USA > New Hampshire > Cheshire County > Dublin > Dublin days, old and new ; New Hampshire fact and fancy. > Part 5
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Memories of those cherished childhood events will always remain with those who shared them. The simple gifts provided by parents who could ill afford more costly ones for their chil- dren in the days of long ago were generally quite as much en- joyed and more thoroughly appreciated than are the vastly more expensive ones given to the young people of today.
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THE LYCEUM
The lyceum, established through the influence of Dr. Leonard in 1836, was a worthwhile, enjoyable source of entertainment. Excellent vocal and instrumental music was provided; a paper called The Rural Repository was read by the person who had edited the selections contributed by invited correspondents. In or about the year 1840, Miss Laura Ann Fiske, Warren's sister, made the first proposition at one of these meetings, to change the name of Center Pond to Monadnock Lake. Her suggestion was approved at a later meeting by a vote of the citizens pres- ent, and the name has ever since been accepted and used.
The girls gave recitations, the boys declamations; a drama in two or three acts, or perhaps a comedy and farces were staged by local talent. Several plays are recalled: J. T. Trow- bridge's Neighbor Jackwood; The Stolen Will by Len Ellsworth Tilden, of Marlboro, son of the livery-stable proprietor; Ten Nights in a Barroom; and Down-by-the-Sea.
The town had considerable dramatic talent-Charlie Hardy, Oscar Howe, George Rice, Dwight Learned, George Tarbox, Milton Mason, Joe May and his wife, Roxy; Emma Gleason, Amelia and Lillian Jones, Clara and Fannie Townsend, Emma Turner, Laura Rice, Mary Eastman, and Jessie Mason.
The tableaux were of brief duration but seemed beautiful to the eyes of the younger set who watched, enthralled, the figures draped in white, illuminated by colored lights burned in the wings of the stage.
Charles Mason, of Marlboro, whose left arm had been re- moved at the elbow, the result of an accident, recited "The Drunkard," who pleaded for "rum, oh give me rum!" Annie Wellman, with the self-assurance characteristic of her family, wanted "A Boon." Thirteen-year-old Henry Townsend not only recited a piece, but the same evening sang. "You'll never miss the water till the well runs dry," in a manner pleasing to his father who beamed with satisfaction upon his talented son; and William Langley sang to an unappreciative audience "Jeremiah blow the fire, puff, puff, puff."
But the hit of the evening occurred when George Tarbox,
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taking the part of a Negro in the play, his face blackened with burnt cork, his lips red with grease paint, suddenly popped his head above the barrel in which he had been hiding, after listen- ing to tender words of the enamoured young couple who had just enacted a love scene, and said, "Monkey married a baboon's sister, smacked his lips, and then he kissed her."
THE SEWING CIRCLE
Sewing circle suppers were always enjoyable affairs. We re- call the time when only green tea was served as the beverage at these gatherings. Just why this custom was followed is diffi- cult to understand, since black tea was generally preferred at home.
The women of Dublin, past and present, have always en- joyed the reputation of being excellent cooks, and church sup- pers of the present are, perhaps, as thoroughly enjoyed now as they were in times past.
Seventy years ago a group of teen age boys, Cless Gowing, Will Fiske, Frank Allison, and Jimmie Piper, were seldom ab- sent from these social events.
During the winter Bela Morse, a rugged farmer living two miles away, drove to the village to attend the supper. Mr. Morse took off his overshoes and placed them back of the stove where they would be warm when he was ready to go home. Each boy asked for an extra piece of squash pie and, with malice afore- thought, slyly deposited it in the awaiting overshoes.
At a safe distance they watched the owner put them on. We cannot, with propriety, record here the words of Mr. Morse's reaction after withdrawing his well-besmeared feet from his overshoes and their surprising contents-the boys were highly pleased.
This quartet of youngsters slid down the village hill on sin- gle sleds during the wintertime. The road was plowed out and only two tracks were left for travel. 'Squire Thomas Fisk ob- jected to the boys' coasting in the main street; he was compelled
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to step out of the track in which he was walking, or else be run into.
Sliding down, at good speed, they sighted the 'Squire walk- ing up to the postoffice. He stepped out of the track, gave each boy a resounding whack with his cane as he sped past, and, from the last one, received a hearty "thank you. "
Mr. Fisk is said to have provided an opening for his dog and cat to enter the woodshed from outside. He cut a large hole for the dog and a smaller one for the cat.
PICNICS AT MORSE'S POINT
The Unitarian people held a Sunday school picnic each year at Morse's grove on the lakeshore.
Two friends from the summer colony, B. W. Taggard and Stephen G. DeBlois, furnished boats and took the children for long rides, the first boat ride some of them had ever experienced.
Mr. DeBlois' boat was rather small and narrow and carried comparatively few passengers. He admonished the children to "sit very still." Mr. Taggard's boat was much larger. The men were good friends and Mr. DeBlois understood Mr. Taggard's sense of humor.
Mr. DeBlois was an Episcopalian, and his friend commented upon the frail little Episcopal boat which he said was liable to collapse or overturn at any moment. Mr. Taggard said his was a safe and seaworthy Unitarian boat which could ride the swells and carry its passengers safely over the worst of rough water.
Colonel Higginson and Professor Monroe sometimes enter- tained the assembled gathering with readings or addresses.
Members of the Peterborough Cavalry enjoyed an annual outing at the same grove. Dr. Ira Crombie, well advanced in years, was a member. He was a veterinary doctor, and when he picked up the small tin dipper, took a drink of cold water, and said, "I didn't suppose fifty years ago that I should ever come to this," it was difficult for me, a youngster of ten, to un- derstand why everyone within hearing laughed heartily.
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Mr. and Mrs. Thaddeus Morse began taking summer board- ers in 1857. Stephen G. DeBlois and wife spent their first sum- mer at the Morse homestead in 1866 and continued coming to Dublin each season thereafter for more than twenty years.
Mr. DeBlois was a genteel little man, smooth-shaven, some- what bald, and dressed quite elegantly in black clothes.
He was a constant attendant at church and was occasionally invited to address the Sunday school. He responded willingly, and, from a back seat, tiptoed to the front, holding high, in his left hand, his eyeglasses, to which was attached a long black ribbon which encircled his neck.
In gentle tones he related an account of some good deed worthily accomplished. When he asked if anyone present re- membered the story of "Little Mary Wood," Lilian Jones smil- ingly raised her hand; she had probably heard it many times. But he repeated the story and when he told of Mary's praiseworthy acts and pointed to the imaginary young lady in her blue dress, supposedly sitting in the unseen gallery, we could almost see Little Mary whom he so vividly pictured. And so the worthy gentleman concluded his story of Mary's exem- plary career with the words, "Little Mary Wood; she did what she could."
THE YELLOW DAY
Fall school, with high school studies, was held in the vestry. Many of the teachers were Dartmouth College students. Several rose to positions of prominence in the state where they after- ward located.
The year in which some of the men whose later careers be- came outstanding taught school in Dublin, follows their name:
Hosea M. Knowlton, 1866, Attorney-General of Massachu- setts; James E. Vose, 1868, first Principal of Cushing Academy; Herbert D. Ryder, 1875, Bellows Falls, Vermont, attorney; Lyn- don A. Smith, 1887-88, Attorney-General of the state of Minne- sota; David J. Foster, 1880, Representative to Congress from Vermont; Emerson H. Smith, 1881, attorney, Fargo, North Da-
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The Reverend Levi W. Leonard and the Second Church Built in Dublin The Reverend Dr. Leonard was its minister during the entire life of the First Con- gregational (Unitarian) Church, which was erected in 1818 and taken down in 1852. Pastor, educator, and benefactor, he established in Dublin the first free public library in America.
Dublin Residents
Fifty and more years ago discriminating gentlemen chose to wear beards.
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kota; G. Howard Kelton, 1885, Harvard, rowed on the Univer- sity's winning crew.
It was during the fall of 1881, when Emerson Smith was teaching, that the much discussed "yellow day" occurred, on September 6th.
The sun was seemingly smothered by a dense, depressing, yellowish atmosphere, through which its light penetrated sick- ishly, producing an effect on the surrounding landscape much like looking through a piece of heavily smoked glass.
It was a dismal, disheartening day and perhaps more people were apprehensive than would have admitted it at the time; but little else was talked about. We recall hearing Mr. Wash- burn, who drove his meat cart to town from Hancock, ask a citizen if he thought "it was the last day."
Well into the late afternoon the yellowish atmosphere con- tinued. The vestry was so dark that study was suspended. After an hour's nooning Mr. Smith told the scholars to lay aside their books and he would devote the time to talking on the subject of astronomy. This he did in an able and interesting manner; he assured us that this was but a temporary condition, there was nothing to fear. He said, "This is a young world and has only begun to live."
School was dismissed early that afternoon and a few of the boys mustered sufficient courage to start for the lake to go swimming. On our way the air began to clear, the sun gradu- ally assumed a more natural appearance, and our courage rose accordingly. Depressed thoughts gave way to high spirits when the sun shone again, as usual.
JOHN MASON
John Mason did everything well. He was methodical; a good carpenter, an excellent painter, his handwriting precise, and he sang acceptably in the choir of the village church. He was a large man with ruddy face and red beard.
After his wood had been cut for the stove, he took pains
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to saw off all the uneven tips in order to make it look well when piled up.
Mr. Mason sold his farm to Daniel Catlin, of St. Louis, moved to the village, and engaged in the ice business. He occu- pied the Dexter Mason house for several years. It was a pleasure to hear him sing in the barn at night while he milked his Jer- sey cow.
His ear was correct, his voice true, and he could take the tenor part and soar with enthusiasm to the high notes in "Nearer My God to Thee." His wife lived to be ninety-five years old.
Daniel Dwight did not approve the candidacy of Frank W. Rollins, Republican nominee for governor. Although Mr. Rollins maintained his legal residence in Concord, he conducted a bank- ing business in Boston.
Mr. Dwight considered candidate Rollins a Boston banker and felt that a strictly New Hampshire resident should occupy the office of Governor. One day he inquired, "Who is an honest man?" "John H. Mason," we replied. "I'll vote for him for gov- ernor," Mr. Dwight said; and he did-the town records show that one ballot was cast at the November election, that year, for Mr. Mason.
After Mr. Catlin had built his beautiful home on the John Mason place, he erected a very tall flagpole on the lawn. It was a considerable task to imbed the heavy pole properly and raise it to a correct upright position.
Mr. Catlin personally supervised the work and stationed his gardener, Paul Desmarchais, a Canadian Frenchman, and sev- eral other workmen, at various points to determine whether or not the pole stood exactly plumb.
All had reported favorably up to the time Desmarchais was reached. "How is it from your direction, Paul?" Mr. Catlin in- quired. "Is it plumb?" "Yes, Mr. Catlin," was the reply, "it's a little more than plumb from here."
John Mason's teen-aged son Fred partly sawed, on the in- side, the three legs of his Uncle David's milking stool. It con- tinued to look sound and substantial.
When his unsuspecting two-hundred-twenty-five-pound un-
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cle sat down to milk, the stool quickly gave way. David fell under the legs of the two-year-old heifer, tied beside the cow he was to milk, who kicked him vigorously while he rolled on the unsanitary floor, struggling to regain his feet. The irate Da- vid threatened dire punishment upon the frightened creature, but, fortunately, he relented and refrained from carrying out his violent threats. Safely hidden, Fred watched the perform- ance with great glee.
The brook from the lake flowed through David Mason's meadow near our house. David was a Civil War veteran; at in- tervals, he took time off to enjoy the trout fishing. One day he baited his hook, dropped it into a likely looking pool, just as a nattily dressed sport made his appearance. "You've got my favorite hole-get out!" the newcomer demanded. David paid no attention. "Get out!" he repeated hotly.
Without taking his eyes off the water, David unconcernedly answered, "You'll havter eat a little more puddin', mister, be- fore you can get me out of here."
David, of somewhat abbreviated height, carried considerable excess avoirdupois, wore a tall silk hat on Sundays, and walked to the village. From the exertion he perspired excessively, so he removed his coat and vest, even in wintertime, and carried them over his arm.
At church he sat in one of the side pews at the extreme front, facing the minister. Invariably, he came in late and with heavy tread marched the entire length of the room to his accus- tomed seat while the service was in progress.
George Gowing was acting janitor and chided David for continually coming late and disturbing the congregation. The two men had seldom agreed and David keenly resented the criticism. Thereafter he made it a point to stalk in about five minutes later than he had previously done.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
Washington Proctor's reddish-brown blacksmith shop was located in the lower village. It did not stand "under a spread-
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ing chestnut tree," but sturdy maples close beside it shaded the big white Proctor home. In the brick dwelling beyond, Charles Heald lived alone in the spacious mansion his father, Dr. Asa Heald, had built in 1827. Dr. Heald graduated from Bowdoin, and was the town's physician for many years.
In 1851, Solomon Piper bought the large white house be- fore the Proctors owned it. Mr. Piper had been a resident of Dublin in early life, then became a successful business man in Boston and was president of the Freeman's Bank. He made the house his summer residence, bringing with him his family, at a time when the town was just beginning to be recognized as a vacation spot. He gave the pipe organ to the Unitarian church, an instrument of excellent tone, much enjoyed by an apprecia- tive congregation over a period of many years. It still stands in the gallery where it was originally placed.
Those who lived near Mr. Proctor's shop could well have applied the verse of Longfellow's poem to their neighbor, and said:
Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low.
Mr. Proctor was a man of good height, with full brown beard. He spoke calmly, with deliberation, and enjoyed the good-will of everyone who knew him.
His shop was a meeting place for all the men living "on the flat": Sam Adams, Walter Greenwood, Corydon Jones, Charles Heald, Willard Powers, the Pierce brothers, Will and Fred, each of whose long beards reached nearly to his waist; Cliff Gowing, Frank Pierce, George Bond, Albert Moore, and Jim Piper.
It was a place for discussing town and church society af- fairs, neighborhood gossip, and, perhaps, for promoting the candidacy of some aspirant for town office, at the annual March meeting.
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The blacksmith prepared for work by removing his coat and vest; then he rolled up his sleeves and tied on his leather apron. The long, wooden arm of his bellows was given a few up-and- down motions with his bare arm, in order to stimulate the mass of smouldering coals; they responded immediately and glowed with white heat when the added draft was applied.
The smith picked up one of the feet of the horse, held it between his knees, cut off the ends of the nails which clinched the shoe to the hoof, pried off the shoe, knocked the old nails out of it, and tucked it into the hot coals.
Placing the hot shoe on his anvil, he reshaped it with careful strokes of his hammer, applied new heel and toe calks, and, when they had been properly welded together, tried the shoe momentarily on the bottom of the horse's hoof; a bit of smoke and the odor of burning hoof arose.
Then a final fitting was made, and, having shaped it cor- rectly, he immersed the shoe in a tub of cold water, causing a little cloud of steam to arise; then he nailed it in place. He drove the tapering horseshoe nails with his hammer, and clinched them firmly, with the aid of a small iron held in his left hand against the point of the nails, then filed off the hoof with his coarse rasp so that the shoe conformed with it perfectly.
In the meantime, the owner had brushed off troublesome flies from the animal being shod, with the aid of a horse's tail, taken from some departed animal, to which a straight wooden handle had been fitted-an efficient brush.
In Mr. Proctor's shop was the frame in which the oxen were shod. Yoked together, they were halted at the outside door. The pin was slipped out of one of the oxbows which held it in the yoke; the animal was guided into the frame by means of a small cable chain hooked around his neck. The stanchion, which fitted on each side of his neck, was locked together firmly; the strong leather apron placed underneath his body partially lifted him off the floor when the windlass, to which it was attached, was turned by the metal handle. His foot was strapped to a rugged post and could be worked on comfortably and safely.
Unlike that of a horse, the hoof of an ox is divided in the center and requires a separate shoe for each section.
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It seems fortunate that tractors have largely replaced oxen on the farm and in wood-lots. These patient animals were not always kindly treated by the teamster. They were often over- loaded, exposed to the severest weather, and goaded on un- reasonably by means of a big black "snake-whip," in the hands of sometimes cruel drivers.
It was not the blacksmith's daughter, Gertrude, who "sang in the village choir," but his son, Burton, whose bass voice was pleasant to hear, and caused his listening parents justifiable pride.
There is no longer a blacksmith's shop in town; three or four garages have taken its place, and automobiles are much more common now than horses. The blacksmith, his wife, and his son have passed on; the daughter, alone, is living. There were few finer citizens in town than the members of the Proctor family.
TOWN CHARACTERS - INCIDENTS
Willard Powers lived in the brick house now owned by the Alexander James family. He was a small, nervous man, easily irritated.
Mr. Powers drove to the village with horse and sleigh one cold winter evening to attend the Grange; the meeting over, he returned home.
Next morning, he went to the barn to feed his stock. His horse was gone! Suddenly he remembered-he had walked home. Hurriedly he went uptown to the horse-shed and there, surely enough, was Dobbin, cold, impatient, and hungry, but who greeted him with a welcoming whinny.
Offended by the action of my father in matters pertaining to town affairs, Mr. Powers heatedly said to him, "I think you're a pretty small man."
With calm deliberation the Deacon responded. "That, Mr. Powers, is the opinion of a pretty small man."
David M. Townsend moved from Vermont to a farm near the town boundary line in Harrisville. He was loyal to his home state, for which he should not be criticized.
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When a group of men got together, and each was relating an unusual experience, David awaited his turn, and, in an ef- fort to go them one better, began, "When I lived up in Ver- mont, by God!"
Robert Clarke drove his young cattle from Milford, and turned them into the Heald pasture, high up on the mountain.
There was no fence on the upper side and, during a period of dry weather toward fall, some of the yearlings were known to have wandered over the ridge and come down on the oppo- site side, into a Jaffrey pasture.
Mr. Clarke was a large man, redfaced, and had he been en- dowed with greater ambition, his outlook on life might, per- haps, have been a bit more cheerful. He said, "We've gut ter git rid of style and go back to the old way of livin'."
He described the unsuccessful career of some of his fellow- townsmen, and their ultimate failure, by saying, "They kinder went to Boston."
Dr. Allston Barrett, of Keene, was an excellent dentist. His cousin, Dr. Forest Barrett, in Peterborough, was an especially capable veterinarian who treated the ailments of horses, cattle, cats, and dogs very successfully.
One of this town's newly married couples became quite con- vinced that the author who wrote "true love never did run smooth," had spoken correctly-in their case, at least.
They disagreed, quarreled, and finally separated.
But before the final break took place, the young husband returned from work one late afternoon to find his wife suffering from an ulcerated tooth.
Her swollen cheek, red face, and teary eyes told the story of intense pain and she asked her husband to call Dr. Barrett and see if he could recommend something to relieve her.
The young man went to the telephone, called central, and asked for the Keene dentist. Presently a voice replied, "This is Dr. Barrett." The husband described the pain his wife was suf- fering, her ulcerated tooth and swollen cheek, and inquired if he could suggest something which would ease the pain.
Came the reply, "This is not Dr. Barrett, the dentist; this is Dr. Barrett, the veterinary."
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"Good heavens!" exclaimed the surprised husband. Then, after a moment's reflection-"Well, I don't know but what you'll do just as well as anyone."
Charlie Cavender drove the mail team to Peterborough; he loved horses, seldom hurried them, and sometimes impatient patrons complained because he was late with the mail.
Captain Creelman, a seafaring man, and relative of the fam- ily, delivered a new set of field glasses to M. D. Mason in the latter's store. They were looked over carefully by interested ob- servers present, and freely commented upon; very powerful glasses were discussed.
After the conversation had lagged a bit, Charlie said the best glasses he had ever seen was a pair he borrowed from George Tucker at the Peterborough tavern. Said he took the glasses one Sunday morning, went back on East Mountain, three miles away, and pointed them toward the Unitarian Church in the village. He declared the glasses were so power- ful, they brought the church up close enough so he could hear the Rev. Mr. Walbridge preach.
Returning from his daily trip to Peterborough, Charlie put up his horses, came into the store, and entertained listeners with an account of some of his many astounding experiences.
He was a natural musician and very good violin player; al- though unable to read music, he had an accurate ear and played for dances with John Gilchrest, and for "kitchen junkets" in "Happy Valley," Peterborough; Mr. Gilchrest prompted. The polka-quadrille was one of their favorites. After going through with the accustomed changes, the final call came from the prompter when he sang out loudly in his nasal voice, "A-L-L polkie-'round the hall!"
The laying out of roads was a subject of much concern in a new community in early days. It was important that the route chosen should accommodate the greatest number of home- owners. Sometimes hotly contested arguments developed and prolonged debate took place between rival factions, each claim- ing that its proposal would accommodate the greatest number of taxpayers.
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At a town meeting held a hundred years ago, a road peti- tioned for was opposed by a second group of voters. They re- quested the road be built to accommodate their own immediate neighborhood. Arguments waxed loud and long. Weary with the prolonged controversy, one quiet citizen, sitting in the rear, who had hitherto taken no part in the debate, got up, addressed the chair, and said, "Mr. Moderator, I move we build a road right straight to Hell; that will accommodate everybody."
A great many early settlers seem to have built their houses on high ground, perhaps because of their ability to see more of the surrounding wooded country. Captain Benjamin Mason's house was located well up the mountainside-nearly a mile south of the Troy road which encircles the mountain. There are old cellar holes and abandoned farms throughout widely scattered parts of the town, on hilltops and in areas now grown to forest, their location and the owners who lived there long since gone and forgotten.
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