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.