USA > New York > Tompkins County > Dryden > The centennial history of the town of Dryden. 1797-1897 > Part 25
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Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; "' Fought all his battles o'er again ;
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise- His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ;
And, while he Heaven and Earth defied,
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful Muse, Soft pity to infuse ; He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen- Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood ;
Deserted, at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed ;
On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below ; And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled, to see That Love was in the next degree ; 'Twas but a kindred sound to move, For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; Honor but an empty bubble- Never ending, still beginning- Fighting still, and still destroying ; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think it worth enjoying! Lovely Thais sits beside thee- Take the goods the gods provide thee.
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HISTORY OF DRYDEN.
The many rend the sky with loud applause ; So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again. At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.
Now strike the golden lyre again- A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark ! the horrid sound Has raised up his head ! As awaked from the dead, And amazed, he stares around.
Revenge ! revenge ! Timotheus cries ; See the Furies arise ! See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand !
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain, Inglorious, on the plain ! Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew.
Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods !
The princes applaud with a furious joy, And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; Thais led the way To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.
Thus, long ago- Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute- Timotheus, to his breathing flute, And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame ; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
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THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY.
And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown ; He raised a mortal to the skies- She drew an angel down.
The verses from Will Carleton's poem, "The First Settler's Story, "; beautifully recited by Miss Moore, were the following :
THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY.
Well, when I first infested this retreat, Things to my view looked frightful incomplete ; But I had come with heart-thrift in my song, And brought my wife and plunder right along ; I hadn't a round-trip ticket to go back, And if I had, there wasn't no railroad track ; And drivin' east was what I couldn't endure : I hadn't started on a circular tour.
My girl-wife was as brave as she was good, And helped me every blessed way she could ; She seemed to take to every rough old tree, As sing'lar as when first she took to me. She kep' our little log-house neat as wax, And once I caught her fooling with my axe. She hadn't the muscle (though she had the heart) In out-door work to take an active part ; She was delicious, both to hear and see- That pretty girl-wife that kep' house for me.
One night when I came home unusual late, Too hungry and too tired to feel first-rate, Her supper struck me wrong, (though I'll allow She hadn't much to strike with, anyhow) ; And when I went to milk the cows, and found They'd wandered from their usual feeding ground And maybe'd left a few long miles behind 'em, Which I must copy, if I meant to find 'em, Flash-quick the stay-chains of my temper broke, And in a trice these hot words I had spoke : " You ought to've kept the animals in view, And drove 'em in ; you'd nothing else to do. The heft of all our life on me must fall ; Yon just lie 'round, and let me do it all."
That speech-it hadn't been gone half a minute Before I saw the cold, black poison in it ;
17
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HISTORY OF DRYDEN.
And I'd have given all I had, and more, To've only safely got it back in-door. I'm now what most folks " well-to-do" would call : I feel to-day as if I'd give it all, Provided I through fifty years might reach And kill and bury that half-minute speech.
She handed back no words, as I could hear ; She didn't frown ; she didn't shed a tear ; Half-proud, half-crushed, she stood and looked me o'er, Like some one she had never seen before ! But such a sudden, anguish-lit surprise I never viewed before in human eyes. (I've seen it oft enough since in a dream ; It sometimes wakes me like a midnight scream.)
Next morning, when, stone-faced, but heavy-hearted, With dinner-pail and sharpened axe I started Away for my day's work-she watched the door, And followed me half way to it or more ; And I was just a-turning 'round at this, And asking for my usual good-by kiss ; But on her lip I saw a proudish curve, And in her eye a shadow of reserve ; And she had shown-perhaps half unawares- Some little independent breakfast airs- And so the usual parting didn't occur, Although her eyes invited me to her ; Or rather half invited me, for she Didn't advertise to furnish kisses free ; You always had-that is, I had-to pay Full market-price, and go more'n half the way. So, with a short "Good-bye, " I shut the door, And left her as I never had before.
But, when at noon my lunch I came to eat, Put up by her so delicately neat - Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday's had been, And some fresh, sweet-eyed pansies she'd put in- "Tender and pleasant thoughts, " I knew they meant- It seemed as if her kiss with me she'd sent ; Then I became once more her humble lover, And said, "To-night I'll ask forgiveness of her. "
I went home over-early on that eve, Having contrived to make myself believe, By various signs I kind o' knew and guessed, A thunder-storm was coming from the west. ('Tis strange, when one sly reason fills the heart,
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THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY.
How many honest ones will take its part : A dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right That I should strike home early on that night.)
Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung, With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue ; But all within looked desolate and bare : My house had lost its soul-she was not there !
A penciled note was on the table spread, And these are something like the words it said : " The cows have strayed away again, I fear ; I watched them pretty close ; don't scold me, dear. And where they are, I think I nearly know : I heard the bell not very long ago. . . . I've hunted for them all the afternoon ; I'll try once more-I think I'll find them soon. Dear, if a burden I have been to you, And haven't helped you as I ought to do, Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead ; I've tried to do my best-I have, indeed. Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack, And have kind words for me when I get back."
Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue- Some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung, And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded : My thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn't needed. I rushed out-door. The air was stained with black : Night had come early, on the storm-cloud's back : And everything kept dimming to the sight, Save when the clouds threw their electric light ; When, for a flash, so clean-cut was the view, I'd think I saw her-knowing 'twas not true. Through my small clearing dashed wide sheets of spray, As if the ocean waves had lost their way ; Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made, In the bold clamor of its cannonade. And she, while I was sheltered, dry, and warm, Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm ! She who, when storm-frights found her at her best, Had always hid her white face on my breast !
My dog, who'd skirmished round me all the day, Now crouched and whimpering, in a corner lay ; I dragged him by the collar to the wall, I pressed his quivering muzzle to a shawl- " Track her, old boy !" I shouted ; and he whined, Matched eyes with me, as if to read my mind,
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HISTORY OF DRYDEN.
Then with a yell went tearing through the wood. I followed him, as faithful as I could. No pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame ; We raced with death ; we hunted noble game. All night we dragged the woods without avail ; The ground got drenched-we could not keep the trail. Three times again my cabin home I found, Half hoping she might be there, safe and sound ; But each time 'twas an unavailing care : My house had lost its soul ; she was not there !
When, climbing the wet trees, next morning-sun Laughed at the ruin that the night had done, Bleeding and drenched, by toil and sorrow bent, Back to what used to be my home I went. But as I neared our little clearing-ground- Listen !- I heard the cow-bell's tinkling sound. The cabin door was just a bit ajar ;
It gleamed upon my glad eyes like a star. " Brave heart, " I said, " for such a fragile form ! She made them guide her homeward through the storm !" Such pangs of joy I never felt before.
" You've come !" I shouted, and rushed through the door.
Yes, she had come-and gone again. She lay With all her young life crushed and wrenched away- Lay, the heart-ruins of our home among, Not far from where I killed her with my tongue. The rain-drops glittered 'mid her hair's long strands, The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands, And 'midst the tears-brave tears-that one could trace Upon the pale but sweetly resolute face, I once again the mournful words could read, " I've tried to do my best-I have, indeed."
And now I'm mostly done ; my story's o'er ; Part of it never breathed the air before. 'Tisn't over-usual, it must be allowed, To volunteer heart-history to a crowd, And scatter 'mongst them confidential tears, But you'll protect an old man with his years ; And wheresoe'er this story's voice can reach, This is the sermon I would have it preach :
Boys flying kites haul in their white-winged birds : You can't do that way when you're flying words. "Careful with fire, " is good advice, we know : " Careful with words, " is ten times doubly so.
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THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY.
Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead, But God himself can't kill them when they're said!
-
JOSEPH E. EGGLESTON.
You have my life-grief : do not think a minute 'Twas told to take up time. There's business in it. It sheds advice : whoe'er will take and live it, Is welcome to the pain it costs to give it.
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HISTORY OF DRYDEN.
The final public exercise of the Celebration was the address of Hon. Joseph E. Eggleston, county judge of Cortland county, with which we conclude this chapter and our "History." As Judge Eggleston com- menced to speak, an incident occurred which would have disconcerted most men, but, by his happy treatment of the matter, it was made to contribute to, rather than to detract from, the interest manifested in his address. The day was intensely hot; the crowd was large and some- what weary ; the boys were having a game of baseball on the grounds ; and the gun-club was having some target practice in the neighboring grove, all of which contributed to the confusion and noise. To cap the climax, just as the Judge commenced to speak, an anxious mother, who was deaf and did not appreciate the situation, but who wanted to hear the speaking, as well as to escape the sun's fierce rays by getting under the shade of the awning which covered the speaker's stand, mounted the platform with her crying baby, of an unusually dark com- plexion, just in front of the speaker, where she commenced promenad- ing in her efforts to quiet her child. Instead of being put out by the akward situation, the Judge, in opening, remarked in his usual com- manding but good-humored manner : "Everything goes here to-day ; the older people have been talking and now it is time to give the babies a chance. " Happily at that moment a kodak was pointed at the platform and, with a " snap-shot, " preserved the interesting scene, which we are able here to reproduce.
The address was then delivered to an attentive and enthusiastic au- dience, as follows :
Mr. President, Ladies and Gentlemen :
I deem it a privilege indeed to be present with you upon this happy occasion, and I hardly know why the distinguished honor of being your speaker was given to me, except, perhaps, that it is due to the fact that I was born and reared to manhood where I could daily look upon the dear old hills of Dryden.
It may be said that we are at the present time living in an age of centennial celebrations, for throughout our land, counties, towns and villages are seeking to do homage to the hundredth year birthmark by joining in festivities such as we are engaged in to-day.
A long time ago the poet sang :
" Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said This is my own, my native land ; Whose heart has ne'er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand ?"
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CENTENNIAL ADDRESS.
and that same spirit of love for your native land fills the breast and quickens the blood in the veins of many of you here to-day.
One hundred years ago this morning, the sun, as it gilded yonder hillside and lighted up this valley, smilingly looked down upon a scene far different from what we now behold.
The primeval forest had scarcely been disturbed in its solitude, the little stream wound its way along the valley secure in all its fastness- es, nature was undisturbed in her repose, as a solitary adventurer,
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"EVERYTHING GOES"- AT DRYDEN CENTENNIAL. Photo by J. G. Ford.
seeking to find a home in some new country, caught the beauty of the location and commenced in a primitive way to break the spell that had so long existed and bring the forces of nature in subjection to his will.
Little did he know how well he builded.
The ring of the axe disturbed only the birds of the air and the beasts of the forest ; the log-cabin, so rudely constructed, produced only as- tonishment to animal life as it then existed. There were no herds of cattle upon the hillside, no sound of voices to break the silence, no one to dispute the rights of this adventurer, for he was monarch of all he surveyed, and this was the picture presented a century ago, as the calm, soft rays of summer then rested upon the land.
The entering wedge to future civilization had been driven, a step
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HISTORY OF DRYDEN.
was taken in the advancement of future progress, looking to further development of the resources of the country. The soil that had known no master but the red man was waiting only to be tilled by the hand of the white man in order that it might bring forth a bountiful harvest in its season, and the work of this first settler, followed by that of others, was the foundation work for the town of Dryden as it exists to-day.
What an interesting study is the settlement of any new country ! What hardships were endured ! What self-denial practiced ! What labor and energy put forth to furnish sustenance for life! What joy and sadness alternates in quick succession in the lives of those early pioneers. To them it was largely an experiment, but they entered upon their work with a determination to succeed, and in that way the victory was half won. It is related of Father Taylor, that, when a young man, preaching in Boston, becoming entangled in a long sen- tence, he aptly relieved himself as follows : "Brethren, I don't exactly know where I went in at the beginning of this sentence and I don't know where I am coming out, but one thing I do know, I am bound for the king lom of Heaven." So did these men with an object in view bend every energy to accomplish the desired result.
Reading your Centennial History I have been impressed with the strong individuality of these men, and their plain, common sense, mat- ter-of-fact way of doing business. In their seclusion they had time and room to think, and another one of their peculiar characteristics is their originality. Reflection and solitude are prime factors in form- ing a good business education. The average man of to-day is too arti- ficial, is too much a creature of society and custom, (when a man gets to be a society leader you may generally look for him at the tail end of every other procession,) his education has been so conventional that it has fettered his originality, by training the irregular growth of his genius into set forms, like a vine to its trellis.
It is the legitimate result, doubtless, of this education in the past that a higher degree of alertness has been born of our "brisk social com- merce, " that man's sympathetic nature has been quickened, that the surface virtues in human character have attained to more of polish and perfection. The average man of to-day possesses less of the in- dividuality, the profundity of thought, the strength of character and moral principle that distinguished the generation of our fathers.
We need the training of seclusion if we would be original. Reflec- tion develops the inner man according to the tendencies of his being, and from such developments the radical forces in society are always recruited for the conflict with conservatism ; the originality thus grown by reflection is the material from which civilization gathers the suc- cessive increments of its progress. This discipline of reflection you will also find a necessity to the formation of a well-rounded character. The solitary maple of the open field attains a symmetry of develop- ment, a strength in resistance, that it could never possess if grown in the crowded, inter-dependent life of the forest. This self-education begets individuality, and success is born of reflection.
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This explains how a lonely shepherd boy in England became her great inventor, how a thinking rail splitter in Illinois became Ameri- ca's most successful statesman, and a secluded tanner at Galena her greatest general ; it may explain to us also why the plow handle has come to be the schoolmaster of our statesmen, why the lonely brook- side is the cradle of our poets.
Your town has been honored in being named after one of the world's greatest poets, a name beautiful indeed, and one that is dear to you all. There is much in a name and in the giving of names to towns in this section of our state, and in near proximity to us, one can but admire the classical, poetical and historical genius of those persons who so furtunately acted as sponsors in those early days.
Dryden, honored and loved the world over, has a monument thus erected to his memory. Within hailing distance poetry finds herself remembered in the names of Virgil, Homer and Scott. Classic litera- ture finds itself distinguished by such names as Cicero, Marathon, Pompey, Tully, Brutus, Aurelius, Scipio and Genoa. The legal lore of other days receives recognition at the hands of Cincinnatus, while the Prince of Ithaca aud the brave Trojan Ulysses, the one the father, the other the son, names renowned in Grecian story, are next door neighbors, and designate a city far famed for her halls of learning, and a town in rural simplicity filled with prosperous and happy homes.
What a galaxy of names to conjure with; what a list of honored names of the world's greatest men and most distinguished places, famed in ancient history, and here at this time we would invoke all of the genius of modern times, music, poetry, eloquence and art, to speak in their praise.
Another thought which occurs to me now is the enjoyment we find in meeting here upon this occasion. To-day the past rises up before us and we seem to live over again the scenes of other days. What pleasant memories are recalled, what hallowed associations revived, how familiar the trees and rocks and streams look to us. Some of you who are older can say :
"With what a pride I used to walk these hills, Look up to Heaven and bless God
That it was so.
It was free,
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free ; Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks And plow our valleys, without asking leave ; How happy was I in it then !
I loved its very storms."
Time makes rapid changes, we look forward a hundred years and it seems a long time, but when we look backward over a hundred years how short it seems. Amos Sweet, when he constructed his log cabin, which was his castle, and was the sole resident of the town, could not in any flight of his imagination, foreshadow the rapid progress civiliza-
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HISTORY OF DRYDEN.
tion would make here. Your happy homes, your cultivated fields, your schools and public library, your churches with their spires point- ing toward heaven, all tell of the spirit with which they have been erected and preserved. In that time you have kept pace with the progress of the country, and have helped to write that history of which every American citizen has the right to be proud.
In that time, as a nation, we have aged a hundred years and the work we have accomplished has been the wonder of the whole world. Who that is capable of patriotic emotions can read and study that history during the past century without feeling a just pride in the past, with gratitude for the present and with confidence in the future! O, land of Washington, of Jefferson, of Lincoln and Grant, land of statesmen wise and warriors brave, and above all, land of liberty where our fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, on this glad day our hearts go out in glad praise and thanksgiving to the God of nations for that history so resplendent with good deeds.
In what part of that glorious record which you have helped to make, and which you have all been factors in making, is there a page that will provoke a blush or a line that will inspire apprehension of the future. As the citizen of to-day looks across the extent of the country which he rules, and contrasts its condition with the condition of the colonies which had just won their independence a little more than a century ago, he sees a change so marvelous, a development so great, a progress so wonderful that he is almost inclined to doubt his- tory itself. He beholds a country which numbered, when it formed its government, a population of three millions, now maintaining in all their rights over seventy millions of independent citizens. That tree of liberty planted by our forefathers has taken deep root in the soil ; its branches have become wide-spreading; its fruit abundant for the sustenance of this and other nations, and all of the people may repose beneath its shade. In territory it extends from the confines of mon- archy on the north to the warm summer clime of the Gulf of Mexico on the south : on the east it is washed by the silvery waves of the At- lantic, and reaches across hill and valley and plain and mountain until it reaches where the waves of the Pacific roll and beat upon the gold- en sands of California's shore.
By rivers whose sources were almost unknown, one now sees count- less cities where the footsteps of millions beat upon magnificent high- ways; the waters which were undisturbed save where the dwellers of the forest slaked their thirst in them, to-day bear upon their bosoms the freighted steamers of a mighty inland commerce which surpasses in its extent the wildest anticipations of the founders of this republic. In solitudes where the footstep of the hunter had never penetrated, where the silence was unbroken except by the roar of the wild beast, is heard the shrill whistle of the locomotive as it bears to the sea- board the product of the farm, the shop and factory as the results of American industry.
The flag of our country, the emblem of the free, purchased by the best blood of the land ; its red as bright as the blood in which it has
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been bathed, its white as pure as the driven snow, its blue as clear as the expanse of heaven, has added to the original thirteen stars, states in their sovereign power until at the present day we find it contains a grand constellation of forty-five stars. That flag which we carry in all its glory to-day is a symbol of power and national strength throughout the world. As has been said, "Beneath its folds the weakest may find protection and the strongest must obey." It floats alike over the log-cabin in the forest, and the' loftiest mansion of the millionaire ; over the little red school-house by the roadside, and the massive walls of the university, built by wealth and maintained in luxurious splendor, "and like the bow of heaven is the child of sun and storm. "
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