USA > Maine > Oxford County > Paris > History of Paris, Maine, from its settlement to 1880, with a history of the grants of 1736 & 1771, together with personal sketches, a copious genealogical register and an appendix > Part 44
Note: The text from this book was generated using artificial intelligence so there may be some errors. The full pages can be found on Archive.org (link on the Part 1 page).
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28 | Part 29 | Part 30 | Part 31 | Part 32 | Part 33 | Part 34 | Part 35 | Part 36 | Part 37 | Part 38 | Part 39 | Part 40 | Part 41 | Part 42 | Part 43 | Part 44 | Part 45 | Part 46 | Part 47 | Part 48 | Part 49 | Part 50 | Part 51 | Part 52 | Part 53 | Part 54 | Part 55 | Part 56 | Part 57 | Part 58 | Part 59 | Part 60 | Part 61 | Part 62 | Part 63 | Part 64 | Part 65 | Part 66 | Part 67 | Part 68 | Part 69 | Part 70 | Part 71 | Part 72 | Part 73
HENRY PRENTISS.
He was born in 1779, and was the son of Rev. Caleb and Pamelia (Mellen) Prentiss, of Reading, Mass. He married Mary, daughter of Dr. John Hart, of Reading, and came to Paris quite early, though not among the first settlers. He was a frequent contributor to the columns of the early Paris papers, and a forcible writer. In his newspaper tilt with Elder Hooper, on the currency question, he dis- played great tact as a controvertialist. He also occasionally wrote poetry, which seems to have been a strong family trait. He died in Paris in 1843. From his contributions to the Oxford Observer, over the signature of "Cimon," the following is selected, which appeared in the first issue of the paper :
POWER OF THE PRESS.
Young genius of Oxford come carol your lay, Your Press is awaiting-your herald's away ; For Oxford demands (her aspiring caress,) A Press for her freedom and freedom of Press. Ye sons of her mountains, ye sages combine, Ye fair of her valleys your garlands entwine; Your services proffer, your bounties bestow, Make a land of renown of your mountains of snow : For bleak are your hills, and the long winter's blast Her mantle of frost o'er your glaciers does cast. Breathe on balmy gales ; let a spirit of fire Awake in the hearts of the son and the sire. Bid Oxford arise in the strength of her might, And drive from her brow the dim vapors of night. The Press, with a Majesty boundless as sea, And a voice loud as thunder, bids Oxford be free ; With a stride from the ocean she measures the plain, And swears on the mountains of Oxford she'll reign. She seeks a retreat in the land of the brave ;
473
HISTORY OF PARIS.
She shrinks at the tyrant, and weeps o'er the slave. The Land of the Hills to the brave is a home, For the hills of the Swiss to their foes are a tomb. Fair daughter of heaven, O virtue, inspire The soul of the Press with thine own sacred fire ! If on the escutcheon of Oxford remain A vice or a crime to encrimson her name, The foul crimson blot in oblivion wipe, By the flash of thy frown or the lash of the type. E'en hallowed on earth; O, Justice, preside O'er the fate of our counsels, our destinies guide ! Hang high o'er our homes, thy bright balance in Heaven, And by thy red bolt be iniquity riven.
O palsy the hand by extortion corroded, Doom peaceless the soul by its infamy goaded ; If guilt, with her train of dark vassals arrayed, The quiet dominions of Oxford invade,
The Press thy artillery, the type be thy bow, To lay the base miscreant lifeless and low. His corse be the carrion where ravens shall feed, His bones bleach the turf on which tramples the steed. But when the oppressed in their anguish shall cry, Their cheek pale with sorrow, grief-smitten their eye, Then deal out they mercy, the victim opprest, From the gripe of the ruthless extortioner wrest. The Press be thine angel, our faults to record, Our vices to punish, our virtues reward ; Our morals to chasten, our follies expose, To gladden the bosom though pregnant with woes. Our minds to enlighten, our wanderings correct, To rescue our youth who in vices are wrecked,. Our tastes to improve and our manners refine, And point the bold sinner to piety's shrine. A light to the blind, to the darkling a guide; A bride to the groom and a groom to the bride. A home to the stranger, a guest to the host, Who brings him glad news of a heritage lost. A pillar of fire to enlighten our way, A mirror, the scenery of life to display. The yeomanry chart which shall point out the soil Whose bounties shall gladden the culturer's toil. An eye that shall ken the rich secrets of earth, And drag them reluctant to being and birth.
CIMON.
474
HISTORY OF PARIS.
CALEB PRENTISS.
Deacon Caleb Prentiss moved from Gorham, Me., to South Paris, about the beginning of the present century. He was a native of Reading, Mass., a son of Rev. Caleb Prentiss, and brother of the preceding. He was in trade some years at South Paris, and then purchased of Asa Sturtefant lot number six in the ninth range, where he moved and engaged in agriculture. He was deacon of the Congregationalist church, a man of marked ability, a magistrate before whom cases of breach of the peace were frequently brought, and highly respected in town. He was also a contributor to the columns of the Observer, and the following scraps are selected from among his poetical compositions :
DECEMBER DAYS.
Ruthless winter's rude career, Comes to close the parting year ; Fleecy flakes of snow descend, Boreal winds the welkin rend. Reflect, oh man! and well remember That dull old age is dark December ; For soon the year of life is gone, When hoary hairs like snow come on.
RESIGNATION.
How pleasing the sound of the church going bell, How dismal the tone of the funeral knell ; Thus life is a scene that is checkered with ill, Though pleasure oftimes procures us a rill Of comfort to cheer us while passing the night Of this wilderness world, to the regions of light. Then let us enjoy the blessings here given, And wait the fruition provided in Heaven.
MARY PRENTISS.
Mary Prentiss was a daughter of Dea. Caleb Prentiss, and was born in Paris, Dec. 27, 1798. For several years preceding her death, which took place Nov. 16, 1836, she had resided in Bangor. A brief, but appreciative obituary notice of her, appeared in a Ban- gor paper shortly after her death, from the pen of Hon. Edward Kent, a reproduction of which will be sufficient for the present occa- sion. The stanzas referred to in the notice are appended thereto. Judge Kent wrote as follows : "You may remember that soon after the dedication of Mount Hope Cemetery in July last, I informed you
475
HISTORY OF PARIS.
that I had in my possession some stanzas composed by a young lady of this city, which I intended to have published. I am forcibly and sadly reminded of that promise by the death of the author, Miss Mary Prentiss, daughter of Dea. Caleb Prentiss of Paris, who died in Bangor on the 16th inst. I will not attempt a formal newspaper eulogium on her character; to those who had known her, had wit- nessed her life of unobtrusive usefulness and conscientious discharge of duty, and had been blessed with her friendship and love, such an eulogium would be useless. Her friends will long remember her as one who without adventitious and accidental advantages, had won her way to their hearts and affections, by the vigor and discipline of her mind, by the gentle kindness and disinterestedness of her life, by an almost excessive sensibility, tempered and subdued, that she might never shrink from duty, and an expansive benevolence that embraced the whole human family, and a remarkable absence of that selfishness which regulates and calculates not its actions, without a reference to present comfort. At the time above alluded to, the dedication of Mount Hope, she was deeply interested in the object and the occasion, and in a note to a friend, enclosing the annexed, she says : 'Ever since I heard of the arrangements for the dedica- tion of Mount Hope, I have imagined myself dead and buried there. I send you the fruit of my strange imaginings.' At that period, and until a short time before her death, her health was excellent. There is something in the lines and thought of that mysterious and indefina- ble presentiment, that far reaching vision, dim and indistinct, and yet almost real, which we sometimes fancy is vouchsafed to the pure in heart as they approach near the spirit land." The stanzas are entitled
A SPIRIT AT MOUNT HOPE.
I am no more a child of earth, My spirit from its clay hath fled ; And yet I linger round the spot, Where they have made my low, last bed.
The strong, deep wish to be beloved, Has not departed with my breath ;
It had its origin in Heaven, And was too pure to yield to death.
I see the tears the mourners shed, I catch the murmur of their sighs ;
And through their long and weary days, I watch them with my spirit-eyes.
E
-
.
476
HISTORY OF PARIS.
My home is in a better world Of ceaseless bloom and cloudless light ; And the soiled robe I wore below, Is changed for one of spotless white.
Deck then my grave with earth's frail flowers, And teach the mourning trees to bend ; But do not water them with tears, Plume the soul's pinions to ascend.
If it is bliss e'en here to mount, When we must bear the heavy chain Which checks us in our highest flight, And drags us to the earth again,
Think of the soul with nought to clog, With nought to dim its eagle sight ; Forever drinking in new joy, Forever catching some new light.
If this dark stream is beautiful, Which waters but an earthly clod, Think what must be that purer one Which sparkles from the throne of God.
Oh, dry your tears, no longer weep, The grave is not a gloomy place; Religion sheds a radiance Which every lingering cloud should chase.
HANNAH E. (MAXIM) ALLEN.
Mrs. Allen is the daughter of Silas and Hannah (Packard) Maxim, and was born in Paris, Oct. 6, 1831. She began when quite young to contribute to the local papers, both in prose and verse, and her pro- ductions attracted considerable notice. Since then she has written more or less for the Oxford Democrat, Portland Transcript, Boston Museum, Olive Branch, &c., under the nom de plume of "Rose San- born." She has written quite a number of stories, but much more of poctry. Her poem "Greeting to my Native Hills," read at the Centennial Celebration and printed elsewhere with the proceedings, is a fine specimen of blank verse and highly poctical. She married J. W. Allen, and moved to Michigan, but has since removed to Nc- braska. She has written but little since her marriage, being cn- grossed with family cares and dutics, a fact to be regretted ; one who can write so well should write more. Among her earlier pro- ductions, the following is copied from the Monthly Literary Miscel-
477
HISTORY OF PARIS.
lany, published in Detroit, Michigan, and was written in Paris in August, 1850. It is entitled
THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.
The daughter of the ruler lay Upon the couch of death ; Her snowy bosom cold and still, Heaved by no fluttering breath ; A mother's joy, a father's pride, With that young gentle girl had died.
The dark curls swept like raven plumes On her clear marble brow, And the fringed lash pressed softly down Upon her cheek of snow, Hiding the eye whose melting blue
Seemed borrowed from the heaven's own hue.
Beside the couch stood they whose hearts By deepest grief were torn,
They who had watched her early years, Her girlhood's radiant morn,-
Who long had fasted, wept and prayed,
That Death's sharp arrow might be stayed.
Another stood beside her there, In that still room of death, In all his saintly majesty- Jesus of Nazareth ! His eyes unwet, his brow serene, A holy calmness on his mien.
The master clasped his hands ; "Weep not," he mildly said, "For this is but a living sleep, Thy daughter is not dead. Weep not,-the maiden shall awake And live again, for thy faith's sake." And as he spoke he gently took Her white hand from her breast, Then paused, as loth to break a sleep So deep, so sweet, so blest ; To call a soul once freed from pain, Back to a sinful world again.
He spake ;- those lovely lids were raised From their deep orbs of blue, Back came the flush of glowing life, Her pale cheek melting through ; She lived again-she breathed-she smiled ; The wondering parents clasped their child.
478
HISTORY OF PARIS.
The following four sonnets on the death of her friend, are perhaps among the best of Mrs. Allen's productions. They first appeared in the columns of the Oxford Democrat :
IN MEMORY
OF MISS SARAH J. PRENTISS, WHO DIED AT BANGOR, OCTOBER 22, 1877.
1
Dear friend, the days of mellow tone and tint, The ripe, rare days that thou so well didst love Have laid once more their glorious imprint On field and wood, and even the blue above That nearer bends with its soft mantling haze. In these charmed hours, oh! friend, or so I dream, The veil 'twixt me and thee doth thinner' seem ; I feel thy presence in this tender calm, And in these airs, still rife with summer balm, The touch that smoothed my hair in other days. Ah! were mine eyes not holden I might see, Perhaps, thy radiant face lean close to me ; And looking in thy deep, true eyes, should know Death had not touched with frost, the love of long ago.
'Twas fitting thou shouldst gain the Master's feet When the ripe year its crown of glory wore; Well might he smile at thy full sheaves of wheat, The gathered gold of years, a precious store ; The faith that to a Father's hand could eling, Though darkness veiled His face ; the zeal that burned To bless thy brother man; love that discerned Christ in the lowly and the suffering, And when the war-cloud darkened all the land, Drew thee with eager haste to join the band Who, where the battle tempest spent its wrath, And left its wreck of anguish and of death, Hovered with sweet and gentle ministries, As God's own messengers sent in human guise.
. The Poet's soul shone clear upon thy brow ; Thine, too, the Artist's loving touch, the skill To bid the canvas blossom at thy will ; For, priestess at the shrine of Beauty, thou, Oh, friend beloved, to duller ears and eyes, Interpreted her choicest mysteries. Yet 'twas not given thee to win and wear The crown Fame held aloft. A coronet Of brighter lustre on thy brow was set; The glory of a womanhood most rare, And rich and rounded into full completeness,
479
HISTORY OF PARIS.
In whose calm strength was interblent all sweetness, As on thy native hills, the rock's scarred face Is beautiful with mosses and the harebell's grace.
"Perfect through suffering." Oh, heart sore tried, Through all the long, long anguish, by thy side, The angel Patience walked with calm, sad eyes ; While on thy brow, the saint's white aureole Grew large, till as a star in dawn's red skies Fades from our sight, so passed thy chastened soul Into God's rest ineffable. And now, After one golden year of Paradise, One year of seeing with unclouded eyes, Companion of pure spirits, dost not thou Behold even thy sorrows glorified, As one who on a lofty mountain's side, Sees the cold mists that drench the vales below, A bank of pearl and opal in the sunlight glow? Pleasanton, Mich., Oct. 18. ROSE SANBORN.
AN APRIL SNOW-STORM.
All day against the window pane, The April storm has fiercely beat ; The naked trees have writhed in pain, Whitened with driving snow and sleet.
And many a proud old tree, o'erthrown With sudden crash and deafening roar, A wreck of kingly pride lies prone, To wear his kingly crown no more.
The tender shoots of grass are hid ; The crocus-cups are filled with snow ; And under icy coverlid, The snowdrop's fearless head lies low.
I think the violets, half awake, Shut their sweet lids in sad surprise ; So treacherously the south wind spake Of greening woods and sunny skies !
But ah! most piteous sight to me, In all this dreary waste of storm, Beneath the whitening lilac-tree, A hapless robin's shivering form.
The cruel cold has pierced beneath His vest of flame and warm, brown coat ; Dulled his bright eye-maybe with death- And shut the music in his throat.
480
HISTORY OF PARIS.
Poor bird ! I wonder if he grieves For the old home in southern bowers, Where soft bright days and balmy eves Crown even Winter's brow with flowers !
ROSE SANBORN.
A WINTER PANSY.
Once in the morning twilight of our love, When Hope's first red had scarcely tinged the gray, I plucked a pansy from its winter bed And gave it you. In its fresh face, perchance, You read a vague, sweet prophecy of good, Of love surviving life's autumnal chill, And blossoming even in its winter days. After long years, once more I pluck for you A pansy that has braved a frosty sky And worn a snow-wreath on its purple brows, For a sweet sign that in our hearts to-day We find the old time prophecy come true.
MARY H. (PRENTISS) CUMMINGS.
Mary Hart Prentiss was the daughter of Henry and Mary (Hart Prentiss, formerly of Reading, Mass., but early settlers here, and was born in Paris, January 7, 1807. She married Whitney Cum- mings of West Sumner, afterwards of Buckfield, and died in the latter town in the spring of 1878. She was a frequent contributor to the Oxford Democrat, Portland Transcript and Zion's Advocate, over the signature of "Oithona." From a number of her short poems, the following are selected for this chapter :
REVERIES.
My child will come no more My ministries of love Are changed for those above- The little journey of his life is o'er.
I see his garments hang In many a spot- How can he be forgot, Tho' every mem'ry brings the heart a pang !
"T'is vain to change the seene- From each sequester'd nook His little treasures look ; I cannot wander where he has not been.
481
HISTORY OF PARIS.
Spring's glorious sunbeams stream, And brightly do they fall, Alike on floor and wall; But my lost boy looks out on every beam. I turn my eyes above, But tears will force their way E'en when I strive to pray- Is there no place of rest for earthly love?
My young and happy boy- I see his glad step springing, I hear his sweet voice singing, And yet these mem'ries bring no thrill of joy.
But why these restless days? The promises are mine ; I hear a voice Divine Call on my soul a sovereign God to praise.
Why spend my hours in gloom, Or weep for treasures gone, When I am hurrying on To join them in a world beyond the tomb.
My cherish'd one is there, He spends his glorious days In songs of holy praise To Him who heard on earth his daily prayer.
Then let my heart arise To his bright home above, And to the God of love Look for a blessing on "earth's broken ties."
OUR SCHOOLHOUSE. .
As I sit in my room alone to-day, My tho'ts are wandering far away ; Through many a year they are looking back Over childhood's many-color'd track ; And the schoolhouse, with its batter'd door, Stands upon the hillside as of yore.
How often we ran a merry race Over piles of snow to reach the place ! How we carefully plac'd the dinner pail, And hung our wrappings on peg or nail ; Then turn'd in haste to such wealth of blaze As is seldom seen in our modern days.
How the wood was piled on the heavy stones Till the fire sent out unconscious groans !
31
-
d
482
HISTORY OF PARIS.
How "the boys" climb'd up on the roof, and flung Baskets of chips the logs among ! And we push'd it and crowded around the flame, Intent on warmth ere the teacher came.
Few were the studies of childhool then ; Reading and spelling and use of pen ; Slight use of figures and parts of speech, But all that the spelling book could teach ;
1 And we spelt for the head with such warmth and zeal As few, save politicians, feel.
Oh, little we tho't as we frolick'd then, What sort of women, what sort of men, Would soon go out from that humble place, As help or burden to the race. Yet in looking back on those days, I see That each was then what he grew to be.
From that humble shelter of early days We soon went out into broader ways; We went with joy thro' its open door, To look back with sighs, but return no more. We scatter'd like leaves in October day, And like leaves have the many pass'd away.
Long years ago on a stormy night, When earth was clad in a robe of white, A flame stole out on the schoolhouse floor, Stealthily crept over wall and door; Mounted the roof-and at rise of sun The whole sad work of the night was done. That primitive building in its day, Did a useful work in a quiet way. Would I could see it as of old, With the scholars gather'd in its fold ! But most, with the house, have to dust gone down And I am musing here alone.
LINES SUGGESTED BY A DREAM. Who e'er has thank'd the Lord with heartfelt sense Of all His goodness to a fallen world, And has not blest Him for the gift of dreams? Oh, those sweet evidences that the mind Is ever wakeful ; that the soul within Is indestructible ; that we shall live, And feel, and think when death itself is past ! When the exhausted, wearied frame must rest,
483
HISTORY OF PARIS.
And seek in sleep those fresh supplies of strength To-morrow will demand, how would the mind, The active spirit, grudge the wasted hours, Were it not certain that the hand of God Would paint some picture of the fading past, Or the uncertain future, on the mind, While the veil'd eye sees not the outer world ! Our sleeping visions may, perchance, be sad, But who, oh who would lose them ?
I saw in dreams last night a favorite spot, One I have seldom seen in latter years. It was a farm upon a mountain's side, Rough in appearance, and yet beautiful, With all its trees and vines, its rocks and streams. 'Twas there a relative I lov'd in life
And mourn'd in death, liv'd out his threescore years. I ever lov'd to see the tall, gray house, It look'd so like its owner, firm, upright, As tho' 'twere fortified by praise and prayer. I saw it in my dream, with just the look It wore of old ; the same vine-shaded porch, And spreading trees around the open door ; But of the numerous smiling faces there In days gone by, but one arose to view. It was a youthful cousin, who had grown To man's estate beneath that sheltering roof ; But. thinking that the world had greener spots And lovelier scenes, had wandered far away, Long, long ago, from his paternal home. In my night vision he was blithe and young, As when I saw him ere he bade adieu To beautiful New England. Just the same Were the dark locks around his ample brow ; And in his flashing eye were mingled deep The energy, the softness and the pride Which blended in his character. No word Was said between us, yet I feel to-day As tho' departed years had come again, And I was living still the hours of youth. I bless the giver of that happy dream, For long has been the time since I have seen That well-remembered relative and friend, And we, perchance, may never meet again. I have a sprig of wither'd laurel leaves He sent me from his Pennsylvania home In token of remembrance, and I oft
484
HISTORY OF PARIS.
Look at it now, with question in my thoughts, Whether that home is dearer to his heart, Than the rough mountain one he left behind.
ROSE (McKENNEY) RAWSON.
She was the daughter of William and Mary (Besse) McKenney, and was born July 18, 1845. Her mother was a sister of Hon. Warren H. Vinton, whose name was formerly Besse, as stated in Personal Notices. Mrs. Rawson before her marriage, was a suc- cessful teacher in the public schools, having been employed in the schools in town, at Bryant's Pond and elsewhere. She has been an occasional contributor to the papers for a number of years, and gen- erally in poetry. The two following selections fairly exhibit her talent as a poetical writer. She married Otis Bent Rawson of this town, who is a Baptist preacher, and has been settled over the church in Bethel, but is now settled out of the State.
THE OLD HOME IN THE LANE.
There's something in the air this morn, that carries me away, Back many a year of toil and care, back many a weary day. Once more I seem a careless child, I'll fling away care's chain, And visit with my heart to-day, the old home in the lane.
Oh, let my father just this once lay off his silv'ring hair, And put away those spectacles, and then those lines of care; Do take away those signs of age; oh, make him young again, To visit with his child to-day, the old home in the lane.
Qh let my mother once again, I beg with aching heart, Have just a score of age's cares from off her life depart, Then will she not so feebly step, but free from grief and pain Again go happy, singing in the old home in the lane.
And now I look across the hill, and see the self-same grass Roll off in waves 'way down the vale, and flee as on I pass. Just as I've watched it many a time sweep off across the plain, When I regretfully would seek the old home in the lane.
The path across the orchard lot we hourly used to pass, Has been fenced up by stranger hands, they say, to save the grass; And then the Balm-of-Gilead trees will never bloom again,
A stranger's axe has sadly robbed the old home in the lane.
The brook in which we fished for frogs, and bare feet waded through, And all the unhatched polliwogs and toads we thoughtless slew To make a fertile field they say, he's spoiled it with a drain, Ah, sadly changed are you to-day, dear old home in the lane.
485
HISTORY OF PARIS.
Ah, stop-where are the dearly loved, the old home held so long, The dear, unbroken household band, that cheered its hearth with song? Then let me lay aside my pen, and hear again that strain, Just as it cheered in years ago, the old home in the lane.
The noblest boy, the father's pride, to-day his heart so true Lies still and silent 'neath his coat of undimmed army blue; Beneath the sun of distant skies, upon a southern plain, There lies the pride and treasure of the old home in the lane.
The old church yard upon the hill, of dear ones has its share, Two brothers dear lie side by side, a sister too, is there ; So sadly changed is now the flock, 'twould be less joy than pain, E'en if I could go back and see the old home in the lane.
Need help finding more records? Try our genealogical records directory which has more than 1 million sources to help you more easily locate the available records.