USA > New York > Steuben County > Bath > The official records of the centennial celebration, Bath, Steuben County, New York, June 4, 6, and 7, 1893 > Part 8
Note: The text from this book was generated using artificial intelligence so there may be some errors. The full pages can be found on Archive.org (link on the Part 1 page).
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27
Prosperity puts on her blandest smile. A hundred farmers in the town, Are worthy of the same renown.
But time forbids, and hence the few,
Are thus held up to public view, That farmers all may fully reach The lesson we desire to teach.
No craft or trade, we venture here to say,
Will profit more by taking science as its guide, Than will the farmers, When you place them side by side.
When God in wondrous love, Dropped the round earth down from above,
For man to occupy, He knew that every dollar Gained by sweat and toil, Must issue from the virgin soil. He never thought to give men farms, And do the work Himself, And man, his glorious image, Be but a wandering elf. He gave us brain power, mind and thought,
82
THE CENTENNIAL OF BATH.
Blessings which gold could ne'er have bought, To use in drawing from the ground The coin that makes a Nation great and sound. These men have gained good name and wealth, By honest labor, not by tricks or stealth.
They knew the drunkard and the glutton Would come to want and shame ; They knew that sobriety and industry
Were certain roads to fame. When farmers' clubs or institutes
Are held within their reach,
You'll find such farmers there, Ready to learn or teach.
They know just what and when and where to sow,
And on what soil each crop will grow,
Because they've gained a liberal store
Of useful facts and agricultural lore.
These are not the men to say, That farming does not pay. Have you never thought, my brother, That no other occupation, Brings you in such close relation
With your Father up above ?
Adam and Eve, the first pair on the land,
Were recipients of a farm from his own hand,
And were told to till and dress it.
What other avocation
Takes its origin direct from God,
And finds approval in his sacred Word ?
Farming draws its aid and comfort
From the fact of human need While many trades and some professions
Find their life in human greed ;
They fatten on the vices and neglects of life,
But die when vices cease, and men forget their strife.
God made our parents guardians of the soil ;
They had no option of their own, But were required to toil. That duty has been handed down along the line, As centuries passed away, Until the nineteenth century came,
And left it binding on the farmers of to-day.
How well the duty is performed in Bath, We here decide at this Centennial hour.
83
THE CENTENNIAL POEM.
A hundred years ago, One solitary cabin built of logs Composed the village and the town ; Now at its close, we place upon the century's head A most befitting crown.
No prettier county seat adorns the State's domain, Than nestles here to-day upon this charming plain. These splendid business blocks of solid brick and stone Are proof of earnest work in years now past and gone. They tell us of the Cooks, Magees and Robies of the past, And many more, who here built fortunes in their prime, And left deep footprints on the wasting sands of time. Across the stream, beneath the shadow of those towering hills, A monument of love is seen that every bosom thrills. Large blocks of stone, hewn from that mountain's base, Here do their loving work and find a resting place. None knew, save Colonel Davenport, the problem there involved, And many sought, in vain, to get the mystery solved. 'Twas in the time of war, When civil strife the Union rent in twain ; On bloody fields the blue and gray Were falling 'neath the leaden rain. For widows and maimed veterans The Union would provide ; But who would care for orphan girls, Whose sires had fallen in the deadly strife ? Must now these household pearls Be left a prey to poverty and fallen life ? His heart, who built that monument to Christian love, Said, "No; I will for them an Orphans Home provide ; My princely wealth I will with these divide." That philanthropic thought was father to the deed, And on that graceful slope above the fairy mead, Where morning light in matchless splendor shines, And evening zephyrs whisper through the pines, The site was laid.
The walls appeared in beauty all their own ; The cap-stone sat in silence on its modest throne And yet it seemed to say, "This is the Davenport Orphans' Home, All cap-a-pie from base to stately dome." Behind it stands Bath's lovely moss-clad steep, Before it crystal waters glide and smiling meadows sleep. When here in Bath you have a leisure hour,
84
THE CENTENNIAL OF BATH.
Go to that mountain gap, that charming forest bower ; Look upon those plain but massive walls, Go through those clean and tidy halls, Visit the chapel school room in its pride, Where science and religion drop their blessings side by side ; Behold the happy faces of the group now gathered there, And listen to the songs that up to Heaven they bear- Now draw a picture on the tablet of your soul, Of what they are and what they would have been, Had they not found this Christian goal. Then tell me if patriot, philanthropist or sage, Has ever done a wiser, holier thing in any age, ยท
Than he who builded and endowed that Orphans' Home. His name is not more deeply chiseled In that modest granite shaft on yonder plain, Than 'tis engraven on the hearts of men.
While Heaven remains, And justice reigns, Such deeds of philanthropic love can never die ; Should earth refuse to them a home, They back to Heaven would fly.
The business interests of Bath, All through the century's years, Have been conducted well By men who had few peers. The competition consequent Upon successful trade Has put our dealers to a trying test, And made them show their grade. Some fine examples of success Have thus been brought to view, And to that sharp and trying test, Success is largely due. While these have well adorned the front, And gained the loudest cheer, Those who were distanced in the race, Have not disgraced the rear.
We will not pass the doctors by ; (Too oft we need their aid) We owe them debts of gratitude That never will be paid.
85
THE CENTENNIAL POEM.
They yield their comfort, peril health- Not simply for the fee, Which after all, we are informed, They sometimes never see- They come at noon, or dead of night, As we, their patrons, call, And oft they save our tearful eyes From witnessing the pall. Our knowledge of their history, Spans scarcely five decades,
In which no lack of skilled M. D.'s, Has marked the passing years, Many of whom have done their work,
And crossed the stream that bounds this vale of tears. Of those whose honored heads wear locks as white as snow, Two only now remain to practice here below. These doctors-Grant and Cruttenden-
So long upon life's active stage, Have honored their profession And made their mark on Bath's unwritten page. An Allopath and Homeopath (we take our choice, you see). When they are called from earth, As they, with us, must be, We trust they'll find a peaceful shore, Where doctors will agree. A class of younger men, skillful and true To every trust make up the residue. Some unborn bard, with wrinkled brow, Will write their startling history A hundred years from now.
The next fraternity which here we call in line, Is that in which the lawyers and the judges shine. In the dawning of the century Bath had greater need of choppers and sawyers, Than it had for judges and lawyers ; Hence if they came or grew here, They were of little use, And as a natural consequence, Were quiet and recluse. The people were too busy then, Against the law to sin, So lawyers had but little chance
86
THE CENTENNIAL OF BATH.
-
To litigate and chin. This simple recipe for keeping lawyers still Might well be followed in these days, And save us many a bill.
But down along the cycles,
As the whirling years advance,
This numerous class of citizens Has had a better chance.
In truth, though right or wrong,
It leads the van amongst the busy throng.
The legal and judicial branch Of Government to-day, Is in the saddle-holds the reins- Dispute it, you who may.
Their grasp upon judicial power
Has crowned them masters of the hour.
All down the line of years Bath's bench and bar
Have been an honor to the town.
On every page bright names appear, That clothe it with renown.
We point you to a few of the living and the dead,
Whose most deserving names will long be sung or said.
Far back within the century's years,
The Howell name stood out in bold relief ;
Edward and William held long and high
The legal banner of the town,
And left a record that will never die.
Contemporary with the last, another name
Gave credit to the records of the bar,
That time will not efface,
Nor history its luster mar-
That name is Robert Campbell,
Around which cluster bright memories of the past,
And its reflected honor
Upon his worthy son is cast.
The name McMaster Is not alone engraven on this glittering roll, But with the masses long ago,
'Twas written on the tablet of the soul ;
Attorney, judge, historian, poet, man,
'Tis interwoven with half the years That through the century ran.
It twined its tendrils round the grand old tree,
87
THE CENTENNIAL POEM.
And history will pass it down, Through centuries yet to be. The Rumsey name Was entered in this bright array In eighteen thirty-one, And stronger grows with each revolving sun. Few brighter lights have ever graced the bar, Than shone there in our senior Rumsey's star. In County, State and Nation, An honored name he won, And linked it with the fortunes Of his thrice honored son, Whose marked ability and growing fame Are crowning glories to his father's name. The oldest living lawyer of the town Is Ansel J. McCall, historian of to-day, Who holds a volume of unwritten truth In his memory stored away. For more than fifty years of his industrious life, His eyes have seen, and mind acquired The marked events that in these years transpired. Long may he linger on the shores of time, And hold the mental vigor of his prime. The present bench and bar of Bath Are holding good the records of the past ; In number and in quality They stand a careful test. We have the keen acumen That puts the witness to his trumps ; We have facetious sarcasm, The lawyer's stock in trade, Which shows of what material The fraternity is made ; We have the shrewd defender Of the prisoner being tried, When the fact that he is guilty Can scarcely be denied ; We have the astute discerner Of the motive for the deed, Whether done in self defence, Or to satisfy his greed ; We have the flow of graceful eloquence, That brings conviction near,
88
THE CENTENNIAL OF BATH.
And the melting glow of pathos, That starts the scalding tear ; A judge with quick perception, To catch the bearings in the race, And give them to the jury, For their verdict in the case.
When treason raised her guilty hand To rend in twain our Union land, Bath's noble sons said promptly, "No, Though into battle we must go, That dear old blood-bought flag, Saluted all the world around, Shall never trail on Freedom's holy ground." That stately monument, in yonder square, Silent since first we placed it there, Will speak to-day through Captain Stocum's pen, And tell the story of Bath's soldier men.
We have bankers, men of honor, Men with whom we trust our cash, Messrs. Allen, Hallock Campbell, Who, when we ask for honest money, Never give us worthless trash. If we need accommodation, Cash to meet an obligation, "For thirty, sixty or ninety days?" The banker asks, in current phrase ; Then promptly, and without excuse, Counts out the cash we need for use. Five mills we have to do our grinding, Each with a paying trade ; Two roller mills amongst them, Producing flour of finest grade. We have builders and contractors, Who bear an honored name ; By competence and sterling worth, They've gained a State-wide fame.
Our manufacturing plants Are hives of industry and gain, Where busy hands are earning daily bread, And nimble feet learn virtue's path to tread.
89
THE CENTENNIAL POEM.
We are glad we have the fire lads, The intrepid " Hook " and fearless " Hose " men, The nerve and muscle of the town, Whose active work and daring deeds Have earned them true renown. The fire alarm brings out their flying feet, Ready the dreaded foe to meet ; At morn, or noon, or dead of night, They seek the thickest of the fight, And save our cherished homes, That cost so much, and are so dear ; They shield our lives from harrowing fear. All honor to our fire brigade, The veteran "Hooks," And " Edwin Cooks."
Our splendid public schools, By well trained teachers taught, Are ornaments of priceless worth, With richest blessings fraught.
Our fourteen churches in the town, With spires that point above, Are silent monitors of grace, That tell us "God is Love." Those consecrated bells That hang within their towers, As with a living voice, Peal out the churchman's hours ; While pastors, faithful to their trust, Make plain the pathway to the Throne ; The man who fails to walk therein, Will find, at last, the fault was all his his own. Five Christian pastors, in the last decade, Have closed their life-long work of love, And entered service of a higher grade, In fairer fields above. The faithful Emory, the gifted Platt, The earnest Brush, the bright young Hosie, And the sainted Howard, gone before, Have left sweet memories on this mortal shore.
Three quarters of a century ago, and more, The Farmers' Advocate began its grand career.
90
THE CENTENNIAL OF BATH.
A rather unique citizen, Ben Smead by name, Devised the scheme, and editor-in-chief became. This journal had the pole, as trotting sportsmen say, And in straight heats, it nobly won the day. In later years, Rhodes, Donahe and McCall, Put shoulders to the wheel, and pushed the rolling ball. In eighteen hundred sixty,
Our honored A. L. Underhill assumed the place, And trimmed his ship, To win, if possible, the editorial race.
In eighteen hundred eighty-four,
Still worthy of the roughest sea, She dropped her anchor in the port,
And set her gray-haired captain free. Then with his enterprising son in editorial charge,
She started out on her present voyage :
She spread her sails, but not on untried seas :
May she return with top-mast colors flying in the breeze.
In eighteen hundred forty-three,
The Steuben Courier stepped out upon the stage,
And filed its claim for public patronage ;
With Henry Humphrey Hull to wield the pen,
Fresh from the roll of bright young men.
It had not long to work and wait,
But soon took rank with country journals of the State. He lived to see the hour
When it was noted for its editorial power ;
And when he died, just in the vigor of his mental prime,
Held high degree amongst the pungent writers of his time.
He left his paper to his frail, but energetic son,
Whose early manhood had but just begun ; And then the query ran from lip to lip through all the town, Can Harry Hull bear up the standard that his sire laid down? For fifteen years his editorial pen was thrown,
Till Harry Hull was well and widely known. To champion what he thought was right, Became the editor's supreme delight. He left his own identity on every weekly sheet ;
Without that impress there, the Steuben Courier was not complete. At thirty-six, he dropped the editorial roll, And entered on the higher mission of the soul, Leaving behind the family, the friends, the class he loved so long, To watch and wait their coming, in the land of hallowed song.
91
THE CENTENNIAL POEM.
But the Courier still survives, With J. F. Parkhurst in the editorial chair, And bears its usual message to its patrons far and near. Long may it hold the vigor of its youth, And furnish men with intellectual truth. On May the first in eighteen hundred eighty-three, The Bath Plaindealer, a rather modest sheet, Made its graceful courtesy, and was sold upon the street. Its editor and proprietor is A. Ellas McCall, Who had chosen this profession, in which to rise or fall. Without the least experience in the journalistic trade, It seemed a bold adventure that young McCall had made. But the people were enamored with the boldness of the start, And they gave the spicy journal a generous support. It is growing and improving, as it presses on its way, And we'll tell you of its future, on next Centennial day.
A numerous class of noble citizens, To whom no reference has been made before, Within your memory and mine, Have crossed the silent stream, And live again upon the other shore. Did time allow, The Poet would delight their names to call. And speak in detail of them all. For pure integrity, The name that Peter Halsey bore Would tip the scales 'Gainst Ophir's golden ore. The Christian pearls that ornament his name Are brighter, far, than diadems of kingly fame. Take this example of the good men gone to rest, And fill the class at memory's behest : To them in large degree we owe The standing of the Church below.
One more long catalogue, akin to this I know, Who linger with us yet, but they, too, soon must go ; They are listening now, the muffled oar to hear, For well they know the boatman must be near. And as the Poet's eye sweeps now the canvass through, Such names as D. B. Bryan, L. D. Hodgman, Flash up across the view.
92
THE CENTENNIAL OF BATH.
This active class, so soon to graduate, Have made their mark upon the Church and State. A dash of gloom, like cloud-spot on the sun, Comes o'er the Poet's mind,
When he is told their race is nearly run. Peace to their ashes, whene'er they pass away From earth and earthly toil, up through the Gates of Day.
We are glad we have a Soldiers' Home, Where twelve hundred veterans find Peace, comfort, beauty-all combined. When we remember what they had to do and dare, We honor every thread of Blue they wear. They hungered once and in damp prisons pined To save for us a government,
The best on which the sun has ever shined. 'Tis fitting, then, in these declining years, That we should guard their lives From needless want and tears. We are glad the Home Trustees Have furnished them the Keeley Cure, That they may crush the strong drink foe, As they crushed rebellion long ago. And when they're carried to their rest, By tender hands and gentle feet, The mantle of a Nation's love, Shall be their winding sheet.
We are glad we have the G. A. R. To keep alive the customs of the war ; To tell the tales of victory and defeat ; To tell us of the clash of arms When bitter foes in deadly battle meet ; To gather garlands for each Memorial day, And on their comrades' graves these sweet mementoes lay. May they enjoy their jolly camp-fires And their feasts of soldier love, Till Blue and Gray together Shall bivouac on the plains above.
Our hearts are very glad to-day, not proud, But gladness comes welling up within, That we have lived to see another Century begin.
93
THE CENTENNIAL POEM.
No rivalry within our hearts is found ; We're glad our neighbors prosper all around, Glad we have two prosperous cities in Steuben, Where live a class of noble-hearted men. We are glad the county does honor to the Baron's name, And casts a halo of respect around his fame. We are glad to meet and kindly greet The wanderers from our fold, Back to the scenes they loved of old, Back from the great wheat fields of the West, Back from the humming spindles of the East, Back from the thriving cities of the North, And fruit clad ranches of the fertile South ; Back to the homes of childhood days, Of budding hopes and youthful plays, Where first they saw a mother's smile and bliss And felt the pressure of a mother's hand and kiss, Where first they learned to walk and leap, And sweetly whisper, " Now I lay me down to sleep." That you have found the latch-string out, We fondly hope, and do not doubt. May you return safely to the homes you love, And make them symbols of the Heavenly home above.
But one thing yet remains for me to do- Young men, young women of the Century here begun, We now bequeath this Bath to you ; Our work is nearly done.
We took the germ from God's own hand ; We give to you the cultured land. We took the Indian's wigwam, and the eagle's nest ; We give to you a city and a town, in peaceful rest. We heard the wild wolf's howl, the Indian's yell ; You hear the engine's whistle, and the Sabbath bell. Our homes were cabins built of logs, Hard by yon wild-wood stream ; In bright palatial halls, You'll eat and sleep and dream. We made our journeys in the ancient two-wheeled cart, Or "paddled our own canoe" upon the stream ; You'll fly with wind-like speed along the rail In Pullman cars, propelled by modern steam. Our corn was in a mortar placed,
94
THE CENTENNIAL OF BATH.
And with a pestle beat ; We give to you the roller mill, To grind your golden wheat. We labored hard with calloused hand, To meet our every want ; Machinery will do your work, Run by the manufacturing plant. We used the fat pine torch, In battling with the darkness of the night ; We give to you a powerful flame
Of pure electric light. Water to quench our conflagrations,
By hand power only rose ;
We give to you a gushing torrent,
From the nozzle of the hose.
We had no place to gather, When for knowledge we would search ;
We give to you on every hill, in every vale,
The school house and the church.
We had the slow coach mail,
At best but fifty miles a day ;
We give to you the fast express-
At fifty miles an hour It whirls the mails away.
We were charged in cents, from ten to twenty-five,
For distance less or more ; For two cents, now, we send your mail From East to Western shore.
We sent a post-boy, when hasty news we had to bear ; Yours will fly with lightning speed Along the electric wire,
Or better still, by telephone Your friend a thousand miles away
Will tell you what he has to say,
And you'll respond with equal grace,
As though you met him face to face.
We stooped to cut the ripened grain, With tiny sickle in our hand ; You run the reaper and the binder Athwart the grain-clad land. With wooden flail, we threshed our grain and corn, And then by horse-power, of man's invention born ; We give to you the powerful piston rod Harnessed to the mighty enginery of God.
95
THE CENTENNIAL POEM.
Then, we repeat, this Bath we now bequeath to you, And to your children, who may live the century through. Think not the love of fashion or walks of social bliss Are paths that lead a town to permanent success ; Think not that dissipation of any kind or grade Can be an elemental part of what true worth is made ; Think not that wealth alone or pride of education Will be a lasting crown of honor to any town or nation ; But if to these you Christian virtue add, And in purity of life are truly clad, So shall a halo of undying fame Begird Bath's future name. There is a fame that flashes like a rocket on the evening sky, Then bursts in golden bubbles there, that fall and fade and die- Beware of such delusion.
Let reminiscence keep the past forever bright, And forecast on the future turn her signal light ; The spiritual will hold its vigor, strong and hale, Though flesh and blood still weep within the vale. Let " God is Love" be written just above the tears On this mighty scroll of unborn years ; Plant well your feet upon the eternal rock of truth, And you shall find the blush and bloom of early youth On Bath's fair brow, A hundred years from now.
CHARLES WILLIAMSON.
BY JAMES MCCALL, ESQ.
Charles Williamson was the son of Alexander and Christian Robertson Williamson, of Balgray, Dumfrieshire ; he was born at Edinburgh, Scot- land, on the 12th day of July, 1757. We are at present ignorant of the events of his early life, but as his father was a landed proprietor, he undoubtedly divided his time between an active outdoor life and the pur- suit of a thorough education, both of which were characteristic of his native heath, and stood him in good stead in the channels he later fol- lowed.
At an early age he entered the army, and April 10, 1775, was gazetted as ensign by purchase in the 25th Regiment of Foot, called the Cameron- ians. Later he rose to the rank of captain ; and while on his way to join his regiment, which had been assigned to duty in the war of the Revolu- tion, the vessel which carried him was captured by a French privateer, and he was taken as a prisoner into Newburyport, and later transferred to Bos- ton. This incident, possibly unimportant in itself, led to some of the most important events in his life.
For while Charles tarried in that fighting, literary center, he was a boarder in the family of a certain E. Newell, of Roxbury, who had a wife, Margaret, and a charming daughter, Abigail. As the story goes, the cap- tain fell ill, and the daughter either bottled up her animosity, or showed her colors, by devoting herself so thoroughly to nursing the invalid that each grew to love the other's presence. Consequently, in the fall of 1781, when an exchange of prisoners had been arranged and the captain set out for New York, Abigail accompanied him. And at New London, Conn., on December 2, 1781, they were married by a justice of the peace whom we know only by the name of Green. Abigail was born in 1756, and was, therefore, slightly his senior. Old residents repeat this bit of gossip as to the occurrence : That the captain and his future wife, on their arrival at the New London inn, were received by an important landlady of enquir- ing mind, who immediately gave notice that the young lady should not leave the house except under the wing of a legal protector. And the Brit- ish redcoat, mindful of Lexington, made an honorable surrender to the Yankee rebel who presided over the hostelry. Where the young couple
Need help finding more records? Try our genealogical records directory which has more than 1 million sources to help you more easily locate the available records.