USA > New Jersey > Morris County > Dover > Dover dates, 1722-1922 : a bicentennial history of Dover, New Jersey , published in connection with Dover's two hundredth anniversary celebration under the direction of the Dover fire department, August 9, 10, 11, 1922 > Part 6
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The building contract was given to James Morrison, for a building 30 x 38 feet in size with a gallery in the west end. The seats were made of plain pine boards. The church was warmed in winter by a wood fire in a large square iron stove. Ground was broken for the foundation of the new church in 1832 and the public generally turned out and raised the frame. Among those present were the late Solomon Dalrymple and John A. Briant, of Rockaway, who used to sing in the choir.
A Presidential campaign was then in progress between Andrew Jackson, Democrat, and Henry Clay, the Whig candidate. James Mor- rison, the builder, was an ardent Whig, whilst David Trowbridge was a. Jackson Democrat. As the shades of evening approached, Trowbridge secured a hickory bush and nailed it on top of the gable end, where it was discovered by Morrison in the morning and hastily pulled down.
About September the cornerstone was laid and during the fall and winter the church was enclosed, completed, and on July 1, 1833, was dedicated to the service of God by the same good man who laid the corner-stone, Rev. D. Kennedy, of Brooklyn, N. Y. That date was made historic in the family of Jacob Searing by the birth of a son, whom he named Martin Van Buren, in honor of the Vice-President.
At that time the circuit or conference extended from Whippany to. Easton, and quarterly meetings would last two days. Visiting members would lodge over night with friends belonging to the church where the conference was held.
AMONG THE FIRST PREACHERS
Among the first preachers here were Rev. Caleb Lippincott and Mr. Vliet. They preached alternately, and were succeeded by Rev. Vincent Shepherd and Rev. James Hudson. About that time Dover was added to the Rockaway and Millbrook charge. In 1838, Rev. James O. Rogers was appointed to Millbrook and Dover. The people of Dover having long worshipped in a schoolhouse, it was resolved to build a church there, 34 x 44, at a cost of $1,400, without painting. The Dover church was finished and dedicated on December 27, 1838. Rev. James. O. Rogers labored here with much success until 1839. He was succeeded. by Rev. James M. Tuttle, who stayed two years. In the one hundredth anniversary year of Methodism he collected $74 for the centenary com- mittee of the New Jersey Conference.
The Methodist custom of changing ministers frequently brought many preachers to this charge. Rev. Rodney Winans came in 1841 ;; Rev. William E. Perry in 1842; Rev. Michael E. Ellison in 1843, Rev ..
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N. Vansant in 1844; Rev. Joseph E. Dobbins in 1845; Rev. W. Burrows in 1846; Rev. Jacob P. Fort in 1848.
In 1849, Halmah Francisco bequeathed $1,000 to be placed at inter- est for the support of the minister having charge of the Millbrook and Dover station.
In 1850 came Rev. William Williams Christine. In recording mar- riages he made such entries as : "For this I received the large sum of $1." In 1851 came Rev. Edward M. Griffith. In 1852 the church was remod- eled and refurnished, with new seats and two aisles and other improve- ments at a cost of $435-75.
In 1853 came Rev. J. Ogden Winner; in 1854, Rev. Abraham M. Palmer ; in 1856, Rev. Garret Van Horne. His salary was $500. There were then 115 members and twenty-six probationers in the Millbrook and Dover charge. Rev. Stacy W. Hilliard came in 1858, followed by Rev. John Scarlett, Rev. E. A. Hill, Revs. Martin Herr, John W. Seran, Charles S. Bolt.
In 1872 the Millbrook Church was separated from Dover and placed with the Walnut Grove Church (established in 1843). In this charge Rev. Ira Wilson was succeeded by Rev. Daniel Halleron.
On June 24, 1874, Messrs. Mahlon D. Coe, John Rodgers, Theodore F. Mott, Martin V. B. Searing and D. S. Morrison were appointed a building committee to repair and enlarge the church by an addition of ten feet in the rear. The work was done by Mahlon D. Coe, at a cost of about $400. The following ministers succeeded to the charge-Revs. J. T. Michael, Henry Bice, E. H. Conklin and Thomas Rawlings.
During 1881-3 Millbrook was again placed with the Dover First M. E. Church, in charge of Rev. H. D. Opdyke. A new organ was bought, the cemetery fenced, the church papered and painted, and other improvements made at a cost of $408.50, including labor given.
In 1884, this charge was placed with Mt. Fern Church, recently built. Here John Melroy preached for one year, succeeded by Henry J. Hayter, who preached at Millbrook, Walnut Grove and Mt. Fern until April 1, 1888. After him came F. J. Tomlinson. In 1891, Nelson J. Brown was sent to Millbrook and Walnut Grove, followed by Jacob Tyndall and Andrew J. Henry, the latter from 1896 to 1900.
Rev. Merritt C. Reed followed. The church was improved and made more beautiful with a new pulpit and altar railing. Mr. Reed died in 1901, in the parsonage at Mt. Freedom. (The name Mt. Free- dom was changed to Walnut Grove by the first postmaster there. After- wards the name was changed back to Mt. Freedom.) After Mr. Reed came Asa C. Covey and Samuel O. Rusby.
The beautiful maple trees which surround the church were given by Robert Parsons as a living memorial of himself and wife. He died in 1864. His son, Rev. Solomon Parsons, presented the bell which since 1893 has sounded over the surrounding hills and valleys.
"To-day (1906) we would remember our former class leader, John Spargo, whose familiar question, 'How does your soul prosper to-day?' still lingers in our minds. And Jacob Searing, Sr., for many years
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the superintendent of this Sabbath School, whose earnest voice in prayer those who heard it will never forget. With loving memory we recall the familiar faces of D. S. Morrison, John Rodgers, Mrs. Mahlon D. Coe, Melinda Gillen and many others.
"To my parents I am indebted for a large part of this historical account. My mother, Mrs. Samuel J. Searing, who loved this church and served the Lord for about sixty years, died August 1, 1895, in her eighty-fifth year. My father, Samuel J. Searing, who was a faithful attendant at the church services for a large majority of the time since its erection, took an active and loving interest in serving as its sexton until his death, which occurred February 24, 1890, in his eighty-first year."
MILLBROOK
We have paid our respects briefly to Rockaway and its religious dependencies. Let us now turn for a few moments to Millbrook, which, with the Quaker settlement at Randolph, once surpassed Dover in com- mercial prosperity and diversity of industries, besides having a meeting house of its own in the old Quaker Church, founded in 1748, built 1758.
For a poetical sketch of this village we are indebted to Mr. Theodore F. Mott, of East Orange, whose younger days were spent at Millbrook, the home of his ancestors. The family of De la Motte was of French Huguenot extraction. When religious persecution drove many of the best families of France from their native land, America profited by the migration to her shores of these most desirable pilgrims, and some of them penetrated the wilds of New Jersey, mingled with the Quakers, and settled on the hills back of Dover.
Mr. Mott is now about eighty-three years of age, and feels the weight of infirmity that comes with years. In this poem he presents to us his affectionate reminiscences of his native village. The village that he knew has indeed vanished, but Millbrook is still alive, if we may judge from the sixty members of the Sunday school held in the Metho- dist Church, a building erected in 1833. Sooner or later many of the young people of Millbrook find their way to the Dover High School.
There is said to be more building going on in Millbrook than for twenty-five years back. This may lead to a new prosperity in place of the industrial supremacy that once marked the village by the brook. Mill- brook is already, and may become still more, a residential suburb to Dover's commercial center. Those salubrious hills back there, with an elevation of eight hundred to a thousand feet above sea, are being appreciated once more. The early settlers made no mistake in picking out a good building site when they located the Quaker Church, and the automobile is now making these picturesque hilltops available as never before for rural villas, to rebuild the waste places of "the vanished village."
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OLD MILLBROOK A VANISHED VILLAGE A letter from Theodore F. Mott to a far-away friend
My dear old friend :- This stormy night I sit alone; the clock strikes nine. In reminiscent mood I write, As you request, of Auld Lang Syne.
Then let us to the Jersey hills On fancy's ever-ready wings, And view the dell, once strewn with mills- Now vanished and forgotten things.
Your memory recalls the dell We knew so well in other days: That picture bid a long farewell; Those scenes no longer meet our gaze.
'Tis true, the valley still is there And opens, as in by-gone days, On meadows green and woodlands fair And grassy fields where cattle graze.
The lofty, wooded southern hill Still casts its shadow o'er the dale ; The pleasant northern landscape still Descends to meet the lonely vale.
The rills still run to meet the brook; The brook still hastens to the river ; Yes, Nature wears her old-time look; 'Tis what Man wrought that's gone forever-
The men of old who walked its street, Who did their work and said their say,
Whose old-time ways no more we greet, Who lived their lives and passed away.
The industries our fathers knew, The places where they toiled and spun, Have also vanished like a dew Beneath a risen summer sun.
You say decades have come and gone Since last you saw the dear old spot ;
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Well, then my pen shall dwell upon Some things perhaps you've half forgot.
Remember you the old-time bridge That spanned the brook from many a hill- The brook that skirts the mountain's edge To reach the pond of the old grist mill ?
Remember you the long rope walk, The race, the flume, the big stone mill, The three mill ponds where the frogs would talk When night fell down and the air was still?
Remember you the cooper shop That stood hard by a cottage door, And the giant walnut tree whose top Towered high the shop and cottage o'er ?
Remember you the old shoe shop Hard by the pond where three roads meet, And the little old man (whose name we'll drop) Who cobbled shoes for his neighbor's feet?
Remember you the old-time forge Whose fires glowed far the darkest night? ('Twas said that in that cave-like gorge They first made iron with anthracite.)
All these and many other things That met our vision long ago Have vanished like the curling rings Of smoke when northern breezes blow.
The old-time schoolhouse by the brook Stood in a landscape passing fair ; We passed that way and pause to look- There's naught to show 'twas ever there.
The old-time sawmill up the stream, Whose buzz we hear din days of yore, Shows here and there a wasting beam, And the ancient wheel goes 'round no more.
The old bark mill, whose ponderous beams And gray sides weathered many a gale- Now, save in memory's transient gleams, There's nothing left to tell the tale.
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Beside this mill no schoolboy dreams That, near a hundred years ago A tan yard lay ! to-day it seems A patch of land where wild things grow.
The old-time grist mill, down the dale, Still stands beneath the wooded hill; The brook goes murmuring down the vale ; The old, deserted wheel stands still.
And so from place to place we go As in a dream one wanders 'round ; We seek a home we used to know, And find the spot forsaken ground.
So vanish in the shadowy past The old landmarks we used to see, And, though we're living still, at last The same will happen to you and me.
"l'is true, old friend, our journey's end Is drawing near-almost in sight; Old times are gone; we journey on Till our day, too, is wrapped in night.
The clock strikes twelve. The storm has passed ; The stars and full-orbed moon now shine, And o'er our vale their soft light cast As in the days of Auld Lang Syne.
Mourn not of vanished things as strange; The wide, wide world is like our dell; If men progress, there must be change ; And now, old friend, good night, farewell !
P. S .- When next I write, I'll try to tell What old tradition says befell, Before our time, the busy dell. Again, good night, and fare thee well !
East Orange, N. J., July 26, 1915.
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THE IRON ERA: "POETIC"
The Iron Era was founded in 1870, as we read on the face of its successor, The Advance. It was truly an era in town history to have a newspaper and one with such an editor as John S. Gibson. Benjamin Vogt was first editor and proprietor. To give an adequate sketch of The Era in all its functions is beyond my present purpose and ability. Others could do it better. But I am prepared to say something about one of its features that may be regarded as of least importance, namely, the little space that bore the heading, "Poetic."
Under this title-and it was no misnomer-appeared a number of short poems signed "Felix Danton." There was no one in Dover by that name, and readers of the history of the French Revolution saw in it a nom-de-plume, for the writer of such poems as "The Old Quaker Church at Millbrook," "Dover in 1879" and "An Echo from the Mine" was evidently interested in Dover. Considerable curiosity was aroused in the "iron town" to know who could be extracting poetry from its furnaces and smokestacks. One and another were charged with being "the guilty party," and the accusation was finally directed against a young man, a carpenter by trade, one who from boyhood had worked in the iron mills, well acquainted with hard labor. To him the question was put, plump : "Are you Felix Danton ?"
Not being skilled in the arts of evasion, such as the author of the Waverley Novels employed, he could not escape the imputation. It leaked out that the writer of those poems, printed in the local paper, was Uzal Newton Crane, of Crane Hill, and he was pestered not a little by the remarks that followed this discovery. Being a modest and sensitive soul (as all young poets should be), he reaped quite a harvest of misery (as many others have done) from this apparently capital offense.
Mr. Gibson, the editor, encouraged the village bard to keep on writ- ing, and thus a small collection of verse was published in "The Poet's Corner" of The Era. I, as local historian and gleaner of Dover verse, have come into possession of a baker's dozen of these poems, and con- sider them worthy of the term, "poetic."
Mr. Crane's immediate ancestors had come up from Springfield, near Newark. No doubt they were a part of that great clan descended from the Newark Cranes, a clan that soon spread over the adjacent parts of New Jersey, being found in Elizabeth, Bloomfield, Caldwell, and at Montclair when it was known as "Crane's Farms." They now number thousands, and are scattered far. The "Crane Book" is a bulky volume, and reaches back into European history.
But the poet of Crane Hill, at Dover, knew nothing about such genealogical lore. As a little boy he attended the district school at Center Grove, and was a pupil of Miss Carrie A. Breese, the sister of Miss Harriet Breese. Their father kept a store where the Richards store now stands in Dover. Miss Carrie Breese was a poet. Her pastor, Rev. Dr. Halloway, collected and published a volume of her poems. In brief, the little schoolhouse at Center Grove is hereby credited with having
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on its roll of fame one teacher who was a poet and one pupil who became one. The course of study at Center Grove was limited in extent, but good as far as it went, judging from results. Dover High School still draws recruits from this retired seat of the muse
POEMS OF UZAL NEWTON CRANE
First Published in The Iron Era DOVER January 17, 1879
"The gray barns, looking from" our "hazy hills" Stand "blind and blackening" in the bitter gales;
They send no greeting to our silent mills, "On the dull thunder of alternate flails."
Our city, soon, like Auburn, to become A sad, "deserted village" of the plain, Lulled by the echoes of departed hum, Spreads her dark mantle for repose again.
No more sweet music from her mills arise, Where rolls the sullen Rockaway to sea ;
O'er once bright waters swings a "bridge of sighs," As dark as old Venetian dungeons be.
Spurning the frozen fetters on its breast, It leaves the icy arches far behind, And leaves our city in her gloomy rest To dream of greatness that she will not find.
Oh! must she longer in her languor lie, Her strong arms from all enterprise kept chained ? "Awake, St. John!" and Dover will not die; She yet may be a "Paradise Regained !"
At the time this was written the rolling mills were shut down, and other industries of the present (1921) were unknown.
AN ECHO FROM THE MINE
Ye wise and good men, ye who stand By old Potomac's side, In the high councils of a land That millions claim with pride, Let not the subtle words that sweep Like sirens' voices o'er the deep, Enslave our hands, by toil made brown, Nor throw our labor's rampart down.
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The banner of bright stripes and stars From sea to sea that waves Was not defended in the wars To be the flag of slaves. Let Europe's bondman, seeking yet A home where those stars never set, Lose here his fetters and his frown; Oh, take not labor's rampart down!
The flames of furnace, forge and mills That night's low clouds enfold Are fair as those on Persian hills Which virgins fed of old. So deems the freeborn son of toil Who turns him homeward with a smile, And feels prosperity his crown; Oh, take not labor's rampart down!
THE DAWN OF BETTER TIMES
Behold the dawn that breaks upon Our fair and favored shore ! O'er land and sea prosperity Comes smiling back once more. A rosy ray illumes to-day Our long dark-clouded climes ; The night is spent, the Orient Is bright with better times.
Oh, welcome light that drives the night Of dull depression by ! Her dragon wing no more shall fling A shadow on our sky. To cheer the earth a song goes forth As sweet as silver chimes ; It is a song unsung so long- The hum of better times.
The furnace blast sends up at last A shower of fiery spray; The hammers ring, for iron is king, ' And Vulcan's clans are gay. The farmer toils-the grocer smiles, Delighted with his dimes,
For he is blest beyond the rest Through all the better times.
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REMEMBRANCE
We bring new garlands for his bed In all the beauty of their bloom; With love that will not fade we spread Our sweetest tokens on his tomb.
More than a hero sleepeth here Under the shading cypress green,
Whose dauntless deeds have made him dear Beyond all heroes ever seen.
No shining chaplet for his brow Can charm him from his glory sleep;
Nor words of praise awake him now, Though loud and like the thunder deep.
With love, far-reaching as the sky We deck the soldier's bed with flowers;
He bravely bought us victory And made its glad fruition ours.
Henceforth we can but emulate His noble deeds, should war betide,
Our Union to perpetuate And the dear flag for which he died.
A DOVER-TO-MINE HILL RAMBLE
One Sunday afternoon I strolled out to see where John Jackson had located his forge. In imagination I traced his pioneer trail along the brook that flows through Hurd Park and saw the log cabin that he built near the spring of water on the north side of the park. Then I went on to the probable site of the forge, near Singleton's Silk Mill. I was picking my way over the brook and exploring the old roadway when I met a fellow citizen of Dover, who was also out for a stroll. He seemed to be treading familiar ground, for he leaped nimbly over the water-courses and threaded his way through the bogs, never at a loss which way to turn next. I told him of my interest in the old landmarks, and he promptly entered into the spirit of my quest and volunteered to be my guide for further research. He became the leader and I the fol- lower.
We visited the Catholic cemetery, and here we met the priest of St. Mary's Church. We followed the old trail west of Granny's Brook leading to the Dickerson Mine, and noted the houses now accessible by automobile where once had been a bridle path through the wilderness. Beyond Indian Falls we scrambled through the woods in search of the
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hermit's hut, and finally discovered the stone walls of the cellar and storeroom and the fallen chimney stones and the byre for the cow. The clearing through which we passed to reach the hut gave evidence of former plowed fields and a garden spot belonging to this retired forest home, last occupied by Elias Millen in hermit solitude. When George Jenkins and Pearce Rogers were boys they once were roaming in these woods with other boys, and the hermit invited them to enter his cramped dwelling. He asked them if they could eat any buckwheat cakes hot from the briddle. They expressed a readiness, so he cooked flapjacks for them as long as they could stow them away, adding to the menu from his store of hickory nuts. I was much impressed with the wild beauty and romantic surroundings of the hermit's hut, and felt a secret longing to restore the hermitage. I took note of the approach on the south side, where a grapevine ran wild among the branches of a tree in the line of a stone fence. Did the hermit cultivate grapes? There were signs of apple trees here and there-now wild and forlorn.
From this point we came out into an open pasture lot not far from Mt. Fern Church, and made our way along through open fields until, somehow or other, we found ourselves jumping this way and that, like a pair of frogs, through a big boggy pasture that sloped down to a stream and a road that led past an old reservoir from which water once descended to turn a wheel on Granny's Brook, and the wheel turned an iron rod, if I remember, which was so designed that it could pump water from a mine, if I am not mistaken. And if you grasped this iron rod with your bare hand on a frosty morning you would have hard work to tear yourself loose from it, as some boy once discovered to his cost, learning a lesson in physics.
We next traveled along a road that led to Tom Johnson's old home, or the hole in the ground that used to be the cellar. Oh, yes, my com- panion was Thomas F. Johnson, the monument man, who had led me through bog and briar bush to the place where he was "once a little lad," years ago. But on the way-and I have not described our course with the precision of a mariner-he had told me about the days when he used to trudge to school through the woodland paths that he had traversed, still dear to his heart through old associations. And so I got an intimate view of the life once lived out there in those rugged fastnesses where the hermit, like the prophet Elisha at Cherith, once drank from the brook (the brook is there yet).
As we turned toward Mine Hill Church, somewhere out there we came to a corner where a great iron ring was suspended. In case of fire this was struck by an iron hammer, thus giving the alarm in earlier days or even yet. And now we stumbled upon the modern world again as we reached the vicinity of the old Hartshorn Fitz Randolph mansion, destroyed by fire in 1876, 4th of July. Hartshorn Fitz Randolph was the Quaker who in 1753 bought John Jackson's tract of 527 acres. What a tale we might unfold here about the old Quaker! But the modern world revealed itself at this point in the form of an automobile pertain-
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ing to a party of Mine Hill prospectors for church subscriptions, and almost before we were aware, we were gliding homeward smoothly and swiftly in William Bassett's up-to-date car, thus reaching Dover in good season for supper, after our historical ramble.
Not long after I found the following verses among my papers, relat- ing to the life at Mine Hill sixty years ago. I think Tom Johnson must have slipped them into my overcoat pocket when I was not looking.
THE LIFE AT MINE HILL
(About 1860)
Simple the life they lived-barefooted boys in the morning Trudged to school through the woods, or broke the ice with a heel-tap. Springtime brought the birds; a pheasant's nest by the wayside, Hidden among the leaves, was not overlooked by the schoolboy. Jackson's Brook had its trout; arbutus bloomed in profusion. Hemlocks filled the glen; and the brook was swelled by the waters Pumped from the Millen Mine when times were good and the forges Called for iron ore and the miner's hands were kept busy. Those were the days of thrift, plain fare and plenty ; each household Kept its cow in the big boggy pasture; the children at evening Had great bowls of milk-reward for bringing the cows home. When the panic came and times grew hard you could scarcely Find a stick of wood on the forest floor; all were gathered, Tied in faggots and brought by the children home for the winter. One slight lad or lass would carry a hundredweight, staggering Under the load through the woodland paths, to replenish the woodpile. Bassett came, and the cows that once were kept by each household Now gave way to a herd of western cattle; the milkman Called at each door betimes, and his bell, with its insistent clangor, Summoned the housewife, where once she heard a musical tinkle Telling of one home-coming cow with udder full for the milking.
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