They who in the mere fraction of a lifetime have seen in so many places the desert blossom as the rose, can with a degree of certainty, realize in their imagination what the whole country will one day be, even portions of it which to the new comer seem at the first glance very unpromising. Our Sandhill here, which but as yesterday we beheld in its primeval condition, with no trace of human labour upon it except a few square yards cleared round a solitary Indian grave, to-day we see crowned along its crest for many a rood eastward and westward with comfortable villas and graceful pleasure-grounds. The history of this spot may serve to encourage all who at any time or anywhere are called in the way of duty to be the first to attack and rough-hew a forest-wild for the benefit of another generation.
If need were to stay the mind of a newly-arrived immigrant friend wavering as to whether or not he should venture permanently to cast in his lot with us, we should be inclined to direct his regards, for one thing, to the gardens of an amateur, on the southern slope of the rise, at which we are pausing, where choice fruits and flowers are year after year produced equal to those grown in Kent or Devon; we should be inclined to direct his regards, likewise, to the amateur cultivator himself of those fruits and flowers, Mr. Phipps—a typical Englishman after a residentership in York and Toronto of half a century.
But we must push on.—To the north of our Sandhill, a short distance, on the east side, was a sylvan halting place for weary teams, known as the Gardeners' Arms. It was an unpretending rural wayside inn, furnished with troughs and pump. The house lay a little way back from the road. Its sign exhibited an heraldic arrangement of horticultural implements. Another rural inn, with homely name, might have been noted, while we were nearer Lot Street: the Green Bush Tavern. But this was a name transferred from another spot, far to the north on Yonge Street, when the landlord, Mr. Abrahams, moved into town. In the original locality, the sign was a painted pine-tree or spruce of formal shape—not the ivy-bush, the sign referred to by the ancient proverb when it said, "Wine needeth it not"—"Vino vendibili non opus est suspensa hedera."
On the right, beyond the Gardeners' Arms, appeared in this region at an early date, at a considerable distance from each other, two or perhaps three flat, single-storey square cottages, clapboarded and painted white, with flat four-sided roofs, door in the centre and one window on either side: little wooden boxes set down on the surface of the soil apparently, and capable, as it might seem, of being readily lifted up and transported to any other locality. They were the first of such structures in the outskirts of York, and were speedily copied and repeated in various directions, being thought models of neatness and convenience.
Opposite the quarter where these little square hutches were to be seen, there are to be found at the present day, the vineyards of Mr. Bevan; to be found, we say, for they are concealed from the view of the transient passenger by intervening buildings. Here again we have a scene presenting a telling contrast to the same spot and its surroundings within the memory of living men: a considerable area covered with a labyrinth of trellis work, all overspread with hardy grapes in great variety and steadily productive. To this sight likewise we should introduce our timid, hesitating new comer, as also to the originator of the spectacle—Mr. Bevan, who after a forty years' sojourn in the vicinity of York and Toronto, continues as genuinely English in spirit and tone now as when he first left the quay of his native Bristol for his venture westward. While engaged largely in the manufacture of various articles of wooden ware, Mr. Bevan adopted as a recreation the cultivation of the grape, and the making of a good and wholesome wine. It is known in commerce and to physicians, who recommend it to invalids for its real purity, as Clintona.
Just before reaching the first concession-road, where Yorkville now begins, a family residence of an ornamental suburban character, put up on the left by Mr. Lardner Bostwick, was the first of that class of building in the neighbourhood. His descendants still occupy it. Mr. Bostwick was an early property owner in York. The now important square acre at the south-east angle of the intersection of King Street and Yonge Street, regarded probably when selected, as a mere site for a house and garden in the outskirts of the town, was his. The price paid for it was £100. Its value in 1873 may be £100,000.
The house of comparatively modern date, seen next after Mr. Bostwick, is associated with the memory of Mr. de Blaquiere, who occupied it before building for himself the tasteful residence—The Pines—not far off, where he died; now the abode of Mr. John Heward.
Mr. de Blaquiere was the youngest son of the first Lord de Blaquiere, of Ardkill, in Ireland. He emigrated in 1837, and was subsequently appointed to a seat in the Legislative Council of Upper Canada. In his youth he had seen active service as a midshipman. He was present at the battle of Camperdown in the Bounty, commanded by Captain Bligh. He was also in the Fleet at the Nore during the mutiny. He died suddenly here in his new house in 1860, aged 76. His fine character and prepossessing outward physique are freshly remembered.
Thus again and again have we to content ourselves with the interest that attaches, not to the birth-places of men of note, as would be the case in older towns, but to their death-places. Who of those that have been born in the numerous domiciles which we pass are finally to be ranked as men of note, and as creators consequently of a sentimental interest in their respective birth-places, remains to be seen. In our portion of Canada there has been time for the application of the requisite test in only a very few instances.
The First Concession Road-line derived its modern name of Bloor Street from a former resident on its southern side, eastward of Yonge Street. Mr. Bloor, as we have previously narrated, was for many years the landlord of the Farmers' Arms, near the market place of York, an inn conveniently situated for the accommodation of the agricultural public. On retiring from this occupation with a good competency, he established a Brewery on an extensive scale in the ravine north of the first concession road. In conjunction with Mr. Sheriff Jarvis, he entered successfully into a speculation on land, projecting and laying out the village of Yorkville, which narrowly escaped being Bloorville. That name was proposed: as also was Rosedale, after the Sheriff's homestead; and likewise "Cumberland," from the county of some of the surrounding inhabitants. The monosyllable "Blore" would have sufficed, without having recourse to a hackeyned suffix. That is the name of a spot in Staffordshire, famous for a great engagement in the wars between the Houses of Lancaster and York. But Yorkville was at last decided on, an appellation preservative in part of the name just discarded in 1834 by Toronto.