USA > Maine > Lincoln County > Jefferson > Centennial celebration of the town of Jefferson, Lincoln County, Maine, U.S.A., August 21, 1907 > Part 5
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Vanished the Indian tribe, Chieftain and squaw; Briefly their fate inscribe, Write it with awe. There on our broad lake's shore, None to molest, All their wild wand'rings o'er, Lie they at rest.
Simple the picture seems, Artless the life ; Close to the land of dreams, Far from earth's strife. Into this lovely bay, Sheltered so long, Sailed a strange craft one day, Gliding along.
. Winds from the mighty world Wafted it on, Breathed on the flag unfurled, Fair Jefferson ! Over the Indian grave, O'er plain and slope, Swept like a tidal wave New life and hope.
Land of our fathers' care, Our heart's delight, Then rose thy day-star fair, Cloudlessly bright. Heaven then smiled on thee, Hidden no more; Ordered thy destiny, Blessed ev'ry shore.
The primeval wilderness suddenly wakes; A new day has dawned on the hills and the lakes. The English are coming with promise of good, To build them a home in the heart of the wood. How nobly they labor, what trials they face, As they steadily toil in their own chosen place,
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Till loved ones are housed in a sheltering nest ; No birdlings so happy, go east or go west! The sound of the axe and the hammer is heard, While oft is exchanged the bantering word. They mow down the fir-tree, the hemlock and pine ; The ship knees they fashion to sail o'er the brine. From yon Pine Tree Point down into the bay, They raft their huge logs at the break of the day; Past the mouth of the river, the "Ox-bow" in view, Straight down to the Narrows, the journey pursue. Their voyage completed, returning with song, They bring the wares of the merchants along. In a short hundred years what a work they have done! Nor in vain were their labors under the sun. There were streams to compel to work out their will, By planting beside them some busy mill.
There were lands to be cleared, and barns to be filled, There were highways to make, and bridges to build; And on "Zion's Hill" a house to be raised, Where elders might preach, and God be praised ; A schoolhouse, too, they must put in its place, And hire a master of wisdom and grace, By line and by precept the truth to impart, And educate rightly the mind and the heart. And thus grew the town like a family tree, All brothers and sisters of one pedigree. The place seemed too narrow; away they would roam To seek in new lands a more spacious home. They carried the lessons of youth where they strayed, And deep for success the foundation laid. When up from the South came the war's dread alarm, They sprang to the rescue, all ready to arm. They fought like heroes, they died like saints, Nor burdened the air with selfish complaints ; But they longed with feverish thirst where they fell, To taste of the water from grandfather's well. A remnant returning from prison and field, Now live in our midst, our honor to shield.
Ah! great is the heritage fallen to these, The children to whom are given the keys Of treasures hoarded through troublesome years, And laid away carefully, often in tears! A whole generation has left in our care The riches thus gathered as legacies rare. For us they labored with unceasing toil, For us they tilled the unpromising soil ; For us they fought, for us they prayed, And on our heads hands of blessing they laid.
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Over yonder they lie :- the worn hands at rest, The loving hearts still in the once sturdy breast. Let us pause before all of the brave words are said, To shed a fond tear o'er the graves of the dead.
Come now to the "mountain" and look o'er the vale, Where nestle the homes on the hill, in the dale. All round the horizon there stretch purple hills, A rim for the vessel the crystal lake fills, Like a sea of silver that glistens afar, As it mirrors the image of sun or of star. There glows no emerald green like the trees That bask in this sunlight and sway in this breeze. Over wide-spreading fields where'er the eyes roam, Stretch the waves of the grass with daisies for foam. No fields and no woods more peacefully lie, While expands above all God's glorious sky. Sweet Auburn's no sweeter than this lovely plain, No village more fair by the brook or the lane. Down there in those homes dwell the friends of our youth, With hearts of pure gold, staunch lovers of truth. There are dear little children with bright golden hair; There are heads touched with silver by sorrow and care. They mourn for the wanderers gone far away, The light of their eyes, their comfort and stay. Come back to these friends with their wide-open arms, Come back to deserted old houses and farms. What matters the world with its promise of gold? It soon will forget you when you have grown old. And you, the home-birds who've staid in the nest, Remember the lessons you've learned were the best From a father's wise head, a mother's kind heart. Then bear in the future your own noble part In the cares and the joys of your dear native town, And be to its councils an honor and crown.
Ye children of Jefferson, Her heart's fond desire, Still keep ever burning bright The old hearthstone fire. The world tides flow in to you, World tides flow out ; Your lighthouse must drive away Darkness and doubt.
Then keep the lamps trimmed aright, Safe at home stay ; The light of this corner may Reach to Cathay.
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JEFFERSON MALE
THE MONUMENT
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Some star in your sky may rise, Constant and bright, Whose rays shall illuminate All the dark night.
Let peace and prosperity, Faith, hope, and love, Forever abide with us, Lead us above. May the God of our fathers send All blessings down, And make thy land beautiful, Loved native town.
WINIFRED B. LADD.
MR. BATEMAN'S ADDRESS
The Chairman :
Ladies and Gentlemen :- Again it is my pleasant duty this afternoon, to present to you Professor L. C. Bateman, who will charm you with his forensic Grecian oratory.
Mr. Bateman :
Ladies and Gentlemen, Citizens of My Dear Old Home :- In this great audience none was more deeply touched than I by that song, so splendidly sung by the quartette :
"How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss covered bucket, which hung in the well."
Every foot of this soil to me is sacred. It was here, in the long ago, that I ran among you a bare-footed boy. It was in yonder sacred edifice that I listened to the eloquence of dear old "Father" Tilley. It was under his ministrations that I learned my early Sabbath lessons, and it was he who pronounced the last solemn words over the cold clay of those I loved.
It is certainly a pleasure to come back here in your midst today. Strange faces are before me, although now and then I see one whose hair is tinged with gray who sat with me in the little red schoolhouse down below in the days of "auld lang syne."
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It is a magnificent tribute that has been paid to your town of Jefferson today. When I first received the invitation to come here, I was thinking that I had no particular claim of ancestry in the town of Jefferson, as I came here when a small boy. A little later I reflected that I was a member of the Sons of the Revolution, and that the great-grandfather, whose papers I presented to that society in order to gain admittance, was a pioneer of the town of Jefferson.
I hold in my hand a letter that will interest you. I received it a few days ago from a cousin of mine, Miss Angie S. McLintock of the town of Winslow, and from it I will read a few extracts :
"I presume you are planning to attend the Centennial at Jefferson. I should be most happy to be there myself, but cannot promise myself the pleasure it would give. I have some papers of ancient date that belonged to my great-grandfather, James Robinson, he being one of the first settlers of the town, coming from the State of Massachusetts. He took up four hundred acres of land in what was then a wilderness, and built a log house for himself and his companions. The land he took bore the name of 'Robinson Ridge,' and goes by that name at the present time.
"My grandfather held several responsible offices in that town, viz .: that of coroner, of which the paper I send you proves my statement. He was also a soldier of the Revolution and a lieutenant in that army. I have a pass that was given him in the Revolutionary Army when he was sick. It was given under the direction of the regimental surgeon and by the order of Brigadier General Butler. This James Robinson was my great-grandfather on the maternal side, and his name I find in the list of the early settlers of Jefferson.
"I suppose I am too late for a report of a little paper I have in the form of a mortgage given my Grandfather Robinson when he made the pews of the First Baptist Church in Jefferson. The society was at that period rather small. My grandfather furnished the lumber and made the pews, and they gave him this security on them until he was paid for the lumber and labor. The names signed to this document are: Samuel Jackson, Deacon William Kennedy, James Robinson, Jr."
I have read only little extracts from this letter, but they will convince you that I have a claim to being a descendant of one of the old pioneers of Jefferson, and I assure you that it will be one of my proudest boasts in the future.
I know it is customary on occasions of this kind to deal only in words of eulogy and praise. I have sometimes thought that a pessimistic view should be thrown into the midst of the optimistic. It is well that we examine our horizons carefully to see if there are any dangers there. We are apt to hear nothing but the pleasant side, and none is more sen- sible of the fact than I that he who dares to speak the truth, even if it be an unpalatable one, is liable to call down criticisms upon his own head. I shall at once invoke criticism here today, but let me say to you in the beginning that he is not your best friend who simply points out your virtues ; he is your best friend who tells you of your failings and your faults, in order that you may correct them and attain a higher order of manhood and womanhood. He is not the best friend of the storm-swept mariner who tells him that his sails are well set, that the wind is calm,
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and that no danger lies in his pathway. Oh, no! He is the best friend of that mariner who tells him that the little speck of a black cloud on yonder horizon is liable to develop into a tornado that will send him and his vessel to destruction. He is the best friend who points out the ripple on yonder sea and tells him that just beneath the surface lies the coral reef.
It is well that we look at facts. It is well, also, that we heed the warnings and the teachings and the morals of history. Look at yonder monument and read the names of those old pioneers who settled this town when it was but a wilderness! Who were they, and what blood flowed through their veins? It was the same blood that flows through your veins and mine-the Anglo-Saxon, the Teutonic, the Celtic, and possibly the Scandinavian. It was that blood that built up this civiliza- tion. It was that blood that built yonder church. It was that blood that built the schoolhouse where you and I sat at the feet of teachers and learned our earliest lessons in the English language. It was that blood which built the civilization which made possible yonder grange hall. It was that blood which made possible all these things that we boast of here today, and to which allusion has been made by other speakers in such glowing words and with such forcible eloquence.
Are we to maintain that civilization? Are we to perpetuate the virtues of those fathers whose names have been held up here to reverence today? Think you that there is no storm-cloud on yonder horizon? Think you that this republic is destined to march firmly and proudly down the corridors of time, as has been told you here today ?
The lessons of history lie before us. Other nations and other times have known a splendid civilization. Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Egypt, Greece-each and all have illumined the pages of history. We recall the fate of Rome, that sat on her seven hills and proudly ruled the world. We do not forget the immortal republics that once clustered around the shores of the classic Mediterranean. Each and all have passed through the same history. They arose, blazed forth their civilization for a brief period, and each in its turn perished beneath the whirling wheels of time.
And yet we are told that there is no danger on our political horizon ! Let us see. In the last few years the tide of immigration has been com- pletely reversed. I look before me today, and I see the flower of New England civilization; of that there can be no question. I am not given to flattery, and before my remarks are finished you will think, perhaps, it would have been wiser in me to have flattered more.
I again repeat, the flower of New England civilization sits before me. What will be the civilization that will sit before the speaker who talks from this same spot one hundred years hence? It is a very delicate sub- ject, is it not? Your children, your grandchildren, your great-grand- children-think you that they will be just as good as their ancestors of to-day? Think you they will have just as many virtues, as many noble traits of character and as many noble institutions of which to boast? Are you sure of it? Pardon me if I cast a doubt. Twenty-five years ago I used to lecture in the state of Rhode Island. I could go into any little country village and fill a hall to overflowing. I found those little factory villages made up of English-speaking people. I found them to be
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intelligent Anglo-Saxons like myself. I found them ready and eager to patronize any decent entertainment that might come along.
I go down into the State of Rhode Island today, and I cannot make enough money by lecturing to pay my hotel bills. As I walk along the street I rarely hear the English language spoken. I hear a jargon and a babel of foreign tongues, and the highest idea that those creatures have of an entertainment is to take a rooster under each arm every Sunday morning, go out behind some country barn and have a brutal cock fight.
This is the class of men that is coming today to build up our civili- zation and maintain the honor of our Stars and Stripes. Think you that they will do it? I consider it to-day the greatest danger that confronts this nation. Unless some check can be placed upon this tide of immigra- tion that is flowing to our shores from the degenerate races of the south of Europe, then the Anglo-Saxon civilization in the not distant future is doomed. It cannot exist as it is going on to-day. One million and a half members of these degenerate races are coming to this country every year from south of the Mediterranean. And who are they? They con- stitute the scum of earth and the dregs of hell.
We all know the influence of environment. Your children and grandchildren will be brought into contact with a lower order of civiliza- tion. Alexander Pope has told us in immortal verse the result of such contamination :
"Vice is a monster of such hideous mien That to be hated needs but to be seen ; But seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace."
Go into any of our great manufacturing centers today and what do you find? You will find an army of proletariats growing up, more ter- rible and dangerous to the liberties of this country than were the hordes of northern barbarians who under their chieftain, Alaric, swept down from their wilderness upon the palaces and legions of imperial Rome. Crouched in those dens, vice and crime are today breeding all the dan- gers that our civilization abhors. It is there that the rum shop finds a stability that nothing can check; immorality an impulse no power can stay; crime a seed-bed that nothing can sterilize, and religion a barrier that nothing can level.
I have stood upon the palaces of the Cæsars, built more than two thousand years ago, and of such enduring materials as would seem destined to last as long as time itself. But yet, the roots of the tiny weeds that have grown around their bases have made them but a shapeless mass of ruins. As I stood alone at night, with the pale rays of the moon shimmering down through those grand old broken arches and vine- covered walls, I could only ask myself the question: "Where now is that noble race of men who once thronged those gorgeous but now silent and deserted halls? Where now are those invincible legions that once carried her proud eagles into every land? Where now are those mighty geniuses who gave laws to and swayed their sceptre o'er all the nations of the earth?" Oh, how degraded! Could the virtuous Cicero but look down from his abode in the heavens and see the Italian in his present
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degraded condition, as he trudges from country to country with his organ upon his back and his monkey by his side, he could not forbear the exclamation : "How fallen, oh, my countrymen !"
Is there no danger from this tide of immigration sweeping across the broad Atlantic from the south of the Mediterranean? The student of history points the finger of caution to the future as he reverts to the disasters of the past. Let us not lay the flattering unction to our souls that our loved land of the free and the home of the brave can claim exemption from the fate that has befallen other nations. Without intel- ligence, virtue and patriotism to guide the actions of her people, no nation can ever hope to march steadily on the great highway of human progress. Let us be warned in time, for the day may come when repent- ance will be too late.
We have been told here this forenoon of the wonderful wealth that this nation has accumulated. We have had the figures shown to us of the enormous increase of material wealth. With these statements I have no quarrel to make. The fact of this material gain in worldly wealth is true beyond the shadow of a doubt. But allow me to ask who is gaining that wealth. England is a wealthy nation, possibly more wealthy even than our own. But who owns the wealth of England? Twenty thousand men own those enormous accumulations, while thirty million English- men are shivering on the ragged edge of pauperism. Go with me to the magnificent city of Edinburgh, and from there we will sweep down to the city of London, a distance of four hundred miles.
It is a magnificent country through which we pass. As the train rolls along at the rate of sixty miles an hour, we catch the occasional glimpse of a magnificent marble palace embowered in groves of old English oak, and filled with wild game of every sort. Turn your gaze in another direction, and down in the little sequestered valley you will find a small hamlet of thatched roof cottages. Humble indeed are they, and all the signs of poverty are there. It is in these cottages where dwell the humble peasants who till yon lordly owner's soil.
Go with me to the city of London and visit Westminster Abbey- the mausoleum where sleep the honored dead of England. We pass down long aisles of marble monuments erected to rotten and forgotten kings, and then we reach that sacred spot known as "The Poets' Corner." A simple marble slab marks the grave of Oliver Goldsmith, one of the noblest of England's bards. And then we remember these immortal lines from his "Deserted Village":
"Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey Where wealth accumulates and men decay ; Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed can never be supplied."
Yes, England is a wealthy country. For a thousand years, since the reign of Alfred the Great, she has been working out that system which has resulted in the present order of things. In this country we are treading in exactly the same pathway. We are marching along that
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road with vastly greater rapidity. It will not take the same length of time with us that it has in our mother country beyond the sea to work out precisely the same results. Already the rumblings of that condition of affairs, coming from a discontented people, can be heard on every hand. Yes, we have great wealth in this country. The figures given us by the distinguished gentleman this forenoon are only too true. Par- don me if I now make an application : It has been shown you that wealth is increasing with tremendous rapidity in this country. As an offset to that, I have shown you that we are being deluged by a degenerate population from foreign shores.
Now I am coming home to you. In 1850 the town of Jefferson had a population of 2,225 people. They were just such men and women as I see before me today. At this moment you have less than 1,100 people in this town. One-half of your population has disappeared. The last census proves that statement. What has become of your population ? I will leave it to others to investigate the cause.
What is true of the town of Jefferson is true of almost every rural town in the State of Maine today. Only a few weeks ago I made a trip to a town adjoining the city of Lewiston. With me was an old gentle- man whose boyhood days were passed in that place. As we drove along the streets I saw house after house wrecked and gone to ruin. I saw cellars grown up with bushes and moss clinging to the ruins. I noted that the spot once pressed by the feet of happy childhood was now the habitat of the bat and the owl. My friend pointed to these places, and occasionally remarked that when he was a boy, more than sixty years before, those places were productive farms that bloomed like the rose. Great herds of lowing cattle were in the pastures, and large families of children were in the homes. Wild weeds are now growing on the walls, and the wild beast licks her cubs where once were the busy haunts of men.
This is the condition that exists in many of our country towns all over the State of Maine today. In the far West the change is going on as fast as it is with us.
In my hand I hold an editorial cut from the Boston Post of a week ago last Saturday. Let me read it to you :
"The murderous row among Chinese inhabitants of Boston compels attention to the conditions under which alien immigrants from other countries settle here. From the earliest times of this republic, the United States has been held to be the refuge of the oppressed of all nations. Here they were asked to come and enjoy the rights of manhood and of liberty.
"But they were not asked to bring here the political or factional antagonisms of the land which they may have left, and especially were they expected to put away anything that should militate against their acceptance of the absolute equality and mutual helpfulness which is the foundation of this republic.
"This privilege has been abused. The United States has been made the basis of anarchistic combinations whose murderous undertakings have shamed humanity. The mafia has been imported here from Italy. The camorra and the "black hand" have festered here. The Armenian political guild of murder has slain American citizens and threatened others.
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"The situation is intolerable. We, here in America, want none of these insanities of the degenerate east. They are exotic, inconceivable, abominable beyond expression. We must wipe out the "tongs," the "high-binders," the "Hunchagists," all the abomination of alien nomen- clature, and clean up America."
This editorial says, "Clean up America!" In other words, we must close the stable and lock it up after the horse has been stolen. The editor did not tell us how we are going to clean that stable up. Unfortunately for us, those foreign outcasts have all got votes.
Who owns the labor-saving machinery? The great trusts and the great moneyed corporations. They it is who say: "You must not stop these foreign immigrants from the south of Europe from coming here. We want their cheap labor that we can all of us become Rockefellers and Morgans. You politicians can have their votes, and we millionaires will take their cheap labor and become billionaires."
There you have the secret of the whole matter. It is an incontro- vertible truth that I am telling you, and we are all fools enough to let them do it.
Is there no danger confronting the American republic, and is there no obstacle in our pathway to a higher civilization? Never were such difficulties looming up as are now looming up before the people of this country today. Whether we can stop this is now problemnatical. Per- sonally, I fear that the time has gone by when the American republic can be saved, simply because year by year this people is growing less. One- half in the town of Jefferson that you had in 1850, and the Italians, the Hungarians, the Armenians, the Bulgarians, the Greeks, the Poles and a score of other degenerate races are sending in their immigrants at the rate of a million and a half a year! They are bringing their own cus- toms, a hatred of political institutions, a knowledge of nothing but to kill, to break down and to destroy; and then you tell me that there is no danger, and that everything is clear sailing before our ship of state!
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