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Under 
 Old Rooftrees 
 
 * < ' ■ i 
 
 MRS. E. B. HORNBY 
 
 JERSEY CITY, N. J. 
 137 Grant Avenue 
 MCMVIII 
 
\9A \\ 
 
 W)' 
 
 I AUG 21 1908 
 
 01 ASS ^^t- ^"^ '^''' 
 
 1^ I *> Of X- 
 
 
 Copyright, 1908 
 By Mrs. E. B. Hornby 
 
 L. R. Benedict 
 
 Press of Redfield Brothers 
 
To All Who Love Old Warwick 
 
It is the events occurring in the lives of indi- 
 viduals, and in which they were the factors, that make up 
 the history of every town and State. 
 
 E. M. RUTTENBER. 
 
 I 
 
 ( 
 
0/^ 
 
 Index 
 
 I — Leaves from Old Rooftrees . . 11-14 
 
 II — Our Forefathers 17-45 
 
 III — WooiNGs AND Weddings of Ye Old- 
 en Time 49-75 
 
 IV — Memories of Old Northern Slaves 79-112 
 
 V — The Bygone Doctor 1 15-139 
 
 VI — A Sister and a Brother . . . 143-161 
 
 VII — Warwick Weather and Celestial 
 
 Phenomena 165-177 
 
 VIII — Drifted Down 181-208 
 
 IX — The Wawayanda Creek . . 211-223 
 
 X — Henry William Herbert ("Frank 
 
 Forester") 227-238 
 
 XI — Grandmothers' Albums and Our 
 
 Grandsires' Effusions . . . 241-261 
 
 XII — A Last Chapter 265-271 
 
I 
 
 Leaves from Old Rooftrees 
 
I 
 
 Leaves from Old Rooftrees 
 
 PLEASANT place was the homestead of 
 early days as it stood amid its green acres, 
 sheltered by primeval trees. Usually built 
 facing the east and south, its many-paned, 
 deep-seated windows welcomed and reflected 
 the first^beams of the rising sun, and the spacious low rooms 
 within, with broad beam-upheld ceilings from the day of in- 
 faring or crane-hanging, were the very nests of simple do- 
 mestic life. The fireplaces were ample, the chimneys wide and 
 aeep-throated, and the doors furnished with quaint latches, 
 frequently so set that the fingers pressing them were in dan- 
 ger of a pinching. Anent these, an anecdote is handed down, 
 an amusing incident illustrative of the reverence of bygone 
 days. In an old home was one of these nipping latches. 
 Calling one day to visit an aged aunt, the fingers of a 
 nephew were sharply pinched by it. "Aunt," he exclaimed, 
 "why don't you have this old latch reset? It has hurt the 
 fingers of enough generations." Looking at him with a 
 glance of severe reproof she replied, in impressive tones, 
 "Nephew, 'remove not the ancient landmark thy fathers have 
 set,' is the Scripture injunction. Your great-grandfather 
 placed that latch there. Would you remove it?" 
 
 Such was the veneration of our forebears. With all their 
 oddities and inconveniences, these old homes were the abid- 
 ing places of hospitality and good cheer, quiet happiness, 
 and usually large families of children. 
 The rooftree, or ridge-pole, that mighty topmost beam 
 
12 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 over which the roof bent its stiff back and stretched broadly 
 away to the eaves, was the crowning glory of the house and 
 became in time its symbol. The weather-stained shingles 
 were carefully guarded from mildew and decay, and when 
 autumn had loosened the leaves of the great ancestral trees 
 from the far-reaching boughs and sent them fluttering down 
 upon the roof, they were carefully brushed off at intervals, 
 lest they should damage the housetop. The most perfect in 
 shape and rich in color were often gathered and treasured 
 in the family Bible, a hymn book, or a cherished volume of 
 verse. When a son or daughter left the house, it was the 
 beautiful custom of the mother to give them a Bible with 
 some of the leaves from the old roof pressed in its pages. 
 The Good Book often contained the family tree, as well as 
 the dear mementoes from the home monarchs, and the poet 
 Morris has exquisitely commemorated the fact in his lines : 
 
 For many generations past 
 
 Here is our family tree, 
 My mother's hand this Bible clasped, 
 
 She, dying, gave it me. 
 
 I recall a Bible with these garnered leaves laid reverently 
 on comforting passages of Scripture, and on the fly-leaf 
 these lines, copied by the mother who gave it to her boy : 
 
 Remember, love, who gave thee this, 
 
 When other days shall come. 
 When she who had thy earliest kiss 
 
 Sleeps in her narrow home. 
 Remember, 'twas a mother gave 
 The gift to one she'd die to save. 
 
 That mother sought a pledge of love, 
 
 The holiest for her son, 
 And from the gifts of God above 
 
 She chose a goodly one. 
 She chose for her beloved boy 
 The source of light and life and joy. 
 
LEAVES EROM OLD ROOFTREES 13 
 
 And bade him keep the gift that when 
 
 The parting hour should come, 
 They might have hope to meet again 
 
 In an eternal home ; 
 She said his faith in that would be 
 Sweet incense to her memory. 
 
 And should the scoffer in his pride 
 
 Laugh that fond faith to scorn, 
 And bid him cast the pledge aside 
 
 That he from youth had borne, 
 She bade him pause and ask his breast 
 If he or she had loved him best. 
 
 A mother's blessing on her son 
 
 Goes with this holy thing, 
 The love that would retain the one 
 
 Must to the other cling. 
 Remember, 'tis no idle toy, 
 A mother's gift— remember, boy. 
 
 As the pages of that hallowed book were turned in the 
 new home, what thronging memories rose at the sight of 
 those faded leaves, of lullaby, of bridal song, of parting mo- 
 ments, glad reunions, days of bereavement, hours of sacred 
 affection and hallowed happiness. They spoke to the absent 
 of all the heart holds dear, and their recollections were a 
 precious legacy. 
 
 With the lives of those whose hands reared and propped 
 the rooftrees of old Warwick we have now to do, not for- 
 getting in our passing the great company of kinsmen, 
 friends, servants and helpers for whom the welcoming doors 
 swung wide. Long, long ago, farther back than these pages 
 extend, one wrote: 
 
 'Tis a very good world to live in, 
 
 To lend or to spend or to give in ; 
 
 But to beg or to borrow or get a man s own, 
 
 'Tis the very worst world that ever was known. 
 
 Perhaps in these modern times we would say the noble 
 Earl author was pessimistic, but on reviewing them care- 
 fully, we may incline to beheve that 1600 and 1900 are not 
 so very unlike, although the veil of centuries falls between 
 
14 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 them. If the days of candlelight and firelight are less inter- 
 esting than those of the present, the pen is at fault, not the 
 quaint and primitive happenings. Away in the wake of 
 Progress we go, whether we will or not, but in our flight it 
 may not be amiss sometimes to fold wings and alight, "look- 
 ing backward" for a space. Nevermore shall we or those 
 who come after us go back to those simple early days when 
 our little woodland world was young; but in these pages, 
 through the faithful jottings of a life, caught as precious 
 incense from revered and beloved lips, the endeavor has 
 been to bring their shadows back. Our fathers' natures are 
 our natures ; habits, customs, surroundings alone are 
 changed. Ours are the mountains, the fair valley, the en- 
 circling hills they rescued from primeval solitude and savage 
 dominion. To them we owe all we have, all we hold dear 
 and enjoy to-day. Love, reverence, honor to their mem- 
 ories ! 
 
 . . . They dro-ve the plotv, they trafficked, budded, dtl-ved, they spun and 
 •wove, they taught and preached, they hastened uf> and down each on his little 
 errand, and their eyes were full of eager fire, as if the earth and all its vatt 
 concerns were in their hands. HOLLAND, " Voices from Ye Past." 
 
II 
 
 Our Forefathers 
 
II 
 
 Our Forefathers 
 
 'NE of tlie most interesting cliaracters of early 
 ! times was the migratory shoemaker, who jour- 
 neyed from house to house, fitting out foot- 
 gear for the family. When the fatted calf was 
 killed, or the mighty bovine slain and disposed 
 of, the hides were carried to the tannery. When they came 
 back, the merry shoemaker was sent for, and his kit and 
 himself occupied a corner in the ample farmhouse kitchen, 
 whence the tap, tap of his busy hammer sounded from morn 
 till eve. To the scattered farm homes, often far removed 
 from village centers, his coming was an event, and made the 
 most of as such by young and old. Secure in the possession 
 of skill that guaranteed him a modest life support, sure of 
 a welcome wherever he went, and withal a philosopher, as 
 his compatriots are apt to be from much quiet communing 
 over lap-stones, his amiability was proverbial. 
 
 Sometimes, in the goodness of his heart, he would cut out 
 covers for the boys' balls of raveled yarn, and even stitch 
 them, make Baby a leather doll with extended hands and 
 feet, and eyes that fulfilled the desperado's perennial threat 
 to "let the daylight through," and fashion Granny a leather 
 knitting-sheath, warranted to last forever. Ever generous, 
 he gave the small fry a bit of black wax to chew, graciously 
 spread a lump mixed with beeswax and linseed oil on a 
 square of sheepskin for uncle's lame back and auntie's stitch 
 in the side, made sister Polly's and Nancy's calfskins as snug 
 as possible, and was an all-around light-hearted and agreea- 
 
i8 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 ble personage. As he sat at the chmmey lug after his day's 
 work was done, the ruddy Hght of the fire playing over his 
 features, he did not disdain a Httle gossip of famihes where 
 he had lately worked, and so many a wedding was prema- 
 turely aired, many a sick one hopelessly doomed ere the 
 grim messenger had begun to sharpen or tip his dart, and 
 skeletons in family closets made to stir their feet in a soft, 
 uncertain manner. But nobody seemed to hold any malice 
 against the jovial disciple of St. Crispin. A pleasant and 
 cheerful auxiliary, he sat modestly aside and let others take 
 the flafif of the fire, while he sought the faraway ear of the 
 chimney and the sappy end of the backlog, and was willing 
 at all times to carry in the wood to feed the hearth as the 
 great fiery heart wasted it. When Caesar and Chloe came 
 humbly up to be measured at his bench, he received them 
 with a merry quip and smile, and manipulated the great cal- 
 loused feet as kindly and gently as he did those of the pret- 
 tiest daughter of the house. 
 
 He usually exemplified the adage from time immemorial 
 applied to the shoemaker's wife and children, and his worn 
 footgear were objects of wonder to the little ones. 
 
 "Why don't you wear better shoes?" a small maiden asked 
 one of the guild, pegging away at his bench. 
 
 "I never have time to make 'em," said he, whisking a 
 waxed-end through deftly. 
 
 "And who makes 'em for your little girls and boys ?" per- 
 sisted the small questioner. 
 
 "They all go barefoot," replied Crispin, solemnly, and the 
 inquisitive maid was meditative a long time, and as a gray- 
 haired grandmother still told how it puzzled her childish 
 mind that a shoemaker's children should go barefoot. 
 
 Shoe thread was spun by housewives and kept for use, 
 and this most inofifensive article was once the innocent means 
 of breaking ofiF a promising match. 
 
 The orphan niece of a worthy farmer, not finding her life 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 19 
 
 too easy with her bustling aunt, engaged herself to- an in- 
 dustrious young shoemaker, whose unmarried sister kept his 
 house. The fiancee was invited to tea, and arriving about 
 four one very hot afternoon, found tiie sister bending over 
 the small linen wheel, spinning shoe-thread. 
 
 "Ben is waiting for it, and hot as it is, I have to spin, 
 company or no company," explained the sister. 
 
 It set the young bride-elect to thinking deeply, and there- 
 after there was a discarded lover and the sister remained as 
 housekeeper. 
 
 A lady was wont to relate with delight the experience of 
 her first pair of "best shoes." They were made of prunella, 
 a stuff first used for clergymen's gowns. To her unaccus- 
 tomed eyes they seemed too delicate and beautiful for con- 
 tact with mother earth. On Sundays she carried the treas- 
 ured shoes in a package, wore a pair of old ones to the edge 
 of the village, then, stopping at a friend's home, put on the 
 precious prunella buskins and tripped gingerly to church, 
 going through the same exchange on her way back. 
 
 All stockings were knit, linen for summer and wool for 
 W'inter w^ear, and it w^as a tradition that no girl should marry 
 until she had a pillowcase full, knitted by her own hands. 
 Some provident and forethoughted maidens were said to 
 have knit their pillowcase full of several sizes. 
 
 "Knitting fathoms" w-as a favorite pastime at evening p'^r- 
 ties. Six lengths of yarn were measured from the ball by 
 the rustic beau with the longest arms for as many of the 
 bevy of damsels present as wished to enter the contest, and 
 the fun commenced, the struggle being to see who could 
 knit up the six fathoms most quickly. Fast and furious 
 clicked the needles, rosy-red bloomed the cheeks of the ex- 
 cited knitters, and the onlooking best young man secretly 
 hoped for the success of the girl he favored. Loops crept 
 in, knots went unheeded, stitches w^ere dropped, but victory 
 and approval came to the winner. It was said prudent 
 
20 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 maidens kept a stocking laid by purposely for fathom con- 
 tests, while less wise demoiselles spent the following day in 
 ravelling and picking up stitche?. 
 
 Making the exchange from the warm wool stocking of 
 winter to the cool linen of summer often gave children colds, 
 and one cautious, tender mother used to commence on the 
 tenth of May to cut a small piece of wool out, and sew 
 a piece of linen in, until the little feet were denuded of their 
 winter covering. Who shall say the olden-time mother was 
 not careful? 
 
 It is a tradition that the first bride in the village who ever 
 wore a pair of high-heeled Avhite satin slippers became the 
 mother of thirteen children. Present-day maidens might be 
 interested to know a little of how brides were arrayed and 
 wedded in the long, long ago. 
 
 One married in 1798 had 150 guests at the ceremony. 
 Six pigs and twelve turkeys were roasted for the feast. Five . 
 female slaves waited on the guests, and the merry party I 
 danced till four o'clock in the morning. Cider, applejack ! 
 and peach brandy were on the sideboard. Generous neigh- 
 bors lent a helping hand in contributing to the feast, and 
 several friendlv Dutch ovens in near-by farmhouses assisted 
 in baking three hundred rusk, as many biscuit, and the tow- 
 ering piles of bread and cake. Branches of evergreen, in- 
 terspersed with sprigs of the same dampened and rolled in 
 flour until snowy white, were used to trim the room. The 
 floor was sanded in "herringbone" pattern. The bride wore 
 a scarlet camlet petticoat and a white dimity shortgown ; a 
 string of amber beads encircled her neck. The bracelets on 
 her wrists were of velvet, embroidered with pale blue beads. 
 It is worthy to be recorded that her husband bought a farm 
 a few miles out of town, for which they started to take up \ 
 their abode in the second year of their wedded life, and 
 while on the way her first son was born in the big farm 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 21 
 
 wagon, grew to be a useful citizen, and was a lifelong lover 
 and judge of horses. 
 
 A later bride wore lilac silk, a high brass comb in her 
 hair, a scarf around her neck of silk lioss, strung at inter- 
 vals with fine glass beads, and ornaments of glass blown in 
 the shape of bunches of grapes with tiny leaves, filled with 
 white wax. This style of "imitation pearl," as it was called, 
 was common to early days and was really very pretty and 
 delicate. This bride wore twelve yards of ruffling, stiffly 
 starched and crimped, on her wedding nightcap, and the first 
 toast drunk to the couple was "Prosperity and posterity." 
 
 Still another wore a gown of Canton crape of peach-blos- 
 som tint, trimmed with rows of white lute-string ribbon, 
 laid on while the crape was stretched to farthest limit and 
 then allowed to crinkle with it wlien the tension was relaxed. 
 Pink satin shoes matched the dress, and a wreath of roses 
 in her beautiful dark hair and a scarf of finely embroidered 
 lawn on her fair neck completed this dainty wedding dress. 
 She was wont to tell that when her new father and mother 
 came to make the first visit after they began housekeeping, 
 they brought the callow pair a large tin pan of ginger-snaps, 
 not the wafery specimens of these degenerate days, but great 
 golden brown, tootlisome goodies that melted in the mouth 
 with delicious richness ; a stately fowl dressed and trussed 
 for the oven, and a mighty loaf of rye bread, whose very 
 shadow would blot out a battalion of modern bakers' epit- 
 omes of loaves. 
 
 It was a pleasant sight to see husbands and wives riding 
 to church on the same horse, the wife behind on a pillion, 
 from which she was lifted with grave courtesy by her liege 
 lord on arriving at the church door. 
 
 It was usual for the elder members to ride in some vehicle 
 in winter, bringing the foot-stove for the easily chilled, aged 
 feet. Slaves sat in the back corners of the churches, near 
 
22 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 the door, and their choice Sunday suit was usually a jacket 
 of green baize and trousers of linen ticking, striped. 
 
 Shoe-buckles were worn, the finest being made of silver 
 and brass, and some set with rhinestones. 
 
 A stuff made of linen and wool, called linseywoolsey, 
 striped and plaided and rivalling the peacock in the brilliancy 
 of its colors, was much worn. An aged lady declared that 
 when she started to church in her first dress of red and green 
 linseywoolsey, with the added glory of green velvet collar 
 and cuffs, no queen in robes and regalia ever felt prouder. 
 
 Damsels were very exact in polishing the big brass knock- 
 er of the front door. A well-kept knocker was considered 
 "an outward and visible sign" of the housewifely qualities of 
 the marriageable maidens within. 
 
 "Why do you not go to see Blowsalinda any more?" asked 
 one rustic beau of another. 
 
 "Too much green pizen on the knocker," was Lubberkin's 
 sententious reply. 
 
 Picking wool, hetchelling, carding, spinning, reeling and 
 W'Caving went on vigorously. Every damsel had her chest 
 of blankets and linen for the time of wifehood. Long webs 
 of linen were spread, sprinkled and bleached for days and 
 weeks, and laid away in lavender, lemon-balm and rose 
 leaves. Many housewives kept one pair of sheets, extra 
 long, bleached beyond whiteness and of superfine fineness, 
 for the dead, and a web for making shrouds. In the barn 
 or garret, boards of red cherry were kept seasoning for the 
 last narrow house, and in event of death were carried to the 
 undertaker to be made up. No self-respecting landed pro- 
 prietor ever allowed himself or family to be laid away in 
 "boughten boards." They must come from the forest mon- 
 archs of the home acres. Likewise, cradles were made of 
 cherry and vi^alnut grown on the little newcomer's paternal 
 lands. 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 23 
 
 Hold up 3'our heads, ye sylvan lords, 
 
 Wave proudly in the breeze, 
 Our cradle-bands and coffin boards 
 
 Must come from forest trees. 
 
 In one family thirty-nine successive babies were rocked in 
 one of these venerable hooded black-walnut cradles, every 
 one of whom grew tO' man's and woman's estate but one. 
 It was called the "good luck" cradle. 
 
 On farms the daughters of the family did the milking. 
 It was esteemed a deep disgrace to be seen in the yard after 
 sunrise or sunset and the marriageable future of a girl so 
 belated in this bucolic employment was deemed sadly marred. 
 The pioneer cotton or calico dress of which we have been 
 able to get any trace in our valley was worn by Miss Martha 
 Wood. It was drab in color, with a pink spot, and cost 
 twelve shillings a yard. It was purchased in Newburgh 
 and paid for in Orange County butter, made by the owner's 
 hands. 
 
 The first piece of fine thin muslin ever seen in Warwick 
 was brought there by Mrs. Katy Wood Krafft, of New York 
 City. She made some of it into a cap with multitudinous 
 frills. Many came to see and examine it. It was noised 
 about that it was as inflammable as gunpowder and that in 
 sewing on it she was obliged to sit far from the candles, for 
 should a spark touch it it would go off in combustion so 
 fearful that all the water in the township would be power- 
 less before it. Many freely expressed the opinion that they 
 would never endanger their lives by putting on their heads 
 such a challenge to conflagration. 
 
 At evening and prayer meetings each dame brought a 
 candle. The unused ends were given to the very poor. 
 These gatherings for worship were invariably announced 
 from the pulpit on the Sabbath to take place at "early candle- 
 light." Kind neighbors near the churches kept a glowing 
 bed of coals on the ample hearth to replenish the foot stoves 
 requiring fresh fuel. 
 
24 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 A discreet boy waited about and made odd pennies, big 
 old-fashioned red ones, during service. 
 
 Babies getting restive and weary under the "ninthHes" 
 and "tenthHes*' were frequently carried out to a stay-at- 
 home-body's, soothed to sleep and reclaimed after service. 
 Members of the congregation coming from a distance 
 brought luncheon and eating it after the morning service, re- 
 mained to attend the afternoon and then returned home. 
 Worldly tunes sung to hymns were considered the most 
 awful desecration, and a new-fangled tune once caused a 
 godly brother to wonder that "the roof did not fall on the 
 chorister," blighting himself, tuning-fork and choir forever, 
 so fearful was the unrighteous hilarity of the godless air. 
 
 Miss Diademia Austin was a daughter of one of the 
 wealthiest citizens of Warwick, and her father presented her 
 v>'ith the first piano ever seen in the village. It was called 
 a "forte-piano." Rumor stated that the force required to 
 extract the music was so severe that the young lady's fingers 
 became splayed, "hard as drum-sticks" at the tips and great- 
 ly disfigured. 
 
 "Telling the bees" when the head of the household died 
 was a common custom. One of the female members of the 
 family usually performed this singular office. Arrayed in 
 deepest mourning she went sadly forth, tied a piece of crape 
 on every hive, and tapping softly, said, "Pretty bees, your 
 master is dead, but do not go away." 
 
 Starch was all home-made, usually of potatoes. A large 
 tub was filled with thin slices, the contents covered with 
 water and allowed to stand a day and a night. The limp 
 pieces were then lifted out, the water carefully poured off, 
 and the layers of starch on the bottom cut in squares, dried 
 and laid away. 
 
 Borrowing fire was the universal practice when, by mis- 
 chance or mismanagement, the heart of the hearth ceased to 
 glow. The live coals were imbedded in a little hollow of 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 25 
 
 ashes, carefully covered with the same and conveyed to tlieir 
 destination on a shovel. Housewives who kept fire and 
 seldom borrowed could hold their heads above those who 
 were frequent pensioners in this friendly interchange of 
 benefits, and nothing more expressive need be remarked of 
 a careless one than that she was "always running for fire." 
 Paterfamilias frequently struck it with a flint — an intensely 
 interesting proceeding to the children. 
 
 A warning in rhyme used to be repeated for the benefit of 
 all damsels who let the hearth grow chill, and to all swains 
 who sought them : 
 
 Kind youth, that seek'st a loving wife 
 To be the comfort of your life, 
 Beware of her, however fair, 
 Or bright of eye, or smooth of hair, 
 Whose fire upon the hearth is out; 
 She'll surely prove a gadabout, 
 And all the children that you sire 
 Be raised to run and borrow fire, 
 Or you be called in from your work 
 To strike the flint for Mistress Shirk. 
 
 Anent tliis custom one of those meaningless little stories 
 that belong to all ages and climes is told. 
 
 An old lady had learned all that was to be known, in her 
 opinion, set her house in order, and lain down to die. 
 "Wherefore should we live," this aged grandam must have 
 soliloquized, "when we cannot learn?" Her last act was, 
 perhaps from mere force of habit, to carefully cover her fire. 
 As she lay waiting for Death's skeleton hand on the latch, 
 a gentle rap on the door disturbed her serene meditations. 
 Quite a dififerent looking hand sought and raised it to enter, 
 and a plump little maid stood revealed, w"ho asked for the 
 loan of a few bits of live coal. 
 
 '"But you haven't fetched an}1:hing to carry it in," said 
 Gammer. 
 
 "Oh." replied the child, "my hand w'ill do." and she pro- 
 ceeded to make a nest of cold ashes in her palm, drop a 
 
26 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 bright coal therein, top the whole with more ashes, make 
 her little "curchey" for the favor, and run home. 
 
 Having learned a lesson from the babe the dame sat up, 
 pulled off her nightcap, sprang from the bed and took up her 
 duties where she had dropped them, convinced that there is 
 always something left to learn. 
 
 A lady used to relate that when a child she was sent for 
 fire one afternoon, just before dusk, and returning, saw what 
 she supposed to be a large burned stump in the path. Near- 
 ing it with the shovel in her hands, it extended two long 
 paws and loomed up before her-— a black bear ! Shovel and 
 fire flew, and the little girl sped home, whence father and 
 brothers were summoned and Bruin was dispatched in a 
 hurry. 
 
 This lady had, among her wedding paraphernalia, a rare 
 tortoise-shell comb, a Van Dyck collar of rich lace, a pair 
 of white satin shoes, and white silk stockings which were 
 successively worn by fifteen brides and became a species of 
 mascot in the neighborhood of the owner. 
 
 The peregrinating tailoress had an individuality of her 
 own, marked and original. Her advent, with the big iron, 
 called a "goose," was looked forward to with deep interest 
 by the young lads of the household whose garments were 
 usually in various stages of dilapidation and repair. The 
 goose was always the unprotesting butt of the stale puns 
 and quips of the family wits, and the bachelor uncle was 
 markedly particular as to the cut, fit and make-up of his 
 suit if the tailoress were young, chatty and well-favored. 
 Like the shoemaker, she brought breezy bits of gossip, deli- 
 cate tidbits of scandal, light and airy as thistledown, and 
 as her long, sharp scissors cut and clipped, and her bright 
 needle flew through the homespun, gave them evanescent 
 airing. 
 
 She was a kindly hearted creature in the main, and while 
 Dicky and Tommy watched with dubious eyes the rapidly 
 
 1 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 27 
 
 diminishing pieces of blue, sheep's gray and butternut brown 
 as grandfather, father, bachelor uncle and elder brother 
 were fitted out, she always told them, sotto voce, that if there 
 was not enough left of the coveted color for them a suit, she 
 would go right up in the night and cut enough off of the 
 elders to fit them out. 
 
 A gentleman used to relate, with amusement, that one 
 evening, after carrying to his room his new winter suit, just 
 finished b}' the tailoress, he was startled to hear a curious 
 rumbling outside of the door, and hastening to open it to 
 seek the cause, found there a lanky shock-headed "bound 
 boy," who had lately become a member of the family, trund- 
 ling an immense pumpkin. 
 
 "Say, mister," he whispered in graveyard tones, "I heard 
 that thar tailor woman down stairs tell Sammy she was a- 
 comin' in your room to-night, after you was asleep, and cut 
 a big hunk outen yer new suit to make him one, an' I 
 thought I'd come tell yeh and bring this here punkin to 
 jam agin yer door to keep her out; fur," he added, in still 
 more horror-struck accents, "she said she'd cut off the tails." 
 
 Ensconsed in her work-bag the tailoress- kept a bit of 
 salve, which she always brought in case of a burn to her 
 hands in the travels of the goose over the seams, and it was 
 considered an esteemed privilege by the juveniles to get 
 burned on the goose and have an application of the tailoress' 
 own particular salve, and then be told by pitying Grandma 
 that she "knew a go^jse v/ould bite, but never knew they 
 would burn." 
 
 Every now and then a horror in the minds of isolated 
 families equal to the massacres of history would occur. The 
 sheep would be slaughtered by dogs. The chronicler well 
 remembers seeing twenty-one brought in dead one morning, 
 mangled in the most fearful manner, every pretty lamb a 
 sight to make sluices of all the young eyes in the house. 
 Sometimes a sheep was kept for running the churning- 
 
28 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 machine, usually a pet, fatter and slower than the rest of the 
 flock, and came in for an extra amount of worrying. The 
 loss of this household favorite was an added calamity, and 
 when the word went out that Daisy, Snowball, Whity, or 
 whatever this one might be called, was the sorriest sight oi 
 all, the sobbing of the youthful tribe was turned into wail- 
 ings and lamentations unutterable. 
 
 "Apple-bees" were an annual autumn frolic and looked 
 forward to with much pleasure. A small urchin, astride a 
 family horse, generally gave out the verbal invitations to the 
 merrymaking, and on the appointed evening all gathered at 
 the specified place where the kitchen was temporarily trans- 
 formed into a huge apple-bin, and the tables groaned with 
 tins, pans, trays, etc. After all were pared, cored and sliced, 
 some for preserving, some for drying, and a goodly quantity 
 for cider "apple-sass" ; when every pretty young head had 
 been encircled by an unbroken peeling, swung gently three 
 times around, to see what letter it would form when cast 
 down, the debris was removed, the floor cleared, and a com- 
 fortable supper and dance followed. It was said that Cupid 
 put in much fine work at these homespun gatherings, and 
 when a couple had a bevy of daughters who lingered long by 
 the hearthstone, knowing ones "reckoned they had better 
 make a few apple-bees." 
 
 "Trying the fortune," by sticking appleseeds on the upper 
 eyelid, was a favorite pastime at apple-bees. Each seed 
 was named for a rustic beau, and the Appleseed John hang- 
 ing to this precipitous site longest was destined to win the 
 fair. Sometimes, too, three or four persistently clung, when 
 the damsel was thought to be fated to successive wifehoods 
 and widowhoods, A mirth-provoking sight was a bevy of 
 pretty girls busily paring apples, and scarcely daring to 
 move the head lest the favorite suitor be dislodged and leave 
 the field to a rival who verified the old couplet : 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 29 
 
 If you want her, don't let her go, 
 Stick and you'll get her, whether or no. 
 
 A pathetic little tale of struggle and disappointment used 
 to be related by a skillful needlewoman who long assisted 
 the housewives of Warwick in which the fleece of the poor 
 slain sheep had the leading part. Left an orphan at fifteen, 
 with a sister of thirteen and little brother of six, she began 
 the struggle of providing for them with her owii industrious 
 hands, spinning, sewing and making herself useful in such 
 wise, while Betsy cared for the small brother at home. The 
 dearest wish of little Jake's heart was that he might have a 
 suit of blue clothes with brass buttons, but strive as she 
 could, his loving sister could not get the cloth. One day, 
 while working at a farmhouse near town, some sheep were 
 killed by dogs, and she was given the fleece. Shearing the 
 wool herself, she carded, spun and wove it at a friendly 
 loom, and dyed it the desircfl blue. It was carefully pressed 
 and laid away in a drawer of the cupboard, until such time 
 as they could afford to call in the village tailoress, with her 
 big shears and goose to assist in fashioning the wonderful 
 su;t. 
 
 While Nancy was away a few days after, Betsy, righting 
 the big old c ^pboard, opened the drawer to look at the cloth. 
 
 "Phew," she cried with small nose elevated, "it smells 
 'sheepy' ; I don't believe Nancy got all the grease out of the 
 wool"; and with that she buHf a fire, hung the big brass ket- 
 tle on the crane, putting in a goodly quantity of Ive fron": 
 the great leach tub by the door, filled it up, threw in the 
 cloth, and set it to boil. It bubbled away merrily, and after 
 a while the poor little maid, going to give it a g-ood stirring, 
 and turn it over in the huge kettle, put in her stick — to find 
 nothing there ! Alas ! the biting lye had entirely eaten up 
 the soft, fine wool. 
 
 The elder sister used frequently to relate the story and ex- 
 press her vexation, and the lamentations of young Jacob 
 
30 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 may be imagined. Adjusting her cap, as she finished the 
 story, she never failed to add : 
 
 "Oh, I could 'a' killed Bets." 
 
 Of all the merrymakings of olden days the "husking 
 frolic" was perhaps the gayest. The farmer invited his 
 friends and neighbors, who husked all day, and in the even- 
 ing the barn was swept and garnished, and heaped-up bas- 
 kets of corn were brought in. Soon the girls of the neigh- 
 borhood joined the buskers and took part in the work. The 
 corn was thrown out in an immense heap in the middle of 
 the barn-floor, and every swain chose a fair to sit by his 
 side and husk with bin'. Whenever a red ear was found a 
 kiss was claimed, amidst much laughter on the part of the 
 company, and protesting and battling of the partner. There 
 v/as strong suspicion that all the red ears found during the 
 day were laid carefully aside to do duty for the evening, and 
 there was always much wonder expressed at the amount of 
 red ears "this year." After all were finished the merry strains 
 of the fiddle began, and blithe was the dancing on the old 
 barn-floor, gay was the supper, and sweet the two-by-two 
 strolls homeward after all was over, through the delicious 
 light of the full moon. 
 
 The husking bee in the old red barn, 
 With its mossy sides and sloping eaves, 
 
 Tlie mows of hay that reached the roof, 
 
 The buckwheat brown and the golden sheaves. 
 
 The husking bee in the old red barn. 
 
 When the corn was ripe and the moon was full. 
 
 For rosy lass and willing youth. 
 What joy together the husks to pull. 
 
 For each red ear a kiss is claimed, 
 
 But they came not cheap in that merry throng, 
 
 For a redder ear has the ardent swain 
 
 Who fought for his guerdon stout and long. 
 
 In the old red barn, at the rollicking bee, 
 'Mid laugh, and shout, and frolic, and jest. 
 
 Oh, never warrior had harder strife — 
 To win he must need put forth his best. 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 31 
 
 But the dance is done on the old barn-lloor, 
 A maid and youth climb the orchard stile. 
 
 He is "seeing her home" ; as he lifts her down, 
 Her bright eyes soften, her ripe lips smile. 
 
 Is this the lass who struggled and fought 
 
 Against the kiss of that eager boy, 
 Till the corn-husks flew, and the rafters rang 
 
 With screams of mirth at her protest coy? 
 
 Is this the lad with the punished ear, 
 
 That rivalled the reddest in tlie maize, 
 With the touch on his of those honey lips. 
 
 That cling as though they would stay there days? 
 
 To the whispered words the nestling birds 
 
 Twitter a sleepy murmur low, 
 And the ruddy ear bends down to hear 
 
 Her soft 'T'm sorry I hurt you so." 
 
 The masculine portion of the coniinunity was wont to re- 
 joice greatly when a "raising" was on the tapis. It meant 
 roast pig, a mighty potpie, with Chanticleer and Dame Part- 
 lett snuggling in dismembered savoriness through it, and 
 pies and doughnuts, and all good things in such lavish abun- 
 dance that no feast was deemed equal to a "raising" supper, 
 and one small boy was once heard to exclaim, fervently and 
 pufifily, from the depths of his bursting jacket, "I wish we 
 could have a new barn every day, I do." 
 
 The "haying frolic" was also a hilarious time of hard 
 work and much fun. It always wound up with milk-punch, 
 in such generous floods that the land seemed to flow with 
 that socjthing cordial for tired muscles. 
 
 Of all the bees of ancient days the one that sends back 
 through the ^'ear the most fragrant memory is that of the 
 wood gathering for the widows. Of these lonely and bereft 
 one<- each hamlet possessed full quota. They did not dwell 
 in affluence, i)Oor souls, not many of them, and when Old 
 Boreas came down from the "North Countrie" and sleighing 
 was good, kind neighbors hauled out the wood-sleds, made 
 long the stakes that held the loads up at the sides, and those 
 who owned wood-lets in mountain and valley gave good 
 
32 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 measure to the widows. These were hauled by the busy 
 "bees" and deposited at each humble door, and many a 
 frugal heait was made to sing for joy as it felt the hearth- j 
 stone glow through the bitter winter with the generous gift. 
 
 On one occasion an aged citizen gave a $5 gold piece with 
 every load. Another, a kindly miller, each fall gave a bag 
 of wheaten flour and a bag of meal to every widow in the 
 vicinity. This custom was continued up to the time of his 
 death. 
 
 One landed proprietor was wont, as he sat before his 
 blazing hearth, to muse on the prospects of his descendants 
 for fuel and grieve for fear the wood might be exhausted 
 and future want exist. Sometimes the good old man, al- 
 thougli owning broad acres of timber, would remove an 
 extra brand, saying, "We must be very careful ; I don't know 
 what our children will do for wood, it's going so fast." 
 
 Tlie provident settlers had never heard of coal, electricity 
 and other substitutes for the back-log and fore-stick and all 
 that glowed in their embrace. 
 
 Among the most unique of these helpful neighborly gath- 
 erings was the "boonder frolic." Milk and cream were kept 
 in shallow keeler tubs. These required a vast amount of 
 scrubbing to keep them clean and sweet, and were frequent- ' 
 ly scalded with boiling whey and hay tea. The modern 1 
 brush was unknown, so sticks of white ash were cut andl| 
 sawed into proper lengths, friends and neighbors gathered,, 
 each bringing a knife and the tough, supple wood was;! 
 shaved up three-fourths of its length and turned back intq 
 a brush, very useful and lasting. No dancing or supper 
 was allowed until each had completed one. When all was 
 done, the evening's merr3^making commenced. 
 
 The beau who finished the first boonder was entitled to 
 as many kisses from the assembled gathering of pretty girls 
 as he could steal. It is said his head sometimes developed 
 bumps unknown to Gall and Spurzheim, inflicted by the 
 
I OUR FOREFATHERS 33 
 
 handy boonders in defence of cheeks and Hps, and that fre- 
 quently a black eye was added. 
 
 A gentleman, whose home was at the foot of the moun- 
 tain, saw sixty of these brushes turned out in one night at 
 a -"bee." 
 
 A hank of boonder cord was spun of tow each year in 
 many families. On the mountain-side tenants resided, who 
 gave to the owners of the land "board-load," after the old 
 English custom ; that is, the timber each tenant made agree- 
 ment to carry yearly to the owner. Among this quantity 
 was usually specified so much for keeler tubs, boonders, 
 fagots, oven-wood and ax handles, each of proper variety 
 for its use. Loads of firewood were also comprehended in 
 this "board-load." 
 
 Very large flocks of geese were kept by many farmers, 
 and the feather bees were the only ones from which the 
 masculine element were excluded. They seem to have been 
 the first hen parties of early days. 
 
 When Goodman Jones, Smith or Brown found the borders 
 of pond and meadow lands blossoming with feathers dropped 
 from the overweighted birds, they were pronounced fit for 
 picking. Large flocks were kept, usually numbering from 
 ten to sixty, and as it was impossible for the owners to de- 
 nude so many of their downy raiment, neighboring wives 
 and daughters were invited to help. Each brought a linen 
 pillow slip to cover the head and protect the hair from the 
 flying down, and a long woolen stocking to draw over the 
 heads of refractory and protesting geese and ganders to keep 
 them from squawking and biting during the picking process. 
 A paddle was also kept to spank the too unruly ones and it 
 was said tO be most effectual, — a thorough good spanking 
 cooling down and rendering submissive the most clamorous 
 matron goose and the most lordlv and belligerent of the an- 
 cient ganders. Jl was a standing joke at feather bees to call 
 on the mother of many olive branches to come from one to 
 
34 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 another and paddle an unruly goose or gander, as she "had 
 her hand in." 
 
 It was considered a sad breach of etiquette for the maker 
 of the bee to appear at all solicitous or anxious about the 
 feathers carelessly dropped or blown about and expressive 
 of penuriousness in a matron it would sometimes be said, 
 "Why, she would chase a feather half a mile." 
 
 The youngest girl at the gathering who plucked the most 
 geese was entitled to enough down to sew herself a down 
 tippet for her fair neck. 
 
 An aged farmer declared that the large flocks kept were 
 most destructive to farms, and that though the wives and 
 daughters pleaded for them, both for the pocket money and 
 the nice pillows and beds, such was the destruction of lawns 
 and pasture lands, hay crops and watering places by these 
 birds, that they were at length utterly banished from almost 
 every estate. 
 
 The advent of young claimants for name and place in the 
 family circle was usually an occasion of hilarity and rejoic- 
 ing. Baby was up for general inspection and comment to 
 numerous callers from its first day. Mother and child were 
 not zealously guarded as now by an Argus-eyed nurse from 
 sight and sound. Very frequently they were subjected to 
 hurtful company and mirth. One young mother was once 
 nearly killed by a bevy of the youthful father's bachelor 
 friends, who called and threw her into fits of hysterical laugh- 
 ter with their pranks and jokes, until she barely escaped ut- 
 ter prostration. Babies, old and young, were carried to 
 church and it was no uncommon sight to see a dozen or 
 more distressed mammas dandling uneasy infants through 
 an entire service. 
 
 It is told of a resident of honor and repute that, a pre- 
 cocious three-year-old, in his mother's arms in church one 
 Sabbath, he espied a dog greatly resembling a pet one of his 
 own at home trotting placidly up the aisle. Rev. Zelotus 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 35 
 
 Grennell was the ofificiating clergyman and a warm friend 
 of the family. Clapping his hands in high glee, he cried 
 out shrilly, "Sick 'im. Pike ; sick Mr. Gren, I say, and bite 
 his nose off," causing that worthy divine to suddenly pause 
 in his sermon, a grave deacon near to clasp his sides, and 
 hold them firmly to keep them from undue expansion, and 
 the younger members of the congregation to giggle audibly. 
 
 During the War of 1812 there was not a dish to be pur- 
 chased in Warwick village, and many good housewives 
 found their meager supply numing low or entirely gone. 
 Not even the common delft, with its oddly grotesque buff 
 and indigo-hued figures, could be procured. A bed of blue 
 clay was opened on a farm in the suburbs and tableware 
 made therefrom. One good wife was quite an adept in 
 moulding and firing these home-made substitutes for dishes 
 and not only shaped and baked them for herself, but for 
 neighbors and the village folk, assisting one bride to an out- 
 fit of this impromptu table furnishing who was so heroic as 
 to wed and set up housekeeping in the straitened war times. 
 She was accustomed to relate that she at last broke her tea- 
 pot, and tried days to make one, but could never fashion 
 handle and spout securely. 
 
 Frequently little boys dug clay from this bed and moulded 
 marbles, snakes and rude symbols therefrom, and besought 
 mother to hurry the baking from the big brick oven in the 
 chimney corner that they might tumble in their clay handi- 
 work. 
 
 When the thrilling play of "Injun" filled all space with 
 whoops and wild alarm, the war-paint was invariably this 
 blue clay mixed with water. When alternated with stripes 
 I and markings of yellow clay, also found in abundance, the 
 youthful savages on the war-path were sufficiently diabolical 
 in appearance to strike thrills of terror into the hearts of the 
 little girl-mothers, shielding herds of children in forts and 
 block-houses formed of porches, empty rain hogsheads, 
 
36 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 smokehouses and wood-piles. This yellow clay is of coarser 
 grain than the blue, and was not used for moulding. In pre- 
 paring the blue for dish-making, it was softened with lin- 
 seed oil, and given, just before baking, numerous brushings 
 with boiling sweet milk. 
 
 Thorns were the only resource for hairpins our grand- 
 mothers knew, and the sharpest, smoothest and finest were 
 gathered at a certain stage and preserved for use. 
 
 The legions of complexion restorers were unknown in 
 early days, though the fair were not utterly unmindful of the 
 beautifying arts. The suet of lambs was simmered with 
 scarlet, honey-filled blossoms of the red balm, making a sim- 
 ple, soothing lip salve. The blood beet formed an innocent 
 rouge for pale lips and cheeks, and face powder was bolted 
 from the hom_e-made starch. The pomatum softening and 
 making lustrous the smoothly worn bands and braids of 
 hair was invariably of beef's marrow, perfumed with ber- 
 gamot from the garden beds. Tansy, infused in buttermilk, 
 was the favorite cosmetic for tan and freckles. When, in 
 the spring, the family lard-tub gave out, there was found in 
 the bottom a small quantity of fine lard oil. Rose leaves 
 were simmered in this and it was used as an unguent for the 
 face. An aged lady of Brooklyn declares her own grand- 
 mother used to carefully gather this fine oil from the lard- 
 tub, mix it with rosewater and use it as a wrinkle banisher. 
 This custom evidently came from the country cousin. 
 
 Sports and pastimes now wholly unknown brought to- 
 gether crowds in days of old. The butting contests of ne- 
 groes was one. A gentleman who well remembered these 
 said he had attended them on the borders of what was then 
 called Wickham's Pond. Many of the participators were 
 ex-slaves of old families. These would congregate and butt 
 each other with force and fury wonderful to behold, like 
 veritable Inimnn battering rams, tumbling and rolling in the 
 soil after the collision with shouts and guffaws of wild, hila- 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 37 
 
 rious laughter, white teeth gleaming, wool standing out like 
 a bushnian's and perspiration streaming down the shining 
 black faces. The hardest head knocked out all the rest, and 
 was the champion of the bout. This uncouth sport drew 
 numbers of the citizens of the village and vicinity. 
 
 A decidedly uniciue amusement often occupied winter 
 evenings, particularly at the country inns. Rye bread was 
 moulded into a ball with from three to five prongs by some 
 housewife's hands. Many landladies became adepts in mak- 
 ing these, and they were dubbed "dough babies." The boys 
 and men hurled these against the wall, endeavoring to break 
 ofl: one or more of the prongs. So compactly and cunningly 
 were they moulded that this was almost an impossibility. 
 
 One of these contests once took place in a hotel at Bell- 
 vale. About a dozen men were taking part in it, when a 
 teamster drove in the yard and stopped for the night. On 
 entering he was, for a time, a silent witness of the trials at 
 throwing the dough balls. At length he offered to take part, 
 and becoming excited after several unsuccessful efforts finally 
 bet quite heavily that he could "break a leg off the dough 
 baby." He hurled it, and one fell. It was picked up, and 
 the marks of thumb and finger nails plainly showed a reason 
 for the break. So great was the indignation of the party that 
 the host could not prevent his guests from summarily eject- 
 ing the culprit and ducking him into the cooling waters of 
 the creek. These bouts seemed peculiarly exciting, for one 
 at the old Stone Hotel, in Warwick, once ended in a free 
 fight, bloody noses and cracked heads. 
 
 Pitching quoits was a favorite village pastime. A spot 
 long used for this game was in front of the Ward Hotel. 
 There it was played at one time almost incessantly. 
 
 A bustling and thrifty housewife of the town, with a 
 spouse much in love with the sport, requested him to dig 
 a lettuce bed one balmy spring morning. Looking out, after 
 a while, she espied the shovel bolt upright in the earth, and 
 
38 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 the hand that should have held it gone ; it was easy to con- 
 jecture where. In a moment she too had disappeared and 
 the recreant was led from the alluring quoit ground, and 
 was shortly thereafter observed digging away for dear life 
 in the lettuce bed, with one very warm-hued ear. 
 
 Fencing was common, and much practised, the old Stone 
 Hotel being the scene of frequent contests with sword and 
 foil, and many young men evinced much skill in this art. 
 
 Pigeons were very plentiful in the early days of the town. 
 Sometimes the air seemed almost darkened with the im- 
 mense flocks of these birds. A farmer living near the vil- 
 lage one morning bagged ninety-six in a short time in the 
 woods. They had settled so thickly on the trees and bushes 
 that he clubbed many down, wrung the necks of some, and 
 every shot brought down numbers. Savory potpies, stews, 
 broils and genuine pigeon-pies, in which the birds predom- 
 inated over the crust, were plentiful in the humblest homes. 
 
 A little four-year-old on hearing the wails of a newly ar- 
 rived brother inquired anxiously what was the matter of the 
 stranger. 
 
 "I guess he must be hungry," ventured grandma. 
 
 "Then why don't you give him some pigeon with 'thoup' 
 on it." she cried, in a burst of prodigality ; "our cellar is 
 full of em." 
 
 Gleaning the fields, that most ancient custom, was not 
 unknown to our valley and a lady loved to tell how, having 
 been given permission to glean wheat, she once gathered 
 enough to buy her a dress with the proceeds. This aged 
 Ruth delighted to narrate with what care she selected the 
 finest and heaviest heads from the stubbly field, and neatly 
 laid stalk by stalk, until sheaves as large as she could man- 
 age were gathered and borne home in triumph at night. 
 Well and hardly earned, we should say, was this new gown. 
 
 It was a very common sight to see young ladies going 
 through the streets carrying small linen wheels in their arms 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 39 
 
 to a "spinning frolic." The disappearance of fields of flax, 
 with its exquisite hlue flower, from our landscape is much 
 to be regretted. 
 
 The annual soap-making was an event of deep interest in 
 the family circle, and when it would not "make," or come, 
 in household parlance, heavy was the woe of the housewife. 
 
 No doubt many a head now gray will recall the cheese- 
 making, that time delectable to childhood. The warm, frag- 
 rant milk poured into the tubs where it slowly solidified in 
 snowy whiteness, the cutting and breaking of the masses of 
 curds for the huge creaking press, and the delicious squares 
 doled out on the way to the old screw where it was mould- 
 ed were episodes to remain long in memory. 
 
 Painful were the lives of those of artistic tastes. Not one 
 avenue for the exercising of these tendencies opened to 
 them. One lady, with an inborn love of art, painted all her 
 pictures with colors expressed from field and garden flowers. 
 Another made a landscape, quite a creditable picture, entirely 
 formed of the scrapings of linen and wool. The effect was 
 soft and mossy, and really very pretty, splotches of red and 
 brown giving an effective autumnal tint to the foliage and 
 foreground. 
 
 The kitchen hearth was the shrine upon which were often 
 immolated the complexions of mistress and maids. Here 
 the meals were prepared, with an infinity of detail now al- 
 most unknown, and here, in a huge kettle depending from 
 the crane, swung out for the monotonous duty, with eyes 
 and brow searing in the glowing heat, the bound or slave- 
 girl washed the dishes. 
 
 In a home near the village a unique dish-kettle was in use 
 for many years. The master of the house, enjoined by his 
 spouse to replace the one lately broken, brought her, in a 
 spirit of fun, an Indian mortar which he found in the woods. 
 Given a place by the hearthstone the family delft and china 
 were cleansed in it for years. Later it did duty by the an- 
 
40 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 cient well-curb as catch-basin for overfull pail drippings, as 
 a stopping-place for thirsty wild-birds, and anchorage for 
 many fleets of walnut and acorn boats. The dark-browed 
 Indian wife crouched above it, pounding the yellow maize 
 for her saturnine lord and little ones, probably never 
 dreamed that her primitive kitchen utensil would serve also 
 in the wigwam of the paleface conqueror. 
 
 A comical bit from the curriculum of early school days 
 used to be related by a venerable lady who participated in 
 the exercise. Saturday was never a holiday, and on that 
 afternoon each week all small maidens over ten were re- 
 quired to come with an extra clean pinafore and hair of un- 
 rumpled smoothness to be instructed in "The Whole Duty 
 of Woman." Each girl took her place in line, small calf- 
 skins rigidly toeing a crack in the floor, and with hands 
 meekly folded listened while the master read from Holy ] 
 Writ such selections as conduce to duty and obedience in 
 God-fearing women. Then the little damsels repeated these 
 and kindred lines until committed to memory: 
 
 Ye daughters of the land attend 
 To what I say and comprehend. 
 
 The Lord, who doeth all things well, 
 Hath put you here, as He doth tell. 
 
 For one set purpose, clear and true, 
 And see that His commands you do. 
 
 Be a good daughter, mother, wife, 
 Strict in your house your mortal life. 
 
 Learn to preserve, to cure, to bake, 
 And fill the larder for man's sake; 
 
 So will he comfort find in home 
 And never from his doorstone roam. 
 
 Then when in death you close your eyes, 
 In the blest hope some day to rise. 
 
 Remember this will crown your life, 
 A daughter, mother, friend, and wife; 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 41 
 
 Ever homekeeping, busy, true, 
 
 Your stone can say no more of you. 
 
 The subjoined was a favorite poem frequently read by 
 
 the teacher to the row of httle maids, and who shall say it 
 
 does not contain pure nuggets of sound counsel? 
 
 Detest disguise, remember 'tis your part 
 
 By gentle fondness to retain the heart. 
 
 Let duty, prudence, virtue take the lead 
 
 To fix your choice and from it ne'er recede ; 
 
 Abhor coquetry, spurn the shallow fool 
 
 Who measures out stale compliments by rule. 
 
 And without meaning, like the chattering jay, 
 
 Repeats the same dull strain from day to day. 
 
 Are men of sense attracted by your face, 
 
 Your well-turned figure, or their compound grace. 
 
 Be mild and equal, moderately gay. 
 
 Your judgment, rather than your wit, display; 
 
 By aiming at good breeding, strive to please, 
 
 'Tis nothing more than regulated ease. 
 
 Does one dear youth among a worthy train 
 
 The best affections of your heart obtain, 
 
 And is he reckoned worthy of your choice. 
 
 Is your opinion with the general voice? 
 
 Confess it then, nor from him seek to hide 
 
 What's known to every person else beside; 
 
 Attach him to you in a generous mind, 
 
 A lively gratitude expect to find, 
 
 Receive his vows, and by a kind return 
 
 Affection's blaze will e'er the brighter burn. 
 
 Disdain duplicity, from pride be free, 
 
 What every woman should you then will be. 
 
 This was a selected poem by an old author, and did ser- 
 vice in "The Whole Duty of Woman" with admirable effect. 
 The time-stained copy from which this is transcribed is 
 94 years old. Daughters of to-day may marvel that all the 
 teaching of that day was for forming the minds of wives, 
 but, my dears, the bachelor girl had not then been heard of. 
 
 The little girl who participated in this unique instruction, 
 and told it, a venerable raconteur, never ventured her barque 
 on the sea of matrimony. She lived until her years num- 
 bered eighty-three, and ever recalled the snickers, grins and 
 complacent glances of the "big boys" as the candidates for 
 knowledge on "The Whole Duty of Woman" stood up with 
 military precision and were taught therein. 
 
42 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Man held almost exclusive dominion in the schoolroom 
 in early times, but one little woman — for she was very small, 
 indeed — has left a memory there which should be enshrined 
 in all loyal hearts. She was a faithful teacher, a patriot of 
 the truest type and a wife — well ! such a wife as man may 
 search long for and find but seldom. She loved, honored 
 and devotedly cared for as poor a specimen of a bread-win- 
 ner as need fall to w^oman's lot, but he was canonized in her 
 eyes, as you shall see. 
 
 Jamsie Strader went to the war, the old conflict of 1812, 
 and though never brave nor given to conscientious per- 
 formance of duty in any every-day walk of life, there covered 
 himself with glory. This man, naturally timid, ever shift- 
 less, did, in three consecutive battles, fight like a very belted 
 knight, was severely wounded in the fourth, and sent home, 
 where, suffering from chronic stiffness and lameness, he 
 was retired, given a pension, and nevermore lifted a finger 
 in work throughout his mortal life. But little Rhoda Strad- 
 er sat store by her incongruous lord, and thought only of 
 the heroism of her warrior, for true patriotism swallows up 
 every other earthly consideration in a loyal heart, and this 
 is as it should be. Her Jamsie had fought for his country, 
 shed his blood, and nearly died ; been made a corporal for 
 bravery, and it was enough for this noble, liberty loving soul 
 — she asked no more. Why should her Joshua not rest in 
 peace at his own fireside now? Wars were over, he had 
 fought bravely and well, and song and story all declared it 
 should be thus. 
 
 Rhoda always averred that no more timid man than Jamsie 
 ever breathed. When Kissy, the spirited little family mare, 
 ran away and nearly dumped them off the bridge in the 
 brook, she said Jamsie's very ears took on a ghostly pallor, 
 and that they were only saved by her grasping the lines and 
 "sawing" Kissy into obedience. She often said he would 
 demur at taking a hen ofif the nest if she were a known 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 43 
 
 "picker," but when he went to war — here her eyes would 
 kindle — "he fought like a wildcat every battle, pressed on to 
 the thickest of the fray, and never tlinched until he was shot 
 down and carried to the rear streaming with blood and 
 shouting for 'one more chance at 'em.' " That a man nat- 
 urally so fearsome should have broken out into such valor 
 was an enigma her mind failed to solve, but she glorified 
 him for it, and he drew his pension and took his rest after 
 "battles past," while Rhoda taught and sewed and eked out 
 their slender living with untiring patience and industry. 
 
 The patriotic fervor of this little woman, whose heart, to 
 fall into hyperbole, was about three times as big as her body, 
 words are poor to express. Rhoda Strader had a gift. She 
 could illustrate c[uite graphically. The old wooden black- 
 board in her schoolroom frequently bore evidence of her 
 talent, and she loved, after lessons were over, to picture 
 thereon stirring scenes of battle, of triumph and defeat. 
 Rest assured the brave American forces were always ram- 
 pant, the foe wounded, fleeing or stark and stiff in seas of 
 gritty white chalk gore. Would that Dame Rhoda could 
 have had a box of the many-colored crayons of our day. 
 How she would have delineated ensanguined conflicts and 
 brought out her red and blue forces ! Still, with native tal- 
 ent and a bit of chalk to set the teeth on edge, her work 
 shone grandly in silver-headed veterans, in General Wash- 
 ington's white war-horse in snowy plumes and gauntlets, 
 and the icy wastes of Valley Forge. It must have been a 
 poor fancy that could not imagine all the colors wanted when 
 Redcoats fell before the Blue, and life-blood stained the 
 sod while Rhoda told the "oft-told tale." 
 
 The Fourth of July was a great day for the rural school. 
 Then, indeed, did this tiny patriot fairly bubble and boil 
 over with quenchless enthusiasm and loyal fervor. She 
 would marshal her boys on the green stretcli of worn grass 
 in front of the schoolhouse, and spend the day in a genuine 
 
44 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 celebration. Joyfully she sang with them such soul-thrilling 
 songs as these, in which she had trained them well : 
 
 All hail this festal day 
 
 Let every heart be stirred, 
 When Freedom, with a clarion voice. 
 
 Sent forth the joyful word ; 
 And British minions left the soil 
 To conquering freemen's honest toil 
 
 Death to the tyrant, 
 
 Wherever he be, 
 Who would set his base heel 
 
 On the land of the free — 
 
 and other martial melodies; had them speak "pieces," brist- 
 ling with rancor against foreign invaders, go through sham 
 battles, march ; in fact, the day was made an ovation to the 
 wooden American eagle with a green tail over the school- 
 room door. In the battle exercise Dame Rhoda displayed 
 that true womanly trait which ever seeks to make the best of 
 circumstances. For the coming fray she always selected the 
 strongest and heartiest boys for the American force, while 
 the timorous and weak ones were relegated to the British 
 side. When the battle opened the Redcoats were in the 
 twinkling of an eye routed horse and foot, were even known 
 to flee in wild disorder, their generals and captains panic- 
 stricken, while the valorous Yankee troops held the field 
 and jeered and hooted the retreating horde. After the ex- 
 ercises were duly finished, the conflict over and victory 
 perched on our banners. Dame Rhoda had the wounded 
 cared for, the fleeing returned, order restored and wound 
 up with a speech, exhorting them with fervid earnestness 
 to love their country, prize its liberties, hold fast to the 
 Declaration of Independence, and shed the last drop of their 
 blood in defence of its great principles. With tears in her 
 bright eyes she would recount over ^nd again how the col- 
 onists marched shoeless and with bleeding feet, hungry and 
 scantily clothed, with never a word of complaint, ready 
 
OUR FOREFATHERS 45 
 
 through all their suffering to spring to the call of duty, and 
 exhort and inspire her boys to ever do the same in defence 
 of liberty. 
 
 As has been told, Dame Rhoda's husband, made a cor- 
 poral for bravery and devotion to duty, and retired on a 
 pension, had rested on his laurels, and was but little heard 
 of in their small world. But on this great day Corporal 
 Jamsie came to the front as he did in the time of conflict, 
 and was to the fore, and a man of note. Donning his "sojer 
 clothes," he fired his treasured musket a great many times, 
 led the march — in which his limp brought the crimson of 
 pride to Rhoda's cheeks — sang lustily, and also harangued 
 the boys to loyalty and the girls to give their hearts to a 
 soldier, the only man worth a woman's love and pride. Oh, 
 how Rhoda's eyes sparkled when Jamsie said this ! How it 
 found an echo in her loyal, loving heart! Then the day 
 would end with a bag of seed-cakes, a glass of metheglin, 
 and a long four-stranded braided stick of molasses candy for 
 each pupil. How her face shone as she saw her hero come 
 out strong on this glorious occasion ! It was the only one 
 in which Jamsie was known to come out at all, but it was 
 sufficient. That fond, patriotic heart was content. The inci- 
 dents of this sketch of Rhoda's life were given by one of her 
 own pupils, who lived to a great age, and who never ceased 
 to recall with amusement and pride her loyal little teacher. 
 
 "The days of long ago!" — the poet's, the historian's, the 
 antiquarian's theme! Will these in which we live transmit 
 to our descendants such cherished memories? Fold by fold 
 falls the veil of years, hiding darkly and still more densely 
 all that marked them. Year by year the withered lips are 
 sealed that could tell so much, and in closing these pages, let 
 the wish be expressed that all coming in contact with these 
 precious old friends will gather and garner every priceless 
 reminiscence — for they may not hear them again. 
 
i 
 
Ill 
 
 Wooings and Weddings of 
 Ye Olden Time 
 
Ill 
 
 Wooings and Weddings of 
 Ye Olden Time 
 
 ^^^^^^-'^^AS there any romance in the. days of tallow- 
 WT" ^^^P^' petticoats and short-gowns, sanded floors 
 {and sparsely settled hamlets? If any doubt 
 'it, let them read this sincerely faithful record 
 jof hearts now dust that lived, beat and loved, 
 as the great muscular viscus has had a habit of doing 
 through the ages, and, it is confidently asserted, will keep 
 right on doing, for when did not the "sons of God see the 
 daughters of men that they were fair?" 
 
 Now, once upon a time, two snug farms spread their green 
 lengths over the countryside, some miles apart, and on one 
 dwelt a widow with an only son and on the other a widower 
 and only daughter. The young folk met at apple-bees, at 
 quiltings, at dances and merrymakings, and it fell out that 
 soon one of the widow's best horses was every Sunday night 
 to be seen wending its way toward the widower's home, 
 where, before the front gate, it rubbed its nose against the 
 tie-post, pawed and fretted, and looked vainly for feet that 
 were very slow in coming. History, which is not the less to 
 be trusted because it is handed down through truthful, honest 
 lips, declares that this went on for four years, and these 
 lovers were no nearer the consummation of their hopes than 
 at the beginning. 
 
 For how could the widow do without that only son ? Are 
 they not the apples of their mothers' eyes when they are 
 good and wholesome fruit? And what could that lone 
 
so UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 widower do without that dear child, who kept his home, 
 carded, spun and wove, knitted his comfortable stockings, 
 made the small wheel whir as she spun the family linen, 
 and when it was all done, was, no doubt, a pretty picture as 
 she flew in and out, sprinkling- the web that whitened on the 
 bleach-yard grass? 
 
 As it is a vexatious thing to have no name for a hero and 
 heroine, we will call these two John and Huldah, which was 
 not their names at all ; indeed^ so charming was their story 
 that this chronicler was minded to give them in full, but a 
 cautious friend whispers, "Maybe their descendants" (who 
 still dwell in great peace, plenty and honor in their native 
 valley) "might not like it," and if there is aught on this 
 earth a stumbling-block in the way of a little gossip over 
 love and romance, it is a pestiferously prudent and cautious 
 friend. Like it, indeed ! ! They should be proud of it and 
 keep their pretty story framed in the best room in all their 
 homes. 
 
 The fourth winter crept on. Cold were the nights and 
 deep the snow, still patient Dobbin went the old accustomed 
 journey every Sunday eve, and still the wedding problem 
 was worse of solution to these fond lovers than the Differen- 
 tial Calculus, of which abhorrent thing they had never heard. 
 One bitter night John stayed late, very, very late, in fact, 
 and was thoroughly scolded by his mother next morning, 
 who wound up by declaring, just as mothers do now, that 
 "Really, it is a shame to keep a poor girl up so," seemingly 
 oblivious to the fact that they once made no protest against 
 a like infliction. But, dear, kind souls ! they are always more 
 tender of their children than of themselves, and particularly 
 anxious over their daughters-to-be. 
 
 John did not wait for Sunday night nor the cover of dark- 
 ness for his next call. He stopped on his way to the village 
 the very coming Tuesday ? When he left, there were tears 
 and fire in Huldah's brown eyes. They were brown, and so 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGwS 51 
 
 are some of her I-don't-know-how-many-greats-granddaug'h- 
 ters' to-day, brown, and bright, and sometimes fiery, too. 
 That wintry night the one cow not dry was milked, the hen- 
 house carefully stopped up to keep the inmates' combs from 
 freezing, pigs fed and chores done, and Huldah had supper 
 ready, and as white and light a shortcake baking in the tin 
 oven (the old Dutch oven before the fire) as her plump 
 brown hands ever kneaded. Now, if paterfamilias had one 
 pet weakness, it was for a nice hot shortcake, and here, I am 
 glad I have concealed Huldah's true name from her descend- 
 ants, forsooth to say, with the making of that shortcake — 
 which was eaten with raspberry jam — Huldah set out on an 
 awful course of intrigue and cunning that should have made 
 every mother's son and daughter born of her a diplomat, 
 only none of them ever were. To show further her "dex- 
 terity and skill in securing advantages," which is Webster 
 for diplomacy, this artful girl had a pitcher of cider flip all 
 ready when the good father entered, and divesting himself 
 of his outer garments, proceeded to comfort his inner man. 
 The room was bright with sparkling fire and tallow candles, 
 Huldah charming in a self-woven flannel dress, dyed a lovely 
 butternut brown by her own deft hands, and as the sole head 
 of the little home drew up his easy chair before the fire and 
 watched the snow thaw from his boots before the ruddy 
 blaze, it is not to be doubted that he felt very thankful that 
 when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, daugh- 
 ters were born unto them. Then Huldah, in whose once 
 guileless heart a design deep and momentous v/as now darkly 
 brewing, once more inserted the poker in the flip till it 
 hissed, and pouring out a bowlful said : "You were so long 
 in stopping up the hen-house to-night, father, I thought I'd 
 have this ready for you," and while he sipped, she placed the 
 shortcake and fragrant hot tea on the board, and they ate, 
 drank and were merry, as a kind father and a loving daugh- 
 ter should be. And while that delicious shortcake was disap- 
 
52 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 pearing, she said in the most offhand and innocent way, 
 ■'Father, John's mother is going to have a httle company Sat- 
 urday, and she wants you and me to come." It is not known 
 whether the expletive "Bosh!" was used in those primitive 
 times (that miserable monosyllable that has crushed the 
 hopes of femininity so ruthlessly in these latter days), but 
 Huldah told her children, and they told theirs right on down 
 until it came straight to me, that, in spite of the flip and 
 shortcake, that ungrateful father said he wouldn't "go one 
 step" ; that he didn't "know the widder overly and didn't 
 want to." 
 
 Oh ! the perversity, ingratitude and obstinacy of man's 
 insensate heart. Had not lovely women been given, by an 
 all-merciful Providence, just such powers of cajoling, plead- 
 ing, winning, as Huldah exercised that night, well, there 
 would never have been this story to write, that's all. Certain 
 it is that the supper dishes stood unwashed and the grand- 
 father's clock in the corner pointed to nine before Huldah 
 won her way, and that obdurate father's consent to go to the 
 widow's. But, let it be a crown of glory to her memory, she 
 did win, and they went. 
 
 It was a good old-fashioned dinner, with roast chicken 
 and pumpkin and mince pies, we are sure, but that these 
 were in the actual bill of fare is not known. What follows 
 is : When the dinner was done, all gathered in the snug front 
 room about the bright brass andirons that held the crackling 
 fire. Huldah and her father were the only guests. In war, 
 in love, in family matters, deep and intricate, decisive action 
 is ever found to be the most effectual. And so pretty Huldah, 
 putting her hand in John's, said, "Father, John and I have 
 decided to get married," and John, holding fast to that faith- 
 ful little hand, echoed, "Yes, mother, that's so." 
 
 "But you can't, you shan't ; not now. What shall we do ?" 
 cried mother and father in a breath, feeling that the uni- 
 verse was shaking around them in this cataclysm. "We have 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 53 
 
 no objection, only we can't live alone in our lonesome 
 homes," they wailed in chorus. 
 
 "Nor need you, father," said this wise and managing 
 daughter. "We have it all arranged. You take mother 
 home with you, and I'll come here with JoJm, and we will all 
 be just as snug as can be." 
 
 And before the spring thaws swelled the streams there 
 were two weddings, the widow and Huldah exchanged 
 homes, and it is believed that not one of the family was so 
 rejoiced over this turn in affairs as Dobbin, who no doubt 
 indulged in a quiet horse-laugh of intense delight when he 
 found his melancholy vigils at the widower's tie-post were 
 forever ended. The dual unions proved most happy, and 
 were felicitous in the extreme for the numerous grandchil- 
 dren, who emulated the example set them by their worthy 
 parents, and wedded happily just as fast as they grew up, 
 and all have shown a particular aversion to long courtships. 
 We cannot forbear, in ending this little record of an old- 
 time wooing, to finish their modest history with these truly 
 appropriate words: 
 
 Year after year, 'neath sun and storm, 
 
 Their hopes in Heaven, their trust in God, 
 
 In changeless, heartfelt, holy love, 
 
 These two the world's rough pathway trod. 
 
 Age might impair their youthful iires, 
 
 Their strength might fail, 'mid life's bleak weather, 
 
 Still hand in hand they journeyed on; 
 Kind souls, they slumber now together. 
 
 One very dull and rainy autumn evening early in the last 
 century, just as the settled gloom of night closed in, there 
 came a rap at the door of the Rev. Thomas Montanye, who 
 resided in an old stone house on the edge of the village. A 
 trim town maiden, who had been assisting in the family, 
 opened the door, and found there a worthy colporteur from 
 the Literary Rooms of Eastburn, Kirk & Co., Wall and Nas- 
 sau streets. New York, who was straightwav made welcome, 
 
54 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 dried, warmed and fed, and given a seat by the hospitable 
 fireside. Finally the family retired, leaving the guest still 
 at the chimney lug and the damsel on household cares intent, 
 preparatory to closing for the night. The worth}- clergyman 
 was sweetly sleeping the sleep of the just vvhen, in timid and 
 anxious tones, the voice of his handmaiden roused him from 
 slumber, and he was informed that somebody wished to see 
 him. Thinking it was some poor soul seeking spiritual con- 
 solation, or some messenger from a bed of death in pursuit 
 of his ministrations, he hastily rose, dressed, went forth, and 
 was confronted by his guest. Taking the maiden by the 
 hand, he informed the host that it was their wish and inten- 
 tion to be married on the spot. After carefully examining 
 into his references, it was found that the would-be groom 
 seemed worthy and of good report, the damsel willing and 
 ready, and the ceremony was then and there performed. 
 
 This was the shortest wooing that the history of Warwick 
 hands down, having lasted from about nine until one o'clock. 
 The mind dwells with pleasing reflections on this speedy 
 courtship. No time for those awful shoals and quicksands, 
 lovers' quarrels, no "partings, such as press the life from 
 out young hearts," no weary fashioning of wedding gar- 
 ments, nor anxious planning of divers cakes, nor backbreak- 
 ing garnishing of company rooms. This precipitate pair 
 dwelt in love and great peace until death did them part, but 
 left no descendants in- the town, and a stranger hand records 
 their hasty wooing and its almost forgotten romance. 
 
 Among the graves in the old village churchyard was a 
 lonely mound, over which no stone, however humble, was 
 ever set, and when the relics of its silent tenants were gath- 
 ered together and placed in the beautiful new cemetery, if 
 aught remained in that unmarked tomb, it was deposited 
 among the unidentified dead. She, whose dust reposed there, 
 was once a brown-haired, merry girl, of unusual grace and 
 charm, belonging to an old race now extinct in the valley. 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 55 
 
 Two daughters were born to this family, and the younger 
 is the subjeet of this sketcii. The elder sister was a severe 
 and gloomy person, ascetic and Puritanical, and years older 
 than the younger, whose gay and volatile spirits she often 
 chided and endeavored to repress. In time an admirer of 
 the youthful girl appeared upon the scene, who won no favor 
 with parents or exact sister, and who was at length forbidden 
 the house. The pretty girl was petulant and wilful, resented 
 the banishment of her lover, and declared, in rebellious grief, 
 her intention to be loyal to him. 
 
 Anon, there were stolen meetings, the vigilance of parents 
 and sister was eluded, until alas ! alas ! one clay the lover was 
 gone, a terrible revelation came to the secluded farmhouse, 
 and in time the blighted girl held an infant to her desolate 
 bosom, doomed never to know a father's love or protection. 
 Then, grievous to record, there commenced on the elder 
 sister's part a course of resentment and systematic oppres- 
 sion toward the hapless young creature, pitiful to relate. 
 She succeeded in turning the parents' hearts more and more 
 bitterly against her, she was literally banished from human 
 ken, condemned to the meanest drudgery of the home, and 
 reproach and indignity heaped upon her defenceless head. 
 The old church, where once her bright face and sweet voice 
 were found, knew her no more, guests at the home saw only 
 her vacant place at table and in the family circle ; and 
 clamped mouths and cold, forbidding glances met any inquiry 
 after her. Her pastor was deeply concerned in regard to 
 these sad rumors of the girl, who, from a little child in the 
 Sabbath-school in the old church, still pointing its spire to the 
 zenith, he had loved and taught, and once made bold to call 
 at the house and ask for her. Laying his hand kindly on 
 the father's shoulder, he said, "My brother, where is my 
 little Jane?" White, and shaking with rage, the stern, 
 wounded old parishioner replied, "Dead, dead, dead, she died 
 five months ago." The kind-hearted man of God, baffled and 
 
56 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 aggrieved, took his leave, and ventured no more to see the 
 child so dear, so tenderly pitied by his truly Christian heart. 
 
 But in the home so saddened, all unconscious of the misery 
 his coming brought, the boy grew and would not be re- 
 pressed. A splendid little fellow, with midnight eyes and a 
 tangle of dancing curls, strong, sturdy, beautiful, soon the 
 yard, the fields, all the old homestead began to ring with his 
 gay laugh and shouts. It was rumored that even to the 
 lovely child their animosity and bitterness was extended, but 
 let us hope, at least, that this was false. 
 
 A few years passed, and suddenly, quite near to each 
 other, father and mother passed away, the first-born made 
 a late marriage with a well-to-do widower and removed to 
 his home, selling the homestead willed to her by the parents, 
 and the sad mother and her little boy took up their abode in 
 two rooms on the outskirts of the hamlet, where she earned 
 her bread as a tailoress. 
 
 Pleasant to relate, the day of her painful ostracism and 
 persecution was over. Old friends received back the long- 
 banished girl ; she became a favorite once more, and in the 
 village school no boy so bright, so fine a scholar at his age 
 as her own little lad. Alas ! poor innocent, he gave her un- 
 consciously many a stab in that too tender heart with his 
 childish prattle. She sewed from house to house at her busi- 
 ness, and once, while so employed, he came running in from 
 school, pretty mouth and hands stained with wild berries, 
 and flying up to her cried, "Mamma, I've been up on the 
 burying ground fence picking blackcaps, and Johnny was 
 with me and we saw his daddy's grave ; now, where's my 
 daddy's?" Slowly poor Jane wiped the quick starting tears 
 from her eyes, and while the sympathizing family essayed 
 not to notice, drew the impetuous little fellow to her bosom 
 and whispered, "Hush ! hush ! hush !" 
 
 At another time she was assisting a family at the burial 
 of its head. They were robed in deepest sable garments, 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 57 
 
 with long crape veils, and he sat near watching the prepara- 
 tions. Suddenly he threw his strong young arms impulsively 
 about her neck, and said, "Mamma, you forgot to wear such 
 nice black clothes for my daddy, didn't you?" And so, many 
 a time and oft, his childish remarks were thrusts of anguish 
 to her wounded spirit. 
 
 When her boy was about twelve, a party of her towns- 
 people prepared to go to the western part of the State, and 
 she suddenly announced her intention of accompanying 
 them. There was little to attract her to her native place, sad 
 spot of memories of shame and regret to her, and though 
 kind friends endeavored to dissuade her, she persisted in her 
 resolve, and left the town for a new home. She throve amid 
 the new surroundings ; in every school her boy was a star 
 of the first magnitude, and grew in good looks and sturdy 
 health. 
 
 Time wore on, there was a revival in religion, fervid, 
 ecstatic, such as new countries experienced, and moved by 
 the heart-stirring scene to intense exaltation of spirit, the 
 young man arose and exhorted the assembled people. Lo ! 
 his vocation opened to him. He soon entered the ministry, 
 and grew immediately popular. Handsome, forceful, eloquent, 
 he was the pride and choice of his church, and beloved by all. 
 As if Nature, in pity for the sorrowful accident of his life, 
 never wearied in good gifts to him, he possessed a voice of 
 exquisite sweetness, was a rare musician, and with voice and 
 touch enhanced his ministry. His marriage was prosperous 
 and happy, and the delight and center of his home was the 
 once-despised and stricken mother. With him she lived and 
 died in peace, and such shadowed happiness as n;ay fall to 
 an erring, storm-tossed heart, bitterly repentant of its own 
 sad straying. At her death she requested to be brought home 
 and laid in her native valley. She made those around her 
 promise that they would leave her grave unmarked, and 
 
58 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 whispered, at the last, that she had forever lost her own name 
 and had no other to take its place. 
 
 Her wish was respected and faithfully carried out. One 
 calm spring day the narrow house, holding all that was left j 
 of her, was brought home, and a few assembled and laid her 
 beneath the clods of her birthplace. Among the group was 
 an aged woman, bitterly weeping. It was the sister who had 
 been so hard and unrelenting, now widowed, childless, alone 
 in the world. Amid her sobs she said brokenly, "I don't care 
 if Jane did slip, she was the best woman God ever made." 
 
 Was it not a wise pen that wrote, "The tragedies of life 
 are not on the stage, they sit by the hearthstone?" 
 
 Early in the last century, a family removed to the West, 
 bearing with it a member destined to win honor and fame in 
 his new home. After some years passed in the wilds of the 
 then far country, he returned to his native town. At a party 
 given at the goodly home of an old-time resident, he was an 
 honored guest. A dark-eyed daughter, bright and vivacious, 
 noted for her melodious rendering of the "songs of long 
 ago," sang "Young Lochinvar." She was dressed in scarlet 
 crepe, her dark hair curled about her face, and was no doubt 
 a charming vision of brightness and grace as she met the 
 returned wanderer's eyes. The song was effective, she went 
 back with him as his wife, and they died, rich in possessions 
 and full of honors, a few years ago. 
 
 In the long, long ago, in a small town in Connecticut, the 
 wife and mother was suddenly torn from her family, leaving 
 a lonely husband and home. Thereafter, one day, there rode 
 forth from the New England village a certain goodly Cap- 
 tain, who journeyed to Orange county to purchase horses. 
 They were secured and pasture was wanted for them. He 
 was informed that he could find it at a farm near the town, 
 in the possession of two sisters, and thither the worthy Cap- 
 tain wended his way. So delightful was the mansion, so 
 agreeable the sisters, that the Captain not only rode thither 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 59 
 
 and bestowed his horses, but remained himself in great com- 
 fort during his stay. Now, if any reader, on sentimental 
 thoughts intent, for one moment supposes that the Captain 
 t| fell in love, there and then, with one of these sisters, no 
 greater error ever seized upon him or her. Our Captain had, 
 in the Land of Steady Habits, a faithful and loving spousCj 
 who kept his home, minded his babies, and was as precious 
 a helpmeet as ever gladdened man's heart withal, so he 
 wanted not another. 
 
 His visit ended, he journeyed back to New England, and 
 told his lonely and stricken friend of his sojourn 'mid the 
 hills of Old Orange, and the hospitable home where he had 
 been so graciously entertained. Incidentally his friend in- 
 quired as to the looks, the bearing and disposition of his 
 hostesses, and was given a most excellent and satisfactory 
 report. It is not so recorded, but it is firmly believed that 
 thereafter he fell to thinking. Indeed, he must have medi- 
 tated, for no widower ever did what he soon contemplated 
 without so doing. Arraying himself in blue in stately fash- 
 ion and mounting a trusty steed, it was not long before he 
 found an errand which took him over the same route pursued 
 by his friend, which act showed him a much wiser man than 
 Myles Standish, as he trusted his wooing to no proxy, but 
 went thereon himself. 
 
 Eittle did the homestead anticipate what was in store that 
 
 autumn night. It had been a day of tempest, dark clouds and 
 
 rain and rocking winds, and the two lonely sisters sat by the 
 
 fire awaiting the return of the man who had been hired to 
 
 look after their domain. This individual, be it known, was 
 
 i at that anxious moment stretched upon a wooden settle in a 
 
 well-known hostelry in the village, sleeping off liberal pota- 
 
 i tions of applejack. Long they waited, but, in the words of 
 
 the song, "He came not, O, he came not," and at last the 
 
 ^ younger of the sisters decided to go to the barn and look 
 
 ^ after the lowing cattle. Arrayed in an old greatcoat and 
 
6o UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 fur hat unearthed from the garret, she saUied forth, in this 
 unique garb, dripping with rain, with wind-blown hair, and 
 laden with two pails of water for the horses, she espied an 
 equestrian, in a huge cloak, riding toward the barnyard. But, 
 let it be written, the daughters of that day were not dismayed 
 in the pursuit of duty, and she bade the stranger welcome, 
 for that was the fashion of olden time, little minding heir 
 quaint and unusual garb. When he had introduced himself, 
 she helped her guest to house his dripping steed, and he in 
 return assisted her in completing the most necessary 
 "chores," and soon they were assembled around the family 
 hearthstone. The weather cleared, a wooing sped, and the 
 very next visit the Captain's friend made he went home lorn 
 and lone no longer, but took the younger sister as his bride. 
 From this marriage came descendants of whom their native 
 valley may well be proud, and who love it with deatliless 
 affection, for such was the wife's fondness for her own home 
 that she besought her husband, very soon after the birth of 
 their first son, to leave New England and settle there, which 
 they did, and a grand pair they were, and a goodly, all the 
 days of their earthly pilgrimage. 
 
 In the year 1817 occurred a wooing and wedding on the 
 Clark homestead near Warwick of a charmingly romantic 
 character, 
 
 A gentleman from Connecticut had occasion to visit our 
 town and brought with him his daughter. She was very 
 young and a rosebud of sweetness and bloom. After reach- 
 ing his destination, business took him farther on, and he 
 decided to leave his daughter there and continue his journey 
 alone. He found a home for her in the hospitable mansion 
 of Mr. Clark. Leaving a canvas bag containing one hundred 
 dollars in gold to pay her expenses until he returned, he 
 proceeded on his way. Early in the winter there was a large 
 party at the Clark home, noted for its merrymakings. Among 
 the guests was a young man from Warwick, a descendant of 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 6i 
 
 its early settlers and belonging to one of its most honorable 
 families. Right then and there happened a case of "love at 
 first sight," proving that oft-quoted phrase no chimera of 
 the brain of romancers. 
 
 The courtship was speedy and the young Warwickian and 
 the beautiful New England girl were wedded the May fol- 
 lowing. A large party was assembled in the gracious Clark 
 home to witness the nuptials. Mr. Clark gave the bride away 
 and presented her with the bag of gold as a wedding gift. 
 
 No happier marriage is recorded in Warwick's annals. 
 As the handsome young pair stood in the spacious parlor re- 
 ceiving the congratulations of the guests, the officiating 
 clergyman remarked, "How wonderful are the ways of the 
 Almighty, who brought this young woman away from Con- 
 necticut to be the wife of our townsman." Hospitable and 
 whole-souled Mr. Clark, who stood near our grandmother in 
 the group, replied, "I don't say the Lord didn't have a hand 
 in it, Dominie, for His hand is in everything; but I think I 
 was His instrument, for if I hadn't made the party last win- 
 ter, this wedding would never have been in the spring, for 
 that did the business." 
 
 In the early thirties a little, utterly sad romance cast a 
 shadow over vale and hill with its tragic sequel. On the 
 brow of the mountain lived a young girl, sweet of face, 
 graceful of form, and good as she was lovelv. In the valley 
 dwelt a young man of fine family and fair fortune. 
 
 He owned a hundred acres of mountain land, and riding 
 through one day to blaze some trees for felling he met the 
 girl gathering berries and flowers near her home. She bore 
 for him a charm and lure from the first glance, and soon it 
 was whispered he was her lover. It was true — an innocent, 
 sincere aflfection, that had a heart-breaking end. One morn- 
 ing pretty Mary went out berrrving in the wildwood ways. 
 Forest fires were in their reaches, but she did not know they 
 were so near, as the wind blew strongly from her. Sud- 
 
62 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 denly it turned, and in a few moments she was enveloped in 
 smoke, and the crackling of the flames was distinctly audible. 
 She started for home, and, bewildered, terrified, lost her way. 
 Her father and neighbors started in quest of her. After the 
 blinding smoke had rolled away, carefully they sought in 
 thick boots of cowhide through the hot mountain ways. At 
 length, under an overhanging rock, they found her, still 
 living and able to feebly whisper her terrible experience. 
 vShe was borne gently home, but died in a few hours. It was 
 a cruel fate for one so good and lovely, a woful ending to a 
 boy-and-girl romance. 
 
 In the old stone house of Mr. Benjamin Bradner, once the 
 Baptist parsonage, hard by Warwick village, lived the well- 
 known and beloved pastor of the church with his wife, who 
 shared with him his people's affection. 
 
 And up the hill and down the hill 
 
 Through many changing years, 
 They shared each other's happiness 
 And dried each other's tears. 
 Alas ! Alas ! 
 That Death's cold dart 
 Such Love can part. 
 
 But it did, and the faithful old vv'ife was "gathered to her 
 fathers." After a short season a comely maiden above the 
 village became deeply "exercised in her mind." Now what 
 more natural than that she should go to her excellent pastor 
 for comfort and instruction. And she did go and go, and, in 
 fact, went very often. When embarrassed the minister was 
 sometimes prone to stammer a little, a very little. As this 
 well-favored lamb of his flock sought him more and more for 
 consolation, he sometimes became greatly distressed by her 
 woe, for what is more upsetting to the ordinary man of 
 proper feeling and sympathetic tendencies than a woman's 
 tears? Perhaps of all varieties of the salty drops deep con- 
 viction of sin mal<ces the most saline. So at times all the 
 good pious man could ejaculate, stammeringly, was: "You'll 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 63 
 
 come over it, little girl, you'll come over it." This is the tes- 
 timony of his housekeeper, a grim old ex-slave, who looked 
 with strong disfavor on the weeping penitent. 
 
 Well, she did "come over it," and came it over the excel- 
 lent widower, too, was baptized by him, and married to him, 
 and they dwelt in great peace and security in the old stone 
 mansion, and it is not believed that the worthy pastor ever 
 knew that he was won over and melted by tears until he 
 succumbed. But Treenchy, the faithful old slave, knew, 
 and told this to my grandmother, their very next door neigh- 
 bor. 
 
 One of the ablest historians of the French Revolution once 
 remarked that he wrote the sad story of Marie Antoinette 
 "with many tears." Indeed, as the pen-pictures of such a 
 lovely and unfortunate being formed beneath the writer's 
 eyes, well might they have dimmed. Alas ! how many such, 
 from all gradations of society, in all ages, have walked the 
 thorny path laid out by Destiny's hard hand ? 
 
 In the very first decade of the last century there lived, on 
 a farm lying between two villages in this favored section, a 
 young girl, said to be the most beautiful of her time. At an 
 Independence Day celebration at the county seat her beauty 
 was remarked upon through the day, and at a ball given in 
 the evening at the tavern she shone beyond compare. Her 
 hair was of magnificent length, and of the rare purplish 
 ebon seen in the plumage of birds ; her eyes matched it, and 
 in her faultless complexion, to quote the ancient romancers, 
 "the lily and rose seemed to vie with each other." She was 
 bright and witty, as well as beautiful, and had, perhaps, 
 some of the wilfulness of assured loveliness, for she looked 
 coldly on the farmer lads about her home, and would say, 
 with a toss of her handsome head, that she would never 
 "milk and scrub keeler tubs for any man." 
 
 Time passed, and a stranger came thither from the South. 
 He was dark, with a fine, proud bearing, and met the rural 
 
64 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 belle at a country dance. Attired in a gown of snowy mus- 
 lin, with ribbons of peach-blossom tint, no doubt her charms 
 shone resplendent in the fine steps of the cotillions of the day. 
 Through the merry evening these two had eyes only for 
 each other. The stranger claimed her hand in every dance, 
 attended her to the supper, and seemed like one enchanted. 
 Soon he was a frequent caller at her father's home, and with 
 a polish and address not then common in the secluded vale, 
 won all who approached by the magnetism of a pleasing 
 exterior. It was said, after all was over, that the plain 
 father demurred at the marriage, but the mother seemed in- 
 fatuated with her charming daughter's admirer. She fol- 
 lowed her father's and mother's "chair," as they jogged to 
 the village church on a pillion behind her afifianced lover, and 
 many a plain and hard-favored lass doubtless envied the 
 beauty her looks and luck. Word went forth that wealth 
 and position were his, and that he would bear her to power 
 and splendor. 
 
 At length the bridal took place, amid feasting and rejoic- 
 ing, and the pride of the valley was borne away to her new 
 home. Maybe some very commonplace, wise parents, whose |' 
 less grandly dowered daughters were milking night and | 
 morning, scrubbing keeler tubs, and rearing men and women- 
 to-be in the interim of hard, drudging work, shook their 
 heads sagely and prophesied under the breath over all this. 
 It is likely, as it is a way we have when meteoric fortune 
 comes to our neighbors. 
 
 She came to the old church once after her marriage. She 
 wore a crimson velvet cloak, a silk dress that would "stand 
 alone," had a burnished brass comb in her beautiful hair, 
 and exquisite ruffles of fine ribbed and figured dimity on her 
 white neck and wrists. And then she was gone, and as all 
 the gossip and excitement of this unusual wooing and wed- 
 ding died out, the hamlets scattered through the country 
 said : "It might be all right, after all." 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 65 
 
 Years passed, and strange misty stories began to creep 
 through her home town. The parents were reticent; they 
 always said "she was well." Letters were rare in those far- 
 away times. After nine years had passed, however, it was 
 told that she had been at her childhood's home, and there 
 she was, surely, a sad, broken-hearted creature, and in a 
 brief time her reason fled forever. Two little boys, with her 
 beauty, came with her, but it is not known what became of 
 these children, nor what was true or false in the thousand 
 rumors that filled her old town of her hapless wedded for- 
 tune. Neither time, nor the weight of years, nor her mys- 
 terious sorrows, not even the awful blight of dethroned in- 
 tellect, ever quite effaced her marvellous beauty. Her mis- 
 fortune was of the purely melancholy type. She seldom 
 spoke, but would sit with the long, jetty fringes veiling her 
 eyes for hours, and at almost stated intervals would pass her 
 hand over her brow, and wearily push away the heavy 
 masses of hair. Thus she lingered until kindly death re- 
 leased her sorrowful spirit. She was well-born, good, and 
 beautiful, and if Fate can feel remorse for its dealings with 
 the human, surely it must have experienced some twinges 
 for all the ruin of such a promise. Never, in the days of 
 her utmost desolation, did she lose her majesty of mien, and 
 in all the darkness of her mind she ever commanded respect 
 from those in her presence. 
 
 Early in 1800 a stranger came to Warwick and opened a 
 business there. After a short time he brought his wife and 
 children and resided in the lower part of the village. To the 
 amazement of the townfolk who called, they found that the 
 wife was a mulatto. It was as far as can be ascertained the 
 first case of the kind occurring there. They had two chil- 
 dren, William and Mahala, both bright and fine-looking, the 
 daughter extremely pleasing in appearance and manners. The 
 mother's stor}^ was the oft-repeated one in Southern slave 
 days. Her mother was a handsome slave beloved by her 
 
66 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 master, a wealthy planter. His wife and only son dying, he 
 freed her, and settled upon her and their daughter a com- 
 fortable sum. The young Northerner, travelling in the 
 South, met the bright, well-endowed girl and eventually re- 
 turned and married her. After a few years' residence in 
 New York City they came to Warwick. They lived a se- 
 cluded hfe, the wife devoted to her family, shy of inter- 
 course with white neighbors, and rigidly excluding all asso- 
 ciation with the slaves then plentiful in the township. The 
 husband one Sabbath fell dead in the yard of the Dutch 
 Reformed Church. The grief of the widow was pitiful, she 
 refused to be comforted, left the town, and all trace of her 
 was lost. 
 
 Wlien we write of the past we always speak glibly of cen- 
 turies. Indeed, it is vouched for by the daily press that one 
 lucky, or unlucky, individual, I fear he could not determine 
 which, lived in three. We will only go back to the eighties 
 of the seventeenth for this bit of romance, and will inform 
 the reader in the beginning that there is nothing startling 
 in it. 
 
 Parents have, through all the ages, in the most trying, 
 perverse, unreasonable fashion, interfered in the heart affairs 
 of children, and the young folks, so beset and opposed in the 
 very dearest wishes of their hearts, have moped, pouted, re- 
 belled, made vigorous protest, and sometimes thrown off the 
 parental yoke altogether and taken matters into their own 
 rash hands. Frequently the elders have fallen piteously 
 sorry for their unsympathizing and unfeeling attitude, again 
 offspring have had to bitterly bewail their refractory and 
 headstrong disobedience, and often all have been "pied" in 
 one common woe over the family distraction. Though this 
 is a small, absolutely authentic story of a genuine elopement, 
 it went off so well, and came out so beautifully, that the 
 world would never have gotten along half so well without it, 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 67 
 
 and if it had not occurred there would not have been nearly 
 so much world as there has been. 
 
 After this long preamble, we will say that there lived once 
 a judge of probity, property and pride, with a very sweet and 
 modest daughter, and a youth of a goodly, but not rich, old 
 family, a vaulting ambition, not yet fledged, and an eye to 
 the Judge's daughter. Surreptitious affection is what Dinah 
 would call "curus." It, in fact, seems to be the most taking 
 of all kinds of the commodity. Though this fair girl had 
 many a more eligible lover casting longing eyes upon her, 
 she ignored all, and clave to the youth under the paternal 
 ban. The awful alliteration of "P's" fencing in her father's 
 name had no terrors for the lover. \A'hen, like an honest 
 man, he asked her hand, and was refused, he set about form- 
 ing himself into a "Committee of Ways and Means" to get 
 it. He planned a night, and while the honorable Judge was 
 soundly sleeping, happy in the consciousness that the aspiring 
 lover was dismissed, snubbed and properly sat down upon, 
 Romeo placed a ladder beneath his Juliet's window, and lift- 
 ing her over the sill, led her down. Those were lovely days. 
 No such harrowing articles as marriage licenses were ever 
 heard of there. So, mounting his horse, tethered a little 
 away, he lifted her lightly up and hieing to the nearest 
 dominie, they were made one. Then he went, Hke the fine 
 young fellow that he v>as, and told the Judge that they were 
 married. His Honor, being of a judicial cast of mind, and 
 having a profound respect for the law, reflected that the 
 law^s of nature, God and man had bumped right up against 
 him, and, receiving them, forgave them straightway. His 
 .new son-in-law said to him. "Father, I know you're not 
 proud of me now, but I'll live to make you proud of me," 
 and he did. and his children's children's children are proud 
 of him to this day. 
 
 He used to tell, with pride, tliat when he lifted his bride- 
 to-be over the window-sill, his fingers met and clasped 
 
68 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 around her slender waist. He was scarcely a man to be re- 
 sisted^ as this one anecdote will illustrate. 
 
 The "trained nurse" was an unknown quantity in our fore- 
 fathers' domestic happenings, and it came tO' pass that a 
 third son was born to the house, and none to help in the 
 emergency. So, when the situation became desperate, forth 
 sallied the father, and went in search of ministering for the 
 helpless ones. On his quest he found a neighbor's daughter 
 watering her flowers in the dooryard, to whom he made 
 known his dilemma. Young and inexperienced, she refused 
 to even entertain the thought of going. Stepping to the 
 door, he said to the mother, "Can I have Mattie for two 
 weeks?" "Yes," was the reply, while timid Mattie turned 
 to flee. Without more ado, he picked her up in his arms, 
 set her in the vehicle and drove rapidly home. Arriving 
 there he again took her up, carried her in his wife's room, 
 laid the eight hours' old baby in her lap, and saying, "Now 
 take as good care of them as you can, I'll ask no more," left 
 the room. 
 
 The improvised nurse herself, who was so successfully 
 pressed into service, used, in relating the story, to conclude 
 by saying, "I never was so scared in my life, and I told his 
 wife so, but she said, 'Oh! never mind, that's just the way 
 he took me.' " She might have replied, "But you were will- 
 ing to be kidnapped, and I wasn't," but the young of that day 
 were too respectful to their elders to indulge in many happy 
 retorts. Thus ends the authentic history of one of the most 
 rounded and complete elopements on record in the valley. 
 
 The old Baptist parsonage, long since demolished for an 
 unpretending successor on the same site, was once the scene 
 of an unusual and romantic marriage. Far away, amid the 
 rural scenes of Tompkins County, dwelt the editor of a 
 small religious monthly with his wife and two little ones. 
 She was gifted with a cultivated mind and much taste for 
 writing, and frequently contributed to her husband's unpre- 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 69 
 
 tentioiis periodical. He was also a minister, and with his 
 dual duties led an existence of exacting labor, greatly aided 
 by his accomplished wife. 
 
 In the South lived a clergyman of the same persuasion, 
 with a happy wife and family, who occasionally contributed 
 to the little pamphlet published in tlie wilds of New York 
 State, and mayhap read with interest the smoothly written 
 articles from the pen of the editor's young wife. Suddenly 
 her companion died, leaving his widow with little of this 
 world's needful resources for her helpless children and 
 aging mother. The pastor at Warwick and friends who had 
 been interested in her husband's work, learning of her un- 
 certain prospects, bestirred themselves, and she was removed 
 thither, where she opened a small millinery business in the 
 center of the village. 
 
 She was graceful, pleasing, with taste and talent, and 
 gained many friends in her new sphere. Meantime, away in 
 the far Southern home, the minister's wife lay dying, and 
 anon the husband and babes were left alone. 
 
 Two years rolled on, and the daily mail, bumping along 
 from Chester, in the old-fashioned stage-coach, occasionally 
 brought a letter with a Southern postmark to the widow. 
 They came more and more frequently, there was a new light 
 and a tremulous smile on the attractive countenance, and all 
 her gentle friends took a fresh and absorbing interest in her. 
 At length the old parsonage buzzed with preparation under 
 its weatherbeaten roof, one noontide the stage set down there 
 a stately, handsome man, about forty, and the next evening 
 there was a wedding between the widow and the Southern 
 minister, the two having never looked upon each other's faces 
 before the day preceding their bridal. In a few days the 
 little home at Warwick was closed, and the bride, with her 
 son and daughter and venerable mother, was borne away to 
 North Carolina, where, with her children, she found a new 
 and happy life, four more being born to her, of whom three 
 survived. 
 
70 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 So far as data can be gathered, this was the first and last 
 wedding in the section where bride and bridegroom met as 
 utter strangers. It was a most harmonious marriage, each 
 possessing rare personal and mental endowments. Curious 
 to state, although a pastor for forty years, the husband never 
 preached a funeral sermon. He was wont to declare, he 
 never had been, nor would be engaged in such service. 
 When his own end came, calm, serene and beautiful, his last 
 request was that he should be laid in silence in the grave, 
 and this was done. He believed this simple manner of the 
 apostolic age the true and most impressive method of burial. 
 
 In all the annals of wooings and weddings, none has been 
 gathered of a pair more charming than the above. 
 
 That these interesting reminiscences could be prolonged 
 indefinitely is beyond question, for Cupid was just as busy a 
 century or two ago as he is now, but no wise scribe multiplies 
 words ad infinitum, and so with the following we will close. 
 
 In the beginning, it is well to state that the events now 
 about to find place on paper for the first time occurred in a 
 comfortable farmhouse on a road leading to three villages, 
 familiar to all who dwelt on the rich borderlands of old War- 
 wick town. The dwellers thereof originally came from that 
 people who said "God made the sea, but the Hollander made 
 the land/' who put upon their tiles such thrifty maxims as 
 "Time is precious," "Time is money," and of whose simple, 
 hard-working people a Spanish Commander once wrote, in 
 the siege of Haarlem, "These citizens do as much as the best 
 soldiers in the world could do." So they were of good stock, 
 which is the best of all beginnings, and if a little heady, have 
 we not heretofore shown that baffled affection will many 
 times and oft beget this very trait in the best of folk ? 
 
 The eldest son of this worthy house, when he reached man's 
 estate, took unto himself a wife from the adjacent land of 
 Sussex, also of Dutch descent, and as no daughter had ever 
 been born to his ancestral home, he brought her there, and 
 she proved one, indeed. It can be imagined how she spun, 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 71 
 
 wove, Icnit, sewed, scrubbed, sanded, made curds and whey 
 and cheese as a good wife and daughter should. P)Ut an 
 outbreak of that fell enemy to life, spotted fever, visited the 
 fair vale, and in spite of hemlock sweats and fearful bow^s 
 of w^ormwood and snake root, and bitter doses of bark and 
 v/ine, the loved husband died and left the young wife a 
 widow after two years of connubial bliss. Then, very lonely 
 and heartbroken, she was minded to go back to her father's, 
 but her mother-in-law made such grievous and woful lament 
 that she stayed. 
 
 The second son was a strapping youth of twenty-four, in 
 fact, a veritable Anak, and hardly had the grass rooted over 
 the dust of his brother before all knew his widowed sister- 
 in-law had found favor in his eyes. But it was not returned, 
 although she worked on as patiently as ever, churned, baked 
 and brewed, piled high the board with crullers and dough- 
 nuts, as a good housew'ife should, kept the moth from the 
 dear departed's clothes, and was a most seemly and rightly 
 disposed widow, indeed. But after a year and a half had 
 flown, Anak began to make swift, vigorous and warm as- 
 sault upon the little heart so closed and cold. It has never 
 been determined yet whether proximity eases or aggravates 
 the pangs of unrequited affection. The idiosyncrasies of 
 heart trouble will cause this ever to remain a vexed and 
 open question. In this particular case, I think it had the 
 effect on the big soft fellow, head and heels in love, of a — - 
 well, let us see — mustard plaster on the throbbing organ. It 
 was maddening. In this strait he went to his mother. "As 
 one whom his mother comforteth" is a beautiful chain of 
 sweet words, but they don't always do it, not ahuays. No 
 doubt this bereaved mother had felt often that the Almighty 
 had dealt very bitterly with her in snatching her first-born 
 son from love and life and happiness, and the consecration of 
 his bridal was perhaps still lingering in her heart, for she 
 berated Anak and told him to "let the poor girl alone," and 
 
72 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 that he ought to be ashamed of himself. Then he, Uke 
 Jacob of old, "lifted up his voice and wept/' with far more 
 cause, for Jacob had just had the privilege of a kiss, but 
 this chilly, prudish widow had never even given poor Anak 
 one tender glance. At this juncture the mother's heart 
 melted, and she told the lover to keep quiet, and then per- 
 haps thoughts began to weave in her slow Holland mind of 
 how nice it would be to have this good girl^, once a daughter, 
 always a daughter, and she agreed and promised the great 
 blubbering fellow right there to speak for him in due time 
 and season. And this she did, and was met by a firm and 
 unmistakable "No," and was furthermore told that sooner 
 than bear this siege, the widow would depart for Sussex 
 County to her own kindred and people. And so the mother 
 had naught to do but to tell her troubled and anxiously 
 waiting boy the truth. 
 
 Poor Anak ! it was a sad blow, and on it the whole family 
 slept that night and woke in the morning to find him gone. 
 Gone ? Truly, yes, and with him the family saddle-bags, and 
 the very best of his ruffled shirts and good homespun 
 clothes, and a fine roan horse with strawberry markings, the 
 very horse his brother used to ride down into Sussex to an 
 old stone house to court that girl, so soft and yielding to 
 him, so congealed and obdurate to himself. His purse of 
 green silk, filled with silver and gold, went with him. Such 
 search was made as could be instituted before telegraphs, 
 telephones, detectives, police and like modern innovations 
 were known, but Anak was not found. A lonely, lonelier 
 than ever house was that through the long, snowbound win- 
 ter. I fear that mother's heart was in rebellion against 
 that daughter-in-law now, for her last son was gone. They 
 came to the village church, had to drive themselves, tether 
 their own horse, and carry in their own foot-stoves, all of 
 which Anak used to do, and a boy was hired for help, a 
 poor substitute for their own. 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 73 
 
 Finally Fate, that horrific upsetter of the peace and com- 
 fort of poor humanity, laid the good mother very ill with 
 typhus fever. Here, let it be remarked, that had plumbing 
 been introduced then, only it was neVer heard of, it is firmly 
 believed that the work on that ancestral home would have 
 been declared out of order and all sanitary arrangements 
 not up to date, or why should fever again smite the devoted 
 household? She lay many weeks, but at last, as the May 
 roses began to bud, slowly crept back to strength and health. 
 And then there came a letter to the post-office, and it bore 
 the name of that very pale and worn-with-watching young 
 widow on it. For she had "held the fort" through all that 
 weary siege, faithfully done every duty, assisted by her own 
 good Dutch mother, and never called one halt until the 
 stricken patient began to live again. And then down sick 
 she went, but not before she had answered the letter. 
 
 So it fell out that about one week after, Anak's roan horse 
 was quietly munching his vesper corn in his own stall, and 
 his master was just imprinting a kiss on a face almost as 
 white as the pillow on which it lay. Perhaps some slow di- 
 gesting mind will think it was his mother Anak was salut- 
 ing, for a man should always be his mother's first, best, all- 
 round lover, but it was not. It was that frozen small widow, 
 so melted down by trouble, sickness, hard work, watching, 
 and the thought that she was nearly the unwitting slayer of 
 her mother-in-law in robbing her of her last child, and 
 thereby precipitating a fever, that she was softened into the 
 most delightful state of charming and sweetly acquiescent 
 kindness a lover ever dreamed of. These two lived long and 
 happily, in fact, grew old and gray together. 
 
 A young reader might feel, as these pages are read, a little 
 contempt for the widow, that 
 
 She who had lately loved the best 
 So soon forgot she loved at all, 
 
74 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 but ripened years and mature reflection will teach a calmer 
 judgment. Surely she tried and wished to be faithful to 
 the memory of her first love, but what could one lone woman 
 do beset by a lover insistent and impetuous, a mother-in- 
 law like Paul of old, in a strait betwixt two, namely, ner- 
 vous prostration, called "low-po" in those early days, and 
 fever? Who would not have capitulated, in fact, gone and 
 done likewise? 
 
 "A critic by the hearth," who gained access to this manu- 
 script, wished to know how Huldah made the flip and short- 
 cake, when she entered on her diplomatic career. 
 
 In tlie first place, a genuine good cider flip could nevdr 
 be made until Boreas came with "bitesome breezes and blew- 
 some blastesses" and froze the barrel of cider in the garret. 
 Then a hot iron was inserted and a pitcher of the "heart" 
 drawn forth. Into this allspice, ginger and cinnamon were 
 lightly sprinkled and good browned sugar mingled with a 
 tiny lump of butter. Then a portion of peach-brandy, 
 sweetened with honey, was added, and a poker inserted 
 until the whole was steaming hot. This was genuine cider 
 flip, and in some homes, an iron kept for heating the mixture 
 was called a "flip-dog." 
 
 And how did Huldah make that shortcake? Did it com- 
 pare with the soda-biscuit of these latter days ? Ah, did it ? 
 Let us see. 
 
 When Huldah was done churning in the fall, she partly 
 filled divers and sundry deep crocks with buttermilk, and 
 poured cold water over them. The water was changed and 
 renewed many times until the buttermilk assumed the con- 
 sistency of snowy ice-cream ; then the water was carefully 
 poured off and it was gathered and set in a cold place for 
 winter use. Now Huldah had never heard of baking- 
 powder, never. Those women of blessed memory knew 
 not this modernity. When her father shelled corn he threw 
 out the largest, finest, whitest cobs, and these Huldah dried 
 
WOOINGS AND WEDDINGS 75 
 
 and then dedicated to a holocaust, and from that gathered a 
 substance called pearlash, which, combined with the lactic 
 acid of her deliciously rich buttermilk, one pinch of salt, a 
 cup of butter and lard, newly laid eggs, and flour from 
 their own wheat, freshly ground, made such shortcake as, 
 humping themselves in that old Dutch oven, we, alas ! shall 
 never taste. 
 
 The pen lingers fondly over the finis of these long-gone 
 wooings, and makes no apology for giving them resurrec- 
 tion. Surely, it has put no "rude finger among the heart- 
 strings" in so doing. Poor hearts ! they are dust long, long 
 ago. They began to pulsate in early, stern and uncom- 
 promising times, but they behaved in all their affairs just as 
 yours has done, sisters of to-day, and brothers also, and 
 verify the truth, the strength of that old saying we all know, 
 and have often quoted, "Hearts are ever the same." 
 
 Ever a question of momentous importance to the bride 
 elect is the wedding gown. Here is a very old-time rhyme 
 which all future brides should carefully scan, for it has been 
 tried and proved: 
 
 Married in white. 
 
 You have chosen all right ; 
 
 Married in gray, 
 
 You will go far away ; 
 
 Married in black, 
 
 You will wish yourself back ; 
 
 Married in red, 
 
 You'd better be dead ; 
 
 Married in green, 
 
 Ashamed to be seen ; 
 
 Married in blue. 
 
 You'll always be true ; 
 
 Married in pearl, 
 
 You'll live in a whirl; 
 
 Married in yellow, 
 
 Ashamed of the fellow ; 
 
 Married in brown. 
 
 You'll live out of town ; 
 
 Married in pink, 
 
 Your spirits will sink. 
 
IV 
 
 Memories of 
 Old Northern Slaves 
 
IV 
 
 Memories of Old Northern Slaves 
 
 For sale in this town, a stout healthy negro man. Inquire of the 
 Printer. 
 
 [HOULD these lines meet the eyes of the read- 
 ers of either of Warwick's newspapers of to- 
 day, spreading abroad their budget of news 
 'and hteratnre, it is very hkely a shock of in- 
 tense astonishment and indignation would be 
 general. But in the last century they were very common, 
 and created no wonder as they appeared in the weekly news 
 sheets. 
 
 On a pleasant afternoon in the early 40's a party of vener- 
 able ladies were visiting together, and "helps' " manifold 
 shortcomings and imperfections, self-assertiveness and blun- 
 ders became the theme of conversation, as the good dames 
 clicked their knitting needles. 
 
 "It wasn't so, Nancy," said one, "when a body could just 
 drive out to a sale and buy a good nigger and wench. How 
 they zvould work ! Old Phila would do more in a day than 
 a white hired girl would do in three." 
 
 "Yes," interpolated another, "when well whipped they 
 would." 
 
 "Well, I always said," was the reply, "that zve got more 
 out of our niggers, with less whipping, than anybody 
 around." 
 
 Were there sales of human beings in this fair section of 
 New York State? And were they noted and attended? 
 Yea, verily, and these were the notices, copied verbatim, on 
 
8o UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 seeing which our forefathers jogged comfortably to the 
 auction, made their bids, bought their property, and returned 
 with it securely bound. 
 
 FOR SALE. — A stout negro man named Jack. Is twenty-three 
 years of age, five feet, four inches high, thick set, and square built, 
 full black. Is a good farm hand; will be sold very reasonable. 
 
 "But," cries one, to whom this reads like the Spanish 
 Inquisition, the heads picketed on London Bridge, the 
 French Revolution, and Salem witchcraft, "they never 
 treated slaves here as they did elsewhere." 
 
 What shall be answered to this question? 
 
 It may be said that they didn't have so many to treat, but 
 those they owned did not find life all roses, else why, in a 
 given time, is there one sale advertised and seven notices 
 like this? 
 
 TEN DOLLARS REWARD.— Ran away from the Subscriber on 
 Monday, the 6th instant, July, a negro man named Grant, five feet 
 nine inches high, spare made, very black, broken in his speech. Had 
 on when he went away an old wool hat, a purple brown cloth coat, 
 a waistcoat and a pair of tow trowsers, and old coarse shoes. Who- 
 ever will take up said negro and secure him so that I can get him 
 again shall be entitled to the above reward and all reasonable 
 charges. 
 
 "Oh!" cries some tender heart, "what an awful thing to 
 appear in our papers." Nevertheless it did, in our bona fide 
 county paper, about the first decade of the last good century. 
 It was a very small sheet of four pages, just seventeen and 
 one-half inches long and eleven inches wide, that Elliot 
 Hopkins, Esq., furnished the county folk of Orange, but it 
 proclaimed the biggest blot on that beautiful portion of our 
 land ever known. 
 
 "Oh, well !" exclaims somebody, "I suppose everybody 
 had slaves in those days ; all were ^tarred with the same 
 stick.' " 
 
 Alack ! even so, and among the earliest remembrances of 
 the writer lives Serena, Rosette, Mitty, Roseanne, Sukey, 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 8i 
 
 Dine and Bets, as, after their emancipation, they came to 
 visit or aid their old mistresses, and patted all the small 
 folk with child-loving fondness. 
 
 In every instance of absconding- property of the male 
 persuasion, a reward of ten and twenty dollars is offered for 
 its apprehension, but the following notice will show a dif- 
 ferent appreciation of the value of feminine flesh and blood : 
 
 FIVE DOLLARS REWARD.— Ran away from the Subscriber 
 on Sunday, the 9th August, a negro woman named Sarah, twenty 
 years o£ age. Had on when she went away a blue and white calico 
 short-gown, a homespun brown petticoat, old straw hat and a pair 
 of old shoes that had been mended. She is supposed to be lurking 
 about Goshen or Dolscntown, as she had lived in both of those 
 places. 
 
 Poor Sarah ! She did not go in the family carryall to 
 church, but remained at home and pared the potatoes and 
 watched the babies, doubtless, that hot August day, and as 
 she worked she thought there was such a thing as freedom 
 in the wide, fair world, and she set out in the calico short- 
 gown and old straw hat, the homespun petticoat and mended 
 shoes to find it. Ah ! I fear they found her and sent her 
 back, and somebody got that five dollars. She was worth 
 only five, being a woman, you see. Had she worn a short 
 coat instead of a short gown, her goin' away advertisement 
 would have been a companion to this : 
 
 TWENTY DOLLARS REWARD.— Ran away from the Sub- 
 scriber on the 14th of June a negro man named Jonah. Said slave 
 had on, and took with him when he went away, two hats, one roram 
 and the other wool, one kerseymere short coat, one red and yellow 
 I vest, one thin yellow vest, one white, one pair of hunter's cord 
 trowsers, one pair of nankeen trowsers, one pair of shoes, one thick 
 with a spur piece on, the other thin, lined and bound. Said Jonah 
 does not touch any liquor unless it is sweetened. Whoever will 
 take up said runaway and return him to his Master or secure him in 
 any jail, so that his Master shall get him again, shall be entitled to 
 the above reward and all reasonable charges be paid. 
 
 Now, it has ever seemed to me that Jonah's master was 
 entitled to more respect than any other slave-owner whose 
 
82 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 name and address stands at the foot of these yellow, time- 
 tattered advertisements. In the first place, Jonah had good 
 clothes, and in the second, he had been given sugar as he 
 wanted, and that speaks well for Mr. Blanque, or may be it 
 was Mrs. Blanque, who said wdien Jonah was hot and 
 aweary, or cold and chilled, "Here, Jonah, put this lump of 
 sugar in your dram ; it will taste better," and so cultivated 
 the saccharine habit. 
 
 The word "jail" looks badly in the notice. I wish Mr. 
 Blanque had left that out, but then, anyway, poor Jonah 
 Eightfoot had three vests to his blessed back, and a nice 
 pair of light shoes to rest and comfort his flitting feet. He 
 couldn't help running away, considering whose namesake 
 he was. Peradventure the name of Jonah would have been 
 a misnomer. 
 
 Among the most amusing of all the old ex-slaves was 
 Tone. His right and proper cognomen was undoubtedly 
 Antonio, but he was always known as "Tone." In his old 
 age, after his freedom, he always remained with some mem- 
 ber of our family. Tone's mortal frame was small and 
 spare, his face thin and troubled, and he had the most comi- 
 cal stammer, when worried or excited. His wool frizzed 
 tight to his scalp, and was very grizzled. 
 
 Tone was a sort of Martha in all labor, ever careful and 
 troubled. As his little shrunken form sped hither and 
 thither, he had a habit of groaning in the most dismal man- 
 ner, and a stranger would have thought him in the deepest 
 affliction. One morning the master of the house went away, 
 leaving, on His departure, sundiy injunctions to Tone. 
 Soon after, he was heard groaning more lugubriously than 
 was his wont. Seated on the porch with her sewing, his 
 mistress became at length thoroughly annoyed by his lamen- 
 tations. 
 
 "What docs ail you, Tone?" she exclaimed, at last, in 
 irritation. "Are you sick? I never heard you take on so." 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 83 
 
 11 "O no! 11-0, n-o-o, no, Mis' M'randy," he answered, "but 
 I I wish I could go dead." 
 
 "What do you want to die for. Tone?" she asked. 
 ]\ "Oh, then I wouldn't have but one ting to tink of," he 
 rephed. "Now I got the pigs, the calves and chickens. 1 
 wish I could go dead; dey don't have but just one ting to 
 tink of." 
 
 "What is that. Tone ?' inquired his amused questioner. 
 
 'Oh, jes' when dey goin' to git out," he answered, with 
 fresh moans, as he trudged on. 
 
 Tone lived to a good old age. He had some knowledge 
 of the blacksmith's craft, but was always in mortal terror of 
 a horse's heels, and this fear practically unfitted him for 
 usefulness at the business. His employer was a smith in his 
 early youth, and in later years continued to keep the forge 
 ' for his own use, being a lover and fancier of horses. One 
 day Tone was called to hold a young horse to be shod. The 
 animal was extremely nervous and sensitive over the opera- 
 tion. Poor Tone was holding on to the bridle with all the 
 strength of his meager frame, when all at once the irritated 
 beast bit at him savagely. Loosing his grasp. Tone fled in 
 wild dismay, and slipped and fell in the brook near the shop. 
 
 "What did you let go for. Tone?" shouted his irate 
 master. 
 
 "O, God A'mighty, mister," he replied, " 'cause he's just 
 as dangersome one end as de odder," and with his usual 
 heartrending moans, Tone proceeded to pour the water from 
 his shoes, while his master caught the horse. 
 j In the last 3'eiars of his life, Tone became grievously 
 jafflicted with rheumatism. His one unfailing remedy was 
 ian ointment made of the datura strauwnium, only poor Tone 
 never knew the ill-odored weed by this high-sounding appel- 
 lation. He just called it "stinkweed," good plain Saxon, 
 it [and simmered it in skunk's grease, and said all the doctors 
 in the town couldn't limber him up as that could, with a 
 
84 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 good hot bowl of "Princey pine" tea each night. He was a 
 pathetic figure as he sat in the shop, rubbing his poor 
 wizened calves with tlie all-comforting ointment, and sim- 
 mering his "Princey pine" tea at the forge, pouring it down 
 his throat so unmercifully hot that he was often warned 
 that he would "scald himself." i 
 
 "Never ! never !" he would reply, with energy. "There's 
 only one way with this rheumatiz. Scald it right out, and 
 tlien rub it right off. It can't stand that," and, wonderful to 
 relate, with such exorcising as his tea and ointment pro- 
 vided, Tone kept on his feet to life's latest day, held the evil 
 spirits at bay, and was never troubled with doctors' bills. 
 His mortal remains were laid in the old family burying- 
 ground, and there, be it hoped, poor Tone realized the dear- 
 est wish of his heart — "gone dead" — with but one thing to 
 think of. 
 
 Bets — for such was her abbreviated title all her life — - 
 was a slave in the Wood family. Her mother was Dine,!, 
 and came from New Windsor, on the Hudson. Bets was a i 
 character worthy of a more graphic pen than that which 
 now seeks to rescue her memory from total oblivion. As a 
 child her pranks were legion. Being left once with Sally* 
 and Mattie, two little daughters of the family, to pick wool I 
 in the absence of her mistress, she was told she could "pick? 
 away" while they went to "hunt eggs." Now Bets dearlyy 
 loved to scour the hens' nests, too, and took it in highi)i 
 dudgeon that she was ordered to stay behind. When the!^ 
 little girls returned and resumed their work, she was no-'-| 
 where to be found. There lay the great piles of wool in the.{ 
 room, soft and slumbrous, but no Bets anywhere. Dowr 
 they sat, anathematizing her as they each grasped a lock oJ 
 wool and pulled away industriously. 
 
 "She's just gone down in the meadow to dig calamus, oi 
 over to the v;oods to pick wintergreen berries," they com- 
 mented severelv. 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 85 
 
 Thus they sat and worked at the sleep-inducing occupation 
 until they were almost nid-nid-nodding, when suddenly the 
 heap of wool began to move ; it parted, and out sprang a 
 horrid apparition with a chalk-white ghastly face, swathed 
 in a sheet after the most approved ghostly fashion, for how- 
 ever up to date the flesh may be in matters of dress, ca- 
 pricious and desirous of latest and most correct styles, the 
 spirit has always clung to the simply severe costume of a 
 sheet. In wild dismay, almost frantic with fright, the little 
 girls tumbled over each other in efTorts to get away, nor did 
 Bets's shrill screams of elfish laughter reassure them, or 
 check their disordered flight. 
 
 They loved to tease and annoy her in various ways ; to 
 pull the little kinky braids wherewith she decorated her 
 wool, to untie her tow apron slyly, to confiscate her "Paas" 
 (Easter) eggs, to hide her one dear ornament, a string of 
 blue glass beads^ and otherwise to harry poor Bets, but she 
 was a favorite with her mistress, and when she put on her 
 paint and set out on the warpath against her small torment- 
 ors, she was rarely called to account, the good mother, per- 
 haps, making use of that time-honored and hackneyed 
 phrase, familiar to mother-tongue through all time, "You 
 got just what you deserved." 
 
 One autumn day, as little Mattie was playing about, Bets 
 suddenly appeared with w^ide, bulging eyes. "O Mattie! 
 I've found something," she cried; "a tree full of the bu'ful- 
 lest red apples ever was, close by the woods. Come quick ! 
 come quick!" No second invitation was needed, and Mattie 
 trudged gaily forth in Bets's wake, on, on, until the dark 
 shadows of the woods were before them. 
 
 "Where, Bets? I don't see any red apples," she cried, 
 becoming distrustful. 
 
 They had reached the low-spreading boughs of a giant 
 elm. Squaring suddenly, and facing her tormentor, Bets 
 said : 
 
86 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 ''No, nor you won't. This is what you'll see, Mat; now 
 I'm going to pay you off for old and new," and untying her 
 tow apron and laying it carefully on the ground, that it 
 might not impede her movements, Bets seized the luckless 
 Mattie and gave her such a drubbing as she never forgot, 
 finishing with the adjuration, "Now I guess you'h let me 
 alone after this." 
 
 After the slaves were manumitted in New York State, 
 Bets removed to Newburgh to care for her mother Dine, 
 then nearly a hundred years old. Time passed, and occa- 
 sionally it was learned that Bets was well. One pleasant 
 spring morning in the late fifties, the time-worn door 
 knocker faintly rapped. When the door opened, a bowed 
 and aged negress was found at the portal. 
 
 "Is Mattie alive?" she inquired, tears streaming down her 
 withered cheeks. She was conducted to her, and joyous d 
 was the meeting between the two, poor old Bets alternately ■' 
 laughing and crying, as she gazed with fond, delighted eyes 
 on her old playmate. Then- affection and pleasure was 
 mutual. They talked of old, old times, of the dead and 
 gone, their merry childhood, and all at once Bets exclaimed : 
 
 "O Mattie ! do you remember the warming I gave you 
 under the old ellum tree ?" and then they laughed afresh. 
 
 The venerable woman remained nearly a week, and no 
 more welcome guest ever sat under the roof. They parted, 
 never to meet again, both dying but a few weeks apart a 
 few years after. 
 
 Serena was a tall, amply formed negress, her whole ap- 
 pearance imposing and majestic. A belle might have envied 
 her her fine teeth, even in old age. Her laugh was so sweet 
 and infectious that it was music. She was a dear lover of 
 babies, and was never without one in her arms, when they 
 could be persuaded in. When her visits were further apart 
 than usual, it was sometimes quite a task to win Baby over 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 87 
 
 to her motherly hosom, and amid ineffectual attempts she 
 would exclaim in dolorous accents : 
 
 "Sho, now, jes" see, it comes of bein' black, and it don't 
 know it won't rub off." 
 
 After Baby was at last captured her joy knew no bounds. 
 I'he pretty hair, the snowy skin came in for unstinted praise, 
 and hugging it to her bosom, she would say:, 
 
 "And so white ! so white ! so white !" 
 
 To be childless, in Serena's eyes, was the most terrible of 
 earthly afflictions. If any ancient family fell upon this mis- 
 fortune, she would bemoan it with lamentations worthy of 
 the prophets of old. 
 
 "Sho' now," would be her comment, "an' dey all dyin' out : 
 nobody to have dat fam'ly name ; nobody to keep up dat ol' 
 place?" 
 
 Sometimes she would ask : 
 
 "When de ol' heads under de dirt, who get it anyway?" 
 
 An opinion ventured would invariably rouse her ire. 
 
 "What business dey got with it?" she would retort, in a 
 high key. "Did dey airn it? No! Did dey take care o' it? 
 No ! Did dey brack deir ban's airnin' dat white money ? 
 'T aint right no^ ways," and her finely poised head would 
 quiver with indignation. 
 
 She was a firm believer in the right of primogeniture. 
 Once referring to a famil}' where the eldest born son was 
 not brilliant, and had been left the homestead estate, the 
 next son very bright, she commented : 
 
 "What bus'ness he got all the brains for; dey's in the 
 wrong skull. De head o' de house orto hev' de wits." 
 
 Serena always wore a high, snowy turban wound around 
 her head. Her last hours were typical of her name. She 
 had not been feeling very strong, and had drawn her fa- 
 vorite large chair near a sunny window in her little cot to 
 remain while her daughter went into the village for a few 
 necessaries. When she returned she found her still sitting 
 
88 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 there. Her head had fallen forward, her face was hidden in 
 her ample bosom, her turban at her feet. She was dead. 
 The fine old head was never lifted again, and thus, pain- 
 lessly, serenely she passed away. A second time she was 
 free. 
 
 Mitty was the delight of little children. She had the gift 
 of telling marvellously fascinating stories about fairies, 
 witches and spirits, individually and collectively. Seated in 
 front of the fire, she would seize the huge shovel, hammer 
 the back-log, and make "the folks go to meetin'/' to our 
 immense satisfaction. The last spark to ascend the chimney, 
 when she tired, was the sexton. When they begged for just 
 one more shower of sparks, Mitty would declare "the meet- 
 in' out, folks a-ridin' home, door locked, sexton jes' goin' off \ 
 the meetin'-house stoop," and no persuasion could induce 
 her to give the back-log another rap. 
 
 Poor Mitty 's domestic happiness was cut short in quite a 
 distressing way. Her husband, Josephus, was a smith. One 
 morning, vv'hile working at his forge, he was seized with a 
 ;errible pain under the left shoulder-blade. Going to the 
 house, he informed Mitty, who seated him in a chair, satu- 
 rated a cloth with liniment, placed it over the spot and 
 clapped thereon a hot flatiron, to drive out the pain. In the 
 space of a minute or two poor Seph tumbled from the chair 
 dead. Mitty's shrieks aroused the neighborhood, but all 
 effort was unavailing ; he never breathed more. She would 
 recount again and again this sore afiliction, and say : | 
 
 "If I'd let that iron alone — if I on'y jes' had," while tears 
 would course down her dark cheeks. 
 
 Mitty was a firm believer in witches. Though witch 
 Glories were not in favor with parents, many a deliciously 
 awful one was surreptitiously told the youngsters when they 
 w^re absent, during her visits. She v/ould recount how in 
 witch-days hens could be found in the morning "witched 
 stone-dead," standing right on the ends of their bills on the 
 
 5I 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 89 
 
 perches, only IVIitty called them "roost poles." How a poor 
 old slave she knew was nightly turned, by a wicked witch, 
 into a black horse and whipped and spurred and almost 
 driven to death, and then threatened next day by his master 
 because he was so lame and sore he could accomplish but 
 half-a-day's work. How one morning her own mother's 
 coffee-mill wouldn't turn "no-how," and being searched for 
 a pebble, a cricket jumped out and sat on the post whereon 
 the mill was screwed and kicked its heels and laughed in 
 her face, and being "clipped" with the s'pawn-stick, hopped 
 off with a broken foreleg, and right away a doctor was sent 
 for to set the broken arm of the wicked witch on the moun- 
 tain. When he reached there he found the awful creature 
 savagely splitting up her s'pawn-stick with a hatchet, and 
 while the doctor was setting her arm, a merry little cricket 
 chirped on the door-stone, and she flew out, bandages dang- 
 ling, splints scattered, and reduced him to a spot, vowing 
 she hated these chirping small boders of luck worse than 
 snakes. 
 
 "And can witches turn into crickets, Mitty?" round-eyed 
 questioners would ask. 
 
 "Sho', chillen," slie would answer, complacently, "crickets 
 or oxes — makes no difference which." 
 
 Once, in the winter, when snow was deep and the meat 
 dwindled low, Seph, on going out in the morning, found a 
 fine black pig in the pen. 
 
 "Right over in de pen," Mitty averred, "lookin' jes' to 
 hum." 
 
 Inquiry was made all around, but no missing porker could 
 be heard of. Then pious Seph concluded he must have been 
 "sent" to help them out, fed him carefully and at last when 
 of due proportions, on consulting the Squire and the min- 
 ister, and gaining their approval, decided to slay him for 
 use. On the eventful morning Seph, accompanied by Mitty, 
 went out to the pen, and to use her own words, "clum in," 
 
90 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 the butcher-knife, well sharpened^ m hand. At this point in 
 Mivty's tale, her voice always sank to a whisper, her eyes 
 looked cavernous and dark, and all invariably drew closer 
 together, and felt chilly and dry in the throats, but not a 
 soul dare go to the family water-pail for a drink. 
 
 "Now," Mitty would continue, "jes' as quick as Seph had 
 clum in dat pen, and seize dat shoat, he riz up an' storked 
 right ober de side. Seph made a dash at him with the knife 
 an' jes' slit his nose as he larruped out. And, chillen, what 
 do you think?" Mitty would continue warming to her sub- 
 ject. "Dat week dere came word de very worst wizard on 
 the mount'n, dat dey said had been working in de mines all 
 winter, had come home with de end of his nose split right 
 open, and dey done it up in pine-pitch, and he wore it done 
 up days and days and weeks," Mitty would finish. 
 
 When interrogated as to why witches and wizards in- 
 vaded her home with such dire malignity, Mitty would reply: 
 
 "Oh, 'twan't us ownerly ; 'twas ebrybody's folks ; they 
 kep' busy." 
 
 When, with the far thoughts and general persistency of 
 childhood, the little ones would ask what had become of all 
 these eerie people and why their diablerie had ended, Mitty 
 would aver: 
 
 "Dey mos'ly dies out. De las' one got lonesome and jes' 
 went to de jumpin'-off place on ol' Hogback and keeled 
 right off, and broke his neck." Being gathered up from a 
 blackberry-patch like the poor young man in "The House 
 That Jack Built," "all tattered and torn" from his mad leap 
 to death, he was buried "top o' Hogback an' not one spear o' 
 grass or even hoss-sorrel ever growed on his grave. Never 
 does," Mitty would assert, "top o' deir graves ; my ol' granny 
 always said so." 
 
 Mitty died, full of years, and when it was learned that 
 she was gone, she was sincerely mourned and the kind old 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 91 
 
 black face sorely missed. She retained her faith in witch- 
 craft to life's latest day. 
 
 Tradition said tliat her name was given lier by her mother 
 Waanche, vAio one day heard her master, in conversation 
 with a friend, speak of the manumitting of the slaves. She 
 knew that the word meant freedom for her race, and from 
 it gathered the name, Mitty, for her babe. 
 
 Samp (Sampson) was another ex-slave, whose face was 
 familiar to the childhood of that day, as with slow, laborious 
 movements he faithfully toiled. His forte was laying stone- 
 fence. In this branch Samp was an artist. The precision, 
 beauty and durability of his fences challenged comparison. 
 Samp had one failing that grievously worried his employers. 
 He zuould go "wood-chucking." When found absent from 
 his work on this alluring sport and reprimanded, his one 
 plea invariably was : 
 
 **S3'lvy docs like 'em so, she does ; she said I mus'n' come 
 home without one." 
 
 One day, in a family access of work, Sylvia was called 
 upon to assist in "wash-washing" the walls, as she termed 
 it. A boy on the farm found Samp away from his work in 
 the afternoon, and discovered him setting his chuck-trap in 
 the woods. While bringing the cows at night the boy spied a 
 fine woodchuck in the trap, and bore it home with pride to 
 Samp, who was eating his vesper meal on the porch with 
 Sylvia, preparatory to going home. 
 
 "Here, Samp," he called, holding it up with a flourish, 
 "look what a big one you've got to-night !" 
 
 Now it was currently whispered that Samp was a little 
 henpecked, and on this account, and because of Sylvia's ex- 
 cessive fondness for the meat. Samp's vanishings after 
 woodchucks were nearly always condoned. When this 
 specimen met Sylvia's gaze, as she comfortably sipped her 
 tea in the shade of the vines, fire and wrath shot from her 
 
92 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 uplifted eyes, and indignation limbered her tongue. Samp 
 was berated Vv^ith unsparing vigor. 
 
 "Why ! Sylvia, I thought you were so very fond of wood- 
 chucks," said his employer, summoned to the scene by the 
 noise of the fray. 
 
 "No sir-ee," cried Sylvia, entirely forgetting her usual 
 respectful manner in her anger. "I hates 'em — nasty, greasy 
 things. They eats pizen weeds, an' they is pizen," reiterated 
 Sylvia. 
 
 "Why ! Samp, how is this ?" queried the master of the 
 house, puzzled. 
 
 I'oor Samp ! His nose nearly sought his shoes. Slowly 
 he spoke. 
 
 "Well, mister, she don't allcrs like 'em, an' when she don't, 
 why I tries 'em for the ile, and sells it fur harness grease." 
 
 "He ! Grease ! Sell it !" retorted Sylvia, wrathfully. "He 
 eats it all an' licks the platter." 
 
 Samp and Sylvia lived together many long years, and died 
 full of honors for their faithfulness. 
 
 Rosette was indeed an African. No base white blood ever 
 mingled with the rich tropical stream that coursed through 
 her veins. She was intensely black. Ebony, midnight paled 
 beside her ; indeed, she often remarked, with a mellow laugh, 
 "Charcoal make white mark on Rosette." 
 
 She was born a slave, where is not known, but always re- 
 ferred to it with horror, saying: 
 
 "Once vv'e was pigs and cows, but now, 'come in, nigger, 
 go out, nigger, who's going to hender ye ?' " 
 
 She had a hatred for a mulatto, called them "bad-pennies," 
 and said, "The Lord never made 'em." Chiding or punish- 
 ment to a little one ever roused her ire. "Guess if they 
 cotched it every time they did a thing, and got a clip every 
 turn, they'd be mince-meat," .she would remark of tlie 
 parents. 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 93 
 
 Her terse sayings would fill a book. Often, when a 
 clergy^man passed, she wonld remark : 
 
 "I wonder, I do wonder, if yon allers practise what you 
 preach ?" 
 
 This remark was once conveyed to the minister, and, spy- 
 ing Rosette in the yard, he said : 
 
 "Alas ! Rosette that is the greatest trouble I have." 
 
 "I thought so," she answered, grimly. 
 
 Indeed, Rosette had no liking for the professions. She 
 would say : 
 
 "Doctors killed more than they cured, and lawyers got fat 
 by picking geese." 
 
 Rosette once made a profession of religion and united 
 with a church, but with a rheumatic husband, chickens, and 
 children to care for, ceased to attend service entirely. When 
 chided by a colored sister punctilious in all duties, she re- 
 torted : 
 
 " 'Tain't likely the Lord 'spected I'd hold out anyway, 
 v/ith so much on my hands." 
 
 To her race, aping their while neighbors in dress and 
 manners, she had a distinct aversion. "Nudder white nor 
 black," she would declare, "jes' smut." 
 
 Once, on being told by a colored girl that she was allowed 
 to eat with the family where she lived, she replied, scorn- 
 fully, "They must like huckleberries and n.iilk." 
 
 She was as full of proverbs and odd sayings as Sancho 
 Panza himself. When anything was arranged for con- 
 venience and fell short of its mission (as often occurred in 
 household matters), she would remark, sarcastically, 
 "Handy ! oh, yes ! handy as two saws and nary buck in a 
 woodpile o' logs." When a prediction was ventured in fam- 
 ily converse, she would shake her head and exclaim, "No, 
 't won't, 'tain't no sign of a duck's nest when you see a fed- 
 der on a log." 
 
 She was an unfalterins: believer in "righteous retribution." 
 
94 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 l^jikindness, meanness, stuck-up-ness (her own coinage of a 
 wcrd) she abhorred. "They'll get it for that," was her 
 sententious comment, "get it as the cat give it to the owl ; 
 over the face and eyes," 
 
 Her nature possessed a curious streak of odd vindictive- 
 ness. Woe to the graceless youth who failed to get her 
 kindlings and wood, when asked. The next washing, his 
 shirt-fronts, collars and cuffs would be carried to his room 
 innocent of starch or polish. To stormy protest and noisy 
 wrath, she was alike callous. "Where was my kindlings 
 and wood to build fire to bile starch and heat irons?" she 
 would quietly ask. 
 
 A c'^'rtain quaint philosophy was ever present with her, 
 mingled with unshaken fatalism. "Why do you say 
 'sorry?' " she would ask. "It had to be so." When the be- 
 wailing victim of misfortune would reply, "If I had only 
 knoum, just kno7tm." "There 'tis," she would answer tri- 
 umphantly. "That's jes' what makes all the trouble in this 
 worl'; we don't know." 
 
 When deaih came to one, in whatever manner, her com- 
 ment was always, " 'Twas their way to go. They'd got to 
 the last mile-stun." She would entertain no plea of care- 
 lessness or lemissness; brook to hear no untoward circum- 
 stance. 'Twas "their way to go ; their time had come, their 
 'bounds was fixed,' Job said so.'' This "kismet" she applied 
 to every death. When her own daughter died, all expected 
 to see it fail her, but not so ; firmly persuaded of her belief, 
 she vowed, amid her fast-flowing tears, " 'Twas the 
 Lord's will ; her time had come , no key could lock death 
 out ; she was took from the evil tO' come," and thus she com- 
 forted her poor, sore mother's heart. 
 
 She was a keen observer, and one day, beholding one 
 raised unexpectedly to a position whose early advantages 
 had not fitted her for it, she remarked, "She don't fit her 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 95 
 
 clo'es, nor liiey don't fit her. She grovved up without being 
 pared down for 'em." 
 
 She had duiracter, decision and inborn sincerity of pur- 
 pose. After the loss of her husband and children she re- 
 tired to a sm?.ll home of her own, where many friends testi- 
 fied their appreciation of her worth. Here she expired and 
 was gathered to her last repose. Her "time had come," 
 that "set bounds" she so firmly believed none could pass, 
 and she departed in peace. 
 
 Som.ber enough were slavery's brightest days, and dark 
 indeed were tlicse across which the shadow of the cruel 
 master or mistress fell. 
 
 On the outskirts of Warwick a venerable lady once point- 
 ed out to the narrator a spot painfully associated with a 
 msmory of her childhood. She was visiting at the house, 
 and a poor slave mother stood ironing at a table in the next 
 room, an ailing, fretful babe at her feet. Her mistress at 
 length exclaimed : 
 
 ''Nance, take that young one over in the orchard and lay it 
 under a tree, out of sight and hearing. I'm tired of its 
 squalling " 
 
 Without a word, the sad mother took up the sick babe and 
 did as commanded. Coming back, she was ordered, now 
 that the child was gone, to push through the ironing. Quiet- 
 ly she resumed her employment, the tears rolling down her 
 cheeks, and sprinkling the linen as she worked. 
 
 When we recall that in those early times cattle ran loose 
 over the country frequently, hogs especially, that snakes 
 were plentiful, the heart stands still at the enormity of the 
 biutality. 
 
 A splendid specimen of black manhood was once owned 
 by an old family in the neighborhood. He was large and 
 magnificently built, full of the instinct of freedom, and had 
 escaped from his master many times. After long search and 
 rewards he was several times reclaimed. Once more he 
 
96 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 fled, and having been recovered was brought to a black- 
 smith near the town by his master, who ordered a hea Vo- 
 iron collar fitted to his neck, a shackle to his leg, and a chain 
 to connect the two. The smith refused to fetter him, de- 
 claring he would never so use any human being. Angered 
 and baitied, the owner replied that if he did not do as he 
 wished he would ruin his business, as people would not 
 patroiiize a man who would not help an owner to retain his 
 own j^roperty. The smith was a young man, with a rising 
 family to support, and this wicked threat staggered him. He 
 knew the cruel owner would keep good his shameful menace. 
 The poor slave, seeing his dilemma, said : 
 
 "Put them on, put them on, Mr. D , though if you do 
 
 it will be the last man that will ever be chained in this shop." 
 
 [Jnder the stress of circumstances the unwilling smith 
 fettered the negro and he was borne away. Shortly after 
 his shop was destroyed by fire in the dead of the night. 
 vVlien this was related by the smith, he finished by remark- 
 mg : 
 
 "I knew well who burned my shop, but I never blamed 
 him one bit." 
 
 It would be interesting to know the subsequent fate of 
 this slave, and if he lived to realize the joys of that freedom 
 which he braved so much to attain. His name was Obi. 
 
 The names of slaves were interesting. Some were high- 
 sounding, grand and historical, many mellifluous and senti- 
 mental, while others seemed bestowed in derision. Let us 
 reflect on the sensation of going through life with such ap- 
 peMations as these: 
 
 Gif, Mink, Trump, Bat, Bal, Cof, Quash, Pomp, Yap, 
 Tite, Go, Ouam, Dev and Flip, as a man, and Nan, Dib, File, 
 Dide, Rit, Yud, Haanch, Teen, Cat, Pen, Chat, Hage and 
 Jut, as a woman. 
 
 Frequently a name was common in a family or neighbor- 
 hood, and was used in connection with some personal pe- 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 97 
 
 culiarity, as Old Haanch, Long Haanch, Fat Ilaanch, Little 
 Haanch, Big Naiich, Lame Nauch, Yaller Nauch, and these 
 adjectives stuck persistently to their objects through life. 
 
 In some families slaves were made pets and playthings. 
 Twin girls born on the Ellison place were notably favored 
 in this respect. Their names were Rosy and Dilly. Mrs. 
 Ellison took them with her on visits to her friends, and 
 they would entertain the company by dancing, grimacing, 
 feigned quarrels, in which they tumbled over each other 
 and pulled wool vigorously, and in going through the mo- 
 tions of carding, spinning, weaving, netting and so forth. 
 Little Dill would fall down in such frightful fits as some- 
 times to thoroughly scare their hostess, causing her mistress 
 to scream with laughter. 
 
 A very diminutive br^y named Prince was a favorite in 
 this wise. He had an omniverous appetite for so small a 
 youth, and was alwa3^s hungry. There really appeared to be 
 no limit to Prince's capacity for storing awav food. While 
 accompanying his mistress on visits, he would sometimes 
 request a bite before the usual meal was prepared. For this 
 he was chided, and positively forbidden to ever ask again. 
 Soon after, while at a friend's, his mistress saw him screw- 
 ing uneasily on his chair, a certain prognostic that Prince 
 was growing hungry. The lady of the house at length ob- 
 served him^ and make some remark. 
 
 "Missy told me not never to ask for anything to eat 
 again," he at length burst out, "an' Fm awful hungry, but 
 I won't ask, no, not if I starve to death." 
 
 Lilly was a slave possessed of a remarkably fine voice, in 
 fact, it was wonderfully beautiful. At the old-fashioned 
 camp-meetings, Lilly made the welkin ring with her clear, 
 birdlike notes. vShe would sometimes get into a perfect 
 ecstasy, carolling her favorite hynuis, and actually fall back- 
 ward and partly unconscious in the rapture of singing them. 
 
98 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 It was one of the allurements of camp-meeting- to hear 
 Lilly sing-, "The year of Jubilee," "I'm boun' for the Land of 
 Canaan," "Oh, yes, 'tis a wonderful mystery," "Come, ye 
 sinners, poor and needy," "He died for you and He died for 
 me," "O glory! glory! halle-halle-lujah!" and the assembled 
 congregation would listen almost spellbound, until Lilly 
 "sung her head ofif," and rolled on the grass in an ecstatic 
 fit. Once she lay so long in one of these trances that some 
 one advised a sprinkling of water to rouse her. Opening 
 her eyes and springing up with surprising energy, she ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "No, you won't, and spile all my new yaller ribbons." 
 
 Poor Lilly at last partially lost her reason, and when the 
 wildness of a shattered mind inspired her melodies, they 
 were said to be weird and startling in the extreme. 
 
 Toby is recalled, a most comical and amusing figure. His 
 oddities were legion. The soles of his feet were entirely 
 covered with corns, which caused him to limp in a peculiarly 
 painful manner, with a distressed face. His hands bore a 
 crop of seedy warts. He always declared they we're 
 "witched on him," and that "no airthly power" could re- 
 m.ove them. The corns on his feet he considered were a 
 "jedgment" sent upon him for "trompin' hoppy-toads" as a 
 boy. 
 
 "I squashed bushels," Toby would say, "an' now I'm 
 under a jedgment foreber. The blood of them hoppy-toads 
 rises out of the ground forevcr-n-ever-n-ever agin me." 
 
 When the torment and stinging of the corns became unen- 
 durable, Toby would scoop out a mud-bath for his feet by 
 the brink of the pond, and there sit patiently for hours, 
 burying his feet. Here he would weave rush cradles for the 
 little girls' rag dolls, make willow-whistles, tell fortunes on 
 daisies, fashion geese trussed for roasting from milkweed- 
 pods, and tell stories of awful "sarpints, legged, spotted, 
 wiggly, squirming" that once infested ponds, but were now 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 99 
 
 departed forever. He was an adept in stringinj^ a sort of 
 sing-song rhyme, of which fragments have been preserved. 
 
 Toby loved to go to church, but ahvays asked for a pair 
 of old gloves to wear, averring he wanted nobody to hold a 
 "gridge" against his hands, on account of the disfiguring 
 warts. A sympathizing physician once offered to rid Toby 
 of this marring defect, but he firmly asserted that it could 
 not be done. Wlien the doctor positively assured him that 
 it could, Toby averred that "They was witched on, and 
 would surely come right back," and the doctor had to yield 
 the point. He carried a bone from a fowl in his pocket to 
 keep off the toothache, saying things in nature always went 
 contrary, and as hens had no teeth, the proximity of their 
 bones was a sovereign specific in accordance with the con- 
 trariness of "natur." 
 
 Toby was a bachelor. No dusky, dark-eyed siren had 
 ever beguiled him into that fatal noose, matrimony. Chil- 
 dren, he averred, "was good zvhen they was good, when 
 they wasn't, they wuz wuss than biles, an' give no peace till 
 they was broke jes' like 'em." "Wimmen, mos'ly," he 
 thought, did fairly, but the kind that liked ribbons and ear- 
 drops were to be shunned. He had known some such, and 
 they had brought desolation with the fluttering and tinkling 
 of their ornaments. 
 
 A son of the family was much charmed by a young lady 
 who carried a high and finely poised head. 
 
 "Don't hev her," warned Toby. "She wears the bridle 
 herself now. When she gits you, she'll take it off and put it 
 onto you." 
 
 Toby would never cat an eel. He declared them the 
 hybrid progeny of fish and snakes, and his horror of them 
 was unbounded. He also had an avers^'on for "writin' 
 women," having once served one. 
 
 'V'^o' never wan' to look into their churns," said Tobv, 
 
loo UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 "for I see wrigglers on a writin' woman's churn-led once, 
 and the rim runnin' away with 'em." 
 
 As for their bread-trays, averred Toby, enough "slut- 
 pennies" dried fast to 'em to choke a hoss to death. 
 
 Such was Toby's judgment of these ever-to-be shunned 
 females. He hobbled around on his corn-afflicted soles for 
 many long years, and died peacefully, and was buried in a 
 private family yard north of town. As children we long 
 missed our kind friend as we played under the great willow 
 by the pond, where he used to sit in the cool shadows, the 
 first disciple of mud-baths known among us. 
 
 Dear old Toby ! Let us hope that he is gone where corns 
 are not, and where the kind, marred hands will no more be 
 obliged to seek covering to shield them from the "gridge" he 
 always seemed to dread. 
 
 Pomp and Sukey were brother and sister. Never was 
 Pomp happier than when his master named a splendid new 
 English mastiff for him. His delight knew no bounds as he 
 helped to provide shelter, bite and sup for the big, tawny 
 fellow. In return for his kindness Pomp H always treated 
 the old servitor with scant courtesy, muffled growls and sul- 
 len glances, and in the bitterness of a v/ounded spirit, Pomp 
 declared "not for no livin' man would he ever have his name 
 giv' to ary dog agin, an' be snapped an' growled at to all 
 etarnity for it, no, not for ary dog that ever stood on legs." 
 
 Neither Pomp or Sukey were ever married. Their affec- 
 tion for each other was unbounded. As Pomp waxed old, 
 he grew quite disinclined for active labor, and "chored" 
 about friendly homesteads, earning but little, but Sukey 
 toiled most faithfully and contributed to his comfort, in all 
 fond sisterly ways. When his toes sought the outside of his 
 shoes her little hoard was drawn upon, and a new pair cov- 
 ered them, and so all his needs were supplied by his watch- 
 ful and ever-ready sister. 
 
 Sukev, as before mentioned, was single. From a stout 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES loi 
 
 pole laid across two crotchcd sticks, driven in the ground 
 by tlie creek, hung her large brass kettle, and with a bright, 
 businesslike fire burning beneath it, in this improvised 
 laundry she earned many good dollars, iier little cot stood 
 not far away, and here, in her youth, she dwelt with 
 widowed mother and only brother, antl diligently pursued 
 her lowly avocation. When her day's work was completed, 
 she spent the evening clear-starcliing and ironmg, and had 
 the honor of "doing" rufiled shirts and funeral bands for the 
 country clergy. The doing of these was a solemn and mo- 
 mentous occasion, in which Sukey's whole heart Vv'qnt out 
 to her work, so there was at such times little left for a sable 
 suitor who now and then humbly scraped his feet at her door. 
 
 One evening Sukey had clear-starched and ironed her 
 week's work and lain it in immaculate whiteness on the 
 splint-bottomed chair, covered with a long crape veil to keep 
 oil marauding flies. Departing then with her mother to 
 make a friendly call after the labors of the day, the lonely 
 cot was dark and still when Boham, the lover, stole up. He 
 could not bear to go away without one glimpse of his be- 
 loved's shining face, so, lifting the latch and finding a seat, 
 he ensconsed himself thereon, and soon, in the stillness of 
 the summer night, fell asleep. 
 
 At length Sukey and her mother appeared, and uncovering 
 the fire, lighted the tallow dip, when lo ! their horrified eyes 
 fell on the waiting lover, sound asleep on the week's work, 
 all crushed, ruined, under his ponderous avoirdupois. A 
 kettle of starch, left over from her work, stood on the table. 
 Grabbing the luckless lover by the wool, she seized handful 
 after handful and plastered it therein, rubbing vigorously, 
 while, half-awake, stunned, amazed, he howled for mercy, 
 unconscious of his offence, and thinking Sukey had surely 
 gone mad. 
 
 Poor girl i It was the end of the only love dream of her 
 life. Weary and panting, she at length let go, a snow-capped 
 
I02 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 darky fled wildly out into the night, and sought the banks 
 of the rushing creek, and until the still small hours, hent 
 above the waters, clawing, tearing at his beplastered wool, 
 rubbing, sousing, tousleing, in mad endeavors to free it 
 from Sukey's starching. When his best was done, poor 
 Boham fared home, and Sukey and he were strangers for- 
 ever. 
 
 "How did I know," he said, pathetically, "all Sukey's 
 clo'es was kivered on dat cheer?" 
 
 Sukey remained in single blessedness through life. Boham 
 was never replaced by another claimant for her toil-worn, 
 dusky hand. She devoted herself to her fond old mother 
 until her death, and thereafter transferred her faithful af- 
 fection to slow and rather stupid Pomp. He died first, and 
 til en she removed to Goshen, to be near friends of her own 
 color, where she was finally gathered to tlie great majority. 
 
 A quaint, trim figure, of slender and elastic build, and 
 carrying herself with a grace and airiness unusual, she is 
 remembered well among the little cluster of ex-slaves who 
 were wont to gather around our hearthstone. She never 
 forgave poor Boham, whether for the wreck of her laundry- 
 ing, or the overthrow of her marital prosi)ects, could not be 
 ascertained. 
 
 One bleak, wintry day, Sukey, then quite aged, came to 
 see our mother. She was an especial favorite in the house- 
 hold, and begged that the new-born babe be named for his 
 grandfather, Benjamin. She repeated often, "Sech a good 
 n^an, and sech a purty, purty Bible name." When told that 
 the little boy was named for his great-grandfather, she ex- 
 claimed reproachfully : 
 
 "Now, see, to skip yo' own daddy." 
 Sukey never came again ; her death followed soon after. 
 Little children with a child's inborn love of stories, we 
 never wearied of hearing our grandmother tell of old Tune, 
 an ex-slave of many quaint characteristics. He was born 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVEvS 103 
 
 in the Tunison family, from wliich circumstance he inherited 
 his name, at the foot of old Sugar Loaf Mountain, a peak of 
 that peculiar shape which rears its summit eight hundred 
 feet into the clear air of Orange County, and is one of the 
 most striking of the many beautiful landmarks of that sec- 
 tion. 
 
 Here in his early youth Tune disported himself after ob- 
 taining his freedom in his own fashion, catching rattle- 
 snakes and skunks, and extracting the oils therefrom at an 
 old disused forge in a ruined blacksmith's shop near his 
 home. These he sold to rheumatics and paralytics, and my 
 grandmother declared they had potent efficacy in limbering 
 up the stiff-jointed and palsied. 
 
 Prowling the rock-ribbed mountain one day for rattlers. 
 Tune discovered one coiled in the crevice of a rock. It 
 was his custom to seize them by the tip of the tail, to give 
 them a stunning slat against a tree trunk or rock, and then 
 bag them. But alas ! the wary snake was too alert for its 
 captor. As Tune crept softly up and insinuated his long 
 lithe fingers in the crevice toward the temptingly visible 
 tail, it struck the dark, trespassing hand and inserted its 
 fangs with wrathful venom. With wild screams of fright 
 uud pain Tune shook off the reptile and ran with mad leaps 
 down the mountain side to the door of old Clans, an Indian 
 doctor famous for his cures of snake bites. He ministered 
 skilfully to stricken Tune and succeeded in saving his life, 
 although he was very near death. From that day he relin- 
 quished snake-catching and his thriving business in healing 
 oils, evincing an unbounded horror of any reptile, and took 
 up the avocation of Chimney Burner in Chief to the rural 
 population of the section. 
 
 Never was one more eminently fitted by kindly Dame 
 Nature for a chosen life work. Tall, long-armed, long- 
 heeled, quick as a cat and supple as the snakes he had for- 
 sworn, Tune's new business of Chimney Burner for the conn- 
 
I04 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 try hamlets yielded him many bright shillings and plenteous 
 meals. The chimneys in the isolated farmhouses, where 
 wood was the only fuel, became periodically clogged with 
 soot, and as a chimney sweep with his implements was then 
 unknown, the only method of cleaning was to burn them out. 
 This was a matter of some skill and anxiety and one the 
 work-stiffened old farmers often demurred at, as it frequent- 
 ly required a quick clambering to the roof of the home and 
 adjacent buildings to quench the sparks drifting here and 
 there. So after Tune took up the occupation he became a 
 real necessity and found business plenty, especially in spring 
 and fall. 
 
 What joy to the young members of the household when 
 Tune presented himself at the kitchen door, and, bowing 
 low, scraping and pulling his grizzled foretop, inquired : 
 "Chimblys wan' bu'nin' out?" When informed that they 
 did, an engagement would be made and early in the morn- 
 ing Tune would make his appearance. Nimble as the squir- 
 rels chattering in the old trees, he proceeded to business. 
 Filling every pot, pan, pail and pitcher with water and plac- 
 ing the long ladder securely against the eaves, he would carry 
 them all to the roof, where they were safely deposited. Tune 
 asserting with pride that he never spilt a drop going up. 
 "Can' hev too much water on the ruf through the bu'nin' 
 out," he would aver. 
 
 This done. Tune would hie him to the wood-pile and carry 
 in several armfuls of green logs. Throwing them on the 
 hearth he would improvise a rustic fender all about the fire- 
 place to prevent the burning cinders from rolling out over 
 the bare sanded floor, for these were not the days of linole- ' j 
 ums and oil-cloths. Now, all being in readiness. Tune's 
 long feet made quick tracks to the barn, where he pulled from 
 the mows the very fullest and longest sheaf of rye straw. 
 Bringing it in, he would rake the fireplace clean and with re- 
 doubled brandishings of his long arms thrust it far up the 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 105 
 
 yawning black throat of the chimney. "Now, nothin' want- 
 in' but a shubbel o' coals," Tune would comment, and with 
 a swoop these were added and the straw ignited. 
 
 How the watching group of children thrilled and trembled 
 may be imagined, as the shooting flames went roaring and 
 thundering up the long tunnel, fairly shaking the homestead 
 on its sturdy foundation ! Up, up, the dense black coils of 
 smoke rolled in somber rings against the sky, and the rent 
 banners of flames wavered in the breeze. With what won- 
 derful contortions Tune would scramble to the roof time 
 and again to see that no spark had fastened there, occasion- 
 ally whispering in sepulchral accents with lugubrious face 
 that he "jes' hove up in time to save the house — ruf afire in 
 forty places," meantime rolling the whites of his great eyes 
 till naught of their color was visible, and curling down his 
 immense under lip aside at some of the elders of the family, 
 as the children stood aghast at the awful possibility he had 
 averted. 
 
 Then, when the rumbling had ceased and the flames died 
 down, most entrancing of all it must have been to see the 
 glowing incrustations of fiery soot and cinders come chasing 
 each other down the white-hot chimney as if in madcap play, 
 dropping to the hearth to whisper their fiery secrets against 
 the grim barriers of smoking green logs. Crepitating, mur- 
 muring, at last they died away in ashen pallor and lay chilled 
 on the hearth wont to be so bright. 
 
 How the very young of the home paled with foreboding 
 when Tune would sometimes assert he "know'd ole Cinder 
 Claws was up the chimbly when the fire started, and r'ally 
 believed he had singed his heels !" Mournful visions of caps 
 unfilled and small yarn stockings hanging limp at the fire- 
 place on Christmas morn would flit across their fancy, as 
 they sadly pictured Santa Claus detained at home nursing 
 his blistered heels. With a tremendous blubbering of his 
 big lip and peeling of his eye. Tune would admonish "not to 
 
io6 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 be skeert, fur he see Cinder Claws scoot over the ruf jes' 
 as the fire started, an' heerd him holler back he had been 
 busy makin' doughnut babies with raisin eyes for the Dutch 
 chirern down in Sussex." 
 
 After all w^as over, the household utensils brought from 
 the roof, ladder carried to the barn, the smoking green logs 
 cooling in the back yard, Tune would replace the andirons, 
 build a fresh crackling fire and enjoy a hearty dinner beside 
 it from the kind hands of great-grandmother. As he toast- 
 ed his long heels by the newly built fire, lie would often 
 amuse the little ones scattered about the jamb with stories 
 which invariably smacked of his vocation. 
 
 One was of a "very stingy fam'ly, too clus to hev their 
 chimblys bu'ned out, an' they got suttier an' suttier an' cin- 
 dier an' cindier, until one day the awful mess took fire and 
 made such a ter'ble heat the chimblys all busted to onct, an' 
 the bricks flew out an' killed all the fambly an' bu'nt the hull 
 house to the groun'." Tune would always wind up this 
 story by cautioning the group of little ones to see that the 
 parents frequently employed his valuable services, lest like 
 calamity befall them. 
 
 Another story Tune was fond of relating, as he quaffed 
 mug after mug of simmering spiced cider, was of "a fambly 
 shif 'less an' slack to the last degree ; who never had their 
 chimblys bu'ned out from year's end to year's end." The 
 chimneys of this ne'er-do-weel household one fateful night 
 also took fire, "an' bu'ned an' bu'ned, but did not bust. Jes' 
 bu'ned on an' never went out," Tune would solemnly assert, 
 "an' they roared on an' no one could squench 'em; an' the 
 roarin' made 'em all stun deef, an' the smoke an' sparks flew 
 out inter their eyes, an' the baby was sot afire in the cradle 
 an' the dinners was burnt, an' all because Tune was not sent 
 for." 
 
 When little Jonah, ever of an investigating and exploring 
 nature, anxiously inquired where this building in eternal 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 107 
 
 conflagration was located, with hidden puipose of some time 
 running- away to find it, our grandmother declared he was. 
 always informed by Tune that it was "so fur away his feet 
 would be worn to nubs afore he ever found it," so our small 
 great-uncle never dared to start. 
 
 As Tune worked cheerily at the chimneys, he sang many 
 songs, of which grandmother regretted she could recall but 
 one. This ran : 
 
 House a-burnin', house a-buniin', 
 
 Jump up, jump up, 
 Fire a-gittin' madder, madder, 
 Run for water, run for ladder. 
 
 So far as can be ascertained, and from all that is known, 
 the Northern slaves did not possess the fanciful jingle of 
 rhyme which gave so quaint an attraction to their Southern 
 brethren. They seem to have had but few in the locality 
 with which we have to deal. They sang hymns far more. 
 One song is recalled, of which but a single verse is remem- 
 bered. It was called "Jim-a-long-a-Josey," and was com- 
 posed by a white musician. A shiftless negro, named Old 
 Jake, used to sing it at raisings, haying frolics and at high 
 noon at the country school-houses, accompanying the lines 
 with a hilarious double-shuffle dance. The pupils rewarded 
 Jake with such fragments from dinner-pails and baskets as 
 could be spared, and he was a frequent visitor. 
 
 Jake's weakness was mince-pie, and in return for a few 
 bites of this favorite delectable he would scrape his heels be- 
 fore an admiring crowd the whole noontide. The lines that 
 linger in memory run thus : 
 
 The bullfrog came from the bottom of the spring. 
 
 He had such a cohl he couldn't sing. 
 
 He tied his tail to a hickory stump. 
 
 And rared and kicked but he couldn't make a jump. 
 
 Hi git along, Jim-a-long-a-Josey, 
 Hi git along, Jim-a-long-a-Joe. 
 
 {Many times repealed.') 
 
io8 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Jake's entertainments at the various seats of learning scat- 
 tered about on the country hillsides at length terminated un- 
 fortunately. A pupil one day brought with her to school a 
 cousin from the city. The littlei visitor was sitting in the 
 play-house on the green in front of the door when Jake ap- 
 peared upon the scene, and began his song and dance. When 
 he arrived at the frantic struggles of the bullfrog to execute 
 the jump, which he was fated never to accomplish, Jake's 
 contortions always became vigorous, and this particular day 
 must have been unusually exciting, for, on beholding them, 
 the small visitor sat appalled for a moment, and then fell 
 into a fit of shrieking fright, which was in no wise mitigated 
 by poor old Jake's endeavors to pacify her, and his assur- 
 ances that he wouldn't hurt her for "the best cow that ever 
 wore a tail." The teacher appearing, Jake was banished, 
 and no doubt sadly missed his fees of mince-pie, doughnuts ; 
 and other goodies. Another jingle which I recall, and have ■ 
 rhymed was : 
 
 THE HIGH-HOLE AND THE PHEBE-BIRDIE. 
 
 The high-hole looked from the holler oak tree 
 
 At the phebe-bird, an' he says, says he, 
 "Little yaller gal, will yo' marry me?" 
 " An' hve in a hole ?" says the little phebe-e. 
 " No, no, I won't, sir, no sir-e-e, 
 
 I'll stay an' be a phebe birdie-e-e-e." 
 
 TTie high-hole snap his bill and say, 
 " Little yaller gal, now yo' go 'way, 
 The teeter-tail she live by the brook, 
 She primp an' tilt an' give me a look, 
 What do I care for a phebe-bird-e-e-e 
 When a teeter-tail she smile at me." 
 
 Then the phebe-bird she laugh to kill, 
 An' say "01' high-hole, you be still, 
 Teeter-tail she marry last night, 
 An' now her name it Mis' Bob White." 
 Then the high-hole bump his head on a tree. 
 An' fall down dead for the little phebe-e-e. 
 
 The following used to be sung by Anne Boham, long at 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES 109 
 
 service in one of the old families, bond and free. A frag- 
 i ment only is remembered, though there were many verses : 
 
 There was a frog lived in the rill, 
 
 Tel lay, tel link, tel _lo ! 
 He courted a mouse lived in the mill, 
 
 Tel lay, tel link, tel lo ! 
 The frog he went to mouse's hole, 
 
 Tel lay, tel link, tel lo! 
 And Mistress Mouse was taking toll, 
 
 Tel lay, tel link, tel lo ! 
 
 The pollywog, or pollywoggle, was a favorite character in 
 this lore. Many little ditties are recalled, in which this small 
 denizen of the ponds and fens figured. This, redressed, was 
 Toby's favorite : 
 
 The pollywog lived in the mill-pond flume. 
 So lonesome for she lose her groom ; 
 The hoppy-toad he hear her sigh, 
 An' he roll way up the white his eye. 
 Says he, "I can hop an' jump sky-high, 
 I'll marry Misses Pollywog if I die, 
 Hippity, hoppety, blink your eye, 
 Tumblecome tarry, jump high sky!" 
 
 She stuck a posy in her cap, 
 
 An' opened the door for Floppy's rap, 
 
 An' there he was all in his best. 
 
 With a beautiful yaller satin vest. 
 
 He laid his hand upon his hip, 
 
 She put her finger to her lip, 
 
 An' curcheyed pretty as ever you see. 
 
 An' said, "Come in, do, Mr. Hoppee-e." 
 
 The wedding was the very next night, 
 Mis' Polly Wog was dressed in white, 
 An' Mr. Frog in bottle green, 
 'Twas the finest wedding ever seen ; 
 They supped on s'pawn and danced till day, 
 Lickity brindle, larrupy lay ! 
 Turn keely over, blink yo'r eye, 
 Hippity, hoppety, jump sky high!" 
 
 A fanciful jingle, which seemed to cover all things flying, 
 creeping or running, used to be repeated among the children 
 of the family. It was best known to a soldier brother, whose 
 dust mineles with the clods of Chancellorsville. A few of 
 
no UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 the lines are recalled, but they stretched out to great length.^ 
 Toby was the ex-slave from whom they were gathered: 
 
 I 
 
 Old Rat dip his tail in cream, 
 Let de young ones lick it clean ; 
 Weasel in de chicken-coop, 
 Very meanest kin' o' snoop ; 
 Weevil fin' it very sweet, 
 'Way down in de bin o' wheat; 
 Wagtail settin' on a log, 
 Get so scairt at Daddy Frog; 
 Little Mis' Tadpole run and hide 
 When Mr. Pike stretch he mout' wide; 
 Hang bird on de wilier limb, 
 Pollywog round de teasel swim ; 
 Tumblebug he roll he load 
 Up de hill an' down de road ; 
 Woodchuck never make a sound, 
 Dig a hide-hole in de ground ; 
 Old Mudsucker call out, "Hush ! 
 Axe a-choppin' en de brush" ; 
 Chipmunk chatter, chatter, chatter, 
 Big Brown Thrasher flop and clatter; 
 Young Mis' Rat she spy a trap, 
 Never know it go off, snap ! 
 Little old woman en de tree 
 Pull her hood so she can see; 
 Ground bird build her little nest, 
 In de mud as she like best. 
 Where de ol' cow set her huff 
 Make a hole jest big enough. 
 
 (And so on.) 
 
 The little old woman in the tree is the hawk-moth, its 
 curious puckered face bearing a fanciful resemblance to an ^ 
 old woman's in a hood. 
 
 An aged ex-slave, long living in our family, used to sing: 
 a song commencing: 
 
 To-morrow will be holiday. 
 The niggers then will dance and play, 
 No more work nor home to stay. 
 For all will have a holiday. 
 
 Sing and dance and run away. 
 To-morrow will be holiday. 
 
 Holiday she invariably rendered "hollowday." She sang 
 many ditties, among them : 
 
OLD NORTHERN SLAVES in 
 
 Black hands make white money, 
 Stay home, bees, lay np honey. 
 The still sow drinks the swill, 
 Let the old horse have his will. 
 
 It is a regret not to have known thcni in their early youth, 
 when gay and Hght of heart and foot, the .sunshine, song 
 and merriment of their natures iiad not been repressed by 
 years of sorrow, toil and change. The Northern slaves were 
 keen observers. They congregated more rarely with their 
 fellows than their Southern brethren, as their homes were 
 usually in the families of their masters. Both loved hymns, 
 spiritual songs and ringing music that told of a happy land 
 where toil and pain were not; also sad, mournful melodies 
 which they breathed forth with infinite pathos. 
 
 "I sink, I sink, I can't liold out no more," rendered in a 
 low, dirge-like tone, was absolutely blood-chilling. 
 
 And 
 
 And 
 
 Down in the grave, down in the grave, 
 Where we all got to go, 
 Down low, down low. 
 
 Seek, seek, seek and never, never find. 
 Till the poor soul lost and gone; 
 
 Seeking, seeking, seeking. 
 Never, never find. 
 
 Lord, lay me low and keep me low, 
 Lest from out thy ways I go. 
 
 as sung in their prayer meetings in their lowl}^ homes or at 
 camp meetings in the dim, shadowy woods were a few of 
 these sad strains familiar to my youth, and I well remember 
 their unutterably pathetic and calamitous expression. 
 
 Whatever presented a vivid word picture was the delight 
 of the negro soul, and he loved to sing of "The Year of Jubi- 
 lee," "The Chariot of Fire," "Tl^e Happy Land," of "Pearly 
 Gates," and "Golden Harps," of "Jerusalem, Happy Home," 
 of the apostles, prophets and sainted ones gone before. 
 
 And so let us take leave of the kind sable friends, the 
 scattered memories of whose simple toilsome lives have been 
 
112 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 gathered in these pages. Not one is recalled who was not 
 honest, faithful, loyal, loving and most interesting. The 
 depth of affection in their natures was remarkable. To the 
 latest days of their lives they clung with fond devotion to 
 those whose fathers had once owned their flesh and blood — 
 Heaven forgive tliem — and among all its good gifts, let us 
 be most thankful for liberty for them, and that they died 
 free. 
 
V 
 The Bygone Doctor 
 
V 
 
 The Bygone Doctor 
 
 URING the rcig-n of good Queen Anne politics 
 bore so fierce a Whig and Tory aspect that it 
 extended to the physicians employed. Garth, 
 the author of the Dispensary, reigned as healer 
 of the Whig party, while Arbuthnot ministered 
 to the Tory. To Garth, Sir Richard Steele paid the high 
 compliment of declaring that "his professional generosity 
 was exceeded by none living.*' Of Arbuthnot, Pope (life- 
 long invalid) wrote: 
 
 Friend to my life, which did not you prolong, 
 The world had wanted many an idle song. 
 
 What a planet ours would be if it were filled with such 
 doctors as poor, tender-hearted Ollie Goldsmith, who took 
 the guineas received for his sweet, immortal verse and gave 
 them to his half-starved patients as prescriptions, declaring 
 they took them joyfully, and made no wry faces! What 
 head grown white in our home town but remembers the 
 kind, sympathetic faces of Doctors Stanley, Coe, Lynn, 
 Herron, Reynolds, Stevens and their successors, as they 
 jogged in their close-fitting sulkeys over hill and dell, 
 bumped up and down mountain and mired in rutted level 
 through spring thaws and autumnal washouts. Among the 
 memories of my childhood, I recall being told by an old ex- 
 slave employed in the family that after doctors were made 
 to have a "paper" to doctor by, they became a very dan- 
 gerous class. Serena declared that now they "couldn't even 
 
ii6 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 bleed a kitten in a fit" without showing their "paper," and 
 that these gruesome healers "robbed graves for bodies to 
 chop up, hacked poor critters open to see inside of 'em, and 
 had skelentons all over their houses." Intense was my 
 horror of this awful menace that had dawned on afflicted 
 humanity and I longed to have lived in the day when doc- 
 tors were not obliged to have "papers," when one might 
 rest undisturbed in the quiet old churchyard, fertilizing the 
 daisies and buttercups, and not in life be surreptitiously 
 opened like Bluebeard's closet to disclose awful hidden hor- 
 rors ; also call for the doctor without rattling down a shower 
 of bones as the knocker resounded. It is well authenticated 
 that our ancestors lived to hale and hearty old age, raised 
 houses full of healthy children, often without one break in 
 the proverbial family stairs ; then why not skill and intelli- 
 gence in the ministrations of the old-time healer? Did 
 he or did he not always have his "papers"? I cannot 
 find out. Perhaps he sprang like Minerva in the Golden 
 Age in the fullness of wisdom. I have traced him back to 
 a century and a half agone, and have here given him just 
 as he has been handed down to me. Long, long ago — 
 
 He looked around 
 And chose his ground, 
 And took his sleep. 
 
 Kind Heaven rest his soul ! He thought he was doing his 
 
 very best. Who can do more ? 
 
 The first herb healer of whom I can find any trace in 
 
 ancient Warwick filled the dual capacity of teacher in the 
 
 district log schoolhouse and herb doctor in his hours of 
 
 leisure. Like Philip Anthony of old — 
 
 A learned man was he ; 
 
 In 'rithmetic he'd gone as far 
 As the Rule of Double Three. 
 He'd studied physic, too, 
 
 And he was boarded round, 
 He cured coughs, colds and phthysic, too, 
 
 With roots dug from the ground. 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 117 
 
 For some years he flourished, teaching and heahng, then 
 disappeared and was seen no more, leaving tlie birch to rest 
 on the time-worn desk, and a fragrant memory of aromatic 
 "composition tea," mandrake pills and hemlock sweats to 
 embalm his memory. He was a dentist also, and extracted 
 teeth for his little school as well as the whole countryside ; a 
 surgeon setting such broken bones as befell the community, 
 and if any more useful individual ever happed upon our 
 town, his memory has perished. 
 
 That the olden regular physician bled profusely, and 
 made the lancet's point and the compounds of the 
 "sprightly metal" the "rock of refuge," none may deny, 
 and when — 
 
 Life's o'erspent lamp and Time's bewasted light 
 Became extinct with age and endless night, 
 
 his good steed rested in the stall, the saddle-bags were hung 
 in the garret, and his patients thought, just as we do now, 
 they "couldn't live Vv'ithout their doctor." But thoughtful 
 ones stood by dying beds, and heard the sufferers cry for 
 water, beg, pray, with fevered lips, for one life-giving drop, 
 saw them denied until death closed the scene ; and they said 
 no more mercury, and the botanic physician arose to take a 
 permanent place in early medical circles. 
 
 The bark and fruit of the wild cherry was used as a 
 strengthening medicine, the green of the elder for a healing 
 salve, the sumac as a gargle for sore throats, the yellow dock 
 as a blood purifier, the slippery elm and mullein in dropsy, 
 kidney troubles and consumption. The stramonium was 
 considered invaluable. An ointment of the leaves was kept 
 in every home for ulcers, rheumatism and eruptions. Clumps 
 of hyssop, sage, lavender, rue, balm, motherwort were found 
 in every garden, and the strings of red peppers glinting in 
 the sunshine at pantry and kitchen windows were always 
 called on in sudden cold, attacks of intestinal disturbance 
 and sore throat. Skullcap was used in St. Vitus's dance and 
 
ii8 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 disorders of the nerves, the prickly pear as a stimulant, also 
 for liver derangements and rheumatism. A salve from it 
 was popular in scrofula and ulcers. Snakeroot was most 
 useful as a gargle for putrid sore throat, which twice pre- 
 vailed severely in the early days of the settlement. A decoc- 
 tion of the wild indigo was considered invaluable as an 
 antiseptic, and beneficial in gangrene and bed sores. Poke- 
 berries in old applejack were freely given in rheumatic 
 troubles, and the root, dried and powdered, was used as an 
 emetic. The common blueflag was called herb calomel and 
 was to bestir a sluggish liver. Wintergreen and Prince's 
 pine were largely given in kidney, rheumatic and dropsical 
 ailments. No herb was held of more value than the blood- 
 root. It was used for dyspepsia, also for whoopingcough 
 and labored breathing. A wash of the plant was applied in 
 skin diseases. The deadly nightshade was administered in 
 palsy, convulsions and nervous troubles. Witch-hazel was 
 kept in every home for hemorrhage, dysentery and canker 
 sore mouth. Wormwood was a iiever-failitig remedy for 
 bruises, sprains and inflammation ; it was also a tonic. 
 
 Almost every home-keeper, each recurring summer and 
 autumn, gathered and most carefully dried spearmint, pep- 
 permint, catnip, elder-blossom, balsam, pennyroyal, burdock 
 and dandelion for family use through the winter months. 
 Baby, that important young autocrat of the household, was 
 not expected to exist without regularly administered doses 
 of catnip tea. Various liniments — of turpentine, camphor 
 and healing herbs — were made and hoarded against a day of 
 wounds, sores and bruises. The drug store was unknown, 
 the general store keeping a corner for Peruvian bark, 
 rhubarb, castor oil, paregoric, sulphur, peppermint, God- 
 frey's cordial, elixir of opium, Haarlem oil and opodeldoc. 
 The selling of drugs was free and unrestricted. When sick- 
 ness entered a home and the kind old granny or auntie came 
 with her bag of simples, she was made welcome, listened to 
 
 M 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 119 
 
 with deference and her time-honored remedies duly admin- 
 istered. None was so wise in his day and generation as 
 to scoff at lier or disdain her homely cure-alls. Neighbor 
 nursed neighbor with sympathy and kindly interest, and 
 when life had fled, "sat up," or "watched/' with the silent 
 form till the funeral day saw it borne to its last long home. 
 This sad day frecjuently very closely followed the death, as 
 no means of preserving "the loved and lost" were in use. 
 The old horrifying tales of burials alive could easily have 
 had foundation in these times, when in sudden death the 
 unfortunate, especially if of full habit, was hurried quickly 
 to the tomb. It was customary, and considered proper — 
 
 Before decay's eflfacing fingers 
 
 Had swept the lines where beauty lingers. 
 
 The old-fashioned mother, save in very exceptional cases, 
 nursed her own infant. It was no uncommon thing to see 
 families of eight, ten or twelve, even more, and not one 
 break in the line. One mother and her two daughters had 
 forty-three children, who all grew to man's and woman's 
 estate but one. Tacitus, the Roman liistorian, attributed 
 the degeneracy of Rome, in part, to the habit that had crept 
 in of mothers given over to luxury abandoning the care of 
 their infants to poor Grecians and ignorant menials, and, on 
 looking back, we find when the old-time matron nursed and 
 cared for her own babe, the percentage of deaths was small. 
 
 The ancient custom of visiting the sick was most perni- 
 cious. No affront was regarded as more flagrant than to 
 deny the visitor access tO' the sickroom. No matter how ill, 
 nervous, weary or low the patient, the caller was never ex- 
 cluded. An aged lady was wont to tell that, during the very 
 serious illness of her mother and brother with a dangerous 
 fever, twenty-two persons called one Sabbath afternoon, 
 eleven of whom remained to tea. During the severe strain 
 and cares of illness, the usually plenteous larder had run 
 
I20 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 low, and notwithstanding it was hot weather, a large fire 
 had to be kindled, biscuit baked, and other preparations made 
 for the visiting sympathizers. Tliis seems almost incredible, 
 but it is absolute truth. Diseases were generally considered 
 "a visitation of God," but little fear was felt of infection, 
 and subjects of the most fatal and malignant types were 
 publicly buried, frequently causing a wide spreading of the 
 trouble. None can compute the damage done by crowding 
 the room of the afflicted patient, the kindly meant but ill- 
 timed condolence, the suppressed whispering and lugubrious 
 faces. 
 
 Among the old customs, now almost obsolete, was that of 
 tolling the bell for every death. Having its origin in rank- 
 est superstition, it was most pernicious in its effect on the 
 sick and dying. But here is an exception. A lady, lying 
 very ill with fever and at the crisis of the disease, was 
 watched with anxious solicitude by an affectionate daughter. 
 After an unusually restless and weary night, about nine in 
 the morning, the patient sank into a sweet sleep. Gratefully 
 the tender daughter noted the refreshing rest steal over her 
 mother, when, all at once, the old church bell near their 
 home pealed out preparatory to the tolling of the dismal 
 death knell, which soon commenced its mournful tones. In 
 the center of the room the startled watcher listened appre- 
 hensively to the depressing clangor. It tolled and tolled, 
 as only a vigorous old church bell, pulled by strong arms, 
 can ring the demise of a venerable inhabitant. Through 
 the sixties with brazen lungs, into the seventies with undi- 
 minished volume, it opened bravely on the eighties, until at 
 last the almost frantic daughter burst forth, "Lord have 
 mercy on us ! Is Moses dead ?" 
 
 The mother, who awakened at the first peal, had lain 
 with half-closed eyes surveying the scene, at this ebullition 
 burst into a fit of laughter, which happily left no evil effects. 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 121 
 
 and she was wont to relate the incident with nuich amuse- 
 ment ever after. 
 
 A fear of cold from fresh air, bathing- or change of linen 
 prevailed in early days. Patients in fever were shut closely 
 in stifling rooms, scarcely a breath of air was allowed to 
 enter by door or window, and a change of linen for patient 
 or bed was considered by some almost certain death. What 
 must have been the sufferings of the afflicted the imagination 
 vainly conjectures, as in addition to these horrors, owing to 
 the use of mercury, in almost all illness by certain practi- 
 tioners water was strictly prohibited. 
 
 Many superstitions prevailed in regard to the curing of 
 ague and fever. One was for the sufferer to run until in a 
 profuse perspiration, and then plunge into a cold stream. 
 Another, while the fit was on, to go to the top of the house 
 and crawl headlong down each pair of stairs to the bottom, 
 this several times. A young lady, at the suggestion of an 
 ignorant but kindly meaning neighbor, did this while suf- 
 fering severely from chills, and sustained an internal injury 
 which left her ever after a livid greenish yellow, which was 
 never removed. This lady's feat not only ruined a once 
 lovely complexion, but nearly cost her life. 
 
 An old but more sensible cure, largely prevailing, was to 
 shape a waistcoat of coarse linen, make two exactly alike, 
 dip them in white wine repeatedly and dry ; then, stretching 
 them carefully out, powdered Peruvian bark was placed be- 
 tween, and they were quilted together. This was placed 
 upon the patient and was said to have a most happy effect 
 by absorption. 
 
 As to the amount of blood our ancestors stoically stood to 
 lose in some acute diseases imagination palls. A physician 
 of one hundred and twelve years ago drew fourteen ounces 
 at a first bleeding, nine ounces twenty-four hours after, and 
 then the complaint, pleurisy, continuing painful, a third and 
 fourth bleeding were undergone. Many traditions of blood 
 
122 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 letting have been handed down. Among these a lady de- 
 clares she was called upon, when a child of eight, to hold the 
 bowl for the operation on her mother. While so doing, she 
 became frightened and demurred. "Stand up to it, little 
 girl," said the doctor, cheerfully, "you'll have to do it aU 
 your life, probably." While the arm was bared her mother 
 remarked, "This is nine times on this arm, doctor." 
 
 In the commencement of the eighteenth century, and dur- 
 ing the decline of the seventeenth, the "fruit cure" for lung 
 diseases was generally heard of. Marvellous cures of con- 
 sumption from rigidly adhering to a diet of red and white 
 currants, with bread and very spare regimen, were made 
 known. Old residents went afar and procured the white 
 currant, and these venerable bushes were long to be found in 
 old gardens. The acid of these fruits was supposed to pro- 
 mote a gentle perspiration and to mildly and insensibly sweat 
 out the disease. 
 
 Before vaccination was known the terrors of smallpox 
 were mitigated by the subject rigidly dieting for two or 
 three weeks, abstaining from all oily or heating foods, and 
 then going to some one with the disease and deliberately ex- 
 posing himself and contracting it. Hop tea and warm whey 
 were then freely given to throw the eruption "from the 
 heart" and a salve of elder-blossoms was applied. A 'lady 
 who underwent this experience in 1795 said that she had it 
 lightly, suffered but little, and knew many children who 
 ventured the same with no evil result and a lasting immunity 
 from the horrors of disfigurement by the dread disease. At 
 this date, though inoculation was known in Europe long, it 
 had made but little progress in the New World ; whether it 
 had really been much practised in our hamlets is doubtful. 
 At all events, the inhabitants favored the good old way of 
 dieting and taking the disease bv voluntary contact; then, 
 with prudence and care, they suffered but little. After vac 
 cination was freely introduced, many looked upon it with 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 123 
 
 strong disfavor. One reason for this was declared to be 
 "the fear that the child might die, and they be blamed," and 
 thus become a prey to unavailing regret. 
 
 An old and favorite remedy for a cough was to wear a 
 plaster of Burgundy pitch between the shoulder-blades. It 
 was said to be of great benefit. Friar's Balsam and Jesuit's 
 Drops were two old remedies for cough, greatly prized. 
 Balsam of Peru was said, with benzoin, to enter largely into 
 their composition. 
 
 The amount of mercury given in some forms of intestinal 
 disease baflies the telling. A physician of high repute rec- 
 ommended in severe cases giving to the extent of a pound, 
 in broken doses, but gravely declared this should not be ex- 
 ceeded. Should this awful quantity defeat its own intention, 
 it was recommended to "hold the patient up by the heels and 
 let it be discharged by the mouth." Incredible as this may 
 seem, it is truth, pure and simple, and is vouched for by a 
 medical work in my possession. 
 
 Dysentery caused painful sickness and many deaths in the 
 summer and autumn of 1822. An ancient remedy for this 
 distressing illness, not only used m families, but ordered by 
 physicians of the day, was to take a sheep's head and feet, 
 with the wool on them, burn it off on a hot ploughshare, and 
 then boil until the broth was a jelly. This was lightly salted 
 and flavored with cinnamon. It was said that patients given 
 over to die were perfectly cured by this broth. Clear whey 
 was also freely used, especially for children. Wild cherries 
 were much depended on, and were considered almost a spe- 
 cific. They were made into syrup, and sometimes the juice 
 was expressed and preserved in a form called "cherry- 
 bounce." A decoction of bugle-weed was also thought to 
 be a specific. 
 
 Mineral waters were unknown in the primitive days of the 
 town. Although in Europe the Bath, Bristol, Epsom, Nevil 
 Holt, Scarborough and Clieltenham were in vogue, onlv oc- 
 
124 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 casionally did some traveler tell of their wondrous efficacy in 
 our midst. Of these last waters a departed parent is de- 
 clared to have caused an epitaph to be engraved upon his 
 family tombstone, telling a sympathizing world that — 
 
 Here lies me and my three daughters 
 A-died o' drinking o' Chekenh'am waters ; 
 If we'd a-stuck to Epsom's salts 
 We wouldn't 'a' been in these here vaults. 
 
 What a blow to the chalybeate ! and how saline old Epsom 
 must have held up its head after this memorial was erected ! 
 
 True, people made their own sulphur-water, tar-water, 
 limewater, tincture of hand-wrought horse-shoe nails, etc., 
 and derived great benefit therefrom. 
 
 After many days the hearts of invalids were made glad 
 with mineral springs of their very own, about three miles 
 from Goshen, in old Orange, the Cheechunk Springs. Baths 
 were kept for visitors. They were advertised as a delightfulll 
 retreat for the invalid, and a pleasure-ground for those in| 
 pursuit of recreation. Daily stages ran from Newburgh toj^ 
 Goshen, and from thence to the springs. The farmhouses in'-; 
 the neighborhood blossomed out into boarding-houses for"^ 
 the visitors. Jolly parties of the country belles and beaux, j 
 "on pleasure bent," rode over to Cheechunk and danced and .] 
 had a general good time. Lewis Denton, John J. Heard I 
 and Calvin Gardner were at one time its managers. The [ 
 waters were analyzed and pronounced by the experts of the ' 
 day to be beneficial in many grievous ailments. The Chee- 
 chunk House was a scene of life, light and gaiety for years. 
 Instances were recorded of patients, in their zeal, almost kill- 
 ing themselves by excessive use of the waters, and returning 
 home to be cured by their own doctor of chronic gripes and 
 other pestiferous torments, but these victims of excess in 
 no way diminished the fashion and popularity of the Orange 
 County medicinal waters. It may be mentioned, sub rosa, 
 that a bar was kept, supplied with the very choicest wines 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 125 
 
 and other refreshments. A wedding" trip to Cheechunk was 
 the acme of many a rural pair's ambition. How it came to 
 fall into "innocuous desuetude" is unknown. Those ac- 
 quainted with it ever recalled its charms with vivid delight, 
 and children loved to listen to their elders' tales of Chee- 
 chunk. 
 
 The passing of the protuberant old iron dinner-pot was 
 thought by some to be positively a detriment to health, as 
 much food cooked in it was equal to a draught from a cha- 
 lybeate spring, potatoes, especially, coming from its ample 
 depths of a complexion dark and bilious, while beans, dried 
 and green ; rice, etc., resembled rations of prepared poison. 
 Nevertheless, the mothers clung to them, and when modern 
 innovations were introduced, would have none of them, de- 
 claring the food not so seasoned, so healthful or toothsome as 
 when it came forth from that venerable heirloom, some as- 
 serting that it was an antidote for all "tooth evils and 
 humors." 
 
 When a child was born lifeless, its body was laid in wood 
 ashes, warm from the hearthstone, and the smoke of tobacco 
 thrown into the intestines. This means of resuscitation w^as 
 not only in vogue among the good w^omen who' ministered to 
 each other, but was recommended by doctors. It was said 
 to be used by the Indian squaws. 
 
 In sunstroke the unfortunate was rubbed with the juice 
 of the water-pepper, or smartweed, and sometimes the body 
 was smartly struck with fine stinging whips, intermingled 
 wdth nettles. A plaster of tar and rum w^as also placed upon 
 the spinal column. 
 
 Many native remedies were in vogue as styptics. Among 
 these, the excrescence of the oak tree w^as a favorite, a 
 species of fungus easily procured. It was gathered in au- 
 tumn and the portion next the outside utilized. This was 
 pounded until it became pliable and feltlike, and a slice of it 
 laid on a bleeding part was said to compress the wound, 
 
126 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 draw the cut together and stop bleeding. It was declared 
 to have the power of chnging to the hurt until its mission 
 was accomplished. 
 
 A lady used to relate a case of cure coming under her eye 
 so decidedly unique that it is worthy of mention. A poor 
 old slave, of but little more use in the family to which she 
 belonged, was allowed to work about for the small pittance 
 she could earn. While washing in a farmhouse in the sub- 
 urbs, a dog belonging to the family severely bit her. The 
 mistress of the house immediately declared that she had al- 
 ways heard that "the hair of the same dog would cure the 
 wound," and straightway fell upon Towser, and scissors in 
 hand, proceeded to cut a goodly quantity of hair from his 
 bushy caudal which she carefully placed on the mangled 
 flesh and bound it up. All day the poor creature toiled in 
 agony, the pricking, irritating hair working into the wound. 
 On being discharged at night, lame, weak and suffering, she 
 sought the ministrations of the lady who related the incident, 
 and after washing, and a long time spent in extracting the 
 hair from the sensitive and swollen hurt, and carefully dress- 
 ing it with healing ointment, the poor deluded slave was 
 made comfortable. 
 
 A cure for the bite of a rattlesnake was to take hore- 
 hound and plantain, the entire plant and root in quantity, 
 bruise and extract the juice, and give a large spoonful; this 
 to be followed by one more, if the patient were not relieved. 
 The wound was immediately thoroughly washed with tur- 
 pentine and water, and a poultice of tobacco placed upon it. 
 This remedy was said, if applied in time, to seldom fail. 
 
 For deafness our forefathers used the gall of an eel, 
 dropped in sweet oil, and considered it an absolute specific 
 for the affliction when not chronic. 
 
 To cure toothache, the root of the yellow water lily was 
 scraped and laid on and about the tooth. It was said to 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 127 
 
 give almost instant relief. It is poisonous, and must have 
 been applied with caution. 
 
 These are many of the healing remedies, dear to the 
 hearts of our ancestors. Often far from a physician, they 
 learned to cull from Nature's multifarious stores such sim- 
 ples as they required, and their faith in them was boundless. 
 Tradition asserts that many of their virtues were made 
 known by the Indians. Want of understanding and super- 
 stition mingled in their beliefs and manner of healing, but 
 they managed to live to ripe old age quite universally. Ven- 
 erable aunts and grandmothers skilled in the knowledge of 
 herbs, from early spring to fall sought in field and wood the 
 plants and roots of healing, carefully preserving them 
 against the days when they would be needed. 
 
 The country pastor of old times was frequently a half- 
 fledged doctor, and pulled teeth, opened felons and extracted 
 slivers, ministering to both body and soul. One, particular- 
 ly, is recalled, a most capable, intelligent, and tender-hearted 
 healer. 
 
 Many terrible mistakes were made by persons ignorant of 
 the powerful effects of the cullings from the vegetable king- 
 dom. A poor woman died a death of agony from taking too 
 strong an infusion of wild cherry bark and knowing no an- 
 tidote for the powerful prussic acid poison. 
 
 Of all the horrors of that day none so chill the blood as 
 the methods of disposing of patients afflicted with hydropho- 
 bia. They were sometimes laid between feather beds and 
 actually smothered to death. An aged resident said he wit- 
 nessed this done in his youth, the subject being a young girl 
 of fourteen. When she became dangerously violent, and 
 her agonies could not be assuaged, she was thrown between 
 beds and held down by four strong men until dead. Some- 
 times the afflicted were bound down and slowly bled to 
 death. This was long the custom in ancient England. 
 
 An amusing incident is related of early homeopathy in 
 
128 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Warwick. A gentleman was ill and a homeopathic physi- 
 cian was called. A paper containing a number of infinitesi- 
 mal globules was left, with strict injunctions to put them 
 carefully away, as they were very powerful and dangerous. 
 They were hidden, with forethought and care, in the clock, 
 and given at certain intervals as prescribed. After the first 
 few doses, on going for the rest, all were missing, and the 
 frightened housewife began to inquire among her brood. 
 Her little daughter informed her that Betty, a small colored 
 girl employed in the family, had climbed up to the clock, 
 found the papers and "licked them all down," Betty was 
 summoned, so was the M. D. in hot haste, who affirmed, 
 consolingly, that they would not hurt a healthy young darky, 
 and Betty went on her way rejoicing. The introduction of 
 homeopathy was met with derision and incredulity. Wild 
 and flying rumors prevailed concerning the disciples of 
 Hahnemann. Of one of the physicans who took up the doc- 
 trine the most astounding stories were circulated. It was said 
 he used poisons so virulent that his patients were internally 
 flayed, that the venom of the rattlesnake, arsenic and various 
 other "pizens," the name of which was legion, were literally 
 eating the "innards" out of the community gullible enough 
 to make a trial of the new method of cure. In contradis- 
 tinction to this, others affirmed that the little pellets were 
 simply sugar, and that no medicines were administered what- 
 soever, notwithstanding one respectable citizen was said to 
 have expired with his stomach eaten out like a sieve; an- 
 other with his brain in a state of spontaneous combustion, 
 shrieking madly, "My head is on fire" ; and still a third, with 
 a deep, bloody canal in the tongue, where the corrosive poi- 
 sons had wended their way into his unsuspecting and credu- 
 lous sesophagus. The parties of the second part were said 
 to lie dying unmedicined like slaughtered lambs, with the 
 meek and harmless saccharine globules slowly filtering away 
 in their mouths, while the rapacious physician pocketed 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 129 
 
 "shekels" for "doing nothing at all." Meantime, the sub- 
 ject of all this animadversion went on his way busily toiling 
 among patients, who seemed to trust and cling to him in the 
 face of all this, and actually won professional success, and 
 mayhap laughed in his sleeve at the hydra-headed rumors 
 following his busy path. And thus the new school of medi- 
 cine won its way in the village, and microscopic globules 
 and dilutions ad infinituui came to stay. 
 
 Later on, a lank}-, solemn and mezzotoned biped came, 
 with a small funereal casket in his possession, containing 
 what he called "Metallic Tractors." They were said to 
 make the blind to see, the deaf to hear, the lame to skip like 
 roebucks. They were pressed or drawn lightly across 
 troubled parts, and the vender vowed and avowed, and, like 
 the worthy deacon, "swowed," that cures and healing mi- 
 raculous followed in their train. A cancer was said to be 
 stayed in its mad career ; a tiunor stood right where it was, 
 and though refusing to go back on itself, enlarged no more 
 under the mystical influence of the "Metallic Tractor." 
 Toothache, that "bane to pleasure's fairy spell," fled under 
 its galvanic influence, and pain was generally considered as 
 banished from the community. A goodly sum was charged 
 for them, the "Tractor" healer wended his way from house 
 to house, ate the fat of the land, slept between lavendered 
 linen, on the best feather beds, and his pocket bulged as the 
 miniature ebon casket parted with the three-inch bits of 
 metal. /\11 at once, however, ears failed to hear, teeth be- 
 gan to jump and tear, rheumatic limbs to balk and refuse to 
 travel worse than a roan mule, and the "Metallic Tractor" 
 individual suddenly and unaccountably disappeared, in an 
 excess of generosity giving away a few unsold "Tractors" 
 to grateful recipients who were ignorant of their dismal 
 failure. One worthy farmer, grievously beset with rheu- 
 matic twinges, averred he wished to get well to follow on 
 the track of the vanished vender and "kick him off a handy 
 
I30 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 jumping-O'ff place," and numerous and dire were the male- 
 dictions breathed on his head. The bits of magical metal 
 at last fell to such "base uses" that they were punched and 
 ignobly hung upon a string for the amusement of successive 
 babies, whose teeth came, probably, with greater ease and 
 precision from the soothing current of the galvanic play- 
 thing. 
 
 In fevers and inflammatory ailments, it was quite custom- 
 ary to split a black hen in two and bind the warm, palpitat- 
 ing halves on the palms of the hands. An intelligent teacher 
 told me of being taken, as a child, to the deathbed of an 
 uncle, dying of fever. The patient was in a state of low- 
 muttering delirium, and on his restless, waving hands a,n 
 anxious neighbor had tied a black fowl in the accustomed 
 manner. For long months after night was made hideous to 
 the poor child by the memories of this ill-timed visit, and a 
 black hen seemed the insignia of death. As if nothing were 
 lacking to complete the horror of the scene, the warm blood 
 frequently filtered from the bandaged hands over the pa- 
 tient and bed-linen. 
 
 In inflammation of the lungs and bowels, pleurisy, etc., a 
 sheep was killed, the skin stripped ofT and wrapped, reeking, 
 about the patient. Sometimes, in acute and stubborn cases, 
 two, or even three sheep, were dispatched for one person. 
 The flesh was never eaten by the family, but was given to 
 the needy. 
 
 The feathers of pigeons (very plentiful in their season in 
 early days) were commonly cured and put in beds and pil- 
 lows, and a superstition reigned that no poor soul could take 
 easy flight from its lifelong house of clay if a single pigeon's 
 feather were in the dying-bed. So, many a time and oft, the 
 passing sufferer was lifted from bed to bed, and if the mor- 
 tal throes continued hard and unrelenting in severing the 
 "mystic union," after every bed had been tried and each one 
 duly condemned as surely having a pigeon feather some- 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 131 
 
 where in it, the patient was laid on a pallet of straw to die, 
 and after this was always considered easy. Surely it was a 
 preferable couch. This was a common and widespread su- 
 perstition. 
 
 Grievous and unbearable our forefathers considered their 
 lives when it fell out no son was born or lived to inherit the 
 family name and estate. Especially in settlements where 
 agriculture was the prominent occupation was this notice- 
 able, and when the father's steps began to falter, and his 
 once sturdy arms to fail, it was a sorrowful house which had 
 no son to manage the homestead acres and hand down the 
 name. Sometimes — 
 
 The bn.by boy whose young strong arm 
 They hoped would till the dear old farm 
 
 died ; again he never came, and so, just as this storv^ has crept 
 into the most noble houses of Europe and insinuated itself 
 ' amid the folds of the purple, in the secluded township it was 
 once whispered that a soft-hearted physician took part in 
 providing an heir for a childless home. Whether true or 
 false the story lived ; so did the boy, and held name and lands 
 fast and fair. 
 
 The doctor of whom this legend is told deserves more 
 than a passing word. He was prominent among worthy 
 leeches who ministered to the fathers those remedies amaz- 
 ing now to read of (what must they have been to swallow?) 
 and was a cautious and popular practitioner. It cannot be 
 learned that "specialties" were much known to early rural 
 times, although this kind old leech had one, in fact, two. 
 He was the most astute and successful physician in falling 
 upon and routing that fell enemy to the peace and comfort 
 of our sires, "bilious bile" — so called — ever known. With 
 deep research and masterful skill our doctor had succeeded 
 in compounding a draught called "i)ikery purge," of a po- 
 tency so profound and penetrating that its fame went from 
 
132 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 the depths of the vale even unto the feet of the sentinel pines 
 fringing the mountain's side. When the old-time stomach 
 — with that intelligence of its own which it has transmitted 
 to all its line — ^became aware of the intruder, it found in the 
 "pikery purge" of the genial doctor an unfailing remedy. 
 Armed cap-a-pie and entering the gates of the mouth with 
 qualms and unutterable contortions of countenance heralding 
 its approach, on reaching its destination it attacked that 
 demon with the yellowish green complexion and sent him 
 after a siege, short but fierce, growling and grumbling from 
 the citadel, vanquishing him so effectually that he lay low 
 for many a day. Tradition does not record that the "pikery 
 purge" ever succeeded in slaughtering this foul fiend out- 
 right, but certain it is one or two doses would end his diab- 
 olism effectually for the time being. To be sure, the ex- 
 cellent healer's draught sometimes barely missed sending 
 his patient on a far journey from which history, both sacred 
 and profane, gives but few instances of home-coming, but 
 this in no wise detracted from its popularity. It is believed 
 all did return eventually, though frequently in a state so 
 limp and disheartened that their best friends averred they 
 should scarcely have known them. But what stronghold 
 would not quake v/hen knights and dragons closed in deadly 
 combat ? 
 
 Our doctor's second specialty was introducing buds into 
 society, and our own dear grandmother was one of those 
 whom he "brought out." Now they were always genuine 
 buds, and though in these latter days it is currently whis- 
 pered they are occasionally held back until half blown by 
 lovely mammas in terror of that odious exclamation, "Is it 
 possible she has a daughter as old as that?" (with irritat- 
 ing emphasis on the "that"), no such legend comes down 
 through the vista of the years of our doctor's buds. Some- 
 times there was a "tea," and though "pink teas" were un- 
 known, the bud was invariably so, and whether son or 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 133 
 
 daughter the ceremonies were the same. Our doctor was 
 considered lucky, and haven't we all heard that, "It is just as 
 fortunate to be born lucky as rich." Aye! a thousand times 
 more so, for "riches take to themselves wings and fly away," 
 but born luck, never! He had some ways distinctly his own, 
 and clung to them with pertinacity. He always insisted on 
 dressing the "bud/' for "luck," said our doctor. If it were 
 a boy, he drew every article of its wardrobe on over its feet. 
 If a 'girl, all was put on carefully over the head, and he 
 averred this brought luck unlimited and past finding out to 
 the debutante. Local history solemnly asserted that every 
 bud so arrayed did live, thrive and have its being, and met 
 teething, whoopingcough, measles and all pestilent ills of 
 childhood a conqueror. It also declared that in the few 
 instances recorded of interference by grandmammas, aunts 
 and officious neighbors, who prevented the doctor from ex- 
 ercising his prerogative, no luck at all followed its mortal 
 career, and it became the very football of calamity. Indeed, 
 one, whom a "sot" and resolute great aunt fairly tore from 
 the excellent leech's luck-encircling arms and proceeded to 
 robe all unmindful of ups and downs, is reported to have 
 been stolen by Indians and never found. Shield pins, those 
 conducers to the peace and easement of modern babyhood, 
 were unknown in those primitive days. To the ancient im- 
 plement of torture with its splintered head of w^ound brass 
 wire, our whimsical old leech had an insistent aversion, so 
 he always called for a needle and thread, sighted the eye 
 with one of his own tightly closed, and the other screwed 
 nearly to the top of his head, inserted the thread, doubled it, 
 and secured it with a protuberant knot; then, putting the 
 thimble carefully on his thumb, he proceeded to sew every 
 article on the baby's blessed back. "No pins in their pelts 
 while I'm around," he would declare, emphatically. 
 
 Another instance of his wisdom comes down through the 
 ages. A patient lying very ill and subject to prostrating 
 
134 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 "sweats" was besought by the doctor to have a cool, whole- 
 some bed of oaten straw to lie upon, mattresses being un- 
 known. It was fall, the straw sweet, golden, and making a 
 delicious couch, but in vain did the doctor beseech her to give 
 up the feathery abyss where she lay in perspiring weakness. 
 She was evidently "a woman of will," a class tlie stoutest 
 heart may well shiver at encountering, for her family, sec- 
 onding the doctor's orders, were powerless to enforce them. 
 So it befell that one afternoon, after his usual visit, the pa- 
 tient fell into a sleep profound cind lasti/ig, and when she 
 awoke found herself on a restful bed of newly threshed 
 straw. Protest was in vain. She had but one feather bed ; 
 that the doctor had carried off, and it was snugly ensconced 
 in his garret. Thereafter she recovered, and the feathers 
 got a thoroughly prolonged airing. 
 
 Our doctor had a wife, a thrifty, notable housekeeper, very 
 loquacious and known in the vernacular of the day as a 
 "goer." And why not, pray? She had no family of her 
 own, and when all was spick and span in the low-roomed, 
 broad old house, why shouldn't she put on her sunbonnet, 
 slip the doctor's blue yarn stocking into her capacious pocket 
 and chat and knit a while with a friendly neighbor? She 
 was a good wife, kept his shoe-buckles bright as the tea- 
 spoons, his clothes brushed and pressed from the suspicion 
 of a crease, his saddle-bags oiled and polished, and allowed 
 him to ride her own good steed when his Rosinante was 
 weary and footsore. Also did she, as became a doctor's 
 helpmeet, see with vigilant eyes that his lancet was in its 
 case and the bottle of "pikery purge" full and well corked. 
 Indeed, the good healer was a lucky man, and no wonder 
 luck, as it were, dripped from the tips of his plump and rosy 
 fingers. But two earthly gifts desirable were denied him. 
 He had no heir, and he had no hair. He was utterly, hope- 
 lessly bald ; his fine, well-shaped head, rubicund and shining. 
 But he took these haps with the philosophy and urbanity 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 135 
 
 characteristic of him, and used to remark, "Matilda can't 
 say I have a single jealous hair in my head." This peculi- 
 arity gave hmi a gentle, almost infantile appearance, and 
 when a little harassed by unforeseen complications arising 
 from conflicts of unlooked-for fierceness between the "bil- 
 ious bile" and the "pikery purge," he would rub his small 
 fat hand over his perplexed brow in the most quizzically 
 perturbed manner, and ejaculate, "Drat it all, I say!" 
 
 And now, surely our physician has had more than the 
 passing notice he was declared entitled to, and no apology 
 is deemed necessary in giving to the small world where he 
 once lived and flourished the following story. For the 
 legend runneth that in the town dwelt a pair with generous 
 fortune and many goodly fields, and graves in the ancient 
 God's Acre holding all those they had fondly hoped would 
 inherit them, and like those of old, they grieved greatly over 
 it, and lamented their desolate home. In this strait they 
 appealed to the kindly little doctor. No doubt he rubbed 
 his shining pate, and puckered his rosy fat forehead, but in 
 due time, it is asserted, he did find and convey to that home- 
 stead a hapless waif, born with no "gold spoon in its mouth," 
 who was received with joy unspeakable, became "a well- 
 spring of pleasure," and was duly accredited as their own. 
 And "nobody knew whether it was, and nobody knew wheth- 
 er it wasn't," echoed puzzled Rumor. "Ten years since little 
 Nathan died," said the gossips. "And it's very strange," 
 and "Who'd 't thought it ?" went round and about the coun- 
 tryside. And the story came to the ears of our doctor's 
 thrifty and bustling spouse, and they fairly tingled with 
 curiosity under her immaculate sunbonnet. One night, 
 seated beside the blazing hearth, she plucked up courage and 
 asked him, plimip and plain, whether it were true or not. 
 Now our doctor snuffed, and the fragrant maccaboy was 
 grateful to his nostrils, and, furthermore, he owned a most 
 
136 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 beautiful snuffbox, with a history, it was said, but no one 
 ever heard what the history was, for the doctor never told 
 it, and that added intensely to its interest. On its polished 
 cover was a picture of a famous English beauty, in a sweep- 
 ing riding habit of forest green, a stunning cap of scarlet 
 velvet on her prideful head, and hands more beautiful than 
 sculpture tilting shrouding skirt from dainty feet. Our 
 doctor's good dame was far from beautiful, but capable she 
 was, and had comfortable possessions. Many a time and 
 oft, the labors and cares of the day past, demands on the 
 "pikery purge" in abeyance, and no buds ready to introduce, 
 our doctor would stretch himself luxuriously on the se'ttle, 
 pull out the box, tap it gently, take a pinch, and then look 
 long at that lovely aristocratic face. He was thus engaged 
 the very night his Matilda asked him concerning the rumor, 
 and worthy soul ! it is not believed she ever once had a 
 suspicion that her liege lord in this surreptitious manner 
 was indulging a beauty-loving nature, and seeking in the 
 fair face on his snuffbox what he did not find in that home- 
 spun countenance presiding over his hearth. And this is 
 what she told my own great-grandmother, her nearest and 
 dearest friend, of the aiuazing and unheard-of conduct of the 
 doctor in answer to her legitimate wifely question. First 
 he made his eyes very round and faraway, a trick it is 
 thought he probably contracted in repelling too persistent 
 questioning in regard to unaccountable antics of the "pikery 
 purge." Then he rapped his snuffbox, lifted the lid, took a 
 generous pinch, and slowly inhaling the last dust, leaned 
 back in the capacious depths of the settle, and sneezed and 
 sneezed and sneezed, and sneezed and sneezed and sneezed. 
 Taking out his red silk handkerchief, he wiped his nose 
 dubiously, closed the box, shut his eyes, went to sleep, and 
 snored and snored and snored, not aggressively, nor rum- 
 blingly, but as gently and peacefully as if a question mo- 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 137 
 
 mentous and stirring all womankind round and about had 
 not just entered his ears. Like a discreet mate as she was, 
 his spouse let him snore undisturbed until ten o'clock, when 
 she awoke him and saw that he was safely bestowed in bed ; 
 and nevermore did this ensample of a woman broach that 
 question again. May all wifehood copy her, and nagged 
 husbands reverence her memory. And whether there was 
 an adopted heir to this estate in the secluded township there 
 has never existed the necessity of another. If the tale be 
 true, one old doctor helped to graft goodly stock on a failing 
 ancestral tree, and buried the secret in his snufifbox forever. 
 So with this bit of local tradition let the curtain fall gently 
 on the little doctor, a few more of whose whimsicalities are 
 left on record. He was wont to declare that "Matilda never 
 could say that he found any fault with her management of 
 their children," and that "nobody could feel hurt at not get- 
 ting a lock of his hair after lie was gone" ; also did he leave 
 in his will directions explicit for the compounding and ad- 
 ministering of the "pikery purge," asserting that after years 
 of practice he had found it the one unfailing antidote for that 
 foe to humanity, "bilious bile," for whose onslaughts he con- 
 sidered it "beyond the beyondest." 
 
 As has been mentioned, especially in agricultural districts 
 of our new world, was this fervent wish of the hearts of 
 our forefathers for sons evinced. "In a. son," says an old 
 writer, "seemed the one desire of the heart. Sons are cedars 
 of Lebanon, daughters are roses of Sharon." They continued 
 undeterred in this longing, though they saw many a time 
 and oft that the fibre of this yearned for cedar was of poor 
 quality. "A son renews the links with life," said another 
 ancient. Even our immortal first chieftain, whom "Nature 
 left childless that his people might call him Father/' fre- 
 quently ex])resses in his well-kept diary and in letters to 
 friends the insistent wish for children of his own. That he 
 
138 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 was a most affectionate and devoted stepfather to his wife's 
 children is well known, and if all accounts of Lady Martha's 
 spirit, loyal love and devotion are correct, it is not to be be- 
 lieved that he would have had easy quarters of hours had he 
 not been, Chief Magistrate of a nation though he was. 
 
 As I have pulled the bobbins to loose the latches of these 
 old-time homes, I have culled from the few papers and maga- 
 zines that came in those early days to cheer their hearths 
 numerous bits of verse bearing on this soft spot in our grand 
 sires' hearts. Out of the many gathered this seems most 
 sweet and sensible: 
 
 KEEPING THE FARM. 
 
 They sat on the grassy terrace 
 
 That sloped to the setting sun, 
 The farmer gray and his kind old wife, 
 
 When the golden day was done ; 
 And like a picture at their feet. 
 Stretched the homestead farm in the summer sweet. 
 
 Bronzed was the wheat for the sickle 
 
 On the upland to the east; 
 The meadows low, too wet to mow, 
 
 Should be dry in a week at least, 
 But the old man's arm would never again 
 Guide the harvest home in the loaded wain. 
 
 The buckwheat ground was awaiting 
 
 The path of the furrowing plow ; 
 Oh ! once how his hand could hold it. 
 
 In the time long gone b}' now. 
 With a sigh he looked in his wife's mild face 
 And said, "I think we must sell the place, 
 
 "For we are too old to work it. 
 
 And labor is scarce and high, 
 With all I can do things go to rack," 
 
 And he breathed a heavy sigh 
 As he raised his eyes to the old elm low 
 That mingled its green with his locks of snow. 
 
 Then the good wife looked up fondly 
 
 To the dimming eyes at her side, 
 And a quiver stirred her patient mouth 
 
 As she thought of the babe who died — 
 The longed-for boy who when they were old 
 
 Would have taken the farm to have and to hold. 
 
THE BYGONE DOCTOR 139 
 
 e's 
 
 a's They were busy with thoughts of the future, 
 
 They were groping in the past ; 
 The sad old pair — so they failed to see 
 
 Two forms that lengthening cast 
 Their blended shades on the terrace green, 
 As slowly they came upon the scene. 
 
 Two aged brows lifted in greeting 
 i^' ' Blushes hidden on mother's breast, 
 
 A faltering boon at the father's knee, 
 
 And then we can guess the rest ; 
 As the loving mother, smiling through tears, 
 Sobs, "God has been better than nil our fears. 
 
 "He hath not taken our daughter 
 
 But given us back a son ; 
 Yes, now the old farm shall look up, John, 
 
 And the work in season be done ; 
 For our girl has whispered in my ear 
 That Reuben will stay and help us here. 
 
 "We had thought and talked it over. 
 And worried and grieved to our harm ; 
 
 And still could see no good plan, John, 
 By which we could keep the farm ; 
 
 But with God's good help our girl to-day 
 
 Has shown us the best and easiest way.'' 
 
} 
 
VI 
 
 A Sister and a Brother 
 

jjonal 
 it from 
 
 VI 
 
 A Sister and a Brother 
 
 F ALL the old-time residents of Warwick 
 none seem to have had a more interesting and 
 romantic Hfe story than Hannah Bennett and 
 her brother Jonah. She was born in Fair- 
 field County, Conn., in 1759. Her father, 
 Bennett, purchased a tract of hmd there, cleared 
 the " forest primeval," and, building thereon 
 
 a log cabin, roomy and comfortable, married and settled 
 down. It was a happy spot, this lowly home in the wild- 
 wood, for love and peace (so often strangers to palace halls) 
 dwelt therein. When Hannah was twelve years of age a 
 son was born wlio was named Jonah for his father, as was 
 old-time custom almost universally. Great was the joy 
 and pride in the home at this event. He was a handsome 
 child, with large, black eyes, very dark hair^ tall, straight, 
 and so bright and winsome he won all hearts, and from 
 his birth was the family idol. When he was two years of 
 lage the loved wife and mother suddenly died, leaving a 
 lonely home and stricken hearts indeed. Hannah was just 
 fourteen, and hushing her grief, she sprang earnestly to the 
 call of duty with the strong afifection and devotion of her 
 nature, and exerted every energy to care for the household. 
 There was not nmch of adornment within that home. The 
 floors were bare save for the bark mats, a little clock with 
 a red rooster on it stood on the shelf ; no picture brightened 
 
144 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 its rough walls. That "book of books" of which a long- 
 gone writer said : 
 
 This little book I'd rather own 
 
 Than all t!he gold and gems 
 That e'er in monarch's coffers shone — 
 
 Their royal diadems. ', 
 
 Nay, were the seas one chrysolite, 
 
 The earth a golden ball, 
 And diamonds all the stars of night, 
 
 This book were worth them all, 
 
 was the only literature the home knew. 
 
 This home spot was full of beauty to the imaginative 
 girl, a true poet, though she never wrote a line. Its staunch 
 logs, wrested from the forest fastnesses, were toned down 
 to a soft, dark gray by sun and snows and beating storms ; 
 the woods were fragrant with the beautiful flowers of early 
 times, and as she wandered there with the baby brother in 
 her arms, sunlight and (shadow trembled and quivered 
 through the interlacing boughs upon her young head. To 
 this lowly birthplace, so soon to be rudely severed from her 
 life, her thoughts ever turned with fondest affection. She 
 used to tell her children of the wonderful flower-shaped 
 forms the snow drifted in the chinks of the logs around her 
 window and the delicate windrows blown against the huge 
 foundation oaks, to crystallize there, for where art is not 
 nature reigns supreme in attraction. In a year and a half 
 her father informed her that he was to be married again, 
 and in a short time a young stepmother was brought to fill 
 the sad vacancy made by the mother's death. Long, long 
 ago a father on the eve of taking a young new wife found 
 pinned to the mother's portrait in his room these lines from 
 a daughter's hand, aye ! and from her heart, too, I am sure : 
 
 Father, thou hast not the tale denied ; 
 
 And they say that ere noon to-morrow, 
 Thou'lt bring back a radiant and smiling bride. 
 
 To our lonely house of sorrow. 
 
A SISTER AND A BROTHER 145 
 
 I would wish thee joy of thy coming bliss. 
 
 But tears are my words suppressing; 
 I think on my mother's dying kiss, 
 
 On my mother's dying blessing. 
 
 To-morrow when all is festal guise. 
 
 And guests our rooms are filling, 
 The calm, meek gaze of these gentle eyes 
 
 Might thy soul with grief be thrilling. 
 
 Then father, dear father, oh, grant to-night, 
 
 Ere the bridal crowd's intrusion, 
 I remove this picture from thy sight 
 
 To my chamber's still seclusion. 
 
 She will heed me not in the joyous pride 
 
 Of her pomp and friends and beauty. 
 For little need hath a new-made bride 
 
 Of a daughter's quiet duty. 
 
 Poor Hannah made no appeal in the humble home to her 
 father, and the young wife's feet crossed the threshold not 
 to bring comfort and healing to the smitten household, but 
 sorrow and discord perverting her mission and making her 
 new name a misnomer as far as the orphan babe was con- 
 cerned. From the first she evinced a marked dislike for the 
 boy, and readily found occasion to display her jealousy and 
 ill-feeling, nor had this new mother any need "of a daugh- 
 ter's quiet duty." 
 
 When the prospect of a child of her own became apparent, 
 her animosity increased and took the fonn of active un- 
 kindness This was noted with pain by the indulgent father. 
 He tried to reason away her dislike, but the heart that should 
 of all hearts been tender, was cold and obdurate, and no 
 expostulation could change her attitude. The loving and 
 spirited Hannah saw all this with anguish. She felt her 
 dear father's domestic peace was destroyed, beheld her 
 mother's idolized babe the target for unreasoning hate and 
 ill-treatment, and the situation became unbearable. There 
 was no more joy in that pleasant cabin home, with its red 
 cherry trees bending above the roof; no more merry play at 
 "Puss in (he Corner" evenings with little Jonah before the 
 
146 UNDER OLD ROOETREES 
 
 great fireplace sending the glow of its logs through the 
 room. A constrained quiet was over all ; the homely nest 
 of sweet domestic comfort and content was gone for her 
 fprever. Hannah Bennett was not of that mould, spiritless, 
 inert, that can behold an existing wrong and seek to devise 
 no remedy. Day and night she pondered on some course 
 of action. A short time before the death of her mother 
 friends had removed from Connecticut to Warwick. Some 
 members of a family returning on a visit had brought the 
 news that it was a beautiful, goodly land and of their de- 
 light in it. As she ceaselessly turned over in her mind a 
 thousand plans for relief, the thought of Warwick came to 
 her. The young wife had for several weeks displayed un- 
 usual irritation, and the distracted father had .finally decided 
 to take her on a visit of a week to her parents, a journey of 
 about ten miles. Hannah assisted industriously to make 
 them ready and saddling their horses they started. His 
 children kissed him a fond good-by (alas, how little he 
 knew !") , and. with sorrow tugging at her young heart, the 
 girl went into the house to carry out her resolve. Her op- 
 portunity dawned, and she seized it. 
 
 For two davs and nights Hannah worked diligently mak- 
 ing Jonah a cloth cap, with broad ear-laps, from a remnant 
 of her father's new suit, and a Ions-, warmly lined pair of 
 trousers of the same, for it was chill, early spring. She 
 then put such needful articles as would not impede her jour- 
 nev in a long linen pillow slip Cher onlv suit-case), securely 
 hid the little sum of monev she possessed in Jonah's cap, 
 and made ready to start. Old memories came thick and 
 fast upon her mind while preparing to start, and chief 
 among them crowded thoughts of that dear lost mother 
 whose cherished babe she was endeavoring to rescue from 
 oppression, and her tears fell freelv as she took a last look 
 around the once glad spot. Rut a short time before her 
 mother's death she had asked her to make some "jumbles," 
 
A SISTER AND A BROTHER 147 
 
 a hard, sweet cake in which Httle Jonah was very fond of 
 putting his white teeth, and had heard her express a wish 
 for a new roIHng pin to press them out. Ever ready with 
 her hands, Hannah set to work, and from a Hmb of red 
 cherry fashioned one and presented it to the pleased mother. 
 As she was leaving, her eyes fell upon this homely domestic 
 implement as it lay upon the dresser. Like a flash came 
 back the pleasant scene of their old-time happiness ; the 
 kind mother as she stood in the glow of the firelight prepar- 
 ing some good thing in the shape of dainties for them, while 
 she sat by her side with the loved boy on her lap. Often 
 she would print a border on the cakes and pies with the 
 dried capsules of her poppies, while little Jonah's pleased, 
 bright eyes looked wonderingl|y on. She had donned for 
 her journey a warm flannel dress in which she had made a 
 pocket deep and wide, in anticipation of her flight. 
 
 "Stepmother shall never have the rolling pin I made for 
 mother," she said, impulsively, and, seizing it, dropped it in 
 her pocket. Then, hurrying out, she saddled her strong, 
 gentle horse, set little Jonah in the saddle, fastened the 
 pillow-case containing all their earthly possessions securely 
 across his back, locked the door, and, placing the key under 
 the rough bark mat, turned her horse's head for Warwick 
 town and the friends there. As she mounted her horse 
 Jonah, perched there in his long trousers and overshadowing 
 - ear-laps, whispered in a voice awed by this uncanny flight 
 in the early dark, "Hanny, can't I take the little clock with 
 the red rooster, 'cause youse got the rolHn' pin ?" Poor 
 child ! it was perhaps his only semblance of a real toy and 
 had been the object to which his first baby glances had 
 been directed. Knowing Hannah as well as we do, we al- 
 most wonder she didn't attempt to accomplish it at the plead- 
 ing of that loved voice. 
 
 It was not daylight when Hannah set forth, for she 
 wished to avoid the eyes of the scattered neighbors near. 
 She had never been twenty miles from home in her life ; 
 
148 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 the way after a short time was entirely unknown to her, 
 much of it lying through long stretches of wood, and she 
 had constantly to inquire and study her route with patience 
 and care. But the pure, loyal love of a true woman's heart 
 is ever a safe compass. She fed herself, the child and horse 
 at farm homes on the way, and rested therein at night, pay- 
 ing for it out of her slender store. Numerous adventures 
 befell her which would have appalled a more timorous nat- 
 ure. Once, riding through a heavily wooded stretch, her 
 trusty horse shied violently, and, reining him in, she saw a 
 wildcat in the trees above her head looking down upon her 
 with greedy eyes. Other skulking animals frequently fled 
 her path. Of Indians she always declared she felt fear. 
 Once she was refused shelter at nightfall, at the only house 
 she came upon for many miles, by a straight-laced Puritan 
 matron who distrusted her simple story and thought all was 
 not right with a girl riding alone through the country with 
 a child in her arms. Poor, narrow purist! As if such a 
 girl more than any other should not have appealed to her 
 woman's nature. Her husband, all honor to his good, 
 Christian heart, looked on the desolate girl with pitying 
 eyes, assuring his wife she was too young to possibly be 
 the mother of a boy as large as Jonah. She was reluctantly 
 allowed to remain and rest the night, though the forbidding 
 looks and scant courtesy of the wife caused her the chilled 
 comfort of the unwelcome guest. Frequently she rode in 
 heavy rains; often saw the day fast waning and no shelter 
 near. Sometimes she became so sleepy with the strain of 
 holding the child (who often slept during the journey, a 
 dead weight on her arm) that she was in danger of falling 
 ofif and breaking her adventurous young neck. But "love 
 is strong as death"; she did not allow her black eyes to 
 close, but held on her way — ^her pole star Warwick. 
 
 Her horse was a young one, very gentle and well broken 
 by her father for her own use, but many wildwood sights, 
 sounds and odors caused him to require her firm hand and 
 
A SISTER AND A BROTHER i49 
 
 vigilant eye constantly. Once a thorn pierced his foot, and 
 she was detained for a time by its removal and the healing 
 of the hurt. 
 
 On arriving at her destination Hannah was received with 
 amazement by her friends. Scarcely were their senses able 
 to credit her act, but their kindness and cordiality were 
 boundless. She obtained a home in the family of a Mr. 
 Minthorn, near Warwick. He bought her horse, paying 
 her one hundred dollars for it, which gave her money for 
 present need, and, being very skilful with the needle in sew- 
 ing and embroidering on linen, she readily found employ- 
 ment. The daring venture of the intrepid girl of but six- 
 teen years caused widespread astonishment. Little Jonah, 
 the innocent object of her flight, came in for his share of 
 notice and interest The secluded hamlet boasted a small 
 hero and a handsome young heroine. 
 
 One day, sitting at the window of the Minthorn home fin- 
 ishing a vest for the owner, Hannah saw two riders rein up 
 at the gate. They were men of goodly presence, in riding 
 suits, cloaked and spurred, mounted on the handsomest 
 horses she had ever seen. They asked for a drink of water, 
 and Hannah, laying down her work, rose, went out to the 
 well, drew down the tall sweep, and, filling the great gourd 
 dipper, carried it to th'em. They drank freely, handed 
 back the gourd, and, thanking her politely, proceeded on 
 their way. No doubt her dark eyes followed these unusual- 
 appearing strangers with interest as they rode on. 
 
 One of the riders was William Wood. He and a friend 
 had ridden from the western part of New York State for the 
 purpose of introducing a fine breed of horses in Orange 
 County. The next spring a tournament was held in War- 
 wick, in which the young men of the neighborhood and ad- 
 jacent towns competed in various athletic games. A strmg 
 of beautiful amber beads was ofifered as a reward to the 
 champion in horsemanship. William Wood had returned 
 to the village, and, entering the lists, won the trophy, Tak- 
 
:t5o UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 ing it on die point of his sword from the post on which it 
 hung, he wheeled his horse to the grand stand, where Han- 
 nah Bennett sat amid the spectators, and threw it about her 
 slender neck. The astonished girl sat spellbound as the 
 crowd cheered. It is well known that the fossil resin 
 of which the beads is composed, and which is tinted like the 
 evening sky, has the power to become electric, and some 
 way, as it rested on her bosom, it sent the electric spark of 
 love there. In a very short time her marriage to the gal- 
 lant champion occurred at the Minthorn home. On a spot 
 of land between Bellvale and Warwick they bought a farm, 
 built a house and settled. Her love for her handsome young 
 husband partook of the innate devotion of her nature. From 
 the hour of her bridal, he was her pride and happiness. 
 
 Let us not all this time forget Jonah, who was steadily 
 attending school and growing into a fine, sturdy boy. His 
 sister's love for him never flagged. His brother-in-law 
 owning some of the finest horses ever known in Warwick, 
 he was taught to ride fearlessly; a fine shot, he trained him 
 to become an expert marksman and an adept in all athletic 
 sports. When he grew to young manhood, a gentleman 
 came up from New York City to purchase horses of his 
 brother, bringing the thrilling news that there was a deter- 
 mined uprising of the Pottawattamies and Wyandottes in 
 the West, headed by the wily Blue Jacket, active chief in 
 command. From the first Jonah's resentment burned fierce- 
 ly against the cruel slayers of his countr^vmen. Anon the 
 fighting spirit rose in him, and he communicated to the 
 family his determination to start and assist in wiping out 
 the redskins. His resolve was fixed. There was no pro- 
 test from the sister, whose whole life had been a sacrifice to 
 duty. As she had fitted him out for his baby flitting, again, 
 with sorrow wringing her heart-strings, but no word on her 
 lips breathed to dissuade him from what she felt to be his 
 loyal duty, she prepared him for his journey. She carded 
 the wool, spun the yarn and wove the cloth heavy and strong 
 
A SISTER AND A BROTHER' 151 
 
 for a lull suit; dyed it blue, cut, titted and made every stitch 
 of it with her own hands. At length all was ready; his 
 bundle packed with everything she could devise for his com- 
 fort ; there v^as a little gathering of friends to bid him good- 
 by; her husband drove him to Newburgh, and from there 
 Jonah started West. By boat, on foot, by wagon train, he 
 at icngih reached the scene of hostilities at what is now 
 Maumee City. 
 
 On tiie 20th day of August, 1794, on the Maumee oc- 
 curred the battle of Fallen Timbers. In it Jonah was terri- 
 bly wounded by a bullet and left for dead on the battlefield. 
 The ground was strewed with dead braves. In the night 
 an Indian girl stole to the place to seek the ibody of her 
 lover. She discovered him among the slain and wept. Her 
 sobs roused Jonah. He raised his head ; she saw him and 
 fled to the tents and told her people. Ere morning dawned 
 they sought the spot and bore him away a captive. Wayne 
 proceeded to la|y waste all the adjacent country, and the 
 tribes fled across the Canada border, bearing Jonah with 
 them. Pottawattamie was a savage antagonist in warfare. 
 Wayne called him "The Wind," so relentless were his on- 
 slaughts ; but in his custody Jonah Bennett was a kindly 
 treated prisoner. They nursed him carefully, his wound 
 healed, and, dressing him in their own clothing, they signi- 
 fied their desire to adopt him into their tribe. His piercing 
 black eyes, dark hair and fine, erect form no doubt attracted 
 his savage captors and made a favorable impression. To 
 their proposal, Jonah, to lull suspicion, signified his willing- 
 ness to agree, but notwithstanding, felt himself never free 
 from espionage. It was an Indian Vv'ho said "White man 
 very onsartin." They did not trust Jonah. At length he 
 almost felt hope die within him, and decided he would never 
 again see old Warwick's green, secluded valley and the dear 
 friends there. 
 
 Time wore on, and one July night there arose a tempest 
 of fearful power. Its fury fell on the Indian settlement, 
 
152 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 scattering destruction. Tlie blinding flashes of lightning 
 were appalling. The savages thought the Great Spirit was 
 angered with them and were panic-stricken. In the tumult 
 Jonah's tent went over, a great tree near biy was riven with 
 lightning, his watchers fled. He looked wildly about him, 
 discovered he was free, and plunged forth into the drenched 
 and storm-tossed woods. The tempest contmued for an 
 hour, and under its cover he rushed on. Rain-soaked, beat- 
 en by whipping branches, torn by briars, he flew until day- 
 light. He was agile and fleet of foot, and as the sun rose 
 found himself miles away from his Indian captors, in the 
 heart of the dense forest, without arms or equipments of any 
 kind. Wet, weary with the tumult of emotion that pos- 
 sessed him, he lay down and slept some hours, and awoke 
 to find himself very hungry. He had been an adept in set- 
 ting snares in old Bellvale mountain in his boyhood, be- 
 came more skilful while with the Indians, and now, with 
 but his dextrous fingers, wove some, and lay down and 
 awoke to find with joy they had not been set in vain. He 
 had trapped a small creature, which he dispatched and ate 
 and then proceeded on his way. He studied the sun as well 
 as he was able, and struck for New York State, but felt each 
 step, he was lost indeed; totally unarmed, he subsisted in 
 the pathless forest on berries, roots, and with what he could 
 slay with sticks and stones and capture with snares while 
 he slept. He felt the need of salt greatly in his raw food 
 diet. Well for this young David that he could throw a 
 stone so unerringly. Not least among his troubles was the 
 fear of skulking savages. Of these he was ever in terror. 
 The crackling of a dry twig, the flutter of a leaf, thrilled 
 his heart, for he knew to fall in their hands again meant 
 captivity or a cruel end. He had known two years as a 
 prisoner; his was a brave, free spirit, and he ever declared 
 capture seemed to him worse than death. 
 
 But now a new danger menaced him. With wandering, 
 exposure and insufficient diet, his old wound began to 
 
A SISTER AND A BROTHER 153 
 
 trouble hiin, and at length he became feeble and verl)' ill. 
 Oh, we, surrounded by every comfort and blessing in hours 
 of pain and illness, with the tender ministrations of the 
 skilled trained nurse ever at command, let us think of this 
 poor young volunteer lost in the solitude of wild, dense 
 woods, alone, too worn to take another step, as one night he 
 crawled under the shadow of a rock in this weary land, and 
 laid his body, racked with pain, down on the wind-gathered 
 leaves, never expecting to rise again! What thoughts of 
 home, of his loving sister, of friends, of dear old Warwick 
 must have crowded on his mind. He lay that night and 
 all the next day too weak to rise, without food or a drop of 
 water to his lips. As the shadows of the late afternoon 
 crept around him, a rustling in the leaves near startled him ; 
 the dread of a moccasined foot electrified him. He raised 
 his head and saw an immense rattlesnake gliding along. A 
 sudden thought seized him — here was food ! He caught up 
 a fragment of rock and dashed it with all his newly roused 
 force on the sinuous reptile. He struck the head squarely 
 and crushed it, for Jonah always struck square. Grinding 
 it ofif on the rock he put the warm, palpitating flesh to his 
 lips and drank of the blood, stripped down the skin and ate 
 greedily, lajv back and rested, then arose and dragged him- 
 self from the dangerous proximity of a possible mate. Night 
 drew on and he fell asleep and slept until morning; awoke 
 refreshed, and the courage to live again filled his brave 
 young heart. 
 
 Fresh strength, new life and desire to rise and take up 
 his struggle w^ent right through him. It must have given 
 him a wondrous reviving, for that morning he marched on 
 ; and, inexpressible joy! came upon a fort with the glorious 
 stars and stripes floating over it. Here the dauntless young 
 recruit was received with hearty welcome ; a young physi- 
 cian at the fort bestowed upon him every care and attention ; 
 he was given a new suit of clothes, and after two months 
 proceeded on his way. One evening William Wood, his 
 
154 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 wife and children sat around the fire. The door opened, an 
 Indian in full dress entered. The little girls ran to hide 
 behind their father, but his sister knew him instantl\\\ Her 
 arms were around him, her warm, true kisses on his cheek. 
 
 Wild was the excitement in the valley, for Jonah had 
 been mourned as dead. Even his sister had almost yielded 
 up hope. From the hour of his home-coming he was the 
 centre of an admiring group wherever he might be. His 
 Indian costume, which he carried home with him, was kept 
 for years in the family. This suit, so elaborately embroid- 
 ered with beads by the deft fingers of the squaws while he 
 was in captivity, was hung' on a peg in the roomy garret of 
 his sister's home after being duly admired. Many a night, 
 after all the house was still, the three little nieces stole 
 noiselessly as mice from their beds, mounted the ladder to 
 the garret, and carefully snipped here and there a bead from 
 the compact symbols and figures. These they strung on 
 strong linen thread until Sally had a double row of blue, 
 Mattie of pink and tiny Polly a gay necklace of rainbow 
 dyes. They were only worn secretly at play and vigilantly 
 guarded from the eyes of their parents. 
 
 All loved to gather around the hospitable hearth and listen 
 to Jonah's stories of the warfare ; Wayne, whom he almost 
 idolized; of the sagacious Little Turtle, and Turkey Foot, 
 who called Wayne "The man who never sleeps." Well was 
 it to keep open eyes with such a foe. His struggles, trials, 
 adventures from babyhood would fill a volume. His life 
 was a romance that put fiction aside. He declared that the 
 Indians treated him with uniform kindness, but were most 
 vigilant in guarding against his escape, and never allowed 
 him arms. He learned to speak their language, and became 
 familiar with their customs. His home-coming was sad- 
 dened by news of the death of his brave commander, and 
 he mourned him as long as life lasted. Sad to relate, it was 
 not a long one. The old, terrible w^ound through the thigh 
 troubled him. His splendid constitution was greatly im- 
 
A SISTER AND A BROTHER 155 
 
 paired by wanderings in the wild, pathless woods and 
 through privations and exposure, and he passed away after 
 a heroic struggle to get well, iiis ashes he in the First 
 Baptist yard at Warwick. A great concourse for those 
 early times followed him to the tomb. The red stone mark- 
 ing his resting place, erected by Hannah, is gone. 
 
 This little sketch alone rescues his memory from oblivion. 
 Why this early "God's Acre" containing the precious dust 
 of so many of Warwick's pioneers was once allowed to 
 bet.ome a common, its graves obliterated, the stones over- 
 thrown and lost beneath the clods, is amazmg. Honored 
 dead lie there, now indeed "dust to dust" — Elder James 
 Benedict, Daniel Burt, the Sayers — so many, many of the 
 grand pioneers who settled our native home. As for years 
 I have sought every item I could collect concerning them, 
 I have ever marked the "culture and observance" of these 
 rugged settlers. How grand they were ! Why did their 
 children not observe the care of their hallowed graves? 
 With the removal of the church seemed to die out interest 
 in the yard. 
 
 Hannah Bennett's grief over her brother was pitiful. To 
 his last hour her home was his. Her tender hands minis- 
 tered to him with all the devotion of her nature. 
 
 William Wood was among the first breeders and best 
 judges of fine horses Orange County knew. He was of- 
 fered £400 for one team of colts of his own breeding — a 
 fabulous price for those early daj\^s. It was refused, his 
 love and pride in them being too great to allow him to part 
 with the splendid creatures. This team was coal black, of 
 great beauty, style and speed, and so perfectly matched they 
 could not be distinguished the one from the other by a 
 casual glance. He drove from his farm with them to New- 
 burgh in early autumn, carrying a load of produce to be 
 shipped by boat to New York City. He remained over 
 night and started for home early next morning. In cross- 
 ing a stream protected onl,y by a rustic bridge without a rail- 
 
156 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 ing, it was supposed the near horse, more spirited and met- 
 tlesome of the pair, shied, became unmanageable and crowd- 
 ed the other over in the water, dragging all with it. One 
 horse and the owner were found dead in the stream by a 
 near neighbor who made the trip at the same time, and was 
 not far behind. The wagon was overturned upon him, 
 causing his death by drowning. The news came swiftly 
 to his home. Friends hurried hastily to the scene of the 
 disaster, and he was borne sadly back with the remaining 
 horse. James Burt, Esq., of Warwicl<, has told me often 
 he stood in his father's door, saw him pass in the morning 
 driving his fine team, and saw him borne back the next 
 night in a large farm wagon, accompanied by a solemn con- 
 course, the remaining horse led behind, slow paced, with 
 drooping head, as if he felt the awful tragedty he had pre- 
 cij)itated. 
 
 My first visit to New York City was made with Mr. Burt, 
 and on the Erie he pointed out to me the spot where the 
 accident occurred, and related this incident. When all had 
 been arranged for the removal of the body to his stricken 
 home, it was proposed to drag the horse out of the way to 
 a piece of woods, when a sturdy young farmer living near 
 stepped forth. "No, boys," he said, "such a horse as that 
 shall never be left in the woods for crow-bait. He shall 
 have a grave like a Christian. No cur shall tear his satiny 
 coat. Get your shovels and we'll go to work." A grave 
 deep and wide was dug, the horse was laid in it, covered 
 with green boughs, and the earth banked and sodded above 
 him. His place of rest was long visible. His beauty is 
 remembered down the ages. 
 
 Poor Hannah, again bereft, laid the body of her adored 
 husband by the side of Jonah. Father, mother, brother, 
 husband had been torn from her life. She was left with 
 four children. Sally, the eldest, married Lewis F. Ran- 
 dolph; Martha married William Benedict, eldest grandson 
 of Elder James Benedict; the youngest daughter, a very 
 
A SISTER AND A BROTHER 157 
 
 beautiful girl, married Thomas Welch. There was a son, 
 Jonah, named for his uncle. In the winter of 181 5 there 
 was a merry party of guests assembled at the old stone 
 house of James Benedict, where now stands the dwelling 
 of Mrs. Laura Benedict. All was merriment — a jovial 
 neighborhood gathering. A knock was heard at the door. 
 It opened to a stranger, white with falling snow. He sought 
 the sisters Sallie and Mattie, who were present, to tell them 
 little Polly had died the day before at New Windsor, leav- 
 ing an infant a few hours old. This babe, named Micah, 
 was brought to Warwick and nursed by his aunt Mattie, a 
 foster brother of her boy, William L. Benedict. Here 
 was another adopted son of Warwick tO' shed honor on the 
 roll of her brave soldiers. Enlisting in the Mexican War, 
 he was in .some of its hardest-fought battles, and imder 
 the command of Gen. Winfield Scott, "before the halls of 
 the Montezumas," his leg was shot from his body. Recov- 
 ering from the wound, he lived many years, a gray-haired 
 veteran of that sanguinary conflict. Wild was our delight 
 when we saw Micah gallantly wielding his crutches through 
 the gate, and "sleep fled our eyes and slumber our eyelids" 
 as he told around the hearth of Taylor and Worth and Scott, 
 our brave generals; of the fierce battles, and of Santa Ana, 
 whom they routed and thrashed to a finish. 
 
 Micah Welch was one of the original 50,000 volunteers, 
 and Hannah Bennett's fourth grandson. While visiting her 
 daughter, Mrs. William Benedict. Hannah Avas one day seized 
 with excruciating pain in hei foot ; the leg became useless 
 and commenced withering. Physicians were summoned 
 from the first, and finally in consultation decided it could 
 be brought back to life and usefulness. Poultices of the 
 biting Arum trifilUum were ordered upon it as hot as could 
 be borne. In a short time this astoupding blunder of the 
 bygone doctor had completed its work — the limb had to be 
 removed. This was done at our home by Doctor Elias Coe. 
 and another sorrow was added to the life of her who had 
 
158 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 been stricken so grievously, who had borne so bravely. To 
 one so active to be crippled was a heaviy cross. She was 
 ever a fearless, graceful rider, and she deplored the loss of 
 this exercise. Two attached slaves attended hei faithfully 
 and were never absent from her side. She was a gentle 
 mistress and they loved her with devotion. Their names 
 were Rosy and Dilly. Her health gradually failed and she 
 passed away at New Windsor, but was brought to Warwick 
 and laid by the side of her brother and husband and a little 
 daughter, who^ died in infancy. Often as I have stood by 
 that quiet spot I have felt as if the grass waving above it 
 must almost whisper of the happiness, the struggles, the 
 triumphs, the trials of this loving, loyal adopted daughter 
 of old Warwick town. I trust I may yet see her beloved 
 memorp,^ on something more enduring than a scribbler's pad, 
 a publisher's pages. 
 
 The rolling-pin of red cherry which Hannah carried in 
 her pocket all her adventurous ride is a treasured memento 
 in our home. Her children were charming raconteurs, es- 
 pecially Mrs. Lewis E. Randolph. She used to tell many 
 amusing stories of her childhood. Her sister Martha was 
 equally interesting. Parents trained their children to exact 
 obedience and reverence in those primal days. Sunday was 
 a time of rigid discipline. After "meeting" they were 
 obliged to sit around the table and read and study the Scrip- 
 tures. Then an early supper, and to bed at seven. Any 
 evading of strict Sabbath rules was punished by a supper 
 of "suppawn and buttermilk," and to bed at five. Fiction 
 was considered the very snare of Satan for the young soul. 
 One day a friend lent the little girls the w^onderful life of 
 "Mrs. Margery Two Shoes," the first story book they had 
 ever seen. It was carefully examined by the parents and 
 they were told thev might read it on w^eek days but iterer 
 on the Sabbath. One hot Sunday they sat around the table 
 reading by turns from the Bible, when in an awed whisper 
 one of the three proposed getting "Goody Two Shoes" and 
 
A SISTER AND A BROTHER 159 
 
 reading surreptitiously. The proposal was received unani- 
 mously, and Sally read sotto voce to the others while the 
 parents conversed on the porch. The day was excessively 
 hot ; the walk to the old Baptist church had been dusty and 
 tiresome. Elder Benedict's sermons were never deeply 
 permeated with that quality — rare in old-time preaching — 
 brevity. Finally two little heads went down on the table. 
 They were Mattie's and Polly's. Soon they slept sweetly. 
 Sally resolved to keep vigilant watch and read on. Alas ! 
 she was not the first sentinel to sleep on the post of duty. 
 For just a moment she allowed her head to go down on the 
 old Bible. She knew no more until a hand was laid upon 
 her shoulder. She raised her little sleep-dazed head to 
 meet her father's grave, questioning eyes. The book was 
 in his hand. It is a formidable volume, just three inches 
 in width and four and one-half in length. It was printed 
 in London. Alas ! the way of the transgressor is ever hard, 
 and thus it befell these small offenders against parental law. 
 Mattie and Polly were awakened. Some chord of pity was 
 touched in the father's heart. He did not chide them se- 
 ; I verely. Hannah Bennett was born under the blue laws of 
 early Connecticut ; William Wood in Holland in 1747. 
 They consulted gravely together and decided the suppawn 
 and buttermilk innst be administered. So for three con- 
 secutive Sabbath evenings three little wooden bowls, made 
 by old Waan, an Indian squaw living above Bellvale, and 
 cunningly stained with juices of bark and berries, were set 
 before these culprits. Such was the severely strict observ- 
 ance of the Lord's Day by our forefathers. Reading this to 
 a small guest one day her eyes lighted, darkened, fired. "Is 
 that old times?" she inquired. "Certainly, my dear," was 
 answered. "Did they cat that awful supper?" "Surely." 
 Rising and shaking her curls : "Then I'm glad I wasn't born 
 then." This history of Goody Two Shoes is a family treas- 
 ure, well into its second century. 
 
i6o UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Mrs. Fairfield, a Connecticut lady visiting Warwick, was 
 the first to learn of the whereabouts of fleeing Hannah and 
 her brother, for her Warwick friends had been loyal to her 
 secret and never disclosed their presence among them. Mrs. 
 Fairfield painted the father's sorrow and fruitless search 
 for his lost children, and Hannah, happily married, sent him 
 a kind message. He had other children and made no at-, 
 tempt to regain his boy, perhaps deeming it best, with the 
 elastic philosophy^ we are prone to develop when helpless to 
 improve our situation, "to let well enough alone." Of all her 
 descendants Mrs. H. K. Morford, her granddaughter and 
 namesake, inherited in a marked degree her beauty. The 
 same dark, bright eyes, fine carriage and high spirit were 
 characteristic of her. She was said in her youth to be one 
 of the most beautiful girls in Sussex and Orange counties. 
 
 The spirit of this brave pair did not die with them. In 
 addition to her grandson Micah's splendid record in the 
 Mexican War is the worthy one of her great-grandson, 
 Corporal Frank A. Benedict, one of the first volunteers of 
 the Civil War. It was ever remarked that Frank was like 
 his uncle Jonah — the same erect bearing and agile form, 
 the same courage and endurance. Charles E. Benedict, an- 
 other great-grandson, an elder brother of Frank, was also 
 a volunteer. Commissioned to raise a company, he died of 
 camp fever just as it was recruited. The Civil War vet- 
 eran, William Wood, was her grandson. Guy Benedict, a 
 great-great-grandson, served in the beginning of the Span- 
 ish War on Admiral Sampson's flagship, the Brooklyn, and 
 afterward at the final great battle of Santiago, on the Iowa, 
 under "Fighting Bob" Evans. The well-known railroad 
 man, Mr. John Morford, is her great-grandson ; Dr. C. P. 
 Smith, the skillful and popular physician of Chester, her 
 PTPat-great-grandson. 
 
 William Benedict and Lewis F. Randolph, her sons-in- 
 law, went to the conflict of 1812, awaiting orders to march 
 on Long Island when peace was declared. When the time 
 
A SISTER AND A BROTHER i6i 
 
 for the removal of her leg became imperative, she came 
 from her home in New Windsor to Warwick to her daugh- 
 ter, Mrs. William Benedict, to have the operation performed 
 by Doctor E. V. A. Coe. She refused any opiate, declaring 
 if she died she wished to meet her end in full possession of 
 every sense. She bore the ordeal unmurmuringly, while 
 her daughter was led fainting from her side. When all 
 was over Dr. Coe, laying his hand tenderly on her pale fore- 
 head, said, "You are a brave little woman." He did not 
 quite express it. She was ever a hero! 
 
VII 
 
 Warwick Weather 
 and Celestial Phenomena 
 
VII 
 
 Warwick Weather and Celestial 
 Phenomena 
 
 ONE may dispute that the weather has as 
 large a part to play in the economy of human 
 work, happiness and comfort as aiijVthing to 
 which we are subject. It has ever been the 
 fountain head of troubles seen and unseen, for 
 is It not weather that gives baby the croup, scaring terrified 
 mothers out of bed at uncanny hours, and Grandpapa extra 
 twinges of rheumatism, whereat he groans dismally ? In 
 cloud and storm does it not obscure the blessed life-giving 
 sunshine from the poor consumptive and invite the per- 
 sistent cough ; does it not lie in wait, with chills, fevers and 
 woes innumerable at times, and suddenly unload them upon 
 us until we aver, "Well ! this ought to make the doctors 
 happy" ? It dries and burns, drowns and washes, blows and 
 tears just as it pleases, and we can't help ourselves one bit, 
 and neither could our own dear forebears in the days 
 gone by. 
 
 In 1814 occurred one of the most terrible droughts ever 
 recorded in the history of Warwick. It lasted nearly half 
 the year. Leaves dropped from the trees, curled and with- 
 ered; grass was literally burned black, and fell to charred 
 dust beneath the feet; gardens and crops were ruined; no 
 fruit grew to perfection ; small wild animals and birds suf- 
 fered from want of food and water. Residents of Orange 
 and Sussex counties having cattle turned on mountain 
 lands, weary of seeing the famished creatures agonized for 
 
i66 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 pasture and drink, shot them down, one wealthy New Jer- 
 sey farmer slaughtering eighty. Wells dried and people 
 carried water long distances for family use ; the roads were 
 lined constantly with cattle driven to the creek and ponds 
 where any water was found. A poor, half-crazed creature 
 called Old Enos declared that, lying by the side of the road, 
 he saw numbers of rattlesnakes, blacksnakes, pilots, adders 
 and racers crawling from the mountain across the road to 
 drink from the brook running by the old Sayer homestead, 
 but as to the truth of this the narrator was not able to vouch 
 to the writer. To corroborate his story he did bring to the 
 village of Bellvale a rattlesnake with thirteen rattles he 
 averred he killed while it was drinking at this stream. The 
 creek was almost the only source of water supply left, and 
 that was very low. 
 
 On the night of the 27th of June no signs of rain were 
 visible. The sun hung lurid and dismal in a smoky west, 
 and many had begun to predict and really supposed the end 
 of the world was come. Prayers were offered in the 
 churches, but supplications seemed in vain — the heavens 
 were brass. On the aforementioned night, just after twelve, 
 suddenly a gentle rain began to fall, which lasted four days. 
 Never before in Warwick valley was such joy unspeakable 
 known. The clergymen in the village churches on the Sab- 
 bath tried to frame prayers of thankfulness, but broke 
 down in so doing and wept; sobs were heard throughout 
 the congregation. Neighbor shook neighbor by the hand 
 with warmer grasp than was their wont. Wives told wives 
 how when their husbands heard the soft, small rain come 
 gently pattering on the roof they could not credit their own 
 trusty ears, but plunged hurriedljy out of bed to see if it could 
 be true. One worthy citizen went out lightly clad, and 
 remained so long his anxious spouse besought him to come 
 in or he would "get wet." "Get wet ! get wet !" he retorted. 
 "Praise God ! Betsey, I could wring my shirt now." An 
 anxious father, living below Warwick, having a son residing 
 
WARWICK WEATHER 167 
 
 at a place called i'ole Ridge, rose in the dead of night and 
 rode there tO' see if the blessed rain was falling on his son's 
 farm, and found that it was. It lell everywhere; the stub- 
 born vertebrae of the most destructive drought ever known 
 since Warwick was settled was broken. Late gardens were 
 planted, fields looked over to see if anything could be done. 
 The animal creation seemed to gain a new lease of life. 
 Even ancient grudges (more common then than now, when 
 men were closer to the old feudal time, during which neigh- 
 bor fought neighbor) were literally washed out in the beau- 
 tiful, beneficent downpour. During the four days, two thus 
 under the ban of each other's ill-will met on the road. "I 
 can't bold out after this," one cried, truly repentant; "the 
 Eord is too good. I won't go against Him and let the sun 
 go down on, m^- wrath any longer," and it is to be hoped 
 they were friends forevermore after making up and shaking 
 hands, wet with that blessed heaven-sent baptism. It is not 
 believed that there were so many new fancies and theories 
 in religious matters in those times as now, but one good 
 dame, whose mind had probably been greatly exercised by 
 beholding the family garden supply and potato patch slowly 
 cremated, remarked to her minister, Elder Lebbens La- 
 throp, who preached in Warwick from Oct. 25th, 1801, to 
 May, 1819), in a doubting spirit, "When you prayed so hard 
 for rain, why didn't the Lord answer?" "We were not 
 readj^ to receive it, and He wasn't ready to send it," was 
 the sententious reply. Perhaps the worthy minister knew 
 of the two neighbors from whose hearts the drought burned 
 the feud. The terrific parching of old Mother Earth was 
 done, but the bitter effects were felt all the next winter 
 severely. Pork was leaner, eggs scarcer, the family butter 
 tub low, the strings of dried apples and peaches very brief, 
 potatoes almost invisible, and in many other ways the strick- 
 en town of Warwick remembered this awful visitation. 
 
 In the summers and autumns of 1843 and 1846 other 
 droughts fell upon Warwick, and. though not quite so long 
 
i68 UiNDER OI^D ROOFTREES 
 
 or severe, were protracted, causing much suffering and in- 
 convenience. Many of the hardships portrayed were hved 
 over again^ and there was scarcity in all tlie usual produc- 
 tions of the earth. Springs were dug in the borders of the 
 creek, and families carried water therefrom to their homes. 
 Farmers with teams drove into town with churns and bar- 
 rels full, and presented it to suffering housewives to cleanse 
 the family linen, for all cisterns were dry. 
 
 One of the longest and most frightful electrical storms 
 recorded in the last centurjy occurred at Warwick. Imme- 
 diately after noon on a very hot day a sudden ominous hush 
 and darkness fell on the town. The latter was so deep that 
 fowls sought their roosts. For some time this strange dark- 
 ened stillness brooded over the face of nature — it was ab- 
 solute; not a leaf, not a breath stirred the air. Suddenly 
 lightning began to illumine the heavens, and thunder to mut- 
 ter. This increased until it became appalling. A vivid 
 description of this storm was wont to be given by Aunt 
 Sarah, an aunt of Capt. James W. Benedict, who lived and 
 died in the old stone house. At its height she went to the 
 west window of the homestead to survey the scene. She 
 described the whole face of the heavens as like burnished 
 copper. The lightning poured forth in streams, forked 
 streaks and vicious zigzag bolts. The peals of thunder were 
 ear-splitting and incessant. There was not much rain, the 
 wind was not violent, but the blazing of electricity was as if 
 the universe were on fire. Mr. Nathaniel Jones was then 
 master of the village school. From this point he witnessed 
 the storm and said he thought the Dutch Reformed Church 
 and the old Baptist steeple were struck several times, but 
 no accident took place of which there is record. He was 
 kept busy in calming and reassuring the dismayed children. 
 Timid persons were frightened almost out of sense and life, 
 and aggravated cases of " 'sterics" were reported among 
 the feminine portion of the community from fright. Feather 
 beds, the ancient rock of refuge in severe thunder storms, 
 
WARWICK WEATHER 169 
 
 were in much demand ; many huddled in the famil;)- closet to 
 shut out the terrifying sight. An old resident gave her 
 experience during this storm. Her husband was working 
 on the farm of Mr. John Wood, on tlie back road leading 
 from the village, and she was alone in her house, on a small 
 farm near town. She said she was firmly convinced the 
 last day had come, and the end of all things. Her children 
 were at school, and she longed to fly there and look upon 
 them once more, but was deterred by Uie awfulness of tlie 
 bolts. Finally she drew a feather bed to the floor, rolled it 
 around her, and awaited the end in silence and suffocation. 
 Between four and five o'clock the violence abated, children 
 fled gladly homeward, the "mdking time," said never to fail, 
 was taken advantage of, and the scared denizen of the iso- 
 lated farmhouse crept out of her feather bed, bathed in per- 
 spiration, but happy to find the world still going round. A 
 calm and beautiful night followed this appalling display of 
 electrical forces, and no injury seemed done by it. It can- 
 not be learned that in fury, duration or elements of terror- 
 izing it was ever exceeded. 
 
 A singular visitation of cold once fell upon the town, so 
 curiously sudden and uncommon as to be worthy of note. 
 Its exact or approximate date I failed (an unusual act) to 
 record when it was related to me by one who nearly fell its 
 victim, who had started to a ball at a hotel in Goshen the 
 evening of its visit, attended by Mr. William Vandervort, 
 of Warwick. A proprietor named Evans kept the hotel. 
 The day had been quiet and not severely cold. The pre- 
 vious night there was an abundant white frost. At about 
 two o'clock the wind rose, and began to blow keenly. It 
 increased in velocity, and, to quote the narrator, "Every 
 fresh blast seemed ten times colder than the last." This 
 grew worse and worse, until- the cold was terrible. Unable 
 to go farther, so intense it became, Mr. Vandervort and his 
 companion drove into a farmhouse beyond Florida and were 
 safely housed. The reins before this had dropped from his 
 
I/O UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 hands, and she had grasped them_, and given him her mult 
 to reheve him. When taken from their vehicle they were 
 ahnost entirely benmiibed, and were forced to remain 
 through the night. This wind blew until eleven o'clock the 
 next da}'. Over one hundred fowls froze in and about War- 
 wick that night. A horse perished standing in a barn ba,ck 
 of the town. Vegetables froze in cellars, and residents re- 
 mained up through the dark hours of this fierce, biting blast 
 and heaped high the hearth to protect tliemselves from its 
 effects. It is very doubtful if many thermometers were 
 owned in Warwick at that time, so no record is handed 
 down of the prodigious fall that invaluable instrument must 
 have made. Barns, fowl houses and stables were not then 
 the warm and cheerfully ordered enclosures they now are; 
 fowls frequently perched all through the winter outside; 
 cattle sometimes had no stabling. No wonder in such sud- 
 den Arctic severity they succumbed and were found dead. 
 A poor, hapless creature, illy housed near Sugar Loaf, was 
 so terribly frozen he died from the effects of his exposure. 
 To quote a resident of the time, "It seemed all in the winds." 
 When the sudden sweeping blasts calmed the cold as quickly 
 died away. The winter of i835-'36 has gone biy the name 
 of "the hard winter" ever since. Snow commenced falling 
 in iVovember, and with consecutive severe storms it accu- 
 mulated to a great depth. The cold was unintermittent and 
 excessive. W^oodcock, partridge, quail and various small 
 game were almost utterly destroyed. Great inconvenience 
 and much suffering were experienced by the inhabitants of 
 Warwick. Business at times was almost at a standstill from 
 the depths of snow that impeded travel. Children were de- 
 tained from school, physicians could frequently not be sent 
 for to patients, nor attend them if they were. Stock was 
 cared for and kept alive with difficulty. At one time five 
 bodies lay unburied in the township, the snovv^ being so deep 
 that the last narrow home could not be prepared nor the 
 dead transported to it. Among the saddest of these cases 
 
WARWICK WEATHER 171 
 
 was that of little Christian Elizabeth Wood, who died a 
 short way out of Warwick, on the road to Sugar Eoaf. Her 
 parents owned no horse, and she was seized with illness in 
 a blinding snowfall, adding tO' the great depth on the earth, 
 and no doctor could be called, as they were literally "snowed 
 in," The poor child died, was robed for her last home, and 
 the parents waited for favorable weather for the funeral and 
 burial. It did not come, and finally they found they must 
 keep the little body indefinitely. It was carefully laid away 
 in the drawer of a large bureau in a cold room, securely 
 locked, and every night and morning the sorrowful parents 
 opened the sad receptacle of their little lost one and looked 
 upon her peaceful face. She was kept so over three weeks 
 before arrangements for interment could be made. The 
 bereaved mother was accustomed to relate how at last a 
 strange clinging yearning grew upon her to keep the little 
 beloved dead, frozen into marble loveliness, and she dread- 
 ed to see the stress of weather abate that would bear it from 
 her. When at last it was so that the child could be buried, 
 she could scarcely be persuaded to give it up, and her grief 
 was so excessive that she was ill from the elTects. 
 
 Senator James M. Burt, of Ohio, related on his last visit 
 to Warwick many incidents of this severe winter. He led 
 a party of thirty men with implements for clearing away the 
 snow to bury a well-known resident of Bellvale, in the old 
 Baptist yard. It was a common thing to ride in a road cut 
 out through walls of snow that rose above the rider and 
 sleigh. There was little business and interchange of money. 
 One old lady used to remark with indignation that she was 
 unable to procure tallow for her candles, and that it was the 
 first time in her life that she was obliged to use a lard light, 
 poverty's own illumination. 
 
 There was serious want from the utter inability to get 
 "grist to mill," or to get it ground. One mother crushed 
 wheat in a coffee mill to feed her children. Vegetables, se- 
 curely stowed in cellars, every crack and crevice filled, kept 
 
172 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 well, whicli was one advantage of the heavy mantle of snow ; 
 there was no loss from freezing, and this proved a blessing. 
 
 Hymen, poor deity of many tribulations, had several un- 
 lucky contretemps this Arctic winter. Where Cupid, all 
 undeterred, had prepared the way, this graver and more im- 
 portant god was ofttimes in hard and grievous straits. In 
 an ancestral home in the vicinity of Warwick a wedding was 
 on the tapis. Tables groaned in anticipation of all tlie good 
 things the cellars held for them, and felt deep concern as to 
 the strength of their much enduring legs ; the life-blood of 
 turkeys and chickens crimsoned the snow ; the bridal trous- 
 seau, in those days costing back-aches and tired eyes unlim- 
 ited, had felt the prick of the last stitch, the forty-ninth pull 
 of the final "trying on," and all was ready, when a Boreal 
 blast arose, drifted the last snow and subsided for another, 
 effectually blocking Warwick township. The night of the 
 bridal arrived, but the snow that preceded it l^y thick and 
 deep over all that small world. A few near-by guests, by 
 dint of hours of shovelling, reached the scene, but when 
 the appointed hour came neither bridegroom nor clergyman 
 was there. At about nine in the evening the former ap- 
 peared, but the much-needed and important functionary 
 was not forthcoming, and a sad and disappointed party sat 
 down to the disconsolate supper. The ceremony, held in 
 abeyance, did not take place until a day after that, being the 
 earliest opportunity the belated clergyman could be "shov- 
 elled through" to the deferred nuptials. 
 
 A lady in Warwick used to give an amusing account of an 
 experience of that winter. Her first babe was about six 
 weeks old and with her husband they set forth to visit a 
 sister. The inevitable shovel was in its usual place under 
 the seat, as drifts were constantly encountered that must be 
 dug through. Her husband was out of the sleigh, vigor- 
 ously dissipating one of these, when the horse, a young and 
 spirited colt, took fright at a shovelful of snow, and started, 
 throwing herself and infant out. The startled husband 
 
WARWICK WEATHER 173 
 
 easily caught the floundering animal, and, righting the 
 sleigh, ensconced therein his spouse, when with a shriek 
 she cried, shaking her voluminous wraps, "Oh, where is the 
 baby?" Sure enough, though "to memory dear," the pre- 
 cious infant was "lost to sight," and, almost distracted, they 
 commenced their search in the surrounding drifts. In vain, 
 baby could not be found. "It is lost, killed, smothered," 
 cried the frantic young mother, wringing her hands as she 
 flung the drifts aside in vain search. At length a voice no 
 mother can mistake was heard, and the youthful scion of the 
 house was discovered, feebly protesting against its chilly 
 bed, close down to the just visible top of a rail fence. It 
 was promptly rescued, none the worse for its impromptu 
 bath in the snow, and with relieved hearts their journey 
 was finished. It was no unusual thiiig for choice and con- 
 vivial spirits on their way home from the village taverns to 
 sink in the drifts for a comfortable snooze, and a regular 
 scouting party was sometimes started forth to keep an eye 
 on these and rescue them from "the sleep that knows no 
 waking." These are a few of the incidental and stern 
 realities of the winter of i835-'36. 
 
 The year j8i6 was the coldest ever known in this coun- 
 try. It is remembered as the year without a summer. There 
 were snow and ice every month. On June 17th a terrible 
 snowstorm swept from New England to New York, in 
 which travellers were frozen to death. Farmers worked in 
 overcoats and mittens to but little purpose. Scarcely any- 
 thing planted grew. On our home place were a number 
 of fine fruit trees. The young fruit managed to get a start, 
 when there came a freezing rain. Every cherry, pear, apple, 
 plum and peach was encased in an armor of ice, and was 
 literally shaved from the trees by a fierce, cutting wind. On 
 the 4th of July ice formed an inch thick. There was great 
 scarcity and consequent suffering during the ensuing win- 
 ter. The grain crop was a total failure. 
 
174 UNDER. OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 The year 1833 was remarkable for the most wonderful 
 meteoric shower ever seen in Warwick. People of the ner- 
 vous type were greatly frightened. Innumerable meteorites 
 fell thickly throughout a whole evening. Some thought 
 fire from heaven was about to destroy the earth, but they 
 dropped harmlessly around. Many predicted all the stars 
 would rain from the sky. 
 
 In the fall of 1827 a wonderful celestial phenomenon was 
 visible — a magnificent exhibition of the aurora borealis. 
 Grand columns of light shot from horizon to zenith ; arch 
 upon arch, beautifully variegated with color, rose against the 
 heavens. This rare physical phenomenon appeared^ during 
 several nights, and was a truly wonderful sight, said never 
 to have been surpassed since the years 1772 and 1777, when 
 wondrous appearances were observable in the heavens. The 
 nights of December 6th and 7th, 1777, the whole sky flamed 
 with intensely vivid crimson shafts of light of exquisite 
 beauty, and people were up throughout them gazing upon 
 the wonderful sight. 
 
 The year 1807 was remarkable for the severest hailstorms 
 on record. It was said a belt of hail passed over the coun- 
 try and that hail stones fell as large as eggs. A horse was 
 pelted to death with them in his pasture a half mile from 
 Warwick, and young Iambs were killed in numbers. In 
 the thirties a terrible hailstorm struck Warwick. Some 
 houses had not a pane of glass on the west side left unin- 
 jured by this storm, which lasted unusually long, with very 
 high wind. From our own home ninety-six panes of glass 
 were broken. 
 
 On Tuesday, the 21st of February, 1882, it rained, hailed, 
 snowed, thundered and lightened in a single day, and fin- 
 ished by clearing off cold. In 1790, after a warm rain in 
 early summer, portions of the country were literally alive 
 with small frogs. It was said that the earth swarmed with 
 them. A step could not be taken without crushing num- 
 bers. They were very lively and of almost uniform size. 
 
WARWICK WEATHER 175 
 
 Children gathered them by the apronful and threw them into 
 springs near their homes. They gradually disappeared. 
 
 In the spring of 1847 the Rev. P. Hartwell arrived in 
 Warwick as pastor of the Baptist Church. He reached 
 the town the second week in March, and fruit trees were in 
 full bloom. It was said to be the earliest spring on record. 
 
 Freshets of unusual severity have been known in War- 
 wick. Three times in remembrance communication with 
 the village at different points has been cut off by the vol- 
 umes of water inundating the country; bridges were swept 
 away, and families living beside the creek were carried in 
 boats from their houses. The townspeople paddled around 
 their cellars in washtubs, gathering the debris of family 
 supplies, and one very youthful citizen was nearly precipi- 
 tated tO' a watery grave from this impromptu boat while 
 endeavoring to reach the family apple bin with a small 
 brother paddling. 
 
 The late Doctor T. E. Cooper, of Warwick, used to re- 
 mark that the place was subject to the severest thunder 
 storms, with the fewest casualties, of any he had elver 
 known ; that he had inquired of the oldest residents and 
 could find remembrance of but four fatalities by lightning; 
 injury to buildings, animals and trees was also compara- 
 tively infrequent. He was wont to give some graphic de- 
 scriptions of storms faced while on his lonely beat over Bell- 
 vale and Greenwood mountains to patients, when, with 
 much ado, he guided his frightened horse amid the rever- 
 berations and vivid flashes. A gentleman residing on his 
 own farm near Warwick once discovered a curious freak 
 of lightning. A bolt struck a fine, tall chestnut on his 
 place, and, cleaving it asunder, literally reduced a part of 
 the tree to shavings. Of these, some two hundred, from 
 ten to twenty feet in length, lay scattered in all directions. 
 No artisan could have shaved them with finer precision. 
 
176 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Some of these were on exhibition in Warwick for a time at 
 the Advertiser office, and attracted much attention. 
 
 In the year 1853 there occurred an unusual number of 
 violent rainstorms in Warwick. Two produced deluges, one 
 lasting four days. A landslide took place on my father's 
 farm, burying a fine piece of spring wheat under a pall of 
 mud. A well on the place, thirty feet deep, overflowed 
 twice. The academy was damaged by lightning. 
 
 The winters of 1806 and 1807 were visted by snowstorms 
 of unsurpassed depth. It once snowed five days almost 
 continually. The snow accumulated until business was sus- 
 pended. A colored family living near where the home of 
 the late Mr. W. F. Dunning's residence stands were entirely 
 snowed under in their lowly cot, and were obliged to be dug 
 out. In the early twenties of the last century Warwick was 
 visited by the most appalling hailstorm ever remembered. 
 One stone fell on the Bradner homestead measuring nine 
 inches in circumference. They pounded the springing corn 
 to pulp, rattled the young fruit from the trees, threshed 
 away the leaves, shattered windows, and killed and crippled 
 poultry, Iambs, pigs and birds of tender age. Its destruc- 
 tion was unprecedented. 
 
 In the years 181 1 and 1812 shocks of earthquake were 
 felt in Warwick. Once they were so severe the earth trem- 
 bled. There were terror and excitement, and, as usual, pre- 
 dictions of the end of the world. 
 
 The hygrometrical changes of the atmosphere were ever 
 of deepest interest to our forefathers. Their weather prog- 
 nostics were legion. Among a host which I have gathered, 
 this seems most fitting to be handed down. It is certainly 
 comprehensive : 
 
 The hollow winds be.sfin to blow. 
 The clouds look black, the ^]^S9, is low; 
 The soot falls down, the snaniels sleep, 
 And spiders from their cohwebs peep. 
 T.ast nipht the sun went pale to bed, 
 The moon in halos hid her head ; 
 
WARWICK WEATHER 177 
 
 The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, 
 
 For see, a rainbow spans the sky ! 
 
 Hark, how the chairs and tables crack! 
 
 Old Betty's joints are on the rack. 
 
 Her corns with shooting pains ' torment her, 
 
 And to her bed untimely send her. 
 
 Loud quack the ducks, the sea fowls cry, 
 
 The distant hills are looking nigh. 
 
 How restless are the snorting swine. 
 
 The busy flies disturb the kine. 
 
 Low o'er the grass the swallow wings. 
 
 The cricket, too, how sharp he sings! 
 
 Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, 
 
 Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws. 
 
 The smoke from chimneys right ascends, 
 
 Then, spreading back, to earth it bends. 
 
 The wind, unsteady, veers around. 
 
 Or setting in the south is found. 
 
 Through the clear stream the fishes rise. 
 
 And nimbly catch the cautious flies. 
 
 The glowworms, numerous, clear and bright, 
 
 Illum'ed the dewy hill last night. 
 
 At dusk the squalid toad was seen, 
 
 Like quadruped, stalk o'er the green. 
 
 The whirling wind the dust obeys. 
 
 And in the rapid eddy plays. 
 
 The frog has changed his yellow vest. 
 
 And in a russet coat is dressed. 
 
 The sky is green, the air is still, 
 
 The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill. 
 
 The dog, so altered in his taste, 
 
 Ouits mutton bones on grass to feast. 
 
 The tender colts on back do lie. 
 
 Nor heed the traveller passing by. 
 
 In fiery red the sun did rise. 
 
 Then wades through clouds to mount the skies, 
 
 'Twill surely rain, we see 't with sorrow — 
 
 No working in the fields to-morrow. 
 
VIII 
 
 Drifted Down 
 
VIII 
 Drifted Down 
 
 \RIM1TIVB ''TRAMPS."— EvQ the county 
 poorhouse was built, Warwick township hter- 
 ally swarmed with what is now called the 
 "tramp," but in early days dabbed "straggler." 
 Many farmhouses kept a back door restaurant, 
 and beds in some outbuilding for these unfortunates. Some 
 were women, often girls with babes in arms ; the demented, 
 lame, deformed, crippled and aged begged from house to 
 house. The beds kept for them by the charitably inclined 
 were seldom empty. Who that ever saw her could forget 
 poor, stricken, half-crazed "old Biidget," who, never sober, 
 fell face down in the tan-pit on the highway one night with 
 her baby Mike in her arms, and, stupefied by her last drink, 
 could only partially extricate herself, and was dragged forth 
 by an early passer by in the morning with the babe dead in 
 her arms ? With wild, insistent "keenings" fit to curdle the 
 blood, over the little, still form, poor Bridget went melan- 
 choly mad, and roamed ceaselessly. She ever carried tucked 
 in her bosom a fragment of the little blue linen slip Mike 
 was drowned in, and when she became partially intoxi- 
 cated always took it out, pressed it to her lips with fervid, 
 kisses and wept over it, heart-breakingly. Her hair was in- 
 deed a glory ; all unkempt, uncared for, for days at a time, 
 still magnificent in length, blue-black as a bird's plumage, 
 wavy, tendrilly, it curled about her weather-beaten face with 
 a grace no art could compass, and Avhen unbound fell almost 
 to her feet, a furrowed veil. As she grew old, shimmering 
 silver frosted it, adding to its beauty. 
 
i82 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 One windy night, in a heavy rain, Bridget appeared at our 
 door. It was the evening of Election Day. She staggered 
 to the fire, was given an easy chair and, huddling in it, fell 
 asleep. Our mother, with the assistance of the kitchen girl, 
 was stretching the homemade linen sheets. It was consid- 
 ered desecration to put a hot iron upon them, as it destroyed 
 their sweetness ; they were folded, snapped and pressed, then 
 laid in lavender until used. As the sheet was snapped it 
 aroused her from her doze. "Lord save us !" she exclaimed, 
 angrily springing to her feet. "1 believe you've all been 'lec- 
 tioneering." Gathering herself together, wringing out her 
 dripping wealth of hair, and winding it around her head, 
 she declared her intention of leaving. In vain she was urged 
 to go to her usual bed. She firmly persisted, and started 
 out in the beating storm. Three nights after poor Bridget 
 was found dead, shrouded in her lustrous hair, face down- 
 ward in a small pond near Monroe. She was drowned pre- 
 cisely as she had drowned her baby many years before, poor 
 little Mike, over whom she had wept so many piteous tears. 
 Poor mother! 
 
 Whining Betsy, whose one cry was "A little paper o' tea, 
 ma'am, it's all me poor weak stummick'll hold," filled the 
 dual role of beggar and wanderer all her life. Betsy's babies 
 were perennial. One winter night on her way home she 
 called for her usual tea, with a very new little one cradled 
 on her arm. "When you have such a struggle to get along," 
 said our sympathetic grandmamma (as she placed a package 
 in her hand), "it seems hard to have another baby to care 
 for, don't it, Betty?" The pale, weak blue eyes overflowed, 
 she drew the little one fondly to her breast, replying with 
 her inimitable drawl: "Well, ma'am, I didn't want 'er no 
 how, but now I've got 'er, I wouldn't lose her for a new 
 green silk bunnit with red ribbins." 
 
 Ever vivid in memory is Patrick Riley, who froze his feet 
 and lost his toes on a disabled sailing vessel pounding the 
 
DRIFTED DOWN 183 
 
 icy seas six weeks between Ireland and America. Drifting 
 to Warwick he wandered there, half mendicant, half worker 
 in its farm homes. What a delight when we saw him com- 
 ing up the road, for entrancing were his stories of fairies 
 and bogies, leprechauns, and the magical folklore of the 
 Green Island of beauty, song and glory ! I have heard a very 
 few of the stars of grand opera, but never one that could at 
 all compare with Patrick when lie sang, 
 
 Her chakes was like roses. 
 
 Her lips just the same, 
 And swate as twin sthrawberries 
 
 Smuddered in crame. 
 
 Once there was an Irish knight 
 
 Who loved a lady fair to see, 
 And she had silver and she had goold, 
 
 But the Irish knight, O, poor was he ! 
 
 But "brave and bowld." Being "turned down," as we now 
 say, by the cruel father, he rode up to her "windy" one wild 
 black night, on a sthrappin' red horse, and bore her off right 
 under his very nose. What a prize Patrick would have been 
 in these days when "thrills" and "shivers" are in demand. 
 How it rounded our eyes, and creepied down our backs, and 
 made insinuating gooseflesh granulate our small bodies when 
 he told, with racy brogue, the story of the two brothers who 
 quarrelled over a bit of the "ould sod," till one clove the 
 other down and hid his body deep, deep, "undther the very 
 sphot they differed over." And the nixt night "the mur- 
 therer, comin' home from a wake, was met in the path by a 
 great white dog, wid eyes of blood, walkin' along on his two 
 behint legs, who sazed him 'round the nick an' throttled him 
 to death." And as he gasped out his last breath the white 
 dog, "which was no dog at all, but a wraith, looked in the 
 murtherer's eyes wid his own brother's, and hissed in his 
 ear wid his own v'ice, 'I'm Tim's avengin' spirit.' " 
 
 How I longed for a robe of sk\-blue satin, trimmed with 
 swansdown, just like the one Patrick's mother used to wear 
 
i84 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 in "the stlireets o" Dooblin' thralin" six feet behint her. She 
 was a lady ivery inch," he asserted; "discinded sthraight 
 from the ivings in Munsther." One night Patrick stopped, 
 unusually lame, and besought us privately under the locust 
 trees to "ask the masther to let him sthay and rist his poor 
 hubs of fate for a sason." His wish was granted, joyfully 
 we flew to fetch him in, and he stayed and rested there three 
 years, feeding the chickens, watching tlie toddling babies, 
 and filling our ears with his songs and stories — as true, 
 trustworthy and amusing a friend as ever children had. 
 
 A son, Thomas, whom he "lift a slip uv a bye in Ireland," 
 having grown to young man's estate, came over and bore 
 his father away to New York City. There, kind Irish heart, 
 ever true to its own, he cared for him tenderly to life's latest 
 day. How we missed him none can tell, and I have ever 
 had a mind to make a little book of his songs and stories, 
 stowed away in memory. 
 
 Silly Nick was always begging "a bowl of hot water an' 
 a little sugar and nutmeg, to keep the chills out." When 
 given it, he would retire to some comer, introduce into it a 
 generous libation of applejack, and pour it down his throat 
 with resounding smacks of satisfaction. 
 
 Old Schoon, the mule-driver, was another character known 
 to Warwick byways and highways. Driving down the storm- 
 washed mountain way from the mines one day with a load 
 of ore, he rolled from his wagon, and, to use his own pic- 
 turesque vernacular, "busted his poll ag'in a stun," gradually 
 losing his poor blunted wits. Ever after he wandered up 
 and down, driving imaginary mules, which were forever 
 balking with maddening pertinacity. Two of these, Sally 
 and Pete, were exasperating to the last degree, and when 
 all urging failed to start them, he would seize a fence-rail 
 and wildly belabor the air, while oaths and maledictions 
 amazing to hear rolled with the hoarse boom of thunder 
 
DRIFTED DOWN 185 
 
 from his deep, hairy chest, over his immense sagging lips, 
 out into the startled air. 
 
 What actor ever had a more admiring audience than poor 
 crazed Schoon, as the schoolchildren, books and dinner bas- 
 kets in hand, clustered on fences and stumps along the way 
 to see him belabor the invisible Sally and Pete ? 
 
 Poor Charity ! grievously afflicted with St. Vitus' s dance, 
 and so lightfingered she would stealthily appropriate the 
 knife, fork and spoon she was fed with, haunted early homes 
 with her weird presence. Once caught filching a spoon by 
 Mrs. Hoyt, of Warwick, who had kindly given her a cup of 
 tea, she was mildly reproved. Lifting her nervous, trem- 
 bling fingers, she replied: "An' how can I help stealin' when 
 me hands dances right at things unbeknownst to me?" 
 
 The fields, the woods, the green highways of my native 
 home for the "groves were God's first temples," still seem 
 to eciio with the prayers of "Crazy Charley." On bended 
 knees, with uplifted hands, sometimes with brimming eyes, 
 he prayed. His petitions were all-embracing, all-compre- 
 hending. Pie poured them forth for executives, for church 
 and state, young and old, rich and poor, bond and free, sick 
 and well. ' When he had prayed until breath and strength 
 failed him, and frequently with a last pitiful downpour of 
 tears, he would reverently bow bis head, clasp his hands, 
 with that most pathetic of all gestures, with the palms out- 
 ward, and finish, crying brokenly, "And m.ost. Lord, I be- 
 seech Thee to have mercy on such a poor, wretched sinner 
 as now dares to call on Thy great and holy name." His voice 
 was earnest and musical, and had a pleading pathos. 
 
 Farming out the poor of steady habits was a common 
 custom and meagerly recompensed by the town. Frequently 
 those of good report thus found settled homes and lived and 
 died in them, attached and respected. Children, if likely, 
 were bound out until eighteen. On leaving, after this in- 
 dentured apprenticeship was completed, they were required 
 
i86 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 to be given by law two suits of clothes and a sum of money, 
 and if worthy of it, a certificate of good character. 
 
 The Orange County poorhouse, after its erection, was not 
 in good odor with the old-time habitual wanderer. They 
 seldom sought it of their own free will. When complained 
 of and deposited there by the poormaster, they usually man- 
 aged to flit again just as speedily as possible, and many 
 tramped till death. A weak, shambling creature called 
 "Foolish Henry" was found lost and frozen to death in a 
 stretch of woods. Unless in the beneficent shelter of the 
 asylum prepared for them, nearly all met tragic ends. 
 
 How Elder James Benedict Came to Laugh Heartily in 
 His Own Pulpit. — That this old-time clergyman had excel- 
 lent control of his risibles and was a grave, rather stern- 
 faced man, who held fast to every command between the lids 
 of his old leather-bound, brass-clamped Bible, even to obedi- 
 ence to the king, is well known by all his descendants. But 
 once upon a time his gravity was wholly upset, and he burst 
 out laughing in his own pulpit, eke his deacons and congre- 
 gation laughing with him. A sense of humor is a saving 
 grace, a gjift delightsome 'in this hard old world; and 
 though, no doubt, when all was over, his natural sense of the 
 fitness of things and his protuberant bump of reverence 
 caused him qualms of conscience over the outburst, likely 
 many of the cloth would have "gone and done" likewise, had 
 they been witness to a similar contretemps. 
 
 Near where the pleasant farmhouse of Mr. John Vande- 
 voort now stands, it may be said in explanation of the above 
 event, a roomy log cabin once stood. The spot was called 
 "Root Holler," from the quantity of sassafras growing there. 
 In it lived a free mulatto woman with an Indian husband. 
 Old Tine was an early disbeliever in race suicide. Her 
 family was numerous and kept coming. Among her chil- 
 dren Avas one called Sorch, or Sorchy, probably a corruption 
 
DRIFTED DOWN iS? 
 
 of the grand Biblical name of Sarah. The latitude and 
 longitude o£ Tine's cabin becoming cramped in accommoda- 
 tion for her numerous family, she, as was the custom of tlie 
 day, put some of them "out," and Sorchy was assigned to 
 the 'home of Mr. John Sutton. Her personal appearance 
 was most striking. She was fully six feet tall, with the 
 build of a gladiator, of herculean strength, and absolutely 
 without fear. Of her utter lack of any sense of danger 
 many instances are handed down by the Sutton family. One 
 afternoon, being sent up to the mountain to pick berries by 
 Mrs. Sutton, she came home toward night, her basket filled 
 in one hand and dragging a young wildcat by the other, his 
 head well battered. When asked how she dared attack hmi 
 she replied : "No wil' cats won't eye me for nothin' ; he got 
 
 a club." 
 
 Once a bet was made at a hotel in Warwick that Sorchy 
 could be frightened. A plot was laid by six young men 
 ready for fun and mischief, and, preparing, they watched op- 
 portunity to wavlay and put her to flight. But another party 
 got wind of the project of the first and planned to rout them 
 In turn. At length the occasion presented itself. Mrs. Sutton 
 sent Sorchy to the village one summer evening with a basket 
 of newly laid eggs to exchange for household supplies. She 
 did her errand faithfully, and started for home as the shad- 
 ows of night began to fall. As she reached a lonely spot 
 adjacent to a stretch of dark woods on her way, six ghostly 
 figures sprang forth wrapped in long linen sheets. Waving 
 their arms and uttering dismal groans they approached her. 
 But at this juncture six others, enveloped in black habili- 
 ments, with wild alarum shouts that would have done credit 
 to an Indian raid, charged down upon the first. The white 
 robed, nearly scared out of their mischievous wits, broke, 
 and, flinging aside the entangling sheets, fled in dismay to- 
 ward the village. Sorchy, setting down her basket, had re- 
 mained perfectly quiet, a wondering spectator of the scene, 
 
i88 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 biit as the terrified white clacls disappeared over the brow of 
 the hill she burst into shrill screams of laughter and, clap- 
 ping her hands, cried, "Run, run, white ghosts, black devils 
 will catch you." When all had disappeared she picked up the 
 scattered sheets, folded them and, tucking them snugly into 
 her basket, went on her way. On reaching home, Mrs. Sut- 
 ton was amazed at the linen and questioned Sorchy. "Oh ! 
 some ghosts got chased by devils down ag'in^ the woods," 
 she replied, "lost their clo'es, en I picked 'em up." The 
 puzzled lady did not learn in a long time the truth of the 
 story, for unimaginative Sorchy really thought they were 
 veritable ghosts and devils. 
 
 But the fearless wildwood girl was at one time on the 
 horns of a dilemma for which her native courage had no 
 resource. 
 
 Elder James Benedict was holding a Sabbath morning 
 service in the first Baptist Church in Warwick and Sorchy 
 was one of his congregation. It was a warm summer day, 
 and the doors were thrown wide open. Suddenly there ap- 
 peared near the portal a huge sheep of the male persuasion, 
 bowing and squaring as he stepped stubbornly forward, bent 
 on entering. Sorchy sat near the door, and with character- 
 istic impetuosity flew to the charge. "Shoo," she said, in a 
 loud whisper, "shoo, ol' Buck !" and endeavored to drive the 
 intruder back. He proceeded aggressively to enter, when 
 she planted a foot staunchly each side of the door, mutter- 
 ing, "You shan't come in here, this is meetin'." Lowering 
 his horny crest, Buck made a dive at her feet, seated her on 
 his broad, woolly back, and trotted straight up to the pulpit. 
 Avhere he quietly stopped, his rider holding on to his wool 
 with desperate grip from her backward seat. So paralyzed 
 were the assembly with the turn of affairs that not one 
 stirred, but as they took in the utter ludicrousness of the 
 situation, Elder and congregation burst into an irrepressible 
 fit of laughter. There was no avoiding the outburst. Some 
 
DRIFTED DOWN 189 
 
 of the parishioners, coming forward, seized the impromptu 
 steed by the horns, Sorchy dismounted, he was summarily 
 ejected and driven off; but it is well authenticated that the 
 remainder of the services was conducted shakily. 
 
 Hoiu Daughters Pared at School. — On the left of the way 
 on the road leading from Warwick to Bellvale stood the 
 home of William Wood. In his family were four children, 
 a son and three daughters. Their school district lay in Bell- 
 vale. Over the roomy log cabin, then the hamlet's only seat 
 of learning, presided a pedagogue of memory more infamous 
 than the Simon of France. After a time Airs. Wood learned 
 that her son was taught to write, while her daughters were 
 not. Troubled by this omission as time went on, she finally 
 called to see that it be rectified. Glaring at her, the high 
 and mighty potentate who reigned over the little world with- 
 in the lowly log schoolhouse thundered : "No, madam, your 
 girls will never be teached to write by me ; it's bad enough 
 to have a woman readin'. Don't you know there's nothin' 
 so odious" (he said "ojus") "as a larnt woman?" Every 
 Saturday night this pioneer instructor got exceedingly drunk, 
 and lay so all Sunday, going to his duties Monday morning 
 in the amiable mood of a hungry Bengal tiger. No reading 
 of the Bible, nor prayer, nor singing of sweet child hymns 
 for the little group who assembled for their daily routine. 
 Instead, every pupil was made to "stand up" facing the aw- 
 ful presence, and savagely thrashed all around. The ven- 
 erable woman who told me this (one of his pupils) said she 
 could bear it for herself, for she was twelve years old, but 
 when she saw the cruel welts on the white neck of her little 
 sister of six it almost broke her heart. The lapses of this 
 pedagogue frequently occurred on week days, also, and when 
 the little school gathered and found no teacher present, and 
 the word went round that he was seen at the "still," they 
 
I90 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 waited till noon, then went sadly home, "and bitterly 
 thought of the morrow." 
 
 Town Meeting Day. — Town Meeting Day in old War- 
 wick was a time of rough rorv'stering and fighting. A well- 
 known citizen going down to deposit his vote in March, 
 1825, was set upon by a voter in quarrelsome mood from re- 
 peated drinks and compelled to fight him. He would have con- 
 quered his attacker, but the latter seized upon his hair, which 
 was long and thick, bore him to the ground, and holding him 
 there gave him an unmerciful drubbing. He took it with- 
 out protest, proceeded quietly home and the affair seemed 
 forgotten. The next Town Meeting Day he went down to 
 vote, and at the polls met his assailant of the previous year. 
 Before starting from home he had thoroughly greased his 
 head with warm lard. Thus fortified against the hair tac- 
 tics of his aggressor, he proceeded to give him such a thor- 
 ough dressing as wiped out the old score most effectually. 
 
 Obedience to Parents. — The cardinal virtue of obedience 
 it is believed was more universal in primitive times than 
 now. We quote an instance surely worthy of handing 
 down. Just out of the village dwelt a young couple lately 
 married and settled in their home. The wife's widowed 
 mother lived near by, and almost every evening the pair 
 walked down to call on her. One evening the little wife 
 had a cold and the husband went down alone. On inform- 
 ing the mother of the fact, she said: "Tell her I say she 
 must take a good dose of salts before going to bed — at least 
 half a teacupful." The good man of the house retired and 
 was soon soundly sleeping. The wife did up the few chores, 
 got the salts, measured them out, went to the pail for water 
 and found it dry ; husband had forgotten to fill it. The well 
 was far around the house, the night dark and windy. She 
 hesitated to go out and did not wish to awaken her sweetly 
 
DRIFTED DOWN 191 
 
 slumbering spouse. For a moment she paused, then men- 
 tally exclaiming, "I never disobeyed mother yet, and sha'n't 
 begin now," she took the cup and ate the contents dry to the 
 last grain. Mother was obeyed. 
 
 Barly Dentistry. — The dentist was an unl<nown quantity 
 in our secluded settlement. Every doctor kept a formidable 
 instrument called a turnkey for pulling anticky teeth. A 
 dentist's chair was unknown, and if the offending molar 
 proved hard to extract, the sufferer was laid on the floor on 
 his back, the doctor knelt beside him, pressing one knee in 
 his diaphragm, and thus patient and tooth parted company. 
 A resident of Bellvale used to relate that at one time being 
 seized with a raging toothache, she walked to Warwick for 
 the services of a doctor (let him be nameless), who ex- 
 tracted the wrong tooth, broke her jawbone and so injured 
 her that she was ill for many days. 
 
 Deprivations of Children. — It is a common remark of the 
 mothers of the present day that evenings after the home 
 work of children is done the rooms look as if it had snowed 
 papers. A hundred years ago a sheet of white paper was 
 an unknown luxury to numbers of the little folk. I was 
 told by an ancient dame, once a little farm lass, that in her 
 school days she never had but one-half of a half sheet of 
 white foolscap paper. This was given her by a schoolmate, 
 Miss Henrietta Hoyt, daughter of Benjamin S. Hoyt, the 
 postmaster, in exchange for a big red apple. She deemed 
 it too precious for use, and, taking it home, laid it carefully 
 away in the family Bible. 
 
 Aunt Patty Minthorn and the Grandfather's Clock. — Aunt 
 Patty Minthorn was one of those kind, helpful, capable 
 maiden aunts who almost invariably in early days, when 
 woman's occupations were limited, if bereft of the parental 
 roof, drifted to some relative's home and there became right 
 
192 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 hand to the family. Who but Auntie could so gently smooth 
 the tousled hair, find the lost cap and school book, mend 
 stockings and mittens, doctor bruises and cuts, and ever 
 have a piece of pie or cake ready for the hungry? 
 
 Aunt Patty was settled in the home of a brother, with a 
 bustling, driving wife, a family of nine children like the pro- 
 verbial stairs, and work a-plenty. Here she cooked and 
 cleaned, spun and wove, knit and sewed, and nursed the re- 
 current babies with all the motherly tenderness of her fond 
 old heart — for how often is auntie the true mother of the 
 brood! Neighbors averred that her feet and hands were 
 never still at one time. The old grandfather's clock, as it 
 ticked away the hours, never found Patty's duties behind- 
 hand or undone. She had reached her sixty-fifth year, when 
 one night, after all the family had retired, she sat alone in 
 the sitting-room, finishing a pair of blue yarn stockings for 
 her brother. Patty was toeing ofif the last stitch with nim- 
 bly clicking needles, her eyes often reverting to the clock, 
 for it was almost ten — an unheard-of hour to be out of bed 
 in those days — when suddenly before her astonished eyes the 
 old clock stopped. Her ears could not discern a tick. Never 
 had it done such an unheard-of thing before. Patty was 
 aghast and called up her brother. Vainly he endeavored to 
 start up the family timepiece. It obstinately refused to go. 
 Was the old clock on a strike ? Aunt Patty dropped the last 
 stitch, broke off the yarn, carefully fastened the end, stuck 
 her darning needle in the ball, folded the pair together and 
 handed them to her brother. 
 
 "There, Joseph," she said, "your stockings are done, and 
 I'm done. The clock has stopped, and I've stopped." 
 
 "What do you mean, Patty?" he asked, wonderingly. 
 
 "Just what I sav," she replied, quietly, and went to her 
 bed. 
 
 In the morning Patty did not come down in the usual 
 small, dark hours to wrestle with fires and earlv breakfast. 
 
DRIFTED DOWN i93 
 
 On going up to her room tq see if she were ill, she calmly 
 replied to the inquiry that she was not, but repeated her as- 
 sertion that she was "done." Vainly they endeavored to 
 urge, to reason with her; she was indeed "done." She never 
 lifted hand to toil more, but lived on many years in a state 
 of perfect rest. It made no difference when the family 
 clock tinker on his round started the ancient timepiece tick- 
 ing with pristine vigor. Aunt Patty did not start with it. 
 It was whispered she was queer, stubborn, contrary. Alas ! 
 they did not know that the poor, worn brain had given out, 
 and prompted no more the willing hands, the tireless feet, 
 the kind old heart. 
 
 The Feather Beds. — The feather beds of our grandams 
 were literally mountains of downy softness and warmth. 
 Going in her girlhood to visit a friend, a young lady de- 
 clared that on retiring to the roomy "spare chamber" for 
 the night, her eyes encountered a bed reaching nearly to the 
 ceiling. In a few minutes in bustled the mother of the 
 home, a notable housekeeper. Mounting on a chair she 
 patted down the pile, remarking: "Now, girls, you'll sleep 
 to-night on two of the softest forty-pound feather beds in 
 the country." 
 
 Quilts closely darned with quilting, and composed of 
 pieces whose name was legion, covered beds. The pat- 
 terns of these miracles of patient industry in early days were 
 called by many high-sounding appellations, such as "Missis- 
 sippi Valley," "Philadelphia Pavement," "Double Irish 
 Chain," "Baskets of Fruit," "Bed of Tulips," "Cross and 
 Crown," "Outspread Wings," and others too numerous to 
 mention. They were generally composed of gayest colors 
 and set with white. Folded over the foot of the bed, too 
 precious for use, was the ever-present "Family Album 
 Quilt." This was invariably made of bits of dresses donat- 
 ed by female friends, and often a corner from a vest pat- 
 
194 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 tern of a male acquaintance. It was usually pieced in a 
 pattern called "The Rising Star," and somewhere in the 
 multitudinous rays was hidden the autograph of the donor. 
 These album creations were dearly prized, reverently cher- 
 ished and very seldom used. 
 
 7^he First Set of Artificial Teeth. — The exact date of an 
 occurrence that set every tongue in ancient Warwick wag- 
 ging, and caused such a peering of eyes and craning of necks 
 as was seldom seen, when the heroine of all the excitement 
 appeared, could not be ascertained. Who that has sat in the 
 pews of the old churches a few decades back, and seen the 
 gentle, toothless mouths with their soft, sunken lips and 
 peaceful lines, but recalls tliem with tender and reverent 
 memories ; for up to a not far date many of our forebears 
 refused the dentist's aid in rehabilitating their denuded 
 gums. Of course it was a woman, for have we not been 
 told from an old English writer down, that — 
 
 Tliere's not a place in earth or heaven, 
 There's not a task to mankind given, 
 There's not a blessing nor a woe, 
 There's not a whisper, yes or no, 
 There's not a single life nor birth. 
 That has a feather weight of worth. 
 Without a woman in it. 
 
 She was the sister of a physician, and, probably from tne 
 heroic doses of calomel common to the day, became deprived 
 of her teeth very young. After a while she journeyed to 
 Newburgh, and from thence to New York City on some 
 of the good sloops plying between. Returning after a pro- 
 tracted visit of weeks, her lips parted in smiles of greeting 
 to friends, and disclosed a perfect set of teeth. Great was 
 the astonishment, wild the conjectures. Some, under the 
 breath, averred a grave had been rifled for the fair mouth, 
 others that a poor slave had parted with her snowy teeth for 
 an alluring sum ; again it was declared an animal's grinders 
 
DRIFTED DOWN 195 
 
 had been obtained and ground down. Others darkly hinted 
 that the awful black art had been invoked and by its unhal- 
 lowed aid a third growth had been called into existence; 
 and so supposition ran riot. The raconteur who gave me 
 the incidents of these artificial teeth, said to be the first 
 known in Warwick, declared that she never heard one hint 
 as to the set being manufactured. Any wajy, the owner 
 wore them through her life, it was asserted, undoubtedly 
 with just such discomfort and inconvenience as all of this 
 latter-day experience when falling on such evil hap. 
 
 Tight Lacing. — The extent to which tight lacing was 
 practised by some of our grandmothers can scarcely be cred- 
 ited. Here is a verbatim account of a young lady of War- 
 wick robing for her first ball in the year 1826, and of the 
 corset she wore. This instrument of torture was made of 
 heavy homemade linen of four thicknesses, and fairly quilt- 
 ed with stitching. The stays were shaved from ash wood. 
 These were twelve in number, the front and back stays three 
 inches in width, the others a scant inch. When this was 
 placed upon the debutante preparatory to lacing her down 
 for the trying-on of her first ball dress, one after another 
 tugged at the lacer, a homemade haw^ser of hemp, to bring 
 it together tightly enough to give the requisite slenderness 
 to the girlish waist. At length the mother exclaimed with 
 sudden energy : "Well, girls, we'll have to do as they used 
 to when I was young, hitch it to the bedpost and let her 
 draw nerself in." This was done, the panting victim strain- 
 ing and pulling with all her strength until the awful vise 
 was brought together, the stout ash boards meeting. The 
 lace was then securely fastened, and the victim robed a radi- 
 ant sylph in snowy muslin. This young lady was of plump, 
 rather robust build. Let us not marvel at some of the plates 
 in our early physiologies of laced, cramped and distorted fe- 
 male forms. They were but pictures of the actual and real. 
 
196 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 An Irruption of Rats. — A curious visitation of rats fell 
 upon our town in the early forties. It almost out-Pharaohed 
 that much afflicted king. All at once people were awakened 
 in the night by their wild scurryings through their domiciles. 
 Cellars were raided, granaries and barns infested, and count- 
 less hordes swarmed everywhere. A miller was attacked in 
 the early morning hours in his mill in Bellvale and had to 
 flee for his life. A farmer who had stored corn in a loft 
 over his hogpen, on going up in the early morning hours to 
 toss some down^, was so savagely attacked that he was 
 obliged to call for help. He was bitten in the ears, neck 
 and face by the vicious rodents. A housewife was awak- 
 ened from sleep with a sharp nip in her nose, found it bleed- 
 ing from bites, and on lighting her candle seven fled from 
 the room. Children were attacked in beds and cradles, and 
 finally so countless and fierce were the swarms that many a 
 householder resorted to arms, watching through the dark 
 hours pistol in hand. In our own home one night an army 
 appeared. Two little brothers were attacked and bitten in 
 face and ears in their truridle-bed. Our father, rising to 
 get his pistol, was severely bitten in the foot while loading 
 it. He shot eleven before daylight. They gnawed through 
 every conceivable place, and fairly tunneled cellars. The 
 homestead of Mr. Isaac Van Duzer, in Warwick, was so 
 raided that the family were in terror of their lives ; also the 
 vSmith hotel, on Main street. Various rat destroyers found 
 their way to the stricken township, and finally exterminated 
 the unv/elcome hordes, and alas ! in many homesteads left 
 behind an odor not of "Araby the blest." An enterpris- 
 ing individual concocted a plaster which he declared to 
 be of such marvellous potency that, placed upon a rat hole, 
 it immediately drew the tenants forth to its deadly surface 
 and poisoned them with such Borgian suddenness and ma- 
 lignity that they burst with a loud explosion, and were 
 scattered over their own lintels. I have in my possession a 
 
DRIFTED DOWN 197 
 
 fancy picture of this scene drawn by a wit of the clay with 
 some lines attached, which read: 
 
 Lo ! to relieve us came the famous plaster 
 Invented by the worldwide chemist Tratt, 
 
 Of all specihcs 'tis the very master. 
 Sure death to every pilfering, burrowing rat. 
 
 By putting one on runway or rat-hole 
 
 It straightway blows their body from thuir soul. 
 
 J\lany verses follow, equally ludicrous. The drawings are 
 most amusing. The treacherous plaster is suspended over 
 the opening of a runway, its lines dimly shadowing a leering, 
 diabolical face, while the hypnotized rodents, with bulging 
 eyes, are rushing unresistingly upon it, to perish in its death- 
 dealing contact. The fatal explosion of the unfortunates, 
 who are, to use a modernism, "up against it," is irresistibly 
 comical, as an ear^ a wliisker, tail, foot or leg flies wildly 
 into space. It was drawn by a descendant of the artistic 
 Coe family. Dr. Elias Coe being one of the first portrait 
 painters known in Warwick. 
 
 Singing at Weddings. — The custom of singing, by the 
 assembled guests, of an appropriate song after the ceremony 
 was almost universal at old-time marriages. The following 
 was recited to me by a Warwick lady born in 1817. It was 
 sung standing by the whole company at her own bridal, and 
 she informed me that she had heard it at many others, 
 among them the wedding of Miss Mary A. Bradner to Sena- 
 tor James M. Burt, of Ohio, at the old Bradner homestead. 
 It was sung at the wedding of Emma Wheeler to Robert 
 Penoyer and the marriage of Mary Burt to Joel Benedict. 
 It seems to have been a favorite, doing duty on numerous 
 occasions. It was called "The Bride's Farewell," and was 
 quite lengthy, embracing the family circle, and the opening 
 verses ran thus : 
 
 Farewell, mother, tears are streaming 
 
 Down thy pale and tender cheek, 
 I in gems and roses gleaming, 
 
 Scarce this sad farewell may speak. 
 
198 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Farewell, father, thou hast loved me. 
 
 Ere my lips thy name could tell, 
 One to trust who may deceive me. 
 
 Father, guardian, fare-thee-well ! 
 
 Farewell, brave and gentle brother, 
 
 Near and dear unto my heart. 
 Friends, dear happy home of childhood. 
 
 From ye all I now must part, 
 
 and so on through lingering lines. When friends were 
 about to leave home, it was very customary to have a family 
 gathenng at some familiar place, and at the final parting 
 for all to join in a farewell song. Standing about ten rods 
 from the highway and nearly in the rear of the parsonage 
 belonging to the Reformed Dutch Church, once stood a 
 quaint yellow house with a flat roof surrounded by a low 
 railing and fronting both the east and the west, with outer 
 doors on either side. This was the home of Daniel Burt. 
 In the thirties there was an exodus of Burts, Johnsons and 
 other Warwick families to Ohio. At this old home was 
 given a farewell party attended by over a hundred. As the 
 guests bade a last good-by to those so soon to start on the 
 then tedious western journey, they sang the following song: 
 
 When shall we all meet again? 
 When shall we all meet again? 
 Oft shall glowing hope expire. 
 Oft shall wearied love retire, 
 Oft shall death and sorrow reign, 
 Ere we all shall meet again. 
 
 Though in distant lands we sigh, 
 Parched beneath a burning sky. 
 Though the deep between us roll. 
 Friendship still unites our soul ; 
 Still in Fancy's wide domain. 
 Here shall we all meet again. 
 
 There were many other verses, equally plaintive. From 
 one who was present at this sad and touching farewell, I 
 was informed it was sung with tremulos of grief and stream- 
 ing tears. It seemed not to matter that the song was not 
 always exactly fitting, it was what they had and they used it. 
 
DRIFTED DOWN 199 
 
 7^he Molasses Candy Pull. — This was a favorite gathering 
 of old. In a certain old stone house still standing, a merry- 
 pull was held in the winter of 1828 by the daughters of the 
 family. Gallons of molasses were provided. It was boiled 
 in a big brass kettle scoured to sunny brightness, suspended 
 from the crane. The stirring of tlie molasses during the 
 boiling, by relays of lads and lassies, always brought two 
 heads perilously near together. Two amusing events oc- 
 curred at this pull. The first kettle was simmered to just 
 the right consistency, poured in huge delft pie platters and 
 set to cool outside the kitchen door, preparatory to pulling. 
 A belated guest, a big, bashful young man, arriving late and 
 wishing to slip in unnoticed, stole to the kitchen door — and 
 planted feet of generous proportions in two of the dishes 
 of cooling molasses. He was fast, his struggles heard in- 
 side drew the company out, and amid shouts of laughter he 
 was dragged in shod with his unique shoes. As was usual 
 with the day, he was, with thoughtless levity, the target of 
 fun and ridicule through the evening. A young gentleman 
 at this party had woven a long braid of four strands of the 
 candy. Among the guests was a girl with pale golden hair. 
 Stealing up behind her, perhaps with intent to compliment, 
 he foolishly wound the braid around her curly head, saying, 
 "Lib, this is pure gold — just the color of your hair." It 
 stuck to the yellow head, was disengaged with much trouble, 
 she was very angry, a scene resulted, and it took the un- 
 thinking guest many long weeks to reinstate himself in her 
 favor. 
 
 The Singing School. — The old-fashioned singing school 
 was a joyful place for the young of early days. Sweet and 
 luring to the athletic young men attending them looked the 
 bright eyes and rosy cheeks of the girls in silken hoods of 
 cherry, blue and white, tied snugly about their laughing 
 faces. How they chatted and sung, and after the exercises 
 
20O UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 went home arm in arm through the village street, or two by 
 two in the cosy pung, or in merry loads to distant farm 
 homes, in the straw-filled "pig-box" behind sturdy horses, 
 while they sang "Oh, the singing school, what a happy, 
 happy place !" What a grand affair was the concert at the 
 close, when the work of the winter brought down plaudits 
 on the flower-wreathed heads of the sopranos, when the 
 tenor and bass did their best, and the chorus came out 
 strong! Once, after a very severe drought, it was thought 
 the luxury of a singing school must be abandoned for the 
 following winter, as money could not be raised to pay a 
 teacher. On being informed of this, a many-daughtered 
 mother remarked, "Oh, dear! then we'll have no engage- 
 ments for our girls tliis winter, and no weddings next." 
 
 Valentine Parties. — These gatherings were very much in 
 vogue in early days, occurring from house to house ; some- 
 times filling every evening of Valentine week. They were 
 said to be the veritable hotbeds of love-making and engage- 
 ments. Couplets and bits of verse were written and tucked 
 in the pockets of the swains attending, and slyly found their 
 way into the hands of best girls. Following are a few 
 specimens of old time verse in honor of St. Valentine : 
 
 Sweet memories 'round thee twine, 
 My darling Valentine. 
 
 Oh ! may our hearts in love combine, 
 Then you will be my Valentine. 
 
 If you love me 
 
 Your Valentine I'll be. 
 
 St. Valentine brings hearts together, 
 No matter what the wind or weather. 
 
 I'll no more peak nor no more pine, 
 If you will be my Valentine. 
 
 I've waited for this Valentine party 
 To tell you of my love so hearty, 
 And now pray tell me, frank and free, 
 If you my Valentine will be ? 
 
DRIFTED DOWN ' 201 
 
 To be born on Valentine's Day was considered a certain 
 augury of a happy marriage. Frequently the dancing and 
 merrymaking at these assemblages were kept up until day- 
 light. On reaching home numerous charms were tried 
 by the rural maidens. One was to fill a large bowl with 
 water, set it by the bed, and on the surface drop bits of 
 paper with the names of favorite youths written thereon. 
 The damsel placing it, in order to give potency to the charm, 
 was compelled to rise three times in the night, go backward 
 to the bowl and turn it three times around. In the morning 
 the name nearest her pillow was sure to prove her future 
 husband. Ardent missives were often found tied to the big 
 knocker of the front door, tlie daughters of the house rising 
 early on St. Valentine's morn and taking them off before 
 the eyes of parents or teasing brothers espied them. 
 
 The malicious and wounding Valentine was little in evi- 
 dence in early times, but a single instance is given showing 
 that these unpleasant traits existed. In the township lived 
 a girl of good family and fine character, born with a marring 
 birthmark upon her cheek. She was wooed by a young man 
 not in favor with her parents, and rightly as it proved. He 
 was finally discarded, and took his dismissal with very ill 
 grace. The next Valentine's Eve a letter was found lying 
 on the doorstep addressed to her, with a rude picture of her 
 face, the blemished cheek greatly exaggerated, and under- 
 neath some personal and insulting lines. The young lady 
 had a half-grown brother, big, fearless and very fond of her. 
 He read the missive, straightway sought the cowardly of- 
 fender and compelled him to acknowledge his offence, then 
 gave him a dressing he was slow in forgetting. To com- 
 plete his disgrace he was socially ostracized in the town for 
 many a day. 
 
 A Brother's Revenge. — In the old stone hotel built by 
 Francis Baird in 1766 many dramatic scenes have occurred. 
 
202 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 One in particular is given from the lips of an eyewitness. 
 A young man of excellent family became addicted to drink, 
 causing his friends great anxiety and sorrow. One night he 
 sought the hostelry and, after becoming partially inebriated, 
 was seized upon by a number of revelers there, tied to a 
 chair, and whisky forced down his throat until he was help- 
 less. A brother, knowing his weakness, and missing him 
 from home, hurried down to the village, surmising well 
 where to seek him As the miscreants, five in number, 
 stood over the almost stupefied boy, forcing still more of 
 the liquor down his throat, the brother entered. Indigna* 
 tion transported the usually quiet lad out of himself. He 
 fell upon the party, tore his brother from their grasp, and 
 seizing a heavy oaken chair, brought it crashing down in 
 evei7 direction upon them. Before the astounded specta- 
 tors could restrain him, he had laid four of them out, one 
 with a broken arm, another with a fractured shoulder, and 
 all with blows and bruises which caused them to remember 
 their villamy many a day. He received no punishment for 
 the vengeful rescue, and the occurrence was said to have 
 acted as a deterrent to future scenes of the kind. 
 
 Two Tragic Happenings. — The old corner hotel on Main 
 street, long kept by Mr. Lewis F. Randolph, was the scene 
 of two most tragic happenings. 
 
 A ball was given one Christmas Eve, and a gay party of 
 young folk came down from Goshen to attend it. Among 
 them was a youthful wife, before her marriage the belle of 
 her native town. It was an intensely cold night, and she 
 carried her firstborn, an infant of three months, warmly 
 wrapped in her arms. On arriving at the hotel she was 
 taken into the landlady's own room, and laid her sleeping in- 
 fant, enfolded in its wTaps, in ihe family cradle without 
 awaking it. Then, seeking the ballroom, she was soon danc- 
 ing with the merry throng. The little one slept so long and 
 quietly that Mrs. Randolph at length went to the cradle, un- 
 
DRIFTED DOWN 203 
 
 covered it, and put her hand on its face. It was cold 
 in death, llie young mother, in her soHcitude to keep it 
 warm, had smothered it on her own bosom during the jour- 
 ney down. The scene tliat followed needs no words. 
 
 The next winter another ball was given at the house, and 
 a Goshen party again came over. A gay young mother 
 brought her babe of six months with her. Soothing it to 
 sleep, she laid it on the high-piled feather bed in the dress- 
 ing room, pushed a tall old-fashioned bureau closely against 
 it to prevent it rolling oft' and tlien sought the ballroom. 
 Going up in the pauses of the dance to look at the child, she 
 found it had awakened, crawled from the pillow, and, falling 
 headforemost between the bed and bureau, smothered there. 
 So overcome were Mr. and Mrs. Randolph by these consecu- 
 tive painful occurrences that they declared they would never 
 give another ball in the house. 
 
 The Majesty of the Lazv. — An instance is given of the 
 manner in which justice was administered in our town in 
 the long ago. 
 
 A family living on a small rented property between War- 
 wick and Sugar Loaf was reduced by the death of the hus- 
 band and father to sad straits of poverty. At length a pro- 
 tracted illness fell upon the widow, and she was no longer 
 able to support herself and children by her avocation of 
 spinning and weaving in the farmhouses about her. In the 
 tumbledown cot, with its bit of land, she struggled on, her 
 cow, fowls and garden her only support. 
 
 One morning, while preparing her children's scanty break- 
 fast, she was horrified by the entrance of a myrmidon of the 
 law who read to her an execution, seizing all she owned for 
 debt. After the reading he straightway proceeded to strip 
 the home of its contents. The fowls were then caught, 
 their legs tied, and thrown on the load, the cow fastened be- 
 hind and the worthy constable prepared to leave. As he 
 
204 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 was closing the door he espied on the fire a pot of meal 
 boiling for their meager breakfast. Stopping short, he 
 carefully scanned the paper, and remarking, "This 'ere exe- 
 cution kivers everything, so it seizes the pot o' s'pawn too," 
 he took it from the crane carefully, ensconced it on the load 
 and drove off, swelling with the consciousness of duty per- 
 formed. 
 
 A Sighing Ghost. — Olden days were replete with luring 
 ghost stories, for wliat would "lang syne" have been without 
 them? Old servitors and superstitious visitors were always 
 their chief vehicle. One lingers in memory that had an un- 
 told charm and the "clink o' siller." Hard by New Milford, 
 then called "Jockey Holler," stood a broad stone house in 
 which dwelt a maiden "fair to see/' with a lover, of course. 
 Life was slow and tedious in the hamlet with the sportive 
 name, and finally the lover, weary of trying to make his way 
 there to an establishment with the girl of his heart, resolved 
 to go in quest of his fortune at sea. He started for the 
 Mediterranean wuth a party bound there to seek mother-of- 
 pearl. At their last meeting a silver sixpence was filed in 
 two, a hole pierced in each half and tied upon either neck, 
 the superstition of the day being that even against Fate's 
 rude shocks the severed halves would come together again. 
 Time wore on ; the absent lover was not heard from. One 
 night the desolate girl lay weeping on her pillow, as love- 
 lorn maidens have ever wept through the ages, when the 
 heavy curtains suspended from the old tester parted, a salt 
 breath of the sea floated over the bed, a cold white hand 
 was thrust in, and the absent half of the sixpence she had 
 cherished through all the years lay in her palm. 
 
 The lover was never heard from more, and the stricken 
 girl, faithful to his memory, became no man's wife. 
 
 While the era of superstition lasted, in the lonely mid- 
 night hours a soft, sad sigh, low, tremulous at first, dying 
 
DRIFTED DOWN 205 
 
 away shudderingly, crept through the old house ; and this 
 is surely true, for have I not, seen those who heard it many 
 a time and oft? 
 
 Stringent Bconomies. — That the early mothers were made 
 careful by pinching experiences, and economizing to the 
 verge of penuriousness, this little story will testify. With 
 softly shaded lamps, gas and electric lights in almost every 
 home now, it seems a fancy picture. All the luminary of 
 olden days was the tallow dip, or a smoky lard lamp. Often 
 when the candles ran low the tallow for dipping more was 
 hard to procure out of "killing season." One candle was 
 deemed sufificient to light the room for a family during the 
 evening ; still we must not forget the gleams of the ruddy 
 fire on the hearth that sent its glow to the farthest corner. 
 A mother of those days related that she was one evening 
 sitting with her husband and two children, when the latter, 
 conning their lessons for the morrow, asked for a light of 
 their own at the little table where they studied. Rising, she 
 procured one and set it before them. Just as she did so 
 there came a knock at the door and her mother-in-law en- 
 tered. "Why, Emeline !" she exclaimed "what awful ex- 
 travagance ; a whole candle for those two children to study 
 by. I never heard of such a thing. I always learned my 
 lessons lying flat on the floor before the firelight. Many a 
 time the skin peeled off my forehead, and my eyes was a'- 
 most burnt out o' my head, but I never got a light all to 
 myself and neither must these children learn such wasteful 
 ways," and, seizing the candle, she blew it out, carefully 
 pinched down the wick and set it in the closet. Such were 
 the economies of youth that made the easy chairs of our 
 forebears' declining years. 
 
 Lozv Po. — Whether from lonely environment or incessant 
 hard work, brightened by little of change or beauty, is not 
 known, but the old-time woman was frequently attacked by 
 
2o6 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 an ailment analogous to the one now dubbed by the elegant 
 soubriquet of "nervous prostration." In primitive days the 
 one alluded to was called "Low Po," and was quite common. 
 Suddenly the most active and energetic housekeeper or busy 
 mother of a family would lie down with this curious disor- 
 der and often remain in bed for months. Its symptoms 
 were various and puzzlingly contradictory. Some ate om- 
 nivorously and talked incessantly ; some refused utterly to 
 eat, just escaping starvation by the incessant efforts of 
 friends to keep them fed; others maintained a sullen and 
 aggravating silence, while some wept copiously and consid- 
 ered themselves abused and ill-treated by all around them. 
 In whatsoever form the complaint presented itself, its symp- 
 toms were harrowing and annoying to the last degree to the 
 unfortunate family of the victim. 
 
 A case occurring in the midst of the village, of a despair- 
 ing type, and every known means of rallying the patient 
 having been exhausted, the physician in attendance informed 
 the husband that unless stringent measures were adopted 
 the young wife would surely die. The husband and doctor 
 now laid their heads together to save her. For weeks she 
 had lain in a seeming stupor a greater part of the time, only 
 rousing occasionally to complain of hunger and that "tired 
 feeling," which is of very ancient date. One evening the 
 doctor entered and began whispering to the husband in the 
 adjoining room. "I don't like to advise in the matter," said 
 the good leech, in that penetrating whisper more distinct to 
 the ear than the ordinary tone, "but there is no hope; all 
 effort has failed, and you will be left badly off with a little 
 family on your hands." 
 
 "Of course," replied the husband, "it's a painful thing to 
 think of marrying again before the breath leaves my wife's 
 body, but this girl is very pleasing, will, I am sure, make an 
 excellent mother to my children, and I think I best speak 
 
DRIFTED DOWN 207 
 
 and secure her before another steps m and takes her from 
 me." 
 
 There was a stir in the bedroom, a violent fit of convulsive 
 weeping-, and out of bed flew the patient Rushing up to 
 her husband, she shook him soundly, shrieking, "So you 
 think you will make arrangements to marry again before 
 the breath is out of my body, do you? You'll put a step- 
 mother over my children, will you ? Well, from this minute 
 I'll get up and live to spite you!" She did, indeed, and 
 went energetically to work at her old accustomed round of 
 duties. At length the culprit husband confessed the trick 
 he had planned to play upon her. She forgave him, but the 
 doctor never, and it is handed down that both had the worst 
 of the cure. 
 
 Dancing in the Hog Trough. — I have failed to ascertain 
 where the utterly ludicrous practice here set forth originated, 
 among what nation, tongue or people, but that it was ob- 
 served in our hamlets in very early days is the testimony of 
 a great-uncle, who attended one of the gatherings on the 
 mountain's foot late in the seventeenth century. 
 
 In a family of daughters on occasions in which a younger 
 sister preceded the elder to the altar, the firstborn left in 
 the matrimonial lurch was duly notified that on a specified 
 night her young friends would appear and invite her to the 
 performance. 
 
 This is the account of it as it was witnessed on the bor- 
 ders of old Bellvale. A new, smoothly finished trough of 
 ample breadth was brought to the house by a party of young 
 folk. The girls of the company entering, seized upon the 
 superseded daughter, and robed her in deepest mourning, 
 with a long crape veil falling from head to feet. Weepers 
 of crape streamed behind her. The trough was deposited in 
 the middle of the room, and to the merry strains of an old 
 colored fiddler, the girl sprang in and danced, while the 
 
2o8 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 party, clasping hands, circled around her singing. After a 
 time a young man jumped in the trough, seized the devotee 
 about the waist and danced with her. It was said this event 
 was frequently followed by the early marriage of the girl, 
 some tender hearted swain probably finding a soft spot in 
 his heart for her, and resolving to spare her another Immola- 
 tion. The trough was always presented to the family. 
 Elder Williams, a Baptist minister who frequently visited 
 Warwick in the early forties of the last century, and who 
 was a Welshman by birth, declared he had heard the cus- 
 tom was Saxon, but of this there is no corroboration. It 
 would be most interesting to learn who brought it to our 
 isolated hamlets in those faraway times. 
 
IX 
 The Wawayanda Creek 
 
IX 
 
 The Wawayanda Creek 
 
 [HIS stream of water, the only one of its size 
 to diversify the landscape, rises in New Jer- 
 sey at a point about four or five miles directly 
 south of what was once familiarly known as 
 "Double Pond," now Wawayanda Lake. Its 
 source is in a narrow valley, one of the hi^^hest lying be- 
 tween the ridges of the Wawayanda mountains, and running 
 northeast downward, a sluggish stream, it crosses the road 
 leading to West Milford and Pompton a short distance 
 north of where stood the toll-gate of the Pompton and Mini- 
 sink Turnpike, so long attended by Albert Shaw. Here it 
 winds through a black meadow. From the color of the 
 water, it took the unpoetic name of Black Creek. 
 
 Continuing its course along the north base of Rough 
 Mountain, famous for huckleberries and rattlesnakes, it ac- 
 celerates its pace over a more precipitous descent until it 
 reaches the thrifty and romantic village of Bellvale, whence, 
 after turning its mills and factories, it curves first to the 
 northeast, and then west, where, in the meadow at the bot- 
 tom of the Wawayanda Valley, it unites with the outlet of 
 Wickham Pond, or Clark's Lake, and they together form 
 the Warwick or Wawayanda Creek. Proceeding on its 
 way to the southwest down the Wawayanda Valley into New 
 Jersey, it strikes the foothills of the Pochunk or Pochuck 
 range, a little north of Vernon. In the meadows here it re- 
 ceives from the southwest the Black Creek, which has come 
 from near Hamburg, and the united streams form the Po- 
 
212 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 chuck Creek, which turns at once to the northeast, and, 
 flowing along the southeasterly side of Pochuck Mountain 
 into the Drowned Lands, somewhere north of Pine Island, it 
 unites with the Wallkill. This stream, rising near Sparta, 
 N. J., flows along the opposite side of the mountain, on its 
 way through Orange and Ulster counties, N. Y., until it 
 falls into the storied Hudson, at Rondout. 
 
 In connection with the fine old name of Wawayanda, let 
 it be remarked that its smoothly flowing syllables seemed 
 susceptible of as many and unique changes as any in our 
 history. A single example is given from a varied assort- 
 ment of original methods of spelling the time-honored ap- 
 pellation. It bears on its front the dignity of years, and 
 none will presume to question its authenticity: 
 
 Mr. Burt: Sur, be plees to pay to the bare the wheat what you 
 o to me fur a hat what is by hind and yu will me obleege till 
 death. 
 
 Theas frum yours to sarve, 
 
 Aperl II day 1783 _ • 
 
 To Mr. Burt Essquir. 
 
 War war yender 
 
 The ancient residents of Sussex and Orange were proba- 
 bly unaware of the true derivation or meaning of the name, 
 and the following legend was told of it : 
 
 It ran that a Warwick townsman once did a poor, luck- 
 less Indian, the worse for too frequent potations of fire- 
 water, a kindness by rescuing from the penalty of some mis- 
 deed his mortal body from "durance vile," and in return he 
 engaged to disclose to his benefactor the whereabouts of a 
 rich silver mine in the mountains. A day was set, and to- 
 gether they started, when, on reaching the brow of a hill, 
 this side of the creek (then densely wooded), the redman 
 suddenly called a halt and demanded to turn into the village 
 hostelry for a drink. Knowing his weakness, and fearing 
 if he consented his guide would put himself in such a con- 
 dition that he would be unable to locate the coveted treasure, 
 the white man demurred and tried to urge him on. He en- 
 treated and expostulated, and at length firmly refused to 
 
THE WAWAYANDA CREEK 213 
 
 turn back to the tavern, reminding Lo of his promise, and 
 also that an Indian never broke his word. Taking him by 
 the shoulders, the redman turned his face toward the moun- 
 tain, and, pointing with his finger, said : "Over water, wa^ 
 way yonder," and, swiftly turning, strode out of sight. 
 
 This tradition lends color to one local belief, that the 
 name was the Indian's mutilated English for "way yonder." 
 
 In the early part of the last century a strolling fisherman 
 on the banks of the Wawayanda brought to the little hamlet 
 the startling intelligence that two strangers were erecting 
 a cabin near its banks. As Warwick village then contained 
 but few dwelling houses, it may well be imagined the news 
 quickly spread. A citizen of the town, named Crampton, 
 engaged in constructing a lime kiln near the waters, soon 
 brought the thrilling tidings that he had with his own par- 
 ticular ears heard the pair conversing in a language out- 
 landish and unknown, and the situation seemed to call for 
 consideration and deliberation, almost as grave as aforetime 
 seized our Dutch forefathers in events equall^v momentous. 
 The land on which they located was owned by James Bene- 
 dict, and his wife, going down, found a log hut constructed, 
 two fine horses pasturing, or, rather, browsing, in the woods, 
 and the little home almost destitute of necessaries and com- 
 mon comforts, even for those primitive times. With neigh- 
 borly kindness some needed articles were proffered and 
 gratefully accepted in scant broken English by the woman, 
 and, on being sent, were received with profuse expressions 
 and gestures of thanks, and, owing to this generosity, the 
 improm.ptu sylvan home took on a more habitable aspect. 
 The crack of the man's gun was often heard in the wood- 
 land, and they fished in the stream and gathered the berries 
 growing in profusion. The isolated pair remained until 
 late autumn, when the smoke of their log hut no longer 
 curled above the tree tops. The home was found vacant, 
 each article donated by neighbor Benedict left with scrupu- 
 lous honesty. From frequent descriptions of them given 
 
214 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 me by an aged woman who often saw them, they were un- 
 doubtedly French. Their personal appearance, polite gest- 
 ures of recognition and thanks, as described, seemed to typi- 
 fy this nation. With their departure, as quiet and unan- 
 nounced as their coming, interest in them did not fade. 
 They were said to have been seen in Sussex County, and 
 that the man had applied for a situation as teacher in a rural 
 school. Then they were reported as turning up in New- 
 burgh, and that, disposing of tlieir horses there, they had 
 taken passage on the good sloop Caty Maria for New York. 
 The mother of the late Mr. J. M. Knapp, of Sugar Loaf, 
 recollected when a child seeing the pair in the woods, sitting 
 side by side beneath a tree, where they had been gathering 
 the wild plum, that once grew in abundance in that region. 
 She always recalled a vivid impression of their unusual 
 appearance, and the woman's small and slender hands. 
 
 Through the mists of years the mind vainly conjectures 
 as to who these unknown visitors were, or whence they 
 came. Were. they political refugees? Was the straight, 
 dark-bearded head of the lone home an exile from friends 
 and native land ? Was a crime behind them somewhere, on 
 some foreign shore? Were they lovers, fleeing a stern 
 parent's wrath, and an adamantine "No"? In those early 
 days the unearthing reporter was unknown, and the investi- 
 gating mania in its infancy. From all testimoniv it is not to 
 be doubted that tliey were persons of birth and breeding; 
 they came, they went, giving to the early dwellers a bit of 
 romance to brighten the hearth, as neighbors clustered 
 around in friendly visits on the wintry nights. Faithful to 
 its trust, the good creek locked their secret in its breast, and 
 never in all its babbling whispered it to mortal ears. A 
 little spring, hollowed in the turf on the banks, from which 
 they drew what was probably their only beverage, was visi- 
 ble there for years. 
 
 The rite of baptism, as administered in its waters by early 
 Elders, comes as a rare picture to those who love to recall 
 
THE WAWAYANDA CREEK 215 
 
 the familiar stream. It drew larg-e assemblages, and it must 
 have seemed to every looker-on that Nature in gracious mood 
 had formed that spot for the impressive ordinance. The 
 gently sloping green banks, the graceful low reaching elms, 
 the natural steps leading down to the water, the pastoral 
 beauty, all about speak eloquently of the very finger of God. 
 
 It is summer, a Sabbath noontide, calm and beautiful ; 
 grouped on the natural terrace above the stream are those 
 whom it was good to know. Neighbor chats with neighbor 
 in subdued tones, friend with friend, as they await the pas- 
 tor and candidates, who, in a humble house a short walk 
 back, are putting on the quaint vestments set aside for the 
 ordinance. But now, expectation is ended, and the revered 
 pastor appears conducting those ready for the rite ; a hymn 
 is sung, a fervent prayer offered, he carefully sounds the 
 water, cane in hand ; then the solemn ceremony takes place 
 and peacefully the gathering disperses, but on everny mind 
 present an ineffaceable picture is left. Still the green banks 
 and worn sod speak eloquently of those vanished footsteps, 
 and the trees seem to murmur of those venerable heads, over 
 whose lifted brows their shadows once played. 
 
 The waters of Wawayanda Creek were not without their 
 ghostly legend in early days, and it was awesomely told un- 
 der the breath how a poor human, who found life in those 
 primeval times too great a problem for his tired brain to 
 solve, in one despairing moment ended all bty quietly letting 
 himself down into the "deep hole," and thereafter at the 
 approved hour for uncanny appearances, "his white face, 
 looking black" (this is verbatim), would rise to the surface 
 and long fingers would clutch at the tawny waters. Once 
 it was affirmed that a small boy watching for muskrats 
 heard this desolate ghost snoring loudly in his watery bed, 
 and, fleeing home with hair on end, "musk-ratted" no more. 
 The "deep hole" was a menace to the midsummer peace of 
 many a Warwick mother, and in all probability this uhpleas- 
 ant damp spirit was held in lively remembrance by anxious 
 
2i6 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 matrons, distracted by the wiles of venturesome small boys 
 with a passion for running away to swim. 
 
 For the benefit of the descendants of all such transgres- 
 sors, this history solemnly avers that this ghost is still 
 there, ready to grab any pair of runaway legs kicking about 
 in its watery home, and that, being forever debarred from 
 the luxury of hot towels, its clutch on young offenders is 
 particularly icy, and its snore (when its cool coverlet of 
 many waters is rumpled by pranksome limbs) quickly 
 changes to horrific groans, fit to set every individual hair 
 on end. 
 
 It would gladden the hearts of latter-day Izaak Waltons 
 withal, and cause their eyes to protrude, to draw from the 
 Wawayanda such spoil as was the angler's harvest ere the 
 iron horse on its diurnal way shook its bed, and bore to the 
 once modest hamlet so many to indulge their favorite pas- 
 time. What joy when the word went forth that the "suck- 
 ers were running," and a spearing frolic was on the tapis ! 
 The youngsters were enjoined to prepare the torches, and 
 crotched sticks for impaling the prey were sought with 
 alacrity. Surreptitiously we extracted a few billets from 
 mother's precious pile of seasoned "oven-wood," and deftly 
 we hid them in each bundle of fagots, to make them flame 
 more cheerily. Then a bit of tow or flax was inserted in 
 the bunch, for the purpose of lighting more easily, and when 
 the eventful night came, and all was ready, old and young 
 sallied forth. Over meadow and hill, till the rushing 
 waters chime their familiar melody on the ear 1 A touch 
 to the fagots, and the sport commences. Into the waters 
 leap the "spearers" ; it is close work keeping the "lights" 
 aright; but what youthful scion was not equal to such an 
 emergency? Shins are barked, knees bruised by falls in un- 
 seen pitholes, elbows and knuckles rasped, hair singed, 
 clothes riddled by sparks, but soon the suclcers, great, shin- 
 ing, firm-fleshed, splendid fellows, are flung on the banks. 
 Proudliv the crotches are thrust through the pulsating gills. 
 
THE WAWAYANDA CREEK 217 
 
 until each is so heavy with its burden that it is ready to drag 
 its small, tugging carrier to the earth. Anon there is a 
 commotion, a struggle unusual in the water. A stalwart 
 spearer is making vigorous effort to land his prey ; but the 
 tables are nearly turned by the writhing, lashing booty, 
 and he is almost down again and again in the dark stream. 
 Slipping, panting, he tosses it on the turf. "An eel ! an eel ! 
 a whopper I" all cry ; not quite as long as the six-footer who 
 lands it, but, of a verity, so extended that this generation's 
 circumscribed bump of credulity would utterly fail to grasp 
 its immensity, so it will not be specified. Cautiously the 
 alert, excited juveniles seek to impale the big fellow; and 
 when it is accomplished the boy to whose care it is assigned 
 may be President, may be a general, but we dare assert he 
 will never be so proud in the chair, or in the flush of vic- 
 tory, as, when muddy, wet, begrimed, he set forth on the 
 borders of his dear, native creek, dragging along the first 
 eel, squirming and wriggling in his wake. In after years 
 of struggle and toil, memory will perhaps recall no scene 
 more picturesque than this — the somber, fringing woods, 
 now gone; the dark, sparkling waters, the sturdy spearers, 
 with strong bared limbs stemming the hurrying stream, 
 faces intent and scanning, spears poised, and the perforce 
 quiet, but happily excited children on the brink, bearing the 
 shining spoil and fitfully flaming flambeau. 
 
 The records of Orange County show that Mr. Frederick 
 Dolson received deeds from the Master in Chancery, De- 
 cember 7th, 1826, 50 acres ; July 8th, 1828, 17 acres. On 
 this property he raised a dam and built a grist mill. This 
 dam, it was declared, caused the waters to back up beyond 
 the bridge, on the road leading toward Bellvale. From this 
 Warwick was changed from a healthful locality to one 
 scourged by agues, fevers and all their train of ills and ac- 
 cumulated woes. Numerous deaths occurred, not only in 
 the village, but on its bordering lands, and far down the 
 stream even into New Jersey. 
 
2i8 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Property in Warwick became almost unsalable ; in fact, 
 the whole vicinity was affected. Showing the mortality it 
 created, we append the deaths that took place in one limited 
 familiy circle: Mrs. Sylvanus Fancher died July 19, 1828; 
 her husband September 8, 1828; Mrs. John Pelton, a sister 
 of Mrs. Fancher, January 18, 1829. The citizens of War- 
 wick were justly alarmed and indig-nant. They were re- 
 lieved from their fears and trouble in this manner: While 
 the greatest excitement prevailed, and they were discussing 
 measures for relief, a thaw came, producing a freshet. The 
 millpond was covered with thick ice, and in the night the 
 dam gave way. Traditions of a particular family grievous- 
 ly afflicted by deaths, say that a young man was present at 
 the dam at the beginning of the break, but that he made 
 no outcry nor attempted in aqy manner to stop the flow. 
 Public-spirited citizens now arose and vigorously declared 
 that it was the time to get rid of the nuisance. Edward 
 Welling, Henry Pelton and others decided it would be best 
 to call a public meeting. Mr. Pelton penned a notice 
 promptly summoning the townfolk to assemble ; but before 
 the time arrived he was smitten with the prevailing fever, 
 and, though dangerously ill, and confined to his home a 
 long time, his vigorous constitution triumphed, and he finally 
 recovered. A committee was appointed to ascertain wheth- 
 er Mr. Dolson would dispose of the property, and for what 
 sum. The result was that Frederick Dolson and Margaret, 
 his wife, by deed dated April 20, 1829, conveyed to Na- 
 thaniel Jones, Samuel Youmans, James Hoyt, Joseph Roe, 
 George Morehouse, Henry Pelton and Daniel Olmstead, de- 
 scribed in the deed as a committee appointed by the inhab- 
 itants of the vicinity of Dolson's Mill Pond, by purchase the 
 premises connected therewith. 
 
 The area of the land, as therein given, was 66 acres ; the 
 price paid $4,000. In the deed the Geraghty property was 
 referred to as belonging to William Culver, probably the 
 Culver who built the Reformed Church, the second pre- 
 
THE WAWAYANDA CREEK 219 
 
 ceding the present building, and the second erected by that 
 society. The committee raised the sum paid by subscrip- 
 tion, and it reimbursed the subscribers by selHng- the mill- 
 house and machinery to Mr. Van Valen, who removed them 
 to and set them up on the property owned by Hezekiah 
 Hoyt, and by selling the land to Mr. Ackerman, May 6, 
 1829, reserving the full right to control the flow of the 
 stream through the premises described in the deed. In a 
 very short time Warwick regained, in its village and vicinity, 
 the reputation for perfect healthfulness aforetime held, and 
 which it has maintained to the present day. At the time of 
 the breaking up of the dam numbers congregated at the 
 empty pond and gathered quantities of fine fish from the 
 pools of water left in holes here and there, and a gentleman 
 of Warwick, then a pupil at the "Red Schoolhouse," declares 
 he went with a companion to the empty pond, at the noon 
 recess, and saw the fish carried away in large basketsful. 
 
 These are the facts relating to the Dolson mill and pond, 
 as accurately as could be gathered from data and remem- 
 brance of those living at the time. Among tlie lamented 
 at this sad period was Miss Benedict, second daughter of 
 William Benedict. She was a teacher in the district so long 
 presided over b(y Mr. McElroy, and was a victim of the pre- 
 vailing chills and fever. 
 
 When the memorable waterspout of '57 passed over War- 
 wick Valley, James Burt, Esq., was crossing some land ad- 
 joining the creek, and, hearing the commotion, paused to 
 observe it. He found it was nearing the residence of Mr. 
 A. H. Galloway, and aiming for the path he expected to 
 take. Getting out of the way of the furiously circling ver- 
 tical monster, he halted and saw it cross the creek. It 
 churned the waters into a mass of foam, and, scooping them 
 up, threw them to the very clouds. 
 
 The annual "sheep washings," as thqy were called, were 
 once familiar vernal sights in the Wawayanda, and the trees 
 and banks blossomed with small boys gathered to witness the 
 
220 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 exciting- event. Each farmer bore to the scene a goodly kettle 
 of family soft soap. This was plentifully smeared into the 
 wool, and then, scared, trembling-, bleating piteously, they 
 were shoved off the bank into the stout arms awaiting them 
 and thoroughly scrubbed, till "white as wool" was no longer 
 a misnomer. With bated breath each small looker-on 
 awaited the dousing of that high and mighty potentate, the 
 horned leader of the flock, who, belligerent, squaring, but- 
 ting, resisting, frequently required two or three pairs of 
 stout arms to shove off. But when there, how helplessly 
 he shivered, gasped and snorted, and how bitterly he pro- 
 tested when the biting lye soap offended his imperial eyes, 
 once causing a diminutive boy on the bank to exclaim : 
 "Now you've got it, old Buck, for butting me down in the 
 orchard, and tearin' my new breeches." When chilled, 
 tousled, utterly vanquished, he was tumbled on the bank 
 to join his family, every perch, log, limb broke forth into 
 shouts of exultation, for these old monarchs, once familiar 
 figures in our pastures, were the terror of all marauding 
 juveniles, whom they attacked pitilessly as they went berry- 
 ing, fishing or rambling through the fields. The assault 
 (with unparalleled meanness on the part of the sheep) was 
 almost invariably made in the rear, and was particularly 
 humiliating and aggravating to Young America, as torn 
 trousers and bloody noses were the almost certain result. 
 Any indignity, therefore, to this lord of the flock and past- 
 ure was ever hailed with delight, as he was considered an 
 inveterate enemy of the most atrocious stamp. 
 
 The creek running through Bellvale was originally called 
 Long House Creek, from the fact that the first settlers 
 found there an Indian "Long House," a characteristic type 
 of dwelling used by the famous Six Nations and their allied 
 tribes, who were the aboriginal inhabitants of this part of 
 the country. 
 
 These dwellings were constructed hy driving posts with 
 sharpened ends into the ground, binding them together with 
 
THE WAWAYANDA CREEK 221 
 
 a network of saplings, and protecting the sides and arched 
 roofs with layers of bark. They were strongly and com- 
 pactly reared and formed the homes of congregated red 
 families. This "Long House" was well known to the early 
 settlers, and its ruins were visible for many years. 
 
 Facilities for obtaining soft water being scarce^, even well 
 into this century, the family washing was very frequently 
 done along creeks, brooks and springs. While thus en- 
 gaged in Bellvale, a young girl, on going to the stream for 
 a fresh pail of water to replenish the huge brass kettle 
 hanging from an impromptu crane on two crotched sticks, 
 espied a gleam of bright color in a clump of alders on the 
 brink of the waters. Thinking it a cluster of flowers, she 
 pushed aside the overhanging growth to obtain them, when 
 it proved to be the bodiy of a child, afterward Mr. John 
 Clark, of Bellvale. She instantly drew it out, and, run- 
 ning to Mr. Stephen A. Burt, that gentleman restored him 
 to life, after a tedious struggle. Referring to the color of 
 the little homespun woollen dress catching the young rescu- 
 er's eyes, the mother was won't to exclaim : "What a mercy! 
 what a mercy I colored that child's dress madder!" 
 
 It will be observed in local history that two of the Indians 
 who gave a deed for the land comprising Warwick town- 
 ship to the first white owners had the syllables Wa-wa oc- 
 curring in their names three times. 
 
 Apropos of the name of Wawayanda, again we find these 
 soft Indian syllables occurring in the pretty name of Wa- 
 weewana, of whom we relate this legend: Aunt Fanny 
 Benedict, mother of Major James W. Benedict, was Wa- 
 weewana's little white friend. The Indian girl lived with 
 her parents in their wigwam near the spring on the Colonel 
 Houston farm. Her mother was Winapawnac. She made 
 baskets to sell in the surrounding hamlets ; wove them cun- 
 ningly of osiers and bark, and stained them with pokeber- 
 ries, sumach and the juices, of barks, Man|>' a day little 
 Fanny rambled by her side, helping her gather osiers and 
 
222 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 colors for her baskets, on the banks of the Wawayanda. 
 Sometimes when poor Waweewana's father got the worse 
 for firewater and brought neither fish nor flesh to the lonely 
 hut by the spring, then there was chaos and confusion there, 
 with the angry, hungry mother scolding the drunken father, 
 dangerously fierce, and Waweewana would go over to the 
 woods where Fanny's father was working, jump on the 
 wood sled, and ride up to the house with her little white 
 friend and get a good warm supper^ and remain until peace 
 reigned in the lone savage home once more. The children 
 used to dress their hair with the scarlet cardinal flower that 
 grew in profusion on the banks of the creek, only Wawee- 
 wana and her friend did not know the cardinalis by its high- 
 sounding name, but called it "nose-bleed," and wove it in a 
 coronal for their little heads as they played by the borders 
 of the Wawayanda. 
 
 More and more frequently the red father came home the 
 worse for the sad firewater, and many a time and oft, when 
 Winapawnac and Waweewana had made their baskets and 
 sold them, dressed the otter, lynx and muskrat skins and 
 got the money for them, he would steal or wring it from 
 them, and it would all go for that which made him a raging 
 fiend in the hut. So they became very poor. Waweewana 
 took a heavy cold and gradually but surely faded into con- 
 sumption. On the brow of the hill overlooking the winding 
 Wawayanda stood a grand old pine tree, a veritable sentinel 
 pine, and underneath it poor Waweenana used to sit, her 
 back against its stalwart trunk, and cough her life awajy. 
 She grew weaker and weaker as the golden autumn came 
 on, and the creek murmured and rippled below her, and the 
 great pine whispered above her head. Many a tear has 
 dimmed my childish eyes over the sorrows of dear little Wa- 
 weewana, and one of my first efforts at verse was perpetrat- 
 ed upon her innocent head. 
 
 Maybe she thought, poor, dying girl, as she sat by the 
 waters, that the|y were telling in their low, murmurous 
 
THE WAWAYANDA CREEK 223 
 
 tones, of that happy hunting-ground to which she was fast 
 hastening. So, thinner and thinner, and more easily chilled, 
 she lay down in the hut and died ; the woods, the waters, 
 the sentinel pine knew her no more, and little Fanny long 
 mourned her playmate. 
 
 A grave was made not far from the stream and she was 
 buried there. All was quiet^ hushed and beautiful when 
 she used to sit by the waters and drink the bowl of warm 
 milk brought by her little white companion — naught but the 
 eternal anthem of nature, and the chiming ripples ; but now 
 there is the iron horse on its thunderous round, and the 
 twentieth century, with rush and rout, all, all so different 
 save the Wawayanda, on its way imchanged and unchang- 
 ing. 
 
 In the deed of Thomas De Kay, dated 1724, the Wawa- 
 yanda stream was dignified by the name of river and men- 
 tioned as Bandon River. 
 
 An exile from the "evergreen fields my fathers pos- 
 sessed," no more cherished picture hangs on memory's walls 
 than that of the years spent at the old Academy as pupil 
 and teacher. In the hot days of summer we studied and 
 botanized by the Wawayanda, only remaining indoors for 
 recitations. Hew the young, bright faces come back ! The 
 heads left are gray now. Many are far, far away in strange 
 lands, and more, in the beautiful language of Whittier, lie 
 sleeping in "that low green tent whose curtain never out- 
 ward swings." 
 
X 
 Henry William Herbert 
 
 (" Frank Forester ") 
 
X 
 
 Henry William Herbert 
 
 (*' Frank Forester") 
 
 T SUNSET one autumn evening a gentle- 
 man on a spirited hunter drew up at our gate, 
 sprang to the ground, and, drawing the rein 
 'through the ring on the rustic tying-post, en- 
 tered. He asked for a drink, the clear lime- 
 stone water of the well being quite famous for its purity 
 and coldness. Resting his foot on an Indian mortar that 
 stood near, he drew down the old sweep, filled the bucket, 
 balanced it on the curb and drank. He conversed a few 
 moments with our father about the valley, the exquisite 
 scenery tinged with the hues of early fall, and, bowing his 
 thanks, rode away. As his hunter cleared the turn leading 
 to the village, we were told it was Henry William Herbert, 
 the English author. Frequently after, in passing our door 
 at night, he called and drank from the well, and this was 
 my first remembrance of him. His personality was strik- 
 ing. He was erect, distinguished in appearance, with a 
 hauteur and careless grace in every movement. His hair 
 was heavy, waving and dark brown in color. He wore a 
 mustache. His eyes were gray and keen, although I was 
 told by one of his friends that his sight was defective. He 
 had a charming voice, the tones musical and impressive. 
 He sat his horse as if, to use an old-time saying, "he were 
 born in the saddle." As his party tore up and down the 
 stretch of road in front of our home, its most striking figure 
 was Thomas Ward, on his good roan hunter, with his liver 
 and white bird dog Dash at his heels — Tom, whom he right- 
 ly described as "the largest heart, the wittiest tongue, the 
 openest hand, the biggest soul in all America." 
 
 Mr. Herbert was usually dressed in a shooting-jacket of 
 rough material shot with colors, brogans on his feet and a 
 
228 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 frieze cap on his head. Mounted on the fine hunters he 
 loved, with dogs of choicest breed following his erratic 
 trail, he was an attractive figure as he wound through the 
 Warwick woodlands. In manner haughty, even imperious 
 when ruffled, when in good humor or engaged in entertain- 
 ing conversation he was most engaging. His mustache 
 was very heavy, and he frequently in talking twisted it ner- 
 vously, sometimes thoughtfully. His hand was expressive 
 — a capable hand, with long, white fingers and supple, rest- 
 less movements. He would often pause on the porch, after 
 drinking, and I recall an emotional warming of his cheek 
 when he became interested and the darkening and glowing 
 of his eyes. 
 
 One evening a crow depended from his saddle bow. He 
 said he had shot it to get the quills for pens to do some 
 fine drawing. He was an accomplished draughtsman, rapid, 
 skilled, and received a diploma from the New Jersey State 
 Fair for drawings executed with a crow quill pen. Mr. 
 Martin Kays, of Lafayette, informed me that he saw these 
 drawings on exhibition and heard the admiration they elic- 
 ited. From Mr. Kays I had many descriptions of Herbert 
 as he hunted through Sussex, and of his feuds with the 
 irate old Dutch farmers whose fences were razed and crops 
 damaged by his retinue. 
 
 Mr. Herbert was born in London April 7th. 1807. His 
 father was the Very Rev. William Herbert, Dean of Man- 
 chester, a son of the Earl of Carnaervon. His family held 
 three patents of nobility. It was from this gifted father he 
 inherited his versatile talents. The Rev. Mr. Herbert, in 
 addition to his gifts as a clergvman, was a poet, linguist, 
 historian and botanist. His richly endowed son brought 
 him little comfort, and came to America in his twenty- 
 fourth year to escape entanglements at home. Herbert 
 was one of a numerous family of children, but three of 
 whom visited America. An elder brother, an ofiicer in the 
 Royal Navy, commanded a British steamer on Lake On- 
 tario, and a jvoung sister once visited him at Newark. Tir- 
 ing of the seclusion of the author's hermit-like retreat, she 
 soon returned to England. 
 
 Mr. Herbert was in every sense of the word a rarely 
 accomplished man. His learning was thorough and com- 
 prehensive. He wrote with a vigor and expression that 
 made him famous. Who could fail to admire such pen 
 
HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT 229 
 
 pictures as that of the caribou in "The Wigwam in the 
 Wilderness," from the hunter's first sight of the wild^ beau- 
 tiful creature to its submerging in White Falls, as it fled 
 from the pursuing panthers. His vivid portrayal of wood- 
 land scenes in America were not excelled in their time. 
 Who but Frank Forester wrote of a "white-headed eagle 
 rising heavily on sail-broad vans and oaring himself out 
 through the intrenchant air over the limpid bosom of the 
 waters." Or compared the mother summer duck and her 
 brood to a frigate riding at her anchor with a whole fleet 
 of pinnaces playing around her moorings." The robbing 
 of the hawk of his black bass prey by the bald eagle and the 
 death of the eagle by the gun of Tom Draw is a master- 
 piece of description. His love of animals was a part of his 
 nature, and some of his finest writings are of dogs and 
 horses. His friend gave to me a vivid account of his great 
 Newfoundland Sailor and his little pet Vixen in his home, 
 The Cedars, and his love for them. He took Vixen with 
 him to the hotel in New York, where he ended his life. 
 
 Mr. Herbert was at one time Greek and Latin professor 
 in a classical school in New York City. He had a rare 
 gift at imparting knowledge and a wonderful flow of lan- 
 guage. The almost musical sweetness of his voice was an 
 added charm to his teaching. In French he excelled, and at 
 one period of his life was in receipt of a good income from 
 his translations of Eugene Sue's "Wandering Jew." His 
 first novel "The Brothers," was issued in 1834. Such 
 copies of it as found their way to country circulating libra- 
 ries were literally read to tatters. Mrs. N. R. Bradner, of 
 Warwick, whose literary tastes were marked, declared she 
 and her husband rode manv miles to procure a copy, reach- 
 ing home after dark. Mr. Bradner was equally fond of 
 reading, and a friendly marital dispute occurred as to which 
 should read the book first. She conquered, all honor to 
 Mr. Bradner, and sat up all night reading it. 
 
 Mr. Herbert was one of the fathers of woodcraft literature 
 on the American continent. He told his friend the best 
 paid piece of work he ever wrote was a "Carrier's Address." 
 "The Warwick Woodlands" was originallv Dublished in The 
 Twf. Ref^ister. edited bv George Porter. To our father Mr. 
 Herbert deplored the lack of books of reference in writing 
 bis historical novels. He said he could never ^et hold of the 
 right book here. It was George Porter, at one time editor 
 
230 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 of the New Orleans Picayune, who suggested to Herbert 
 the nom de plume of "Frank Forester." 
 
 The original area of The Cedars I could not ascertain. 
 Judge Deane informed me he thought it contained about 
 three-fourths of an acre. Another Newark friend of Mr. 
 Herbert told me it comprised four acres. The beautiful 
 cedars environing the home in their grave, stately beauty, 
 and giving it its name, were planted by the owner's hand. 
 When a friend asked him why he almost exclusively planted 
 this tree, he replied he loved "a tree ever green." Mr. 
 Kays described to me Herbert's appearance at the State 
 Fair of New Jersey. He was dressed in a suit of check, 
 with a shawl of Scotch plaid thrown over his shoulder. 
 One afternoon he came in on a black horse in a very elegant 
 English riding suit, galloping outside the fair grounds for 
 some time. 
 
 The Cedars, situated midway between Belleville and New- 
 ark, was an attractive spot in Herbert's day. Mr. Hugh 
 Holmes, of Belleville, described it to me as a veritable bower 
 of beauty, with vines, flowers and rustic embellishments, 
 giving it a retired and romantic look. In this secluded re- 
 treat he composed and gave to the world his best work. He 
 had a wonderful memory, marvellously stored by study, re- 
 search, travel and contact with master minds in the field of 
 education, which greatly facilitated his exacting mental 
 work. Manjy wondered that Herbert chose a dwelling place 
 so isolated as The Cedars. He said he had three reasons 
 for settling there — for absolute literary seclusion, easy ac- 
 cess to New York City, and that the laws of New Jersey 
 permitted the holding and convevancing of land by aliens. 
 Herbert had unfortunate traits. He was impulsive, precipi- 
 tate and easily angered. One unchecked remark made 
 James Gordon Bennett his enemv and relentless persecutor 
 throughout his life. In Ulster County I met a gentleman 
 who was his friend and spoke with regret of this trait. Both 
 of his marriages were contracted after brief courtships. He 
 had known Miss Budlong but three weeks. His first union 
 partook somewhat of the character of John Alden's. He 
 called on Miss Barker at the re'^uest of a friend who> ad- 
 mired her. fell ardentlv in love with her, and thev were wed- 
 ded after a hasty courtship. After the coming of their only 
 child her health rapidlv fniled, and she soon faded away. 
 His Newark and Belleville friends gave me descriptions of 
 
HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT 231 
 
 her portrait, which hung at The Cedars. It was a face and 
 form of surpassing lovehness. Herbert used frequently to 
 remark that no sculptor could do justice to the exquisite 
 beauty of her neck, hands and arms. But alas ! his union 
 with this lovely woman was most unhappy. His was that 
 most to be deplored of all natures — capable of intense af- 
 fection, but utterly unfitted to bring happiness to its object. 
 He bore her pictured beauty with him from the lonely 
 Cedars to the Broadway hotel where he prepared for his 
 tragic end, and, with the sweet eyes looking into his with 
 their gentle gaze, took his life. Herbert, in writing of him- 
 self;, frequently alluded to his impulsive characteristics. "I 
 am mjvself a quick shot — too quick, if anything," he said. 
 Archer says he ever had to curb "his hot and impetuous 
 nature on the hunt." He was singularly prone to put him- 
 self in a false light. He says of his youth: "1 was a care- 
 less, happy, dare-all, do-no-good." Instead, he was a close, 
 hard student, first under the care of his accomplished father 
 and tutors at home, afterward at Dr. Hooker's school at 
 Brighton, finished a course at Eton, and graduated at Cam- 
 bridge in his twenty-second year. His mother was a very 
 lovely woman, the Hon. Letitia Allen, daughter of Viscount 
 Allen, of Kildare, Ireland, of the Leinster family. 
 
 His description of the horse was ever admirable. Here is 
 one: "Clean-limbed, active, beautiful round quarters, proud 
 crest, small head, a coat of high-polished copper." His de- 
 lineation of the hounds, Spot and Chase, "drawing tlie 
 bogs," and of Bonny Belle, Blossom, Dangerous and Daunt- 
 less on the trail, are blood-stirring. One can almost hear 
 the deep-mouthed bay and see the muscles grow taut and 
 rigid. Fine as are his pictures of sceneriy, I have ever con- 
 sidered them exceeded by his pen portraits of animals. He 
 declared there was no charm for him like "learning the in- 
 numerable and all wondrous attributes and instincts of ani- 
 mated nature." After the freezing out of quail in the War- 
 wick Woodlands in 1832, Mr. Herbert used his best efforts 
 to stock them again, once bringing up two hundred and turn- 
 ing them out in the region. Some of these were entrusted 
 to our father's care. He fed them with grain, and they 
 became very tame. During a summer which I spent at the 
 historic old Van Cortlandt-Van Rensselaer mansion in Belle- 
 ville, N. J., I learned that at the bicentennial anniversary 
 of the erection of the storied home, no mention was made 
 
232 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 of Herbert's name. The address, delivered by Alderman 
 J. F. Connelly, of Newark, referred to numerous promi- 
 nent men and women, to Washington Irving; but Herbert 
 so long a resident thereabouts, was strangely omitted. 
 Around the Warwick hills and vales, the Wawayanda 
 House, his memory clings unfadingly. Huntsmen, steeds 
 and fine old landlord are of the past, but the wizard touch 
 of the author's pen has made them live forever. Gone is 
 the gilt pineapple on the pump, the signboard with the im- 
 possible female figure, the rambling sheds where Sam, the 
 great black ostler, with his bushy wool and shining teeth, 
 reigned supreme. Good Roan and Dash are gathered to the 
 hills that so often knew the impress of their tread. The 
 round table, where Forester "and his merry men all" dined 
 SO' joviality, where is it? The bedroom off the parlor he 
 used to occupy they tell me is unchanged. How often have 
 I watched Emma, the old black cook, picking game, her 
 wool full of fluttering feathers. How many a night, after 
 I became an occupant of his old room, did I almost feel his 
 masterful presence at the portal. With the same pen he 
 caricatured and idealized the generous host who made his 
 stay bright in the Warwick Woodlands, declared "he had 
 enough good in him to make five hundred men as men go, 
 and was full of the milk of human kindness." In all his 
 life he never wrote a truer word. To family, guests, ser- 
 vants, retainers, old pensioners, Tom Ward's largess was 
 unstinted. It was a memorable morning when I last visited 
 the grave of Herbert. A terrific tempest had spent its force 
 on beautiful Mount Pli^asant Cemetery the day before. 
 Great trees were riven by lightning, twisted up by the roots, 
 or hurled down, and the trail of the wrenching storm could 
 be traced by scattered boughs and leaves. But the succeed- 
 ing day was one of quiet, softly veiled beauty. Upon his 
 grave not a leaf was stirred. A bird alighted on a shrub 
 near and poured forth a wild, sweet carol. 
 
 At the last visit of the friend who loved him well, he 
 remarked : "How I should like to be with Tom at Warwick 
 on those beautiful hills once more." It is said a more fit- 
 ting memorial to the memory of this most remarkable man 
 has been agitated. Should it ever take permanent form, 
 let it be hoped the sad motto he left to be engraved upon his 
 
HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT 233 
 
 stone will never find place there. The despair of poor 
 human hearts should not be graven above the peaceful tomb. 
 
 Judge Deane, of Newark, was an intimate and valued 
 friend of Henry William Herbert, and was present at the 
 last dinner given by the author and sportsman at his resi- 
 dence, The Cedars, near the same city. These reminis- 
 cences are gathered largely from the lips of this venerable 
 and interestuig man, and to them are added others related 
 by residents of the Warwick Woodlands, which he loved to 
 celebrate by tongue and pen. 
 
 Judge Deane held the opinion that biographers and penny- 
 a-liners, anxious to color with the variegated hues of sen- 
 sationalism his memonv, grievously maligned and misrepre- 
 sented Herbert. The fatal step that led to his regretted end 
 was clearly the outcome of a mind unbalanced by recent 
 trouble. A close friend, some days before his death, had 
 declared that his conversation and acts indicated unsettled 
 reason, and expressed anxiety concerning him. In all con- 
 nected with the affections and his domestic life Herbert was 
 most unfortunate. After a residence of about nine years in 
 America, he met the daughter of the Mayor of Bangor, 
 Maine, to whom he was wedded in 1840 after a brief court- 
 ship. She died in six years, and their married life was de- 
 clared to have been most unhappy. A son, born early in 
 their union, he sent to England after his mother's death, 
 and he remained there. It was after the loss of his wife 
 that Herbert's pen was most prolific. He seemed devoted 
 to his work, and it was a surprise when it was learned that, 
 after years of single life, he was about to wed a Miss Bud- 
 long, of Rliode Island. 
 
 To friends he expressed the highest anticipations of hap- 
 piness in this union. He was at the zenith of his fame as 
 an author, she was charming and wealthy, and his cup of 
 joy seemed about to brim. The marriage took place in 
 February prior to his death. The papers, private circles 
 familiar with Herbert, rumor's split tongue, filled all space 
 with the reasons for the almost immediate rupture of their 
 relations. The friends who knew him best declared that it 
 was his ardent wish to return to England, pay the debts that 
 made him an exile from his home, and spend the remainder 
 of his life there. He appealed to his wife to aid him with 
 
234 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 her fortune in doing this. Relatives who had opposed her 
 union with the author suggested that his motive in the mar- 
 riage had been to secure her weahh for the purpose he had 
 indicated, and that he had no true affection for her. It was 
 also hinted that a crime had driven him from England — a 
 cruel falsehood; it was simply debt. She was angered and 
 indignant, and in an interview told Herbert her fears and 
 distrust. His rage was terrible ; she left him, and he vainly 
 strove to win her back. She refused utterly to meet or com- 
 municate with him. He seemed almost maddened by this 
 overthrow of briglit hopes and fond dreams, and expressed 
 himself as most wretched. In this state of mind he took 
 his life by a bullet at the Stevens House, on Broadwa^v', New 
 York City. 
 
 His friend, Mr. Anthon, knowing his disappointment and 
 unhappiness, had expressed grave fears of some such out- 
 come of his sorrow ; also Mr. Picton, with whom he was as- 
 sociated in editorial labors on the publications under his 
 management. To those who accused Herbert of mercenary 
 motives in marrying Miss Budlong, who fanned by cruel 
 slanders the trouble that flamed up between them, if any 
 such emotion as pity or remorse could find place in their 
 hearts, it must have risen there, on reading the following 
 poem, found lying on his desk after his death. It was said to 
 be addressed "To Adele," his wife's name; but his friend, 
 who saw the poem, says it simply bore the inscription "Come 
 Back." As he had spent every energy of his life for da(\s 
 in the one vain endeavor to win her to him once more, with 
 no result, none who knew him ever doubted it was penned 
 as the last agonizing appeal of a broken heart to her. It 
 ran as follows : 
 
 Come back and bring my life again. 
 
 That went with thee beyond my will ! 
 Restore me that which makes me man, 
 
 Or leaves me wretched, dead and chill ; 
 Thy presence was of life a part, 
 
 Thine absence leaves the blank of death ; 
 They wait thy presence — eye and heart; 
 
 With straining gaze and bated breath. 
 
 The light is darkness, if thine eyes 
 
 Make not the medium of its ray, 
 I see no star in evening skies. 
 Save thou look up and point the way. 
 
HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT 235 
 
 Nor bursting buds in May's young bloom, 
 
 Nor sunshine rippling o'er the sea, 
 Bears up to Heaven my heart's perfume, 
 
 Save thou my monitor can be. 
 
 There are two paths for human feet ; 
 
 One bordered by a duty plain, 
 And one by phantoms cursed, yet sweet, 
 
 Bewildering heart and maddening brain. 
 The one will right and reason urge, 
 
 But thou must walk beside me there. 
 Or else I tread the dizzy verge, 
 
 And thou some guilt of loss must bear. 
 
 Come back! There is no cause on earth, 
 
 No word of shame, no deed of wrong. 
 Can bury all of truth and worth, 
 
 And sunder bonds once tirm and strong. 
 There is no duty. Heaven imposed, 
 
 That, velvet gloved, an iron hand 
 Upon my heart-strings crushed and closed. 
 
 Thy bate should all my love withstand. 
 
 Days seem like ages, and, ere long. 
 
 On senseless ears the cry may fall ; 
 Or, stilled by bitter shame and wrong, 
 
 The pleading voice may cease to call. 
 Come back ! before the eyes grow dim, 
 
 That keep but sight to see thee come; 
 Ere fail and falter hand and limb, 
 
 Whose strength but waits to fold thee home. 
 
 It was believed by his associates that a copy of this poem 
 reached his wife ; but it was never known whether such was 
 tlie fact. If so, its pathetic appeal evidently elicited no re- 
 sponse, and the "senseless ears," the hush of the "pleading 
 voice," were invoked by his own hand. The sensitive, emo- 
 tional temperament, combined with the poetical, as in Her- 
 bert's case, was above all others the one to urge on to the 
 commission of such a deed under the stress of heart and 
 mental strain. That Mr. Herbert was naturally of a morose 
 and unhappy nature his friends distinctly denied. To this 
 frame of mind he was driven by the overwhelming anguish 
 of his life. He was a poet of no mean order, and his "Bal- 
 lads of the American Revolution" were remarkable as the 
 outcome of the pen of an Englishman and grandson of an 
 Earl and a Viscount. Their fire and sentiment would dp 
 credit to the veriest patriot, and at the time of their publi- 
 cation they were greatly admired. His genius was of the 
 
236 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 most wonderful versatility. In the field of romance he had 
 high honor in his day. "The Roman Traitor," "Cromwell," 
 "iVlarmaduke Wyvil," "Brothers" and "Wager of Battle" 
 held an enviable place in fiction. He was but twenty-four 
 years of age when he came to America, and made it his 
 permanent home. He loved New York City, but for quiet 
 in literary pursuits spent much time at "The Cedars," near 
 Newark, From these two places he rarely went, excepting 
 on sporting excursions wherever his fancy led. One of the 
 most extended of these was made in the British Provinces, 
 and his works on field sports and fish and fishing there are 
 among the best products of his vigorous pen. 
 
 Herbert was preeminently an industrious, faithful and 
 most truly successful writer. His published works would 
 comprise nearly sixty volumes were thqy all gathered and 
 arranged. He would say of himself, "When out of the sad- 
 dle I drive the pen." He boasted he had hunted and fished 
 in every field and water of North America and the Prov- 
 inces of Great Britain known in his time as worthy of notice, 
 and it was literally true. 
 
 While seemingly sporting he was an alert, wide-awake, 
 keen observer, an eternal student, storing, garnering for the 
 harvest of his wondrous pen. Mr. A. D. Patterson used to 
 remark that would Herbert confine himself to magazine 
 work he would excel any man living in that field. He hated 
 its dull routine, and though he was willing and did engage 
 in it, he would not submit to its inevitable bondage, though 
 his fugitive articles given to the public through that medium 
 are among the finest he ever wrote. His articles in Porter's 
 Spirit of the Times were among the most interesting and at- 
 tractive of all his work, and were eagerly perused by all 
 lovers of field sports. 
 
 To W^arwickians his "Warwick Woodlands" will always 
 appeal most strongly. They find in it their own loved hills, 
 woods, meadows and streams. The game he wrote of is 
 delicious to their taste. Each nook and covert pictured by 
 his pen is a familiar scene. They knew the old Ward House 
 when it swung its sign-board merrily to the breeze, and wel- 
 come and good cheer awaited all. It recalls most vividly 
 the figure of the "Prince of vSportsmen" on his magnificent 
 hunter, as he swept over the hills of Orange and Sussex with 
 troop and whoop and hounds and guns, while Tom Draw 
 at his side, with Dash, his liver-and-white bird-dog, started 
 
HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT 237 
 
 the covey from the covert and broug-ht it down with un- 
 erring- aim. Herbert loved Tom Draw, and of all the days 
 of his life counted those happiest in the woodlands while 
 sojourning at the old hostelry. 
 
 He had the eccentricity of genius in a marked degree. 
 He would speak with pride of his proud and aristocratic 
 lineage, of old England, with tears in his eyes, and in the next 
 breath berate it, its institutions, people, and assert they were 
 a hundred years behind in all that made a nation. He 
 would declare that in leaving England he shook its miserable 
 clay from his feet, and that he desired to become an Ameri- 
 can of Americans, and then criticise his adopted country 
 with unsparingf sharpness. He hated the strict and formal 
 method of rearing children in his native home, and had 
 perhaps experienced something of its rigors from his own 
 father, the Hon. and Verv Rev. William Herbert, Dean of 
 Manchester ; yet he sent his only child, the ofifspring of an 
 American mother, to England to be reared and educated, 
 and through family influence gained him a position in the 
 artillery service, where he early rose to the rank of Lieu- 
 tenant. His editorials on America were unstinted in praise 
 and admiration, so much so, that thev were asserted bv some 
 not to be the product of his pen. For his mother he had 
 the most passionate affection, and she, perhaps, of all with 
 whom he was brought in contact, best understood her brill- 
 iant, comet-like boy. He loved, while in Warwick, riding 
 through its broad woodlands, to rein his fine hunter bv the 
 side of some resident, and g^lean such information as would 
 avail him for future use. He carried a note-book to which 
 he was ever referring and addinf*-. He loved the horse with 
 intense enthusiasm, and wrote a book called "The Horse and 
 HorsemanshiD of America," which a reviewer, in criticising, 
 said was so deep in research th^t it seemed the author must 
 have made horses the one ?nd sole studv of his life. 
 
 Though Herbert had in his aristocratic veins the blond of 
 Earls, in his fine brain the "talents of angels," Tom Ward 
 was no respecter of persons. He was truly one who would 
 "shake hands with a king upon his throne and think it kind- 
 ness to His Maiestv." In his hunts over wood and fell 
 Herbert would, in hot pursuit of game, ride ruthlesslv over 
 fields of grain, and scale fences, sending them scattering 
 behind his horse's heels, until the farmers became verv in- 
 dignant. His host would often berate him soundlv for this. 
 
238 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 with emphatic expletives, and roundly forbid further depre- 
 dations. Once, after damaging a fine field of grain on a 
 farm east of Warwick village, Mr. Ward declared he should 
 go and ofiler reparation. He did so, and was politely re- 
 fused. Returning, he said, "That farmer wouldn't take a 
 shilling, and had the air and speech of a Duke." 
 
 His nature was imperious ; the old strain of the Leinsters 
 of Ireland and the Earls of Caernarvon was in him, and it 
 broke forth often. A dramatic scene, in which he was one 
 of the principals, was once enacted in front of the Wawa- 
 yanda House, in Warwick. 
 
 Accompanying his retinue one autumn was a party of la- 
 dies, one of whom, a fair, graceful rider, robed in a sweeping 
 habit of purple, frequently accompanied the English Nim- 
 rod in his wild rides over the hills. Herbert had just 
 brought some new horses to the hotel, and on this particular 
 morning a groom was exercising one of them, a coal black, 
 fiery brute, nervous and mettlesome, designed for a saddle- 
 horse for the author. It was led up in front, where thf 
 lady stood awaiting hers. In a spirit of reckless bravado 
 Herbert ordered the groom to lead the animal up, and dared 
 the equestrienne to mount him. She attempted, being a 
 fearless rider, but the spirited steed reared and plunged so 
 violently that she retreated and declared she would not 
 mount. Grasping the bridle in his hand, and bringing the 
 horse to a standstill, Herbert said, "Don't be afraid ; mount 
 the devil, I say." Again she essaved, with like result, the 
 plunging animal nearly trampling her down. White with 
 anger, Herbert again commanded her to "get up," and 
 oflFered to have her saddle put on the horse if she were afraid 
 to try his, remarking, "I never saw you a coward before." 
 The words stung the proud, baffled woman, and she burst 
 into tears. 
 
 Tom Draw, in his double chair on the sunny porch, had 
 remained a silent spectator of the scene, but when Herbert 
 thus taunted her to tears, he sprung quickly to his feet and, 
 with commands forcible and emphatic, put an end to the 
 trouble. 
 
 Just beyond the village these two could frequentlv be seen 
 clearing the high, slatv hills at breakneck speed, distancing 
 their party entirelv, perhaps the two finest riders whose 
 mounts ever snuflfed the breezes of the ridges. 
 
XI 
 
 Grandmothers' Albums 
 and Our Grandsires' Effusions 
 
XI 
 
 Grandmothers' Albums and Our 
 Grandsires' Effusions 
 
 HE old-time album, with its acrostics, coup- 
 lets, letters in rhyme, mottoes, and verse ad- 
 dressed to its faded mezzos and woodcuts has 
 [passed away. In it parents in round, precise 
 hand inscribed solemn counsel to excellence 
 and obedience in daughters, friends wrote formal addresses 
 or merry ditties, and admirers recorded guarded eiifusions 
 with due deference to the paternal eye. From the worn 
 pages breathe the tender wish, the earnest prayer of heart- 
 felt affection. They are not grand efforts, but bear the 
 guinea's stamp and are true hearts' own coin. From over 
 two hundred inscriptions copied and carefully preserved 
 from these old relics I have selected the following. The 
 date of the first album is 1824. Its owner was Miss Cor- 
 nelia Ketchum, a Warwick girl : 
 
 A woman old, with silver hair, 
 Is sitting in her easy chair, 
 Her girlhood's album in her lap, 
 She dozes, reads, then takes a nap. 
 Awakes and looks and says, "Dear me! 
 It seems so strange, why let me see — 
 Now was it — John or Dick or Chris, 
 Or Ben or Dave who wrote me this?" 
 
 Oh, when I read the gushing rhymes. 
 
 Written by swains demented. 
 In albums of their lady loves. 
 
 With faded roses scented, 
 I sigh me for the good old times 
 
 Ere albums were invented, 
 When knightly force took place of verse, 
 
 In after years repented. 
 
242 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 The following is from the pen of a fond father to an 
 only daughter: 
 
 My child, when on these pages white 
 
 Your eyes may sometimes chance to light, 
 
 Remember, 'tis a father's quill 
 
 Has sought good counsel to instil; 
 
 And heed these words, my daughter dear, 
 
 If you would prosper well while here. 
 
 Oh, virtuous and obedient be, 
 
 And practice likewise industry. 
 
 After your mother pattern well — 
 
 Her excellence no tongue may tell. 
 
 Her qualities so good and kind 
 
 Draw every heart in love to bind. 
 
 Obey me, child, and peace below 
 
 And bliss above your heart shall know. 
 
 Do thy day's duty as the sun 
 
 Shines thy lifted brow upon. 
 
 Well remembering that to-day 
 
 Nevermore can come thy way. 
 
 Lines to a friend, with her picture, signed "Caroline": 
 
 Accept, dear friend, this little gift 
 And place it in your cherished book. 
 
 And sometimes in lone, quiet hours. 
 Upon its changeless features look. 
 
 'Tis but the shadow of myself. 
 
 The semblance of what soon must fade, 
 
 And, dust to dust, beneath the clod. 
 In still and dreamless rest be laid. 
 
 And though no smile may light the face, 
 Nor starting tear drop dim the eye. 
 
 Nor tender words the cold lips frame, 
 That 'neath the polished surface lie; 
 
 It still may serve to bring a thought 
 Of her who passed glad moments fleet 
 
 With thee, of girlish joy whose spell 
 Had for our hearts a witchery sweet. 
 
 Though ruthless Time may dim these eyes, 
 And plant my brow with lines of care, 
 
 And strew amid my locks of brown 
 Full many a thread of silver hair; 
 
 Upon the one that meets thy gaze 
 
 His iron hand no lines can trace, 
 No tears can furrow the cold cheek, 
 
 Nor sorrow dim this youthful face. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS' ALBUMS 243 
 
 And may be it will live for thee 
 
 When I have passed from earth away, 
 
 The same young face that at your side 
 Smiled many a bright and happy day. 
 
 And if it bears the magic power 
 
 To bring one memory sweet of me, 
 I'll ever bless the favored hour 
 
 That bore it with my love to thee. 
 
 ACROSTIC 
 
 Confined within this house of clay 
 
 Is an mimortal mind; 
 Oh, may it in the realms of day 
 
 Eternal glories find. 
 Revolving years but hasten on 
 
 The time when it must fly. 
 Despair to meet in pain and woe 
 
 Or bliss in realms on high. 
 Eternity — stupendous thought! 
 
 Time that can never end — 
 Let me through faith and knowledge find 
 
 A Saviour for my friend. 
 Imprint upon my youthful mind 
 
 Thy precepts and thy laws, 
 And let my happy resting place 
 
 Be near my Saviour's cross. 
 But should my mind on senseless joys 
 
 Its richest treasures waste. 
 Unfold thy beauties to my view 
 
 And change my heart at last. 
 Repentance grant for every sin. 
 
 And let my garments be 
 The spotless robes of righteousness 
 
 Prepared, my Lord, by Thee. 
 
 The "gray-haired boys" will, I am sure, read this with de- 
 light. It was penned to a picture of a barn, just such a 
 one as they have all played in : 
 
 The old red barn behind the house, 
 
 I see it lifelike rise 
 Once more upon the grassy slope 
 
 Before my boyish eyes — 
 The weather-beaten, mossy roof, 
 
 With each far-reaching peak, 
 And such warm nooks within the straw 
 
 To play at hide-and-seek. 
 
244 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Once more I am a boy upon 
 
 The hay loft broad and strong; 
 I ne'er on earth shall see again 
 
 Such poles so round and long, 
 Or such green mows of new-mown hay, 
 
 So fragrant, sweet and soft. 
 Such clover heads and red-top gay 
 
 As filled my father's loft. 
 
 The wealth and bloom of meadows green 
 
 Were in those hay mows sweet, 
 They came from where the violets formed 
 
 A carpet for the feet. 
 They spake of April's smiles and tears, 
 
 Of sunshine and of dew, 
 Of gentle rains and zephyrs soft. 
 
 And summer's skies of blue. 
 
 How light and high we used to swing 
 
 Above the rustling sheaves; 
 We almost touched the martens' nests 
 
 That built upon the eaves. 
 There never was a place so smooth 
 
 In all the world before, 
 For rolling hoops and spinning tops 
 
 As that old oaken floor. 
 
 'Twas joy to watch the swallow brood 
 
 On skimming wing far soar. 
 When father brought at eventide 
 
 The last load to the door. 
 Upon his throne of golden sheaves 
 
 A very king he seemed, 
 While over all the harvest moon 
 
 With yellow lustre gleamed. 
 
 I see the gentle oxen stand 
 
 With mild and patient look, 
 And Crumple with her snow-white calf 
 
 Drinks from the rippling brook, 
 While from his stall gray Dobbin looks 
 
 With many a stamp and neigh. 
 Impatient for the bridle rein 
 
 And gallop far away. 
 
 'Twas here we shot the gobbler fierce 
 
 With pop or water gun. 
 And laughed to see him strut and fume — 
 
 Oh, it was jolly fun! 
 While Rover huge and little Trip, 
 
 Barking with might and main. 
 Forth started from her hanging nest 
 
 The oriole in the lane. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS' ALBUMS 245 
 
 'Twas sweet in rainy day to lie 
 
 Safe in some hay-lined nook, 
 And pore above the witching page 
 
 Of weird, enchanting book, 
 That told of knight and ladye fair. 
 
 Of haunted lake and dell, 
 Of fairy bowers and elfin sports 
 
 And Eastern genii's spell. 
 
 The old red barn, oh, who that played 
 
 Within its raftered halls 
 Can ere forget it, though to wreck 
 
 The ancient fabric falls? 
 'Tis linked with young life's sunny days 
 
 In the old homestead home, 
 Ere yet our thoughts had flown afar, 
 
 Our feet had learned to roam. 
 
 A GRANDSIRE'S LAMENT 
 
 Of all the woes that ere befell 
 
 A mortal man, grievous to tell, 
 
 The worst that can beset his life 
 
 Is a cantankerous, scolding wife. 
 
 My friends, this case is my sad lot; 
 
 Oh, would I ne'er had been begot 
 
 To bear this grief and heavy woe. 
 
 And all my days in sorrow go. 
 
 She scolds at morn and noon and night, 
 
 Beginning with the morning light. 
 
 I cannot please her, not a grain. 
 
 Although I try with might and main. 
 
 Her tongue goes clickety clapper clap — 
 
 Oh, that it should have been my hap 
 
 To wed a stormy, fretful shrew, 
 
 And all my days the error rue, 
 
 For I'm a peaceful, quiet man. 
 
 And bear it just the best I can. 
 
 In 1861 a young wife inscribed these lines on the pages 
 of her album to her husband : 
 
 Beats there another heart, beloved. 
 That feels for thee what mine has felt, 
 
 Within whose fond and loving depths 
 Thy memory has so truly dwelt? 
 
 Beams any eye to gaze in thine 
 That e'er such tears for thee hath wept, 
 
 Has any other soul so fast 
 And sacredly thy welfare kept? 
 
246 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Smiles there another lip, dear one. 
 
 Whose kisses fond are only thine; 
 Do any other arms outstretch. 
 
 Yearning thy form alone to twine? 
 
 Listens there any other ear 
 
 Ever thy coming steps to hear; 
 Does any heart so quickly thrill 
 
 When that loved footstep brings thee near? 
 
 Is there a hand whose fast, true clasp 
 
 Is never to another given, 
 Or which so faithfully alway 
 
 To smooth away thy woes hath striven? 
 
 I read mine answer in thine eyes. 
 
 Thy lips affirm it to mine ears. 
 My heart is thine, and thine is mine. 
 
 In bonds enduring through the years. 
 
 Written in the album of an aged friend: 
 
 I would not ask for thee, dear friend. 
 Life's setting sun undimined by care, 
 
 For such a wish and such a lot 
 
 No mortal here on earth may share. 
 
 But I would pray that peace and love. 
 And faith and hope thy steps attend; 
 
 Then thou niayst fear no storm of life, 
 Nor shrink to meet its closing end. 
 
 That this dangerous creature existed in the faraway days 
 of our sires seems ahnost unbehevable, but she surely did, 
 else why these 
 
 LINES ON A FLIRT 
 
 If there's a man pitied to be who treads this planet's dirt. 
 It is the one who falls in love with a distracting flirt. 
 My fellow countrymen, I chanced upon this dreadful case. 
 And woe betide the man who looks on her deceitful face. 
 
 Her hair is black, her eyes are, too, and snap and sparkle so, 
 My head is dizzy and my feet have much ado to go. 
 Sometimes by Jove and Juno, too, I'd swear she loved me well, 
 The next she'd plunge me in despair too horrible to tell. 
 
 She'd go with me to singing school and smile at Hiram Brown, 
 And if I stopped and took her in while driving to the town, 
 And hurried fit to break my neck to meet her waiting there, 
 She'd be manufacturing dimples at a fool with two foot hair. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS' ALBUMS 247 
 
 Her ankles are enough to set a fellow raving mad, 
 
 And hooked on two 'o the littlest feet a woman ever had. 
 
 And if a body tried to guess for forty mortal weeks, 
 
 He couldn't tell which reddest were her cherry lips or cheeks. 
 
 If I were partner with her at a party or a dance, 
 Some other chap was sure to get her smiling, melting glance. 
 She'd trip and turn so merrily, and lift her little skirt, 
 While I was trying hard to grin as if I wasn't hurt. 
 
 Now, by St. George, this thing I'll do, I mean to let her go, 
 Although the very thought of it just bursts my heart with woe. 
 For how I suffer, and how I feel, nobody'll ever know, 
 For spite of all her tricks and shines, oh, I do love her so! 
 
 A quiet, plain and homespun girl not far away I know, 
 She isn't a bright and shining star, in fact 's a little slow. 
 But she's got one quality to ease the bosom in my shirt, 
 She never in her mortal days knew how to be a flirt. 
 
 I'm going to ask her to be mine and settle down in peace, 
 For from all flirting womankind Lord grant all men release; 
 While water flows and green grass grows I'll never wish her 
 
 hurt. 
 Only that she'll just fall in love with a heartless he-male flirt. 
 
 TO JULIA 
 
 These await me somewhere, 
 
 Prize of noble strife; 
 Therefore bear I bravely 
 
 With each cross of life, 
 Reading still the lesson, 
 
 Patience of the soul, 
 Worketh to perfection, 
 
 Gains the highest goal. 
 
 Joy from weighing sorrow. 
 
 Faith from blinding doubt, 
 Strength from burdened weakness, 
 
 Peace from conflict out. 
 Pardon for rebellion. 
 
 Rest from toil o'erspent. 
 Knowledge from soul travail, 
 
 Love and heart content — 
 
 Somewhere in the future 
 
 Beaming far away, 
 Bides a better portion 
 
 For my earthly day. 
 Distant far it may be, 
 
 Still its cheering light 
 Gleams upon the present. 
 
 Robbing half its night. 
 
248 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Often premonitions 
 
 Gleam from that far height, 
 
 And renew my spirit 
 
 As the dawn the light. 
 In the night of darkness 
 
 The soul's inner eye, 
 With prophetic reachings, 
 Sees the day is nigh. 
 
 Speed, oh, days of bondage, 
 
 Fruitless is your toil. 
 Fly, oh, light-winged moments. 
 
 Thankless is your spoil; 
 Hope with buoyant spirit 
 
 Bids me calmly bide. 
 Patience hath its guerdon. 
 
 Faith its wish supplied. 
 
 TO MARY 
 
 When the violet springs in the May 
 
 I behold thy bright eye in its blue. 
 The scent of the new-fallen hay 
 
 Is not more delicious than you. 
 
 The sweet pea bowed low on its stalk 
 
 Is another fair symbol and true. 
 As in beauty you modestly walk. 
 
 Through the green meadows sparkling with dew. 
 
 I can pluck the sweet violet and pea 
 And carry them home on my breast. 
 
 Oh, would I could so gather thee 
 
 Beside them forever to rest. W. 
 
 A picture of a typical country schoolhouse called forth 
 this. It will find an echo in many a heart, recalling the 
 old District School: 
 
 Ah, well do I remember 
 
 The schoolhouse old and small. 
 To which each morn we journeyed, 
 
 When happy children all. 
 The long and rough hewn entry. 
 
 With wraps and baskets hung. 
 The upright posts and rows of desks. 
 
 With slates and inkstands strung; 
 The pail where we were watered all. 
 
 The drinking cup of tin. 
 That hung upon a nail close by 
 
 The door we entered in; 
 
GRANDMOTHERS' ALBUMS 249 
 
 The chair whereon the teacher sat, 
 
 The blackboard and the chalk, 
 The clumsy desk with many a hack, 
 
 That did at old Time mock; 
 The windows all too high to reach 
 
 From which we tried to look, 
 The long stove-pipe and poker bent 
 
 In many a zigzag crook; 
 The pile of wood, the ancient bell, 
 
 That rung for work and play, 
 The loving shovel and the tongs. 
 
 Leaning so close all day. 
 I've been a man for many years 
 
 Out in the big, broad world. 
 In various lands and distant climes 
 
 My tent I've pitched and furled; 
 But the memory of the old school-house 
 
 Will never fade away — 
 Oh, would I were a careless boy 
 
 Beneath its roof to-day. 
 
 ACROSTIC 
 
 Fain would a friend his tribute pay 
 
 Regardless of the critic's frown. 
 And though his lines may go astray 
 
 No other can them truly own. 
 Could wishes for thy welfare prove 
 
 Effectual for earthly bliss. 
 Swift would thy moments ever move 
 
 Along in purest happiness. 
 May wisdom be thy constant guide, 
 
 Each day examine well thy heart. 
 Let there no room be found for pride 
 
 In thy young thoughts to take a part. 
 And should'st thou choose some worthy youth, 
 
 With manly form and winning air. 
 How will he prize that heart of truth 
 
 If freely given to his care; 
 That precious gift, oh, let it be 
 
 Ever his own in purity. 
 
 In the album of a little girl of ten is found these lines 
 from the pen of a fond mother: 
 
 Just as you are, a little girl, 
 
 Long may my darling be. 
 With never a thought of pride or show. 
 
 Or frivolous vanity. 
 
 I should love to keep her always so. 
 
 But I may not have this prayer; 
 I know if she lives she must some time go, 
 
 To a woman's lot of care. 
 
250 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 So I'll hug this precious comfort close, 
 
 When her years are done for play. 
 That maybe in my mother's heart 
 
 A little girl she'll stay. 
 
 And though the winds of life may blow 
 
 On her dear head rough and ill, 
 In that safe place may I hold her close. 
 
 And care for my darling still. 
 
 TO SOPHRONIA 
 
 Under the sky so blue 
 No love than mine more true; 
 Oh, be not coy nor cold, 
 Now that my love is told. 
 
 Think not when locks are gray 
 
 My love will pass away. 
 
 No, when thy form is bent. 
 
 Still will its store be spent. J. O. 
 
 Written to a picture of the new moon peeping over the 
 shoulder of a young man standing on a bridge : 
 
 I saw the new moon o'er my shoulder last night. 
 
 "Which shoulder ?" you ask. Why, of course, 'twas the right. 
 
 And I said to myself I will no longer wait, 
 
 Fair Luna says luck, and I'll venture my fate. 
 
 I want a dear hand to hold close in mine. 
 The gift of that faithful clasp only is thine; 
 I want one true heart to my own to beat time. 
 And two willing feet with mine Life's hill to climb. 
 
 And since yon bright silver bow with its soft light, 
 Peeping over my shoulder declares it all right, 
 The answer I wait for, I've only to guess, 
 And you needn't mind speaking, I know it is — yes! 
 
 From a teacher in the old Academy to a pupil leaving 
 
 school : 
 
 Lizzie, the dreaded parting hour 
 
 Has come at last, no more we meet 
 Within these dear familiar walls — 
 
 Hallowed by schoolday memories sweet. 
 No more you join the happy band 
 
 Or enter in the old schoolroom 
 To share in all its cares and joys. 
 
 Fast fading in Oblivion's gloom. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS' ALBUMS 251 
 
 When amid other scenes you go. 
 
 With early friends to memory dear, 
 Think sometimes of the moments bright 
 
 Passed with the school friends gathered here. 
 And grave each well remembered form, 
 
 And each familiar, pleasant face, 
 Upon your mind with impress deep 
 
 That time nor change may not erase. 
 Lizzie, I would amid the rest 
 
 My own might claim one little spot 
 Upon the tablets of your mind — 
 
 Let not thy teacher be forgot. 
 Tho' many a mile may intervene, 
 
 And loving hearts perchance you find, 
 Oh, often let a tender thought 
 
 Rest on the old friends left behind. 
 And when Life's fleeting dream is o'er. 
 
 From Time's dim shores, oh. may we go 
 To that bright land whose inmates blest. 
 
 Changes nor partings ne'er can know. 
 Warwick Academy, 1856. THY TEACHER. 
 
 A CRADLE SONG 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep: 
 The sun is in the west, 
 Each birdling seeks its nest, 
 Thou liest on my breast 
 In blessed baby rest — 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep: 
 Peeping all silver pale 
 Forth from a snowy veil 
 Of softest clouds that sail. 
 The young moon lights our dale — 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep: 
 Within the dim old wood 
 Each flower draws its hood. 
 And low bowed as it should 
 Exhaleth God is good — 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep: 
 A coverlet of red 
 The loving eve hath spread 
 Over the tired sun's bed. 
 Hiding his golden head — 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep. 
 
252 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep: 
 Thine eyes white curtains hold 
 Their blue within their fold, 
 All fringed with rarest gold; 
 My cradle song is told — 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep. 
 
 ACROSTIC 
 
 Heroes of old their ladye's charms 
 
 Rehearsed in song and story, 
 And many a doughty combat waged 
 
 For sake of love and glory. 
 Remembering that these valiant knights 
 
 Were overcome by Cupid 
 Removes a weight from off my heart 
 
 That I, too, am so stupid. 
 If knights of old could not withstand 
 
 The rankling of his arrow, 
 Excuse a youth of modern times, 
 
 Shot to the very marrow. 
 This heart of mine, tender and young, 
 
 And glowing like a taper, 
 Harriet has riddled through and through, 
 
 Like perforated paper. 
 
 Every time a wife scolds her liege lord true, 
 A terrible wrinkle criss-crosses her face. 
 
 She has only to smile, when, presto! perdue! 
 Of crow's-feet and puckers there's left not a trace. 
 
 FROM A MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTER 
 
 If wishes could bring my darling 
 
 Happiness, peace and love, 
 I would ask the dear All Father 
 
 From his beautiful home above 
 To grant me such pleading for her; 
 
 But I know it can never be. 
 So I'll only ask Him this one. 
 
 And pray He may give it me. 
 To grant her a heart to bear well 
 
 All the limitless sorrows here. 
 Guided and strengthened forever 
 
 By His presence true and dear; 
 And when all, all is over 
 
 That I may meet her where 
 We can never lose our beloved — 
 
 I think He will grant this prayer. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS' ALBUMS 253 
 
 TO JANE 
 
 Write? Yes, a whole volume, 
 
 But it wouldn't contain 
 Half the strength or the fervor 
 
 Of the love I would fain 
 Not confess quite so public; 
 
 But there's no chance to hide it 
 When pen, ink and paper 
 
 All conspire to confide it. 
 
 Oh, thou tale-bearing Album, 
 
 That thus glibly dost steal 
 What my lips in their silence * 
 
 Would fain try to conceal, 
 On thy pages so spotless 
 
 Not a blush canst thou spread, 
 To blot out with its crimson 
 
 The soft tale ere it's read. 
 
 All untold would I keep it, 
 
 In my heart hid away. 
 Till she sought it and read it 
 
 And enticed it away; 
 Then with rush of emotion 
 
 From my lips would it fly. 
 As a cage-released eagle 
 
 Seeks home in the sky. 
 
 Treacherous page thou'st revealed it; 
 
 'Tis escaped, she may see 
 On thy falsely pure features 
 
 The message from me. 
 Will it touch her young heart 
 
 With a thought of my woe, 
 When she reads 'twixt the lines 
 
 All I wish her to know? 
 
 AN ABSENT HUSBAND'S LOVE LETTER 
 
 While sitting in an idle hour, my thoughts intent on home, 
 The wish arose that I were there, no more abroad to roam. 
 I long for my own fireside, its quiet, sweet content. 
 And all that such a nameless charm to its surroundings lent. 
 
 It is not that Earth's splendors are where my fond thoughts 
 
 entwine, 
 It is not there are bluer skies or suns that brighter shine, 
 But that within that hallowed spot my heart can find and hold. 
 The pearl of price, the gem of worth, pure Love's uncounted 
 
 gold. 
 
254 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 For one is there who more than all is dear unto my heart, 
 My own loved wife who seems to be of my own self a part. 
 And never when before my God I bend the knee in prayer, 
 Do I forget to ask that she may be His guardian care. 
 
 What memories come of one sweet eve when hand in hand we 
 
 strayed, 
 And through the bending orchard trees the tender moonbeams 
 
 played. 
 While heaven lay about our feet, for love a pathway made. 
 And guided both our willing steps beneath the chequered shade. 
 
 I yearn beneath the locust trees to see our children play, 
 To hear their voices sweet and clear ring on the air of May. 
 And thou with fair babe at thy knee, a household angel blest, 
 Art waiting at the hearth of home to welcome me to rest. 
 
 Love of my life, my only one, I count the lingering time. 
 That holds me from your presence dear in this far distant clime. 
 I know the flowers bloom at home and budding trees are there. 
 And long once more with you to breathe my own loved native 
 air. 
 
 For man may have uncounted gold and jewels rich and rare. 
 May see his stately mansions rise and pierce the upper air. 
 But he is poor, and starved his heart and desolate his life. 
 Unless he owns that gift of God, dear children and a wife. 
 Albany, 1847. 
 
 TO A FORGET-ME-NOT 
 
 Forget me not. 
 
 Though changing years 
 Be fraught with grief 
 
 And dimmed with tears, 
 Still in thy heart 
 
 Keep one warm spot, 
 And write thereon 
 
 Forget me not. 
 
 TO AN IVY LEAF 
 
 I change, but in dying, 
 
 Green ivy, tell 
 If in my heart 
 
 Thy message doth dwell. 
 
 TO A DAISY 
 
 He loves me, he loves me not. 
 
 Tell me true. 
 Which shall it be, Daisy, do? 
 As I pull your petals and cast down, 
 
 On my heart's hope. 
 Dear daisy, don't frown. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS' ALBUMS 255 
 
 TO A SWALLOW 
 
 Fly away to mine own heart's love, dear bird, 
 
 Fly fast on thy downy wing, 
 
 And tell her the only little word 
 
 Mine absent heart doth sing. 
 
 Is tenderest love for her, sweet bird, 
 And I would that its song she heard. 
 
 REMEMBER ME 
 
 Remember me, my friend; 
 
 Though rivers roll between. 
 And many a mountain peak 
 
 Pierces the far unseen. 
 Still in thy heart in some small place 
 Oh, save for me a little space. 
 
 TO A WILD BIRD 
 
 Like a wild bird 
 
 My thoughts of thee 
 Go soaring far 
 
 O'er land and sea. 
 Then settle down at eve to rest 
 ' Beside thee in some dear home nest. 
 
 An old time schoolgirl letter in rhyme, written at the 
 Wawayanda House when used as a home for teachers and 
 pupils of the Warwick Institute : 
 
 Within your quiet room to-night, 
 
 Oh, well-remembered friend and true, 
 
 I sit beside the glowing hearth 
 Sacred to memories sweet of you. 
 
 The sparkling fire burns clear and bright, 
 The well-trimmed lamp ditto, my dear; 
 
 But, oh, some dust upon your stand 
 Reminds me that you are not here. 
 
 Memorial of your absence drear, 
 
 I wipe it with a sigh away; 
 So goes the world like grains of dust — 
 
 We float awhile, then pass away. 
 
 A half-closed drawer and book misplaced 
 
 Proclaim the hurry of your flight, 
 Your easy chair beside me leans 
 
 Lonely and bare in vacant plight. 
 
256 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Oh, where, I ask, the friendly form 
 
 That filled thy ample depths, old chair; 
 
 It only creaks with dismal moan, 
 And echo answers, Where, oh, where? 
 
 A basket small with half-closed lid 
 Disordered on the table stands, 
 
 A pair of gloves beside it thrown. 
 Still bear the impress of your hands. 
 
 A piece of ribbon by your stool, 
 A little cushion minus pins; 
 
 Your scissors on the window-sill, 
 A gaiter string without the tins — 
 
 All, all, proclaim you far away. 
 
 While to my ear the night wind's moan 
 
 Whispers that saddest of all words, 
 To loving heart — alone, alone. 
 
 Your little slippers on the floor 
 
 Still further of your absence speak, 
 
 While even the door as shut it swings, 
 Gives forth a most lugubrious squeak. 
 
 And I, oh, pen too weak art thou 
 
 My desolation to portray. 
 Thy pen-sive look and funeral pace 
 
 Say just as plain as pen can say: 
 
 That lonely is my heart to-night, 
 And sad and sorrowful my lay, 
 
 And absent she whose sunny face 
 
 Has blessed this spot for many a day. 
 
 But, lo! the clock strikes twelve; my lamp 
 Burns dim and blue and smouldering low, 
 
 Upon the hearth the fire fades, 
 
 Bereft of sparkle, warmth and glow. 
 
 Good night, sweet friend, may rosy dreams 
 Visit your couch till morning light; 
 
 I'm very sleepy, here's a kiss, 
 Multum in parvo, so good night. 
 
 ACROSTIC 
 
 Soon as I heard my Saviour's voice 
 
 In sweetest accents say. 
 All worldly pleasures are but dross. 
 
 Earth's riches pass away. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS' ALBUMS 257 
 
 Religion is the only good, 
 
 Its joys unmixed with pain, 
 And those who taste its waters sweet 
 
 Shall never thirst again. 
 How vain appeared whate'er I had 
 
 Most highly prized before 
 Contrasted with a Saviour's love — 
 
 How cold, how faint, how poor. 
 At first my heart could scarce contain 
 
 That love so vast, so sweet. 
 That all that I had power to do 
 
 Was to embrace His feet. 
 Here while my contrite tears poured forth 
 
 I felt how vile I'd been, 
 And humbly asked His pardoning love 
 
 To wash away my sin. 
 Rivers of grace, I knew were His 
 
 On sinners to bestow. 
 If they, repenting of their guilt, 
 
 Forsook the paths of woe. 
 Now tremblingly I seemed to wait 
 
 A doom severe but just, 
 Each hope I had depended on 
 
 No longer could I trust. 
 Rising in awful magnitude 
 
 Before my startled eyes, 
 Alas, my sins appeared to view 
 
 Of more than mountain size. 
 Now hush! I heard sweet, cheering words, 
 
 Which calmed each anxious fear. 
 Despair not though in scarlet stains 
 
 Thy numerous sins appear. 
 Oh, trust in me, they shall be washed 
 
 Like whitest wool again, 
 Look upward to a Saviour's love — 
 
 His blood removes the stain. 
 Pure sovereign grace is rich, is free, 
 Here is it poured for such as thee. 
 
 A BROTHER IN CHRIST. 
 
 ACROSTIC 
 
 Had I prophetic power to look 
 
 And read the page of future days. 
 No joys perchance would grace the book, 
 
 Nor pleasures greet my anxious gaze. 
 Ah, youthful days, how soon ye pass, 
 
 How blest could we prolong your stay. 
 Sweet childhood's hours how fast, alas. 
 
 All, all are vanishing away. 
 Yet just, my Lord, is this decree, 
 
 Richly thy mercies constant shine. 
 
258 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 Ever my heart look up and see 
 
 Blest truth and wisdom both are thine. 
 
 Under the rod I'll bow and pass, 
 
 Remembering 'tis thy hands that hold. 
 
 Thou wilt not let me faint or fall, 
 But save me tried, refined as gold. 
 
 Among the varied inscriptions in the venerable albums 
 are found a few scattered In Memoriams. This is 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A MOTHER. 
 Alas, dear mother, hast thou fled, 
 
 Bade earth a long farewell? 
 Asleep in Jesus' peaceful bed; 
 
 Great God, thou hast done well. 
 
 To bear her from a world of woe. 
 
 Where joy hath little place. 
 Unto the blessed realms above, 
 
 Where she shall see Thy face. 
 
 Although her gentle form we miss, 
 
 And mourn our heavy loss, 
 Oh, it is her most precious gain 
 
 Bought on a Saviour's cross. 
 
 Ye needy poor, well may ye weep. 
 
 With such a friend to part; 
 Her ready hands no more shall give. 
 
 Moved by her generous heart. 
 
 Oh, lonely home and vacant chair. 
 
 And presence lost and dear. 
 When shall the children of your love 
 
 Forget to miss you here? 
 
 Fare, fare-thee-well, mother beloved, 
 
 We see thee now no more. 
 But in the blessed realms above 
 
 Upon the shining shore. 
 
 How glad shall be the meeting sweet, 
 
 Beyond the heavenly dome. 
 Where tears and partings are no more, 
 
 You wait to fold us home. 
 
 OUR FATHER 
 
 Our father has gone from the home of his love — 
 How lonely the house and how vacant the chair! 
 
 At the hearth, at the board, wherever we turn. 
 We miss that dear head with its silvery hair. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS' ALBUMS 259 
 
 It was here that we knelt in the evening to pray, 
 
 Led by his voice in petition sincere, 
 And here in the morning we greeted his face 
 
 As his blessing arose for his loved ones so dear. 
 
 Gathered at the old table he read us God's word, 
 And joined in the song of thanksgiving and praise; 
 
 How we listened at night for his dear coming feet. 
 And sought who should be first the door latch to raise. 
 
 A lonely, sad home and a desolate heart 
 
 Is ours, bereft of a fond father's love; 
 Oh, where shall we turn or where shall we go, 
 
 Save unto our Father in heaven above? 
 
 Our little boy is dead, 
 
 Just three years old to-day; 
 He would have been if he had lived, 
 So soon he passed away. 
 Dear, precious baby boy. 
 Our hope and pride and joy. 
 
 His empty cradle stands 
 
 So smooth and still and white, 
 Oh, can I e'er forget 
 
 How all the happy night 
 I heard his breath so soft, 
 And waked to watch him oft. 
 
 I hide my tears and try 
 
 To bear my grief and pain, 
 I know they cannot bring 
 Our darling back again. 
 But, oh, the lonely woe — 
 I miss my baby so. 
 
 They tell me not to weep, 
 
 And cheer me with kind words; 
 I see the budding trees, 
 I hear the song of birds — 
 But where, oh, where is he. 
 With baby laugh of glee? 
 
 I must, I must be still. 
 
 Nor let my grief have way, 
 I wound his father's heart — 
 Oh, streaming teardrops stay, 
 
 Make a glad rainbow for mine eyes. 
 And through it let me see the skies. 
 
26o UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 TO A FRIEND IN RETURN FOR A LOAF OF BREAD 
 
 Dear good friend of mine, 
 You can never opine 
 
 How delicious I found your bread. 
 With the taste in my mouth, 
 I declare north and south, 
 
 Among bakers your place is up head. 
 
 It is sweet, it is light, 
 And toothsome and white. 
 
 And from now till the day you are dead 
 I hope no worse fate 
 Will befall your estate 
 
 Than to eat your own excellent bread. 
 
 E. L. R. 
 When the ear is dulled 
 
 And the hand is chilled. 
 Life's roses culled. 
 And its tempests stilled; 
 Then, ah, then! what then? 
 
 TO AN ABSENT GUEST 
 
 Dear friend, I was sorry when all were assembled 
 Last night at our party to miss your sweet face. 
 
 When for the last guest the old doorbell trembled, 
 And you came not, alas, how vacant your place. 
 
 Ah, Fate was unkind and conditions were sad — 
 
 How we wish you had come, how we wish that you had. 
 
 Now accept from us all the contents enclosed. 
 
 The favors and cake and Santa Claus sorrow. 
 Next time may the Fates be better disposed. 
 
 And some happy meeting await us to-morrow. 
 And when next year Christmas appears on the scene, 
 Oh, may you be there to help hang out the green. 
 Christmas, 1859. 
 
 Couplets, mottoes and bits of verse a-many are found on 
 the pages of the old albums. Here are a few culled at ran- 
 dom: 
 
 Some friendships like roses are doomed to wither, 
 Others are twined of green live-for-ever. 
 
 A kind soul's influence will spread 
 Like treacle on hot gingerbread. 
 
 The well-spent life is the only one that can ever come to a 
 good and happy end. 
 
GRANDMOTHERS' ALBUMS 261 
 
 Do the best your life will let you, 
 And you'll get along, I'll bet you. 
 
 A heart that's callous, hard and cold, 
 Is as ice-cream shut in a mould. 
 
 If you'll never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you. 
 You'll save a mighty lot of it travelling this life through. 
 
 No shoulder is strong enough to push aside the inevitable. 
 
 Love is the only crowned king — 
 
 A subject to himself alone; 
 And what is still a stranger thing, 
 
 He knows no empire but his own. 
 
 Find one who does not trust in God, and that person is one 
 who cannot be trusted by man. 
 
 "Love not, love not, for the thing ye love may die," says the 
 old song. But I say unto you, Love, love on, love much, love 
 ever; and it will make your life blossom as the rose; for love is 
 life, and life, if it is not love, is not worth living," but is cold 
 and barren and death in life always. 
 
 Youth pulls a strong bow and often shoots beyond the mark. 
 
 Long, long ago, one darksome day, 
 I heard my gray old grandam say 
 One thing: I never yet have known 
 Sorrow and grief to come alone. 
 Single they never like to be. 
 As all must learn with verity. 
 
XII 
 
 A Last Chapter 
 
XII 
 
 A Last Chapter 
 
 [OOKING backward" has a fascination pecu- 
 liarly its own. As I close these pages, there 
 are crowding memories gathered and gar- 
 nered I long still to add. The Warwick of 
 over a century ago ! the Warwick of to-day — 
 miguty is the contrast! In 1829 word reached the town 
 that in England a locomotive called "The Rocket" had at- 
 tained tiie incredible speed of fifteen miles an hour. The 
 matter was discussed, and leading citizens decided the rumor 
 must be false, as such a rate of speed was impossible. In 
 the previous year died Dr. Benjamin S. Hoyt, one of our 
 most memorable early citizens. He was postmaster many 
 years, the mail bemg semi-weekly when he hrst took the 
 ofhce. It was kept m his home, where the Baptist par- 
 sonage now stands. He was a much loved physician and 
 had artistic tastes, drawing, cutting silhouettes and pictures 
 in sheets of paper with his penknife in a most wonderful 
 manner. After his death his daughter Henrietta presented 
 two of these framed to my aunt, one cut in a sheet of white 
 paper laid over black, the other in red over white. The 
 birds, flowers, churches, minarets, cherubs and silhouettes 
 were exquisitely done. 
 
 The wife of the Rev. Doctor Stewart, the Dutch Reformed 
 minister, who at one time, with her daughters, Martha and 
 Mary, kept a young ladies' select school in the old Hoi>'t 
 house in the village, taught this work to her pupils. Dr. 
 Hoyt also wrote, as was the custom of the day, an amusing 
 epitaph and eulogy on his living wife and hung it over the 
 chimney. John Morris Foght, Dr. Elisha Du Bois and 
 others indulged in this dubious humor. I have heard our 
 father repeat many of these old epitaphs, and greatly re- 
 gret I failed to jot them down, as was my almost invariable 
 custom. 
 
266 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 In early days the stage horn was the exhilaration of the 
 town, as that cumbrous vehicle rolled up to the postoffice 
 and deposited the mail. There was Davie Jones on his 
 spotted pony, with his saddle bags, ready to receive it. In 
 one side he stowed the Goshen papers, tlie Orange County 
 Patriot, the Whig paper published by T. W. Crowell ; the 
 Independent Republican, by James A. Cheeve, and in the 
 other the few letters the villagers received. Davie supplied 
 the eastern part of the town, going to Sugar Loaf, Chester, 
 and as far as Washingtonville ; Noah Carpenter, a cripple, 
 the M^estern district, himself, battered chair and wilful old 
 mare, well-known figures, as far as Florida. Davie Jones 
 and Spot, his pony, were both characters. Davie had ever 
 a quip and jest for all, and a compliment and smile for every 
 pretty girl. Spot once did duty in a circus, and never for- 
 got it. An oldtime resident of genius and culture was 
 John Morris Foght. He was an ardent patriot in the days 
 of the Revolution. His old "still house" was fairly cov- 
 ered with the work of his hand. On one of the broad doors 
 was painted an American eagle with outspread wings ; above 
 it floated the stars and stripes, and on a scroll in the eagle's 
 beak was this motto, "Where Liberty dwells is my coun- 
 trjy." On another door was a figure of Liberty, with Paul's 
 immortal reply to the centurion, "But I was free-born" ; 
 above her the star of Freedom, with six points, and under- 
 neath, "If I lose thee I am indeed lost." We are told by a 
 celebrated writer that "The town clerk made rhymed acros- 
 tics for the Ladies of Society." Deacon Foght was a ready 
 ihymer, and a contributor to the old albums. He inveighed 
 vigorously against "the estate of honorable penury which 
 the government reserved for its old soldiers." During 
 Great Britain's outrages in 1811 a meeting was held at the 
 house of Lewis F, Randolph to discuss the matter. Over 
 fifty citizens from far and near were present. A pacific 
 resident arose and iirged toleration and caution, even to 
 making some concessions for the sake of peace. Up sprang 
 a fiery old patriot, shouting, "I'll drink bilge water out of 
 hell's ferryboat before I'll give in one inch to King George." 
 Another weak brother told them that, as he was on his way 
 to the meeting that evening, a great white angel stood on a 
 rock by the wayside, and told him it would be useless to re- 
 sist the King, as every effort against him would fail. A 
 staunch patriot jumped to his feet and thundered, "If he 
 
A LAST CHAPTER 267 
 
 was an angel he was a black one and he lied, and his fatlier, 
 the devil, was a liar before him," No marvel these hery 
 spirits carried all before them. 
 
 It is worthy of note that eighty-three years ago, among 
 five hundred and twenty-eight taxable inhabitants of the 
 town of Warwick, Samuel S, Seward and Gabriel Wisner 
 paid the largest taxes. Susan Bertholf, a colored woman, 
 m tlie early twenties owned one-quarter of an acre of land 
 in the township, upon which she paid taxes of hfty cents a 
 year. In writing this book in nothing have I searched more 
 diligently than into the condition of slavery in Orange 
 County, and I find but one record like this : "A runaway 
 named Jack, a very good reader," belonging to Nathan 
 Hulse, 
 
 On September 13th, 1827, a company was assembled for 
 a convivial evening at a hotel in Warwick. A Mr. Wood, 
 a relative of Mrs. James Benedict, was present from New 
 York City. He had with him a copy of a paper with an 
 item stating that Charles Carroll, of Carrollton, had given 
 seventy thousand dollars toward the building of the Mary- 
 land and Ohio Railroad. A well-known citizen present 
 jumped to his feet and said, "That's a whopper; no man 
 ever had as much money as that, and I don't believe it no 
 more than I believe Ki Loat when he told here last week 
 that Deacon Sloan's old yow down to Honey Pot had five 
 lambs at one hatching. There ain't so much money to a 
 man nor lambs to a yow." 
 
 Among a dozen farms offered for sale in Orange County 
 in 1806, all but three are mentioned as having roomy, com- 
 fortable log houses. The only New York City newspaper 
 which came to our town regularly over a century ago was 
 called The Watch Tozver. Its publisher was James Cheet- 
 ham, "price $2j/^ per year, postage paid by subscriber." 
 
 Early in 1800 the beautiful horses Tippoo Saib and Nestor 
 were brought to Warwick. The first won laurels at the 
 Newmarket and Harlem races. Both were from Old Mes- 
 senger, Nestor's mother from Eclipse. Our father had a 
 team descended from Nestor, Jack and Selim, perfectly 
 matched, of great beaul^y. Selim was very fast. In 1827 
 so high ran party feeling in Warwick between the Jackson 
 and Adams factions that a meeting was called warning 
 voters against the baleful effects of intemperate partyism. 
 Every Jackson man had a hickory pole in his yard. Merry 
 
268 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 times had our ancestors in their journeys to New York City 
 by stage and by sloop aown the JdLuason, ere the Erie was 
 uiougnc oi. ine stages oi lienjaimn iirauner, ol U-osiien, 
 ran to i\ew York, Aioany, iNewDurgii and iiaston. Liiairs 
 were on iiire lor tne staiu poriion oi tiie conununity. Manjy 
 a merry junket was iield on tne good sloops as tliey glided 
 down tlie noble Hudson. A lavorite was tlie Montgomery, 
 owned by Jacob and 1 nomas jfowell, tienjamin Case, mas- 
 ter. Tlie uaty Maria, bally Jane, l^armers bon, Jfanny, 
 Sportsman and Jacket hoated up and down with jolly loads 
 and produce. 
 
 Young ministers entering on their work did not have easy 
 times m primitive days, i^lder Zelotus Grenelle used to re- 
 late that when a trembling' candidate for ordination, Elder 
 Eebbeus Eathrop strode up to him and, taking him by the 
 shoulder, said, "Come around here where i can look you in 
 the face, while God looks you in the heart." When preach- 
 ing his hrst sermon the old Elder, seated in front of the pul- 
 pit, cahed out, "Young man, you are wrong!" Eider 
 Grenelle declared he was so abashed his knees smote to- 
 gether and he sank to his seat. Doctors Thomas G. Evans 
 and Eewis Dunning were among physicians sometimes 
 called to Warwick from Goshen in consultation in the long 
 ago. The Orange County Fire Insurance Company, having 
 offices at 42 Wall street. New York, advertised a capital of 
 $400,000 in 1826, with thirteen directors. Lotteries were 
 widely advertised in the county papers, the Black River 
 Lottery having five drawings in one issue. In 1803 an itin- 
 erant fund was voted in the Baptist Association, and James 
 Burt was made treasurer of the fund. 
 
 On July 4th, 1857, the pupils of the Academy at Warwick 
 decided on a celebration. They had no flag, and resolved 
 to make one. None procurable was forthcoming in the 
 village for a pattern, nor did anjy person know precisely how 
 to make it. Our father was then owner of the Wawayanda 
 House. The teachers and about thirty pupils of the Acad- 
 emy had their home there. Mr. Spencer Palmer procured 
 for us the red, white and blue. It lay heaped on the table. 
 Puzzling was the dilemma ! In the midst of our cogita- 
 tions the stage set down at the storied old house Captain 
 Tomsey, of Brooklyn, a hearty old sea dog, on a visit to his 
 son James, a pupil at our home. He was immediately 
 made acquainted with our perplexity, and that nobody knew 
 
A LAST CHAPTER 269 
 
 exactly how to begin the work. In a trice we were in the 
 study and the bluff old salt had a correct picture of Old 
 Gloriy on the blackboard. Mrs. W. L. Benedict, assisted by 
 the teachers, soon completed it, and the jovial captain, fol- 
 lowed by the trooping school, bore it to the upper piazza 
 and unfurled it to the breeze, exclaiming, "There, boys and 
 girls, is your country's flag. The red stands for the blood 
 shed for your liberties, the white for the pure principles 
 fought for, blue for the heaven you pray to, and the stars 
 for the brotherhood of our States." His rugged, weather- 
 beaten face worked with emotion, his voice choked, his hon- 
 est eyes were full of tears. Over fifty scholars stood around 
 him and sent up a shout that made the welkin ring. He 
 then made an address to them. I recall he said the May- 
 flower came over under King James's flag, and that we did 
 not have our glorious star spangled banner until 1777. Giv- 
 ing it a last wave he said, "Love it, boys ; fight for it to the 
 last ditch, and never be a traitor to it." It was next morn- 
 ing borne triumphantly to the Academy for the exercises 
 there. In how very short a time five who stood around the 
 grand old captain that day laid down their bright young 
 lives for it ! 
 
 Deacon James Burt, of Warwick, used to relate a stirring 
 incident which he witnessed at the first Baptist Church at 
 Warwick at the outbreak of the Revolution. He said: "I 
 went to meeting with my father and uncle Whitney. Elder 
 Benedict was praving and we stopped in the door. He 
 prayed verv earnestlv for the King and that no weapon 
 forged against his majestv might prosper." At this point 
 his uncle Whitnev wheeled about toward his father and 
 said aloud, "What, is the devil in the man?" He was 
 greatlv perturbed and was with difiiculty quieted. 
 
 On the Fourth of Julv. 1844, a grand celebration of Free- 
 dom was held in the Baptist church at Warwick. Two 
 original odes, composed bv Mr. W. L. Benedict, were sung, 
 one commencine "Favored sons of noble sires." to the tune 
 of "Hail Columbia" ; the other "Cruel oppression ruled our 
 land." A verv large choir, composed of the best singers in 
 the country, officiated. Prominent clergvmen offered 
 prayer, addresses breathing the fire and spirit of patriotism 
 were made bv orators from the countv and bv mari^v resi- 
 dents, some of them of the fine old militia. The old church 
 was literally packed, the aisles, portals and yard crowded. 
 
270 UNDER OLD ROOFTREES 
 
 At the close of the exercises the venerable James Burt arose. 
 He was eighty-four years old, one of the last of our Revo- 
 lutionary veterans. The scene stirred his blood. In sol- 
 emn, trembling tones he recited how dearly our liberties 
 were bought by the fathers, and besought those present who 
 were walking in their footsteps to reverently prize them. 
 Extending his withered hands, he cried, "Let the watch- 
 word of all be 'First my God, then my country.' " Scarcely 
 had Warwick witnessed a more affecting or dramatic scene. 
 Women wept unrestrainedly. Tears wet the cheeks of 
 strong men. Fire shone in the kindled eyes of the young. 
 "I would die for my country" was written on every face. 
 
 A panther once trailed Philip Ketchum on the property 
 now called the Guion estate. It was a moonlight night ; he 
 was returning home from a call on his inamorata, and, look- 
 ing behind him, saw the stealthy beast on his track. He 
 had no arms, but a package of powder in his pocket. Pour- 
 ing it out, he rubbed it with his heavy soles along the path, 
 walking backward. The beast followed surely but slowly 
 until it came to the powder, scented it suspiciously, and 
 slunk away. All the town was on the hunt. It was shot 
 four days after by a Mr. De Graw in Bellvale Mountain. 
 In the year 1827 our mother went with her parents for a 
 visit to a relative living where now the beautiful estate of 
 Mr. E. H. Harriman lies. It was early in the winter, a 
 snow had fallen, and they drove over in a sleigh. During 
 her stay the hams and shoulders from six fat porkers were 
 hung in the smoke-house, a staunch log building, to under- 
 go a curing by hickory chips. In the night a terrible com- 
 motion was heard outside, and the family were roused to 
 find seven gaunt wolves yelping, leaping and tearing at the 
 smoke-house. Guns were quickly procured and three were 
 shot, the rest escaping to the woods. 
 
 A farmstead cellar of the olden days at the approach of 
 winter would be an alluring sight to the eyes of many a 
 straitened housewife in these. Let me give a picture of one 
 I hold in memory: The meat from fifteen corn-fed hogs, 
 in hams, shoulders, sausage, head cheese, pork ; numerous 
 stone jars preserving in lard chops, tenderloin and roasts. 
 Beef from two mighty bovines weighing hundreds. Several 
 firkins of butter, each containing from fifty to eighty pounds. 
 Casks of cider and pear sauce. Barrels of delicious sweet 
 cider and amber pure vinegar. Boxes of eggs packed in 
 
A LAST CHAPTER 271 
 
 wheaten bran. Bins of choicest apples. Honey dripping 
 sweetness, only surpassed by the contents of the jugs of de- 
 licious maple syrup. Jellies of apple, cherry, plum, peach, 
 and the riotous wild grape fill the shelves of the old cup- 
 boards, looming darkly from webbed corners. Then the 
 garret, with nuts, dried fruit and savory herbs, and the 
 meal-room with wheat, rye and buckwheat flour and corn- 
 meal, sack crowding sack. And this is the way they win- 
 tered in the good old days. 
 
 In the year 1813 Lewis F. Randolph purchased of An- 
 drew Hathorn nine acres of land in Warwick, for which 
 he paid $30. The witnesses to the purchase were Peter F. 
 Hathorn and Thomas PL Burt. The youngest mother I 
 have traced in old Warwick was Mrs. Andrew Houston. 
 She was married at eleven years of age, and her son, Col. 
 W. W. Houston, was born when she was twelve. The 
 strongest man was John Wood. He could lift with his 
 single right arm a chair from the floor holding a man weigh- 
 ing iqo potmds. The smallest woman was Bettv Smallev. 
 The largest child was born in the 1700's in the Sanfordville 
 district to a Mrs. Decker. It weisfhed 21 pounds. The 
 mother and father were both over six feet tall. 
 
 As I pass from under the old rooftrees and gently let 
 fall the latch of each door. I feel I part with o-oodlv com- 
 pany. For many months I have been a guest at the familiar 
 hearths, have heard the stories of their roman'^e. tragedv, 
 pathos and humor. Those e'athered around have never 
 wearied in the telling. As I finish, a great sea fog arises 
 "on broad grav wings of gloom" and settles down on the 
 noble harbor, the sparklinsr bavs and shining rivers of mv 
 adopted home. A salt breath of the sea steals in and I 
 feel resfretfullv I am not on mv "native heath." where'! 
 earnestlv wished to write these pas'es. There must still lie 
 hoarded recollections rich in interest vet untouched. I lonsfed 
 to JTather. A mist of foreetfulness. dense as the one now 
 enshroudinfr mv view, was blotting out manv personalities 
 and scene*; Avorthv to be preserved and cherished. I have 
 endenvored to draw pside its curtnin, and trust in so doing; I 
 shall awaken a deeper interest in our loyal, courageous, steadfast 
 fathers ; our faithful, loving mothers. May we their children 
 keep their""memories green, and the voices of the past be 
 pleasant to our ears ! 
 
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