USA > New Jersey > Somerset County > Within a Jersey circle : tales of the past, grave and gay, as picked up from old Jerseyites > Part 7
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Catherine was then swinging on the garden gate
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down and open gates, brush off stinging flies from the horses, or clear away any obstruction, alive or dead, from their path. Alongside the lordly master himself sat his little darky page, who always followed close at his mas- ter's heels at home or abroad, ready to fill his pipe, hold his great coat and cane, open and close doors and perform the thousand little offices of personally and obsequiously waiting upon him.
"Prince" George's picture hangs in the fine old home- stead of his great-grandson, Henry Van Nest Garretson, near North Branch, where a number of Talmage's youth- ful years were spent, and where the old-time upper and lower half doors are still to be seen. Over the latter of these the doctor (Talmage) used to swing when a little boy and look longingly down the road for the return of his parents from church. At the height of his fame the great preacher delighted in going over this and other familiar scenes of his early youth, in company with friends from the great cities.
Any one who knew Dr. Talmage, and who looks at the portrait of "Prince" George, can hardly fail to see a striking family likeness between the two. The doctor was taller and his countenance showed greater mentality, but in his great-grandfather's face in the picture the same strong lines of intellectual individuality and force are plainly discernible.
With all his magnificence, "Prince" George fell an easy victim to the charms of Catherine Williamson, an at- tractive young woman who lived with her parents in Seneca County, N. Y. His parents had taken him there on a visit when he was a mere lad, and he and Catherine
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played together with other children. Young as he was, however, George was deeply impressed with his play- mate, and more than once he told her with what must have been comical gravity that he considered her a very nice girl and that when he was big enough he would come all the way from Jersey on a prancing steed to get her for his wife.
"And," said he one day, "I'll bring a fine horse and a side saddle for you, so that you can ride back with me."
Catherine was then swinging on the garden gate. She stopped her swinging to listen and stood demurely look- ing at her little cavalier. Suddenly her mother burst out laughing just behind her:
"Oh, for goodness sake," the mother cried, "look at George and Cattie sweethearting!"
Instantly and without a word Catherine hit George a stinging smack on his cheek and ran into the house cry- ing. That was the last George and Catherine saw of each other for more than ten years. But George had not forgotten her. When next they met his face was pro- tected by a beard, and the red marks of Catherine's fin- gers seemed to have been transferred to her own cheeks. The chubby little boy was now transfigured into the handsome, rich and regal-looking "Prince George." The girl had become a charming woman.
This time she did not smite him upon the cheek, al- though he had the temerity to repeat the very same pro- posal that he made to her that other time, when she, in a dimity pinafore, was swinging on the garden gate. It is freely admitted that her mother did not make fun of her on this occasion.
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As a result of the talk that the couple had on this oc- casion "Prince George" rode away to his Jersey home as happy as a lark. He had Catherine's permission to bring to her that horse and side saddle, and in his heart he knew that she would return with him as his wife. Early in the following summer-that eventful summer of 1765, just when the news was permeating the indignant colo- nies that the British Parliament had passed the stamp act-"Prince George" appeared at her home once more, and they were duly married. Catherine, an expert horse- woman, vaulted to the back of the shining and fiery bay mare which George had brought for her, and dashed out over the meadows for a preliminary or trial spin. There were ejaculations of wonder and fear from the town-bred visitors for Catherine's safety. After a number of evo- lutions and sprints, with the mare under perfect control, she rode back at a canter, patting and stroking the arched neck of her mount. Then, reining the horse, the young woman jumped to the ground.
"George!" she cried to her husband, "I'd follow you on that mare around the world! She's my queen! And the saddle like herself, is second to none. It is the blue ribbon of perfection !"
The long wedding march from the young bride's home in New York was commenced immediately and continued daily until the travellers finally reached their home, within about a mile of Pluckemin. The only roads to follow were bridle paths or Indian trails. As the Indians were then plentiful and in an ugly mood, the "Prince's" escort of four mounted and armed blacks in advance and four
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following his wife and himself and their two pages, was no more than the case called for.
The red men had been growing more and more dan- gerous since the termination of the French war in 1760, until in 1763 that able and warlike chief, Pontiac, arose and fell upon the English in the Northwest, capturing all their posts west of Oswego, except Niagara, Fort Pitt and Detroit. Following the tremendous prestige and daring this gave them, the Indians were scouring the country in bands far and wide, plundering, murdering and burning all before them, determined, as they said, to exterminate the white grovelers, who were increasing and multiply- ing so alarmingly.
If the wedding party had delayed setting out just one day longer, in all likelihood it would never have reached the "prince's" home, but would have perished as so many other parties did in those perilous times, leaving no rec- ord behind of what had befallen them. As it was, at the end of their first day's ride, "Prince" George and his fel- low-travelers put up for the night at a little settlement village called Painted Post. They left the next morning at daybreak, continuing their journey by forced marches along the Susquehana River and through Pennsylvania. It was well for them that they did so, for they just es- caped a desperate gang of more than fifty savages, who the very next night surrounded Painted Post, killed every white person they could find and burnt the place to the ground.
Fortunately, "Prince George" and Catherine's honey- moon in the saddle ended propitiously and all arrived at the old homestead in safety. If, as so nearly happened, it
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had been otherwise, the whole Christian world would have been the loser, for it would never have known T. Dc- Witt Talmage.
"PRINCE" GEORGE'S SONS
HOW THE OFFSPRING OF A FAMOUS SOMERSET COUNTY MAN PROSPERED IN THE DAYS OF LONG AGO.
When George Van Nest, otherwise known as "Prince" George, and his fair bride, Catherine, arrived at his an- cestral home in Somerset County; it may be assured that he was ignorant of one thing, and that was that his great- grandson, John Van Nest, would live in that same old homestead, and would have the distinction in this, our day, of being a near neighbor of Tunis Melick, the far- famed and hilariously popular "Mayor of Pluckemin."
Were the present Mr. Van Nest disposed to shut his eyes to this fact-which I feel sure he is not-his ears would inevitably remind him of it, for the jolly Mr. Melick has a singularly far-reaching and pleasing baritone voice, which floats on the ambient air to incredible dis- tances, especially when, with reassuring and resounding laugh, he declines some proffered favor with his famous recitative: "Later on, boys! later on !! later on !!! "
"Prince" George and Catherine had seven sons and two daughters. According to a family tradition one of the daughters, Jane, was always terribly afraid to go up to the garret of their home, because of a peculiar fore- handedness on her father's part. He owned much timber of the finest kind, but prided himself particularly in his great store of black walnut. One tree pleased him so well that he had a number of slabs carefully sawed from it, and these, after inspection, he labeled, "For my coffin."
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Then he stored them away in the garret. Jane dreaded to enter the garret on this account, and whenever un- avoidable duties took her there she kept a wary eye on those black boards, usually finishing her visits by scudding from the room as if the slabs were following her.
All the "princes's" sons became rich men. This, how- ever, was not due to the proverbial "silver spoon." Abra- ham, the most pronounced success of them all, ran away from home when he was twelve years old and with only one dollar in his pocket. Like many another adventurous boy since his day, little Abe landed in New York, but unlike most runaways of these latter days, he was not fired with dime novel ambitions.
On the contrary, Abe set out to find employment. He soon obtained a position, and, going earnestly to work, he saved what remained of his scant capital. Soon he had his dollar back again, and then he began adding bit by bit to it from his small pay as errand boy in a harness sup- ply store. He stuck to his work, never once asking for a day off. His pay grew with his stature, up and up, until at last he was made manager of the concern. Then he worked harder than ever, and in time he became pro- prietor of the business.
In 1819, when he was forty-two, and had been thirty years in New York, he bought the old Warren mansion, which, surrounded by beautiful grounds, stood in what was then a rural hamlet on the outskirts of New York, and was known as Greenwich Village. He paid $10,000 for it. This house was built in 1740 by Sir Peter War- ren, vice-admiral of the English navy, who at that time was in command of the British fleet in New York. It
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was the admiral's summer home, his town house being on Bowling Green. Long years afterwards, when the city eventually crept up and absorbed Greenwich, Mr. Van Nest's property formed one whole block, surrounded by Bleecker, Fourth, Charles and Perry streets.
When Mr. Van Nest bought Warren House it was two miles beyond the city limit. The family, according to Mr. Van Nest's daughter, Mrs. Ann Van Nest Bus- sing, used to go to it every summer from their city home, the latter being where the Corn Exchange Bank now stands on William street. Kip & Brown's stage coaches then ran every hour between Greenwich Village and New York, and those desiring to take the trip were obliged to give notice at the company's office, so that the coach might call for them. So lonely and dark was the road from the city at night, Mrs. Bussings says, that when her father was detained later than usual her mother anxiously awaited the return of his carriage.
The house stood in a perfect forest of grand old horse chestnuts, willows, poplars, sycamores and locusts, form- ing in places an impenetrable shade. Besides these, there were cherry, apricot and peach trees, always laden in their season with delicious fruit. The garden, which extend- ed the whole length of the two-and-a-half-acre tract, was in summer a very fairyland of flowers of the good old kinds-hollyhocks, coxcombs, sweet William, bleeding hearts, ragged sailors, maid-o'-the mist, bachelor buttons, wallflowers, old man, mignonette, lilies, clove pinks, phlox, poppies, larkspurs, strawberry shrub, etc. All the old favorites were there in abundance, in boxwood-bor-
"PRINCE" GEORGE'S SONS
dered beds of fanciful shapes. In June the whole garden was pink with the loveliest roses.
The carriage drive which at one time wound grace- fully through the extensive woods of the Warren estate in later years ran straight through from one street to the other. A wide hall extended from the front to the back of the house, and on the first landing of the broad, old- fashioned staircase a tall and very ancient clock sedately checked off the passage of time.
Many changes had the old sentinel seen from its sta- tion in the hall during its stately tour of duty through nearly fifty years. It had heard voices of gladness and moans of sorrow. Four times it heard glad marriage bells rung for one after another of four happily married daughters. It also heard many other rejoicings. Oftener, however, it marked the heavy presence of grief and woe, when the dread reaper came beckoning for the infant, the child, the youth and man and woman, and bore them off.
The Christmas gatherings, when children, grandchil- dren and great-grandchildren-in later years numbering nearly fifty-met at the old homestead and clustered around the beloved patriarch with "Merry Christmas" greetings, the house rang with joy. In those days the little ones loved to stand by "grandpa" and see in answer to his gentle "cco-coo!" clouds of pigeons-thousands of them, a relative says-fluttering from their houses to pick up the handfuls of corn that were showered among them. John A. Powelson well remembers seeing these things on his visits to his great-uncle. His mother often antici- pated with delight that outing of outings, "going to Greenwich to see Uncle Abraham." Their last visit there
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was made in 1863, when Mr. Powelson helped the old gentleman to feed the myriads of pigeons, and saw the cow and many chickens as peacefully feeding, as if they were out in the balmy and far-off country, instead of being in that marvelous oasis in the very heart of New York. Mr. Van Nest was then in his eighty-seventh year and rather feeble, but he was as kindly genial as ever, especially to his young visitors.
Always the doors were thrown open to clergymen who were welcome and frequent guests. Closeted with his clerical friends in the quiet retirement of his library, Mr. Van Nest spent many of the happiest hours of his life in taking counsel in devising and perfecting plans for pro- moting the welfare of the Reformed Dutch Church, the best interests of which were so dear to his heart. ·
An interesting reminder of the past was often to be seen at the old homestead, in the person of the old colored "Aunty" leaning on the Dutch half-door that opened gardenward. "Aunty" had lived as a slave in "Prince" George's family and afterward served nearly forty years in that of his son Abraham. Her descendants were with him to the end of his life.
Abraham Van Nest was especially blest in his choice of a wife. She was Miss Margaret Field, of Fieldville, near Bound Brook, where she was born in 1782. She was married when she was nineteen years of age. Beauti- ful in character, as she was universally acknowledged to be in person, for fifty years she looked well to the ways of their household, and as wife and mother she as nearly approached perfection as it falls to the lot of humanity to be in anything.
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Mr. Van Nest was one of the founders of the old Greenwich Savings Bank of New York, and served as its president a great many years. He made his will in the year 1807, which was fifty-seven years before he died. At the same time he wrote beautiful letters to his sons and daugh- ters, sealing them and laying them away with his will, with instructions that they were to be handed to each at such time after his decease as his executors might deem expedient. The letters were couched in most affectionate terms of advice, breathing forth the deepest piety. They were duly delivered by the executors and have all been preserved.
Mr. Van Nest died in 1864 in the eighty-eighth year of his age. Shortly afterward the old homestead, which cost him $10,000, was sold for upward of $500,000. Soon the fine old trees fell, the house was demolished and the garden was blotted out. Then the last long lingering. relic of old Greenwich, a place which was filled with sacred associations to many a heart in New Jersey, was known no more.
TALES OF THE PAST.
REALISTIC MANNER IN WHICH A VENERABLE HILLSBOR- OUGH COUPLE RECALLED THE DAYS OF THE LONG AGO.
It was my privilege, and certainly my pleasure, to be present the other evening at a very unusual and most in- teresting gathering. Unfortunately my admission as a guest was circumscribed by certain conditions, among these being an exacted understanding on my part, that neither the names of the host and hostess nor those of any of their guests should be given in any printed reference I might make to the function. It was also understood that I was not to give any more definite designation as to place than to say that the house where we met is an old-fashioned and well-preserved homestead in Hillsborough Township, of Somerset County, in this State.
The idea occurred to the proprietor and his wife, both aged and excellent descendants of some of the first settlers in these parts, that it would be pleasant to recall old associations and memories in a realistic way. They accordingly began their preparations by pulling out the fireboard which had been so many years papered out of sight like a dead wall, and again exposed the wide old open fireplace to full view. Then they refurbished a long disused, old iron pot, hung it up by its pothooks from the sooty beam and crossbar in the chimney, put in place the andirons, piled upon them a goodly heap of logs and when the proper time came set them ablaze.
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Ancient candelsticks, tall and short ones, the latter with trays and snuffers, real tallow candles alight, many pewter dishes, old-fashioned blue plates, dish covers and mugs, a brass preserving pan and copper teakettles adorned the tall mantelpiece. Depending therefrom was a pair of bellows and at each end of the expansive grate stood the poker, shovel, tongs, etc., that had seen many a year of active service where they were now reinstated.
The room was also given over to high-backed chairs, long hair-seated sofas, old pictures, several samplers and quaint ornaments. In the room there were two spinning wheels, one for flax and the other for wool. At the lat- ter, as I entered the place on the long-to-be-remembered occasion, a grand dame in "tallying" ironed cap, brocaded gown, little shawl and mittened hands, sat and spun woolen yarn. It was no make-believe attempt. The worker made the wheel whirl merrily and the bobbin hunı with the genuine purring sound of real spinning. The host in a great oaken arm chair, sat smoking a long- stemmed Dutch pipe. He wore the same kind of knee breeches, white silk stockings and buckled shoes, and the same cut of high-necked, broad frocked coat that were used by his grandfather over a hundred years ago; the grandson being, himself, now a great-grandfather ..
The hostess wore a cap with lavender-colored bows and ornaments, such as adorned married women's heads some fifty years ago. In fact every woman present wore a cap befitting her age. Besides the aged matron presiding at the spinning wheel, three other venerable dames wore the old-fashioned white caps with fluted borders. Which ap- pealed most to the eye, the very old ladies in those ador-
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able white caps and ancient gowns, the middle-aged ma- trons in most becoming colored caps and rustling silks, or the several maidens in very good imitations of the old- time short-waisted homespuns-it was hard, indeed, to decide, for all were interesting in their several ways.
After a while the spinning wheels, embroidery reticules and knitting kits were laid aside, and two old colored men, for the nonce supposed to be slaves, laid the shining, homespun linen tablecloth and supper, setting out all the pewter ware and old delf that was to be had. On the table, which was liberally supplied with tall candles, were heaps of brown bread, johnnycakes, cookies, home-made cake, doughnuts, baked beans, fruit tarts, gingerbread horses and men. Cider was served in pewter and old china mugs.
Supper over, in lieu of a dance, a grand-daughter of the host played a slow march, using the muffled, low pedal of the piano in imitation of the harp. The host drew the arm of the senior dame through his own and was followed by the rest of the company in couples in a procession around the room, giving one a very interesting glimpse, as it were, of the past. After several turns, chairs were arranged in a wide semi-circle about the fire, and as if nature itself seconded the idea in hand, a storm seemed to work itself up as a background for the entertainment. The wind rose high and began to roar through the trees outside. It whined and whistled through the keyholes and rumbled in the chimney. Then the colored man brought in word that a big snow storm was in full swing.
"Let it come, Uncle Tom, my hearty!" cried the host. "How seasonable it is! Pile on more logs, Tom, and
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Then settling himself cozily in his ancestral chair,
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'Sing ho! the green holly! For this is most jolly !'
"And now, my dear friends," the ruddy-faced old gen- tleman went on, "let's be seated around the fire and be comfortable; for Tom is making it outroar the storm itself, and nothing beats good spruce logs for a merry crackle of a welcoming fire!"
Then settling himself cozily in his ancestral chair and making an elevated, acute angle of his meeting finger tips, with his elbows resting on the chair arms, thus displaying to great advantage the delicate lace ruffles at his wrists, and also airing his silver shoe buckles and tights by cross- ing his legs, the jolly host, his face beaming and rosy with good humor, set the ball rolling in what he said was de- cidedly the most important of their evening's amusement. He explained that each person present should tell some tale of his or her own experience, or something each must have heard others tell of their long past-let it be an old song or sermon or sentiment, legend or ghost story, any- thing, long or short, tragic or comic, of the years gone by.
"And," said he, "as example, however poor it may be, is ever better than precept, I will tell you that very early in life I heard a story about one Theophilus Thistle :
"Theophilus Thistle, the successful thistle sifter in sifting a sieve of unsifted thistles, thrust three thousand thistle thorns through the thick of his thumb. What did Theophilus Thistle, the successful thistle sifter, do with the three thousand thistle thorns thrust through the thick of his thumb ?
This the young folks had never before heard and great
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fun resulted from their unsuccessful attempts to say it quickly as it had been given. The Thistle story, with sev- eral other meaningless compositions of the kind, the host said, used to be given to children to test and improve cer- tain difficulties of English pronunciation.
"And now," said he, "having exposed my own weak- ness in ancient lore, and as any one can easily beat me at it, I propose that we all take turns around the circle as the sun goes.
"Therefore, my charming and very dear friend," he said, with a graceful inclination to his next neighbor, the oldest woman present, a woman in her eighty-eighth year, "this gives me the honor and pleasure of calling upon you. Permit me to suggest, 'Aunt Jane,' that there must be some subtle secret whereby you so wonderfully pre- serve your youthfulness. That, now, would be the most interesting of all things to tell us."
Mrs. D., the venerable but sprightly dame thus ad- dressed, said she would gladly tell them that secret, and to do so she would give the very words her mother used in answering a precisely similar question put to her just 101 years ago as follows:
When hungry, of the best I eat, And dry and warm I keep my feet; I shield my head from sun and rain, And let few cares perplex my brain.
That, the old lady said, equally applied to her case and very completely set forth the only secret as to her own health.
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The next one called upon in rotation was another Mrs. D., aged seventy-eight. She related some facts that seemed of considerable interest and which probably missed getting into histories of Readington church.
"Casper Berger," she said, "was stolen from Holland when a little boy, early in the seventeenth century. He was brought to New York, and, like many other helpless people in those early times, was sold as a slave. A farmer on Long Island bought him, and with him the boy worked until he had bought his freedom, after which he hired himself for good pay and soon laid by some money. Then he migrated as one of the earliest settlers in what was af- terward called Readington. There by great industry and enterprise he became a rich and prosperous man. He built the Ten Brook Inn, which soon became a thriving hos- telry, and in time attained considerable celebrity as a house of call for coaches and other vehicular traffic be- tween Easton and other Pennsylvania centres to Newark, New Brunswick, Elizabethtown, etc. He owned several hundred acres of land and donated to the village of Read- ington the church land on which the present Reformed church stands, as well as the greater part of the surround- ing cemetery.
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