Authors and Writers Associated with Morristown. Julia Keese Colles
Morse, LL. D.
Condict W. Cutler, M. S., M. D.
Horace A. Buttolph, M. D., LL. D.
Rev. Jared Bradley Flagg, D. D.
Rev. J. Leonard Corning, D. D.
George Herbert McCord, A. N. A.
William G. Van Tassel Sutphen.
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 endorsement 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 title 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.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE.
FRONTISPIECE—OLD MORRISTOWN.
ORIGINAL FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, 1738, 17 OLD ARNOLD TAVERN, 25 FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, 97 WASHINGTON HEADQUARTERS, 209 PLAN OF FORT NONSENSE, 305 SPEEDWELL IRON WORKS, 369 OLD FACTORY AT SPEEDWELL, 377
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,
Passing 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