The rising wind, which had ridden much faster than Mistress Thankful, had
increased to a gale by the time it reached Morristown. It swept through the
leafless maples, and rattled the dry bones of the elms. It whistled through
the quiet Presbyterian churchyard, as if trying to arouse the sleepers it
had known in days gone by. It shook the blank, lustreless windows of the
Assembly Rooms over the Freemason's Tavern, and wrought in their gusty
curtains moving shadows of those amply petticoated dames and tightly hosed
cavaliers who had swung in "Sir Roger," or jigged in "Money Musk," the
night before.
But I fancy it was around the isolated "Ford Mansion," better known as the
"Headquarters," that the wind wreaked its grotesque rage. It howled under
its scant eaves, it sang under its bleak porch, it tweaked the peak of its
front gable, it whistled through every chink and cranny of its square,
solid, unpicturesque structure. Situated on a hillside that descended
rapidly to the Whippany River, every summer zephyr that whispered through
the porches of the Morristown farm houses charged as a stiff breeze upon
the swinging half doors and windows of the "Ford Mansion"; every wintry
wind became a gale that threatened its security. The sentinel who paced
before its front porch knew from experience when to linger under its lee,
and adjust his threadbare outer coat to the bitter North wind.
Within the house something of this cheerlessness prevailed. It had an
ascetic gloom, which the scant fire-light of the reception room, and the
dying embers on the dining room hearth, failed to dissipate. The central
hall was broad, and furnished plainly with a few rush-bottomed chairs, on
one of which half dozed a black body-servant of the commander-in-chief. Two
officers in the dining-room, drawn close by the chimney corner, chatted in
undertones, as if mindful that the door of the drawing-room was open, and
their voices might break in upon its sacred privacy. The swinging light in
the hall partly illuminated it, or rather glanced gloomily from the black
polished furniture, the lustreless chairs, the quaint cabinet, the silent
spinet, the skeleton-legged centre-table, and finally upon the motionless
figure of a man seated by the fire.
It was a figure since so well known to the civilized world, since so
celebrated in print and painting, as to need no description here. Its rare
combination of gentle dignity with profound force, of a set resoluteness
of purpose with a philosophical patience, have been so frequently delivered
to a people not particularly remarkable for these qualities, that I fear it
has too often provoked a spirit of playful aggression, in which the deeper
underlying meaning was forgotten. So let me add that in manner, physical
equipoise, and even in the mere details of dress, this figure indicated a
certain aristocratic exclusiveness. It was the presentment of a king,--a
king who by the irony of circumstances was just then waging war against all
kingship; a ruler of men, who just then was fighting for the right of these
men to govern themselves, but whom by his own inherent right he dominated.
From the crown of his powdered head to the silver buckle of his shoe he was
so royal that it was not strange his brother George of England and
Hanover--ruling by accident, otherwise impiously known as the "grace of
God"--could find no better way of resisting his power than by calling him
"Mr. Washington."
The sound of horses' hoofs, the formal challenge of sentry, the grave
questioning of the officer of the guard, followed by footsteps upon the
porch, did not apparently disturb his meditation. Nor did the opening of
the outer door and a charge of cold air into the hall that invaded even the
privacy of the reception room, and brightened the dying embers on the
hearth, stir his calm pre-occupation. But an instant later there was the
distinct rustle of a feminine skirt in the hall, a hurried whispering of
men's voices, and then the sudden apparition of a smooth, fresh-faced young
officer over the shoulder of the unconscious figure.
"I beg your pardon, general," said the officer doubtingly, "but"----
"You are not intruding, Colonel Hamilton," said the general quietly.
"There is a young lady without who wishes an audience of your Excellency.
'Tis Mistress Thankful Blossom,--the daughter of Abner Blossom, charged
with treasonous practice and favoring the enemy, now in the guard-house at
Morristown."
"Thankful Blossom?" repeated the general interrogatively.
"Your Excellency doubtless remembers a little provincial beauty and a
famous toast of the countryside--the Cressida of our Morristown epic, who
led our gallant Connecticut Captain astray"----
"You have the advantages, besides the better memory of a younger man,
colonel," said Washington, with a playful smile that slightly reddened the
cheek of his aide-de-camp. "Yet I think I _have_ heard of this phenomenon.
By all means, admit her--and her escort."
"She is alone, general," responded the subordinate.
"Then the more reason why we should be polite," returned Washington, for
the first time altering his easy posture, rising to his feet, and lightly
clasping his ruffled hands before him. "We must not keep her waiting. Give
her access, my dear colonel, at once; and even as she came,--alone."
The aide-de-camp bowed and withdrew. In another moment the half opened door
swung wide to Mistress Thankful Blossom.
She was so beautiful in her simple riding-dress, so quaint and original in
that very beauty, and, above all, so teeming with a certain vital
earnestness of purpose just positive and audacious enough to set off that
beauty, that the grave gentleman before her did not content himself with
the usual formal inclination of courtesy, but actually advanced, and,
taking her cold little hand in his, graciously led her to the chair he had
just vacated.
"Even if your name were not known to me, Mistress Thankful," said the
commander-in-chief, looking down upon her with grave politeness, "nature
has, methinks, spared you the necessity of any introduction to the courtesy
of a gentleman. But how can I especially serve you?"
Miss Henrietta Howard Holdich.
It is a curious fact that although New Jersey was the theatre of some of
the most stirring scenes of the Revolution, only two stories seem to have
been written, founded on the events of those times, if we except the "Water
Witch", by J. Fenimore Cooper, in which we find the location of Alderman
Van Beverout's house, the villa of the "Lust in Rust" to be on the Atlantic
Highlands, between the Shrewsbury river and the sea. This spot is pointed
out to-day and was associated with the smugglers of that period. The other
two stories are "Thankful Blossom", by Bret Harte, and "Hannah Arnett's
Faith", a Centennial Story, by Miss Holdich, which latter, as a singular
history attaches to it, we shall give at length.
Miss Holdich was born at Middletown, Conn., but left there too young to
remember much about it and she lived in New York until 1878 when she came
to Morristown. When she was not quite two years of age her mother
discovered she could read and since she was seventeen, she has written for
various well-known papers and periodicals, more children's stories than
anything else, she tells us, but also a good many stories for _Harpers'
Magazine_ and _Bazar_,--also poems, by one of which she is represented in
our group of poets.
"Hannah Arnett's Faith" is a true story of the author's great grandmother,
familiar to all the family from infancy; In 1876 Miss Holdich published it,
as a Centennial story, in _The New York Observer_. In 1890, a lady of
Washington published it as her own in _The Washington Post_, (she asserts
that she did not intend it as a plagiarism but used it merely as a
historical incident). The story was recognized and letters written to, and
published in, _The Post_, giving Miss Holdich's name, as the true author.
However, this publication of the story led to a curious result, and gave
the story a wide celebrity. In a published statement, Miss Mary Desha (one
of the Vice Presidents of the D. A. R.) announces that "the Society of the
Daughters of the American Revolution sprang from this story".
"On July 21st", Miss Desha says, after the publication of the story in _The
Washington Post_, accompanied by an appeal for a woman's organization to
commemorate events of the Revolution in which women had bravely borne their
part,--"a letter from William O. McDowell of New Jersey, was published, in
which he said that he was the great-grandson of Hannah Arnett and called on
the women of America to form a society of their own, since they had been
excluded from the Society of the Sons of the American Revolution at a
meeting held in Louisville, Kentucky, April 30th, 1890".
Miss Holdich soon after this was urgently requested to become Regent of
the Morristown Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, which
position she accepted and holds to-day.
HANNAH ARNETT'S FAITH.
_A Centennial Story._
1776-1876.
The days were at their darkest and the hearts of our grandfathers were
weighed down with doubt and despondency. Defeat had followed defeat for the
American troops, until the army had become demoralized and discouragement
had well-nigh become despair. Lord Cornwallis, after his victory at Fort
Lee, had marched his army to Elizabethtown (Dec. 1776) where they were now
encamped. On the 30th of November the brothers Howe had issued their
celebrated proclamation, which offered protection to all who within sixty
days should declare themselves peaceable British subjects and bind
themselves neither to take up arms against their Sovereign, nor to
encourage others to do so. It was to discuss the advisability of accepting
this offered protection that a group of men had met in one of the large old
houses of which Elizabethtown was, at that time, full.
We are apt to think of those old times as days of unmitigated loyalty and
courage; of our ancestors as unfaltering heroes, swerving never in the
darkest hours from the narrow and thorny path which conscience bade them
tread. Yet human nature is human nature in all ages, and if at times the
"old fashioned fire" burned low even in manly hearts, and profound
discouragement palsied for a time the most ardent courage, what are we that
we should wonder at or condemn them? Of this period Dr. Ashbel Green wrote:
"I heard a man of some shrewdness once say that when the British troops
over-ran the State of New Jersey, in the closing part of the year 1776, the
whole population could have been bought for eighteen-pence a head."
The debate was long and grave. Some were for accepting the offered terms at
once; others hung back a little, but all had at length agreed that it was
the only thing to be done. Hope, courage, loyalty, faith, honor--all seemed
swept away upon the great flood of panic which had overspread the land.
There was one listener, however, of whom the eager disputants were
ignorant, one to whose heart their wise reasoning was very far from
carrying conviction. Mrs. Arnett, the wife of the host, was in the next
room, and the sound of the debate had reached her where she sat. She had
listened in silence, until, carried away by her feelings, she could bear no
more, and springing to her feet she pushed open the parlor door and
confronted the assembled group.
Can you fancy the scene? A large low room, with the dark, heavily carved
furniture of the period, dimly lighted by the tall wax candles and the wood
fires which blazed in the huge fire place. Around the table, the group of
men--pallid, gloomy, dejected, disheartened. In the doorway the figure of
the woman, in the antique costume with which, in those latter days, we have
become so familiar. Can you not fancy the proud poise of her head, the
indignant light of her blue eyes, the crisp, clear tones of her voice, the
majesty and defiance and scorn which clothed her as a garment?
The men all started up at her entrance; the sight of a ghost could hardly
have caused more perturbation than did that of this little woman. Her
husband advanced hastily. She had no business here; a woman should know her
place and keep it. Questions of politics and political expediency were not
for them; but he would shield her as far as possible, and point out the
impropriety of her conduct afterwards, when they should be alone. So he
went quickly up to her with a warning whisper:
"Hannah! Hannah! this is no place for you. We do not want you here just
now;" and would have taken her hand to lead her from the room.
She was a docile little woman and obeyed his wishes in general without a
word: but now it seemed as if she scarcely saw him, as with one hand she
pushed him gently back and turned to the startled group.
"Have you made your decision, gentlemen?" she asked. "Have you chosen the
part of men or of traitors?"
It was putting the question too broadly,--so like a woman, seeing only the
bare, ugly facts, and quite forgetting the delicate drapery which was
intended to veil them. It was an awkward position to put them in, and they
stammered and bungled over their answer, as men in a false position will.
The reply came at last, mingled with explanations and excuses and
apologies.
"Quite hopeless; absurd for a starving, half-clothed, undisciplined army
like ours to attempt to compete with a country like England's unlimited
resources. Repulsed everywhere--ruined; throwing away life and fortune for
a shadow;"--you know the old arguments with which men try to prop a
staggering conscience.
Mrs. Arnett listened in silence until the last abject word was spoken. Then
she inquired simply: "But what if we should live, after all?"
The men looked at each other, but no one spoke.
"Hannah! Hannah!" urged her husband. "Do you not see that these are no
questions for you? We are discussing what is best for us, for you, for
all. Women have no share in these topics. Go to your spinning-wheel and
leave us to settle affairs. My good little wife, you are making yourself
ridiculous. Do not expose yourself in this way before our friends."
His words passed her ear like the idle wind; not even the quiver of an
eyelash showed that she heard them.
"Can you not tell me?" she said in the same strangely quiet voice. "If,
after all, God does not let the right perish,--if America should win in the
conflict, after you have thrown yourself upon British clemency, where will
you be then?"
"Then?" spoke one hesitating voice. "Why, then, if it ever _could_ be, we
should be ruined. We must leave the country forever. But it is absurd to
think of such a thing. The struggle is an utterly hopeless one. We have no
men, no money, no arms, no food and England has everything."
"No," said Mrs. Arnett; "you have forgotten one thing which England has not
and which we have--one thing which outweighs all England's treasures, and
that is the Right. God is on our side, and every volley from our muskets is
an echo of His voice. We are poor and weak and few; but God is fighting for
us. We entered into this struggle with pure hearts and prayerful lips. We
had counted the cost and were willing to pay the price, were it our heart's
blood. And now--now, because for a time the day is going against us, you
would give up all and sneak back, like cravens, to kiss the feet that have
trampled upon us! And you call yourselves men--the sons of those who gave
up home and fortune and fatherland to make for themselves and for dear
liberty a resting-place in the wilderness? Oh, shame upon you, cowards!"
Her words had rushed out in a fiery flood, which her husband had vainly
striven to check. I do not know how Mrs. Arnett looked, but I fancy her a
little fair woman, with kindly blue eyes and delicate features,--a tender
and loving little soul, whose scornful, blazing words must have seemed to
her amazed hearers like the inspired fury of a pythoness. Are we not all
prophets at times--prophets of good or evil, according to our bent, and
with more power than we ourselves suspect to work out the fulfillment of
our own prophecies? Who shall say how far this fragile woman aided to stay
the wave of desolation which was spreading over the land?
"Gentlemen," said good Mr. Arnett uneasily, "I beg you to excuse this most
unseemly interruption to our council. My wife is beside herself I think.
You all know her and know that it is not her wont to meddle with politics,
or to brawl and bluster. To-morrow she will see her folly, but now I pray
your patience."
Already her words had begun to stir the slumbering manhood in the bosoms
of those who heard her. Enthusiasm makes its own fitting times. No one
replied; each felt too keenly his own pettiness, in the light cast upon
them by this woman's brave words.
"Take your protection, if you will," she went on, after waiting in vain for
a reply. "Proclaim yourselves traitors and cowards, false to your country
and your God, but horrible will be the judgment you will bring upon your
heads and the heads of those that love you. I tell you that England will
never conquer. I know it and feel it in every fibre of my heart. Has God
led us so far to desert us now? Will He, who led our fathers across the
stormy winter sea, forsake their children who have put their trust in Him?
For me, I stay with my country, and my hand shall never touch the hand, nor
my heart cleave to the heart of him who shames her."
She flashed upon her husband a gaze which dazzled him like sudden
lightning.
"Isaac, we have lived together for twenty years, and for all of them I have
been a true and loving wife to you. But I am the child of God and of my
country, and if you do this shameful thing, I will never again own you for
my husband."
"My dear wife!" cried the husband aghast, "you do not know what you are
saying. Leave me, for such a thing as this?"
"For such a thing as this?" she cried scornfully. "What greater cause could
there be? I married a good man and true, a faithful friend and a loyal
Christian gentleman, and it needs no divorce to sever me from a traitor and
a coward. If you take your protection you lose your wife, and I--I lose my
husband and my home!"
With the last words the thrilling voice broke suddenly with a pathetic fall
and a film crept over the proud blue eyes. Perhaps this little touch of
womanly weakness moved her hearers as deeply as her brave, scornful words.
They were not all cowards at heart, only touched by the dread finger of
panic, which, now and then, will paralyze the bravest. Some had struggled
long against it and only half yielded at last. And some there were to whom
old traditions had never quite lost their power, whose superstitious
consciences had never become quite reconciled to the stigma of _Rebel_,
though reason and judgment both told them that, borne for the cause for
which they bore it, it was a title of nobility. The words of the little
woman had gone straight to each heart, be its main-spring what it might.
Gradually the drooping heads were raised and the eyes grew bright with
manliness and resolution. Before they left the house that night, they had
sworn a solemn oath to stand by the cause they had adopted and the land of
their birth, through good or evil, and to spurn the offers of their
tyrants and foes as the deadliest insults.
Some of the names of those who met in that secret council were known
afterwards among those who fought their country's battles most nobly, who
died upon the field of honor, or rejoiced with pure hearts when the day of
triumph came at last. The name of the little woman figured on no heroic
roll, but was she the less a heroine?
This story is a true one, and, in this Centennial year, when every crumb of
information in regard to those old days of struggle and heroism is eagerly
gathered up, it may not be without interest.
Mrs. Miriam Coles Harris.
Mrs. Harris was well known during her stay in Morristown and is remembered
as a charming woman. "In Morristown", she writes, she found "restoration to
health, many friends, and much enjoyment",--adding "I think I shall always
love the place".
Mrs. Harris has been a voluminous writer of stories and novels. Her first
work, "Rutledge", published without her name, excited immediate and wide
attention and established her reputation. Since then, she has given to the
world, among others, the following volumes: "Louie's Last Term at St.
Mary's"; "The Sutherlands"; "Frank Warrington"; "St. Philip's";
"Round-hearts" (for children); "Richard Vandermarck"; "A Perfect Adonis";
"Missy"; "Happy-go-Lucky"; "Phoebe"; "A Rosary For Lent" and "Dear Feast of
Lent".
The selection given to represent Mrs. Harris in Stedman and Hutchinson's
"Library of American Literature" is a chapter from her novel, "Missy". An
appropriate selection for this volume would be an extract from her chapter
on "Marrowfat" (Morristown) in her novel, "Phoebe", published in 1884.
The two principal characters of the book, Barry and Phoebe, lately married,
are described in Marrowfat, going to church on Sunday morning:
EXTRACT FROM "PHOEBE."
They were rather late; that is, the bell had stopped ringing, and the pews
were all filled, and the clergyman was just entering from the sacristy,
when they reached the door. It was an old stone church, with many vines
about it, greensward and fine trees. * * The organist was playing a low and
unobtrusive strain; the clergyman, having just entered, was on his knees,
where unfortunately, the congregation had not followed him. They were all
ready to criticise the young people who now walked down the silent aisle;
very far down, too, they were obliged to walk. It was the one moment in the
week when they would be most conspicuous. * * Barry looked a greater swell
than ever, and his wife was so much handsomer than anybody else in
Marrowfat that it was simple nonsense to talk of ignoring the past. If one
did not want to be walked over by these young persons they must be put
down; self preservation joined hands with virtuous indignation; to cancel
the past would be to sacrifice the future. Scarce a mother in Marrowfat but
felt a bitter sense of injury as she thought of Barry. Not only had he set
the worst possible example to her sons, but he had overlooked the charms of
her daughters; not only had he outraged public opinion, but he had
disappointed private hopes. Society should hold him to a strict account;
Marrowfat was not to be trifled with when it came to matters of principle.
It was an old town, with ante-Revolutionary traditions; there was no
mushroom crop allowed to spring up about it. New people were permitted but
only on approbation of the old. It was not the thing to be very rich in
Marrowfat, it was only tolerated; it was the thing to be a little
cultivated, a little clever, very well born, and very loyal to Marrowfat.
It was not exactly provincial; it was too near the great city and too much
mixed up with it to be that; but it was very local and it had its own
traditions in an unusual degree. That people grew a little narrow and very
much interested in the affairs of the town, after living there awhile, was
not to be wondered at. It is always the result of suburban life, and one
finds it difficult to judge, between having one's nature green like a lane,
even if narrow, or hard and broad like a city pavement, out of which all
the greenness has been trampled and all the narrowness thrown down.
The climate of the place was dry and pure; it was the fashion for the city
doctors to send their patients there; and many who came to cough, remained
to build. The scenery was lovely; you looked down pretty streets and saw
blue hills beyond; the sidewalks were paved and the town was lit by gas,
but the pavements led you past charming homes to bits of view that reminded
you of Switzerland, and the inoffensive lamp-posts were hidden under great
trees by day, and by night you only thought how glad you were to see them.
The drives were endless, the roads good; there were livery-stables, hotels,
skilled confectioners, shops of all kinds, a library, a pretty little
theatre, churches of every shade of faith, schools of every degree of
pretension; lectures in winter, concerts in summer, occasional plays all
the year; two or three local journals, the morning papers from the city at
your breakfast table; fast trains, telegraphs, telephones, all the modern
amenities of life under your very hand; and yet it was the country, and
there were peaceful hills and deep woods, and the nights were as still as
Paradise. Can it be wondered at that, like St. Peter's at Rome, it had an
atmosphere of its own, and defied the outer changes of the temperature?
Marrowfat certainly was a law unto itself. Why certain people were great
people, in its view, it would be difficult to say. Why the telegraphs, and
the telephones, and the fashionable invalids from the city and the rich
people who bought and built in its neighborhood, did not change its
standards of value one can only guess. But it had a stout moral sentiment
of its own; it had resisted innovations and done what seemed it good for a
long while; and when you have made a good moral sentiment the fashion, or
the fact by long use, you have done a good thing. Marrowfat never tolerated
married flirtations, looked askance on extremes in dress or entertainment,
dealt severely with the faults of youth. All these things existed more or
less within its borders, of course, but they were evil doings and not
approved doings.
In a certain sense, Marrowfat was the most charitable town in the world; in
another the most uncharitable. If you were to have any misfortune befall
you, Marrowfat was the place to go to have it in; if you lost your money,
if you broke your back, if your children died, if your house burned down,
Marrowfat swathed you in flowers, bathed you in sympathy, took you out to
drive, came and read to you, if need were took up subscriptions for you.
But if you did anything disgraceful or discreditable, it is safe to say you
would better have done it in any other place.
Miss Maria McIntosh.
Miss McIntosh was born in the little village of Sunbury, Georgia, in 1804.
She was educated by an old Oxford tutor who was teacher and pastor combined
and she led the class of boys with whom she studied. After her mother's
death, (her father had died in her infancy), she came to the north, wholly
for the purpose of studying and improving herself.
Her first stories were for children. Then appeared two very successful
tales for youth; "Conquest and Self-Conquest," and "Praise and Principle".
"To Seem and To Be"; "Charms and Counter-Charms", and their successors
followed on during a period of twenty years. Several of her books were
translated into both French and German and all were widely read abroad, but
the joy in her work lay in the rich harvest for good which was constantly
made known to her. In the year before her death, many letters came to her
from women then married and heads of families, thanking her for first
impulses to better things arising from her words.
Not long ago, Marion Harland, (Mrs. Terhune), wrote to a dear friend of
this author, that she owed to Miss McIntosh the strongest influences of her
young life and those which had determined its bent and development.
Miss McIntosh was intensely interested in the maintenance of Republican
simplicity and purity of morals and wrote a strong address, which was
widely circulated, to the "Women of America" which led to a correspondence
with the then Duchess of Sutherland and other English women who were
interested in the elevation of women and of the family life.
She died in Morristown, at the residence of her devoted niece and namesake,
Mrs. James Farley Cox, and soothed by her loving ministrations,--after a
protracted illness, lasting over a year. Mrs. Cox tells us, "she loved
Morristown and said amidst great pain, that her last year, was, despite
all, the happiest of her life".
"Lofty and Lowly"; "Charms and Counter-Charms", and "To Seem and To Be",
are all alike noble books. Miss McIntosh seems a woman of strong creative
powers, with a delicacy of feeling and a fine touch of womanliness, united
to a certain delicate perception of character. She did not write from what
we now so grandly call _types_, or, for the sake of displaying a surgical
dissection of character; but her books are groupings of individuals as real
as those we meet in daily life. There are no strained situations, no
fanciful make-ups, and no unnatural poses.
There are the lovely Alice Montrose with a strangely beautiful blending of
delicate refinement and womanly strength, rising to meet every requirement
of her varied life; Mr. Gaston, the New England merchant; Richard Grahame
the hero of "Lofty and Lowly", with some telling contrasts in the way of
villians and weaker characters. Beside this, Miss McIntosh has a strong
sympathy for nature and all through her stories she stops, as it were to
show us the flowering fields and summer skies and as she draws us to her,
we feel the beatings of her own warm human heart going out as it does to
the young and inexperienced.
Again, Miss McIntosh gives in her stories faithful representations of life
both north and south, before the war, forty years ago. These pictures are
of peculiar value as few books preserve pictorial records of that
condition of life now passed away forever. She had a power in massing
details and binding them by a thread of common interest and common action.
She seemed in her writings, like one who had been spiritually "lifted
higher" and like all such spirits she could not but draw others after her.
Her books in past years have had wide and lasting influence and it is a
pity they could not now be substituted for much of the miserable literature
which only pleases a passing hour or teaches false views of life.
Mrs. Maria McIntosh Cox.
Mrs. Cox, long a resident of Morristown, was named for the dear aunt to
whom the preceding sketch relates, and, as is often the case with namesakes
for some unexplained reason, the mantle of Miss McIntosh's genius fell upon
her.
From girlhood, Mrs. Cox has written for various papers and magazines. Some
years ago, the Appletons published a little volume of hers for very young
children, called "A year with Maggie and Emma", which was afterwards
translated into French.
"Raymond Kershaw", published in 1888, is a volume of larger size. To this
we shall refer later. In March, 1890, _The Youth's Companion_ published a
short story founded on an adventure of the author's father with Lafitte,
the famous pirate. It was entitled "A Brave Middy", and won a prize of
$500, in a contest of similar tales.
In the current numbers of _Wide Awake_ from December to June 1891-'92
appeared a story of ten chapters called "Jack Brereton's Three Months'
Service", which, in August, 1892, was brought out in book form by D.
Lothrop & Co., Boston. The idea most prominent in this story, the "motif",
is the reflex action of a soldier's enlistment on his deserted family. "I
chanced", says the author, "to thoroughly see and know what sudden _three
months'_ calls entailed on the volunteer and those who fought the battle
out at home, and I enjoyed telling what is, in spirit and in most details,
a true story, though not as connected with such people as the story
describes".
"Brave Ben Broughton", written by request for the McClure Syndicate, and a
Folk Lore story are the latest from the pen of Mrs. Cox.
"Raymond Kershaw; a Story of Deserved Success", was published by Roberts
Brothers in 1888. The story is a touching one commencing in pathos and
ending in heroism; a lesson to every boy and girl who, plunged suddenly and
unexpectedly into difficulty, have to face the hard realities of life.
There is an extremely fine passage in this book. Winthrop, the author of
"John Brent", could not have done it better. It is the description of a
maddened bull, "Meadow King", which Paul Potter might have painted. It
needs no comment. Spirited and full of life, every actor in the scene
performs his or her part with a truthfulness which is wonderful. Many a
more voluminous writer than Mrs. Cox has done far less superior work than
this truly great scene exhibits in its dramatic attitudes.
EXTRACT FROM "RAYMOND KERSHAW."
After country fashion, every farmer for miles around came to look at
"Kershaw's new bull". Without mistake they saw a royal animal. Without a
spot to mar his jet-black coat, through which the great veins were visible
like netted cords, his small, strong, sinewy legs, all muscle and bone,
carried his heavy body as lightly as if he were a horse, and his flanks and
shoulders, when James pushed up his supple skin with his hand, felt as if
he wore a velvet coat over an iron frame; his neck, not too short for
grace, was still very heavy and muscular, with wrinkles like necklaces
encircling it, and his fiery eyes glowed, far apart, under his
tight-curled poll, from which those mischievous horns, sharp, long and
slightly out-curving, stood in beautiful harmony with the whole outline;
and his great lashing tail, with its tasselated end, completed his
perfections.
All went well for a fortnight, after which, on a hot Sunday morning all
drove off to church leaving Mrs. Kershaw and Mary at home together.
(Mrs. Kershaw, the sweet and tenderly-loved invalid mother, was half-lying
in her chair and Mary sat, Bible in hand, on the first step of the piazza
near her, when)
Suddenly a roar struck upon their ears with horror; and, filled with one of
those blind accesses of rage to which his race is so strangely subject,
tearing, bellowing along, up the hillside came Meadow King. As he halted
for a breath behind the fence, he was like one's night-dreams of such a
creature,--an ideal of pure brute force and wrath. His head tossed high, he
gave a prolonged bellow, and leaped the high bars without an effort.
Mary rose without a word, and laying her Bible on Mrs. Kershaw's lap, stood
white as the dead to watch him; destroying the delicate things in his way,
he ran madly towards the sheds. Mary gave silent thanks that he had not
taken to the road. The high gates of the cow-yards stood wide open, and
through them he rushed.
"Miss Kershaw, I've got to shut them gates!" said Mary.
"Oh, don't think of it, Mary!" said Mrs. Kershaw, her hands clasped and
trembling. "Are you not afraid?"
"Skeered!" said Mary,--"I'm skeered out of my life; _but them gates has got
to be shut!_"
Down in the yard the voice kept up its dreadful din. Mary rushed down the
steps like a flash, and as suddenly back again. "Miss Kershaw, would you
mind just kissing me _once_?" A quick warm touch on her pale lips, and she
was gone; it was all in the space of a long breath. * * Her way was down a
slight inclination and her swift, light feet carried her with incredible
speed. One terrified glance at the open gate showed her the enemy lashing
himself at the farther end of the enclosure, with the scattered dust and
leaves rising about him as he pawed the ground. The gates were heavy and
wide apart; the right-hand leaf swung shut, and then, darting across the
opening, she pushed the left forward and clasped it, and springing up drew
down the heavy cross-bar, and the gates were shut! * * "He's in, Miss
Kershaw," said Mary, "but the worst is to come! How under the sun can they
ketch him? Can you keep still if I go up the road and watch for 'em?
They're most sure to drive in by the farm-yard gate if they come Chester
way, and if they come upon him unbeknownst, Heaven help 'em!"
"Go Mary, _go_; don't think about me at all," said Mrs. Kershaw. * * *
"Not until you are in your chair, and promise to stay there, ma'am," said
Mary. "Young Doctor's got trouble enough on his hands without your bein'
hurt. If you hear Meadow King tearing the gates down, and me a-screechin'
my life out, don't you stir!"
(Mary goes to warn them and stops their entrance. James the farmer takes
command. Raymond carries an axe and Bob a stick. They open the gates Mary
had closed. The brute rushes forward. At this moment James with a rope he
had carried, undertakes to lasso the bull but misses and falls back, facing
the foe but pinioned in the angle of a beam and the side-wall; one of the
mad King's horns imbedded in the beam, the other projecting in terrible
proximity, while the unspeakably angry, brutal face of the beast is only a
few inches from his chest.
At this moment, Ray seized his axe.) His hat had fallen off and his face
was stern and ghastly white as he watched like a lion his gigantic prey;
until coming with long powerful steps close enough to strike, he gave an
agonizing look of dread at James, and then brought down one tremendous
crashing blow, straight, strong and true, between those cruel horns, and
the Meadow King sank like a loosened rock upon the floor, pulling his head
loose by his own weight.
David Young.
"Why, as to that, said the engineer,
Ghosts ain't things we are apt to fear,
Spirits don't fool with levers much,
And throttle-valves don't take to such;
And as for Jim,--
What happened to him
Was one-half fact and t'other half whim!"
--_Bret Harte._
David Young is principally known as the reviser and publisher of "The
Morristown Ghost" in 1826, but he was also the compiler of the well-known
"Farmer's Almanac", published first in 1834, and he wrote a poem of
thirty-four pages in two parts, entitled "The Contrast".
The original volume of "The Morristown Ghost" was published in 1792, by
whom, it is not certainly known. It gave the names of the "Society of
eight", their places of meeting, and all the proceedings of the Society.
The copies were bought up and destroyed, says tradition, by the son of one
of its members, one lone volume not being obtainable, but this cannot be
distinctly traced at present. There was published in 1876, by the Messrs.
L. A. and B. H. Vogt, a fac-simile copy of the original history of "The
Morristown Ghost" without the names of the original members, "with an
appendix compiled from the county records". The following is the title
page:
"The Morristown Ghost; an Account of the Beginning, Transactions and
Discovery of Ransford Rogers, who seduced many by pretended Hobgoblins and
Apparitions and thereby extorted Money from their pockets. In the County of
Morris and State of New Jersey, in the Year 1788. Printed for every
purchaser--1792".
In the copy of 1826, the title page is as follows:
"The Wonderful History of the Morristown Ghost; thoroughly and carefully
revised. By David Young, Newark. Published by Benjamin Olds, for the
author. I. C. Totten, Printer, 1826."
The author tells us in his preface he has "very scrupulously followed the
sense of the original." He continues: "The truth of this history will not,
I presume, be called in question by the inhabitants of Morris and the
adjacent counties. The facts are still fresh in the memories of many among
us; and some survive still who bore an active part in the scenes herein
recorded." He continues: "For the further satisfaction of the distant
reader, on this point, I would inform him that I am myself a native of the
County of Morris; that I was seven years and seven months old when Rogers
first emigrated to this county; and that I well remember hearing people
talk of these affairs during their progress. Every reader may rest assured
that if the truth of this narrative had been doubtful, I should have taken
no pains to rescue it from oblivion."
There seems to have been also another intermediate publication. From an
ancient copy of this curious story, found in an old, discolored volume in
our Morristown library, in which are compiled papers on various subjects,
(among them a "Review on Spiritual Manifestations"), we copy the title
page:
"The Morristown Ghost, or Yankee Trick, being a True, Interesting and
Strange Narrative. This circumstance has excited considerable laughter and
no small degree of surprize. Printed for purchasers, 1814."
The man who conducted the plot was Ransford Rogers, of Connecticut. He was
a plausible man who had the power of inspiring confidence, and though
somewhat illiterate, was ambitious to be thought learned and pretended, it
is said, to possess deep knowledge of "chymistry" and the power to dispel
good and evil spirits.
It will be remembered that Washington Irving remarks, in his description of
the family portrait gallery, of Bracebridge Hall at twilight, when he
almost hears the rustling of the brocade dresses of the ladies of the manor
as they step out from their frames,--"There is an element of superstition
in the human mind". It seems there had long been a conviction prevailing
that large sums of money had been buried during the Revolutionary War by
tories and others in Schooley's Mountain, near by. There also seemed to be
something of the New England belief in witchcraft throughout the community.
Says the Preface of the early volume; "It is obvious to all who are
acquainted with the county of Morris, that the capricious notions of
witchcraft have engaged the attention of many of its inhabitants for a
number of years and the existence of witches is adopted by the generality
of the people." And we read on page 213 of the "Combined Registers of the
First Presbyterian Church," a record as follows: "Dr. John Johnes' servant
Pompey, d. 17 July, 1833, aet. 81; frightened to death by ghosts."
To obtain the treasure of Schooley's Mountain, then, was the occasion of
the occurrences related in this story. Two gentlemen who had long been in
search of mines, taking a tour through the country in 1788,
"providentially," says David Young, fell in with Rogers at Smith's Clove,
and discovered him to be the man they were in search of, and one who could
"reveal the secret things of darkness," for they, too, were "covetous of
the supposed treasure of Schooley's Mountain."
A society was organized by Ransford which at first numbered "about eight"
but afterwards was increased to about forty. His first object was to
convince them of the existence of the hidden treasure lying dormant in the
earth at Schooley's Mountain. It seems repeated efforts had before been
made to obtain the treasure, but all had proved abortive, for whenever they
attempted to break the ground, it was said, "there would many hobgoblins
and apparitions appear which in a short time obliged them to evacuate the
place".
Rogers called a meeting of the eight and "communicated to them the
solemnity of the business and the intricacy of the undertaking and the fact
that there had been several persons murdered and buried with the money in
order to retain it in the earth. He likewise informed them that those
spirits must be raised and conversed with before the money could be
obtained. He declared he could by his art and power raise these apparitions
and that the whole company might hear him converse with them and satisfy
themselves there was no deception. This was received with belief and
admiration by the whole company without ever investigating whether it was
probable or possible. This meeting therefore terminated with great
assurance, they all being confident of the abilities, knowledge and powers
of Rogers". To confirm the illusion of his supernatural power, Rogers had
made chemical compositions of various kinds, of which, "some, by being
buried in the earth for many hours, would break and cause great explosions
which appeared dismal in the night and would cause great timidity. The
company were all anxious to proceed and much elevated with such uncommon
curiosities". A night was therefore appointed for the whole company to
convene. The scene which the author proceeds to describe is worthy of
Washington Irving in his "Legends of Sleepy Hollow", (see page 25 Young's
edition, 1826). The night was dark and the circle "illumined only by
candles caused a ghastly, melancholy, direful gloom through the woods". The
company marched round and round in (concentric) circles as directed, "with
great decorum" until suddenly shocked by "a most impetuous explosion from
the earth a short distance from them". Flames rose to a considerable
height, "illuminating the circumambient atmosphere and presenting to the
eye many dreadful objects, from the supposed haunted grove, which were
again instantaneously involved in obscurity". Ghosts made their appearance
and hideous groans were heard. These were invisible to the rest of the
company but conversed with Rogers in their hearing and told of the vast
treasures in their possession which they would not resign except under
certain conditions, one of which was "every man must deliver to the spirits
twelve pounds in money". The procession continued 'till three o'clock in
the morning, and "the whole company looked up to Rogers for protection from
the raging spirits. This was in the month of November 1788". It will be
noticed that the money required had to be advanced in "nothing but silver
or gold" for which the paper money circulated in New Jersey could only be
exchanged at twenty-five per cent. discount. Yet there was a sort of
emulation among them, "who should be the first in delivering the money to
the spirits."
A frequent place of meeting for this company was what is now known as the
Hathaway house on Flagler street, the first house on the left after
entering Flagler street from Speedwell avenue. A little distance back of
this house may be seen the stump of a tree beneath which tree, it is said,
the money was left for the spirits. Another field used for the midnight
marches is behind the Aber house on the Piersonville Road, and still
another on the road between Piersonville and Rogers' school house, the
location of which is known. Other localities are also known, by old
residents, of the events recorded in this story. Mt. Kemble avenue has
often been the actual scene of ghostly flittings to and fro as well as of
the famous imaginary ride to the Headquarters of "Thankful Blossom". Rogers
was in the habit of wrapping himself up in a sheet, going to the house of a
certain gentleman in the night, and calling him up by rapping at the doors
and windows, and conversing in such sleek disguise that the gentleman
thought he was a spirit; ending his conversation also with the words: "I am
the spirit of a just man, and am sent to give you information how to
proceed, and to put the conducting of it into your hands; I will be ever
with you, and give you directions when you go amiss; therefore fear not,
but go to Rogers and inform him of your interview with me. Fear not I am
ever with you".
It must be remembered that this company, at the first, was composed of the
best and most highly honored citizens of Morristown, also that toward the
last, "the numbers increased daily of aged, abstemious, (at first material
spirits were freely used at the nightly meetings) honest, judicious, simple
church members."
What led finally to the discovery of the plot, was, that it was ordained,
"a paper of sacred powder, said to be some of the dust of the bodies of the
spirits, was to be kept by every member, and to be preserved inviolate. One
of the aged members, having occasion to leave home for a short time on some
emergency, through forgetfulness left his paper in one of his pockets at
home. His wife happened to find it, and out of curiosity, broke it open;
but, perceiving the contents, she feared to touch it, lest peradventure it
should have some connection with witchcraft. She went immediately to Rev.
Mr. ----, the pious clergyman of the congregation for his advice on the
subject; who, not knowing its composition, was unwilling to touch it, lest
it might have some operation upon him, and knew not what advice to give
her. Her husband returning declared she had ruined him forever by breaking
open that paper, which increased her anxiety to know its contents. Upon her
promising not to divulge anything, he then related to her the whole of
their proceedings, whereupon she declared they were serving the devil and
it was her duty notwithstanding her promise to put an end to such
proceedings. Great disturbance was thereby caused in the company."
It was at the house of one of the members, which is now standing, that
Rogers was discovered in the following manner, as the story is told.
Rogers, taking his sheet with him, rode, on a certain evening to this
house, for the purpose of conversing with the gentleman, as a spirit.
Having drank too freely he committed several blunders in his conversation,
and was not so careful as usual about the ghostly costume. The good wife,
whose suspicions had been aroused, managed to peep and listen during the
interview, and after the ghost had left the house she remarked to her
husband, says tradition: "My dear, do spirits wear shoe buckles? Those were
very like Ransford Rogers' buckles". Rogers' foot-tracks were followed to
the fence where his horse was tied, and the tracks of his horse to the
house where he lived and hence to another house where he was found. He was
apprehended and committed to prison, where he asserted his innocence so
persistently that "in a few days he was bailed out", says our author, "by a
gentleman, whom I shall call by the name of Compassion." A second time he
was apprehended, when "he acknowledged his faults and confessed" the whole
matter. He, however, "absconded, and under the auspices of Fortune saved
himself by flight from the malice of a host."
So ends the, perhaps, most famous historic ghost story of modern times.
Mrs. Nathaniel Conklin.
(JENNIE M. DRINKWATER.)
Mrs. Conklin has been a voluminous writer of novels and stories, published
by Robert Carter & Brothers and by the Presbyterian Board. Before her
marriage she was widely known as Miss Jennie M. Drinkwater, and her latest
book, "Dorothy's Islands," published in Boston, August, 1892, bears that
name of authorship. She has written for many papers and magazines, besides
the books she has published, and of these there are twenty and more. Among
them are "Tessa Wadsworth's Discipline", a love story of high order and
well told; "Rue's Helps", for boys and girls, and "Electa", in which we
find a certain quality of naturalness in the people, and the scenes
described,--a literary quality which is prominent in Mrs. Conklin's works.
"They introduce the reader", says a critic, "to agreeable people, provide
an atmosphere which is tonic and healthful and enlist interest in every
page." Then there are "The Story of Hannah Marigold"; "Wildwood"; "The
Fairfax Girls"; "From Flax to Linen" and "David Strong's Errand", besides
others, and the last one published to which we have referred, and from
which we shall quote.
Several years ago, Mrs. Conklin being out of health, had her attention
called to the special needs of invalids for sympathy from the active world
about them, and organized a society, now world-wide and well-known, called
the "Shut-In Society". It is an organization of invalids throughout the
country, and now extending beyond it, who cheer each other with
correspondence, send letters to prisoners in jails and sufferers in
hospitals, and do other good work. Nine-tenths of its membership never see
each other, but they help make each other's lives to be as cheery as
possible in affliction. The amount of comfort and consolation carried by
this organization to many a bed-ridden or helpless invalid, is beyond
description, and the good that goes out also from those quiet chambers of
sickness to the souls who seek them, mostly by _letter_, is greater than
would be easily imagined. Mrs. Conklin was president of the Society for
four years from its organization in 1885, and it now numbers several
thousand members.
We quote from "Dorothy's Islands", Mrs. Conklin's latest book.
Dorothy was a child taken from a New York orphan asylum and adopted by a
lighthouse keeper and his wife. She grows up supposing them to be her own
father and mother, but the mother and child are antagonistic, and it is
impossible for them to attract one another. This peculiarity of nature is
very well given in the first chapter.
EXTRACT FROM "DOROTHY'S ISLANDS."
"When I grow up," said Dorothy "I am going to find an island all green and
beautiful in winter as well as in summer. All around it the sand will be as
golden as sunshine, and the houses--the happy houses--will be hidden away
in green things, and flowers of yellow and scarlet and white. And then,
father, after I find it, I will come and get you, and we will sing, and
learn poems, and do lovely things all day long."
"You are going to do wonderful things when you grow up," replied the
amused, tender voice overhead.
"Don't all grown-up people do wonderful things?" questioned child Dorothy.
"I never did," answered the voice, not now either tender or amused.
"No, you never _did_," broke in a woman's voice with harsh force.
"I think father does _beautiful_ things," said Dorothy in her warm voice.
"He brought the sea-bird home to me, and we loved it so, but you threw it
off with its wounded wing."
"Let nature take care of her own things," responded the voice that had
nothing of love in its quality.
"I'm nature's thing," Dorothy laughed; "father said so to-day. He said I
was made out of nature and poetry."
"It's he who puts the poetry in you; some day I'll send those poetry books
adrift, and then you will both find something practical in your finger
ends."
The child looked at the chubby ends of her brown fingers. Her nine-year-old
hands, under her mother's sharp teaching, had learned to do many practical
things. The only "practical thing" she loathed--and that was her own name
for it--was mending Cousin Jack's pea-jacket.
One room in the lighthouse was packed with boxes containing her father's
books. The "poetry box" was the only one that had been opened since their
stay on the island.
"It was one of your father's beautiful things to strand us on this desert
island. I told him I wouldn't come."
"But you _did_," said the child.
"It's the last time he will have his own way," remarked the woman, with the
heavy frown that marred her handsome face.
"Oh, don't say that!" cried Dorothy distressed. "I never like your way."
"You have got to like my way some day, miss, or it will be the worse for
one of us. Don't hang any longer around your father; poetry enough has
oozed out of him to spoil you already; go and pick those beans over, and
put them in soak for to-morrow--a quart, mind you, and pick them over
clean."
* * * * *
She liked to pick beans when her father sat near reading aloud to her. He
had promised to read to-night "How the water comes down from Lodore," but
she knew her mother's mood too well to hope for such a pleasure to-night.
When her mother was cross, she wasn't willing for anybody to have anything.
But she couldn't take away what she had learned of it; the child hugged
herself with the thought repeating gleefully:--
"Then first came one daughter,
And then came another,
To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar--"
"Dorothy, stop!" commanded her mother. "That muttering makes me wild. It
sounds like a lunatic."
Dorothy's mouth shut itself tight; the flash of defiance from the big brown
eyes her mother missed; her father's observant eyes noted it. There was
always a sigh in his heart for Dorothy, for her naughtiness, and for the
misery she was growing up to. The misery was as inevitable as the growing
up. Once in his agony he had prayed the good Father to take the child
before her heart was rent, or his own.
After the gleeful music ceased the chubby fingers moved wearily, the brown
head drooped; there were tears as well as sleep in the eyes that seemed
made to hold nothing but sunshine.
(Dorothy is in bed for the night.)
"Will you keep the door open so I can hear voices?" pleaded Dorothy.
"Why child, what ails you?" said the mother.
"The wind ails me, and it is so black, black, black out over the water.
When I find my island there shall be sunshine on the sea."
"But night _has_ to come."
"Perhaps there will be stars there," said hopeful Dorothy.
"You may learn a Bible verse to-morrow,--'There shall be no night there.'"
"I'll say it now: 'There shall be no night there.' Where _is_ 'there'?"
But her mother had left her to her new Bible verse and the candle-light;
and Dorothy went to sleep, hoping "there" did not mean heaven, for then
what _would_ she do when she was sleepy?
Mrs. Catharine L. Burnham.
A valuable contributor to the literature for children and young people, is
Mrs. Burnham. Her volume of "Bible Stories in Words of One Syllable", has
been of great use and influence and has no doubt led to the writing of
other historical narratives in the same manner.
Count Tolstoi gives a most interesting account of his own experience in the
use of the Bible in teaching children. He says "I tried reading the Bible
to them", speaking of the children in his peasant's school, "and it took
complete possession of them. They grew to love the book, love study and
love me. For the purpose of opening a new world to a pupil and of making
him love knowledge before he has knowledge, there is no book like the
Bible."
Mrs. Burnham has also written a number of children's story-books which have
been warmly received and still continue to please and benefit the young.
Among them are "Ernest"; "The Story of Maggie" and the three volumes of the
"Can and Can't Series"; "I Can"; "I Can't", and "I'll Try". "Ernest" is
quite a wonderful little book and has done much good among a large class of
children. Mr. A. D. F. Randolph, the New York publisher, who took it
through several editions, gave it high praise to a friend just before the
last edition, about three years ago, and Rev. Dr. Tyng the elder, late of
St. George's Church, New York, gave it also very high praise.
We do not always fully realize that a peculiar talent is required for this
department in literature. In talking, some years ago, with a young man who
has now become an important editor in New York, he said: "It is my greatest
ambition to be a good and interesting author of children's books; not only
because it requires the best writing and the best thought, but because no
literature has a more extended influence and involves higher
responsibilities."
In addition to these volumes, Mrs. Burnham has for many years, been an
occasional contributor to the _Churchman_, _Christian Union_ and other
important papers.
The following extract is selected:
EXTRACT FROM "I'LL TRY."