Although of much importance as a manufacturing place, Belton is noted
chiefly for the beautiful water-fall to which the town, in fact, owes
its existence.
Here the Passaic, interrupted in its placid flow by a rocky barrier,
takes an abrupt turn, and plunges in a narrow sheet of foam adown a deep
chasm, formed in one of Nature's throes ages ago, and then with wild
swirls rushes angrily over a rocky bed, until spent and quiet it skirts
the town, and winds away appeased and pellucid--despite the murky drain
of dye-houses--through woodlands, fields, and pastures green. Ere
reaching the cataract, however, the river is tapped by a canal which
serves to feed the flumes that run the many mills of Belton; and
through this race-way the diverted waters speed on their busy errand,
starting cumbersome overshot, undershot, breast, and turbine wheels into
action, that in their turn quicken into life the restless shuttle and
whirling spindle.
From the cliff, at the head of the cataract, one may completely overlook
the town, a cheerful hive, compactly built, and consisting chiefly of
long brick factories, with little belfries, and rows of small white
wooden dwellings. The whole is neat and bright; no canopy of coal-smoke
obscures the blue sky, and but an occasional tall chimney or jet of
vapor is seen, for here steam is dethroned, and the cheaper motor reigns
supreme.
The river side, the cliff, the falls, in short the water-power belongs
and has belonged for generations to the Obershaw family. In days of
yore, when Whitman Obershaw ran a saw-mill, and tilled a clearing
hereabout, his worldly possessions, it is safe to say, were not such as
to assimilate his chances of salvation to the facility with which a
camel can go through a needle's eye, and it was reserved for his son,
John Peter Obershaw, to reap the benefit of the accident that had put
his ancestors in possession of the site of Belton. And when you consider
the present magnitude of the place, its many mills, and the enormous
yearly rental of the water-power, you will not be surprised to learn
that the costly stone mansion on the cliff, with its imposing front, its
beautiful grounds, conservatories, and lodges, is the residence of the
Hon. Rufus Heath, son-in-law and heir of John Peter Obershaw, who built
it.
There is a mural tablet in the apse of St. Jude's, Belton, inscribed to
the memory of
JOHN PETER OBERSHAW,
OF THIS TOWN,
_Through whose munificence this Church_
WAS ERECTED,
A.D. 1840.
HIS CHRISTIAN VIRTUES ENDEARED HIM TO ALL.
An epitaph which bore out the proverbial reputation of its kind in being
essentially a lie--a lie in black and white, for old Obershaw had no
Christian or even Pagan virtues to speak of, and was rather disliked by
all for a selfish, avaricious, nonagenarian. Perhaps the only
commendable act of his life was the erection of the small, but handsome
church in question. Yet, even this was looked upon as but the placatory
offering of a prudent worldling, about to appear before the final
tribunal, and anxious to propitiate the great Judge. Moreover, those who
knew the most about it asserted that the church would never have been
built, nor a dollar spent towards it, had it not been for Rufus Heath,
who, during the last years of his father-in-law's life, had the entire
control of the estate, owing to the latter's age and incapacity.
Doubtless these assertions were true, for neither dread of God or demon
could ever have wrung an unremunerative stiver from old John Peter
Obershaw's clutching fist, as he belonged to the orthodox school of
misers--the class who live but to accumulate, and find all their
pleasure in that sound, wholesome vice which prolongs life, and betrays
not to a fool's paradise.
To the last he was steadfast to his idol. For years previous he was
confined to his room by paralysis, dead to all affections save love of
money, and vegetating in an easy chair stuffed literally with gold; for
the senile miser, like a magpie, slyly secreted coin in every nook and
corner of his chamber. In this second childhood, it was necessary to
quiet him by giving him money to toy with, and musty accounts and deeds,
which he pored over with the vacuity of an imbecile. To the end the
ruling passion swayed him. At the last moment, when the taper of life
was about giving its expiring flicker, he asked his attendant to bring
him a surveyor's map of his estate. "And, James, tell ... tell Mr. Heath
I want to see him ... see him at once. Must buy Van Slyke's farm if
he'll sell it right ... sell it right. But he wants too much ... too
much. No ... no ... can't give it. No ... no; haven't ... got the money.
Soon as I am well, well ... and strong, I'll go out and have a look at
it ... look at it. Soon as I am well, and go out ... go out. But can't
'ford to pay much. No ... no. Van Slyke's farm'll square the addition.
But, I can't pay much ... can't 'ford it;" and a nervous twitching of
his pale thin lips, as he mumbled to himself, showed teeth still sound,
though worn down like an old mastiff's. He was a man of large frame,
gaunt, bowed with age, and the dried yellow skin of his face resembled
wrinkled parchment. When the map was brought to him, he stared vacantly
at it with faded eyes that looked like dull agates, then relapsed into a
still slumber with the map gripped in his long, talon-like, bony
fingers, as if some one would steal it from him. Aroused by the entrance
of his son-in-law, he again mumbled--"Where's the map ... map? Heath,
see Van Slyke 'bout the farm and don't let him ... let him cheat me. I
ain't quite ... quite so strong now, and ... and they'll cheat me. Ah,
they're a close, sharp set.... Soon as I am well I'll go ... I'll
go...."
The last words were uttered in a faint whisper; no further sound came
from the moving lips; the death film crept over his eyes, and he was
gone. He had lasted well and long, for avarice is a powerful antiseptic.
The dry heart burns to the socket, and the selfish miser was blessed
with an euthanasia that a saint might have envied.
The nearest physician, Dr. Wattletop, was swiftly summoned, only to
return discomfited, as he expressed it, by that omnipotent leech who
carries his lancet at the end of a snath.
The fall of so heavily laden a body into the great ocean of eternity
created, to use a homely simile, an unusual splash, and occasioned no
little commotion in Belton.
"Why, sir," said Mr. Madison Mumbie, the eminent paper-maker, addressing
Dr. Wattletop, in the agitation of the moment, "Why, sir, Mr. Obershaw's
wealth is e-normous! Probably the richest man we had in the State. Yes,
sir" (with a sigh), "I regret to say it, we have lost a gentleman, and a
Christian, who leaves at least two millions of dollars. Yes, sir, two
millions at the lowest calculation--he leaves all of that!"
"Leaves!" repeated the doctor. "Aye, there's the rub. Now, if he could
only have taken the two millions with him, there would have been
something in it, wouldn't there?"
This view of the case did not strike Mr. Mumbie, who was himself rather
inclined to accumulate, as cheerful or encouraging, and he went his way
in a meditative mood.
* * * * *
Mr. Mook, the gentlemanly undertaker, in walking twenty rods from the
residence of the deceased, was accosted by not less than a dozen
anxious inquirers eager to learn the slightest particular relating to
the sorrowful event. To whom Mr. Mook, with that mingled air of
neatness, despatch, and meek resignation to the decrees of Providence,
which characterized him, replied in a serious and very proper way. The
information imparted was invariably received by the questioners with
expressions of deep interest and sympathy, as if they had lost a near
and dear friend. It is sad to add, though, that one individual, George
Gildersleeve, the noisiest quidnunc in Belton, was on the contrary
rather discourteous and disparaging in his inquiries and comments.
George is a man of substance, and proprietor of the Archimedes Works. A
burly fellow of middle age, with chest and loins like an ox, coarse
mouth, hale complexion, and sandy hair shorn close over an obstinate
head. Rich and purse-proud, he proclaims himself a plebeian, and in
keeping therewith is generally seen divested of coat and hands in
pockets. Thus he appeared in the doorway of his counting-room as Mr.
Mook came down the street, and passed the Archimedes Works. Decorous and
mournful Mook affected not to see Gildersleeve, dreading him as a bore
and button-holder; but the stratagem was futile, and bluff George,
hailing the undertaker as "Commodore," brought him--speaking
nautically--"to."
"First-class obsequies, sir, have been ordered. Most elegant rosewood
casket, new pattern silver handles. Everything in the most rekerchey and
approved style. Funeral on Wednesday," Mook replied, in a tone of mild
reproof, in answer to Gildersleeve's query as to when he was going to
put old Uncle John to bed with a shovel.
Mr. Mook took pride in his profession. He was the inventor and patentee
of a burial casket, that for "ease, elegance, and comfort," as he
admiringly described it, was equalled by few and surpassed by none.
"Well, well, Commodore"--it was a habit of Gildersleeve's to dub his
friends and acquaintances with incongruous titles, whether prompted
thereto by affectionate impulses or a peculiar sense of humor, we are
not prepared to decide; sufficient to say that the undertaker was
invariably addressed as "Commodore" by the master of the Archimedes
Works; similarly, Mr. McGoffin, the highly respectable, though
illiterate shoe-maker, was styled "Judge;" Dr. Wattletop, "Major,"
etc., etc.
"Well, well, Commodore," said Gildersleeve, leaving his door-step and
planting himself on the sidewalk so as to bar the way and hold the
undertaker to converse, "so we go. If the man with the pitchfork don't
get old Uncle John, what the deuce is the use of having a man with a
pitchfork, eh?"
Mr. Mook coughed behind his hand, and tried to look as if he hadn't
heard the remark, as he said, "Great loss to Belton, Mr. Gildersleeve."
"Great loss!" repeated Gildersleeve. "The old cuss! Why, confound him,
he drove his only son, Johnny Obershaw, to sea when he was but fourteen
years old, by his infernal meanness, and the little monkey was lost
overboard less than a month after; and now here's Rufe Heath, that I
recklect when he hadn't two coppers to jingle on a tombstone, slips in,
bags the whole pool, and puts on more airs than a French barber. Now
I'll tell you what it is, Joe Mook, you know me well enough, and you
know that I can show as lovely a little pile of rocks as the next man,
and you know, too, that I sweat for it. Yes, sir, by the hokey! on this
spot (with a flourish towards the works), where my grandfather shod
Gineral Washington's horse in a rickety old shanty that you could have
capsized with a kick, I began when I was knee-high, with a hide apron
on, swinging the sledge and paring hoofs late and early. Yes, sir! late
and early, warm or cold, I stuck to it, and no thanks to any one, until
you see what I've come to! And is there any airs about me? I think not;
and there's many a man in this place that's as proud as a peacock, that
I could buy and sell twice over. But I can say this, and you know it,
that I've always been, and always intend to be, as independent as a hog
on ice. That's me!"
And that _was_ he. For if Mr. George Washington Gildersleeve prided
himself on anything, it was on being free from "airs," and independent
as a hog on ice--a comparison, it must be confessed, not particularly
happy, and that conveyed an entirely unintended impression. However, it
came pat to him, and he flung it defiantly in the teeth of the world.
Mook had heard those sentiments before, hence he was not vividly
impressed by them, nor altogether pleased with the diatribe against his
present patrons. Still, he was not prepared for their sakes to
remonstrate, and perhaps offend a future customer, for the undertaker,
"thankful for past favors," as he stated in his advertisement in the
_Belton Sentinel_, "and soliciting a continuance of the same," seemed to
think himself exempt from the common lot of humanity, and set apart to
take under all Belton forever. So he gave a non-committal shake of the
head, as he contemplated the pavement, and then, profiting by a pause in
Gildersleeve's harangue to escape, glided with soft steps away to his
avocations.
* * * * *
The funeral was an imposing one. Many of the mills were closed--all, in
fact, that could conveniently stop working. The Archimedes Works,
though, remained in full blast, as the proprietor, true to his
independence, did not feel himself any more called upon to close his
shops for old John Peter Obershaw's death, than for that of any other
mere acquaintance. Gildersleeve, however, as a concession, was at the
interment, with his coat on too, somewhat subdued, perhaps, in tone and
demeanor, but keeping up, nevertheless, an animated political
discussion with a fellow-citizen as they stood in the churchyard.
Nine-tenths of the population of the town gathered to witness the
funeral. There had not been so much excitement in the place since the
day of the "Grand Triumphal Entree" of "Peabody's Combination Menagerie
and Hippodrome." The people lined the streets through which the
procession passed, and filled St. Jude's, where the services were held.
No less than three ministers were in attendance, and a bishop extolled
the virtues and success of the decedent in a way to persuade the
auditors that they mourned a well-spent life. Then the church bell
tolled a requiem knell as to the family vault the corpse was borne
along, attended by pall-bearers, who had been consistently selected from
among the wealthiest acquaintances of the family. The Hon. Rufus Heath
followed as chief mourner, with his young daughter; then came his son
and daughter-in-law; and lastly, a multitude of relatives and friends.
* * * * *
So passed away this old man, leaving behind a vast fortune, that had
brought him but the gambler's joy--but the arid pleasures of the gold
glutton, subsisting on the fumes of money; the odorless fumes whose cold
astringency withers the emotions, dries the heart, and leaves man with
but the instincts of the vulture and fox.
* * * * *
John Peter Obershaw left no children to survive him. His only son, as
Gildersleeve had said, was lost at sea, and his daughter, Mrs. Heath,
had preceded her father on the long journey years before. As he owed
much of the augmentation of his wealth to the judgment, vigilance, and
superintendence of his son-in-law, it was not surprising that the estate
was found devised to him, the only being who had ever secured the favor
and entire confidence of the old miser. Town tattle hinted at "undue
influence" and "imbecility." There might have been more in this than
idle gossip, but as no one was interested other than the devisee's
children in making any investigations, he inherited without opposition.
A great accretion of wealth this to Rufus Heath, who stepped thus
quietly into the shoes of the late owner of Belton, for that town was in
reality little more than an appanage of the Obershaw family. The
evidences of this were patent on every side. A walk through the
principal street showed you Heath Hall, where political meetings to
distract, and balls and concerts to delight, the denizens took place;
Obershaw House, a tavern of dimensions vast, where the lodging and
dining rooms were too gorgeous to be comfortable, and only the bar
commodious and consolatory; the Belton Bank; the Passaic Insurance
Company; the Savings Institution, with its bee-hive sign--in all of
which Rufus Heath's claim of ownership, or sovereignty, gave further
indication of the wealth of the Obershaw estate. In short, you could not
turn without being reminded how fortunate and important a man was the
present heir, whilom a poor lawyer's clerk and now owner of the truly
Pactolian waters of the Falls of the Passaic.