USA > Massachusetts > Plymouth County > Bridgewater > Celebration of the two-hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of Bridgewater, Massachusetts, at West Bridgewater, June 3, 1856 > Part 5
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I have spoken of the past; but what am I to say of the future of this people, and of our common coun-
* John Washburn is believed to have been the first Secretary of the Massachu- setts Company before the transfer of the charter to Massachusetts. He was born in Evesham, in the county of Worcester, and settled in Duxbury as early as 1632, where he was joined by his family, consisting of his wife and two sons, in 1635. His son John married a daughter of Experience Mitchell; and from him the branches now so numerous and widely scattered have descended. One of his sons married a grand-daughter of Mary Chilton, from whom have sprung a numerous posterity, and through which the writer is allowed to lay claim to affinity with one of the early settlers of this town.
t Bryant - for he needs no other distinctive name - was the son of a physician born in Bridgewater, himself the son of a physician who was born and always resided in this town.
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try ? There are those to whose vision a darker cloud is rising over the land than has ever threatened it before, - a cloud of discord and disunion, from which even the reflected glory of the past gives back no bow of hope.
And it cannot be denied that there is enough to excite deep apprehension in the stoutest heart in the events of the last few weeks.
We look in vain for protection or redress in the excited passions of political strife. The only hope that seems left to us is to be just to ourselves ; to keep this moral malaria within its own sphere, by shutting out its influence from our borders. Let there be union of heart and union of sentiment among free men ; let the united action of one section no longer triumph in the divisions and personal and party jea- lousies of the other, - and the hour of danger and apprehension will have passed.
And is there not hope from the very extremity of danger that we seem to have reached ? Will not the blood that has been spilt in the senate-chamber of the nation - in a brutal and cowardly blow, struck, through a representative of a free State, at constitu- tional right, the honor of our own honored Common- wealth, and the cause of liberty in the world - become an element to cement the divided counsels and call forth the united action of every man who dares or deserves to be free ? Let this be done, and
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every thing is done; every other element is already shaped at our hand.
From elements such as we have been considering, there can come no danger to the cause of human liberty and human progress. The little community of whose history I have so imperfectly spoken, is but one of a thousand others where there is a reserved power cherished and kept alive, and ready for any emergency.
Neither schools nor churches, nor the hallowed associations of home, have ceased to educate and refine the intellect and affections; nor have free dis- cussion and a free press become impotent to arouse to action a love of country among a people to whom the past has so much of pride, and the future is so full of promise.
Fraud may triumph for a day, and injustice may wreak its power here and there upon its victim; but, thank God, there is a power greater than these, - a power that breaks through the chains of error, and will bid man at last be free.
" Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again ; The eternal years of God are hers."
A mighty destiny is before us as a people. The glo- rious problem of human development and human freedom is being wrought out on the theatre of this vast republic. In its accomplishment will be seen
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the fruits of that enterprise which was cradled in that little church at Scrooby, and reared by the watchful- ness and prayers of good men, and found a congenial home here two hundred and thirty-six years ago.
Every spot in the old colony is rich with the deeds and virtues of the Puritans and their descendants. Every spot has sent forth seed, which, borne like that of the thistle on every wind, has been scattered and has sprung up in every region of this continent.
Reversing the law that seeks to renovate the decre- pitude of years by transfusing young blood into the torpid veins of age, the blood that has gone out from these ancient bodies politic is found invigorating and infusing fresh life into the young communities that have sprung up in the forests of the East and along the rivers and prairies of the constantly widening West.
Wherever white men have fixed their homes, among them have these sons of the old colony been busy in rearing the schoolhouse and the church, in scattering New-England notions and sentiments, and planting institutions which have tempered and modified and assimilated the masses that have been crowding to our shores, into a national, free, American republic. They forget the moral power of that engine and these influences who look with such seeming apprehension upon the influx of strangers from the Old World ; as if the mere physical strength of thews
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and sinews could stand against the moral and intel- lectual power of the trained, educated, self-governed denizens of the soil !
In this great work of harmonizing and national- izing our common country ; in carrying, as it were, the borders of New England clear across this wide con- tinent; in planting new Plymouths on the shores of the Pacific, and new Bridgewaters in the valleys of the West, - old Bridgewater has borne an honored part.
And now her sons and her sons' sons have come together, around the old domestic hearthstone, to renew, in the memories and associations of the past, the ties that once bound them to this spot, and the obligations they owe to their country and their gene- ration to spread and perpetuate the good old senti- ments and habits and opinions that found so congenial a soil in this early home of our fathers.
And, if they find that prosperous industry and thrift have been at work in changing old familiar scenes, the generous heart that bade even the stranger welcome in days of yore still beats as warmly as it then did; and, though the latch-string has disappeared in the progress of refinement, hospitality still opens its door as wide to all who would come and share its comforts and its courtesies.
Two centuries have now closed their record of the fortunes of this people, and left their memorial in the brief yet crowded page of their history.
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We can go back, at a glance, to the feeble, strug- gling infancy and childhood of this community ; but its future we can only read in the light of the past. In that light we have every thing to hope, and little to apprehend.
A new century is opening amidst the stirring scenes, the energized thought, the free, onward move- ment, of the nineteenth century, developed in its full maturity.
It will close over other actors, and after changes which no human vision can now reach; and happy will it be if it shall witness fruition as unimpaired and hopes as bright as those which mark its opening day.
And standing, as we do, on that narrow point, where, turning from the past, fancy calls up the sha- dowy forms that crowd the vision of the future, I cannot better close this poor effort to do justice to our theme than in the language of one whom any community might be proud to call her own: -
" My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on In silence round me, - the perpetual work Of a creation finished, yet renewed For ever.
Lo! all grow old, and die; but see again,
How, on the faltering footsteps of decay, Youth presses !
Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch-enemy Death ; yea, seats himself l'pon the tyrant's throne, - the sepulchre, - And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment."
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The Boston Brass Band played an appropriate piece of music.
JAMES REED, A. B., of Boston, delivered the fol- lowing -
POEM.
TIME has always been a river, And eternity its sea, Where, upon some leaf or sliver, Men have floated ceaselessly.
Now 'midst verdure never ending, Now 'mid deserts brown and bare, Is the mighty river wending, Who can tell us whence or where ?
Ever changing is the current Of the vast, mysterious stream : Here it swells into a torrent, There 'tis like an infant's dream.
We, who down the stream are sailing, Guide our craft in different ways ; Some with mournful noise of wailing, Some with songs of hope and praise.
Down we float 'mid joy and sorrow, Hatred cold and friendship fond, Craving sunshine for the morrow In the depths which lie beyond.
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Why keep crying, " Whither ? whither? Watchman, tell us of the night"? Surely He who brought us hither Will direct our course aright.
As the river, circling ever, Once again will come in sight Of its fountain, witnessed never Since it first embraced the light ; -
So upon this golden morning, On the bosom of the waves, For a timely word of warning, Come we to our fathers' graves.
Looking o'er the fields and meadows Which unnoticed lie between, Indistinct as evening shadows, Figures of the past are seen.
As the sun is ever lifting Ocean's vapors to the sky, So from out the past come drifting Memories of the days gone by.
Fathers, mothers, rise before us, Quick to hear affection's call ; While the arch which closes o'er us Shields the homesteads of us all.
Down we float, and leave to others Words of hate and angry scorn ; While we turn, a band of brothers, Back to the ancestral morn.
Down we float, and soon behind us Leave we present scenes and men, Wondering where this day will find us, Rolled by centuries round again.
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Down we float, believing, knowing, That no evil can befall, When, as from a sun, is flowing Love unbounded for us all.
Never even can disaster Cast its shadow o'er a dream, If we let the perfect Master Guide our passage down the stream.
There have been days, as well we know, Before this present summer morn ; And, trusting those who tell us so, Time was ere we ourselves were born.
And, looking down the rugged hill Up which the past has borne the cross, The landscape sleeps, serene and still, Though overgrown with weeds and moss.
Full many an anxious heart has beat With love for Jack or love for Jill ; Full many a pair of pretty feet Has danced or loitered up the hill.
But what of that? In bygone things We seldom claim to have a share ; Content with what the present brings, If only what it brings be fair.
So scenes will often pass from mind Which never should have been forgot ; Thus, not so long ago, we find The town of Bridgewater was not.
The town of Bridgewater was not : How comes it that the town has been ? 'Twas purchased in a single lot Of famous old Ousamequin.
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Then fifty-four stout men arose To take the land for good or worse, Whose honest names will do for prose, But never could be meant for verse.
How high must be the poet's claims Who meets no mental scrapes and rubs In putting into verse the names, - Experience Mitchell, William Tubbs !
For though experience teaches well, And tubs on their own bottoms stand, Theirs hardly is the magic spell By which a verse is made to hand.
Experience, if he married well, To lively Sorrow linked his life ; Nor would it be so strange to tell If hoops encircled Tubbs's wife.
Experience, if a child he had, To call her Wisdom scarce could fail ; While Tubbs need not have felt so bad If his turned out a little pale.
Forgive, if aught which I have said, Experience, seems to mar thy fame : A blessing, Tubbs, upon thy head ; I jested only with thy name.
A blessing on the brave old men From whom we claim a common birth ; Whom earth will not behold again, Whose virtues cannot pass from earth.
All honor to their hoary hair ! They are not dead, -they gently sleep : For us were all their grief and care ; They sowed the field which we shall reap.
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Oh! chide not him who loves to roam Among the relics of the past ; Who calls one little spot his home, And clings around it to the last.
And though his lineage he may track With something of an honest pride, Who calls it crime to wander back Among the noble who have died ?
Not how our fathers passed their days The present bard designs to sing ; Nor yet the wreath of feeble praise Around their honored brows to fling : -
But from the volume of their woes One simple chapter will he take, Wherein old Winter sheds his snows ; But they live on for Freedom's sake.
Next come the joys which all must feel When past are Winter's dreary hours ; When life from death begins to steal, And rosy Spring brings back the flowers.
How fearful the tempests which howl through the winters, Pursuing the mariner over the sea; Which dash the stout heart of the oak into splinters, And show us how terrible Nature can be !
We quietly sit by the family-fire, And heed not the tempest which howls at the door, But pile up the logs ever higher and higher, Defying old Winter a thousand times o'er.
" Come in if thou canst, and give over thy moaning, Who turnest to ice what thou breathest upon, And tell us how many this moment are groaning O'er mischief which thou in thy madness hast done ; -
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" How many are wrapping their garments around them, Resigning themselves to thy rage in despair ;
How many lie dead where by chance thou hast found them, Who had not a moment to murmur a prayer.
"Good luck betide those who are hopefully braving, Thou cruel old monster, the strength of thine ire, -
The heart-broken wretches who fain would be saving Their one spark of life by their one spark of fire !"
Oh, pity! Why need we an instant to borrow A counterfeit sadness from poem or tale,
When more than our hearts can imagine of sorrow Goes moaning about on the wings of the gale ?
We gather to-day beneath Summer's green arches, And Winter's dominion appears like a dream ; But steadily onward old Time ever marches,
And soon the bright Summer a vision will seem.
We look o'er a country where Plenty is reigning, And pouring the blessings of Peace from her horn, And little imagine the good we are gaining
From those who had died ere our fathers were born.
They came o'er the sea on a journey of peril ; Like mists of the morning were scattered their foes ; And fat grew the land which before had been sterile,
And straightway the wilderness bloomed like the rose.
With logs for their dwellings, and bears for their neighbors, And men in the forest more fearful than bears, What heart could prefigure the end of their labors, Or half of the glory and praise which are theirs?
And, oh ! when the tempests of winter were howling, And claiming admittance through eramy and crack ; When every thing deadly around them was prowling,
And heaven's blue arches were curtained with black ; -
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When out of the woods came the yell of the foeman, The heart-broken accent of maddened despair, And swiftly the shaft of the bloody-red bowman Flew, piercing the snow-flakes which stifled the air, -
How strangely contrasted the sounds which were blending - The din of the storm, and the foeman's wild cries - With prayers which were evermore gently ascending To Him who shall wipe away tears from all eyes!
And fondly sped backward their thoughts o'er the waters, To homes which were happy, and might be their own, - Where England keeps watch o'er her sons and her daughters, But treats not so kindly the birds which have flown.
A truce to old Winter : though dreadful the curses Which follow, like birds of the night, in his train, We love him almost for the child which he nurses, - Our beautiful Spring, with her sunlight and rain.
Who closes the door when the blithe little maiden Comes tripping along with her basket of flowers? Who loves not the treasures with which she is laden, Whose smile is the sunshine, whose tears are the showers ?
The hearts of our fathers she filled with her gladness When o'er them her sweet-laden breezes she poured, In place of the clouds with their shadows of sadness, Which seemed like the menacing wrath of the Lord.
No more need the men their alarms to dissemble, The women to cover their faces for fright ; No more need the children to listen and tremble, Like lambs at the tread of the wolf, over night.
The clouds were not all from the firmament driven, When Winter had taken his leave of the stage ; But Spring set her rainbow of hope in the heaven, - The spirit of childhood for that of old age.
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What load is so great that it cannot be lightened, What heart is so old that it will not grow young, What future so dark that it will not be brightened, If brooks have but murmured, and birds have but sung ?
When sunny-faced Spring, through a million of voices, Proclaims to the earth that her advent is near, The kindly old mother as truly rejoices As when the first sunlight awoke the first year.
From Winter's deep slumbers she joyfully rises, And flings a green mantle o'er valleys and hills ; Then decks herself out in the gems which she prizes, - A necklace of lakes, and a girdle of rills.
This day, two centuries ago, Beneath this sky, our fathers came, Resolved to plant, for weal or woe, The scions of an honest name.
To-day, two centuries have fled ; And we, their children, come to see If what they planted here is dead, Or fruit is hanging from the tree.
As o'er recorded time we look, And then into the present glare, We wonder, as we close the book, Which picture we must judge more fair.
Is that which hangs upon the bough The glory of the parent stem? Or were they wiser then than now ? And borrow we our light from them ?
No matter. This at least we know, That, whether bright or dim our fires, They must with wondrous lustre glow To match the splendor of our sires.
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Our lots have fallen in different times : They lived in winter, cold and drear ; But we are listening to the chimes With which the spring awakes the year.
Their path was strewn with stony cares, But ours is full of hopeful flowers ; The labor and the pain were theirs, While all the fruitful joy is ours.
How wondrous is the lapse of time, The heart of man no more conceives Than children of a southern clime Can think of plants without their leaves.
Recall the days when wheels were rare, And stages never passed the town ; When, pillion-back, a loving pair Rode gravely jogging up and down.
What need of stage or omnibus, Without a road where wheels could range ? Strange passing that would be for us ; In truth, it would be passing strange.
How wide their eyes would open now, If they could see what we have done ; Could see the fruit upon the bough, Which ripens in the morning sun !
How pleasant it would be to show Our gallery of modern arts, Where all the powers which move below Are taught to play respective parts !
How full their souls would be of wonder, And how our wiser selves would laugh, If they beheld that son of thunder, Which we have called the telegraph !
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" My ancient friend," their sons might say, " Observe our modes of locomotion : Instead of fifty miles a day,
A week will nearly cross the ocean."
"I know, my son," the sage replies, "The age of pillions long is past ; But now the danger in my eyes Is lest you get a bit too fast."
" Again, good sires, be pleased to see Another jewel in our crown : The sun takes portraits, so that we To future time can hand them down."
"My sons," 'tis answered with a frown, "If you forget the shaving-cup, Though you may hand your faces down, We'll thank you not to hand them up."
What man who sees the ages rise, And notes the changes which they bring, Can marvel that our partial eyes Should judge the present season spring ?
From out the darkness of the past So many wonders have been born, That we appear to sit at last Upon the threshold of the morn.
A wondrous stern and sturdy stock Was that from which we claim descent : Their faith was like the steadfast rock ; Their lives, a deathless monument.
No doubtful hate within them burning Impelled them to a doubtful field ; But hearts resolved upon returning, Like Spartan, with or on the shield.
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Can wrong usurp the place of right? And can the changeless laws be changed ? Or must the darkness and the light, Divided once, be kept estranged ?
In truth, what we esteem a sin Was virtue in the days of old ; And what they spurned as glittering tin, We treasure as the solid gold.
We like, the most of us, to dance, Or spend an evening at a play ; While they would rather take their chance At drinking poison any day.
They thought it was a gracious deed To bring a Quaker to his end ; While only in extremest need We kill a foe, much less a friend.
And how their pious eyes would glow When witches at the stake were burned ! But we caress our witches so, That all the tables now are turned.
Although a witch may be a thing Which should be rapped upon the head, 'Tis time to stop our cudgelling, If she will rap us back when dead.
With guilt which they trod in the dust, Their sons, we hope, are gently dealing : "Tis one thing to be strictly just, Another to have kindly feeling.
But while forgiveness we bestow Upon the sinner, not the sin, We must not fail to strike the blow When fear alone would hold us in.
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A little more of self-respect, While travelling in the path of right, Would make our journey more direct, And throw more day upon our night.
Though age may often find it hard To gather all its dues from youth, "Tis better than that blind regard Should swallow up the living truth.
The honest lives our fathers led, Blame ye who can defend your own : "The sinless man," it has been said, " Shall be the first to cast a stone."
Their virtues we must all applaud, Who have a care for real worth : If such were scattered more abroad, "Twould be the better for the earth.
How oft from yonder spire have rung The echoes of the sabbath-bell ! - A summons sweet to old and young To draw the truth from truth's own well.
The word of God, from lips inspired, They heard, and, hearing, they adored ; And, though the preacher they admired, They came to worship but the Lord.
Within the mists of bygone days, Which wrap the past as in a cloud, Three reverend men are giving praise, And asking blessings on the crowd.
A blessing in the name of truth Upon the shepherds of the sheep, Who labored from the dawn of youth, 'Till evening brought the hour of sleep !
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More faithful servants who can find Than these to work the work of God ? What men have left more fruit behind To mark the path in which they trod ?
And thou, whose honored name is mine To tarnish or to honor still, For whom no human hand can twine A wreath which will become thee ill, -
Be happy, in the name of those Whom thou has taught the ways of right, In realms where duty pleasure grows, And where the blind receive their sight.
Now, the benediction uttered, Draws our service to its close : Soon must parting words be muttered, Soon must evening bring repose.
Then our holiday is over, And we travel, every one, - Father, mother, sister, lover, -- Onward to the setting sun.
Loving, striving, wishing, hoping, Fond and anxious hearts we bear ; Sadly now through darkness groping, Bending now to breathe a prayer.
Soon the lover and the maiden Are the husband and the wife, And, with common burdens laden, Sail adown the stream of life ; -
Soon the father and the mother Teach the.child the way of truth ; Soon the sister and the brother Ripen into blushing youth.
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Then comes age, as sweet and simple As the infant newly born, - Placid lake without a dimple, Waiting for the coming morn.
Waiting ! Then the morn is coming, Reddening all the eastern sky : Now is heard a distant humming From the day which will not die.
Waiting ! All of us are waiting ; And the youngest child who hears, Even now his bark is freighting With its load of hopes and fears.
When the next assembly gathers On the soil which now we tread, We shall be the honored fathers, Numbered with the living dead.
In the mail of self-denial We must arm us for the fray, Ere the hands upon the dial Mark the limits of the day.
Honest lives, not empty phrases, Are the stuff to make a name Worthy of our children's praises, Worthy of our fathers' fame.
Still before us lies the river, With its tides of good and ill : There we may lie mute, and shiver, Or be sailing where we will.
Strike when iron hoofs are tramping O'er the bodies of the just ! Strike when guilty Power is stamping Wounded Freedom in the dust !
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Strike when honest men are lying By the hands of cowards slain ! Strike when Abel's blood is crying Vengeance on the guilty Cain !
Love the slayer and the slaughtered ! And, as love grows strong with years, May their future graves be watered With our kind, forgiving tears !
The following Hymn, written by Rev. DANIEL HUNTINGTON, of New London, was sung by the as- sembly, to the tune of " Old Hundred:" -
GOD of our fathers ! hear the song Their grateful sons united raise, While round their hallowed graves we throng To think and speak of other days, -
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