History of Oakland County, Michigan, with illustrations descriptive of its scenery, palatial residences, public buildings, fine blocks, and important manufactories, Part 23

Author: Durant, Samuel W
Publication date: 1877
Publisher: Philadelphia, L. H. Everts & co.
Number of Pages: 553

USA > Michigan > Oakland County > History of Oakland County, Michigan, with illustrations descriptive of its scenery, palatial residences, public buildings, fine blocks, and important manufactories > Part 23

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With the elevation of dramatic literature, and the improvements of art, came the machinery of dramatic representation. To the eloquence of the poet and the grace of the actor was added the effect of elaborate scenery, and all the appliances of the spectacular drama were by degrees introduced. The Greek tragedies and the Roman pantomimes were played without scenery, and generally without cos- tumes ; but a modern audience would lose half the spirit of " Midsummer Night's Dream," or " The Tempest," if played without the arts of the green-room and the machinery of the scenes. Betterton refused to play upon any but a completely furnished and well-appointed stage, and thus at once raised the scenic element of the drama to a level with its literature. Movable scenery was first used by Dave- nant, in London, in 1662. Shakspeare had no other scenery than tapestry hang- ings. The stage of the Globe theatre was strewn with rushes, and the curtain was drawn upon iron rods. To this day the theatres of China and Japan are without scenery.

The architecture of the theatres kept pace with the improvement of the drama. The theatres of Greece and Rome were open to the sky. The old Globe theatre in London was a hexagonal edifice, partly open at the top, and partly thatched. In the middle was an uncovered court, or " pit," where the common people stood, and around three sides ran the covered galleries where the nobility and gentry sat. But in the days of Garrick and Siddons the drama could boast the finest audience-rooms in London, Edinburgh, and Paris; and to-day if we would find the most beautiful specimens of in-door architecture in this country, the national capitol excepted, we must go to the opera-houses and the theatres.

I have thus endeavored cursorily to trace the drama from its origin to the period of its final triumph, about the close of the eighteenth century. At this period it led the world in literature, numbered among its actors some of the brightest intellects of the age, of both sexes, and was countenanced and patronized by the most brilliant and intelligent audiences of the most enlightened nations upon earth. After a struggle of ages, it stood forth as one of the noblest and most thoroughly established institutions of modern civilization. The position which it achieved in the eighteenth century it still holds, both in the Old World and the New.

With the establishment of European civilization in America came the institu- tions of that civilization-among them, of course, the drama. The first Ameri- can theatre was opened at Williamsburg, Virginia, in 1752, others in New York and Annapolis in 1753, and in rapid succession at Albany, Baltimore, Charleston, and Boston. When the players made their first appearance in the Puritan city of Boston, in 1792, they called their performances dramatic recitations, to avoid collision with a law of Massachusetts forbidding " stage plays." But no sooner did the players gain a footing than popular sentiment began to clamor for the repeal of the law, which was accomplished in the year following. Immediately afterwards the Federal Street theatre was built, and opened amid great rejoicings, with a prize prologue by Robert Treat Paine. The drama has grown with the

growth and strengthened with the strength of the nation, until now it is estab- lished in every considerable town of the republic, and is frequented, as I have said, by every class and profession among the people, from the chief magistrate to the newsboy.

Among American actors, the names of Booth and Forrest stand pre-eminent. In its literature, the American drama will doubtless follow the European, until another Shakspeare shall be born-at least, so let us hope.

Let no one imagine that I intend to apologize for those faults which too often characterize the drama-for the vices of some of its devotees, or the immoralities of some modern sensational scenes. The drama, like every other institution upon earth, has its evils and its abuses. While Betterton, Garrick, Siddons, Booth, - and Forrest are the pride and glory of the dramatic profession, Menken, Pearl, Fisher, and Vestvali are its disgrace and scandal. It is the classic drama, pure and legitimate, that I would uphold ; and I would uphold it upon principle. There is in human nature a taste, an almost irrepressible passion, for dramatic spectacle. The very church herself, in all her branches, both Catholic and Prot- estant, recognizes this fact ; and accordingly we find that all her most sacred ordinances and most solemn ceremonies are highly and intensely dramatic. Her traditions and associations are all dramatic. The incarnation, trial, crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension of the Saviour, the tragical deaths of the early mar- tyrs, the persecutions, the struggles of the reformation, the glories and horrors of the future world, all combine in a volume of dramatic power the effect of which is absolutely wonderful. What gives to war its strange fascination ? Nothing but the dramatic association of ideas-its "pomp and circumstance," its sights, its sounds, its struggles, its dangers, its grandeur of movement, its glory of action. It has

"A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,

And monarchs to behold the swelling scene."

Again, man loves amusement. Amusements are as necessary to the well-being of a people as laws or labor. The passion for amusement is as pure and as sacred as any other. The Creator never gave to his creatures a feeling or a passion which they might not rightly gratify, if in a reasonable and proper degree. Those amusements are most delightful which awaken in the ideal that which is most fascinating and moving in the real; hence the drama. The emotions thus awakened are more refined than those awakened by mere facts, in proportion as imagination is more refined than mere consciousness ; hence the strange and almost inexplicable power of the drama to gratify public taste and mould public sentiment. In the sublime, the beautiful, and the true, is the legitimate field of the drama. Degrade it to the merely sensual, or, if you please, the sensational, and it becomes an engine of incalculable evil ; it becomes debased by just so much as the sensual is baser than the intellectual and the moral. What can be more sublime, more true, than "King Henry V.," " Macbeth," or " Julius Caesar" ? what more refinedly humorous than "She Stoops to Conquer," or "The School for Scandal" ? what more pure than the character of Imogen ? Let us not con- demn an institution that is noble in all its true essentials, and faulty only in its abuses. Let us not decry a whole profession because some of its members offend us. Vice enters every institution of our civilization, sacred and profane; sin haunts every profession, divine and secular. Great crimes may be found in the pulpit, at the bar, and upon the stage ; and so may great virtues. The tinselry of the green-room may cover a saint, and the robes of the vestry may hide a devil. Then let us frankly recognize in every great institution whatever of true great- ness it possesses ; let us honor the genius that ennobles humanity, whether we find it before the altar or before the foot-lights.

The drama springs from among the people, addresses itself to the people, and lives upon the sympathies of the people; hence it has always been devoted to the interests and the liberties of the people. In the days of the Revolution the stage dealt heavy blows for independence, and its powerful influence has constantly been upon the side of the republic. When, just at the breaking out of the late civil war, a great actor lifted his country's flag upon the stage, and, after counting all its stars, rapturously exclaimed, " Thank God, they are all there !" the words and the deed of the actor thrilled the nation, and like a bugle-call rallied her sons to defend the honor of that flag.

The drama will remain true to liberty, as long as the people shall prefer free- dom to tyranny ; it will adhere to an elevated and refined literature, as long as the popular taste shall be elevated and refined; it will maintain a pure morality, as long as the popular heart shall be pure,-but no longer. The stream cannot rise above the fountain-head. Public amusements are the sure indices of public taste, public morals, and public intelligence. Give me the character of the public amusements in a city, and I will give you the exact degree of popular taste and intelligence in that city. If these walls shall ever echo the blasphemy of atheism, the jeers of ribaldry, or the aspersions of treason-if upon this stage shall ever appear a scene to bring a blush to the cheek of modesty or a pang to the heart of

HISTORY OF OAKLAND COUNTY, MICHIGAN.

virtue, the public, and not the drama will be responsible. The clouds will drift with the wind, and the waters will flow whither they are drawn.

God forbid that this place, which we set apart to-night as the seat of a sublime and noble literature, should ever be usurped by sensuality ! As long as one stone of it shall be left upon another let it remain sacredly devoted to the purity of virtue, the grandeur of thought, and the liberties of the republic.

In Memoriam.

CHARLES T. LOCKWOOD. Born October, 1835 .- Died October 19, 1870.

The breath of true genius upon the world is the breath of life. Under its ' power, hearts dead and cold are warmed and uplifted, and the most sluggish pulses are quickened. Its most powerful manifestations are in the poet, the orator, the musician, the painter, and the sculptor. In this exalted company, he whose life and labor we commemorate to-night held a just place. Time, that tests all things, has established his rank and title.

Charles T. Lockwood was born at Alcott, New York, in October, 1835. He was the son of a farmer, was reared under a healthful home discipline, and received a common school education. At sixteen, he adopted music as his profession, and at once entered upon its careful study. After various changes of location, he settled in Pontiac in 1862, where he resided until his death, October 19, 1870. The work which established his fame was almost his last. He did not flash like a meteor; he grew like an oak. He was past thirty years of age before he took rank as a leading American composer. The struggle was long, at times almost desperate ; but at last he "dragged up drowned honor by the locks."

It was my fortune, during the last six years of his life, to be his intimate asso- ciate and friend. I knew his kind and generous heart, his true and manly qualities. I knew, too, his aspirations and his triumphs, his disappointments and his hopes.

He was a man of good mind, but without remarkable mental endowments, except in his chosen field ; here he was a master. At times, in his highest and best efforts, he was overshadowed by that indescribable, controlling inspiration which only a born artist ever feels. This was always to me one of the highest proofs of his genius.

His compositions number more than fifty. Among these are many models of excellence, but his masterpiece, by the verdict of the public, as well as his own judgment, is " Gathering Home." He toiled upon it secretly for months. When it was completed he brought it to me, and said, " I believe I have at last written something that will live." He already had words for it, but they did not satisfy him. He destroyed them in my presence, and continued, " I have embodied the spirit of this piece in music. I want you to embody it in language. No one else must do it." As best I could, I complied with his request. A few days after I presented him the words of " Gathering Home," and stood by his side at the first full rehearsal of the piece. He was himself at the piano. As the closing refrain died away, he lifted his eyes to my face,-they were filled with tears. I shall always be touched with a grateful pride that he deemed the poem worthy to be inseparably blended with his loftiest production. How little did we then dream we were writing his requiem !

Lockwood was great, if only in a single, yet in a true sense. Weaknesses he may have had, yet he performed a great work. A great man may do a small thing, but a small man can never do a great thing. Except to a few, his person- ality is lost in his immortal work. He is not to-night a man moving and walking among us, but an æsthetic and moral force; not an individual, but an influencer. That influence, which vibrates through the years like an ever-repeating echo, is only for good. He never wrote but upon the side of purity and truth.

When the earth fell upon his coffin one said, " It seems strange that he should be taken now, when his best work seems just begun." Yes, strange to us, and yet

" Perhaps the cup was broken here That Heaven's new wine might show more clear."

Lockwood is gone, but his tuneful bequest remains to the world. Death could rob us of him, but his achievements defy the King of Terrors. His dust sleeps to-night in the kind bosom of the earth ; his spirit walks with Israfel,-Israfel the Bright, whose voice, the Moslem says, entrances Paradise.

HENRY M. LOOK.

April 15, 1874.

GATHERING HOME. BY HENRY M. LOOK. Set to music by C. T. Lockwood. I. The sunset fades along the hills- Floods of golden light, Dying into night;

Soft twilight now the valley fills -- Dim the shadows fall Over all.

Hark to the song the reapers sing As they gather home, Blithely gather home; Hark, how the vales and woodlands ring; Hark, hark the song the reapers sing.

(Refrain) Oh! sweetly peals the echoing strain, As they joyfully come, Gathering, gathering home; Oh! gently steals the glad refrain- Echoing, echoing far, Echoing far.

II. The huntsmen ride along the hills In the golden light, While the coming night From spirit wings the dew distils, Bidding quiet fall Over all.

Hark to the huntsman's winding horn, As they gather home, Blithely gather home; The tones on twilight zephyrs borne- Hark, hark the huntsman's winding horn.

(Refrain) Oh ! sweetly peals the echoing strain, As they joyfully come, Gathering, gathering home; Oh ! gently steals the glad refrain- Echoing, echoing far, Echoing far.

III. Oh ! soon for us no more shall be Morn nor evening light, Earthly noon nor night; But death's unfathomed mystery, Settle like a pall Over all.

Then, if the golden harps we hear, As we gather home, Safely gather home, We'll know our Father's throne is near. How sweet those golden harps to hear !

(Refrain) Oh! sweet will peal that heavenly strain, While the blessed come, Gathering, gathering home ; And peace shall fill the glad refrain, Ever, evermore, Evermore.

Sara Stevens, the actress, is the daughter of Sherman Stevens, one of the early residents of Pontiac, now deceased. She gave early evidence of superior talents, and was possessed of fine personal attractions. Having received a thor- ough education and some theatrical training, she adopted the dramatic profession. She was almost immediately successful, and was a great favorite at Wallack's theatre, New York, for a long time. In 1862 she went to England, where she made her debut as Eily O'Connor, in the " Colleen Bawn," at Drury Lane theatre, London, June 23. Returning to America, she married John C. Heenan, and now resides in the city of New York, having retired from the stage some years since.

THE SKELETON'S APPEAL .*

BY SAMUEL M. LEGGETT.

Stand back, good friends ! for many years have sped Since I last saw the sun. Are any dead Yet lying 'neath your feet ? Please take your hand And press my temples, though begrimed with sand.

Tall trees bent o'er me when they laid me here, And the red Savage sat beside my bier And scared the wolf away ; and all night long The leaves above me sang a funeral song.

I look into your eyes, and though I see A multitude of faces, none to me

# Written on the disentombing of the dead on the site of the old Presbyterian church in Pontiac.

HISTORY OF OAKLAND COUNTY, MICHIGAN.

Seem as those friends of old. Is this the earth ? Or have I waked, at last, to second birth ?

Why dig ye round my grave? Is there, dear God, For these old yellow bones no sacred sod, No grave where they may rest, no peaceful home Where I may wait till thine own angels come ?

I hoped through long and weary years to lay In peace, and undisturbed, till called away ; And when I heard this trampling o'er my head I thought 'twas Gabriel, summoning the dead.

Come hither, friend ! For charity, please hide My naked frame; the crowd is many-eyed And foul of tongue. Instead of " bated breath," They bandy jests, even in this home of death.

Oh! kindly friend, with silvered beard and hair, Wilt take my bones into thy gentle care And give them back to earth ? And so at last Some friend shall pity thee when all is past.

PONTIAC-ITS PAST AND PRESENT.

(Suggested by the recent fall of the ancient oak under which Pontiac gathered his warriors in the past.)

BY MRS. JULIA A. JACKSON.

Home of the Red Man,-old Pontiac's strong-hold : I see him as of yore, when defiant and bold, Grim sage of the council-fire, painted and plumed, By warriors encircled, flame-lighted, illumed ; The flash of his tomahawk times the war-songs, And dark eyes burn vengeful for numberless wrongs.

Here the barbaric boy in his merciless joy- The lordling of the forest-finds full employ ; With his unerring arrow and faultless bow He lays his bleeding victims low. Perchance the trembling deer, with its deep eye clear ; Perchance more noble game,-the pale-faced pioneer.

Here the lithe, swarthy maiden, once her people's pride, Attired in her blanket with yellow strings tied, In her light canoe hopefully, merrily sings, As round the circling eddies she poises and swings, Or as fairy of the forest, crowned with wild-flowers, Her beauty unsullied by sunshine or showers.

To other forms than ours has this soil given birth ; Other hearts' treasures been consigned to this earth ; Others have sighed in sadness, moaned in madness, And moved to the measure of mirth the music of gladness. Humanity's children, all uncultured, untaught, Yet with common humanity's interests fraught.

They have passed away,-this once lordly race,- Their lands to strangers have given place ; In the soil low lies the chief of olden fame, His monument the city which now bears his name. We cannot eclipse that proud name if we would,- Nay, grand old sachem, would not if we could.

To his once home an aged exile returns, His once dark hair is snowy, low the life-taper burns; He looks for the old oak that the winds have o'erthrown ; Where his cabin once stood the steam-whistle is blown. To the graves of his dead he stealthily wends; O'er the moundless turf, as he mournfully bends, Hears the Centennial guns of the pale-face,- The knell of his doom and the dirge of his race. A sore lament pours forth, and a broken prayer, With a pathos and passion only known to despair.

The arrow is harmless, the bow is unstrung; Gone are the bards who our valor once sung ! The wampum is broken, the steel red with rust, The warrior's proud plume lies low in the dust ! The war-whoop, that rang over valley and hill, Is hushed in repose, all silent and still ! The council-fire gone, its ashes are blown- By the reckless sifted and scattered and strewn ! The child from the forest hath melted away Like snow that has lingered in spring's balmy day ; On the mouldering stern of the maiden's canoe The owl pours his dismal too-hoo ! too-hoo! "Fire-water has hastened our young men's decay ! Our lands are all plundered and bartered away ; Our oaken forest hath the pale-face laid low, And to the far setting sun bade the red man to go !"

O'er the graves of his dead they heedlessly tread,- O'er the slumbering warrior's lowly bed. Only nature, true to her trust, marketh his tomb With the nodding wild-flowers that over it bloom ; No marble may tell how bravely he fell, And naught but the sighing winds breathe a farewell. Say, brave Pontiac! in the spirit-land art thou ? Are thy maidens and warriors beside thee now- Roaming the forests and hunting-grounds there ? Or for thy red race hast thou ceased to care ?

SEVENTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO.

BY MRS. RUTH GREEN, aged seventy-seven years.

Just seventy-seven years ago last May I commenced to travel life's weary way ; Have found some pleasure, and much more pain : I would not travel it over again.

The first of the way was pleasant and fair, I knew not a trouble, I had not a care ; A good home, and kind parents,-in stature I grew, --- Dear brothers and sisters, and friends not a few. And as years passed along I was happy and gay,- No more thought for the morrow than birds on the spray ; But a dark cloud was rising to obscure my bright sky,- My mother was fading, and surely must die. And there came to me then a sorrowful day, When my own blessed mother was taken away ; My guardian and guide, in whom I could trust, Was called from her loved ones to mingle with dust. My heart was now filled with grief and dismay, The cloud had passed o'er me, and dark seemed the way ; But of courage and strength I possessed a good share, So I thought 'twould not do to sit down in despair. And now to go forward was duty, I knew ; The work was before me, in plenty, to do. At first it was hard, for I had much to learn,- To make bread and pies, and butter to churn. My mother's kind teaching then came to my aid, My tasks by these means much lighter were made; I grew quite ambitious and wrought at my best, And when I was tired could take time to rest. I could sweep, scrub, and scour with soap and with sand,- On my dress not a ruffle, not a glove on my hand ;--- Could spin wool in summer, in winter spin flax ;- If the fire burned too low, could handle the axe. But house-work always was hard for me; Hustle it over I never could ; Not that I cared so much who should see, As not satisfied if not done good. My sisters-one older, one younger than I- Could for comfort and help on each other rely ; While we were together each one, as a rule, Shared the duties of home, and in going to school. The years they have come, and the years they have passed, Both sunshine and shadow been over me cast; Where my life has been faulty I truly regret; When I have met kindness I do not forget. Now the friends of my childhood and youth are all gone, They have left me to finish my journey alone. Soon the summons will come, I shall lay down the strife; My eyes will be closed to all things in this life.

LAND OF THE LAKES.

BY J. LOGAN CHIPMAN. I.

Land of the lakes, upon whose bosom gleams The varied glory of each jeweled sheen ; Land of deep waters, lit by flashing beams, Reflecting Nature's most luxuriant green ; Home of bright aspects, beauty stern or wild ; Of sunsets gorgeous in their dreamy tints ; Of sylvan shades and fir-clad mountains wild ; Of bowers 'mid which the vocal brooklet glints ; Land of the pine, of legend, and of song, Whose whispering leaves and waves recount the tale Of peoples dead, of peoples fresh and strong; Land of the beetling crag, the west wind's wail, Of knightly deed, of grand old Time's romance; Land which erst slumbered on her watery bed Till Freedom claimed and waked her from her trance, And filled her gaze with Liberty instead ; Grand in all aspects, beneficent to man, Land of the crystal lakes, my own fair Michigan !

PHOTO. BY BENSON.

MRS. LEONARD SPRAGUE.

PHOTO.BY DEN SON.

LEONARD SPRAGUE.

MRS. THOMAS TURK.

THOMAS TURK.

( PHOTO. BY BENSON )

MRS. MORGAN J. SPENCER.

MORGAN J. SPENCER.

"CHERRY HILL FARM ; RESIDENCE OF MORGAN J. SPENCER, PONTIAC, MICHIGAN .

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HISTORY OF OAKLAND COUNTY, MICHIGAN.

Of the other four sons, Robert B. (a member of Congress) was colonel of the One Hundred and Sixth New York Infantry ; David was major of the First New York Artillery, and was killed at Fair Oaks; Edward P. was in the First Mechanics' and Engineers' Regiment of Michigan ; and Jacob was in one of the Wisconsin cavalry regiments, and all served with distinction. The judge himself was a patriotic old war-horse, who " lifted up his voice in the midst of the trumpets," in the numerous meeting in the county, in aid of enlistments and sanitary supplies, and whose tongue, if not his neck, was clothed with thunder against the traitors to the government.

PONTIAC TOWNSHIP.

THIS township constituted a part of the original township of Oakland (formed by proclamation of Acting-Governor Woodward, June 28, 1820) until the 12th of April, 1827, when the county was subdivided by an act of the legislature into five townships, one of which was called Pontiac. When first formed it in- cluded all of congressional townships Nos. 3, 4, and 5 north, in ranges 7, 8, and 9, and township 3, in range 10 east; and also had attached to it, for township purposes, a portion of the present county of Lapeer, and all of the counties of Shiawassee and Saginaw. On the 29th day of May, 1828, the present township of Orion was detached from Oakland township and attached to Pontiac. Sub- sequently the counties of Lapeer, Shiawassee, and Saginaw were organized, and the following townships have been organized, at the dates given, from the original territory of Pontiac township, in Oakland County proper, viz .: Waterford, in 1834 ; Orion, Highland, and Groveland, in 1835 ; Springfield, Independence, and White Lake, in 1836; Brandon and Rose, in 1837; and Holly, in 1838.

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History of Oakland County, Michigan, with illustrations descriptive of its scenery, palatial residences, public buildings, fine blocks, and important manufactories, Part 23

Author: Durant, Samuel W Publication date: 1877 Publisher: Philadelphia, L. H. Everts & co. Number of Pages: 553

Author: Durant, Samuel W
Publication date: 1877
Publisher: Philadelphia, L. H. Everts & co.
Number of Pages: 553