USA > New Hampshire > Hillsborough County > New Boston > History of New Boston, New Hampshire > Part 7
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And the pale, weak daughter of fashion and ease, Who presides in the parlor as nice as you please, Who ponders over some love-sick book, While her mother remains in the kitchen to cook, - Whose jewelled lands are as softly white As the dancing foam, or the starry light ; All spiritless, passionless, colorless, frail As the trembling leaf in the maddened gale, - She is not what her mothers were, And they are mysteries to her ! But much to be pitied as she may be, - And more to be pitied I think is he Who plods the life-journey with such as she, - Yet she merits not pity or scorn like him Who bears the name that his sires have borne
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With the fire at the altar-place grown dim, And the name of its honors shorn. I pity the son of illustrious sires, Too weak, too degraded to bear their proud name, In whom the last spark of their genius expires
In the foul breath of luxury, riot, and shame. And while this cannot be spoken of us,
I know there is need of unwearying care ; We are all in the way to be ruined thus,
And some of us doubtless, are almost there, And if these hills may justly plead Some freedom from the common curse, "Tis of the sires and not the seed, - Their honor that we are not worse. Howe'er the unwelcome prospect dims Throughout the land cach patriot eye, Its youth are wild with modern whims - They ask not either whence or why, But follow, like shadows, each dreamer that shine, And, shadow-like, grow as their leader declines. They linger at theatres, billiards, and chess, Take pride in soft hands and extravagant dress, Instead of the manly toil which bore The laurel and palm in the days of yore. Too proud to work on their native ground, They must fathom the ocean of sight and sound ; Teach, speculate, peddle, roam, - Anything rather than work at home ! And so they are gone to the shop or store, They are digging after the golden ore, They have got into office, and live at ease, They are spreading sails in the distant seas, They are editing papers, or telling lies, In the shape of lawyers, or doctors wise ; They are making candy and cordials and pills, Equally good for a thousand ills ; Pectoral, sarsaparilla, and schnaps, Bitters, and ointment, - and money perhaps, - Anything paying well fits like a charm, -
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Anything rather than work on a farm ! They, too, bow down at the fashion shrine, In their father's earnings dress and shine ; They play politician and lover and sage, They flirt, sentimentalize, swagger, and rage ; - Equal adorers of Bacchus and Mars, They indulge in choice brandies and puff good cigars, Enveloped in smoke, like a war-ship at bay, While their gloved fingers brush the white ashes away ! And so while the money comes free when they say,
Each stripling smoker walks forth with delight ; He is surely a pillar of cloud by day, And a pillar of fire by night. He is large, important, conceited, and bold ; Though boyish in years, he is learned and old ; Is charmed to real frenzy while cutting a dash, With scented ringlets and trim moustache, With rings and other observable trash, And runs upon credit when he can't upon cash ! The homely virtues, the simple truth Which reigned in the bosom of age and youth In the peerless days of our fathers' prime Are now, they tell us, behind the time. And the young man tickled with jewels of gold, Makes his morals fit to the popular mould ; While with accents smacking of foreign clime, And an eye that whispers of secret crime, He swells along with a sickening pride, Like a Neptune girt in his foamy tide ! He adores the menagerie, circus, and race, Thinks less of his fate than he does of his face ; Visits each popular place of resort, Learns the pet words of flattery, joke, and retort, Worships fast horses, and talks quite well In the nauseous slang of the drinking cell, Or the oath-burdened dialect spoken in hell !
Oh ! give me the rough, worn palm of the man Who dares to do with his might what he can,
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Who shuns fast ways and unprincipled friends, And stands like a rock where the current descends! Who strives to live by the good old rules ' In a day of do-nothing's and jockeys and fools ; Who honors the home where his childhood was passed, And clings to the dear old spot to the last ! Some turn from their homes as necessity calls them,
With a tear in the eye that looks back as it goes ; And some with real rapture as time disenthralls them
From the bonds which paternal affection bestows. With a smile for the one and a sigh for the other, We bless them, though feeling alone and bereft, Not doubting that cach will come back as a brother, And years will make dearer the homes they have left. And we would not detract from the praise that is due them As the tear-drop again fills the eye that returns Where the few that are cherished in memory knew them, And the altar of friendship still faithfully burns ! While I honor the man who comes back with his laurel All blooming and fresh on the time-wrinkled brow, From the scenes of debate or of national quarrel, To blend with his kindred who follow the plough, I cherish, I love the true hero who lingers Life-long at the tomb where his fathers lie ; While the time-god is writing with skeleton fingers Each scene on the heart as it fades from the eye. I love the ambition which hovers the nighest To the fount whence our earliest pleasures flow, Whose flight, like the lark's is the surest and highest, While its home is unseen in the valley below !
Labor then being lord in the land, Everything had to be done by hand - Weaving, knitting, sewing-machines, Planting, reaping, mowing-machines, The engine steaming o'er land and sea Were among the dreams of the things to be. Or perhaps they saw as the patriot sees That luxury thrives on things like these ;
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That idleness, indolence, pomp, and ease Are the fruits that follow beyond control As sure as the leaven will work through the whole, Or the needle point to its chosen pole, While the gathered harvest in every clime Is traced in blood from the morn of time. Even church-going then was a work to be done ; Roads there were few and vehicles none ; -. Five or six miles over paths like those Where the wild beast roams or the hunter goes, Barefoot all, with shoes in store, Put on ere they entered the sacred door ; Sermons full two hours long, The full proportion of sacred song ; Prayers that asked at a single birth For all of heaven and all of earth ; - Home by the light of the setting sun, - Church-going then was a work to be done. But now if we ride in our dainty sleigh Some two or three miles on the Sabbath day ; If a little heat or cold we bear, If clothes out of fashion we sometimes wear ; If we sleep like a pulseless thing of art While a half-hour sermon is read to the heart, We think we are meriting sovereign grace, And running with patience the Christian race ! Women made bare the head like men, As they entered the " holy of holies " then, - I would such an era might come again ; - But not if the things which are yet to be, Follow fashion's late decree, And the delicate gear be ingeniously spread Some feet in the rear of the wearer's head. How oft have we pitied some spirited miss Who thought she must wear what other folks wore, As she dragged through the wind such a streamer as this, While her head was as bare as they made it of yore ! 'Tis amazing, what a wonderful size
These objects of woman's affection attain ;
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What wonderful figures for curious eyes, - Airy, feathery, flowery, vain ; - So that not a meeting-house in the land Would hold all the bonnets as now arranged, Were the frail, silky monsters untouched by the hand, And the thing with the nicest precision planned, - And hence the old custom is properly changed. Besides, 'twere the greatest of crimes I know, To have our ornaments out of view, So that pride have nothing at all to show, And fancy nothing to do !
The men we praise were men of fun, Fat, laughter-loving, hale, and strong, They loved the angle and the gun, The story and the song. In toil or danger, good or ill, Jocose, facetious, happy still, With humble recompense content, Rejoicing on their way they went.
Priest, layman, all agreed to take " A little wine for the stomach's sake," And a little more for the sake of that ; -
Some hours " ayont the twal " they sat, And " pouzle " and cider went freely down In the early days of the good old town ! And often now is the story told,
How the glass went round to the young and old, And the social circles of every craft Grew merry over a stronger draught. But though some tares have flourished with the wheat, Gathered and garnered through each varied year ; Though pride and fashion, folly and deceit
Each grown to huge dimensions now appear ; Though simple manners, unpretending dress, The healthful habits and the humble fare Of those whose memory to-day we bless,
If lingering yet, are unobserved and rare ; Contrasted still, the present and the past, Some nobler traits continue to arise ;
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And while each age seems better than the last, Fame's proudest meed and learning's richest prize, Truth's greatest victories, and freedom's too, And forms of government of old unknown, - Science and art to God and nature' true, Brighten all ages, and adorn our own ! For the shade of America's latest light, - The era to which we are bidding adieu, -
Is better than cycles of Aztec might, Or a thousand years of Peru ! Chains that bound the mind are broken,
Words that chafed the tyrant spoken, Bright examples wake and nerve us, Powers of nature come and serye us. Full of knowledge and full of skill, Man moves on in his dignity still, Ruling the elements at his will ; Floating far up 'mid the silvery clouds,
O'er the moon's white pillow and vapory shrouds ; Bidding the waters turn the wheel Which moves o'er their bosom the iron keel ; Reading the news in his cushioned car,
Flying away like a flying star,
Leaving a trail of steam-cloud there, Like a comet's tail in the midnight air ! Oftentimes as the setting sun Views some deed of glory done, Something new in the busy world, Freighted ship on the breakers hurled, Rise or fall in the price of gold, Tide of battle backward rolled ; Popular vote in a distant State, Awful accident, trying fate ; Proclamation in every corps, Call for a hundred thousand more, The man of traffic in every grade, Turning away from the haunts of trade, To the rural home where his idols are, Jumps from his seat in the flying car,
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Whispers a word to the magic-wire - Victory, glory, murder, fire ! Something lost in the hurried way, Business plans for the coming day ; Laughs to himself while the lightning goes
Telling the news like a thing that knows! Dashes back to his vacant chair, Just in season, nothing to spare, On they go, darting o'er valley and stream, Like the living forms of a summer dream !
Thus are we now ; the hunting-grounds The rocks and rivers, woods and mounds, Are changed and changing. Save some spot Where rude tradition says they fought, Save some few names which cling to-day, To hills and falls, to creek and bay, A hundred years have wiped away Each vestige of that kingly race Whose tragic aim and end embrace, In blazing home and bloody vow, All that is written of them now ; Whose children, step by step, are pressed, Weak, weary, wasted, to the west.
Here 'mid these hills, thus gorgeously arrayed By patient toil and unremitted care, The forest waved with its unbroken shade, The dark-eyed maiden tossed her jetty hair, The hunter roamed in unoffended pride, The arrow whistled through the quiet air, The wigwam nestled by the river side, The smoke curled heavenward through the narrow glade,
The trees grew, flourished, withered, and decayed : And so the red man's children grew and died, Brave, noble, free, untaught and undismayed !
But climb with me to-day yon towering height Which first is tinted with the morning light,
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Or nearer still where Moor's devoted mind From life-long labors left the world behind ; Or yonder hill where Bradford's classic eye Drank the charmed loveliness of earth and sky, And oh! what change on every side appears Wrought in this period of a hundred years ! See the broad fields in summer verdure dressed, The happy flocks within the shade at rest ; The neat, white cottages along the hills ; The grassy meadows and the busy mills ; The laughter-loving brook and singing bird ; The loud steam-whistle in the distance heard, The modest school-house in each valley seen, With happy children sporting on the green ; The church, our country's shield, preserver, friend, Where Christian people in devotion bend, Its sweet-toned bell whose distant-echoing tongue Rolls where the war-whoop of the savage rung ; The northern peaks in cloudy robe unrent, Southward the scene in distant azure blent ; The setting sun of other climes a guest, In golden glory deck the shining west, While lingering rays in tender sweetness play Round the green summits as they fade away, - And sweetest, tenderest, longest, it is said, O'er the white chambers of our sainted dead ! And oh ! when autumn drapes in harvest hues This scene of loveliness which fancy views, And art divine its blended colors weaves, Like rainbows dropped upon the blushing leaves, How sweetly changed is every field of green, -- June gray and chastened in September seen, Mild summer lingering in the autumn breath, With all of beauty that is sweet in death !
And is it strange that the old Indian sires, Loving the beautiful much as we, Had here their counsels and their altar-fires, Back in the ages when they wandered free ? Can it be true that such a clime of beauty,
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Scenes which outshine the eloquence of art, Have reared no martyrs of reform or duty,
No names that thrill the universal heart ?
Shall it be said that no poetic fires, No light of genius ever sparkled here, Where all that pleases, elevates, inspires, Fills the charmed eye and trembles on the ear ?
No-never thus. Though not in golden lines Our names are written, or our glory shines ; Though on each field where many a patriot bled, It was not ours to lead but to be led ; Though from these hills no star of science rose, Shone o'er the world and unabated glows, Still where yon shrine each sacred trust inurns, Where, unmolested, dust to dust return's, Where noble hearts have conquered inward wrong, Where tears of tenderness fall fast and long, Where hope repeats her undissembled prayer, - There are our princes and our heroes there ! Pilgrims and warriors may not come to tread With reverent feet above each narrow bed, Nor pride and wealth their dainty watches keep Where the " rude fathers of our hamlet " sleep; But human laurels never did nor could Fix the soul's nature as its highest good ; Fame's coveted rewards are gained too late To make us cloquent or make us great ; Though what we do may shine in common eyes, 'Tis what we are that makes us truly wise.
We know but little of our greatest men, Knights of the sword and masters of the pen ; Uncalled by fate, to milder calls they bow, Perhaps, like Burns, to follow at the plough. Nor worthy less, though in that silent land Where all untitled, unexalted stand, No towering monument or gilded bust Pays its false honors to the nameless dust.
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So, while we see by memory's clouded sun The words and deeds of each departed one, No human eye can look within the veil, See where they really stand, or where they fail ; See the true eloquence whose smothered fire Awoke not human praise, or human ire, - The humble Pitt, the unaspiring Pope Whose ashes sleep in yonder grassy slope ! But while the past its inspiration stirs, While trembling age to joyous youth recurs, While noble deeds revive the sinking breast, - By hope deserted, or by grief depressed, - Oh ! may we think what heroes suffered thus, What happy homes have been prepared for us, What sacred rights by noble sires we gain, - Ours to enjoy and ours to maintain ! Fired by the past, let every soul prepare For noble principles to do or dare, - True, like our sires where'er the conflict be, As justly glorious, and as nobly free ! Let patient Hope her triumph ne'er resign, Let constant Faith through constant virtue shine, And sacred Truth her saving power impart To every sentiment and every heart !
So if dark be our path through the waves we are tossed on,
Or honor and peace the reward of our care, We never may blush for the hills of New Boston, Or the homes of our kindred that wait for us there ! And so if our pilot should ever be lost on The fathomless ocean of grief and despair,
Our hearts will turn back to the hills of New Boston, And the homes of our kindred that wait for us there ! And oh ! when Death scatters his chill and his frost on The brow of each son who was nurtured in prayer, May our friends bear us back to the hills of New Boston
And the graves of our kindred that wait for us there!
JOSIAH W. FAIRFIELD, ESQ.
He was the son of John Fairfield, Esq., born August, 1803 ; fitted for college at Andover Academy, Mass., and graduated from Dartmouth College in 1825. He taught an academy at Chesterfield parts of two years, having for his pupil the late Governor Haile. In 1827 he went to Hudson, N. Y., and be- came principal of the academy in that city, which position he retained five years, studying law meantime with the celebrated Elisha Williams, and began to practice in 1832. Mr. Fairfield has been largely interested in railroad enterprises, holding im- portant positions in them, while the cause of education has always found in him a friend, and all righteous reforms a cor- dial advocate. He was a member of the last General Assembly (N. S.), and is largely known as a philanthropic, Christian gentleman.
April, 1829, Esquire Fairfield married Laura, the second daughter of Hon. Asa Britton, of Chesterfield, N. H., by whom he has two sons living. The eldest, George B., is with his father, and William B. is a lawyer at St. Charles, Iowa. Both sons are married. Mr. Fairfield buried a daughter in 1852, and, February, 1864, he was called to part with his wife. She was an estimable, Christian lady, and died full of faith, hope, and joy. After giving many precious directions, she bade each of her friends "good-by," then folded her hands across her breast, and said, "Now I am ready, all ready," and expired im- mediately. The end of a devout Christian is peace.
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J.H.Bufford's Lith.
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your very truly In anfields
RESPONSE OF JOSIAH W. FAIRFIELD, ESQ.
New Boston. - Pleasant traditions and memories are cherished by absent sons and daughters.
MR. PRESIDENT : -
No man can relate his recollections and pleasant memories of any place or people, without speaking more or less of him- self. He is, as Æneas says of his history, necessarily a part of what he recites. This constant reference to one's self becomes insufferable egotism, unless the hearers perceive the necessity, and throw a broad mantle of charity over the sinning speaker.
That mantle is required on this occasion, and the speaker only hopes it will be long and broad enough to cover a multi- tude of sins.
We all know that the early settlers of this country were a peculiar people, and none were more so than the Scotch immi- grants who found their homes in this town and county. They were Presbyterians of the original Covenanters type, but greatly modified and improved by two transplantings, first from Scot- land to Ireland, and then to the forests of the New World. There is no race more tenacious of their original elements of character than the Scotch ; and, through all their persecutions, changes, removals, and improvements, they retained their rec- ollection of wrongs, and cherished their likes and dislikes, as an inheritance never to be broken or alienated.
The Puritan was one of their dislikes. Our Presbyterians, on arriving at their new homes, found themselves surrounded by the Puritans, a people equally as fond of liberty, and rigid in their notions as themselves ; still they disliked them, and there was a rank jealousy between them. The Independents, under Cromwell, had crushed the fond hopes of supremacy which the Presbyterians had nearly attained in England, and it
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was a work of time to reëstablish a feeling of trust and confi- dence. This jealousy manifested itself early in the settlement of this town. The earliest tradition that I remember of this people, had relation to this. The Scotch would at first suffer no intermarrying with the Puritans ; and, if their daughters were as fair and beautiful then as when I first knew them, no wonder that the Puritan young men felt themselves shut out of Paradise. Be that as it may, the tradition is, that it was no uncommon thing for the Scotchman to find at his door a rag- ged pedler, mounted on some miserable nag, with saddle-bags, filled with potatoes on one side and a huge jug of buttermilk in the other, and crying his wares, with affected blarney, " Butter- milk and peraties ! buttermilk and peraties! Paddy, will you buy ?" If the pedler got off with an unbroken head, of course he was a lucky fellow, and continued his insulting raid. This was retaliated, of course, and the Puritan would be called up at all hours in the night, and called out at all hours in the day, by a sorry pedler, crying through his nose, in true Roundhead style, "Pumpkins and molasses ! pumpkins and molasses ! Barebones, will you buy ?" Hence, the names of " Paddy " and "Pumpkin " became common in their mutual salutations. But these animosities soon died out, and the Puritan settlers became Presbyterians, and the Presbyterian made pumpkin-pies. The Rev. Mr. Moor, or " Priest Moor," as he was called, be- came the pastor of this people, and a genuine, noble man he was, if we may judge by the reverence and affection with which his name was mentioned long after his death, and during my boyhood. Many anecdotes of his faithfulness and impartiality were current among the people, within my recollection. I will relate but one. Priest Moor was afflicted - as we think most pastors of those days must have been, when sermons were two hours long- by the increasing disposition of his hearers to nod during his preaching. He bore it heroically till he saw one or more of his elders falling into the same sin. He could endure it no longer, and, calling up the elder, he remonstrated with him, but without success ; then he rebuked him sharply, and the elder retorted by telling Mr. Moor to look after his own family. This greatly disturbed the good man. The minister's pew then, as now, was the worst pew in the church, and gen-
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erally was under the side of the high pulpit, out of sight of the preacher. On the Sabbath following this retort of the elder, the priest discovered some one nodding, and immediately thought of the elder's retort, and his family ; so, stepping down to the broad stair of his pulpit, he looked over the railing, and discovered Mrs. Moor "fast asleep." " Nanny Moor, Nanny Moor," he cried ; but she heard not. He repeated the call, and, some one nudging her, she waked, and looked up at the indignant face of her husband, while he called out, "Nanny Moor, what did I marry you for ? Tell me that. Was it for your riches ? Na ! na! Was it for your beauty ? Na ! na! Was it for your vartue ? Yes ! yes ! an' fath, it seems that you have but very little of that!"* This was hardly sincere on the part of the Dominie, as Mrs. Moor was reputed to be a beautiful woman in her day, and he knew it.
But it is time to come to my own personal recollections of the people of this town. I think of them as a people exhibit- ing many of the peculiarities of their origin and religion ; a people such as I have never seen elsewhere. No other rural population that I have ever become acquainted with has so im- pressed my mind as a model population, worthy of all imitation. The old and middle-aged men of my earliest recollection were a grand old race ; grand in their physical proportions, grand in their religion and moral habits ; grand in their harmony with each other ; and grand in their free, open, generous hos- pitality. I can sec, in my vision, two generations of men, measuring in height from five feet ten inches to six feet four inches, and with strong, robust frames in proportion. There were giants in those days. In one family, where I labored one season of my youth, was the grand old patriarch of ninety years, standing six feet four inches in height, and gathering around him on festive occasions, four sons of nearly equal size, and two daughters fit to be queens among women. If I could breathe among the dry bones of yonder sacred cemetery, and call up before you the men and women that I am thinking of, -
* The reader will observe that this is given as a tradition, current in the writer's youth ; and it may have had its origin in a much earlier day, and a remote region ; yet it serves to picture to us " the priest and the people" at this period. - EDITOR.
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the Clarks, the Crombies, the Cochrans, the Campbells, the Dodges, Moors, McNeils, Pattersons, Warrens, and many more, their equals, and, to crown all, that prince of pastors, Rev. Mr. Bradford, standing in the midst of his people, - I am sure that this assemblage would bow in admiration, and, as one man, ad- mit that such a shepherd and such a flock could nowhere else be found on this continent. I have said that they were grand in their religion, and in their moral and social intercourse. In the days I speak of, nearly the whole adult population belonged to the church, and nearly every child was baptized. The divis- ions of later years had not then broken their solid ranks. In their solemn assemblies, in their social gatherings, in their pub- lic and festive turnouts, they acted together, always with dig- nity and sobriety. Yet they were never bigoted or intolerant. If they had any idol, it was Mr. Bradford, their minister; and no man ever deserved the love and homage of his people more than he. Everybody, young and old, loved him ; and he loved everybody, old and young. With such admiration, and such a people, there seemed no difficulty that could not be healed, and no division that could not be closed. They acted together with the same dignity in their public affairs. There seemed no am- bition for office, -no electioneering for distinction. Modest merit was ever most likely to be exalted. I remember the first town-meeting that we boys were permitted to attend, probably in March, of 1812 or 1813. The people assembled on that oc- casion in the old church, and took their pews as orderly and quietly as upon the Sabbath. Mr. Bradford went into the pul- pit, and opened the meeting with prayer. The selectmen took the deacons' seat, and called the meeting to business. A mod- erator was first to be elected, and some one came to our pew, and whispered to my father. He immediately rose up, and said, " Boys, we must go out." We followed him out, with sad hearts, shut out from seeing what we came to see, and we knew not why. We begged for a reason, and he told us that the whis- perer had informed him that he was the republican candidate for moderator, and must retire. In due time he was informed of his election, when we returned to the church, and saw the same thing repeated in every balloting of the day. We may smile at the simplicity and modesty of such a people ; we may boast of the wondrous progress we have made in advance of
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