USA > Maine > Androscoggin County > Turner > A history of Turner, Maine, from its settlement to 1886 > Part 16
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The above description of the procession is taken from the Lewiston Journal, mostly, the enterprising publishers of which made full and elaborate reports of the celebration.
The order of exercises in the great tent was as follows :
Centennial March, by Norway Band.
Prayer by Rev. E. Martin, late Presiding Elder, Lewiston District.
Singing, by chorus of one hundred voices, Albert E. Brad- ford, conductor.
Address of Welcome, by Dr. J. T. Cushing.
Historical Address, by Rev. W. R. French, D.D.
Singing.
Poem, by Mrs. Caroline W. D. Rich of Auburn, granddaughter of one of the first settlers in Turner.
Dinner, in a large tent on the grounds.
Address, by Hon. Washington Gilbert of Bath.
Music.
Address, by Hon. George A. Wilson of South Paris.
Music.
Short Speeches, by residents and former citizens of Turner.
Singing.
Music by the Band.
DR. CUSHING'S ADDRESS.
One hundred years ago the seventh day of last month, a bill incorporating the town of Turner passed one branch of the Legislature of Massachusetts, and received the signature of the Speaker of the House, Artemas Ward. Just one month later it passed the Senate, and was signed by the Governor, James Bowdoin. I hold in my hand a copy of the original bill as it
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passed the Legislature of Massachusetts, making this wide domain about us a town. One hundred years are past. We meet today to celebrate the event. Our first word is a word of welcome. We, whose privilege it is to remain within these borders, have anticipated this day and this happy reunion, and have prepared to celebrate it. We welcome all, - fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends. We welcome here the descendants of that band whose sturdy arms here felled the giant oak and beech of the primeval forest, and built Christian homes where Indian camp-fires had smoked, and savage beasts reared their young. We welcome the descendants of those coming later, who brought encouragement and hope to the scattered settlers. We welcome the venerable men and women who shared in those early labors, privations, and victories, the fruit of whose toils can be seen throughout the length and breadth of this prosperous and wealthy town. We welcome all the sons and daughters of this town who have come to us from far and near; from the Pacific slope and the boundless prairies of the West, the Atlantic shores and the sunny groves of the South. Welcome to every citizen and resident of early or later years, to our hospitality and good cheer.
One hundred years ago, the conditions of life in the world abroad were as different from those that exist today as we can well imagine. The country had but recently emerged from a long and bloody conflict with England, in which the stupidity and arrogance of George III. had been pitted against the patriotism and bravery of the American colonies, with Massa- chusetts, of which this town was a part, in the van.
The States, with their resources crippled and burdened with a heavy debt, were still struggling under the imperfect pro- visions of the Articles of Confederation.
It was nearly two years after the incorporation of this town that that wonderful charter of American rights and freedom, the Constitution of the United States, was adopted, and that
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government of the people, for the people, and by the people, under which we have lived so prosperously and securely, was safely inaugurated. Previous to this time, George Washing- ton had resigned his commission as Commander-in-Chief of the army, and was now a private citizen. Perhaps the thought of being President of the United States, or of there ever being a President, had never entered his mind. Oh ! the events of a hundred years. History fails to record them half ! But our fathers builded better than they knew. They gave us a govern- ment which maintains peace amid change and progress without revolution. While the settlers here were trying the experiment of self-government in that glorious New England institution, the town-meeting, the horrors of the French Revolution were being enacted, and the reign of terror was chilling the blood of the civilized world. A few years later, when England hurled her second menace across the ocean, and the young republic rose to arms to defend her dear bought rights and privileges, our native town was not behind her neighbors in sending her sons to the front, and so it has been throughout the century. The men of Turner have been found in the front at every call of duty. As we sit here today, we can recall the stirring scenes which transpired all over the North twenty-five years ago. We can recall the excitement that was caused when the news was flashed along the line that Fort Sumter had fallen. We can remember how eagerly and yet how thoughtfully we read Presi- dent's Lincoln's proclamation, calling for seventy-five thousand volunteers. At this call, our hitherto peaceful and industrious people began to enroll themselves as soldiers of the republic, realizing that only at the point of the bayonet could the Union be preserved, bringing to the altar of their country, that most precious of all gifts, their heart's blood.
But the treason was not crushed by that insignificant army. And so the call went forth for five hundred thousand additional troops, and our old men, our young men, our middle aged men,
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rose in their might, determined to defeat and drive back the mighty hosts that threatened to destroy the constitution, crush liberty, and take the life of the nation itself. In face of this threatened danger, old party lines gave way ; the people, with- out regard to political faith, rallied to the defence of the old flag.
But the rebellion continued to gain strength, and Mr. Lin- coln's call again rang throughout the land, "Send me three hundred thousand volunteers." The patriotic men of the North did not falter ; they started for the front, shouting with united voice, " We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou- sand more." And thus the great North kept filling up the ranks of the army, as they were thinned by disease and rebel bullets, until, at last, treason went down, and the Union was saved. The flags floating from our hillsides on each Memorial Day bear sorrowful witness to the bravery and the patriotism of the men of this town who willingly offered up their lives.
" Brave boys were they, Gone at their country's call, And yet, and yet, we cannot forget, That many brave boys must fall."
That the incorporators of this town were men of sterling worth and advanced ideas in morals and education, no one to-day can doubt. The results of their wisdom and foresight have been that our churches have been prosperous, and our schools have been the pride of the whole community. We have to thank the fathers for much in this respect, and to blame them for little.
But we are gathered here not only to look backward, but also to look forward. We are here not to close up anything. Noth- ing ends to-day but a century of time. The political and social questions of the present are for our solving, as those of a hundred years ago, were for our fathers. As we gather to-day
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to talk over the past of our town, let us not forget her present and future work. The privations and hardships may be past, but our duties as citizens lie straight on before us, to keep our town in the peaceful and prosperous way of the past, to see that we remain an honorable and law-abiding community, remembering that " Righteousness exalteth a nation, but sin is a reproach to any people."
Once more, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, we bid you a cordial and hearty welcome.
The Historical Address is omitted, as the facts and items of interest contained in it may be found in the history of the town.
TURNER'S CENTENNIAL. *
History ever interweaveth In her checkered web of fate, Silken meshes of sweet living, Threads that gleam and undulate All along the shadowy cycle, Twining 'round dear names of old,
Like a coronet of jewels, Strung upon a thread of gold.
People of the past are thronging All about me, as I write ; They are gathering in the evening, In the rosy, morning light They come, through the mists and shadows, Stalwart men and maidens fair, Side by side, with heads of silver, Mingling, thronging, here and there.
* By Mrs. Caroline W. D. Rich, daughter of Mrs. Anna Leavitt Stockbridge, who was the daughter of Joseph Leavitt, pioneer of Turner. Copyrighted.
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Now they tarry for a moment, Now are vanishing again, As, sometimes, the shadows linger, Over fields of golden grain. How their griefs and woes are mellowed ! And their loves, so true and strong, Fragrant as the faded rose leaves, Hallowed as the matin song !
A century now closes, Since this town had its birth ; And still the Androscoggin flows, With plenty teems the earth. The wild bird sings his love-song, The seasons come and go, And, over rocky hill-sides, The lingering brooks still flow. The years are full of promise ; The sunshine and the rain, The winter snows, the springtime dews, Have never been in vain.
Aye, backward roll historic wheels, And let us see again, The old-time men and women, As they were living, then.
It is a simple story, Yet it is grand and true; No myth, or idle fancy, Through history's glass we view. Our fathers felled the forests On hills and valleys fair ; They braved the cruel Indian,
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The wild beast in his lair. The solitude of ages Gave place to busy toil, And men of good old English blood, Were tillers of the soil. They peopled these rough hillsides, They dwelt beside the streams, They planned for future ages, They dreamed their daring dreams.
Not the most skillful limner, Could paint those early years ; The heavy burdens of the day, The nights of ceaseless fears, When mothers held their babies So closely to their breast, As "dire alarm or tragic fear," Prevented restful rest.
O, those were days of patience, When men and women brave, Were noble and heroic, Dear liberty to save.
They came from homes of plenty, One hundred years agone, Through forests by a "spotted line," Those men and women strong. Strong in their love of country, Strong in their trust in God, And strong in hope of future Fruition and reward. The wild beasts howled about them, Strange terrors oft would creep
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Into their slumbering fancy, And nightly revels keep. These primal, dense, dark forests, Were Indian hunting ground ; And here the Abenakis, A powerful tribe, was found.
Near by the Androscoggin, Their wigwams stood in line ; O'erhung by pine and hemlocks, And graceful wild woodbine.
One old, ancestral legend, You 'll pardon, if I tell, The pioneer - young Leavitt- The man whom it befell, Had built a house of timbers, Plastered the cracks with clay,
A fire-place of unhewn stone, With his strong arms he lay ; And then in cob-house fashion, The chimney carried out, With sticks, well chinked with mud or clay, ('T was a fine house, no doubt.) A bar of hammered iron, Served for a rustic crane,
The hooks were of witch-hazel, (I trust I make it plain.) Then, like a frontier hunter, He hung the pot, to cook The venison from the forest, Or fish from out the brook. He left his kettle boiling, When he went out one morn, But when he came for dinner, Kettle and fish were gone !
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With yankee wit and shrewdness, Young Leavitt, with his gun, Went out to find a red man, And have a little fun. He met an Indian Sachem, And put him to the test, Explaining the witch-hazel, To carry out his jest. Told how the white man used it, To find perennial springs ; With it he found out secrets, And petty pilferings ! And his trick worked like magic. When he came home that night, The pot was hanging on his crane, His household goods all right.
The women of those early days, Were busy as the men ; For homespun clothes and coverlids, Were all the fashion then. The great wheel in a corner, With snowy heap of rolls, Was turned by fair young maiden, Before the glowing coals ; For, smoother and much finer, The fleecy wool would run, If standing near an open fire, Or in the summer sun.
The carding and the spinning Of wool, and tow, and flax, Kept all the household busy, While menfolk used the axe.
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The little wheel we covet To decorate our halls, Our grand-dames kept a-buzzing, Within their humble walls. Full many a fine spun kerchief, Of whitest, softest flax, Has helped the rustic farmer To pay his Sunday tax. Heirlooms of precious treasure, We keep them all today, The work of loving fingers, That long since passed away.
The loom, so tall and clumsy, The treadle, and the beam, The warping bars, and harness, The shuttle, with its gleam, As flying back and forward, With deftest toss, it went, Were, in themselves a poem, In homes of sweet content. The new mown hay, so fragrant, From rafters, down to bay, Filled all the air with odors, While girls and boys, so gay, With peal on peal of laughter, And milk-pails on their arm, Came from the yard at milking-time, Such was life on the farm.
Upon the highest hillside, They built the house of prayer, With pulpit like a telescope, And narrow, winding stair.
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From seventeen hundred seventy-seven, Till seventeen eighty-one, Good Parson Strickland preached and prayed, And with a nasal twang, The deacon, deaconed out the hymn, And then the singers sang.
Then General Court sent them Priest Turner ; He came from old Scituate ; He wore a wig, and cocked hat, Was courtly, and learned, sedate - Just a trifle too proud, it may be, Too liberal in creed about fate, Knew WHISKEY from old Souchong tea, And drove through his parish in state.
A legend illustrates his manners, When meeting a bear to the face, His polish was too much for bruin, His courtliness made him feel small, And so, with his grizzly head drooping, Bruin turned and jumped over the wall.
Parson Greely, I think, was the next ; The meeting-house now had come down, And stood on the side of the hill, Half way between high and low town. The parson was learned and wise, His sermons were wordy and long, The deacons could sleep with closed eyes, And sometimes they snored loud and strong. The young-folk, in pews like a box, Could whisper and laugh on the sly, While at noontime they staid in the porch, And ate bread and cheese and mince pie.
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There were huskings, and raisings, and choppings, And apple-bees, summer and fall ; There were singing-schools, kept in the winter, And spelling-schools, better than all, For then they chose sides, and did battle, Hurling mighty words, each at the other, And the victor went sleigh-riding home, With some other girl's handsome brother.
Besides the ministers I mention, It is my duty, and intention, To speak of those whose names you cherish, For there are names that ne'er will perish.
Of military men, this town Had a good share, and some renown ; For General Wadsworth, known to fame, Once on a time, to Turner came ; And as we reckon pedigree - His grandson - Longfellow - you see, A scion of the Wadsworth line, Belongs to Turner - and in fine, Might have been born in this old town, Had General Peleg settled down. And Joseph Leavitt,* histories tell, To save old Boston, fought right well. Turner, and Putnam, and Sawtelle, Blake, Allen, Merrill, and Wardwell, And others, heard their country's call, But time would fail, did I name all.
* Joseph Leavitt was a volunteer in 1775, in the original three months' army, to defend old Boston.
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Your men of letters, with high aim,
Have a good record, some have fame. Your journalist of earlier days, Was Seba Smith, who won much praise ; The busy world would pause to read "Jack Downing," and forget its greed. As humorist, he led the van ; Others have followed his quaint plan ; Artemas, Twain, and Partington, Are scarcely peers of Turner's son. Of royalty you well may glory, PRINCES # you have, but not a tory.
One Governor this town has had - Ah, no! I have a note, You lost that honor, I believe, By just one single vote.
A wealthy man - Bradford by name - Heard the tin horn, and homeward came. The day was hot, and so in joke, Upon a stake he flung his coat, And to his men he said, " You 'll see What a fine scare-crow this will be." There was another man, you know, Joe House his name - called Uncle Joe. He had keen wit, and waggish tongue ; He drank " New England " just for fun. He was a ne'er do well to boot, Was often crazy as a coot ;
His pranks would make the sternest smile,
# Turner has always had men of the name, who have held posts of honor.
.
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And even a scare-crow did beguile To swap the coat that Bradford left ; " Swapping," he said, "could not be theft." Passing that way, he saw quite plain, A scare-crow with a coat. In vain His challenge for a "swap." No word, Indeed the scare-crow never stirred. At length, said Joe, " It seems quite plain, That all my talking is in vain. Silence means yes, we 'Il change at once, I can't spend words on such a dunce." The better coat, Joe wore away, And Bradford went without that day.
As glancing over history's track, The lapsing years are ranged, Hardships are scarcely recognized ; Change hastens after change. They come ! they go ! from first to last, Men of good blood and brain, Our fathers left their sons to fight Life's battles o'er again.
With eagle's quill is written here In golden characters, so clear That truth oft sung, and often told, " Good deeds can never die," Crushed truth, again will rise ; Forever pointing to the sky, Forever a surprise.
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Out of the pain, the toil, God makes Every tomorrow bright. Out of truth vanquished, still he gives Strength for a stronger fight.
My rhymes have lingered in the past, But, looking forward, themes more vast, Arrest my thought ; and urge my pen, To speak a word for future men. These rocky hills a century hence may see, The smoking engine, like a burning tree, Go through these valleys, with an echoing shriek. It may be, then, across the land you 'll speak, To transatlantic friends, as you today Speak to your neighbor, living o'er the way. Across the seas, a tube may then be thrown, Through which a novel carriage will be blown, By compressed atmosphere, on some new plan, Perchance invented by a TURNER MAN.
Down the shadowy, unknown future, Thronging generations go ; Time's dull bell is ringing, ringing, Time's strong wheel turns sure, yet slow ! As the moments, swiftly passing, Noiseless come, and noiseless go, Like the arrow, which the bow-string
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Speeds from tensely bended bow On, and on, till a new century, Has its mystic cycle run ; Then, perchance, another poet, With more gifted pen than mine,
Will rehearse the new - old story, Of the days of "Auld Lang Syne."
HON. WASHINGTON GILBERT'S ADDRESS.
All communities, whether great or small, have their epochs .. We compute long periods of time by centuries. And it is at this joyous season, when nature is in her most gorgeous splen- dor, when the landscape charms the eye with visions of beauty and fills the heart with glad and beneficent emotions, when the harvests of the year are beginning to ripen into fruition in reward of labors worthily bestowed, that we are assembled to commemorate the birth of an infant municipality and to cele- brate the achievements of its first hundred years.
These thoughts of necessity bring to our minds the memory of the early inhabitants of the town, who, with strong arms and stouter hearts, came to hew out homes from the depths of the wilderness, and cheerfully encountered the privations and the terrors of wilderness life in pursuit of competence and indepen- dence, and to attain to thrift by steady and frugal industry. The homage of the heart is willingly rendered to their courage and constancy, to their manly and womanly virtues. To con- sider their early deeds in their true light, and award them the full honors due to their merits, we must view them as separating themselves from paternal homes, from the embrace and sympathy of friends, and the society of peaceful communities, to enter upon the labors of a lifetime in the face of a frowning forest reluctant to submit to the conquest of man; without roads, without churches, without school-houses, without mills, without barns, without habitations of much comfort, largely without resources
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outside of themselves, without most things except their own strong arms and a brave and steadfast hope, these were the men and these the heaven-blessed women who planted organ- ized society in the solitude, which, until they came, had pos- sessed the hills and vales of Sylvester-Canada ; established religion and social order, invested the forest with the charms of civilized life, and made an abode of peace, plenty, and happi- ness, where the solitary grandeur of nature unvexed by man had hitherto dwelt. How well these brave and manly spirits did their work the chronicles of the epoch, which we now cel- ebrate, declare. That they made war upon the forest and builded habitations for man and shelter for beasts is but small praise. These were but the efforts of necessity. They did more, immeasurably more, when they built mills, opened roads, established ferries, founded schools, and planted their relig- ious establishment on the solid foundations of the civil and ecclesiastical polity of the times. The parent colony, which, beside its lands and wealth of wilderness, had little else to bestow upon her swarming children, took good care to provide ample measures for the advancement of the great cause on which they had erected their edifice of society, and not less care to demand the full performance of ecclesiastical duty.
And when we consider the many difficulties of their situation, and the many exactions upon the time and slender resources of pioneers planting society beyond the outmost verge of civiliza- tion, we can easily pardon them if our ancestors were for a time slow in the structure of their religious institution. Con- sidering all things, we may fairly conclude they were not reluc- tant in spirit, and that whatever there was of retardation was the work of necessity, not of will. They performed to the best of their power, and the names of Strickland and Turner, religious teachers of the early times, were long familiar in the speech of the people after those apostles had gone to the reward of their labors. The sturdy liberty pole of revolutionary
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sires, and the old meeting-house of the grandfathers, long after a more ambitious place of worship had arisen, survived in cor- dial association, as relics of primitive times and memorials of the religious and patriotic spirit of the youthful period of the town. Thus they laid broad and deep the foundations of civil and social order and of religious observance. These dwellers of the forest proceeded securely and builded slowly the humble edifice of their newly born society, and with joy, as the years rolled on, beheld it gradually developing in symmetry and strength into one of the vast fraternity of towns of which the republic is made.
The original inhabitants of the town were descendants of the Puritan stock. Some of them had migrated from the shadow of Plymouth Rock. With them the love of civil and religious liberty was inborn. From their ancestors they had inherited deep and decided convictions and determined and steady pur- pose. Of these traits were born in them steadfast principles and the faculty of rigorous adherence to whatever was deemed to be of the obligations of duty. It is not necessary to assert that the Puritan was always right, or that his convictions, how- ever intense, were always the offspring of enlightened intelli- gence. In fact it was but a result in logical order and sequence that the very intensity of his convictions and the severe concentration of thought and will upon his favorite theme tended to make him narrow-minded, and to plant in his mind prejudices not well founded. Yet it was his aim always to follow truth and duty as his guides ; and if for want of light his principles at any time failed to lead him, his prejudices were equal to all emergencies and adequate to all needed ser- vice. To say the whole truth, his prejudices were as dear to him as his principles, and not wholly without reason, since they were by times of equal service to him. For his prejudices grew out of his honest and steadfast principles, and he knew not how to analyze and separate the one from the other ; in fact, he was
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delightfully unconscious of the existence of the one, and, of consequence, knew no distinction between the one and the other. And yet, it is but just to say of this historic body of men that if this was a fault in them, their descendants are not entire strangers to the same frailty ; and while we sit here to pass judgment upon them, and to commemorate their immortal achievements in the cause of human progress, we must meekly confess that we, descendants of Puritans, are not likely to go far astray for want of prejudices sturdy and potent.
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