USA > Connecticut > Litchfield County > Winchester > Annals and family records of Winchester, Conn.: with exercises of the centennial celebration, on the 16th and 17th days of August, 1871 > Part 56
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REV. S. B. FORBES .- Ladies and Gentlemen : It is proper that I should say, in behalf of the writer of this address, that if it seems broken, it is because its great length forbids that only fragments should be read to-day.
Mr. Forbes then commenced the reading of the portion of the address assigned for the day, and Mr. Stephen A. Hubbard, of the Hartford Courant, read the concluding portion.
The address, which occupied an hour and a quarter in reading, is not here printed, for the reason that it is a digest of the author's history of the town, and would involve a repetition of what is herewith published as the main part of this book.
After a chorus by a choir selected for the day, the exercises of the fore- noon were closed, and an hour was spent in partaking of an excellent col- lation, and in more direct personal and social interviews and greetings among old friends, who had not, in some cases, met for years. It was a happy hour.
586
ANNALS OF WINCHESTER,
AFTERNOON EXERCISES.
After the audience was called to order again by the President, and after music by the band, the Poet of the occasion, Rev. C. H. A. Bulkley, of Malone, N. Y., was introduced, who remarked that he was largely in- debted to the historical notes of Hon. John Boyd for the material of his poem; and proceeded to deliver, in a clear voice and with much energy of manner, the following
POEM.
A RIIYME OF WINCHESTER.
Why all this crowd and pinch and stir In our old town of Winchester ? Why speech and song and heart-trne chime
Here, in the hot mid-summer time ?
Why ripple laughs and shouts, like rills, Amid these rock-ribbed Litchfield hills ?
Why come these sons and danghters far From homes of peace or fields of war, From prairies or Pacific slopes, With planter's gains or miner's hopes,
From Southern plains or Northern monnts ? From commerce marts or wisdom founts ?
With grasping hand and greeting word, Why are their hearts so deeply stirred, Their eyes so tearful, yet so bright, Their lips so trembling at the sight Of once smooth cheeks by Time's hand wrinkled, And brows with loeks of silver sprinkled ?
To-day, swift steeds of memory travel back A hundred miles of fruitful years, Faster than steam car on the iron track, To bring the thoughts, the hopes, the fears, The joys and griefs that heap the piers Of that far time, the precious freight Of lives long passed beyond death's gate, That now on our remembrance wait.
A hundred years ! battalion strong Of veterans, on our hearts they throng, Marshaled in ancient, homespun uniform, After the end of life's hard strife and storm, To tell of toils, of victories and defeats, A century through ; when either war's fierce heats Or arts of rugged peace dropped grain or grime From off the changing pendulum of time. What changes, in those years of five seore span, Have marked the face of nature and of man ! Here, the rude region, ere their steps began,
587
CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.
Lay a huge giant, with his granite arms Clad in the verdure of the forest's charms, The pine and hemlock, chestnut, oak and beech, 'Mid which the Indian waked the panther's screech, Chased frighted deer, the wildeat and the bear, With their warm fur to fight the frosty air. No meadows rich, no uplands smooth and fair, No prairies wide gave grain with little care; The rocks, where sheep could but hill noses ply, Said to the emigrant, "Root, hog, or die !"
Bold, sturdy men and women were they, Who felt that life was no time for play, When they braved this rocky region, They delved 'mid dangers without dismay, They sweetly slept on brush or hay, Though their troubles counted legion ; They lived on mush from Indian maize, And scared off wolves with hemlock blaze, And kept hearts strong with godly praise, Sustained by their religion.
In homespun style they cured their pork, And ate it without silver fork ; They shaved their shingles, split their laths, Cut timber from their forest paths, Built their rude kilns, made their own lime, And raised their log house in due time. Their wives, because sometimes so fat, Were their own cheese-press, when they sat ; Their children were well-spanked and rocked, Their boys well-breeched, their girls well frocked From wool, all carded, spun and wove By their own hands with hearts of love.
They talked not then of " women's rights," From pulpit-desks or platform-heights ; They were more proud to make a coat Or pair of pants than shave a note ; To overcast, than cast a vote ; Their candles, soap, and flaxen cloth, Their woolen garments, kept from moth, They deemed more worthy man's true praise, Than soft soap speech or flaxing phrase ; They never dreamed of "free love" things, Nor thought to break their marriage strings, But loved their husbands and obeyed God's law, in giving birth to aid The nation by a sturdy race, Not having learned the modern grace To shirk the mother's care and cheat The nurse and doctor of their meat.
588
ANNALS OF WINCHESTER,
They were a race prolific ; many a Cook, Who boiled his beans beside the babbling brook ; A HANDEE, handy at the hoe or plough, A STEELE, who dared not steal his neighbor's cow, A BURR, who stuck to labor, friends, and life, A HART, who bore all heart felt cares and strifc ; A ROGERS, who could use, not make a knife, A BATCHIELLER, who yet could boast a wife; A HOLMES, who had no homes that he could spare, A BARNES, whose barns were yet unraised in air ; And there were BULLS that never lifted horn ; Their babes, no calves, save when of cows, were born ; And ROCKWELLS, cool as wells within a rock ; MASONS, who built no brick and mortar block, CASES, that doctored many a sickly ease,
PARSONS, who never preached with godly grace ; SHEPHERDS, whose floeks were not all sheep of price, SMITHS, who at no anvil wrought, or vise ; ARNOLDS, who turned not traitors to the land, POTTERS, who worked no elay with wheel and band ; HINSDALES, who in dales or on rocks could roam, HILLS, who on hill-tops found a fitting home ; WAKEFIELDS, all wakeful on the field of death, CLARKES ne'er responsive to a prelate's breath ; MILLS that went not by water or by steam ; And HOLABIRDS who gave no hollow seream.
Time fails for all the names to come to light, Of WRIGHTS who were not always in the right ; DOOLITTLES, busy every shining honr, Or SWEETS, sometimes a very little sour ; How many to our day, not least, but last, Have through the changing generations passed ; The BEARDSLEYS, ALVORDS, GILBERTS, PHELPS, and CAMPS,
Who, history says, were neither saints nor scamps, But men, who o'er life's way in toilsome tramps, Like us, felt Heaven's warm rays or earth's chill damps ; WELCHES, hereditary doctors, who Though quick to physic, slowly come to yon, Whose doses on their patients' stomachs sit Not quite so pleasing as a " Welsh rarebit." Oh! that I could each Coe and Boyd and Hall Out of their resting places loudly call, And bid them stand, a " goodlie companie," In all their primal power and purity ; How then to them most reverently we'd bow, Those spirits of the just made perfect now, Those sires whose sons are here together met, Their virtues to recall, their faults forget.
Why were they brave and strong ? What made them true and pure ?
-
589
CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.
How dared they thus the throng Of life's hard ills endure ?
Lo! there the answer see ! Where by the village-green, The School and Church agree To shed on them Truth's shecn.
There stands the meeting-house with low steeped roof, From which no sceptic soul dare keep aloof ; Upon the hill-side, like a beacon-light, It rises sacredly in human sight,
Built on great chestnut logs instead of stones, With rough plank seats that pain the nether bones ;
The gallery, reached by ladder, opes its floor,
Through whose great gap the Parson's thunders pour; No paint, or plaster, ceiling, organ-loft, No carpet, curtain, cushion, rich and soft,
Tempts the stern sense of zealous Puritan ; No heating stove kindles his angry ban ; His zeal is all-sufficient fire to warm His body and his soul from wintry storm, He needs no carnal coals to melt the form
Of sin or snow while hell-fire fears up-swarm. Sound doctrines furnish fuel, always strong ; His orthodoxy bars out ill and wrong ; Only the weakly women, more in sin, There footstoves bring and lay beneath the shin, To warm the inner heart and outer skin .-
But in due time, as cash increases, From all their harvests and their fleeces, Another meeting-house arises, Bringing to all some dreadful crises. They meet, they talk ;- alas ! what fightings,
What bitter words, what sad backbitings, What rousings of their saintly mettle,
What pullings here and there to settle The question grand of Church-erection ; Almost to schism and defection, Those sires, so orthodox, are hitching; Where they the church-stake sh'd be pitching ; Now here 'tis down, now there uptaken, To-day, their spirits calm are shaken, Now stubborn, silent, now discussing, Now praying and now almost 'cussin' Over the stake that keeps on walking From point to point while they keep talking. A martyr-stake well nigh becoming Amid such strife, so soul-benumbing. At last,-in some more happy hour, The stake is fixed, by sovereign power.
75
590
ANNALS OF WINCHESTER,
Then in the forests ply the axes,
Then from the pockets pours the taxes, Then lotteries with their funds are streaming, And workmen in their sweat are steaming. The structure grandly grows and towers, 'Mid hopes of future gracious showers .- Within are high-backed pews to keep The worshipers from sinful sleep. The pulpit, on a pillar placed, Eight-square and ten feet tall, is braced By cork-screw stair-ways on each side ; While high o'er all, in sacred pride, With threatening look, the sounding board,
Hangs stern, like Damoclesian sword, Filling the sinner oft with dread Of holy Justice, on his head,
Though wicked urchins sometimes prate Of hopes 'twould crush the parson's pate ! Above, the gallery, ox-bowed, bends, Whence nasal strains the singer sends, When, deaconed out by drawling tongue, The hymn in old fugue tune is sung, The key-note sounded, clear and good, By Leader from pitch-pipe of wood .-
"Tis Sabbath-time ; begun last eve, When happy boys were made to grieve That Saturday was o'er, and shades Crept up the hill-sides. Swiftly fades The play-time light ; five stars are out ; Now all must leave the bat and bout, Shoes must be blacked and laid in row, Washings be made from head to toe, Clothes brushed and hairy knots combed out, To save the nails of scratching lout.
Now dawns the sacred day ; the sire And matron, filled with holy fire, Gather their tribe at morning prayer, Bid them nor lie nor steal nor swear, Their psalm and catechism hear ;- For meeting now they all prepare, In ox-cart or on foot repair, While " PA " and " MA," upon the mare, On saddle and on pillion ride, As erst they did when groom and bride, Each one, to meet his waking need, Bearing a bunch of fennel-seed .-
The meeting house is filled with sober faces, The older taking all the forward places, The younger, in the back or gallery sitting, Kept by the tithing man from talk and spitting.
591
CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.
Oh ! what a terror he, whose hand is itching To give some urchin wild a birch-rod switching, Who well deserves the keenest kind of whacking, For cracking nuts, and other sorts of cracking.
The Parson comes ! the church-yard throng Opens for him to pass along ; Loud whispers sound-" Hats off, ye boys, Girls, ' show your manners, stop your noise.' " They bow and curtesy low to him, Great bugbear to each Satan's limb. A wide, shad-bellied coat he wears,
His head, a broad brimmed cocked-lat bears,
'Neath which a white wig flows full down, As if a sheep's back were his crown ; His small clothes, like his coat, are brown From butternut, like good-wife's gown ; With silver buckles, striped liose, And top-boots to contain his toes, He mounts the pulpit, like a pope, Inspires with dread, yet talks of hope, Prays as if God were far away, Yet calls him father of our clay. Doctrines as sound and hard as rock, He hurls with logic on his flock, Who, by the hour-glass patient sit, With nods approve the heaviest hit, And smile, as they the meeting quit, That sinners were sent to the pit, And saints but scarcely saved from it.
Yet justice bids that I should say, Not thus they all did preach and pray Though each his faults and graces had, Who, like us all, mixed good and bad. There were WOODWORTH and KINNEY and wordful KNAPP, Whose sermons came forth with an eloquent snap,
That gave his dull hearers a wakening rap ; There was BOOGE, tall and handsome and straight as a pillar, And BASSETT, full sound, though in love with the "siller," And BEACH the true father whose children find CAMPS That honor his graces and gather the stamps, And he whom we welcome to-day, Parson MARSH, Ever true, cver good, oft severe, but ne'er harsh, And PETTIBONE, not of a petty bone frame, With back bone enough for a martyr's name, Who cared not for tongues and feared not the flame Of hate, for the love of the good Pastor's fame.
I might be personal to speak of others Who were my compeers and dear brothers, So let us back again to those old days,
592
ANNALS OF WINCHESTER,
And learn still more their quaintly ways. The meeting done, the crowd outpours, They stand in knots, by tens and scores, Or gather in the Sabbath-house, To eat their lunch, but ne'er carouse, Talking their politics and doctrines o'er, Counting their erops and live stock store, Amid discussions oft irate, Of foredoom, faith, free-will, and fate.
The second session o'er, they go As came they there, thoughtful and slow, Homeward to finish Sabbath-work, To dine on cold baked beans and pork, Till sundown comes, when Sabbath ends, And boys are glad, and thought unbends ; When spruced up lover quickly wends His way to her with whom he spends, Till midnight hour, the sparking time, In talk that tells the heart's true chime. Oh ! days of primal, purest love ! When, simple as the mated dove, Uncursed by Fashion's foolish ways, Young hearts rejoiced, in homely phrase To speak of marriage without shame; Sought not for gold, or style, or fame, And gladly heard their coupled name, Published from pulpit, when 'twas said, On such a day they would be wed.
Oh! happy time, when cakes and beer, And "apple-sass," made nuptial cheer, When earthen ware and pewter spoons, And frying pans sang home's sweet tunes, When wash-tubs were a woman's shrines, Her pride the clean clothes on the lines, Her sheets and bed-quilts, near a score, On closet-shelves kept well in store !
Alas ! the lover now must bring The maid's left hand a diamond ring, And weddings, secret long as may, Must show their gold and silver tray Full of rich gifts from "BALL and BLACK ;" When groom and bride must take the track, And ride to Canada and baek, Ere settling down, nor ever laek The coach and team with hoofs so quick, And livcried driver dressed so sliek, And house of brownstone or of brick, Unless they wish it said aloud That they are of the common crowd.
593
CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.
In those days scarce was silver in their tills, Worthless were all their Continental bills, Their specie was in rye and corn and lard, In pork and beans; the parson's pay came hard In tallow, suet, beef and wool and flax, From every househould brought by stated tax, For which he must well flax his flock for sin, And they in turn might flax his heart within.
It was a question though, as to the whether, His or the school-master's were toughest leather ; Who, hapless wretch, for dull and heart-sore teaching, Was boarded round by folks sometimes o'erreaching, Was hounded much by urchins full of evil, Whose nether ends seemed hung upon a swivel.
Poor little devils ! Alı ! 'tis not much wonder They could not sit still at his voice of thunder ; Since such hard seats, such air to lungs defiling, Such winsome girls before them sweetly smiling, Made them, in spite of all their wills, so frisky, E'en though to stir they knew was dreadful risky ; For, Oh ! those nine-tails made of knotted leather, Would then come down upon their tender nether ! Relieved from study, how upon the green, Barefooted, hatless, rushing are they seen, Playing at leap-frog, base-ball, snap-the-whip, The girls at mulberry bush and hop and skip.
Oh! days of that far childhood, who'd not give, The wealth of Ind, in such a time to live, When bliss it was to roll in new-mown hay, When butter-cups were gems of purest ray, When daisies drove away the darkest gloom, And sweetest perfume breathed from clover-bloom; What joy was theirs when training day came round, When fife and drum made stirring martial sound ; The village green from fences then was cleared, Full tables in the orchard near appeared, And ladies, in their lute-strings lovely stood, To serve the " sojers " with their cakes so good ; The " Kurnel" on his prancing charger came, With ostrich-plume borrowed from stylish dame, His coat of blue all decked with golden lace, And big brass buttons shining like his face ; His cocked hat nodding o'er his sword and sash, As thro' the hollow-square he made a dash, 'Mid veterans who could give the war salute, Play Indian with his whoop, and shoot The bow or musket, with an equal skill, To face the foe, but no one ever kill. What sham-fights then were seen when guns went off,
594
ANNALS OF WINCHESTER,
And swords were flashed with tongues, as if in scoff, And sweat ran freely in the stead of blood ; When eider flowed for thirst, in yellow flood, And old metheglin toddy made a muddle Amid the ranks, because some brains 'twould fuddle.
As grand a time they had when came "The glorious Fourth " with Freedom's name, When Captain Bunnell's big train-band Their four-pound field-piece drew by hand, At dawn, at noon, at evening fired, Till patriot hearts were full inspired.
The grand procession, with each guest, Poet and Orator to do his best, With President, and all the rest, Moves to the meeting-house ; each head, Uncovered, bows when prayers are said ; Hearts gladden at each patriot-word, And when the old fugue tunes are heard.
The feast of fat things comes thereafter, With ready speech and ringing laughter, While rich baked meats, without sharp mustard, With Indian puddings, pies of custard, Are eat with eager gusto greater Than ever comes with luxuries later ; All which proceedings, histories warrant, Were printed in the Hartford Courant.
Those voices, ending with the sun, Were echocd by that ancient gun, Which, since the century's evolution, In French war or the Revolution, From Cobble Hill has poured its thunder ; The dread of girls, of boys the wonder, The foe of many an ancient maiden, Who by its tones with nerves were laden, And hid it in their little garden, Where found, it came forth as the warden Of Freedom 'gainst all Federal brewing, Lest they should pull her pole to ruin. That ancient gun ! how oft 'twas crammed, With powder to its muzzle rammed, When Democrats or Whigs were found To give " darned" Radicals the fits, And scare their abolition-wits.
Why burst it not to atoms then, When crammed and rammed by hateful men ? Oh ! 'twas the nation's type of life, Which no foul play or venom-strife,
595
CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.
No fullest charge of ill could break ; Its heaviest thunder could but wake The love of freedom till it rolls In fullest tones o'er patriot-souls.
For, in the century's early time They heard her call to blood and grime, And deemed it but a duty-chime ; They answered her at Lexington, They were of troops who victory won At Saratoga, o'er Burgoyne, Who fought for king and British coin, Whose troops, defeated, o'er these ways Were marched by men we love to praise.
Since then, heroic souls, like them were found, When sadly came the South's rebellion sound, They poured from Winchester with shout and song; A brave battalion, full three hundred strong; By Skinner led, by Eddy prayed for well, Sworn ne'er to hear their country's funeral knell ; They fought, they bled, alas, too many fell ;- Frecdom's true sons, they rest where then they died ; Or in yon grave-yard, honored, side by side ; Sad memory wecps for them ; sweet flowers we strew, To thank them for our joys, they never knew ; Their names are sacred ; in our heart's deep place We walk with them in friendship face to face. Lo ! ARNOLD comes, soon as the nation calls, No traitor,-he, at Cedar Mountain, falls. BROWN, who to meet his comrade's thirsting quest Receives the rebel bullet in his breast, A Christian soldier, glad for life's war done, If dying he may see the victory won ; BELLOWS, who perished at the Hampton fight,
BALDWIN, who, e'er struck down, could calmly write, " Soon, at Cold Harbor, into strife we go, If shot, 't will be with faces to the foe !"* That son of Afrie, DOLPHIN, shows the fire Most worthy of his Revolution-sire ; HOSFORD at Cedar Creek ;- at Sharpsburg too,
COGSWELL and DAYTON perish, brave and true ;
DOWNS, FERRIS, GIBBS, and GREEN ;- the list they swell, With PALMER, COMMINS, DANIELS, all who fell Upon the field. Not less heroic they Who sadly pined in hospital away ; BENTON and BARBER, and a score beside, The gentle SURGEON WELCH, who carly died. We honor them, proud of their hero-fame, We gladly speak each soldier's worthy name;
* Written, in substance, to his mother, on the day before the battle of Cold Harbor.
596
ANNALS OF WINCHESTER,
Not less we honor those who live to-day, Here with us met, or from us far away. Ye sons of Freedom, hearts of patriot-power, We greet you here, we erown you in this hour ; We give you thanks for toils and wounds endured, By which the nation's weal was well secured ; With ancient worthies we your names unite, And on the seroll of fame your record write.
Like them, with souls that feared no terror-shape, You met the rebels' sword, and gun, and grape ; You flung fair Freedom's red-barred banner out, Starred from the sky amid the angel's shout, And to our sons, an heir-loom rich and grand, Gave it to wave it o'er a ransomed land Alas ! that men, along the Southern sand, A reckless erew, a wild, rebellious band, Should thus hive striven, by Slavery's brazen hand, Basely to unwind Liberty's strong strand, And rend in twain her banner and her land ! From mountain top, and citadel, and fort, From village-belfry, and from ocean-port, They tore it down with passion's wildest gust, And trailed its tattered fragments in the dust.
But, roused to wrath, you, sons of Northern sires, Marshaled your hosts and built your battle-fires, Trampled on traitors in their march of power, Made ranks of hate before your courage cower, And smote the hands that forged the bondman's chain, Till Freedom's songs, as erst, were sung again, And every link of wrong, o'er hell's dark brink, Was hurled forever in its depths to sink, While up and high that blazing banner went, Blood-stained, yet beautiful, though bullet-rent, To win new star-beams from the azure sky, And drink fresh hues from Freedom's sun-dipped dye.
Float on forever ! Oh thou flag of God ! O'er paths these hero-feet have boldly trod, O'er homes where martyr-souls have bled and wept, While for the dead their vigils long were kept, O'er graves that cluster countless on the fields Where to the brave, love all lier homage yields.
Float on forever, in thy might and pride, The glory-shroud for those who 'neath thee died, The flag to which the living all things gave, To make thy stripes .- O banner of the brave, The flush and fairness of perpetual youth, Thy stars all blended in one Star of Truth.
597
CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.
Grim war, gray Time, and Art's deft hand, Have stamped deep changes on the land ; Mansions of elegance and mark, Stand where was raised the roof of bark ; Churches of cost lift lofty spires, And breathe with warmth from furnace fires, Where meeting-houses, rude and old, Through gaping cracks let in the cold ; The organ's deep tones sound the stave Where pitch-pipes erst the key-note gave; The cushioned seats invite to sleep, The parson makes few sinners weep; In varnished carriages these ride To church and back again in pride, Decked with fine silks and broadcloth rich, Made by the strong machine's swift stitch ; A thousand spindles, in great rooms, Weave fabrics fine from scores of looms ; - The blacksmith's shop, which every boy Peeped into with a wondering joy, To mills and foundries huge gives place, And factories line the lengthened race, Where chisels, scythes, and knives outpour To cut and carve the wide world o'er, Where ploughs and clocks come forth from grime, To till the soil and tell the time.
Poor lunatics for board and bed, Once auctioned off so much a head, Are cared for in asylum halls ; The whipping post no more appals ; The only " Stocks" that now hold men Are issued from some Wall-street den ; State prisons stand with walls of stone, To make the lawless fear and groan ; Turnpikes are turned to railroad tracks, That tear our front yards into racks ; In cars and not on horses' backs, Men mostly ride, and women find No fun on pillions placed behind, But rather run the risk of smash, Than fail to make the swiftest dash, And fond of blowing up their own, Oft find themselves by steam upblown.
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