Volume 1 January, 1906 No. 1
GEORGE WALDO BROWNE.............................Managing Editor
Terms:--Per Annum.................$1.50
Eight Months....................1.00
Single Copy..................... .15
To Authors.-- The editor respectfully solicits contributions relating to state history, biography and legend from those who are in possession of any incidents or narritive of local or general interest. Any one not a regular writer, and not situated to put his notes into readable form, is requested to send the rough draft and we will undertake to put it into manuscript for the printer. Every article received will be carefully read and returned, if found unavailable.
Address plainly: Editor Granite State Magazine.
GRANITE STATE PUBLISHING CO.,
No.64 Manchester, N.H.
Application made for entry as second-class mail matter at the Post Office of Manchester, N.H.
Table of Contents:
Editorial Lookout
THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. (Poem)
John Greenleaf Whittier. 1
THE MERRIMACK RIVER. (Illustrated Serial)
G. Waldo Browne. 5
GRANITE STATE ROOFTREES
Fred Myron Colby. 13
THE HOUSE ON THE HILL. (Poem)
Eugene J. Hall. 18
THE SWEET BY AND BY. (Illustrated)
J. Warren Thyng. 21
THE HUSKING BEE.
Nestor of the Farms. 29
LIGHT OF LOVE. (Poem)
G. Waldo Browne. 40
WHERE PASSACONAWAY WAS WONT TO STAND. (Poem)
Cora C. Bass. 40
WHEELER'S NARRATIVE. (Serial)
Capt. Thomas Wheeler. 41
THE EDITOR'S WINDOW
49
In offering to a public, already over-burdened with publications of various classes, the GRANITE STATE MAGAZINE, we have no apology to offer. It is our belief that there is not only room but a need of such a magazine as we propose to make. With twenty-five years of experience as editor and author, we trust that we are fitted to furnish a candidate worthy of the esteem and consideration of those who are interested in the story, history and progress of our native state.
In regard to the character of the magazine we purpose to publish, this number, in some respects, is a fair specimen. Of course a first issue cannot fully meet the intentions of editor or publisher, owing to difficulties that must be apparent to all. We intend to make the GRANITE STATE MAGAZINE distinctly a representative of state history and development, but we shall not lose sight of its story side, and from time to time give space to the lighter phases of its legend, tradition, and folk-lore. We are especially anxious to treat of the customs, incidents, work and pastimes in the days of our forefathers. We ask the co-operation of every reader in this respect. There are still among us many with knowledge of these things, who will soon pass beyond the river, and their interesting reminiscences will fade with them like a light that has burned out. Some of the best writers in the state, and elsewhere, have promised us with apparent gladness their assistance. The following comprise a few of those who are to be numbered among our contributors: Hon. A. S. Batchellor, Mr. Arthur H. Chase, Hon. Ezra S. Stearns, Mr. Frederick Myron Colby, " Nestor of the Farms," Author of " The Woodranger Tales," Hon. Frank B. Sanborn, Hon. E. P. Jewell, Mr. John Scales, Mr. Sam Walter Foss, Prof. J. Warren Thyng and Mr. Otis G. Hammond. Valuable articles written by the late Hon. Chandler E. Potter, William Little, Esq., Rev. George Copway, the Christianized Indian, will be published from time to time. We cannot better illustrate our plans than in giving the following partial list of articles to appear as fast as space will permit:
The Story of Our Rivers. Beginning with the Merrimack in this number, an article to be continued, the Saco, Connecticut, and smaller streams will be written up in the same painstaking manner. These articles will be liberally illustrated.
Granite State Governors. This series is one of the most promising that we have scheduled for an early beginning, as it will afford many side-lights into the history of each administration. Portraits will accompany the sketches.
New Hampshire in the French and Indian War. This epoch in our state history has received but scant attention from the historians of New Hampshire, to say nothing of outside writers, who have almost ignored the part acted by the men who were really instrumental in saving New England from the French.
Famous Poems by New Hampshire Authors. Beginning in this number with the story of the author of " Sweet By and By," by Prof. Thyng, succeeding issues will tell the life story of the sweet singer of " Tenting on the Old Camp Ground," the author of "Over the River," with others scarcely less noted and admired.
Scout Journals. During the days of early settlement over twenty-five scouting expeditions were made into the New Hampshire wilderness in quest of the Indians who waged a desultory warfare against the pioneers. The accounts of these stirring marches have been faithfully copied from the archives of those times and will be given with profuse notes, annotations and sketches by one who has made a study of them and the men who were the actors in the dangerous scenes.
Indian Nights Entertainment. This series will comprise the history and legends of the Amerinds in this state when they were its lords and people.
Pioneer Tales. The author of "The Woodranger Tales" will give us from time to time short stories of life and adventure in the days of Rogers, Stark, Goffe and others.
"To Dream of Bygone Days," the Nestor of the Farms and others will entertain us with stories of old-time life, describing the husking bee, raising bee, muster, spelling school, lyceum, auction, village store, tavern, stagecoach, smithy, saw-mill, grist-mill, school, school-books, lights, lamps and other phases of life and scenes in bygone days.
Granite State Homesteads and Granite State Churches
will each come in for careful treatment by authors of experience.
Cabin by Broken Waters. While we do not intend to make serial stories a specialty, we shall occasionally give space to bright, continued stories with scenes laid in New Hampshire.
Hosts of Yesterday will be the title of an interesting series of essays and reveries upon persons and places.
New Hampshire in the Revolution will tell much of the plain truth relating to this important period.
The Bridal of Pennacook. By the late Chandler E. Potter. Having come into possession of the libraries and papers, private and public, of the late Hon. Chandler E. Potter, William Little, Esq., and other historians of the State, we are in a position to offer several valuable articles, hitherto unpublished by these authors. Among other titles are "The Last of the Pennacooks," "Indian Names," "Rogers' Genealogy," " Goffe's War Rolls," etc., by Judge Potter. We have also several articles upon Indian life by George Copway, (Kah-ge-ga-gah-bowh,) a Christianized Indian chief, who wrote of his people with a fluent pen.
Noted Poems upon New Hampshire Subjects. Whit-tier's "White Mountains," given in this number, will be followed by others of equal interest. We intend that our poetry, both selected and original, shall be exceptionally strong and beautiful.
Men, Women and Affairs of To-day. Not only shall we treat of the past, but the present will receive ample attention and the progress of the State will be one of our especial aims. To this end we have already arranged with competent writers to speak upon some of the most important matters of the day.
Men and Women Abroad. Never forgetful of those who have left their native state to seek their fortunes elsewhere, we wish to give them full credit for the space they deserve. We trust that among the 125,000 of this class now living in other states that we shall be accorded a generous support. Every one who receives a specimen copy of this magazine is asked to give it a careful reading.
For Younger Readers. Interesting articles written by experienced authors to please the younger members of the family will find ready acceptance. Selections and excerpts suitable for supplementary reading in the school-room will also be given frequently.
The Editor's Window. No house is complete without its windows and no magazine can be thoroughly complete without its corner where the editor can meet his friends. What more fitting than that our literary house should have an arm-chair by an open window, and while the former may not prove a Grandfather's Chair, we hope it will be worth the visit of our readers and contributors, where together we may speak of those matters dear to our hearts.
Each number of THE GRANITE STATE MONTHLY will be illustrated, and its typographical appearance the work of a first-class printer.
Fraternally yours,
G. Waldo Browne
Managing Editor
Literary Leaves
We are in receipt of Vol. 1 of a History of the United States and Its People from their Earliest Records to the Present Time. By Elroy McKendree Avery. Published by the Burrows Brothers of Cleveland. Writers of the history of our country have become surprisingly numerous of late, and some of them have done good work, but Dr. Avery's painstaking effort bids fair to rank as the best both in historical research and literary merit. We are told that he has devoted twenty years of his life to this work — from forty to sixty, the golden years of a man's life — and the fruit of this labor is a work that will undoubtedly become a standard among our histories.
G. Waldo Browne
Managing Editor
Literary Leaves
The author in his Preface says, " The researches and discussions of the last quarter of a century have thrown a new light on many parts of our early history. I venture to hope that some of the illumination may be reflected from these pages. To secure accuracy, I have not spared honest, earnest effort which in many cases sent me to the original sources."
Not only does this author deserve praise for his diligent and impartial work, but the publishers share with him a large meed of praise for the beautiful volumes that they have produced, illustrated with colored maps and engravings of scenes and objects that belong to the text.
This sumptuous history is to be completed in twelve octavo volumes, beautifully and substantially bound, and sold at a moderate price considering its high qualities both from an artistic and mechanical standpoint.
THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER: Historical—Legendary—Picturesque. By George Waldo Browne. With 76 full page illustrations. Royal 8vo. Cloth extra, gilt top (in a box). G. P. Putnam's Sons, Pubs., New York, 1905. $3.50 net.
" This work presents in a single volume a succinct and unbroken account of the most important historic incidents connected with the river, combined with descriptions of some of its most picturesque scenery and frequent selections from its prolific sources of legends and traditions."
" St. Lawrence lies for a thousand miles between two great nations, yet neglected by both, though neither would be so great without it, — a river as grand as La Plata, as picturesque as the Rhine, as pure as the Lakes of Switzerland."—Sir J. M. Le Maine.
ALONG THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER. The beautiful and majestic St. Lawrence is one of America's grandest possessions, not only in the natural but in the historical and legendary interests that cluster about it. Much of all this has from time to time invited the tourist's pen, and yet there is a welcome place for George Waldo Browne's gathering in of all the great stream's varied attractions in his recent work, "The St. Lawrence River," brought out by Putnam. The descriptions of the almost unrivaled scenery along its banks are graphically given and, with the help of exquisite illustrations, almost carry the reader in an easy-going tour along the magnificent stream. The power of association, legend and history wrap him, too, in a romantic spell, as the author keeps him well advised of every point of interest which the life and story of the past have fastened on the changing scene. The illustrations number some hundred in all and are rarely beautiful and complete. The book would make a rich and delightful holiday gift for any American who appreciates the value of the beautiful and historic not too far away from his own door.—St. Louis Globe-Democrat.
THE ROMANCE OF OLD NEW ENGLAND CHURCHES. By Mary C Crawford, Author of " The Romance of Old New England Roof-trees." Attractively bound in cloth, with gilt top and uncut edges, illustrated, 12 mo, 378 pages, L. C. Page & Co., Pubs., Boston. Price, $1.20 net.
This handsome volume makes a pleasant companion to the author's " Old New England Rooftrees," and no well-filled library should be without them. Among the dozen or more subjects treated we find especial interest in the romantic story of "A Colonial Friar Laurence," which not only gives the romance of St. John's Church, Portsmouth, but the love adventures of Governor John Wentworth and his marriage to his pretty housemaid, fair Martha Hilton. The part enacted in this interesting drama by the Reverend Arthur Browne is fittingly told. No prettier holiday gift book could be found than this exquisite volume.
THE NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE comes to our desk with ample evidence of the handicraft of its new editor, Mr. Winthrop Packard. As good as this standard publication has been in the past it promises under its new editorial management even brighter pages. Among its leading features this month (December) are " New England Stage Children," "The Harvard Dames," " Last of the Wampanoags," and " Story of the Cup and Saucer," any one of which is well worth the price of this number. America Co., Pubs., Boston, Mass. Terms : $3.00 a year; 25 cents a number.
The Woodranger Tales
A Series of Historical Novels devoted to a description of pioneer life on the Old New England and Canadian frontiers. Three volumes, tall 12vo, in uniform binding. Price, $1.00 each.
THE WOODRANGER, A Story of the Pioneers of the Debatable Ground. Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. 312 pp ; $1.00.
The scene of this book is the tract of country along the Merrimack River claimed by the settlers from Massachusetts and New Hampshire. Among the historical characters are young John Stark, afterwards famous as General Stark, William Stark, his older brother, the Captain under Wolfe at the taking of Quebec, Robert Rogers, later known as "Rogers the Ranger," Col. John Goffe, the noted scout and Indian fighter, besides others, the MacDonalds, of Glencoe, the McNeils, of Londonderry, and that semi-historic and romantic forester, " The Woodranger." Not only does this tale deal with the differences arising from a bitter hatred of races, but it portrays in a picturesque manner the home-life of the colonists, their trials and hardships, their sports and adventures in the clearing and in the wilderness.
Press Notices.
Here is a modern Cooper, with the note of woodcraft, the vanishing touch of the aboriginal influence, the adventurous life of the frontier.—Boston Transcript.
These "Woodranger Tales" should be in the home of every descendant of those intrepid pioneers who cleared the wilderness and established a new government under such vicissitudes as seldom fall to the fate of men.—Notes and Queries, and Historic Magazine.
It was a happy thought for Mr. G. Waldo Browne when he planned a series to be called
"The Woodranger Tales," if he makes those that are to come as good as this, the first one.-The ground he has chosen is comparatively fresh; for although some of the poets, Whittier, Mrs Proctor and others, have availed themselves of the legendary lore of New Hampshire, to such use as that purposed by Mr. Browne has been made of the abundant material awaiting the author's hands. — Literary World.
THE WOODRANGER, by G. W. Browne, is one of those tales of adventure of which one never gets too much because of their high spirited quality, and their direct dealings with true manhood. Mr. Browne is one of the most delightfully experienced raconteurs known to us and he has here chosen a most picturesquely interesting hero. The scene also embraces a period so little treated of that it fairly bristles with elements calculated to charm the fancy— at least, if that fancy be at all turned toward woodcraft. The story is fairly alive with adventure, though not sensational, and is delightfully written in every way.—Boston Ideas.
THE YOUNG GUNBEARER. A Tale of the Neutral Ground, Acadia, and the Siege of Louisburg. Illustrated by Louis Meynell.
Robert Rogers is "The Young Gunbearer," who, in companionship of The Woodranger, finds himself in Acadia a short time before the breaking out of that colonial war known in New England as "King George's War." The idyllic life of the Acadians is faithfully described, while Evangeline, the heroine of Longfellow's beautiful poem, becomes a character in the story, and her home is the scene of one of its most stirring incidents. Others of the poet's characters are met here, while the reader gets a clearer idea of the causes leading up to that pathetic event than can be obtained from the histories, as it deals directly with the home life of the unfortunates, which historians cannot do.
Our heroes soon become associated on Cape Breton, Louisburg; with those who engaged in that remarkable campaign described being Major Vaughan, the promoter, Dr. Matthew Thornton, afterwards a signer of the Declaration of Independence, Captain John Goffe, the frontier scout, Captain Waldron, a son of Major Waldron, the brave young ensign. Edward Hyland, the hero of Louisburg, Robert Rogers, who became the chief of The Gunbearers and Woodranger. The narrative abounds with local coloring and legends, while the mysterious Woodranger throws a deeper interest over the historic tale. To those who have read "Evangeline" it must prove doubly interesting.
Press Notices
There is an abundance of Nature in these books and vivid pictures of the habits and customs of the primitive and simple people, as well as the display of an intimate knowledge with the manifestations of Nature.—Mirror & American.
Many words of sound yet original philosophy come from the lips of the central figure, while interwoven in the tale are many of the Indian legends and much of the folklore of the region. The story is one to be read with interest and remembered with pleasure. - Mirror & American.
THE HERO OF THE HILLS. A Tale of the Captive Ground, St. Francis, and Life in the Pioneer's Home, and in the Northern Wilderness. Illustrated by Henry W. Herrick.
The time of this story is just prior to the breaking out of the French and Indian wars and the scene is that wide strip of country lying between the English settlements on the Atlantic coast and the French stations along the St. Lawrence River, and which is now embraced within the territory of New Hampshire, Vermont and Canada. The first half of the "The Hero of the Hills" is devoted to the home life of the colonists in the Merrimack Valley; then the scene is transferred to the head-waters of the Pemigewasset, where we meet a typical hunting party, of those days. This is broken up by the appearance of a war party of Indians from the North, and John Stark, the hero, and a companion named Eastman are taken captives. The journey of the captors and their victims over the old Indian trail is vividly portrayed. The story culminates in one of the most dramatic and sublime events in the history of early New England.
Press Notices
The great struggle between the English and the French, the part played in it by the Indians, and the dramatic episodes of capture and escape are remarkably well told, and with more sense of justice toward the Indian than is common in popular tales.
-The Outlook, N.Y.
Mr Browne has drawn a vivid, picturesque picture of those early days when the foundations of a commonwealth were being laid by rough but hardy and determined men. He writes briskly, the story being full of life and animation.-New Bedford Mercury.
Mr. Browne, like the poet Charles Sprague, believes the savage was a man and he never paints him as a wholly unnatural monster.—Boston Gazette.
In their quality, make-up and general appearance THE WOODRANGER TALES are the equal to any of the $1.50 books. We will give you the choice of any one of them and send the GRANITE STATE MAGAZINE one year for $2.00, with 15 cents for postage on book.
GRANITE STATE PUBLISHING CO.
64 Hanover Street, Manchester, N. H.
by John Greenleaf Whittier.
| W |
HITTIER has been called the Poet of Freedom. He was more than that; he was the Poet of Nature. And nowhere has he given us finer examples of his loving touch than in his exquisite pictures of the Granite Hills, with "their sentinel sides and cloud-crowned brows," which he painted in rare word-coloring. This was but the natural expression of the true artist, for the mountains ever breathe of freedom, and their grandeur finds a hearty appreciation in him who has the sincere veneration for the deeply religious thoughts they awaken, and the divine lessons they teach to the honest searcher after abiding truth. In the following beautiful verses our Poet most happily exemplified his masterful genius.—Editor,
| G |
There's sunshine on thy ancient walls—
A crown upon thy forehead bare—
A flashing on thy water-falls—
A rainbow glory in the cloud,
Upon thy awful summit bowed,
Dim relic of the recent storm !
And music, from the leafy shroud
Which wraps in green thy giant form,
Mellowed and softened from above,
Steals down upon the listening ear,
Sweet as the maiden's dream of love,
With soft tones melting on her ear.
The time has been, gray mountain, when
Thy shadows veiled the red man's home ;
And over crag and serpent den,
And wild gorge, where the steps of men
In chase or battle might not come,
The mountain eagle bore on high
The emblem of the free of soul;
And midway in the fearful sky
Sent back the Indian's battle-cry,
Or answered to the thunder's roll.
The wigwam fires have all burned out—
The moccasin hath left no track—
Nor wolf nor wild-deer roam about
The Saco or the Merrimack.
And thou that liftest up on high
Thine awful barriers to the sky,
Art not the haunted mount of old,
When on each crag of blasted stone
Some mountain-spirit found a throne,
And shrieked from out the thick cloud-fold,
And answered to the Thunderer's cry
When rolled the cloud of tempest by,
And jutting rock and riven branch
Went down before the avalanche.
The Father of our people then
Upon thy awful summit trod,
And the red dwellers of the glen
Bowed down before the Indian's God.
There, when His shadow veiled the sky,
The Thunderer's voice was long and loud,
And the red flashes of His eye
Were pictured on the o'erhanging cloud.
The Spirit moveth there no more,
The dwellers of the hill have gone,
The sacred groves are trampled o'er,
And footprints mar the altar-stone.
The white man climbs thy tallest rock
And hangs him from the mossy steep,
Where, trembling to the cloud-fire's shock,
Thy ancient prison-walls unlock,
And captive waters leap to light,
And dancing down from height to height,
Pass onward to the far-off deep.
Oh, sacred to the Indian seer,
Gray altar of the days of old !
Still are thy rugged features dear,
As when unto my infant ear
The legends of the past were told.
Tales of the downward sweeping flood,
When bowed like reeds thy ancient wood,—
Of armed hand and spectral form,
Of giants in their misty shroud,
And voices calling long and loud
In the drear pauses of the storm !
Farewell! The red man's face is turned
Toward another hunting ground ;
For where the council-fire has burned,
And o'er the sleeping warrior's mound
Another fire is kindled now:
Its light is on the white man's brow !
The hunter race has passed away—
Ay, vanished like the morning mist,
Or dew-drops by the sunshine kissed,--
And wherefore should the red man stay ?
The Merrimack River
The Romance, History, Scenery and Industry of the "River of Broken Waters."
By GEORGE WALDO BROWNE.
(Copyrighted by the Author 1905)
A silver band, the Merrimack
Links mountain to the sea;
And as it runs this story
It tells to you and me.
—Nellie M. Browne.
The Romance, History, Scenery and Industry of the "River of Broken Waters."
By GEORGE WALDO BROWNE.
(Copyrighted by the Author 1905)
A silver band, the Merrimack
Links mountain to the sea;
And as it runs this story
It tells to you and me.
—Nellie M. Browne.
| T |
HE Merrimack River was a noted stream among the aborigines long before the appearance of the Northmen upon the sedgy shores of Old Vinland. Among the traditions of the Abnakis was one of a " river of broken waters," expressed in their tongue in the form of the uncouth word, as it is spoken by us, of Kaskaashadi, Upon is banks rival tribes had for many generations contended for the supremacy. Another legend, told among the Algonquins of the valley of the St. Lawrence, was to the effect that beyond the "great carrying-places" ran a swift river filled with fish, and forever guarded at its northern gateway by "an old man with a stone face," whose environments were grounds to them too sacred to be trod by warrior foot. As early as 1604, that adventurous voyager from Old France, Sieur du Monts, wrote in his accounts of discoveries and settlements that the "Indians speak of a beautiful stream far to the south called by them Merrimack." The first white man who is credited with having seen this river was that intrepid explorer and pioneer of New France, Samuel de Champlain, who, while sailing along the coast of New England in the summer of 1605, discovered a river on the i7th day of July, which he named "The Riviere du Gaust," in honor of his patron, Sieur du Monts, who held a patent from the King of France for all of the country to the north and east. This stream, discovered by Champlain, has been claimed by many to have been the Merrimack, though his own records would seem to show conclusively that it was the River Charles. The traditions of the Norsemen, in the Saga of Edric, speak of a river whose descriptions indicate that they saw the Merrimack, but their pages are too vague to be accepted without a doubt. So the name of the first European to gaze upon its swift waters has not been recorded beyond dispute.
According to the practice of a people without a written language, several names were given the river by the aborigines, each denoting some particular feature of that section. The following are among the best known, with their primitive derivations :
First " The Merrimack," which has outlived the others, from merru, swift; asquam, water; ack or auke, place ; that is, "swift water place." In the pronunciation of this word or phrase the syllables "asquam" became abbreviated to the sound of one letter—"m." This seems to have been a frequent practice among the Amerinds, which many writers have explained erroneously by saying that a letter or sound had been "thrown in for euphony's sake." An uneducated people may curtail an expression, but they never add anything for effect. This name was probably applied originally to that portion of the river between Garvin's Falls in Bow, N. H., and Pawtucket Falls at Lowell, Mass.
Another term, which has already been mentioned, and was probably applied to the section first named, was that of Kashaashadi, in its completeness meant literally "the place of broken water."
Another designation applied, says Judge Potter, to that part of the river extending from Turkey Falls in Bow to the Souhegan River in Merrimack, N. H., was Namasket. This was derived from names, fish ; kees, high; et, a place ; that is, "high fish place," or "high place for fish." This word has been spelled as many as fifty different ways, lts easiest transition being from Namasket to Namoaskeag, to Amoskeag, which survives as the name of the highest falls of the river.
On account of the great number of sturgeons to be found at certain periods of the year, the river was also called Cabassauk: from cabass, a sturgeon ; auk, place; that is, "place of the sturgeon." Dr. Drew gives the orthography of this word as cobbossee. This term was also applied to a portion of the Kennebec River.
Certain places of the river where the waters ran more gently were known as Wampineauk: from wampi, clear or sunny ; nebe, water; auk, place; that is, "place of clear water," or, as we might say, "sunny river."
Yet another poetical designation was that of Moniack : from mona, island; ack, place; that is, "place of the islands." This name was given the stream toward its mouth, though the poet makes it extend to greater limits:
" Deep in the vale old Moniack rolls his Tides,
Romantic prospects crown his reverend Sides ;
And thro' wild Grotts and pendent Woods he strays,
And ravished at the sight, his Course delays.
Silent and calm—now with impetuous shock
Pours his swift Torrent down the impetuous Rock;
The tumbling waves thro' airy channels flow,
And loudly roaring, smoke and foam below."
Romantic prospects crown his reverend Sides ;
And thro' wild Grotts and pendent Woods he strays,
And ravished at the sight, his Course delays.
Silent and calm—now with impetuous shock
Pours his swift Torrent down the impetuous Rock;
The tumbling waves thro' airy channels flow,
And loudly roaring, smoke and foam below."
There is no doubt that the Indians had a strong attachment for this river, which afforded them such good facilities for fishing, and whose wooded banks were retreats for the deer and other four-footed denizens of the wild-woods. Thus it became the debatable ground between rival tribes of the warriors of the wilderness. In this valley was fought many a sanguinary battle by the Mohawks and (lie Abnakis, and by both against the more peaceful Penacooks. Upon the "brave lands" just above where the city of Concord, N. H., now stands, the last-named met their Waterloo, though so desperately and effectually did they make their final defense that it does not appear as if their long-time enemies rallied to renew the war against them. This great battle, or series of battles, with possibly one exception, another contest waged by the Mohawks against the Sokokis, was the most sublime ever fought by the natives in early New England. It seems to have taken place about fifty years before the advent of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock.
One of the consequences was the removal of the chief lodgment of the Penacooks to the smooth bluff overlooking the Merrimack within sight of Amoskeag Falls. From here, a few years later, their sachem, the noble Passaconnaway, formed his seat of government at Pawtucket. It was here Eliot found him, and, converted to Christianity, the sagamore counseled peace towards the whites among his followers. It is possible that the chief may have considered this the only safe policy, as in addition to the disasters of a long warfare with the enemy from the West, his people had been greatly reduced in numbers through the ravages of a terrible disease which had swept over the aboriginal tribes of New England a short time before the coming of the Europeans, but there was nothing in his whole course of action to throw suspicion upon his sincerity. Among the prominent leaders of his unfortunate race he stands as one of Nature's noblemen, and his influence upon his followers was of lasting good to the English. The fate of this sachem is involved in conjecture, as no one knew where or when he disappeared from the scene of action, though it was not until he had lived more than a hundred years. There is a tradition, very vague and uncertain for even a tradition, that says he sought, when he felt that his end was near, the shore of Lake Massabesic, and entering his frail canoe drifted out over the placid water to return no more.
What a picturesque sight, standing upright in the centre of his fragile craft, while it was slowly wafted by the rippling tide away from the pine-fronded landscape which swiftly vanished before the incoming of the pale-faces, but whose going out was slower than the disappearance of that race of which he was a grand representative.
Passaconnaway was succeeded by his son Wannalancet, who proved worthy to wear the mantle of his proud father. After a few years he departed from the Merrimack valley with the remnant of his tribe to join the Indians from Maine and elsewhere who had sought the protection of the French at the missionary settlement of St. Francis, in New France. There is nothing to show that these warriors, to any extent, aided the French in their movements against the English. Wannalancet himself soon returned to visit the scenes of his earlier life, where he finally died and was buried, it is believed, in the private cemetery of the Tyng family, in the present town of Tyngsboro, Mass. It is pleasant to note that the Massachusetts Society of Colonial Dames have placed upon one of the boulders lying near the colonial mansion house occupied by Colonel Jonathan Tyng, where the last of the Penacook Sachems passed his closing years, a memorial tablet properly Inscribed. In the Edson cemetery of Lowell is a statue with granite base erected to the memory of his father, Passaconnaway.
Though a solitary red man, from time to time, returned to look with mournful gaze upon the disappearing forests of his forefathers as late as 1750, without grievous license years before this the poet could exclaim :
"By thy fair stream
The red man roams no more. No more he snares
The artful trout, or lordly salmons spear ;
No more his swift-winged arrow strikes the deer."
The foremost of that race which was to prove the conquerers his people settled in the Merrimack valley seven years after the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth. While springing from the same source as the other colony, this band was ushered in upon the primeval scene under more favorable auspices, and was destined to become more prosperous and far-reaching in its enterprises. While the former was composed of men who had never enjoyed the advantages of wealth and opulence, but were of austere principle, among these last came some of the best blood of England. They were men of education, talent, good standing, who had been able to obtain official recognition from the Court of London at the outset. Having associated themselves together as
"The Massachusetts Colony," their charter granted March 19, 1627-8, by the Royal Council, fixed their boundary as all of that "part of New England, in America, which lyes and extends between a great river there commonly called ' Monoack' alias
'Meremack' & a certain other river called Charles River, being in the bottom of a certain bay here commonly called Massachusetts bay & also all and singular those lands and hereditaments whatsoever lying within the space of three English miles on the south part of said Charles River, &c. And also all & singular the lands and hereditaments whatsoever which lye, & be within the space of three English miles to the Northward of said river called ' Monomack' alias ' Merrymack' or to the northward of any and every part thereof: And all lands &c lying within the limit aforesaid from the Atlantic Ocean to the South Sea."
Vague and imperfect as this boundary must appear to the careful reader, it proved too misleading to safeguard the interests of the colonists settled in the territory named, and for many years the boundary line was a "bone of contention" between certain factions that came into existence in the provinces. It was taken for granted at this period that the Merrimack came from the west its entire course.
Among the immigrants attracted to the new country only ten years after the beginning of the colonization was a little company of farmers, smiths, carpenters, and weavers, counting sixty families, who came from Western England in 1637, and builded a cluster of homes in Rowley, Mass. While the husbandmen busied themselves about their clearings in the wilderness, the smiths and carpenters erected a mill, and here the weavers wove the first cotton cloth in the colonies.
As early as this the colonists began to complain that they were "straitened for want of land." Hubbard, the historian of those times, says that Ipswich was so overrun
with people that they swarmed to other places. Out of the demand for "further farms" came an order from the Massachusetts courts in 1638 to explore the Merrimack River to its source, supposed to have been fixed by the charter given the company. This, the first survey of the Merrimack River, was made by a man named Woodward, with four companions, one of whom was an Indian, and another a youth of fifteen, who was the author of the first map of the region explored in the autumn of 1638. The young map-maker was named John Gardner, and the brave little party which he accompanied penetrated the trackless wilderness of the Merrimack valley nearly as far as Lake Winnepesaukee. Upon this survey were based the calculations of that better known and more permanent work performed by a commission appointed by the Massachusetts courts in 1652. This was composed of Captain Symon Willard and Captain Edward Johnson, Both men of prominence in those days, the latter being the author of "Wonder Working Providence of Zion's Savior in New England." These commissioners selected as assistants, Jonathan Ince, a graduate of Harvard College only two years before, and John Sherman, a surveyor of note, and great-grandfather of Roger Sherman, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. While there is a doubt expressed as to whether the first commission really reached the headwaters of the Merrimack, and its bounds were only claimed to have been marked by a spotted tree, Captain Willard's party left a very substantial monument of their work in what has become known as "Endicott Rock," which stands at the Weirs, in the town of Laconia, preserved and protected by a special appropriation from the state of New Hampshire.
Upon reaching the forks of the Pemigewassett and Winnepesaukee rivers, which unite their offerings brought from mountain and lake to form the Merrimack, the commissioners were doubtful as to the true stream for them to follow. They referred the matter to the Indians, who declared that the real Merrimack was the easterly branch flowing from "the beautiful lake of the highlands." If this was the conclusion of the aboriginal inhabitants of the country, the westerly fork is none the less deserving of description, and certainly has a good claim to being considered a part of the main river. Its source is a sheet of crystal water springing from the heart of the White Hills, far up on the eastern slope of what is still an unexplored wilderness. Running around natural barriers strewn along its pathway by a prodigal hand, this mountain rivulet pursues its lonely course for a few miles, when it is joined by another stream, which is also the outlet of a beautiful lakelet. Now one this happy twain leap cascades, dash around boulders, loiter in cool retreats, overhung by leafy bowers, fit retreats for the naiads of the forest fastness, receiving tributary after tributary until it has increased in volume and becomes dignified by the name of "river." For forty miles it flows through massive gateways, shut in by mountain walls that lift high their granite fronts in a country wild and picturesque almost beyond the power of description, when, at the foot of the famous Franconia Notch, it suddenly bursts into sunlight and into the world dazzled and dazzling.
(To be continued.)
| N |
They are not all " stately homes," but there is an air of grandeur and dignity about even the humblest of them that Impresses one. In many of the towns of the southern and middle portions of our state can be found one or more of these old rooftrees — the home of an early Governor, a Councillor, Member of Congress, General or Colonel of the old State Militia, the "Squire," or leading man of the town, that title meaning something then and carrying a prestige with it. Some of them are in a sad condition of neglect and decay, but the larger number of them are well preserved and bear their weight of years with an air of majesty that wins the respect of every passer by. For the time being we will glance at several of the grander and more historic of these mansions whose history is a part of the state in which we live, and of whose story New Hampshire may well be proud.
Portsmouth and Exeter were the earliest settled colonies of our State, and were the seats of government through Colonial and Revolutionary times. At these places we look to find some of these grand old rooftrees, and we are not disappointed. There is Wentworth House at Little Harbor, two miles out from Portsmouth, famous in song and story, the seat of Governor Benning Wentworth for many years before the Revolution. It is a strange, rambling old mansion, with many rooms, several of which still show their former magnificence. The former " Council Room" is especially well preserved, and breathes of the elegance of that long vanished time.
"Baronial and colonial in its style ;
Gables and dormer windows everywhere,
And stacks of chimneys rising high in air,"
the house is one of the show places of Portsmouth. The same carpet is still on the floor of the parlor on which the Governor and Martha Hilton stood when they were married almost a century and a half ago.
Another of these old houses is a dream of Colonial beauty. It is almost indescribable in its charm. Back of it lies a large, old-fashioned garden, rows upon rows of beautiful flowers, stately trees and fruits of every variety. It is terraced, and daily the pigeons come there to be fed. On one side of the house is an immense horse chestnut tree, which was planted by General William Whipple, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. This stately mansion was his residence, and several mementos of the statesman and patriot are still preserved in the house.
On State Street, near by, is another Wentworth mansion in good repair, the old home of Sir John Wentworth, the last of the royal governors, and whose marriage with his cousin, Frances Wentworth Atkinson, was almost as romantic and famous as that of his uncle Benning. This house has also a fine garden that leads down to the river, and the ancient wharf is shown from which the governor embarked by boat to escape from the angry townsmen on that long ago April night at the beginning of the Revolution. Within the grandly dadoed rooms are portraits of the Wentworths in their Colonial majesty, some of them by Copley.
The Governor Langdon house on Pleasant Street, and the Warner house on Daniel Street, home of the royal Councillors, Daniel and Jonathan Warner, are excellent specimens of the stately Colonial mansion. Both are in fine keeping and contain portraits and relics of their former owners. The roof of the Langdon house has sheltered royalty, for here Louis Philippe, when Duke of Orleans, and the courtly Talleyrand, both fugitives from the Reign of Terror, were entertained as guests by the hospitable Langdon. The parlor of this house is especially fine. The Warner house has the air of the old regime more than any other house in Portsmouth. Its magnificently wainscoted rooms are lined with family portraits, courtly men and beautiful women, done by Copley and worth their weight in gold.
At Exeter, on Water Street, is the Ladd-Gilman house, the home of Captain Nicholas Gilman, who managed the finances of New Hampshire through the Revolutionary period, and later the home of his still more distinguished son, Governor John Taylor Gilman, who has the honor of being the chief magistrate of the state for a longer period than any other man. Not far away is the grand old mansion of Colonel Peter Gilman, one of the magnificoes of the late Colonial period. The interior is little changed from the days when it was the meeting place of the leading and most distinguished men of the Province during the reign of George the Third.
In the near-by town of Hampton Falls, not far from the village square where stands a fine soldiers' monument, is an old rooftree that has sheltered more famous men perhaps than any other in New Hampshire, the home of Governor Meshech Weare. It was an old house when he lived in it, and he has been dead one hundred and twenty years. Weare was Governor of the State all through the Revolutionary contest, and all the leading men of New Hampshire assembled at his home more than once to devise methods of raising men and funds to carry on the prolonged contest with Great Britain. Washington was there once to consult with the Governor, and the chamber is shown with the same bed in which the pater patriae is said to have slept.
Concord, on the Merrimack, boasts of two ancient roof-trees famous in the annals of the State. These are the Judge Walker house and the Rolfe-Rumford house. The former is still in possession of the family, and has sheltered five generations of the Walkers. Built about the time that the Mount Vernon mansion was on the Potomac, it can boast of over a century and a half of life. It was the home for many years of " Parson Walker," the first settled minister of Concord, and afterwards of his son, Judge Walker, who was several times a candidate of the Republicans for Governor of the State. The house has been somewhat modernized within a few years and compares favorably with any of the costly residences of the capital city. A number of aged and stately elms shelter the mansion with their protecting branches.
Virginia has been termed the " Mother of Presidents," but New Hampshire has produced but one chief magistrate of the United States. In the town of Hillsborough can still be seen in excellent repair, the birthplace of Franklin Pierce, which was at the same time the home of his father, Governor Benjamin Pierce, and also the mansion which President Pierce occupied for a time as a residence, now the home of a nephew, Kirk D. Pierce, Esq. Both houses are good types of the old-fashioned, commodious, hospitable farm house, many of which are scattered up and down our valleys and hillsides.
In Dunbarton is the Stark place, a grand old manor house built by Colonel Caleb Stark, a son of General John Stark, and occupied at present by a descendant, Charles F. M. Stark. The house is venerable with one hundred and twenty-five years, and with its gambrel roof, its twelve dormer windows and huge chimneys has a picturesque and stately air. Lafayette was entertained here in 1825. The aspect of the house and the garden back of it suggest the lines,
"A brave old house, a garden full of bees,—
Large drooping poppies and green hollyhocks,
With butterflies for crowns, true peonies,
And pinks and goldilocks."
At Holderness, not an hour's ride from the State Normal School in Plymouth, is the great house built by Hon. Samuel Livermore and where he lived in almost baronial style from 1775 until his death in 1803. It is a good type of those days of hospitable wealth, with high-pitched gambreled roof, dormer windows, huge chimneys and commodious rooms. Its builder was one of the great men of New Hampshire in the Revolutionary period, Attorney-General, delegate to the Colonial Congress, member of the Assembly, and United States Senator. He held more important offices than any other man of his generation in his State and intellectually was not surpassed by any of them.
We have merely alluded to some of the more famous of these historic rooftrees. Perhaps in some future article or articles we will speak more in detail of others less distinguished, but none the less gracious and venerable testimonials of an age that is barely remembered to-day.
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ROM the weather-worn house on the brow o' the hill
We are dwellin" afar, in our manhood, to-day,
But we see the old gables an' hollyhocks still,
Ez they looked long ago, ere we wandered away;
We can see the tall well-sweep that stan's by the door,
An' the sunshine that gleams on the old oaken floor.
We can hear the sharp creak o' the farm-gate again,
An' the loud cacklin' hens in the gray barn near by,
With its broad, saggin' floor, with its scaffolds o' grain,
An' its rafters that once seemed to reach to the sky;
We behold the big beams, an' the " bottomless bay"
Where the farm-boys once joyfully jumped on the hay.
We can hear the low hum o' the hard-workin' bees
At the'r toil in our father's old orchard once more,
In the broad, tremblin' tops o' the bright-bloomin' trees,
Ez they busily gather the'r sweet, winter-store ;
An' the murmurin' brook, the delightful old horn,
An' the cawin' black crows that 're pullin' the corn.
We can see the low hog-pen, just over the way,
An' the long, ruined shed by the side o' the road,
Where the sleds in the summer were hidden away,
Where the wagons an' plows in the winter were stowed;
An' the cider-mill down in the holler below,
With a long, creakin' sweep for the old hoss to draw,
Where we larned by the homely old tub long ago
What a world o' sweet raptur' there wus in a straw;
From the cider-casks there, lyin' loosely around,
More leaked from the bung-holes than dripped on the ground.
We behold the bleak hillsides, still bris'lin' with rocks,
Where the mountain streams murmured with musical sound,
Where we hunted an' fished, where we chased the red fox
With lazy old house-dog or loud-bayin'hound;
An' the cold, cheerless woods we delighted to tramp,
Fur the shy, whirrin' patridge, in snow to our knees,
Where, with neck-yoke an' pails, in the old sugar-camp,
We gathered the sap from the tall maple trees;
An' the fields where our plows danced a furious jig
Ez we wearily follered the furrer all day,
Where we stumbled an' bounded o'er boulders so big
That it took twenty oxen to draw 'em away ;
Where we sowed, where we hoed, where we cradled an' mowed,
Where we scattered the swaths that were heavy with dew,
Where we tumbled, we pitched, an' behind the tall load
The broken old bull-rake reluctantly drew.
How we grasped the old sheepskin with feelin's of scorn,
Ez we straddled the back o' the old sorrel mare,
An' rode up an' down thro' the green rows o' corn,
Like a pin on a clo's-line, that sways in the air ;
We can hear our stern fathers a scoldin' us still,
Ez the careless old creatur' comes down on a hill.
We are far from the home o' our boyhood to-day,
In the battle o' life we are strugglin' alone ;
The weather-worn farm-house hez gone to decay,
The chimbley hez fallen, its swallers hev flown,
Yet memory brings, on her beautiful wings,
Her fanciful pictur's again from the past,
An' lovin'ly, fondly, an' tenderly clings
To pleasur's an' pastimes too lovely to last.
We wander again by the river to-day,
We sit in the school-room, o'erflowing with fun,
We whisper, we play, an' we scamper away
When the lessons are larned an' the spellin'is done.
We see the old cellar where apples were kept,
The garret where all the old rubbish wus thrown,
The leetle back chamber where snugly we slept,
The homely old kitchen, the broad hearth o' stone
Where apples were roasted in menny a row,
Where our gran'mothers nodded an' knit long ago.
Our gran'mothers long hev reposed in the tomb,—
With a strong, healthy race they hev peopled the land,—
They worked with the spindle, they toiled at the loom,
Nor lazily brought up the'r babies by hand.
The old flint-lock musket, whose awful recoil
Made many a Nimrod with agony cry,
Once hung on the chimbley, a part o' the spoil
Our gallyant old gran'fathers captur'd at " Ti,"—
Brave men were our gran'fathers, sturdy an' strong,
The kings o" the forest they chopped from the'r lands,
They were stern in the'r virtu's, they hated all wrong,
An' they fought fur the right with the'r hearts an' the'r hands;
Down, down from the hillsides they swept in The'r might,
An' up from the hollers they went on the'r way,
To fight an' to fall upon Hubbardton's height,
To struggle an' CONQUER in Bennin'ton's fray
O ! fresh be the'r memory, cherished the sod
That long hez grown green o'er the'r sacred remains,
An' grateful our hearts to a generous GOD
Fur the blood an' the spirit that flows in our veins,
Our Aliens, our Starks, an' our Warners 're gone,
But our mountains remain with the'r evergreen crown;
The souls o' our heroes 're yet marchin' on,—
The structur's they founded SHALL NEVER GO DOWN.
From the weather-worn house on the brow o' the hill
We are dwellin' afar, in our manhood, to-day;
But we see the old gables an' hollyhocks still,
Ez they looked when we left 'em to wander away.
But the ones that we loved, in the sweet long-ago,
In the old village churchyard sleep under the snow.
Farewell to the friends o' our bright boyhood days,
To the beautiful vales once delightful to roam,
To the fathers, the mothers, now gone from our gaze,
From the weather-worn house to the'r heavenly home,
Where they wait, where they watch, an' will welcome us still,
Ez they waited an' watched in the house on the hill.
| T |
The home of the Webster family was, as the picture shows, a small, one-story cottage built much after the fashion of the houses of pioneer farmers of those days.
The old homestead — long since gone — looked out upon a scene of beauty. The lake, dimpled by the summer breeze, lay for miles before it ; far beyond the distance was outlined by blue hills, while within a bow-shot of the door swept the long, graceful crescent of Caesar's beach, and yet nearer still a group of tall sentinel pines rose and like the pipes of a great organ were stirred to solemn sound by the wind.
The farm was small, and the income derived from its cultivation slender ; indeed so much so that the young musician early realized that he must begin the battle of life with heroic endeavor.
But he came of strong ancestry. The family record traces the line away back to rare old John Webster of Ipswich, Massachusetts, as long ago as 1640. Then there was Major Webster of Revolutionary fame. And now comes into the line the blood of the Hugenots. The beautiful Bethhia de C'osta, whose father was a runaway boy picked up at Valley Forge by Colonel John Goffe.
Born at a time when constant struggle was necessary to existence, Joseph was compelled from early boyhood to be self dependent. There is something in such an environment that develops greatness. Long before he saw the direction in which lay the path to larger opportunity he became master of the flute and fife.
At the age of 15 he worked for his board and sixpence a day. A small sum saved from his slender income first placed him in the way of beginning a musical education, and the instruction derived from thirteen nights' attendance at a country singing school made up the outfit with which he began his musical career. He progressed rapidly, and in a year's time was capable of reading at sight music for voice or instrument. His first singing-school was successful, and he might have been seen making his way on foot along the lakeside road, an old bass-viol on his shoulder, facing the sharp winter wind that blew across the lake. He was reckoned as in some manner different from other teachers of psalmody. A peculiar faculty for imparting knowledge won pupils and friends.
With money earned by teaching singing-school evenings he paid expenses while attending Pembroke academy —that alma mater of many distinguished men. Here his love of military drill had opportunity for improvement, and so when the War of the Rebellion broke out Webster was considered one of the best drill masters in the state.
At about the age of 21 he was in Boston, a pupil of the best teachers to be found at that day. Up to this time he used to say he had not seen a piano. He lived in Boston three years, teaching and being taught. It was a real battle against want, says my informant.
In 1843, Mr. Webster went to New York, where he formed a business relation with Bernard Covert with whom he gave a series of concerts both in the city and throughout the state. The New York experience was followed by six years of varying success in Connecticut.
About this time an attack of bronchitis resulted in loss of voice to such an extent that he was obliged to give up singing in public. This seeming misfortune, however, proved to be, in a measure, a blessing in disguise for it drove him to composition, the direction in which his peculiar genius lay.
He wrote most of the music for the " Euphonians," a musical organization even now remembered in some parts of New England.
Up to this time Mr. Webster had published no music. The first publishers to bring his work before the public were Firth, Pond & Co., of New York. Then Oliver Ditson, a little later, brought out the song, " There's a Change in Things I Love." It will be noticed that there is a touch of melancholy in the piece that thus early in life shadowed forth the despondency of his nature.
The public soon felt the magic of his genius, and fortune began to smile upon the composer. Failing health, however, now compelled him to seek a warmer climate, and
consequently the years from 1850 to 1855 were passed in the South.
Madison, Indiana, a quarter of a century ago, was a thrifty and beautiful village on the banks of the Ohio. Its citizens were mostly wealthy and aristocratic, and it was in this cultured musical circle that Mr. Webster found favor and abundant patronage. He numbered among his friends the Crittendens, Hendricks, Joneses and Brights.
It was while living in southern Indiana that the agitation preceding the War of the Rebellion was highest, and extremely bitter in that section. Mr. Webster's sentiments were with the North, and his sympathy for the negro was freely expressed. On this account he was soon aware that it would ere long be more congenial for him further north. Accordingly, we next find him in Racine, Wisconsin, and later in Elkhorn.
The war was now begun and he hastened to volunteer. Being very near-sighted he was rejected by the mustering officer; this, writes his son, was one of the disappointing incidents of his life. Offering his services as drill-master he was accepted, but he refused renumeration. As an illustration of Mr. Webster's patriotism it may be mentioned that when the War Governor of Wisconsin offered him rank and pay of an officer he declined in the following characteristic reply noted on the back of the Governor's letter: " I will not take the pay if I do not share the dangers of the service."
It was during this period that Mr. Webster produced some of the most stirring war songs. Often the patriotic composer sat late into the night, his genius fired by the thought that the morrow's bugle note might be inspired by the touch of his pen.
About this time the music for "Lorena," was produced, and it is a singular fact that while its author was devoted to the cause of the Union, this ballad became a favorite camp-fire song in the Southern army. It is a strangely plaintive air, touching, in some passages, closely upon the finest possibilities of tone when providing a medium for the expression of sentiment. There is a sort of hypnotic spell to the air as it moves through the lines—especially the first four lines of each stanza :
"The years creep slowly by, Lorena,
The snow is on the grass again—
The sun's low down the sky, Lorena,
The frost gleams where the flowers have been."
War time inspirations of brush and pen have always taken a strong hold. Willards' painting, " Yankee Doodle," created almost as much enthusiasm as did the tune; Colonel Haynes' poem, "Our Famous Quartette," found a permanent place in the literature of our state.
At the close of the war Webster wrote a patriotic drama, of which, however, little is now known.
From 1865 to 1868 were composed many of his most popular songs. "The Sweet By and By" appeared in 1868. Following are the words of the original composition :
SWEET BY AND BY.
"There's a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar,
For the Father waits over the way
To prepare us a dwelling place there.
(CHORUS.)
"In the sweet by and by
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.
We shall sing on that beautiful shore
The melodious songs of the blest.
And our spirits shall sorrow no more—
Nor sigh for the blessing of rest.
To our bountiful Father above,
We will offer the tribute of praise,
For the glorious gift of His love,
And the blessings that hallow our days."
The question has been raised, did Webster write the words, as well as compose the music of this song? One or two claimants for the authorship have appeared. I have taken some pains to investigate, and am satisfied that Joseph P. Webster wrote both words and music of " The Sweet By and By."
Looking back through about all of his published works, the very same peculiar and unmistakable personality pervades them all, from beginning to end. Take any piece you please to the piano, and you shall find the same nameless sweetness running through it. The genius or talent of no two men—by the very reason of its being genius—can flow in lines so nearly parallel.
To be sure there is really nothing original in the sentiment. It is only the putting together in this form the hope of men ever since the Master suffered on Calvary.
Take the song "Twill Be Summer By and By," written in 1855. (" Sweet By and By" was composed three years later.) The same spirit actuates both.
" Cold and cruel is the judgment of man—
Cruel as winter and cold as the snow,
But, by and by, will the deed and the plan
Be judged by the motive that lieth below."
Cruel as winter and cold as the snow,
But, by and by, will the deed and the plan
Be judged by the motive that lieth below."
Again, in " Summer Sweets Shall Bloom Again," observe the parallel sentiment and even words :
" Summer's fragrant rose shall blow
Sweeter in the early year ;
And the joys of long ago
By and by shall reappear."
Sweeter in the early year ;
And the joys of long ago
By and by shall reappear."
If the framework of the words is by different men, the hand of the master genius has refitted all.
If Webster was despondent by nature, there appears no unwholesome whining. He may have suffered from crude criticism—it is only brazen mediocrity that does not. In the days of his youth he lived much out-of-doors by the beautiful lake; saw the sunshine touch its waves ; saw dawn and sunset paint the hills, and moonlight float its silvery veil afar; heard the ripple of the moving waters upon the beach and ever the music of the pines. Here present to eye and ear were motives for brightest endeavor.
Not to the musician alone, but to the painter these scenes should appeal. It is incomprehensible to me why some artists sit in the house and paint skillets and fried eggs and empty Schnapps bottles when this lake is so near.
I am not able to give a complete list of Joseph Webster's works, but prominent among them are the following : " My Margaret," " Come to Me, Memories Olden," " Lost Lomie Lane," "The Golden Stair," "Under the Beautiful Stars," "Sounds of the Sea," "The Vine Wreathed Cottage," "Dawning of the Better Day."
Mr. Webster had a striking personality. In figure he was tall, erect and spare ; his auburn hair hung in wavy masses upon his broad shoulders ; his forehead was high, his eyes deep-set and eye-brows heavy ; these with a slightly Roman nose and long, gray beard made a face and bearing full of character. In manner he was dignified, kind and obliging. He had unbounded trust in human nature — large-hearted generosity and good-will to men. He was not rich. He might have been had that been his aim.
The author of " The Sweet By and By" rests in a distant state. There is no monument above him ; only the earth, the grass and the wild flowers. That is the way he wished it to be. His time came on January 18, 1875. As he passed beyond, those standing by saw " The light of two worlds upon his face — Evening and morning peace."
THE HUSKING BEE
Nestor of the Farms.
Nestor of the Farms.
My thoughts go back to the rosy prime,
And memory paints anew the scenes,
Afar in the bleak New England clime,
Though half a century intervenes.
—Anon.
And memory paints anew the scenes,
Afar in the bleak New England clime,
Though half a century intervenes.
—Anon.
| H |
Among the treasured properties of the Nestor of the Farms is a vivid memory painting of a husking bee — and though the picture of one stands for many others. This one, to be described, came off at the home of a thrifty farmer in a community, which for obvious reasons shall be nameless, whose everyday name was "Squire Oddby." As well as being one of the largest corn growers in the town, he had made it a custom, in which he was simply following the example of his father, to have a husking bee each year upon the 20th of October, except when that date happened to fall on Sunday, in which case the affair took place a day earlier. As, has already been hinted, these gatherings were expected with even greater regularity than the equinoctial storms of the month before. The boys who assisted the worthy farmer in his planting, anticipating the happy occasion, never failed to place in the hills on the sly, though I never knew any valid reason for their secrecy, as the master never seemed to disprove of it, a few highly colored kernels of grain among the "yellow jackets." Possibly they would have hung their heads with apparent shame had they been questioned in regard to their motives, though their purpose was honest and praiseworthy, for no husking bee could have been a complete success without the girls, and the girls could not have fulfilled half of their mission without the red-kerneled corn.
Leaving the settlement of such problems to those who may be wiser, if younger, the weather upon the occasion to be described was most auspicious.
The moon, nearing its full, rose over the distant hills a little ahead of the first arrival at the farmhouse, or rather barn. This homestead of Squire Oddby's, which had been in the family for three generations, was a typical New England farm side of half a century ago. The house was a story in height, with a wide roof, and a huge chimney in the centre. The walls had been originally painted red, but sun and storm had bleached even this tenacious coloring so it showed only in streaks now alternated with that dull-gray which comes from weather-beaten wood. The front door, a stranger alike to bell or knocker, was overhung by a trailing woodbine, which at this season appeared in the zenith of its gauze-like glory. The deep yard running down the slope toward the road, was littered here and there with scattered remains of the winter wood-pile, some big sticks that had proved too stubborn for the woodman's axe, a broken-down ox-wagon, a hay-rick which had served its summer term of usefulness and was now awaiting another season and another series of mending, when it should return to the hay-field creaking and staggering under its bulky load of freshly cured fodder for the winter-feeding, with other articles too numerous to mention, not to speak of a good-sized boulder near the driveway. This stone presented an appearance somewhat resembling a big pin-cushion with its contents protruding from its sides, the pins and needles in this case being certain wooden prys and levers, that had been utilized in vain efforts to raise the obstacle from its primeval bed and been left reclining on their supports at an angle of forty-five degrees or leaning against the rock. The condition of these instruments of labor showed that several years had intervened since the last attempt had been made to remove the boulder, but they had been suffered to remain uncouth reminders of man's futile efforts.
On the farther side of the yard the housewife, with an appreciation of the beautiful and fragrant, had planted a bed of flowers in the spring, but as the season came on apace she found her household duties crowding so heavily upon her as not to allow even a few minutes between the light of day and the lamp of evening to be devoted to a task so pleasant, and the pinks, marigolds, daisies and morning glories soon became overpowered and strangled by weeds and grass that demanded no special care to foster their growth.
A prominent feature of this yard was an ancient balm-of-gilead tree, whose bald and shattered top denoted its extreme old age. This patriarch was said to have been the growth of a little twig set in the ground by the original settler of the lot. Be that as it may, the tree was looked upon as an old member of the family, a sort of grandmother, whose leaves had they been tongues might have told an interesting and pathetic tale of bygone days.
Down across the road an old-style well-sweep, creaking dismally with each gust of wind, overhung a well where for four generations the occupants of the dwelling within sight had come to seek the crystal treasures it afforded.
A long, rambling-sort of shed ran away from the east end of the house, which expression may be taken literally to a considerable extent, as the structure had actually broken away from the main building so a wide rent separated the two. Some rods below this stood the old-fashioned country barn, innocent alike of paint or clapboards, with long, wide cracks in its walls, through which the snows of winter sifted in while the wind played hide and seek where it was not checked by some obstruction within. It was the longest barn in town, being over one hundred feet in length, consisting of nine joints or sections of twelve feet each. Built before modern ideas of convenience was familiar to carpenters, instead of having one floor running lengthwise it had three crossing it. There was no cellar, except at the east end where the ground fell away so as to allow an opening where sleds and wagons were stored when not in use. The eaves were lined with swallow's nests, empty now until another season should bring the feathered inhabitants back to their summer homes. Inside were other nests of their cousins, the barn swallows, built skillfully against purlin and rafter festooned with cobwebs.
It had been a favorable season for hay on the farm of Squire Oddby, so the bays and scaffolds were filled to the beams with newly-harvested crops, while the floors were filled with the products of the corn-field thrown promiscuously along in huge windrows on one side of the floor. The other had been carefully cleared for a space wide enough to allow a row of benches for the huskers to sit upon while they tore off the rough jackets of the yellow grain.
It was barely growing dusky in the orchard below the house when the first of the expected huskers appeared, climbing with laborious step the hill leading to the farm-buildings. He was Mr. Hungerford, who was looking longingly forward to the appetizing supper the Squire's folks were noted for giving, and willing to fill in the interval of waiting by a pretense of work. Next to him, puffing and blowing like a porpoise from his exertions, came Job Rams-bottom, who lived alone under the hill, and who could not be blamed if he, too, had a conscious leaning toward the expected pork and beans, to say nothing of the pumpkin pies that stood in the shed hallway cooling off, looking for all the world like so many huge pieces of gold. The third on hand was 'Lish Whittle; who had actually left home immediately after dinner in order to get a good seat on the husking bench, let him tell it. He came with a cane, likewise with lips dry for good old cider and an appetite for corn bread, beans, and pumpkin pies. And now they began to come in twos and threes, and directly in larger squads.
Not all of the comers were of the sterner sex by any means, for the invitation was not confined to them, as there were women, and rosy-cheeked country girls, vivacious as well as pretty. Some of the women had come to assist the good house-wife at her work in preparing the supper, while the rest, including all of the younger ones, lent their companionship and good-cheer to the busy workers in the barn.
A few old men had come who were too feeble to work, and these were given corners and quiet places either in the house or in the barn, where they could beguile away the time until supper listening to the talk of others, or joining themselves in some of the reminiscences of their younger years. One of this group was old Captain Century, the hero of three wars, hale and hearty for one of his age, though nearly blind, his remaining ambition now being to live to one hundred years so he might be " twice a century."
Two others were among these invited guests, and no husking bee in Sunset would have been considered a success without them. These were Homer Bland, the blind bard, and Bige Little, the fat and jolly pack-peddler, who occupied the space taken by any two ordinary persons on the bench without husking more than the stint of one. The sightless musician was given a seat at one side where he might enliven the work of the others with his songs and music.
A little after it was dark the long benches in all of the floors were packed with willing workers, who, seen in the glimmering light of the lanterns hung in rows from hayforks stuck in the hay-mow and looked like phantom figures worked by an invisible stringing as they moved back and forth in their tasks. As the corn after it was husked had to be carried in baskets into the garret of the house, several of the stoutest men and boys were delegated to this part of the evening's undertaking.
Soon after the blind singer had struck his first note, which was a signal for the huskers to begin. Above the hum of many voices pitched at different keys, could be heard at frequent intervals a loud, boisterous tone, exclaiming: "Haw-haw-haw! that's a good joke, 'Lisha, tell us another. Somehow it limbers up the husks, an' sort of puts life into one's hands like ol' cider."
" Remember th' time, Biger," replied the other, " we sot daown to th' Squire's dinner an' eat three heaping plates of beans, to say nothing of th' trimmin's, sich as three punkin pies, a loaf of 'lasses ginger bread, a loaf of johnny cake and a pan of doughnuts ? "
" Nor the three mugs of ol' cider that washed it down, haw-haw-haw! But that weren't a carcumstance to ol' Pancake Knowles, who swallowed pancakes for four hours as fast as Marm Durborn, with three gals a helpin' her, could cook' 'em, haw-haw-haw ! 'Member that time, ol' man ? " nudging his companion on his left, who nodded approval, and then as if he had forgotten some duty suddenly quit his husking and pulling a jack-knife from one of his pockets began to whittle industriously upon a corn-stalk, seeming oblivious the rest of the evening to what was going on around him.
" 'Em was good ol' times, eh, 'Lisha ? " resumed Bige, kicking the loose fodder from under his feet. " Th' fust squire was on'arth then, and the new squire hadn't got into th' traces. I tell you 'em were good ol' days. I uster to sell goods in 'em days, I did. Bless your soul, Marm Thompson, whose ol" man bought Pete Hungerford's farm for a song, took seventeen handkercheeves one right arter another, an' she a larfin' an' shoutin' at my stories, haw-haw-haw ! That same trip, or was it——"
A peal of girlish laughter rang out, and a buxom maid was seen to spring from the bench and dart furiously down the line of huskers followed by a sturdy youth whose feet were as swift if not as light as hers.
" Ketch her, Abe!" shouted someone; "you can do it if you won't give up."
" You can't!" called back the laughing girl, while she continued her flight.
Flourishing over his head that unerring talisman of such occasions, an ear of red corn, good-natured Abe Goodwill accepted the challenge, and sped rapidly in the footsteps of the fair fugitive, whose taunting cries were drowned by the merry shouts of the huskers, all of whom had stopped work to watch the couple. Abe might have caught Meg in the early stage of the chase, but every one tried to trip him up as he rushed forward, and in other ways lent their assistance to the fugitive, as was usual at such times.
"Abe 'll ketch her ! " declared Everybody's Sam, confidently. " My! how I wish I was in his shoes ! "
" You'd git a pair of boxed ears for your trouble, youngster," remarked a burly-formed, horny-handed man near by, who was none other than her father, Isaac Irons, the village smith, who was noted for his great strength. " I don't keer if Meg is my darter, she's got an arm that's a credit to the old man. Let 'em go it, they are like colts turned out to pasture."
Meg Irons, upon reaching the side of the barn and finding that she could not open the door at the end of the floor, wheeled suddenly about, and with a scream of pleasure, darted past her pursuer and so doubled upon her track, her cheeks looking uncommonly red.
" Golly ! ain't got her yet, Abe ? haw-haw-haw !" roared Bige, until his fat sides shook and the tears rolled down his rotund cheeks. But the plucky Abe had not given up, and just as he came opposite the fat peddler he caught Meg about the waist. Pulling her head over upon his shoulder he gave her such a resounding thwack upon her lips that he was heard above the outbursts of the spectators. Nor was Abe satisfied with his lawful due, for he immediately attempted to repeat his attack, when Meg's plump hand fell across his mouth, sending him backward over the bench into the pile of husks behind. This upset a basket of corn, which fell upon Bige Little, sending him back into the fluffy mass almost out of sight. General confusion reigned, above the outcries being heard the half-smothered haw-haw-haws of the jolly peddler, as he rose like a mountain out of a fog-bank into sight.
" Well done, lad ! well done, lass ! Puts me in mind of my young days afore I took on so much unaccountable counter-poise. Come, Homer! ain't you got that fiddle into shape to gin us a song ? "
" ' Come, gie's a sang,' " Montgomery cried,
And lay our disputes all aside ;
What signifies 't for folks to chide
For what was done before them ? "
" Look out there, folks! that lantern's coming daown!" bawled out one of the onlookers. It was suddenly discovered that the fork stuck in the side of the mow as a support for the light had begun to take a downward slant so the lantern holding a piece of candle in a block of wood was slowly slipping down the inclined arm. One of those nearest, seeing the catastrophe likely to take place, sprang nimbly up the corn pile, and catching the lantern in one hand and the fork handle in the other, dexteously arranged the support so the light remained stationary.
If tongues were busy so were hands, and by a quarter past nine o'clock the last ear was husked. The boys sprang up with loud cheers, dancing to and fro in glee, or catching each other in a rough and tumble squabble, while the older members of the party started slowly, but willingly, toward the house, it having been announced that supper would be ready by the time they could "wash and tidy up." The lanterns were taken down, some of them relieved of their lights, while others were used to brighten the way to the house.
" Yaou 've done it well, boys," declared the Squire. " Naow come an' eat all the pork an' beans yaou can, with punkin pies thrown in for tally. Come all of yaou, for yaou hev 'arned yeour suppers."
In all that crowd, which must have numbered more than fifty, no one hung back. As they entered in this demonstrative manner the dwelling the fragrance of the warm supper greeted their nostrils, and two long tables running the length of the large dining room were seen, literally groaning under the load of food heaped upon them. There were foremost in the display huge platters of steaming beans just from the old-fashioned brick oven, flanked with tall loafs of smoking brown bread, and big dishes of pork, which had been browned and crisped on the upper side to a tempting nicety. There also were generous loaves of wheat bread, great pans heaped with pancakes and doughnuts, plates of ginger-bread sweetened with molasses, and last but not least, mince pies, apple pies, custard pies, and pumpkin pies without apparent limit. These last were made in deep tin plates, the bottom and sides covered with a crust, which had been cut large enough so that it could be rolled over the rim thus forming a ridge around the circuit. The interior was then filled with the yellow fruit of the luscious melon, sweetened and seasoned as only one of those good old-fashioned cooks of the country farm-house could succeed in doing. Mrs. Reed, too, was noted for being one of the best in the town, and she always looked after these pies herself. Of course there were other dishes on the table, butter, cider apple-sauce, and so on, but these need not be mentioned, unless we except the big cup of hot coffee, that afforded the room a delicious aroma.
The women were very busy giving the final touches to the tables, placing here a plate of doughnuts, there a pie, or slicing a loaf of bread that had been overlooked. No one was busier than the hostess herself, who was a sweet-faced, matronly woman of middle life, never seeming happier than when superintending one of these harvest suppers for which she was noted.
The men were already standing about the long, wooden sink that was supplied with water from a wooden pump, waiting their turns to wash and prepare for supper. Fifteen minutes later followed the clatter of knives and forks, and rattle of dishes, with the hum of voices. In the medley of sounds one could hear the clear tone of one busy worker expounding upon some wonderful feat he had performed in his earlier years, while at the opposite table Lish Whittle and Bige Little were just closing a wager as to which could eat the more and the longer. By the way they had begun their race it looked as if the housewife would have to begin to replenish her store at once.
" I like beans without any 'lasses in 'em or unyuns — jess plain beans right from a hot oven," declared Mr. Little, helping himself to a heaping plate of his choice, the steam rising from them concealing for the time his eager, expectant countenance.
" Give me a dash of 'lasses, a pinch o' mustard, an' a small unyun in mine," replied Mr. Whittle, likewise helping himself to an equal portion from another platter. " I notice too, there is a big difference in beans 'cordin to th' land they grow on, and th' kind, too. Yer pea-beans may do well for everyday eatin', but fer huskin's give me good ol' marrowfats. Pass me th' pork, Jerry ; an' you, Sam, might push along th' vinegar an' th' red pepper. A leetle spice sort o' 'livens up one's stumich, an' clears out th' head. Don't keer fer th' bread yet. Never eat it till I'm half done."
"Pepper's half peas!" exclaimed Bige. "Heerd that joke way down in Maine—haw-haw-haw !"
" Hoi' on, Bige Little!" cried the shrill voice of Belindy Betters at this moment " thet ain't 'lasses you air puttin' in your coffee. It's vinegar. Yeou don't drink vinegar in your coffee, do yeou?"
A close observer might have seen a peculiar look on the round face of the peddler, but it was quickly chased away, while he replied with feigned fidelity to truth:
" Always, marm, always. 'Pears this ain't very stout."
Before Miss Betters could give utterance to the amazement on her lips, a wild, Indian-like whoop came from the other table, and one of its occupants was seen to leap from his seat and begin to dance a series of figures that would have done credit to a Pawnee chief.
" Who's kilt neow ?" cried Belindy, in her fright letting the tray in her hands slip from her hold, thus sending a platter of pancakes rolling to the four quarters of the floor.
" John Reed's swallowed a whole spoonful of horseradish—thought it was beans !" shouted one of the younger members of the party. " Uncle Life give it to him."
" Oh, my nose! my nose ! it's cut off—help—help—save me I" leaping wildly to and fro, holding on to the besieged member with both hands. The spectators all stopped eating, some shouting with laughter, while others merely smiled. Bige Little stopped in the midst of a discourse on the beauty of beans to roar " Haw-haw-haw !"
How long this outburst might have lasted is not easy to forecast, had not the notes of a violin at this moment fell on the scene, and Homer Bland, who had not been persuaded to sit down to the table with the others, began one of his songs. Then, amid a silence broken only at intervals by a click of some knife inadvertently striking a plate, he gave a song and half an hour later the supper was over and the latest husking bee at the Squire's a memory filled with reminiscences likely to last for a long time.
LIGHT OF LOVE. (Poem)
G. Waldo Browne.
G. Waldo Browne.
A thousand eyes are given Night,
While the Day has only one ;
Yet swiftly dies the World's fair light
At the setting of the sun.
The mind is given a thousand eyes,
While the heart has only one ;
Yet all the light of a lifetime dies,
When the day of love is done.
WHERE PASSACONAWAY WAS WONT TO STAND. (Poem)
Cora C. Bass.
Cora C. Bass.
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Piercing the distance with intrepid eye,
The teeming mills their rhythmic shuttles ply,
Many knelt subservient to the hand
Of that good sachem of a noted band ;
But labor, like a chieftain, leads us high,
To fairer fields, where richer guerdons lie
Than he aspired to win; the bold demand
Of Time is met by a triumphant throng
Which presses onward, upward, evermore;
And cities in their children true as strong
Live worthy the brave men who marched before,
Speeding the hum of Industry's glad song
O'er heights the noble red man trod of yore.
WHEELER'S NARRATIVE. (Serial)
Capt. Thomas Wheeler.
Capt. Thomas Wheeler.
An Account of Captain Thomas Wheeler's Expedition to Quabaug, now Brookfield, Mass., in 1675- With Notes by William Plumer, Jr., and others.
A TRUE NARRATIVE of the Lord's Providences in various dispensations towards Captain Edward Hutchinson of Boston and my self, and those that went with us into the Nipmuck* Country, and also to Quabaug, alias Brookfield: The said Captain Hutchinson having a Commission from the Honoured Council of this Colony to treat with several Sachems in those parts in order to the publick peace, and my self being also ordered by the said Council to accompany him with part of my troop for security from any danger that might be from the Indians : and to assist him in the transaction of matters committed to him.
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* Nipmuck, from nipe, " fresh water;" auke, " a place:" meaning in English " Indians about fresh water," was a common term applied by other tribes to the Amerinds in northern Massachusetts and lower New Hampshire. The whites naturally fell into the practice of calling the families who might be living about a certain locality by the name of that place. In this way the Indians of New England were divided into more tribes or clans than really lived there For instance, those of the Merrimack valley really belonging to one family became known by as many as a dozen different names.—Editor.
** Capt. Hutchinson had a very considerable farm in the Nipmug country, and had occasion to employ several of the Nipmug sachem's men in tilling and ploughing the ground, and thereby was known to the face of many of them. The Sachems sent word that they would
field, whither we came on the Lord's day about noon. From thence the same day, (being August 1,) we understanding that the Indians were about ten miles north west from us, we sent out four men to acquaint the Indians that we were not come to harm them, but our business was only to deliver a Message from our Honoured Governour and Council to them, and to receive their answer, we desiring to come to a Treaty of Peace with them, (though they had for several dayes fled from us,) they having before professed friendship, and promised fidelity to the English. When the messengers came to them they made an alarm, and gathered together about an hundred and fifty fighting men as near as they could judge. The young men amongst them were stout in their speeches, and surly in their carriage. But at length some of the chief Sachems promised to meet us on the next morning about 8 of the clock upon a plain within three miles of Brookfield, with which answer the messengers returned to us. Whereupon, though their speeches and carriage did much discourage divers of our company, yet we conceived that we had a cleer call to go to meet them at the place whither they had promised to come. Accordingly we with our men accompanied with three of the principal inhabitants of that town marched to the plain appointed; but the treacherous heathen intending mis-
speak with none but Capt. Hutchinson himself, and appointed a meeting at such a tree and such a time. The guide that conducted him and those that were with him through the woods, brought them to a swamp [ as stated in the Narrative ] not far off the appointed place, out of which those Indians ran all at once and killed sixteen [but 8, as in Narrative] men, and wounded several others, of which wounds Capt. Hutchinson afterwards died, whose death is the more lamented in that his mother and several others of his relations died by the hands of the Indians, now above 30 years since. Ms. Letter sent to London, dated Nov. 10, 1675, AS quoted by Gov. Hutchinson, I, 266.
Capt. Hutchinson belonged to Boston and had been one of its representatives, and considerably in publick life. He was a son of William and the celebrated ANN Hutchinson, and was brother-in-law to Major Thomas Savage, of Boston, who married Faith, the sister of Capt. H. He was the father of the Hon. Elisha Hutchinson, one of the Counsellors of Massachusetts, who died 10 December, 1717, aged 77. The last was father of Hon. Thomas Hutchinson, born 30 January, 1674; died 3 December, 1739, whose son, Gov. Thomas Hutchinson, born 9 September, 1711, was the celebrated historian of Massachusetts. [ Savage's Winthrop, 246. It is a little singular that the Gov. should not have met with a Narrative so particular respecting the fate of his great ancestor.]—William Plumer, Jr.
chief, (if they could have opportunity,) came not to the said place, and so failed our hopes of speaking with them there. Whereupon the said Captain Hutchinson and my self, with the rest of our company, considered what was best to be clone, whether we should go any further towards them or return, divers of us apprehending much danger in case we did proceed, because the Indians kept not promise there with us. But the three men who belonged to Brookfield were so strongly perswaded of their freedome from any ill intentions towards us, (as upon other bounds, so especially because the greatest part of those Indians belonged to David, one of their chief Sachems, who was taken to be a great friend to the English :) that the said Captain Hutchinson who was principally intrusted with the matter of Treaty with them, was thereby encouraged to proceed and march forward towards a Swampe where the Indians then were. When we came near the said swampe, the way was so very bad that we could march only in a single file, there being a very rocky hill on the right hand, and a thick swampe on the left. In which there were many of those cruel blood-thirsty heathen, who there way laid us, waiting an opportunity to cut us off; there being also much brush on the side of the said hill, where they lay in ambush to surprize us.* When we had marched there about sixty or seventy rods, the said perfidious Indians sent out their shot upon us as a showre of haile, they being, (as was supposed,) about two hundred men or more. We seeing our selves so beset, and not having room to fight, endeavoured to fly for the safety of our lives. In which flight we were in no small danger to be all cut off, there being a very miry swamp be-
* [ It seems from a note in Hutchinson's History of Massachusetts, that the Indians took a prisoner of the name of George, a Christian Indian, who afterwards reported that Philip and his company of about 40 men, besides women and children, joined the Nipmuck Indians in a swamp, ten or twelve miles from Brookfield on the 5th of August. " The Indians told Philip, at his first coming, what they had done to the English at Quabaog: Then he presented and gave to three sagamores, viz. John alias Apequinash; Quanansit, and Mawtamps, to each of them about a peck of unstrung wampum, which they accepted." Philip was conducted to the swamp by two Indians, one of whom was Caleb of Tatumasket, beyond Mendon.]
fore us, into which we could not enter with our horses to go forwards, and there being no safety in retreating the way we came, because many of our company, who lay behind the bushes, and had let us pass by them quietly ; when others had shot, they came out, and stopt our way back, so that we were forced as we could to get up the steep and rocky hill; but the greater our danger was, the greater was God's mercy in the preservation of so many of us from sudden destruction. My self being gone up part of the hill without any hurt, and perceiving some of my men to be fallen by the enemies' shot, I wheeled about upon the Indians, not calling on my men who were left to accompany me, which they in all probability would have done had they known of my return upon the enemy. They firing violently out of the swamp, and from behind the bushes on the hill side wounded me sorely, and shot my horse under me, so that he faultring and falling, I was forced to leave him, divers of the Indians being then but a few rods distant from me. My son Thomas Wheeler flying with the rest of the company, missed me amongst them, and fearing that I was either slain or much endangered, returned towards the swampe again, though he had then received a dangerous wound in the reins, where he saw me in the danger aforesaid. Whereupon, he endeavoured to rescue me, shewing himself therein a loving and dutiful son, he adventuring himself into great peril of his life to help me in that distress, there being many of the enemies about me, my son set me on his own horse, and so escaped a while on foot himself, until he caught an horse whose rider was slain, on which he mounted, and so through God's great mercy we both escaped. But in this attempt for my deliverance he received another dangerous wound by their shot in his left arm. There were then slain to our great grief eight men, viz.—Zechariah Philips of Boston, Timothy Farlow,* of Billericay, Edward Coleborn, of Chelmsford, Samuel Smed-
[* Timothy Farley was son of George Farley, one of the first settlers of Billerica. J
ly, of Concord, Sydrach Hopgood, of Sudbury, Serjeant Kyres,* Serjeant Prichardt and Corporal Coy,| the inhabitants of Brookfield, aforesaid. It being the good pleasure of God, that they should all there fall by their hands, of whose good intentions they were so confident, and whom they so little mistrusted. There were also then five persons wounded, viz.—Captain Hutchinson, my self, and my son Thomas, as aforesaid, Corporal French, § of Billericay, who having killed an Indian, was (as he was taking up his gun) shot, and part of one of his thumbs taken off, and also dangerously wounded through the body near the shoulder ; the fifth was John Waldoe, of Chelmsford, who was not so dangerously wounded as the rest. They also then killed five of our horses, and wounded some more, which soon died after they came to Brookfield. Upon this sudden and unexpected blow given us, (wherein we desire to look higher than man the instrument,) we returned to the town as fast as the badness of the way, and the weakness of our wounded men would permit, we being then ten miles from it. All the while we were going, we durst not stay to stanch the bleeding of our wounded men, for fear the enemy should have surprized us again, which they attempted to do, and had in probability done, but that we perceiving which way they went, wheeled off to the other hand, and so by God's good providence towards us, they missed us, and we all came readily upon, and safely to the town, though none of us knew the way to it, those of the place being slain, as aforesaid, and we avoiding any thick woods and riding in open places to prevent danger by them. Being got to the town, we speedily betook our selves to one of the largest and strongest houses therein, where we fortified our selves in the best manner we could in such straits of time, and there resolved to keep garrison, though we
[* John Ayres. t Joseph Pritchard. } John Coye.]
[§ Corporal John French was son of Lieut. William French of Billerica. He went from Cambridge with his father to Billerica, about 1654, and lived there until his death in October, 1712, aged about 78.]
were but few, and meanly fitted to make resistance against so furious enemies. The news of the Indians' treacherous dealing with us, and the loss of so many of our company thereby, did so amaze the inhabitants of the town, that they being informed thereof by us, presently left their houses, divers of them carrying very little away with them, they being afraid of the Indians sudden coming upon them ; and so came to the house we were entered into, very meanly provided of cloathing, or furnished with provisions.
I perceiving my self to be disenabled for the discharge of the duties of my place by reason of the wound I had received, and apprehending that the enemy would soon come to spoyle the town, and assault us in the house, I appointed Simon Davis, of Concord, James Richardson,* and John Fisket of Chelmsford, to manage affairs for our safety with those few men whom God hath left us, and were fit for any service, and the inhabitants of the said town ; who did well and commendably perform the duties of the trust committed to them with much courage and resolution through the assistance of our gracious God, who did not leave us in our low and distressed state, but did mercifully appear for us in our greatest need, as in the sequel will clearly be manifested. Within two hours after our coming to the said house, or less, the said Captain Hutchinson and my self posted away Epraim Curtis, of Sudbury, and Henry Young, of Concord, to go to the Honoured Council at Boston, to give them an account of the Lord's dealing with us, and our present condition. When they came to the further end of the town they saw the enemy rifling of houses which the inhabitants had forsaken. The post fired upon
[* James Richardson is supposed to have been brother to Capt. Josiah Richardson, of Chelmsford, who died 22 July, 1695, the ancestor of the Hon. Judge Richardson, of Chester. He went from Woburn, the hive from which issued most of the Richardsons, to Chelmsford, n 166—. The first Richardson who came to the Massachusetts colony was Ezekiel Richardson, who was made a freeman, in May, r63i, and was afterwards a deputy of the General Court. Samuel and Thomas were made freemen, 2 May, r633, and they settled in Woburn, as did also, it is believed, Ezekiel, though not upon his first coming here.]
[t John Fiske was son of the Rev. John Fiske, first minister of Chelmsford.]
them, and immediately returned to us again, they discerning no safety in going forward and being desirous to inform us of the enemies' actings, that we might the more prepare for a sudden assault by them. Which indeed presently followed, for as soon as the said post was come back to us, the barbarous heathen pressed upon us in the house with great violence, sending in their shot amongst us like haile through the walls, and shouting as if they would have swallowed us up alive ; but our good God wrought wonderfully for us, so that there was but one man wounded within the house, viz.—the said Henry Young, who, looking out of the garret window that evening, was mortally wounded by a shot, of which wound he died within two dayes after. There was the same day another man slain, but not in the house ; a son of Serjeant Prichard's adventuring out of the house wherein we were, to his Father's house not far from it, to fetch more goods out of it, was caught by those cruel enemies as they were coming towards us, who cut off his head, kicking it about like a football, and then putting it upon a pole, they sat it up before the door of his Father's house in our sight.
The night following the said blow, they did roar against us like so many wild bulls, sending in their shot amongst us till towards the moon rising, which was about three of the clock ; at which time they attempted to fire our house by hay and other combustible matter which they brought to one corner of the house, and set it on fire. Whereupon some of our company were necessitated to expose themselves to very great danger to put it out. Simon Davis, one of the three appointed by myself as Captain, to supply my place by reason of my wounds, as aforesaid, he bring of a lively spirit, encouraged the souldiers within the house to fire upon the Indians ; and also those that adventured out to put out the fire, (which began to rage and kindle upon the house side,) with these and the like words, that God is with us, and fights for us, and will deliver us out
of the hands of these heathen; which expressions of his the Indians hearing, they shouted and scoffed, saying : now see how your God delivers you, or -will deliver you, sending in many shots whilst our men were putting out the fire. But the Lord of Hosts wrought very graciously for us, in preserving our bodies both within and without the house from their shot, and our house from being consumed by fire, we had but two men wounded in that attempt of theirs, but we apprehended that we killed divers of our enemies. I being desirous to hasten intelligence to the Honoured Council of our present great distress, we being so remote from any succour, (it being between sixty and seventy miles from us to Boston, where the Council useth to sit) and fearing our ammunition would not last long to withstand them, if they continued so to assault us, I spake to Ephraim Curtis to adventure forth again on that service, and to attempt it on foot, as the way wherein there was most hope of getting away undiscovered ; he readily assented, and accordingly went out, but there were so many Indians every where thereabouts, that he could not pass, without apparent hazard of life, so he came back again, but towards morning the said Ephraim adventured forth the third time, and was fain to creep on his hands and knees for some space of ground, that he might not be discerned by the enemy, who waited to prevent our sending if they could have hindered it. But through God's mercy he escaped their hands, and got safely to Marlborough, though very much spent, and ready to faint by reason of want of sleep before he went from us, and his sore travel night and day in that hot season till he got thither, from whence he went to Boston; yet before the said Ephraim got to Marlborough, there was intelligence brought thither of the burning of some houses, and killing some cattle at Quabaug, by some who were going to Connecticot, but they seeing what was done at the end of the town, and hearing several guns shot off further within the town, they durst proceed no further.
( To be continued.)
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" Tell anecdotes and laugh between."
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While we hope to place before its readers much that it is well to publish of the serious side of history, we do not intend that the GRANITE STATE MAGAZINE shall be wholly lacking the lighter vein. There are still many short, local stories told by tongue that type has not revealed.
" Choice scraps of native wit,
Like wine, now ripened quite a bit
By age, which adds a genial shine
To humor, mellowed down by time."
These we can only hope to resurrect from the archives of memory through your cordial comradeship.
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It is true our time may be similar to that of the inhabitant of a Suncook valley town who was noted for this talent in rounding out a good story of personal accomplishment, or some merit, real or fancied, relating to a creature or object that belonged to him, always prefacing his grand peroration with his favorite expression, " If you would believe it, gentlemen."
Among his prized members of neat stock was a pair of unmated, unruly, lined-backed Devon steers, probably the only ones he ever owned. Be that as it may, there was no feat these steers could not perform and no element of merit they did not have. At one time he was drawing ship timber to Portsmouth for a neighbor, and these " line backs," (let the old man tell it, though I believe there was a pair of oxen behind them and did the work.) Let him tell his own story : " I knowed that was a tremendous load, for we left two clean-cuts from where we got onto the road till we got to Portsmouth. No sooner had I come in sight of ' Long Bridge ' than I got all-fired consarned, fearing lest the old bridge couldn't hold us up. But there I was and there was no splitting up your load, when it was made up entirely of one monster pine o' such dimensions as would scare you to hear. Letting 'em air ' line-backs' o' mine ketch their breath, then I hollered to 'em, and gin the off one a touch o' cold steel. Mebbe there weren't some tall scratching for the next fifteen minutes ! The minnit 'em wheels rolled onto that bridge, I could hear a monstrous crunching and crushing. I jess hollered the louder, and didn't stop to look till we'd reached terror farma on t'other side. When I tuk a look then my hat riz a foot. If you would believe it, gentlemen, we had cut off every plank."
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The flag of Champlain, whose picture we give in connection with the article of " The Merrimack River," on account of its association with the discoverer, seems worthy of a brief description. According to tradition this fair emblem of French sovereignty, antedates the Frankish government.
According to story, Clovis, the pagan conqueror, before entering upon his battle of Tolbiac, 496, fearful of defeat, pledged his wife Clotilda, the Christian heroine of ancient Paris, that he would accept Christianity if he should gain a victory on the morrow. Pleased with this promise, which had long been her dream, she prayed continually for his success, and if it did not prevail her prayer was answered. Clovis continued a conqueror. Within a year he and three thousand of his followers accepted the Christian faith. Immediately upon becoming a believer in her teachings, his beautiful wife presented him a blue banner, that her own hands had embroidered with golden fleur-de-lis, and declared that as long as the kings of France should keep that as their standard so long would their armies be victorious.
Let this legend have a grain of truth, or not, the iris as an emblem of wide-spread influence became popular about the middle of the I2th century, and was conspicuous not only upon the national flag, but upon church crosses, chalices, windows of houses, seals and sceptres.
The flag of Champlain, which was, of course, the naval standard, had a blue background, with the fleur-de-lis in gold. The fleur-de-lis ceased to be the standard of France with the abdication of the citizen king, Louis Philippe, and the rise of the republic in 1848, after an illustrious career of over a thousand years. It was succeeded by the tri-colour, which has held its place through the vicissitudes of French government until the present day.
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Speaking of the Merrimack leads me to ask who among our readers and contributors can throw any light upon the spelling of this word. Is there good authority for retaining the " k" in spelling the name, as we do in New Hampshire ?
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An exchange has this interesting artide upon the march of geese :
" Some interesting stories are told of wild geese. We think of them as flying, not realizing that they have a reputation for marching. Years and years ago, before the days of railroads in England, history tells us that once nine thousand geese marched from Suffolk to London, a distance of one hundred miles ; that for this long march but one cart was provided to carry the geese that might fall lame ; the owners knew how well the geese would walk. It is said that once a drove of Suffolk geese and a drove of turkeys left Suffolk for London together, and the geese reached London forty-eight hours in advance of the turkeys.
" Only a few months ago a flock of three thousand geese, in charge of three goose-herds, were driven down the quay at Antwerp and up the gang-plank aboard an English vessel. There was a narrow canvas side to the gang-plank. They walked sedately aboard and crossed the deck, going down an inclined board to the lower deck into an inclosure made ready for them.
" It is said that a flock of geese can march ten miles a day. Thirteen miles a day is the regulation march of a German soldier. A traveller in the Arctic regions says that he has seen the wild geese marching in those regions. They choose leaders who direct them as well as lead them. They walk about ten in a line, but in a column, and carry their heads high. At a signal they spread out and feed, but at another signal from the leaders they fall into line again. These geese, when they cross water in their journey, swim as they march, in a column ten geese wide."
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posted by Don at 2:46 PM
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