINNING) "Human memory has always seemed to me a mystery," wrote, Reginald Way, in this 1957 biography, entitled "Antique Dealer." "Why is it, for instance, that one should be able to recall vividly an incident, that occurred when one was eight and yet only retain a blurred and vague image, of something probably much more important, that happened when one was over thirty? One of my early childhood memories is of a water-colour picture, of a three-masted sailing ship, called 'The Monarch.' I still have this picture, and when I look at it I can still recall my grandmother's voice, telling me the story of a wet, cold December morning, in 1863, as 'The Monarch,' sailed into Bristol City dock. On deck, Captain Way, a trim, thick-set man of medium height, with a dark beard and piercing blue eyes, staring anxiously out at the houses on the quayside. He knew that his wife was expecting a child and he was worried. As 'The Monarch' drew opposite his own house, he cupped his hands and shouted loudly, 'Ahoy, Mrs. Way, Ahoy!' Almost immediately the figure of a strange woman appeared at an open window, and he saw that she was holding a small bundle in her arms. 'What news,' he shouted. She held up the bundle. 'A son,' she shouted back. 'Three days old and his mother is doing fine.' That son was my father, John Philip Way.
"When he left school, my father began to earn his living in the office of a firm of tea brokers, in Bristol, and it was soon discovered that he had a remarkable flair as a tea-taster. Because of this, his firm offered him a very much bigger salary to go over to their London offices as an expert sampler. No doubt my father would have accepted this offer if his Uncle Philip had not, at that time, put an alternative proposition to him.
"Philip Elliot, my grandmother's brother, owned a small antique shop in Park Street, and his suggestion was that my father should join him in the business. It was understood that, eventually, my father would inherit not only the Bristol shop, but also some house property in Clifton, and London. The family, believing themselves wise, prevailed upon him to accept his uncle's offer. Unfortunately for my father, things did not turn out quite like that, for my great Uncle Philip suddenly and quite unexpectedly married his housekeeper, and made a will leaving everything in his possession to her. I say unfortunately, because by then my father had married. I had been born in 1893, and my sisters Violet and Iris, at two-yearly intervals after me. On the thirty shillings a week wage, which his uncle had paid him, there had been little to save and there seemed, then, no prospects for our future. However, my father decided to leave his uncle's business, and set up on his own. A friend of his, Frederick Newcombe, who was a picture dealer and frame maker, promised my father a first option, on the lease of some premises he was buying further along Park Street and, eventually, we moved into No. 69. There was living accommodation, to go with the shop, and I shall never forget how, as children, my sisters and I were amazed at the number of rooms there seemed to be. I was only eight years old at the time, and I cannot now remember exactly how my father obtained stock to start his business - at least not furniture and china stock. But the silver and plate came through some well-meaning and wealthy relatives, who kept a large departmental store in Australia. One of them had sent an order to a Birmingham firm of silversmiths, to supply my father with a hundred pounds worth of silver, and jewelry. My father was grateful for this kindness, but he would have appreciated it much more if he had been given the money to buy his own stock, since Australian departmental stores, and Bristol antique shops, were as far apart in taste than they were in miles. As it happened, the Birmingham firm, were understanding, and came to an arrangement whereby my father took one hundred pounds of stock, and the rest in cash. It was the silver stock which I remember best. I have a vivid picture in my mind of the small living-room behind the shop, where we had our meals and where, every Saturday afternoon, my parents, my two sisters, and I, sat round the table and cleaned the wretched stuff. Most of it was of Dutch origin, fancy spoons with embossed bowls and curiously shaped handles - all impossible to clean. It was worthless stuff really, and yet eagerly bought by so-called collectors of old silver at the time. There were also some little horrors called 'silver toys'; models of windmills, ships in full sail, carriages and horses, domestic animals such as hens, ducks and turkeys."
According to the younger Mr. Way, in his biography, "How my sisters and I hated these Saturday afternoon cleanings. My mother would apply a pink liquid silver polish, to the innumberable articles, and then, when it was dry enough to make you sneeze, we children, with our chamois, leathers and brushes, had to rub and polish until each of the items shone and gleamed in the afternoon light. Our throats were parched, our faces streaked with dirt, and our hands and knuckles sore by the time we had finished, and the silver was ready for display in the little window, on the left side of the entrance to the shop. It was my father's job to put it back into his window. At the end of the afternoon we were given a special tea, and a penny each as wages. The rest of my father's shop contained simple pieces of antique furniture bureaux, bookcases, chests of drawers, gate-legged tables and a collection of rather mediocre old china, pottery, and glass. Prices in those days were very moderate; a good mahogany bureau could be bought for four pounds, and an oak one for three. Even sets of Sheraton chairs went for as low a figure as ten pounds. I realize, looking back, that my father must have had a struggled to make a living at that time. I remember coming home from school one day, and seeing my parents hugging each other in delight, because he had sold a wing chair for six dollars. At this time I began to be allowed to keep an eye on the shop, when my father was away buying, and my mother was alone with household chores, to do so, in the living quarters of the building. I was extremely proud of this responsibility, and one afternoon I saw an old man peering up at the name painted above the shop. Presently he came in. I felt excited because I thought, by the look of him, that he must be a customer. I waited until he had closed the door, and then I asked him what I could do for him. His answer burst the bubble of my excitement. 'May I use your water closet (washroom)?' he asked."
"Life in Park Street fell into a smooth routine, and soon my parents became regular numbers of the congregation of the lovely church of St. Stephen's. We children went to both the morning and the evening services every Sunday. The rector, the Reverend E.J. Houghton, lived in Charlotte Street, which happened to be a turning close to our shop. Because of this, Mr. Houghton passed it daily and, since he was interested in antiques, we soon got to know him well, and gradually he became a great friend of the family. At this period in Bristol, we were very stage-conscious. The Prince's Theatre in particular, held a special place in all our affections. In fact, the actors and actresses who played there, were looked upon by most of us as personal friends. The owner of the theatre in 1904 was James McCready Chute, and both he and his family used to occupy the stage box week by week. Famous actors and actresses were always appearing at the theatre, and, in those days, one never spoke of seeing a play, but of seeing many an actor. People would say, 'Are you gong to see Ellen Terry,' or 'Have you seen Forbes Robertson this week?' Park Street and College Green were considered Bristol's elite shopping district, and the Prince's Theatre was only a few hundred yards away. It was therefore natural that the actors and actresses used to call in to look around the shops, in our neighborhood. The old ledgers kept by the owners of businesses there, are full of famous theatrical names. These customers were not lavish spenders, but I knew that my parents were tremendously proud when they visited our shop. Martin Harvey often looked in when he came to Bristol, and he made a number of purchases there. I remember that he bought a pair of small Regency secretaire cabinets and, years later, when my father died, he wrote me a charming letter saying how sorry he was, and that he still possessed the cabinets which were always much admired by his friends. It was during a matinee at the Prince's Theatre, that I first saw Anna Pavlova and, in complete contrast, Dan Leno, the greatest comedian of those days.
"One day Seymour Hicks strolled into the shop, and bought some old theatrical prints. Having done so he asked my father if he had an errand boy who could deliver them to the theatre for him. My father explained he hadn't, but said that his young son would do so, on Thursday afternoon. 'Very well,' Seymour Hicks replied, 'there's a matinee that day and if he comes before two o'clock, I'll give him a pass for the show if he'd like one." Reginald Way writes, "I thoroughly enjoyed 'The Gay Gordons.' Seymour Hicks and Ellaline Terries were then at the height of their careers. He looked gay and handsome and she was so beautiful that I was enchanted. Afterwards I went to the stage door which was already crowded with people, waiting for the cast to come out. I felt very elated when the stage door-keeper recognized me, and told me where Mr. Hick's dressing room was. I knocked on the door, which was opened by his dresser, and I was rather taken aback to find that Seymour Hicks, was wearing only a dress shirt and his socks, and shoes; but when he asked me if I'd enjoyed the show, I forgot my embarrassment. I answered enthusiastically that I had, and he said 'Good, I'm glad about that. By the way, please tell your father how pleased I am to have found those old prints. Here's the cheque.' I felt very proud to be talking to such a distinguished person, even if he was rather strangely clad."
As a matter of irony, our Gravenhurst shop today, is located less than a hundred yards from the town Opera House, and only several blocks from another well known entertainment venue; and in prime season (summer months) we get a parade of musicians and actors from shows coming in to see us, when they're performing at either venue. I've owned this biography for many decades now, long before we had our present antique business.
I'll return to the good Mr. Way's interesting biography, for tomorrow's blog. It does offer some interesting details about the making of an antique dealer from a young age; and what the turning points were that influenced the outcome of a lifetime.
Thanks so much for joining me today. It's supposed to be a wickedly cold night, and seeing as this is the first day in the past five, suffering from a nasty cold, that I've felt pretty good, I'm going to huddle at hearthside, with Rag-a-Muffin the dog, and find a good book to read. Suzanne prefers watching her collection of episodes from the television show, "The Mentalist," while knitting her fingerless gloves, which she sold out of, during the Christmas holidays. She figures there's a lot of winter left, and a mountain of wool in her cupboard, and well, she has some time on her hands while watching her favorite show in re-run.
Bundle up if you have to go outdoors. Why do I feel this winter has already been way too long? See you again soon!
BOOKSELLERS HAVE BEEN ALLIES FOR HISTORIANS AND AUTHORS SINCE THE BEGINNING
THE TOM THOMSON MYSTERY COMES TO A THE NEIGHBORHOOD OLD BOOK DEALER
IN 2013 IT'S INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT TO FIND A CANADIAN ARTIST HISTORIAN / BIOGRAPHER, OR COLD-CASE SLEUTH, WHO HASN'T ADOPTED THE "MURDER" EXPLANATION, FOR THE DEATH OF LANDSCAPE ARTIST, TOM THOMSON, IN ALGONQUIN PARK'S CANOE LAKE, IN JULY OF 1917. FROM 1917, ON TO THE LATE 1990'S, MOST RESEARCHERS BELIEVED IN WHAT THE CHIEF CORONER HAD RULED, THAT JULY EVENING AT CANOE LAKE. THOMSON DIED THE RESULT OF ACCIDENTAL DROWNING, WHILE TRAVERSING CANOE LAKE FROM WHERE HE HAD BEEN LODGING, IN THE TINY INHABITATION KNOWN AS MOWAT, SPECIFICALLY AT SHANNON FRASER'S MOWAT LODGE. CERTAINLY INTO THE LATE 1990'S, THOSE BELIEVING HIS DEATH WAS THE RESULT OF FOUL PLAY, WERE SERIOUSLY OUT-NUMBERED BY THOSE WHO FELT THE ARTIST HAD PROBABLY BEEN PEEING OVER THE SIDE OF THE CANOE, (AFTER TOO MUCH BOOZE) AND SIMPLY TOPPLED INTO THE WATER……HITTING HIS HEAD ON THE GUNNEL, ON THE WAY DOWN. THUS, BEING KNOCKED UNCONSCIOUS, HE HAD NO WAY OF SWIMMING OUT OF THE JAWS OF FATE.
TODAY, THERE ARE FAR MORE HISTORIANS AND RESEARCHERS, CONNECTED WITH THE THOMSON STORY, WHO ARE OF THE OPPOSITE OPINION. THE LATEST BOOKS OUT, AND ARTICLES ON THE CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING HIS DEATH, POINT TO FOUL PLAY AS THE ONLY REASON, THE TALENTED ARTIST DIDN'T LIVE ON, TO PAINT MANY MORE AMAZING LANDSCAPES. YET EVEN AS THE INQUEST WAS BEING HELD, MINUS THE BODY (THOMSON HAD ALREADY BEEN BURIED BEFORE THE CORONER COULD ARRIVE FROM NORTH BAY), THERE WERE REPORTEDLY MANY IN ATTENDANCE, WHO DID NOT AGREE WITH THE OFFICIAL FINDING. THEY KNEW THOMSON AS A MORE COLORFUL, AGGRESSIVE PERSON, AND RECOGNIZED HE HAD ADVERSARIES IN THE CANOE LAKE COMMUNITY. FOR WHATEVER REASON, AND IT WAS PROBABLY ASSOCIATED WITH SMALL-COMMUNITY LOYALTIES, THE CORONER, DR. RAINEY, DIDN'T RECEIVE ONE RESPONSE WHEN HE ASKED IF ANY ONE IN THAT ROOM, HAD REASON TO CONTRADICT THE FINDINGS, AND THE THEORY OF ACCIDENTAL DROWNING. SO WHILE THERE WERE SIGNIFICANT CONCERNS, ONLY DAYS AFTER HIS DEATH, THAT THOMSON HAD BEEN MURDERED, IT WOULD BE ALMOST A DECADE BEFORE ANY OF THESE CONCERNS WERE EXPRESSED, TO SOMEONE WHO COULD TAKE IT FURTHER THAN GENERAL CONVERSATION.
WHILE WORKING ON A BIOGRAPHY OF THOMSON, WELL KNOWN CANADIAN WRITER AND RESEARCHER, BLODWEN DAVIES, BEGAN FINDING SOME DISCREPANCY IN THE STORY OF THOMSON'S FINAL HOURS. IT ACTUALLY BECAME SO GLARING, THAT THE THOUGHT PROBABLY CROSSED HER MIND, ABOUT WHY THESE RESIDENTS AND FORMER ASSOCIATES HAD NOT RAISED THE CONCERN TO THE CORONER, WHEN THEY HAD THE CHANCE. WHO WERE THESE PEOPLE PROTECTING? KEEP IN MIND, MANY IN THAT ROOM WERE CONSIDERED THOMSON'S FRIENDS. IT IS REPORTED THEY WERE MUMBLING ABOUT MURDER AMONGST THEMSELVES, MINUTES AFTER THE CORONER ENDED THE INQUEST.
DAVIES WAS SO DISTURBED BY WHAT SHE WAS HEARING, THAT SHE GATHERED UP THE CONTENT OF THE STORIES, AND APPROACHED THE ONTARIO PROVINCIAL POLICE, ASKING THEM TO RE-OPEN THE COLD CASE. AFTER A PRELIMINARY INVESTIGATION, THE MATTER WAS RULED A NON-STARTER. NOT FOR DAVIES, BUT AS FAR AS THE OFFICIAL PROVINCIAL STAND…..IT WAS GOING TO REMAIN AS ACCIDENTAL DROWNING. SHE WAS PRETTY MUCH AWARE THERE WERE A NUMBER OF ROAD BLOCKS BEING ERECTED TO STOP THIS FROM GAINING MOMENTUM. THIS HAS BEEN A CONTINUING ISSUE IN THE INVESTIGATION OF JUST HOW TOM THOMSON DIED. IT IS KNOWN THERE WERE HIGH RANKING PROVINCIAL OFFICIALS WHO REFUSED OUTRIGHTLY TO RE-OPEN THE CASE, EVEN THOUGH THERE WAS COMPELLING EVIDENCE OF MURDER. BUT HERE IS WHERE A BOOKSELLER ENTERS THE HISTORY BOOKS, ON THE THOMSON FILE.
DORA HOOD MEETS AUTHOR BLODWEN DAVIES
"Fame came, as everyone knows, to Sir Fredrick Banting, at a very young age," wrote Toronto Bookseller, Dora Hood, in her 1958 biography, "The Side Door - Twenty-six Years In My Book Room," published by the Ryerson Press. "With the perfecting of the discovery of insulin by him, in association with Dr. C.H. Best, he emerged from the sheltered life of the laboratory into the turmoil of publicity. When I met him this phase, so overwhelming to one of his nature, had passed and he, through his new friends, the artists of the Group of Seven had discovered another talent. He reveled in his ability to paint the wild scenery of Northern Ontario and Quebec and this led him to begin his collection of books on exploration. I believe he was happier then than at any time in his short life." (Banting was more than a proficient painter, and his works today sell for many thousands of dollars, at fine art auctions in Canada)
She notes that, "Among the friends who influenced his taste was Miss Blodwen Davies. At that time, about the early 1930's, she had won a reputation as a writer collecting material for a life of Tom Thomson, the artist who had lately met a tragic end in the northern woods. Many years after Miss Davies told me Banting had helped her theory of how Thomson met his death. Together these two interesting persons visited the Book Room. They generally came in the evening when they had plenty of time to examine the bookshelves. His taste for first editions of fur trader journals, such as Hearne was expensive, but he wisely did not deny himself this extravagance.
"He had an ambition to study and perhaps later write a paper on Indian medicine and remedies. I doubt, however, that he ever got beyond the desire. Miss Davies' interest in artists and local history led her to other shelves and between these two brilliant personalities I was kept on my toes and enjoyed my evenings. Once Banting asked me to see his collection and to give him some advice as to how he should proceed. We spent an interesting hour in his studio-study-library, and alas, that was the last time we were to meet. With the breakup of his first marriage and his home life, he ceased to collect Canadiana. Had he lived through the war I feel sure he would have returned to the interests of this happy period of his life. Dr. Lloyd Stevenson, in his biography of Banting, refers to his visits to the Book Room. Thus is this small business immortalized."
It is more than just an old rumor that Blodwen Davies was part of the marital issues at this time.
The theory that Blodwen Davies and Dr. Banting had been examining, in regards to Thomson, was that he had most likely met with foul play, and that accidental drowning could not explain all the circumstances of his mysterious disappearance at mid-day on a calm lake, on a waterway he had traversed many hundreds of times. In later years, Judge William Little would use her theory, in the 1950's, and arrange an informal (without proper permission from the Park Authority) exhumation of the allegedly empty Mowat gravesite. It has been documented that Thomson's body had been moved from the Mowat plot, to a family gravesite in Leith, Ontario, as arranged by his brother George Thomson, and Tom's girlfriend, Winnie Trainer of Huntsville. Judge Little, of course, found that the empty grave was still occupied. There were skeletal remains found in what appeared to be the same coffin that had been afforded Thomson in July 1917. The name plate hadn't been inscribed, due to the fact the funeral had occurred quickly because of the decomposition of the body. An undertaker, by the name of Churchill, had been hired to move the body, but there have been many doubts about what was in the metal shipping casket, taken from Canoe Lake by train. Most likely enough Algonquin soil to make it seem a body was inside. In the early 1970's, Judge Little wrote the book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," based in part of the suspicions raised initially by Davies, and Banting in the 1930's. A CBC documentary was aired on the allegations made by Judge Little, and once again, Blodwen Davies was mentioned in the film, as one who had suspicions Thomson had been murdered.
Ever more books are written about Thomson and his demise, and most theories today, shine an adverse light on Mowat hotelier, Shannon Fraser, as being the one most likely to have killed Thomson. It is believed that a drunken fight broke out between the two men, at the Mowat Lodge, over an outstanding amount of money owing to Thomson, and the bigger man, Fraser, had knocked the artist to the floor, where he hit his head on a fire grate……knocking him unconscious. There is a scenario discussed amongst Thomson historians, that Fraser and his wife loaded Thomson's body in a canoe, towed it with a rowboat out into Canoe Lake after midnight, and dumped the body and set the canoe adrift. It is also suggested they had lashed a weight to his legs with fishing line, but the action of the waves on the rocks below, severed the body from the anchor. The bottom line. It's much easier to put forward the "murder" theory today, than it was in Blodwen Davies' day, when she was scorned for suggesting it, and the same held, much later for Judge Little…..yet both books today still serve as reference for a host of Thomson books.
The author of the bookseller's biography, Dora Hood, wrote, "Occasionally during my busy years in the Book Room I thought it might be worthwhile to record my experiences. But beyond keeping a brief diary for a few months of the requests of my callers, I made no effort. Two years after I retired, Mr. Stewart Wallace, who succeeded me in the business, suggested that I write a book on the subject of buying and selling Canadian books. By then I had begun to miss the stimulation and excitement of my book work and decided to try my hand at authorship. I had my letter files, and many of my old customers were still coming into the Book Room or buying by mail from the catalogues, and it was therefore not difficult to recall incidents of my former occupations. As more than one third of my life had been devoted to books and collectors it was chiefly a matter of selection, which proved quite a formidable task. Many of my collectors came to have a talk (while in Montreal) and I thoroughly enjoyed it, for I am convinced, that by and large, book collectors are among the most delightful people one can meet."
She writes, "My decision to retire came about as swiftly and easily as had my determination to be a bookseller. I was seated as usual at the large table in my office surrounded by piles of books, and was about to take up my pencil to trace the words 'Catolgue 47,' when suddenly the thought came, 'You've done this long enough. Why not do something else in what remains of your life?' The business was still flourishing, and until that moment I was conducting it with as much interest and vigor as I had from the beginning, but the incentive was now lacking. My two children were married, and I began to realize that I must seek companionship outside my house and work. I was anxious, too, to give more time to the work for the deaf. I had been partially deaf myself for many years and was intensely interested in what is now known as the Canadian Hearing Society, and had been a member of the board for some time. On my retirement I was able to act for three years as President of the Toronto Women's Auxiliary of this society.
"As I looked back over the years, I knew how fortunate I had been. Although not endowed with unlimited strength, my health had been remarkably good. I had not made a fortune but I had been free from financial crises and had no bad debts, which speaks well for book buyers as a class. i had customers all over the free world who honored me with their business and those whom I met in my office were highly intelligent and nearly all of them friendly. But like the 'folios and quartos,' there seemed no rest for the bookseller as long as his door remained open and his telephone connected."
She notes in conclusion, "All beginnings must have endings. But it seemed unthinkable and above impossible simply to bring the business to an end. I began to look for a successor. Once again, with very little effort on my part, events were favorable, and I was able to pass the business on to the one person I knew who would more than do it justice. The name has been carried on and the quarters remain the same. An old customer returning would scarcely notice any change except that now a well known and scholarly man sits at the office table. Dr. Stewart Wallace, on his retirement in 1954, after thirty years of distinguished work as Librarian of the University of Toronto, has become owner and proprietor of the Book Room."
"Never again shall I feel as pleasant a glow of accomplishment as I did in bygone years on reading such letters as - 'Dear Mrs. Hood: Last night I spent a very pleasant hour perusing your fine catalogue. I have all your catalogues and treasure them as the most important series of Canadiana offering that have been issued. I would like to purchase any of the following that are still unsold…..yours sincerely, F.C.K."
You can search for this book, by visiting the Advanced Book Exchange collective of old book dealers, and typing in the author and title. Suzanne and I buy books from the ABE with confidence, so I can heartily recommend their wonderful service to bibliophiles around the world.
In tomorrow's blog, we're headed to Paris, France, to visit two of the most historic booksellers, from the early to mid years of the 1900's. The places James Joyce and F. Scott Fitzgerald liked to hang-out. It will further enforce, why some of us get hooked on the book collecting - book selling thing. Dora Hood's departure from the business was a class act. I'd be kicking and screaming; my wife having to throw me over her shoulder, to separate this bibliophile from his enterprise.
I'm so glad you had a few moments to visit today. We didn't need a fire on this evening, and it's so hot in my office, that I've had to disrobe several layers to keep from melting away. It's supposed to be much colder tomorrow.
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