USA > Vermont > Rutland County > The history of Rutland county, Vermont; civil, ecclesiastical, biographical and military, pt 2 > Part 51
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Chorus-Kuzza, huzza, ye mountain sons, Come, shont the Harvest home.
Our mountain homes 1 once o'er you bounded, The warrior savage, bold and free;
And sadly and mournfully sounded, The shonts that ne'er again may be, The shouts that ne'er again may be, These wilds that now ring out with gladness, They tell of morn's bright beaming light, That dawns from out that troubled night, And leaves not a trace of its sadness. Arise, arise. Vermont, Be worthy to be free.
Chorus-Iluzza, huzza, ye mountain sons, Come shout the Harvest home.
Ye sons of sires, who woke to glory, When dark and dreary night appear'd There were your " grand-ires brave and hoary ;" Who direst dangers never feared, Who direst dangers never feared, And when your land lay cold and bleeding, 'Twas Allen then all danger dared. And Warner's breast was boldly bared,
Where home and fireside, aid was needing, To arms, to arms, they cried, To victory then or death. Chorus-Huzza, huzza, ye mountain sons, Come shout the Harvest home.
Ye sons of the mountain, wake to glory, Hark! 'tis Ceres bids you ris- ! 'Tis Science, Art. Commerce, Industry, That cite you onward for the prize, That cite you onward for the prize. Our fields with verdure brightly glowing. Our flocks and herds make glad the hills, And enterprise in thousand rills,
And knowledge, wealth are richly flowing. Rejoice, rejoice Vermont ! To Heaven all honor due.
Chorus-Huzza, huzza, ye mountain sons ! Come shont the Harvest home.
ISAAC D. COLE
of Rutland for many years prominent among the business men ; a member of the Baptist church-and one of the earliest projectors and founders of the Young Men's Christian Association in Rutland. Died Sept. 26, 1870.
JAMES BARRETT,
an old and highly esteemed citizen, of Rut- land, died at his residence, in that village, Oct. 18, 1875, in his 83d year. He was the great grandson of Col. James Barrett, a mem- ber of the Provincial Congress superintendent of the public stores and commander of militia at the Concord fight.
WILLIAM YOUNG RIPLEY
was born in Middlebury, Vt., Dec. 13, 1797. In 1638, his paternal ancestor, William Rip- ley, with his wife, two sons and two dangh- ters came from Hingham, Norfolk County, England, and settled at Hingham, Mass.
William Young Ripley was the son of Nathaniel Ripley and Sibyl Huntington. Nathaniel Ripley's great grandfather was
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Joshua Ripley, who was married Nov. 23, | south of Middlebury, but his active business 1682 to Hannah Bradford, who was a daugh. ter of William Bradford, Jr., Dep. Gov. of Plymouth Colony, and granddaughter of Gov. William Bradford, who came over in the May Flower in 1620.
When the subject of this sketch was S years old his father moved to Weybridge and up to the age of 14 his life was passed on a farm. His early education was simply such as could be had in the common schools of that day, and was finished, so far as schools went, at the age of 14. He was, however, a careful and discriminating reader through life. He had a retentive memory well stored. His library was large, and con- tained many rare and valuable works. At 14, he became clerk for Hager and Ripley (Ripley was his brother) of Middlebury, and remained with them till he was 21. On the day he attained his majority he started out to inake his fortune. He went to Charleston, S. C., and found employment as junior clerk in a dry goods house, and pushed rapidly through various grades till he became part- ner and finally sole proprietor of the then largest house in Charleston. He remained in Charleston 9 years.
During his residence here he was married Dec. 5, 1822, to Zulma Caroline Thomas, daughter of Jean Jacques Thomas, and Su- sanna De Lacy. They were natives of France. Julia Caroline Ripley (now Mrs. Dorr) is the only child of this marriage. In 1826, his wife who had been taken North in the hope of restoring her health, died, and was buried in Weybridge, Vt.
life had unfitted him for so tame an existence. He sought other employment and became in- terested with other gentlemen in the manu- facture of glass at Lake Dunmore, the factory being situated near the spot where the Lake House now stands. He remained in this business as general manager until it was abandoned as no longer remunerative. In 1837, he removed to his late residence in Center Rutland. There he has resided ever since. Soon after coming to Rutland he em- barked in the mercantile business with Mr. Evelyn Pierpoint as partner. Mr. Pierpoint - retired after a few years, and Mr. Thomas R. Bailey succeeded him as partner. This busi- ness was continued up to about 1843, when the firm was dissolved and the business abandoned. In 1844, Mr. Ripley formed a partnership with Wm. F. Barnes, and then commenced the development of the marble business in this county. This was the first well organized effort in this direction. The firm of Ripley & Barnes was dissolved in 1850, Ripley continuing the business of saw- ing and Barnes that of quarrying marble. In 1865, Mr. Ripley surrendered his entire business into the hands of his sons, and re- tired finally from active business. In 1862, on the organization of the Rutland County Bank, he was elected president, and held that position until his death. He became interested, about 1840, in the success of the Troy Conference Academy at Poultney, and for many years held the presidency of the board of trustees of that institution, giving largely of his means to its sup- port.
After this event, Mr. Ripley returned to Charleston and closed up his business, during He never sought, nor would he accept civil or political office of any kind. the winter of 1826 and 1827, and removed to New York, where he became head of the He was for many years, and up to the time of his death, director in the National Bank of Rutland. large commission house of Ripley, Waldo & Ripley. Before leaving home he promised himself that he would be satisfied with for- Mr. Ripley stood for many years in the highest position in society and business affairs, and his removal by death was deeply lamented. He was a man of distinction by nature, impressive in personal presence, tall and commanding in stature, and possessed of those gifts of mind and heart which his physical nature so fittingly symbolized. In many respects he was an ideal Vermonter. He represented the best peculiarities of New England social and business life. He sought tune when he should have attained a certain sum. On the last day of the year 1820, he found himself in possession of the sum, and true to his word he left a business in the full tide of prosperity and returned to Middle- bury in the spring of 1830, retiring, as he then supposed, forever from active business. He was then 32 years old. Feb. 10, 1831, he married the daughter of Gen. Hastings Warren, of Middlebury, and settled down to a farmer's life on the Seely farm, 4 miles I distinction in the sturdy and enterprising
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manner of a true yeoman. Although favored by fortune he was his fortune's own architect.
In 1868, he built the opera house, which was burned the morning of May 17, 1875. This had been called the monument of its honored builder, and it was a source of uni- versal regret that it could not have stood as such in future years. About the same time Mr. Ripley received a severe injury in a fall in which his hip was broken, and this acci- dent undoubtedly hastened his death. For the last week of his life he failed rapidly, but retained possession of his conscious- ness to the last, and about 10 o'clock on the evening of the 27th of September, 1875, the silver cord was loosed, and the golden bowl was broken and he went to his long home at the age of 77 years, 9 months and 14 days.
If Mr. Ripley was fortunate in the spring tide of life, he was no less so when the tide of life was at its ebb. He had all the fitting accompaniments of old age, domestic felici- ties of the rarest kind, "love, honor and troops of friends." During the last few months of his life, his face wore a peculiarly light and etherial look, and set off as it was by long white hair and beard, beautiful in the artist's sense, it gave him the air and mien of one who had reached the crown and palm of life. Mr. Ripley leaves a wife and five children : Mrs. Julia C. R. Dorr, the well known author, wife of Hon. S. M. Dorr ; Gen. W. Y. W. Ripley. Gen. Edward H. Rip- ley, of Rutland ; Charles Ripley, of Col- orado, and Agnes, wife of Mr. Charles Par- ker, of Vergennes. Two daughters have preceded him to the grave-Helen, the wife of J. J. Myers, who died nine years since, and Mary, wife of C. M. Fisher, Esq., who with her husband was lost on the ill-fated steamer Atlantic, off the coast of Nova Sco- tia, 2 years since.
[The above furnished by the family, by re- quest .- Ed.]
JULIA CAROLINE RIPLEY
was born in Charleston, S. C., Feb. 13, 1825. Her maternal grand parents resided, after their marriage, in the island of St. Domingo, from which place they fled to Charleston, S. C., at the time of the insurrection of the slaves in that island.
Her mother was of French extraction, and she herself was born in South Carolina, but most of her life has been spent in Vermont.
There her education was obtained and her character developed, surrounded by the cul- ture and refinements peculiar to the best New England society. Before she was two years old, her mother died.
She was married, Feb, 22, 1847, to Hon. Seneca M. Dorr, then of New York, but for the last twenty years a resident of Rutland, Vt. Mr. Dorr is well known to the people of his adopted State as a legislator of promi- nence and ability. As a writer and speaker, he has been in the front rank m the discus- sions of questions of political economy, and has proved himself strong enough to brave public opinion when he believed it to be in the wrong, and knew it to be intolerant and merciless.
Mrs. Dorr has ever found, in her husband, an appreciative support in her literary work. "The Maples," their home on the banks of Otter Creek, just outside the corporate limits of Rutland, one of the notable residences of this beautiful town, reminds one of the many quiet and beautiful homes on the banks of the Hudson. Its dense shade of maples, its profusion of flowers in their season, its outlook on the river, and the grand old mountains in the distance, all combine to make it a place fit for the habitation of poet and scholar. But a sketch of her life as an author, however full, would be quite unsatis- factory to those who know her best, did it not allude to what she is as a wife and moth- er. A family of four children, who have had the personal care of their mother, into whose lives her own has been largely absorbed, and who have grown and are growing into noble manhood and womanhood, is the highest at- testation that the mother's sphere has been well and wisely filled. The sweet serenity of the home which is filled by her presence, and the quiet beauty and harmony which pervade it, are the unimpeachable witnesses that the highest culture and the most perse- vering literary labor are not incompatible with the paramount duties of wife and mother.
Mrs. Dorr began writing at a very early age. Her first verses were written when she was but 12 years old. She did not, however, make the mistake of some young writers, and rush at once into print. It was not un- til 1848 that she felt that she had something to say to which the world might, perhaps, be willing to listen. Since that time, s large
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number of her poems have appeared in the best magazines of the day, and been widely copied at home and abroad. One of them, " The Vermont Volunteer," written upon a sick, bed, won a $50 prize (offered by the writer of this sketch) over 41 competing poems. Her first attempt at a story-" Isa-" bel Leslie "-liad the singular success of gaining one of the $ 100 prizes offered by Sartain's Magazine.
While her contributions have so constant- ly enriched the magazines, Mrs. Dorr has found time to give the public several novels and a choice edition of her poems. Her first book venture-" Farmingdale "- appearing under the nom de plume of Caroline Thomas, was published by D. Appleton & Co. This was soon followed by " Lanmere," issued un- der her own name. Then came a period of comparative rest from literary labor, the work of the mother crowding out that of the author. But, in due time, "Sibyl Huntington," " Ex- piation," and " Bride and Bridegroom," were written and published, as well as a volume of poems, which appeared 3 years since. These, taken in connection with her current literary work, and the unremitting care of a family, are unmistakable evidences of most painstaking and constant labor, and we should say of Mrs. Dorr, that she has grown steadily, winning, year by year, a higher and higher position. Her books have all been reasonably successful; every story, every poem, seems written with a purpose. No transcendentalism veils its meaning. Every line from her pen bears the clear im- press of a well-balanced mind, a feeling heart, and a broad cultured, cosmopolitan spirit. The beauty and purity of her En- glish, the high moral tone and character of her works, have alike commended them to the most refined and cultivated homes.
Here is a specimen gem, such as are thick- ly strewn through Mrs. Dorr's writings :- "Oh ! well may we hush our vain babblings, and wait : He who merits the crown wears it sooner or late."
In Mr. Emerson's Parnassus, published by J. R. Osgood & Co., in 1875, Mrs. Dorr's beautiful poem, "Outgrown," is given entire, and in the late edition of the " Female Poets of America," edited by Richard Henry Stod- dard, are ten of her poems. In the fulness of her intellectual powers, in the vigor of health, we look upon her future as full of literary promise .- From the Cottage Hearth.
THE VERMONT VOLUNTEER.
BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR, OF RUTLAND.
Four years, four little years ago, through all our sunny land,
Sat wives and mothers, calmly blessed, beside each household band ;
And still the bright days glided on, and quiet nights dropped down,
Wrapping in one soft web of dreams, cot, hamlet, vale and town.
Our sturdy husbands held the plow, or cast the shining grain ;
Our sons and brothers gaily toiled on hill-side and on plain ;
At forge and anvil, mill and loom, in all the marts of trade,
And where primeval forests throw a grand, eternal shade.
They raised the marble from its bed, upon the moun- tain side ;
They joyed through wild and devious paths, the iron horse to guide ;
And some of studious eye and brow, labored with tongue and pen,
Breathing high words of lofty cheer, to bless their fellow men.
But sometimes as we sat at ease, in that serenest air, We wondered if brave hearts and bold, found fitting nurture there ;
We wondered if our mountaineers were valiant as of old,
If "cloth of frize" were still found matched, with costliest "cloth of gold."
And sometimes earnest souls, when thrilled by some quaint olden story,
The ages have brought down to us, haloed with solemn glory,
Sighed for the grand, heroic days, they thought for- ever past,
And deemed the present cold and tame, prosaic to the last.
And cheeks of maidens flushed and paled, as deeply pondering o'er
Some page of old romance, or tale of legendary lore, They read of tilt and tournament, and fields of daring high,
Where knights for ladies' love were proud, nobly to do or die.
A bugle blast rang through the land, a war cry loud and shrill,
Each mountain peak caught up the strain, hill sent it back to hill ;
"To armis! to arms ! ye stalwart men, for freedom and for God,
And tread yourselves the glorious paths your noble sires once trod !"
Ah! were they false or craven then? or lagged they by the way ?
We talk not now of Marathon, nor "old Platea's day;" We speak not of Leonidas, nor of Thermopylæe,
Where Persian thousands poured their biood, a dark encrimsoned sea.
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Nor do we ten, with tremulous lip, how Spartan | mothers bade
Their sons go out to meet the foe, with strong hearts undistayed,
And sternly told them to come back, "bearIng their shields, or on them"-
Our boys went forth without their shields, to bloody fields, and won them !
Oh! paled for us the golden light of all the old roman- ce+ !
True heroism does not die, as age on agn advances ; We know the story of to-day has all the old time splendor,
Aad that men's hearts are bold and brave, as they are true and tender 1
For on full many a hard fought field, Vermont's own sons have stoo 1
Firm and unyielding as the rock, unmoved by storm or flood ;
We glory in their glory, in the bright, unsullied fame That circles as a halo, each patriot hero's name.
That fearful charge at Lee's Mills, across the rushing river,
Where they saw in lines of rifle pits, the foemen's bayonets quiver,
While cannon thundered over them-the men at Balaklava
So farned in story and in song, did nothing any braver.
And the Fifth at Savage Station, won they not unfading bays:
Crowned there and ever after, with a grateful nation's praise ?
With four hundred men they charged on the batteries of the foe,
And they took them-but alast half their number were laid low.
At Bethel and Mannassas. from Yorktown on, to where The swamps of Chick hominy poured death upon the air :
On the deadly field of Antietam and many a one be- side,
Vermonters wrote their names in blood, then cheered the flag and died.
At Fredericksburg and Marye's Hill and Gettysburg they bore
Their colors bravely in the front until the strife was o'er ;
At Baton Rouge brave Roberts fell, bleeding from many a wound,
At Newbern noble Jarvis poured his life blood on the ground.
Ye tried, and true, and loyal ones, what words of mine can tell
How in your country's inmost heart, your memories shall dwell ?
The record of your glorious deeds shall live forever more,
Till Heaven and Earth shall pass away, and time itself be o'er.
And oh ! ye honored dead who lie in unmarked graves this day,
O'er which no friend may ever weep, nor wife nor mother pray-
Yet earth shall hold in glad embrace the sacred, solemn trust,
And God and all Ilis angels watch over each soldier's dust1
IN MEMORIAM.
BY J. C. R. DORR.
Published in the Rutland Daily Herald Ang. 25, 1862 -the day on which the remains of Col. George I. Rob- erts, of the 7th Vt. Vol., were brought home for inter- ment.
From the fierce conflict and the deadly fray A patriot hero comes to us this day.
Greet him with music and with loud acclaim, And let our hills re-echo with his name.
Bring rarest flowers, their rich perfume to shed Like sweetest incense round the warrior's head.
Let heart and voice cry ' welcome,' and a shout Upon the Suniner air ring gaily out,
To hail the hero, who from fierce affray And deadly conflict, comes to us this day.
Alas ! alas ! for smiles ye give but tears, And wordless sorrow on each face appears.
And for glad music, jubilant and clear, The tolling bell, the muffled drum we hear.
Woe to us, soldier, loyal, tried and brave, That we have naught to give thee but a grave.
Woe that the wreath that should have decked thy brow, Can but be laid upon thy coffin now.
Woe that thou canst not hear us when we say " Hail to thee, brother, welcome home to-day! "
Oh God, we lift our waiting eyes to Thee And sadly cry, how long must these things be ?
How long must noble blood be poured like rain- Flooding our land from mountain unto main ?
How long from desolated hearths mnst rise The smoke of life's most costly sacrifice ?
Our brothers languish upon beds of pain,- Father, oh Father have they bled in vain ?
Is it for nought that they have drunken up The very dregs of this most bitter cup ?
How long ? how long ? Oh God, our cause is just, And in Thee only do we put our trust.
As Thon did'st guide the Israelites of old Through the Red Sea, and through the desert wold,
Lead Thou our leaders, and our land shall be Forever more the land where all are free !
Hail and farewell we whisper in one breath, As thus we meet thee, hand in hand with death.
God give thy ashes undisturbed repose Where drum beat wakeny neither friend nor foes.
God tako thy spirit to eternal rest And, for Christ's sake, enroll thou with the blest !
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THE LAST OF SIX.
BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.
Come in ; you are welcome, neighbor; all day I've been alone,
And heard the wailing, wintry wind sweep by with bit- ter moan ;
And to-night beside my lonely fire, I mutely wonder why
I who once wept as others weep, sit here with tearless eye.
To-day this letter came to me. At first I could not brook
Upon the unfamiliar lines by strangers penned, to look ;
The dread of evil tidings shook my soul with wild alarm-
But Harry's in the hospital, and has only lost an arm.
He is the last-the last of six brave boys as e'er were seen !
How short to memory's vision, seem the years that lie between
This hour'and those most blessed ones, when round this hearth's bright blate,
They charmned their mother's heart and eye with all their pretty ways !
My William was the eldest son, and he was first to go.
It did not at all surprise me, I knew it would be so,
From that feartul April Sunday when the news from Suinter came,
And his lips grew white as ashes, while his eyes were all aflame.
He sprang to join the three months inen. I could not say him nay,
Though my heart stood still within me when I saw him march away ;
At the corner of the street he smiled, and waved the flag he bore,-
ever saw him smile again-he was slain at Balti- are.
's body back to me, and as we stood around le his father's, in yonder burial ground,
John les !. :d upou my arm and whispered, ' Mothe. I have Willy's
: $! . mine to do. I cannot loiter here.'
I turned and looked at Paul, for he and John were twins, you know,
Born on a happy Christmas, four and twenty years ago ;
I looked upon them both, while my tears fell down like rain,
For I knew what one had spoken, had been spoken by the twain.
In a month or more they left me-the merry, hand- some boys
Who had kept the old house ringing with their laugh- ter, fun and noise.
Then James came home to mind the farm; iny young- er sons were still
Mere children, at their lessons in the school house on the hill.
But when full many a battle storm had left them both unharmed,
I tanght my foolish heart to think the double lives were charmed.
Their Colonel since has told me that no braver boys than they
Ever rallied round the colors, in the thickest of the fray ;
Upon the wall behind you their swords are hanging still-
For John was killed at Fair Oaks, and Paul at Malvern Hill.
Then came the dark days, darker than any known be- fore
There was another call for meu-" three hundred thousand more ; "
I saw the cloud on Jamie's brow grow deeper day by day, I shrauk before the impending brow, and scarce had strength to pray.
And yet at last I bade him go, while on my cheek and brow
His loving tears and kisses fell ; I feel them even now, Though the eyes that shed the tears, and the lips so warm on mine,
Are hidden under southern sands, beneath a blasted pine !
He did not die mid battle-smoke, but for a weary year
He lauguished in close prison walls, a prey to hope and fear ;
I dare not trust myself to think of the fruitless pangs he bore ;
My brain grows wild when in my dreams I count his sufferings o'er.
Only two left! I thought the worst was surely over then ;
But lo! at once iny school-boy sons sprang rp before me-men !
They heard their brothers' martyr blood call from the hallowed ground ;
A loud, imperious summons that all other voices drowned.
I did not say a single word. My very heart seemed dead.
What could I do but take the cup, and bow my weary head
To drink the bitter draught again ? I dared not hold them back ;
I would as soon have tried to check the whirlwind on its track.
You know the rest. At Cedar Creek my Frederick bravely fell ;
They say his young arm did its work right nobly, and right well;
His comra les breathe the hero's name with mingled love and pride ;
I miss the gentle, blue-eyed boy, who frolicked at my wide.
For me, I ne'er shall weep again. I think my heart is dead.
I, who could weep for lighter griefs, have now no tears to «hed.
But read this letter, neighbor. There is nothing to alarını,
O days of weary waiting1 0 days of doubt and dread ! I feared to read the papers, or to see the lists of dead; | For Harry's in the hospital, and has only lost an arm I
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JAMES DAVIE BUTLER
Was born in Rutland, Vt., March 15, 1815. His father, who had come to Rutland, " prospect- ing." in 1787, and fixed his residence there the same year, was born in Boston, where his fam- ily had continued to reside, at least from 1637, -that is downward 7 years after the founding of the city. Ilis mother was Rachel, daughter of Israel Harris, who had been with Allen at the surprise of Ticonderoga, and served as a lieutenant in the Berkshire minute-men at the battle of Bennington.
ness, he returned home, and commenced Latin there in a private school, taught by the Baptist minister, Rev. Hadley Proctor. The next year he was sent to the Wesleyan Academy, at Wilbraham, Mass. He entered Middlebury College, as freshman, in 1832, and was gradu- ated there in 1836.
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