USA > Connecticut > Litchfield County > Litchfield County centennial celebration > Part 7
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We once heard much, though somewhat less, of late, Of dangerous unions between church and state. "Stick to thy last, St. Crispin," was the cry ; "Cobble thy shoes ! no other business try!" "Think ye," they questioned, "that your team will draw, If ye yoke up the gospel with the law ? The State machinery will sadly jar, If one wheel drives the pulpit and the bar!" Stand back ! ye croakers, we believe you not, The thing is tried, and now we know what's what. What danger, pray, in this machinery lurks ? How glib it goes ! ay, and how well it works ! No wheel, on other wheels, presumes to trench, Though a whole Church is based upon the bench.
In the " old school" of truth and honor bred, Guarding alike the living and the dead, Thy Wolcotts, grave, inflexible, sedate, Honoring at once the nation and the state ; Before us pass. The Treasury and the Bench, With moral courage never known to blench,
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POEM.
The one adorned :- the other calmly wore The robe of righteousness laid up in store, For him who lives trust-worthy to the end, The widow's counselor, and the orphan's friend.
Thy Holleys, brothers, shall they be forgot ? Who shall be named, if they're remembered not ? The vigorous off-shoots from a sturdy stem, Where will you find a brotherhood like them ? Strong as the iron wherein their townsmen deal, Ay, and as true and springy as the steel, Their forms as manly as c'er trod a deck, Their action graceful as a lily's neck, Their minds as clear as lake ice, and as cold, With hearts full grown-of nature's manliest mold, A lustre on the church and state they shed ; Early renowned, and Oh ! too early dead ; Two of the brothers in earth's bosom sleep, While o'er another's bones, rolls the remorseless deep.
Those legal Titans, who, with earthquake tread, Met on this hill for battle, and are dead, Each one a host,-all by each other schooled,- Strong, Adams, Allen, Tracy, Reeve and Gould, Kirby, Holmes, Slason, ay, and many a Smith, All of them men of marrow and of pith, Who made illustrious thy golden age, Another's pen hath touched, -himself a sage, More competent their merits to rehearse ;- A theme adapted more to prose than verse :-- With him they're left :- no ! not now are those names Entrusted to our keeping,-but to Fame's.
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POEM.
Children, like these, hast thou no cause to curse ; Nor they, in turn, their mother and their nurse. While thou regard'st them with a mother's pride, They owe thee much, nor be that debt denied. Small claim to filial love hath she in store, Who gives her children birth, and nothing more. In her arms folded, to her bosom prest, They must be nourished at her loving breast ; Taught pity by her sympathizing sigh Cheered by the light that sparkles in her eye, Braced in their arms, as round her neck they cling, And in their legs, as on her knees they spring, Then taught to walk, by tottling on the floor, And to get up, by tumbling out of door, Till, by her training, hardy, but disereet, Having acquired the use of hands and feet, With something in their heads, the little elves Are turned adrift, and told to help themselves. So do thy children, Litchfield, owe to thee, And thy hard treatment, what they've come to be ;- A vigorous race from a harsh nursery. For, when thy skies have smiled, and wept, and scowled, And thy winds cut, and sighed, and swept, and howled, And they have borne the various buffeting, They've had to bear,-they can stand any thing. So has it been since first the race began ; So must it be :- the character of man, Objects around, in nature or in art, Do much in moulding-each performs its part.
POEM. 85
Mountain, Jake, forest, waterfall, the sea, The high or low land where his home may be, His home itself,-a palace or a shed,- The air, he breathes, the soil that gives him bread, The stock he springs from, whether weak or strong, His early training, whether right or wrong, His native climate, rigorous or kind, More or less work, of muscle or of mind, The state, the church, together or alone, The ballot-box, the altar and the throne, All help, the character of man to frame, Yet leave his nature, as from God it came.
New England's air, her bleak and rocky hills, Her crystal springs, cold wells, and babbling rills, Her soil, that drives her children to their work, By this most Christian order,-" Starve the shirk,"* Have not done every thing, but have gone far, To make New England's children what they are. Her keen north-westers force the oxygen, Fresh and condensed, into her growing men ; Her unshod boys, at day-break, are astir, To pick up chestnuts, beaten from the bur By those north-westers ; and when falls the snow, And they, no longer, can nut-gathering go, They, in the snow find exercise and sport ; The snow-ball missile, and the snow-ball fort : And, as the battle rages, and cold shot Fly through the air innocuous, let us not
* " If any man will not work, neither let him eat."-ST. PAUL.
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POEM.
These mimic battles of the boys condemn ; They make the snow-balls, and the snow-balls them. These forming powers produce a race of men, Not seen before, nor to be seen again, On the round world ; a stirring, hardy race,
Keen, careful, daring, ready to embrace Peril for profit, -- in each form, or all The forms encountered by the Apostle Paul. Perils, that press around the pioneer,- The fearful antlers of the hunted deer, The ambushed Indian's arrow, or his slug, The panther's leap, or Bruin's hearty hug ; Perils that round the full-packed pedler press, Or in the city or the wilderness ; Perils of robbers, perils on the seas, Perils from heathens, Tartar or Tongese, Perils of waters, such as those assail, Who board an ice-berg, or harpoon a whale, Perils that throng the Amazon or Nile --- The anaconda or the crocodile ;
Perils from famine, perils to his neck,
From Lynch's law or the marauder's deck ; Perils from thieves, while trading at Loo-Choo, Of getting lost in finding Timbuctoo ; By the Spokanes, of having his head flatted, By the Typees, of being kept and fatted, Or, by the Feejees to a jelly beaten, Or, by New Zealanders, baked crisp and eaten ; Perils by flood and fire ; and perils then, Worse than all these-from his own countrymen :-
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POEM.
These perils all, the Yankee will despise, When he has-" speculation in his eyes."
"T were hard, indeed, exactly to define The Yankee nation, by a boundary line ; But, draw one north, that on the west shall run, Of Fairfield, Litchfield, Berkshire, Bennington, On, towards the polar Bear, till you arrive At the north parallel of forty-five ; Thence towards the rising sun, until you tread On the last rock fallen off from Quoddy Head; Between those limits, and th' indented shore, Among whose crags th' Atlantic billows roar, The region lies, of which, if e'er bereft, The Yankee nation will have little left. Here dwells a people-by their leave I speak- Peculiar, homogeneous, and unique, With eyes wide open, and a ready car, Whate'er is going on to see and hear ; Nay, they do say, the genuine Yankee keeps One eye half open, when he soundest sleeps- Industrious, careful how he spends his cash- (Though when he pleases he can " cut a dash ")- Quick at his business, in the field or shop, He'll traffic with you,-buy, or sell, or " swap;" And, if you get the better in the "trade," You earn your money, and your fortune's made. Think you to joke him, as you cross his track ? The chance is with him, that he'll joke you back ; And, if your shaft goes nearer to the spot, Than his, we'll dub you an accomplished shot.
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POEM.
Or, in this wordy war, should it ensue, That the laugh rests not upon him, but you, And, feeling galled that, in a bout at wit, He's given, and you have got, the harder hit, Should you, in wrath, attempt to tweak his nose, Or with your boot-heel grind his bootless toes ; Or should you, rather, in your fight enlist A single barrel, than a double fist, For either job,-a battle or a spat, The Yankee's ready-if it comes to that.
He loves his labor, as he loves his life ; He loves his neighbor, and he loves his wife : And why not love her ? Was she not the pearl Above all price, while yet she was a girl ? And, has she not increased in value since, Till, in her love, he's richer than a prince ? Not love a Yankee wife ! what, under Heaven, Shall he love, then, and hope to be forgiven ! So fair, so faithful, so intent to please, A "help " so "meet " in health or in disease, A counselor, at once so true and wise, Bound to his heart by so endearing ties, The cheerful sharer of his earthly lot, Whether his home's a palace or a cot, Whether she glides her Turkish carpet o'er, Or sweeps, bare-footed, her own earthen floor ; The guardian angel, who shall hold him up, While passing near the Tempter's couch or cup !- Not love his wife, so constant, and so true ! Of all unfaithful wives, how very few
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POEM.
Are there, or have there been, who made their bed, Twixt Byram River's mouth, and Quoddy's head ! And then, such house-wives as these Yankees make ; What can't they do ? Bread, pudding, pastry, cake, Biscuit, and buns, can they mould, roll, and bake. All they o'er sce ; their babes, their singing birds, Parlor and kitchen, company and curds, Daughters and dairy, linens, and the lunel For out-door laborers,-instead of punch -- The balls of butter, kept so sweet and cool, All the boys' heads, before they go to school, Their books, their clothes, their lesson, and the ball, That she has wound and covered for them-all, All is o'erseen !- o'erseen !- Nay it is done, By these same Yankee wives :- If you have run Thus far without one, towards your setting sun, Lose no more time, my friend,-go home and speak for one !
The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool, The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby ; His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it, Then leaves no stone unturned, till he can whet it : And, in the education of the lad, No little part that implement hath had. His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings A growing knowledge of material things. Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, His chestnut whistle, and his shingle dart,
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POEM.
His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod, Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad, His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone, That murmurs from his pumpkin-leaf trombone, Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win, His water-wheel that turns upon a pin ; Or if his father lives upon the shore, You'll see his ship, " beam-ends " upon the floor, Full-rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch, And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch. Thus by his genius and his jack-knife driven, Ee're long he'll solve you any problem given ;- Make any gim-crack, musical or mute, A plow, a coach, an organ or a flute, Make you a locomotive or a clock, Cut a canal, or build a floating dock, Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block ;- Make any thing, in short, for sea or shore, From a child's rattle to a Seventy-four :--- Make it, said I ?- Ay, when he undertakes it He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it. And, when the thing is made,-whether it be To move on earth, in air, or on the sea, Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide, Or, upon land, to roll, revolve, or slide, Whether to whirl, or jar, to strike or ring, Whether it be a piston or a spring,
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POEM.
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass, The thing designed shall surely come to pass ;- For, when his hand's upon it, you may know, That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.
Scc, what has come of this mercurial cast Of Yankee mind, within a century past ; Nay, within half that time ;- come, go with me, To such a farm-house as we used to see, Or may see yet, on any of the hills, That, with his sons, the Litchfield farmer tills. No wave of wizard's wand, we need to throw Ourselves back, half a century ago- Let us go in, then, friend-sit you down there, On that board stool, or splinter-bottomed chair ;- Beside the blazing fire of hissing logs, Kept from the hearth-stone by cast iron dogs. - There, on her lowly scat, the housewife see, A pair of hand-cards pressed upon her knee ;- " Persall and Pell," upon the back displayed, Informs the world by whom those cards were made ;- A heap of cotton, lying by her side ;- Cotton that her own hands have washed and dried ; And, as her busy hands their task perform, White as a snow-wreath, in a Christmas storm, The pile of rolls swells slowly, as the day, Wasting her patient spirit wears away. Then, when, at last, her weary labor o'er, The raw material taken from the floor, On her left hand, and by her magic sleight Laid loosely in the basket on her right,-
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POEM.
Then comes the thought-who doth not with her feel ? " These rolls must now be spun upon the wheel !" The spinning wheel ! ne'er was that monster dumb ! Early and late, you heard its doleful hum ; E'en from the rising to the setting sun, Early and late, the weary woman spun, With only this, to help her bear the curse --- " A fearful looking for" of something worse. Yes :- for although you may have held it hard, Day in and out, that cotton thus to card ;- Though you might almost hold it as a sin, Day in and out that cotton thus to spin ;- We must insist upon it, with your leave, 'T were worse, that cotton in a loom to weave. And could that woman, as she sat so meek, Carding her white rolls,-or as, week by week, Her spindle's dull, premonitory hums Were heard, have failed to think of spools, and thrums ? Have failed to see, amid the gathering gloom, The reed and treadles of the approaching loom ? Let us be just. That true devoted dame- .
We need not name her here, nor fear to name Her labor lay in no ignoble line : She may have been your mother ;- she was mine- Let us be just ;- that faithful woman had
One thought, amidst her toils, to make her glad. Her mother's lot, compared with hers, was hard :- Her mother had no cotton wool, to card ; And, to her mother's lot it never fell, To use the cards, made by Persall and Pell.
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POEM.
Her mother's wheel-it may have been as big As was her own,-it was not, yet, so trig :- She'd seen such progress, in the arts of life, As much to aid the mother and the wife, Where'er the husband or the child might roam, In making, for them both, a happy home.
O, had that house-wife as, fatigued with toil, She sat and watched to see the kettle boil, For evening tea, observed the iron crown Of her tea-kettle bobble up and down, And seen the vapor, as it issued out, Snow-white, and hissing, from the heated snout ; Wreathe itself up, all spirit-like and warm, Into the semblance of an angel form ; Seen it unfold its wings, and heard it say- " Woman, fear not, for thou shalt see the day, " When I, yes I, the vapor that I seem, " Of fire and water born, and baptized Steam,
" Will save you all this labor : I will gin " Your cotton first,-then will I card and spin, " Reel, wash, dry, spool the filling, size the warp ; " Nay if with both your eyes you look out sharp, " You'll see me fling it so that both your eyes " Shall fail to see the shuttle, as it flies.
" And, as the shuttle shoots, the reed shall strike :-
" I'll drive them both, and drive them both alike, " And, when the web is through the loom, by dint " Of my own power, I'll calender and print ! " Ay, madam, through these labors will I go, " And give your daughters printed calico,
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POEM.
" For less than half the money, by the yard,
" Now paid, per pound, for cotton, that you card.
" Nay, ma'am, that boy, who, as I tell you this, " Hears, in my voice nought but the kettle's hiss,- "That boy,-by spinning, from his towy head,
" And reeling off lines about cotton thread, " Shall buy more cotton shirting, in one even,
" Than you can card and spin, this side of heaven " :- Had the Steam Spirit then and thus addressed Her who loved me,-whom I loved first and best, Would she not, starting up, have " screamed a scream," And cried-" I know thee, thou foul spirit of steam ! " I see thou risest from the fires below :-
"Both who thou art, and what thou wouldst I know ; "I know thou liest ! I'll have no part with thee ! "Devil, avaunt !- I will not taste thy TEA !" Yet, have we seen the Power that we suppose, To have spoken thus from the tea-kettle's nose, More than make good what, first, appeared to be At once a boastful and false prophecy.
The wings of Time, who ne'er suspends his flight, Will not allow, although your patience might, Your bard to note the multitude of things, That Time has brought us, on those sweeping wings, From Yankee genius, industry and skill, Since Justice took her seat upon this hill :- Innumerable things, contrived as means Of saving labor :- multiform machines,
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POEM.
Impelled by wind, by water and by steam, By sheep, by horses, by the tardier team Of bullocks,-nay, for labors very nice, Mills and machinery that are worked by mice !- A lathe, that turns, out of a wooden block, A last, an ax-helve, or a musket-stock, Nay-if you'll stand so, that it can get at you, It will turn you into a marble statue !*__ A printing press, that, by hot water power, Prints twenty thousand volumes in an hour ! A car, that, if you wish to run away, Will carry you three hundred miles a day ! But, think not, that, when in that car, you've fled, you Are " off" so fast that nothing else can " head " you. If so you've thought, without your host you've reckoned ; The news shall run a thousand miles a second, Along a wire, by Yankee genius given, To make a tell-tale of the fire from heaven ; And, if your friends are anxious to restore you, The lightning starts next day, and gets there long before you !
'Tis not my purpose to appropriate All that is clever to our native State :- The children of her sister states, our cousins, Present their claims :- allow them - though by dozens ;- We're not like dogs, all fighting for a bone, And every snarler growling o'er his own :- Not like the runners that enrolled their names For wreaths of laurel in the Pythian games ;
* This is no fiction :- it is strictly true ;
'Twill turn a marble ' duplicate' of you.
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POEM.
For, there, though all ran well, who ran the best, Alone bore off the crown from all the rest. We would be just, and, so, divide the bays ;- The wit is common-common be the praise. But, when we've weighed them, in a balance true, And given our cousins all that is their dne, Will not themselves acknowledge that the weight Inclines in favor of " the Nutmeg State " ? That, true and fine as is their razor set, Ours has an edge a "leetle " finer yet ;-- That, though theirs leaves the visage very sleek, Ours hugs, a trifle closer, to the cheek ? So that, in all that gives the Yankee place In the front rank of the whole human race,- Among her sisters,-" when all's said and done," Our little Mother must rank, Number One.
What if her faith, to which she clings as true, Appears, to some eyes, slightly tinged with blue ? With blue as blue, aside from any ism, We find no fault ;- the spectrum of a prism, The rainbow, and the flowers-de-luce, that look, At their own beauty, in the glassy brook, Show us a blue, that never fails to please ; So does yon lake, when rippled by a breeze ; In morning glories blue looks very well, And in the little flower, they call "blue bell." No better color is there for the sky, Or, as I think, for a blonde beauty's eye. It's very pretty for a lady's bonnet, Or for the ribbon that she puts upon it ;
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POEM.
But in her faith, as also in her face, Some will insist that blue is out of place ; As all agree it would be in the rose, She wears, and, peradventure, in-her hose.
Still, for her shrewdness, must the "Nutmeg State"
As Number One, among her sisters rate ; And which, of all her counties, will compare, For size or strength, for water, soil or air, With our good mother county ?- Which has sown IIer children, broad-cast, o'er a wider zone, Around the globe ? And has she not, by far, Out-donc the rest, in giving, to the bar, And to the bench,-for half of all her years- The brightest names of half the hemispheres ? Nor have " Creation's lords" engrossed her care ; Creation's ladies have received their share :- For, when to Reeve and Gould the former came, To Pierce the latter :- Pierce, an honored name ! Yea, thrice and four times honored, when it stands Beside his name, who comes, with bloody hands, From fields of battle ; though the applauding shout From myriad mouths-and muskets-call it out ; Though by him, armies were to victory led, And groves of laurel grow upon his head ! Bloodless the honors that to Pierce are paid : Bloodless the garlands on her temples laid. To them, reproachful, no poor widow turns ; No sister's heart bleeds, and no mother mourns To see them flourish. Ne'er shall they be torn From off her honored brows. Long be they worn,
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POEM.
To show the world how a good Teacher's name Out-weighs, in real worth, the proudest warrior's fame !-
Our mother county ! never shalt thou boast Of mighty cities, or a sea-washed coast. Not thine the marts, where Commerce spreads her wings, And to her wharves the wealth of India brings : No field of thine has e'er been given to fame, Or stamped, by History, with a hero's name ; For, on no field of thine was e'er displayed A hostile host, or drawn a battle blade. The better honors thine, that wait on Peace. Thy names are chosen, not from martial Greece, Whose bloody laurels by the sword were won,- Platea, Salamis, and Marathon ;--
But from the pastoral people, strong and free, Whose hills looked down upon the Midland sea,- The Holy Land. Thy Carmel lifts his head Over thy Bethlehem,-thy " house of bread"- Not Egypt's land of Goshen equaled thine, For wealth of pasture, or " well-favored kine ;" While many a streamlet through thy Canaan flows, And in thy Sharon blushes many a rose.
But, mother Litchfield, thou hast stronger claims To be called holy, than thy holy names Can give thee .- Reckon as thy jewels, then, Thy saintly women, and thy holy men. Scarce have thine early birds from sleep awoke, And up thy hill-sides curls the cottage smoke, When rises with it, on the morning air, The voice of household worship and of prayer ;
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POEM.
And when the night-bird sinks upon her nest To warm her fledglings with her downy breast, In reverent posture, many a father stands, And, o'er his children, lifting holy hands, Gives them to God, the Guardian of their sleep ;. While, round their beds, their nightly vigils keep Those Angel ministers of heavenly grace, Who " always do behold their Father's face." And, when the day returns for toil to cease, With the disciples of the Prince of Peace, The voice responsive of thy village bells, From hill and valley, on the clear air swells, And up thy hills, and down thy valleys go Thy sons and daughters, reverently slow, To cat the bread of life, their pastor brings, And pay their homage to the King of kings.
Land of my birth, thou art a holy land ! Strong in thy virtue may'st thou ever stand, As in thy soil and mountains thou art strong ! And, as thy mountain echoes now prolong The cadence of thy water-falls,-forever Be the voice lifted up of Time's broad river, As on it rushes to the eternal sea, Sounding the praises of thy sons and Thee !
SECOND DAY.
AT half past ten, A. M., a procession was formed in the same order as the first day, and marched to the Tent, escorted by the " Bacon Guards."
The exercises were then opened by vocal music from the County Musical Association, singing the following hymn to the tune of China; the audience uniting : The fine effect of which, from thousands of voices, can be better imagined than described.
1.
O LORD, thy covenant is sure To all who fear thy name ; Thy mercies age on age endure, Eternally the same.
2.
In Thee our fathers put their trust ; Thy ways they humbly trod ; Honored and sacred is their dust, And still they live to God. 3.
Heirs to their faith, their hopes, their prayers, We the same path pursue ; Entail the blessing to our heirs ; Lord ! show thy promise truc.
A prayer was then offered by the Rev. RUFUS BABCOCK, D.D., of Philadelphia, a native of Colebrook.
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SECOND DAY .- PRAYER.
PRAYER.
ALMIGHTY God, our Heavenly Father, beneath the opening skies, we, Thy not ungrateful children, would devoutly bow be- fore Thee in this solemn and joyous hour, recognizing that parental love and care which Thou hast exerted towards us, and calling upon our souls, and all within us, to praise, and bless, and honor Thee, our Maker, our Preserver, and our gracious Benefactor, for the bestowment of infinite, varied, and constant bounties, ever since we had a being.
We rejoice in Thee, as the source of every good and every perfect gift. With humble and adoring thankfulness, we recog- nize Thee as our fathers' God. Thou didst lead them to this waste, howling wilderness. Thou didst cast out various impedi- ments from before them, and grant them the enjoyment of this favored land, where, in the exercise of a hardy industry, they were enabled to " provide things honest in the sight of all men" for themselves and their households, and not only to see growing up around them, as plants of righteousness, their own favored offspring, but Thou didst enable them to send off to the right hand and to the left, many a promising offshoot, on whom Thy favor has also rested. In their wide dispersion, Thou hast led them like a flock, and multiplied and blessed them ; and many of them are now uniting with us in heart, though not in presence, in sending up ascriptions of praise to that All Gracious Benefactor, by whose kind guardianship we and our fathers have been estab- lished, dirceted and blessed.
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