USA > New Hampshire > Hillsborough County > Lyndeborough > The history of the town of Lyndeborough, New Hampshire, Vol. II > Part 11
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And then I recall the schoolhouse with its deeply carved desks; I re- member that eventful examination day. Oh, how we crammed and primed for it! How we looked anxiously and watched to see when the old clergymau, Mr. Claggett, should come across the field and through the door. Then we all stood up, in reverence to the man we all loved so well, the man who could take each one of us by the hand, and was not satisfied with giving us our first name, but gave us our middle names and our last names. He knew us all. Then, as the neighbors gathered, one after another, how we struggled to acquit ourselves well. And how we went out on to the rostrum of the schoolhouse and stood there with trembling feet and said,
"You'd scarce expect one of my age,"
or with more zeal and auimation, we declared for " Independence now, and Independence forever ! "
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Those things, I say, come before me in rapid array, and I sorrow as I think of the deserted homes, as I notice the spots, like pock marks on the surface, where once stood the houses that meant homes. Yet, as the crier goes out, and, in one and the same voice declares, " The king is dead. Long live the king," so I say that there is hope yet for old Lynde- borough. It is not all sorrow nor all mourning. There are homes here yet. There is spirit here yet among the old men and among the middle- aged men that can make Lyndeborough still bloom and blossom. Her people must, perhaps, change their methods of life, their methods of farming, and introduce possibly some other industries ; but Lyndebor- ough must live. But, above all, I know that these eternal hills are here, and that they shall stand. What makes Lyndeborough dear and beauti- ful to us all will remain, though we shall pass away. Oh, ye rocks and rills, ye hills and vales, ye mountains and ravines, though wander thy children, live ye still. Do they make their sojourn in the tropic south, where perpetual summer reigns, they refresh their hearts with memories of thee, with thy sleeping verdure wrapped in winter's snowy blanket. Though they dwell in the prairies of the West, the eye wearied with the broad expanse of the horizon's long, unbroken line, they long to behold once more thy varied landscape and to see thy mountain tops, as, blush- ing with the first influence of morning's radiant hues, they proclaim the coming of the king of day to the vales below. Do they tread the narrow path of want, or eat of hunger's bitter bread, they recall the old home in thy midst where an all sufficient abundance ever prevailed. Do they ride the steed of affluence or dwell in palaces of wealth, they remember the comforts, the careless comforts of their country home, and say, " There indeed, was a rich mine of real, peaceful comfort that I cannot now find." Yes, wherever they are, in whatever situation, in whatever vocation, doc- tor, lawyer or divine, workers with the brain or hand, thy children love thee still ; living, love thee ; and dying, pray that thy murmuring brooks and thy whispering pines may sing their requiem and may speak their praise.
Mr. Woodward : The next sentiment is a toast to " Good Old Lyndeborough." Success to her industry. Prosperity attend her years. Her doors are ever open to welcome home her wan- dering children.
I will call upon one of her wandering children to speak to this sentiment. I used to be very intimately acquainted with him years ago. He is a graduate of old District No. 8, over the mountains, and was one of the sons of Lyndeborough repre- sented in that historic march through Baltimore on the 19th of April, 1861. Ladies and gentlemen, Henry M. Woodward, of Medford, Mass.
Mr. H. M. Woodward. Citizens of Lyndeborough, Old Lyndeborough : Old it is, indeed, as we mark the years, as the storms beat upon yonder hills. Old indeed it is as we mark the forest which the streams have made in yonder valleys. Old indeed it is as we read ยท upon the tomb- stones in yonder yard the ages of those that have been laid there during
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the years that are past. But every morning's sun, as it climbs up these hills, makes Lyndeborough as new as it was in the past, when our boy- hood feet trod these hills. Lyndeborough - her industries : I have been astonished at the industries of Lyndeborough. We have industry piled up, industry pressed down, industry shaken together. And the industry here is so elevating - already elevated, I should say. In the morning, you industriously climb up and. spend an industrious day upon these hills, and when you have industriously filled the hours of the day, you industriously slide down the same hills to your homes and industriously fill up the remainder of the day with the chores about the farm and barn. This is industrious industry, piled up, heaped up. And what is the re- ward of this industry? I got a clew of the reward of the industry from the remarks which the doctor made; and that is this, that they do not need any doctors in Lyndeborough.
It is very difficult for one unaccustomed to public speaking to know what to say next. I am reminded of an incident that occurred in my war experience, and with that I will close my remarks. I know the old sol- diers here will appreciate it. In the early part of the war, in our nine months' service, we had a motley collection in our company, and very many of them knew nothing of military duties or tactics. We had a man by the name of John Whalen. The first night after we arrived in Virginia, John Whalen was detailed as camp guard. The old soldiers will know what "grand rounds" means. And I, being officer of the guard, it was my duty to instruct the guard in the duties of the grand rounds. For the information of those who do not exactly know what it means, I will say that, in the night, the officer of the day goes around and inspects each guard about the camp, and they have a certain formula which is required of the guard during that performance. He goes about to see that every man is awake and at his post and doing his duty. I instructed John in the duties of grand rounds. I told him what he was to do. I drilled him in the formula. "Now, John," said I, " when the officer of the guard approaches, you must say "Halt!" and "Who goes there?" And of course, the officer will say "Grand rounds." You will say, " Advance, grand rounds, and give the countersign." I instructed him in all the minutiae of that, and I got John so thoroughly indoctrinated with grand rounds that he could go through with it beautifully. When the time ap- proached, the officer of the day came to me and we went the grand rounds. We found all the guards at their posts as usual. We came to John's post, and John was marching up and down his post, with his " shoulder arms," as brave as any man could be; and when he saw me coming, he came to a halt, and waited until I could have struck him with my fist, he allowed me to come so near him.
Now it is against the rules of the army for a guard to let anyone come within reach of his bayonet. John allowed me to come up very near. And after awhile he says, "Halt!" Of course, I had halted before. Then I waited a few minutes for the rest of it. And John sang out after a while, " Who goes there?" I replied, "Grand rounds." Then there was another long silence, and I waited and waited. Finally, John said, "Phwat will I say next?" With this remark, "Phwat will I say next ? " I close the few remarks I have to make.
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Mr. Woodward. Ladies and Gentlemen : The next senti- ment is to the absent sons of Lyndeborough ; to the sons of Lyndeborough who have been pioneers and conservators of other civilizations ; those present we welcome to their native hills on this festal day ; to those absent we send our kindest benedic- tions. I have the pleasure of introducing to you William H. Grant, Esq., of St. Paul, Minnesota.
Mr. Grant, before proceeding, read certain letters which had been received from some of the sons of Lyndeborough who were not present. After reading a letter from Rev. Wm. T. Bout- well, of Stillwater, Minn., Mr. Grant spoke as follows : -
Now, fellow-townsmen, I remember, in my boyhood, to have read, as some of you have read, that, under certain circumstances, the last shall sometimes be first, and the first last. The last letter which I read to you was that from Mr. Boutwell. I will speak of him as one of the absent sons of Lyndeborough first, because he builded better than he knew. When your mothers and my mother were making bed blankets and bed quilts and sending them, with their benedictions into the far Northwest forty years ago, they did not know what they were doing. Mr. Boutwell said to me last Tuesday afternoon, when I went to see him for the very purpose of seeing him before I should meet you to-day, that the people of Lyndeborough and his New England friends, in 1831, told him that if he went into that Northwestern country, if he did not freeze to death, he would be scalped by the Indians. We all remember very well how solicitous we all were for his welfare. I need not tell you that his mission, like the other missions to the Indians in the past, has very largely been a failure. He admits it himself. But man proposes and God disposes. The result of Lyndeborough's sending that man into the Northwest was the bringing of the attention of the American people to that country. "Why," he says, "in 1832, when I landed upon the shore of Cass Lake, near the source of the Mississippi, I found as fine a field of corn as was ever raised in old Lyndeborough. I did not feel any afraid of freezing to death after that."
It is to missionaries, to men like Mr. Boutwell, that America owes the building up and redeeming from barbarisin of that noble country, of that great belt, not of western land, nor western states which we used to talk about, but that great central belt composed of Wisconsin, of Michigan, of Minnesota, of Iowa, of Illinois, of Missouri, and so down to the Gulf of Mexico. Within the limits of which I speak, and the new States, to be,- the two Dakotas, when they are added, there will be, in that coun- try to which Mr. Boutwell went in 1831, twelve millions of free, inde- pendent, enlightened and happy people. It is owing to the services of such men as Mr. Boutwell that the Pillsburys are feeding you to-day. You have been eating flour ground at the Falls of St. Anthony, which seemed to be a Utopian country in the days when Mr. Boutwell first visited it.
Another suggestion, another distinction for a son of Lyndeborough: Mr. Boutwell gave the name of Itasca to the source of the Mississippi
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River ; so that, so long as that great river shall flow to the gulf, so long as the human mind can remember or can see or can know of what there is to-day in the land,-just so long will that name be preserved ; and it is to old Lyndeborough, to this hill here just below us, that we owe that name - a peculiar name. He told me the story of how it came about some years ago. It was this : He accompanied the Schoolcraft expedi- tion in 1832. They came to that lake. It was the source of the river, and the question was what they should call it. They talked of Indian names. Finally Mr. Schoolcraft turned to Mr. Boutwell and said, " Mr. Boutwell, I am not a classical scholar. Can't you remember some Greek or some Latin name, something that will be expressive of the idea that this is the head of the river ?" Mr. Boutwell took a piece of birch bark, as they sat there on the bank of the lake, and wrote " veritas caput," and handed it to Mr. Schoolcraft. He says, "It is too long." Mr. Boutwell jocularly replied, "Well, we had better cut in two." So he took off the v e r of the first word and the last syllable of the second word and he had the word " Itasca," and they adopted it as the name of the lake. So it is to a son of Lyndeborough that the world is indebted for the name of the lake at the head of the great Mississippi .*
There is another name that I desire to call your attention to. While he was not a son of Lyndeborough, he was a son of one of Lyndebor- ough's sons. He was a grand-son, as I said before, of the man who led the men of Lyndeborough at Bunker Hill. I think we have the right to call him a son of Lyndeborough. I refer to the Hon. E. G. Spaulding of Buffalo. You have heard what the military did during the war of the rebellion ; and how proud we have been of our military rec- ord. But there is a peaceful record in the case of Mr. Spaulding, which, to my mind, vastly outweighs, in its importance, the achievements of the military. Without it, the military could never have succeeded. His- tory shows us that Mr. Spaulding, as chairman of the committee on finance in the congress of the United States, in the early days of the war, introduced what is known as the "Greenback Bill," for the issuing of treasury notes. And I understand that in Buffalo his neighbors fre- quently speak of him as "Greenback Spaulding." Another thing he did : He formulated, introduced and advocated the present National Bank bill, by which our national currency was established. And it was so per- fect when it came from his experienced hand that there have been but very few amendments of it since. Men live in their sons and in their daugh- ters, and I say again, it is to these old hills, it is to those struggling an- cestors of ours who subdued these mighty forests, that we are indebted for these great measures.
Other sons of Lyndeborough have gone forth into every department of life; into my own profession, perhaps, less than into any other of the
* The following is taken from a paper on the source of the Mississippi, by H. M. Kingery, in The Popular Science Monthly for August, 1904: " The present name is said to have been the joint production of Schoolcraft and the Rev. Dr. Boutwell, who were the first white men to seek the lake as the Mississippi's source. Desiring to hail it at first sight with an appropriate title, Schoolcraft asked his companion for the Greek or Latin words meaning the true source of a river. Though somewhat rusty in his classics, the reverend explorer finally recalled the two Latin words, veritas caput- truth head. These were written down, the first and last syllables crossed out, and presto ! the name Itaska."
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learned professions; but everywhere you find them. They have been bank presidents and bank directors. They have constructed railroads. They have been railroad directors and railroad presidents and managers. They have been mayors of cities. They have been the pioneers and founders of towns. Every industry, every advance of civilization has found some son of Lyndeborough lifting at the wheel.
But, ladies and gentlemen, the hours are passing rapidly. I simply de- sired to see you. I desired to be present and shake again your kindly hands. It is now more than thirty years, nearly thirty-five, since I lost my citizenship in Lyndeborough. I have always looked back on the home of my birth as a place I love to contemplate. I remember you all. I remember the old men and the young, and always with the kindest of feelings and recollections. These scenes about us, as I said before, are what have made the sons of Lyndeborough what they are. Man, like any other animal, is made largely by his environment ; and it is because our ancestors had to struggle, it is because our fathers and mothers had to work with their hands and their heads, that we have given so many illustrations of distinguished ability in the various departments of human life.
I expect to leave you. I may never, or I may, return. These scenes, to me, are set in strong remembrance. As Burns said,
"Oh, scenes in strong remembrance set ! Scenes never, never to return ! Scenes, if in stupor I forget, Again I feel, again I burn."
Good-bye. I do not want to say any more.
Mr. Woodward. I did not commence my task with an apol- ogy which perhaps I should have made; but it is very dis- agreeable to commence the exercises of any occasion with an apology. But we expected and hoped that His Excellency the Governor would be here to-day, and he gave a partial assurance that he would be here, but he did not come. It would be a very pleasant part of my task were I able to read a letter of regret from him, but I cannot do so for he sent none.
The concluding sentiment of the day is to the first settlers of Lyndeborough. Plain, hardy, intelligent. Contending with the forces of nature, enduring privation, they hewed out for themselves homes, and left for us a legacy of freedom. As the fathers live in their sons, may their sturdy courage and faith be ours. I have the honor and pleasure of introducing to you Mr. Rufus Blanchard of Chicago, Il1., who will respond to this toast. He has acquired a reputation as an author and pub- lisher and is an old son of Lyndeborough.
Mr. Blanchard. Fellow-Citizens, Ladies and Gentlemen : I wish'I could call more of you " fellow-citizens," practically, than is possible. When I came here, as I first came over Perham's old hill, I could not help' hum- ming to myself that old hymn,
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" Green hills of Tyrol, again I see My home and country so dear to me."
It would not have required any very great stretch of imagination for me to have become convinced in my own mind and to have actually be- lieved that I was to visit my old schoolfellows, and to take a friendly wrestle with them, or, maybe, a regular rough and tumble. But I am sorry to say that the truth dispelled that happy illusion very soon. In- stead of that I found a few grizzly old fellows, just like myself, some younger, some a little older. But as I grasped them by the hand I felt as if I could again take a regular rough and tumble with them. I re- member which of them could lay me ou my back, and which I could lay on their backs. But I do not propose to try it now. There is a man that I wrestled with over there now. I never fought with him in the world. But I could pick out some that I have fought with, though I do not see any now. But if I could, I would feel a good deal as the famous artist, Healy, felt; he is the artist who painted the presidents of the United States, the greatest artist in the world to-day. I met him at one time with one of his old friends from Boston and had the honor to be intro- duced to him; and from the conversation that he had with the gentle- man, Mr. Higginson, I was led to say, "Why, you must be old friends ?" " Oh, yes," he said, " we threw brick-bats at each other on the streets of Boston, when boys."
So began a life-long friendship. I felt something like that when I came to greet my old friends here. If we didn't throw brick-bats, we pummelled each other well, which was just as good proof of our courage. Aud we didn't tell our fathers of it, nor our pedagogues, nor our "school- marms." If we had, we would have got a second dose from Dr. Birch. It is right for boys to fight, rather than submit to degredation. It was the same spirit which actuated nineteen men to enlist in the revolution- ary war from our old town.
But, O Mercy ! don't let me make you a speech ! The thing has gone too far already. Everything that has been said has been good, but it is too late to make any more speeches. Therefore I will just read you a little sentiment that I felt impressed to utter, and I wrote it out because I couldn't help it. (The speaker then read a short poem.)
I thank you, my friends, for allowing me to greet you face to face. And if I have failed to respond to that beautiful, that laconic sentiment that was allotted me, you cannot doubt that it has been most ably re- sponded to already ; and you will excuse this as a light dessert,- not a heavy dessert, like a piece of mince pie, but the lightest dessert you could eat after a meal of solid meats. We will call it a roast apple.
Mr. Woodward. Mr. Chairman, that concludes the part which was assigned to me.
President Grant. I have been requested. to state that on Thursday, the 12th day of this month, the scion of Lynde- borough which drew off a part of Salem-Canada, proposes, from what we have done here to-day, to see what it can do. Boys are apt, if their parents have done something big, to see
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if they cannot do something bigger. The people of Wilton propose to hold a celebration on the 12th day of the present inonth, and they invite all who are present at Lyndeborough to-day to come down and see them.
This meeting now stands adjourned for fifty years, and as many of you as possible are requested to come then.
In conclusion : The following poem, written by Dr. Israel Herrick in 1858, was not read on this occasion; but as it doubt- less would have been if it had been available, it is inserted here without apology : -
SCRAPS ABOUT LYNDEBOROUGH.
Our town is a regular crescent-like swell,
Made up of mountain, and hill, and dell, With here and there a small level spot, Sufficient to build a snug, humble cot, A barn and a shed, with a yard for the kine, A coop for the hens, and a pen for the swine.
The surface is stony, and hard, and rough, The tilling of which is toilsome and tough, Discounting to man and beast his food, If only the proper labor is made, With plow and harrow, shovel and spade,
Crowbar, bush-hook, axe and hoe, Laid on smart by a freeman's blow. Our ancient domain was ample and bold, Such as yeomen delight to purchase and hold, And build up a home for themselves and the brood Very soon to come forth, for the great public good. Thirty-six square miles, with a southern decline, Well timbered and watered, with prospect sublime, Was the price paid King,* with his bold soldier clan, To hunt and shoot down his red fellow-man, And Frenchmen to boot ; 'twas a sov'reign say, And flunkeys, as now, were quite sure to obey. But this goodly grant was soon to be marred By godly neighbors, and hackled and scarred, That they might enlarge their scanty dominions And gratify will, as well as opinions. First, Wilton came in for a two-mile slice To make up a town, so snug and so nice, With Masonian lands, which they had on hand, And then take a notable public stand.
Next Temple presented a Blood-yt request, And after contention, 'twas thought to be best To let them take off a three-cornered bite,
* Capt. Samuel King. See pp. 21-25 .- ED.
t The late General Blood, with his well-known shrewdness, got up a petition, put it through the Legislature, and procured the grant.
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And keep it, rather than quarrel and fight. Next Greenfield requested a rather large strip, To make up a town with their barren old slip. And rather than see them look meager and sullen, And get their subsistence from sorrel and mullen, We granted their prayer, as is plain to be seen, And let them have lands that looked healthy and green. Frances-town next craved a very small bit, To make her phylacteries come snug to a fit, And give her proportion, as plump and as fair As the maiden* whose name they so cheerfully bear. Mont Vernon came last [and got what she wanted. ]
*
* * *
Thus we have been pinched and hackled all raw. Which leaves us in shape of a circular saw With a piece broken off; and yet we are here, And keep on our course in hope, without fear. With this slight digression, we'll pick up our traps, And hasten along with the rest of our scraps. Our streams of water are nothing but rills, Greatly deficient for driving of mills, Except when swollen by showers or thaws, And then you may hear the clatter of saws Cutting up lumber- yea, fingers and paws ; Yet not a spoonful of meal's to be had, Though hens, ducks and turkeys- yea, women - run mad, And cackle and scold, quack, gobble and squall, For grain can't be ground, the streams are so small. Churches we've two, and preachers the same, Where sinner and saint, the blind, halt and lame May go and get good to their souls, if they will, And learn to avoid the eternal down hill, Where old " Nickey Ben," that famous old rip, Stands ready to give them a crack with his whip. One doctor ! good luck ! now I'm free to engage - Were there none, few would die except of old age. No lawyert save one e'er yet had the pride To think he safely our yeomen could ride ; And he was thrown off with his ill-gotten treasures, To earn his own broth by making peck measures. A full baker's dozen of squires have we, Who serve for the honor, instead of the fee ; But Justice ! bah ! their number's so small, 'Tis safer to say we have just none at all. Schoolhouses we've nine, tho' one at a peep Would surely be taken as sheds for the sheep,
* Frances Deering, wife of Gov. John Wentworth. See Francestown History, p. 39 .- ED + About 45 years ago Esq. E-y opened an office in this place ; had no business, and went to making wooden measures. He was good at that. For in the granaries of many of our careful farmers you may find sets of measures made by this wise lawyer.
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Instead of a place where the tender young mind Should learn to shoot forth, "as the twig is inclin'd." Yet some are now getting the better of self, Believing that mind is quite equal to pelf; Aud give, by refitting, those sheds such an air, As makes the whole district with wonder to stare, And two-penny souls half determined to swear. We've a pond of small size, surrounded with bogs, Well storcd with leeches, pickerel and frogs, Bull-paddocks, water-snakes, shiners and pouts, Suckers and pollywogs, turtles and trouts - Enough in all conscience to get up a treat For half of the bipeds that come short of meat. We've a town hall, too, of niodern cut, Where orators, poets and sporters can strut ; Where lyceums meet, great questions to settle, And brave politicians to show off their mettle ; .And singers to sing, and laugh and prattle, And boys to run, and scream, and rattle, As if the imps in the old black pit Were all seized at once with colic or fit. Half a century gone by, or nearly that space, California fever broke out in this place ; By some cantrip slight, the fact had been told, That Scattaquog's* bowels were all filled with gold. So at it they went, to digging and blowing, To carting and wheeling, shov'ling and hoeing, From winter to spring, through summer and fall, Aud all that they got was just nothing at all. So, many who now are raving for riches, From Mexican hills will return poor as witches, And wish they had staid on their own native soil, To gather their gold by slow, patient toil. The red man free once ranged our hills, To shoot down the deer, or fish in our rills, Little dreaming that he and his blood must give place, With his land and his hut, to a white, selfish race, And turn his sad face to the West for to roam, No more to return to his sweet, native home. Near our speck of a pond was his summer retreat, Where he feasted ou fish, if the chase gave no meat, And gathered the grape, the wild pear and cherry, That he with his friends might be joyful and merry. 'Twas here, too, he sickened and died, And here he was buried, t close down by the side
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