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 7
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ON POETRY
Dear Readers :
I have invited several persons to co-operate with me in keeping up this column, but at the present moment I am without an article for the next issue of THE INDEX. However, I can always fill a column with poetry, if all else fails. (Call it verse if you prefer.) I can assure you that some serious matters are receiving attention; but now let us turn to poetry.
In the first place I should be pleased to know whether you regard poetry as a serious matter or not. For my part, I am and always have been a lover of Mother Goose. I have a large edition of Mother Goose containing all varieties of nonsense verses, many of them traced back for centuries by students of folklore. There is something about these rhymes and jingles and their non-chalant style of wit and humor and
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sheer nonsense that is quite refreshing to the mind after reading Caesar's Commentaries on the Gallic War. I feel that Mother Goose is full of poetry and that Caesar's Commentaries are not. If Caesar had written the Commentaries in poetry perhaps there would have been fewer Gauls slaughtered and fewer sold into slavery. He might have "had a heart" or might have charmed the enemy into willing submission by means of the gentle art.
Many of us had the pleasure last week of hearing our distinguished neighbor, Hudson Maxim of Lake Hopatcong, deliver a lecture on poetry, saying that real poetry is suffused with emotion and possesses a transcendent quality which lifts it above the regions of common sense and mathematics into the realms of figurative and imaginative speech to such a degree that, if judged by mere common sense, it would appear to be sheer nonsense. Whether it was his intention to include Mother Goose rhymes under this definition of poetry, I am not so sure. From one point of view it would seem that nonsense is not always poetry, and from another point of view we are told that real poetry is always non- sense. Paul speaks of "the foolishness of preaching," and Mr. Maxim declares in effect that there is likewise a "foolishness of poetry." Quite right. He hit the nail on the head and yet he had no hammer and nails on the stage.
I have often tried to get my friends to tell me whether I wrote poetry or verse, but critics are inadequate to the task. Some have said frankly that my verse was prose, but very good prose. One should not take offense at sincere and kindly criticism. Malicious and spiteful remarks are apt to wound the feelings of sensitive persons, but that is another matter. We can all welcome the search for truth. And this topic is now receiving wide-spread attention. I acknowledge that I do often write verse, slightly removed from prose, and then again a little more removed, and I have felt like testing the critics quite as Mr. Maxim did by his shrewd device, but on a different line. So many higher critics are ready to assure us just which play Shakespeare wrote first and which last, which epistle Paul wrote first and which last, that I wonder if they could pronounce judgment with equal infallibility upon my writings. In my case I have dated all my manuscripts, so that my heirs may be able to check up the critics in their conclusions. The critics would have been spared much worriment if Shakespeare had been equally thoughtful.
But I must not pursue this discussion too far or as far as half a century of research would enable me to do, with quotations from the Greek, the Latin, the Germans, French, modern English and Old Eng- lish, and dialects thrown in. This column is dedicated to "Dover Dates." Let me add a few poems written by Dover poets and see if anyone can tell whether these specimens are verse or poetry and who wrote them and whether written early in life or at the end or middle of a career. Inci- dentally they illustrate the history and the poetic art of Dover, and Valentine's Day is coming.
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PROSE AND POETRY
Call it music, call it magic, Call it what you may ; Be the story grim and tragic, Be it blithe and gay ; When the poet tells it, somehow, Words will dance along : "Ho!" they seem to carol, "Come now ! Listen to our song !"
More than plodding words, they tingle Now with tune and time, As they cunningly commingle Sound and sense and rhyme. Prose may trudge through shine or vapor To the journey's end; But the poet cuts a. caper, Makes the world his friend.
Is it cadence, rhyme or meter- Fancy's imag'ry ? Something makes a music sweeter- Swaying melody ! Miracle of art, transcending Common sense ; sublime, Inspiration mounts, ascending Heights prose cannot climb.
TO MY MOTHER
My Mother, I've been wont to dream An hour away, of some fair stream, Or tranquil sea- Of flowery fields, with the soft gleam Of stars on me : To-night I have a dearer theme- It is of thee!
Thou hast been here as though alone, While I so far from thee have flown On Fancy's wing ! But not forgotten, Mother dear, Thou art the first whom I revere, While wandering. I'll stay to-night, thy heart to cheer, And tribute bring.
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I have no jewels nor broad lands, No gold to bring thy aged hands, Nor laces fine. Had I the gem's of Afric's sands, They should be thine. I bring my heart and love's warm smile, And faithful hands to help thee while Thy days decline.
A SONG OF DOVER
O DOVER dear, thou art our light, Our hope for future days, And here within thy tranquil heart We'll always chant thy praise. To thee we dedicate our lives, O town of true delight, To seek the day and shun the dark By justice, peace, and right.
Long may'st thou live, O Dover, fair With vale and verdant hill; Thy charms, thy moods, thy rustic scenes, Our hearts with rapture thrill Time's fleeting hours we'll ever use To make a heaven on earth And cherish, thought we far may roam, Thy name of noble worth.
So on through life, O Dover dear, Thou'll still remembered be, And Time shall but more closely bind Our heart of hearts to thee. No storm shall turn thee from thy course Where dauntless virtue leads, For we shall e'er be by thy side · With good and noble deeds.
DAVIE FINKEL
There's a lad named Davie Finkel And his eyes are all a-twinkle, As he joins the lads and lassies from Mt. Freedom far away, When they ride to school each morning, Eager for the bright adorning That the Dover High bestows upon its pupils blithe and gay.
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While the stars are still a-twinkle, He must rise, this Davie Finkel, Feed the cattle and the chickens-snatch a bite for Davie, too ; Then get ready for a sleighride, For a jingling, tingling gay ride In the carry-all for Dover with its merry-hearted crew.
You can hear the cowbells tinkle, As you ride with Davie Finkel Past the pastures and the meadows in the merry month of May. And the lads and lassies merry Vie with bloom of peach and cherry, As they breathe the spicy fragrance of the orchards by the way.
Yes, when April showers sprinkle Fields and flowers, Davie Finkel Loves to hail the curtained coach that comes to carry him to town ; And he smiles his smile so cheery, Spite of breezes bleak and dreary, When the winter suns so early with the mercury go down.
Who can say what Davie Finkel, With those snappy eyes a-twinkle, May become when time has added magic of the passing years ; Be he business man or farmer, He must buckle on his armor And sturdily stand for the right, triumphant over fears.
And when time has added wrinkles To his brow, some little Finkels May be calling him "Dear Grandpa !" as they climb upon his knee. Oh, we never know what's coming, While the wheels of time are humming And the years go rolling, rolling, rolling over you and me!
FORD'S POND
In our town on a warm Spring day The children, busy with their play, Flock to their favorite playmate fond, Dearest of all-BILLY FORD'S POND.
BILLY FORD knows many a game- You may have heard of his wondrous fame- "Robinson Crusoe," "Digging for Pearls," Sailing rafts to terrify girls.
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Fishing and swimming are the games BILL can play. And even others on a cold winter day ; Then grown folks with hockey club vigorously skate And worship old BILL for a winter playmate.
But in the summertime, sad to behold, Poor old BILL'S fate is sad to be told ; For then his vacation he takes for months always, And drains far away till the colder days.
The reason is, BILL'S constitution so light Simply can't stand the mosquitoes' keen bite; But we hope sincerely that the town will endeavor To keep poor old BILL in their memory forever.
TO MY MUSE
My heart delights in freedom most When fettered close to thee ; For then it can an Eden boast Of true felicity.
Then from my mind the shackles fall Of irksome, dull constraint ; Then voices from my kingdom call And banish sad complaint.
Then I can be myself, can feel Myself a living soul ; Then Love's sweet magic doth reveal The joy that makes life whole.
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FROM MY PORCH
(An Address to the Port Oram Social and Literary Club, delivered July 31, 1919, by Charles D. Platt.) From my perch on my porch, as I lift up my eyes To the hills in the North, two great chimney stacks rise ; Above the horizon line darkly they show
While a huge slag-heap gray stretches out just below ;
5 And off to the westward, half-hid 'mid the trees, Is the village of WHARTON, as snug as you please; Not a summer resort, but some good folks live there Who know how to husband their earnings with care- Hardworking, intelligent; that's where you'll find
IO THE PORT ORAM SOCIAL AND LIT'RARY CLUB: There they meet every Thursday to tune up the mind, Get their thoughts off of shop and their hands from the tub. There their wise men and women discuss and debate The welfare of nations, grave problems of state,
15 And how this old Universe ought to be run- Yes, all that is, has been, or yet shall be done, They study and ponder, with searching of hearts- The arts, science, statecraft, the poets, the marts. Believe me, good friends, I'm propounding no joke.
20 Those chimney stacks, crowned with a halo of smoke, Mark the great WHARTON FURNACE, where tons upon tons Of iron are extracted from ore-see! it runs White-hot into molds; hear the solid bars clink, In the night, as they fall into cars; and then think,
25 As you watch the hot metal from huge cauldrons pour, How those same little pigs helped to win the great war; How skyscrapers, tunnels, plows, dreadnoughts, airplanes, And hammers and hatchets and jackknives and nails Are born from iron ore by the help of man's brains
30 And the hands, hard and grimy, that tote dinner pails. At night all the sky is lit up by the glare, The flare and the glare of the dumpheap up there, When the slag, glowing hot, is thrown out : years ago, I wondered, in Morristown, seeing that glow,
35 At the outburst of glory, so sudden, so bright, That flares up and quivers and shivers and thrills From WHARTON, way back in the North Jersey hills. -Even so the bright gleam of this CLUB that meets here Shines forth like a beacon of hope, far and near.
40 A pillar of cloud from these smokestacks by day Rises up to the sky and anon drifts away ; And a pillar of fire from the slagheap at night Starts me up out of bed to behold the weird sight. So we people in DOVER see there in the North
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45 The portents of work and of wages gleam forth; Bright days of Prosperity ride on the cloud That darkens the landscape, but brings in the crowd, Till our trolleys are thronged and our merchants rejoice And fill up their shops with all merchandise choice :
50 Keen for the NEW ERA, with far-reaching eye, In vision they see it from WHARTON draw nigh. Such visions I see from my house on the hill, In DOVER, as, scanning the landscape, I muse On the map spread before me-the iron mine, the mill,
55 The factory, shop, store-I cannot refuse My blessing upon them-the schoolhouse, the church, The homes of the people; through all these I search. Is this fairyland here ?- and you answer-"No, no!" But a scene full of meaning I see spread below.
50 These homes swarm with children, young lives spring up here, And fill the whole landscape with hope and with cheer, Like ore from the mines, precious ore, soon to be Transformed into men, women, happy and free; Into workmen, workwomen, and fathers and mothers,
65 Into storekeepers, teachers and preachers and others, All made from this ore that comes out of the homes That you see from my porch as your eye widely roams. And there in the offing lies WHARTON, you know, And the PORT ORAM SOCIAL AND LIT'RARY CLUB That meets in the schoolhouse-'tis there I must go,
70 Getting out of my own philosophical tub, And talk about POETRY, POETRY, PO- Yes, POETRY, under the shadow, almost, Of those stark, sooty stacks that seem built up to roas' The stars in the heavens. Now what can they know
75 Of POETRY, over in WHARTON ?- Hello ! A program! Let's see! 'Tis their twenty-third year ; Organized, '96; wonder how I will fit In with all this exhibit of culture ?- See here ! A pure feast of reason, a menu of wit
80 And wisdom is temptingly served a la Mill; And current events have their place, as you will. (These people are adepts; this looks like high art!) Peace Treaty discussion by Ely, Rosevear ; (These men are old stagers and critics, I fear.)
85 Art Lecture by Müller, Hopatcong-yes, yes ! (The father of two of my pupils, I guess.) (This dish Mrs. Ely of DOVER prepared : Ah, so! woman's wit in this orgy has shared !) The World War, its lessons, by Beams, Elmer E.,
90 And Smith, Ryan, Williams (my schoolboys I see Among these old heads). Why, this looks rather nice!
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A Scotch night with Hunter-the chef, Dr. Kice; Debate, Bolshevism-Hart, Spargo & Co. (Surely these are the names of good people I know.) The Philippines-ladies' night-Totten and Ely
'95 (The women are getting intelligent-really !) The POETS-Walt Whitman, Lanier-here the preacher Is paired off with Beeman-the preacher and teacher : While Labor and Capital call for debate By Dorfman and Williams (they're right up-to-date).
I:00 American Music by Mrs. Duquette, Arranged a la Totten (Art, music-what next !) Then Poland and Slavic Republics, Serbs, Greeks, The Balkans, by Rosevear and Honeychurch, Fred. (With great fear and trembling these measures I tread,
105 Like a Will o' the Wisp flitting 'round mountain peaks). Ould Oireland by Ryan, A. M. (That's our "Andy." There's no one in WHARTON with blarney so handy !) And China, Japan-how related-dear me!
IIO I never can measure my wits with those three, With Rosevear, and Honeychurch, Ryan-that's Andy, And C. Stanley Smith from Pahree, the Jim Dandy! My Muse is not growing too giddy, I trust, As she zig-zags about in this presence august;
115 But now she must look for a landing and try To come down to earth as she drops from the sky. We've made a wide survey-how fast the sands run And we all want to hear from our friend Robinson. (They say that he knows all our poets; was raised
I20 Right where they grew up-all the Muses be praised ! But this time I'll stump him: he never has heard This poem I've read you to-night-mark my word !)
THE PORT ORAM SOCIAL AND LITERARY CLUB
The Port Oram Social and Literary Club, founded by citizens of Wharton, formerly Port Oram, meets regularly every week in the schoolhouse at Wharton. While our neighbors may rightly claim the honor of originating and maintaining this unique institution, we of Dover, yielding to kindly persuasion and invitation, find ourselves mak- ing occasional visits, appearing as guests on "festal nights," and even becoming regular members of the P. O. S. and L. C.
And we observe, too, that members from Wharton come to Dover to shop or to earn their livelihood; so we may fairly claim that the progress and prosperity of this lyceum calls for recognition in our "Dover Dates." The institution is part of our environment, and we are
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part of its environment. You all know how much emphasis is placed upon "environment" by recent science. And the fact of our interdepend- ence was clearly shown on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the club.
In giving brief sketches of Dover's environment we cannot do better than select this club to represent Wharton, a neighbor with whom we have been intimately associated in industrial enterprise, in trade, in edu- cation and social life.
The following verses, written at the request of the P. O. S. and L. C. give some inkling of the scope and aims of that society.
TO THE PORT ORAM SOCIAL AND LITERARY CLUB, ON THEIR TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY
DECEMBER 29, 1921
You ask me to write, as if asking were all
That is needed to bring forth a poem; one Paul Wrote letters, in prose, to commend or to warn; Words weighty with wisdom in such guise were born: One Horace, in verse his shrewd sentiments penned, Invoking the Muse due assistance to lend That truth might with suavity graciously blend And charm while it healed; but my task is less stern; No reproof is my theme; as your guest may I learn On this glad festal date what attractions unite Such various minds and vocations to-night. What holds you together in brotherhood kindly Through storms of debate and discussion? Not blindly For twenty-five years have you triumphed, been humbled, While o'er the world's problems you've vaulted and tumbled; No, some inspiration of wisdom must guide you ; I hear of no heartburns that vex and divide you. You strive in sham battles and thus learn the art Of striving, while brotherly love rules the heart You cherish the Muses, you fence off a space Where mind grapples mind, where man sharpens man's face; Where knowledge grows gracious and sparkles serene In the light of good fellowship-friendship your queen ! You circle and soar in the vast empyrean Of "whate'er is lovely"-a jaunt Cyclopean ! You keep, 'mid life's turmoil, an hour set apart For things of the spirit, for joys of the heart; For "communion of saints" you put "converse of friends," A cordial that many of life's ailments mends. While not of your number who meet every week, I hear that you have a most sociable clique. Your latchstring is out, as I read on your card, And you chant the refrain of a popular bard : "Why don't you come over and play in our yard? We'll make you right welcome-no dragon on guard !"
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And so you draw in, to your playground of reason, The parson, the doctor, and call it no treason To gather all parties-religious, political- Beneath your one tent-a commixture oft critical.
One secret of yours I've discovered ; you find A vent for the fads that oft weigh on the mind. "Out with it!" you cry; "tell your story! Express The innermost thoughts of your true inwardness ! The birth-pangs of genius oft cause sad distress When no fit occasion is found to express The heart's fond desire or its shy, secret leaning To something that gives this dull life a real meaning. A fancy, a bee in the bonnet, a hobby Demands some seance where one gets hob-a-nobby. True, business is business, and has the first claim, But shop is not all of life's various game. Suppressed and restricted forever, one pines For moments when pleasure with duty combines. Even saints may default, if they never give way To the God-given impulse that cheers work with play. Like the boy on an errand, who trundles a hoop, Forgetting to grumble-play's light-hearted dupe. So gladness enlivens this dark vale of tears When mind finds its fellow, and fellowship cheers.' Yes, such is the argument that you present To coax the wayfarer to enter your tent. The banker, the merchant, the teacher, all meet On terms of equality, each glad to greet His neighbor and learn how to speak out in meeting, Stand up, face the folks, do his bit, take a beating- If need be-in argument ; gain savoir faire, An art that is useful in life everywhere.
You canvass great questions, deep problems you probe ; In fancy you travel all over the globe ; You love wit and humor, new books you review ; In science you delve to learn how the world grew. On labor and capital topics you shed The light of your wisdom, without seeing red. You scan the horizon for signs of that age When Mars and his minions no longer shall rage. You reach for the moon-for art, music and learning ; Infinity baffles, conceit yields to yearning. But where am I wandering, chasing my rhyme, As the boy does his hoop, and forgetting the time! I'm dazzled, perchance, by the welcoming light
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That beams from each face on this rare festal night .. But now, lest I wander too far and too long, Let me here make an end of my gad-about song.
May the spirit of fellowship, letters and learning Abide with you ever, fulfill all your yearning ! December, 1921.
SCENES FROM HURDTOWN LEFEVRE-ARTIST
A dark, damp day and dark, drear thoughts- Do you ever feel that way? But the mind may choose its own weather, it may, And defy these Juggernauts.
So I search the sky of the realms where 1 Resort when I rise above Life's petty care with its stifling air And think of the things I love.
A schoolboy's name let me now acclaim, A Dover schoolboy, he ; Let me touch in rhyme one who, for a time, Went to school to "Miss Magie."
For Miss Magie was a power when she Taught school in days gone by ; I can't say more, right here, friends, for I must stick to my text-that's why.
My text is a lad whose heart was glad When he roamed the wildwood free; And this Jersey boy found hope and joy In the things that he could see.
In the stony field he could see revealed A beauty passing fair ;
And our rugged hills with their rippling rills Were enough to banish care.
He felt the call to harvest all This beauty everywhere; So he sketched and etched what his fancy fetched From scenes where all seemed bare.
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His own heart chose-not the lovely rose, But the barnyard and the field, The rustic bridge and the stony ridge And the cowpond fast congealed.
"A Windy Day," and the sheep astray, Or the cows in the pasture lot ; Or the old ox-team caught his fancy's gleam, Or a lowly rural cot
But to Madame Cow he made his bow, His very best bow, indeed ; He found more cheer in her eye sincere Than some folks find in their creed.
"Driving Home the Cows," and Cows, Cows, Cows ! "At the Pond," "Eating Apples"-Oh !
He portrayed cows with their gnarly brows In clover and in snow.
He schooled his heart to learn high art By finding close at hand
Some glint of the gleam that makes Earth seem- Right here-a Holy Land.
DOVER AND THE GREATER NEW YORK
Once a remote mining hamlet on the frontier, Dover now finds itself within the rim of that expanding commercial wheel of which New York City is the hub. From the New York papers of May, 1922, we learn that a far-reaching scheme for bettering New York and environs is being promoted by the Russell Sage Foundation. The intention is to guide the future construction engineering works of this densely popu- lated area included within a radius of fifty miles of the metropolis.
Dover is well within this circle, being thirty miles west of the upper end of Manhattan Island. This fifty-mile circuit is said to contain 9,000,000 persons now, with the prospect of having 16,000,000 in the next twenty-five years. The people within this area constitute one of the world's greatest markets, having a large per capita purchasing power distributed over a vast variety of products.
Four surveys planned :
I. Economic and industrial. Fundamental reasons for the exist- ence of this great center.
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2. Physical. Mapping out all natural and constructed features.
3. Legal. Three states are involved. Shore rights, under-water rights, city maps.
4. Social and living conditions, housing and home conditions.
By comprehensive planning it is hoped to avoid much of the waste that results from haphazard development.
It is evident that Dover will become an active partner in this huge metropolitan corporation, contributing to the progressive result as well as receiving many advantages from her relation to this great cosmopoli- tan community of our Atlantic seaboard.
DOVER AND PENNSYLVANIA
Dover, from early times, touched the hem of William Penn's gar- ment, if we may so allude to his "returns" of land. And many people have come to Dover from Pennsylvania or Pennsylwania, as some pro- nounce it. There has been more or less of a flow of migration and visi- tation back and forth, assisted by highways, the canal, and our two railroads. (Some of our people, too, are conversant with Pennsylvania Dutch.)
New industrial possibilities of this connection have been recently pointed out in the public press and in circulars of investment issued by the New Jersey Power and Light Company. Electric power may be brought, in time, from the great rivers and coal fields of Pennsylvania, they tell us, to be applied to railroads and industries. Such are the projects entertained by the Super-power Trunk Line.
We gather from "The Newark News," of May 17, 1922, that the New Jersey Power and Light Company, together with the Metropolitan and Pennsylvania Edison Companies are subsidiaries of the General Gas and Electric Company under the management of the W. S. Barstow Management Association of New York.
It is proposed to build a dam across the Delaware river below Eas- ton in the near future and construct an electric plant capable of generat- ing 200,000 kilowatt. Our Dover plant has a capacity of 7,000 kilowatt. It can be reinforced when necessary.
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