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WITHIN
JERSEY
IRCLE,
By
GEORGE QUARRIE
N.J.
No.
83316
ET35
SEC.
212
ALC.
RUTGERS COLLEGE
LIBRARY.
PURCHASED BY
Exchange
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GEORGE QUARRIE.
WITHIN A JERSEY CIRCLE
TALES OF THE PAST GRAVE AND GAY, AS PICKED UP FROM OLD JERSEYITES
By GEORGE QUARRIE
Illustrated by GEORGE QUARRIE
Somerville, N. J. UNIONIST-GAZETTE ASSOCIATION PUBLISHERS
S
D
1 F135 , Q12
i
Copyright, 1910, by GEORGE QUARRIE.
These Sketches Are respectfully dedicated to his friend JAMES P. LOGAN, EsQ. By G. Q.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
The Hermit of Caven Point.
9
Old Coaching Days. 18
Romance of an Old Dutch Estate. 3:2
A Tragedy of Long Ago.
37
Dr. Vanderveer's Romance
5.2
Our Grandfathers' Pure Politics
60
Random Tales of Horace Greeley
75
A Legend of Pluckemin
82
A Night of Terror
89
When Talmage was Young 99
"Prince" George of Somerset
106
"Prince" George's Sons
II2
Tales of the Past.
118
A Romance of Old Bergen
127
A Shattered Romance.
145
Calvin Corle.
159
Colonel Sanderson's Mail Coaches.
169
Bogus Parson Murdered his Wife.
177
Dr. John Rockhill.
183
The "Mayor of Pluckemin"
194
7
8
CONTENTS
PAGE.
Judge Aaron Robertson, of Warren. 21I
John Davenport. 217
Old Days and Ways in Patriotic Pluckemin 228
Dominie Frelinghuysen
234
Tales of the Past.
242
Love in the Mountains 252
In the "Red Coats' " Power 260
A Haunted Meadow
267
The Castner Family Massacre.
274
Em Osborn's Christmas 289
Indian Legends.
297
"Do You Want to be Shaved ?"
301
"Devil John".
312
The Long Pastorate of North Branch.
327
Within a Jersey Circle.
THE HERMIT OF CAVEN POINT
"OLD JOHN'S" EARLY LIFE AMONG THE INDIANS, HIS ESCAPE, HIS WANDERINGS AND HIS FADS.
For a good many years up to 1882 a native Jerseyite who never knew himself to be possessed of any other name than "John" spent the last of his somewhat amphib- ious life in an old catboat moored at Caven Point, on the Jersey shore of New York Bay. There he lived the life of a hermit.
"Old John," as he was latterly known, was an interest- ing character and, as to his origin, a mystery even to him- self. He was, however, quite communicative with the very few who gained his confidence. To them he seemed to enjoy telling all he knew about himself and of his life and wanderings, for in his prime he went to sea and vis- ited many countries, from which he brought home many curios as mementoes. These he kept labeled and arranged in his catboat home, and to his favorite visitors he never tired of showing them.
His whole appearance and whatever he did suggested rotundity. His head and face were covered with fine, soft, white hair, except his round, snubby nose and a small, bald patch on his forehead. His eyes looked like two little circular bits of glass on this haze of white locks. No
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WITHIN A JERSEY CIRCLE
mouth was visible until he laughed or gave vent to some other emotion. Then a perfectly round hole opened in his matted beard beneath a door-knob-like nose. He was exceedingly round-shouldered. Indeed, his body, arms and legs included, was not unlike a barrel on end. When he walked he seemed really to roll along, and even when sitting, his body generally oscillated from side to side like a sphere coming to rest by gravitation.
Most of us have seen or heard of collectors of old coins, old clocks, rare books, pictures, furniture, etc. For these and many other articles that usually take people's fancy, "old John" had no care. His passion was foot- gear. Wherever the four winds of heaven had wafted him as a sailor, John no sooner made port and got shore leave than he began diligently threading his way through the queer streets and bazars, not for grogshops, as most sailors are apt to do, but to find what kind of shoes the natives wore. As soon as he had possessed himself of a few representative pairs, he would hurry back to his ship and put his treasures under lock and key. From the coasts of Labrador to Capes Horn and Good Hope, from China to Peru, "John" had worked his way before the mast, not so much, he used to say, for the money that was in it, as to see the world and to measure the wisdom of man- kind by the manner in which they walked upon the earth. For "John" was a philosopher and maintained that the folly or wisdom of men was commensurate with the thick- ness or thinness of the soles of their shoes.
True wisdom, he maintained, placed nothing whatever between the natural footsole and the ground. Every de- gree of departure from that, he argued, was a measure
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THE HERMIT OF CAVEN POINT
of folly. He would not explain why or wherefore. That was his dictum, and that was the end of it.
Besides shoes of all nations, "old John" had a large collection of beautiful sea shells. It might be imagined that there could not be room for anything more than necessary domestic utensils in a catboat, but that all de- pends on the housekeeper. This one found room not only for shoes and shells, but for quaint books, and much of his time was spent in reading them. His was a most cu- rious little museum, which many people used to walk away out to the point to see, and to hear, if possible, his interesting tales of his life.
"Old John's" life, as far as he knew it, began among the Indians. Though he must have been a mere babe at the time, he always had a kind of sub-conscious feeling, something like a horrible nightmare, of seeing his parents, sisters and brothers massacred, their home burned and himself, possibly three or four years old, carried away by the bloody-handed red men. This, he felt sure, occurred near the Delaware River and the Hakehahake Creek, in Alexander Township, for those names, to his dying day, mysteriously affected him whenever he heard them men- tioned.
Whatever tribe had been his captors, they in turn moved westward, for when he first realized that he was not an Indian, but of white parents, like the people he saw mur- dered on many occasions, he felt sure that he and his red friends were out West and so far as he could judge in Wisconsin. It was there when about the age, as near as he could guess, of eighteen, that he made up his mind to escape. He had been taught the use of the bow and ar-
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WITHIN A JERSEY CIRCLE
row, as well as that of firearms, and, much against his wishes, he sometimes had to participate in raids and rob- beries and, passively, at least, in the killing of white peo- ple.
His determination to escape was at this time brought to a head by his being chosen by his Indian "father," who was the father of an Indian girl, and chief of the tribe, to be the latter's daughter's husband. The young woman, Unahaha by name, was of much larger stature than the common run of Indian women and had as much courage and dexterity in a fight as any man of the tribe. She was a daring horseback rider. She took a prominent part in tribal fights and in plundering and, where she thought it necessary, in slaying white settlers. Besides being tall and having the graceful carriage and strength of an ath- lete, she had smaller and much more regular features than the usual Indian type. In fact, to any one but a man prejudiced against the race and bent on escape from them as John was, Unahaha could not have helped being looked upon as physically, a splendid, dashing and pretty girl, though she was a savage.
This was the fair Amazon, who had signified to the sachems her wish that Wamhammo (that was "John") should be given her in marriage. And as in that tribe the men usually took such choice of a woman as a great compliment, and in far less tempting cases, never dreamt of anything but cheerful acquiescence, "John" feeling en- tirely different, was driven to desperation and concluded that now or never he must escape. For a long time he had been secreting powder and bullets in a safe hiding place. He knew of a white settlement a couple of days
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THE HERMIT OF CAVEN POINT
distant and he determined, at whatever risk, to make the attempt to reach it. But one thing or another had put him off night after night until the very eve of his dreaded marriage. He decided that on that night he would either get away or die in the attempt; for he knew that failure would mean death to him.
His experiences of that night, "John" used to say, haunted him forever after, wheresoever he traveled. He was never over keen to tell about it, for even when he approached his ninetieth year, more than threescore and ten years after the event, he trembled when he spoke of it.
As he lay in the wigwam that eventful night with sev- eral braves, all stretched as usual on their wolf and bear skins on the earth floor, he waited many weary hours be- fore he felt sure that his savage companions were all asleep. He could hear his own heart beating so plainly that he began to fear it kept the others awake. At last when every one was evidently in deep slumber he knew by the slant of the moon's rays through a hole in the roof of the hut that it was about midnight and time for his daring attempt.
Rising as noiselessly as a cat he slipped his long knife into his belt. Then stepping over one of the sleepers he was reaching for his gun, when the man turned over with an ejaculation and, to John's unspeakable terror, caught him by the leg. The next few seconds were like those aw- ful moments, which are supposed to constitute a whole lifetime of condensed agony-the few seconds, for instance, while the victim's neck lies on the block waiting for the executioner's ax to descend and sever it. "John's" first thought being that he was discovered, he was on the point
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WITHIN A JERSEY CIRCLE
of making a hopeless dash for liberty, but feeling the In- dian's grip loosen, he stood breathless and still as a statue and was rewarded by presently finding the hand drop nerveless to the floor. The brave had merely been dream- ing.
A few minutes later the young fellow was cautiously creeping past the night sentry. Soon he was swiftly threading his way among the brush and big forest trees to the old stump near the brook where he had hidden his little store of ammunition. Bounding down the slope to the brook and taking the few feet of water at a leap he landed on the opposite bank within two feet of a wom- an. She was kneeling by the stream and the moment his feet touched the ground, she threw her bare arms around his legs and held him as if in a vise. There was no mistaking that grip. It was Unahaha's.
"Whither away so fast, my friend?" she asked, releas- ing one hand with which she seized the muzzle end of "John's" gun. He was in the act of pulling the trigger while the gun pointed directly at her body, but desisted only because he knew the report would raise the whole tribe.
"Wamhammo!" the maiden said, rising and transfer- ring her grip to his arm; "I loved you and you were about to become my husband; but-," she hesitated, hold- ing him off and eyeing him with scorn, "you are caught in the act of running away on the very eve of our mar- riage !
"You are therefore a base traitor to me, and you shall answer for it!"
With that she wrenched the gun from "John" with one
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THE HERMIT OF CAVEN POINT
hand, as if he were a child, still keeping firm hold of his arm with her other hand. She then stepped into the wa- ter intending to lead "John" back to the camp a prisoner. But dragging back with all his strength to cover his movement, "John," unknown to her, whipped his long knife from his belt and plunged it through her half-naked body. With a peculiarly piercing cry, Unahaha fell dead in the brook.
"John," in deadly fear that his victim's scream would raise the braves to arms and pursuit, dashed for his life into the thick of the forest.
"Yes; I did that," John used to say, "and I ran many a mile before I dared take breath or look back. In time I reached the white people. If I hadn't killed her I would have met a death too horrible for a white man's ears to hear of.
"But I'll tell you what it is, mates," he would say very earnestly, "I've felt only a very mean kind of a man ever since. After all, she was a woman! aye, and a beau- tiful one, too. And let me tell you God's solemn truth : often and often I have heard that awful death cry since. Out on the wild ocean many a time, when the gale tore through the rigging with a hoarse shout like the voices of warring giants; when waves as big as mountains leaped upon us with a mighty roar, carrying timbers and masts away like matches; in the midst of it all and high above it all, again and again, I've heard that dying shriek of Unahaha's! Aye, aye, it's true; and lots of times even here in this little cockleshell, high and dry on land, I've heard the same thing."
"Old John's" eyes grew into bigger circles than ever
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WITHIN A JERSEY CIRCLE
when he discussed this subject, and the little round tunnel- like opening in his beard would develop amazingly as he solemnly adjured :
"Oh! Whatever happens to you, mates, never kill a woman-red, white, black, yellow or whatever color she may be! God made her to be a mother of men! Never kill what was made for a tender mother. I never knew a father, mother, sister, brother or any kin in this world. I believe that Unahaha, savage though she was, truly loved me-the only love ever given me on earth-and I killed her! Ah, yes, mates, and when I die I know that I must answer for it. Never kill a woman !"
What made "John" feel saddest of all, it seemed, was that with all her martial prowess and sometimes barbar- ous cruelty, Unahaha, according to the lights vouchsafed to her, was deeply religious. Her visit to the stream that night, the eve of her nuptials-where death instead of Wamhammo became her bridegroom-was made for the observance of certain rites and ablutions which, according to the religious gospel of her tribe, were a necessary pre- liminary to the sacred union of wedlock.
When "John" reached the white settlement, which took him two nights and days, he was almost dead with hun- ger and weariness. He told his story and was received with kindness and afterward given work at good wages. Meeting with a lively Irishman who had been a sailor, he felt by his stories irresistibly drawn to the great deep. His first savings enabled him to reach Chicago, where on the Great Lakes he took to sailoring. But that was not enough; he soon saved sufficient to pay his way to New
"Old John," the hermit, at home.
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THE HERMIT OF CAVEN POINT
York. Then he shipped as a seaman to China; and, changing ships, visited ports all over the world.
When he had had enough of the roving sailor's life he had bought the catboat and fished along the Jersey coast for many years. Then when his boat-like himself-began to grow old and rickety, he one day ran his craft up on a spring tide, high and dry at Caven Point, struck sail and lowered his booms for the last time. There he propped her up on an even keel by shoveling sand and gravel un- der her sides; then sinking his sheet anchor deep in clay, at the full length of his cable to the landward, he ended his sailing of the seas.
"My next trip will be the one by dead reckoning, over the dark river," he used to say; "and if I can only pass that 'rock' I was telling you of, I think I'll make port all right. Any way, it won't be long now before I set my jib in that direction."
One day in the fall of the year, a tremendous equi- noctial storm drove a great volume of water up the bay and lashed it high up on the land at Caven Point. As night came on "old John's" houseboat was seen to be rocking, far out in the thundering breakers beyond any human reach. There was no sign of her master aboard. In the morning the old boat had dragged her stern anchor and stood with her head proudly facing seaward, ready to brave the worst the storm could do. But her old mas- ter lay quietly below. He was found dead in his bunk.
OLD COACHING DAYS.
ON THE OLD YORK ROAD, AND PETTINGER'S RIDE.
Another tale of bygone days, which old "Uncle" Wal- dron used to relate and which probably not two men now living ever heard directly from him, referred to old times at Reaville. He used to delight in telling about his fore- fathers's recollections of old coaching days, when the "Swift Sure Mail" coaches used to pass through that an- cient village, when it was known as Greenville. At the time the line was started it was announced that "a saving of two days was made" by it, in the journey from New York to Philadelphia. They traveled along the Old York road, putting up all night at Centreville, on the trip each way, that village being considered about halfway be- tween the two great cities.
One story which Waldron used to refer to as "Pet- tinger's Ride," involved some lively doings, and went to show that such rural places as Ringoes, Reaville, Centre- ville, etc., were far more subject to the mercurial influ- ences of the large cities in those times than they are to- day. For undoubtedly the most seductive of all inter- mediaries between town and country that ever existed was that half-sporting kind of Beau Nash of the road, the gay and spectacular old stage coach.
To-day, when one stands at the principal crossing in any of these places, the village equivalent of the famous "Four Corners" of Newark, the dead stillness is actually painful. Such absolute quiet reigns that it brings to one's
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OLD COACHING DAYS
mind one of the lines which the old sexton was supposed to sing in his populous city of the dead :
"Many are with me, but still I'm alone."
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1
And when one walks away and there happens to be an occasional stone flag or some boards for a sidewalk, the sound of his footfall seems hollow and almost sepulchral. The only relief from the utter silence in the country vil- lages is the "clink" of the horseshoe quoits of the idlers in front of the village grocery. This seems to be the only diversion, and it is perennial and perpetual as a time- killer. For even in the deepest snows of winter the men who have more time than they know how to dispose of have mats spread on the floor and continue this endless game inside the hospitable grocery store.
Now it happened that at the time Reaville distinguished itself by a departure from the commonplace and gave oc- casion for "Pettinger's Ride," it was at least three days a week stirred to its depths by the rousing arrival and de- parture of two flashing, swaggering, real stagecoaches of ye olden time, each whirled along by sometimes six and never less than four horses. Fancy the thrilling commo- tion in the village breast at the merry blast of the coach guard's horn, which he winded musically at intervals from some half-mile distant, as they approached the village. The jolly tavernkeeper hustled his stablemen, preparing meal and water drinks for the horses, lounging hangers-on from the bar-room were joined by dozens of the village urchins around the hitching posts, and old, bent men hobbled up from their cottage doors to hear and see what was going
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WITHIN A JERSEY CIRCLE
on. Women holding children in their arms in their front yards, shrilly called other children of theirs from the street; others hurried to the inn with packets or parcels, or waited in the crowd for letters or packages, or for some friend expected from a distance. There was a general bustle and running to and fro across the street, when, with steaming horses, gay trappings and brass mountings that sparkled and jingled, the great gilded coach, green and red, picked out with gold, swung round the corner under the guidance of the gorgeously appareled coachman in buckskin breeches top boots, red vest and silk hat, with a gold band, the brim turned up at the sides.
"Whoa! whoa! will ye," shouted, upon one occasion, this princely looking personage, as he jammed down the brake hard with his right foot, and jerked his whip per- pendicularly, presenting arms as it were, to the landlord's respectful salute.
"Mornin'! Mornin'! devlish powdery roads down this way! Got somethin' that'll wash a peck o' dust out o' man's throat? You have, eh? Then I'm yours right heartily. Tom! hey, Tom, the piper's son; say, Tom (the guard), tell the good postmistress to look lively. We're twenty minutes late already."
Thus spoke the lord of the whip. The prosperous tav- ern into which he followed the landlord stands in the same place still. It has been largely renovated, of course, as a frame building is bound to be that stands well into its second century ; but the rooms are mainly as they were in the old time. The situation of the old bar is distinctly traceable. Most of the beams, door-jams and several of the window frames appear to be old enough to have been
2 1
OLD COACHING DAYS
contemporaries of the old coaches. In fact, there are two windows at the end of the present bar with very thin sashes and many small panes, which are said to have be- longed to the first Presbyterian church ever erected in the district. It was built on the hill some distance out toward Ringoes at an early date, and has long since been pulled down. Its burial ground is still used in connection with the new church in the village. This old church on the hill is where Whitefield and Davenport preached in 1739 to two or three thousand people in the open. The village blacksmith who told me about these windows also pointed out that several letters of the old Greenville tavern sign are still decipherable, as is some of the ornamental scroll work across the front of the building. Mr. Schneider is the present landlord.
Tom, on the occasion referred to, having disinterred the leather bag from a superincumbent mass of carpetbags, boxes and banboxes in the coach boot, hurried across the street to a one-story cottage, in the window of which were pinned several letters not yet called for by their owners. Here he lost no time, but unlocking the brass padlock of the mail bag and taking it by the bottom, he emptied the entire contents, according to custom, on the centre of the kitchen floor. Being urged to haste as directed, the spec- tacled and becapped dame, Mrs. Stoothoff, dropped to her knees and commenced picking out any letters or small packages addressed to Greenville, putting the others, not so addressed, back into Tom's bag. Two village girls in their teens, got down also and helped the postmistress. They were smart helpers; for Greenville had attended well to the education of its children, through good pri-
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WITHIN A JERSEY CIRCLE
vate schools, for more than fifty years, even at this early date. In perhaps fifty years more, its first public school, built of logs, was opened.
"Ah! Miss Nancy, there is one for you. Here it is," said the postmistress, handing a letter to a very pretty girl of not more than seventeen, who was seated at one side of the room, who anxiously received the letter with both hands.
"Oh, thank you, so much, Mrs. Stoothoof!" she said, and retired to a corner near the window. There she ner- vously broke open the wafer seal and read the letter, her fair cheeks flushing a good deal as she did so.
"Well, well! if here isn't another for you, Miss Nan- cy!" exclaimed the old lady. The young woman opened this also, which seemed to add to her nervous confusion. Presently she folded up several pieces of paper she had received, rolled them up, hurriedly and left the house.
Shortly after this, Tom, locking up the mail bag, and hastening across the street, had hardly time to gulp down his favorite nip at the bar, before the great autocrat of the whip, with a graceful wave and crack of its long lash, almost as loud as a pistol shot, had his four handsome bays prancing and pawing the ground like wild horses, leaving Tom just time to cry "All aboard!" and to mount his perch on the boot. At his shout of "Right!" which the horses understood as well as their driver did, the brake went off the wheels with a heavy jolt, and away rolled that magnificent institution of the past, the full fledged mail coach, with its bugle winding heroically amid the running cheers of every boy in the village.
While Mrs. Stoothoff followed Tom to her door, the
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OLD COACHING DAYS
eyes of the two girls fell upon a piece of paper on the floor, where Nancy Pettinger, for that was the young lady's name, had been reading her letters. Both rushed to pick it up, and they almost gasped for breath, as they read, amid terms of passionate endearment, that Nancy was to come to Philadelphia by the following day's coach and that her "very own devoted Harry" would be there wait- ing, "dying," he said, to meet her.
"Oh, Margie !"
"Oh, Sarah Ann!" they cried to one another.
"It's to be an elopement!" declared Margie, horror- stricken and clasping her hand to her side, lest her heart might burst its bounds.
"All planned and ready, as sure as you live!" rejoined Sarah Ann; "well, if ever I did in my life see better than this, even in a story book!"
Peregrin Pettinger and Mrs. Oril Pettinger, Nancy's father and mother, were well-to-do people. They had been in business at Ringoes, then the chief trade centre in the county, and had prospered. Mrs. Pettinger was a sister of one of the Landis's wives. The Landis brothers at- tained wide fame and fortune as saddle makers in Rin- goes. That business, once by far the greatest saddle man- ufactory in the State, is still continued by William B. Dungan, who learned the trade with Jesse Landis, the last of the name in the business. The senior, Henry Lan- dis, built and lived in what was then considered a fine stone mansion, on the Old York road at Ringoes, and which still stands in wonderfully good repair, with a more recent frame extension, the latter having been added more than fifty years ago. The stone part was the house which
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