Up the Gatineau! Article
This article was first published in Up the Gatineau! Volume 14.
At Home Up the Mountain: Miles Barnes, "The Hermit"
Katharine Fletcher
To think that we have been in and around Ottawa for more than two years and yet no one has told us of this Mountain Road, and we so near it and so often! It just makes me feel like scolding at these Canadians for being so silent about all the grandeur by which they are surrounded.1
No, this is not a quote from the editorial pages of a current paper. Anson A. Gard, social historian and tall-tale-teller wrote these words in his circa 1906 journal of his travels by foot through the Gatineau. One of those who appreciated these hills was “the hermit”, Miles Barnes, who had a one-room cabin up near Kingsmere. My only reference to him was Barnes Road beside Kingsmere Lake and a tantalizing snippet in a former Up the Gatineau!2 Like many tales of the Valley, his is fraught with conjecture and makes the best kind of story, for it is a hand-me-down tale that happens to be further romanticized by poetry.
As often happens, the story was prompted just by chance when I showed a much-cherished photo from the National Archives to Ed and Lid Ryan. The young Mackenzie King was easy to identify: but who was the chap with the wispily flowing, snowy-white beard? Frozen in time, he stands rifle in hand, at the door of his ramshackle cabin. The picture prompted a gasp of recognition — and a story to share.
As I recollect, Barnes was a reclusive soul who kept much to himself in his modest shack up the mountain. He kept dogs, perhaps for company as much as to warn him of the uninvited company of visitors or curious children. A map prepared by the Ryans in 1965 from the 1875 valuation roll of the Municipality of West Hull shows the property of Miles Barnes nestled among other neighbours such as Timothy Moffat. Michael McCloskey and George Link. His home was surrounded by a small orchard of apple trees which, it is said, can still be seen by those who know where to look... These trees provided the fruit which he peddled about the country-side to cam the cash for staples.3
Neighbours worried about him one cold winter, and Ed Ryan's father, William, decided to head up through the snow by sled to check on Barnes. The man was alone in his dilapidated home; his clothes were old, the shack untidy and fearfully cold. It is said that all he had to eat that winter were the apples saved from the autumn harvest. William Ryan encouraged Barnes to come back with him to his home, where he could be looked after to regain his strength. Apparently it took some persuasion: as it is for most of us, home is home no matter where it may be or in what condition it is. Perhaps Barnes knew the time had come for a permanent parting, who can say?
Ed Ryan remembers the hermit at his home, being properly fed with hot food and staying awhile at the farm. By and by the time to be leaving arrived, but Miles Barnes was in need of greater care than he could manage by himself. At that time, the Grey Nuns operated St. Patrick's home on the comer of Laurier and Kent Streets. William Ryan travelled into the city to enquire if the hermit could be accommodated. The sisters agreed, and it was here, at St. Pat's, that Miles Barnes soon died.
And so the tale seems ended. But not quite, for while researching Gatineau-related poetry one day, my literary travels took me to the collections of Archibald Lampman and Duncan Campbell Scott — poets who knew and wrote about the region. Lampman's “Heat” is attributed to a Gatineau walk, and it is certain that the two men visited such folk as Thomas “Carbide” Willson, Mackenzie King, and also Arthur S. Bourinot. The Bourinot family are long-time Kingsmere residents; Sir John G. Bourinot purchased the first family property from early settler William Jeffs, and had the lake's name changed from Jeff's to Kingsmere Lake.
Among other things Arthur Bourinot was a poet in his own right. His Collected Poems of I914-16 revealed a long narrative poem called “The Hermit“, our Miles Barnes. The opening lines give us a glimpse of his home:
We came upon the clearing suddenly.
Its beauty stopped our feet and motionless
We stood: it caught our breath, the unceasing white
And pink of apple trees in Maytime bloom
And then the dogs were on us, with bared fang
And angry snarl they harried us until
A voice called them from the door of a small house
We had not seen before and in the doorway
Loomed and grinned a huge and bearded man whose bulk
Like that of Atlas holding the heavy earth
Supported on his shoulders his small home.
He spoke, the dogs slunk off, their bellies low,
And we went forward then to meet our host
For we had found the hermit in his wood.
Bourinot tells us that it was an experience that he enjoyed. He tells of the hermit who chuckled in his beard “at the sight/Of city folk whose prattling tongues were still/Merely because an orchard was in bloom”. The reader is granted a tour of the cabin, which was
... one room
But clean, well swept, with one great wide window,
Frame for the picture of his orchard trees.
His bed was but a bunk, but built high up
Above the floor so that the dogs could not
Molest him when he slept for they were fierce,
Part hound, part wolf, wisely he did not trust them.
He laughed with us about it, yet his laugh
Was not all mirth as though a premonition
Had touched some sense or faculty that cautioned him
Against the end that fate might have in store.
The hermit‘s end, according to Bourinot, was as grisly as could be imagined from reading these forbidding lines. The hermit was wont to make the trip down the mountain to the settlement - presumably Old Chelsea or possibly Aylmer - for news and supplies. But when he came no more, neighbours checked up on him to find him dead inside his cabin, his two dogs having assisted in his untimely demise. These neighbours searched the cabin for reference to any surviving relatives, but none was found. However, the romantic poet cannot resist the telling of a sentimental love interest:
...I had forgot
That in his well-thumbed Bible as book mark
They found a photograph of a young girl,
Faded with the years; but who it was,
Daughter or lost sweetheart, was never learned
For he'd concealed his secret all too well
... But I should add, perhaps, for what it's worth
Despite the fading years, the much-thumbed look.
The girl had beauty: in her lovely hair
White blossoms of some kind were intertwined.
And when I saw the picture, came the thought,
How much he loved those apple trees in bloom,
Those must be apple blossoms in her hair.
A sentimental thought, no doubt you'll laugh,
And not, perhaps, without a just reason.
But there, I've set it down and you may laugh
Or solve the riddle otherwise if you will.
Arthur Bourinot‘s sentimental and romantic poem is evocative of the feeling of Miles Barnes’ life. In contrast, Ed Ryan surely recollects his father's concern for the hermit, distinctly remembering Barnes‘ presence in his home.
Such is the stuff of intrigue for the historian! Stories do not have to be exactly alike to bear true witness to a life; perhaps they simply weave the complex tapestry which is the tale. after all, of all our lives.
Footnotes
- Anson A. Gard, Genealogy of the Valley, Ottawa, circa 1906, p. 26.
- A. del Panet, "Kingsmere“, Up the Gatineau! Vol. ll, 1985, p. 14.
- Shirley Thompson Recollections of Early Days in the Gatineau Hills, Collections and Recordings, (unpublished manuscript, photocopy in collection of the Society), p. 10.