USA > Pennsylvania > Washington County > Claysville > Our church and our village > Part 7
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Mr. Hoge would also find Philadelphia in the midst of a business panic on account of the threatened war with France. America was preparing for a conflict with her whilom ally, and Washington had been ap- pointed Lieutenant-General. The proposed exactions of the French Minister Talleyrand, acting in behalf of the French Directory, had filled all America with the cry, " Millions for defence and not a cent for tribute."
And he, doubtless, landed in Philadelphia to receive the greetings of many whom he had known as friends in his native land. Hence he would be introduced into the circle of the Presbyterian congregations and would meet their ministers, and thus would be brought into contact with some of the best preachers and pastors
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that ever adorned American Presbyterianism-such men as Drs. Ashbel Green, James P. Wilson, and V Samuel Stanhope Smith.
But his sojourn in Philadelphia was comparatively brief. Leaving Philadelphia, he came to Carlisle, Penn., doubtless travelling over the road which ran from the seat of American civilization into the wilder- ness of what was then the far West. As one tells us, "its course, after leaving the city, lay through the coun- ties of Chester and Lancaster, then sparsely settled, now thick with towns and cities, and penetrated with innumerable railways, and via Shippensburgh went over the Blue Ridge Mountains to the little town of Bedford."
As Cumberland County was largely settled by people from the North of Ireland, he must have been attracted thither in the hope of renewing the acquain- tances of his boyhood in Tyrone. Carlisle was remark- able in those early days as the home of culture and comfort. Some traveller of that day noted the cir- cumstance that it contained no less than three hundred stone houses. Our country in its early days received many of its most celebrated men in all the professions from Carlisle's Dickinson College. As a licentiate of the Presbytery of Tyrone, Ireland, he would naturally affiliate with the Presbyters of the town and vicinity. There was that pioneer of liberal education in America, Dickinson's distinguished President, Dr. Charles Nis- bet, and his erudite successor, Dr. Robert Davidson. There was Francis Herron, the young pastor at Rocky Spring, who was afterwards to do the first works of a ministry which has made Presbyterianism what it is
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V
in Pittsburgh and the part adjacent thereto. There was a young licentiate, but a year younger than himself, Matthew Brown, to whom he linked himself in a life- long friendship. Neither were Carlisle and its neigh- borhood beyond the range of the archery of Cupid, and Mr. Hoge met his blessed fate by his marriage to
1 Miss Elizabeth City Holmes. The conduct of his courtship does not seem to have interfered with his superintendence of an academy in Northumberland, Penn. So that Mr. Hoge did his part in the great work accomplished by the classical school for God and country during his career as a preceptor.
Afterwards we find Mr. Hoge at Greensburgh, Penn., where, according to the recollection of his daughter, Mrs. Esther Holmes Hoge Patterson, he served the church as a ruling elder. His removal from Greensburgh to Washington, Penn., was the occasion of a call to the same office on the part of the church there.
On April 17, 1876, Mr. Hoge was taken under the care of the Presbytery of Ohio on his certificate as a licentiate from the Presbytery of Tyrone, Ireland. The same Presbytery ordained him to the full work of the Gospel ministry as an evangelist. His appli- cation for ordination was the result of the earnest advice of such men as Drs. Francis Herron and Matthew Brown. Just about this time he was called to one of the Presbyterian churches of Pittsburgh.
The opposition of Mrs. Hoge constrained him to decline the invitation. As a member of the Presbytery of Ohio, Mr. Hoge acted as stated supply of the churches of Upper Ten Mile and East Buffalo. Some-
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where about this time he was chosen a member of the Board of Trust of the Synod of Pittsburgh, for the prosecution of missions, and was also elected to suc- ceed the Rev. Francis Herron as stated clerk of the / Synod.
The name of Thomas Hoge appears as one of the original members of the Presbytery of Washington, at its organization, October 19, 1819. This Presbytery made him its Stated Clerk in 1822 for two years. In 1823 he was elected Moderator of the Synod of Pitts- burgh. In 1827, 1829, 1830, 1831, and 1832 he served the same body as a clerk.
The initial step in the organization of this, the Clays- ville Presbyterian Church, was taken when, in 1820, Joseph Henderson and Barnet Bonar invited him whom we delight to honor to-day, to preach the Gos- pel in this village. He organized this church in Sep- tember, 1820, and was its stated supply, in connection with East Buffalo, until June 27, 1821, when he was installed the pastor of the united churches.
Mr. Hoge discharged the duties of the Claysville pastorate until some time in the year 1826, when, at his own request, the relation was dissolved by the Pres- bytery of Washington. After an interval of two weeks he resumed his labors as stated supply, and continued his service until about the middle of the year 1828. In 1830 the congregation earnestly requested Mr. Hoge to return to his former pastorate. He acceded to its request and was again installed. During the interval he had been engaged in evangelistic work, and had organized a church at Mount Nebo, near Washington, Penn. During the same interval the Claysville Church
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had been supplied by appointment of Presbytery. The people seemed willing to call a Rev. Abner Leonard. Mr. Leonard, however, declined the acceptance of a call.
The second pastorate of Mr. Hoge continued until 1835, when the relation was again dissolved at his own request, and he was afterward dismissed to the Pres- bytery of Philadelphia. True to his old love for the evangelization of the world, he acted as treasurer of the Board of Missions of the Presbyterian Church in the United States of America from the year 1842 until his death in 1846.
Although everything with Mr. Hoge was subor- dinated to his work as a minister of the Gospel, he was a thorough man of affairs. Like the men of Issacher of the olden time, he had an understanding of the times and was the peer of any man among the early settlers of this region in public spirit. Such men as Josiah Truesdell and George Wilson found in him an earnest, sympathizing second to their efforts to make Claysville a prosperous town. The house in Washington, Penn., which generations have known as the Green Tree Corner, was built by Mr. Hoge, and was his residence as well as a place of business for his sons, Abram Holmes Hoge and Thomas Hamilton Hoge. During their day in West- ern Pennsylvania they were large buyers of wool, and took great interest in sheep and the business of wool-growing.
So that I say to-day what Mrs. Patterson directed me to say when we celebrated the organization of the church, that Mr. Hoge, her father, was always a
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preacher and never a merchant. According to his means, he aided his sons in order that they might en- gage in trade. As far as he was concerned, he knew nothing among men save Jesus Christ and Him cru- cified.
In the controversies which agitated the Presbyterian Church in his day, Mr. Hoge was an old-school ortho- dox, conservative man. The Bible truths as they are set forth in the Westminster Confession and Cate- chism were certainties to him, and he preached and defended them with his characteristic energy and de- termination. His cotemporaries regarded him as a man of thorough learning, and I have heard the men- tion of him as a preacher of power.
How he loved this church building! The edifice was the fruit of his enthusiasm. After pledging one- third of its cost, he took a trip to Philadelphia and obtained the money. I only wish that the beautiful pulpit of Mr. Hoge's day had been left to emphasize the exquisite taste of the memorial tablet.
Seven persons are still living (November 24, 1898) who remember to have seen Mr. Hoge. They are John Birch, Anthony A. Mealy, John Finley, Joel Truesdell, Joseph R. McLain, Miss Mary McLain, and Mrs. T. C. Noble. They describe him as of medium height, stout build, and of pleasing ad- dress.
When he was seventy years of age he had the appear- ance of a man of sixty. It was the habit of Mr. Hoge to come to Claysville on horseback. Many a Sabbath he enjoyed the companionship of his daughter Hettie over the road from Washington to Claysville. To-day
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she must be thinking of those rides as, though absent in body, she is present in spirit at this service.
One of Mr. Hoge's Claysville homes was the hotel of Mrs. Calohan, whom the most of us afterwards knew as Mrs. John Kelley. A part of the time he made his sojourn with the Truesdell family. The sad story of the accident which took Mr. Truesdell away in the prime of life is one of the indelible incidents of the his- tory of Claysville. It is interesting to know that the last friend Mr. Truesdell recognized on earth was Mr. Hoge.
As has been already intimated, Mr. Hoge at the time of his death was residing in Philadelphia. His family consisted of four sons and two daughters, viz .: Abram Holmes, who died in Chicago several years since; Thomas Hamilton, William, and James, who have passed away; Esther (Hettie), who became Mrs. Joseph Patterson, and now lives at 1728 Spruce Street, Philadelphia; and Elizabeth, who was the third wife of General Pleasonton, of Philadelphia, and died but recently, consecrating a considerable portion of her wealth to several of the Boards of the Presbyterian Church. She also endowed the Thomas Hoge Ward of the Presbyterian Hospital of Philadelphia.
Abram Holmes Hoge was, for a number of years, Collector of Internal Revenue at Chicago. His wife's maiden name was Jane C. Blackie. Her father, Cap- tain Blackie, commanded the vessel which carried the first missionaries to China and India. He was a cousin of John Blackie, the celebrated Greek professor of the University of Edinburgh.
Mrs. Abram Holmes Hoge and Mrs. Mary A. Liv-
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ermore were the founders of the Sanitary Commission which did such efficient service in our Civil War. Mrs. Hoge was also one of the founders and long the Pres- ident of the Woman's Foreign Missionary Society of the Northwest. She was the author of a book entitled " Heroes of the Rank and File," which Secretary Stanton called " an imperishable monument to the memory of the 'Boys in Blue.'" Dr. Delano, of the Baptist Church in Evanston, Ill., fitly summed up her life as he called her " one of Chicago's bravest pioneers, a saintly mother, a gracious wife, a noble member in the church militant, a friend of God's true ministers, a helper of the poor, an inspirer of missions, a loving counsellor in grief, a patient pilgrim in the highway of trial."
But what is a picture without its background? The background in this case was Abram Holmes Hoge.
And what shall I say for Mrs. Patterson, who rises up this day to call her father blessed? The good cheer of the faith which her father taught her frees old age from the winter of discontent, and makes an interview with her a benediction.
The apostle Paul, in I Corinthians vii. 31, would have us, as Francis Jacox puts it, " use the world as not abusing it for the reason that the fashion of this world passeth away." The expression is said by Gro- tius and others to be borrowed from the theatre, and to refer to the scene-shifting of the stage. Life here be- low has verily its histrionic aspects; the fashion of it passeth away much as do the scene-painter's creations, the stage-carpenter's framework, the spectacular ef- fects and dissolving views, nay, the very actors them-
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selves. For all the world is in some sense a stage, and all the men and women merely players.
" They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages."
" The measure of a happy life," writes Lord Shaftes- bury, he of the " characteristics," is not the fewer or more suns we behold, the fewer or more breaths we draw, or meals we repeat, but from the having once lived well, acted our part handsomely, and made our exit cheerfully-or to print it as he wrote it for the lovers of old books' sake, " And made our exit cheer -. fully and as became us."
So Thomas Hoge, amid the shifting scenes of his life-as it shifted from Tyrone to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to Tyrone, from Tyrone to Philadelphia, from Philadelphia to Carlisle, from Carlisle to North- umberland, from Northumberland back to Carlisle, from Carlisle to Greensburgh, from Greensburgh to Washington, from Washington back to Philadelphia, to God's Acre-lived well, acted his part handsomely, and made his exit cheerfully because his life kept step to the heavenly rhythm of the word which has been cut into this bronze: " For other foundation can no man lay than that is laid which is Jesus Christ "; and if he could fill that face with what he knows, as he sees Jesus Christ as He is, methinks he would close this address with the word:
" How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, Is laid for your faith in His excellent word ! What more can He say than to you He has said, To you who for refuge to Jesus have fled ?"
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Our Village Home
REV. G. W. F. BIRCH, D. D., LI .. D.
Our Village Home
A SKETCH OF CLAYSVILLE, WASHINGTON CO., PENN., BY GEORGE W. F. BIRCH, D.D., LL.D.
I. wish that I could strike from Goldsmith's harp notes such as the imperishable numbers which en- shrine " Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain."
I covet that acquaintance with the springs and ac- tions of human life, that profound sympathy with human conditions, that real kinship with human na- ture which George Crabbe brought to light when he described the " Borough " as its church, its sects, its electors, its lawyers, its physicians, its tradesmen, its clubs, its social meetings, its players, its inns, its alms- house, its hospital, its poor, its Peter Grimes, its pris- ons and its schools; compose what William Howitt called " the strangest, cleverest, and most absorbing book " he had ever read.
I long for that power of imagination, that creative faculty-that love of nature-that insight of human character which made Scott the poet and Scott the novelist call forth from the mountains, lakes, cities, homes, and traditions of his native Scotland, incarna- tions of heroism, humor, and uniqueness which are historic.
I would like to have the prerogative whereby Will- iam Wordsworth revealed that the ordinary walks of
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life preach the grand truth that, as an American critic puts it, " The beautiful is not confined to the rare, the new, the distant-to scenery and modes of life open only to the few; but that it is poured forth profusely to the common earth and sky, gleams from the loneli- est flower and lights up the humblest sphere; that the sweetest affections lodge in lowliest hearts; that there are sacredness, dignity, and loveliness which few eyes rest on; that even in the absence of all intellectual cul- ture, the domestic relations can quietly nourish that disinterestedness which is the element of all greatness and without which intellectual power is a splendid deformity."
I feel in my present task the need of that grace, melody, and variety by which Henry Wadsworth Longfellow has responded to every emotion which thrills the heart of humanity.
My subject deserves the smoothness, the elegance, the thoughtfulness with which the genius of William Cullen Bryant crystallized his observation of the every- day life of American homes and communities.
As I recall the dainty pictures of home, childhood, boyhood, which are the charm of Ik Marvel's " Rev- eries of a Bachelor," I crave, as I trace some recollec- tions of Claysville, Washington County, Pennsylvania, Our Village Home, the right to exclaim, "I, too, am a painter!"
For in Our Village Home, Goldsmith, methinks, would have found his village preacher, his village schoolmaster, and his village inn. Crabbe could have sung of alley, lane, and street in describing our " Borough." Scott would have discovered the ma-
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terial to mould the Antiquary or Jennie Deans or Dumbiedikes. Wordsworth would have been ac- quainted with a Benjamin the Wagoner, evolved the story of Peter Bell, caught the " Song of the Spinning Wheel," and experienced many a phase of the "Ex- cursion." Longfellow would have known a veritable Village Blacksmith, heard the "Old Clock on the Stairs," and contemplated " My Lost Youth." Bryant could have evoked his " Thanatopsis," described the " Old Man's Funeral," and walked through the groves to the music of the " Forest Hymn." Ik Marvel could have made us look through our tears at the home of our childhood.
Hence if we cannot make the story of Our Village Home flash with the light of these stars of the literary firmament, I may at least venture with the flicker of my little lamp to interest and amuse, if not to instruct and impress.
Moreover, the aim of this chapter is not without Scripture warrant. Indeed its appropriate text is found in the farewell song which Moses " spake in the ears " of his countrymen: " Remember the days of old, consider the years of many generations; ask thy father and he will show thee; thy elders and they will tell thee." (Deuteronomy xxxii. 7.) The philosophy of this direction appears in the thought that " Human progress is entirely dependent on the memory. By this power the mind retains or recalls knowledge once acquired, and thus garners the materials of thought, comparison, and deduction. Memory is at once the re- corder of the intellect and the storehouse of the affec- tions. Without this faculty of mind man would be a
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perpetual novice-his past a blank, his future imbecil- ity-indeed he would not be man."
So I recall the invocation which opens a poem by Willis Gaylord Clark:
"Come, Memory, with thy power to paint and sing The vanished glory of life's little spring ! Back o'er the soul the light of childhood pour, And bring its blossoms, though they bloom no more. To fancy's eye unfold each braided wreath, Once twined on sunny brows, undimmed by death. Bring back the tale and lay of yore so dear Which fell in sweetness on the thirsty ear. When hope was singing like the lark at morn, And all the flowers of earth were newly born, Thanks for thy bidden aid-at thy command, As by the magic of the enchanter's wand, A thousand scenes returned to life arise Softer than moonbeams in the eastern skies ; Upspring a thousand roses fresh with dew And round my path their radiant tints renew. Their breath seems floating where the winds prevail, And birds and brooks give music to the gale. Mid skies where fancy moves the frolic wing Life's train of morning stars arise and sing."
OUR VILLAGE SITE
Beautiful for situation was Our Village Home. The original survey of the locality designated it as " Super- fine Bottom." Its horizon was narrowed by the high hills which inclosed the indented valley, along which the houses lined its single street. Those hills were magnificent parks of the noblest trees of the forest. They were crowned with the towering poplar, the
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Our Village Home
cathedral elm, the giant oak, the tall ash, the royal black walnut, the stately wild cherry, the straight hickory, the symmetrical maple, the expanding syca- more. To the north, to the south, to the east, to the west, wherever we looked, we saw a grove fit for the temple of a God. How beautiful those hills when spring dotted them with the white of the dogwood; when summer enrobed them in its luxuriant green; when autumn touched them with its tints of scarlet and gold; when winter gave them the whiteness of its snow and the sparkle of its ice!
These forests of Our Village Home swarmed with animal life in the days of the Indian, and within the lifetime of the writer often rewarded the patience and skill of the hunter. An occasional wildcat or lone wolf recalled the days and dangers of the pioneers. Among my first recollections of the county paper are the announcements of "The Circular Hunt," which summoned every man, weapon, and dog from far and near to the capture of the crafty fox. That " same old coon," adopted in the "Forties " as the watch- word of a political party, was the frequent occasion of the most exciting sport, as before the flare of torch and the bay of dog he made a brave fight for life. That strange mixture of craft and dulness known as the opossum was an enemy of the hen-roost and lover of the egg-basket, to which no lady of the farm gave any quarter. The nomenclature of our folklore had no word more familiar than " possuming," drawn from the well-known instinct of the animal, when caught, to feign death which became life when relieved of the presence of the captor.
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I will never forget the squirrel hunts, which enlisted the interest of every marksman in town and county. The stillness of the early morn would be broken by the crack of the rifle; hill and hollow would be traversed as long as the sun was above the horizon. The hunters would come in with their tale of game in the evening, the aggregate running up into the hundreds, and the day's enjoyment would close with a banquet-in the old-time parlance a supper-at which the victors in the hunt were the guests of the defeated.
What boy of Western Pennsylvania has not traced along the snow the course of the odd, the quaint, and the ludicrous rabbit?
I can hear even now the bird-chorus, whose war- blings hailed the opening of the day, filled the woods with their music, and were the voices of the night to the inhabitants of Our Village Home. A yearly epoch was reached when the pretty, sweet-voiced blue- bird appeared as the harbinger of spring. I recall the rich, mellow notes of the catbird; the loud, clear, vo- ciferous note of the blackbird; the twitter of the swal- lows, the "wee-whit-wee-e-whit" which names the pee- wit, the musical cry of the robin, the scream of the hawk, the caw of the crow, the cackle of the wild geese, and the quack of the wild duck, as they left the snow and sleet of the north for the bright skies and warm breezes of the south; the clatter of the martens, the mimic of the blue jay, the "Bob White " of the quail, the love-song of the bobolink, and last, but by no means least, the whoop of the owl, Christopher North's "Nimrod of the night and cat with wings." Indeed the birds made our village forest the exposition
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of the faith-inspiring question of our Lord, " Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings and not one of them is forgotten before God?" (Luke xii. 7), recalling the " Childhood Hymn " of Mrs. Hemans:
" Tribes of the air ! whose tavored race May wander through the realms of space, Free guests of earth and sky ; In form, in plumage, and in song, What gifts of nature mark your throng With bright variety !
" Nor differ less your forms, your flight, Your dwellings hid from hostile sight, And the wild haunts ye love. Birds of the gentle beak ! how dear Your wood-note to the wanderer's ear, In shadowy vale or grove !
"Others no varied song may pour, May boast no eagle plume to soar, No tints of light may wear ; Yet know, our Heavenly Father guides The least of these, and well provides For each with tenderest care.
" Shall He not then thy guardian be ? Will not His aid extend to thee ? O safely mayest thou rest ! Trust in His love ; and even should pain, Should sorrow tempt thee to complain, Know what He wills is best."
With such an environment our village must have been the home of the hunter. There was Perry, the shoemaker, whose gun was his boon companion, and whose career seemed to be a pendulum swinging be-
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tween the bench and the woods. There was Samuel, the blacksmith, and his dog Bounce, whose bark at the foot of a tree seldom failed to locate a squirrel. There was Asbury, the merchant, whose Nimrodic exploits I do not forget, but which I cannot repeat. I did all my hunting as a carrier of the game which others shot, several vigorous kicks on the part of the gun having convinced me that I would never be a marksman.
The following story stamps my reputation as a hunter: An adventurous American who was shoot- ing small game in Germany, said to his host that there was a spice of danger in shooting in America. " Ah," said the host, " you like danger mit your sport! Then you go out shooting mit me. The last time I shoot my brudder-in-law in the schtomack."
Among the memories of our village hunting-ground is the case of an Irishman fresh from the Green Isle, who, soon after his arrival, thought that he would take a gunning excursion in America. Noticing a peculiar- looking bird, he fired, and brought to the ground a screech-owl. Turning to the boy who was his com- panion, he shouted, " Jimmie! Jimmie! " and gave him the charge to run home and tell his father that he had killed his Satanic Majesty himself.
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