A tract of rough country was now reached, difficult to clear and difficult to traverse with a vehicle. Here a genuine corduroy causeway was encountered, a long series of small saw-logs laid side by side, over which wheels jolted deliberately. In the wet season, portions of it, being afloat, would undulate under the weight of a passing load; and occasionally a horse's leg would be entrapped, and possibly snapped short by the sudden yielding or revolution of one of the cylinders below.
We happen to have a very vivid recollection of the scene presented along this particular section of Yonge Street, when the woods, heavy pine chiefly, after having been felled in a most confused manner, were being consumed by fire, or rather while the effort was being made to consume them. The whole space from near Mr. Walmsley's potteries to the rise beyond which Eglinton is situated, was, and continued long, a chaos of blackened timber, most dismaying to behold.
To the right of this tract was one of the Church glebes so curiously reserved in every township in the original laying out of Upper Canada—one lot of two hundred acres in every seven of the same area—in accordance with a public policy which at the present time seems sufficiently Utopian. Of the arrangement alluded to, now broken up, but expected when the Quebec Act passed in 1780 to be permanent, a relic remained down to a late date in the shape of a wayside inn, on the right near here, styled on its sign the "Glebe Inn"—a title and sign reminding one of the "Church Stiles" and "Church Gates" not uncommon as village ale-house designations in some parts of England.
Hitherto the general direction of Yonge Street has been north, sixteen degrees west. At the point where it passes the road marking the northern limit of the third concession from the bay, it swerves seven degrees to the eastward. In the first survey of this region there occurred here a jog or fault in the lines. The portion of the street proposed to be opened north failed, by a few rods, to connect in a continuous right line with the portion of it that led southward into York. The irregularity was afterwards corrected by slicing off a long narrow angular piece from three lots on the east side, and adding the like quantity of land to the opposite lot—it happening just here that the lots on the east side lie east and west, while those on the west side lie north and south. After the third concession, the lots along the street lie uniformly east and west.
With young persons in general perhaps, at York in the olden time, who ever gave the cardinal points a thought, the notion prevailed that Yonge Street was "north." We well remember our own slight perplexity when we first distinctly took notice that the polar star, the dipper, and the focus usually of the northern lights, all seemed to be east of Yonge Street. That an impression existed in the popular mind at a late period to the effect that Yonge Street was north, was shown when the pointers indicating east, west, north and south came to be affixed to the apex of a spire on Gould Street. On that occasion several compasses had to be successively taken up and tried before the workmen could be convinced that "north" was so far "east" as the needle of each instrument would persist in asserting.
The first possessor of the lot on the west side, slightly augmented in the manner just spoken of, was the Baron de Hoen, an officer in one of the German regiments disbanded after the United States Revolutionary War. His name is also inscribed in the early maps on the adjacent lot to the north, known as No. 1 in the township of York, west side.
At the time of the capture of York in 1813, Baron de Hoen's house, on lot No. 1, proved a temporary refuge to some ladies and others, as we learn from a manuscript narrative taken down from the lips of the late venerable Mrs. Breakenridge by her daughter, Mrs. Murney. That record well recalls the period and the scene. "The ladies settled to go out to Baron de Hoen's farm," the narrative says. "He was a great friend," it then explains, "of the Baldwin family, whose real name was Von Hoen; and he had come out about the same time as Mr. St. George, and had been in the British army. He had at this time a farm about four miles up Yonge Street, and on a lot called No. 1. Yonge Street was then a corduroy road immediately after leaving King Street, and passing through a dense forest. Miss Russell, (sister of the late President Russell) loaded her phaeton with all sorts of necessaries, so that the whole party had to walk. My poor old grandfather (Mr. Baldwin, the father of Mrs. Breakenridge) by long persuasion at length consented to give up fighting, and accompany the ladies. Aunt Baldwin (Mrs. Dr. Baldwin) and her four sons, Major Fuller, who was an invalid under Dr. Baldwin's care, Miss Russell, Miss Willcox, and the whole cavalcade sallied forth: the youngest boy St. George, a mere baby, my mother (Mrs. Breakenridge) carried on her back nearly the whole way.
"When they had reached about half way out," the narrative proceeds, "they heard a most frightful concussion, and all sat down on logs and stumps, frightened terribly. They learned afterwards that this terrific sound was occasioned by the blowing up of the magazine of York garrison, when five hundred Americans were killed, and at which time my uncle, Dr. Baldwin, was dressing a soldier's wounds; he was conscious of a strange sensation: it was too great to be called a sound, and he found a shower of stones falling all around him, but he was quite unhurt. The family at length reached Baron de Hoen's log house, consisting of two rooms, one above and one below. After three days Miss Russell and my mother walked into town, just in time to prevent Miss Russell's house from being ransacked by the soldiers.