USA > Connecticut > New Haven County > Wolcott > History of the town of Wolcott (Connecticut) from 1731 to 1874, with an account of the centenary meeting, September 10th and 11th, 1873 and with the genealogies of the families of the town > Part 28
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* Here the author, William Maxwell, Esq., lived for some time, when a boy, under the care of the Rev. Israel B. Woodward, pastor of the place, pursuing his preparatory studies for admission into Yale College. The death of that gentleman, communicated in the letter of a friend, first sug- gested the idea of this poem.
+ Elizabeth river, Virginia.
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And hope a shorter passage to the sky. Mild were the virtues of the village train, The rural virgin, and the faithful swain ; Hid from the world, unconscious of its arts, While Peace and Innocence possessed their hearts. Virtue beheld them with approving eye, And vice confessed her homage by her sigh. There Woodward reign'd the genius of the place, The friend and guardian of the simple race. And well the pastor led his little flock, Thro' peaceful meadows to the gushing Rock ; Himself before, lest they should go astray, His only care to help them on their way,- Fulfill his office, and approve his love To the great Shepherd of the fold above.
'Twas on a hill just rescued from the wood, The Preacher's hospitable mansion stood, Where oft the taper, with inviting ray, Allur'd the stranger from his weary way, And oft the cheerful table spread its best To win the smile of some unbidden guest. Beside the fence bloom'd many a graceful vine, The blushing rose, and sweeter eglantine ; Before the door, the green sward, trim and gay, Entic'd the lamb and little child to play. Spring set her flow'rs, too beautiful to last, And Winter nipp'd them with unwilling blast.
Here, led by Heav'n, a happy child I grew, Fresh as the wild rose in the morning dew; The bird tliat carol'd on the hawthorn by, Less gay, and scarce more volatile than I. Then oft the groves and solitudes around Bore witness to my lyre's unskillful sound; So soon I felt the darling passion strong, And lisp'd the feelings of my heart in song. I knew the merry mock bird's fav'rite tree, And dear enough his wildwood notes to me;
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I aim'd no death against the robin's breast, The sparrow twitter'd fearless on her nest : Young as I was, a visionary boy, I felt a sympathy with Nature's joy ; And Woodward, happy as myself the while, Look'd on, and owned my pleasure with a smile. Not his the brow of dark, forbidding frown ; With graceful ease his spirit would come down To share my childhood's inoffensive play. With useful freedom, profitably gay; Pleased from his graver studies to unbend, And lose awhile the master in the friend; To win and guide me still his constant view, At once my teacher and my playmate too. Thus, all unknown the anxious cares of man, How fair the morning of my life began ! My head unburdened with Ambition's schemes, Light all my slumbers, innocent my dreams; Too sweet the scenes my playful fancy drew, And Hope half whisper'd, "You may find them true." Stay, rude Experience, hear my pleading sigh, Nor bid these visions of Remembrance fly. Why wake the dreamer from his smiling sleep? Why wake the dreamer to be wise and weep?
Each season then in her successive reign, Brought some peculiar blessing in her train. 'Twas sweet when Spring renew'd the faded scene, And dress'd the landscape in her cheerful green; When little birds on ev'ry conscious tree, Renew'd their songs of simple melody ; And many a tender, many a merry lay, All sweet, came mingled from the budding spray : All sweet, but sweeter sung the happy swain, While smiling Beauty listen'd to his strain.
Next Summer came with soft luxurious sweets, And lur'd our footsteps to her green retreats. Now sweet to ramble thro' those waving trees,
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And breathe the fragrance of the ev'ning's breeze ! The moon looks down with chaste and tender beam, And smiles to see her image in the stream. In silent joy we gaze upon the sky, Till the sweet pleasure melts into a sigh. Or let me pause upon the mountain's brow (Where oft the Muses listen to my vow), And view with eyes that fondly overflow, The various beauties of the scene below - Lawns, mountains, villages, in fair display, All soften'd by the sun's descending ray. Thy steeple, Southington, that high in air, Invites the rustic to the house of pray'r : And spread around it, many a smiling plain, Waving with harvests of the golden grain. The farmer's mansion, fair in modest pride, With barns of plenty rising at its side ; Bright running streams that shine between the hills, While fancy hears the music of their rills ; And, far retreating into fading blue, Old Carmel mountain closing in the view. O lovely scenes so dear to me before ! O lovely scenes that I shall see no more ! Still may thy wilds bloom ever undecay'd, A grateful shelter to the mountain maid ! Still may thy charms in all their beauty shine ! For other eyes-but never more for mine.
And now, with all his shining honors crown'd, Rich Autumn strews his treasures all around - And sweet it is to snuff the swelling gale, That steals its fragrance from yon bending vale, Where lusty Labor makes his toil a play, And smiling bears his yellow spoils away : Or here I wander o'er the custom'd hill, . Where lovely Nature smiles to see me still, Viewing the foliage of her lively trees, That gayly rustle in the passing breeze ; Too vain to gratify admiring eyes
REV. ISRAEL B. WOODWARD. 369
With all the fancy of their various dyes - Ah! soon to vanish, when the falling leaf Suggests its moral to the heart of grief.
Last, Winter comes with all his dear delights, His cheerful days, and still more cheerful nights ; His songs and pastimes that can never tire, And charming tales around the sparkling fire ; While storms without, tho' terrible their din, Endear the silence of the calm within. The sun has set behind yon dusky trees ; Shut close the door upon the whistling breeze, Now heap the fire, and trim the cheerful light, To welcome in the pleasures of the night ; While Phebe carols to her humming wheel, Or little Mary turns the winding reel, Perhaps the merry doctor sings his song, Or tells a story to the list'ning throng ; While Woodward, still with gay, good natured mirth, As playful as the kitten on the hearth, Improves the joy with charms that never fail, And draws a moral from each harmless tale. Shut close the door,- winds whistle as ye will,- The storm may come, but we'll be happy still.
So passed the joys that charm'd my early youth,- Dear fleeting joys of innocence and truth ; As roses die upon the summer wind, And leave a sad sweet memory behind.
Fair was the scene, when Sunday's smiling day Call'd the good villagers to praise and pray ; When up the hill in order they repair, To join their pastor in the house of prayer : The sober matron, in her russet best, Her little infant smiling at her breast ; The blooming maid,- her eyes are raised above,- Her bosom sighs,- but not with earthly love ; The swain, unconscious of his resting plow,
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And free to seek a nobler service now, Forget alike their labors and their sports; They meet their Maker in his earthly courts. Away with earth! I see the Preacher rise ! And hark ! he speaks ! a message from the skies ! No poor ambition, void of grace and sense, Betrays his tongue to gaudy eloquence ; He scorns the tricks of vain theatric art, That catch the eye, but cannot cheat the heart. Warm, but yet prudent, is his temper'd zeal ; He feels himself, and makes his hearers feel. How sweet the accents of that silver tongue, That wins the old, and fascinates the young ! The scoffer hears at last, and, undeceiv'd, Wonders to find how much he had believ'd. Ev'n children listen to the simple style, And half divine the doctrine by his smile.
Where yonder locust overhangs the stream, And contemplation loves to sit and dream ; Those parting trees the village school disclose, Where little children, rang'd in shining rows, Whisper their tasks as busy as you please, And murmurs rise, like hum of hiving bees ; All trim and shining in their best attire, They wait with awe the coming of the Squire ; But Woodward most their beating hearts attend,- Well known by all to be their dearest friend. This quarter day they feel resolved to shew Quite all they know, and something over too. And see, he comes ! the whisper flies around : Now all is still, and silence rules the ground. On him alone their eyes intently gaze, And little bosoms tremble for his praise ; For he shall mark where bashful merit lies, Tho' half conceal'd by modesty's disguise, And crown the petty candidate for fame, Who lifts an artless blessing on his name. And soon the tale thro' all the village flies,
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How little Reuben won the letter'd prize. The mother, too, with fond and simple joy, Tells how the Pastor call'd her son "good boy," And how he said-she never can forget- " He'll be a man before his mother yet." O tender scenes of innocent delight ! But ah! no more !- they vanish from my sight - Like colors melting in the ev'ning skies. What shades of darkness gather on my eyes ! See ! there they move, yon sad funereal train ! Wind round the hill, and seek the lowly plain. They bear him off upon that gloomy bier : They bear him off and leave me weeping here, And now they hide him in the narrow grave ! My sorrows flow - alas! they could not save !
O Wolcott ! all thy pleasant days are fled ! Thy friend, thy father, rests among the dead ! The hand of Death has wither'd all thy flowers, And Winter howls along thy leafless bowers. Thy hills that echo'd to the lowing kine, Thy plains where golden harvest us'd to shine, The tuneful groves -all, all, have felt the wound ; And all is still, and desolate around.
Now let me seek that silent scene once more, And trace the path so often trod before ; Move o'er the vale, a silent shade of woe, While sorrow wakes, and bids my eyes o'erflow ; Gaze at the spot, seen dimly thro' my tears, The peaceful nest of early happy years, And drink once more the murmurs of the grove, Where oft together we were wont to rove- Then turn, and pause on that forsaken hill, Beneath the moon's pale beam, when all is still ; And O! yet dearer to my mourning breast, Steal to the grave where Woodward takes his rest ; Bedew with faithful tears the grassy mound, And mix my sighs with those that breathe around.
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I reach the hill, but tremble to ascend. I fear to meet my dear departed friend. These mossy tresses floating from the trees, Too sadly murmur on the passing breeze ; Unearthly voices whisper in the air, And all is dark, and changed, to my despair. There stands the house of God! I know not how - It looks not as it did -how silent now ! Is this the meadow so loved before ? Alas ! how faded ! it shall bloom no more ! Yon drooping elm, that dear familiar tree - It hangs its head -it is to weep with me ! And the sweet green on which my childhood play'd - Ev'n the sweet green, is wither'd and decay'd ! I seek the house, my dear abode so late : He comes not now to meet me at the gate. How still and mournful is the silent hearth, Once the dear scene of Nature's simple mirth ! No more the doctor, or the cheerful Squire, Shall crack their nuts and jests around the fire ; No more the maid her humming wheel suspend, To hear the tale of sorrows without end ; Nor I, the least of all the harmless train, , Shall taste those joys of innocence again.
But where is she, the partner of his heart? Perhaps in some recess she mourns apart. Ah! no ! she would not linger here alone ; Spoil'd is the nest, the wounded dove has flown, And whither, whither will the mourners fly ? Who now will kiss the sorrow from her eye? Her father's hospitable home is near, And friends and kindred shall embrace her there ; And she shall feel the solace of their love,- But sigh for him whose spirit soars above.
I too must leave this sad deserted scene ; It soothes no more to be where I have been. Lost all the charms my bosom held so dear.
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Alas ! I feel I have no business here. O gentle stream, whose melancholy flow Now bears a sympathy in all my woe ! Ye trees, whose sorrow-soothing branches wave In mournful murmurs o'er my Woodward's grave ! Ye groves, where Silence and Despondence dwell ! Ye rocks, still vocal with his funeral knell ! One parting look - one sad, one final view - One look - and now - eternally adieu !
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'Tis past ! the vision leaves me like a dream ! Again I rove beside my native stream, And see ! the colors of departing day Are fading slowly, silently away; While yon bright star, the herald of the night, Comes smiling forth, and sparkles with delight. So would I steal from life's tumultuous throng, And leave a world where I have liv'd too long; So pass away, unseen by human eyes, And melt serenely in my native skies ; Yet not extinct - the soul that God has given, Shall shine forever, as a star, in heaven !
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THE CENTENARY MEETING.
THE CENTENARY MEETING.
FIRST DAY.
September 10th and IIth, 1873, will long be memorable days in the town of Wolcott,-they being devoted to the first centennial celebration of the Congregational Church and Society of that town *. The day opened with clear sky and promise of good weather; though a little cool. Precisely at sun rise the church bell began to ring, and the effect was thrilling to the ear, while the imagination ran over the hundred years past, contrasting it with the present, and calling up the changes and onward march of events during these years. '
At ten o'clock the bell rang again, for the assembling of the people in the large tent constructed for the occa- sion in the center of the green.
After a little delay from the coldness, of the morning air, the audience gathered at the call of the drum band, the old honored band of Wolcott, playing an old fash- ioned tune, in charming style. Then followed the singing of a hymn from the collection printed for the -occasion. The hymn begins : -
Oh, 'twas a joyful sound to hear Our tribe devoutly say, " Up, Israel, to the temple haste, And keep our festal day."
It was sang to the old tune "Mear." In the singing, the
* The meeting would have taken place on the 18th of November, but for the fact that the coldness of the weather would have rendered it impracti- cable at that time of the year.
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choir were accompanied by a cabinet organ, bass viol, vio- lin, and silver flute, all played with skill and power. In the choir were skilled singers, old and young, natives of Wolcott, mostly, and residents here and from abroad. These, with the large audience, who were supplied with the hymns, sang with gladness and spirit. The one hun- dred and forty-seventh Psalm was read, and seemed pe- culiarly appropriate. A prayer, offered by Rev. A. C. Beach, a former pastor, touched all hearts, and very happily opened the meeting in the right spirit. The singing of the next hymn,-
Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing,
to the old tune of "Exhortation," added to the interest of the meeting.
The acting pastor, Rev. S. Orcutt, made a brief and pertinent address of welcome. He alluded to the nature of the occasion, and the auspicious circumstances of the day, and announced that the exercises had been arranged to cover two days, and would consist of historical ad- dresses, old fashioned music, and off hand remarks by former residents and other friends of the town.
After the welcome the Rev. A. C. Beach was intro- duced, and began his remarks by avowing his deep inter- est in the occasion. As he reviewed the hundred years, he found his own pastorate covered one-seventh of that period. While lamenting that he had done so little, he yet rejoiced in his work, and was grateful to God for sparing him to witness this hour. There came to his mind mingled memories,- pleasant and sad. The monu- ments in the grave yard reminded him of loved ones gone before, to a better land. His only surviving son was born here, and this son he was glad to speak of to-day as a minister of Christ. He made a playful allusion to the fact that some thought that the son excelled the father, and for his part, he half believed it.
After another hymn, a paper prepared for the occasion,
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on the settlement of the town and organization of the First Society was read by Rev. H. R. Timlow, of South- ington. This paper consisted in part of extracts from the first chapters of the History of Wolcott.
After the reading of this paper, Mr. A. Bronson Alcott, of Concord, Mass., was introduced. He said he was proud to stand there as the descendant of John Alcock, the first settler. He alluded to the name as being Al- cock, originally, but that it had been changed to Alcox, and also to Alcott. John Alcock was a surveyor, and owned about twelve hundred acres of land. He had four sons and four daughters. To each son he gave a farm, and to each daughter, as she was married, he gave an endowment. Two settled at North Haven, and one each ' at Bristol and Plymouth, Conn. He spoke of the grave- yard as containing the dust of the past generations, and was happy to-day to do honor to the memory of the good who had lived here. He was ready to praise them for what they did and suffered. Living, as they did, quite a mile apart, there was but little social intercourse, ex- cept on the Sabbath. Nor were there roads, as now,- only paths. Neither had they many horses, and they went chiefly on foot. He humorously gave his recollec- tion of old-time ministers and usages. Human nature was the same then as now, and about as unimpressible. He was taught the catechism -both Westminster and that of the Episcopal church. These two streams he thought about satisfied the wants of his nature. Boys and girls carried their shoes in their hand until near the church, when they would put them on. The tithing-men were around to keep order. His description of the big hats and ill-fitting garments that clothed the boys, was laughable. He thought that, on the whole, the young people behaved better in church than they do now. The first preaching he remembered was that of Rev. John Keys, pastor from 1814 to 1822. Mr. Keys was highly educated, and conducted a school, which was flourishing,
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and of great use to the town. It was the custom then for children to repeat the text at home, giving chapter and verse, and often the whole chapter was read in the family. Mr. Alcott said he early began to take notes of the sermon, a fact that was a discipline to him of great service in after life. After sunset, on the Sabbath, there was great liberty, and then the "courting" was done. He spoke of the farmers going to church in warm weather with the coat upon the arm. The clothing of both sexes was home-spun. He told of his first appearance in broad- cloth, and how he earned the money to buy the suit,- his pride when going to church, and how he was “ taken down" by the remarks of bystanders. He spoke of his early thirst for knowledge,- how he gathered, from the neighborhood, old almanacs and papers, and finally coming across a copy of "Pilgrim's Progress," how he devoured it. This book he commended to the young be- fore him as a priceless treasure.
No report can do Mr. Alcott's remarks justice, for his mirthfulness cannot be transferred to paper.
There were exhibited at this time a number of articles over a hundred years old. A dozen or more chairs on the platform, each of which indicated a hundred years of use ; a table, also of the same description, covered with a home-spun linen table-cloth, that was more than a hundred and twenty-five years old, yet perfectly white, and good as new ; a large, elegant book, over two hun- dred years old, imported from England by the Pritchard family, and a number of other articles of smaller value.
Rev. W. W. Belden was introduced, and made remarks of interest concerning the Governors Wolcott, after the younger of whom this town was named. He also gave some account of the historical occurrences on the tenth of September,-the day on which the meeting was being held.
At twelve o'clock a recess was taken for two hours, during which time the large company partook of a col-
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lation on the green; the ministers and speakers, their wives and families, being invited to the parsonage for din- ner and rest. During this recess many old friends shook hands and talked over old times, and "seemed young again." The weather being the most delightful possible, all were glad as in the days of youth ; though the re- membrances spoken of brought tears to many eyes.
Re-assembling at two o'clock, at the call of the drum band, a hymn was sung, and prayer offered by Rev. Mr. Belden. A paper containing the names of the ministers of the town, and the length of their services, was read by Rev. J. Wickliffe Beach, from which it appeared that the settled pastors have been seven ; the whole number of years they served were seventy, an average of nearly ten years. In one hundred years the church has had ninety years of preaching services,- or 4,680 Sabbaths, or 9,360 sermons. The expense of hiring ministers eighty-five years amounted to $42,500, $3,000 of which had been paid by the Connecticut Home Missionary Society.
Another paper containing a short account of the or- ganization of the Congregational church in Wolcott, was read by Rev. William P. Alcott.
Mr. A. Bronson Alcott, by desire, then read the fol- lowing address from the pen of Edward Bronson Cooke, Esq., editor of the Waterbury American :
FRIENDS AND CITIZENS OF WOLCOTT: - Having been invited on behalf of the committee, to furnish some reminiscenses of my youthful days, in regard to the town and people of Wolcott, on this great occasion, I most cheerfully comply, hoping that the facts and incidents will interest many of my hearers, and meet their approbation and acceptance. Though not a native born citizen, yet I am no stranger here, having a family relationship through the medium of the Wolcott Upsons, the grandmother of the wri- ter being Jemima, the daughter of Joseph Upson, who married my grandfather, Moses Cooke, of Waterbury, in 1766, a lineal de- scendant of Thomas Upson, the ancestor of the Wolcott and
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Waterbury Upsons, all original proprietors and first settlers, who came from Farmington and Hartford in the company of the Rev. Mr. Hooker, all of Puritan stock and lineage. The writer also has the honor to claim his descent from the Bronsons, Judds, Por- ters, Scotts, and others, all of whom were original proprietors of Waterbury, including Wolcott, Middlebury, Watertown and Ply- mouth.
Thus having defined my position, I claim the undisputed right to an eligible seat in this august assemblage, both by propinquity of blood and courtesy, and to all I cordially extend the right hand of fellowship. Now, having passed the eightieth mile stone of one hundred years, I am here to answer to the long centennial roll call, the oldest survivor of whom probably being present, although unknown to the writer, but whoever he may be, I congratulate him upon having lived to the present period, and witnessed the . grand march of events as they have rolled onward, introducing new ideas and modern inventions in the industrial world,- on the farm, in the workshop, the manufactory, and the warehouse. Within the last century, the steam engine, steamboats, canals, railroads, and, to crown all, the genius of a Morse has invented the light- ning telegraph, followed by the lightning printing press, revolution- izing time and space, and uniting together the whole universe by a girdle around the world, making the most distant inhabitants next door neighbors.
Among my earliest impressions of Wolcott, the names of Gates Upson, Col. Streat Richards, and the Rev. Israel B. Woodward, were the most familiar I can call to remembrance. The former, Mr. Upson, came to Waterbury about 1802-3, and taught the Waterbury Center District School, consisting at the time of about one hundred scholars, ranging from five to eighteen years, of both sexes,- at that time being deemed one of the hardest schools in the country. Fortunately, however, for all parties concerned, he was equal to the position, both as a teacher and disciplinarian, having but on two occasions to administer corporeal punishment during the whole term, proving himself a most thorough and com- petent instructor, and an honor to his profession, acquitting him- self to the entire satisfaction of his patrons. A model man in all respects, leaving behind him a reputation and influence which
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was felt for many years after he left the town and district, whom we did not again meet until the installation of Rev. Mr. Keys, in 1814.
The first time I ever saw Wolcott, was at a General Training held there about 1803, the regiment of which at that time being commanded by Col. Streat Richards, who, by the virtue of his office, ordered the regiment to parade at Wolcott,- the only time that Wolcott was ever honored by that distinction. The Colonel was then in his prime and glory; a man of wit, of strong impulses, of a gay disposition, well calculated for a popular officer, having that pride and ambition which consti- tutes the essentials of a military profession, but not averse to show, or " fuss and feathers," when having an opportunity to show himself off upon a well trained charger, clad in the old colonial or revolutionary uniform, with well powdered wig, ruffles on his bosom and at the wrists, high white-topped boots, three-cornered plumed hat, a la mode,-the old regime of the Baron Steuben school, forming an imposing picture of the olden time. The Colonel felt his station, and casually observed to a brother officer, that on Sunday the Lord commanded, but to-day (Monday), his day, he was in command,- and the troops found it out during the day. Waterbury being so near at hand, all the boys from eight to fifteen were bound to attend, and although wheel con- veyances were scarce at that time, they organized a company, and resolved to foot it over the hills to the town center, starting from home an hour or two before daylight, arriving there just as the glorious sun gilded the eastern horizon, in time to see the out-of- town companies enter the village, and headed by martial music and colors flying, were conducted by the adjutant to the station for inspection. Captain John Kingsbury, of the old light infan- try, being brigade inspector, and Garret Smith adjutant. This occupied the forenoon till dinner, which was taken under the shade trees on the green, the boys participating in a shilling cut, after which the regiment took up the line of march to an open field, about a mile east of the center, where the parade and review took place, with all the pomp and circumstance of the old time General Training. Wolcott bore off the palm, as she always did, by her soldier-like bearing, neat and tidy uniforms,
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