Dreams of 1869

WHAT KIND OF DREAMS DID FOLKS HAVE IN 1869? WELL, LET'S FIND OUT!

"MY DREAM," WRITTEN BY J. HELMORE, PUBLISHED IN THE "BOW BELLS" LITERARY MAGAZINE OF OCTOBER 1869

     In 1869 the Free Lands and Homestead Grant program was launched. It was a multi level government initiative, to help encourage settlement of the unoccupied regions of the country. The government gave away free 100 acre parcels to emigrants, arriving in Canada, largely for agricultural pursuits. It was established as a trial endeavour, throughout the District of Muskoka and Parry Sound, to determine if homesteaders could make prosperous farms, from its adverse topography. Many water hazards you might say, including bogs, swamps, creeks, rivers, and lakes. Many thousands of eager Europeans, decided to abandon their homes and livelihoods overseas, to take up the land grants in this region, including Parry Sound. The hardships of pioneering on the Ontario frontier, were of monstrous proportion, many settlers failing at their mission to set up successful farmsteads. Hundreds if not thousands, perished as a direct result, of having arrived on this wild frontier, poorly prepared, to handle the extremes of land clearing, and surviving the long, brutal winters, and short, fly-infested summers. This is what was going on in Muskoka in the year 1869.     Here then is what the literary compendium, known as "Bow Bells," was publishing in October of that same year. The publication by the way, was one penny per issue, so it's possible these same pioneers may have had access to it, most likely of course when they were still in Europe. Here is an article under the heading, "Adventures, National Customs, and Curious Facts," and the story written by J. Helmore, is entitled "My Dream." It begins as follows:
     "The 24th of February, 1844, found me first mate of the brig 'Red Jacket', in the latitude of Bermuda, bound to the south side of Cuba. A terrific gale had just ceased a thirty-six hour blowing, and I went below and turned-in. I was not long in my berth before I was in dreamland. I seldom dream, and up to that date I had no faith in dreams. As what I had experienced while asleep at that time, afterwards proved true. I will proceed in a few words to relate it.
     "My father, who had been dead for twelve years, came to the side of my berth, and placing his hand on my head, said, 'My son, rise and follow me.' I did so. He conducted me out on deck, over the vessel's side, and we glided above the ocean at a rapid rate, when suddenly I descried a boat containing men tossing about on the waves. We slighted on board of her; and then I saw my father's brother, who had some weeks before sailed with the brig 'Joseph Brown' for Jamaica. 'My son,' said my father, 'you see the condition your uncle and his companions are in. Nine days ago their vessel foundered, since which, they have been exposed to the mercy of winds and waves. The last two days they have had no provisions. It is in your power to rescue them. Come, we must now return to your vessel.'
     "As he said this, we immediately stepped out of the boat and glided back to the brig then into the cabin, and I returned to my berth. My father then said, 'As soon as you have charge of the deck, keep the brig off south-east, and by four o'clock you will come up with the boat containing your uncle, and his fellow-sufferers. Now wake, it is twelve o'clock, and you are called.' As he finished speaking, he shook me violently, and I awoke, in time, to hear Captain Crockett exclaim, 'Turn out Mr. Hedmore, turn out. Larboard watch on deck'. I was out of my berth in a moment, and hurried on deck, when I perceived that the sails had been jibed over during my watch below. 'That's fortunate,' I thought, 'for in case Captain Crockett refuses to change the vessel's course, which I felt confident he will, I can now haul her up two points, and he will know nothing about it.' Had the vessel not been jibed, I could not well have kept her off two points without the Captain's knowing it, although I noticed that he had been indulging freely with his old friend, the Jamaican bottle.
     "As soon as the larboard watch was set, he came to me and said, 'Mr. Helmore, make a good southeast course, and heave the log every hour; should the wind blow any fresher, taken in the flying jib'. 'Ay, ay, sir,' I replied. 'Captain, before you go below, I would like to tell you of a dream I have had; will you listen to it sir?' 'Yes, if it is not too long, out with it'. I then briefly stated what I have just related to the reader. After I had concluded, Captain Crockett said, 'All moonshine!' Why, man, should the vessel's course be altered south-east by east, you would strike the broadside of Bermuda, by four o'clock. No, no sir. Keep her on her course, south-east,' saying this, he went below.
     "As soon as I was satisfied that the Captain had turned in, I went to Jem (the man at the wheel) and told him to luff up south-east by east. As it was necessary that I should assign some reason for altering the vessel's course, I resolved to make him my confidant, and when his turn at the wheel was over, I had decided to steer the next two hours myself. 'Jem,' said I. 'do you believe in dreams?' 'Well, yes sir, I do rather believe in them.' 'Well, Jem, while I was below I dreamed that I saw a boat containing four men, drifting about, and was told to steer the brig two points to the east'ard of her course, during my watch, and by four o'clock, I would come up with them. Now, Jem, I want you to luff up south-east by east, and if the Captain should come on deck, you can tell him she steers wild, and has 'sprung the luff' on you. Mind Jem, this must be kept a secret. 'Ay, ay, sir,' said Jem, giving the vessel the wheel two points. 'The Captain said we'd make Bermuda, didn't he sir?'
     "No danger Jem, Bermuda is off our weather quarter over a hundred miles.' Nothing of interest transpired during the next two hours, and at two o'clock I took the wheel, and continued to keep the vessel south-east by east, till half-past three, when day began to break, and I kept her away south-east again. I then called the sailor whose turn I had been steering to come to the wheel; and I went forward and told Jem, who was anxiously looking out for the boat, to go to the foremast head and see whether anything was in sight. He had not got half-way up the ratlins, when the welcome salute of 'Boat ahoy,' was made by him. I immediately jumped up the rigging; and there, sure enough, about a quarter of a mile ahead, was a boat the very picture of the one I had seen in my dream. I instantly hastened down to the deck, and went to the cabin door and shouted, 'Boat in sight, and close aboard, sir.' A moment afterwards Captain Crockett came hurrying up. By time we were within two cable lengths of the boat, and we at once hove to, and launched our boat, and in twenty minutes the shipwrecked men were safely on board, when what was my surprise to discover, that one of them was my uncle John! The rescued men were nearly exhausted; but by observing proper care, they soon recovered, when my uncle John gave us the following account of their voyage.
     "Our brig, the 'Joseph Brown', called on the 20th of last month from Liverpool, bound to Jamaica. Ten days ago she sprung a leak, during a heavy gale, which lasted six days. On the morning of the 14th, finding both pumps failing to keep her free, we got the boats in readiness for use at a moment's notice. It was well we did so, for at midnight she began to settle, and soon went down. I and three others succeeded in getting into one boat, and the mate and the remainder of the crew into a second. Our condition, as you may judge, was pitiable. We were adrift upon the ocean with but a scanty supply of provisions, and only a single oar, the rest having been washed overboard when the brig went down. We had despaired of ever reaching land, or being picked-up. Last night I dreamed that my brother (your father) came to me and stated that at daybreak, a vessel would rescue us, which has proved true.
     "A singular coincidence,' said Captain Crockett. 'Last night my mate told me that he dreamed a boat containing four men was near, and if we steered south-east by east, we would come up with them by daylight.' Two days after recovering these men, we spoke of the brig Romer, when uncle John requested to be taken on board of her, as she was bound to Liverpool, and he wanted to reach home as soon as possible. We hailed the Captain, and asked whether he would take on board some persons we had rescued from an open boat, and who wanted to get back to England. 'Yes,' he answered. 'Bring them on board. I am short-handed. Half my crew are down with sickness.' We soon conveyed them on board, when, wishing them a pleasant passage, we stood on our course."
     When we fall asleep and slide into one of our dreamland episodes, might we occasionally predict the future in due course?

ADVENTURES, NATIONAL CUSTOMS AND CURIOUS FACTS - PLAYING WITH SNAKES

     Also contained in the compendium of "Bow Bells" magazines, circa 1869, there is a fascinating story about poisonous snake handling, that I thought would interest readers. It's what the readers of 1869 paid a penny and issue to acquire, and this story is, well, at least in the contemporary sense, "worth every penny." The story begins:
     "Dr. Schuman, a well known physician of Baltimore, in the United States, has made the following communication to a medical journal. 'I send you the following account of a rattlesnake bite, and the remedies which proved successful in a case which came under my charge. John Brooks, a German by birth, and a stuffer of birds, animals etc., who had resided at No. 25, East Fayette Street, Baltimore, for a number of years, frequently indulged in playing with all varieties of snakes, in the most careless and reckless manner. Brooks was a man of very intemperate habits, and was always under the influence of spirituous liquers. It was a very common occurrance to see him standing at his shop door, surrounded by a crowd of children and loafers, with sometimes a rattlesnake in one hand, and a copperhead in the other; or perhaps, a rattlesnake in each hand. I never knew him to have a cobra; but anacondas and boa-constrictors he cared no more for, than an ordinary individual would of a canary bird. He was a tall, muscular man, of great strength and powerful constitution; and, in spite of his drinking to such excess as to almost produce insanity, there was something peculiarly interesting in his features, and he had the most piercing eyes I ever saw in a man's head. He, moreover, managed to obtain possession of animals of all descriptions, from all parts of South and North America, without paying but a trifle for them.
      "Brooks played on the accordion, or rather played at it, making a monotonous sound that could hardly be considered a tune. At all times of the day and night he would turn out of their cages, as many as ten or twelve different kind of snakes in the room where he and his wife slept; and very often after she had retired, and the poor woman be frightened nearly out of her senses, he would be playing his accordion, and the snakes hissing and darting about the room. He had also five or six children who slept in the same room. There would generally be in his collection, three or four rattlesnakes.
     "Although I have killed many rattlesnakes in the mountains of Virginia, as well as other varieties, my blood would run cold at this man's reckless exposure of his life. One night about nine o'clock, in the early part of October 1866, I was called on by Brooks's oldest daughter to come and see her father, as he was bitten by a rattlesnake. Being a physician, and residing in the neighbourhood, I immediately answered the summons. On arriving at the house, although only ten minutes had elapsed, (I found) the bite was on the back of his left hand; he was almost insensible, and in answer to my inquiry regarding his feelings, could only give a slight motion of his head. The arm had swollen to an enormous size, and presented more the appearance of being totally bruised. Some bystanders had already endeavoured to administer whisky; but on account of a disordered condition of the stomach, we found it impossible to get him to retain it in any shape, having already drunk copiously of lager-beer.
     "I immediately proceeded to cut out the flesh well from around the bite, which was no larger than the point of a pen, and applied a very powerful suction cupping pump to the wound, at the same time administering one grain of corrosive sublimate in about half an ounce of ethereal solution of opium, which I was agreeably disappointed to find he retained on his stomach, and caused him to rear up and speak a few words. The pump drew blood from the bite, and I immediately ordered also about fifty leaches to be brought and applied all over the arm to prevent a return of such poisonous blood to the head. For the benefit of all the medical faculty and humanity, I will give you an account of the treatment adopted by myself, which was to administer one fourth of a grain of corrosive sublimate or bichloride of mercury, with one grain of opium every four hours. This treatment I continued up to the fourth week, and then gradually diminished the dose. At the end of the fourth week, Brooks commenced to speak; and, forty-five days after he was bitten, he recovered, and immediately went to playing with snakes again.
      "In the early part of last spring, Brooks was standing in his door playing with a rattlesnake in one hand, and a black snake in the other, with his usual audience, or whatever they may be termed, and giving his exhibition, when some thoughtless man passing by, called out in fun, 'Brooks you are a rowdy!' This so exasperated him, he took his eye off the rattlesnake for a moment, and it immediately struck his fangs in his right cheek twice, not one or two inches from the corner of his mouth. He placed the snakes back in the cage with the greatest care, and called for his accordion, telling his wife he would play one more tune, as he must die in a few moments. They sent for another physician (during my absence from the city), but his services were useless; and after playing his accordion for ten minutes, he went upstairs to his bedroom, vomited up the contents of his stomach, and died, as his wife said, like a man going to sleep, and without the least sign of pain. His body was so decomposed in fourteen hours afterwards, it was necessary to inter it immediately."
     I love these old books. I have a lot more to share, and stories from antiquity you will find hard to believe. Being a bibliophile has its perks other than benefitting from the increasing value of antiquarian books. I am surrounded by some of the greatest and most memorable stories ever written, because this you see, is both my profession and my hobby.
     Happy Hallowe'en and welcome to a new month of the rolling year. Lots more to come this fall season.

A Gem For Hallowe'en From Literary Magazine "Bow Bells"

AN 1869 STORY ABOUT WITCHCRAFT BY LUCIUS LYON

BOUND COPIES OF THE LITERARY MAGAZINE "BOW BELLS," TURNS UP A GEM FOR HALLOWE'EN

     To start with, there was at least one documented report of witchcraft in pioneer Muskoka, which involved one angry farmer bewitching another homesteader's hogs, causing the owner financial disadvantage. The hog(s) had been getting into the farmer's crops, potatoes most likely, and destroying the plants. It was believed this man put a curse on these same animals causing them to get sick. It was said, they were also unable to reproduce, causing the farmer considerable hardship.
     Taken from the brittle pages of another wonderful antiquarian book, I purchased recently, in a shop in the City of Orillia, (which is actually a collection of bound copies of the literary magazine, "Bow Bells," specifically the September issue, of 1869), is a perfect little editorial gem, entitled "Witchcraft," as written by Lucius Lyon. The story beings as follows:
     "It is not much more than a century ago, when, in enlightened England, to be guilty of being a witch was to be guilty of a crime punishable with death; to be sure, the crime was not clearly defined, the law being made up of such expressions as 'prohibiting  the exercise of evil arts,' 'devilish machinations,' and thus making it vague and indefinite. Indeed, for the most part, explanations of what the crime consisted, it seems to have been left entirely to the discretion of prosecuting witnesses; and when these witnesses happened to be of nervous imaginative temperament, and furthermore instigated by malice or fear, it is not difficult to conceive the monstrosities of which the accused could be found guilty."
     The large format book, a treasure of literary compositions from the period, also offers some first rate stories from antiquity, that are of the non-fiction variety. The author of the story continues, that "A belief in sorcery, or witchcraft, is probably as old as the human race, and will undoubtedly last among certain classes, as long as the race exists, or, at least, until science brings to light some of the hitherto hidden laws of our nature - for a something connected with our nature it must be that induces a theory that one human being has power over another to create involuntary physical action by a simple exercise of the mind. And, after all, those days of witchcraft only illustrated the fact that every phase of human nature which runs for a long tie in an undercurrent, gradually forces its way to the surface of affairs, and having spent its force, usually resumes its former flow. For there is today, even in this enlightened age (1869), in America, a wide-spread and popular faith in the malign influence of witches. The theory which some of these good people have in regard to the malign influence seems to be about as follows:
     "The power is usually vested in an old woman; the older and uglier she is, her capability in the exercise of her peculiar functions is increased. The power is generally hereditary - that is, transmitted from mother to daughter; the male members of the family seem never to enjoy any of the privileges conferred on the female members, though how the power was originally acquired deponent saith not. The old woman is always restless and discontented, unless she is for the time being engaged in practicing her diabolical art on one of more victims. She has no power over any person unless she ahs received an injury at the hands of said person, or one of his family; having once obtained the power, it extends over all the members of his family, his livestock and crops. Before the witch can lay a charm and proceed to afflict the victim, it is necessary that she should borrow some article of household use from the family of the proposed victim. As regards the effects produced by the influence of the witch, the results are various. Sometimes a sickness falls on some member of the family, which is fatal if the charm be not speedily broken; sometimes the spell attaches to the victim's livestock, and they all sicken and die; or his well or spring dries up; or a mysterious blight falls on his crops; and afflicted till he takes the proper steps to remove the spell.
     "There are diverse methods of breaking the charm - that is, destroying the influence of the witch - the most usual plan being to draw a rough portrait or profile sketch of the witch on a board, and thus shoot through the same with a silver bullet; or nail a horseshoe up to a tree with her name inside, and shoot through that. Sometimes the witch an be induced to remove her spell by presents of money; and in rare cases threats of personal violence have been known to frighten the old woman into a relinquishment of her power. In any case, if she can succeed in borrowing any article from the victim's family within twenty-four hours after the first charm is broken, she can resume her power of afflicting the same."
     The writer adds, that "Now, as regards the first point, if it were allowable to have the witch occasionally a young woman, I could imagine the wherefore of a certain amount of influence which it would be possible for her to exercise, particularly over persons of the opposite sex; for I, in the course of my own short personal experience, have felt myself labouring under the uncontrollable influences of a couple of black eyes supported by rosy cheeks and mouth; and so much was I influenced that I had not even a desire to free myself from her power. I have no doubt there could be found scores of young men from sixteen to twenty-five who have been likewise bewitched, and whose only cure seems to have been in obtaining possession of the young witch herself; but this procedure differs from the present subject, as nobody desires to possess an old witch, but rather that she be removed as far as possible from one.
     "I do not know that I could do better than to repeat (by way of illustrating the form which the superstition assumes among some people)), a story which I heard related by a farmer of respectability; of average intelligence, and who believed the events were brought about as he related as firmly as believe his Bible; in fact, to doubt his faith on the subject, was to doubt the word of an honest man. He lived, and still lives, in Northern Kentucky, where the events of which he spoke occurred. Several years ago, when the country was comparatively new, he had for neighbors an old woman and her daughter. They were not very respectable people; so nobody had much to do with them. When they first came into the neighborhood, there was some talk of the old woman being a witch; she cultivated a little patch of ground, kept a pig or two, with a cowm and with her daughter's help, managed to get on very well for the year or so that she lived there. The farmer was very careful not to give her cause of offence, for fear that (as he expressed it) 'she might put in practice some of her devilments to injure us.' At last one of the old lady's pigs got into his potato patch, and was engaged in digging potatoes on its own responsibility, when his little son discovered it at the mischief; he called his dog, who forthwith proceeded to worry the pig. After the pig was pretty nearly used up, it managed to get out and run home, from whence the old woman came in high dudgeon, vowing vengence for the injury done her pig. The farmer tried to pacify her for the damage; but the old lady would not be pacified, but went as she came, very indignant."
     The story continues, "This affair worried him a great deal, and he cautioned his wife against lending the old woman anything. Unfortunately, not long after, in the absence of himself and wife, the daughter fame to the house and borrowed some coffee from one of his children. He learnt the fact on his return home, and was much dismayed, as he knew he was in the old woman's power, if she was a witch; however, he awaited the issue of the affair with some misgivings. Two or three days after he took his rifle and went out on the hills to look for deer. He had not gone far when he saw a large fine-looking doe standing over on a point not more than a hundred yards from him; he was a dead shot, and was pleased to see so fair a mark, so drew up his rifle, and after taking a careful aim he pulled the trigger; but, to his surprise, the deer did not fall nor stir. He attributed his failure to his feeling of certainty, causing him to look more at the deer than at the sights of his gun; and, having quietly slipped behind a tree, he reloaded his rifle.
     "Again he took a deliberate aim, and fired; but the animal merely shook itself, and went on with the feeding. Feeling much exasperated at his failure, he again loaded his gun and this time walked up to within fifteen yards from him, who continued feeding, apparently not observing him; at this short distance he again fired, and the deer turned its head and gazed at him. The instant he saw its eyes he knew it was the old woman who had assumed the form in order to annoy him. He turned away in great fear, and hurried home where his alarm was increased by finding that his little son had taken very ill; it was the same one who had set the dog after the old woman's pig. The little fellow, on being questioned, said that two or three times in the course of the day, he had seen the old woman come and gaze at him through the window. They were all very much frightened because they knew that their child was bewitched, and immediately set about trying to find means to disable the power of the old hag.
     "The farmer took some pieces of silver money; having melted and run them through his bullet moulds, he loaded his gun very carefully, putting in the silver bullet. Then he sallied out in quest of his enemy; not far from the spot where he had first seen the deer, he found it again, prancing about in fine style. As soon as it stopped, he drew up and fired; this time he was more successful, for he saw the deer limp off on three legs. He hurried home, and, as the result of his experiment, had the satisfaction of finding his child in a fair way to recovery. Hardly had he arrived at home when the old woman's daughter made her appearance, and was very anxious to borrow 'just a little salt;' but she was indignantly ordered off the premises, and, of course, went home unsuccessful. He now gathered a few of his neighbours; and together they paid a visit to the abode of the old lady, whom the daughter said was suffering from the effects of a broken arm, and refused to let them in the house. But they forced their way in, and, sure enough, found the old woman with her arm in bandages. By force they tore the bandages off, discovering a hole through her arm as if made by a bullet. They gave the family a month in which to leave the country (state); and as soon as she was able, she and her daughter took her departure for some unknown place."

AN OBSERVATION ABOUT DEATH CIRCA 1869

     The same compendium quoted above, also had a small but interesting notation about "death," and its mysteries. Perfect for a pre Hallowe'en's eve.
     "How is it, that, having once looked on Death, we can for a moment forget it? How can we go back to our hopes and dreams and labours, when we have understood that they must all end here, that the most loving eyes must be closed thus, the busiest hands so crossed upon the breast - the greatest mind become a blank, and human beauty turn in a few brief hours to a thing of horror? Why does
not this phantom Death stand beside the alter, and say to bride and bridegroom, 'Why love, when there must come a bitter parting for one of you ere long? Why wed, when the very wedding hour hurries you nearer to the grave as it passes by?'
     "How can the mother forget it, when her baby lies upon her breast, and not say to herself, 'I have only brought into this world another thing to die.' Why do we not see the ghastly skeleton at our feasts; see him in our streets; hear him in songs; and be so bitterly oppressed by his inevitable coming as to lose all hope, and sit in dust and ashes, bewailing the bitter fate of man, who, do what he may, can only live to die?' Greatest of all mysteries is it, that we can go about forgetting, or seeming to forget this thing. Nor could we, so it seems to us, but for that inward consciousness of a life beyond that of this world, greater and better, where the spirit shall take up its work again, and we shall learn, as we never can on earth, why we have lived here."
     Happy Hallowe'en from antiquity.

A Reflection On History and Biography, and The Work Of A Lifetime

A FEW PHILOSOPHICAL GEMS FROM 1836 - FROM A MINISTER WHO HAD WITNESSED MUCH SADNESS AND DESPAIR

A REFLECTION ON HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY, AND THE WORK OF A LIFETIME

     As you've probably noticed, after reading even a few of my nostalgia-laden, heritage cradled blogs, I dwell in the past a lot. Probably three times more than most folks, including yourselves, and I really don't have a good reason why this seems so necessary to me. But it is, so I just keep hammering away, feeling that my memories have a greater relevance, than to be left dormant, and soon forgotten by a diminishing of the mind. Who then, will write about these rather moot points in history, as if they were the pivotal moments in the changing of society forever. Obviously, they would be lost in the piling-up of better, more impressive, more important details of history. And as some would claim, they should have be relegated to the realm of irrelevance long, long ago. I've never been very good at relegating, except as an archivist saving stuff for posterity. I can't live with the possibility, these stories might be lost, out of disinterest, which would mean, in the most intimate sense, I would have failed my own mandate. Whether they were "historic" or not, they do represent an attitude and social / cultural character from a bygone era, that like the backing of a quilt, serves a foundation purpose if nothing else. At least, this is what I keep telling myself, while I'm burying myself in what others might consider, the nonsense of a sentimental heart.
    It's not that my memories are more special or dramatic than yours, but for some unexplained reason, my conscience is on-overdrive, when it comes to my commitment, to keep some aspects of hometown life alive for the posterity of history. Even though most of the stories have little if any relevance to local history, in the more substantial sense, there is a goodly amount of abstract heart and soul I recall of my hometown, worth being imprinted, from what I still consider was a great and fulfilling childhood spent in a really neat community.
    While I can re-visit Bracebridge any time I want, and in fact, plan to visit this evening before publishing this blog, I don't feel nearly as comfortable, with my first hometown. It bothers me that I'm frightened to go back to Burlington, where my biography began in earnest. The place where becoming an historian, some time down the road, was carefully and thoughtfully seeded in imagination. Why is it, that I can visit all my old Bracebridge haunts, with only minor tugging of heart strings, but travelling to Burlington seems so daunting. But there's more to the story. I know there is!
   Suzanne asked me, just the other day, why I won't commit to make the three and a half hour trip, back to my old hometown, of Burlington, Ontario, where I spent the first eleven years of my life. I don't have an answer. I would like to go, but for years now, I've been making excuses why the trip has had to be postponed, and re-scheduled; only to be sidelined once again. A routine I practice over and over, to the point I've even asked myself, in a quiet argument, why I can't bridge this obvious divide; which is a relatively short one afterall.
     When our family moved from Burlington, in the early winter of 1966, my father gave us very little notice. The hockey season was only half over, and I was the only goalie on our team. Same with my budding relationship with school. I had a great group of classmates, and I really did like the new digs up on upper Brant Street. I had to leave behind some great friends, and a new school, that I had only attended for less than two years. I liked Mountain Gardens Public School, and before this, Lakeshore Public School, when we lived at the Nagy Apartments up on Harris Crescent. I don't know, if I had been given a year, or even six months to adjust to a move north, if I would have felt better about it, immediately after the move, or today for that matter. As a writer, I despise any situation where I can't follow the normal protocol of chapter succession. In other words, I could never, even on a dare, or for the sake of quick cash, write a conclusion before I start chapter one. Some authors do this as a rule. Not me!
    Leaving Burlington, I suppose in theory, forced me to end one story prematurely. I had to start another biographical attempt before finishing the one opened in the mid 1950's, after my family moved from Toronto to Burlington. It was just left hanging there, and I couldn't for the life of me, figure out how to tie-it all into my new northern reality. The problem is, I liked my old hometown much more than I thought, when we drove our loaded-up Vauxhall-sedan north on Highway II, to God's Country, which we call Muskoka with considerable affection. I really didn't feel sad about the move, until I found myself friendless in those first few weeks in a new town, and then getting beaten-up at recess, on a daily basis, for the next two years. In Burlington I wasn't bullied, and it was more likely, I was seen, at least by George, the kid I picked-on, as the real school-yard bully. It dawned on me, you see, that I hadn't really said goodbye to my old hometown, and the folks who were part of my life in the neighborhoods I haunted.
     If I was, today, to re-visit the limestone-lined banks of Ramble Creek, where I spent thousands of hours mucking-about, I think my heart would be crushed by the weight of memories, of my old mates, Ray and Holly Green, (brother and sister), and I would still see that delicate, wide-eyed wee creature, Angela, in the back and forth motion, silhouetted on the creaking swing set in her backyard, as it bordered the rippling white water of the shallow creek. I would very much fear her ghost would still be there, and would beckon me to cross over, as she used to, when we were kids; and it would be then, I would feel the terrible regret, of having left the town without first having made my peace with the past, as it would become my future. My eyes would well-up with tears, not hearing the voice of my friend, and Nagy apartment landlord, Alex Nagy, telling me it was time to help him mow the lawn, while outstretching his hand onto my back, as it would be my day to push the gas mower through the thick grass of the backyard. I would sense the aroma of his wife Anne's fresh baking, permeating from their basement apartment, and I would long to hear her voice, after awhile, calling so loudly, so wonderfully, to rise above the sound of the mower, to come inside for our lunch. At the table, Alex would tell me it was okay to dip a hunk of freshly made, heavily buttered bread, deep in the thick country stew, Anne had just set down in front. I never said goodbye to the Nagys, when we left town that late winter. Alex died several years ago and I am full of regret I hadn't taken the time and effort to visit years earlier, when we might have had a laugh over those sociable times, of what came down to recreational lawn maintenance.
     There are times when even the most steadfast, committed historian, finds the past too mournful to re-visit, and would rather, in its wake, focus on the horizon instead.
     In the course of working through Reverend John Clark's biography, this past week, I was reminded frequently by curious references in the text, how our past experiences can come to haunt us under the right circumstances. Some memories bring joyful reunions. Others, we would simply rather avoid if at all possible. If, that is, we had, and continue to have unresolved issues; maybe having left a relationship under adverse, or regretful circumstances. In my case, I had little time to say goodbye to my friends and the neighborhood I adored as a kid. So quick was our exit from Burlington, that I expect my spirit still wanders aimlessly along the creek bank, and throughout the Harris Crescent balliwick, wondering where my parents have gone.
     When I finished today's blog, I resolved to make amends, and to schedule a visit back to where my interest in history began. I feel, to have any credibility, as both a hometowner, and an historian, I must make what, for me, will be a profound pilgrimage, because like Reverend Clark, I will be struck by the urban changes, but most profoundly, by the reality, most of my connections are long since gone. I will find a goodly portion of these old friends now regrettably etched onto the faces of mossy tombstones, and on monument drawers that contain ashes of the departed. I take some comfort in the following story from antiquity. Even the most faithful heart and soul, can be struck hard, by the adversity of time's lack of compassion, etching history as it sees fit; not as we wish it to have evolved, in the kindness of the story-book, where there is always a happy ending and calming resolution.  
     "You know that the moon conveys to us reflected light. How pale and sickly a hue does its beams cast over the scenes of earth compared with the brilliancy of the sun. Still the moon conveys to us some idea of the appearance of light as it emanates from the resplendent orb of day."
     Reverend John A. Clark made this observation, at the conclusion of his 1836 biography, "Gathered Fragments," published as a 3rd revised edition in Philadelphia, by William Marshall & Company. The book was found at a local antique mall, and is the kind and style of text (biography) I appreciate, because preachers and ministers often included observations and other historically important information, well beyond the religious content you'd expect. Much of it is pretty insightful in fact, and if you haven't been following this short series, you can archive back three previous blogs, to read more about Reverend Clark and his ministerial work in the Northeastern United States, in the 1820's and early 1830's. He began his ministerial labours at a time when Washington Irving had only recently, published his famous "Sketch Book," and then "Bracebridge Hall." Charles Dickens was still writing vigorously, and it was still twenty-four years before the first settlers began arriving in South Muskoka. But the observations Clark makes, especially about the worth of history and the nostalgia of memories, are just as timely today as they were in the 1830's.
     "Several years since it was my privilege to travel a few days in company with a clerical friend, whose conversation not only beguiled the way of its tediousness, but imparted much material for thought, and left impressions of scenes and incidents that time will never efface," wrote Reverend Clark, in the chapter headed, "One Whose Record is on High."
     "We travelled in our own private carriage, which was a one horse vehicle, and designed to accommodate merely two persons. Thus we had no one to disturb or interrupt our conversation as we passed along the road, with the blue sky stretching over our heads, and the broad earth with all its variegated scenes spreading out before us. We moved on at a pace just rapid enough to produce that intellectual excitement which is favourable to conversation - that brisk circulation of ideas, which does not exhaust, but rather refreshes the mind, and awakens a succession of pleasurable emotions. Every thing around us seemed to conspire to give interest to the scene. It was late in autumn, though the weather still continued fine, and the roads excellent. The day to which I particularly refer, we were passing through a very rough and rocky country. The lands that lay directly on the road seemed to be covered with a second growth of wood, which for many miles gave to our route the appearance of a journey through the wilderness. This young forest, however, was frequently broken by intervening spaces of cultivated land, where the proofs of a hard and rocky soil were brought distinctly to view.
     "The frost had changed the colour of the foliage, and imparted to it every variety of hue. The leaves had just begun to fall, and strew the ground with the relics of their faded glory. All nature seemed sedate and sober, and yet cheerful. The air was clear and invigorating, and yet bland and balmy. The sky was not darkened with a single cloud, and the sun was moving on with its wonted majesty, pouring over earth and heaven, floods of glowing brilliancy. My friend and fellow traveller felt the pervading influence of the surrounding scene, and I encouraged him to give utterance to the glowing thoughts, and burning emotions that had been kindled up within. Some incidental circumstance, by the power of association, brought to his recollection the memory of one who seemed to have shared largely his affections, and whom he emphatically described as one whose 'record is on high'. The sketch that follows, delineating some traits in his character, will be merely the rehearsal of the remarks of my friend. The reader, therefore, must regard this clerical friend, as speaking in his own person in all that follows, and the author as merely performing the part of an amanuensis."
      Reverend Clark writes of his friend's recollections, that "There is a melancholy, yet sweet and holy satisfaction arising from a visit to the grave of a dear friend. Often have I stole away from the habitations of the living, and gone and sat down alone on the grave of my mother, and communed with that silent dust, that was once moulded into symmetry, a living, breathing form, animated with looks of kindness and love, and the dwelling place of an immortal mind. And as I have sat there, and thought of the dust that slept beneath those sods, how have all the scenes of the past come up before me! No portrait of that dear countenance and loved form, however accurate, could have called up to my mind more numerous associations connected with childhood's sunny hour, than did that silent, grass-covered grave on which I sat. In my visits to that hallowed spot, over which bends the stooping top of a large weeping willow, often have I thought of those lines of the affectionate Cowper, and repeated them there with my hand upon my heart, as I stood over that dear grave. 'In my heart, the record fair, that memory keeps of all the kindness there, still outlives many a storm, that has effaced a thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, that thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; they morning bounties ere I left my home, the biscuit, or confectionary plum; the fragrant waters on my cheek bestow'd, by thine own hand, till fresh they shone, and glow'd; all this, and more endearing still than all, thy constant flow of love that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen by those cataracts and breaks, that humour interposed too often makes; all this still legible in memory's page, and still to be so to my latest age'."
     "I have adverted to this fact, the power which the mere vicinity of the slumbering dust of those we love, has to call up past recollections, to remark, that feelings not unlike these, are awakened when we enter a dwelling, and sit down in a room, where we have often met a dear friend, now no more. How at such a moment does the recollection of all that passed, come up in vivid pictures before the mind. We seem to see again the eye that sparkled with intelligence; the countenance that was radiant and benevolence, and animated with glowing thought, and the whole assemblage of objects that when clustered around us, but have since passed away. We seem to hear again the tones of that voice, and the various thrilling notes of that conversation to which we once listened with so much profit and delight. Memory, aided by the power of such associations, enables us to live over the past - and to receive instruction from voices long since silent in the grave.
     "A few years since I passed through a sweet village, in reference to which I might have adopted the language of Goldsmith, and said, 'Loveliest village of the plain, where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain; where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, and parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd; dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, seats of my youth, when every sport could please, how often have I loiter'd o'er they green, where humble happiness endear'd each scene! How often have I passed on every charm.' At the time to which I refer, there was no spot in that village, that in my view possessed such a charm, as the rectory, the loved habitation in which he dwelt of whom I have said, 'His record is on high'. I know before I entered this dwelling that it was no longer inhabited by the family I had been accustomed to meet there. Still I desired to sit once more in that parlour - to walk once more across the floor of that study, to look out once more from that window upon the silvery lake, and the village green. As I entered the house, every thing reminded me of the change that had taken place. Although the countenances of those who met me were bright and cheerful, and expressive of a kind and cordial reception, I felt sad; for I could not but remember the dead. When I sat down, and thought that the beloved pastor, from whose lips I had received heavenly instruction, and from whose conversation I had derived the highest pleasure and improvement, was no longer the occupant of this dwelling, but was now numbered with the dead, and I felt indeed, 'Tis sad to see the wonted seat of a friend, removed by death; and sad to visit scenes, when old, where in the smiling morn of life, lived many who both knew and loved us much, and they're all gone - dead, or dispersed abroad; and stranger faces seen among their hills.'
     The text continues, "And now as I gazed around on the altered aspect of things, all the scenes that I had passed with Mr. H____ in the room, where I sat, rose fresh before me, and in spite of all my efforts to prevent it, the tear started from my eye, and I could not but say almost aloud, 'thus do we all fade as a leaf, and the place that now knows us, will soon know us no more for ever'."      Reverend Clark concludes, "While my travelling companion was thus preparing the way for me to listen, to what had so much delighted him, we rather unexpectedly came-up to a turnpike gate (in the buggy), where we were detained some little time, which to me appeared very long, as I feared that the state of feeling to which he had been rousing himself would pass away, before our conversation could be again renewed. But in this I was mistaken; for no sooner had the gate tender received the toll, and the horse by a free use of the whip been put in lively motion, than my friend, looking up to the clear blue sky, commenced his remarks with the poetic numbers which stand at the head of the next chapter. "Where the river pure, flows warbling down before the throne of God; and, shading on each side, the tree of life spreads its unfading bows.'
     "It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood, the corn fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light, stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand; and all the winds slept soundly. Nature seem'd in silent contemplation, to adore, its Maker. Now and then, the aged leaf fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground; and, as it fell, bade man think on his end. On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high, with pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly thought, conversing with itself. Vesper look'd forth, from out her western hermitage, and smiled; and up the east, unclouded, rode the moon with all her stars, gazing on earth intense, as if she saw some wonder walking there; such was the night, so lovely, still, serene."
     We all have ways of coping, appreciating and celebrating memories. Some of us prefer avoidance of what is displeasing. Others, it may be said, dwell too long on matters of the past, and fail to recognize the urgencies of the present. I am confident we all possess memories that when rekindled, spark the heart-fire, and rejuvenate the spirit, giving reason to trundle-on for that next mile, and the mile after that! Maybe it's the re-discovery of courage thought-lost in time, that a sudden flicker of memory restores, bringing to light, some sage advice, some profound quote, a strong arm wrapped over your shoulder in support, that makes some stressful situation less so. Methinks, it has always been worth wading through the regrets of unfinished chapters, or unhappy endings that seem inevitable, to arrive at the philosophy shared by Reverend Clark, that the dark horizon at dusk, is but the harbinger of brighter times ahead.
     Thank you for joining me for this four part series looking at Reverend Clark's 1836 biography. Purchased locally by the way! Much more to come via this blogsite.

The Fatal Disaster As Observed By Reverend John A. Clark

THE FATAL DISASTER, AS OBSERVED BY REVEREND JOHN A. CLARK, IN HIS 1836 BOOK, "GATHERED FRAGMENTS"

THE SCARCITY AND EXPENSE OF MEDICAL CARE WAS, BY NECESSITY, OFTEN OVERTAKEN BY FAITH IN GOD

     Looking back in time, as romantic and sentimental as Hollywood can color it, for audience approval, visions of hardship enter the picture soon after the nostalgia wears thin. Along with the hardships of living without contemporary conveniences, we must also look at the problems associated with a limited health-care efficiency, akin to "living in the past." Today, if we have to wait a half hour in the hospital emergency department, we feel seriously disadvantaged, thinking our ailment, must, therefore, be of little concern to medical professionals. Or, we would be looked after soon after arriving for care. At least that's the opinion you hear, while sitting in the hospital waiting room, or for that matter, at the doctor's office.
     This has a relevance to the story I want to share with you today, about a child, in the early 1830's, who sustained serious burns, while making breakfast for her siblings, in the absence of her mother, who had left earlier for her work place. While medical care was available eventually, it was too little, and too late, to promote proper healing. The saving grace in this case, wasn't the medical community, but rather, divine intervention. The outcome wasn't a good one from a medical perspective, but in terms of the child's belief in God, it was a peaceful, hopeful end to a short life. She was like many folks who lived in antiquity, when faith was a powerful force of healing, as medical assistance was often denied because of living circumstances. Living rurally was a big disadvantage when it came to getting medical care in a timely fashion. In the pioneering years of Muskoka for example, which began in 1859, an ill settler would probably have suffered considerably, without relief, and would have had to be transported south to the community of Orillia. This would have been a torturous cart ride.
     Churches however, began to appear early in most regional settlements, in Muskoka, and in fact, non-denominational congregations first met in neighborhood homesteads prior to church construction. Faith was an important reality in those pioneer communities, and prayer was the most exercised health remedy, when medicine and medical assistance were unavailable. In concert, prayer and medicine, were optimum resources, moral and physical, but in the case of those isolated in the wilds of the district, a strong belief in God represented most influence, serious illness could be overcome by regular prayer.
     "No present health and health ensure, for yet an hour to come; no medicine, though it oft can cure, can always balk the tomb."
     The above passage, penned by Cowper, was the verse used by Reverend John A. Clark, to open his chapter entitled "The Fatal Disaster," in his 1836 biographical text, "Gathered Fragments," which was in fact his 3rd revised edition. The reference he makes to "Little Ann," and the crisis that was to unfold, reminds us of the very great burden of ill health, at a time when medical care was a fraction of what it is today; and doctors were much less abundant in rural communities. Many died awaiting medical assistance, and it was especially grim in the countryside, where it would take a long horse and buggy ride, to attend a doctor's office or hospital. As it was in Muskoka, on a par with doctors, were the rural preachers, like Anglican Minister, Gowan Gilmor, in the late 1800's, serving the Diocese of Algoma. Gilmor would be called to a "sick house," at his own risk of contracting the disease, and assist the family with their recovery, for as long as it took. He would even cook their meals. He travelled thousands of miles on foot, along the bush trails all over the Diocese, to administer to his flock, and that included all religions when it came down to his humanity and sense of commitment to all God's children. Faith played a huge role in medical care in many of the pioneer farmsteads of this district, as it did in the northeastern United States, where Reverend Clark tended his flock, also a large one representing thousands of square miles he was known to travel each year.
     Reverend Clark writes in his journal that, " Anna Wenman was the child of a poor widow, who supported herself by the labour of her own hands. Perhaps the thought may cross the reader's mind, that it is hardly worth his while to stop to read the next dozen pages of this volume, inasmuch as all they promise is to conduct him into the lowly tenement of want, that he may learn how a poor sick child, whose intellectual powers were not above mediocrity, and in whose religious exercises there was nothing remarkable, felt and acted, on a dying bed. And yet if the reader loves the Saviour, and bears in mind how much it cost to redeem the soul of a poor child - if he can find pleasure in tracing the workings of divine grace, in the humblest subject upon which the Holy Spirit operates, we think he will find, even in this lowly instance, around which no feelings of sentimentalism can be gathered, enough to awaken the emotions of adoring love, and cause him to exclaim, 'This is the mighty power of God!' Into that abode of poverty, whither we purpose to conduct the reader, the Lord Jesus Christ, condescended to enter; yea, the Holy Spirit thought it not beneath the exalted work on which he was sent, to visit that humble spot daily with his sacred presence.
     "As we have already remarked, Ann's mother was obliged to earn her livelihood by daily toil, which usually took her away early in the morning from her family, whom she did not see again till evening. Ann, being the eldest of the children, was usually left in charge with the other children. She was now about eleven years old, and uncommonly sedate and womanly for one of her age. On the morning upon which the fatal accident occurred, to which allusion has already been made, Mrs. Wenman, went from home at a very early hour, leaving Ann to prepare breakfast for herself and the children. About the time her mother left, Ann arose and entered upon the duties which had been committed to her. She had already made a fire in a moveable furnace which stood on the hearth, in the fire-place, and had placed the lamp with which she had kindled the fire down on the floor beside her."
     Reverend Clark continues, writing, "As (Ann) she proceeded in these preparation for breakfast, while in the act of stooping down to place the tea kettle on the furnace, her clothes, which were of a cotton fabric, came in contact with the flame of the lamp, and were in a moment in a light blaze. No one that has not witnessed a spectacle of this kind, can scarcely conceive the agony of such a moment. What could she do? There was no one near her that could render any assistance. Her screams brought some person in an adjoining tenement to her aid; but before relief cold be rendered, her back from her neck to her feet was so burned, that the physician remarked, that had the flame continued unextinguished two minutes more, she would have been a corpse. The first thing that Ann said, after her wounds were dressed, and her mother sat down by her to try to soother her suffering, was 'Will you not send for Mrs. R____, my Sunday School teacher. I think I shall not get well, and I wish to see her.' Mrs. R____was immediately informed of the dreadful accident that had befallen Ann. Very much distressed with the intelligence, she hastened to the spot, to see what relief or assistance she could render. The remark that this little sufferer made when Mrs. R_____ first entered the door, shows that pious remarks addressed to children are seldom lost. 'Do you not recollect,' she said, 'that you told me last Sunday, that very likely some one of us would die, or would be laid upon a dying bed before the close of the week? I think this is my case - I do not think I shall ever get well'."
     According to Reverend Scott, ""Mrs. R____ was deeply affected by this burst of deep and ingenuous feeling on the part of Ann, and gave her that kind and salutary advice which her case seemed to demand. Ann had no personal acquaintance with her pastor. She had heard him address the children frequently, and speak to them about their eternal salvation, as from Sunday to Sunday he came into the school, to see how they were progressing. Her mind was impressed with the conviction, that there was but little probability that she could get well, and she now felt anxious to do all that she could to be prepared for death. She thought her minister could tell her what she must do to die happy, and she, therefore, besought Mrs. R____ to invite him to come and see her. Several days, however, passed after this occurrence, before he could visit her. The impression made upon my mind, at my first call, will never be erased. The spirit of this child seemed to be in strange and striking contrast with every thing around me. It was a hot summer's morning, the weather exceedingly sultry and oppressive. All nature appeared to droop, and the feeble and unsteady step of each passer-by, indicated the universal sense of lassitude that was felt. Ann's mind alone seemed unenfeebled, and full of wakeful and active energy. The place where she was lying was a low basement room, in an indifferent looking house. The room itself, however, bore the aspect of cleanliness and comfort.
     "As I entered, Ann recognized me, and announced my name although I had no recollection of every having seen her before. Though suffering much and intense pain, a smile lit up her countenance at the sight of one who could speak to her about her soul. I sat down by her bed and remarked, 'Ann, I feel grieved to hear of the dreadful accident that has befallen you; but God, I doubt not, means to do you good by this affliction. Perhaps he has let the fire burn your body, so that your soul need not be burnt up for ever. If all the suffering you feel shall lead you to pray and seek God's face and favour, so that in the end you become his child, you will not regret that this dreadful accident has happened. I was very happy to know that you wished to see me. I presume you wish me to talk to you about hour soul. I trust you have learned by your attendance upon the Sunday-school, that in order to die in peace and dwell with God in life everlasting, it is necessary we should be changed and made new creatures. Are you aware Ann of this?' Yes sir,' she replied, 'and it was on this account I wanted to see you."
     After a lengthy discussion between the injured child and Reverend Clark, he "then kneeled down by her bedside, and prayed; she repeated with me the Lord's Prayer, and appeared deeply affected by this devotional exercise. As I left the room, Ann begged of me that, if it would not be too much trouble, I would call again. Her widowed mother followed me out of the door, and with wide eyes full of tears, said, 'Ann is indeed an altered child. She used to be fretful, and easily irritated; but now, she is as meek and patient as a lamb. O, sir, you cannot think with how much patience she bears all her pains; and she is talking constantly about religion. Last night, as I was lifting her up in the bed, she said, 'Dear mother, I expect I shall die, but I hope we shall meet at God's right hand.' The mother was not professedly pious. Like hundreds of others in our large cities, who seldom attend upon any place of public worship, though the streams of earthly happiness were dried up around her, she was still looking to the broken cisterns of earth for relief. The Lord saw it necessary to lay the rod of affliction upon her again and again. One and another were taken, till she was a childless widow. These multiplied afflictions, it is hoped, led her to the fountain of living waters."
     Reverend Clark, in a poignant passage writes, "Eight or ten days before her death, her mind seemed somewhat clouded and depressed. The Lord was evidently revealing to her more of the evil of sin. There was a hymn that she recollected having heard, although she had not committed it to memory. She wished her mother to read it to her again. The hymn was the following: 'O for a closer walk with God! A calm and heavenly frame; A light to shine upon the road, that leads me to the lamb.' About a half hour before she ceased to breathe, she intimated a wish that this hymn might be read to her. It was; and while the fourth verse was being read, 'Return, O heavenly Dove, return, Sweet messenger of rest,' she smiled, laying her fingers upon her breast, as much as to say, 'I now feel his holy and peaceful influence within. She then closed her eyes, and lay for a while. Her mother went to her bedside, and said gently, 'Ann, my dear, do you still know me?' She opened her eyes, and replied by a faint smile. 'I fear,' continued her mother. 'I fear that you will soon leave us; do you feel willing and resigned to go?' 'Yes, yes,' was her reply. Shortly after, she clasped her hands together, as if in prayer, and said aloud, 'O God receive_______.' Her breath had left her motionless body before the petition was concluded, and doubtless her soul was received into the rest of the blessed. It was early in the morning that the liberated spirit of little Ann winged its way to the bright abodes of everlasting peace."
     Sure, we like to re-enact history, as long as we don't sacrifice too much of contemporary convenience; that exists for us, just out of sight, maybe down the road a few miles, or a modest drive away. Even the bravest of contemporary historians aren't crazy about the idea, of forwarding the cause of time-travel, just for us, in order to immerse ourselves further back in our studies, to enjoy (or not) all its unpleasant actualities. We know too well, the hardships our ancestors had to suffer with, because of these shortfalls of medical attention and treatment options. It takes a trip back, via stories like this, to recognize how good most of us have it these days, being in close proximity to emergency medical care. Ann suffered with her burns for upwards of two months, all of the time, spent at home with only occasional medical intervention. If the same injury was sustained today, the survival rate would obviously be much greater. Alas, history is what it is! And most of us, hope that it will never repeat! Historians included!

The Legacy Of A Community Cemetery, 1836 Perspective

A PERSPECTIVE, CIRCA 1836, ABOUT THE LEGACY OF A COMMUNITY CEMETERY

REVEREND CLARK TAKES US FOR A WALK THROUGH A PIONEER CEMETERY

PART TWO (IF YOU MISSED YESTERDAY'S BLOG, PART ONE OF THIS STORY, YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TO READ IT)

     Even though we think we're pretty well served by the internet, as far as information goes, let's face it, there's a great deal we don't have access to, on any given day, on any given research project. This isn't just the bias of a bibliophile either. There's a treasure trove of important, forgotten information, buried in those old books, thought best these days, to be either recycled or placed on a shelf, to prove to guests, you aren't the shallow character some claim. There is a wealth of amazingly insightful stories contained in many of these antiquarian, rare, and old books, adored in the contemporary condo for their attractive bindings. Makes me crazy, I'm not kidding. For those of us who like to be inspired, and who aren't adverse to the premise of life-long learning, these old books contain stories that are pertinent to contemporary issues. This may seem strange to some others, but regardless, it's true. Just because it's antiquated, doesn't mean it's irrelevant. The information contained in Reverend Clark's book, for example, which we browsed through yesterday, reflects on a cemetery visit in his former hometown, circa 1836, and the cholera epidemic of 1932, from a New York City perspective, that claimed almost half the city's population. This book, published four years later, is still current to this crisis, and it gives a first person account of the cholera horror, and the ceaseless work of the undertakers and their crew, picking up the dead. Reverend Clark's observations are astute with a sense of actuality, such that you feel you are walking along the cemetery pathways in his company.        
     "As I passed along from grave to grave, the names that I read upon the stones called up the images of a numerous group that I had once known. A plain marble slab that lay near me apprized me, that I was treading over the ashes of one whose countenance and character I recollected very distinctly. He was a small thin man, and well known to all the village. Professionally he was an apothecary (druggist), and for many long years had he dealt-out medicine to heal the sickness of others. Though thin and sallow, he had been so long at his post, and was by night and by day surrounded by so many powerful agents to ward off disease, that many supposed that he had discovered the true elixir of life, and could bid defiance to the shafts of mortality. What a commentary did that stone read to me upon the vanity of all such expectations. His medicine availed nothing when God remanded the dust, out of which he had been formed, to its native and inanimate state."
     On the weekend, poking through a number of our favorite antique and collectable shops in the region, I found a fair condition copy of Reverend John A. Clark's text, "Gathered Fragments," published as a third revised edition, in 1836, by William Marshall & Company of Philadelphia. I always look in obscure places, like bottom shelves of cupboards, where old books are often relegated these days. This is good for me, because most customers couldn't are less about old books, and leave these outcasts for me. I always look for books penned by well-travelled, and biographical / journal-writing ministers, and countryside preachers, because of what observations they contain, about experiences and adventures they've had, wherever they've attended their mission and ministerial responsibilities. Even in the District of Muskoka, and the Diocese of Algoma, books like Reverend Clark's are of critical importance to historians, looking for these tidbits of actuality, as experienced by roaming preachers such as the legendary "Tramp," Gowan Gilmor (Rosseau), of the Anglican Church, who walked thousands of miles through the rugged terrain of Muskoka and regions north, to tend his huge flock. Which to the kind natured Gilmor, was just about everyone he crossed paths with! His biography contains a wealth of information about the region in the later pioneer period of the district, and about the people he got to know in small and bigger communities where he stopped to rest, and take charge of a local Anglican Church needing his leadership. Reverend John Clark was doing roughly the same work in the northern, and eastern regions of the United States in the 1820's and 1930's, especially in New York State. He offers some interesting opinions about dying, the celebration of life, mourning, burials and cemeteries. Here are some observations, from a trip Reverend Clark took, prior to 1836, back to the town where he spent his early years of life, but finding that most he knew from those years, had wound up in the local graveyard; the place where he had taken an afternoon stroll.
      "A little farther, and I read upon a splendid monument - the name of one who, in early life, had figured largely in the gay world. Beauty of person, and elegance of manners, joined with uncommon brilliancy of intellect, made her an object of universal attraction. One of the wealthiest young men in the country succeeded in gaining her hand. They lived in great splendour, and for a while their path seemed strewn with flowers; but soon some hidden source of sorrow stole the colour from her cheek, and spread a shade of gloom over her once bright countenance. Common report declared that the cause of her unrevealed trouble was conjugal infidelity on the part of him, who had won and wed her. Whatever that cause was, it drove her to the foot of the cross for blessedness, and in Jesus Christ she found a faithful and unfailing friend. Many years had passed away since I had heard her name pronounced, and when I read it on that proud monument, I could not but exclaim, 'How valueless and unmeaning does all this sculptured marble that covers thy poor dust appear to thee now! And if, through infinite mercy thou art among the blood washed throng around the throne, how loud are thy praises to the Eternal, for that bitter drug mixed in the cup of thy earthly happiness, which made the pleasures of the world pall on thy taste, and led thee to the well of salvation in quest of the waters of life!"
     Reverend Clark's journal continues, "Upon another stone, I read a name that made me feel more solemn than I had before since I entered within these precincts of the dead. The name was Harry C___-. He had been all his life a ceaseless trifler. Possessing naturally great humour, and a talent for keen, sarcastic repartee, he cultivated and cherished this propensity, to the neglect of every thing sober and serious. He could not go to the house of God, nor even to a funeral, without finding something to make all around him laugh. But now, there he lay before me in the silence of the grave! His laugh was over - his jokes were done - the worm was feeding on his dissolved frame, and his soul was in a world where all was sober and serious reality.
     "As I walked onward a little further, I found myself standing over the grave of one whose venerable form and silver locks, I had often seen in the house of God. This aged saint was a living epistle of Christ, known and read of all men. While gazing upon the spot where his mouldered ashes reposed, and lifting up my thoughts to the glorious rest upon which he had entered, I could not but say, 'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.' Having at length reached a distant corner of the burial ground, I read on four stones that were ranged close to each other - 'Frederick Lindsley, Esq., who departed this life in the 43rd year of his age.' 'Mary, relict of Frederick Lindsley, Esq., who fell asleep in Christ in the 37th year of her age.' 'Hezekiah, son of Frederick and Mary Lindsley, who died in the eighth year of his age.' 'Mary Anna Lindsley, who died in May, in the 18th year of her age - much beloved in life, lamented in death; her memory will long be cherished on earth, - her many excellencies can be fully known only in heaven'."
     "Ah,' I said to myself, as I read these names with a throbbing heart, "then they are all gone - they are now a family in eternity - I shall meet them no more till I meet them there," wrote Reverend Clark. "I had known this family intimately, and spent many happy hours in their society. Their history was one truly eventful; replete with reverses, and furnishing many instructive lessons to those who ponder the ways of God, and consider the operation of his hands. Mr. Lindsley was a lawyer, and had, at an early age, acquired not only eminence in his profession, but in a distinguished degree the confidence of the community in which he resided. This confidence had been inspired, not only by his accurate and extensive legal knowledge, but by his great integrity of character and uprightness of conduct. He was particularly blessed and happy in this family. Mrs. Lindsley, the partner of his bosom, added to polished manners and a well balanced mind, great amiability and sweetness of tember. She was the mother of two interesting children. The oldest was a daughter, who, at the time that our narrative commences, was about twelve years of age. Mary Anna bore an exact resemblance to her mother in all the delicate touches and interesting features of her character.
     "Mr. Lindsley, among his many other excellencies, was distinguished for his kindness and great hospitality. In him the poor and the fatherless found a friend, 'the blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon him,' and often he, 'caused the widow's heart to sing for joy'. His wife and children he almost idolized. Where their comfort or happiness was concerned, he spared no expense, shrunk from no sacrifices. His home was a little paradise, where all hearts seemed bound together by the rosed wreath of love. All who visited his house went away with the full impression, that if there was a happy family on earth, it was Mr. Lindsley's."
     But Reverend Clark notes, in a retrospective of the family, that, "The voice of sorrow and mourning was now heard in the dwelling of Mr. Lindsley. His only son, a lad about eight years old, had fallen from a neighbouring hayloft, and was taken up dead. Mr. Lindsley was absent on business when this melancholy event occurred. As soon as the intelligence reached him, he instantly hastened home. 'Never shall I forget,' said one who was present on that occasion, and from whom I have derived several important facts in this hasty sketch, - never shall I forget Mr. Lindsley's expression and attitude, as he entered the room, and approached the corpse of his child. His hands were clenched, every feature of his countenance was wrought up into an expression of agony, and his whole frame shook with emotion. He stood and gazed for a moment upon the sweet and motionless face of his boy, and then, as if he could no longer restrain himself, rushed from the room to give vent in private to his feelings'. After the funeral had passed, and the first excess of grief had subsided, this family were visited by the minister of the place, and kindly, but faithfully reminded, that the bereavement which they had sustained, was a solemn admonition from God, urging them to enter upon the business of their everlasting salvation. His words were listened to with seriousness and attention. A change from this time was discoverable in both Mr. and Mrs. Lindsley. The Spirit of God seemed to have touched their hearts."
     Earlier in the text, Reverend Clark overviews a country scene, where a funeral procession is taking place. The scene of course, would have been prior to 1836.
     "To the reflecting mind, a funeral scene is always instructive. It was infinite wisdom that dictated the sentiment, that 'It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to the house of feasting.' It is true that some men can remain unmoved and unimpressed amid the most solemn scenes of death. But they, who look at the relation of things, and gather, from the events transpiring around them, that moral instruction which God intends they shall convey, can hardly fail to have their 'heart made better,' by the solemnities of a funeral scene. I speak now particularly of a funeral in the country.
     "No one that has been bred in the country can have witnessed a funeral in the city without having felt some violence done to the sensibilities of his heart. I have often stood at the corner of some square, upon whose area might be seen, from the earliest dawn even to the midnight hour, bustling thousands, and observed the train of coaches with their sable equipments moving-on upon their melancholy errand, with slow and solemn pace, through this mass of beings, and wondered that it made so slight an impression upon the busy crowd. The funeral train, as it passed, perhaps flung a momentary feeling of solemnity upon the lookers-on; but in an instant the impression was gone. It was like a passing cloud that had darkened, for one fleeting instant, the splendour of the sun, and then was for ever after, lost in the effulgence of his bright beams. There was no fellow feeling between the gay world without and the broken-hearted mourners within those vehicles.
      "A funeral in the country presents a different aspect. When death enters the humblest cottage, the sympathies of the community are awakened; the whole surrounding neighborhood participate in the feelings of the bereaved, and make every sacrifice to be present to pay their last respect to the dead. At the appointed hour of the funeral there may be seen, in all directions, the repose and stillness of a Sabbath season. Men, who on no other occasion are present to witness religious exercises, deem it a debt they owe to society, to attend all the funerals in their neighborhood. Everything was in readiness when I arrived; and they were waiting to form the procession. The burial ground was about a quarter of a mile distant from Robert McEllen's house. Twelve strong-framed, but hoary headed men had been selected to bear the body to the grave; and on each side of the coffin there walked three aged and infirm women as pall-bearers. Behind the coffin followed the children and grand children of the deceased; and in their rear, the promiscuous multitude who had been drawn together, on the occasion, either by curiosity or regard for the deceased. The procession was no sooner in motion, than an aged and venerable man, whom I had always seen at church when I preached at my missionary station in that neighbourhood, joined me, and walked at my side. As we preceded the procession, we were frequently so far before the bearers that we might have, with propriety, engaged in conversation. But I was too deeply impressed with the solemnity of the present scene, and the recollections of the past history of this family, to open my lips. For a short distance we moved in silence; then, in a subdued and under tone of voice, the aged man said, 'Elizabeth has gone to rest'."
     In tomorrow's blog, I want to share yet another story from Reverend Clark's 1836 book, which deals with a child's faith, and a tragic injury sustained in normal housekeeping, and her agonizing demise. The story is more uplifting that this teaser reflects. It does emphasize the very real problem from those citizens of antiquity, who had poor if any medical care.

A Graveyard A Place of Captured Memories

1836 Book, "Gathered Fragments," By Reverend John A. Clarke

A PERSPECTIVE OF A GRAVEYARD AS A PLACE OF CAPTURED MEMORIES

     Suzanne says that I'm getting pretty high and mighty with all the attention I'm getting from readership. It's true. At least partly. I'm pretty pumped these days as a feature writer. Even before the end of my four years of daily blogging (I took a short vacation in the late summer and fall when I weighed-over an early retirement), I have surpassed 300,000 views, and in fact, have almost attained the first 5,000 on my way to hitting 400,000.
     It was mid November 2011, when I officially (at least in my mind) began blogging daily, on son Robert's advice (and set-up), and although it was slow for those first few months, with only several dozen readers each day, by the end of the first full year, I had tripled and in some case quadrupled readership on a daily basis.
    In my heyday writing for the local press, I was up to about 80,000 potential readers each week, working for a variety of publications, including the popular Muskoka Sun, and door to door delivery of The Muskoka Advance. I've come close to this several times in the past decade, but it wasn't until I began daily blogging, that my readership spiked, and every writer of course, appreciates the importance of this kind of upward mobility. While I've scaled back writing somewhat over the past few years, especially in the print media, after the unceremonious collapse of the popular Great North Arrow, I still have my cherished spot in the provincial press, by writing a monthly column for "Curious; The Tourist Guide," where I've found my author's sanctuary, since the early years of this new century. I love that paper.
    With the daily blog, and some work on Suzanne's business facebook page, by golly, it feels great to see the statistics that show readership is actually growing. I'm even getting a lot fewer emails these days, stating things like, "Quit you bum. Leave some cyberspace for real writers," and "Currie, when are you going to catapult yourself into another country?" During my recent hiatus period, where I focused on editorial upgrades on our facebook page instead, I actually had a readership surge, on my dormant blog site, because of archive interest, that frankly, caught me by surprise. I hit 300,000 views on the strength of these archive-worthy pieces, and although it took a little longer to achieve, than if I had been writing every day, it was neat to look back on the numbers garnered each day of my vacation, finding so much support for past editorial submissions.
     I don't want readers to think I'm bragging, when I bring up these minor milestones, in what has been a long, long and balding career, without a Pulitzer. In fact, I'm most likely the only Muskoka-region historian, and writer, who has not received a single award of merit, or a victory cheese basket, for past accomplishments. I haven't had a road re-named in my honor, or a sandwich named after my work, and if you're looking for a reference to my work, noted proudly in another local history text, the handiwork of an appreciative colleague, forget it! I have been, because of my political rabble-rousing, shunned by associate historians for most of my career, in this otherwise rewarding profession, and yet, most important to me, beyond anything resembling a wood plaque with a bronze plate, or editorial plume in the local press, is the fact I have a readership, and that is the only reward I care about, truth be known.
     I once had a publisher laugh at me, when I said my editorial job was of more importance to me personally, than what he was paying me every week; which was a pittance at best. He suggested I was working in the field solely because of the easy and abundant money at his general expense. I started laughing so hard, I had to leave his office, before I started dancing on his desk; which was to be my next move. No, I have never hinged writing solely on securing a pay cheque. Even when I was broke, I never wrote solely to make money. It wouldn't work for me. I'd fail immediately, if my heart wasn't in the project. Money inspires me in the antique trade, but has not been anything more than a token of exchange, in writing; a source of income that has never been a prime motivation to sit down at this keyboard for endless hours to create something worth reading. I'd get more incentive from a bakery-fresh butter tart, than being told I was going to be paid by the line, imprinted on this flickering keyboard. At one time in my life, I did need to make enough money to pay rent and utilities, and provide a few extra bucks for beer at the press club, and a few grocery items so I wouldn't starve to death. Even at this time, I was buying and selling antiques and collectables, so I did have an alternate source of income. If I was offered a million bucks to tell my life story, well, that's would be different. I could buy a lot of butter tarts with that kind of cash in my pocket.
     So once again, thanks for all your support. The best is yet to come. I mean that!  
     During the coming year, and in keeping with my renewed relationship with old books ((I was on hiatus for a few years), buying and selling them through our Gravenhurst antique shop, I would like to welcome readers of this blog, into the murky, ink-stained, scholarly domain of the bibliophile. I want to introduce you to the antiquarian books I find, while sleuthing-about in local second hand, collectable and antique shops, in this region of the province, that are a lot more important than they initially appear, jammed askew, on a cluttered book-shelf.
     These will be largely non-fiction texts, because this is what I sell most of, as a book dealer; and they'll deal with subjects and heritage events, that I'm sure, will be quite different from the normal fare, of titles currently available in contemporary book shops. I prefer old books that offer profoundly different perspectives on just about everything, including the paranormal, death, funerals and burials, which is an appropriate opening for several of the blogs this week, hinged on the contents of an 1836 text, found this weekend, at one of our favorite "haunts" in the Orillia area.
     I had a fellow antique dealer tell me, a few months ago, that the only reason he bought old books, (and he apparently buys a lot of them), was to, in turn, sell back to customers wishing to decorate their homes and condos to reflect "scholarly aptitude". I nearly choked! He told me that he doesn't even look at the titles, and is only interested in the condition of the spines, which must look good when grouped on a shelf. I stopped talking to him at this moment, and if he thought I was being rude, by turning and walking away in disgust, well, so be it! I am very serious about books, and I hope it shows. I don't read every book I purchase, or otherwise acquire, but I browse content before any book is priced and placed on one of our store shelves. I price my books based on condition as a first consideration, and a whisker behind this, a valuation hinged on content. The more intriguing and rare the content, and its age and author, the price rises accordingly.
    A lot of folks won't be able to afford some of these book-gems, but would be interested in knowing what I consider important content, worth re-establishing in the present tense. Just because you don't own the book, doesn't mean you shouldn't know about the content; and how that content relates to modern times. Like buying a CD, or new or vintage Vinyl for your music pleasure, even if you only like two songs out of the dozen embedded; it's similar for us in the research game, potentially only needing a small portion of text to validate an opinion, or support a theory, but having to buy an expensive rare book, for what may only add up to ten or twelve pages of needed copy. I can't read your minds about this, but if you've been reading these blogs for even a few months, you've probably figured out I like "the strange" bordering on "the weird." What I do like, is to re-introduce, what amounts to heritage themes, using a different approach, than what high school history teachers bored us with, our heads occasionally hitting down on the desk, after falling asleep mid-lesson. The stories I want to offer you, are ones antiquated by time, and obscured by the rarity of the text, but having a contemporary relevance to the way we think, the way we live, and how we look at history generally, as relates to our modern lives. I do worry these days, the fascination for history, even the respect for time past, has diminished to an all time low, in part, due to the way it has been taught in the school curriculum. I'd like to prove, via these blogs, that history is a pretty exciting course of study, if provided by someone with enthusiasm for the subject. I'll have some surprises for you in the next twelve months, much of it related to what most people these days, would dismiss as being, "just some old, beat-up books." I guarantee that you will feel differently, when I take you on an "old book" adventure you won't get anywhere else. The starting point. Right here, right now, all from this portal on the main street of Gravenhurst, Ontario, Canada, and this DELL laptop contraption that, so far, has performed better than my old desk model Underwood, that weighed about a hundred pounds even without the ribbon.
     The reason to tune-in, to this unpredictable archivist / historian, should be obvious; you'll never know what I've found in our neighborhood quests, in terms of old books, that by content alone, could change your opinion about a lot of things, in only a few paragraphs of rich, well-versed antiquity. Keep in mind, these books will all be found within our 100 mile shopping range, which we have adhered to, as a family business, since our first antique shop opened in the fall of 1977. There's nothing extravagant or exotic about our book hunting successes. Today's antiquarian book I think you might find interesting, was published in 1836, twenty-three years before the first settlers arrived in South Muskoka.
   
     "When the fearful scourge which has desolated so many parts of the earth had, during the summer of 1832, emptied New York of more than half of its population, and converted that bustling city into a scene of comparative solitude, many families were left, not only to be the prey of that destroyer, but to contend with all the evils of utter destitution and want. And among this number was the family of poor Lewson. He was residing in a street and neighborhood where this fatal disease made great and awful ravages. The last time that I ever met him was a very few months after this dark cloud of death had passed over. I asked him what were his reflections in the midst of the mortality that surrounded him. I shall never forget the pathetic manner in which he depicted that awful scene.
     "I could not get out of the house,' said he, 'and we had not the means of moving into the country, or of sustaining ourselves there, even if I had been able to walk. For a few days, after ten or twelve began to die each day, right round us, things appeared gloomy. But when this dreadful mortality continued week after week, and they would come in and tell me that such a one was dead on this side of us, and such a one on that, and a third, and a fourth opposite us, - as I sat here and heard the groans all around us, and saw the hearse drive by every half hour, I thought surely I, and my family, will not escape. We shall probably, in the course of a few days, be huddled together, with those now dying around us, in one common grave. For a few moments my heart sunk within me, and a cloud came over my soul."
     This man survived the cholera outbreak of 1832. The text this passage was taken from, was published in Philadelphia in 1836, just four years later. The book was written, as a third revised edition, by Reverend John Clark, entitled "Gathered Fragments," and was released by William Marshall & Company of Philadelphia. I found this important antiquarian text, in a bottom cabinet in a booth at an antique mall, on our weekly hunt and gather mission. The reason I like books like this, in particular, is for the content, and not necessarily the valuation as an antiquarian text. Missionaries and preachers often wrote incredibly insightful and accurate observations of current events, at the time they were passing through regions and communities, including the above notations about the scourge of cholera, only a few years after the disease had claimed millions of lives. I like getting as close to history as possible, with limited interpretation, by a succession of authors up to and including the present. Each author exercises an unspecified amount of editorial license, according to their interests, and this often edits-out details I desire the most, from as close to the source and event as possible. While there is a large portion of the text dedicated to religious content, which does devalue the book because of volume of similar material available, in print, the historical references to his travels and experiences in the New York area of the United States, during this period, is of great interest to me; and what I like to use in these blogs as it might relate to local history. These type of books, that contain these observations, from say, a travelling preacher, have a huge amount of history buried within, which for researchers like Suzanne and I, are minor holy grails if they can be spliced into parallel research. This one can be tied-in with other projects, even though it's from an American perspective. Keeping in mind of course, that much of the citizenry still had British connections, the same as Upper and Lower Canada, and many of the same values. Let's look at the opinion of graveyards for one such comparison. Reverend Clark offers some interesting insights, when he re-visits a community where he once lived, and travels to a local cemetery, where he is surprised to find many of the citizens he was once acquainted, relegated to the narrow, six foot deep graves, beneath the marble monuments. It could have been an observation of a rural Canadian cemetery as well, but I haven't yet found such a published description from this period of time.
     "When it was perceived that the immortal spirit had indeed left its clay tenement, all efforts to recall life were suspended; and we stood a while, and gazed in the deep silence of intense feeling upon the venerable and unbreathing form of this departed Christian. There was, even in death, a calmness and serenity that rested upon the fixed and motionless features of Mr. Northend, which spoke of the exalted and everlasting peace he had gone to enjoy. Tears were silently stealing down many a cheek in the solemn group that stood around the bed. But as if there had just been enforced by a voice from Heaven, the injunction, 'Be still, and know that I am God,' the stillness of deep and undisturbed solitude reigned through the whole house. After some little interval, prayer was proposed, in which all joined in with great devotion."
     Reverend Clark writes of the occasions, "As Mr. Heyden and myself left this dwelling of sorrow, the truth of the sentiment most forcibly occurred to me, that 'it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting.' I was so absorbed in the scene that I had witnessed, that I was scarcely conscious where I was, until I found myself in the open air, and beneath one of the most brilliantly illuminated heavens that I had ever witnessed. It was nearly midnight. The sky was cloudless. The moon moved on through the replendent vault of heaven most gloriously! Around it twinkled ten thousand bright stars. The waters of the (Lake) Ontario, stretched before us like a sea of glory, beautifully irradiated beneath the soft and mellow rays of the orb of night. Not a sound was heard save the gentle ripple that played over the surface of the lake. We had left the house of death. The scene around us was calculated to perpetuate the deep and solemn feeling that had been already excited. At length, as we passed on, Mr. Heyden, pointing to the heavens said, 'Henry Northend has gone to yonder bright world, and will shine like one of those stars in the kingdom of his Master for ever and ever.'  I felt too deeply to make any reply; and so we passed on several yards in silence. As we ascended a small rise of ground, Mr. Heyden slackened his pace, and turned a little out of the path. I followed him, and soon saw before us, at a short distance, a plain white marble stone, which seemed to mark the spot where the ashes of some departed fellow mortal rested. As we drew near, I perceived that we were in the neighbourhood of a small burying ground, which I afterwards learned belonged exclusively to the two families of Northend and Heyden. Mr. Heyden went up to the stone just alluded to, and for a moment, fixed his eyes upon the spot in deep silence. I read with some surprise on this stone, for it was almost as light as day, 'Seared to the memory of Rev. D.P. _____, who departed this life, & 'He being dead yet speaketh'."
     Reverend Clark digresses, to remember the community of his youth, and the graveyard that, some years later, became the final resting place for many of his old friends and neighbors.
   
     "On a recent tour through one of the Northern States, I stopped at a village situated on a creek, which afforded numerous and extensive advantages and facilities for manufacturing purposes. There was nothing in the immediately surrounding scenery, particularly calculated to interest a traveller. The whole aspect of the country as far as the eye could roam was rough and broken, and yet, withal so tame and uniform, that one soon grew weary in looking at it. In like manner, the village itself presented nothing to the eye of a stranger particularly striking or attractive. In the construction of its buildings, the laying out of its streets, and all its various arrangements, convenience and economy had most manifestly been consulted rather than taste or elegance. To the ordinary traveller, therefore, there was nothing connected with this place calculated to inspire him with a wish to linger in its neighborhood. But I had spent several years of my childhood there, and the sight of this village, as I approached it, awakened feelings of a peculiar character, and essentially different from those which would have been awakened in the bosom of a stranger. Many years had elapsed since my last visit to this place for general aspect had undergone very little change, but I soon perceived that its inhabitants were to me an almost entire new race of beings.
     "Having stopped at one of the public inns, I immediately went to vist several spots which were once familiar to me, and with which were associated the fond rememebrance of other days, and of scenes for ever past. As I leisurely strolled through the village, there was on thing that struck me very painfully. I could see no names on the signs, and but a few faces in the street, that I had ever before known. To all whom I met I was a stranger, and no one appeared to recognize me. At length it occurred to me, that there was one habitation where I should probably find a number of my old acquaintances - the house appointed for all living. Thither, therefore, I directed my steps. I have often thought it a fit and becoming expression of our regard for our deceased friends, to see that the place of their interment is guarded from the profane intrusion of the thoughtless, and the unhallowed trend of brute beasts. Great attention had been paid to this by the former inhabitants of the village. The burial ground was a short distance from the village, in a secluded and rural spot. It was in the form of an oblong square, and protected by a strong enclosure. On each side of the square, various kinds of trees were planted, and especially those which have long been regarded as peculiarly appropriate to shade the ashes of the departed. The avenue which led from the highway to this resting place of the dead, was studded on either side with a row of weeping willows, which hung their drooping branches mournfully over the head of him, who passed beneath, that no one could reach the place of interment without feeling that he was treading on holy ground."
     Reverend Clark continues, that, "As I walked up this avenue and entered that sacred area, where, in former years, I had so often heard the solemn sound of 'earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,' borne on the air; and where I had beheld weeping mourners gather in silence around the newly excavated grave, to see the last remains of some dear friend let down into its dark and solitary abode, I could not but stop, and gaze in pensive meditation upon the 'heaped hillocks,' of earth that lay thick around me. 'How populous,' thought I, 'this subterranean city!' How sure its annual increase of inhabitants! Notwithstanding the living seek through monumental stones to keep up and perpetuate the distinctions which existed in life, yet, in truth, and reality, how are they all lost in the grave? The beggar and the rich man lie equally low, and the worm feeds alike sweetly upon them. The several paths of that busy solitude that are moving in so many directions through yonder streets will all terminate here. O, if this thought could be ever fresh in their minds, how would it abate, the ardour with which they pursue the perishing vanities of time! How would it dissipate worldly mindedness, moderate the love of pleasure, and make sensuality itself tremble amids its guilty indulgencies!"
     Join me in tomorrow's blog, for part two of this multi chapter look at Reverend Clark's 1836 observations about the village graveyard. It's a pretty significant overview, and one not heard or read about today, as a matter of casual conversation. Yet these cemeteries are the platform planking of our communities, whether we choose to recognize them as such. Why then, do we shy away from these hallowed places, thinking of them as unwelcoming, unsettling places for the general public to visit? Interest in cemeteries as heritage sites is growing in popularity by the way, and money raised by selling books and directories, is being used in some cases for site conservation; and this is a good thing. Please join me again tomorrow for another look back to the 1830's, and how cemeteries were regarded way, way back.