Authors and Writers a.s.sociated with Morristown.

by Julia Keese Colles.

PREFACE.

This long-promised volume, the first of its kind, so far as known, ever given to the world, is now offered to the public. It is the result of a lecture given about three and a half years ago, which was repeated by request, and finally promised for publication, with the endors.e.m.e.nt of one hundred and fifty subscribers.

No effort has been spared to have every statement in the book accurate; nor has any name been omitted which has presented a t.i.tle to notice, in spite of the fact that the number of "Authors and Writers," has nearly doubled since the work of publication was undertaken. Any suggestion or criticism, however, will be gladly received by the author, as having a bearing on possible future work in this direction.

Morristown, New Jersey, February, 1893.

POEM.

BY WILLIAM PATERSON.

MORRISTOWN, NEW JERSEY.

These are the winter quarters, this is where The Patriot Chieftain with his army lay, When frosty winds swept down and chilled the air, And long, cold nights closed out the shorter day.

The bell still rings within the white church spire, Rising toward heaven upon the village green, Whose chimes then called the people, pastor, choir, To praise and pray each Sabbath morn and e'en.

And there with them, the Christian soldier sealed The common covenant which a dying Lord, To those who broke bread with him last revealed, And bade them ever thus His love record.

A country hamlet then, nor did it lose Its rural charms and beauties for long years; The stranger would its quiet glories choose, Far from the toils and strifes of daily cares.

The people, too, were simple in their ways, And dwelt contented in their humble sphere, The morning and the evening of their days, Pa.s.sing the same with every closing year.

There were the Deacons, solemn, sober, staid, Beneath the pulpit each Communion Sunday, They never smiled, but sung there psalms and prayed; And then made whiskey at the still on Monday.

Perhaps you smile just here, I only say, Men did not deem it then a heinous crime; Such was the common custom of the day, As those can tell who recollect the time.

For further proof of this, look up the tract Of Deacon Giles and his distillery, Where you will find that for this very fact, He was set up high in the pillory.

Young life for me began its early spring, Here in the freshness of the Mountain air, When nature seemed in fullest tune to sing, And all the world was beautiful and fair.

And Death--Who stays to think of him, till age Comes stealing on with sure and silent tread?

Nor even then can he the thoughts engage, Till his cold fingers touch the dying bed.

He called one then in withered leaf and sere, And sent a warning, so wiseacres said, By causing apple blossoms to appear In winter, and the old man soon was dead.

The Guinea Chieftain too, a century old, Born a young Prince beneath his native sky, Who with his banjo sang rare tales of gold-- I saw him strive and struggle, gasp and die.

A child was brought one evening, lived, and died, Almost before its eyes beheld the day; The infant and the old men, side by side, Were in the quiet churchyard laid away.

I learned of Life and Death, but know no more Of their mysterious secrets now than then; No sesame can open wide the door, That veils those mysteries from the light of men.

Upon the summit of the rock-bound hill That looks down on the lowland plains afar, Are seen the outlines of the earthworks still Remaining there, rude vestiges of war.

That was a day to be remembered long, When crowds were gathered on the village green, To welcome with warm hearts and floral song, Him who a friend in war's dark hour had been.

And not while nature's suns shall pour their light, Will Freedom's sons that honored name forget, Nor cease to, until worlds shall pa.s.s from sight, Keep green the memory of Lafayette.

Hark, on the air tolls out the pa.s.sing bell, Fourscore and ten and yet again fourscore; Tread lightly now, it is the parting knell For two great spirits gone out evermore.

Together they had lived, together died As Freedom's Bell rang in her natal day, And what than this could be more mete beside That twinned in death, their souls should pa.s.s away?

There comes a memory of the bugle horn, Winding a blast, as with their daily load, The prancing coach-steeds dashed out in the morn To run the toll-gates of the turnpike road.

Behold the change? now brakes are whistled down, And screaming engines wake the Mountain air; There is no longer, as of old, a Town Committee, but a Council and a Mayor.

Go where the lake sleeps in the summer night, Kissed by the winds that on its bosom play, When the round moon sends down her fullest light, And evening glories in soft splendor lay.

And you can almost fancy then that over, The moonlit mirror of the tranquil tide, You see the water spirits rise and hover, And on the sheen in laughing lightness glide.

And I have seen those waters as they flow, Down on their course past bridge and wheel and mill, Where we as boys would "in-a-swimming go;"

Do the boys swim in "Sunnygony" still?

Oh, fellow scholar who along with me Learned the first rudiments of ball and book Within the grounds of the Academy, In vain for that old landmark now you look.

Gone with the Master, yet a memory lingers, And will forever consecrate the spot, Nor can the power of Time's effacing fingers, While life shall last, the recollection blot.

Teacher and pupils, few remain, and they Far on in years, lean on a slender staff; The school-house, all you see of that to-day Is shown you there upon its photograph.

Change is on all things, and I see it here; Land that then grew the turnip and "potater,"

Now blooms in flowers and costs exceeding dear, Bringing some thousand dollars by the acre!

And villas crown the rising hill-tops round, And stately mansions stand adorned with art, And liveried coaches roll with rumbling sound Where once jogged on the wagon-wheel and cart.

Hail to the future, ages come and go, And men are borne upon the sweeping tide; Wave follows wave in ever ceaseless flow, The present stays not by the dweller's side.

I stand to-day far down the farthest slope, And up the lengthened pathway turn and look, Where on the summit once stood Youth and Hope, Now soon to turn the last leaf of the Book.

And I am glad that while there come to me These fragrant memories of life's early scene, That still in robes of purest white I see The Church Spire rising on the village green.

HISTORIC MORRISTOWN.

Throughout our country, there is no spot more identified with the story of the Revolution, and the personality of Washington, than Morristown. Nestled among its five ranges of hills, its impregnable position no doubt first attracted the attention of the commander-in-chief and that of his trusted quartermaster, General Nathaniel Greene. Besides, the enthusiastic patriotism of the men and women of this part of New Jersey was noted far and wide, and the powder-mill of Col. Jacob Ford, Jr., on the Whippany river, where "good merchantable powder," was in course of manufacture,--some of which had probably already been tested at Trenton, Princeton and elsewhere,--was also among the attractions.