USA > New Hampshire > Cheshire County > Marlborough > History of the town of Marlborough, Cheshire County, New Hampshire > Part 31
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Again, we live over the days of "Lang Syne," when the future loomed up so invitingly bright and golden. Then, to us, old time moved at but a sluggard's pace. Now, aye, now, he speeds on wings of lightning; and we fain would turn back his wheels, roll back the years, and become chil- dren once again.
It is eminently fitting-yea, a duty - that at this period of our town's history we pause for a moment, and, ere we cross the magic threshold, separating the past from the cen- tury just dawned, call home the scattered sons and daugh-
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ters of this, the "Mecca " of our youth, that we may here, even as did the pilgrims to that more ancient Mecca, renew our vows of loyalty and love for the town whose children we are only too proud to be called.
. Yes, call them home to mingle their congratulations with yours,- you who have so nobly borne the heat and burden of these years, from Marlborough's infancy to the glorious present.
With what fidelity you have discharged the duties inci- dent to the healthy and rapid growth of our beloved town, this charming village fully attests. Aside from natural attractions, which are, indeed, very great, the village is in and of itself one of the most lovely in New Hampshire. The branches of industry here represented are many and varied. Every facility for rapid and permanent develop- ment, numerically and financially, is yours ; and well have these been improved. Verily, you have wrought with your might.
I trust you will pardon me for thus wandering from a direct response to the sentiment just read, assigned me. You know that the present is an age of "new departures." 'Tis the fashion ; and, having no especial desire to be "out of the world," I have feebly endeavored to be in fashion. At your next centennial, I will stick to my text. While thinking of the many natives of Marlborough who will to- day grace the occasion by their presence and eloquence, old school-fellows, I can but feel a degree of honest town pride that she has reared so large a number of eminent men, men so well filling the different positions in life to which they are called. She has sent forth ministers, doc- tors, lawyers, teachers, merchants, and -fiddlers !
It really matters not so much what we do, presupposing our calling honorable, as how we do. You have doubtless heard of old Billy Grey of Boston. When quite a young man, he was a drummer. Later in life, he became a popu- lar merchant, and very wealthy. A rival in trade, with whom he had had some trouble, said to him one day, " Billy, I can remember when you was nothing but a drum-
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mer boy." "Very true," says Billy Grey, "but didn't I drum well ?" That's the point, my friends. Let us see to it that we drum well.
It has been said of the violin that it was the devil's own instrument. Well, all I have to say is, his majesty's musi- cal taste is far in advance of his morals.
Well do I remember my first violin. Forty years ago, I was made its happy possessor; and no candidate for pres- idential honors was ever made so completely satisfied with the "situation," though possibly more surprised, inasmuch as I knew the prize was to be my own.
But it is of my first violin bow of which I would more particularly speak. Just think of it, fair daughters of Marlborough, to remember your first beau,- your very first. The thing looks absolutely impossible. Still, in my case, memory serves me well. The fiddle came, but the bow with which to awaken its slumbering melodies was, alas ! non est. Finally, after much anxiety and mechanical delib- eration, one was manufactured at the old homestead on the hill, from the stave of a flour-barrel, that presented the desired bend and shape. With the addition of a little horse-hair, drawn from the tail of our favorite nag, the bow was complete in all its parts. Although not a "thing of beauty," it nevertheless brought great joy to that house- hold. Of course I must give you the name of the artist to whom I was indebted for this little gem. Although it is customary for celebrated makers to stamp their names upon their productions, yet in this case the exception was the rule. Nothing but these words appeared, to wit: "Extra superfine."
Even to this day, I have inclined to the belief that they had more direct reference to the quality of flour the barrel contained than to the maker of the bow, who was Dr. James Batcheller. However, I am not disposed to be cap- tious in the matter, and respectfully refer the decision to the good citizens of Marlborough, with whom he spent his best days, and for whom he cherished the kindliest feelings of friendship and esteem. I deem no apology necessary for
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referring to one who, though not a native, was so thor- oughly identified with all that could in any way contribute to the prosperity of this, the town of his early adoption. Could he but speak to you to-day, no uncertain sound would assure you of his love for this people, of his unceas- ing devotion to those principles, the development of which has made Marlborough so eminently prosperous, her people so happy.
Among the natives of our town who made for themselves a reputation as teachers of the divine art of music, first and foremost stands the name of Osgood Collester. Who of his numerous pupils can ever forget his genial, facetious style of teaching, his beautiful playing of the violin?
It was while attending one of his schools that I experi- enced the first great grief of my life. At intermission one evening, and while we scholars were having a "good time generally," one of the young ladies (Miss Julia Wakefield) inadvertently sat down upon my violin. It collapsed like a torn balloon. She was distressed about it, I was frantic. My heart was broken, and-my violin. If ever I felt like singing, "How fleeting are all things below!" it was then and there. The minor key of A-flat would have been in exact unison with my feelings, for the dear old fiddle was flat "as a pancake."
Another name, and one held in very high esteem by Marl- borough's true lovers of music,- Silas Collester, whose soul was as full of music as his heart of kind and generous impulses. His conception of the proper rendition of church music was most correct. Pleasant, indeed, are my recollec- tions of my old chorister, Silas Collester. I am not quite sure that he was a native of Marlborough. At any rate, he ought to have been.
You will hardly expect me, my friends, to admit that the violin has been superseded by either the organ or piano. In my belief, it is the king of all musical instruments. Its tones more closely imitate the human voice than any other ever invented. Until that has been superseded, the senti- ment that the organ and piano take precedence is not my
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sentiment. Were I with you to-day, I would invite my violin to "speak for itself," and in its own behalf. Really, if the people of Marlborough ever felt like "tripping the light fantastic" to the inspiring notes of "Money Musk " and " Chorus Jig," now is the time and this the occasion.
I remember, when a lad, playing these tunes to a good, staid Marlborough man, a near neighbor ; and, noticing he was not over-pleased with my efforts, I ventured to inquire if he liked dancing music. Said he hesitatingly, "Well, yes; but I want it played very slow!"
And now, in bringing these early reminiscences to a close, permit me to offer again my congratulations that you have been given so goodly a heritage, that the material pros- perity of the town is so marked and gratifying, that the foundation for popular education was laid so broad and deep, and that the great principles of right, early inculcated by the fathers, and without which no community can hope to prosper, have been brought to so glorious a fruition. For myself, I can truly say, if I have any ambition to sat- isfy, any hope to realize, it is that, when I am gathered to my fathers, by no act of mine need you have cause to blush when you say, " He was a son of Marlborough."
Twenty-fourth sentiment : -
Early Reminiscences of Marlborough.
Rev. Philander Wallingford of Claremont responded to this sentiment as follows : -
Mr. President, sir, and ladies most fair, And gentlemen also, I too would declare My participation in your joyful mirth, As we gather to-day at the place of our birth.
There's nothing on earth more dear unto me Than the mountains and meadows and streamlets I see : Like a deer I have roamed o'er these valleys and hills, And for minnows and trout have fished in these rills.
But first let me tell you of things that I know That happened, I'm certain, sixty-four years ago, That my right here to heirship may ever abound, And never be questioned the wide world around.
THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION. 377
In the days of our fathers, when this land was new, And the settlements here were scattered and few, These townships were spacious, and broad were the bounds A century ago, when they chartered these towns.
Yes, Marlborough then, sir, of famous renown, Was broad in her acres, a large spacious town, O'ershadowed, it may be, by Monadnock Mount, Yet rich in her treasures, we this day recount.
But as the good people increased year by year, And centres of business were formed there and here, 'Twas thought to be wisdom some towns to create From parts of old townships to make the lines straight.
So a strip from the south gave Troy her renown, And a gore from the north made Roxbury a town ; But this does not make my condition forlorn, As neither existed before I was born.
The boys up in Roxbury, in sadness or mirth, May claim that small town as the place of their birth ; And Troyites may think they were born in said Troy, But I claim to be, sir, a Marlborough boy.
'Tis true the old homestead, the house, shop, and barn, Where father made axes and mother spun yarn, Are standing to-day, sir, for aught I can tell, In Roxbury township, out on the side hill.
But the legislature, authority high, And Governor Plummer, though nervous and spry, Could not make a town ere the sixth day of June : I therefore outstripped them, arriving at noon,
In Marlborough, surely, and oped my young eyes To see your green pastures beneath your mild skies. I think you must own, for the reasons laid down, That I, sir, am truly a son of your town.
But very soon after -- I know not the hours- They made a new township with corporate powers, And gave it the name of Roxbury, forsooth, --- Appropriate enough, and thus not uncouth.
And so, without leaving our bed or our board, We found ourselves surely in Roxbury stored : This neither the parents or children enjoyed, And thus we were deeply and sadly annoyed.
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HISTORY OF MARLBOROUGH.
With neighbors no nearer than Foster and Gove, My father concluded it wisdom to move : So packing his goods, vise, anvil, and all, He came to this village, a place then quite small.
Six dwellings, a school-house, two shops, and a store, Grist, saw, and carding mill, down on the Branch shore, But why its name " Harbor " the letters should spell, No one but a land-lubber ever could tell.
Then Tucker and Davis, the Holmans, and Ward, And Jonathan Whitcomb and E. B. Wallingford, Were considered to be the firm business men, In the year of our Lord eighteen twenty-one.
A bell was not needed to wake up that score : The blacksmith's trip-hammer rang out the hour four, Announcing to all that the day had begun, And work must begin in advance of the sun.
No wishing for slumber or sighing for sleep By men of that day, who expected to reap The fruit of their labor in a true, lawful way, By the sweat of their brow, in the heat of the day.
The evening approaching by signs in the west, And bodily lassitude calling for rest, Still labored they on, keeping pace with the sun, Till the orb of the day his journey had run.
The oldest of all this industrious group, Whose age and infirmity had caused him to stoop, Was Tucker, the deacon, whose name we revere, But the boys that were roguish thought him quite severe.
However the deacon and I were good friends : I brought in his firewood and fed his gray hens, Who, always when serving him doing my best, Would give me an apple as large as my fist.
And now I would give much more than a dime For one of his apples at this very time : No baldwin or pippin from nice grafted shoot Can equal in flavor his genuine fruit.
Whenever the deacon would take a short walk, Himself to regale or with neighbors to talk, His wife being aged, e'en fourscore and nine, And somewhat rheumatic in limbs, I opine,
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Would go in her weakness and stand in the door, And say the same say she had oft said before, " Missa Tucker, where going ?" (Oh, tell, or I die.) " Do go long and sit down," would be his reply.
The next one in order, permit me to say, And the one that made boots and shoes every day, Was Davis, our neighbor, who stuck to his trade, As all could attest by the shoes that he made.
A companion for children we found him to be, And ready at all times with us e'en to play; But always we found him much more than our match, Whenever we ventured some mischief to hatch.
I remember quite well, though 'twas done all in fun, That he happened one time myself to outrun ; So catching my heels, by hook or by crook, He ducked my red head in the little trout brook.
Next, Holmans, the millers and sawers of logs, Who built them fine houses, and fatted large hogs : They also were busy in those good old times, When men preferred labor to making poor rhymes.
And no one was jealous, so far as I knew, Because they made houses of timber they grew ; Or that they ground barley their porkers to feed, As all knew, of course, it was raised from their seed.
My father, the blacksmith, made ploughshares and chains, Shod oxen and horses, but small were the gains : However, he managed eight children to feed, And, with mother's prudence, supplied every need.
The merchant in broadcloth, of color dark blue, All made up in fashion and looking quite new, Who wore a broad neck-tie as white as the snow, And kept up a living that made a fair show ;
Who sold to the women his buckram and tape, And took in exchange straw braid in good shape; Who bartered with farmers as money was tight, Receiving their produce both weighty and light ;
Who traded with persons that came from afar, And treated his customers well at his bar,- This man of all others, by name William Ward, Seemed most consequential in that business board.
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HISTORY OF MARLBOROUGH.
One morning we saw there, as soon as 'twas light, Some mischief performed in the dead of the night : The burglars had entered his store in the rear, And stolen his goods without favor or fear.
Such a stir as it made in that little tribe Exceeded by far my powers to describe : " To justice, to justice! these scamps we will bring, And break up at once this vile thievish ring !"
So Holman and Davis, and Whitcomb and Stone, And Farrar and Converse, and Lombard and son, And Boyden and Thatcher, and Nason and Frost, All just in their prime, a resolute host,
Proceeded forthwith on fleet-footed horse To catch these vile knaves and give them remorse ; But whether they caught these villains or not, If ever I knew, I have long since forgot.
But none were more useful of all I can name, When girls wore pressed homespun and women the same ; And when the mechanics, and yeomanry too, Wore cloth their wives made of wool, flax, and tow, --
Than Jonathan Whitcomb, who, having good skill, With carding-machine and nice clothing-mill, Not only made rolls for the women to spin, But colored and dressed all the flannel brought in.
Their clothes made of homespun, ere shoddy was known, Would last lads and lasses till they were outgrown : The coat I have on, rather coarse, it is true, Is of cloth that was made forty-five years ago.
The soul most liberal of all in the town, Who rode his horse queerly o'er hills up and down, Was Doctor Batcheller, as seen through the eyes Of ns little children, more simple than wise.
He came to my father's one bitter cold day, And while we, the children, were busy at play, He took very slyly from his large " saddle-bags " A genuine baby,-one not made of rags,-
And gave it to mother to keep as her own,- A generous feature in him widely known; For this was his wont, at each house by the way, Which accounts for the crowd convened here to-day.
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Out westward a furlong on the turnpike toward Keene, An inn painted red from the Harbor was seen ; But, as from my birth I have loathed such a place, I knew not the landlord, his name, or his face.
I felt toward the place where liquors were sold Like the Dutchman of whom this story is told : Who moving his goods and chattels out West, Being weary and thirsty, and sighing for rest,
Told John, his good son, the horses to drive, And he'd go ahead, that he might arrive Where he could find water, refreshing and cool, To slake his great thirst, and bathe in the pool.
Ere long he discovered the water he sought : He kissed it, but found it exceedingly hot. Not knowing the nature of a boiling spring, IIe cried ont lustily that made the woods ring :
" Rive on, rive on, John ! Out of this place we'll get ! We can't be but ten feet from the bottomless pit." So if by a grog-shop I was forced e'er to go, I thought I was near to the region of woe.
The wives of these fathers were faithful and true, A word in their praise is certainly due : I remember with pleasure the prim Mrs. Ward, Full equal in worth to her portly liege lord.
Mrs. Holman, a worthy and complaisant dame, In all life's vicissitudes was always the same : I've heard my dear mother oft speak in her praise, While living her neighbor in those early days.
Mrs. Davis, a lady in stature quite small, But to me the fairest and best of them all, -- If she were not present to hear what I say, I'd speak of her virtues more freely to-day.
The house of my mother, with white sanded floors, Showed neatness, and prudence whate'er were the stores : She suffered no carelessness ever to spoil The handful of meal and the small cruse of oil.
Permit me to mention another dear friend, Who came as our teacher, the summer to spend ; Where, in the red school-house, close by the old store, We learned more of letters than we e'er knew before.
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I need not tell you the name of this one, She afterwards married our friend Wilkinson : Her sweetness of voice, her beauty and grace, Were known and admired by all in the place.
High up on the hill the meeting-house stood, A beacon to point the erring to God, Where they, by the preaching of Halloway Fish, Found food to satisfy their most ardent wish.
To that house of God I went in my youth, To learn in the Sabbath-school virtue and truth ; And now I possess a book I can show, --- A gift from my teacher, fifty-seven years ago.
I remember with sadness an event of that day, That filled every one in the town with dismay : It occurred on the eve of the Sabbath of rest, A day then esteemed of all others the best.
Mrs. Harvey, whose age was nearly fourscore, And the wife of Charles Holman, we've mentioned before, Had spent the long Sabbath, their minds well to fill With sacred instruction, at the church on the hill.
Returning from meeting when the service was o'er, And nearing the village down by the Branch shore, Their horse, old and gentle, and trusty and right, From an unexpected occurrence took fright,
And, plunging and leaping, with fury he went Down, down the long hill of steepest descent : The harness was broken,- perhaps quite unsound,- They were thrown from the carriage, and dashed to the ground.
To portray to you this distressing affair Exceedeth by far my words to declare : Mrs. Holman was rescued, as Providence willed ; But her friend, Mrs. Harvey, was instantly killed.
That Marlborough's children thereafter might know The saddest disaster their records could show, A stone was erected, if I mistake not, To note the event and to point out the spot.
It also reminds us that short is our day ; That life is a shadow that passeth away. Our fathers and mothers, oh ! where are they now ? Like them, to death's mandate we shortly must bow.
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With pleasure we meet this centennial year, Their deeds to recount and their names to revere : We think of them now, in a land bright and fair, With anticipations of meeting them there.
How sweet to reflect on reunion above 1
With friends, the bestowers of labor and love ! But our expectations must centre in God, Through Christ who has bought us with his precious blood.
My range of inspection of men and of things Is small, you perceive, and thus only brings To mind what transpired in a short space of time, When I was a boy in years less than nine.
Of farmers, mechanics, and things that occurred Before I was born, and of which I've not heard, And recent events which others well know, These Marlborough boys will faithfully show.
I am an itinerant, as some of you know, And so I left Marlborough fifty-five years ago :
I therefore will weary your patience no more, And with due respect will yield you the floor.
Twenty-fifth sentiment : -
July 4, 1876,-The centennial of our Nation's birthday.
LETTER FROM JOSEPH C. MASON, ESQ., OF CARTHAGE, MO. CARTHAGE, Mo., June 26, 1876. CHAS. K. MASON, Esq., Marlborough, N.H. :
My dear Sir,-Your kind favor, inviting me to take part in your cen- tennial exercises on the coming 4th, was duly received; and the response has been thus delayed, in hopes that I should be able to say I could be present on that interesting occasion. But such an enjoyment will be impossible, and I can merely in this feeble manner express my feelings in relation to an event that crowns the first century of the lifetime of my native town.
The welfare of her sons and daughters who now live as representa- tives of what she is, and the memory of those who have passed out into the great "beyond," having made her what she was, are still potent to stir in my bosom emotions of respect and love. It is ours to stand as sentinels on the watch-tower in this centennial year, to survey that which lies behind us, and in the light of its marvellous realities forecast the experiences of succeeding generations of men and women. They who
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have fallen would have stood strong at this eventful epoch : they looked with steadfast hope, with large expectations, to the consummation of one hundred years, filled with labor and progress in the history of our town, and nation as well.
Gentlemen of the Committee, I feel sure that the 4th of July next will prove the proudest, grandest day that Marlborough ever saw. Then and there; her gifted sons and beautiful daughters will lift up their voices in speech and in song and in that " distinguished presence " none, not even the humblest of her children, will be forgotten. Those who slumber on the village hillside, and those who, a little earlier, took their places in the church-yard by the "old meeting-house " on the hill, as well as they whose dust mingles with the soil of other climes,- the living and the dead, your kindred and mine,-all will take part in the exercises of that imposing yet solemn occasion. They who went down in the shock of battle, or in any way gave life or service for country, will speak again, and a grateful concourse will give them audience.
Among those whose attachment remains strong, and who would hail a prosperous future for their native town, please include the writer of this communication. From my present home, within a few miles of the " Indian nation," on the very border of civilization, I shall, in mind and heart, co-operate with those celebrating in the " old home." The same old bells that made music and gladness for my boyhood will usher in the morning of the coming Centennial Day. Though "night's sable curtain " will at that hour still hang above the soil of South-western Missouri, yet the earliest note that summons my kindred and the neigh- bors of my youth to honor the century past, and inaugurate the one to come, shall find in my heart an instantaneous response; and I will fondly picture the thousand friendly greetings, as reunited friends once more look into one another's eyes and recall past experiences, and as the noon- day sun looks down upon a bountiful repast spread for the assembled thousands.
May God bless my native town. May her children duly appreciate circumstances of time and place, which have fixed their abode in a local- ity so well fitted to confer happiness and engender filial regard. May their virtues and integrity be as firm as the hills that "abide while ages flee " !
Yours truly,
J. C. MASON.
Twenty-sixth sentiment : -
The Homes of our Youth.
LETTER FROM SUMNER A. MASON, M.D., OF NEW YORK.
,138 E. 61ST STREET, NEW YORK, July 2, 1876.
Gentlemen,-I fully intended to have been with you on this occasion ; and it is with regret that I find myself, at the last moment, unable to
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