City of the Dead (or The Last House on Winchester Street)

by

Inky

MEMORY IS A FRAGILE and malleable thing. How is it that we remember some insignificant fact or interaction for an entire lifetime, while other events disappear into oblivion, calved off like chunks of ice from a glacier, to float away and melt as if they had never existed? Most of our life experience falls into the latter category. What did you do on a Tuesday afternoon seventeen years ago? I once heard memory described as follows: the truth is really only our last version of it. We recycle, remember and mis-remember continually. Memories morph and we accept as truth only the latest version we have conjured up.

I come by my affection for cemeteries honestly. I grew up across from one, and have spent most of the rest of my life beside another one. I grew up in the heart of Cabbagetown, on Amelia Street, directly across from the Toronto Necropolis Cemetery. Often referred to as “The Necropolis” for short, it literally translates to “City of the Dead.”

I am forever grateful that I had the privilege of growing up in the 1960s and 70s in one of the most special neighbourhoods in the city. And I am forever regretful that we were forced to move, due to my father’s health and financial problems. Like many others displaced by gentrification, we would never be able to return to our old neighbourhood, except as tourists. When I visit that neighbourhood now, I have mixed emotions. I am an outsider, a voyeur onto my own past, reduced to the status of ghost, in a place I once owned.

Amelia Street has been described as “the most quaint street in Cabbagetown,” although pretty much any street in Cabbagetown might be given the same title. My bedroom looked straight out onto the vista of the Necropolis, with its forest of mature trees, notably large maples. In the foreground across the street was a triangle of land belonging to the first house on Hillcrest Park. Mr. S used to raise pigeons in small trailers on this triangle. A laneway runs behind the houses, with a chain-link fence and then a block wall marking the boundary with the cemetery.

Figure 1. The view of the Necropolis from my bedroom window with our 1960 Cadillac Coupe de Ville parked on the street, circa 1971.

At a certain time of year, thousands of starlings would congregate in the cemetery trees, making a tremendous racket. It was an alarming and ominous phenomenon, made even more spectacular when they all took flight in unison, forming a murmuration. A starling murmuration is one of nature’s most dazzling displays, mesmerizing and breathtaking, performed by a small awkward-looking bird which many regard as a pest. Their vocalization and mimicry abilities are also remarkable.

Our house had a full two-storey glassed-in porch at the front, which unfortunately was removed by the new owners after we sold the house. The porch commanded a view of the park, the street, and the cemetery. I used to sit and read in an old armchair in the porch, on the second floor. I remember that one day, probably around 1977, there was a widely publicized “doomsday” approaching. As it happened, a torrential rain began on the afternoon of the appointed day. Really torrential, forming a large pool at the bottom of Amelia Street, and continuing unabated. I got a bit worried. Maybe this was the end?! Too late to build an ark. I sat in the big armchair, reading The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath by H.P. Lovecraft. Eventually the rain stopped and the world did not end. Phew!! A close one!

On the left flank of our corner lot was Hillcrest Park, and a row of houses along the eponymous Hillcrest Avenue, where I learned to ride a bike. For some reason Hillcrest Park got re-named Wellesley Park in the 70s. There is another Hillcrest Park at Christie and Davenport. Maybe there was a naming conflict? Or maybe they just stole it!

On our right lived the famous Toronto veterinarian Mary O’Riordan, after whom one of the laneways in Cabbagetown has been named. She was kind and generous, with an Irish twinkle in her eye, and she looked after our dog and cats – for free, I think, or at a discount. She used to hold legendary parties, and it was not uncommon to see a local celebrity or two. Trumpets might be heard into the wee hours of the morning, with an occasional police cruiser arriving to investigate.

In the next house lived the elderly spinster Miss W, who was a wealth of local-history knowledge. She once told me that the Queen rode in a carriage down our street a long time ago, right past our house. I was about nine or ten years old, and lived two houses down from Miss W, right beside the park. Miss W lived alone, in a large three-storey Cabbagetown house that her father had built. It is a magnificent, unique house in a neighbourhood full of magnificent, unique houses.

Figure 2. My house on Amelia Street. Left: 1972 (City of Toronto Archives). Right: 2025. My old house is on the right, Mary O’Riordan lived in the little house in the middle, and Miss W lived in the big house on the left.

Miss W was friendly and liked to talk. Bend your ear, you might even say. If you encountered her while walking past, you would inevitably be pinned to the spot for fifteen minutes – listening, often to a chapter of local history. On the other hand, she would chase the neighbourhood kids out of her backyard from time to time, when we had strayed – trespassing to retrieve a ball, or perhaps on some more nefarious mission.

I would occasionally do odd jobs for Miss W, for example, sawing apart pieces of scrap wood, which she could use in her furnace for heating. She had an ancient wood- or coal-burning furnace. After a pile of wood had been sawed, came the best part of the job – throwing the pieces of wood down the magic hatch. There was a circular cast iron lid on the elevated walkway to her side door (there was no front door – the main entrance was on the side). When the cast iron circle was pulled up, a gaping black chute directly into the basement was revealed. A coal chute, not uncommon in those days. I would feed the wood scraps down the magic hatch, and I could just make out the visage of Miss W in her basement, giving me some instructions.

When the job was finished, the reward was ice cream and small change. I would be given two dimes (or was it two quarters?), and I would walk to the old-fashioned corner store up the block at Amelia and Sumach. I would return with two plastic cups of ice cream (butterscotch or vanilla). After peeling off the paper lids, I would sit with Miss W on the front steps, and we would eat the ice cream with the flat wooden spoons that were supplied with the cups. Those of a certain age will remember these.

Back to the Queen. I always remembered that story. And because I had started a modest coin collection, I had always assumed the Queen that Miss W spoke of was Queen Victoria. I didn’t know too many other Queens. I knew Queen Elizabeth was too modern to fit the story. And I had recently acquired, via some forgotten transaction with a girl at school, some large British one penny coins. They were very old coins, with a majestic portrait of Queen Victoria on the obverse. So that was my imagined Queen, in horse-drawn carriage, coming down Amelia Street.

Fast forward a few decades. Internet. When had Queen Victoria visited Toronto?? I was surprised and dismayed to find out that Queen Victoria had never set foot in Canada. In fact, she travelled outside of England very little, only visiting Europe a few times. Oh my. What about my cherished story? Back to the internet. Royal visits to Canada. Aha!

“The 1939 royal tour of Canada by King George VI and Queen Elizabeth took place from 17 May to 15 June, covering every province in Canada. Taking place in the months leading up to the Second World War, the tour was undertaken to strengthen trans-Atlantic support for the United Kingdom in anticipation of a potential war while also showcasing Canada’s status as an independent kingdom of the British Empire. . . . Although royal family members had previously toured Canada, the 1939 royal tour marked the first time a reigning monarch of Canada visited North America, garnering significant attention from both the public and the media.”[i]

It is worth noting that Queen Elizabeth (1939 version), later became widely known as the beloved Queen Mum, mother of Elizabeth the Second. But before she was the Queen Mum, she was Queen Elizabeth in her own right, who was once named “the most dangerous woman in Europe” by Adolf Hitler.[1]

This was a milestone in Canadian history, with hundreds of thousands of people attending events across Canada. The royals were warmly and enthusiastically received everywhere they went, even in Quebec!! A commemorative silver dollar was issued in 1939 to mark the event.

During this tour, the King and Queen visited Toronto for a single day: May 22, 1939. They had a jam-packed hectic schedule, involving multiple ceremonies, visits and engagements, along a twenty-eight-mile route all through the city. Among the day’s festivities was a large event at Riverdale Park!! In the east end of Toronto, Riverdale Park spans the Don River, with the west park in Cabbagetown and the larger east park along Broadview Avenue. It was a huge unprecedented gathering. According to one newspaper report, 250,000 had gathered in Riverdale Park, including 75,000 children, who were the focus of the event. The royal limousine, slowly weaving through the sea of children, was greeted with a display of adulation not seen before or since. In spite of the enormous crowd, the royals spent all of twenty minutes in the park, before they had to move on to their next engagement at Woodbine Racetrack, to attend the King’s Plate.

The 1939 royal tour seemed to fit the bill for the missing Queen. My image of Queen Victoria riding in a horse-drawn carriage down Amelia Street had morphed into King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, riding in a gas-powered vehicle. Why had I remembered only “Queen” rather than “King and Queen?” I don’t know, but I think it had something to do with those large British copper pennies with the bust of Queen Victoria.

But had the royal entourage really been on Amelia Street?? Why would they end up on a small side street in Cabbagetown? When thinking of the practicalities of accessing the Don Valley from Amelia, I began to doubt the possibility. The hill at the edge of the park was far too steep to drive any kind of vehicle down. In fact, today it is entirely impossible – a wooden staircase winds down the very steep hill, which is otherwise covered with trees. I used to toboggan down this scary hill, long before the trees and the staircase.

Then I remembered another story. The park had apparently been land-filled and levelled sometime in the 1950s. Prior to that, Amelia Street did not end at the park, but in fact continued straight into the park, unpaved. The hill descending to the valley below used to be more gradual – still steep but drivable, at least in one direction. This can be seen on early maps of the time. At the bottom of the hill, Rosedale Valley Road meets the present-day Bayview extension, which takes you past Riverdale Park. So there was still a slim chance that perhaps the royal limousine had come this way.

Time to settle this once and for all with a trip to the archives. What was the royal route through Toronto on May 22, 1939? With the invaluable aid of a very capable researcher, a logical answer was quickly discovered. On Saturday, March 11, 1939, the Toronto Daily Star published “The Street Route Officially Approved for Visit of King and Queen in Toronto,” with a detailed map and description of the route through the city, a remarkable twenty-eight-mile journey along city streets and avenues.

Drum roll please. To reach Riverdale Park, the royal procession travelled east along Bloor Street, over the viaduct to Broadview, and headed down Winchester Drive into Riverdale Park. Wait a minute, Winchester Drive?? Winchester is on the other side of the valley! Long story short, before the Bloor Viaduct was built, the Winchester Street crossing was one of the main routes across the Don Valley. Present day Winchester Street used to continue down into the valley, over a small bridge across the Don River, and up the other side as Winchester Drive. After the 1939 royal visit, Winchester Drive was renamed Royal Drive, and it exists today as an on-ramp to the Don Valley Parkway.[ii]

My story had mostly fallen apart. Apparently no Queens or Kings had ever travelled down Amelia Street by carriage or motorcar. I suppose Miss W had simply been describing the 1939 royal visit to Riverdale Park to a ten-year-old, and I misinterpreted and transposed the story to my immediate environs. But I still entertain the memory of a story of Queen Victoria riding a fancy carriage down Amelia Street, even if it never happened. In some alternate universe it is true. As a consolation prize, it was rewarding and exciting simply to learn that this massive joyous gathering had taken place, so close to my home, in the not-too-distant past.[2]

Lamb’s Glue & Stove Blacking Factory

Miss W had many other stories. She had tried to explain to me that a large factory once stood in what is now Wellesley Park. I remember staring blankly at the green park, trying to comprehend. It was another enticing story, which I only verified decades later with the internet.

From 1849 to 1888, more or less in the middle of what is now Wellesley Park, Peter Lamb and his son Daniel operated a glue factory, a stove blacking plant and a tannery.[iii] The rear of the “manufactory” as it was then called, backed onto Lamb’s Creek, a small waterway that has since been buried and diverted into pipes under the park. At its most successful, the factory was world-renowned, had twelve buildings on site, and was an important local employer.[iv]

The stench and pollution generated by this enterprise caused considerable grief for the surrounding neighbourhood, which, in the 1870s and 1880s, was slowly becoming populated with its first Victorian houses. Not only did Lamb’s factory emit terrible odours, it also produced a large quantity of noxious waste. Boulton’s 1858 Atlas shows a tiny creek or drainage ditch running from the back of the main factory building into Lamb’s Creek, which ran for less than half a kilometre before merging with Castle Frank Brook, which then flowed into the Don. Organic waste from animal carcasses, lime from the factory’s tanning operations, and waste products from stove blacking production all found their way into Lamb’s Creek, making it one of the city’s most polluted waterways.[v] It would have fit perfectly into a Charles Dickens story, or surely qualified as one of William Blake’s “dark satanic mills.”

Figure 3. 1858 map showing the buildings of Lamb’s factory where Wellesley Park is today (Boulton’s Atlas).

Mercifully for the neighbourhood, the factory burned down in 1888. Apparently the ruins of the factory stood for some time in the park, before being razed. Although Miss W was quite elderly, I don’t think she was old enough to have seen the factory in operation, although she may have witnessed the standing ruins after the fire.

Toronto Necropolis

The Toronto Necropolis is a magical place, my favourite place in the whole city.

Established in 1850, it is the oldest existing non-sectarian public cemetery in Toronto, and the second oldest in the country, according to Spade and the Grave. St. James Cemetery at Parliament and Bloor is older by a few years, but is owned by the Anglican Church. Older cemeteries existed in early Toronto history, but most are long gone, having been swallowed up by the expanding city, with their residents transferred to other grounds. The most notable of these early cemeteries was the Potter’s Field cemetery, which was located at present day Yonge and Bloor, in the Yorkville neighbourhood. The Potter’s Field was also non-denominational. Being owned by the city rather than a church parish, it offered a space for people of all faiths to be buried.[vi]

As the city expanded northwards, Potter’s Field was closed, and its residents were transferred, over a number of years, to both the Necropolis and Mount Pleasant Cemetery to the north. A plaque in the Necropolis tells us that 984 burials were transferred from Potter’s Field, and re-interred in a location known as “The Resting Place of Pioneers” from 1851 to 1881.

The Necropolis is enclosed on three sides by an ancient wrought iron fence, along Amelia, Sumach and Winchester streets. Presumably forged in a 19th century Toronto iron works, each vertical bar is tipped with a flattened point, diamond- or spade-shaped, hammered by 19th century muscle, each point slightly different from its neighbour. The height of the bars is variable, forming an undulating wave on the top edge, static yet seemingly in motion. The fence bears witness to multiple heavy coats of paint, the latest colour black, but peeling and flaking to reveal green and other earlier incarnations.

Figure 4. The old wrought iron fence of the Necropolis.

Of the nearby tombstones visible through the fence directly across the street from our house, I’ve always remembered William Pepper (died 1901). Hard to forget a name like William Pepper! I played ball hockey in the laneway beside William Pepper. His stone is now a little more worn, and less readable, than I remember.

Figure 5. The tombstone of William Pepper.

Moving along up Amelia and turning left onto Sumach, you encounter a prominent vertical grave marker, just a few feet inside the fence. Locals will be familiar with this landmark. It is light-coloured, metallic-looking, and I always assumed it was aluminum. Only recently did I learn that this style of grave marker is made of zinc. Tombstone and cemetery aficionados refer to these as “zinkers.” They are nearly impervious to weathering or corrosion, and after well over a century, this marker looks almost brand new. It is the marker of James McIntosh of Glasgow and his two young sons. The base bears a date of 1887, while the panels record the passing of James himself (died thirty-seven years of age) and two young sons, one living three months and the other only a single day. Infant and childhood mortality is a tale told frequently in the Necropolis. Deadly 19th and 20th century diseases, aided by malnutrition and poverty, took a heavy toll on all ages, but especially the young.

As you proceed along Sumach, you walk on a well-worn path which has been ground into a fine sandy dust, under a row of old chestnut trees. This scene has not changed in fifty years, though the trees are looking a bit haggard, and a couple are missing. As I walk over the dusty sand and tree roots, I remember being here with a friend who lived on Winchester, who said he once found an old silver dime from the 1930s in the soil along the fence. Who had it belonged to? Whenever I walked there afterwards, I always kept an eye out for a glint of silver poking out of the ground, but of course never found any!

Continuing towards Winchester Street, kitty-corner to the cemetery, is an old corner store, currently closed. Originally an “old tyme” corner store, in the 1970s it was renovated and turned into an ice cream shop called Jeremiah’s. They even had a couple of pinball machines at the back. We were allowed to play them for a while, until one day the owner decided we were too young for pinball, and threw us out!

Turn left onto Winchester, and the sandy path turns to sidewalk. Continue and you will encounter one of the most exquisite architectural gems in the entire city: the Toronto Necropolis Chapel, built by Henry Langley in 1872. A plaque in front states “The chapel at the Toronto Necropolis, together with adjoining entry pavilion and superintendent’s office and residence, constitute one of the finest examples of Gothic Revival architecture in Canada.”

It is not a large building, but is exquisitely detailed in every aspect. To my amazement, the doors of this treasure seem to be open year-round. Step inside, and you will find a small chapel, with oak seats, and walls and niches filled with memorials. A door at the back allows you to step out directly into the cemetery. You can also enter the cemetery through the magnificent lychgate beside the chapel. Take the time to appreciate this building before you tour the cemetery, or perhaps visit as you are leaving. The superintendent’s lodging, on the other side of the lychgate, completes the composition, jewel-like, and now serves as office for the cemetery.

Figure 6. The Toronto Necropolis Chapel and adjacent lychgate.

Henry Langley was one of the most distinguished Canadian architects of his time. Born in Toronto, he became the first chair of the Department of Architecture at the University of Toronto, where he taught during the 1880s and 1890s. Langley, who designed many other landmark churches in Toronto and beyond, was himself interred in the Necropolis grounds in 1907.[vii]

As you pass under the Gothic archway, you step into another world – you have walked through a portal, into a magical oasis from another time. The air is different and electric, and the matrix shifts. There is a distinct energy to this place. The hum of traffic from the nearby Don Valley, paradoxically, seems less like an intrusion than an accompaniment. Upon entering the cemetery, you will find only one paved road, which makes a circle – there are no other roads. Over 50,000 souls rest in the Necropolis, and the place is full. Although new burials still occur for those who purchased plots long ago, new space is extremely limited.

A number of prominent figures from Toronto’s past are to be found here, perhaps the most notable being “The Firebrand” William Lyon Mackenzie, first mayor of Toronto, and leader of the ill-fated 1837 Upper Canada Rebellion. A large Celtic cross marks the Mackenzie family plot. It is situated just off the north side of the paved circle, though it is somewhat elusive, being partially obscured by trees. Mackenzie himself advocated for the creation of the original non-denominational Potter’s Field at Yonge and Bloor, and again later for the Necropolis.[viii]

Figure 7. The Mackenzie cross.

The most tragic figures of the 1837 Rebellion were Samuel Lount and Peter Matthews. For their role they were put on trial, and both were hanged for treason in 1838. They were buried together in the Potter’s Field cemetery. When Potter’s Field was closed, they were re-interred in the Necropolis, with the help of Mackenzie himself in 1859. A large monument and plaque is to be found at the burial site, facing Sumach Street near the cemetery fence. A small white stone laid into the ground is inscribed simply “Samuel Blount Peter Matthews 1838.” This must be the original stone from Potter’s Field. The large, newer memorial, erected in 1893, is topped with a column, broken roughly at the top. A broken column on a tombstone signifies a life cut short. Both men were later pardoned, and much has been written about them.[ix]

Other notable early Toronto citizens in the Necropolis include George Brown, one of the Fathers of Confederation and the founder of The Globe (later Globe and Mail) newspaper; Ned Hanlan, world famous rowing champion; and John Ross Robertson, founder of the Toronto Telegram newspaper. Modern notables include Night of the Living Dead filmmaker George Romero.

Wander the grounds and appreciate the hauntingly atmospheric beauty. The variety of old tombstone styles is endlessly fascinating. Not all tombstones are created equal. Some, made of hard polished granite, well over a century old, look like they were made yesterday. Others, made of soft, friable stone, are badly eroded, and in some cases unreadable. The wear and erosion on older monuments is testament to the passage of time and the fragility of memory. St. James Cemetery at Parliament and Bloor is equally beautiful, but the Necropolis is more intimate.

Figure 8. A particularly unique stone from 1874.

At the east end of the circular road in the Necropolis, the land rises gently into a small hillock. It is the highest point in the cemetery, and indeed in the whole neighbourhood. I have often wondered if this is a natural feature, or, as I suspect, an early bit of landscaping of the original cemetery. When I climb this small hill, the magic is especially strong. I’m reminded of my trip to Glastonbury, England years ago, climbing the sacred Tor. A large square vertical monument, one of the oldest in the Necropolis, sits at the very top of the small hill, like a miniature echo of the tower atop Glastonbury.

Figure 9. The Necropolis hillock: the highest point in the cemetery.

Miss W, always eager to impart local history, once took me and a school friend of mine on a tour of the Necropolis, to educate us on some of the famous residents and history. I recall she often spoke of the Lamb family, and I believe we visited the Lamb family monument. It is one of the largest monuments in the middle of the western section, and was visible from my bedroom on Amelia. The Lamb family were prominent residents of early Cabbagetown. The historic house of Daniel Lamb still stands at the northwest corner of Winchester and Sumach, set back far from the street on a large lot, and ranks as one of the largest and most impressive Victorian houses in Cabbagetown. Miss W probably also showed us the William Mackenzie Celtic cross, though I can’t say for certain.

While the western portion of the Necropolis is nestled securely amidst Cabbagetown streets Amelia, Sumach and Winchester, the eastern edge of the cemetery skirts the Don Valley, with the hillsides slowly eroding. Bases of some tombstones have been undercut and exposed, with some tilting and at risk of toppling, and a few have succumbed to gravity or vandalism.

I do remember ending up at the Knowles family vault, which is perched precariously on the edge of the hill at the very southeast corner of the cemetery. It is one of only three such above-ground vaults in the Necropolis, and is the largest. The front of the Knowles vault overlooks the dead end of Winchester Street and the Bayview extension. It can be reached by scrambling down onto a narrow slippery path. An ancient iron gate, spray painted bright yellow in recent times, swings freely at the doorway of the vault, making an appropriately loud eerie squeak. Forged into this iron gate are two hearts, touching one another. Behind the gate is a concrete block wall permanently sealing the entrance. Above the entrance is carved “H A Knowles 1874.” Such vault tombs originally would have had a heavy wooden or metal door, secured with a padlock or other device. However, looters often broke in and desecrated such tombs, looking for valuables, so they eventually ended up with permanently sealed entrances. St. James Cemetery at Parliament and Bloor has many more fine examples of such vaults, and other prominent citizens of old Toronto are to be found there.

One last observation before we leave the grounds. The northeast portion of the Necropolis dips far down into the valley below. It can be accessed from a gentle descending ramp on one side, or by a more hazardous trail on the other. A number of military veterans’ graves are to be found there. This vale is bounded by a steep eroded hill, almost vertical at its steepest, and buttressed by a huge mass of purposely placed tree branches dumped over the edge. Peering over the edge of this cliff, the vertical drop is remarkable. The topography is a reminder of ice age waters which carved the valley 12,000 years ago, as glaciers receded and flooded the prehistoric landscape. This vale makes me shudder a bit, as I imagine deep swirling waters where tombstones and traffic now exist.

Riverdale Zoo

As if the 1850 Necropolis, with its exquisite 1872 Gothic Revival chapel, was not enough, what was directly across the street a century ago? The Riverdale Zoo! Present day Riverdale Farm was once the site of the city zoo – situated improbably and incongruously, directly across the street from the peaceful Necropolis.

Opened to the public in 1894, via the efforts of Alderman Daniel Lamb, the Riverdale Zoo began gradually with an assortment of animal donations.[x] The zoo quickly expanded, to include a full gamut of wild and exotic animals. Tigers, lions, crocodiles, camels, polar bears and elephants were imported and held captive for the amusement of Victorian and Edwardian throngs of onlookers.

By modern standards, the conditions in which the animals were kept were generally appalling. Small spaces with little or no attempt to replicate a natural environment – par for the course for zoos of the time. Even in early days, there were pleas for more humane treatment of the animals. As one online source captioned two early photos of a lion and wolf in the zoo: “There is nothing more desolate than a caged lion . . . except a caged wolf in a dog house.”[xi]

I saw the Riverdale Zoo only in its last waning years, a curious relic of old Toronto. Though I lived just two blocks away, I was not a frequent visitor, and only recall visiting perhaps a couple of times. I have trouble overlaying the old zoo of my memory with the present-day farm. At the south end of the farm, a circular stone tower still stands, a recognizable landmark, which once belonged to a 1902 building called the Donnybrook. Nearly all other traces of the old zoo have been obliterated.

I only have a few dim memories of the Riverdale Zoo. A barren concrete pit with high iron bars – curved inward, impossible to climb – enclosed one or two bears. Similar pits existed for other animals. A long dark building with aquariums of fish and cages of birds. I recall camels, and a rabbit hutch. And that’s about it. And watching candy floss being made. Remarkably, the Riverdale Zoo lasted eighty years, before finally closing in 1974, as the new Metro Zoo opened and the last animals were transferred.

In some archival photos, you can see pictures of zoo animals, with the Necropolis chapel or its fence in the background. Today you can see goats, sheep, chickens, a barn and a windmill, all within one line of sight, with the Necropolis chapel tower as backdrop – truly a wondrous sight in the heart of the city.

Though incongruous, there was a weird synergy between the strange bedfellows of Victorian Necropolis and Victorian Zoo. The same energy carries on to the present day, with the marvellous chapel and entrance way of the Necropolis, facing off directly with the entrance to Riverdale Farm and its replica 1852 farmhouse across the road. There is nothing else like it in the city. On busy summer days, pedestrian traffic is brisk on both sides of the street, as people bask in the magic of this very special place. Strollers, couples, singles, seniors, young and old, dog walkers, all on a mission.

There are only a few vestige remnants left of the old zoo. At the southeast corner of Winchester and Sumach, the original stone entrance pillars of the zoo were left standing, across the street from the old corner store. Along the paths leading down the hillside, you will find roughly cemented stone walls, clearly from an earlier time, which marked some of the original pathways. Of the original zoo buildings, only three remain, in whole or in part: the circular tower of the Donnybrook; the Island House and bridge in the lower pond; and the enigmatic house known as The Residence.

Figure 10. Detailed plan of Riverdale Zoo buildings shown on 1950s map. The row of large outdoor cages can be seen in the centre, along the main zoo walking path. Also visible are The Residence, the Island House and bridge in the lower pond, and the Necropolis chapel and superintendent’s lodge across the street. Note that Winchester Street is unobstructed. The Winchester Street bridge across the Don still existed, until the Bayview Extension necessitated its removal in the late 1950s.

The Last House on Winchester Street

From certain vantage points on the Riverdale flats, structures are visible through the trees, above the natural ponds and up the hill, looking north toward the cemetery. Depending on the time of year and the foliage, the structures may not be visible at all. One of them looks like an old house but you can’t quite tell. What is a house doing there, where exactly is it, and who could possibly live there?

These mysterious structures are accessible via the hillside walking paths adjacent to Riverdale Farm. One of them is a modern building of very interesting design, built right into the hillside and travelling up three levels of the hill, incorporating a walk-through archway over the middle path. It is the “Meeting House,” a unique three-storey building that opened in 1993. The Meeting House serves as a hub for all farm programs and activities, including summer camp and community programs.

If you walk the upper path, past the entrance to the Meeting House, you come face to face with a very odd house. It is known as “The Residence.” As described on the Riverdale Farm website:

“The Residence is located next to the Duck Pond and across from the Meeting House. It was built in 1902 by prisoners of the Toronto Don Jail and has served many purposes over its colourful history, including serving as the zookeeper’s residence, a staff building, zoo hospital, and as a temporary morgue for the Necropolis Cemetery. Today, the Residence is used for a variety of farm-related and community-based programs.”[xii]

Figure 11. Some of the landmarks of my neighbourhood, past and present.

This elusive building has always intrigued me. I have always been drawn to lone, oddball, survivor, “last one left on the block” houses. Built in an Arts and Crafts style, the building incorporates a heavy stone chimney at the front, with a variety of different brick types and colours on the walls, most notably the use of clinker brick interspersed with regular brick. Clinker brick is a type of irregularly shaped brick, created by accident or deliberately, at high kiln temperatures, giving it a glassy surface and a range of textures and colours. It gives a very dramatic three-dimensional, almost fortress-like effect to the walls. Old-style sash windows, a small oval window beside the front entrance, and a second floor bay window facing south, straining to reach over the hillside, complete the appearance from the front.

It is at once whimsical and enigmatic, mute and mysterious, and challenges you to ask: “who lives here?” A cottage-like creation that perfectly fits into the hillside wonderland it sits upon, betwixt cemetery and farm, beside a double dead-end street. It seems to exist outside space and time, perched on the edge of the valley, unaware of the rest of the world. A will-o-the-wisp that might disappear or reappear at any moment, coy and insouciant. Inscrutable.

Figure 12. The Residence.

The Residence sits like a Hansel and Gretel house in the forest. It has no address. Or so I thought. From the front approach, no number is visible. But recently, I made a discovery. A pathway beside the house leads you to a wonderful little backyard. From the rear of the house, protruding clinker bricks bristle, like some armoured dinosaur or porcupine with its back to the valley. The path continues around the other side of the house, facing the dead-end stub of Winchester Street. While examining this hidden side of the house, which is not readily visible from any public access point, I looked up. There, in modest old-fashioned painted metal, were three small numbers attached to the second storey wood above a side entrance: 201.

I had discovered the secret identity of The Residence: 201 Winchester. I had found the Last House on Winchester Street! What’s the big deal, you ask? The address of Riverdale Farm is 201 Winchester Street. And I suppose the address of Riverdale Zoo was the same. For the record, the address of the Necropolis across the road is 200 Winchester Street. Well, I thought it was exciting and poignant to find those three numbers hiding in plain sight, facing a street no longer accessible, never again to be sought by a visitor or long-lost friend. Once upon a time, the mailman could have walked down Winchester Street, and down a few steps to deliver a letter to the mailbox of the zoo keeper’s cottage at number 201.

Epilogue – Don Vale House

Could there be one more house on Winchester, yet to be discovered??? Let us continue further down the road, past the gates and fences which now blockade a dead end, and travel down a 19th century Winchester Street.

Winchester Street currently comes to a rather ignominious dead end, with the Necropolis entrance on the north side and the Riverdale Farm entrance on the south side. Unsightly barriers create a parking area for cemetery or municipal employees and their vehicles. Beyond that is a fence, then a storage area for the Necropolis, and then another fence, completing the choke point.

I have always felt cheated by these artificial barriers. As if I have an ancestral memory of the original road leading down into the valley. The gates and fences which now blockade the end of Winchester Street, turning it into a dead end, were not always there. Over a century ago, Winchester Street smoothly transitioned into the Don Valley, and was in fact one of the major routes available to get across.

Beyond the second fence, an orphaned stub of Winchester Street still exists, like a stranded river oxbow. It is inaccessible for half the year, but in fair weather can still be walked upon, via steps up from The Residence, or from the lower hillside trail below. The stub of Winchester continues downhill, where it is finally terminated by yet another barrier, and a final fence, and ultimately the brush-filled ditch beside the Bayview Extension, with a menacing hydro line tower keeping watch for trespassers. Winchester Street has been utterly severed from its valley history by literally half a dozen barriers. If you stand at the end of the Winchester Street stub and look up to the cemetery, you will see the Knowles tomb and its yellow-painted iron gate, which has been standing guard over the valley for 150 years, a silent witness to “progress.”

Figure 13. In this map from 1857, Winchester Street continues past the Necropolis and across the Don River.

Let us turn the clock back to the 1850s. Ride our horse and buggy freely down an unencumbered Winchester Street, once called “The Plank Road,”[xiii] downhill, following the curve, until we encounter a wooden building at the foot of the Necropolis.

Built in the late 1840s on the north side of Winchester Street at the Don River, Don Vale House[3] was originally a residence, but was quickly turned into a public house. It was at an excellent location to serve people coming into the city. A drawing in 1848 shows a small rough wooden one-and-a-half storey building with an open shed at the side. David Priestly, who gave the building its name, is recorded as the proprietor in 1855. From 1860 to 1865, John Hogg was the owner. In 1865, George Fox, the new manager, changed the name to the Fox Head Tavern. From 1870 the buildings stood empty, and by 1876 they were torn down.[xiv]

Travellers could cross the river over a small bridge, known variously as the Winchester Street bridge, the Necropolis bridge, or the Don bridge. The earliest known crossing at this location was a makeshift bridge fashioned from a fallen butternut tree across the river, and is recorded in a sketch by Elizabeth Simcoe in 1796, and known as Playter’s Bridge.[xv]

Don Vale House was a sporting tavern where boxing contests, crude fighting, cockfights, and gambling could be enjoyed while drinking. It was a place where men went in the evening after work, it being far enough removed from the centre of the city to give the patrons a walk. Before the completion of Prince Edward Viaduct at Bloor Street in October 1918, Winchester Street was an important route into Toronto. Many travellers and farmers on their way to market stopped at the Don Vale House before heading up the steep Winchester Street hill.[xvi]

There is a contemporary sketch of Don Vale House circa 1865, with the Winchester Street bridge in the foreground, and the Necropolis hillside and tombstones in the background. The building sat where present day Rosedale Valley Road merges with the Bayview extension. Today a very busy spot with non-stop traffic, the cars drive right through the ghost of Don Vale House, blissfully ignorant of the past. I imagine an archaeological dig at the site would yield some interesting finds, although most of the original site appears to be underneath the present day roads, and therefore permanently inaccessible for digging.

Figure 14. Don Vale House at the Winchester Street Bridge over the Don River. c 1865.

It is perhaps amusing to note that Don Vale House (circa 1848 to 1876) was precisely contemporary with Lamb’s blacking and glue factory (1849 to 1888). The terrible effluent from Lamb’s factory must have flowed not far from Don Vale House, into Castle Frank Brook and thence into the Don. It must have been quite an experience to stop for a drink and a cockfight at Don Vale House, while Lamb’s factory was going full tilt, dispensing its toxic swill into the most polluted stream in the city, and filling the atmosphere with noisome vapors! Through it all, the Necropolis tombstones observed silently from the hill, tolerating the folly below. If only I could step back in time to have a beer at the infamous Don Vale house!!

Full Circle

Back to the present, we find ourselves at the bottom of the steep hill where I used to toboggan with trepidation. Where I imagined, erroneously and foolishly, that Queen Victoria had descended in a horse drawn carriage. Walk up the wooden steps, and we find ourselves back in Hillcrest (aka Wellesley) Park. The physical and mental landscape of my past. From the park I look up at the side of our old house. Where is the front porch?? Oh yes, it was torn down.

Remember those large British pennies? Shortly after acquiring them, I had the hare-brained idea of burying them in the park as hidden treasure. Someone had dug a small hole in the middle of the grass, and I thought I would use this to hide the coins. Luckily I never went through with the silly plan. I still have the coins. My porch is gone, but I still have the coins.

That concludes our tour of the Necropolis, the City of the Dead. To the 50,000+ souls resting in the most beautiful cemetery in the city, and to my troubled memories: Rest In Peace. Requiesce in Pace.

Addendum

At risk of trying the patience of dear reader . . . there is yet one more “last house.” Perched alongside the deep valley portion of the Necropolis, in the very last house on Hillcrest Park, lived Mr. K and his wife. Miss W told me that Mr. K had a coin collection. I was very eager to see it. I think I did see it. But the funny thing is, to this day, I’m not sure if I actually saw it, or just imagined I saw it. I have a memory of a reluctant Mr. K sitting on a couch, and a few coins on a coffee table. I don’t know if this is an actual memory, or just what I imagined it would be like. I think Mr. K also had a glass eye, but I’m not 100% sure about that either. Someone had a glass eye. I do definitively remember the following. Trick or treating one Halloween along Hillcrest Park, I came to the last house. Mr. K opened the door. Trick or treat!! Instead of giving a treat, he called trick. I had no idea what that meant. What was I supposed to do?? I slowly retreated in shame and confusion. He felt sorry, called me back and gave a treat. That did happen. I think.

Footnotes:

  • [1] Humorous footnote: Though the Queen Mum was mother of Elizabeth II, the Queen Mum is not to be confused with Elizabeth I who ruled during Shakespearean times.
  • [2] In 1951 Princess Elizabeth (future Queen) paid her first official visit to Canada. In an echo of the 1939 royal visit, she travelled the same route down Royal Drive to attend a similar event in Riverdale Park, with husband Philip.
  • [3] Don Vale was the original name of the neighbourhood we now call Cabbagetown. The original Cabbagetown was the area to the south, between Queen Street and Gerrard, corresponding to present day Regent Park. The neighbourhood north of Gerrard only became the “new Cabbagetown” some time later in the 1960s or 70s, after the original Cabbagetown slum was torn down to be replaced by the Regent Park apartments. All references to Cabbagetown in this story really refer to the “new Cabbagetown” bounded by Gerrard, Parliament and Wellesley Streets, or sometimes extended further west to Ontario or Bleecker Streets).

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