TWENTIETH CENTURY BEGINNINGS
A man of national reputation made Cooperstown his summer home in 1903,
when the Rt. Rev. Dr. Henry C. Potter, seventh Bishop of New York, who
had married Mrs. Alfred Corning Clark, took up his residence at
Fernleigh. In his administration of the most populous diocese in
America, Bishop Potter had gained wide renown as an ecclesiastic; added
to which his prominence in civic affairs, and in matters of national
importance, together with a public championship of workingmen's rights
at which many wealthy churchpeople stood aghast, made him one of the
most notable figures in American life. He passed his summers in
Cooperstown until his death at Fernleigh in July, 1908, and the near
view of his big personality caused him to be as greatly beloved in the
village as he was honored in the city. He entered with zest into the
interests of the village, gave a new impetus to many of its activities,
and made friends in all walks of life.
When Bishop Potter came to dwell in Cooperstown, the village had already
made up its mind that he was a rather austere and distant man, an
official person, the quintessence of ecclesiastical
statesmanship,--urbane, but unyielding. He looked the part. Tall, erect,
and of splendid figure, his countenance had the aristocratic beauty of a
family noted for its handsome men. The noble head and the poutingly
compressed lips of a wide mouth gave an impression of power, while a
slight droop of the left eyelid, and a thin rim of white around the iris
of the eyes, imparted a veiled and filmy coldness to his glance. The
personal dignity of the Bishop, his commanding presence, a certain
picturesque magnificence, the rich and well-modulated voice, the
incisiveness of his manner of speech, with the clear-cut value given to
every word and syllable, were characteristics that marked him as a
leader of men.
[Illustration: _A. F. Bradley_
BISHOP POTTER]
But Cooperstown soon came to realize the lovable traits and real
simplicity of its most distinguished resident. He placed many villagers
in his debt by personal acts of kindness, and charmed all by his genial
friendliness. In any company he was the chief source of entertainment.
Although he applied himself intensely to official work during certain
hours of every day in the summer, when the hour of relaxation came he
laid aside his task. With all his cares, he was never the grim man
forcing himself to be gay. His contribution to the pleasure of a company
was spontaneous and contagious. Not the least highly developed of his
qualities was the Bishop's sense of humor. He was an incomparable
raconteur, and many an incident of village life gave him material for a
story which, with certain poetic license of embellishment that he
sometimes allowed himself, set his hearers in a roar. He was as ready
to hear a good story as to tell one, and his ringing laugh was a
delight. The Bishop talked much and well. His use of the pause in
speaking, with a momentary compression of the lips now and then between
clauses, heightened the effect of crispness in his felicitously chosen
phrases. He was a good listener if one had anything to say, but he was
not averse to presiding in monologue over a number of people, and often
did so, for his fund of talk was so rich that others, in his presence,
were sometimes slow to offer any contribution of their own. He was most
adroit at this sort of entertainment, and had a way of apparently
bringing others of the company into the conversation--usually those who
seemed rather shy and overawed,--without requiring them to utter so much
as a word. In the midst of his talk the Bishop would interject such a
remark as, "You will understand me, Mr. So-and-So, when I say"., or
"Mrs. Blank, you will be particularly interested to know"., turning
earnestly toward the person addressed. Of course Mr. So-and-So and Mrs.
Blank brightened up at being singled out by the great man, and beamed
with pleasure at having thus contributed to the conversation.
[Illustration: _C. A. Schneider_
THE RECTORY]
In the morning of every week-day, just as the village clock struck nine,
the Bishop could be seen issuing from Fernleigh, whence, after passing
the Rectory, he pursued a slow and stately course down the curved path
of the Cooper Grounds to the Clark Estate building, where he had an
office on the upper floor at the southwest corner. On warm summer days,
he discarded broadcloth, and was dressed in flannels of spotless white.
He walked with a stick, and there was a slight limp of the left leg, due
to an injury received in riding. So strong and erect was his bearing,
however, in spite of his more than three score years and ten, that the
slow gait seemed to be caused rather by preference than necessity, and
the limp really appeared to add to the majesty of his measured pace.
Anyone who joined him was obliged to walk as slowly as the Bishop, who
never hastened his steps, but conversed affably; now and then, as some
thought struck him forcibly, he paused abruptly in his walk, and stood
still to utter what was in his mind, moving forward again, by way of
emphasis, at the end of a sentence. In these walks through the Cooper
Grounds, and about the village, the Bishop assumed acquaintance with
everyone, and frequently stopped to enter into conversation with a
neighbor, a passing tourist, or some workman toiling in a ditch. It was
because of his genuine interest in everyone that the village came to
regard Bishop Potter no longer as a distinguished metropolitan, but as a
genial neighbor. A stable-boy who at this period drove the village
rector to a country funeral expressed the sentiment of many when he
said: "I used to think the Bishop was stuck up; but he is really just as
common as me or you!"
Bishop Potter took great delight in amusing occurrences in which he
shared as he went about the village. In fact he seemed deliberately to
invite them, and afterward described the incidents with contagious
merriment. One day as he was about to enter a car of the trolley road on
Main Street, an enormously fat countrywoman was standing on the
platform, bidding farewell to her her friends. She had much to say, and
completely blocked the entrance to the car. After waiting patiently for
some moments the Bishop addressed the woman in his most gracious manner.
"Madam," said he, "I don't wish to interfere with your conversation, but
if you will kindly move either one way or the other, so that I may enter
the car, I shall be greatly obliged." The woman glared at him. "Are you
the conductor of this car?" she snapped, "Because if you be, you're the
sassiest conductor that ever _I_ see!"
In the late summer of 1904, "Doc" Brady, a lovable old Irish heart, who
used to peddle portraits of the Pope, corn salve, and various trifles,
encountered Bishop Potter in front of the Village Library, and invited a
purchase of his wares, which at this time included campaign buttons of
Col. Roosevelt and Judge Parker, attached to packages of chewing-gum.
"Here ye are, Bishop," he cried; "Get a button for your favorite
candidate!" The Bishop impartially selected a button of each kind, and
pushed the chewing-gum aside. "Take your goom, Bishop, take your goom,"
urged Brady, as the Bishop moved away. "No, certainly not," was the firm
reply. But Doc Brady was insistent, and hurrying after the Bishop forced
the gum upon him. "There," said he, "if you don't chew it yourself, take
it home to Mrs. Potter!" The Bishop's laugh rang aloud through the
Cooper Grounds as he slowly ascended the path, taking home the
chewing-gum to Fernleigh.
The Bishop usually left his office in the Clark Estate building toward
one o'clock, and Mrs. Potter often walked down to join him on the way
home. Sometimes, as she passed the office, she hailed the Bishop, and
conversed with him as he stood at the open window above. On one
occasion, when Mrs. Potter had several ladies as guests, they all
chatted with the Bishop through the window on their way to Fernleigh. A
moment later, recalling something that he had neglected to mention, he
summoned a gardener who was at work close at hand, and asked him to
request the ladies kindly to step back to the window, as the Bishop had
something to say to them. Shortly afterward, in response to the
gardener's summons, there was lined up beneath the window a happy group
of female excursionists carrying lunch-baskets, entire strangers to the
Bishop, and in a quite a flutter of anticipation of what the
distinguished prelate might have to communicate. The Bishop was equal to
the situation. He gave them some information concerning points of
interest in and about Cooperstown, with a brief summary of the history
of the Cooper Grounds in which they then stood, and sent them away
rejoicing in knowledge that added greatly to the pleasure of their
visit.
A frequent guest at Fernleigh at this time was the Rev. Dr. W. W. Lord,
formerly rector of Christ Church, and for many years one of the most
beloved friends of the Clark family. This aged clergyman and poet was a
scholar of the old-fashioned type, well-versed in the elder
philosophies, and fond of quoting Greek, Latin, and Hebrew authors in
the original tongues. Dr. Lord admired Bishop Potter, but the two men
were of different schools, and the old priest was inclined to stir up
good-humored controversies in which he pitted his scholasticism against
the Bishop's more facile and modern if less profound learning. The New
York prelate entered with great zest into the contest of wits, and let
slip no opportunity to score a point on Dr. Lord.
Although usually numbered among the evangelicals, Bishop Potter in his
latter years was sympathetic with certain aspects of Catholic
ceremonial. He believed in the enrichment of the services of the Church
by light, color, and symbolism, so far as might be consistent with the
law of the Anglican communion in America. Dr. Lord belonged to the
school of churchmanship which abhorred anything beyond the most severe
simplicity in the services of the Church, and had a large contempt for
the badges and symbols of ritualism.
On the festival of St. John the Baptist, in 1903, Bishop Potter and Dr.
Lord were the chief figures at a service held in Christ Church to which
the Masonic lodges of Cooperstown and vicinity were invited. Both the
Bishop and Dr. Lord were thirty-third degree Masons. Dr. Lord, because
of the infirmities of age, at that period seldom officiated in church,
but for this occasion was to have a place of honor in the chancel, and
to pronounce the benediction. Bishop Potter was to deliver the sermon.
Dr. Lord came early to the sacristy of the church, and, having vested in
his long flowing surplice and black stole, seated himself to await
service time. In conversation with the rector, Dr. Lord recalled the
days when more of the clergy were simple in their apparel, and he
deplored the tendency to adopt brilliant vestments, colored stoles, and
academic hoods. A hood, said Dr. Lord, echoing the sentiments of a witty
English prelate, was often a falsehood. Any man could wear a red bag
dangling down his back, but nothing except sound scholarship could
really make a Doctor of Divinity. For his part, said Dr. Lord, he was
content to be a Doctor of Divinity, by virtue of scholastic learning,
without wearing a hood to proclaim it.
At this moment the Bishop appeared, having walked from Fernleigh to the
church fully arrayed in his vestments. He was a resplendent figure. In
addition to the episcopal robes of his office, he wore an Oxford cap,
and a hood of flaming crimson, which an expert in such matters would
have identified as belonging to Union College, or Yale, or Harvard, or
Oxford, or Cambridge, or St. Andrew's, all of which institutions of
learning had conferred the doctorate on Bishop Potter.
It still lacked a few moments of service time, and when the Bishop was
seated in the bright light of the sacristy, another feature of
decoration in his dress appeared. Depending from a chain about the neck
there glittered upon his breast what the Masons call a "jewel." To the
non-Masonic eye it was more than a jewel. It suggested rather a shooting
star, emitting a shower of scintillations from the facets of a hundred
jewels. When the coruscations of this Masonic emblem caught the eye of
Dr. Lord, he became uneasy, and began to finger an imaginary token of
rank upon his own breast. "I ought to have a jewel to wear to-night," he
said musingly, and muttered of the splendid jewel that he had forgotten
to bring, given to him years before by the Grand Lodge. By this time the
hour of service had come; the aproned Masons had marched to their seats
in the nave of the church, and all available space was thronged by an
expectant congregation. Nevertheless Dr. Lord requested the rector to go
forth from the sacristy, and ask the master of the Lodge whether any of
the brethren present had a jewel to lend for the occasion. This was
done, but no jewel was forthcoming. The Bishop seemed absorbed in his
own thoughts.
The choir and clergy entered the chancel, and the service began. Dr.
Lord had a seat of honor in the sanctuary at the right of the altar.
When evensong was finished, Bishop Potter preached the sermon, after
which he returned to the sanctuary, and stood at the left of the altar
opposite to Dr. Lord. Just before the benediction, which Dr. Lord was to
pronounce, the Bishop caught the rector's eye, and beckoned. When the
rector came near, the Bishop removed the Masonic jewel, with its chain,
and handed it to him.
"Put it around the old man's neck," the Bishop whispered.
This was done, and the venerable clergyman, decorated with the flashing
symbol, seemed to grow in stature beyond his usual great height, as he
ascended the steps of the altar, where he uplifted his hands, and in an
age-worn but magnificent and sonorous voice pronounced the solemn
blessing.
In the early autumn of 1904 the Rt. Hon. and Most Rev. Dr. Randall T.
Davidson, Archbishop of Canterbury and Primate of all England, the first
occupant of the chair of St. Augustine to visit America, was a guest at
Fernleigh. The Archbishop and Mrs. Davidson, with the Archbishop's two
chaplains, were met at the station by Bishop Potter together with a
delegation of Cooperstown citizens. The first carriage that left the
station contained the English and American bishops; the second carried
the two chaplains, escorted by the village rector. As this carriage left
the station, David H. Gregory, the perennial wit of the summer colony,
called out,
"Don't forget to show the gentlemen the Indian in the Cooper Grounds."
The chaplains of the Archbishop exchanged glances of pleased
anticipation. What they had heard suggested that Cooperstown kept a live
Indian on view as a symbol of its history and romance, just as Rome
maintains always its pair of wolves at the Capitoline hill. The rector
tried in vain to divert their thoughts toward other objects. When the
carriage rolled through the Cooper Grounds the chaplains insisted upon
seeing the Indian. There was nothing to do but to point out J. Q. A.
Ward's sculptured Indian which stands in the midst of the park, a
replica of the one in Central Park, New York, and better mounted,
altogether a fine work of art, but--
"Oh, I say," exclaimed one of the chaplains, as they looked at one
another in deep disappointment, "Not alive; not alive!"
During the Archbishop's stay in Cooperstown he attended daily services
in Christ Church, and enjoyed visiting points of interest on the lake
and in the village. That a souvenir of the visit might be preserved the
Archbishop and the Bishop were photographed together on the front porch
of Fernleigh. Apparently some prosaic adviser had represented to the
Archbishop that his usual costume would make him undesirably conspicuous
in America, for during his tour of this country the Primate of all
England abandoned the picturesque every-day dress of an English bishop,
with its knickerbockers and gaiters, in favor of the international
hideousness of pantaloons. At the time of the photograph Bishop Potter
was wearing leggings, having just returned from riding, so that the two
bishops appeared to have exchanged costumes.
[Illustration: THE ARCHBISHOP WITH BISHOP POTTER]
The Archbishop desired not to have anything like a public reception, but
it was intimated to a few neighbors that they would be welcomed at
Fernleigh on a certain evening. At this gathering the most regal figure,
who, in the ancient finery of her apparel, wearing a headdress topped
with an ostrich plume, may be said to have eclipsed the most
distinguished guests, was Susan Augusta Cooper, granddaughter of the
novelist, representing, as it were, the very foundation of the village.
Miss Cooper was one of the most characteristic survivals of the old
régime in Cooperstown. She lived next door to Fernleigh in Byberry
Cottage, which had been built as a home for the two unmarried daughters
of the novelist shortly after the burning of Otsego Hall, and largely
out of material rescued from it, including the oaken doors, the
balusters of the stairway, and two bookcases from Cooper's library which
were transferred to the cottage. Susan Augusta Cooper took up her
residence there with her mother and aunts in 1875, and when she died in
1915 had been the sole occupant of the cottage for many years. She was a
type of old-fashioned neighborliness, and made a specialty of
ministration to the needs of sick and poor throughout the village. One
frequently met her on some errand of mercy; the basket on her arm
contained good things prepared with her own hands for the needy; the
large and stately figure had grown rather mountainous with advancing
years, and the dignity of her slow and measured pace suggested the
steady progress of a ship moving in calm waters. The solemnity of her
countenance, and the grave manner of her carefully chosen words, were
lovably familiar to those who knew her warm and generous heart.
When Miss Cooper's health failed she was obliged to undergo an operation
which left her a cripple, unable to get about except in a wheel-chair
propelled by an attendant. Always a faithful communicant of Christ
Church, her disability occasioned what came to be almost a parochial
ceremony, for when Miss Cooper made her communion she was wheeled to the
chancel steps, and the priest came forward to administer to her, while
the other communicants respectfully waited until she had withdrawn.
[Illustration: _C. A. Schneider_
BYBERRY COTTAGE as originally built]
Added to her other infirmities, an affection of the eyes gradually
darkened her vision until she became totally blind. In a condition of
helplessness which would seem to make existence unendurable, Miss Cooper
found much to make her happy, and life was sweet to her to the end. She
enjoyed the society of friends, and it gave her keen pleasure, blind and
crippled as she was, to be seated in state at large social functions.
Such was her habitual solemnity of manner that few gave her credit for
the sense of humor which lightened many of her dark days. She uttered
her jests with so much gravity that they were often taken in earnest.
Now and again she made sport of her own infirmities. Meeting her one
day in her wheel-chair, after her eyesight had begun to fail, a neighbor
inquired for her health. "Quite comfortable," replied Miss Cooper, in
solemn tones, "except for my eyes. They tell me it is a fine day, with
beautiful blue sky. The sky is blue, but to my eyes it is shrunk to the
size of a bachelor's-button!" Miss Cooper was very reluctant in
consenting to the amputation which prolonged her life for several years.
Even after the surgeons stood ready in the operating-room she for a time
declined to submit to the ordeal. There was a prolonged discussion which
resulted at last, on the advice of friends, in obtaining her consent.
The chief surgeon entering the room approached the bedside rubbing his
hands and, grasping at something to say to reassure the patient,
remarked in silken tones, "Well, Miss Cooper, I'm glad to hear that you
prefer to have the amputation." The situation seemed desperate, and
nerves were at a high tension among Miss Cooper's friends. "Well,
doctor," was her tart rejoinder, "I must say that 'prefer' is hardly the
word that I should use!" With this she gave a chuckle that proved her
spirit undaunted, and relieved the strain.
Miss Cooper had great respect for the clergy, and for a bishop her
reverence was unbounded. When Bishop Potter dedicated the monument at
the grave of Leslie Pell-Clarke, in Lakewood Cemetery, a terrific
thunderstorm arose during the ceremonies, and Miss Cooper was taken home
in the carriage with the distinguished prelate to escape the deluge. The
various conveyances plunged down the hillside post-haste, with
lightning crashing on every side. Some of the ladies in the party became
hysterical. Miss Cooper alone was perfectly calm. "With a bishop by my
side," she exclaimed, "I am not in the least afraid to die!"
[Illustration: THE CLARK ESTATE OFFICE]
In the summer of 1904 Bishop Potter unwittingly acted as the accomplice
of a burglar who robbed the safe of the Clark Estate office in
Cooperstown, and escaped with a quantity of jewels. The newspapers
estimated the value of the stolen jewels at from $20,000 to $100,000,
and the robbery became a celebrated case in police annals. The burglary
was unusual in having taken place in broad daylight, with Bishop Potter
calmly at work at his desk on the second floor of the small building.
When the clerks left the office for luncheon at noon they locked the
outside door, but did not close the vault in which the papers and
valuables were kept. It was a brilliant summer day, the seventh of July;
villagers and tourists were passing and repassing through the adjacent
Cooper Grounds; the clerks were to return within an hour, and in the
mean time the Bishop was there. Nobody dreamed of the possibility of a
burglary, but it was the unexpected that happened. When the vault was to
be closed and locked at the end of the day, a tin box containing a
casket of jewels was missing. In the basement of the building the tin
box which had contained the jewel-case was found empty, and near by was
a hatchet usually kept in the basement, and with which the box had been
pried open.
The news of the robbery caused intense excitement in the community. The
village policeman together with the county sheriff and his deputies met
in conference at the Clark Estate office; knots of people gathered upon
the streets in earnest discussion; the village press was busy turning
out handbills announcing the robbery and offering a large reward for the
apprehension of the thief; the telegraph wires hummed with messages to
the police of the state and nation. Next morning Pinkerton detectives
arrived under the leadership of George S. Dougherty, afterward deputy
police commissioner of the city of New York.
The clues discovered by the detectives were not encouraging. In the
office nothing appeared beyond the fact that the box of jewels had been
removed from the safe. In the basement the discarded tin box that had
contained the casket of jewels lay upon the floor not far from the
hatchet with which it had been opened, and the only remarkable
circumstance was that the floor all about the empty box was bespattered
with blood. The detectives said also that they noticed the frequent
appearance of a woman's footprints which were well defined and seemed to
encircle the spot where the empty jewel-box lay.
The blood-stains appeared to offer the most serviceable clue, and to
account for them three theories were suggested. First: The robber had
been caught in the act by someone who had disappeared in pursuit, after
one or the other had been wounded in the struggle. Second: There was
more than one robber, and there had been a bloody quarrel over the
division of the booty. Third: In opening the tin box containing the
jewels the robber had cut himself either with the hatchet or with the
jagged tin. Since the Bishop, who had been in the building during the
robbery, heard no sound of any struggle, the first two theories were
abandoned, and the third alone seemed probable. Advices were accordingly
telegraphed to the police of various cities to look out for a man with a
bandaged hand. For several days thereafter suspicious-looking men in
remote parts of the country who had had the misfortune to injure a hand
suffered the added misfortune of being detained by the police; but
nothing came of it.
In order to aid in the recovery of the property, and to make it
difficult for the thief to dispose of it, a description of the stolen
jewelry was given out, and summarized as follows: a pearl collar; a
diamond bow-knot with pear-shaped pearl pendant; a ring set with two
diamonds and a ruby; a ring set with diamond and ruby; a small diamond
ring; a solitaire diamond ring; a diamond marquise ring; a ring set with
two diamonds crosswise; a diamond bracelet; a diamond and pearl
bracelet.
Dougherty the detective had another method of procedure in reserve. He
had brought with him to Cooperstown an album containing photographs of
the most noted bank-sneaks and yegg-men. After studying the "job" at the
Clark Estate office he came to the conclusion that it was the work of a
professional, and began to run over in his mind the various crooks who
might have planned and carried out a robbery of this particular sort.
Many of these were gradually eliminated for one reason or another, until
he had narrowed the field to a few suspects. Dougherty then began to
make inquiries about the village to learn whether anyone had noticed a
stranger loitering in the neighborhood of the Clark Estate offices on
the day of the robbery. His search was rewarded by finding several
persons who remembered such a stranger. One of them described the
loiterer as a man about sixty years old, with "pleasant, laughing eyes."
Dougherty already had in mind Billy Coleman, alias Hoyt, alias Grant,
alias Holton, alias Houston, a man with an international police record.
He produced Coleman's photograph, and the likeness was promptly
identified as that of the loiterer. Another who remembered seeing the
stranger picked out from the entire gallery of rogues the likeness of
Coleman.
Although he had no real evidence against him the detective was now sure
of his man, and felt certain that, somewhere in the mazes of New York
City, Coleman and the missing jewels would be found. Returning to New
York, Dougherty roamed the streets of the city, day and night, looking
for Coleman. After two weeks of fruitless search he met one of Coleman's
"pals" coming up Eighth Avenue. Acting on the theory that this man would
ultimately get in touch with Coleman, the detective determined to keep
him in sight. He shadowed him all night, following him from haunt to
haunt. The next morning, when Coleman's friend retired to a
rooming-house, and asked for a bed, Dougherty put two subordinates on
guard, while he himself snatched a few hours of sleep. The detective
proved to be upon the right track, for within thirty-six hours the
shadowed man joined Billy Coleman.
The suspected thief occupied a flat at 271 West 154th Street. From this
time Dougherty or one of his deputies followed every movement of Billy
Coleman. Day after day they tracked him through the city from one resort
to another. In the evening they followed him home, and kept a watchful
eye on the premises. Coleman's actions were provokingly innocent. At
nightfall he frequently left home, accompanied by his wife, but only to
take their little dog out for an airing. On a Sunday evening while
Dougherty was shadowing Coleman and his wife, hoping that they might
lead him to some clue to the robbery, he was amazed to see them enter an
Episcopal church, where they remained throughout the service. Bishop
Potter, to whom Dougherty had confided his suspicions of Coleman,
laughed heartily when the detective mentioned this incident.
"Surely, Dougherty, you don't want me to believe that one good churchman
would rob another, do you?" the Bishop exclaimed.
Dougherty felt that as the case stood he was making no headway. Coleman,
who perhaps realized that he might be under suspicion, made no false
moves. The detective resolved upon another plan of action. He decided to
have Coleman charged with the robbery and arrested, after which he was
certain to be released for lack of evidence. He calculated that an
official discharge from any complicity in the stealing of the jewels
would so reassure Coleman that he might afterward betray himself,
through lack of caution, to watchful detectives. Coleman was accordingly
arrested, and held for the grand jury in Cooperstown. The case against
him was too weak to stand. The grand jurors were much absorbed in
conclusions drawn from the blood-stains found on the floor of the
basement of the Clark Estate office, and when it was shown that Coleman
bore no sign of scratch or scar they promptly discharged him. Coleman
left Cooperstown a free man, and chatted amicably with Dougherty as they
rode together on the train to New York. On reaching the city they parted
company at the Christopher Street elevated station, and Coleman rode on
up town to his home, serenely confident of Dougherty's failure and of
his own security.
This was in October. From the moment of his arrival in the city Coleman
was shadowed day and night. Detectives rented a room in a house across
the street from Coleman's flat. Whenever he left his home they
cautiously followed him. For a time he seemed to be making tests to
learn whether or not he was being followed. Sometimes he would enter a
large department-store, mingle with the crowds, and suddenly find his
way out of a side door into a little-frequented street. But the
detectives were equally wily. They adopted various disguises, and never
let him out of their sight. After about two months they observed that
Coleman began to make frequent trips toward Morningside Park. He made
always for the same region, where he appeared to walk aimlessly about,
but with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though counting his steps. On
the morning of the third of January, during a heavy snowstorm, Coleman
was followed to West 155th Street and Eighth Avenue, where, in a little
open space near an iron-foundry, he scraped aside the snow, and began a
small excavation of the earth. For some reason he failed to find the
object of his search, and returned home with an air of dejection. One
detective shadowed him homeward; the others did not wait for the falling
snow to obliterate the traces of his excavation. They began digging in
the same spot on a more generous scale, and eighteen inches below the
surface unearthed a glass fruit-jar. The jar, on being lifted to the
light, dazzled the eyes of the detectives, for it contained the missing
jewels, which for six months had lain there in the earth where thousands
of people had daily passed them by.
The detectives, having removed the jewels, placed in the jar a note
addressed to Billy Coleman, signed by Dougherty and his assistants,
McDonals and Wade, stating that they had the jewels, and would call upon
him at the earliest opportunity. They reburied the jar, and restored the
surroundings to their former condition. Coleman, as had been foreseen,
afterward returned to the spot, and dug up the jar. The detectives were
near enough to witness the wretched man's distress when, on reading the
note, he realized that the fortune had escaped him and that the prison
awaited him. He was immediately placed under arrest, and confessed all.
Concerning a few pieces of jewelry that were missing from those found in
the jar he gave information that led to their recovery. Coleman was once
more taken to Cooperstown, and, with the additional evidence, was easily
convicted of the robbery.
Coleman was a man of such remarkable intelligence and engaging
personality that Bishop Potter, whose near presence at the time of the
robbery the burglar little suspected, became much interested in him.
There is no doubt that Coleman was really touched by the kindness which
Bishop and Mrs. Potter showed to him and to his wife, and his resolution
to reform was quite sincere.
"There is nothing in being a crook," he said. "I am sixty years old, and
have been in prison half my life. My advice to young men is 'Don't
steal.'"
At Bishop Potter's request the sentence of the court was lighter than
Coleman's record might have warranted, and he was sent to Auburn prison
for six years and five months, a term which discounts for good behaviour
reduced to four years and four months.
Coleman's explanation of the blood-stains which had played so important
a part in the various theories of the robbery was one that nobody had
thought to venture. He said that before he opened the jewel-casket in
the basement he really had no idea what it contained, and when he saw
the fortune in gems that had come into his possession his great
excitement brought on a nose-bleed.[128] His clothes were so
blood-stained that he was in mortal fear of being arrested on that
account, but, as he wore a black suit, the stains were not conspicuous.
As to the woman's footprints, which the detectives said they found, no
explanation was ever made.
Ten years later an elderly man was arrested in New York, charged with
robbing a Wells-Fargo Express wagon on Broadway. With the aid of an
umbrella handle he had drawn from the rear of the wagon a package
containing $100,000 in cancelled cheques--not a very successful haul.
His age and apparent harmlessness so much impressed the justices in
Special Sessions that he would undoubtedly have been released on
suspended sentence had not a detective who had been engaged in the Clark
robbery case passed his cell in the Tombs. The detective recognized the
famous Billy Coleman, whose police record dated back to 1869, showing
thirteen arrests and a total period of twenty-eight years in prison.
Bishop Potter's last notable public appearance in Cooperstown was at the
Village Centennial Celebration in August of 1907. He was the most
picturesque figure in a scene rich in kaleidoscopic color and historic
significance when, on the Sunday afternoon which began the week's
festivities, multitudes listened beneath the sunlit trees upon the green
of the Cooper Grounds, while the Bishop, mantled in an academic gown of
crimson, described his vision of the future of religion in America.
The Cooperstown Centennial celebration was remarkable for its great
success in calm defiance of the fact that the year of its observance was
not really the centennial of anything worth commemorating in the history
of the village. The psychological moment seemed to have arrived when the
people of the village were resolved to devote themselves to some high
effort in praise of Cooperstown, and so they gloriously celebrated, in
1907, the centennial which a former generation had neglected, and which
succeeding generations might indolently ignore. A disused act of village
incorporation passed in 1807 was seized upon as suggesting a convenient
antiquity, but there was no slavish conformity to mere accidents of
date, and the whole history of Cooperstown was included in this elastic
centenary. The entire community was united in the desire and effort to
make the celebration a success, and the sticklers for historical
propriety became quite as enthusiastic as the others. The commemoration
was planned and carried out on a really dignified scale, with an
avoidance of tawdriness; and the elements of the celebration, with
religious, historical, literary exercises, and pageantry, were well
proportioned in their appeal to the mind, to the romantic emotions, and
to the love of the spectacular. Some of the addresses such as that of
Brander Matthews on Fenimore Cooper, were valuable contributions to the
literary annals of America. Throngs of spectators were attracted to
Cooperstown by the celebration, and in one day there were at least
15,000 people in the village which included only about 2,500 in its
normal population. The old village and lake offered an effective
background to the scenes of carnival. Natty Bumppo at home in his log
cabin, Chingachgook with his canoe, appeared in living representation in
the line of floats that paraded the village to set forth the historic
and romantic memories of the place. A chorus of village schoolgirls
dressed in white, and with flowing hair, presented an exquisite scene
at Cooper's grave in Christ churchyard, bringing their tribute of
flowers, and singing the lyric written by Andrew B. Saxton to the music
of Andrew Allez. Otsego Lake offered a superb spectacle in the calm
summer night, reflecting the glare of rockets and the bursting into
bloom of aerial gardens of flame. There were moments of utter darkness
suddenly dispelled by dazzling cataracts of fire that made one aware of
thousands of pallid faces thronging the shore, while the effulgence set
the waters ablaze from Council Rock to the Sleeping Lion, and flung a
weird splendor upon the forests of the surrounding hills.
[Illustration: _J. B. Slote_
THE LYRIC AT COOPER'S GRAVE]
A lovable patriarch of the village was Samuel M. Shaw, well known
throughout the state as editor of the _Freeman's Journal_. He had once
been an editor of the _Argus_, in Albany, and became editor and
proprietor of the _Freeman's Journal_ in Cooperstown in 1851. In this
position he continued more than half a century, and had a history almost
unique in village journalism. When he began his work Shaw was regarded
as an innovator, for he was one of the first editors in the country to
introduce columns of local news and personal items, a practice which, at
a time when newspapers were wholly devoted to politics, speeches,
foreign affairs and literary miscellany, was widely ridiculed. He
survived long enough to be regarded as an exemplar of conservative and
old-fashioned journalism, and became the Nestor of Cooperstown. In the
office of the _Freeman's Journal_, with its clutter of old machinery,
piles of grimy books, its floor littered with newspapers, its wall
streaked with cobwebs, the aged editor seemed exactly to fit into the
surroundings. Here he received his friends, for the bed-ridden wife at
Carr's Hotel, where he had rooms, was unequal to much social duty. The
printing-office was his kingdom, and here, at the battered desk, he
reigned supreme, a benevolent-looking man, with white beard closely
enough trimmed to show a firm mouth, while the bald head shone above the
desk as he bent his eyes closely to the pen in writing, and the left
hand occasionally stroked the cluster of silvery locks that overhung the
back of his collar. Late every afternoon he put aside his pen and
proof-sheets, and with a coat held capewise about his bent shoulders,
toddled to the Mohican Club to play bottle-pool with his old friend, G.
Pomeroy Keese. Every Sunday the editor's venerable figure was
conspicuous in a front pew of the Baptist church, in which he was a
pillar, and always held up as an example to the youth of the village.
When Samuel Shaw died, in 1907, occurred a dramatic episode which only a
village community can produce. During his long career Shaw had
accumulated a fair amount of property, and in his will had made kindly
bequests to certain friends. Not until his death did it become generally
known that his means had been dissipated by unfortunate speculations in
the stock market, which was then in a depressed condition, and that
margins upon which he had made purchases had been wiped out, hastening
his death by financial worry, and leaving his estate almost bankrupt.
At his funeral the Baptist church was crowded by a congregation which
represented the tribute of a whole village to a man who had been a
leader in its affairs for more than fifty years. The pastor of the
church, the Rev. Cyrus W. Negus, had not been long in the village, but
already was known for his earnestness and sincerity. To deliver a
funeral sermon over the body of so distinguished a member of his church
offered an opportunity to make an impression upon the entire community.
He began his sermon with the usual expressions of Christian faith in the
presence of death, and passed to a commendation of Samuel Shaw's many
good deeds in public service and private life during his long career.
Then he changed his tone, and, to the amazement of every hearer,
expressed his deep disapproval of the speculations in the stock market
which had brought the veteran editor in sorrow to the grave, and
declared that he was unable to indorse the qualities in the character of
a man so prominent in religious and civic life which permitted him to
resort to slippery methods of financial gain. In this respect Samuel
Shaw was to be held up not as an example, but as a warning to the youth
of the village.
Never was a congregation more astonished than when the speaker proceeded
to develop such a theme in the face of the mourning friends of the dead.
Probably the great majority of the congregation felt that the pastor's
view of the iniquity of such stock speculations was utterly mistaken.
Certainly all the friends of the dead editor were too indignant to
realize in that hour that they were witnesses of an unusual exhibition
of moral courage on the part of a preacher. It was some months later,
when the Rev. Cyrus W. Negus himself lay dead, and all the bells of the
village rang his requiem, that a friend and admirer of Samuel Shaw could
also fairly recognize the mettle of this preacher who had the pluck to
speak out what he believed to be his message, with every worldly reason
to be silent. He had dared to defy the conventions of indiscriminate
eulogy at funerals, to stand practically alone against public opinion,
and to turn an opportunity of winning popular applause into an occasion
for speaking out the necessary truth as he saw it. Some of his best
friends felt that he had blundered, but no one who saw and heard this
frail and pale-faced Baptist minister, as he stood by the coffin of
Samuel Shaw uttering the quiet words that fell like lead upon the tense
and breathless audience, may honestly deny his courage.
In some respects the most remarkable man in Cooperstown at this period
was Dr. Henry D. Sill. It is perhaps a singular distinction in a
Christian community that Dr. Sill should have been chiefly renowned for
being a Christian. It was not that the Christianity of the village was
below the average of Christian communities. It was rather that Dr. Sill
so strikingly personified the Christian virtues as to become a saint
among Christians. By common consent he was put in a class by himself.
Christians were exhorted to imitate him, but nobody was expected really
to equal him. He was at this time only forty years old, but was revered
not only by the young, but by the aged, as wise unto salvation. He was
the son of Jedediah P. Sill, a respected and influential business man of
Cooperstown, and after graduation at Princeton and at the College of
Physicians and Surgeons, he settled down to practise in his own village.
Dr. Sill lived with his sister at "The Maples," in the spacious house
which stands on Chestnut Street, with sculptured lions guarding the
doorway, next to the Methodist parsonage. His office occupied the little
wing at the north. Unlike some who pass for philanthropists in the
outer world, Henry Sill was regarded as a saint in his own household.
Mrs. Robe, the aged aunt who made one of the family, and cultivated the
art of growing old beautifully and gracefully, herself a Unitarian, used
always to conclude her frequent arguments against Calvinistic theology
by saying, "Well, Henry wouldn't treat people so, and I believe that God
is as good as Henry!"
Dr. Sill was a man of some means, but spent very little on himself. It
had been his ambition to be a missionary, but since circumstances made
it impossible to carry out this design, he annually contributed the
entire salary of a foreign missionary whom he called his "substitute."
He spent large sums of money in the improvement of Thanksgiving
Hospital, in which he was deeply interested, and the equipment of that
institution, especially of the operating-room, which gave it a rank far
above the hospitals in many larger towns, was chiefly owing to his
generosity.
Dr. Sill was a physician, but specialized in surgery, and, while he
never developed any spectacular rapidity of technique, became known as
one of the most capable and conscientious surgeons in central New York.
He always told patients what he believed to be the exact truth, and
without the untoward results which some practitioners apprehend from
such a policy. A surgeon who prayed with patients just before resorting
to the knife was sometimes rather disconcerting to the irreligious, but
his attitude was a comfort to many in the dire distress of illness, and
in all it inspired confidence in the man himself. In many an isolated
farm house of Otsego the only religious ministrations came with Dr.
Sill's medical attendance, and there were unnumbered cases in which his
call to heal the body resulted in the regeneration of a soul.
Where patients were able to pay, Dr. Sill charged a good price for his
services, but the fees were adjusted upon a sliding scale, and the
amount of his professional service without pay is incalculable. In this
respect he was not unlike his colleagues in a profession which probably
gives more for nothing than any other, but, having independent means, he
was able to go farther in this direction than most practitioners, and he
counted it a pleasure to give away his time and skill without reward.
There was a tinge of Puritanism in Dr. Sill's Christianity which to some
minds imported an unnecessary strictness of view, but none could quarrel
with it, for he practised his austerities upon himself, not toward
others. Certain precepts of the Sermon on the Mount usually interpreted
in a figurative sense he took literally as rules of action. "Give to him
that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou
away" was one of these. His literal fidelity to this precept afforded
him the deep satisfaction of giving aid to honest neighbors in distress;
it enabled him to come to the rescue in the emergencies which sometimes
face the most industrious and deserving. But also it gave him the pain
of learning how many plausible persons are eager to make fair promises
that mean nothing, and taught him that there are human beings to whom
acts of loving-kindness are as pearls before swine. The honest man in
trouble came to Dr. Sill, the drunkard to take the pledge, the sorrowful
to be comforted, the desperate to be advised. But so came also the
rogue, and the wheedling hypocrite, and all such as desired to obtain
something for nothing. The doctor had a large acquaintance among
unfortunate outcasts, for he regularly visited the county jail to talk
and pray with its inmates. The extent to which Dr. Sill aided the
worthless was a cause of grief to the judicious, but he was not really,
as some supposed, the dupe of impostors. He was well aware of the
probably unworthy character of many to whom he gave assistance, but
there was always an element of doubt in such cases, and his theory was
that it was better to aid ninety-nine humbugs than to take the risk of
closing the door against one who was deserving of help.
Dr. Sill was much consulted in relation to the civic and religious
welfare of the community. His conscientious habit of deciding in all
things, great and small, upon the absolutely right course of action gave
him an air of slowness and hesitation in manner. He would stand
listening intently, without comment, to violent arguments for and
against a project, turning toward each speaker the frank dark eyes that
illumined his pale countenance. When it came to his decision he had a
way of planting his right heel forward, and compressing his lips, which
he then opened with a slight smack of determination, giving quiet
utterance to his judgment. It was usually quite impossible to move him
from a decision thus made, and those who misinterpreted the mildness of
his manner soon learned that the man himself was adamant.
The first years of the twentieth century included an era of new
buildings. Just above Leatherstocking Falls, in 1908, William E. Guy of
St. Louis built and established the beautiful summer home at
Leatherstocking Farm. The remains of the old grist mill at the falls
were torn down, and the stones from the foundation were used in the new
building.
In 1910, James Fenimore Cooper of Albany, grandson of the novelist,
built Fynmere (the name being an old form of the word Fenimore) as a
country residence. Its site on the hillside above the road that curves
about the southern end of Mount Vision commands a superb view down the
Susquehanna Valley, while the eastern windows of the house look into the
heart of the ascending forest. The use of native field stone in the
construction of this house is most effective, and at once gave to the
residence, when fresh from the builder's hands, the air of being long
habituated to the spot, and quite in harmony with the antiquities that
abound in the appointments and ornamentation of the place. Within a
niche of the main hall of the house is the bust of Fenimore Cooper which
David d'Angers made in Paris in 1828; and embedded in the foundation of
the building is the corner-stone with the original marking that Cooper
carved in 1813 for the house that he built, but which was burned before
he could move into it, at Fenimore. Fynmere has contributed to the
revival of pleasures that belonged to an elder day in Cooperstown, for
it has drawn hither large house-parties of young people to enjoy the
holidays of Christmastide, to join in winter sports, and to appreciate
the splendors of snow and ice in a region usually renowned only for the
charm of its summer season.
From the beginning of Cooperstown's celebrity as a watering-place the
hope was cherished, among the residents, that the village might include
a suitable hotel overlooking the lake, and attracting visitors to linger
on its shores. This dream was realized in 1909 when the O-te-sa-ga
opened, having been built by Edward S. Clark and his brother Stephen C.
Clark. The hotel was planned to accommodate three hundred guests, and
occupies the old site of Holt-Averell, commanding a magnificent view of
the full length of the lake.
Cooperstown is a village of incomparable charm. There is not the like of
it in all America. It has a character of its own sufficiently
distinctive to prevent it from becoming the leech-like community into
which, through the slow commercializing of native self-respect, a summer
resort sometimes degenerates, stupidly enduring the winter in order to
batten upon the pleasures of the rich in summer. Cooperstown is old
enough and wise enough to have a juster appreciation of lasting values.
It has tradition and atmosphere. It is a village that rejoices in the
simple virtues of life peculiar to a small community, while its fame as
a summer resort annually brings its residents within reach of far
influences and wide horizons.
[Illustration: COOPERSTOWN FROM MT. VISION]
All lovers of Cooperstown know a favorite summer walk that passes from
the village up the hill on the eastern border of the lake, rises beyond
Prospect Rock, winds over a wooded summit, descends, turns westerly
through a shady grove, crosses a farm, then threads a stretch of densest
foliage, when suddenly one emerges upon a clearing, and unexpectedly
beholds, glittering far below, the waters of the Glimmerglass, with the
homes and spires of the village gleaming amidst the green leafage of the
valley.
It is impossible not to idealize the village when one views it from this
height. To the tourist, who comes merely to admire, it is a view that
possesses the glamour of enchantment. How happy should be the people who
dwell in this peaceful village, surrounded by such charming scenery! How
lofty should be their ideals, and how pure their lives, who abide amid
such glories of nature!
But for residents of Cooperstown this view is one that has more than
beauty. It grips the heart. As the resident looks down upon the streets
and houses amongst the trees it is with a sympathetic knowledge of the
dwellers there, and of the joys that delight them, of the sorrows that
crush them, of the sins that dog them, and of the hopes that inspire
them.
The drama of life has been many times enacted amid the scenes of this
village, and here is the prologue and epilogue of many a romance and
tragedy.
Boys and girls are at play in the streets, and are skylarking along the
shore of lake and river. Ambitious youngsters go out into the wider
world to seek their fortunes. But there is always a homecoming. Youth
has its day.
There are two aged men from different quarters of the village who daily
resort in summer to the Cooper Grounds, and sit in the sunshine upon the
same bench. Either is visibly uneasy until the other arrives. But
together they are happy. On this spot where the history of the village
began they take turns at being narrator and listener, while each relates
to the other the story of his life, and describes his triumphs in days
that are gone. They give no heed to passers-by, or to the traffic of
neighboring streets. But a village church bell tolls, and they fall
silent, lifting their heads to watch the funeral train as it passes the
Cooper Grounds and winds slowly upward from the main street to the quiet
garden by the lake, on the slope of the eastern hills.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 128: George S. Dougherty, in _Chicago Saturday Blade_, January
8, 1916.]
[Illustration: VILLAGE MAP OF COOPERSTOWN]
VISITORS' GUIDE
Chief points of interest are indicated on the village map, in the order
most convenient for a short tour, by letters from A to M.
A--Cooper Grounds. Site of Fenimore Cooper's residence.
B--Cooper's grave in Christ churchyard. Christ Church, erected 1807, in
which he worshipped.
C--Fernleigh, the Clark residence, where Bishop Potter died.
D--Byberry Cottage, built for the daughters of Fenimore Cooper, 1852.
E--Pomeroy Place, "the old stone house," 1804.
F--Indian Mound, in the northeast corner of Fernleigh-Over.
G--Oldest house in the village, 1790.
H--Edgewater, 1810.
I--Council Rock, mentioned in _The Deerslayer_ as the meeting-place of
the Indians.
J--Mortar marking site of Clinton's Dam, during the Revolution, 1779.
K--Village Library and Museum.
L--Clark Estate Offices, 1831.
M--Public Boat Landings.
N--Mill Island.
O--Former residence of Justice Nelson, U.S. Supreme Court.
P--Universalist church.
Q--Presbyterian church, 1805.
R--Baptist church.
S--Church of St. Mary, Our Lady of the Lake.
T--Methodist church.
U--Grounds upon which the first game of Base Ball was played.
V--O-te-sa-ga.
W--Riverbrink.
X--Lakelands, 1804.
Y--Woodside, 1829.
Z--Fynmere, 1910.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of Cooperstown, by Ralph Birdsall