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.