USA > Vermont > Rutland County > The history of Rutland county, Vermont; civil, ecclesiastical, biographical and military, pt 2 > Part 33
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the whole family,) yet strange as it may appear to the people of fashion, the table was in a few moments replenished with a rich dessert of pumpkin and milk, which we were informed was the best as it was the only arti- cle of provision the mansion afforded. Cere- monies which take up much time with the gay and fashionable, which I always considered superfluous and even distressing to the hun- gry soul, were here omitted. It therefore took but a few moments to finish our supper, notwithstanding our progress was somewhat retarded for a lack of eating utensils, as one bowl and spoon were all we were permitted to use ; whether this deficiency was from mis- fortune or tradition, I did not learn, as I had been accustomed " to eat," asking no ques- tions " for conscience sake."
Having disposed of supper, the fatigues of the day produced a debility of spirit, and I sank back upon my seat and indulged in a train of profound meditation, the prospect be- fore me was gloomy, the past, the present, and the future were spread out before me in a dreary, inauspicious view. I began to " think of the leeks and onions" of old Connecticut, when, I could eat bread to the full; now my soul loathed this light food. Soon, however we were permitted to take lodging on a floor of split basswood, where probably I might have forgotten my situation for a time, bad I not been precluded that enjoyment by a countless host of creeping, many footed, blood-sucking gentry by which I was assail- ed, and against which I was under the ne- cessity of maintaining active hostilities dur- ing the long night. Early in the morning we sallied forth, making a sort of Dutch de- fence, in a shameful retreat from the field of combat, and continued our journey north- ward, without participating in a breakfast scene with our kind hostess. We having pur- sued, a few miles, a foot path that brought us to a sinall opening at the falls where Conant furnace now stands, then consisting of a log hut, surrounded by a most gloomy forest of pine and hemlock, that eclipsed the sun at its meridian height, and whose inhabitants were those solitary birds of night, that were continually sounding their tuneful notes of hoo, hoo, boou.
We, however by the hospitable laws of the country were entitled to a share of their Having passed this lonely spot, where the flourishing village of Brandon, (then Neshobe) now stands, we pursued our journey by mark- best provisions and accommodations for the night ; although they kept neither waiter nor cook, (the doctor and his spouse constituted | ed trees and slight footprints. Leaving the
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creek path, and bearing to the right, about two miles brought us to another new settler's but, where we were somewhat amused as we drew near the house and observed some half a dozen little juveniles, playing in the dirt, nearly in a state of nudity, and who manifes- ted their surprise at seeing human beings by secreting themselves in a large, hollow log that lay near the house. We halted and al- layed our thirst from a beautiful spring of pure water, that partially restored the ener- gy of a famishing stomach, and enabled us to prosecute our travels somewhere about three miles through a mass of wind-falls, that took us to the place of our destination in the town of Leicester, Vt. Here we were greeted in a friendly manner, and made welcome to such provisions as the country afforded, such as dried Moose meat, " hoe-cake," pumpkin sauce and corn dodgers, with a cup of excel- lent coffee, made from old Connecticut roast- ed peas. This, too was a real luxury in our then famished condition. I shall not attempt to paint the feeling of mind, during a few lonely months, nor to relate the many inci- dents of forest life. "Behold, are they not written in a book." E. CHILD.
DWIGHT SHEPHERD BLISS.
Born in Poultney, 1827, died of consump. tion June 5, 1847. A natural artist, he left specimens in landscape and historical paint- ing, remarkable for one who never had a tutor. He was passionately fond, moreover of music and poetry. From his manuscript poems we have chosen the following, the last of which was written but a few weeks before his death.
LITTLE CHILDREN.
Oh ! I love little children, so pretty they be, With the bright sparkling eye, and the accent of glee, The cheek and its dimple, the lip and its smile The thought and the feeling, the freedom from guile.
I love little children,-80 artless their ways, So courtless of favor, so careless of praise,- So pure the delight which their pleasure imparts, As freely it gushes from innocent hearts.
I love them when cheerful, I love them when sad, Ohl would they might ever be happy and glad, I love their wild langhter, their free gushing tears, Their joys and their sorrows, their hopes and their fears.
I love little children,-80 sweetly they trust, In the arm that supports them,-though be it of dust, They lie dowu at evening, rise up iu the morn, Mistrusting no evil, and fearless of harmn.
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I love little children, -so pure in their love,- So like to that cherished by angels above,- To me they're like angels,-sent down here to dwell ;- Oh ! I love little children,-I love them right well.
EARTHLY FRIENDS IN HEAVEN.
Is it wrong to wish to see them Who were so dear to us on earth ; Who have gone to heavenly mansions,- Who surround a brighter hearth ?
Is it wrong to hope to meet them Yet, upon that blissful shore, And with songs of joy to meet thein When this toil of life is o'er ?
Is it wrong to think them nearer Than the mauy of the blest
Who to us on earth were strangers- Must we love them like the rest?
I've a mother up in Heaven, And Of tell me if ye will, Will the mother know her children,- Will she recollect them still ?
Can she look down from those windows To this dark and distant shore ? Will she kuow wheu I am coming,- Will she meet me at the door ?
Will she clasp me to her bosom In her ecstacy of joy ? Will she ever be my mother,- Shall I always be her boy ?
And, thou loved one, who didst leave us In the morning of thy bloom, Denrest sister, shall I meet thee When I go beyond the tomb ?
Shall I see thy lovely features, -- Shall I hear thy pleasant words, Sounding o'er my spirit's harp-strings . Like the melody of birds ?
And I think me of another. Of a darling little one, Who went up among the angels, Ere his life had scarce begun ;
Q ! I long once more to see him, And to fold him in my arms As I did when he was with us, With his thousand budding charms.
And will death alone unfold us AH about the Christian's home ? Mast we pass the narrow valley E'ro we reach the glory-dome ?
Aye, 'tis true the soul must suffer And be bowed with anguish down, E're 'tis fitted for its dwelling, E're 'tis ready for its crown.
And ten thousand the emotions Crowding round the anxious heart When its weary strings are breaking, When it frels it must depart. But O Jesual Blessed Jesus ! Thou art love without alloy, Thou wilt meet and thou wilt bless us, Thou wilt give us perfect joy.
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AMOS P. BLISS,
Brother of Dwight S., died at Poultney, Dec. 27, 1853, in the 25th year of his age. He was a quiet, unpretending young man of delicate health for several years be- fore his death. Deep and beautiful were his admirations of his brother's poetical talent, amounting almost to reverence. Side by side sleep these two young brothers.
I THINK OF THEM OFTEN. BY A. P. BLISS.
I think of them often in pleasant spring time,
When the green old hills echo the sabbath bells chime,
When the flowers their beauties begin to unfold, With their green shaded borders and petals of gold ;
When the birds are returning once more to their bowers, To warble sweet tones all the bright sunny hours; When the warm breath of spring cometh soft o'er the plain
And all nature is budding in beauty again.
And then when sweet summer comes tripping along, With her bright sunny glances and voices of song ; When the fields are all clad in a mantle of green, And nought but the freshness of beauty is seen ; Oh! then do I think of the dear ones that rest, From the world and its cares, in the home of the blest, Who left these bright scones that to mortals are given For far brighter ones in the mansions of heaven !
And I think of them often when Autumn is nigh, When the shrilly wiuds whistle, and mournfully sigh ; When the leaves of the forest in crimson and gold, Are passing away like a "tale that is told;" When all nature is wearing the marks of decay, I think of the loved ones that faded away : Of the bright hectic flush and the ever brilliant eye Alas ! 'twas the beauty just budding to die.
ISIDORE.
BY WX. MC LEOD. * We often walked at even tide Our hands did never meet, We often sat-she by my side Yet distant and discreet- For we were friends and nothing more Lochiel and Isidore.
Alone we were, most strangely cold And nought could either say, We would not be imagined bold, So each would look the other way : Since we were friends and nothing more, Lochiel and Isidore.
But 'mid the gay and careless crowd, Her glance my soul would thrill : Half vexed I blushed, though I was proud My heart would not be still, Though we were friends and nothing more, Lochiel and Isidore.
* See also Poets and Poetry of Vt., EVA FAY, page 259, sent by him when we were gathering material for that work. He has since died. Ed.
One eve we sat our usual way, But sat not far apart,
Our eyes were moist, we were not gay, Next morn we were to part : Still we were friends and nothing more, Lochiel and Isidore.
I gently took her snowy hand, Our lips approached quite near, I clasped her waist's encircling band And whispered low yet clear, Then are we friends and nothing more, Lochiel and Isidore ?
Our souls united in a glance, The bond our lips did seal, We woke as from a dreamy trance To know, for woe or weal, That we were friends and something more, Lochiel and Isidore.
SADNESS AND JOY. BY REV. JOHN GOADBY.
Alone, reclined on verdant bank, I thought of when my spirit drank Of pleasures stream.
Those by-gone scenes I then reviewed, And thought perhaps they'll be renewed, But 'twas a dream.
A sickly dream of feverish youth, For should they now return, in truth, They would be vain.
Unlike and vain they all would be, No pleasure in them would I see, Nothing but pain.
My head was light,-my hope was young, I thought not, felt not that they sting, Will she recollect them still ? My vagrant breast.
But now I call to mind each scene, Each foolish wish, utopian scheme, That promised rest.
But youth's light heart has power to fling · A mystic halo round each sting That seeks the heart.
How foolishly did I believe How wantonly did hope deceive, And mock my smart.
Deceitful world, but thou hast taught, Me upward to direct my thought And heavenward climb.
To spurn thy shadowy vanities, Alone to expect realities In yonder clime.
MARION HOOKER BOE.
MARION PROCELLA, eldest daughter of Sam- nel P. Hooker was born in Poultney, Jaa. 28, 1827. Her mother died before she had attained her fourth year-Mary Martin Hooker. It has been said the daughter did not inherit the mother's personal beauty. Be
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this as it may, she did inherit that beauty of soul which tinged with glorious hues the im- mortal gem. After her mother's death she lived for four years with her maternal grand- parents, in the town of Underhill, that lies literally among the hills in the shadow of Mansfield, highest of the Green Mountain range; and the tender imaginative child amid the wild and mystic scenery that sur- rounded the mountain home of Peter Martin, grew with a love for nature in all its varied forms, imprinted upon her mind so as to be- come a part of her very being.
At seven the second marriage of her fath- er, brought Marion and her brother Lucius about 2 years younger, again under the pa- ternal roof, and in 1837, the erection of Troy Conference Academy in Poultney village opened another important leaf in this fair life. The school was early opened in '36, a year before the erection of the present spacious buildings. Marion, nine years of age, was among the first and youngest it is presumed, to avail herself of its benefits, and for nearly 12 years, its palmiest days, was indentified with the school either as scholar or teacher. In the summer of 1844, she received the first diploma awarded at T. C. A. She next en- tered Troy Female Seminary, where she graduated in 1845 with the highest honors of her class, her essay being one of three ac- corded the honor of publication. The T. C. A .. Casket, a monthly periodical published while she was a teacher in the school, preserves in most of its numbers the impress of her pen.
In May, 1848, Miss Hooker entered as a teacher the Burlington Female Seminary. She writes to her future husband, May 18, " Mr. Converse introduced me together with Mr. Mott, a new music teacher, to the school. After dining at the Seminary, Mr. C. escor- ted me to my boarding place, where I have the supervision of several young ladies for whom there was no room in the building. Since that time. I have heard recitations in half the studies in school. I suspect they are trying me. If the French teacher who is ab- sent and sick, does not return, I am to take his place, otherwise I take Botany, Rhetoric and Philosophy in addition to my painting class. The first day Mr. C. told me he had a very good account of my decision in govern - ment. High, ho! would'nt one take me to be an elderly lady in cap and specs ?" "I have a charming home here *
* * . my room commands a magnificent prospect of the lake and village, and the far off hills and is furnished with taste and elegance. The famn. ily is that of the late Dr M. and they aree
very agreeable and kind. Mrs. M. is pas- sionately fond of flowers and cultivates a beautiful and large garden."
"June 21. I received a letter from Mrs. Willard last week, offering me a situation in Virginia. I communicated the contents to Mr. Converse, and he declared he could not spare me, but he would furnish a substitute. * *
* Burlington is a very gay place and I am of necessity much in company, but I never forget the future and have no fears that my present society will unfit me for the quiet pleasures and holy duties which will be mine." * * * "I now have charge of the French department, four large classes. My class in oil painting is quite large, and I am commencing with a class in water colors so that, with my share of the mathematics, I have my hands full. But I am happy." *
* * " I have been talking upon the one great subject this evening-I trust hum- bly. * * * * I am becoming a child of God and I wish very much to manifest my attachment to Him by uniting with some branch of His earthly church. But, ever since I began to feel this desire, I have hoped that we might together dedicate ourselves to God, and I have almost resolved to wait until it can be so. And yet, I think I should be better and happier if I had shaped my creed and promised to abide by it. Yes, wherever your life.path may lie my place is by your side, and oh! how lightly shall I tread the roughest and darkest passes with your arm around me and God above me !"
Miss Hooker was married to Alva Dunning Roe, Sept. 6, 1819, and New Year's morning, 1855, both united with the Congregational church. I think Mr. Roe was afterwards ordained as a clergyman, and bears the title of Reverend. But, during the life of his wife, he chiefly devoted his life to teaching, being almost always assisted by his wife, who really had an extraordinary gift for this vo- cation. Marion's first birdling appeared in her happy nest on the first anniversary of her bridal morn, and she made almost as inimi- table a mother as teacher. She still con- tinued to teach with her husband, and seemed equally successful as mother, housekeeper. or teacher, at one and the same time. How slie could so manage was only a very agreeable wonder. We became acquainted while they were teaching in Bellows Falls. She had three lovely children at this time. Her home was a cheery spot into which to drop for a little visit. Later they removed to Salisbury, Ct., where her husband and she conducted the Salisbury Seminary. It was while there, we learned, with deep regret, of her sudden death. She died, Ang. 18, 1863, from appar- ently but an ordinary attack of neuralgia,
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apoplexy setting in, the night of the 17th, and, alone with her two little sons and the servant girl, the husband being absent for a few days on a visit with their little daughter, at his brother's, in Brookfield, Ct. Followed by her very deeply bereft family, and a throng of pupils and friends gathered from the adjacent fields of her latest labors, she was buried first in the Salisbury cemetery, but, in the following Spring, her husband removed her remains to her native place, at which time memorial services were held. Rev. Dr. Newman, her former teacher and appreciating friend, delivered a chaste and grateful tribute to her memory, followed by a graphic sketch of her life from her fellow townsman, Henry Clark, Esq.
"She seemed," he said, " to have a natural gift for imparting knowledge Much of it she may have inherited from her mother, who was a successful and accomplished teacher." Some years ago, at a meeting of the State Teachers' Association, at Bellows Falls, while she was connected with the Union School at that place, there was on the evening of the first day a social gathering of the teachers and friends of education. Among the gentlemen called upon for brief addresses was the Rev. C. C. Parker, of the Congregational church, and his subject was "The Model Teacher." " I have," said he, "in my mind, a model teacher. She was a lady of dignified man- ners, graceful mien, and cultivated taste. She was earnest, faithful and kind-winning the love and confidence of all her pupils ; and she possessed the rare power of impressing her own spirit upon all with whom she came in contact. To her instructions do I owe, under God, the turning-point in my early life, and others can pay the same tribute of affection and gratitude to her memory. I cannot refrain from giving her name, for I shall never forget the labors, the love and faithfulness of my model teacher - Mary Martin." At the moment, Mrs. Roe was standing by my side, and, as he announced the name, she exclaimed, "That was my mother's name !" and truly it was her mother that had been so eloquently described ; and the speaker continued :- " I have this night met, among the teachers assembled in this room, the daughter of my model teacher ; and, when I saw her, I knew not whether to exclaim, O mater pulchra, filia pulcherior, or, O filia pulchra, mater pulcherior ! but I fi- nally said to myself, O mater et filia pul- cherrima!"
Mrs. Roe left three children: Harvey Hooker, of 12 years; Minnie, aged 10, and Alva Lucius, aged 8 years. In this connec- tion, we cannot refrain from giving yet one more little characteristic note.
"July 7, 1856.
My dear sister Augusta: * *
* We intend to go to Pittsford the 28th, and, after spending a few days with Minnie W come down to Poultney. I do not know what you will do with my troop ( row ) of little Roes.
Very affectionately, MARION."
Mrs. Roe contributed to both volumes of our "Poets and Poetry of Vermont." From a memorial volume published by her hus- band, we make the following selection from her writings.
" Home Scenes and Heart Tints : A Memorial of Mrs. Marion H. Roe: 12 mo., 208 pp., New York; John F. Trow & Co., Printers, 40 Green Street, 1865."-A pleasant vol- ume to the many friends of Mrs Roe. Ed.
THE TWO HOMES.
BY MARION F. ROE.
I had a home, a pleasant home, And in that dear old hall,
I was the merriest, gladdest thing, The petted one of all.
Now in my own familiar room A stranger's face is seen,
And other forms are at the board, Where I so oft have been,
And other hands attend my flowers And feed my singing birds ; And other fingers sweep the lyre And others chant the words That ever at the twilight hour My father loved to hear ; They had o'er me a holy power They were to him so dear.
He told me why he loved that lay It was my mother's hymn And she now joins the full-voiced choir With flaming seraphim.
I have a home-a lowly home, Where love stays all day long, .
And I no longer care to gain The pleasure-seeing throng.
Nor would I, if I could retrace My childhood's sunny track,
Nor even for one moment call My haughty girlhood back. For I am very happy now Despite my orphaned lot,
And tho' my heart still yearns for those Who cannot be forgot
I glory in the noble one Beside whose steps I tread,
And look with rupturons delight Upon the little head
That hestles in my bosom, and I thank my God above
For His best earthly gift to nie- This blessed human love.
.
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SEWING CIRCLE SONG.
BY MARION H. ROE.
Sisters there is work to do Sew, sisters, sew ! Press the shining needle through, Sew, sisters, sew ! Wintry winds are howling round ; Snow-wrapt lies the frozen ground, Hunger has its victims found ; Sew, sisters, sew ! 'Tis no time for idling now Sew, sisters, sew ! We must brighten many a brow; Sew, sisters, sew l Pain and care imploring stand ; Starving children stretch the hand To our friendly sister-band; Sew, sisters, sew. Not in vain, we labor thus; Sew, sisters, sew ! There's a rich reward for us; Sew, sisters, sew ! Garret high and dungeon dread, Basement dim and dying bed Pour their blessings on our head; Sew, sisters, sew 1
SONG OF PEACE.
BY MARION A. ROE.
Thou art beantiful, O, Peace ; Thou comest like summer beams, Like the glad, golden hour Of plenty in her dreams, Lift up thy holy voice, It may not be in vain ; The earth's bright page-the golden age May glad our world again ; Let us love-love on.
Thou art beautiful, O Peace : Earth spreads a teeming store With brighter hopes of heaven Vain man ! what would ye more : Away with wasting war, Away with ruffian might ; A brother's hand without a brand Can guard a brother's right : Let us love-love on. Thou art beantiful, O, Peace ! The hour is coming fast When the earth no more shall start At the war-trumpet's blast When every man shall sit Beneath his own fig-tree, Content in mind that all mankind Are brothers-let it be : Let us love on-love on.
MAY DAY SONG. BY MARION U. ROS.
May-day morning, bright and clear, May-day morn at last is here; Haste us to the woods away, For 'tis nature's festal day. Choose our fairest and our best, Crown hør queen of all the rest,
Kneel before her rural throne And her gentle sceptre own.
Deck her with a crown more rare Than the tyrant's brow doth wear ;
Amarinth and myrtle vine Round her fair young brow entwine. 'Mid their emerald leaves weave in Diamonds of jessamine ; Shame the turquois azure hne With the sweet wild violet's blue; Let the changeful opal be Zephyr's child, anemone; Ruby's gleam and sapphire's light Dazzle not our May-queen's sight; Richer gems around her fall Plucked from nature's coronal ; Fairer hues to her we bring, Firstlings of the blushing Spring ; Strew with fragrant flowers her way, Crown her, hail her, Queen of May.
BEAR BACK THE DEAD. BY REV. ALVA H. ROE.
Bear back the dead to her childhood's homel To her own-her dear Green Mountain land; Let the wild flower bloom on her hallowed tomb By Northern breezes gently fanned.
Bear back the dead 1 where her merry voice Rang clear and sweet as the spring bird's note; No more those tones will our heart rejoice, Their music no more on the glad air float.
Bear back the dead! where the shadows fall Of learning's loved and honored shrine, Where long she bent her earnest soul To gather gema from wisdom's mine.
Bear back the dead I to that sacred fane Where faith's first spark to lite was fanned ; Where her young heart caught, O, not in vain ! "Glad tidings" of "the better land."
Bear back the dead ! where her troth was plight, Where she gave in trust her hand, With love that grew each day more bright, Till perfect mid the heavenly land.
Bear back the dead! in peace to rest, Her work is well and nobly done ; Now free in mansions of the blest, She wears the crown the cross hath won.
Bear back the dead! where the loved and true Will gather round her cherished grave, Where memory's tear will its turf bedew, And bid sweet flowerets o'er it wave.
Bear back the dead ! where the scattered band, Who lived in the light of her earnest love, Pilgrims may come from a weary land, Hoping reunion in the realms above.
* Written upon the occasion of the removal of her remains to Poultney. Once when visiting her, Mrs. Roe showed ns a cantata written by herself and hus- band together for their school. It appeared as the pro- duction of one pen. She said that she and her hud- band frequently wrote an article in verse together and that sometimes afterwards they themselves could not tell which part each had written, so like each to each, their style, both in thought and rythm, two harps with but one chord.
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