["Look up the Old Mother!" ... , in] The fifth half century of the Landing of John Endicott at Salem, Massachusetts Commemorative exercises by the Essex Institute September 18, 1878 |
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 | ["Look up the Old Mother!" ... , in] The fifth half century of the Landing of John Endicott at Salem, Massachusetts |  |
[“Look up the Old Mother!”—long ago 'twas sung]
Æneid, iii, 96.
By Roman Virgil, in his tuneful tongue;
“Exquirite antiquam matrem!”—thus
The blessed “Ordo” read the words to us;—
The selfsame cry is in the air to-day;
We hear the summons, and our hearts obey.
“Come back to the old Mother!” we, too, sing,
Tied to the ancient matron's apron-string;
The elastic cord, which, wander where we will,
Draws the last lingering truant homeward still,
Sooner or later, to the Mother's breast,
In her embrace, a grateful child, to rest.
Old Mother Salem calls her children home.
On all the winds of heaven her voice goes forth—
From East and West they come—from South and North.
The message rings “from China to Peru”—
And all—at least on Memory's well-worn track—
With loyal, loving reverence hasten back.
Each seeks some favorite haunt, where once the face
Of heaven and earth wore its most winning grace.
One finds his way to sweet South Fields again,
And steers for Derby's Farm—alas! in vain;
Then climbs the lane, half fearing, hoping still
They may have left a piece of Castle Hill.
There rubs his eyes and seaward looks with dread—
Heaven grant they may have spared old Naugus' Head!
Another to the Common takes his way,
Play-ground and training-field of childhood's day;
To see if, still, the quivering poplar-trees
Flash in the sun and murmur in the breeze,
As when the glittering ranks, on muster-day,
Down the green vista stretched their long array;
And if, in that neglected, weed grown spot
The ancient Gun-house keeps its place or not.
Of exile, in his native streets appears,
Behold, in his perplexed and eager glance,
What crowds of questions yearn for utterance!
Pray, can you tell me, friend, if hereabout
There lives a person by the name of Strout?
Named Jaquish, who could saw a load of tan?
Whose daughter Judith—apple of his eye!—
(A heroine whom Fame should not let die)
Of the church militant a soldier true;
Binder of shoes; artist in fresco, too;
Fresh from her conflicts with the hosts of sin,
Would sit, well-pleased, and scrape the violin:
The mother bending o'er the buzzing wheel,
To drown the rapturous joy she needs must feel,
Or stooping o'er the hearth to brush aside
The honest tear-drop of maternal pride.
And this rare group has gone? Ah, well-a-day!
Thus on Time's wave the jewels melt away!
Does the old green Gibraltar-cart still stop,
Up in Old Paved Street, at Aunt Hannah's shop!
Beside Cold Spring drop the sweet acorns still?
Do boys dig flagroot now beneath Legge's Hill?
When 'Lection-day brings round its rapturous joys
Is there a house still standing where they make
The regular, old-fashioned 'Lection-cake?
Does “A True Grocer” his own merits praise?
Does Mister Joseph bake cold loaves some days?
Does Micklefield's Indian, as he used to do,
Hold the narcotic weed to public view?
Echo the streets no more with Mullet's bell?
Has Bedney no more Almanacs to sell?
Those Kings of East and West, in days of yore—
Monarch and Mumford—do they walk no more?
Does 'Squire Savage still look sternly down
On ill-bred urchins with his awful frown?
Deputy Dutch and dog—do they still chase
The recreant debtor to his hiding place?
Does Louvriere still skip, with book in hand,
By a short cut through Doctor Oliver's land?
Blind Dolliver —an eye in every finger—
Still at the organ does he love to linger?
Tune the piano while he calls the dance?
Does Doctor Prince continue still to preach?
Does Philip blow? Does Master Hacker teach?
Do children sometimes see with terror, still,
The midnight blaze of wood-wax on Witch Hill?
Or hail, far twinkling through the shades of night,
The cheering beam of Baker's Island light?
Our pilgrim stands in Central street, and there
Wonders if still, in summer hours, the air
Murmurs abroad, as evening shades come in,
The tones of Ostinelli's violin;
Or shakes with footsteps, in the dancing-hall,
That beat responsive to Papanti's call.
When “training-day” is drawing to a close,
And tired “Militia” long for sweet repose;
Only the showy “uniforms” would fain
“Improve the shining hours” that yet remain,
A few unique manœuvres to display,
A grand finale to the festive day,—
Do “lobster-backs” and gray-coats sometimes meet,
And come to a dead-lock, in Central street?
(Alas! that this proud gala-day, so bright,
Should close its eye upon a true “sham-fight!”)
And still sad answers he is doomed to find.
Of Sabbath-breaking troops from Marblehead?
Where is the venerable “East” that shook
To Bentley's note of thanks or bold rebuke?
Where is the Old Sun Tavern? Where the sign
That showed the “Coffee House” in days lang syne?
The Juniper—sweet name! what charm it wore
To childhood's fancy in the days of yore!
The Willows—well may it be called to-day—
There Memory weeps—the charm has passed away!
Where is the Gate, beneath whose graceful arch
We saw so many a gay battalion march,
Welcomed by Washington's majestic face?
Where is Plank Alley? Where is Holyoke Place?
Neptune and Vine and Court streets —where are they?
With their old dwellers they have moved away—
Gone up to that calm city in the air;
The feet of Memory still frequent them there.
“In Salem is his Tabernacle”—so
Our pious fathers cried with souls aglow;
And here their Tabernacle builded they;
Men live who once beheld it; but to-day
A wooden finger stretches high in air
And cries: Behold your tabernacle there!
The streets and alleys of his native town,
So many a well-known object seeks in vain,
The sky, the sea, the rock-ribbed hills remain.
In the low murmur of the quivering breeze
That stirs the leaves of old ancestral trees,
The same maternal voice he still can hear
That breathed of old in childhood's dreaming ear;
The same maternal smile is in the sky
Whose tender greeting blessed his infant eye.
Though much has changed and much has vanished quite,
The old town-pastures have not passed from sight.
“Delectable Mountains” of his childhood—there
They stretch away into the summer air.
Still the bare rocks in golden lustre shine,
Still bloom the barberry and the columbine,
As when, of old, on many a “Lecture day,”
Through bush and swamp he took his winding way,
Toiled the long afternoon, then homeward steered,
With weary feet and visage berry-smeared.
At least in fond remembrance, find his way.
My thoughts, by some mysterious instinct, take
Their flight to that charmed spot we called the Neck;
Aye, round the Mother's Neck I fondly cling;
Around her neck, like beads, my rhymes I string.
Like beads of flying foam, flung by the sea
Across the rocks, to gleam a moment there,
Then break and vanish in the summer air.
What throngs of bright and peaceful memories wake
At that compendious name! What rapturous joy
Kindles the heart of an old Salem boy,
As he returns, though but in thought, to take
That old familiar walk “down to the Neck!”
The old Neck Gate swings open to his view,
At morn and eve, to let the cows pass through.
Foye's ropewalk stands there still—he enters in:
Adown that dusky lane shall Memory spin
Full many a yarn, the while with silent tread
A ghostly workman draws his lengthening thread.
Through window-holes that light that black earth-floor
How many a sprite peeps in from days of yore!
What wild halloos renew their mocking chase
Far down the dark, reverberating space!
No magic wand the Enchantress needs to wave—
Awe-struck we stand before old Gifford's Cave;
While, towering o'er us—a strange contrast—lo!
Fresh as they looked when, sixty years ago,
They caught our glance from far, on sea and land,
The red brick walls of the poors' palace stand.
And Bentley's Rock—a ruin, greets me still.
Rises once more the Genius of the place—
The same elastic step and eager face.
The old man lifts the spy-glass to his eye:
“There go the ships!” again I hear him cry;
As, on his other watch-tower, once he stood,
And fired his farewell shot in playful mood,
And to the parting fleet his God-speed said—
The self-invited guests of Marblehead.
In my mind's eye, on that memorial ground
A relict of the war of '12 limps round,
As I beheld him oft in childhood's day,
Of the Neck Gate an old habitué.
Whereby there hangs a tale: One cloudy night,
The sentinel upon the Neck caught sight
Of a strange figure creeping round the hill;
He cried out: “Who goes there?”—but all was still.
He challenged thrice—then fired—a canine yell
Revealed his sad mistake too late and well.
With bleeding foot the victim limped away,
A cripple and a hero from that day.
The immortal purlieus of the old Neck Gate.
Oft, on a summer Sunday's peaceful close,
(The sweet relief no child at this day knows!)
In the long, lingering glow of evening's ray,
(Holy day melting into holiday)
All down through Wapping (Derby street, I mean),
Where trig and jaunty tars might then be seen,
Leaning on old spiked cannon, taken at sea,
Trophies of many a naval victory,
And made to serve henceforth a double intent,
Street-corner-post and sailor's monument;—
Thus, in the Sabbath evening's quiet ray,
Down this old storied street we took our way
To where, beside the fresh, cool, spray-wet shore,
Old Colonel Hathorne's hospitable door
Invited us to rest; serenely there
The patriarch greeted us with musing air;
But no long reverence childhood waits to pay—
Soon to the garden-gate we found our way.
How red—how sweet—the rose, the currant there!
What heavenly fragrance filled the evening air!
What but a bit of Eden could it be—
That little garden close upon the sea?
Within, red rose and redder currant glow—
Without, the white-lipped ocean whispers low.
My thoughts to-day have wandered to the Neck.
Bentley and Hathorne—names that shed renown
Are but as criers to-day, that point us back
With glowing faces, up the shining track
To where, assembled now on Memory's hill,
A group of forms more venerable still,
With upturned faces, wear immortal light,
Caught and reflected from the heavenly height.
On that memorial mount, in air serene,
Walking in glory, with majestic mien,
A shining cloud of witnesses appear
And send us greetings from their lofty sphere.
Reverent and brave, inflexible, sedate,
Founders and fathers of the Church and State,
Captains and counsellors, a saintly band,
They beckon onward to the Promised Land.
Conant, the wise and generous pioneer;
Endicott, high-souled, daring, and austere;
Higginson, Williams, Peters,—well might we
Cry, as in vision we behold the three:
Fair souls! to Goodness, Faith and Freedom dear,
Shall we not build three tabernacles here?
On the Lord's mountain, at the fount of Truth
They dwell with Him, in life's unwithering youth:
That sweet and saintly one, who crossed the wave
To find, in one short year, an exile's grave;
He—twice a pilgrim, who in winter snows
And savage huts alone could find repose,
(Nay—where, on earth, could such as he e'er find
Repose for his aspiring, restless mind?)
To whom the dark-skinned ravens of the wood
Who, by the hand of Providence led hence,
Still at his journey's end found Providence;
And that brave preacher and strong worker—he
Who left his darling such sweet “Legacy;”
Who, living, brought her lessons from the sky,
That taught the way to live for joys on high,
And with his dying smile and dying breath
The precious lesson: How to conquer death.
Nor riches;
But godliness, so gainful
With content.
No painted pomp, nor glory that
Bewitches;
A blameless life is the best
Monument;
And such a soul that soars a-
bove the sky,
Well pleased to live, but better
Pleased to die.”
Breathe their free spirit through my stammering strain,
Then should these lips indite a fitting lay,
Congenial to this high memorial day.
Those lofty lessons for the coming time,
Of faith and freedom, of content and trust,
The fathers breathe from heaven and from the dust.
To other voices—abler hands than mine.
But me the question now confronts (too long
Evaded by my loitering, gadding song),
Why at this hour, when we our way retrace
Back to the earliest footprints of the race
Who on these pleasant shores first pitched their tent,
The cradle of the infant settlement—
The old North River side my thoughts forsake
And take that lonely ramble to the Neck.
—Forgive a would-be-patriarch (shall I say?)
Born all too late, whose memory stops to-day
Well nigh two hundred years this side the mark,
Runs back three score—then fumbles in the dark.
I was a boy when quaint old Bentley died;
I roamed the Neck, his spirit at my side.
Within its gate a realm of shadows lay—
A land of mystery stretching far away.
There with a ghostly Past I talked—with awe
The ancient Mother's august form I saw.
Some pore o'er musty scrolls and seek her there;
But on the open land, beneath the skies
That made it fair to her first children's eyes,—
Methinks the Mother's presence best is found.
And so I seem to see her shadow wait
To greet me, passing through the old Neck Gate.
For does not Winter Island meet my eye
And tell a silent tale of days gone by?
I climb yon hill and see forevermore
A spectral sail approach the wooded shore.
On Winter Island wharf I see them land,
A ghostly train come forth upon the strand.
A village springs to life—a busy port;
It has its bustling wharves—its bristling fort.
Lo! Fish Street—destined one day to run down
To Water Street—now runs to Water-town.
Can Fancy quite recall to-day the charms
Of those enchanting “Marble Harbor Farms?”
Are the “sweet single roses” still in bloom?
Still do the “strawberries” the air perfume?
And from the flowers and shrubs that clothe the ground
Does a “sweet smell of gardens” breathe around?
And,—sons of Salem!—be it ne'er forgot
That it was there—in that wild, lovely spot—
While yet the plough had scarcely broke the land—
They set their hearts to have the College stand.
Well can we guess what charms the landscape wore
When first our fathers trod this silent shore.
Baptized as Great and Little Misery?”
Might we not almost deem these names were given
Lest those poor saints should dream this earth was Heaven?
Great miseries and little miseries—well
Could they, of both, by sore experience tell.
But, sweetly locked in sheltering arms, to-day,
Their shallop safe in Summer-Harbor lay.
Such was the name they gave the spot, when first
Upon their yearning eyes its beauty burst;
Till by a three fold—nay, a four fold claim,
Salem showed right divine to be its name.
For Salem they were taught of old to pray;
To Peace—to Salem—God has led their way;
A spark of strife at Conant's breath had died—
In Salem now—in Peace—we dwell—they cried.
To Cotton Mather's word may lend an ear—
“Behold!” they cried, “the meaning of our name
In Indian speech and Hebrew is the same.
This is our comfort-haven: Nahum-Keek!”
The future Queen of the East India trade.
Here her commercial greatness she began
With that small fleet of fishers from Cape Ann.
Wharf after wharf crept westward, year by year;
The hum of traffic grew more loud and clear.
Meanwhile, as through the field of History's glass
The various groups of scattered settlers pass,
Yonder we see, from the North River shore
The farmers of the region paddling o'er
To where the magnates of the Church and State
Reside—the Minister and Magistrate.
There stands the house in its capacious lot,
Where dwells the worthy Master Endicott,
Which Roger Conant, that good-natured man,
Sent to his honored neighbor from Cape Ann.
Of horse-cars running on an iron way.
Each household had its family canoe,
These troopers also had their grand displays,
Their General Trainings, and their Muster Days.
Hadst thou the skill to reproduce, my Muse,
That memorable Inspection of Canoes,
By some prophetic instinct (shall we say?)
Named to take place on that midsummer day
Which in another century was to be
The Glorious Fourth of Freedom's History—
Couldst thou but picture to the outward eye
The flash of paddles in the noonday sky—
How would that grand Regatta's rainbow blaze
Dim all the tinsel pomp of modern days!
Turn now from inland ferry and canoe,
Where heavier, deep-sea craft invite the view.
Years passed—our sorely tried, yet hardy town
Won with her merchant ships a rare renown.
The second war gave her success a check;
I was a boy when the Brig Ann, a wreck,
Crawled up to Derby's Wharf and landed there
Her Oriental cargo, rich and rare.
Gum-copal, allspice, nutmegs, cloves and dates!
Then filled the eyes of every Salem boy
With mingling tears of sadness and of joy.
We laughed to see how the old-yellow stores
Took in the bags of sweetmeats through their doors:
We wept to see through what a hard fought fight
The brave old hulk had brought us such delight.
Sadly she seemed to figure, as she lay,
The sunset of our old commercial day.
A calmer deep, thy commerce was to be;
In History's realm thy flag was now to shine
And make the noble wealth of Knowledge thine.
Peace be within thee, dear old Mother Town!
And as, at morn and eve, the dews come down
On thy fair gardens, grace from heaven descend
And rest upon thy homes till time shall end!
From Buffum's Corner to the old Neck Gate,
Peace and prosperity upon thee wait!
And from Orne's Point to Pickering's Point may peace
Reign in thy borders, and thy wealth increase—
The wealth they win who choose the better part:
The never-failing wealth of mind and heart:
Treasures not tied to earthly fortune's wheel;
Which not e'en Time—the busiest thief—can steal:
Generous aspirings—Truth that maketh free—
And “thoughts that wander through eternity;”
Treasures laid up in Heaven forevermore.
A quiet corner for the musing mind;
And he who seeks it, sure may find it here,
In this old memory-haunted atmosphere.
“Dreamy old town”—they call thee? Well, dream on!
Thought's dreams shall last, when Passion's dreams are gone.
Be thine the dreams that yearn for realms divine;
Pilgrims that seek Perfection's distant shrine;
Such dreams—so pure, so tranquil and so true—
As Avarice and Ambition never knew;
Not such as make the worldling's daily life
A scene of fitful, feverish, futile strife,
But those calm, holy dreams that melt away
Like morning twilight into perfect day.
The Motto is part of the oracle of Phœbus to the “duri Dardanidæ” (the hardy Trojans), directing them, when they should reach the Latian shore, to search out the old original homestead of their ancestors.
The Ordo refers to the old Delphin Edition, in which the words of the author were arranged in the English order for the help of beginners. It was this railway by which some of us were launched “E conspectu Siculæ telluris in altum” at a voluntary evening school kept by our worthy Mayor, in a room of the Ives' Block in 1827.
The mall was lined with Lombardy poplars in my boyhood. They were cut down to make way for Elms in 1823.
Joshua Strout, a grocer, kept in the northwest corner of the Franklin Building. If I rightly remember, he was stout as well as Strout.
Jaquish was the popular pronunciation; but Jacques was, I believe, the real name. The family room—dining, cooking and work-room, all in one—presented a group which Teniers might have envied. The sharp-faced Judith, her shoe-binding aid aside, one leg with the deep blue stocking crossed over the other, while, with an innocent self-satisfaction, she swept the violin for the entertainment of her visitors; the father sitting, with an eye winking and watery, partly from paternal partiality and partly from an infirmity well understood by his townsmen,—the mother busy at the spinning wheel and only occasionally looking up with a sly look of triumph—all this made a picture well worth a more elaborate execution than the text has given it. (The fresco painting refers to the Palms and Camels that figured on the walls of the room.)
Refers to old Ma'am Spencer and her son Thomas, the Quaker Astronomer, Natural Historian and Scientist generally, who made that favorite hard candy called gibraltars, over in North Salem. See Hist. Coll. Essex Institute, vol. xiv, page 271, for a notice of Mr. Spencer.
Dr. Lang, apothecary, kept at the corner of Liberty and Essex Streets. The Vine Street boys used to invest one cent out of their four-pence ha'penny Election money in ball-liquorice at his shop.
There were two Trues, Abraham the grocer and Joseph True, carver. The former kept in Washington Street, the latter in Mill Street.
John Joseph, a Portuguese, had a Bakery in Brown Street. A woman asking for a cold loaf one day, he replied, “we did not bake any cold loaves to-day, ma'am.”
“East and West” mean East End and West End. Jo Monarch was a stately Portuguese who lived in a small house far down Essex Street, below the East Church, and Mumford was King of the Colony in the “Huts” on the Turnpike near Buffum's corner.
Refers to the rush and rivalry of the red coat Cadets and the Infantry for the possession of that convenient street to display their respective tactical skill.
On Wednesday and Saturday there was no school in the afternoon, these having originally been the times of the Week-day Lectures.
A house in the bank back of the “Workhouse,” consisting of several successive rooms scooped out by Gifford, the hermit.
One Sunday in the war of 1812 news came to Salem in church time that a British fleet had chased the Constitution into Marblehead harbor. Dr. Bentley dismissed his congregation and hastened over on horseback. In the afternoon he laid aside his prepared sermon and extemporized one from Psalm civ, 26: “There go the ships.”
Another, more particular version runs as follows: During the morning service, some one came into meeting and whispered to a member of the Congregation. Dr. Bentley observing it, called out, “what is he telling you?” The man repeated, “The British Fleet are chasing the Constitution into Marblehead. The Doctor at once dismissed the congregation, saying, “Let us hasten to help our brethren; we must fight to day, we can pray any day.
Still a third version makes the Doctor to have said in dismissing the congregation: “Serving man is the most acceptable way of serving God.”
I call Williams as well as Peters a singer, having in mind his touching hymns in the wilderness, also given in Upham's discourse.
Bentley (Description of Salem—Mass. Hist. Col., 1st Series, vi. 232), says: As early as 1636 they made a reserve of lands upon the Marble Harbor Farms for a college.
See Hubbard, quoted by Young (Chronicles of Mass., p. 31 and note): Rev John White, speaking of the change of name from Nahum-keik to Salem, says it was done “upon a fair ground, in remembrance of a peace settled upon a conference at a general meeting between them and their neighbors [the Dorchester planters and Endicott's company], after expectance of some dangerous jar”—“being by the prudent moderation of Mr. Conant quietly composed.”
Magnalia, i. 63: “Of which place I have somewhere met with an old observation, that the name of it was rather Hebrew than Indian; for Nahum signifies comfort and Keek signifies haven; and our English not only found it an haven of comfort, but happened also to put an Hebrew name upon it; for they called it Salem, for the peace which they had and hoped in it; and so it is called unto this day.”
An old witness says Endicott sent and had it pulled down by virtue of the right given him by the company in England; I have simply shadowed forth in my version the well-known good grace with which Conant accepted his being superseded by Endicott.
Upham's “Salem Village, &c.,” i. 63. The order of the General Court is dated June 24, 1836, and the time fixed was “the next second day, being the fourth day of the fifth month.”
The following metrical version is offered of a well-known story drolly illustrative of Salem's former imposing greatness in oriental eyes.
Some native merchant of the East, they say,(Whether Canton, Calcutta or Bombay),
Had in his counting-room a map, whereon
Across the field in capitals was drawn
The name of Salem, meant to represent
That Salem was the Western Continent,
While in an upper corner was put down
A dot, named Boston, Salem's leading town.
| ["Look up the Old Mother!" ... , in] The fifth half century of the Landing of John Endicott at Salem, Massachusetts | |