Hulbert Footner: A Research Update

     In this post I will offer an update about research relating to the author, Hulbert Footner. It should be of some use to Footner fans and those in Southern Maryland, particularly at the Calvert County Historical Society, where his works have been collected, and space dedicated to honour him. As well, those interested in the exploration of northwestern Canada during the early part of the last century, will find beneficial, a new book based on Footner's account of his travels on the "new rivers" in the area, in 1911. 

What's New?
  A few years ago, I published a book about Hulbert Footner, who wrote, New Rivers of the North: The Yarn About Two Amateur Explorers of the Headquarters of the Fraser, the Peace River, the Hay River, Alexandra Falls. He was also the author of many other works of non-fiction, but is best known for his detective novels. In my book, which is largely bibliographical, I gathered and annotated every reference I could find about Footner and his work. I will now add to those references, but will warn aficionados of his detective fiction, that most of what follows relates to Footner's travels in the Canadian north. To keep this short, I will resort to points and spare you my prose, of which there is always too much. 

The New Book: 
   The title is: New Rivers of the North Revisited, by Hulbert Footner.  It is pictured above, to the left of my book about Footner. The authors of it, both highly qualified, are David W. Leonard and Brock Silversides and it was produced with the assistance of a grant from the Alberta Ministry of Culture. 
A Condensed Version
   It is not a reprint of Footner's original New Rivers, all 340 pages which are freely accessible on the Internet Archive and elsewhere. The professionally produced Revisit consists of around 100 pp., the authors having decided to leave out some of the repetitive descriptive scenes.
Good Early Photos of the North and the Natives
   A large number of photographs are included, some of which appeared in the original, and they have been restored by Mr. Silversides and new ones added. Most of them are found in the University of Alberta Archives, having been donated by Geoffrey Footner, the son of Hulbert (see.p.xxvi, in Revisted and p.33 in my HF.) The photographs are of special interest to those studying the Indigenous and the authors note that, "For posterity, the most important accomplishment of the journey of Hulbert Footner and Auville Eager in 1911 was the photographs they took" (p.xxv).
Helpful Background About the Canadian Northwest
   The background information about the 1911 trip and several maps will be of interest to readers of the complete account and to those trying to sort out in which direction the 'new rivers' are flowing and where the explorers are heading.
   Two brief essays offer observations from descendants of the original inhabitants: "A Cree Perspective," by Joanne Gontar and "A Métis  Perspective," by Beverly Whalen.
Footner's Description of the Indigenous
   New Rivers Revisited  is also shorter because the new authors decided to leave out passages that portray the Indigenous in unflattering terms: "Footner's depiction of the Native people (both Aboriginal and Métis ) was far from accurate and, at times, excessively derogatory" (p.xxii). I disagree and think "excessively derogatory" is excessive. The issue of Footner's "racist" views in his outdoor novels has been raised before, and I also thought then that he was being unfairly judged by the standards existing in our more sensitive times (see pp. 51-54 in HF).
Any New Sources?
   The new New Rivers of the North Revisited, is presented by two authors who have written books about the area and they offer some good suggestions about other works related to Alberta in the early 1900s. 
   I found no references about Footner, however, that are not included in my Hulbert Footner. Unfortunately the authors were unaware of my book, which would have saved them a lot of research time. 
   For Footner, they chiefly rely on the Wikipedia entry for him, unaware that most of the information in it was provided by Geoffrey Footner, Hulbert's son:
"For an account of Footner's life and writings see, the submissions to Wikipedia, to be taken, of course, with a grain of salt. There is apparently a lengthier biography being written by one Jerry Mulcahy, but as of this writing, it is not available." (n.1, p.XV).

   Those interested in Footner and the remote areas of Alberta and British Columbia should read both this book and the original. Although I did not uncover any new sources about Footner, there is one quotation about Footner, of which I was unaware. It comes from the forward of the second printing of Footner's, Maryland, Main and the Eastern Shore. Written by Hamilton Owen, it proves, once again, that Footner is worth our consideration:

       
   Bill Footner was a sensitive man, as conscious of ugliness as of beauty. When what he saw was unpleasing, he commented on it, and always with a special kind of tolerance. But often, when others saw only the commonplace, he found under the surface as it were, a kind of beauty -- the kind of beauty untrained men of simple honesty usually bestow upon their makings. The pretentiousness of those whose chief desire was to attract attention, he found more humorous than irritating....There was not much self-righteousness in this man (p.XV).

There Is More: New Rivers Previewed in the Journal - Alberta History. 
   To announce the publication of New Rivers of the North Revisited, Leonard produced an extract in the journal, Alberta History, pictured above to the right of my book. The article contains some of the maps and photos and the proper citation is as follows: "The Euro-American Discovery of the Hay River," by David W. Leonard, Alberta History, Spring 2024, Vol. 72, No.2, pp. 2-12.

In Addition: A Review of Hulbert Footner...Also Found in the Same Issue.

   Readers of that article  will likely find it curious that the issue begins with a piece  about Footner's book and ends with a review of my book about Footner. The curious part is that no connection is made, and there is no mention in the front of the journal about what comes at the back. The simple explanation for this is likely that this slim issue was produced during a time of editorial change and the connection went unnoticed, or that there was not time to make a comment about it before publication. In any case, readers should know that Leonard and I were like two canoes passing in the dark on the Hay River; the paddlers in them, unaware of one another. I am sorry to report that I never did have the opportunity to connect with Dr. Leonard, who recently passed away. 

The Review of Hulbert Footner....

  A picture of the page containing the review is provided and the entire review, written by Graham MacDonald, is included below.

 Hulbert Footner, Author of Adventure Novels, Detective Novels and Historical Nonfiction: A Bibliographic Account of His Life and Work

by Jerry Mulcahy

Amazon: Bolton, ON, 2021. 300 pp. $22.00

In 1912, the Outing Publishing Company of New York brought out New Rivers of the North: The Yarn of Two Amateur Explorers, by Hulbert Footner. This was a substantial book, richly illustrated with photographs, detailing an audacious canoe trip down the Peace River and almost to Great Slave Lake via the Hay River. Such adventure literature was popular with the reading public, now and then, producing classics of natural history such as those by Warburton Pike, David T. Hanbury, or Stewart Edward White. But just who was Hulbert Footner? Jerry Mulcahy retired Emeritus Librarian at the C.B. "Bud" Johnston Library, Western University, determined to find out. It was not his purpose to write a full biography, although the first third of his study provides a review of the main details of Footner's life and achievements. The remaining sections provide a thorough listing of his works, their various editions, and annotated commentaries on those works. As the author implies, his book is all spadework for anyone seeking to prepare a full biography. (51-74) His commentaries reveal the possibilities provided by the tools now available to researchers in our new age of the computer.

Born in Hamilton, Ontario, William Hulbert Footner (1879-1944) was a prolific and well-published writer of fiction, drama, and non-fiction, with his books numbering over 70 titles. More than 150 stories and reviews appeared in at least 36 reputable magazines. Today, he has become a rather obscure figure, although new editions of his works have been appearing in recent years. The family had significant connections in Montreal but moved to New York City around 1889. Footner attended school and gradually involved himself in theatre and journalism. In 1901 his first fiction appeared in Argosy. Memories of Canada lingered, however. He became adept at canoeing in the harbours of New York City. Seeking adventure in 1902, he and a friend paddled up the Hudson River and headed into Canada. An account of the trip was published in Forest and Stream in 1903. The year 1906 found him north again in the new province of Alberta, testing out journalism with the Albertan and Bob Edwards of the Calgary Eye-Opener. (27-30) From Edmonton, he made a canoe trip to the Peace River country but no record of it has been found. By 1908. Footner had relocated from New York to Maryland, taking up residence on Solomon's Island at the mouth of the Patuxent River. Auville Eager, a local friend, became his travelling companion on the 1911 trip into the Peace River Country, the event behind New Rivers of the North. Well received, in 1922, Federal Surveyors found the book useful as a source of landscape information. In the High Level area, they named Footner Lake, and years later, a large surrounding tract was established as Footner Lake Forest. (32-34)

The author had already made use of the trip in other directions, for it inspired the first of his adventure novels, Two on the Trail (1911). His early engagements with journalism and the theatre had, meanwhile, been giving way to the writing of short stories brought out by leading publishers. Over fifty pieces appeared in American magazines by 1912. (109-113) Several historical adventure novels were inspired by the northern trips, such as Jack Chanty (1914) and The Fur Bringers (1916), set in the Lake Athabasca country. His mounting popularity is reflected in the pre-1929 years of silent movies, with several of his novels made into films, including Jack Chanty. (98-106)

Encouraged by an editor to try detective fiction, The Fugitive Sleuth appeared in 1916 in All-Story Weekly, republished as a novel in 1918. Set in New York City, this tale marked his shift to the American scene as a setting. President Woodrow Wilson became one of his many readers. As favored by many fiction publishers today, Footner developed a series approach. The first, based around Madame Rosika Storey, was introduced in 1922, with the last, The Casual Murderer, appearing in 1937. The heroine of this series did not remain in New York City but went on tour to Japan, China, and other places visited by Footner and his wife. A second series, centred around a more Sherlockian figure, Amos Lee Mappin, commenced in 1930 with The Mystery of the Folded Paper. That series concluded with the posthumous Orchids to Murder (1945). Mappin, as a personality, reflected what Mulcahy calls Footner's 'clubbable' side, as revealed by the author's regular sociable restaurant meetings in Baltimore with writers such as H.L. Mencken. (51, 66-67)

Going in search of Hulbert Footner, Mulcahy did not, as mentioned, set out to write a full biography. It was the character of the author as much as his achievements that fed his curiosity. In early 1911, a New York journalist asked Footner why he was going back to the Peace River country. Footner stated that he was not going to Alberta for a long time but 'for a good time' (243). In the pleasing sketch of his life provided, Mulcahy finds this to be an important key to his personality. Mulcahy gives us glimpses of not just a compulsive and successful writer, but of one who saw life as a dare and a gift to be enjoyed. These traits are well revealed in his fiction and the later non-fiction works which detail the rivers of Maryland and the history of his colonial home on Solomon's Island, Charles' Gift: Salute to a Maryland House of 1650. Mulcahy's study will be a fundamental reference for any prospective biographer of Footner or for anyone who wants to explore the works of this many-sided writer.

Graham A. MacDonald has worked as a teacher, librarian, historian for the Ontario Parks Branch and Parks Canada, and as a heritage consultant. His books include: Where the Mountains Meet the Prairies: A History of Waterton Country (2000) and The Beaver Hills Country: A History of Land and Life (2009). ---------------------------------------- Notes:

New Rivers of the North Revisited was launched at the Grand Prairie Museum in late September, 2024. Information about the launch is available on the Facebook Page of the Museum. There are some related articles, for example: "New Book to Showcase Unseen Photos of the Peace Region Before Large Number of Settlers Arrived," CTV News Edmonton, Sept. 20, 2024. "Local historian David W. Leonard is releasing a book that gives a glimpse of the Peace Country through many unpublished photos just before a large scale of settlers arrived in the area. New Rivers of the North Revisited includes excerpts from the original 1912 book New Rivers of the North by Hulbert Footner, who documented his journey through the region in 1911. “As a historian, I'm very interested in this period of time in the Peace River country, right when large-scale settlement was about to take place but hadn't yet occurred, and how the natives lived right on the eve of large-scale settlement, and no one had any idea that there'd be such widespread settlement over the next few years, and so capturing these people right on at that point in time was especially meaningful for me,” said Leonard. “The reason we wanted to reprint it is that we have discovered in the University of Alberta (U of A) archives the entirety of Footner’s photos that he took on his trip of 1911 throughout the Peace Country and up to all the way to Fort Vermillion, Hay River and Alexandra Falls,” said Leonard." The book is available for purchasing online and here is one description from a vendor:

New Rivers of the North Revisited

David Leonard, Brock Silversides

Oct 16, 2024

$29.95

Online pricing. Prices and offers may vary in store.

Paperback

$29.95

   In the summer of 1911, two young adventurers named Hulbert Footner and Auville Eager undertook a precarious and sometimes dangerous excursion in a collapsible canvas canoe from Tete Jaune Cache BC through the Peace River Country and on to the Hay River and its Alexandra Falls. Along the way, the men took over 120 photographs of people and places they encountered which offer rare insight into what living was like in the region at the time, especially in Native communities. Footner recounted his journey in a book called New Rivers of the North, and included some of his photographs. In this book, New Rivers of the North Revisited, some of these and other Footner photos, along with maps, other images, and historical commentary, are combined with excerpts from Footner’s text to offer an even more detailed perspective of northeastern British Columbia and northwestern Alberta at the beginning of the twentieth century.

Publisher: Peace Heritage Press

Shipping dimensions: 10" H x 7" W x 1" L

ISBN: 9781999055332

The Author: Dr. David William Leonard (R.I.P.)

  An obituary is found on the website of the Edmonton Crematorium & Funeral Home Ltd. An obituary is also found in The Edmonton Journal, July 9, 2025.

The Bonus: Watch the "Hulbert Footner Slideshow" on the website of the Calvert County Historical Society (7:48)

Other Footner-Related Posts in Mulcahy's Miscellany
"Kathleen "Kit" Coleman" July 5, 2023 
(The famous Canadian journalist. It was announced that Footner was to marry her daughter, but it never happened.)
"Surely You Joust"  July 11, 2023
(An account of the "Ring Tournaments" held in southern Maryland, drawn from Footner's, Maryland Main and the Eastern Shore.)

"Footner Down Under" July 17, 2023
(Footner was very popular in Australia and New Zealand.)
"Canoeing on the Hudson" June 23, 2024
(The complete account of Footner's canoe trip up the Hudson to Canada, based on his article in Forest and Stream in 1903.)
"Armed Services Editions  July 11, 2024
(One of Footner's books was included among the "Books For The Troops".)

Beyond the Palewall (13)

 That Sinking Feeling
   If you are heading to the capital of Indonesia, don't go to Jakarta which is rapidly sinking. The new capital is Nusantara which is located in the jungle on another island. There are around 30 million people in the Jakarta metropolitan area, so it is pretty heavy. Although the Dutch left in the last century, they will likely be blamed."Why Indonesia Moved Its Capital to a Jungle Hundreds of Miles Away: The New City Nusantara, Comes as Jakarta Continues to Sink at a Record Pace," Bryan Pietsch, Washington Post, Aug. 17, 2024.
  It is not the only city that is sinking and if you plan to move to Miami, pick one of the higher floors in the condo.
"Venice is Sinking. So are Rotterdam, Bangkok and New York: But no place compares to Jakarta, the fastest-sinking megacity on the planet. Over the past 25 years, the hardest-hit areas of Indonesia’s capital have subsided more than 16 feet. The city has until 2030 to figure out a solution, experts say, or it will be too late to hold back the Java Sea."
 "The World’s Fastest-Sinking Megacity Has One Last Chance to Save Itself: Parts of Jakarta are subsiding at unprecedented speed,"  By Sheryl Tian Tong Lee and Grace Sihombing, Bloomberg.com. Dec. 6, 2023.

These stories just arrived: Last week, another house just collapsed in Rodanthe in the Outer Banks, "See the Latest House in This Outer Banks Town to Fall Into the Ocean," The Washington Post, Sept. 20, 2024.
People are still buying condos on the Texas coast, but, "since 2010, Galveston has experienced a burst of sea level rise, which has added a staggering 8 inches to the ocean's height here, according to federal data analyzed by The Post," The Washington Post, Sept. 23, 2024.

The Rich Are Different From Me
   The rich are buying some items that would not be very valuable to me. Apparently others agree since in this article it is mentioned that "there was zero rationality to the valuations" for "celebrity-adjacent objects." Freddie Mercury's mustache comb went for almost $200,000 at Sotheby's, no less, and “In 2015, the cardigan that Kurt [Cobain] wore during Nirvana’s appearance on “MTV Unplugged” sold for $137,000; four years later it went for more than twice than that” (even though it “had a small amount of something brown and crusty, possibly dried vomit, in a pocket.)”
See: "The Place to Buy Kurt Cobain’s Sweater and Truman Capote’s Ashes: As the art market cools, Julien’s Auctions earns millions selling celebrity ephemera—and used its connections to help Kim Kardashian borrow Marilyn Monroe’s J.F.K.-birthday dress," Rachel Monroe, The New Yorker, March 18, 2024.

Current Fiction and "The Piety Problem"
   I don't read much current fiction, but from the reviews of some of the novels, one gathers that there is considerable pedagogy buried in the prose and that the category in which the author falls is as important as the fiction written. The following is from this interesting piece in the NYT: "An Acerbic Young Writer Takes Aim at the Identity Era: Tony Tulathimutte is a Master Comedian Whose Original and Highly Disturbing New Book Skewers Liberal Pieties," Giles Harvey, Sept. 13, 2024.
   “The years since Donald Trump announced his first presidential bid have hardly been a heyday for American fiction. “Literature is the human activity that takes the fullest and most precise account of variousness, possibility, complexity, and difficulty,” Lionel Trilling wrote in “The Liberal Imagination” (1950), but 75 years later, amid the rise of a homegrown authoritarianism, these qualities can start to look expendable, like mere literary trinkets. At least that’s the sense you get from a recent tranche of worthy social novels, books that may as well come with colorful stickers proclaiming, In these pages we believe Black lives matter, women’s rights are human rights, no human is illegal and so on. Such commitments, however well-intentioned, can sometimes come at the expense of a nuanced moral vision and tend to lead to writing that’s effective neither as politics nor art. “There is definitely a piety problem,” Tulathimutte told me, summing up the state of today's publishing business.”
[If now you are interested, Tulathimutte's new book is Rejection.]

DETECTIVE FICTION - CANCON

   We often learn about Canadian things from American sources. I learned recently, for example, that a new TV mystery series is soon to launch on an American network. It is based on the work done by Laurali Wright who was born in Saskatchewan and lived and died (2001) in B.C. where the settings often involve the "Sunshine Coast." Canadian lovers of the mystery genre may wish to tune-in and they will likely already know about Ms. Wright and the "Alberg & Cassandra" mystery series. I did not, but found from these sources that more needs to be known about Laurali Wright and it is better to learn from them than me.

Sources:
   Start with the official web site of L.R. Wright. You will find there a trailer for the new series, "Murder in a Small Town which starts on Sept. 24.
   The Wikipedia entry is interesting and provides other sources: L.R.Wright
   The Canadian Press did write about the series at the end of last year. See: "Fox Picks Up B.C.-shot Crime Drama: "Murder in a Small Town, For Upcoming Fall Lineup," CBC News, Dec.14, 2023.
   I read about Ms. Wright here:
“Murder in a Small Town” debuts Sept. 24 on Fox (trailer). The mystery series is based on “The Suspect,” an Edgar Award-winning novel by the late Canadian writer Laurali Wright (1939-2001). Rossif Sutherland plays police chief Karl Alberg, and Kristin Kreuk is Cassandra, the town librarian who becomes an integral part of his investigation. If the show catches on, it could run for years; Wright published nine Alberg & Cassandra mysteries." From: "The Book Club Newsletter," Ron Charles, The Washington Post, Sept. 20, 2024.
   The images of the books above are all from Felony & Mayhem, which was started by a woman and deserves a post of its own. 

Post Script:
   If you wish to borrow rather than buy the books by Ms. Wright, I don't think you will have any luck at the London Public Libraries since I didn't find any, using various search strategies. 
  Oddly enough, the libraries up at Western do have some Wright books, but they are either in storage or in ARCC where they seem to have been acquired as part of the "William French Collection of Canadian Literature."
  I don't think I can be accused of shameless self promotion, since this is buried at the bottom of this post and I have rarely mentioned it before, but a couple of years ago I wrote a book about another Canadian mystery writer who is generally unknown in Canada. Like Ms. Wright, Hulbert Footner, wrote more than detective fiction and should be better known. For about a buck you can read the ebook and for about ten of them you can have the book printed near you and delivered in a few days. Or if you just click on this link, you can read a good summary for free.
Hulbert Footner: Author of Adventure Novels, Detective Novels and Historical Nonfiction...  Or you could borrow a copy from either the London Public Libraries or Western.
Or you could stop by and see me and I will give you one.

Canoeing On The Hudson

Bill Footner in later years, probably on the Patuxent River

   A few weeks ago on a rainy day I posted about a Paper Canoe that travelled from Quebec, down the Hudson in the 1870's. On this rainy day, here is one about a trip up the Hudson by canoe to Montreal in 1902.
   A while back I wrote a book about Hulbert Footner and it begins with a mention of this cruise, which a young "Bill" Footner and a companion took from near New York City to Montreal. It was, I suppose, my way of providing some excitement in a book which I knew would not otherwise produce much.
   For reasons I do not recall, I tracked down the original article Footner wrote about the trip and then copied it into a format that could be used in the book, or in a blog such as this one. It was not included in the book, but it is provided here in its entirety for your rainy day reading pleasure.
   The trip up the Hudson is not an easy one and these young men did not object to being towed or accepting rides on barges or canal boats. Sometimes the boats doing the towing, meandered a bit and those being towed were pelted with beer bottles. It was the July 4th weekend, after all. They boys were welcomed by Canadians and made it to Montreal. You can now enjoy the cruise without having to do any paddling and, of course, such a cruise also includes Lake Champlain.

Forest and Stream: A Weekly Journal of the Rod and Gun
Vol. 60, No. 9, Saturday, February 28, 1903. p. 174.

"The Cruise of the Mosquito"
by HULBERT FOOTNER

   It was Fourth of July morning; the Hudson lay like a sheet of dusty glass in the sun and the further shore was almost indistinguishable through the hot haze. The long, slim canoe, which we had dubbed Mosquito and painted a beautiful bottle-green, was cleaving the oily surface noiselessly, and the hearts of the crew were light with the prospect of two weeks entire freedom and strange adventures to befall. The mate knelt in the bow, striving manfully to accustom his bones to  the strange demands of his position, his bare arms pinking rapidly under the kiss of the sun; baggage was piled amidships, including many goodly things for the refreshment of the inner man, and the skipper sat up  on the stern deck and surveyed the course. 

   We had left Coxsackie, whereto we had taken passage to avoid the tides and squalls and railroad trains of the Lower Hudson, a few hours before, feeling abundantly able to cover the twenty-five miles to Albany before night; but, alas! the humiliating confession must be made, we had done no more than ten before the sun and ebb tide (which he had not escaped after all) had taken all the steam out of our strokes, and we were even now thinking how pleasant it would be to have a tow through the heat of the day. 

   To that end, we hailed a couple of steamers from midstream, but they did not appear inclined to stop for us. Most inconsiderate, we thought, on a holiday, too, when good will should be in the air. But by and by we came upon a barge moored to a wharf, and about to return to Albany with a load of excursionists. We promptly made fast to the stern, and this was the beginning of our first adventure. 

   Now excursion barges are not remarkable for speed; I suppose this one made about eight miles an hour; it would have looked slow enough from the shore, but to us in a frail canoe dangling at the stern, with the wake of the clumsy vessel pounding our bows and threatening to capsize us momentarily, the rate was nothing less than terrific. If the barge was moving at eight miles an hour, the water was thrown back of her stern at about the same rate, making our gross progress through the water about sixteen miles an hour, which is pretty good for a canoe. Our line got jammed; and in order to be able to let go at a moment's notice, the mate had to unloose it and hang on by main strength. We determined not to let go the rope until we were actually in the water. The skipper balanced in the stern and tried to steer — tried, because the Mosquito acted exactly like a gamy[sic] fish with a hook in its gills, darting first to one side, then the other. Over and over we'd go, till just as we thought it was all up with us, off she'd shoot to the other side. Our tow line was not long enough, and it was impossible to keep her straight. 

   The barge was crowded as only excursion barges can be. Those hanging over the stern amused themselves by jeering us, and even peppering us with buns and bits of ice. We were much too busy to think of returning their fire, and it was hard to preserve our dignity. Others seemed to think we were there for the express purpose of filling their pitchers with water, and were quite indignant at our refusal. We would have liked to have had a drink ourselves. I suspected we worked harder for those two hours than if we had paddled, but the excitement of the strenuous ride was fine, and we were able to camp in sight of Albany after all. 

   On a trip like this there is generally a day when one thing after another goes amiss, and this is the time that proves the temper of the crew. Our run of hard luck struck us on the first night out. In the first place we delayed too long in choosing a camping ground, and darkness commencing to fall, we had to go ashore where we were, and it was the worst kind of a mudhole.  Then when the fire was lit a swarm of gnats descended on us, and in combating them the skipper kicked over the soup. We had a miserable supper and a great struggle to put up the tent in the dark, and when we finally managed to turn in, dog-tired and cross, our troubles were not over even then. 

   Toward morning we were awakened by the steamer Adirondack passing up the river. It was raining hard, and our feet were in a pool of water. We swore at each other for pitching the tent over a hollow, and drawing up our knees prepared to go to sleep again, when suddenly the flaps parted inward and a wave which looked enormous to our dazed senses lifted up and fell on us, followed by half a dozen others. We leaped to our feet, and found that half the tent was pitched in the river; the waves were the rollers from the Adirondack. All the day before the tide had run strong against us, and when we had naturally come to the conclusion it never ran the other way, it had risen in the night and tried to drown us. We decided that tide had a personal spite against the crew of the Mosquito. 

   That was a miserable morning; everything was soaking wet, and after our sodden breakfast a heavier shower than ever came up. We embarked in the midst of it, and it was a notable sight to see the millions of fat drops plumping themselves all over the face of the river. But the cursed tide was now running out again like a mill-race, and mackintoshes hurt our sun-burned shoulders cruelly. With the greatest efforts we could scarcely make any headwy,[sic] and coming to a wharf presently, we hung on to rest for a while, almost ready to give up. 

   We enviously watched a launch breasting the current easily. "If we were only hitched on behind!" we exclaimed to each other, and at that very minute, as if in answer to our prayer, the launch ran smack aground. You may be sure we did not take long to go to her assistance. We found a crew of eight men on board and seven of them giving orders. It immediately became apparent that the gentlemen had been celebrating the holiday not wisely, but too well. The eighth was even now fortifying himself in the cabin against the horrors of a watery grave. Of course with our light craft we could do nothing to help them, but we hung around and added our voices to the seven already talking, and when the launch finally slid off the stones, the grateful gentlemen gave us all the credit for it and immediately offered to tow us up against the current. 

   The sun came out, and our troubles were over. One of the crew took up a position on the stern of the launch, and with the kindest intent bombarded us with bottles of beer. His aim was bad, and we nearly capsized trying to catch them; but fortunately some came fairly aboard. Whenever we became thirsty during the rest of the trip we always thought regretfully of those bottles of beer lying at the bottom of the Hudson. As it might be supposed, our friends steered as straight as they would have walked on land; zigzag is the word to describe our course. When the channel marks indicated the right bank we hugged the left; when we should have stayed on the left we straightway crossed to the right. However, the Providence who is supposed to look after jovial gentlemen  brought us to Albany without further mishap. 

   The next three days were occupied in passing through the Hudson and Champlain canal. One might think that seventy miles of such a narrow, sluggish waterway would become monotonous, but such is by no means the case. There was more variety than on any part of our trip. You obtain an intimate personal view of the country from the canal; you have plenty of company, and may talk to passers-by on the banks. You look up and down the village streets and into the very doors of the houses, as it were, and all the time the banks are moving past at a most encouraging rate, whereas on a big piece of water you scarcely seem to progress at all. Lastly, as we told ourselves over and over, there was no tide with a grudge against us. 

   When we wanted a change of exercise we landed, lit our pipes and trudged along the tow-path towing the Mosquito. We could always find a good camping spot on the bream side (opposite the tow-path). In many places quantities of berries hung over the water waiting to be picked; the numerous locks provided a spice of excitement, especially when the lock tender proved ill-tempered at having to exert himself for so small a craft, and let the water in too fast; and altogether we enjoyed the canal mightily. 

   The population took the greatest interest in our progress. They could not understand why two fellows should work so hard just for fun, and when they saw us towing our boat they openly jeered. I suspect they thought it was like a man inviting his horse to sit in the buggy while he took the shafts. The same volley of questions was fired at us twenty times a day: "Where are you from?" "Where are you going?" "How long have you been?" "Do you camp out nights?" etc., etc. It became very difficult to answer the twentieth civilly. The children used to gather around us and ask if we didn't have any home. 

   The last day on the canal was spent in the most luxurious pleasure. A little steam yacht picked us up early in the morning, and all day we swept between the banks lying at our ease in the canoe smoking and watching the scenery, which was at this end of the canal very beautiful. The country was hilly and broken and quite unspoiled by ugly towns; the canal wound in and out like a river, and numbers of lofty pine and elm trees hung over the water. At noon we prepared quite an elaborate collation while still under way, and ate in style spread out on the suitcase between us. People who witnessed these proceedings from the bank were greatly amused. Afterward we wrote postal cards to our friends, dating them "Canoe Mosquito, En Route," and when at last the owner's wife and her two pretty daughters brought their fancy work out on the after deck of the yacht and fell into conversation with us, our cup of happiness was full. 

   Forward in the little yacht things were not progressing so smoothly. The owner was engineer, his son pilot and there were frequent clashes of authority between the parent and the navigator. The old canalers who have a childish jealousy and fear of steam craft, would begin shouting to us to slow up while we were yet an eighth of a mile away, and as we passed their barges as like as not they would slyly try to shove us up on the bank. This led to frequent engine room signals, but the engineer was disposed to question the pilot's wisdom, and instead of obeying the signals, he would stick his head out of the engine room window and carry on an argument. Once right in the middle of such a discussion the yacht ran up on the bank, much to the delight of the passing canalers. The crew of the Mosquito earned their tow on this occasion by pulling the larger craft off the mud. 

   Next morning we proceeded up Lake Champlain under our own power. We were much disappointed with our first sight of that famous body of water; the lower end is no wider than a river, sluggish and foul with marshy banks. For mile after mile under a blazing sun we sought in vain for a place to go ashore; every likely spot was overshadowed by the sign of one Mr. Koch, forbidding us to land at the risk of terrible penalties. We began to wonder if Mr. Koch owned the whole lake shore, but at last, a fine breeze sprang up from astern, and under two umbrellas, which we had brought for the purpose, we soon left the inhospitable shores behind.

    When the water became clear we refreshed ourselves with a swim, and later we paddled some miles further in the cool of the afternoon through the most beautiful scenes. Great rocky birch-covered heights now rose abruptly out of the water on either hand, and the narrow lake lay deep between under the sunset glow, all as bright and still as if an enchantment had been cast on the scene. 

   We met an ancient keeper making his rounds from light to light in the tortuous channel, rowed by his buxom, rosy daughter, and they were the only living things we saw. Presently we found an ideal camping spot on the Vermont shore, and neither the mate nor the skipper will be likely soon to forget the lingering beauty of that evening. We pitched our tent facing the west, and after supper as we smoked at the door the first crescent of the moon shone like a diadem on the brow of the hills across the shadowy lake. 

   Each day we saw Champlain under a new and lovelier aspect. Once it lay in light silvery mist under a cool sky, and we paddled thirty miles. The next two days, by which time we had entered on the widest part, the sun shone gloriously, and a spanking breeze came out of the north, kicking up a nasty head sea. At first we tried to face it, and the wind and sea were as exhilarating as champagne, but we were nearly swamped and just got ashore in a sinking condition. So we idled in our pine bush camp or explored the country for supplies while the wind blew, and then made a dash up the lake in the calm evenings. Another day it was squally and full of risks. Here the coast formed a succession of deep bays, and cutting across from point to point more than once a squall struck us in the middle several miles from land, and we passed an anxious ten minutes. 

    A volume could be written in enthusiastic praise of Lake Champlain without exhausting the subject. All the diverse beauties of the most famous spots are here gathered together; it is alternately a tortuous river, a deep-sunken mountain lake, a wide blue inland sea. In places lofty mountains rise sheer out of the water, then green and level farms stretch inland, then the shore line is broken by deep, mysterious, far-reaching bays, fringed with undisturbed pines. One picture that lingers in our memories is of a sheet of water sparkling in the sun, stretching fifteen miles across to Burlington and as far as the eye can see to the north, while on the further shore rise the Green Mountains, hazy in the distance, and on our left hand the Adirondacks lifting shoulder above shoulder. 
[to be concluded.]

Vol. 60, No.10, March 7, 1903, p. 193.

"The Cruise of the Mosquito." 
BY HULBERT FOOTNER. 

   At last early on a Sunday morning we entered the Richelieu River, and immediately passed the Canadian boundary marked by a little shanty on the shore. All day the river was full of sailboats and rowboats conveying family parties, and the first thing that impressed us about the Canadians was the greater eagerness with which they amused themselves. This was especially true of the quaint little village of St. Johns, where the whole population was abroad in crazy old rigs or on the river in canoes. Stout old men were paddling with as much zest as the youngsters. We were no longer looked upon as freaks; the Canadians took it as a matter of course that we should go cruising. 

   We had to enter a short canal at St. Johns to carry us around several dams in the river, and it took the mate the greater part of the afternoon in unwinding red tape to secure the necessary papers — another phase of the Canadian character! 

   We camped on the canal bank that night, and reached Chambly, the end of the canal, early the next morning. Montreal is only fifteen miles from this point by rail, whereas by water we had still ninety miles to cover. There are eight successive locks at Chambly, and as luck would have it a tow of some twenty barges was descending and an equal number coming up. Seeing that it would be all day before we could get through, we hired a native to carry the Mosquito around the locks on his cart, and her poor old bones were subjected to a sad shaking. As we jogged down the towpath to our eyes the most inextricable confusion of barges and ropes and horses prevailed, with men rushing to and fro bawling in mixed French and English like lunatics; but in reality the barges were being handled with both skill and dispatch. It was a most picturesque scene; the clumsy, snub-nosed barges crawling past each other and bumping in and out of the locks; the skippers leaning on the tillers and shouting all the news since they had last met to their friends bound in the opposite direction; the crews busy with lines and poles; the drivers calling to their straining teams. 

   Entering the river again, we found ourselves in the heart of French Canada. For the whole length of the Richelieu the character of the country never changed. A road followed either bank, dotted with bare little farmhouses set no further apart than in a village, with their fields stringing out behind, so that each farm which may be several miles deep, has a river frontage. Towering stone churches, with zinc steeples, marked the hamlets which usually faced each other on the river, and it was a matter for wonder that a country so poor could support so many and such fine churches. Each place bore a saint's name — St. Athanase, St. Ours, St. Marc, St. Polycarpe, etc. 

   At evening we went ashore to ask for supper at a farmhouse. Our linguistic experiences were amusing. Each person assured us he could "Spik Anglis," but it generally resulted that those two words comprised his whole vocabulary. The skipper knew a little French, and given time could arrange a passable sentence in his head, but he could not unfortunately arrange for the replies, and the flood of French that poured forth floored him completely. As for the mate, he was quite ignorant of the language, and was persuaded of the absurd idea that it would be easier for the French to understand a kind of pigeon English than the language properly spoken. 

   But we fell in with a most hospitable family, and sat up on a kind of second-story platform conversing with the farmer while his wife prepared "jambon et oeufs" for us below. Heads of the neighbors might be seen at the surrounding windows, and the farmer hailed one coquettish damsel in a red wrapper, whom he assured us had been to "Les Etats Unis" and could speak the language. Presently she sidled bashfully over toward us and sat within a window opening on the platform. "You spik French?" she asked the skipper. Non. Parlez-vous Anglais?" he asked in turn. "No." "Too bad! Too bad!" we both softly sighed, and that was the end of a promising flirtation. 

   But this very difficulty of communication made supper the merriest of meals, and our mutual delight when we succeeded in making each other understand was simply childish. The chairs were low, with high, narrow backs, and every time the mate or the skipper leaned back to laugh he promptly fell over, amid general laughter. They brought out the best in the house for our entertainment. 

   Next morning we rose from our tent to find it drearily raining. We were disconsolately making breakfast over a smoky fire, when we perceived a tug coming around a bend in the river, towing the barges we had passed in the canal the day before. In fact, we had passed and repassed them several times en route, and had made friends with some of the skippers who had repeatedly invited us on board. They were approaching at a good rate, for the current was considerable, and it was a race to see if we could get ready before they passed. Abandoning the breakfast, we threw everything in the canoe, and by making a great spurt just managed to catch the last barge as it swept by. Our friends were glad to see us, and climbing on board we pulled the Mosquito up after us, and turned her over on the deck. 

   All day it rained steadily, culminating in a tremendous storm toward evening, and we thanked our lucky stars. for the shelter. We lay on the roof of the cabin under an awning, and all the young fellows, on the tow "came over the lines" and smoked and drank a kind  of raspberry water, such as the French are partial to, and told stories on our deck. We heard a great store of experiences "on the boats," and boatmen's balls and wakes ashore. Young canalers are like any other sailors; they balance the enforced tedium of long voyages by riotous times in port. 

   Our hosts, Jean and Emile, were young French Canadians, who, in the temporary absence of their father and mother, were running two barges lashed together, which they proudly claimed were the finest on the route, and we could readily believe it. Jean was the skipper, a sturdy, square-built fellow, alert and active when the boat got in a tight place, talkative and humorous over his pipe when things were going easily. Emile was crew and cook, softer than his brother  and less robust, fond of a dish of tea and the rocking chair in the cabin. He was a bit of a braggart, and subject to considerable chaffing from the others. 

   When we reached Sorel, the town lying at the confluence of the Richelieu and the St. Lawrence rivers, late that afternoon, the weather still showed no prospect of unending, and Jean and Emile urged us to go on up to Montreal with them. After debating a while we decided to do so, and when we had explored the muddy village a bit, another and a stronger tug took us in tow, and presently we swept out into what is in many respects the noblest of American rivers. We could not sufficiently admire the awe-inspiring sweep and volume of that vast green water, and only the cry of dinner could tempt us off the deck. 

The cabin was delightfully cosy after the cold and wet above; it was not only neat and spotlessly clean, but luxurious withal, and a triumph of ingenious arrangement. One-half formed the living room and the remaining quarters were kitchen and stateroom respectively. The articles in those three tiny rooms would make an incredibly long list, and yet it was not in the least overcrowded. There were berths and shelves and cupboards in the oddest corners ; there was room for both a sofa and a mantelpiece; the stateroom not being big enough for a full size bunk, there was a little hole extended under the deck for feet; even the stairs of the companionway lifted up, showing cupboards below. 

   Emile's dinner was uncommonly good, and we sat long over our pipes, becoming- better acquainted with our hosts. Afterward, between two showers, we paced up and down the deck for an hour, watching the water swirling past, the moon striving with heavy clouds, the dark masses of the shore, the tug breathing heavily on the end of the long steel cable which hung in the water of its own weight, and the piercing lighthouse rays. 

    I suspect our hosts thought we were out of our wits to take so much unnecessary exercise, but we got rare enjoyment out of that tramp in the dark. 

   The cabin of the other boat was set aside for our use. This was the newer boat, and the cabin served ordinarily for the mother's sleeping room and the parlor. Its elegance surprised us; the floor was covered with a velvet carpet, paintings hung about the walls and a profusion of ornaments stood on the mantel. There were plush-covered chairs and a wicker rocker tied with a great bow of satin ribbon; there was actually running water and the bed was hung with lace curtains. For a finishing touch, there was suspended from the ceiling a wonderful piece of fancy-work with satin streamers; on it was embroidered "Good lok."  On the whole, our stateroom that night was finer than the bridal chamber on a Sound liner. 

   Next morning the barge was moored at Hochelaga, and the gray walls of Montreal stretched before us grayer than ever in the rain. We still had four days remaining of our vacation, and as we could go no further up the river on account of the current, we had first to find a good camping spot in the neighborhood. We launched the Mosquito again, and bidding goodby to Jean and Emile, crossed the river to Longueuil and made our way by Herculean exertions up the current past St. Helen's Island to a tiny islet opposite the center of the city, but near the other shore. Here we pitched our tent for the last time. 

    Every day we paddled to the nearer shore and walked across the magnificent Victoria Jubilee Bridge, which is two miles long. This was the most direct way, for the terrible St. Mary's current, which we could not hope to cross, lay between our island and the city. It rained a good part of the time, and our costume consisted generally of ragged mackintoshes, disreputable hats and brilliant bandannas. This, with our brick-red complexions, made us striking figures in the streets of the Canadian metropolis, as we sauntered about seeing the sights. On the last night, after having seen everything, we blew what remained of our funds for dinner at the Queen's Hotel. Our costumes excited considerable attention; however, they did not attempt to put us out. 

Sources:
This volume of Forest and Stream was provided by Smithsonian Libraries and is archived at the Biodiversity Library. 
  For more about Footner, see this slideshow by Diane Harrison at the Calvert County Historical Museum (8 min.)

Footner Down Under

 

   This will be the third post in a row relating to the author, Hulbert Footner. I quietly introduced him when I told you about “Where I Went on My Spring Vacation." I went to Maryland and part of the reason for doing so was to visit Footner’s granddaughter and the Calvert County Historical Society where a room is dedicated to him. More recently, you learned that he became engaged to the daughter of the Canadian journalist, “Kit" Coleman, whose visage is now found on some Canadian coins.  And you just found out that jousting is the official state sport in Maryland and read Footner’s account of a tournament held in the 1940s in southern Maryland.

    This is likely Footner’s Last Post in this blog, so before leaving him I should explain why he has shown up in MM. Before that is done, you would probably like to be reminded of who he is and for that I will just direct you to the Wikipedia entry. That was the only source about him that I could find. After reading his non-fiction works, I couldn’t understand why more was not known about him. Additional catalysts were the facts that he was born close by in Hamilton and died in Maryland, the state in which I was born, and where they had declared March 14 as “Hulbert Footner Day.”

   Considerable research was done. I have often undertaken massive amounts of research related to a wide variety of subjects, as well as a number of people, and the paucity of finished output is truly astonishing. In this case, I thought the references gathered should not be wasted. The Footner family would find them useful, plus he is worthy of examination as a novelist and historian. They ended up in book form and to prove that this post is not a plug for that publication, I am only including the title here in the concluding sentence of this paragraph and will not note that it can be easily and cheaply purchased in print, or as an e-book from Amazon: Hulbert Footner: Author of Adventure Novels, Detective Novels and Historical Nonfiction: A Bibliographic Account of His Life and Work.

                              Additional Evidence From The Antipodes

   

   For that book, I searched throughout North America and the United Kingdom for references to Hulbert Footner  and for indications that he was, in fact, a popular author. There was little to be found about him, but there was considerable proof that he was relatively well-known. More data to support that were not needed and to plough through even more references would have been a chore for even the most dedicated Footner fan. But, there are now a few who are interested in Footner who are reading this blog and that is the reason he has shown up. They will be pleased to know that his stories, books and movies were popular with the Aussies and I now know that he was even liked by the Kiwis.

Even if you are not interested in Footner, but are in Australia, then you should visit TROVE, an immense digital treasure. You can search thousands of newspapers and sort the results in a variety of ways. (They have also figured out a way to placate ‘sensitive’ readers who might stumble across a one hundred year old word that is now offensive.) I found Footner information in it a few years ago, but did not include the Australian material in the book. The references to Footner  found in Trove have increased as new publications and years are added.  Apart from the ads for his books there are often reviews of them and apparently the Aussies frequently found them to be ‘rattling good.’ Here, for example, are some sentences from a review of The Fugitive Sleuth which appeared in The World’s News (Sydney) on Saturday, May 3, 1919:
“The Fugitive Sleuth is a rattling good detective story, breathless, pauseless, full of life and go. In Hulbert Footner the public has found the adventure story writer par excellence. The instant success of his brilliant romance, The Sealed Valley, will always ensure a wide welcome for a new book by the same masterly hand.”

You can now also do the same for publications in New Zealand in “Papers Past.” They are both free! Footner samples from both are provided below. 

When I searched for “Hulbert Footner” on TROVE a few years ago there were over 500 “hits.” Now there are 887. The results can be restricted in a variety of ways: you can look in particular papers or cities and separate the ads from the articles. Here are some of my notes from the earlier searches: [NB - note that these are from old 'notes'. They should be checked on TROVE and verified.]

"The Shanty Sled is described in similar fashion as “a rattling fine yarn of the frozen north.” Readers in Brisbane are told that Footner “is endowed with a sense of humour and the dramatic ease of a born story teller.” (The Queenslander, Saturday, Nov.14, 1925).

Advertisements and reviews for his films are also found. For example: Even in Tasmania - a review of “Ramshackle House,” The Mercury, (Hobart), Thursday, Dec. 20, 1925. As well in the West (Perth), The Mirror, Saturday, Jan. 9, 1926: “Similes fail in finding a fitting word for Betty Compson, star of The Ramshackle House, the picturisation of the Hulbert Footner novel of the same name now screening at the Palladium.” The earliest mention of Hulbert Footner found was in an ad for The Sealed Valley in 1915 (The Advertiser, (Adelaide), August 28, 1915. The latest is a mention of his name in a review in 1951.”

   I recently did a bit of searching again and here are some examples. One learns that the University of Sydney Library has a copy of De dubbelganger, which is apparently a Dutch version of Two on the Trail. The earliest mention of Footner is now found in 1908 when it is reported that an article of his is appearing in Century Magazine. In 1943, The Northern Advertiser (Western Australia) excerpted a piece from his New York: City of Cities: “One of the World’s Great Avenues” [Park], Feb. 27.

This is the title of an article in The World News Sydney, Sep. 6, 1919 “Have You Read?” Thieves' Wit (Hulbert Footner). "Those who read and enjoyed, as each reader surely did, this author's "Fugitive Sleuth" will welcome this latest story from his pen. It is a new type of detective story, and quite a good one at that. It is fashioned on new and fascinating lines, and it is quite difficult to forecast the end until the author chooses to take the reader into his confidence.” “Backwoods Breezes” The Herald (Melbourne, Vic.) May 23, 1917 “Canadian novels never lack In vigor and freshness of scene. The Fur Bringers, by Hulbert Footner, is conspicuous in that respect. The breezes of the pine forests blow through it, and make up a peculiar attraction for readers who nave tired of the old haunts and devices of the story tellers….Mr Footner has made a study of his subject, he is full of the spirit of the region, knows its moods and intrigues, and has fashioned a romance at once rugged and beautiful.” "The Folded Paper Mystery" , Sunday Times, Perth, Sep.28, 1930 “A good story can always be expected from Hulbert Footner. And "The Folded Paper Mystery" is one of his best productions.” Even Footner's book about his house in Maryland gets reviewed: The Australasian, (Melbourne), July 13, 1940

"Charles Gift " “Many readers will like to think of "CHARLES' GIFT," by HULBERT FOOTNER (Faber and Faber), as a delightful writer's gift to a reading public. The world is so unsteady, the present so uncertain, and the future to many unthinkable. In these days it is often hard to feel relaxed even when reading, but '•Charles* Gift" is a joy to read. Its tempo is one of leisure and of peace; one is lulled by the soothing prose. “

From New Zealand

A search in 2023 for "Hulbert Footner" in the newspapers digitized on Papers Past yields 950 "hits." The first (oldest) is his story "Melodrama in Fulton Street," in the Lyttleton Times, April 4, 1908. Soon after, "The Simple Adventures of 2112," appears in the Dunstan Times, Sept. 6, 1909. Reviews of Footner's works are easily found. For example: There is a short review of "The Nation's Missing Guest" in the New Zealand Herald, May 27, 1939, under the title, "Sultan Disappears", where it is described as "a diverting story." In the same newspaper on Sept. 22, 1934, Dangerous Cargo is reviewed. See: "Two Mystery Novels." "Always to be relied upon for an exciting and entertaining story, Hulbert Footner has thrills a plenty in his latest mystery novel, "Dangerous Cargo," a Crime Club book. Advertisements can be searched separately and many are found for the film, "Ramshackle House (e.g. Evening Post (Wellington), Sept. 14, 1926. Twenty years later Footner's book, Unneutral Murder is advertised by Hyndman's bookstore in the Otago Daily Times, Nov. 21, 1946.

There are many more for Footner aficionados to use and study. Although the global popularity of his writings may not be a proxy for the quality of them, one can still surely argue that Hulbert Footner deserves more attention and I am glad to see that he is getting some from the Calvert County Historical Society.

Surely You Joust

   You will likely be surprised to learn that jousting is Maryland's official state sport and has been since the early 1960s. There were jousting tournaments long before and they still exist in the form of "Ring Tournaments." Instead of tilting toward another knight coming from the other direction, one attempts to put the lance through a suspended ring while galloping at a high speed. Valour may have been sacrificed for safety reasons, but fine equestrian skills are still required and chivalrous behaviour expected.
   This form of mediaeval activity still exists in the mid-Atlantic states and farther south and during this time of "culture wars" some may characterize such activities negatively, as most activities are, since something about them will be upsetting to someone. Instead of tilting at ring tournaments I will present here a description of one from the last century when Maryland planters appreciated the "good things of life -- wines, handsome furniture and plate, fine clothes and blooded horses." Pomp and pageantry are displayed and one can simply regard it as a prom in a pasture which people of all ages could dress up for and enjoy.
    

                                    Ring Tournaments

   This description of a ring tournament held in Maryland in the early 1940s is found in Hulbert Footner's, Maryland Main and the Eastern Shore. It appears in the chapter, "Calvert", which is the county in which he lived and, as the last sentence indicates, loved. One reviewer notes that it is a book "with a quite particular charm" and another that it is "a handsome tribute to one of our most civilized states..." Footner had, a few years before, published the book, Charles' Gift" which was about his Calvert county house, and a couple of years later he finished Rivers of the Eastern Shore: Seventeen Maryland Rivers. They were well received, as well, and a new edition of the latter one has just been released by Schiffer Publishing. Perhaps someone should do the same with Maryland Main...

[caveat lector. If you are the type of reader who gets upset by the racial terminology used in the past, you should skip this part, since the one minor occurrence may be a major one for you.]

"The most picturesque fiestas in Maryland are the tournaments. Formerly held in all parts of the state, they are now pretty well restricted to Southern Maryland, though I hear occasionally of one in Harford and there have been sporadic attempts to revive the custom on the Eastern Shore. When a smart society is in the ascendant, tournaments are quickly abandoned; it is only in the unfashionable parts that they flourish. I have asked many of the old men how they started and the answer is always the same; they didn’t start, they have come down uninterruptedly from medieval times. I am inclined to suspect that this is a myth; nevertheless, the rite is an ancient and gallant one. 

   Each little community holds its tournaments once a year, generally  in the month of August. The proceeds are devoted to the local church.  A flat pasture field is chosen and measured off and three wooden arches erected in line. From the middle of each arch depends an iron rod with a claw in the end which holds an iron ring  of the sort you snatch at from the hobby-horse of a merry-go-round.  Meanwhile every boy has been practising assiduously on his own farm. Nowadays they don’t tilt at each other but at the rings. The boy who spears the most rings on the point of his lance is privileged to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty; the runners-up crown her Maids of Honor. 

  The tournament I saw at Mutual last week differed little from the first one I saw more than thirty years ago. True, the slick automobiles, all so much alike, were a poor substitute for the quaint family chariots, some of which dated from the Civil War. They have all disappeared; they ought to have been preserved in Museums.  The Marshal  and the Herald, fearful of appearing ridiculous, no longer stick the wife's willow plume in their old felt hats, or hang the parlor lambrequin over a shoulder. On the other hand, the riders are beginning to dress up again. They wear striped silk jockey caps and gay scarfs across their breasts; most of them have achieved riding breeches and boots. It is remarkable how many of these plain farmers boys still contrive to keep a good riding horse.

  Mutual is not even a village, but only a scattered community. Their tournament is always the best because they put their hearts in it. The people of Prince Frederick are becoming too worldly wise. How the women of Mutual work to prepare and serve the supper! And what a supper! Country-cured ham, fried chicken, deviled crabs, and fixings. They have adopted the cafeteria style of serving which I deplore, because it deprives you of the opportunity to exchange a bit of persiflage with the charming waitresses, but of course, it is a great saving of labor. Tom Mackall runs the soft-drink stand both afternoon and evening, the hottest and most thankless job of all; Dr. Everard Brisco manages the whole show and is everywhere at once.

The scene on the field is an animated one. The long straight course is roped off and the automobiles are lined up two or three deep. The modern steel body permits those in the rear to sit on top of their cars. On a very small scale, it is like the famous painting of “Derby Day.” Midway a little judges stand has been built with a few dignitaries down in front and a band of five or six pieces behind. Up at the start the horses are held by colored boys while the knights await their turn. Up at this end, the real sports are always to be found kneeling in a row with bills between their fingers watching the track and offering odds in low voices, for fear the parson might overhear. The Marshall and the Herald patrol the course on horseback. Of late years it has been customary to furnish the Herald with two of the prettiest girls as pages, an innovation I endorse.

  To equalize their chances, the contestants  are divided into novices, amateurs, and professionals. There are crowns for novices and amateurs and usually cash prizes for the professionals.  Each knight adopts a pseudonym for the riding, the name of his home place, such as Knight of Preston, Knight of Parrot's Cage; Knight of Tulip Hill; or  a fanciful appellation, as Knight of Nowhere, Knight of Last Night, Knight of Failure. In choosing such names the lads, without knowing it, are upholding a  tradition of their earliest forbears, who were fond of calling their plantations "Dear-Bought," “Happy-be-Lucky,” “Penny Come Quick” and so on. 

The band plays a few bars and the Herald bawls out his first command: “Knight of Rousby Hall, on deck!” Somebody lately pointed out the absurdity of this order, so now he has changed it to: “Knight of Rousby Hall, get ready!” The next order follows shortly: “Knight of Rousby Hall, prepare to charge!” Then: “Charge, Sir Knight!” and he comes thundering down the track. He leans far over his horse’s neck with his eye trained along the lance and the true knight’s expression of derring-do. If he takes the rings the band blares a few more triumphant notes; Marshall, Herald, and pages gallop to meet him and escort him back to the judge’s stand. If he misses, there is silence, and he generally makes a detour back of the spectators to the starting point.

So it goes throughout the long, sunny afternoon. The star riders of other years bring their wives and babies to the field; each year there is a new crop of skinny youngsters to take their places. Each knight takes three tilts at the rings. At the end there are always ties to be ridden off, and this furnishes the most excitement. I have seen it take an hour to settle a tie between two tight-lipped boys. They put up smaller rings and when that fails, rings only a half-inch in diameter. This provides a marvelous exhibition of skill. 

When the riding is over, there is a free-for-all back to the Mutual Hall for supper. It used to be served out-of-doors, but the meal was so often interrupted by a thunderstorm that now the tables are set in the hall. But you can still carry your food outside if you like it that way. Following this delectable meal, after an interval to give the girls time to change their dresses, comes the ball. The tables have been whisked out; the brass band transforms itself into an orchestra. Calvert County is famous for its pretty girls, and each year, I swear, they grow prettier. 

There is a deal of oratory spilled on these occasions. Political aspirants are always to be had; one is invited to address the assembled knights in the afternoon, another (of the opposite party) to open the ball. The speeches bear a strong family resemblance with frequent reference to “our brave knights and fair ladies; the ancient chivalry of Maryland” and so on. It is a pretty sight to see the successful knights and their crowned ladies lined up in front of the platform. The crowns are fillets of wax orange blossoms, becoming to every feminine head. Everybody heaves a sigh of relief when the orator finishes his peroration. The first dance, “the royal set,” is reserved to the knights and ladies.

“Tou’nament Day” provides Calvert County with its grand opportunity of the year to get together. All the sons and daughters who have gone out into the world try to get home for that day. In the afternoon there is continual visiting from car to car; in the evening the older ladies sit around the stifling hall, fanning themselves, and of course, you must speak to them all. It is wonderful for anybody like me, brought up in an unfeeling city, to have a community where I belong.”

[pp.284-287. The above was all typed by me. Anyone using it should check the original.]

Sources: 

Here is the website of the Maryland Jousting Tournament Association. 

See this good article in Atlas Obscura. 

It appears as though you can see real jousting at the Maryland Renaissance Festival. 

Canadian Content:

  Canadians will want to know that LACROSSE is the official team sport of Maryland.