Conclusion, Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and The Town That Should Embrace The Legacy

WHAT WAS IT LIKE TO LIVE IN BRACEBRIDGE CIRCA 1864? WHAT WERE THE SETTLERS' FEARS? WHAT FOLKLORE, AND SUPERSTITION CAME WITH THEM?

WE STILL HAVE OUR FEARS, SUSPICIONS, AND EXPECTATIONS OF THE ALLEGED PARANORMAL, EVEN IN CONTEMPORARY TIMES!

     AS THE DUSK OF THE DAY LOOMS EVER MORE DARKLY, OVER THIS LIVELY LOWLAND, KNOWN AS "THE BOG," THERE IS A NEW EMPIRE OF ACTIVITY BREAKING FREE OF ITS FETTERS; PRESUMABLY THE INTRUSIVE SUNLIGHT THAT BAKES THE LAND DURING THE DAY, AND BRIGHTENS IT WITH A STRANGE EFFERVESCENCE, DURING THE LAST RAYS BEFORE SUNSET, INAUGURATES THE STAGE OF SUDDEN NIGHTFALL, WITH ITS ODDLY PROPORTIONED CREATURE CAST. SITTING HERE, ON THE VERANDAH OF BIRCH HOLLOW, I CAN HEAR ALL THE FAMILIAR RUSTLING IN THE TALL GRASSES, AND BRUSHING THROUGH THE ROADSIDE SHRUBS ABOVE THE WETLAND, JUST A FEW METRES ACROSS THE LANE. OUT OF THE GENERAL SOLITUDE OF AN AUGUST EVENING, A FOX WILL TROT INTO THE OPEN, AND THEN ABLE WATCHFULLY RIGHT DOWN THE LANE TOWARD THE LAKE, AS IF A NIGHTLY CONSTITUTIONAL. BEFORE LONG IT WILL BE FOLLOWED, FURTHER UP THE LANE, BY A RABBIT OR RACCOON, AND EVERY THIRD NIGHT OR SO, BY SEVERAL DEER, WHO LIKE TO FEED OFF THE PLANTS IN OUR YARD. THERE WAS A VENERABLE OLD WOLF PASS THIS WAY, A WEEK AGO, AT AROUND THIS SAME HOUR, AND I FOUND TRACES OF BEAR FUR THE OTHER DAY, ON A WALK INTO THE BOG. I WONDER WHAT THE FIRST SETTLERS, EMIGRANTS FROM THE URBAN AREAS OF BRITAIN AND EUROPE, THOUGHT ABOUT THESE ANIMAL RUSTLINGS AND APPEARANCES, OUT OF THE THICK BUSH-LAND OF 1860'S SOUTH MUSKOKA. DID THEY PONDER, AT FIRST, JUST WHAT KIND OF TERRIBLE, MYSTIC CREATURE, MIGHT PROTRUDE FROM THE PINE FOREST, TO MATCH THE THUNDERING HOOVES. POSSIBLY THE "HEADLESS HORSEMAN," ON A POWERFUL STEED. WHAT AMAZEMENT THEN, TO WATCH THE SILHOUETTE OF GIANT MOOSE POUNDING UP FROM THE MARSH BELOW. WHAT ANTICIPATION WEIGHED ON THE NERVOUS VOYEUR'S BROAD SHOULDERS? ME THINKS, SURVIVAL WAS THE ONLY CONCERN. POSSIBLY TO SHOOT THE CREATURE FOR ITS MEAT. BUT ANYTHING THAT THREATENED THEM, WAS AN INSTANT ENEMY; LET THAT BE MOOSE OR PHANTOM. LET'S GO BACK TO 1864, AND INVESTIGATE WHAT THE SETTLERS THOUGHT, ABOUT BEING SURROUNDED BY THE WILD WOODS, WITH ALL ITS RESIDENT CREATURES.
     Most of us baby boomers, were introduced to "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and "Rip Van Winkle," in the public school classroom. Maybe the school or public library. I still have a few school-stamped copies of these stories, that were put in book form on their own, separate from the compendium of Washington Irving short stories, published first as "The Sketch Book," in 1819, and then "Bracebridge Hall," in 1822.
      Then of course, a majority of us post war kids, who had televisions in our homes, watched the Walt Disney animation, of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," via Sunday evening dated with the Wonderful World of Disney. It always ran on the Sunday before Hallowe'en. Even today, writing this blog, when I think about the story, I can't get the image of Disney's string-bean, with the huge adam's apple, Ichabod Crane, out of my mind. It is by far, my favorite Disney production, but it has somewhat corrupted my relationship with the more scholarly work, of Washington Irving.      When I was a kid, I thought a lot about the "Headless Horseman," that chased the good Mr. Crane, eventually hitting him with a flaming jack 'o lantern. I never went out for trick-or-treating, after watching this glorified cartoon, without thinking about the what-ifs of headless horsemen, who might be in the neighborhood, carrying flaming pumpkins, and how, at any time, they might appear with a great ghostly steed, and chase me to my ultimate demise. Crane was never seen again. Had the horseman found a suitable head? "It's just a cartoon Teddy," my mother reminded me, time and again, in those days of childish expectation, when, in my mind, there was potential for anything, to all of a sudden, animate, and do bad things. When I broke something of my mother's, I always blamed a resident phantom for the damage.
     I think it's fair to say, that a majority of people today, care less about the paranormal, and more about the price of bacon, and gasoline. Yet what I find odd about this, is that the number of people, who eventually admit to having had a paranormal-type experience, seems unusually high for this new high-tech era. Some of the highest readership periods, of this blog in particular, are during the weeks that I write about ghosts and assorted paranormal experiences. In casual conversation, even with those who consider themselves too contemporary and connected to the "real" world, to admit they once saw, what gave every characteristic of a garden variety ghost. If I was to interview a hundred random people about their belief in ghosts, (or not), or anything else paranormal, I'm confident the average of believers, however reluctant, and embarrassed, to admit their encounters, would be in the neighborhood of eighty percent. But it would take some conversation about superstition and the paranormal, to warm up to any meaningful discussion. It might not reveal a meaty paranormal event, that you could base a movie on, but enough to show, that even among disbelievers, there are unexplained interactions, that may or may not have been of the ghost-variety. Even if it was seeing the ghostly image of a grandparent, in your room, as a child, that may have been a dream, qualifies it, if, after many years, the encounter is still freshly remembered. This to me, is the sign it was something more substantial, and the visit provided a message, that was intended to last a life time. As I had an angel encounter, during a sickness, at a young age, I have never forgotten any of the details of that most amazing interaction. Now honestly, how many dreams over a lifetime, have you remembered to this point? Think about the reasons why you can't forget it, and if a message may have been attached, by those who have "crossed over."
     The point of writing this, is that many of us high-tech-savy, modernists, still have that nagging doubt about the after-life, and if those who have "crossed-over," can communicate with "the living." Will there eventually be an "app" on your phone, to sense the spirit-kind in your presence, or give you a direct line, or via a medium, to the so called "other side." I have confidence, that one day, science itself, will prove that there is life after death. In the meantime, we are left to speculate.
     If in 2014, one hundred and fifty years, following the official naming of "Bracebridge," as a memorial tribute to the literary work of American Author, Washington Irving, there are still those amongst us, who have belief in paranormal qualities and quantities, then what can we assume, were the folklore investments, of those pioneer settlers of the former "North Falls," (which of course was renamed in 1864, by federal postal authority, William Dawson LeSueur). Although it is known, many of the pioneer settlers, had actually been born in other parts of the fledgling Canada, prior to the 1860's, the majority were emigrants to the Ontario frontier, of Muskoka, fresh from Scotland, England, Ireland, Iceland, and Europe generally, all with their heritage of cultural folklore. Centuries of imbedded folklore came with these settlers, to a region that was harsh in almost every regard. It was rugged, ominous in appearance, dark because of the heavy pine forests, and full of treacherous natural conditions, from the landscape criss-crossed by rivers, waterfalls, lakes, swamps and almost impassable obstacles of rock and giant hillside. Then there were the wild animals, and the rattlesnakes of South Muskoka. So they could be forgiven, for having some minor reflection, from time to time, in the dim lamplight of their homestead lanterns, when they confused the howl of the autumn wind, with that which was moaned by a pack of devil-sent wolves, baying at the moon. It's logical to expect, they worried quite a bit, possibly without admitting this weakness, about the hobgoblins and banshees that awaited the unwise homesteader, to leave the security of the homestead hearth, to venture into the moonlit wilds. Was it debilitating enough, to stop them in their tracks, and command a hasty retreat back indoors? Probably not, because the bigger issue, was survival, and whether one was eaten by an ogre, or frozen to death because there was no firewood left for the hearth, there were few alternatives, than to face what may have been either natural or supernatural.
     In all likelihood, a small number of citizens, in that budding hamlet of "North Falls," would have understood the reference to "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," as it had been a popular story from the time it was first published in 1819. It's to be expected, that by 1864, a few of the residents of the burg, clustered around the cataract of the central falls, would have known the name Washington Irving, and, if they were capable of reading, which most were, and able to glance at the city newspapers occasionally, they would also have known the author had died some years earlier, before their arrival in South Muskoka. Thus, if W.D.LeSueur, had sent a note with his decision, to name the new post office "Bracebridge," explaining that it had been granted as a memorial tribute to the late author, possibly there would have been some sympathy to the naming implication. As many of the early citizens had British ancestry, they might have appreciated that the book "Bracebridge Hall," was about English cultural traditions, and social norms of the aristocracy; as pertained to Squire Bracebridge and family, of the great country estate. As Washington Irving was fascinated by these old and dear traditions, of environs, community and family, he was also profoundly worried, time and advancements in industry, and society, was erasing the relevance of these culturally imbedded characteristics. It was his plan to capture them in writing, and via his entertaining stories, to defend their place in English society. Therefore, it would have then seemed more of an honor, to receive the name "Bracebridge," for the new post office, instead of the protracted feeling of betrayal, because a lowly postal clerk denied their chosen name of "North Falls." (You can read more about the qualifications of Mr. LeSueur by archiving back in this week's blogs)
     Might these settlers, having known previously, the story of "Sleepy Hollow," have had a smidgeon of fear, about the potential, of, on one moonlight night, hearing the heavy hooves of the steed, carrying the form of the "Headless Horseman?" We will never know. But what we can appreciate, is that these settlers had the trace reverence for those old traditions, still in their minds, of rural enchantments, hobgoblins, apparitions, trolls, ogres, leprechauns, and the fairy-kind, that play trick 'or treat, all the live long day. It is then possible, that the potential of a headless horseman, fell into the domain of possibility, no one talked about, but imagined with vigor, on the nights of the harvest moon over the ripening, misted-over corn fields, on those new homesteads carved deep into the Muskoka woodlands.
    Here now is part two, of the promised overview of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."

Double click on picture to enlarge.

BRACEBRIDGE'S RIGHT OF ASSOCIATION, TO SHARE THE FAME - THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

WHAT A LITERARY TREAT FOR THE CELEBRATION OF HALLOWEEN

     THURSDAY EVENING, WITH A PREDICTED WEATHER EVENT, TO INCLUDE ALL THE INDULGENCES OF LATE AUTUMN.... HOWLING WIND, HEAVY RAIN AND RANDOM BEWITCHING, REMINDS ONE OF THE OLD, OLD TALE, OF WASHINGTON IRVING'S HEADLESS HORSEMAN. TONIGHT WE PURCHASED A PLUMP PUMPKIN FOR SONS ANDREW AND ROBERT TO CARVE INTO SOMETHING MENACING, AND I PLAN TO HAVE IT ILLUMINATED ON A STAND NEAR MY CHAIR, ON HALLOWEEN, FOR MOOD ENHANCEMENT, IN ORDER TO READ "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW," FROM START TO FINISH. LIKE ICHABOD, I WILL NEED TO BE FEED THE SEASONAL FARE......WHICH THIS YEAR, WILL BE SQUASH SOUP BECAUSE SUZANNE JUST MADE THREE CARTONS TONIGHT. BIG SLICE OF FRESH BREAD, SQUASH SOUP, A SCARY PUMPKIN, AND WASHINGTON IRVING.  WOW. BRING IT ON....HESSIAN! SUZANNE TENDS THE DOOR. THE BOYS REMAIN AT THE STORE TO GUARD AGAINST THE FEARFUL EGG BARRAGE....AND I IMMERSE IN THE TRADITIONS OF OLD HALLOWEEN.

     "AS ICHABOD APPROACHED THIS FEARFUL (TULIP) TREE, HE BEGAN TO WHISTLE; HE THOUGHT HIS WHISTLE WAS ANSWERED; IT WAS BUT A BLAST SWEEPING SHARPLY THROUGH THE DRY BRANCHES. AS HE APPROACHED A LITTLE NEARER, HE THOUGHT HE SAW SOMETHING WHITE HANGING IN THE MIDST OF THE TREE; HE PAUSED, AND CEASED WHISTLING; BUT ON LOOKING MORE NARROWLY, PERCEIVED THAT IT WAS A PLACE WHERE THE TREE HAD BEEN SCATHED BY LIGHTNING, AND THE WHITE WOOD LAID BARE. SUDDENLY HE HEARD A GROAN - HIS TEETH CHATTERED AND HIS KNEES SMOTE AGAINST THE SADDLE; IT WAS BUT THE RUBBING OF SOME HUGE BOUGH UPON ANOTHER, AS THEY WERE SWAYED ABOUT BY THE BREEZE. HE PASSED THE TREE IN SAFETY, BUT NEW PERILS LAY BEFORE HIM," WROTE WASHINGTON IN "THE SKETCH BOOK," PUBLISHED IN 1819; THE STORY OF COURSE, IS "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW."

    THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, WAS NAMED OUT OF RESPECT FOR WASHINGTON IRVING'S SECOND BOOK OF SKETCHES, IN THE 1820'S, KNOWN THEN AS "BRACEBRIDGE HALL." IT WAS IN 1864 THAT CANADIAN POSTAL OFFICIAL, WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR, NAMED THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, AFTER IRVING'S INTERNATIONALLY RESPECTED BOOK. IF YOU MISSED THE FIRST TWO COLUMNS IN THIS SHORT SERIES, YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TO MONDAY'S BLOG. BEING NAMED AFTER THE WORK OF WASHINGTON IRVING, WAS INTENDED BY LESUEUR, TO BE A MEMORIAL HONOR TO THE AMERICAN WRITER, WHO HAD DIED SOME YEARS EARLIER. IT WAS LIKELY THAT NEW RELEASES OF HIS BOOKS, AFTER HIS DEATH, WOUND UP ON LESUEUR'S DESK, AS ONE OF OUR COUNTRY'S UP AND COMING LITERARY CRITICS. WHEN ASSOCIATE HISTORIANS, IN THE PAST, HAVE WRITTEN THAT "HE NAMED BRACEBRIDGE AFTER THE TITLE OF A BOOK HE WAS READING AT THE TIME," THEY OF COURSE, WERE CORRECT TO ASSUME THIS.....BUT THEY FAILED TO EXPLAIN WHY. LESUEUR WENT ON TO BECOME WELL KNOWN AS A LITERARY CRITIC, WITH REVIEWS PUBLISHED IN SOME OF THE MOST INFLUENTIAL PERIODICALS IN NORTH AMERICA; WHILE AT THE SAME TIME, DUTIFULLY BECOMING A SIGNIFICANT CANADIAN HISTORIAN. HIS DAY JOB, IN PART, INVOLVED NAMING HAMLET POST OFFICES THROUGHOUT CANADA.

     THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE HAS KNOWN FOR LONG AND LONG, ABOUT THIS IMPORTANT LITERARY CONNECTION, BUT HAS GENERALLY SHOWN LITTLE INTEREST IN DEVELOPING THE CONNECTION MORE FULLY. THIS I OFFERED THEM AT THE TURN OF THE NEW CENTURY, AS A LINK BETWEEN THE TOWN, AND THE IRVING MUSEUM, AT SUNNYSIDE, IN NEW YORK; SOMETHING I HAD ARRANGED PERSONALLY, AND AS AN EXTRA MEASURE, EVEN WROTE A SMALL BOOK ABOUT THE EXCITING, UNDER-UTILIZED RELATIONSHIP. THIS DIDN'T EXCITE THEM EITHER. OUR FAMILY EVEN WENT TO THE EXTENT OF HAVING A SMALL MUSEUM QUALITY EXHIBIT, OF WASHINGTON IRVING - WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR MATERIALS, (VISUALS) AVAILABLE FOR VIEWING, IN THE AUDITORIUM OF THE BRACEBRIDGE UNITED CHURCH....AT CHRISTMAS, AS A BOLSTER TO THE IDEA OF PROMOTING "BRACERBRIDGE HALL." THERE IS AN OUTSTANDING REFERENCE TO CHRISTMAS CELEBRATIONS, AT BRACEBRIDGE HALL, CONTAINED IN THIS BOOK, OF WHICH THE TOWN HAD THE RIGHTS OF PROVENANCE, TO FULLY EXPLOIT THE CONNECTION TO ONE OF THE WORLD'S BEST KNOWN AUTHORS. THERE HAVE BEEN BRACEBRIDGE HALL DINNERS IN THE PAST, BUT NOTHING THAT WOULD CONSTITUTE THE SEEDING OF A TRADITION. I THINK THIS HAS BEEN A TERRIBLE MISSED OPPORTUNITY, AND I REFLECT THIS EDITORIALLY WHENEVER I'M AFFORDED AN OPPORTUNITY.

     AS FOR "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW," IT WOULD BE A WONDERFUL OPPORTUNITY FOR THE BRACEBRIDGE BUSINESS COMMUNITY, AND AREA PUBLIC SCHOOLS, TO HAVE ADOPTED A WEEK LONG HALLOWEEN FESTIVAL, HONORING THE AUTHOR OF ONE OF THE BEST KNOWN STORIES OF THE PARANORMAL EVER WRITTEN......AND CELEBRATE THE PROVENANCE THEY WERE GIVEN BY ONE OF CANADA'S LEADING LITERARY REVIEWERS OF THE TIME. BUT JUST BECAUSE IT HASN'T BEEN EMBRACED, DOESN'T STOP A BLOGGER LIKE ME, FROM PRESENTING THE STORY, ABRIDGED AS IT MUST BE, FOR PURPOSES OF THIS BLOG. IT'S FOR READERS WHO LOVE OUR MUSKOKA LIFESTYLE STRAIGHT-UP......HISTORY ENJOYED FOR WHAT IT HAS BEEN, AND WHAT IT HAS MEANT EVER SINCE. I STILL REGRET THAT WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR HADN'T INCLUDED A WEE NOTE, BACK TO THE TOWN, IN AUGUST 1864, EXPLAINING WHY HE FELT THIS MEMORIAL TRIBUTE, WAS IMPORTANT TO THE FLEDGLING TOWN, BUILT ON THE EMBANKMENT OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER. BOY OH BOY, WOULD THAT HAVE BEEN EASIER TO WORK WITH, THAN THE COLD SELL TODAY.

     "ABOUT TWO HUNDRED YARDS FROM THE TREE, A SMALL BROOK CROSSED THE ROAD, AND RAN INTO A MARSHY AND THICKLY-WOODED GLEN, KNOWN BY THE NAME 'WILEY'S SWAMP'. A FEW ROUGH LOGS, LAID SIDE BY SIDE, SERVED FOR A BRIDGE OVER THIS STREAM. ON THAT SIDE OF THE ROAD WHERE THE BROOK ENTERED THE WOOD, A GROUP OF OAKS AND CHESTNUTS MATTED THICK WITH WILD GRAPE-VINES, THREW A CAVERNOUS GLOOM OVER IT. TO PASS THIS BRIDGE, WAS THE SEVERIST TRIAL. IT WAS AT THIS IDENTICAL SPOT THAT THE UNFORTUNATE (MAJOR) ANDRE WAS CAPTURED, AND UNDER THE COVERT OF THOSE CHESTNUTS AND VINES WERE THE STURDY YEOMEN CONCEALED WHO SURPRISED HIM. THIS HAS EVER SINCE BEEN CONSIDERED A HAUNTED STREAM, AND FEARFUL ARE THE FEELINGS OF A SCHOOL-BOY, WHO HAS TO PASS IT ALONE AFTER DARK," WROTE IRVING.

     "AS HE APPROACHED THE STREAM HIS HEART BEGAN TO THUMP; HE SUMMONED UP, HOWEVER, ALL HIS RESOLUTION, GAVE HIS HORSE HALF A SCORE OF KICKS IN THE RIBS, AND ATTEMPTED TO DASH BRISKLY ACROSS THE BRIDGE; BUT INSTEAD OF STARTING FORWARD, THE PERVERSE OLD ANIMAL MADE A LATERAL MOVEMENT, AND RAN BROADSIDE AGAINST THE FENCE. ICHABOD, WHOSE FEARS INCREASED WITH THE DELAY, JERKED THE REINS ON THE OTHER SIDE, AND KICKED LUSTILY WITH THE CONTRARY FOOT; IT WAS ALL IN VAIN; HIS STEED STARTED, IT IS TRUE, BUT IT WAS ONLY TO PLUNGE TO THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE ROAD INTO A THICKET OF BRAMBLES AND ALDER-BUSHES. THE SCHOOLMASTER NOW BESTOWED BOTH WHIP AND HEEL UPON THE STARVELING RIBS OF OLD GUNPOWDER, WHO DASHED FORWARDS, SNUFLING AND SNORTING, BUT CAME TO A STAND JUST BY THE BRIDGE, WITH A SUDDENNESS THAT HAD NEARLY SENT HIS RIDER SPRAWLING OVER HIS HEAD. JUST AT THIS MOMENT A PLASH TRAMP BY THE SIDE OF THE BRIDGE, CAUGHT THE SENSITIVE EAR OF ICHABOD. IN THE DARK SHADOW OF THE GROVE, ON THE MARGIN OF THE BROOK, HE BEHELD SOMETHING HUGE, MISSHAPEN, BLACK AND TOWERING. IT STIRRED NOT, BUT SEEMED GATHERED UP IN THE GLOOM LIKE SOME GIGANTIC MONSTER READY TO SPRING UPON THE TRAVELLER."

     THE SKETCH BOOK ACCOUNT, OF ICABOD'S FATEFUL NIGHT, CONTINUES: "THE HAIR OF THE AFFRIGHTED PEDAGOGUE ROSE UPON HIS HEAD WITH TERROR. WHAT WAS TO BE DONE? TO TURN AND FLY WAS NOW TOO LATE; AND BESIDES, WHAT CHANCE WAS THERE OF ESCAPING GHOST OR GOBLIN, IF SUCH IT WAS, WHICH COULD RIDE UPON THE WINGS OF THE WIND? SUMMONING UP, THEREFORE, A SHOW OF COURAGE, HE DEMANDED IN STAMMERING ACCENTS, 'WHO ARE YOU?' HE RECEIVED NO REPLY. HE REPEATED HIS DEMAND IN A STILL MORE AGITATED VOICE. STILL THERE WAS NO ANSWER. ONCE MORE HE CUDGELLED THE SIDES OF THE INFLEXIBLE GUNPOWDER, AND SHUTTING HIS EYES, BROKE FORTH WITH INVOLUNTARY FERVOUR, INTO A PSALM TUNE. JUST THEN THE SHADOWY OBJECT OF ALARM PUT ITSELF IN MOTION, AND WITH A SCRAMBLE AND A BOUND, STOOD AT ONCE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD. THOUGH THE NIGHT WAS DARK AND DISMAL, YET THE FORM OF THE UNKNOWN MIGHT NOW IN SOME DEGREE, BE ASCERTAINED. HE APPEARED TO BE A HORSEMAN OF LARGE DIMENSIONS AND MOUNTED ON A BLACK HORSE OF POWERFUL FRAME. HE MADE NO OFFER OF MOLESTATION OR SOCIABILITY, BUT KEPT ALOOF ON ONE SIDE OF THE ROAD, JOGGING ALONG ON THE BLIND SIDE OF OLD GUNPOWDER, WHO HAD NOW GOT OVER HIS FRIGHT AND WAYWARDNESS."

     EVERY ONE OF US, AT SOME POINT IN OUR LIFE'S JOURNEY, HAS FOUND OURSELVES IN A SIMILARLY UNSETTLING SITUATION, AS THE GOOD MR. CRANE. MAYBE WE HAVE COME UPON SOMETHING WE MIGHT HAVE BELIEVED TO BE AN APPARITION, HOVERING IN A DOORWAY; OR WITNESSED WHAT APPEARED TO BE A VICTORIAN WOMAN, WALKING  THROUGH A LOCAL CEMETERY, SUDDENLY VANISHING INTO THIN AIR, UPON YOUR APPROACH.....SUCH THAT ONE QUESTIONS THE SENSES. MAYBE IT WAS THE CASE WE WERE FRIGHTENED, WHILE ON A PASSIVE COUNTRYSIDE HIKE, WHEN WE HEARD AN ANIMAL THRASHING IN THE UNDERBRUSH, FEARING THAT A BEAR MIGHT BE FLEXING FOR AN ATTACK. THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT, UNSETTLE THE NERVES, AND ENGAGE OUR IMAGINATIONS.

     I WAS IN SUCH A SITUATION ONCE, WHEN ON MY WAY HOME, ON A MIDNIGHT HIKE, TO A COTTAGE LOCATED ON THE EXTENSION OF BEAUMONT DRIVE, IN BRACEBRIDGE, I WAS STOPPED AT THE INTERSECTION TO KIRBY'S BEACH, BY THE STRANGE APPEARANCE OF A WOLF. ONLY ONE THANKFULLY. I HAD NO WEAPON TO THWART AN ATTACK EXCEPT MY BARE HANDS. THERE WERE NO NEARBY RESIDENCES TO SEEK ASSISTANCE, AND YELLING WOULD HAVE SERVED LITTLE PURPOSE, AT THAT POINT, OTHER THAN TO POSSIBLY, BUT NOT LIKELY, SCARE OFF THE LONE WOLF. THERE WAS ENOUGH MOONLIGHT, TO SEE THE ANIMAL CLEARLY, STANDING IN MY WAY. IT GROWLED, BARED ITS TEETCH, AND BEGAN TO MOVE AROUND ME, BUT NEVER TRIED TO CLOSE THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US. I MOVED IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION, SO THAT I EVENTUALLY GAINED OPEN ROAD TO THE BEAUMONT FARM, LESS THAN HALF A KILOMETRE WEST. THE WOLF, OF SUBSTANTIAL SIZE AND WEIGHT, NEVER TOOK ITS EYES OFF ME, AND I NEVER LOST MY PERSPECTIVE EITHER. AFTER A MINUTE OR SO OF SHIFTING LOCATIONS, THE WOLF STOOD WHERE I HAD BEGUN THE SHOWDOWN, AND I WAS NOW UNOBSTRUCTED ON MY ESCAPE ROUTE. I KNEW IT WAS POINTLESS TO ATTEMPT TO OUTRUN THE WOLF, SO I JUST CONTINUED TO ACT INDIFFERENT, SHOWING NO SIGNS OF FEAR. I WAS SCARED TO DEATH HOWEVER, BECAUSE I WAS SURE OTHER WOLVES WERE IN THE VICINITY. WE STOOD STARING EYE TO EYE, AND WITHOUT WARNING, THE ANIMAL MADE WHAT APPEARED TO BE A LUNGE FORWARD, SENDING ME BACK, AND THEN IN THE SAME SUCCESSION OF MOVEMENTS, TURNED AWAY ALMOST AS IF IT HAD BEEN SCARED AWAY BY SOMETHING ELSE. POSSIBLY MY GUARDIAN ANGEL THWACKED IT ON THE END OF ITS NOSE. I DON'T KNOW, BUT I RAN ALL THE WAY HOME AFTER THAT ENCOUNTER. SO HOW ABOUT YOU? DO REMEMBER TIMES WHEN, ALL OF A SUDDEN, YOUR SENSE OF SECURITY AND NORMALCY WAS SHATTERED, BY SOME UNEXPECTED, UNEXPLAINED INTERVENTION....BENIGN OR OF SOME PARANORMAL QUALITY, NEVER FULLY EXPLAINED? MOST CAN BE EXPLAINED. SOME REMAIN LIFE-LONG MYSTERIES.

     "ICHABOD, WHO HAD NO RELISH FOR THIS STRANGE MIDNIGHT COMPANION, AND BETHOUGHT HIMSELF OF THE ADVENTURE OF BROM BONES, WITH THE GALLOPING HESSIAN, NOW QUICKENED HIS STEED IN HOPES OF LEAVING HIM BEHIND." WRITES IRVING OF MR. CRANE'S EXIT FROM WHAT HE BELIEVED WAS IMMINENT PERIL. "THE STRANGER HOWEVER, QUIKENED HIS HORSE TO AN EQUAL PACE. ICHABOD PULLED UP, AND FELL INTO A WALK, THINKING TO LAG BEHIND - THE OTHER DID THE SAME. HIS HEART BEGAN TO SINK WITHIN HIM; HE ENDEAVOURED TO RESUME HIS PSALM TUNE, BUT HIS PARCHED TONGUE CLOVE TO THE ROOF OF HIS MOUTH, AND HE COULD NOT UTTER A STAVE. THERE WAS SOMETHING IN THE MOODY AND DOGGED SILENCE OF HIS PERTINACIOUS COMPANION THAT WAS MYSTERIOUS, AND APPALLING. IT WAS SOON FEARFULLY ACCOUNTED FOR. ON MOUNTING A RISING GROUND WHICH BROUGHT THE FIGURE OF HIS FELLOW-TRAVELLER IN RELIEF AGAINST THE SKY, GIGANTIC IN HEIGHT, AND MUFFLED IN A CLOAK. ICHABOD WAS HORROR-STRUCK, ON PERCEIVING THAT HE WAS HEADLESS, BUT HIS HORROR WAS STILL MORE INCREASED, ON OBSERVING THE HEAD, WHICH SHOULD HAVE RESTED ON HIS SHOULDERS, WAS CARRIED BEFORE HIM ON THE POMMEL OF HIS SADLE! HIS TERROR ROSE TO DESPARATION; HE RAINED A SHOWER OF KICKS AND BLOWS UPON GUNPOWDER, HOPING, BY A SUDDEN MOVEMENT, TO GIVE HIS COMPANION THE SLIP - BUT THE SPECTRE STARTED A FULL JUMP WITH HIM. AWAY, THEN, THEY DASHED THROUGH THICK AND THIN; STONES FLYING AND SPARKS FLASHING AT EVERY BOUND. ICHABOD'S FLIMSY GARMENTS FLUTTERED OVER HIS HORSE'S HEAD, IN THE EAGERNESS OF HIS FLIGHT.

    "THEY HAD NOW REACHED THE ROAD WHICH TURNS OFF TO SLEEPY HOLLOW; BUT GUNPOWDER, WHO SEEMED POSSESSED WITH A DEMON, INSTEAD OF KEEPING UP,  MADE AN OPPOSITE TURN, AND PLUNGED HEADLONG DOWN HILL TO THE LEFT. THIS ROAD LEADS THROUGH A SANDY HOLLOW, SHADED BY TREES FOR ABOUT A QUARTER OF A MILE, WHERE IT CROSSES THE BRIDGE FAMOUS IN GOBLIN STORY; AND JUST BEYOND THE SWELL, THE GREEN KNOLL, ON WHICH STANDS THE WHITEWASHED CHURCH.

     "AS YET THE PANIC OF THE STEED HAD GIVEN HIS UNSKILLFUL RIDER AN APPARENT ADVANTAGE IN THE CHASE; BUT JUST AS HE HAD GOT HALFWAY THROUGH THE HOLLOW, THE GIRTHS OF THE SADDLE GAVE WAY, AND HE FELT IT SLIPPING FROM UNDER HIM. HE SEIZED IT BY THE POMMEL AND ENDEAVOURED TO HOLD IT FIRM, BUT IN VAIN; AND HAD JUST TIME TO SAVE HIMSELF BY CLASPING OLD GUNPOWDER ROUND THE NECK, WHEN THE SADDLE FELL TO THE EARTH, AND HE HEARD IT TRAMPLED UNDER FOOT BY HIS PURSUER. FOR A MOMENT OF TERROR OF HANS VAN RIPPER'S WRATH, PASSED ACROSS HIS MIND - FOR IT WAS HIS SUNDAY SADDLE; BUT THIS WAS NO TIME FOR PETTY FEARS; THE GOBLIN WAS HARD ON HIS HAUNCHES; AND UNSKILLED RIDER THAT HE WAS, HE HAD MUCH ADO TO MAINTAIN HIS SEAT; SOMETIMES SLIPPING ON ONE SIDE, SOMETIMES TO ANOTHER, AND SOMETIMES, JOLTED ON THE HIGH RIDGE OF HIS HORSE'S BACKBONE, WITH A VIOLENCE THAT HE VERILY FEARED WOULD CLEAVE HIM ASUNDER."

BRACEBRIDGE, MUSKOKA, AND THE LEGENDARY RIDE OF THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN

ICHABOD....POOR FELLOW

     "IRVING DIED ON THE NIGHT OF NOVEMBER 28TH, 1859, AND ALL THAT WAS MORTAL OF HIM WAS BURIED ON THE 1ST OF DECEMBER, AT TARRYTOWN. IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL WINTER DAY, CLEAR AND SUNNY, RADIANT WITH THE STILL LINGERING INDIAN SUMMER, WHICH SHED A SOFT AND MELANCHOLY LIGHT OVER THE SOLEMN SCENE. 'IT WAS ONE OF HIS OWN DAYS,' SAID THE MOURNERS, AS THEY RODE FROM 'SUNNYSIDE,' TO CHRIST CHURCH, WHERE THE FUNERAL SERVICES WERE HELD, AND THENCE TO THE CEMETERY, ABOUT A MILE DISTANT, ON THE SIDE OF A HILL, WITH A VIEW OF THE HUDSON ON ONE SIDE, AND ON THE OTHER, OF THE VALLEY OF SLEEPY HOLLOW - CLASSIC GROUND WHICH THE GENIUS OF IRVING HAS MADE IMMORTAL," WROTE RICHARD HENRY STODDARD, IN HIS BRIEF BIOGRAPHY, ACCOMPANYING THE 1893 REPUBLICATION OF "THE SKETCH BOOK."

     MY 1893 EDITION OF WASHINGTON IRVING'S, "THE SKETCH BOOK," IS NEARING THE POINT, WHERE LIKE ICHABOD CRANE, IT WILL SOON RETURN TO THE EARTH FROM WHICH IT CAME. ONE OF THREE IN THE REPRINT SERIES FROM THE 1890'S, I PURCHASED AT THE EWING ESTATE AUCTION, IN THE MID 1980'S, AT THE ZISKA ROAD FARMSTEAD, IN BRACEBRIDGE, IS IN FAILING HEALTH, DUE TO THE POORER QUALITY PAPER ON WHICH IT WAS PRINTED. THE ACID CONTENT IN THE PAPER IS ACTUALLY WORKING FROM THE INSIDE OUT, TO TURN THE PAPER INTO A FINE DUST. I'VE HAD SEVERAL BOOKS DETERIORATE IN THIS FASHION, BUT THEY WERE NEVER VALUABLE TEXTS TO START WITH. WHILE I WOULD LIKE TO OWN FIRST EDITIONS OF BOTH "THE SKETCH BOOK," FROM 1819 AND "BRACEBRIDGE HALL," CIRCA 1822, I DON'T HAVE THE THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS IT WOULD TAKE TO MAKE THE ACQUISITIONS. THE CHEAPER VERSIONS OF THE SAME BOOKS, OF THE 1890'S, WERE PUBLISHED FOR THE MASSES, AND WERE OFTEN KNOWN BROADLY AS THE "POPULAR EDITION," AND THE "CHEAP EDITION." THE PAPER WAS OF LESSER QUALITY, AND YET, IT HAS STILL LASTED FOR WELL MORE THAN A CENTURY, UP TO AND INCLUDING HALLOWEEN 2013....AND ITS OBLIGING KINDNESS TO THIS WRITER, OFFERING THE OPEN PAGES OF "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW." I WILL LOOK AFTER THIS BOOK, AS BEST I CAN, IN AN ARCHIVE'S SENSE, BUT I KNOW IT WON'T BE OF MUCH USE IN ANOTHER TEN YEARS, AS EVEN NOW, ALL IT WOULD TAKE IS A MODEST AMOUNT OF ROUGH HANDLING TO DISINTEGRATE TOTALLY. IT IS KIND OF A SPIRITED LITTLE COLLECTION, AND IT MEANS SOMETHING TO ME, IN THE FACT THAT IT CAME FROM A BRACEBRDIGE AREA FARMSTEAD, WHEN THE TOWN ITSELF CARRIES THE PROVENANCE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. IF YOU ARE JUST JOINING THE BLOG TODAY, YOU CAN ARCHIVE BACK TO MONDAY, WHEN THE WASHINGTON IRVING SERIES BEGAN. YOU WILL LEARN ABOUT THE PROVENANCE BETWEEN WASHINGTON IRVING'S BOOK, "BRACEBRIDGE HALL," AND HOW THE NAME WAS SELECTED BY POSTAL AUTHORITY, WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR, IN 1864, FOR THE TITLE OF THE NEW POST OFFICE FOR THE PIONEER HAMLET. THE UNFORTUNATE REALITY IS, THAT THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE HAS NEVER IN ITS HISTORY, DECIDED PUBLICLY, AT LEAST, TO FURTHER DEVELOP THE INHERENTLY POSITIVE RELATIONSHIP, WITH ONE OF THE BEST KNOWN WRITERS IN THE WORLD. PITY.

     WE NOW REVIST THE LAST FEW MOMENTS OF THE WILD WOODLAND RIDE, OF IRVING'S TRAGIC CHARACTER, ICHABOD CRANE, THE TEACHER AT THE SLEEPY HOLLOW SCHOOL. IN THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER, ICHABOD WAS BEING CHASED, ON HIS WAY HOME, BY THE HESSIAN TROOPER, BETTER KNOWN AS "THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN." IT'S IS EXPECTED BY IRVING, THAT READERS WILL UNDERSTAND THE HORSEMAN, BY SPECULATION,TO BE THE CHARACTER BRAM BONES, THE OTHER MAN IN COMPETITION FOR ONE OF THE SLEEPY HOLLOW DAMSELS. JEALOUSY CAN LED TO MANY SUCH MISADVENTURES. OR, WAS IT A TRUE TO LIFE CASE OF THE SUPERNATURAL MANIFESTATION, OF A FORMER SOLDIER, SEARCHING FOR HIS LOST HEAD.....THE RESULT OF BEING IN THE WAY OF CANNON FIRE, DURING AN UNNAMED BATTLE OF THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR. PLEASE READ ON:

     "AN OPENING IN THE TREES  CHEERED HIM WITH THE HOPE, THAT THE CHURCH BRIDGE WAS AT HAND," WROTE WASHINGTON IRVING, OF ICHABOD CRANE'S ILL FATED RIDE, AGAINST THE DARK APPARITION ON THE THUNDEROUSLY LARGE, GALLOPING STEED, IN THE FINAL PARAGRAPHS OF "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW."

     "THE WAVERING REFLECTION OF A SILVER STAR IN THE BOSOM OF THE BROOK, TOLD HIM THAT HE WAS NOT MISTAKEN. HE SAW THE WALLS OF THE CHURCH DIMLY GLARING UNDER THE TREES BEYOND. HE (ICHABOD) RECOLLECTED WHERE BROM BONES' GHOSTLY COMPETITOR HAD DISAPPEARED. 'IF I CAN BUT REACH THAT BRIDGE,' THOUGHT ICHABOD. 'I AM SAFE'. JUST THEN HE HEARD THE BLACK STEED PANTING AND BLOWING CLOSE BEHIND HIM; HE EVEN FANCIED THAT HE FELT HIS HOT BREATH. ANOTHER CONVULSIVE KICK IN THE RIBS, AND OLD GUNPOWDER SPRUNG UPON THE BRIDGE; HE THUNDERED OVER THE RESOUNDING PLANKS; HE GAINED THE OPPOSITE SIDE, AND NOW ICHABOD CAST A LOOK BEHIND, TO SEE IF HIS PURSUER SHOULD VANISH, ACCORDING TO RULE IN A FLASH OF FIRE AND BRIMSTONE. JUST THEN HE SAW THE GOBLIN RISING IN HIS STIRRUPS, AND IN THE VERY ACT OF HURLING HIS HEAD AT HIM. ICHABOD ENDEAVOURED TO DODGE THE HORRIBLE MISSILE, BUT TOO LATE. IT ENCOUNTERED HIS CRANIUM WITH A TREMENDOUS CRASH - HE WAS TUMBLED HEADLONG INTO THE DUST, AND GUNPOWDER, THE BLACK STEED, AND THE GOBLIN RIDER, PASSED BY LIKE A WHIRLWIND," WROTE IRVING, OF THE TEACHER, HAVING BEEN KNOCKED VIOLENTLY OFF HIS MOUNT. BY OF ALL THINGS, A THROWN HEAD....WHICH TURNED OUT SOMEWHAT DIFFERENTLY UPON FINAL INSPECTION.

     "THE NEXT MORNING THE OLD HORSE WAS FOUND WITHOUT HIS SADDLE AND WITH THE BRIDLE UNDER HIS FEET, SOBERLY CROPPING THE GRASS AT HIS MASTER'S GATE. ICHABOD DID NOT MAKE HIS APPEARANCE AT BREAKFAST - DINNER HOUR CAME, BUT NO ICHABOD. THE BOYS ASSEMBLED AT THE SCHOOL-HOUSE, AND STROLLED IDLY ABOUT THE BANKS OF THE BROOK; BUT NO SCHOOL MASTER. HANS VAN RIPPER NOW BEGAN TO FEEL SOME UNEASINESS ABOUT THE FATE OF POOR ICHABOD, AND HIS SADDLE. AN INQUIRY WAS SET ON FOOT, AND AFTER DILIGENT INVESTIGATION, THEY CAME UPON HIS TRACES. IN ONE PART OF THE ROAD LEADING TO THE CHURCH, WAS FOUND THE SADDLE TRAMPLED IN THE DIRT; THE TRACKS OF HORSES' HOOFS DEEPLY DENTED IN THE ROAD, AND EVIDENTLY AT A FURIOUS SPEED, WERE TRACED TO THE BRIDGE BEYOND WHICH, ON THE BANK OF A BROAD PART OF THE BROOK, WHERE THE WATER RAN DEEP AND BLACK, WAS FOUND THE HAT OF THE UNFORTUNAE ICHABOD, AND CLOSE BESIDE IT, A PUMPKIN."

     THE AUTHOR REPORTS, "THE BROOK WAS SEARCHED, BUT THE BODY OF THE SCHOOL MASTER WAS NOT TO BE DISCOVERED. HANS VAN RIPPER, AS EXECUTOR OF HIS ESTATE, EXAMINED THE SADDLE, WHICH CONTAINED ALL HIS WORDLY EFFECTS. THEY CONSISTED OF TWO SHIRTS AND A HALF; TWO SOCKS FOR THE NECK; A PAIR OF TWO WORSTED STOCKINGS; AN OLD PAIR OF CORDUROY SMALL-CLOTHES; A RUSTY RAZOR; A BOOK OF PSALM TUNES FULL OF DOG'S EARS (FOLDED CORNERS); AND A BROKEN PITCH PIPE. AS TO THE BOOKS AND FURNITURE OF THE SCHOOL HOUSE, THEY BELONGED TO THE COMMUNITY, EXCEPTING COTTON MATHER'S HISTORY OF WITCHCRAFT, A NEW ENGLAND GLAND ALMANAC, AND A BOOK OF DREAMS AND FORTUNE-TELLING; IN WHICH LAST WAS A SHEET OF FOOLSCAP, MUCH SCRIBBLED AND BLOTTED BY SEVERAL FRUITLESS ATTEMPTS TO MAKE A COPY OF VERSES, IN HONOUR OF THE HEIRESS OF VAN TASSEL. THESE MAGIC BOOKS AND THE POETIC SCRAWL WERE FORTHRIGHT CONSIGNED TO THE FLAMES BY HANS VAN RIPPER; WHO FROM THAT TIME FORWARD, DETERMINED TO SEND HIS CHILDREN NO MORE TO SCHOOL; OBSERVING THAT HE NEVER KNEW ANY GOOD COME OF THIS SAME READING AND WRITING. WHATEVER MONEY THE SCHOOL MASTER POSSESSED, AND HE HAD RECEIVED HIS QUARTER'S PAY BUT A DAY OR TWO BEFORE, HE MUST HAVE HAD ABOUT HIS PERSON AT THE TIME OF HIS DISAPPEARANCE.

     "THE MYSTERIOUS EVENT CAUSED MUCH SPECULATION AT THE CHURCH ON THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY. KNOTS OF GAZERS AND GOSSIPS WERE COLLECTED IN THE CHURCHYARD, AT THE BRIDGE, AND AT THE SPOT WHERE THE HAT AND PUMPKIN HAD BEEN FOUND. THE STORIES OF BROUWER, BROM BONES AND A WHOLE BUDGET OF OTHERS, WERE CALLED TO MIND, AND WHEN THEY HAD DILLIGENTLY CONSIDERED THEM ALL, AND COMPARED THEM WITH THE SYMPTONS OF THE PRESENT CASE, THEY SHOOK THEIR HEADS, AND CAME TO THE CONCLUSION, THAT ICHABOD HAD BEEN CARRIED OFF BY THE GALLOPING HESSIAN. AS HE WAS A BACHELOR, AND IN NOBODY'S DEBT, NOBODY TROUBLED HIS HEAD ANY MORE ABOUT HIM; THE SCHOOL WAS REMOVED TO A DIFFERENT QUARTER OF THE HOLLOW, AND ANOTHER PEDAGOGUE REIGNED IN HIS STEAD.

     "IT IS TRUE, AN OLD FARMER, WHO HAD BEEN DOWN TO NEW YORK ON A VISIT SEVERAL YEARS AFTER, AND FROM WHOM THIS ACCOUNT OF THE GHOSTLY ADVENTURES WAS RECEIVED, BROUGHT HOME THE INTELLIGENE THAT ICHABOD CRANE WAS STILL ALIVE; THAT HE HAD LEFT THE NEIGHBOURHOOD, PARTLY THROUGH FEAR OF THE GOBLIN AND HANS VAN RIPPER, AND PARTLY IN MORTIFICATION AT HAVING BEEN SUDDENLY DISMISSED BY THE HEIRESS; THAT HE HAD CHANGED HIS QUARTERS TO A DISTANT PART OF THE COUNTRY; HAD KEPT SCHOOL AND STUDIED LAW AT THE SAME TIME; HAD BEEN ADMITTED TO THE BAR; TURNED POLITICIAN; ELECTIONEERED; WRITTEN FOR NEWSPAPERS; AND FINALLY HAD BEEN MADE A JUSTICE OF THE TEN POUND COURT. BROM BONES, TOO, WHO, SHORTLY AFTER HIS RIVAL'S DISAPPEARANCE, CONDUCTED THE BLOOMING KATRINA IN TRIUMPH TO THE ALTAR, WAS OBSERVED TO LOOK EXCEEDINGLY KNOWING WHENEVER THE STORY OF ICHABOD WAS RELATED, AND ALWAYS BURST INTO A HEARTY LAUGH AT THE MENTION OF THE PUMPKIN; WHICH LED SOME TO SUSPECT THAT HE KNEW MORE ABOUT THE MATTER THAN HE CHOSE TO TELL.

     "THE OLD COUNTRY WIVES, HOWEVER, WHO ARE THE BEST JUDGES OF THESE MATTERS, MAINTAIN TO THIS DAY, THAT ICHABOD WAS SPIRITED AWAY BY SUPERNATURAL MEANS; AND IT IS A FAVORITE STORY OFTEN TOLD ABOUT THE NEIGHBORHOOD ROUND THE WINTER EVENING FIRE. THE BRIDGE BECAME MORE THAN EVER AN OBJECT OF SUPERSTITIOUS AWE; AND THAT MAY BE THE REASON WHY THE ROAD HAS BEEN ALTERED OF LATE YEARS, SO AS TO APPROACH THE CHURCH BY THE BORDER OF THE MILL POND. THE SCHOOL HOUSE BEING DESERTED, SOON FELL TO DECAY, AND WAS REPORTED TO BE HAUNTED BY THE GHOST OF THE UNFORTUNATE PEDAGOGUE; AND THE PLOUGH-BOY, LOITERING HOMEWARD OF A STILL SUMMER EVENING, HAS OFTEN FANCIED HIS VOICE AT A DISTANCE, CHANTING A MELANCHOLY PSALM TUNE, AMONG THE TRANQUIL SOLITUDES OF SLEEPY HOLLOW."

     I HOPE ONE DAY, IN THE NOT TOO DISTANT FUTURE, THAT THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, WILL FIND REASON, AND INITIATIVE, TO ENGAGE THEMSELVES IN THE PROVENANCE OF WHICH THEY ARE ENTITLED. THANKS FOR JOINING TODAY'S BLOG.  AND HAPPY HALLOWEEN, IN KEEPING WITH THE SITUATION.

Legend of Sleepy Hollow and The Washington Irving Legacy Bracebridge Is Entitled

THE MAGIC OF "SLEEPY HOLLOW" -  THE SUBTLE ENCHANTMENTS WE OVERLOOK AS CASUAL PASSERSBY

BRACEBRIDGE WAS ITS OWN KIND OF "SLEEPY HOLLOW," AND I LOVED IT

     I CAN NEVER, EVER FORGET, THE COARSE, RIPPING BELLOW OF MY MOTHER'S OUTDOOR VOICE, AS SHE CALLED UP THE BACK SLOPE OF THE WEBER SANDPIT, ON ALICE STREET, TO REMIND ME IT WAS TIME TO COME INSIDE. I HATED BEING INSIDE. EVEN ON RAINY DAYS. BLIZZARDS WOULDN'T KEEP ME INDOORS EITHER. SO JUST BECAUSE THE MOONLIGHT OWNED THE LATE EVENING, SHOULDN'T HAVE MEANT A FORCED RETIREMENT FOR ME. THE HUNT'S HILL GANG WOULD BE PLAYING HIDE 'N SEEK IN THE TALL GRASSES OF THE HILLSIDE, BEHIND OUR APARTMENT, AND THE FRINGE AROUND THE FORMER CONSTRUCTION SAND-PIT, HAD MANY INTERESTING PORTALS CARVED INTO THE LANDSCAPES, GOOD FOR TEMPORARY SAFE HAVENS. THE SMELL OF THE EARTH, THE RICH SCENT OF THE WILLOWY FIELD GRASSES, AS THEY COMBED OVER THE HILLSIDE, COVERING THE SMALL HOLLOWS AND DIMPLES WE CREATED WITH OUR EXCAVATIONS, LOOKING FOR BURIED TREASURE. I CAN'T WELL DESCRIBE, ALL THE DEEP GOOD FEELINGS I HAD BACK THEN, JUST THAT I NEVER WANTED THEM TO END. IT'S NOT THE OVERVIEW I MIGHT WRITE FOR A COMMUNITY HISTORY, WHERE FACTS ARE ALL IMPORTANT. THE ONLY FACT WE CARED ABOUT, BACK THEN, WAS THAT WE WERE BEING ENTERTAINED, BY THE MOST BASIC QUALITIES OF TOPOGRAPHY AND NATURE. IT WAS A UNIVERSAL SORT OF FEELING, THAT WE HAD SOMEHOW, ESCAPED OUR FETTERS. IT WAS A LIBERATION FROM THE SAME OLD, SAME OLD. UNTIL THAT IS, MERLE BELLOWED FOR THE THIRD TIME, AND FEARING SHE WOULD RUN UP THE CARTWAY TO THE SANDPIT, AND EMBARRASS ME WITH A SCOLDING, IN FRONT OF MY MATES, I AMBLED MY WAY RELUCTANTLY, BACK TO THE LEVEL OF THE REAR PARKING LOT, AND SURRENDERED MY ADVENTURE TO PARENTAL AUTHORITY.
     I always adored the profound seasonal changes that came in mid to late August. There was a dark green patina to the hill and valley landscape, that reminded the voyeur of maturity, and the coming harvest. It was the month before the annual Bracebridge Fall Fair, when all the kids got to be in the opening parade, that marched through the downtown, and then on to Jubilee Park, in "The Hollow." The little gardens in nicely bordered backyards, and the colorful flower gardens, set out front of those unpretentious bungalows, up on Bracebridge's Alice Street, always seemed more storied in August, than at any other time of the year. It was a combination of azure sky, and kinder, milder sun.
     There was a distinct and welcome chill first thing in the morning, after so many days of humid weather; days when I was up early to deliver the Toronto Telegram to neighbor houses. I'd have to set up camp, initially on the sidewalk on front of our apartment, to put the Saturday sections of the paper together. It was a heavy load so I needed things to take my mind off the chore of toting that full bag all over Hunts Hill. There was the smell of freshly cut grass, and just-out-of-the-oven muffins, as I walked down the street, toward the Muskoka River. Then there was the delightful aroma of bacon and eggs, some householder was cooking-up for breakfast. I would hear the conversation on front stoops, as a few residents chose to have their coffee outside. The sound of an AM radio, playing country music, and then, further along, another radio with a news broadcaster giving the daily weather report. I knew it, even as a kid, that one day, these recollections of just how quaint it was to live here, would be important and relevant. So I drank it all in, and enjoyed what it meant to be a kid in a small town, in rural Ontario. I was still a little green, for this hinterland residency. I still had the footprint of a city kid. By the late 1960's, when this neighborhood, on the Hunt's Hill side of town, we had only lived in Bracebridge for three years. My parents weren't at all sure we should even stay here. About once a month there would be a discussion about moving back to Burlington where there were more jobs. I was far more committed than they were, at that point. I was enthralled by the enclosure of nature, and I spent much of my free time, gad-abouting in the local woodlands, letting myself be enchanted by the good graces of Muskoka.
     I spent a lot of my free time, wandering these neighborhoods, looking for mates to play ball, or road hockey. But I didn't mind at all, just exploring on my own, whether it was deep in The Grove, Bamford's Woods, or along the shore of the North Branch of the Muskoka River, from Bass Rock to Wilson's Falls. As I have always possessed an over-active imagination, I felt so liberated, growing up in Bracebridge, where opportunity for adventure abounded. I would be over in Bamford's woods early in the morning, on August days like this, and before coming home for dinner, I might have travelled five or six miles, of woodland trails, wherever the landscape looked promising, and the trail inviting. I suppose I wasn't lot different than Washington Irving, as was his folly, to wander into the strange solitude of "Sleepy Hollow," and in the valley of the Hudson River, that he found so delightfully haunted, and generously spirited. I always came home fully charged with stories, garnered from unbridled exploration. When I finally arrived at the door of our residence, my mother would rush to the entrance, to intercept me, before I could step one foot inside, with my muddy, wet shoes, and the likelihood, that I was also covered with burrs and the dirt of the ages. I had to be cleaned-off at the door, and my pockets emptied of all the treasure, dead or alive, found during the day's encounters and investigations.
     I'd often arrive at the Bass Rock rapids, early enough on cool August mornings, to see the last traces of mist rising off the water, and drifting up into the shadows of tall pines. There was the length of a fallen pine, that the local teenagers sat on, to smoke and watch the girls swimming in the calm bay to the west of the channel. The woodpecker holes were everywhere on the trunk, but it still made a comfortable place to sit and watch to the north, as the seasonal fast water, of Bass Rock, at this time of the year, was not much more than a dimpling of the river, in an around the rocks of the shallows. There was always a murmur, if not a roar, and if you listened carefully, it was as if you could hear the river whispering, with the windsong of the shoreline evergreens in the August breeze. The reflections in the water were as abstract as the clouds of the sky, brought down to earth, and the craggy rock faces, at times of the day, looking like ogres emerging from the woodland darkness.
     I interpreted these natural scenes, and the neighborhood realities, differently than my mates. It actually brings me to this point, in my life, where I am still trying to explain what has no explanation; offering what can only be considered, feeble overviews of what I believe, were the resident enchantments of growing up in a town, where rivers merge, and cataracts roar, and the sounds of water never cease to amaze; heard and felt as a pulse vibration, even blocks away from the thunderous decline. It was on these maturing August days, that I liked to visit my old friend, the artist / barber, William "Bill" Anderson, who had his shop situated in the corner store-front, of the Patterson Hotel, of the former Queen's Hotel, on Manitoba Street. My mother would send me to see Bill no less than once a month, but sometimes, twice, if we had some extra money after groceries. Bill sensed that I was in no hurry on those Saturday mornings, so he took his time giving me a trim. This allowed me to watch him paint a little, at his easel, in the corner of the room, where there was always at least one landscape project on the go. He had attained quite an age, by this point of the late 1960's, early 70's, and there was no way a hair-cut was going to get in the way of a nice cup of tea, (for him, not me), and a few dabs at his painting, in between cutting strands of my hair. What should have been a fifteen minute cut, and comb, took about an hour. I think he sensed I liked watching the artist at work. I can so clearly recall Bill working at chairside, gently clipping my locks, and then seeing him dart away, when the inspiration struck, as to a brush stroke, or coloration, required on his landscape. Every time he did this, it guaranteed me another ten minutes in the chair, to watch art and artist mature. I would have stayed the whole day. So forgive me if I have a more romantic, sentimental opinion of Bracebridge than most. If I went up the street, to Ted Smith's Esso station, my old school chum, Ross Smith, might be working on one of his landscapes, of Camel Lake (which he adored), situated just inside the door. He tended the gas pumps, and Bill Anderson cut hair, between painting jags. Ross would jump up when a car drove up to the pumps, slowly setting his brush down, to tend a customer. The regular customers, loved to come into the station, just to see what Ross was working on, that particular day. Then there was the artist / pharmacist, Robert Everett, at Everett's Drug Store, further down on Manitoba Street, a well known Muskoka artist, who once used to paint on the wood tops of cigar boxes, when they became available after the product inside was sold.
     No, I shouldn't be condemned as a lifelong romantic, because this was ingrained in me, charmingly, as a hometown kid.
     I've written about this frequently, but it does need to be presented once more. There was an allure of the north and south branches of the Muskoka River, that was intrusive for someone like me; the wanderer of the neighborhoods. I had to cross the north branch of this black, snaking river, at least four times each day, going and coming from school, including at lunch hour, when I'd run the four or so blocks home. If I went downtown in the evening, then it would mean I had stared at the river six times. I never crossed it once, over the Hunt's Hill bridge, that I wasn't spellbound by its darkness, and the fact, that on certain days, you could look down and see the concrete and iron debris of the second of three bridges thus far. I would always then, look at the remnants of the former bridge, and recall the story of how three children were drowned in the water below, when their mother mistakenly took a wrong turn; crashing off the shore, on River Road, down into the strong current of the river. The story was re-told over and over, by our parents, so that we would keep off that river bank, no matter what the temptation. The attraction then, were the plethora of pop bottles, that had got wedged into the shoreline rocks, undoubtedly coming from the crowds at Bass Rock, upstream, and cast offs from the pop machine, anchored in front of the Muskoka Trading grocery store, on Thomas Street; a stone's throw from the bridge. We wanted the money from the pop bottle returns, and we most definitely were willing to risk getting swept away by the current, to recover these empties for their deposits. I'd even bring home stubby beer bottles, for my dad, who often times suffered the disgrace of having to take back a twenty-four, of bottles, with several missing. Our old fridge used to freeze the beer, and break the bottles in the process. So I'd win Ed's favor, by bringing him some back-up bottles, to make up a solid twenty-four, when he made his weekly returns. Wasn't really worth the risk, but we were very sure of ourselves. We never lost one of the Hunts Hill gang to misadventure.
     I watched that hollow of the Muskoka River through all the seasons, and all the years, right up until our family moved south in 1989. I studied its moods, and how it appeared on the brightest days of August, and the coldest days of January. I would look over the railing during winter storms, when the heavy snow would reflect, and double in the darkness of the water, but then quietly disappear, as if passing into another dimension. On rainy days, I used to like hearing the sound, a heavy fall made on the surface of the quickly moving river water, and then how it looked on those bitterly cold mornings of late January, when the steam looked like the spirit of the river, wafting the same route, toward the brink of the town falls, into Bracebridge Bay. The play of imagination was spirited by these interactions between voyeur and nature. I couldn't stop myself, from manifesting all kinds of fantastic scenarios, having something or other, to do with local forests and the watershed. It was harmless, good fun. Today, I'm so glad I spent those sojourns, in these special places; and that I paid attention to my hometown the way it was then. Where it was commonplace to find freshly baked pies, cooling on window sills, and smell the intoxicating vapor of tomatoes being canned, in warm, bright country kitchens. A network of neighborhoods where colorful laundry flapped loudly, cheerfully, as a sort of local folk art, on long clothes' lines, and where, late into the August evenings, folks gathered in front yards, or back, on verandahs, and on sideyard patios, to socialize with friends and family, and where you were always welcome, if you happened to pass that way. The smell of hamburgers on a charcoal barbecue. The sound of kids on bikes. The car radios blaring, while parked at Lil & Cec's Variety Store, on upper Toronto Street, and the sound of swallows swooping after bugs.
     In its own way, it was my Sleepy Hollow. Not by Washington Irving's definition, but by mine. It was unique by what it possessed, and just as curious, by what it didn't have, that seemed of no real consequence. It was a small town, full to overflowing with interesting characters, local notables, and the class of whirling dervishes, young and old, who couldn't, or rather wouldn't, settle down, until they finally nodded off in the middle of a job; only to be awoken by a significant other, just to be reminded it was time for bed. I used to be one of that bred of unsettled hearts, always preparing for my next move. On those perfect August nights, of full sky and ceaseless starscape, I'd lay out on a blanket until well after midnight, on the apartment lawn, up at 129 Alice Street, and fantasize about my own inter-galactic travels, one day. I used to like to see the moonlight reflect off the Muskoka River, and hear the echo of the train horn, blasting through the valley below Hunt's Hill. The colder the night, the more it sounded as if the train was coming right up Alice Street, like the fabled Polar Express, just to pick me up. I would, of course, have jumped aboard.
     There were August afternoons, when I'd sit on the platform of the old Bracebridge Train Station, looking down upon the river, and its rippling of current, passing under the Hunt's Hill bridge, pondering mindfully, what it would be like, as a leaf cast on top, to wind down its snaking length to Lake Muskoka, and onward to Georgian Bay and even beyond. It was a voyage of the fantastic. I'd stay at the station long enough to watch several trains, one with freight, and one with passengers, pass me by, and judging by the huge white dials of the clock tower, of the former federal building on Manitoba Street, I'd know it was time to go home for dinner. Merle would be getting nervous, that while hunting empties, I had fallen into the river, and been swept over the falls. She also had an over-active imagination.
     During these years, although I knew about "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and the story of "Rip Van Winkle,' both by author Washington Irving, I had no idea of the connection to Bracebridge, Ontario. It was just my hometown. A good place for a kid like me. So when now, I spend my time working on research like this, developing this literary provenance between Washington Irving, and Bracebridge, it is just as fantastic as I remember, on all those occasions, when I celebrated the small town life, so much different than what I had experienced in the cityscape of Southern Ontario. So forgive me these excesses of rekindling, what was special to me in those years, and what is still held near and dear so many years later. It is always a pleasure to re-visit those old portals, of once, at least the ones still accessible to a gad-about writer, and to reminisce about all the characteristics, that today, remind me of Irving's profiles of the Historic Hudson River Valley and its ghost ships, and of Sleepy Hollow, and its strange magic; of what I had long experienced, in the woodlands, and along the pine shores, of this little burg in South Muskoka.
     Here are some portions of Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," as published within the stories contained in "The Sketch Book," of 1819. It is in this compilation, that the first reference to "Bracebridge Hall," is written. This month, of course, marks the 150th anniversary, of the naming of Bracebridge, courtesy postal authority, William Dawson LeSueur, as a memorial tribute to the recently deceased author. It was officially named in August 1864. (You can archive back through this week's blogs, to learn more about the exploits of the man who named the community, and the writer, and books, it is named after.)
     There are, as a matter of interest, other communities, like Irving, Texas, that even celebrate "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and the ride of the "Headless Horseman," on Hallowe'en, for the entertainment of young trick or treaters. It is Bracebridge's literary entitlement, to celebrate Irving's stories. It has had the connection for the past 150 years, but never cared to develop it, to its literary potential. Maybe one day.
     Now in the words of Washington Irving.

Double click on picture to enlarge.

"BRACEBRIDGE HALL," WAS THE BOOK - WASHINGTON IRVING, THE AUTHOR, WAS THE ONE, GIVEN THE MEMORIAL TRIBUTE

MAKE NO MISTAKE, W.D. LESUEUR, WAS MAKING A STATEMENT WHEN HE NAMED BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO; A TOWN WITH A GRACE OF NATURE

TOMORROW A LOOK AT IRVING'S SLEEPY HOLLOW

     NOTE: The video above, was put together this week, by son Robert, who provided most of the photographic work, companion sound, and composition. Son Andrew was kind enough to take some photographs, of Bracebridge, for me, on a trip to town this week. The opening images of Manitoba Street, observed from the Queen's Hill, looking onto the traditional downtown retail community, have been taken from a watercolor painting, done by Gravenhurst artist, and known print-maker, Frank Johnston, who painted hundreds of similar historic-themed art pieces, throughout Muskoka; there are also images in the video, of the workers of Bracebridge's Bird's Woollen Mill, taking a few minutes for a group photograph, and several graphics of landscapes done by Bracebridge's famous painting barber, William "Bill" Anderson, who had his barbershop, art studio, in the corner storefront, of the former Patterson Hotel, opposite the clock tower of the old federal building. The record cover, used in the video, is entitled "Washington Irving - The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," read by Hurd Hatfield, directed by Paul Kresh, and presented by Arthur Luce Klein, as released by Spoken Arts Records, of New York. The video, is a simply produced overview, that wraps up in only a minute or so, what it has taken me years to polish, as far as editorial content. (Robert has agreed to help me craft a similar video, to highlight some of the work, created by artist Frank Joh)nston; coming soon.

October 2013

BRACEBRIDGE CIRCA 1864- DID THE SETTLERS KNOW WHO WASHINGTON IRVING WAS - OR HAD THEY HEARD OF "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW"

AMERICAN CIVIL WAR - A NEW NAME FOR "NORTH FALLS"

     AYE, IT'S LOOKING LIKE AN OLD FASHIONED HALLOWEEN'S COMING DOWN THE PIKE.....WITH ALL THE BELLS AND WHISTLES MOTHER NATURE HAS TO OFFER. ACCORDING TO PRELIMINARY REPORTS, THERE WILL BE A MAJOR WEATHER EVENT FOR THAT SPECIAL, HAUNTED EVENING TO END OCTOBER. IT'S EXPECTED TO BE A BLUSTERY HALLOWEEN THIS YEAR. BETTER DRESS FOR COLD, RAIN, AND WIND. SO IF YOU WERE PLANNING ON BEING A GHOST, MAKE SURE THE SHEET DOESN'T BECOME A SAIL....OR YOU'LL BE GONE, "UP, UP AND AWAY," AS THE SONG SAYS.

     "IN THE BOSOM OF ONE OF THOSE SPACIOUS COVES WHICH INDENT THE EASTERN SHORE OF THE HUDSON, AT THAT BROAD EXPANSION OF THE RIVER, DENOMINATED BY THE ANCIENT DUTCH NAVIGATORS THE TAPPAAN ZEE, AND WHERE THEY ALWAYS PRUDENTLY SHORTENED SAIL, AND IMPLORED THE PROTECTION OF ST. NICHOLAS, WHEN THEY CROSSED, THERE LIES A SMALL MARKET TOWN OF RURAL PORT, WHICH BY SOME IS CALLED GREENSBURG BUT WHICH IS MORE GENERALLY AND PROPERLY KNOWN BY THE NAME OF TARRY TOWN. THIS NAME WAS GIVEN IT, WE ARE TOLD, IN FORMER DAYS, BY THE GOOD HOUSEWIVES OF THE ADJACENT COUNTRY, FROM THE INVETERATE PROSPERITY OF THEIR HUSBANDS, TO LINGER ABOUT THE VILLAGE TAVERN ON MARKET DAYS. BE THAT AS IT MAY, I DO NOT VOUCH FOR THE FACT, BUT MERELY ADVERT TO IT, FOR THE SAKE OF BEING PRECISE AND AUTHENTIC. NOT FAR FROM THIS VILLAGE, PERHAPS ABOUT THREE MILES, THERE IS A LITTLE VALLEY, OR RATHER LAP OF LAND AMONG HIGH HILLS, WHICH IS ONE OF THE QUIETEST PLACES IN THE WHOLE WORLD. A SMALL BROOK GLIDES THROUGH IT, WITH JUST MURMUR ENOUGH TO LULL ONE TO REPOSE; AND THE OCCASIONAL WHISTLE OF A QUAIL OR TAPPING OF A WOODPECKER, IS ALMOST THE ONLY SOUND THAT EVER BREAKS IN UPON THE UNIFORM TRANQUILITY."

     THIS IS THE OPENING OF WASHINGTON IRVING'S BEST KNOWN SHORT STORY; "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW," PUBLISHED IN AND AROUND 1819, IN THE COLLECTED STORIES KNOWN AS "THE SKETCH BOOK," AS "FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER."

     "THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING WAS ONE OF THE BRIGHTEST EVER LED BY AN AUTHOR. HE DISCOVERED HIS GENIUS AT AN EARLY AGE; WAS GRACIOUSLY WELCOMED BY HIS COUNTRYMEN; ANSWERED THE LITERARY CONDITIONS OF THE PERIOD WHEN HE APPEARED; WON EASILY, AND AS EASILY KEPT, A DISTINGUISHED PLACE IN THE REPUBLIC OF LETTERS; WAS GENEROUSLY REWARDED FOR HIS WORK; CHARMED HIS CONTEMPORARIES BY HIS AMIABILITY AND MODESTY; LIVED LONG, WISELY, HAPPILY, AND DIED AT A RIPE OLD AGE, IN THE FULLNESS OF HIS POWER AND HIS FAME. HE NEVER LEARNED THE MOURNFUL TRUTH WHICH THE LIVES OF SO MANY AUTHORS FORCE UPON US: 'SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESSED;' HE NEVER FELT THE ILLS WHICH SO OFTEN ASSAIL THE SOULS OF SCHOLARS; 'TOIL, ENVY, WANT, THE POISON AND THE JAIL;' HE NEVER WROTE FOR HIS BREAD LIKE (BEN) JOHNSON AND (OLIVER) GOLDSMITH, AND NEVER HUNGERED LIKE OTWAY AND CHATTERTON; BUT LIVED IN LEARNED CASE, SURROUNDED BY FRIENDS, MASTER OF HIMSELF AND HIS TIME - A PROSPEROUS GENTLEMAN. BORN UNDER A LUCKY STAR, ALL GOOD THINGS SOUGHT HIM OUT, AND WERE TURNED BY HIM TO DELIGHTFUL USES. HE MADE THE WORLD HAPPIER BY HIS GIFTS AND THE WORLD HONORS HIS MEMORY."

     THE FOLLOWING WAS OFFERED, AS A BRIEF BIOGRAPHY, IN THE 1893 COLLECTED WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, BY WELL KNOWN AUTHOR, RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. THE BOOKS WERE FOUND AT AN HISTORIC FARMSTEAD, IN BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, AT AN AUCTION IN THE MID 1980'S, FOR THE EWING FAMILY OF ZISKA ROAD. THEY WERE AMONG HUNDREDS OF OLD BOOKS I PURCHASED AT THE FARM SALE, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE MOST REMARKABLE I'D EVER ATTENDED AS AN ANTIQUE DEALER.

     IN 1864, WHEN POSTAL AUTHORITY (HISTORIAN AND LITERARY CRITIC), WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR, REJECTED THE NAME "NORTH FALLS," AND SELECTED THE NAME "BRACEBRIDGE" INSTEAD, WERE CITIZENS IN THE TINY RIVERSIDE HAMLET, AWARE OF THE PROVENANCE OF THE CHOSEN NAME? THOSE WHO UNDERSTOOD AND APPRECIATED THE PARALLEL? CONSIDERING THAT "THE SKETCH BOOK," AND THE BOOK "BRACEBRIDGE HALL," WERE POPULAR TITLES EVEN BY THE MID 1820'S, IT'S TO BE EXPECTED THAT SOME OF THE SETTLERS, WHO HAD SOME BASIC SCHOOLING, WOULD HAVE KNOWN THE NAME WASHINGTON IRVING. THE QUESTION MORE SO, IS WHETHER ANY OF THE CITIZENS, AT THE TIME, QUESTIONED THE NAME "BRACEBRIDGE" IN THE FIRST PLACE; OR HAD ANY REAL CONCERN, ABOUT  WHY, THE TITLE "NORTH FALLS" HAD BEEN DROPPED AS THE NAME OF THE HAMLET? WAS THERE ANY SIGNIFICANT PROTEST ABOUT THE POST OFFICE'S INTERFERENCE, OR WAS IT SIMPLY THE CASE, THERE WAS TOO MUCH ELSE TO BE CONCERNED ABOUT, IN TERMS OF BASIC SURVIVAL, TO GET EMOTIONAL ABOUT THE SIGN TO BE RAISED OVER THE PIONEER POST OFFICE?

     YET WE HAVE TO ASSUME THAT SOME OF THE EARLY MOVERS AND SHAKERS, WHO DESIRED THE NAME NORTH FALLS, DID APPRECIATE THE WASHINGTON IRVING CONNECTION, AND THE IRONY OF AN AMERICAN WRITER'S BOOK, BEING ADOPTED AS THE NAME OF A FLEDGLING CANADIAN COMMUNITY, DURING THE CLOSING YEARS OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR. CONSIDER THE FACT THAT CITY NEWSPAPERS, WERE MAKING IT TO THE SETTLEMENTS IN MUSKOKA, VIA THE MAIL, AS WE KNOW FOR FACT, THAT ONE MEMBER OF THE SHEA FAMILY, FROM THE TINY FARM COMMUNITY, IN UFFORD (THREE MILE LAKE), WAS GETTING A MONTREAL NEWSPAPER, CIRCA 1864, THAT HE HAD TO PICK UP AT THE SOUTH FALLS POST OFFICE......A HELL OF A LONG CANOE PADDLE FROM HIS LOG CABIN. SO THE INHABITANTS OF THIS REGION OF MUSKOKA, EVEN BEFORE THE FREE LAND GRANTS OF THE LATE 1860'S, HAD ACCESS TO THE NEWS OF THE WORLD, AND WHAT WAS GOING ON IN AMERICA AT THIS TIME. WAS THERE CONCERN THE BATTLE COULD PUSH NORTHWARD? CONCERN ABOUT WHETHER THE VICTORS, OF THE NORTH-SOUTH CONFLICT, WOULD THEN TURN THEIR ATTENTION ON CANADA? WHO REALLY KNOWS, BECAUSE NOTHING WAS DOCUMENTED, TO SUGGEST THIS KIND OF CONCERN, UNREST, OR PROTEST, ABOUT THE AMERICAN INFILTRATION OF LITERATURE, FOISTED ON AN UNSUSPECTING, NORTHERN HAMLET. TRUTH IS, THE STORY OF "BRACEBRIDGE HALL," IS ACTUALLY ABOUT IRVING'S STAY IN ENGLAND, AND VERY MUCH, A PROTESTATION, OF AMERICA TURNING ITS BACK ON THE MOTHERLAND, AND ITS TRADITIONS, AS A RESULT OF THE SPLIT CAUSED BY THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. IRVING ARGUED THAT THE AFTERMATH OF A WAR, DIDN'T JUSTIFY SEVERING ALL RELATIONS WITH ANCESTRAL AND CULTURAL REALITIES, AND ALL ITS CHARMING CHARACTERISTICS AND INHERENT TRADITIONS. SO BRACEBRIDGE HALL IS VERY MUCH A BRITISH CULTURAL PROMOTION, AND THUS, ACTUALLY WORKED PRETTY WELL AS A TRIBUTE TO A FLEDGLING SETTLEMENT IN SOUTH MUSKOKA, AS A MAJORITY OF THE FIRST SETTLERS WERE OF BRITISH NATIONALITY.

     LESUEUR WAS CLEVER THIS WAY, AND THOUGHT THE COMMUNITY WOULD GROW TO BE PROUD OF THE PROVENANCE OF A NAME, AND THE AUTHOR WHO MADE IT A LEGENDARY ONE IN WORLD LITERATURE.

     THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, HOWEVER, OPTED INSTEAD, TO ALLIGN ITSELF AS A SISTER COMMUNITY, TO THE LINCOLNSHIRE MUNICIPALITY OF BRACEBRIDGE, IN ENGLAND INSTEAD, IN THE EARLY 1990'S, EVEN THOUGH THERE WAS NO HISTORIC RELATIONSHIP IN THE NAME. LESUEUR ADMITED, DURING A BRIEF INTERVIEW, SHORTLY BEFORE HIS DEATH, THAT HE HAD INDEED BORROWED IRVING'S TITLE, TO NAME "BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO." ALTHOUGH THERE HAS BEEN SOME WILD SPECULATION OVER THE YEARS, INCLUDING THE OFTEN SPUN YARN, THAT THE NAME HAD BEEN INSPIRED BY THE EXPANSE OF SILVER BRIDGE, ACROSS THE CATARACT OF THE MUSKOKA RIVER....."BRACE" AND "BRIDGE." JUST NOT SO.

     SO DESPITE YEARS OF AVOIDANCE AND CONTRARY DEBATE, AND THE REFUSAL OF THE COMMUNITY LEADERSHIP TO EXPLORE MORE THOROUGHLY, THE PROSPERITY AND GOODWILL, ATTACHED TO THE NAME WASHINGTON IRVING, I BECAME, CIRCA 1998-99, THE FIRST HISTORIAN-ADVOCATE IN MUSKOKA, DEMANDING A NEW CENTURY RELATIONSHIP WITH WASHINGTON IRVING. HISTORIANS WITH PENS CAN DO THESE THINGS WITHOUT A MAYOR'S EXPRESS WRITTEN PERMISSION....AND I'VE GONE THROUGH A FEW MAYORS IN MY DAY. AND I'VE HAD TO STEP OVER A FEW HISTORIANS ON THE WAY. IT'S WHY I DON'T GET INVITED TO THE ANNUAL HISTORIANS' BALL. BUT BECAUSE I BELIEVE BRACEBRIDGE HAS MADE THE MISTAKE OF IGNORING THIS HISTORIC RELATIONSHIP, WITH ONE OF THE BEST KNOWN AUTHORS IN THE WORLD, (BECAUSE OF THAT ORIGINAL REFUSAL OF "NORTH FALLS,") I CAN NEVER, IN GOOD CONSCIENCE, ABANDON THIS PROVENANCE.....EVER.....UNTIL LIKE IRVING AND LESUEUR, I TOO, HAVE BECOME AN ETCHED NAME ON THE TOMBSTONE, IN THE FAMILY PLOT....."PUSHING UP THE DAISIES!"

     SO WITHOUT HAVING BEEN COMMISSIONED TO DO SO, HERE IS JUST ONE OF MANY JOYS OF BEING CONNECTED TO THE LEGACY OF WASHINGTON IRVING....."THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW." I HAVE NOT RE-PUBLISHED THE STORY IN FULL, BECAUSE IT WOULD TAKE MANY MORE DAYS TO DO SO.......AND IT WAS IRVING'S WORK AFTERALL....NOT MINE. SO I'VE FOUND KEY PASSAGES TO INFILL THE SPLENDIDLY HAUNTED TALE OF A TEACHER AND THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. (WITH THE HOPE THAT ONE DAY, BRACEBRIDGE BUSINESSES WILL BAND TOGETHER AND HOST A WEEK LONG CELEBRATION OF THIS STORY, OF WHICH THEY ARE INHERENTLY BLESSED, AND ENTITLED, BY AUTHOR ASSOCIATION)

     "FROM THE LISTLESS REPOSE OF THE PLACE, AND THE PECULIAR CHARACTER OF ITS INHABITANTS, WHO ARE DESCENDANTS FROM THE ORIGINAL DUTCH SETTLERS, THIS SEQUESTERED GLEN HAS LONG BEEN KNOWN BY THE NAME OF 'SLEEPY HOLLOW,' AND ITS RUSTIC LADS ARE CALLED THE 'SLEEPY HOLLOW BOYS,' THROUGHOUT ALL THE NEIGHBOURING COUNTRY. A DROWSY, DREAMY INFLUENCE SEEMS TO HANG OVER THE LAND, AND TO PERVADE THE VERY ATMOSPHERE. SOME SAY THAT THE PLACE WAS BEWITCHED BY A HIGH GERMAN DOCTOR, DURING THE EARLY DAYS OF THE SETTLEMENT; OTHERS THAT AN OLD INDIAN CHIEF, THE PROPHET OR WIZARD OF HIS TRIBE, HELD HIS OWN POW-WOW; THERE BEFORE THE COUNTRY WAS DISCOVERED BY MASTER HENDRICK HUDSON. CERTAIN IT IS, THE PLACE STILL CONTINUES UNDER THE SWAY OF SOME WITCHING POWER, THAT HOLDS A SPELL OVER THE MINDS OF THE GOOD PEOPLE CAUSING THEM TO WALK IN CONTINUAL REVERIE. THEY ARE GIVEN TO ALL KINDS OF MARVELLOUS BELIEFS; ARE SUBJECT TO TRANCES AND VISIONS, AND FREQUENTLY SEE STRANGE SIGHTS AND HEAR MUSIC AND VOICES IN THE AIR. THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD ABOUNDS WITH LOCAL TALES, HAUNTED SPOTS AND TWILIGHT SUPERSTITIONS; STARS SHOOT AND METEORS GLARE OFTENER ACROSS THE VALLEY THAN IN ANY OTHER PART OF THE COUNTRY, AND THE NIGHT-MARE, WITH HER WHOLE NINE FOLD, SEEMS TO MAKE IT THE FAVORITE SCENE OF HER GAMBOLS."

     I CAN SO CLEARLY REMEMBER, OUR FIRST FEW MOMENTS IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHEN WE ARRIVED AS A DESTITUTE FAMILY, FLEEING THE CITY FOR A NEW LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. IT WAS THE SPRING OF 1966, AND MY FATHER ED, HAD JUST ACCEPTED A POSITON WITH BRACEBRIDGE'S "SHIER'S LUMBER COMPANY," ONE OF THE AREA'S BEST KNOWN BUILDING SUPPLY COMPANIES. WE HAD EXPERIENCED CAR PROBLEMS ON THE WAY NORTH, AND A FLAT TIRE JUST SOUTH OF BRACEBRIDGE, THAT VERY NEARLY SENT US CAREENING INTO MUSKOKA ROCK AT ROADSIDE. TIRED FROM OUR TRAVEL NORTHWARD, IN A BEAT UP JALOPY, A VAUXHALL, WE ARRIVED OVER THE SILVER BRIDGE, STARING UP THE MAIN STREET OF OUR NEW TOWN, LOOKING AT THE HISTORIC CLOCK TOWER OF THE OLD FEDERAL BUILDING, AND MY MOTHER MERLE, WITH A LONG, CONTENTED SIGH, SAID, WE ARE HOME....THIS IS OUR "SLEEPY HOLLOW." IT WASN'T ALL THAT PROFOUND AT THE TIME, BECAUSE WE WERE JUST TOO TIRED TO UNDERSTAND HOW PROPHETIC HER STATEMENT WAS.....AND SHE DIDN'T KNOW THE DEPTH OF HER OWN FAMILY ANCESTRY THEN, THAT LOW AND BEHOLD, WAS ROOTED IN THAT SAME AREA OF THE HUDSON RIVER VALLEY. SHE WAS KINFOLK OF THE VANDERVOORT FAMILES, OF HOLLAND, WHO HAD BEEN AMONGST THE FIRST SETTLERS OF THE PRESENT STATE OF NEW YORK. I SUPPOSE THIS IS ANOTHER REASON I CONTINUE TO DRAW INSPIRATION FROM IRVING'S TALES, GROWN FROM THE SAME REGION OF PIONEER AMERICA.

     IN THE WORDS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, AND WITH THE COVER OF THE BOOK OPENED TO THE PAGE, WHERE SOME OTHER READER LEFT OFF, IN THE LATE EVENING OF A PAST HALLOWEEN; WE RETURN TO SLEEPY HOLLOW, AND THE GOOD FOLKS' BELIEF IN THE APPARITION KNOWN, AS THE "HEADLESS HORSEMAN," THE HESSIAN TROOPER WHO HAD LOST HIS HEAD IN A REVOLUTIONARY WAR BATTLE....AND HAD BEEN BURIED WITHOUT, IN A CHURCHYARD PLOT.....WHERE IT IS SAID, HE RISES ON MOONLIT NIGHTS LIKE THIS, TO SEEK OUT WHAT RIGHTFULLY BELONGS TO HIM.

     IRVING'S CHARACTER, ICHABOD CRANE, THE NEW SCHOOL TEACHER TO THE VILLAGE OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, CARRIED AFFECTIONS FOR THE DAUGHTER OF ONE OF THE MOST PROMINENT MEN OF THE BUSINESS COMMUNITY, AND BY SHOWING HIS AFFECTIONS, HAD GOT UNCOMFORTABLY IN THE WAY, OF HER MORE AGGRESSIVE, CAPABLE ADMIRER, BROM BONES, WHO IT IS SAID, WOULD GO TO ANY LENGTH TO WIN THE SUBJECT OF HIS AFFECTIONS.....INCLUDING THE DISPATCHING OF THE PEDAGOGUE, THE WEAK KNEED, CLUMSY, ANNOYING, GREEDY, MR. CRANE. BUT DID THIS MANIFEST AS AN EFFORT BY A JEALOUS SUITOR, OR WAS THE HESSIAN A PARANORMAL A REAL FORCE OF THE SUPERNATURAL, TO BE RECKONED WITH?

     "IT WAS AS I HAVE SAID, A FINE AUTUMNAL DAY; THE SKY WAS CLEAR AND SERENE, AND NATURE WORE THAT RICH AND GOLD LIVERY WHICH WE ALWAYS ASSOCIATE WITH THE IDEA OF ABUNDANCE. THE FORESTS HAD PUT ON THEIR SOBER BROWN AND YELLOW, WHILE SOME TREES OF THE TENDERER KIND, HAD BEEN NIPPED BY THE FROSTS INTO BRILLIANT DYES OF ORANGE, PURPLE AND SCARLET. STREAMING FILES OF WILD DUCKS BEGAN TO MAKE THEIR APPEARANCE HIGH IN THE AIR; THE BARK OF THE SQUIRREL MIGHT BE HEARD FROM THE GROVES OF BEECH AND HICKORY-NUTS, AND THE PENSIVE WHISTLE OF THE QUAIL, AT INTERVALS FROM THE NEIGHBORING STUBBLE FIELD," WROTE IRVING.

     "THE SMALL BIRDS WERE TAKING THEIR FAREWELL BANQUETS. IN THE FULNESS OF THEIR REVELRY, THEY FLUTTERED CHIRPING AND FROLICKING FROM BUSH TO BUSH, AND TREE TO TREE, CAPRICIOUS FROM THE VERY PROFUSING AND VARIETY AROUND THEM. THERE WAS THE VERY HONEST COCK-ROBIN, THE FAVOURITE GAME OF STRIPLING SPORTSMEN, WITH ITS LOUD QUERILOUS NOTE, AND THE TWITTERING BLACKBIRDS FLYING IN SABLE CLOUDS; AND THE GOLDEN WINGED WOODPECKER, WITH HIS CRIMSON CREST, HIS BROAD BLACK GORGET, AND SPLENDID PLUMAGE; AND THE CEDAR-BIRD, WITH ITS RED-TIPT WINGS AND YELLOW-TIPT TAIL, AND HIS LITTLE MONTEIRO CAP OF FEATHERS; AND THE BLUE JAY, THAT NOISY COXCOMB, IN HIS GAY LIGHT BLUE COAT AND WHITE UNDERCLOTHES, SCREAMING AND CHATTERING, NODDING, AND BOBBING, AND BOWING, AND PRETENDING TO BE ON GOOD TERMS WITH EVERY SONGSTER OF THE GROVE.

     "AS ICHABOD JOGGED SLOWLY ON HIS WAY, HIS EYE, EVER OPEN TO EVERY SYMPTON OF CULINARY ABUNDANCE, RANGED WITH DELIGHT OVER THE TREASURES OF JOLLY AUTUMN. ON ALL SIDES HE BEHELD VAST STORE OF APPLES, SOME HANGING IN OPPRESSIVE OPULENCE ON THE TREES; SOME GATHERED INTO BASKETS AND BARRELS FOR THE MARKET; OTHERS HEAPED UP IN RICH PILES FOR THE CIDER-PRESS. FARTHER ON HE BEHELD GREAT FIELDS OF INDIAN CORN, WITH ITS GOLDEN EARS PEEPING FROM THEIR LEAFY COVERTS, AND HOLDING OUT THE PROMISE OF CAKES AND HASTY-PUDDING; AND THE YELLOW PUMPKINS LYING BENEATH THEM, TURNING UP THEIR FAIR ROUND BELLIES TO THE SUN, AND GIVING AMPLE PROSPECTS OF THE MOST LUXURIOUS OF PIES; AND ANON, HE PASSED THE FRAGRANT BUCKWHEAT FIELDS, BREATHING THE ODOUR OF THE BEEHIVE, AND HE BEHELD THEM, SOFT ANTICIPATIONS STOLE HIS MIND OF DAINTY SLAP-JACKS, WELL BUTTERED AND GARNISHED WITH HONEY OR TREACLE, BY THE DELICATE LITTLE DIMPLED HAND OF KATRINA VAN TASSEL (THE GIRL HE WISHED WOULD RETURN HIS AFFECTIONS)."

     WASHINGTON IRVING, AT HIS DESK, WRITES OF CRANE, "THUS FEEDING HIS MIND WITH MANY SWEET THOUGHTS AND SUGARED SUPPOSITIONS, HE JOURNEYED ALONG THE SIDES OF THE RANGE OF HILLS, WHICH LOOK OUT UPON SOME OF THE GOODLIEST SCENES OF THE MIGHTY HUDSON. THE SUN GRADUALLY WHEELED HIS BROAD DISK DOWN INTO THE WEST. THE WHOLE BOSUM OF THE TAPPAAN ZEE LAY MOTIONLESS AND GLASSY, EXCEPTING THAT HERE AND THERE A GENTLE UNDULATION WAVED AND PROLONGED THE BLUE SHADOW OF THE DISTANT MOUNTAIN. A FEW AMBER CLOUDS FLOATED IN THE SKY, WITHOUT A BREATH OF AIR TO MOVE THEM. THE HORIZON WAS OF A FINE GOLDEN TINT, CHANGING GRADUALLY INTO A PURE APPLE GREEN, AND FROM THAT INTO THE DEEP BLUE OF THE MID-HEAVEN. A SLANTING RAY LINGERED ON THE WOODY CRESTS OF THE PRECIPICES THAT OVERHUNG SOME, PARTS OF THE RIVER, GIVING GREAT DEPTH TO THE DARK GRAY AND PURPLE OF THEIR ROCKY SIDES. A SLOOP WAS LOITERING IN THE DISTANCE, DROPPING SLOWLY DOWN WITH THE TIDE, HER SAIL HANGING USELESSLY AGAINST THE MAST; AND AS THE REFLECTION OF THE SKY GLEANED ALONG THE STILL WATER, IT SEEMED AS IF THE VESSEL WAS SUSPENDED IN THE AIR."

     IRVING NOTES, WITH KEEN OBSERVATION, OF HIS CHARACTER'S PASSAGE, THAT "IT WAS TOWARD EVENING THAT ICHABOD ARRIVED AT THE CASTLE OF THE HEER VAN TASSLE, WHICH HE FOUND THRONGED WITH THE PRIDE AND FLOWER OF THE ADJACENT COUNTRY. OLD FARMERS, A SPARE LEATHERN-FACED RACE, IN HOMESPUN COATS AND BREECHES, BLUE STOCKINGS, HUGE SHOES AND MAGNIFICENT PEWTER BUCKLES. THEIR BRISK, WITHERED LITTLE DAMES, IN CLOSE CRIMPED CAPS, WITH LONG-WAISTED GOWNS, HOMESPUN PETTICOATS, WITH SCISSORS AND PIN-CUSHIONS, AND GAY CALICO POCKETS HANGING ON THE OUTSIDE. BUXOM LASSES, ALMOST AS ANTIQUATED AS THEIR MOTHERS, EXCEPTING WHERE A STRAW HAT, A FINE RIBAND, OR PERHAPS A WHITE FROCK, GAVE SYMPTOMS OF CITY IN MOTIVATIONS. THE SONS, IN SHORT SQUARE-SKIRTED COATS, WITH ROWS OF STUPENDOUS BRASS BUTTONS, AND THEIR HAIR GENERALLY QUEUED IN THE FASHION OF THE TIMES, ESPECIALLY IF THEY COULD PROCURE AN EELSKIN FOR THE PURPOSE, IT BEING ESTEEMED THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRY AS A POTENT NOURISHER AND STRENGTHENER OF THE HAIR.

     "BROM BONES, HOWEVER, WAS THE HERO OF THE SCENE, HAVING COME TO THE GATHERING ON HIS FAVORITE STEED, 'DAREDEVIL,' A CREATURE, LIKE HIMSELF, FULL OF METTLE AND MISCHIEF AND WHICH NO ONE BUT HIMSELF COULD MANAGE. HE WAS, IN FACT, NOTED FOR PREFERRING VICIOUS ANIMALS, GIVEN TO ALL KINDS OF TRICKS WHICH KEPT THE RIDER IN CONSTANT RISK OF HIS NECK, FOR HE HELD A TRACTABLE WELL-BROKEN HORSE, AS UNWORTHY OF A LAD OF SPIRIT.

     "FAIN WOULD I PAUSE TO DWELL UPON THE WORLD OF CHARMS THAT BURST UPON THE ENRAPTURED GAZE OF MY HERO, AS HE ENTERED THE STATE PARLOUR OF VAN TASSEL'S MANSION. NOT THOSE OF THE BEVY OF BUXOM LASSES, WITH THEIR LUXURIOUS DISPLAY OF RED AND WHITE; BUT THE AMPLE CHORUS OF A GENUINE DUTCH COUNTRY TEA-TABLE, IN THE SUMPTUOUS TIME OF AUTUMN. SUCH HEAPED-UP PLATTERS OF CAKES OF VARIOUS AND ALMOST INDESCRIBABLE KINDS, KNOWN ONLY TO EXPERIENCED DUTCH HOUSEWIVES."

     IRVING ADDS, "OLD BALTUS VAN TASSEL MOVED ABOUT HIS GUESTS WITH A FACE DILATED WITH CONTENT AND GOOD HUMOUR, ROUND AND JOLLY AS THE HARVEST MOON. HIS HOSPITABLE ATTENTIONS WERE BRIEF, BUT EXPRESSIVE, BEING CONFINED TO A SHAKE OF THE HAND, A SLAP ON THE SHOULDER, A LOUD LAUGH, AND A PRESSING INVITATION TO 'FAIL TO, AND HELP THEMSELVES'. AND NOW THE SOUND OF THE MUSIC  FROM THE COMMON ROOM, OR HALL SUMMONED TO THE DANCE."

     "ICHABOD PRIDED HIMSELF UPON HIS DANCING AS MUCH AS UPON HIS VOCAL POWERS," IRVING CHARACTERIZES OF THE TEACHER. "NOT A LIMB, NOT A FIBRE ABOUT HIM WAS IDLE; AND TO HAVE SEEN HIS LOOSELY HUNG FRAME IN FULL MOTION, AND CLATTERING ABOUT THE ROOM, YOU WOULD HAVE THOUGHT ST. VITUS HIMSELF, THAT BLESSED PATRON OF THE DANCE, WAS FIGURING BEFORE YOU IN PERSON." "WHEN THE DANCE WAS AT AN END, ICHABOD WAS ATTRACTED TO A KNOT OF THE EAGER FOLKS, WHO WITH OLD VAN TASSEL, SAT SMOKING AT ONE END OF THE PLAZA, GOSSIPING OVER FORMER TIMES, AND DRAWING OUT LONG STORIES ABOUT THE WAR," RECORDS THE AUTHOR, OF CRANE'S MOVEMENT ABOUT THE HOME.

     "THE REVEL NOW GRADUALLY BROKE UP. THE OLD FARMERS GATHERED TOGETHER THEIR FAMILIES IN THEIR WAGONS, AND WERE HEARD FOR SOME TIME RATTLING ALONG THE HOLLOW ROADS, AND OVER THE DISTANT HILLS. SOME OF THE DAMSELS MOUNTED ON PILLIONS BEHIND THEIR FAVORITE SWAINS, AND THEIR LIGHT-HEARTED LAUGHTER, MINGLING WITH THE CLATTER OF HOOFS, ECHOED ALONG THE SILENT WOODLANDS, SOUNDING FAINTER AND FAINTER, UNTIL THEY GRADUALLY DIED AWAY - AND THE LATE SCENE OF NOISE AND FROLIC WAS ALL SILENT AND DESERTED," WRITES IRVING. "ICHABOD ONLY LINGERED BEHIND, ACCORDING TO THE CUSTOM OF COUNTRY LOVERS, TO HAVE A TETE-A-TETE WITH THE HEIRESS; FULLY CONVINCED THAT HE WAS NOW ON THE HIGH ROAD TO SUCCESS. WHAT PASSED AT THIS INTERVIEW I WILL NOT PRETEND TO SAY, FOR IN FACT I DO NOT KNOW. SOMETHING HOWEVER, I FEAR ME, MUST HAVE GONE WRONG, FOR HE CERTAINLY SAILED FORTH, AFTER NO VERY GREAT INTERVAL, WITH AN AIR OF QUITE DESOLATE AND CHAPFALLEN - OH, THESE WOMEN, THESE WOMEN! COULD THAT GIRL HAVE BEEN PLAYING OFF ANY OF HER COQUETISH TRICKS? WAS HER ENCOURAGEMENT OF THE POOR PEDAGOGUE ALL A MERE SHAM TO SECURE HER CONQUEST OF HIS RIVAL? HEAVEN ONLY KNOWS."

     "IT WAS THE VERY WITCHING TIME OF NIGHT THAT ICHABOD, HEAVY-HEARTED AND CREST-FALLEN, PURSUED HIS TRAVEL HOMEWARDS, ALONG THE SIDES OF THE LOFTY HILLS WHICH RISE ABOVE TARRY TOWN, AND WHICH HE HAD TRAVERSED SO CHEERILY IN THE AFTERNOON. THE HOUR WAS AS DISMAL AS HIMSELF. FAR BELOW HIM, THE TAPPANN ZEE SPREAD ITS DUSKY AND INDISTINCT WASTE OF WATERS, WITH HERE AND THERE A TALL MAST OF A SLOOP, RIDING QUIETLY AT ANCHOR UNDER THE LAND. IN THE DEAD HUSH OF MIDNIGHT, HE COULD EVEN HEAR THE BARKING OF THE WATCHDOG FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HUDSON; BUT IT WAS SO VAGUE AND FAINT AS ONLY TO GIVE AN IDEA OF HIS DISTANCE FROM THIS FAITHFUL COMPANION OF MAN. NOW AND THEN, TOO, THE LONG-DRAWN CROWING OF A COCK, ACCIDENTALLY AWAKENED WOULD SOUND FAR, FAR OFF, FROM SOME FARM-HOUSE, AWAY AMONG THE HILLS - BUT IT WAS LIKE A DREAMING SOUND IN HIS EAR. NO SIGNS OF LIFE OCCURRED NEAR HIM, BUT OCCASIONALLY THE MELANCHOLY CHIRP OF A CRICKET, OR PERHAPS THE GUTTURAL TWANG OF A BULL-FROG FROM A NEIGHBORING MARSH, AS IF SLEEPING UNCOMFORTABLY, AND TURNING SUDDENLY IN HIS BED. ALL THE STORIES OF GHOSTS AND GOBLINS THAT HE HAD HEARD IN THE AFTERNOON, NOW CAME CROWDING UPON HIS RECOLLECTION. THE NIGHT GREW DARKER AND DARKER; THE STARS SEEMED TO SINK DEEPER IN THE SKY, AND DRIVING CLOUDS OCCASIONALLY HID THEM FROM HIS SIGHT. HE HAD NEVER FELT SO LONELY AND DISMAL. HE WAS MOREOVER, APPROACHING THE VERY PLACE WHERE MANY OF THE SCENES OF GHOST STORIES HAD BEEN LAID. IN THE CENTRE OF THE ROAD STOOD AN ENORMOUS TULIP-TREE, WHICH TOWERED LIKE A GIANT ABOVE ALL THE OTHER TREES OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD, AND FORMED A KIND OF LANDMARK. ITS LIMBS WERE GNARLED AND FANTASTIC, LARGE ENOUGH TO FORM TRUNKS FOR ORDINARY TREES, TWISTING DOWN ALMOST TO THE EARTH, AND RISING AGAIN, INTO THE AIR. IT WAS CONNECTED WITH THE TRAGICAL STORY OF THE UNFORTUNATE ANDRE, WHO HAD BEEN TAKEN PRISONER HARD BY; AND WAS UNIVERSALLY KNOWN BY THE NAME OF MAJOR ANDRE'S TREE. THE COMMON PEOPLE REGARDED IT WITH A MIXTURE OF RESPECT AND SUPERSTITION PARTLY OUT OF SYMPATHY FOR THE FATE OF ITS ILL-STARTED NAMESAKE, AND PARTLY FROM THE TALES OF STRANGE SIGHTS AND DOLEFUL LAMENTATIONS TOLD CONCERNING IT."

     I WILL J RE-JOIN THE ADVENTUROUS TRAVELS OF ICHABOD CRANE, IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF STORIED "SLEEPY HOLLOW," IN TOMORROW'S BLOG. PLEASE CATCH PART TWO OF THREE OF THIS TRIBUTE TO WASHINGTON IRVING, AND THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO, THAT CARRIES THE PROVENANCE OF HIS GOOD NAME.

     IT IS KNOWN, BY THE WAY, THAT AUTHOR CHARLES DICKENS, HIMSELF, WAS A BIG FAN OF THE WORK OF WASHINGTON IRVING, CONFESSING TO A COLLEAGUE ONCE, THAT HE OFTEN "RETIRED TO BEDLAM," WITH ONE OF HIS BOOKS, "TUCKED UNDER HIS ARM." NOT A BAD PROVENANCE THEN, WOULDN'T YOU SAY, TO HAVE BEEN AFFORDED A NAME ASSOCIATED WITH WASHINGTON IRVING?"

Bracebridge Was Named In Honour Of Washington Irving, "Bracebridge Hall", Was Noted In "The Sketch Book"

Double click on picture to enlarge.


"BRACEBRIDGE HALL," WAS THE BOOK - WASHINGTON IRVING, THE AUTHOR, WAS THE ONE, GIVEN THE MEMORIAL TRIBUTE

MAKE NO MISTAKE, W.D. LESUEUR, WAS MAKING A STATEMENT WHEN HE NAMED BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO; A TOWN WITH A GRACE OF NATURE

TOMORROW A LOOK AT IRVING'S SLEEPY HOLLOW

     NOTE: The video above, was put together this week, by son Robert, who provided most of the photographic work, companion sound, and composition. Son Andrew was kind enough to take some photographs, of Bracebridge, for me, on a trip to town this week. The opening images of Manitoba Street, observed from the Queen's Hill, looking onto the traditional downtown retail community, have been taken from a watercolor painting, done by Gravenhurst artist, and known print-maker, Frank Johnston, who painted hundreds of similar historic-themed art pieces, throughout Muskoka; there are also images in the video, of the workers of Bracebridge's Bird's Woollen Mill, taking a few minutes for a group photograph, and several graphics of landscapes done by Bracebridge's famous painting barber, William "Bill" Anderson, who had his barbershop, art studio, in the corner storefront, of the former Patterson Hotel, opposite the clock tower of the old federal building. The record cover, used in the video, is entitled "Washington Irving - The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," read by Hurd Hatfield, directed by Paul Kresh, and presented by Arthur Luce Klein, as released by Spoken Arts Records, of New York. The video, is a simply produced overview, that wraps up in only a minute or so, what it has taken me years to polish, as far as editorial content. (Robert has agreed to help me craft a similar video, to highlight some of the work, created by artist Frank Johnston; coming soon.)

     I don't know what made me decide to shut-up our Manitoba Street, for the afternoon that fall day, grab-up a notepad, and head down to the brink of the Bracebridge Falls. The boys were with their grandparents, for an after-school visit, and seeing as there was no business at the shop, I just decided to close-up early, and see if I could find anything of interest to write about. It was in early November, just after Remembrance Day, probably in 1991 if I remember correctly. There had already been the first snowfall, and I remember my feet getting wet, passing through areas of slush, up and down the main street. I wasn't fully back into writing yet, at the end of a year's hiatus, after I gave-up on local newspapers, as the way to further hone my skills. So I left to pursue our antique business, which we opened in 1986. I sat on a rock above the rapids, just above the falls, and fascinated myself for an hour, watching the water pounding over the rocks for those final few yards, before the cataract, below the famous silver bridge. It has always been a compelling scene, watching the heavy water flow, thundering current, in the spring and fall of the year, etching deep through the rock walls, and then tumbling over the falls into Bracebridge Bay.
     I sat there for the first half hour, just watching the black water, rushing down the canyon, looking like a cluster of intertwined serpents, wrestling each other, to get over the falls first. When I began making notes, I quickly went through all the pages of what was left of my reporter's notebook. It was the mirror of nature's power and spirit. Anyone falling into the river, at this point, would be taken, in only seconds, over the falls, to be broken on the rocks below. There would be no chance of rescue, until the calmer water of the bay below. When I looked at my notes, the next day, I knew it had been time well spent, down at the falls. I would soon begin writing "Sketches of Historic Bracebridge," for The Muskoka Advance, as a columnist. I would never agree to be a news staffer again. And yes, it was all about the freedom of the press; my freedom.
     "Bracebridge is eminently the natural centre for tourists, who wish to see the Muskoka waterfalls, with a minimum expenditure of time and money. The three largest, and one of the smaller of these numerous falls, can be seen easily in one day by the tourist to whom economy of time is an object," wrote W.E. Hamilton, of what he witnessed of the early settlement of Bracebridge, Ontario. Not the least attractive cascade (60 feet in descent) is in the heart of the village of Bracebridge. The summer tourist, standing on the bridge which spans the cataract, sees, at one glance the Bracebridge Fall, and the two dark and smooth bodies of water, which precede and follow it. On one side of the bridge, the placid and unrippled water flows under a lofty and curving plateau, crowned with villas, and sloping down near the bridge to a little gem of green prairie, darkened by the shade of over-hanging pines. Perhaps a floating leaf may aid the stranger to realize, the treacherous swiftness of the current, as it approaches the upper side of the abutments of the bridge. Turning from this glimpse of lake-like placidity, let the tourist step to the south-western hand-rail of the bridge and find a transformation effected. Glassy stillness and gloomy darkness of water, are succeeded by white sparkling foam, and the turmoil of the fretted element, in all its tempestuous loveliness. Water in every conceivable shape, and contortion is here, sometimes thundering over some jutting crag, which has defied its power from century to century, or again striking against a hidden splinter of gneiss, and throwing up a fountain of foam and spray to sparkle in the summer sun. The graduation of color in the water, vary from the sombre and almost stygian tint of the Muskoka River, in its normal state, to absolute whiteness, according as it is more or less furiously pulverized, by its impact on the rocky bed of the torrent. The rocks, during a portion of the descent, show a smooth, sloping plane, while elsewhere they are irregular and shapeless crags. Everywhere the dark, and sometimes ferrunginous color gives a sombre setting, to the succession of white foaming leaps, by which the north branch of the Muskoka River, at length, gains the peaceful and oval basin, of the Bracebridge Harbor. The summer scene is often very striking from this side of the bridge. Beyond the basin of the harbor, on the left bank, lies a dark, pine forest, while the opposite side is rocky near the water's edge, and sandy beach. The blue curl of a smoke-wreath moves along and between the trees, tracing the course of the incoming steamer as she nears the harbor.     "Steamer and river are alike invisible to the gazer from the bridge, till at length the graceful 'Nipissing' disgorges her living freight at the wharf. Other aspects are presented by the Bracebridge Falls, when butterflies and summer birds, have given way to snow-flakes, and when the white foam of the falls, is eclipsed by the yet more dazzling whiteness, of snow-clad ice banks, which, gradually growing as winter progresses, finally all but meet the water's edge. In spring, the water is at its highest, and thousands of logs come thundering over the basin, which is finally so filled, that an active man can walk across the floating floor, from bank to bank. Some idea of the terrific power of the water, forces itself on the spectator's mind, when he sees a huge log, which a yoke of oxen could scarcely move, dashed like a feather from rock to rock, and sometimes split into pieces, with the resistless thud of the concussion."
     As a kid, I got used to hearing the roar of the town waterfalls. Sometimes, particularly in the spring, you could hear it from this bench, I am now sitting on, at Memorial Park, several blocks north on Manitoba Street. I have often noted of Bracebridge residents, that this marvelous flow of water, has imprinted on their souls. It is virtually a standard of local citizenry, to be influenced in subtle ways, by this watery heritage, that snakes black as night, through the middle of town. While we might hurry past, and ignore it, in the hustle and bustle of modern life, it has influenced generations of town residents, in one way or another; from our vantage points, of what can only be described as "the picturesque," as Hamilton refers, or the sound of its wash and roar, toward the cataract of the Bracebridge Falls, that steams high into the frozen atmosphere, on sub-zero mornings in January. It is the nature of the community. Me thinks William Dawson LeSueur, knew much about this place, before he decided to memorialize Washington Irving, by giving it the name of one of his famous story-themes, "Bracebridge Hall." I kind of think Washington Irving would have found this a fascinating place, as well, being a more northerly "Sleepy Hollow".
     The following words, were afforded Washington Irving's character-traveller, "Geoffrey Crayon, Gent." in the opening of the second book, referencing Squire Bracebridge, and family, of England. The book is entitled "Bracebridge Hall," which followed the earlier release of "The Sketch Book," circa 1919. Now in the words of Washington Irving channeled through Mr. Crayon:
     "The ancestral house, and the host for housekeeping, in this country, or the next; and though the master of it write, but squire, I know no lord like him." This opening is captioned, 'Merry Beggars'."
     "The reader, if he has perused the volumes of the 'Sketch Book,' will probably recollect something of the Bracebridge family, with which I once passed a Christmas. I am now on another visit at the Hall, having been invited to a wedding which is shortly to take place. The Squire's second son, Guy, a fine, spirited young captain in the army, is about to be married to his father's ward, Julia Templeton. A gathering of relations and friends has already commenced, to celebrate the joyful occasion; for the old gentleman is an enemy to quiet, private weddings. 'There is nothing,' he says, 'like launching a young couple gayly, and cheering them from the shore; a good outset is half the voyage.'
     "Before proceeding any further, I would beg that the Squire might not be confounded with that class of hard-riding, fox-hunting gentlemen, so often described, and, in fact, so nearly extinct in England. I use this rural title partly because it is his universal appellation, throughout the neighborhood, and partly because it saves me the frequent repetition of his name, which is one of those rough old English names, at which Frenchmen exclaim in despair.
     The Squire is, in fact, a lingering specimen of the old English country gentleman; rusticated a little by living almost entirely on his estate, and something of a humourist, as Englishmen are apt to become when they have an opportunity of living in their own way. I like his hobby passing well, however, which is, a bigoted devotion to old English manners and customs; it jumps a little with my own humor, having as yet, a lively and unsaited curiosity about the ancient and genuine characteristics of my 'father-land.' There are some traits about the Squire's family, also, which appear to me to be national. It is one of those old aristocratical families which, I believe, are peculiar to England, and scarcely understood in other countries; that is to say, families of the ancient gentry, who, though destitute of titled rank, maintain a high ancestral pride; who look down upon all nobility of recent creation, and would consider it a sacrifice of dignity to merge the venerable name of their house with a modern title."
     The fact that "Bracebridge Hall," and the Bracebridge family, are thoroughly examined, in Irving's "Sketch Book," before the second book, "Bracebridge Hall," literally means that Postal Authority, William Dawson LeSueur, could have taken the name from the reference to "Bracebridge Hall," as he admitted, from either the first or second of Crayon's overviews from England. It has long been held, that it was the book, "Bracebridge Hall," of 1822, that inspired the literary critic, by night, civil servant by day, W.D. LeSueur, to use the name for the new post office, in the pioneer hamlet of "North Falls." You can archive back three blogs to read more about the true dimensions of Dr. LeSueur. The point is, LeSueur could have taken the name from "The Sketch Book," as well, because Bracebridge Hall is mentioned, and the reason this is important, is that it would clearly suggest, he was making a memorial recognition to Washington Irving, but not based on one book, or one title. Irving had died shortly before the naming of the new post office, and as a budding literary critic, and bibliophile, he would have been aware of any memorial re-prints of the author's work. Thus, it can be said with some accuracy, that rather than just naming a struggling hamlet, after a book's title, he was doing so as a memorial to the author, Irving, himself. It's one thing to be named after a book, but another to be named as a tribute to the body of work, written by an author; who just happens to be one of the best known in the world, even after all these years.
     "The feeling is very much fostered by the impression which they enjoy on their hereditary domains. The family mansion is an old manor-house, standing in a retired and beautiful part of Yorkshire. Its inhabitants have been always regarded, through the surrounding country, as 'the great ones of the earth;' and the little village near the Hall looks up to the Squire with almost feudal homage. An old manor-house, and an old family of this kind, are rarely to be met with at the present day; and it is probably the peculiar humor of the Squire that has retained this secluded specimen, of English house-keeping, in something like the genuine old style.
     "I am again quartered in the panelled chamber, in the antique wing of the house. The prospect from my window, however, has quite a different aspect from that which it wore on my winter visit. Though early in the month of April, yet a few warm, sunshiny days have drawn forth the beauties of the spring, which, I think, are always most captivating on their first opening. The parterres of an old fashioned garden are gay with flowers; and the gardener has brought out his exotics, and placed them along the stone balustrades. The trees are clothed with green buds and tender leaves. When I throw open my jingling casement, I smell the odor of mignonette, and hear the hum of bees from the flowers against the sunny wall, with the varied song of the throstle, and the cheerful notes of the tuneful little wren.
     "While sojourning in this stronghold of old fashions, it is my intention to make occasional sketches of the scenes and characters before me. I would have it understood, however, that I am not writing a novel, and have nothing of intricate plot nor marvelous adventure to promise the reader. The Hall, of which I treat has, for aught I know, neither trap-door, nor sliding-panel, nor donjon-keep; and indeed appears to have no mystery about it. The family is a worthy, well-meaning family, that, in all probability, will eat and drink, and go to bed, and get up regularly, from one end of my work to the other; and the Squire is so kind-hearted, that I see no likelihood of his throwing any kind of distress, in the way of the approaching nuptials. In a word, I cannot foresee a single extraordinary event, that is likely to occur in the whole term of my sojourn at the Hall.
     I tell this honestly to the reader, lest, when he finds me dallying along, through every-day English scenes, he may hurry ahead, in hopes of meeting with some marvelous adventure further on. I invite him, on the contrary, to ramble gently on with me, as he would saunter out into the fields, stopping occasionally to gather a flower, or listen to a bird, or admire a prospect without any anxiety to arrive at the end of his career. Should I, however, in the course of my wanderings about this old mansion, see or hear anything curious, that might serve to vary the monotony of this everyday life, I shall not fail to report it for the reader's entertainment."
     Today, the first day of August, 2014, marks the 150th anniversary, of the naming of the Town of Bracebridge, Ontario, by William Dawson LeSueur, after the work of American author, Washington Irving. It has never been a celebrated union, of namesake and its host community. While it has been known, and the provenance understood, at least by historians, for some unknown reason, it has never fully been acknowledged as something special, a name to be proud of, or a literary distinction to promote. In fact, as we have seen in the past few years, it would seem the elected officials, would rather bury the provenance in historical obscurity, than sacrifice what a consultant put forward, several years ago (after public consultation) as positive branding. If the continuous learning theme, obviously connected to the new university and college presence in town, had even one course, or one mention per term, of Washington Irving, relevant to the host town's heritage, then I could at least, partially stomach, the purpose of the branding exercise. Now a new initiative, by an opposing side of the branding debate, wants to commission a large brass sculpture of Santa Claus, at a potential expense of $40,000, to then be set down on a concrete slap, somewhere in downtown Bracebridge. It's hard for a long serving historian, to validate such a venture, as being historically prudent. All the while, a provenance that has been with the town for 150 years, and that carries international recognition, with the entire body of work by Washington Irving, is seen as nothing more than an inconvenient truth.
     Possibly, a new council, one day down the road, will look at this whole "branding" issue, and finally decide, to capitalize on the wonderful relationship we were awarded, in August, 1864, when William Dawson LeSueur, one of Canada's great intellectuals of the period, aligned us with a most talented author, Washington Irving, a writer given great praise by Charles Dickens.
     Thanks so much for joining this short series, to commemorate, on a tight budget I might add, this anniversary, which I believe is an uncut jewel; with so much potential for development into something of international acclaim. One can hope, at the very least!

FROM THE ARCHIVES

WHY WE SHOULD BE PROUD TO RECOGNIZE DR. WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR - THE MAN WHO NAMED OUR TOWN

AS A POSTAL AUTHORITY HE WAS FUTURE-MINDED - TO WRITERS LIKE STEPHEN LEACOCK - HE WAS AN UNWELCOME MEDDLER

     THIS PAST SUMMER, I WROTE A SIGNIFICANT FEATURE SERIES ON THE 150TH ANNIVERSARY, OF THE NAMING OF OUR TOWN, IN AUGUST 1862, AFTER THE TITLE OF A BOOK, WRITTEN BY BRITISH AUTHOR, WILLIAM HENRY SMITH. HIS BOOK, PUBLISHED SHORTLY BEFORE THE OPENING OF OUR POST OFFICE, IN THE FORMER MCCABE'S LANDING, WAS ENTITLED "GRAVENHURST; OR THOUGHTS ON GOOD AN EVIL." I'M SURE YOU'RE GETTING TIRED OF READING ABOUT THIS, BUT TODAY I HAVE A RARE PIECE OF EDITORIAL MATERIAL, THAT PROFILES THE CHARACTER OF DR. WILLIAM DAWSON LESUEUR, CIVIL SERVANT BY DAY, LITERARY CRITIC AND HISTORIAN AFTER HOURS. HE BECAME A HIGHLY RESPECTED LITERARY CRITIC AND AN ACCOMPLISHED CANADIAN HISTORIAN. AND HE DECIDED THAT MCCABE'S LANDING JUST DIDN'T SUIT OUR HAMLET, IN 1862, BUT HE WAS THINKING WELL PAST THIS POST OFFICE OPENING. AS I HAVE REITERATED ABOUT LESUEUR, IN 1862, HE WAS KNOWN IN INTELLECTUAL CIRCLES, AS ONE OF THE FLEDGLING NATION'S BRIGHTEST MINDS. HE WOULDN'T HAVE SELECTED A NAME FROM A BOOK HE DIDN'T APPROVE. HE WASN'T KNOWN TO BE A PRACTICAL JOKER. IF HE HAD ONE GLARING FAILURE, IT WAS THAT HE FORGOT TO TELL THE FINE FOLKS OF "GRAVENHURST, ONTARIO," WHY HE SELECTED THE TITLE OF A BOOK, BY A BRITISH PHILOSOPHER, TO ADORN OUR NEW POST OFFICE. TO THIS DAY, IT'S THE ONE THING THAT STANDS IN THE WAY, OF THE TOWN'S ACCEPTANCE OF THIS CHAPTER OF LOCAL HISTORY……AND FROM ATTACHING ANY REAL SIGNIFICANCE TO THE RESPECTIVE PARTIES INVOLVED. WHICH IS A SHAME, BECAUSE LESUEUR WAS AN INCREDIBLY TALENTED WRITER AND HISTORIAN, AND SMITH WAS A HUGELY ACCOMPLISHED AUTHOR / PHILOSOPHER, AND IN FACT, THE BOOK WE ARE NAMED AFTER, IS STILL IN DEMAND TO THIS DAY, IN COLLEGES AND UNIVERSITIES AROUND THE WORLD.

A LITTLE BIT OF UNKNOWN HISTORY ABOUT W.D. LESUEUR

     Why would we make a big deal out of a career civil servant? Would we be the first community in Canada, to erect a statue of a postal authority. For us, right next to Dr. Norman Bethune, in front of the Opera House? How weird would that be? Well, LeSueur was not as colorful and well known as Dr. Bethune, and it would be hard to relate even his historical authordom, to what Bethune was accomplishing on the battlefront. Field surgeon, surgical innovator, martyr? LeSueur, a Federal postal authority responsible for naming hamlet post offices, colleague to some of the best known philosophers of his time, and a Canadian historian who wasn't afraid of any one, including the future Prime Minister of Canada, Mackenzie King, grandson of the firebrand, William Lyon Mackenzie King. Mackenzie King was so pissed-off at LeSueur, for writing an expose, of his grandfather, that diminished his stature as a key player in the 1830's Rebellion in Upper Canada, that he lobbied his publisher to kill the project. When LeSueur dusted himself off, and went to another publisher, they too got a message that it wasn't a good idea to publish this particular biography. In fact, Mackenzie King was so determined to stop LeSueur, that protracted litigation kept LeSueur's book from being published until the late 1960's. Now it is an accepted and welcome edition to the study of William Lyon Mackenzie, and the rebellion of 1837 I believe. LeSueur had found information on Mackenzie, that determined him to have been nothing more than a Scottish pain in the ass, and that he caused more problems with the course of events, than if he had just followed the leadership of others. LeSueur was a big believer in the critical approach, and he was very interested in examining every possible source of information, before he compiled such a biography. What he found, with this in-depth research, was that history had been way too kind to Mr. Mackenzie, and he was intent on exposing the differences of opinion. His grandson, quite happy with the Mackenzie legend, didn't feel it was LeSueur's responsibility to change history, because of a few recollections of his grandfather, he hadn't heard before.

     In the Public Archives of Canada, the "W.D. LeSueur Papers," contain an interesting critique of the historical writing of well known Canadian author, Stephen Leacock. LeSueur was not at all impressed by the popular histories, of which Leacock had penned a timely version. On October 26, 1906, the man who afforded us the name "Gravenhurst," challenged Stephen Leacock, via letter, offering his opinion of the writer's version of what constituted important Canadian history. Here is how the challenge commences, in words from a fellow who factored heavily in our municipal history, here in South Muskoka. He named Bracebridge's post office, in 1864, after the titled of a book, written by American author, Washington Irving….."Bracebridge Hall."

     In the words of Dr. LeSueur, in a letter penned to Stephen Leacock, (in regards to the history he wrote, that didn't quite measure up); "A few words now on the question of Responsible Government. I quite recognize that a book can be written on the lines of yours that will give satisfaction, to a large section of the public, but my feeling was that in dealing with Baldwin, Lafontaine and Hincks, an opportunity was afforded for doing something a little better, than repeating that twice told tale, however, skillfully, the retelling might be done," argued LeSueur, as diplomatically as he could, under the circumstances of reading a work he believed was shallow and complacent with accepted, convenient fact.

     "I was hoping for a book that would make, or, if that is impossible, would at least invite people to think dispassionately and unconventionally on the course of Canadian history." He reports to Leacock, that "Considering the point at which we have arrived in our political development, and the many evils which have fastened themselves on our political system, the time is ripe for very critical treatment of our political conventions and catch words. The note of your book, on the other hand, is the one of finality. It is finished. We have Responsible Government.

     "Yes we have 'Responsible Government,' and corruption has so enlarged itself that witnesses in the book almost jeer at the magistrate who enquires into their inequities, and a horrible cynicism in regard to every profession of political virtue, has taken solid possession of a very large portion of the community. Is this the time to persuade people that their welfare is accomplished, and that they may sit down in peace under Responsible Government, as under a combination vine and fig tree? I do not say you distinctly say so in your book, but I do say that you have done it negatively by missing a great opportunity of presenting certain questions, as open questions instead of as eternally settled ones. It is the note of enquiry, that not of what Balfour calls, 'philosophical doubt,' that I miss in a book that gave exceptional advantage - for more than the book I am writing - for introducing it."

     If there is one opinion of W.D. LeSueur, that I have adopted as my own mantra, in the study of regional history, and the examination of politics, it is this statement: "Criticism should be the voice of impartial and enlightened reason. Too often what passes for criticism is the voice of hireling adulation or hireling enmity. Illustrations of this will occur to everyone, but there is no use blaming criticism, which, as has been said, is an intellectual necessity of the age: the foregoing remarks have been made in the hope that it may help to clear away some prevalent misconceptions, by showing the organic connection, so to speak, that exists between criticism as a function, or as a model of intellectual activity, and the very simplest intellectual processes. Such a mode of regarding it should do away with the odium that in so many minds attaches to the idea of criticism. Let us all try to be critics according to the measure of our abilities and opportunities. Let us aim at seeing all we can, at gaining as many points of view as possible. Let us compare carefully and judge impartially; and we may depend upon it; we shall be the better for the very effort."

     The above biographical material was taken from the book by A.B. McKillop, Carleton University, and the biography, "A Critical Spirit - The Thought of William Dawson LeSueur." In McKillop's observation, "LeSueur deserves, then, the attention of anyone interested in the intellectual and cultural history of Canada."

     We should of course, be proud in this town, of our inherent association with this Canadian scholar, William Dawson LeSueur, and author William Henry Smith. We got two historical legends in one simple act of naming a hamlet post office. Do you think one day, the Town administration will ever come to believe this is a story worth investing in……and promoting? An historian can always hope!

     Or will they remember me, the badgering historian, who just now, as if an act of providence, wrote down the quotation, "Stop trying to explain the meaning of life….and just live it!" Let LeSueur's and Smith's reputations fend from their own ranking of distinction. God's telling me, you see, that there are bigger fish to fry…..in a proverbial sort of way!

     Thank you for spending some time with me today. It's always as pleasure.