USA > Vermont > Windsor County > Windsor > The centennial at Windsor, Vermont, July 4, 1876 : being a record of the proceedings at the celebration; and containing the address and poem then delivered; also a view of Windsor as it now is > Part 5
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Through fifty years now I'll go back, Upon my memory's dusty track, And place before you, here and there, Who at that time our neighbors were. First, just below that belt of wood, Beneath the tall, old elm-tree, stood The dwelling of one Joab Lull,
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Whom some of you remember well. In summer, when the leaves were on, We by no means could look upon Our neighbor's house ; but autumn's frown Would all the foliage scatter down ; Then through the woods his friendly light Did cheer us in the stormy night. No other lights to us were given, . Except the starry lights in heaven. Thus lived we there while years went round, And each in each a helper found.
Thence, if across the fields one sirode, Or further yet, went round the road, Another neighbor's house one sees, Upon a ridge, behind some trees ; A dark, thick clump of hemlock, spruce, Through which the winds, without a truce, Forever sigh ; just there for years George Cabot lived ; and all his fears Where, lest in word or deed he might Go devious from the path of right.
The Weedens lived not far away, And I remember to this day A sickly child, a little girl, With thin, pale face, and teeth of pearl. Like other children she played not, But always sat absorbed in thought. Megrath and Spaulding, Blood and Hale, On hill-top dwelt, or in the vale. And others, yet, lived round about, Whose names, if mentioned, would, no doubt, Call old thoughts up, and scenes of yore, Of friends departed by the score.
But let me show you now the spot Where my first lessons I was taught. Near by the house of Stephen Towne, Where two small brooks come babbling down From hills above, and onward flow Through the broad meadow just below, Our school-house stood ; tall poplar trees, With leaves all trembling in the breeze,
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Are ranged along beside the brook, As westward from the house you look. Here, in the sultry summer-day, At length upon my seat I lay ; With book askew, and half-closed eyes, I heard the buzzing of the flies ; And saw the shadows on the floor Slow creeping through the open door; Green bushes round the room were hung, The fire-place filled ; and all among Were fading flowers, that had been sought In fields, and to the school-house brought. In winter time the fire-place blazed With piles of wood on andirons raised. And now be pleased with me to go " Out on the hill," and I will show Where, long years since, in lonely mood, A gray, old church in silence stood. Just south, with gullies deep and wide, Old 'Cutney raised its rocky side ; And just below there is, to-day, The same old grave-yard, in which lay The generations of those men Who in this church have frequent been. At its great size I've often gazed, And wondered how its spire was raised ;
No bell was in its belfry hung, To wake, with clanging of its tongue, The echoes of the woods around ; No organ, with harmonious sound, Did help the choir its voice to raiso In strains of thankfulness and praise. Here, as the dragging weeks went round,
The farmers in their pews were found ; Their sun-burnt face and callous'd hands Showed labors on their half-cleared lands. Assembled round the open door, Just after church and just before,
The news was asked in simple speech, Told and re-told from each to each.
For miles around the farmers came, And some e'en now I well could name. One, Mr. Towne, who was known then
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By every one as " Uncle Ben," Drove a large "hack," in which were stowed Wife, boys and girls, a various load. Then Samuel Lamson's well-filled pew Told that the six-days' work was through. He, though devoid of polished speech, Did sometimes in the pulpit preach. The Burts, who on " the meadow " dwelt, In this old church have often knelt ; And Osgoods, who lived close beside, On Sundays, also, hither hied.
. One Jabez Hammond likewise draws My thoughts, for he the sexton was. The Waits and Farewells, Bridge and Shedd, And many others, long since dead, Come crowding up, in us to find A chance to be brought back to mind.
And here a few words I must say About the great "June Training " day. 'Twas just below this same old church The soldiers used to " form " and marcb. Can any time so famous be As was this " training day " to me ! For months the time was counted well, The weeks and days we all could tell ; At thought of it, for weeks before, The labors of the farm we bore With less of care and conscious pain, Than if our minds had dormant lain. And when upon our cager eyes That morning rose with cloudless skies, With rapture then we all set out Upon the long and devious route. In gathering bands, as we draw near, The rattling of the drums we hear ; And pressing on. with cager might, The gleaming guns now come in sight- The captain's nodding plumes we see, And we are lost in extacy !
Through all the day from place to place, The marching soldiers we do chase ; Or, while they call the scattering roll,
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We just aside may sometimes stroll To buy a card of gingerbread, Or see some one whose turning head. Has caused him to step out one side, His sorrow and disgrace to hide. At close of day we homeward go, With weary pace, and pained to know That training day has passed once more- That one long year must drag before Its rising sun again should meet Our longing eyes, our nimble feet.
Still let me linger 'mong the hills, Though thought of them these pages fills ; Two names on memory's page I find That briefly I would bring to mind. Old Doctor Houghton's smiling face Has solace brought to many a place ; His large, full eyes would seem to see The sick one cured - or soon to be - His pleasant jokes would sure beguile The pains that must be borne the while. How many years his old horse trudged - As frequent with a stick he nudged -- O'er these high hills ; by night and day, Through fair and storm he took his way. But Doctor Story, with more thought, More science to the sick-room brought ; For graver ills he was more sure, And deeper looked for means to cure. With nimble steps his smart horse went, When for the sick he had been sent.
One more loved place my memory claims, And many well-remembered names Come trooping on, as now I hear The once familiar word " Broomshire." You all, perhaps, have been that way, And some of you came thence this day ; The old school-house you all have seen, And some within its walls have been. Can you go back now forty years, Through all life's cares, and hopes and fears, And stand with me within its walls,
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While some old names the teacher calls ? Seth Blanchard in the corner sits, And not one moment ever flits That he does not his lesson scan, To have more perfect if he can. Sam Burnham, at the other end, Now tries some old goose-quill to mend ;
His lesson, if he can, he'll get,
But if he can't he will not fret ; And with the girls he likes to play As well as any task to say. Orlando Patrick sits between, And learns, as can well now be seen, Without much thought or labor spent,
His lesson well, and is intent On some great drive, or dance or ball, At which he'd like to see us all.
The Bryants also here are found, And Shaws and Tuckers all sit round. At this same place, in summer-days, Just as the sun's long, level rays, Were streaming o'er the hills behind, Each passing sabbath us did find.
The thoughtful, old, those without care,
The parent, child, assembled there. The Bible's open page was read,
The earnest, heart-felt prayer was said ; In simple words one Martin Rowe Would us the path of duty show. Then as the gathering shades of night Cut slowly off the rays of light, 'The evening-bymn was fitly sung, In many a heart, by many a tongue. In after years, in cloistered walls, To which the vesper-bell loud calls Long files of priests, in soutanes dressed, While many a student forward pressed ; With loud chants read in Latin tongue, And psalms in French were glibly sung, These simple scenes then came to mind, And strange the contrast I did find.
Another scene now comes in view, At which, perhaps, both I and you
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Together stood ; 'twas at this place, One July Fourth ; but long 's the space Of time gone by - indeed, to fix The rolling years, 'tis thirty-six ; Just thirty-six, this very day, This very hour I well may say. Assembled thousands here stood round, And bands of music, and the sound Of booming guns, from hill to hill, Did all these echoing valleys fill. A stand was here, and on it stood Brave men, who for their country's good Their lives would give; or, for the right, Were fain to wage a constant fight. The signs of rustic life were clear ; A rough, log-cabin stood just here. Skirs of wild beasts killed in the chase, The doorway and the gablo grace ; The hunter's gun stood just one side, The unlatched door was open wide. A large, rough plow, with polished share, Showed in the mellow fields its wear. The hero of that July day, I need not take the time to say, As 'tis your minds impressed upon, Was William Henry Harrison. A brave, old man, and honest too ; Resolved that he would always do The thing his conscience said was right, Let others do whate'er they might.
Now, as our theme to memory brings Old times and many olden things, Allow, as we the end approach, To bring to mind the old "stage-coach." I see it now with blinking eyes, As through the dusty street it flies ; I hear the driver's sounding horn, At evening-hour or in the morn. The horses come, some crank and smart, Some limp and lame and sick at heart. The dogs and boys, with yelp and scream, Come closely on behind the team.
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The cracking whip the horses spurD, As to the " Windsor House " they turn ; And J. H. Simonds, then as now, To make all pleasant knew just how. You would be pleased to see how much Was stowed within this old stage-coach : First are thrown out the great mail-bags, Which some strong arm away soon drags;
, Then from the dusty, rounding top, The brisk young men begin to hop ; Then from within there do come out Six well-built men, both large and stout ; The children then are passed along, I did not count them -'twas a throng ; Ten women came - no hoops were then - Not quite so large as the six men. The baggage now begins to rattle, ยท And, with the noise of some small battle, The porch fills up in one large heap, O'er which the porter tries to leap. Can anything more fine betide Than in an old stage-coach to ride ? Each passenger to each is known ; The driver has to each one shown The country roads, the farming folks, With all their fields, and barns and flocks ; The villages and every town ; Where every brook comes tumbling down From hills around, and mountain side, And onward flows to ocean's tide. Alas ! 'tis gone ! no more we'll see The old stage-coach as't used to be ! Be patient while I tarry still, To talk about the old " goose-quill." Through all the far-off, shadowy past, The deeds of all it has made fast ; The moving centuries' track behind. It has marked out, and we can find Just where they passed, just what they did, And nothing from its search lies hid. The teeming thoughts of busy brains, It has caught up and placed in chains ; And almost every thing we know,
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We to the old goose-quill do owe. Long, pleasant letters it did send To many a far-off, waiting friend ; And solemn deeds and vows were made More firm and solemn through its aid. But this old friend, alas ! we leave Now far behind ; and let us grieve A moment while its knell now tolls, As the new Century onward rolls !
And as I linger in the past, The old " fire-place " now comes at last.
Dear, old appendage of our "home !"
How far so'er we ever roam,
We look to thee with feeling heart -
We grieved when from thee we did part.
We all remember thy great hearth,
With brick or stone laid on the earth ;
We hear the cricket's mournful song, '
At evening-hour, as all along The passing years of childhood's days We gathered round in simple plays.
We see thy crane all hung with hooks,
And well remember just how looks The string of kettles o'er the fire, As high it blazes, and yet higher. At festive times, Thanksgiving-days, There was hung up before thy blaze, The crisping spare-rib, always turning, That it might roast well without burning. The evening hours we oft have spent, When cheered by light thy back-log lent ; And pleasant jokes and stories old In turns by each to each were told. But here we part ; thy fires aro dead ; And now hereafter 'twill be said As 'twas of Carthage in the past, " The fire-place was :" 'tis gone at last.
And now I hear deep sighs and groans, - It is the Century's dying moans ! Old Cen-tu-ry, thou need'st not grieve, Thou hast done well, and so may leave Us, thy young children, without sorrow,
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As we are cared for, for the morrow. Think, rather think what thou hast done, Since that morn when the rising sun This nation saw, a new-born child, Its wailings heard, both loud and wild. How has it prospered in thy care ? It is triumphant everywhere. The nations of the earth proclaim With great respect its honored name. Think of thy gifts to human kind ; How thou hast helped its struggling mind. The steam-boat and the railroad car, And telegraph thy children are. And now old Century we must part ! We do it with a throbbing heart : A nation now thy requiem sings, And to thy shrine its offering brings.
My task is done ; these simple themes, Like scattered rays of solar beams, Just serve to mark the various course Of past events ; and show the source Whence coming times may faintly trace Some fixed points in this life's race. My modest muse did not aspire From Helicon to catch its tire ; Nor did she seek, with trumpet-tongue, When to the winds were banners flung, To step upon the battle-ground, And to the world the conflict sound ; But rather strove, more humbly, thus To imitate Theocritus, Who sang the praises of the fields, And showed just what each live flock yields. Who talked as talks the shepherd swain, When through the waving fields of grain He homeward drives his sheep and goats, And feeds his cows with hay and oats.
And now once more, my task is done ; Accept these wandering thoughts from one Who n'er forgot, in all life's ways, The scenes and friends of childhood's days.
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REMINISCENCES.
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BY SIMEON IDE, ESQ.
N RESPONDING to your call, Mr. President, I wish it may be borne in mind that I do not come to this old home of mine as a public speaker, but am here to-day in full com- munion with your native citizens, and throw myself on their kind forbearance, should I fail, in strength of voice, or in the pertinence and interest of the subjects discussed, to meet your reasonable expectations, while I read from the paper before me "reminiscences " touching some of the early settlers of the town.
It is almost sixty-seven years since I first set foot in this good- ly village of yours. I came here to learn the art or mystery of printing - as it was then regarded - and in the humble rank of an apprentice,- and, about nine years afterwards, in the assumed capacity of "master printer,"- I spent the best and happiest twenty years of my life as a resident of this town. No wonder, then, Mr. President, that your kind invitation, in behalf of its present citizens, to be present as its guest on this glorious anniver- sary, revived very pleasing anticipations of a happy re-union with some of my former townsmen, in this " feast of reason and flow of soul."
Sixty-seven years ago, we may without vaunting say, Windsor
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was the largest - the metropolitan town of the country within a radius of fifty miles or more. She maintained this pre-eminence, in point of business enterprise and wealth, some twenty years or more. One hundred years ago there were but few framed houses in town, and not a very great supply of log-houses. Windsor was chartered July 6, 1761, simultaneously with Reading and Plym- outh - and was not, probably, settled many years earlier than Reading, the first settlement of which town is put down in its history as occurring in 1772. But if its settlement commenced five or six years earlier than that of Reading, it must have been very rapid, for, in 1782, Messrs. Hough & Spooner started the Vermont Journal, a weekly paper which has been continued here, with but a short intermission, ever since.
In the line of personal reminiscences I can go no farther back than the year 1809. The number of my contemporaries of that day, still to be seen among us, is few indeed. I had hoped to have met here and taken by the hand, to-day, one of that number - a life-long friend - he then a clerk in an apothecary store, while I was the " devil " of a printing office - I mean the Hon. ALLEN WARDNER. [ Did not modesty and the want of time forbid, I might here wander a little way from the path I had marked out, and go on to tell you how, on many occasions in after life, we conferred with Edward R. Campbell, Doct. Edward and Francis E. Phelps, John and Frederic Pettes, I. W. Hubbard, Thomas Emerson, and many other wide-awake citizens, in projecting improvements by way of Connecticut river navigation, the building of mill-dams, new roads and bridges, &c., for the benefit of the town - how we put our hands in our pockets, and in due time afterwards put big rolls of river and dam "stocks " in our " strong-boxes " for safe keeping- and how, quietly and undisturbed, those stocks and their coupons remained there, intact, some of them, no doubt, to this very day. But I forbear. ] .
I remember the names of some of those enterprising citizens to whom the town is indebted for its rapid increase in wealth and population, previous to 1809. There were Dr. Isaac Green, Gens. Zebina Curtis and Abner Forbes, Dr, Elisha Phelps, among the leading financiers of the place. There were Sam'l Hedge, black- smith ; William Tileston, coach and chaise-maker; Dea. Nathan Coolidge, bookseller ( in company with Isaiah Thomas ), father of Gov. Carlos Coolidge; Allen Hayes, merchant, father of Augustus
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A. Hayes, late Assayer of Massachusetts, and grandfather of the present Assayer of that State. There were the Leverett brothers ( originally from Boston ), John and William, merchants, and Thomas, for several years Secretary of State, post-master from 1803 ( perhaps earlier ) to 1828, when he was superseded by Thomas Emerson, who soon resigned in favor of Jabez Sargeant. There was Isaac Townshend, watch-maker and jeweler, also from Boston, who died in 1813; and another short-lived firm of watch- makers and jewelers, William & William Johonnot. Thomas & Merrifield had a bindery and bookstore in the old, three-story. Tontine building, which was destroyed by fire in 1818. The pres- ent generation need not be told about the junior member of this last named firm, PRESTON MERRIFIELD-about his long and useful life-how he continued his regular business at his bookstore and bindery till called hence, at the age of almost ninety.
Sylvester Churchill and Oliver Farnsworth, publishers of the Vermont Republican, as also William Hunter and Asa Aikens, were influential citizens of the town, at that day. Mr. Churchill en- tered the U. S. Army as 1st Lieutenant of Artillery, in 1812, and continued in and died, in his country's service, in 1862. Hon. Wm. Hunter was member of Congress, Judge of Probate, Councillor, and so forth. Mr. Aikens held several important offices, civil and military, among them Judge of the Supreme Court. There were William Emerson and Samuel Patrick, Jr., hatters ; Mr. Patrick in the three-story brick building next south of Patrick's Tavern, and Emerson in . the wooden building opposite, next south of the Tontine. Farnsworth & Churchill, my honored masters, had a Bookstore in the first story of the above-named brick building, then known as the " Patrick Block ;" a book-bindery in the second story, and a printing-office in the third, where the " VERMONT RE- PUBLICAN" was printed, I think, till the building was burnt. Rufus Norton had a Cabinet-shop in the second story of this building. There were Zebina Hawley and Daniel Bugbee, tanners ; Daniel Sheldon and David Barlow, shoemakers; Henry Stevens and Jas. Cochran, tailors. And I must not forget the genial old patriarch of the village, Unele Ben Cady, the constable, who had a good word for his friends and a " sharp stick, by faith," as he used to say, for the rogues, - nor yet old Mr. Samuel Patrick, whose ready- heated flip-iron and well-stocked bar cheered a host of thirsty cus- tomers on their wayward course to perdition.
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The Rev. Bancroft Fowler was ordained Pastor of the 1st Con- gregational church, May 26, 1805, and was the only settled minis- ter in the village for several years afterwards. Col. Josiah Dun- ham, "erst of Mackinaw," began his career among us in 1810, if I mistake not, as editor of the celebrated " Washingtonian," a week- ly paper, of which Thomas M. Pomroy was the nominal publisher. Capt. John Henry, a former resident of Windsor, was accused of being an emissary of Great Britain, and a political co-worker with the editor of the Washingtonian.
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Joseph Pettes, of the " Windsor Coffee-House," was a promi- nent early settler. Also, Stephen Conant, saddler and harness- maker, and the most extensive and enterprising builder of that early day. There were Judges Jacob and J. H. Hubbard, Luther Mills, and Samuel Shuttlesworth, among the older lawyers, -Mr. Shuttlesworth, if my memory serves me, having been the predeces- sor of Mr. Fowler as minister in the Congregational church. There was, to set the tunes with the pitch-pipe, the veteran leader of the singing in said church, Mr. Hart Smith. Caleb Stone, an early settler, lived in the house next south of Mill Brook, at south end, and old Mr. Watts Hubbard, the malt-man, at the south-west cor- ner of the village, near the big dam. Among the early, if not the first stage-proprietors in town, was Isaiah Carpenter, the crack of whose whip, or the toot of whose tin horn, set the denizens of the village on tiptoe for the Post-office, the same as the whistle of the locomotive does now.
There may be here present a few of the heroes of the war of 1812, who remember the peculiar state of the political parties of that day. I remember that, during that era-say from 1810 to 1815-party spirit ran very high. The neighborly relations be- tween republican and federal citizens, of both sexes, were very much disturbed. They would not mingle in their social gather- ings. In 1810 they had separate public meetings to celebrate the battle of Bennington. In 1811 the republican party got up a rous- ing celebration of the 4th of July. Some two or three thousand citizens, of this and the adjoining towns, participated-but not a federalist of any note had a hand in it. In the procession, -which then seemed to me a mile long -- drawn by horses, and on all manner . of vehicles, were represented, by agricultural and mechanical im- plements, some of the various industries, by which this Republic has
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grown from one of the least, and become one of the most powerful nations of the earth. Among these industries were represented the farmer, breaking and swingling flax ; the blacksmith, at work with his sledge-hammer, anvil, vise, and so forth ; the shoemaker, plying his lap-hammer, awl and waxed end ; the tailor, at work upon his bench, with crossed legs, his shears, goose, and cabbage- box close by ; the carpenter and joiner, at his work-bench, plying the foreplane; and last, though not least,-among these indispens- able prerequisites in rearing and perpetuating this fabric of Na- tional Freedom and Independence, the one hundredth anniversary of which we are here to commemorate,- there was in the proces- sion, drawn by four beautiful horses, a PRINTING PRESS, throwing off, as it moved slowly along (the ink not having time to dry), cop- ies of the Declaration of Independence. Tradition had it, that this was the same press that Benjamin Franklin commenced his ap- prenticeship on, in 1718.
I have before intimated that Windsor, in 1809, and for many years afterwards, was the largest village in the State, save one, perhaps. It may seem strange to us of to-day, that in 1805, Mr. Postmaster Leverett's advertisements of letters contained the names of persons residing in Chelsea, Thetford, Norwich, Hart- ford, Bridgewater, Bethel, Pomfret, Strafford, Vershire, Spring- field, Weathersfield, Plymouth and Reading, in Vermont ; and Plainfield, Cornish, Claremont and Charlestown, in New Hamp- shire ; indicating that the postal facilities of those towns were not what they are now.
I understand it has of late been a much mooted question be- tween Bennington and Windsor, which of these towns first enjoyed the enlightening rays of the PRESS as a fixture within its borders: it being conceded by the rest of the aspiring towns of the State, that the honor belongs to one or the other of them. By the help of Isaiah Thomas' " History of Printing," I think I can solve this question by proving that in neither Bennington nor Windsor was first the newspaper started in this State -the modest little town of Westminster being entitled to that honor,-but that Windsor is entitled to the credit of permanently maintaining the first newspa- per establishment in the State. In Thomas' History, page 373 of Vol. II, I find that, " In April, 1781, the first newspaper printed in Vermont was published at Westminster : it was entitled, 'The
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