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AUTHORS AND WRITERS
ASSOCIATED WITH
MORRISTOWN
WITH A CHAPTER ON
HISTORIC MORRISTOWN
BY
JULIA KEESE COLLES
1893
VOGT BROS.
MORRISTOWN, N. J.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1893, by
JULIA KEESE COLLES
of Morristown, New Jersey, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress,
at Washington.
[Illustration: Painted by CHARLES WETMORE. 1815.
Owned by HON. AUG. W. CUTLER.
OLD MORRISTOWN.
Pen and ink sketch by Miss S. Howell, from original painting.]
_DEDICATION._
TO THE MEN AND WOMEN, OF EARLY AND OF LATER
YEARS, WHO HAVE SCATTERED THEIR PEARLS OF
BEAUTY AND OF WISDOM ALONG THE DUSTY
PATHS OF OUR HISTORIC CITY, THESE
PAGES ARE INSCRIBED WITH AFFECTIONATE
ADMIRATION BY
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
This long-promised volume, the first of its kind, so far as known, ever
given to the world, is now offered to the public. It is the result of a
lecture given about three and a half years ago, which was repeated by
request, and finally promised for publication, with the endorsement of one
hundred and fifty subscribers.
No effort has been spared to have every statement in the book accurate; nor
has any name been omitted which has presented a title to notice, in spite
of the fact that the number of "Authors and Writers," has nearly doubled
since the work of publication was undertaken. Any suggestion or criticism,
however, will be gladly received by the author, as having a bearing on
possible future work in this direction.
Morristown, New Jersey, February, 1893.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PREFACE.
POEM--MORRISTOWN.
HISTORIC MORRISTOWN.
GEORGE WASHINGTON.
POETS-- PAGE.
WM. AND STEPHEN V. R. PATERSON 33
MRS. ELIZABETH CLEMENTINE KINNEY 40
ALEXANDER NELSON EASTON 42
FRANCIS BRET HARTE 45
MRS. M. VIRGINIA DONAGHE MCCLURG 48
CHARLTON T. LEWIS, LL. D. 54
MISS EMMA F. R. CAMPBELL 58
MRS. ADELAIDE S. BUCKLEY 63
REV. OLIVER CRANE, D. D., LL. D. 63
REV. J. LEONARD CORNING, D. D. 68
MRS. MARY LEE DEMAREST 69
HON. ANTHONY Q. KEASBEY 72
MAJOR LINDLEY HOFFMAN MILLER 76
MISS HENRIETTA HOWARD HOLDICH 79
WILLIAM TUCKEY MEREDITH 81
MISS HANNAH MORE JOHNSON 84
MISS MARGARET H. GARRARD 87
MISS JULIA E. DODGE 89
CHARLES D. PLATT 90
MRS. JULIA R. CUTLER 96
MISS FRANCES BELL COURSEN 99
MISS ISABEL STONE 100
REV. G. DOUGLASS BREWERTON 102
MRS. ALICE D. ABELL 104
GEORGE WETMORE COLLES, JR. 105
HYMNODIST--
JOHN R. RUNYON 107
NOVELISTS AND STORY WRITERS--
FRANCIS RICHARD STOCKTON 109
FRANCIS BRET HARTE 118
MISS HENRIETTA HOWARD HOLDICH 131
MRS. MIRIAM COLES HARRIS 141
MISS MARIA MCINTOSH 146
MRS. MARIA MCINTOSH COX 149
DAVID YOUNG 155
MRS. NATHANIEL CONKLIN 165
MRS. CATHARINE L. BURNHAM 171
HON. JOHN WHITEHEAD 179
MRS. GEORGEANNA HUYLER DUER 181
MADAME DE MEISSNER 186
MISS ISABEL STONE 188
AUGUSTUS WOOD 193
CHARLES P. SHERMAN 193
MISS HELEN M. GRAHAM 193
OTHER NOVELISTS AND STORY WRITERS 195
TRANSLATORS--
MRS. ADELAIDE S. BUCKLEY 197
MISS MARGARET H. GARRARD 202
OTHER TRANSLATORS 203
LEXICOGRAPHER--
CHARLTON T. LEWIS, LL. D. 205
HISTORIANS AND ESSAYISTS--
WILLIAM CHERRY, ANCIENT CHRONICLER 207
REV. JOSEPH F. TUTTLE, D. D. 209
HON. EDMUND D. HALSEY 215
HON. JOHN WHITEHEAD 218
BAYARD TUCKERMAN 221
LOYAL FARRAGUT 227
JOSIAH COLLINS PUMPELLY 229
MISS HANNAH MORE JOHNSON 233
MRS. JULIA MCNAIR WRIGHT 237
MRS. EDWINA L. KEASBEY 239
MRS. MARIAN E. STOCKTON 243
TRAVELS AND PERSONAL REMINISCENCES--
MARQUIS DE CHASTELLUX 247
REV. JOHN L. STEPHENS 254
HON. CHARLES S. WASHBURNE 255
GENERAL JOSEPH WARREN REVERE 257
HENRY DAY 260
THEOLOGIANS--
REV. TIMOTHY JOHNES, D. D. 264
REV. JAMES RICHARDS, D. D. 270
REV. ALBERT BARNES 271
REV. SAMUEL WHELPLEY 275
STEVENS JONES LEWIS 278
REV. RUFUS SMITH GREEN, D. D. 279
REV. WM. DURANT 282
REV. J. MACNAUGHTAN, D. D. 286
REV. C. DEWITT BRIDGMAN 291
REV. J. T. CRANE, D. D. 293
REV. H. A. BUTTZ, D. D., LL. D. 296
REV. J. K. BURR, D. D. 297
REV. J. E. ADAMS 299
REV. JAMES M. BUCKLEY, D. D., LL. D. 300
REV. JAMES M. FREEMAN, D. D. 308
REV. KINSLEY TWINING, D. D., LL. D. 310
REV. THEODORE L. CUYLER, D. D. 314
RT. REV. WM. INGRAHAM KIP, D. D., LL. D. 319
REV. WILLIAM STAUNTON, D. D. 323
REV. ARTHUR MITCHELL, D. D. 327
REV. CHARLES E. KNOX, D. D. 332
REV. ALBERT ERDMAN, D. D. 334
REV. JOSEPH M. FLYNN, R. D. 337
REV. GEORGE H. CHADWELL 338
REV. WILLIAM M. HUGHES, S. T. D. 345
PUBLIC SPEAKERS AND LAWYERS--
HON. JACOB W. MILLER 351
HON. WILLIAM BURNET KINNEY 355
HON. THEODORE F. RANDOLPH 358
HON. EDWARD W. WHELPLEY 360
HON. JACOB VANATTA 362
HON. GEORGE T. WERTS 364
JOSEPH F. RANDOLPH 365
EDWARD Q. KEASBEY 367
SCIENTISTS--
SAMUEL F. B. MORSE, LL. D. 368
ALFRED VAIL 371
WILLIAM GRAHAM SUMNER, LL. D. 376
ELWYN WALLER, PH. D. 380
GEORGE W. MAYNARD, PH. D. 382
EMORY MCCLINTOCK, LL. D. 383
ANDREW F. WEST, LL. D. 384
SENOR JOSE GROS 386
MEDICAL AUTHORS AND WRITERS--
CONDICT W. CUTLER, M. S., M. D. 388
PHANET C. BARKER, M. D. 390
HORACE A. BUTTOLPH, M. D., LL. D. 392
AUTHORS AND WRITERS ON ART--
THOMAS NAST 395
REV. JARED BRADLEY FLAGG, D. D. 398
REV. J. LEONARD CORNING, D. D. 400
GEORGE HERBERT MCCORD, A. N. A. 401
DRAMATIST--
WILLIAM G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN 403
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE.
FRONTISPIECE--OLD MORRISTOWN.
ORIGINAL FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, 1738, 17
OLD ARNOLD TAVERN, 25
FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, 97
WASHINGTON HEADQUARTERS, 209
PLAN OF FORT NONSENSE, 305
SPEEDWELL IRON WORKS, 369
OLD FACTORY AT SPEEDWELL, 377
POEM.
BY WILLIAM PATERSON.
MORRISTOWN, NEW JERSEY.
These are the winter quarters, this is where
The Patriot Chieftain with his army lay,
When frosty winds swept down and chilled the air,
And long, cold nights closed out the shorter day.
The bell still rings within the white church spire,
Rising toward heaven upon the village green,
Whose chimes then called the people, pastor, choir,
To praise and pray each Sabbath morn and e'en.
And there with them, the Christian soldier sealed
The common covenant which a dying Lord,
To those who broke bread with him last revealed,
And bade them ever thus His love record.
A country hamlet then, nor did it lose
Its rural charms and beauties for long years;
The stranger would its quiet glories choose,
Far from the toils and strifes of daily cares.
The people, too, were simple in their ways,
And dwelt contented in their humble sphere,
The morning and the evening of their days,
Passing the same with every closing year.
There were the Deacons, solemn, sober, staid,
Beneath the pulpit each Communion Sunday,
They never smiled, but sung there psalms and prayed;
And then made whiskey at the still on Monday.
Perhaps you smile just here, I only say,
Men did not deem it then a heinous crime;
Such was the common custom of the day,
As those can tell who recollect the time.
For further proof of this, look up the tract
Of Deacon Giles and his distillery,
Where you will find that for this very fact,
He was set up high in the pillory.
Young life for me began its early spring,
Here in the freshness of the Mountain air,
When nature seemed in fullest tune to sing,
And all the world was beautiful and fair.
And Death--Who stays to think of him, till age
Comes stealing on with sure and silent tread?
Nor even then can he the thoughts engage,
Till his cold fingers touch the dying bed.
He called one then in withered leaf and sere,
And sent a warning, so wiseacres said,
By causing apple blossoms to appear
In winter, and the old man soon was dead.
The Guinea Chieftain too, a century old,
Born a young Prince beneath his native sky,
Who with his banjo sang rare tales of gold--
I saw him strive and struggle, gasp and die.
A child was brought one evening, lived, and died,
Almost before its eyes beheld the day;
The infant and the old men, side by side,
Were in the quiet churchyard laid away.
I learned of Life and Death, but know no more
Of their mysterious secrets now than then;
No sesame can open wide the door,
That veils those mysteries from the light of men.
Upon the summit of the rock-bound hill
That looks down on the lowland plains afar,
Are seen the outlines of the earthworks still
Remaining there, rude vestiges of war.
That was a day to be remembered long,
When crowds were gathered on the village green,
To welcome with warm hearts and floral song,
Him who a friend in war's dark hour had been.
And not while nature's suns shall pour their light,
Will Freedom's sons that honored name forget,
Nor cease to, until worlds shall pass from sight,
Keep green the memory of Lafayette.
Hark, on the air tolls out the passing bell,
Fourscore and ten and yet again fourscore;
Tread lightly now, it is the parting knell
For two great spirits gone out evermore.
Together they had lived, together died
As Freedom's Bell rang in her natal day,
And what than this could be more mete beside
That twinned in death, their souls should pass away?
There comes a memory of the bugle horn,
Winding a blast, as with their daily load,
The prancing coach-steeds dashed out in the morn
To run the toll-gates of the turnpike road.
Behold the change? now brakes are whistled down,
And screaming engines wake the Mountain air;
There is no longer, as of old, a Town
Committee, but a Council and a Mayor.
Go where the lake sleeps in the summer night,
Kissed by the winds that on its bosom play,
When the round moon sends down her fullest light,
And evening glories in soft splendor lay.
And you can almost fancy then that over,
The moonlit mirror of the tranquil tide,
You see the water spirits rise and hover,
And on the sheen in laughing lightness glide.
And I have seen those waters as they flow,
Down on their course past bridge and wheel and mill,
Where we as boys would "in-a-swimming go;"
Do the boys swim in "Sunnygony" still?
Oh, fellow scholar who along with me
Learned the first rudiments of ball and book
Within the grounds of the Academy,
In vain for that old landmark now you look.
Gone with the Master, yet a memory lingers,
And will forever consecrate the spot,
Nor can the power of Time's effacing fingers,
While life shall last, the recollection blot.
Teacher and pupils, few remain, and they
Far on in years, lean on a slender staff;
The school-house, all you see of that to-day
Is shown you there upon its photograph.
Change is on all things, and I see it here;
Land that then grew the turnip and "potater,"
Now blooms in flowers and costs exceeding dear,
Bringing some thousand dollars by the acre!
And villas crown the rising hill-tops round,
And stately mansions stand adorned with art,
And liveried coaches roll with rumbling sound
Where once jogged on the wagon-wheel and cart.
Hail to the future, ages come and go,
And men are borne upon the sweeping tide;
Wave follows wave in ever ceaseless flow,
The present stays not by the dweller's side.
I stand to-day far down the farthest slope,
And up the lengthened pathway turn and look,
Where on the summit once stood Youth and Hope,
Now soon to turn the last leaf of the Book.
And I am glad that while there come to me
These fragrant memories of life's early scene,
That still in robes of purest white I see
The Church Spire rising on the village green.
HISTORIC MORRISTOWN.
Throughout our country, there is no spot more identified with the story of
the Revolution, and the personality of Washington, than Morristown. Nestled
among its five ranges of hills, its impregnable position no doubt first
attracted the attention of the commander-in-chief and that of his trusted
quartermaster, General Nathaniel Greene. Besides, the enthusiastic
patriotism of the men and women of this part of New Jersey was noted far
and wide, and the powder-mill of Col. Jacob Ford, Jr., on the Whippany
river, where "good merchantable powder," was in course of
manufacture,--some of which had probably already been tested at Trenton,
Princeton and elsewhere,--was also among the attractions.
It was on December 20th, 1776, that Washington wrote to the President of
Congress: "I have directed the three regiments from Ticonderoga, to halt at
Morristown, in Jersey (where I understand about eight hundred Militia have
collected) in order to inspirit the inhabitants and as far as possible to
cover that part of the country."
(Quoted by Rev. Dr. Tuttle in his paper on "Washington
in Morris County," in the Historical Magazine for June
1871.)
These were regiments from New England. The British, who were always trying
to gain "the pass of the mountains," had made an attempt on the 14th of
December, but had been repulsed by Col. Jacob Ford, Jr., with his militia,
at Springfield.
At this time the village numbered about 250 inhabitants with a populous
community of thriving farmers surrounding it. To the north of the town were
the estates of the Hathaway and Johnes families; to the east, those of the
Fords, who had just erected the building now known as the Headquarters; to
the south, those of General John Doughty and to the west, those of Silas
Condict and his brothers.
Morris county was settled "about 1710," by families of New England
ancestry, who were attracted by the iron ore in the mountains round about
and who came from Newark and Elizabethtown. The Indian name for the country
round, seems to have been "Rockciticus" as late as the arrival of Pastor
Johnes in 1742, according to the traditions in his family. The original
name of the settlement of Morristown was West Hanover, and in court records
this name is found as late as 1738. It was also called New Hanover. The
present name was adopted when the county court held its first meeting here
at the house of Col. Jacob Ford, on March 25th, 1740. The town was named
for the county and the county was named for Governor Lewis Morris, who was
Governor of New Jersey from 1738 to 1746. Evidently this was to be the
county town of Morris County.
At the time of the Revolution the church, the "Court House and Jail" and
the Arnold Tavern were the most important buildings. The Magazine also, a
temporary structure, stood on South street, near the "Green". To it casks
of powder were constantly taken and sometimes casks of _sand_ to deceive
the spies who were always hanging about. The "Court House and Jail" was
famous as the common prison of Tories caught in Morris and the adjoining
counties. It was built in 1755 and stood on the northwest corner of the
village "Green" as shown in the picture of Old Morristown. It was a plain
wooden structure with a cupola and bell. Its sides and roof were shingled.
One of the illustrations of this book is of the Arnold Tavern, as it
appeared in Washington's time. The picture is from a pen-and-ink sketch by
Miss S. Howell, made originally and recently for the Washington Association
of N. J., under careful direction from study of the time, by one of its
members. Taverns were dotted all about the country in those days and most
of the public meetings were held in their spacious rooms. Whether it was
this fact or because of certain qualities possessed by the early
proprietors of taverns, we find that many of them eventually became the
most eminent men of the community.
The erection of the First Church building was begun in 1738 and finished in
1740, although the organization had existed from 1733. The first pastor,
Rev. Timothy Johnes found it ready for his reception on his arrival in 1742
and for his installation, the following year. We are indebted to our young
artist, Miss Emma H. Van Pelt, for a painting of this early church, from
the only outline that remains to us, and to Miss S. Howell, for the
pen-and-ink sketch, from the painting, for this book. This outline was
embroidered upon a sampler owned by Miss Martha Emmell, and, according to
family history, is a faithful representation of the building and the only
suggestion other than traditional of Morristown's first place of worship.
Miss Van Pelt's picture of the old church also follows in all respects her
own, and the study of others, from the ancient records of the time. The
structure stood about a rod east of the present building, facing upon
Morris street and was always known as the "Meetin' House." It was
originally of a somewhat plain and barn-like exterior, nearly square, with
shingled sides, and windows let into the sloping roof. It was twice
altered. In 1764, it was enlarged and two other entrances, besides the main
entrance, were provided. A steeple also was erected in which was hung the
bell in use at the present time. This bell was a gift, according to
traditional history from the King of Great Britain to the church at
Morristown. It had upon it the impress of the British crown and the name of
the makers, "Lister & Pack, of London _fecit_." It was re-cast about thirty
years ago. This early church and the Baptist church, which stood on the
site occupied by the one quite recently removed, (because of the fine new
building in course of erection), have honorable record for unselfish
devotion to the cause of the patriots. Both buildings were nobly given up
for the use of the soldiers, suffering with small-pox, in the terrible
winter of 1777.
Washington first came to Morristown, with his staff and army, three days
after the battle of Princeton, on January 7th, 1777, and remained until May
of that year. He made his Headquarters at the Arnold Tavern, then kept by
Colonel Jacob Arnold, a famous officer of the "Light Horse Guards", whose
grandsons are now residents of Morristown. This historic building stood on
the west side of the Green, where now, a large brick building, "The
Arnold", has been erected on its site. The old building with its many
associations was about to be destroyed, when it was rescued, at the
suggestion of the author of this book, and restored upon its present site
on the Colles estate, on Mt. Kemble avenue, the old Baskingridge road of
the Revolution. It has recently been purchased and occupied for a hospital
by the All Souls' Hospital Association. Though extended and enlarged, it
is still the same building and retains many of the distinctive features
which characterized it when the residence of Washington. Here is still the
bedroom which Washington occupied, the parlor, the dining-room and the
ball-room where he received his generals, Greene, Knox, Schuyler, Gates,
Lee, de Kalb, Steuben, Wayne, Winds, Putnam, Sullivan and others, besides
distinguished visitors from abroad, all of whom met here continually during
the winter of 1777. One of these visitors and one of our authors, the
Marquis de Chastellux, gives an interesting account of his experience and
impressions. In one of the bedrooms of this old house, has been seen within
a few years, between the floor and the ceiling below, a long case for guns,
above which was painted on the floor, in very large squares, covering the
entire opening, a checkerboard about which, in an emergency, evidently the
soldiers expected to sit and so conceal from the enemy the trap door of
their arsenal. About this ancient building many traditions linger and from
it have gone forth Washington's commands and some of his most important
letters.
The road taken by Washington and his army, on coming first to Morristown,
was, according to Dr. Tuttle, "through Pluckamin, Baskingridge, New Vernon,
thence by a grist mill near Green Village, around the corner and thence
along the road leading from Green Village to Morristown and over the
ground which had been selected for an encampment in the valley bearing the
beautiful Indian name of Lowantica, now called Spring Valley." It was here
that the terrible scourge of small-pox broke out among the soldiers.
One cannot but wonder continually at Washington's courage and serenity in
the midst of such overwhelming difficulties. He had hardly entered his
winter home, in the Arnold Tavern, when the loss was announced to him of
the brave and noble Col. Jacob Ford, Jr., his right-hand man, upon whom he
had depended. He was buried, by Washington's orders, with the honors of
war, and the description of that funeral cortege is one of the most
picturesque pages out of traditional history. Then came the alarm about
small-pox, the first death occurring on the same day as Col. Ford's
funeral. Washington himself was taken ill, says tradition, with quinsy sore
throat, and great fears were felt for his life. It is interesting to know
that being asked who should succeed him in command of the army, should he
not recover, he at once pointed to Gen. Nathaniel Greene. It was during
this time of residence at the Arnold Tavern, that Washington joined Pastor
Johnes and his people in their semi-annual communion after receiving the
good pastor's assurance: "Ours is not the Presbyterian table, but the
Lord's table, and we give the Lord's invitation to all his followers of
whatever name." This is said to be the only occasion in his public career,
when it is certainly known that Washington partook of the Sacrament. The
hollow is still shown behind the house of Pastor Johnes, on Morris street,
(purchased Feb. 3rd, 1893, of Mrs. Eugene Ayers, for the Morristown
Memorial Hospital,) where a grove of trees then stood, when this historic
event took place in the open air, while the church building was taken up
with the soldiers sick of small-pox. Of this fact, in addition to the
confirmation of Rev. Timothy Johnes's granddaughter, now living, Mrs.
Kirtland, we have the following from Mr. Frederick G. Burnham, who says,
(Oct 12th, 1892); "My Aunt, Huldah Lindsley, sister of Judge Silas Condict,
and born in Morristown, gave me, in the most distinct and definite manner
an account of General Washington's having communed with the Presbyterian
Church on the occasion of the encampment in Morristown. My aunt told me
that the congregation sat out of doors, even in the winter, but were
shielded from the severe winds by surrounding high ground, that benches
were placed in a circular position, that the pastor occupied a central
point and that it was in this out-of-door place, muffled in their thickest
clothing and many of them warmed by foot-stoves and other arrangements for
keeping the feet warm, with nothing overhead but the wintry sky, that the
congregation, among them General Washington, partook of the Lord's
Supper."
Early in December 1779, came Washington once more, with his army, to
Morristown, and remained until the following June, the guest of Mrs.
Theodosia Ford, widow of the gallant Col. Jacob Ford, Jr., at her home now
known as the "Headquarters." The story of the purchase and preservation of
this building for the state and country, by the Washington Association of
New Jersey, is given farther on. "It is still," says the orator of Fort
Nonsense (the Rev. Dr. Buckley), "the most charming residence which
Morristown contains and historically inferior only in interest to Mount
Vernon and far superior to it in beauty of location and surrounding
scenery." Among the treasures of the Headquarters is the original
Commission to Washington, as Commander-in-chief of the Army.
At the opening ceremonial of the Washington Headquarters on July 5th, 1875,
Governor Theodore F. Randolph, in an eloquent address, said as follows:
"Under this roof have been gathered more characters known to the Military
history of our Revolution than under any other roof in America. Here the
eloquent and brilliant Alexander Hamilton lived during the long winter of
1779-'80 and here he met and courted the lady he afterwards married--the
daughter of General Schuyler. Here too was Greene--splendid fighting Quaker
as he was--and the great artillery officer, Knox, the stern Steuben, the
polished Kosciusko, the brave Schuyler, gallant Light-horse Harry Lee, old
Israel Putnam, "Mad Anthony" Wayne, and, last to be named of all, that
brave soldier, but rank traitor--Benedict Arnold."
Many authenticated stories are extant of Washington, himself, and of the
other distinguished inmates of the Headquarters during this memorable
winter. Of the women of Morris County too, and the country round, many
historic tales are told. If possible, they seem to have been even more
patriotic than the men, whom, on several occasions, they upheld when
wavering with doubt or fear. They had knitting and sewing circles for the
soldiers in camp upon the Wicke Farm. These were presided over by Mrs.
Ralph Smith, on Smith's Hummock, by Mrs. Anna Kitchell at Whippany, and by
Mrs. Counselor Condict and Mrs. Parson Johnes, in Morristown.
In all this sympathetic work, Martha Washington led, and we hear of her
that after coming through Trenton on December 28th, in a raging snow storm,
to spend New Year's Day in the Ford Mansion, some of the grand ladies of
the town came to call upon her, dressed in their most elegant silks and
ruffles, and "so", says one of them, "we were introduced to her ladyship,
and don't you think we found her with a _speckled homespun apron on, and
engaged in knitting a stocking_? She received us very handsomely and then
again resumed her knitting. In the course of the conversation, she said,
very kindly to us, whilst she made her needles fly, that 'American ladies
should be patterns of industry to their country-women * * * * we must
become independent of England by doing without these articles which we can
make ourselves. Whilst our husbands and brothers are examples of
patriotism, we must be examples of industry'. 'I do declare,' said one of
the ladies afterwards, 'I never felt so ashamed and rebuked in my life!'"
(Rev. Dr. Tuttle.)
The "Assembly Balls," a subscription entertainment, no doubt arranged to
keep up the spirits of the army officers, were held that winter at the
O'Hara Tavern, says Dr. Tuttle, a house facing the Green and on or
adjoining the lot where now stands Washington Hall,--and probably also at
the Arnold Tavern.
In the meadow, in front of the headquarters, Washington's body-guard was
encamped, originally a select troop of about one hundred Virginians.
[Illustration: Painted by MISS EMMA H. VAN PELT.
From Pen and Ink Sketch by MISS S. HOWELL.
ORIGINAL FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, 1738.]
Martha Washington was a fine horsewoman and the General a superb horseman,
as are all Virginians of the present day. Many were the rides they took
together over the country, one of the most frequent, being to a certain
elevation on the Short Hills, from which the General with his glass could
see every movement of the enemy. Here was stationed the giant alarm-gun, an
eighteen-pounder, and here was the main centre of the system of
beacon-lights on the hills around. From this point can be seen the entire
sea-board in the vicinity of New York City, which was of great importance
when it was not known whether Howe would move towards West Point or
Philadelphia. There is also a view of the entire region west of the
mountain, "to the crown of the hills which lie back of Morristown, and
extending to Baskingridge, Pluckamin and the hills in the vicinity of
Middlebrook on the South, and over to Whippany, Montville, Pompton,
Ringwood, and, across the State-line among the mountains of Orange County,
N. Y., on the north." On our road to Madison, we may call up in
imagination, the vision, which in those days was no unusual sight, says Dr.
Tuttle, of "Washington and his accomplished lady, mounted on bay horses and
accompanied by their faithful mulatto, 'Bill,' and fifty or sixty mounted
Life-guards, passing on their way to or from their quarters in Morristown."
At these times "the 'star spangled banner' was sure to float from the
village liberty-pole, while our ancestors congregated along the highway
where he was to pass and around the village inn, to do honor to the man to
whose fidelity and martial skill all eyes were turned for the salvation of
our country."
Sometimes this cavalcade would pass along the Baskingridge Road, (now Mt.
Kemble Avenue), perhaps stop at General Doughty's house, or, galloping on,
stop at the Kemble mansion, (afterwards the Hoyt residence and now that of
Mr. McAlpin), four miles from town, or turning the corner up Kemble Hill to
the Wicke farm, and Fort Hill, to view the soldiers' encampment, they would
clatter back again, down the precipitous Jockey Hollow road, past the
Hospital-field, or burial place of the soldiers, stopping at the
Headquarters of General Knox, off the Mendham road, about two miles from
town, for Mrs. Knox and Mrs. Washington were close friends. Returning, they
might slacken rein at the house of Pastor Johnes, (Mrs. Eugene Ayers') on
Morris Street, where a ring still remains at the side of the piazza, to
which Washington's horse was tied, under an elm tree's shade; or, they
would stop at Quartermaster Lewis's (Mr. Wm. L. King's) where they would
find Lafayette, after his return from France, if he happened to be in
Morristown,--then at Dr. Jabez Campfield's house, on Morris Street, the
east corner of Oliphant Lane,--the Headquarters of General Schuyler.
Again the General, with his Life-guards, would set out to attend some
appointed meeting of the "Council of Safety" at the house of its
president, Silas Condict. This was about a mile out on the Sussex
Turnpike, where the house still stands, on the west side of the old
cross-road leading from that turnpike to Brant's paper-mill. Here he would
meet the high-minded and dauntless Governor Livingston and perhaps his
son-in-law, Judge Symmes, who lived near by, and whom the Governor
frequently visited; all were men whose lives were sought for, by the
British. Nearly all these homes are standing now and representatives of
these families remain with us. Stories and traditions also relating to
these homes and people have come down to us.
Silas Condict, the bold, the brave, the honored patriot, member of the
Provincial Legislature and of the Continental Congress besides filling
other high places of trust, is represented by his great-grandson, Hon. Aug.
W. Cutler, who now occupies the second house this ancestor built.
General John Doughty's interesting old house, with its curious interior,
and many a secret closet, stands as of old, on Mt. Kemble Avenue, at the
head of Colles Avenue. "He might be called," says Mr. Wm. L. King, "the
most distinguished resident of Morristown, at whose house Washington was a
frequent visitor and no doubt often dined." He is represented by a
great-nephew, Mr. Thomas W. Ogden, who has written an important paper on
General Doughty, for the Washington Association, which is published by
them. General Doughty was the third in command of the American Army, and
succeeded General Knox.
A descendant of General Knox is with us,--Mr. Reuben Knox, of Western
Avenue.
General Schuyler's Headquarters has a romantic interest as the scene of the
courtship between Miss Elizabeth Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton.
Of Pastor Johnes descendants, three generations are now with us to some of
whom we have referred in the sketch of this distinguished man.
Out on the Wicke farm, stands the house as it was in those old days when
Tempe Wicke took her famous ride ahead of the pursuing soldiers and saved
her favorite horse by concealing him for three weeks in the guest chamber,
until every man of the army had gone to fight his country's battles on the
banks of the Hudson. This house is near Fort Hill from which is the
magnificent view which embraces Schooley's Mountain to the westward and a
line of broken highlands to the South, among which is the town of
Baskingridge where General Lee was captured. On the northern slope of this
hill, as late as 1854, 66 fireplaces of the encampment were counted in
regular rows and in a small space were found 196 hut chimneys.
Going up a long, high street, not far from the Park, gradually ascending
over rocks, and rough winding pathways, we come upon an open plateau on
which is "Fort Nonsense," so named, on leaving it, by Washington, says
tradition, because the soldiers had here been employed in constructing an
octagonal earthwork, only to occupy them and to keep them from that
idleness which was certain to breed discontent when added to their poverty,
poor shelter, hopelessness, and homelessness. Here, on a bright afternoon
of April, 1888, a monument to commemorate the site, was unveiled with
appropriate ceremonies by the Washington Association. Long will be
remembered the strange and startling effect upon those who sat waiting, as
the procession drew near at a quickstep, up the hill, and led by the
Fairchild Continental Drum Corps, in characteristic dress. Nearer and
nearer came the tramp of many feet, to the sound of fife and drum playing
Yankee Doodle, and, as they emerged from the trees upon the hill, it seemed
as if Time's clock had been turned back more than a hundred years. Standing
upon the stone, the orator of the occasion, Rev. Dr. Buckley, made a
memorable address, in the course of which he mentioned that this monument,
though small, is higher, measured from the level of the sea, than the great
Washington Monument, which is declared to be the wonder of the world. The
plan of the Fort, drawn by Major J. P. Farley, U. S. A., is now at the
Headquarters and the illustration in this volume, is given from an
engraving of the Messrs. Vogt, by their kind permission.
Probably no Author will again record the presence of the second "First
Church", which has measured its hundred years and more, in its old familiar
place upon the Park. Soon it will be replaced by a modern structure. In
October, 1891, prolonged and interesting services were held to celebrate
the centennial of its erection. Closely involved with all the history of
Morristown, the influences of this old church are felt and shown all
through this book. The picture we give of it and the Soldiers' Monument, is
as we look upon both to-day. (For the use of the engraving, we are again
indebted to the Messrs. Vogt). Sorrowfully, we note the passing of the old
church building and number it among the things we would not lose, but which
soon shall be no more. Behind it, is the old historic cemetery, where have
been laid to rest the forms of many of the patriots and honored dead of the
century gone by.
The "Old Academy" was an outcome of the First Church organization, and its
early history is recorded in the "Trustees Book," of the church. Its
centennial was observed on February 13th, 1891, on which occasion, among
others, Hon. John Whitehead, of Morristown, and Judge William Paterson, of
Perth Amboy, told its story, and the "Old Bell", placed upon the stage, was
rung by Mr. Edward Pierson, who attended the Academy in 1820.
In 1825, Lafayette came again, from France, to revisit the scenes of the
Revolution. It was on July 14th, about six o'clock in the evening, that
coming from Paterson, he arrived at Morristown. The Morris Brigade under
General Darcy was paraded on the Green and the firing of cannon and ringing
of church bells announced his coming. General Doughty was Grand Marshal of
the day and an eloquent address was made, in behalf of the town, by Hon.
Lewis Condict. Lafayette dined at the Ogden House, the home of Jonathan
Ogden, a large brick building corner of Market street and the Green (shown
in the picture). He attended a ball given in his honor, at the Sansay House
(now Mrs. Revere's, on DeHart street), and stayed over night with Mr. James
Wood, in the white house, corner of South and Pine streets. Two of
Morristown's citizens have given their reminiscences of this event to the
author of this book, as follows:
Mr. Edward Pierson, January 10th, 1893, says: "I remember well each member
of the Committee who received Lafayette, but two. I remember very well the
visit of General Lafayette to Morristown, in the year 1825. There was a
delegation went from Morristown, in carriages and on horseback, to meet him
beyond Morristown and escort him here. They came in by the Morris street
road, past the Washington Headquarters. At that time there was only one
small house on the north side of the street, below the present Manse of
the First Church to the foot of the hill. The ground sloped from the
graveyard to the street and was filled with people to see the procession
come in. A reception was given and Lafayette was taken to the James Wood
house (white house on the east corner of Pine and South streets, opposite
my residence), to spend the night. I well remember the next morning seeing
them start off with the General and his party in a four-horse carriage."
Mr. A. H. Condict, well-known as a resident of Morristown, writes from
Mansfield, Ohio, (January 12th, 1893): "My eldest sister has related to me
that when I was about a year old, General Lafayette was given a public
reception at Morristown, in an elegant brick building then standing on the
corner of the Park and Market street; that suitable addresses were made on
the occasion and that while he was being observed by the great crowd of
people, she held me up and that I looked at him. This would fix the time in
the Summer of 1825, which corresponds with my notes gathered from the
various histories."
Morristown has always been a centre, not only geographically, but a centre
of influence from the time when it received its name. We have seen how,
midway between West Point and Philadelphia, with roads radiating in every
direction and with high hills well fitted for beacon-lights and commanding
far-reaching views, Washington soon discovered it was the point for him to
select for watching the movements of Lord Howe in New York, who might at
any moment start up the Hudson for West Point, or Southwards, for
Philadelphia.
[Illustration: THE ORIGINAL ARNOLD TAVERN.
FROM PEN AND INK SKETCH BY MISS S. HOWELL.]
In the early religious movements of the country, Morristown was
conspicuous, having among its theologians some of the most brilliant
thinkers of the period. Recently we find, in the published minutes of the
Synod of New Jersey, Oct. 1892, the significant fact recorded that after
the division of the Presbytery of New York, into that of New York and of
New Jersey, the "Presbytery of Jersey at its first meeting in Morristown,
April 24th, 1810, did appoint supplies for fourteen Sabbaths from May to
September, to the pulpit of the vacant Brick Church in the City of New
York".
One of the first Sunday Schools, if not the first,--in New Jersey was
started here, by Mrs. Charlotte Ford Condict of Littleton, the grandmother
of Henry Vail Condict, now a resident of Morristown, and this was said to
be the beginning of the great revival under Albert Barnes.
In a scientific direction, Morristown was the cradle of perhaps the
greatest invention of the age, the electric telegraph. Also at the
Speedwell Iron Works were manufactured the first tires, axles and cranks of
American locomotives and a part of the machinery of the "Savannah," the
first steamship that crossed the ocean.
Morristown also reflected the superstitions of the period; the people
largely believed in witchcraft in those early days, and here was enacted,
for about a year, the most remarkable ghostly drama that was ever published
to the world, or influenced the best citizens of a community. The story of
the Morristown Ghost will go down to future ages.
For philanthropy, from Revolutionary times, Morristown has been famed,
since Martha set the example of knitting the stockings for the needy
soldiers and good Hannah Thompson voiced the hearts of her sisters round
about, when she gave food to a starving company of them, saying: "Eat all
you want; you are engaged in a good cause, and we are willing to share with
you what we have as long as it lasts." This old centre of patriotism and
Revolutionary enthusiasm has radiated philanthropic movements which
influence not only the conditions of the whole State but the welfare of
humanity. Here was commenced that voluntary work of the State Charities Aid
Association, which considers, and practically carries out, through its
counselors, measures for reform among the pauper and criminal classes in
the State institutions, and out of them, and which will undoubtedly
influence for good all future generations. This work is on much the same
plan that was originally thought out and organized by Miss Louisa Lee
Schuyler, of New York, the great-granddaughter of General Philip Schuyler
whose noble devotion to his Commander-in-chief is memorable during those
days in Morristown. So we see how the old life of the Revolutionary period
connects itself with the new life of progression. The principles then so
nobly maintained take new forms in new projects.
Everywhere, we find the old and the new combined, for even the streets bear
the names, with those of Schuyler, Hamilton and Washington, of Farragut and
McCullough. In the Park there stands a granite shaft surmounted by a full
length figure of a Morris County Volunteer, commemorating the lives of the
noble men who fell in those hard-won fields, fighting to preserve the
nationality which had been secured by their forefathers. Everything is
significant of either noble deeds in the past or of honored names of later
day and of private citizens whose personal influence has added moral
dignity to this City of many associations.
George Washington.
Among the first notable writings associated with Morristown are the letters
of Washington written from the old Arnold Tavern, and from the Ford
Mansion, during the two memorable winters of 1777 and of 1779-'80. These
noble letters are acknowledged on all sides to have been supremely
efficient in promoting our national independence, filled as they are with
the personality of Washington himself. They are very numerous. Many of them
are published; some are in our "Headquarters", and many still are scattered
over the Country, in the possession of individuals. All are interesting and
none appear to reveal what we would wish had not been known, as in the case
of so many other published letters.
Of the man himself, our authors speak, here and there, throughout this
volume. It is certain that no name, no face or character is more familiar
to us than that of Washington, and no name in history has received a
greater tribute than to be called, as he was, by the nation, at the end of
his very difficult career, the "Father of his Country."
Here is Lafayette's first impression, as he attends a dinner in
Philadelphia, given by Congress in honor of the Commander-in-Chief. He
says: "Although surrounded by officers and citizens, Washington was to be
recognized at once by the majesty of his countenance and his figure." And
this is Lafayette's tribute to Washington, when the two men have parted:
"As a private soldier, he would have been the bravest; as an obscure
citizen, all his neighbors would have respected him. With a heart as just
as his mind he always judged himself as he judged circumstances. In
creating him expressly for this revolution, Nature did honor to herself;
and to show the perfection of her work, she placed him in such a position
that each quality must have failed, had it not been sustained by all the
others."
(Quoted by Bayard Tuckerman in his "Life of
Lafayette.")
In the portrait of Washington which Chastellux gives us, occur these words:
"His strongest characteristic is the perfect union which reigns between the
physical and moral qualities which compose the individual, one alone will
enable you to judge of all the rest. If you are presented with medals of
Caesar, Trajan or Alexander, on examining their features, you will still be
led to ask what was their stature and the form of their persons; but if you
discover, in a heap of ruins, the head or the limb of an antique Apollo, be
not anxious about the other parts, but rest assured that they all were
conformable to those of a God. * * * This will be said of Washington, '_At
the end of a long civil war, he had nothing with which he could reproach
himself._'"
Thatcher, in his Military Journal, speaks of Washington as he appeared at a
great entertainment given by General Knox, in celebration of the alliance
with France: "His tall, noble stature and just proportions, his fine,
cheerful countenance, simple and modest deportment, are all calculated to
interest every beholder in his favor and to command veneration and respect.
He is feared even when silent and beloved even while we are unconscious of
the motive."
The first French minister, M. Gerard, tells us, referring to Washington:
"It is impossible for me briefly to communicate the fund of intelligence
which I have derived from him. I will now say only that I have formed as
high an opinion of the powers of his mind, his moderation, patriotism and
of his virtues, as I had before from common report conceived of his
military talents, and of the incalculable services he had rendered to his
country."
(Quoted by A. D. Mellick in his "Story of an Old
Farm.")
We see the General in his evening dress of "black velvet, with knee and
shoe buckles and a steel rapier; his hair thickly powdered, drawn back from
his forehead and gathered in a black silk bag adorned with a rosette"
walking gracefully and with dignity through the figures of a quadrille. We
see him devoted to his wife and courteous to every woman, high and low.
Greene writes from the Headquarters: "Mrs. Washington is extremely fond of
the General and he of her; they are happy in each other." We see him, with
his tender sympathy among the soldiers and so find the key to the wonderful
devotion of the soldiers to their chief, and his influence over them. As an
old soldier tells the story to the Rev. O. L. Kirtland: "There was a time
when all our rations were but a single _gill of wheat_ a day. Washington
used to come round and look into our tents, and he looked so kind and he
said so tenderly. 'Men, can you bear it?' 'Yes, General, yes we can,' was
the reply; 'if you wish us to act give us the word and we are ready!'" Many
were the letters he wrote in their behalf to Congress, who neglected them,
and to Lord Howe in New York, because of his cruelty to the prisoners in
his power.
Another key we have to his calm and self-reliant bearing, even in his
darkest hours, so that, says Tuttle, "there seemed to be something about
this man, which inspired his enemies, even when victorious, with dread." It
is expressed in a letter of Washington when heartsick at the round of
misfortunes at the outset of the Revolution, and after the capture of Fort
Washington by the enemy. He writes: "It almost overcomes me to reflect that
a brother's sword has been sheathed in a brother's breast and that the once
happy and peaceful plains of America are either to be drenched in blood or
inhabited with slaves. Sad alternative! But can a virtuous man hesitate in
his choice?"
(Quoted by Dr. Tuttle from Sparks.)
A touching letter is written on the 8th of January, 1780, from the Ford
Mansion, to the Morris County authorities, about the hungry, destitute
soldiers, to which he receives at once so warm and generous a response that
he writes again: "The exertions of the magistrates and inhabitants of the
State were great and cheerful for our relief."
(Quoted by Dr. Tuttle from Sparks.)
Though a warm Episcopalian, his broad Christian feeling is shown when he
says: "Being no bigot, myself, I am disposed to indulge the professors of
Christianity in the Church with that road to heaven which to them shall
seem the most direct, the plainest and easiest and least liable to
objections."
(Dr. Tuttle, quoted from Sparks.)
And again, in reply to the Address of the Clergy of different
denominations, in and about Philadelphia; "Believing as I do, that
_Religion_ and _Morality are the essential_ pillars of society, I view with
unspeakable pleasure, that harmony and brotherly love which characterize
the clergy of different denominations, as well in this, as in other parts
of the United States, exhibiting to the world a new and interesting
spectacle, at once the pride of our Country and the surest basis of
universal harmony."
(Quoted by Dr. Tuttle from Dr. Green's Autobiography.)
What man, after arriving at such a height of power and influence over men,
has been able to take up, with content again, his life of a country
gentleman? Wonderfully appropriate were the last words that fell from his
lips: "It is well."
Of Washington it may be said as of no other, in the words of Henry Lee, in
his Eulogy of December 26th, 1799: "To the memory of the man, first in war,
first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen."
POETS.
William and Stephen V. R. Paterson.
A curious circumstance surrounds the poetic work of the two Paterson
brothers--William and Stephen Van Rensselaer Paterson--and gives it a
unique interest apart from its especial merits. The survivor of the two
brothers says, in the short and highly interesting introduction to their
poems, published in 1882 and called "Poems of Twin Graduates of the College
of New Jersey":
"The title explains itself, and shows that the writers were born under the
sign of the Gemini. They lived under that sign for rising fifty years, when
one was taken and the other left. Two of us came into existence within the
same hour of time, and passing through the early part of education
together, entered the world-life as twin graduates of the collegiate
institution bearing the name of the State of which they were natives. This
dual species of psychology was something of a curiosity because outside of
common experience. Pleasure and pain seemed to flow like electric currents
from the same battery. In a certain sense, we could feel at once, and think
at once and act at once. It is problematical whether this proceeded from a
real elective affinity, or was mechanical. It was most marked, however, at
first, and particularly in the beginning or rudiments of learning. Both
then went along exactly at the same rate, and one never was in advance of
the other. Both always worked and played together, and whichever discovered
something new, would communicate it in an untranslatable language to his
companion.
"This dual character, to a greater or less extent, pervaded the joint lives
of the writers of these pieces. Not that the similarity extended to the
business or pursuits, the tastes or habits of life, for in many respects
they were different and apart as those bearing a single relation. Still the
influence of the mystic tie, whatever it was or may have been, remained
till nature loosed, as it had woven, the bond."
Although Judge William Paterson was born in Perth Amboy and now resides
there, his associations with Morristown, as related in a letter under his
signature, are those of early boyhood passed on the farm, now occupied by
Mrs. Howland. "Morristown was then but a village hamlet," he says, and
"the old Academy and the Meeting House on the village green were the only
places in which services were held." Still, we gather, that at Morristown,
the two poets received their "scholastic and agricultural training." Here,
too, was laid the foundation of their "political and religious faith," the
latter under the administration of Albert Barnes, and, what may be a noted
event in their lives, they heard Mr. Barnes preach the sermon on the "Way
of Salvation," which caused the division of the Presbyterian Church.
Judge Paterson is a graduate of Princeton, which is in a double sense his
Alma Mater, inasmuch as members of his family were among the first
graduates, soon after the removal of the College from Newark and "when that
village, then a hamlet amid the primeval forests had become the permanent
site for the Academy incorporated by royal charter."
Various positions of importance in the community have been held by Judge
Paterson. In 1882, he was made Lay Judge of the Court of Errors and Appeals
of the State; he was also Mayor of Newark for ten years, at different times
from 1846 to 1878, filling important and non-important municipal and county
offices. Thus his work has been mostly legal and political, save, when he
has made dashes into the more purely literary fields, rather, perhaps,
through inspiration and for recreation from the dry details of practical
work.
More than once has Judge Paterson told to amused and interested audiences
in Morristown his recollections of boyhood and youth spent here. Notably,
many remember his recent graphic address on the occasion of the Centennial
of the Morristown Academy.
In 1888, our author published a valuable "Biography of the Class of 1835 of
Princeton College," the class in which he graduated. The "Poems" were
published in 1882. Looking through the latter volume, which contains many
treasures, we wonder how, many of the poems--written as they were under the
influence of a higher inspiration than ordinary rhythmic influences--should
not earlier have found their way, in book form, from the writer's secret
drawers to the readers of the outside world. Many of these poems are
connected with experiences and memories of Academic days in Princeton and,
among them all we would mention "The Close of the Centennial;" "Living on a
Farm," which refers to Mrs. Howland's farm, long the poet's home in
boyhood; "14th February, 1877;" "The Hickory Tree," and "Polly," in which
the writer has caught wonderfully the bright, playful spirit of the child.
The poem "Morristown," a pictorial reminiscence, we have selected to open
this book.
Quite recently, (in September, 1892) has been published and bound in true
orange color, _An Address_, read before the New York Genealogical and
Biographical Society, on February 12th, 1892, on the life and public
services of _William Paterson_, his honored grandfather, who was
"Attorney-General of New Jersey during the Revolution, a framer of the
Federal Constitution, Senator of the United States from New Jersey,
Governor of that State, and an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of
the United States at the time of his death, September 9th, 1806." "He was
the first Alumnus of Princeton," says the writer, "who was tendered a place
in the Cabinet or on the Federal Judiciary, the Attorney-General, the first
one being William Bradford, also an Alumnus, a classmate of Madison, and
Collegemate of Burr, then not constituting part of the Executive
household." "He began the study of legal science and practice under the
instruction of Richard Stockton, who was an Alumnus of the first Class that
went forth from the College of New Jersey, then located in Newark, and who,
though young, comparatively, was rising fast to the forefront of his
profession, and, afterward, to become of renowned judicial and
revolutionary fame."
The publication is full of interest, graphic description and notice of men
and events of the period. Here is a letter to Aaron Burr, between whom
while a student in the College at Princeton, and Mr. Paterson, then
established in the practice of his profession, had sprung up a strong
friendship which continued during life:
"Princeton, January 17th, 1772. DEAR BURR: I am just ready to leave and
therefore cannot wait for you. Be pleased to accept of the enclosed notes
on _dancing_. If you pitch upon it as the subject of your next discourse,
they may furnish you with a few hints, and enable you to compose with
greater facility and despatch. To do you any little service in my power,
will afford me great satisfaction, and I hope you will take the liberty--it
is nothing more, my dear Burr, than the freedom of a friend--to call upon
me whenever you may think I can. Bear with me when I say, _that you cannot
speak too slow_. Every word should be pronounced distinctly; one should not
be sounded so highly as to drown another. To see you shine as a speaker,
would give great pleasure to your friends in general and to me in
particular. You certainly are capable of making a good speaker.
"Dear Burr, adieu. WM. PATERSON."
The writer pays a beautiful tribute to Ireland, the land of his ancestors:
"Irish Nationality," he says, "is no empty dream; it goes back more than
two thousand years, is as old as Christianity, and is attested by the
existence of towers and monuments, giving evidence of greater antiquity
than is to be found in the annals of any other country in all Europe. For
centuries, Ireland sent missionaries of learning throughout the continent
to herald the advent of civilization and stay the advance of barbarism, and
her story is one running over with great deeds and glorious memories, with
associations of poetry and art and bards, and a civilization, ante-dating
that of almost any other Christian community. It cannot be claimed that the
rude exploits of her early inhabitants are classic in story or in song.
They acquired no territory; their island domain is but a speck of green
verdure amid the waste of ocean waters, and the flash of an electric light,
located on the hills where stood the ancient psaltery, could be sent
throughout its length and breadth. They conquered no worlds. No manifest
destiny led them to seek for wealth, applause or gain, beyond the limits of
their narrow bounds. They did not so much as pass over the seas that wash
their either shore. But yet in the absence of all the achievements that can
gratify ambition, with no record of pomp or pageantry or power, her people
bear a character more like a dream of fancy than a thing of real life, and
to-day they stand as remnants of national greatness, though you may look in
vain in their annals or traditions for any evidence of usurpation or of
subjugation by sceptre or by sword."
Mrs. Elizabeth Clementine Kinney.
Mrs. Kinney, the mother of the poet, Edmund Clarence Stedman, and daughter
of David L. Dodge of New York city, was for several years a resident of
Morristown, and will long be remembered with interest and affection by her
many friends. Her husband, Mr. William Burnet Kinney, not only resided here
in later years, but was born at Speedwell, then a suburb of Morristown, and
passed a part of his early boyhood there. To him we shall refer, in the
grouping of _Editors and Orators_.
Mr. Kinney was a brilliant literary man and about this home in Morristown
unusual talent and genius naturally grouped themselves. To it came and went
the poet Stedman: in the group, we find two gifted women, daughters of Mrs.
Kinney, and later on, the same genius developing itself in the son of one
of these, the boy Easton, of the third generation.
Mrs. Kinney published in 1855, "Felicita, a Metrical Romance;" a volume of
"Poems" in 1867; and, a few years later, a stirring drama, a tragedy in
blank verse, entitled "Bianco Cappello." This tragedy is founded upon
Italian history and was written during her residence abroad in 1873. While
abroad, Mrs. Kinney's letters to _The Newark Daily Advertiser_ gave her a
wide reputation and were largely re-copied in London and Edinburgh
journals from copies in the New York papers.
Among the "Poems," the one "To an Italian Beggar Boy" is perhaps most
highly spoken of and has been chosen by Mr. Stedman to represent his mother
in the "Library of American Literature." A favorite also is the "Ode to the
Sea." Both pieces are strong and dramatic. The poem on "The Flowers" has
been translated into three languages. It opens:
"Where'er earth's soil is by the feet
Of unseen angels trod,
The joyous flowers spring up to greet
These messengers of God."
Mrs. Kinney's sonnets are peculiarly good. Her sonnet on "Moonlight in
Italy," which we give to represent her, was written at ten o'clock at night
in Italy by moonlight, and has been much praised. Mr. Kingston James, the
English translator of Tasso, repeated it once at a dinner table, as a
sample of "in what consisted a true sonnet."
MOONLIGHT IN ITALY.
There's not a breath the dewy leaves to stir;
There's not a cloud to spot the sapphire sky;
All nature seems a silent worshipper:
While saintly Dian, with great, argent eye,
Looks down as lucid from the depths on high,
As she to earth were Heaven's interpreter:
Each twinkling little star shrinks back, too shy
Its lesser glory to obtrude by her
Who fills the concave and the world with light;
And ah! the human spirit must unite
In such a harmony of silent lays,
Or be the only discord in this night,
Which seems to pause for vocal lips to raise
The sense of worship into uttered praise.
Alexander Nelson Easton.
In the third generation in the line of Mrs. Kinney, appears a boy, now
seventeen years of age, of unusual promise as a poet--Alexander Nelson
Easton, grandson of William Burnet and Elizabeth C. Kinney. He has written
and published several poems. He took the $50 prize offered by the _Mail and
Express_ for the best poem on a Revolutionary incident, written by a child
of about twelve years. It was entitled "Mad Anthony's Charge."
Young Easton was born in Morristown, and spent his early years in this
place, in the house on the corner of Macculloch Avenue and Perry Street,
belonging to Mrs. Brinley. He began to write at eight years when a little
prose piece called "The Council of the Stars," found its way into print,
out in California. His next was in verse, written at ten years on "The
Oak." That was also published and copied. A "Ballad" followed "A Scottish
Battle Song," written in dialect, which was published also. Then came the
prize poem, "Mad Anthony's Charge," above referred to. He has composed two
stories since, one of which, "Ben's Christmas Present," has been accepted
by the New York _World_ and is to appear with a sketch of this young
writer, in their Christmas number. At twelve years, he wrote a monody on
"The Burial of Brian Boru," which is given below.
The literary efforts of Easton, so far, have been spontaneous and
spasmodic, but contain certain promise for the future. After studying for
some time at the Morristown Academy, Easton went as a student to the
Bordentown Military Institute from which he has graduated and has now
passed on to Princeton College. At Bordentown he won golden opinions, and
gave the prize essay at the June Commencement. This was an oration of
considerable importance on "The Value of Sacrifice," but withal his gifts
are essentially poetic.
THE BURIAL OF BRIAN BORU.
Slowly around the new-made grave
Gathers the mourner throng;
Women and children, chieftains brave,
Numb'ring their hundreds strong.
Glitter beneath the sun's bright ray
Helmet and axe and spear;
Sadness and sorrow reign to-day,
Dark is the land and drear!
Yesterday leading his men to fight,
Now lies he beneath their feet,
Clad in his armor, strong and bright,
'Tis his only winding sheet.
Close to his grave stand his warriors grim,
Bravest and best of his reign;
They, who through danger have oft followed him,
Mourn the wild "Scourge of the Dane."
Look! from the throng with martial stride
Steps an old chief of his clan,
Pauses and halts at the deep grave's side,
Halts as but warriors can.
White is the hair beneath his cap,
Withered the hand he holds on high;
Standing, beside the open gap,
Speaks he without a pause or sigh.
"_Brian Boru_ the brave!
_Brian Boru_ the bold!
Lay we thee in thy grave;
Deep is it, dark and cold.
Bravest of ev'ry chief
Erin has ever known;
Hurling the foes in grief,
Fiercest of Danes o'erthrown.
Youth and old age alike
Found thee in war array;
Wielding the sword and pike,
E'er in the thick o' the fray!
Erin is freed and blest,
Freed by thy mighty arm;
Well hast thou earned thy rest,
Take it! secure from harm.
Friend of our hearts! Our king!
Generous, kind and true!
Out let our praises fling--
Shout we for _Brian Boru_."
Bursts the wild song from a thousand throats,
Sounding through wood and plain,
While the mountains echo the dying notes,
Ringing them out again.
Francis Bret Harte.
As a poet, we represent Bret Harte by his "Plain Language from Truthful
James," better known as "The Heathen Chinee." The main reference to his
writings follows, in the next classification of _Novelists and Story
Writers_.
PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES,
BETTER KNOWN AS "THE HEATHEN CHINEE."
TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870.
Which I wish to remark,--
And my language is plain,--
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar.
Which the same I would rise to explain.
Ah Sin was his name;
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same
What that name might imply,
But his smile it was pensive and child-like,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.
It was August the third;
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.
Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand:
It was Euchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With the smile that was child-like and bland.
Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye's sleeve:
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.
But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made,
Were quite frightful to see,--
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.
Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, "Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"--
And he went for that heathen Chinee.
In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand,
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game "he did not understand."
In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs,--
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers--that's wax.
Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,--
Which the same I am free to maintain.
Mrs. M. Virginia Donaghe McClurg.
Mrs. McClurg, the niece of our honored townsman, Mr. Wm. L. King, is better
known to us by her maiden name of M. Virginia Donaghe. Although endowed
with varied gifts, having been editor, newspaper correspondent,
story-writer, biographer and local historian, her talent is essentially
poetic, therefore we place her among our poets.
A proud moment of Mrs. McClurg's life was, when a child, she received four
dollars and a half from _Hearth and Home_ for a story called "How did it
Happen," written in the garret, the author tells us, without the knowledge
of any one. Next, were written occasional letters and verses and short
stories for the New York _Graphic_, including some burlesque correspondence
for a number of papers, one of which was the _Richmond State_. The writer
then went to Colorado for her health and accepted the position of editor
on the _Daily Republic_ of Colorado Springs, for three years. She wrote a
political leader for the paper every day. It happened that many
distinguished men died during those years, and she did in consequence
biographical work. She also wrote book reviews, dramatic and musical
reviews, condensed the state news every day from all the papers of the
state and edited the Associated Press dispatches. In addition, all proofs
were brought to her for final reading. For the first year she had private
pupils and broke down with brain fever.
In 1885, she went into the Indian country to explore the cliff-dwellings of
Mancos Canyon, in the reservation of the Southern Utes. They were only known
through meagre accounts in the official government reports, and Miss
Donaghe was the first woman who ever visited them, so far as known. On this
occasion, she had an escort of United States troops and spent a few days
there. She however made a second visit, fully provided for a month's trip,
the result of which was a series of archaeological sketches contributed to a
prominent paper, the _Great Divide_, under the title of "Cliff-Climbing in
Colorado." These ten papers gave to Miss Donaghe a reputation in the west
as an archaeologist.
The following year she published, in the _Century_, one of the best of her
sonnets, "The Questioner of the Sphinx," afterwards contained in her book,
"Seven Sonnets of Sculpture."
The same year she published her first book, "Picturesque Colorado," also a
popular sonnet called "The Mountain of the Holy Cross." The Colorado
mountain of the Holy Cross has crevices filled with snow which represent
always on its side a cross. The little sand lily of Colorado blossoms at
the edges of the highways in the dust, in the Spring, and looks like our
star of Bethlehem. Of these sand lilies an artist friend made a picture
which harmonized with the sonnet referred to. These were published together
as an Easter card and a large edition sold. The sonnet begins;
"In long forgotten Springs, where He who taught
Amid the olive groves of Syrian hills,"--
And ends:
"The lilies bloom upon the prairie wide
A stainless cross is reared by nature's hand,
And plain and height alike keep Easter-tide."
In 1887, the _Century_ published a "Sonnet on Helen Hunt's Grave," with a
picture of the grave. About this time Miss Donaghe was writing a series of
letters which were published in a Southern newspaper, _The Valley
Virginian_, and were widely copied. These were on Utah, when the Mormon
hierarchy was in its power. Then appeared a book on "Picturesque Utah,"
making one of a group with "Picturesque Colorado" and "Colorado
Favorites." The last is made up of six poems on Colorado flowers,
illustrated by water colors of the blossoms, by Alice Stewart, and was the
first book published.
The author was married to Mr. Gilbert McClurg of Chicago, one of the family
of the publishing house of that name, in Morristown, on June 13th, 1889.
Since then Mrs. McClurg has been both editor and newspaper correspondent,
and, within the last two years, a valuable assistant to her husband in the
preparation of his department of the official history of Colorado, which
included several county histories.
In the _Cosmopolitan_ of June, 1891, a sonnet appeared, "The Life Mask,"
and was reprinted in the _Review of Reviews_. Two of Mrs. McClurg's songs
were set to music by Albert C. Pierson in the summer of 1890; "Lithe Stands
my Lady"; "Je Reste et Tu T'en Vas"; the latter with a French refrain, the
rest in English.
The last poem of Mrs. McClurg was published in the _Banner_, of Morristown,
Dec. 24th, 1891, written to Mr. William L. King on his 85th Thanksgiving
Day, and based on the Oriental salutation, "O King! Live forever".
Among the writings of Mrs. McClurg are also two articles on the Washington
Headquarters of Morristown; being "quotations, comments and descriptions on
two Order Books of the Revolution, daily records of life in camp and at
Headquarters, in the year 1780." A passage from this is given in the
opening chapter of this book.
The "Seven Sonnets of Sculpture" came out in 1889 and 1890. This book was
widely and favorably noticed by some of the largest and most important
journals. Says the writer in the Chicago _Daily News_: "It was a happy
inspiration that led Mrs. McClurg to the idea realized in the publication
of her latest volume 'Seven Sonnets of Sculpture'. The work is artistic
from cover to cover, but the conception of equipping each one of the
stanzas it contains with a photograph of the piece of sculpture which
suggested it, was unique. * * To translate a work of art from its original
form to another, to find the hidden sense of a conception imbedded in stone
and revive it in words, to endue marble with speech, is in its nature a
delicate task and one that demands the keenest of perceptions and
sensibilities." The author says, in her dedication that seven was a Hebrew
symbol of perfection.
The sonnet we select from these, to represent Mrs. McClurg, is "The
Questioner of the Sphinx". This sonnet was written from the impression
received from Elihu Vedder's engraving of the Sphinx and the artist
expressed in a letter to the author, his appreciation of the fidelity of
the interpretation in verse of his picture. His criticism is perhaps the
best that could be given.
"I think it," he wrote, "good and strong and shall treasure it among the
few good things that have been suggested by my work. My idea in the Sphinx
was the hopelessness of man before the cold immutable laws of nature. Could
the Sphinx speak, I am sure its words would be, 'look within,' for to his
working brain and beating heart man must look for the solution of the great
problem."
THE QUESTIONER OF THE SPHINX.
(SUGGESTED BY ELIHU VEDDER'S PICTURE.)
Behold me! with swift foot across the land,
While desert winds are sleeping, I am come
To wrest a secret from thee; O thou, dumb,
And careless of my puny lip's command.
Cold orbs! _mine_ eyes a weary world have scanned,
Slow ear! in _mine_ rings ever a vexed hum
Of sobs and strife. Of joy mine earthly sum
Is buried as thy form in burning sand.
The wisdom of the nations thou has heard;
The circling courses of the stars hast known.
Awake! Thrill! By my feverish presence stirred,
Open thy lips to still my human moan,
Breathe forth one glorious and mysterious word,
Though I should stand, in turn, transfixed,--a stone!
Charlton T. Lewis, L.L. D.
A sketch of Dr. Lewis will be found under the grouping of _Lexicographer_.
The poem from which we select (reluctantly we take a part instead of the
whole, for lack of space), is an embodiment of the story taken from
Theodoret. The poet has found in the beautiful tradition, meagre though it
is, a lovely theme for his divine song of spiritual love and Christian
martyrdom.
The following is the translation of the Greek passage which heads the poem:
"A certain Telemachus embraced the self-sacrificing life of a monk, and, to
carry out this plan, went to Rome, where he arrived during the abominable
shows of gladiators. He went down into the arena, and strove to stop the
conflicts of the armed combatants. But the spectators of the bloody games
were indignant, and the gladiators themselves, full of the spirit of
battle, slew the apostle of peace. When the great Emperor learned the facts
he enrolled Telemachus in the noble army of martyrs, and put an end to the
murderous shows."
_Theodoret. Eccl. Hist. v. 26._
The scene is Rome,--the place the Coliseum. It is the time of the games.
There are the crowds of eager people; the Emperor Honorius; the horrible
Stilicho. Lowly and beautiful in his great love for Christ, Telemachus
follows onward to the Coliseum to meet his sorrowful fate; holding in his
voice the power that "stilled the fire and dulled the sword and stopped the
crushing wine-press." He followed, silently, consecrated and alone, to "do
the will of God."
TELEMACHUS.
I mused on Claudian's tinseled eulogies,
And turned to seek in other dusty tomes,
Through the wild waste of those degenerate days,
Some living word, some utterance of the heart;
Till as when one lone peak of Jura flames
With sudden sunbeams breaking through the mist,
So from the dull page of Theodoret
A flash of splendor rends the clouds of life,
And bares to view the awful throne of love.
The bishop's tale is meagre, but as leaven,
It works in thoughts that rise and fill the soul.
*....*....*....*....*
He felt the soil, long drenched with martyr's blood,
Send healing through his feet to all his frame.
He drank the air that trembled with the joys
Of opening Paradise, and bared his soul
To spirits whispering, "Come with us to-day!"
The longings of his life were satisfied,
He stood at last in Rome, Christ's Capital,
The gate of heaven and not the mouth of hell.
Suddenly, rudely, comes disastrous change.
He starts and gazes, as the glory of the saints
Fades round him and the angel songs are stilled:
A world of hatred hides the throne of love;
Hell opens in the gleam of myriad eyes
Hungry for slaughter, in a hush that tells
How in each heart a tiger pants for blood.
Into the vast arena files a band
Of Goths, the prisoners of Pollentia,--
Freemen, the dread of Rome, but yesterday,
Now doomed as slaves to wield those terrible arms
In mutual murder, kill and die, amid
The exultation of their nation's foes.
Pausing before the throne, with well-taught lips
They utter words they know not; but Rome hears;
"Caesar, we greet thee who are now to die!"
Then part and line the lists; the trumpet blares
For the onset, sword and javelin gleam, and all
Is clash of smitten shields and glitter of arms.
Without the tumult, one of mighty limb
And towering frame stands moveless; never yet
A nobler captive had made sport for Rome.
Throngs watch that eye of Mars, Apollo's grace,
The thews of Hercules, in cruel hope
That ten may fall before him ere he falls.
They bid him charge; he moves not; shield and sword
Sink to his feet; his eyes are filled with light
That is not of the battle. Three draw near
Whose valor or despair has cut a path
Through the thick mass of combat, and their swords,
Reeking with carnage, seek a victim new
The glory of whose death may win them grace
With that fierce multitude. Telemachus
Gazes, and half the horror turns to joy
As the fair Goth undaunted bares his breast
Before the butchers, and awaits the blow
With peaceful brow, a firm and tender lip
Quivering as with a breath of inward prayer,
And hands that move as mindful of the cross.
And with a mighty cry, "Christ! he is thine!
He is my brother! Help!" The monk leaps forth,
Gathers in hands unarmed the points of steel,
Throws back the startled warriors, and commands,
"In Christ's name, hold! Ye people of Rome give ear!
God will have mercy and not sacrifice.
He who was silent, scourged at Pilate's bar,
And smitten again in those he died to save,
Is silent now in his great oracles.
The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair,
Speaks thus through me:--'In Rome, my capital,
Let love be Lord, and close the mouth of hell.
I will have mercy and not sacrifice.'"
The slaughter paused, he ceased, and all was still,
But baffled myriads with their cruel thumbs
Point earthward, and the bloody three advance:
Their swords meet in his heart. Honorius
Cries "Save,"--too late, he is already safe,--
And turns, with tears like Peter's, to proclaim,
The festival dissolved: nor from that hour
Ever again did Rome, Christ's capital,
Make holiday with blood, but hand in hand
The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair
Honored the martyr--Saint Telemachus,
And love was Lord and closed the mouth of hell.
Miss Emma F. R. Campbell.
In our midst is a quiet, gentle woman who passes in and out among us
without noise or ostentation. Yet upon her has fallen the great honor of
being the author of an immortal hymn.
In the _Canada Presbyterian_ of Feb. 9th, 1887, appeared an article
entitled "A Great Modern Hymn." Also, it is said, that in a volume soon to
be published on "The Great Hymns of the Church" will appear a paper on
"Jesus of Nazareth Passeth By." From the first named, we cannot do better
than quote:
"Among all the hymns used in recent revivals of religion, none has been
more honored and owned by God, than this--none so often called for, none so
inspiring, none bearing so many seals of the divine approval. This is the
testimony of the great evangelist of these days, Mr. Moody, and this
testimony will surprise no one who has ever heard it sung by his companion
in the ministry, Mr. Sankey, who, under God, has done so much to send forth
light and truth into dark minds and break up the fountains of the great
deep, amid the masses of godless men.
* * * * *
"As to the origin of the hymn--the circumstances of its birth--we have to
invite the reader to go back some twenty-three years, to the Spring of
1864--to a great season of religious awakening in the city of Newark, N. J.
The streets were crowded from day to day and the largest churches were too
small to contain the growing numbers. Among those most deeply moved by the
impressive scenes and services was a young girl, a Sabbath School teacher,
one who for the first time realized the powers of the world to come, and
the grandness of the great salvation. As descriptive of what was passing
around her but with no desire for publicity, still, with the great desire
of reaching some soul unsaved, especially among her youthful charge, she
wrote the lines beginning with, 'What means this eager, anxious throng?'"
The hymn was first published under the signature "Eta", the author having
sometimes appended to her writings the Greek letter, using that character
instead of her English name. We quote again from the same source:
"Soon it rose into popularity and it is spreading still, not only in the
English language, but in other languages--even the languages of
India--(think of a recent account of an assembly of 500 Hindus
enthusiastically using this hymn in the Mahrati and the Syrian children
singing it in their own vernacular)--as the author thinks of all these
things, she can only say with a thankful and an adoring heart: 'It is the
Lord's doing and it is marvellous in mine eyes!'"
Miss Campbell has also written many other poems of beauty and articles in
prose, which however, are all so eclipsed by this "Great Hymn" that perhaps
they are not known or noticed as they otherwise would be. One in
particular, we would mention, "A New Year Thought," published December,
1888.
Miss Campbell belongs also in the group of _Novelists_, _Story-Writers_,
_and Moralists_. She has written a number of books for the young, among
which are "Green Pastures for Christ's Little Ones"; "Paul Preston";
"Better than Rubies"; and "Toward the Mark".
Miss Campbell wrote by request, at the time of the Centennial Celebration
of the First Presbyterian Church in October, 1891, a beautiful hymn for the
occasion which was read by Mr. James Duryee Stevenson.
"JESUS OF NAZARETH PASSETH BY."
What means this eager, anxious throng,
Pressing our busy streets along,
These wondrous gatherings day by day,
What means this strange commotion, pray?
Voices in accents hushed reply
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by?"
E'en children feel the potent spell,
And haste their new-found joy to tell;
In crowds they to the place repair
Where Christians daily bow in prayer,
Hosannas mingle with the cry
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Who is this Jesus? Why should He
The city move so mightily?
A passing stranger, has He skill
To charm the multitude at will?
Again the stirring tones reply
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Jesus! 'tis He who once below
Man's pathway trod mid pain and woe:
And burdened hearts where'er He came
Brought out their sick and deaf and lame.
Blind men rejoiced to hear the cry
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Again He comes, from place to place
His holy footprints we can trace.
He passes at _our_ threshold--nay
He enters,--condescends to stay!
Shall we not gladly raise the cry--
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Bring out your sick and blind and lame,
'Tis to restore them Jesus came.
Compassion infinite you'll find,
With boundless power in Him combined.
Come quickly while salvation's nigh,
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Ye sin-sick souls who feel your need,
He comes to you, a friend indeed.
Rise from your weary, wakeful couch.
Haste to secure His healing touch;
No longer sadly wait and sigh.--
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!"
Ho all ye heavy-laden, come!
Here pardon, comfort, rest, a home
Lost wanderer from a Father's face,
Return, accept his proffered grace.
Ye tempted, there's a refuge nigh
Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!
Ye who are buried in the grave
Of sin, His power alone can save.
His voice can bid your dead souls live,
True spirit-life and freedom give.
Awake! arise! for strength apply,
Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!
But if this call you still refuse
And dare such wondrous love abuse,
Soon will He sadly from you turn
Your bitter prayer in justice spurn.
"Too late! too late!" will be your cry,
"Jesus of Nazareth has passed by!"
Mrs. Adelaide S. Buckley.
Mrs. Buckley will appear again among _Translators_. The following verses
were inspired by a painting of Cornelia and the Gracchi:
Purest pearls from the sea,
Diamonds outshining the sun,
Sapphires which vie with heaven,
With pride to Cornelia are shown.
Clasping her dark-eyed boys,
Fairer could be no other,
"These my jewels are"
Said the noble Roman mother.
Rev. Oliver Crane, D. D., LL. D.
Before coming to Morristown, in 1871, Dr. Crane's life had been a very
active one, including extensive traveling in Turkey, Europe, Egypt and
Palestine. Twice he had been a missionary in Turkey acquiring the Turkish
language and doing efficient work there, first for five years, then for
three. In the seven years interval of his return he accepted two pastorates
in this country.
On coming to Morristown, having resigned his ministerial charge at
Carbondale, Pennsylvania, he devoted himself mainly to literary work, and
with General H. B. Carrington wrote the "Battles of the Revolution" which
has since become a standard work. Nine years later as secretary of his
college class, he prepared an exhaustive biographical record of every
member of the class. The book was a pioneer in this class of publications.
In 1888, he published his translation of Virgil's AEneid and the following
year a small volume of poems entitled "Minto and Other Poems", in which the
"Rock of the Passaic Falls" is conspicuous as relating to Washington and
Lafayette "who," says the poet, "visited together these Falls while their
troops were stationed at Totawa (as the spot was then called) in the Winter
of 1780. The initials G. W. are still to be seen cut in the rock below the
cataract."
The _Translation of Virgil's AEneid_, "literally, line by line into English
Dactyllic Hexameter," is Dr. Crane's great work and has absorbed much of
his time for years. It is a singular fact that, although for more than four
hundred years the learned have been giving to the English reader, through
the press, specimen translations of this old classic, this is the first
complete version in the original measure.
In the very interesting preface, Dr. Crane gives a careful review of the
translations of Virgil, noticing the singular and severe prejudice that has
always debarred any desire to render this classic in the metre of the
original, and discussing the advantage of translating in the style of verse
chosen by the author himself. In fact, he tells us, Longfellow had, from
his own admirable translations, become thoroughly convinced of its utility,
if not of its indispensability in giving the classic epics a fitting
setting in English.
The following is an extract taken from Book X., lines 814 to 842 of Dr.
Crane's literal English translation of _Virgil's AEneid_, which describes
the hand to hand contest of AEneas with the youth Lausus, who insists upon
fighting AEneas in opposition to his father's wishes and in the face of
every effort made by AEneas to avoid the conflict:
TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL'S AENEID.
BOOK X, LINES 814 TO 842.
The destinies now are for Lausus the last threads
Gathering in; for AEneas his powerful scimitar ruthless 815
Drives through the midst of the youth, and buries it wholly within him,
Right through the menacer's targe, and his delicate armor, the keen blade
Passed through the tunic his mother had woven in tissue of gold thread
For him, and blood filled all of his bosom; then life on the breezes
Mournful withdrew to the shades, and abandoned his body untimely. 820
But as the son of Anchises in truth on the visage and features
Gazed of the dying--the features, becoming amazingly pallid--
Pitying deeply he sighed and instinctively tendered his right hand,
Fresh as the image recurred to his mind of regard for a father:
"What to thee now, O pitiable boy, for these laudable efforts, 825
What shall the pious AEneas, befitting such nobleness render?
Keep it--thine armor, in which thou rejoicest, and I to thy parents'
Shades and their ashes, if this could be any requital, remit thee;
Yet thou in this, though unlucky, canst solace thy sorrowful exit,
That by the hand of the mighty AEneas thou fallest." Abruptly 830
Chides he his faltering comrades, as gently from earth he uplifts him,
Soiling his ringlets with blood, that were combed in the comeliest fashion.
Meanwhile, his father was down by the wave of the stream of the Tiber
Staunching his wound with its waters, and resting his body, reclining
Close by the trunk of a tree. At a distance his coppery helmet 825
Hangs on its boughs, and at rest on the sod is his cumbersome armor:
Standing around are his warriors chosen; he sickly and panting
Eases his neck, as his out-combed beard streamed down on his bosom;
Often he asks after Lausus, and many a messenger sends he
Back to recall him, and bear him his sorrowful parent's injunctions: 840
But on his armor his comrades were weepingly bearing the lifeless
Lausus away--a hero o'ercome by the wound of a hero.
Rev. J. Leonard Corning, D. D.
Dr. Corning, who, with his family, was for some years a resident of
Morristown and is now abroad, is represented later in the volume, among the
writers on Art. We give here his beautiful poem, "The Ideal".
THE IDEAL.
Awake, asleep, in dreams, amid the din of mortal striving,
I feel thee ever near, vision of fancy's sweet contriving:
The setting sun and twilight glow
Thou art the music sweet and low.
When on the sands, at dead of night,
Dark waves are breaking in their might,
While, through the billowy crests, the wild winds roar,
Thou art the gull who over all dost soar.
Amid the storm and lightning flash,
The pelting rain and thunder crash,
When faces blanch, and none can will,
Thou, heavenly bow, art faithful still.
'Tis not the kiss, the touch, the sigh,
That bringeth love from earth to sky;
For motions strange about the heart
Reveal the inner nature of thy part.
Mrs. Mary Lee Demarest.
Mrs. Augustus W. Cutler has kindly given us the following monograph:
"In a Memorial of the late Mrs. Mary Lee Demarest occurs the following
passage: 'For two hundred and fifty years, the English readers of the Bible
were obliged to content themselves with the phrase, 'They seek a country'.
It was not the whole thought. It was reserved for a corps of learned
revisers to light upon the happy phrase, 'They are seeking a country of
their own'.' But a score of years before the wise grammarians reached this
line, a youthful poetess, seeing and greeting the Heavenly promise from
afar, wrote simply and sweetly:
"'I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine een do see The shining gates o'
Heaven, an' _my ain countree_'.
"This youthful poetess was Mary Lee, afterwards Mrs. T. F. C. Demarest.
"Before her marriage, in 1870, she spent several years in Morristown and
became identified with the place and its interests; and there are many
persons living here who remember her sweet face and gentle ways.
"A taste for the Scotch dialect is said to have been acquired from an old
Scotch nurse who lived a long time in the family, when the children were
young. The girl caught it so completely, that when deeply moved, she was
wont to drop into it, for the more vigorous expression of her feelings.
'Somehow', said she, 'the Scotch is more homely, less formal to me'. Thus,
in the poem alluded to, could the thoughts contained in it, have been
expressed as beautifully and tenderly in the mother tongue?
"Again, there is a little poem in the same dialect, entitled 'My Mither',
which appeals to every heart.
"Though many of her poems and prose writings are of a devotional character,
yet she had a keen sense also of the humorous side of life as the verses
entitled 'Allen Graeme', will testify.
"Mrs. Demarest traveled extensively throughout our own country, and also
abroad. Two volumes of her writings have been published--one entitled
'Gathered Writings', a collection of short stories, fragments of foreign
travel and reflections".
MY AIN COUNTREE.
I am far frae my hame, an' I'm weary afterwhiles,
For the langed-for hame-bringing an' my Father's welcome smiles;
I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine een do see,
The shining gates o' heaven an' my ain countree.
The earth is fleck'd wi' flowers, mony tinted fresh and gay,
The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae;
But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me,
When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.
I've His gude word o' promise that some gladsome day, the King
To his ain royal palace His banished hame will bring;
Wi' een an' wi' hearts running owre, we shall see
The King in His beauty, in our ain countree;
My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,
But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair;
His bluid has made me white--His hand shall dry mine e'e,
When he brings me hame at last, to mine ain countree.
Sae little noo I ken, o' yon blessed, bonnie place,
I ainly ken its Hame, whaur we shall see His face;
It wud surely be eneuch forever mair to be
In the glory o' His presence in our ain countree.
Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's breast,
For he gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me,
An' carries them Himsel', to His ain countree.
He's faithfu' that has promised, He'll surely come again,
He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken;
But he bids me still to wait, an' ready aye to be
To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.
So I'm watching aye, and singing o' my hame as I wait,
For the soun'ing o' His footfa' this side the gowden gate,
God gie His grace to ilk ane wha' listens noo to me,
That we a' may gang in gladness to our ain countree.
Hon. Anthony Q. Keasbey.
We cannot do better than quote the words of Dr. Thomas Dunn English, the
well-known author of "Ben Bolt", now living in Newark, N. J.,--with regard
to Mr. Keasbey.
"Here, in Newark", says he, "we have a lawyer of distinction, Anthony Q.
Keasbey, who occasionally throws off some polished verses, as he excuses
them, by way of 'safety plugs for high mental pressure,' and these are
always smooth and scholarly. They are mostly privately printed for the
amusement of the poet and a few chosen friends. One of these, however, has
such a vein of tenderness and so much heart music that it deserves to
become public property and to remain as much the favorite with others as
it is with me." The poem referred to is, "My Wife's Crutches."
"Unquestionably", continues Dr. English, "Mr. Keasbey stands well in his
profession, and for years, under several Federal administrations, filled
the office of United States District Attorney with credit to himself and
advantage to the public; but this little tender poem does more honor to his
intellect than his legal acquirements, however eminent they may be, and
gives him a still stronger claim to the regard of his many friends."
Among Mr. Keasbey's published collected poems are "Palm Sunday", of which
Mr. Stedman once said he had put it away among some fine hymns; also "May",
published in England and set to music by Faustina Hodges. These verses were
inspired by the falling of the cherry blossoms on the grave of little May,
and are most sweet and touching. One of the best is "The Dirge for Old St.
Stephen's", written while they were demolishing the church built on Mr.
Keasbey's ground, where now a "mart and home" have taken its place as was
anticipated by the poet.
Mr. Keasbey has published numberless papers in prominent journals and
magazines. Some of these are to be collected and published in book form.
His address on "The Sun: How Man has Regarded it in Different Ages", is
well worthy of preservation in more permanent form than that in which it
appears at present; also "The Sale of East New Jersey at Auction", an
address delivered February 1st, 1862, before the New Jersey Historical
Society at Trenton, on the Bi-Centennial of the Sale. This is full of
interesting information, told in a charming way and is valuable for
reference.
The paper on "The Sun", was inspired by Mr. Keasbey's reading with great
interest, the papers of Professor Norman Lockyer, the great astronomer,
describing his researches into the constitution of the sun, through the
medium of the spectroscope and the photograph. Mr. Keasbey had been
interested in observing the extent to which modern science had reached with
respect to the actual condition of the sun and the materials of which it is
composed. This led him to the thoughts of how very recent had been any such
attempts to understand its true nature and, from that reflection, he was
led to consider, as a subject of a paper, how human eyes in all ages have
looked upon the sun and in what manner they have regarded it. This
published address was delivered before the Brooklyn Historical Society, a
brilliant audience present, and Rev. Dr. Storrs, presiding.
A book on Florida, "From the Hudson to the St. John's", describing a
month's journey to Florida and the St. John's River was published in 1875;
also, more recently, a small book on "Isthmus Transit by Chiriqui and Golfo
Dulce", with a view of describing the Chiriqui mountain rib or back bone
of Darien and all the executive and legislative action, with respect to the
region between Panama and Nicaragua, with reference to railroad
communication across the isthmus from the harbor of Chiriqui on the coast
to the Pacific.
In the _Hospital Review_, of July, 1882, is a very striking and powerful
paper on the "Tragedy of the Lena Delta", where De Long and his companions
so heroically met their fate in the Arctic snows.
Below is the favorite of Dr. English among the Poems:
MY WIFE'S CRUTCHES.
Ye solemn, gaunt, ungainly crutches,
That serve her frame such slippery tricks,
Were you within my lawful clutches,
I'd fling you back in River Styx.
Ye grew beside the Boat of Charon,
In murky fens of Stygian gloom,
Nor ever, like the rod of Aaron,
Shall your grim spindles burst in bloom.
Your reeds were tuned for groans rheumatic,
And croaking sighs from gouty man;
Nor e'er shall thrill with tones ecstatic,
As did the pipes of ancient Pan.
Avaunt you, then, ye helpers dismal!
Offend my eyes and ears no more;
Go stalking back to realms abysmal
And guide the ghosts on Lethe's shore.
But see! while yet my words upbraid them,
Her crutches bud with blossoms fair,
And Patience, Love and Faith have made them
Than Aaron's rod, more rich and rare.
And hark! from out their hollows slender,
No dismal groans or sighs proceed,--
But tones of joy more sweet and tender
Than swelled from Pan's enchanted reed.
Then stay! your use her worth discloses,
Your ghastly frames her worth transmutes,
From withered sticks, to stems of roses--
From creaking reeds, to magic flutes.
Major Lindley Hoffman Miller.
Major Miller, a brother of our well-known townsman, Henry W. Miller, was
among the first of the 7th Regiment of New York City, who answered the call
of the government to march to Washington for the protection of the Capitol.
He served in that regiment through the riots in New York, and afterwards
joined a Colored Regiment and was promoted to the rank of Major. He served
in this position at Memphis and elsewhere through the South. In this
campaign he lost his health and came home to die. He died in June, 1864,
and was laid in old St. Peter's churchyard.
Mr. Miller was a man of brilliant mind and unusual genius. His fugitive
poems are very beautiful. They were published in various journals of the
time, and one we will add to this short sketch of his brief but valuable
life, "The Skater's Song", full of spirit and dash, and gay with the heart
of youth.
THE SKATER'S SONG, BY MOONLIGHT!
Come away, from your blazing hearths!
Come away, in the gleaming night,
Where the radiant sky is peering down
With a million eyes of light!
Heigho! for the glancing ice,
For the realm of the old Frost King!
We'll shake the chain of the bounding stream
Till all its fetters ring!
Then away! my boys, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Come away, from your cheerless books!
Come away, in the clear, cold air!
And read in the deeps of the starry night
God's endless volume there.
Ho! now we're flashing along,
At the snow-flake's drifting rate!
Did ever anything stir the pulse
Like a glimmering moonlight skate?
Then away! my boys, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Come away, from the ball-room's glare!
Come away, to a merrier dance,--
To a hall, whose floor is the flashing ice,
Whose light is the stars' pure glance!
Now we're watching the moon in her dreams,
Now we dash at our speed again;
While the stream groans under the icy links
Which the frost has forged for his chain!
Then away! my boys, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Come away, each lady fair!
Come, add to the magical sight!
And mingle the silvery tones of your words
With the echoing "voices of night"!
Heigho! for the frozen plain!
Here's a glancing mirror, I ween,
Reflecting all the beautiful forms
That move in our fairy-like scene.
Away! my lady, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Come away, from your sorrow and grief,
All you that are gloomy and sad!
Unwrinkle your brows to the whistling wind,
Till your hearts grow merry and glad!
Ho! Hark! how the laughter in peals,
Is shaking the tides of the air,
And shouting aloud to drown with its joy
The muttering murmurs of care!
Then away! my boys, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Come, one and all, then, away!
Come, cheerily join in our song,
And mingle with music the ring of the steel,
Keep in time, as we're sweeping along!
Heigho! for the throne of the Frost!
We'll frighten the phantoms of night,
And serenade, far under the depths,
The river's listening sprite!
Then away! my boys, away!
Far over the ice we'll sweep,
And wake the slumbering echo's voice
From the gloom of its winter sleep!
Miss Henrietta Howard Holdich.
Miss Holdich, poetess and story-writer, has been a resident of Morristown,
since 1878, and has written at various periods since she was seventeen
years of age. Her poems, stories, and other writings have appeared from
time to time in _Harper's Magazine_ and other important publications. We
would like to give Miss Holdich's beautiful and thoughtful poem, "In Holy
Ground", suggested by a Russian Legend, but, as we give her Centennial
story entire, our space does not allow. She is represented, instead, by a
few lovely lines written for a golden wedding and sent to the happy pair
with a basket of flowers and fruit.
LINES
WRITTEN FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING.
Orange buds a maiden wears
On the blissful wedding morn;
Snowy buds on golden hair
Tell of love and faith new born.
Ripened now the perfect fruit,
Fifty sunny years have passed;
Golden fruit on snowy hair
Tells of love and faith that last.
William Tuckey Meredith.
Mr. Meredith, a Philadelphian by birth, and also a banker in New York City,
is also one of our summer residents, his main interest in Morristown
coming, as he says, from the fact that his grandmother was a Morristown
Ogden. He served as an officer in the United States Navy with Farragut at
the battle of Mobile Bay and was afterwards his secretary.
Mr. Meredith is perhaps best known by his spirited poem, entitled
"Farragut", which appeared in _The Century_, in 1890, and heads the group
of "Various Poems" in Stedman and Hutchinson's Library of American
Literature.
Besides this, Mr. Meredith has written for _The New York Times_ and other
journals and publications at various times. He wrote for _The Century_ a
War article on "Farragut's Capture of New Orleans", which may be found in
Volume IV of the published series. A novel appeared with his name, in 1890,
entitled "Not of Her Father's Race", in which the "Fox Hunt" is, the author
tells us, a study of a bag chase in which he took part some years ago near
Morristown, although he has laid the scene in Newport. We give the poem,
"Farragut".
FARRAGUT.
MOBILE BAY, 5 AUGUST, 1864.
Farragut, Farragut,
Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut,
Thunderbolt stroke,
Watches the hoary mist
Lift from the bay,
Till his flag, glory-kissed,
Greets the young day.
Far, by gray Morgan's walls,
Looms the black fleet.
Hark, deck to rampart calls
With the drum's beat!
Buoy your chains overboard,
While the steam hums;
Men! to the battlement,
Farragut comes.
See, as the hurricane
Hurtles in wrath
Squadrons of cloud amain
Back from its path!
Back to the parapet,
To the guns' lips,
Thunderbolt Farragut
Hurls the black ships.
Now through the battle's roar
Clear the boy sings,
"By the mark fathoms four,"
While his lead swings.
Steady the wheelmen five
"Nor' by East keep her,"
"Steady" but two alive:
How the shells sweep her!
Lashed to the mast that sways
Over red decks,
Over the flame that plays
Round the torn wrecks,
Over the dying lips
Framed for a cheer,
Farragut leads his ships,
Guides the line clear.
On by heights cannon-browed,
While the spars quiver;
Onward still flames the cloud
Where the hulks shiver.
See, yon fort's star is set,
Storm and fire past.
Cheer him, lads--Farragut,
Lashed to the mast!
Oh! while Atlantic's breast
Bears a white sail,
While the Gulf's towering crest
Tops a green vale;
Men thy bold deeds shall tell,
Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut
Thunderbolt stroke!
Hannah More Johnson.
Miss Johnson, the niece of Mr. J. Henry Johnson, one of Morristown's old
residents, and the last preceptor of the old Academy, will be found again
among "Historians". She has written and published a large number of poems,
besides, and from them we select the following:
THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
Shall I tell you a story of Christmas time?
Of what Nellie found by her Christmas tree?
If I tell it at all, it must be in rhyme
For it seems like a song to Nellie and me
That ripples along to a breezy tune,
Like a brook that sings through the woods in June;
And yet it was dark November weather
When song and story began together.
"Papa", said Nellie, with wistful tone,
"When God sends little children here,
Do beautiful angels flutter down
As once when they brought our Saviour dear?
Don't they sing in the sky, where we can't see
And listen up there to Harry and me?
'Cause I prayed last night for the bestest things
Heavenly Father sends us, and Harry said
I might ask for a sister who hadn't wings
A dear little sister to sleep in my bed;
For my other one went away, you know,
To sing with the angels long ago,
And I want another to stay with me
A dear little sister like Daisy Lee.
So high, Papa! Look, don't you see?
Just up to my chin. Heavenly Father knows
'Bout her dress and her shoes and her curly hair
'Cause I told him all, and so I s'pose
The first little sister He has to spare
He'll send her down here, oh won't she be
A dear little sister for Harry and me!"
"Yes, my Nellie", her father said,
One gentle hand on the curly head
With tender caress and whispered word
Too low for her ear, 'though a Bright-one heard
And passed it up, meet signal given
From love on earth to love in heaven;
"Yes, my Nellie, wait and see!
We are all in our Heavenly Father's care
And He'll send what is best for you and me
When we look to Him with a loving prayer".
The days passed on. 'Twas that happy time
When bells ring out with their Christmas chime;
There were people at work all over the land
Busy for Santa Claus, heart and hand,
And some in cabin and work-shop dim
Who wouldn't have work if it wasn't for him;
And Harry and Nellie?--There were none
In that Christmas time had a gayer tree.
Papa was at work at early dawn
And the children all tip-toe to see;
But the dark December day wore on
E'er the door was opened noiselessly,
And the light streamed out in the dusky hall
From a beautiful cedar bright and tall.
Starry tapers were gleaming there,
Toy and trumpet and banner fair,
The topmost flag on the ceiling bore
While the laden branches swept the floor;
While gay little Rover frisking in,
Led the children in frolic and din
As they spied each treasure and in their glee
Shouted with joy round the Christmas tree,
While Papa stood back in a corner to see.
"Oh! Harry", said Nellie, "I do declare
Here's a basket for me!" She opened the lid
And pulled back the blanket folded there
And what d'ye think was safely hid
But a dear live baby so fast asleep
That it never waked up with the children's shout
Till Nellie asked, "is it ours to keep?"
And kissed its hand as she stood in doubt.
"Of course," said Harry, "don't angels know
When God has told them which way to go?
That's our little sister we wanted so!"
"Little sister", said Nellie, "I'm very glad,
I know you're the best Heavenly Father had
And now you're ours and you're going to stay
'Cause the angels have left you and gone away".
"No, my Nellie", a voice replied,
As Papa drew near to Nellie's side,
"Let us pray they may watch over this little one
Day by day, till life is done,
That she may be glad through eternity
She was ever left 'neath our Christmas tree".
Miss Margaret H. Garrard.
Our gifted young townswoman, Miss Garrard, who has often entertained us
with her rare dramatic talent, has contributed, for a number of years,
articles in prose and verse to well-known magazines and journals, notably
to _Lippincott's Magazine_ and _Life_. In _Lippincott_ for June, 1890, we
find a very pretty poem embodying a clever thought and entitled "A
Coquette's Motto". In a previous number appears "A Trip to Tophet", which
is a sparkling and graphic description of a descent into a silver-mine at
Virginia City, California. In it occurs the following picture of the
visitor's surroundings:
"The next few minutes will always be a haunting memory to me. The long,
dark passages, the burning atmosphere, the scattered lights, the weird
figures of the miners appearing, only to vanish the next moment in the
surrounding gloom, all recur like some infernal dream".
We select to represent Miss Garrard, the first poem she published in
_Life_:
THE PLAQUE DE LIMOGES.
You hang upon her boudoir wall,
Plaque de Limoges!
She prizes you above them all
Plaque de Limoges!
Yet do your blossoms never move,
Although she looks on them with love,
And treasures your hard buds above
The gathered bloom of field and grove,
Insensate, cold Limoges!
Brilliant in hue your every flower,
Plaque de Limoges!
Copied from some French maiden's bower,
Plaque de Limoges!
But still you let my lady stand--
The fairest lady in the land--
Caressing you with her soft hand,
Nor breathe, nor stir at her command,
Cold-hearted clay--Limoges!
Would that I in your place might be,
Plaque de Limoges!
That she might stand and gaze on me,
Plaque de Limoges!
I'd live in love a little space,
Then--fling my flowers from their place,
At her dear feet to sue for grace,
Until she'd raise them to her face,
Happy, but crushed Limoges!
Miss Julia E. Dodge.
Though Miss Dodge finds her place naturally and kindly in the society of
our poets, all readers of _The Century_ will remember a charming prose
paper of hers called "An Island of the Sea", beautifully illustrated by
Thomas Moran and published in 1877. Before and since that time, her pen has
not been idle, for short, prose articles have been scattered here and
there, in various periodicals, and it is difficult to select from the
number of thoughtful and delicate poems now before us, one to represent
her. The poem, "A Legend of St. Sophia in 1453", is full of spirit and
fire. It was written in 1878, when the advance of the Russian forces
towards Constantinople seemed to point to the fulfillment of ancient
prophecy and the restoration of Christian dominion over the stronghold of
Islam. The poem entitled "Satisfied" was first published in _The Churchman_
and afterwards placed, without the author's knowledge, in a collection
called "The Palace of the King", published by Randolph & Co. Among the
other poems are: "Our Daily Bread", "Spring Song", "Telling Fortunes",
"September Memories", and "To a Night-Blooming Cereus", which last we give
principally because, besides being a beautiful expression of a beautiful
thought, it was written under the inspiration of a flower sent to the
writer from an ancient plant in a Morristown conservatory.
TO A NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS.
O fleeting wonder, glory of a night,
Only less evanescent than the gleam
That marks the lightning's track, or some swift dream
That comes and, vanishing, eludes our sight!
How canst thou be content, thy whole rich stream
Of life to lavish on this hour's delight,
And perish ere one morning's praise requite
Thy gift of peerless splendor? It doth seem
Thou art a type of that pure steadfast heart
Which hath no wish but to perform His will
Who called it into being, no desire
But to be fair for Him; no other part
Doth choose, but here its fragrance to distil
For one brief moment ere He bid "Come higher"!
Charles D. Platt.
Mr. Platt, the faithful principal of our Morris Academy, has of late, "at
odd moments and in vacations," as he says, written verses of local
reference and others, upon various subjects, which have been published in
our local papers and elsewhere.
Born at Elizabeth, N. J., Mr. Platt lived there until 1883. He was
graduated at Williams' College in 1877, taught in the Rev. J. F. Pingry's
School in Elizabeth for six years, came to Morristown and took charge of
the Morris Academy in 1883, and has retained that position to the present
time.
Among the poems which refer to local interests are "Fort Nonsense," which
we give in the opening chapter on "Historic Morristown"; "The Old First
Church"; "The Lyceum" and "The Washington Headquarters", which last will
follow this short sketch, as embodying so much that is interesting of that
historic building and its surroundings.
Other of the poems might, perhaps, for some special qualities, better
represent Mr. Platt than this; there is the excellent and gay little
parody, which we would like to give, of "That Old Latin Grammar". "The Wild
Lily" is charming. Then there are "Memorial Day"; "Easter Song"; "Modern
Progress"; "A Myth"; and "John Greenleaf Whittier", the last written and
published upon the occasion of the poet's death September 16th, 1892.
Besides these, there are the "Ballades of the Holidays" which form a series
by themselves, dealing in part with the subject of popular maxims, and
including poems for Christmas, New Year's Day, Discovery Day and other
holidays. We give
THE WASHINGTON HEADQUARTERS, MORRISTOWN, NEW JERSEY.
What mean these cannon standing here,
These staring, muzzled dogs of war?
Heedless and mute, they cause no fear,
Like lions caged, forbid to roar.
_This_ gun[A] was made when good Queen Anne
Ruled upon Merry England's throne;
Captured by valiant Jerseymen
Ere George the Third our rights would own.
"Old Nat",[B] the little cur on wheels,
Protector of our sister city,
Was kept to bite the British heels,
A yelping terror, bold and gritty.
_That_ savage beast, the old "Crown Prince",[C]
A British bull-dog, glum, thick-set,
At Springfield's fight was made to wince,
And now we keep him for a pet.
Upon this grassy knoll they stand,
A venerable, peaceful pack;
Their throats once tuned to music grand,
And stained with gore their muzzles black.
But come, that portal swinging free,
A welcome offers, as of yore,
When, sheltered 'neath this old roof-tree,
Our patriot-chieftain trod this floor.
And with him in that trying day
Was gathered here a glorious band;
This house received more chiefs, they say,
Than any other in our land.[D]
Hither magnanimous Schuyler came,
And stern Steuben from o'er the water;
Here Hamilton, of brilliant fame,
Once met and courted Schuyler's daughter.
And Knox, who leads the gunner-tribes,
Whose shot the trembling foeman riddles,
A roaring chief,[E] his cash subscribes
To pay the mirth-inspiring fiddles.[F]
The "fighting Quaker", General Greene,
Helped Knox to foot the fiddlers' bill;
And here the intrepid "Put." was seen,
And Arnold--black his memory still.
And Kosciusko, scorning fear,
Beside him noble Lafayette;
And gallant "Light Horse Harry" here
His kindly chief for counsel met.
"Mad Antony" was here a guest,--
Madly he charged, but shrewdly planned;
And many another in whose breast
Was faithful counsel for our land.
Among these worthies was a dame
Of mingled dignity and grace;
Linked with the warrior-statesman's fame
Is Martha's comely, smiling face.
But look around, to right to left;
Pass through these rooms, once Martha's pride,
The dining hall of guests bereft,
The kitchen with its fire-place wide.
See the huge logs, the swinging crane,
The Old Man's seat by chimney ingle,
The pots and kettles, all the train
Of brass and pewter, here they mingle.
In the large hall above, behold
The flags, the eagle poised for flight:
While sabres, bayonets, flint-locks old,
Tell of the struggle, and the fight.
Old faded letters bear the seal
Of men who battled for a stamp;
A cradle and a spinning-wheel
Bespeak the home behind the camp.
Apartments opening from the hall
Show chairs and desks of quaint old style,
And curious pictures on the wall
Provoke a reverential smile.
Musing, we loiter in each room
And linger with our vanished sires;
We hear the deep, far-echoing boom
That spoke of old in flashing fires.
But deepening shadows bid us go,
The western sun is sinking fast;
We take our leave with footsteps slow,
Farewell, ye treasures of the past.
A century and more has gone,
Since these old relics saw their day;
That day was but the opening dawn
Of one that has not passed away.
Our banner is no worthless rag,
With patriot pride hearts still beat high;
And there, above, still waves the flag
For which our fathers dared to die.
[Footnote A: Inscription on this Cannon:--
Gun made in Queen Anne's time. Captured with a British vessel by a party of
Jerseymen in the year 1780, near Perth Amboy. Presented by the township of
Woodbridge, New Jersey, in 1874.]
[Footnote B: Inscription on "Old Nat:"--
This cannon was furnished Capt. Nathaniel Camp by Gen. George Washington
for the protection of Newark N. J. against the British. Presented to the
Association by Mr. Bruen H. Camp, of Newark, N. J.]
[Footnote C: The inscription upon it is as follows:--
The "Crown Prince Gun." Captured from the British at Springfield. Used as
an alarm gun at Short Hills to end of Revolutionary War. Given in charge by
General Benoni Hathaway to Colonel Wm. Brittin on the last training at
Morristown, and by his son, Wm. Jackson Brittin, with the consent of the
public authorities, presented to the Association in the year 1890.]
[Footnote D: The list of officers of the Revolutionary army mentioned in
the poem is taken from a printed placard which hangs in the hall of the
Headquarters.]
[Footnote E: Knox is called a roaring chief because when crossing the
Delaware with Washington his "stentorian lungs" did good service in keeping
the army together.]
[Footnote F: The reference to the fiddlers is based upon an old
subscription paper for defraying the expenses of a "Dancing Assembly,"
signed by several persons, among them Nathaniel Greene and H. Knox, each
$400, PAID.
This paper may be seen in the collection made by Mrs. J. W. Roberts.]
Mrs. Julia R. Cutler.
Mrs. Cutler's graceful pen has already contributed to this volume the
sketch of Mrs. Mary Lee Demarest and also another to follow of Mrs. Julia
McNair Wright. Her pen has been busy at occasional intervals from girlhood,
when as a school-girl her essays were, as a rule, selected and read aloud
in the chapel, on Friday afternoons, and a poem securing the gold medal
crowned the success.
Living since her marriage, in the old historic house of Mr. Cutler's
great-grandfather, the Hon. Silas Condict, fearless patriot of the
Revolution, and President of the Council of Safety during the whole of that
period that "tried men's souls", it is little wonder that the traditions of
'76 clinging about the spot should nurture and develop the poetic spirit of
the girl. It was in 1799, after Mr. Condict's return from Congress that he
built the present house familiar to us all, but the old house stands near
by, full of the most interesting stories and traditions of revolutionary
days.
Mrs. Cutler has written many articles, often by request, for papers or
magazines, and verses prompted by circumstances or surroundings, or
composed when strongly impressed upon an especial subject.
[Illustration: FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, 1791,
SESSION HOUSE AND MANSE.
MORRIS COUNTY SOLDIER'S MONUMENT, 1871.]
Before us lies a lovely poem of childhood, entitled "Childish Faith",
founded on fact, but we select from the many poems of Mrs. Cutler, the
Centennial Poem given below and written on the occasion of the Centennial
of the old First Church.
CENTENNIAL FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH.
The moon shines brightly down, o'er hill and dale
As it shone down, One Hundred years ago,
On these same scenes. The stars look down from Heaven
As they did then, as calm, serene, and bright--
Fit emblems of the God, who changes not.
Only in him can we find sure repose
'Mid change, decay and death, who is the same
To-day as yesterday, forevermore.
Through the clear air peal forth the silvery notes,
Of thy old Bell, thou venerable pile,
Thou dear old Church, whose birthday rare,
We come to celebrate with tender love.
One Hundred years! How long; and yet, how short
When counted with the centuries of the past
That help to make the ages of the world:
How long when measured by our daily cares,
The joys, the sorrows that these years have brought
To us and ours. "Our fathers, where are they?"
The men of strength, one hundred years ago,
As full of courage, purpose, will, as we,
Have gone to join the "innumerable throng"
That worship in the Father's House above.
Their children, girls and boys, like the fair flowers,
Have blossomed, faded, and then passed away,
Leaving their children and grandchildren, too,
To fill their places, take their part in life.
How oft, dear Church, these walls have heard the vows
That bound two hearts in one. How oft the tread
Of those that bore the sainted dead to rest.
How oft the voices, soft and low, of those
Who, trusting in a covenant-keeping God
Gave here their little ones to God. A faith
Which He has blessed, as thou canst truly tell,
In generations past, and will in days to come.
How many servants of the most high God,
Beneath thy roof have uttered words divine,
Taught by the Spirit, leading souls to Christ
And reaping, even here, their great reward.
Many of these have entered into rest
Such as remains for those who love the Lord.
Others to-day, have gathered here to tell
What God has done in years gone by, and bear
Glad testimony to the truth, that in this place
His name has honored been.--'Tis sad to say
Farewell. But 'tis decreed, that thou must go.
Time levels all; and it will lay thee low.
But o'er thy dust full many a tear shall fall,
And many a prayer ascend, that the true God,
Our Father's God, will, with their children dwell,
And that the stately pile which soon shall rise,
Where now, thou art, a monument shall be
Of generations past, recording all
The truth and mercies of a loving God.
Oct. 14th, 1891.
Miss Frances Bell Coursen.
The rhythmic, airy verses of Miss Coursen, full of the spirit of trees,
flowers, the clouds, the winds and the insinuating and lovely sounds of
nature, charm us into writing the author down as one of Morristown's young
poets. The verses have attractive titles which in themselves suggest to us
musical thoughts, such as "To the Winds in January"; "June Roses"; "In the
Fields"; and "What the Katydids Say". We quote the latter for its bright
beauty.
WHAT THE KATYDIDS SAY.
"Katy did it!" "Katy didn't!"
Doesn't Katy wish she had?
"Katy did!" that sounds so pleasant,
"Katy didn't" sounds so bad.
Katy didn't--lazy Katy,
Didn't do her lessons well?
Didn't set her stitches nicely?
Didn't do what? Who can tell?
But the livelong autumn evening
Sounds from every bush and tree,
So that all the world can hear it,
"Katy didn't" oh dear me!
Who would like to hear forever
Of the things they hadn't done
In shrill chorus, sounding nightly,
From the setting of the sun.
But again, who wouldn't like it
If they every night could hear,
"Yes she did it, Katy did it",
Sounding for them loud and clear?
So if you've an "awful lesson",
Or "a horrid seam to sew",
Just you stop and think a minute,
Don't decide to "let it go".
In the evening, if you listen,
All the Katydids will say
"Yes she did it, did it, did it!"
Or, "she didn't". Now which way?
Miss Isabel Stone.
Miss Stone, long a resident of Morristown, has published many poems in
prominent journals and magazines, also stories, but always under an assumed
name. She will take a place in another group, that of _Novelists and
Story-Writers_. She is represented here by her poem on "Easter Thoughts".
EASTER THOUGHTS.
Sometimes within our hearts, the good lies dead,
Slain by untoward circumstances, or by our own free will,
And through the world we walk with bowed head;
Or with our senses blinded to our choice,
Thinking that "good is evil--evil good;"
Or, with determined pride to still the voice
That whispers of a "Resurrection morn."
This is that morn--the resurrection hour
Of all the good that has within us died,
The hour to throw aside with passionate force
The cruel bonds of wrong and blindness--pride--
And rise unto a level high of power,
Of strength--of purity--while those we love rejoice
With "clouds of angel witnesses" above,
And all the dear ones, who before have gone.
And we ascend, in the triumphant joy
And peace, and rapture of a changed self
That now transfigured stands--no more the toy
Of circumstance--or pride, or sin, to blight--
Until we reach sublimest heights--
And stand erect, eyes fixed upon the Right--
Strong in the strength that wills all wrong to still,
Will--pointing upwards to th' ascended Lord,
Bless, aye, thrice bless, this fair, sweet Easter Dawn.
Rev. G. Douglass Brewerton.
The Rev. Mr. Brewerton was pastor of the Baptist Church in Morristown in
1861, and during the early years of our Civil War. He was very patriotic
and public-spirited and founded a Company of boy Zouaves in the town, which
is well remembered, for at that time the war-spirit was the order of the
day. He wrote a number of poems which were published in the Morristown
papers and others. Of these, the following is one, published January 30,
1861.
OUR SOLDIERS WITH OUR SAILORS STAND.
A NATIONAL SONG
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE VOLUNTEERS OF BOTH SERVICES, BY ONE WHO ONCE
WORE THE UNIFORM OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT.
Our soldiers with our sailors stand,
A bulwark firm and true,
To guard the banner of our land,
The Red, the White, the Blue.
The forts that frown along the coast,
The ramparts on the steep,
Are held by men who never boast,
But true allegiance keep.
While still in thunder tones shall speak
Our giants on the tide,
Rebuking those who madly seek
To tame the eagle's pride.
While breezes blow or sounding sea
Be whitened by a sail,
The banner of the brave and true
Shall float, nor fear the gale.
While Ironsides commands the fleet,
Shall patriot vows be heard,
Where pennants fly or war drums beat,
True to their oaths and word.
Then back, ye traitors! back, for shame!
Nor dare to touch a fold;
We'll guard it till the sunshine wane
And stars of night grow old.
Thus ever may that flag unrent
At peak and staff be borne,
Nor e'er from mast or battlement
By traitor hands be torn.
Mrs. Alice D. Abell.
Mrs. Abell has for several years contributed poems and articles to various
papers and magazines. From the poems we select the following, which was
copied in a Southern paper as well as in two others, from _The New York
Magazine_ in which it first appeared:
BEHIND THE MASK.
Behind the mask--the smiling face
Is often full of woe,
And sorrow treads a restless pace
Where wealth and beauty go.
Behind the mask--who knows the care
That grim and silent rests,
And all the burdens each may bear
Within the secret breast?
Behind the mask--who knows the tears
That from the heart arise,
And in the weary flight of years
How many pass with sighs?
Behind the mask--who knows the strain
That each life may endure,
And all its grief and countless pain
That wealth can never cure?
Behind the mask--we never know
How many troubles hide,
And with the world and fashion show
Some spectre walks beside.
Behind the mask--some future day,
When all shall be made plain;
Our burdens then will pass away
And count for each his gain.
George Wetmore Colles, Jr.
The following is by one of the young writers of Morristown, written at Yale
University and published in the _Yale Courant_ of February, 1891:
TO A MOUNTAIN CASCADE.
To him who, wearied in the noontide glare,
Seeks cool refreshment in thy quiet shade,
In all thy beauteous rainbow tints arrayed,
How sweet! O dashing brook, thy waters are!
Sure, such a glen fair Dian with her train
Chose to disport in, when Actaeon bold
That sight with mortal eyes dared to behold
Which mortals may not see and life retain.
To such a glen I, too, at noonday creep,
Leaving the dusty road and haunts of men,
To quaff thy purling, sparkling ripples; then
To plunge within thy clear, cold basin deep.
Alone in Nature's lap (this mossy sod)
I lie; feel her sweet breath upon me blow;
Hear her melodious woodland voice, and know
Her passing love, the eternal love of God!
HYMNODIST.
John R. Runyon.
Our fellow townsman of old New Jersey name, whose enthusiastic love for
music, and especially for church music, is well known, has manifested his
interest in this direction by compiling a collection of hymns known as
"Songs of Praise. A Selection of Standard Hymns and Tunes". It is published
by Anson D. F. Randolph & Company, and "meets", says the compiler, "a
universally acknowledged want for a collection of Hymns to be used in
Sunday Schools and Social Meetings".
Says Charles H. Morse in _The Christian Union_ of August 20th, 1892: "If
music is a pattern and type of Heaven, then, indeed, are those whose
mission is to provide the music for our worship burdened with a weight of
responsibility and called to a blessed ministry second only to that of the
pastor who stands at the desk to speak the words of Life".
To compile from various sources a collection of hymns acceptable to varied
classes of minds, requires much discernment, great care and large range of
knowledge on the subject, as well as a comprehension of what is needed
which comes from long and wide experience, study and observation, in
addition to natural genius.
NOVELISTS AND STORY-WRITERS.
Francis Richard Stockton.
Although born in Philadelphia, Mr. Stockton belongs to an old and
distinguished New Jersey family, and he has, after many wanderings, at last
selected his home in the State of his ancestors.
Within a few years he has purchased and fitted up a quaint and attractive
mansion in the suburbs of Morristown, overlooking the beautiful Loantika
Valley, where in the Revolutionary days the tents of the suffering patriots
were pitched or their log huts constructed for the bitter winter. Beyond
the long and narrow valley, the homes of prominent residents of Morristown
appear on the Western limiting range of hills, and are charmingly
picturesque.
This home Mr. Stockton has named "The Holt" and his legend, taken from
Turberville, an old English poet, is painted over the fire-place in his
Study which is over the Library on the South corner of the House:
"Yee that frequent the hilles
and highest holtes of all,
Assist me with your skilful
quilles and listen when I call."
Mr. Stockton and Richard Stockton, the signer of the Declaration of
Independence, are descended from the same ancestor, Richard Stockton, who
came from England in 1680 and settled in Burlington County, New Jersey.
Much fine and interesting criticism from various directions, has been
called out by Mr. Stockton's works.
Edmund Gosse, the well-known Professor of Literature in England, said just
before leaving our shores:
"I think Mr. Stockton one of the most remarkable writers in this country. I
think his originality, his extraordinary fantastic genius, has not been
appreciated at all. People talk about him as if he were an ordinary
purveyor of comicality. I do not want to leave this country without giving
my _personal tribute_, if that is worth anything, to his genius."
"More than half of Mr. Stockton's readers, without doubt", says another
critic, "think of him merely as the daintiest of humorists; as a writer
whose work is entertaining in an unusual degree, rather than weighed in a
critical scale, or considered seriously as a part of the literary
_expression_ of his time".
It is acknowledged that Americans are masters, at the present day, of the
art of writing short stories and these, as a rule, are like the French,
distinctly realistic. In this art Mr. Stockton excels. Among his short
stories, "The Bee Man of Orn" and "The Griffin and the Minor Canon"
represent his power of fancy. "The Hunting Expedition" in "Prince Hassak's
March" is particularly jolly, and in "The Stories of the Three Burglars",
we find a specimen of his realistic treatment. In the last, he makes the
young house-breaker, who is an educated man, say: "I have made it a rule
never to describe anything I have not personally seen and experienced. It
is the only way, otherwise we can not give people credit for their virtues
or judge them properly for their faults." Upon this, Aunt Martha exclaims:
"I think that the study of realism may be carried a great deal too far. I
do not think there is the slightest necessity for people to know anything
about burglars." And later she says, referring to this one of the three:
"I have no doubt, before he fell into his wicked ways, he was a very good
writer and might have become a novelist or a magazine author, but his case
is a sad proof that the study of realism is carried too far."
No critic seems to have observed or noticed the very remarkable manner in
which Mr. Stockton renders the negro dialect on the printed page. In this
respect he quite surpasses Uncle Remus or any other writer of negro
folk-lore. He spells the words in such a way as to give the sense and sound
to ears unaccustomed to negro talk as well as to those accustomed to it.
This we especially realize in "The Late Mrs. Null".
But besides the qualities we have noticed in Mr. Stockton's writings, there
is a subtle fragrance of purity that exhales from one and all, which is in
contrast to much of the novel-writing and story-telling of the present day.
We have reason to welcome warmly to our homes and to our firesides, one
who, by his pure fun and drollery, can charm us so completely as to make us
forget, for a time, the serious problems and questions which agitate and
confront the thinking men and women of this generation.
So varied and voluminous are the writings of Mr. Stockton, they may be
grouped as _Juveniles_, _Novels_, _Novelettes_ and _Collected Short
Stories_. Besides, there are magazine stories constantly appearing, and
still to be collected. Most prominent among the volumes are "The Lady or
The Tiger?"; "Rudder Grange" and its sequel, "The Rudder Grangers Abroad";
"The Late Mrs. Null"; "The Casting Away of Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine";
"The Hundredth Man"; "The Great War Syndicate"; "Ardis Claverden"; "Stories
of the Three Burglars"; "The House of Martha" and "The Squirrel Inn".
After considering what Mr. Stockton has accomplished and the place which by
his genius and industry he has made for himself in Literature, we do not
find it remarkable that in July, 1890, he was elected by the readers of
_The Critic_ into the ranks of the _Forty Immortals_.
We give to represent Mr. Stockton, an extract from his novel of "Ardis
Claverden", containing one of those clever conversations so characteristic
of the author, and success in which marks a high order of dramatic genius,
in making characters express to the listener or reader their own
individuality through familiar talk.
EXTRACT FROM "ARDIS CLAVERDEN."
Mr. and Mrs. Chiverly were artists.
* * * * *
The trouble with Harry Chiverly was that he had nothing in himself which
he could put into his work. He could copy what he could see, but if he
could not see what he wanted to paint, he had no mental power which would
bring that thing before him, or to transform what he saw into what it ought
to be.
* * * * *
The trouble with Mrs. Chiverly was that she did not know how to paint. With
her there was no lack of artistic imagination. Her brain was full of
pictures, which, if they could have been transferred to the brain of her
husband, who did know how to paint, would have brought fame and fortune. At
one end of her brush was artistic talent, almost genius; at the other was a
pigment mixed with oil. But the one never ran down to the other. The handle
of the brush was a non-conductor.
We pass on to a scene in the studio. An elderly man enters, a stranger, to
examine pictures, and stops before Mr. Chiverly's recently finished
canvass.
"Madam," said he, "can you tell me where the scene of this picture is laid?
It reminds me somewhat of the North and somewhat of the South, and I am not
sure that it does not contain suggestions of the East and the West."
"Yes," thought Ardis at her easel, "and of the North-east, and the
Sou-sou'-west, and all the other points of the compass."
Mrs. Chiverly left her seat and approached the visitor. She was a little
piqued at his remark.
"Some pictures have a meaning," she said, "which is not apparent to every
one at first sight."
"You are correct, madam," said the visitor.
"This painting, for instance," continued Mrs. Chiverly, "represents the
seven ages of trees." And then with as much readiness as Jacques detailed
the seven ages of man to the duke, she pointed out in the trees of the
picture the counterparts of these ages.
"Madam," said the visitor, "you delight me. I admit that I utterly failed
to see the point of this picture; but now that I am aware of its meaning I
understand its apparent incongruities. Meaning despises locality."
"You are right," said Mrs. Chiverly, earnestly. "Meaning is above
everything."
"Madam," said the gentleman, his eyes still fixed upon the canvass, "as a
student of Shakespeare, as well as a collector, in a small way, of works of
art, I desire to have this picture, provided its price is not beyond my
means."
Mrs. Chiverly gazed at him in an uncertain way. She did not seem to take in
the import of his remark.
From her easel Ardis now named the price which Mr. Chiverly had fixed upon
for the picture. He never finished a painting without stating very
emphatically what he intended to ask for it.
"That is reasonable," said the gentleman, "and you may consider the picture
mine." And he handed Mrs. Chiverly his card. Then, imbued with a new
interest in the studio, he walked about looking at others of the pictures.
"This little study," said he, "seems to me as if it ought to have a
significance, but I declare I am again at fault."
"Yes," said Mrs. Chiverly, "it ought to have a significance. In fact there
is a significance connected with it. I could easily tell you what it is,
but if you were afterwards to look at the picture you would see no such
meaning in it."
"Perhaps this is one of your husband's earlier works" said the gentleman,
"in which he was not able to express his inspirations."
"It is not one of my husband's works," said Mrs. Chiverly; "it is mine."
* * * * *
The moment that the gentleman had departed Ardis flew to Mrs. Chiverly and
threw her arms around her neck. "Now my dearest," she exclaimed, "you know
your vocation in life. You must put meanings to Mr. Chiverly's pictures."
When the head of the house returned he was, of course, delighted to find
that his painting had been sold.
"That is the way with us!" he cried, "we have spasms of prosperity. One of
our works is bought, and up we go. Let us so live that while we are up we
shall not remember that we have ever been down. And now my dear, if you
will give me the card of that exceptional appreciator of high art, I will
write his bill and receipt instantly, so that if he should again happen to
come while I am out there may be nothing in the way of an immediate
settlement."
Mrs. Chiverly stood by him as he sat at the desk. "You must call the
picture," she said, "'The Seven Ages of Trees.'"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Chiverly, turning suddenly and gazing with
astonishment at his wife. "That will do for a bit of pleasantry, but the
title of the picture is 'A Scene on the Upper Mississippi.' You don't want
to deceive the man, do you?"
"No, I do not," said Mrs. Chiverly, "and that is one reason why I did not
give it your title. It is a capitally painted picture, and as a woodland
'Seven Ages' it is simply perfect. That was what it sold for; and for that
and nothing else will the money be paid."
Mr. Chiverly looked at her for a moment longer, and then bursting into a
laugh he returned to his desk. "You have touched me to the quick," he said.
"Money has given title before and it shall do so now. There is the
receipted bill!" he cried, pushing back his chair.
Francis Bret Harte.
Bret Harte, so far as we can discover, has written the only story of
Revolutionary times in Morristown, and the only story of those times in New
Jersey except Miss Holdich, who follows, and James Fenimore Cooper, whose
"Water Witch" is located about the Highlands of New Jersey. By a passage
from his story of "Thankful Blossom" we shall represent him at the close of
this sketch.
Between 1873 and 1876 Bret Harte lived in Morristown, in several locations:
in the picturesque old Revere place on the Mendham Road, the very home for
a Novelist, now owned and occupied by Mr. Charles G. Foster; in the
Whatnong House for one summer, near which are located old farms, which seem
to us to have many features of the "Blossom Farm" and to which we shall
refer; in the Logan Cottage on Western Avenue and in the house on Elm
Street now owned and occupied by Mr. Joseph F. Randolph.
The steps by which Bret Harte climbed to the eminence that he now occupies,
are full of romantic interest. Left early by his father, who was a
Professor in an Albany Seminary and a man of culture, to struggle with
little means, the boy, at fifteen, had only an ordinary education and went
in 1854, with his mother, to California. He opened a school in Sonora,
walking to that place from San Francisco. Fortune did not favor him either
in this undertaking or in that of mining, to which, like all young
Californians in that day, he resorted as a means to live. He then entered a
printing office as compositor and began his literary career by composing
his first articles in type while working at the case. Here he had editorial
experiences which ended abruptly in consequence of the want of sympathy in
the miners with his articles. He returned to San Francisco and became
compositor in the office of _The Golden Era_. His three years experience
among the miners served him in good stead and his clever sketches
describing those vivid scenes, soon placed him in the regular corps of
writers for the paper. _The Californian_, a literary weekly, then engaged
Harte as associate manager and, in this short-lived paper appeared the
"Condensed Novels" in which Dickens' "Christmas Stories", Charlotte
Bronte's "Jane Eyre", Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables", and other prominent
and familiar writings of distinguished authors are most cleverly taken
off. These have amused and delighted the reading world since their first
appearance. During the next six years, he filled the office of Secretary of
the United States Branch Mint, and also wrote for California journals, many
of his important poems, among them, "John Burns of Gettysburg", and "The
Society upon the Stanislau", which attracted wide attention by their
originality and peculiar flavor of the "Wild West". In July, 1868, Harte
organized, and became the editor of, what is now a very successful journal,
_The Overland Monthly_.
For this journal he wrote many of his most characteristic stories and poems
and introduced into its pages, "The Luck of Roaring Camp"; "The Outcasts of
Poker Flat", and others having that peculiar pseudo-dialect of Western
mining life of which he was the pioneer writer. He had now taken a great
step towards high and artistic work. At this point his reputation was
established.
As for Revolutionary New Jersey poems, abundant as the material is for
inspiration, Bret Harte's "Caldwell of Springfield" seems to be one of very
few. At the luncheon of the Daughters of the American Revolution held in
May of 1892, a prominent member of the Association recited "Parson
Caldwell" and mentioned, that strange to say, it was as far as she had been
able to ascertain, the only poem on Revolutionary times in New Jersey that
had ever been written, though she had searched thoroughly. In addition to
this, we find only, besides the two poems of Mr. Charles D. Platt, given in
this volume, (and others of his referred to) one or two of the sort in a
volume published years ago, privately, by Dr. Thomas Ward, of New York (a
great uncle of Mrs. Luther Kountze). Very few copies of his poems were
printed and all were given to his friends, not sold.
We must not forget the very beautiful poem of "Alice of Monmouth", by
Edmund Clarence Stedman, and also, perhaps, might be included his spirited
"Aaron Burr's Wooing". There was also an early writer, Philip Freneau, of
Monmouth County, who lived in Colonial and Revolutionary times, and wrote
some quaint and charming poems of that period.
If there are any others we would be glad to be informed.
In this book, "Plain Language From Truthful James", better known as "The
Heathen Chinee", represents Mr. Harte among the poets, in our group of
writers, for the reason that it is so widely known as a satire upon the
popular prejudices against the Chinese, who were at that time pursued with
hue and cry of being shiftless and weak-minded.
From 1868, Harte became a regular contributor to the _Atlantic Monthly_ and
he also entered the lecture field. It was during this period that he lived
in Morristown. In 1878 he went to Crefeld, Germany, as United States
Consul, and here began his life abroad. Two years later he went, as Consul,
to Glasgow, Scotland, since which time he has remained abroad, engaged in
literary pursuits.
The Contributor's Club, of the _Atlantic Monthly_, gives a curious little
paper on "The Value of a Name", in which the writer insists that Bret
Harte, Mark Twain, Dante Rossetti and others owe a part of their success,
at least, to the phonic value of their names. He says that "much time and
thought are spent in selecting a name for a play or novel, for it is known
that success is largely dependent on it" and he therefore censures parents
who are "so strangely careless and unscientific in giving names to their
children."
Bret Harte's publications include besides "Condensed Novels", "Thankful
Blossom", and others already mentioned, several volumes of Poems issued at
different periods: among them are "Songs of the Sierras" and "Echoes of the
Foot Hills". Then there are "Tales of the Argonauts and Other Stories";
"Drift from Two Shores"; "Twins of Table Mountain"; "Flip and Found at
Blazing Star"; "On the Frontier"; "Snow Bound at Eagle's"; "Maruja, a
Novel"; "The Queen of the Pirate Isle", for children; "A Phyllis of the
Sierras"; "A Waif of the Plains" and many others, besides his collected
works in five volumes published in 1882.
Writing to Bret Harte in London, for certain information about the story of
"Thankful Blossom", the author of this volume received the following reply:
15 UPPER HAMILTON TERRACE, N. W., 31st May, '90.
_Dear Madam:_
In reply to your favor of the 14th inst., I fear I must
begin by saying that the story of "Thankful Blossom",
although inspired and suggested by my residence at
Morristown at different periods was not _written_ at
that place, but in another part of New Jersey. The
"Blossom Farm" was a study of two or three old farm
houses in the vicinity, but was not an existing fact so
far as I know. But the description of Washington's
Head-Quarters was a study of the actual house,
supplemented by such changes as were necessary for the
epoch I described, and which I gathered from the State
Records. The portraits of Washington and his military
family at the Head-Quarters were drawn from Spark's
"Life of Washington" and the best chronicles of the
time. The episode of the Spanish Envoy is also
historically substantiated, and the same may be said of
the incidents of the disaffection of the "Connecticut
Contingent."
Although the heroine, "Thankful Blossom", as a
_character_ is purely imaginary, the _name_ is an
actual one, and was borne by a (chronologically)
remote maternal relation of mine, whose Bible with the
written legend, "Thankful Blossom, her book", is still
in possession of a member of the family.
The contour of scenery and the characteristics of
climate have, I believe, changed but little since I
knew them between 1873 and 1876 and "Thankful Blossom"
gazed at them from the Baskingridge Road in 1779.
I remain, dear madam,
Yours very sincerely,
BRET HARTE.
Two of the farms from which Bret Harte _may_ have drawn the inspiration for
the surroundings of his story, may be seen on the Washington Valley road as
you turn to the right from the road to Mendham. Turning again to the
left,--before you come to the junction of the road which crosses at right
angles to the Whatnong House, where Mr. Harte passed a summer,--you come
upon the Carey Farm, the house built by the grandfather of the present
occupants. There you see the stone wall,--crumbling now,--over which the
bewitching Mistress Thankful talked and clasped hands with Captain Allen
Brewster of the Connecticut Contingent. The elm-tree, upon whose bark was
inscribed "the effigy of a heart, divers initials and the legend 'Thine
Forever'", has been lately cut down and the trunk decorated with growing
plants and flowers.
We see the black range of the Orange Hills over which the moon slowly
lifted herself as the Captain waited for his love, "looking at him,
blushing a little, as if the appointment were her own". We see also the
faintly-lit field beyond,--the same field in which, further on in the story
after Brewster's treachery, Major Van Zandt and Mistress Thankful picked
the violets together and doing so, revealed their hearts' love to one
another on that 3rd of May, 1780.
The orchard is there, still bearing apples, but the "porch" and the "mossy
eaves" evidently belong to the next farm house, which we find exactly on
the corner at the junction of the two roads. It is the old Beach farm. The
original house has a brick addition, with the inscription among the bricks,
"1812".
It is on the wooden part built earlier and evidently an ancient structure,
that we see the "porch and eaves".
We select from "Thankful Blossom" the very fine pen portrait of Washington
and his military family at the Headquarters.
THANKFUL BLOSSOM.
_A Romance of the Jerseys, 1779._