Authors and Writers Associated with Morristown Part 6

"A taste for the Scotch dialect is said to have been acquired from an old Scotch nurse who lived a long time in the family, when the children were young. The girl caught it so completely, that when deeply moved, she was wont to drop into it, for the more vigorous expression of her feelings.

'Somehow', said she, 'the Scotch is more homely, less formal to me'. Thus, in the poem alluded to, could the thoughts contained in it, have been expressed as beautifully and tenderly in the mother tongue?

"Again, there is a little poem in the same dialect, ent.i.tled 'My Mither', which appeals to every heart.

"Though many of her poems and prose writings are of a devotional character, yet she had a keen sense also of the humorous side of life as the verses ent.i.tled 'Allen Graeme', will testify.

"Mrs. Demarest traveled extensively throughout our own country, and also abroad. Two volumes of her writings have been published--one ent.i.tled 'Gathered Writings', a collection of short stories, fragments of foreign travel and reflections".

MY AIN COUNTREE.

I am far frae my hame, an' I'm weary afterwhiles, For the langed-for hame-bringing an' my Father's welcome smiles; I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine een do see, The shining gates o' heaven an' my ain countree.

The earth is fleck'd wi' flowers, mony tinted fresh and gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.

I've His gude word o' promise that some gladsome day, the King To his ain royal palace His banished hame will bring; Wi' een an' wi' hearts running owre, we shall see The King in His beauty, in our ain countree; My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair, But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair; His bluid has made me white--His hand shall dry mine e'e, When he brings me hame at last, to mine ain countree.

Sae little noo I ken, o' yon blessed, bonnie place, I ainly ken its Hame, whaur we shall see His face; It wud surely be eneuch forever mair to be In the glory o' His presence in our ain countree.

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's breast, For he gathers in His bosom witless, worthless lambs like me, An' carries them Himsel', to His ain countree.

He's faithfu' that has promised, He'll surely come again, He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken; But he bids me still to wait, an' ready aye to be To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.

So I'm watching aye, and singing o' my hame as I wait, For the soun'ing o' His footfa' this side the gowden gate, G.o.d gie His grace to ilk ane wha' listens noo to me, That we a' may gang in gladness to our ain countree.

Hon. Anthony Q. Keasbey.

We cannot do better than quote the words of Dr. Thomas Dunn English, the well-known author of "Ben Bolt", now living in Newark, N. J.,--with regard to Mr. Keasbey.

"Here, in Newark", says he, "we have a lawyer of distinction, Anthony Q.

Keasbey, who occasionally throws off some polished verses, as he excuses them, by way of 'safety plugs for high mental pressure,' and these are always smooth and scholarly. They are mostly privately printed for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the poet and a few chosen friends. One of these, however, has such a vein of tenderness and so much heart music that it deserves to become public property and to remain as much the favorite with others as it is with me." The poem referred to is, "My Wife's Crutches."

"Unquestionably", continues Dr. English, "Mr. Keasbey stands well in his profession, and for years, under several Federal administrations, filled the office of United States District Attorney with credit to himself and advantage to the public; but this little tender poem does more honor to his intellect than his legal acquirements, however eminent they may be, and gives him a still stronger claim to the regard of his many friends."

Among Mr. Keasbey's published collected poems are "Palm Sunday", of which Mr. Stedman once said he had put it away among some fine hymns; also "May", published in England and set to music by Faustina Hodges. These verses were inspired by the falling of the cherry blossoms on the grave of little May, and are most sweet and touching. One of the best is "The Dirge for Old St.

Stephen's", written while they were demolishing the church built on Mr.

Keasbey's ground, where now a "mart and home" have taken its place as was antic.i.p.ated by the poet.

Mr. Keasbey has published numberless papers in prominent journals and magazines. Some of these are to be collected and published in book form.

His address on "The Sun: How Man has Regarded it in Different Ages", is well worthy of preservation in more permanent form than that in which it appears at present; also "The Sale of East New Jersey at Auction", an address delivered February 1st, 1862, before the New Jersey Historical Society at Trenton, on the Bi-Centennial of the Sale. This is full of interesting information, told in a charming way and is valuable for reference.

The paper on "The Sun", was inspired by Mr. Keasbey's reading with great interest, the papers of Professor Norman Lockyer, the great astronomer, describing his researches into the const.i.tution of the sun, through the medium of the spectroscope and the photograph. Mr. Keasbey had been interested in observing the extent to which modern science had reached with respect to the actual condition of the sun and the materials of which it is composed. This led him to the thoughts of how very recent had been any such attempts to understand its true nature and, from that reflection, he was led to consider, as a subject of a paper, how human eyes in all ages have looked upon the sun and in what manner they have regarded it. This published address was delivered before the Brooklyn Historical Society, a brilliant audience present, and Rev. Dr. Storrs, presiding.

A book on Florida, "From the Hudson to the St. John's", describing a month's journey to Florida and the St. John's River was published in 1875; also, more recently, a small book on "Isthmus Transit by Chiriqui and Golfo Dulce", with a view of describing the Chiriqui mountain rib or back bone of Darien and all the executive and legislative action, with respect to the region between Panama and Nicaragua, with reference to railroad communication across the isthmus from the harbor of Chiriqui on the coast to the Pacific.

In the _Hospital Review_, of July, 1882, is a very striking and powerful paper on the "Tragedy of the Lena Delta", where De Long and his companions so heroically met their fate in the Arctic snows.

Below is the favorite of Dr. English among the Poems:

MY WIFE'S CRUTCHES.

Ye solemn, gaunt, ungainly crutches, That serve her frame such slippery tricks, Were you within my lawful clutches, I'd fling you back in River Styx.

Ye grew beside the Boat of Charon, In murky fens of Stygian gloom, Nor ever, like the rod of Aaron, Shall your grim spindles burst in bloom.

Your reeds were tuned for groans rheumatic, And croaking sighs from gouty man; Nor e'er shall thrill with tones ecstatic, As did the pipes of ancient Pan.

Avaunt you, then, ye helpers dismal!

Offend my eyes and ears no more; Go stalking back to realms abysmal And guide the ghosts on Lethe's sh.o.r.e.

But see! while yet my words upbraid them, Her crutches bud with blossoms fair, And Patience, Love and Faith have made them Than Aaron's rod, more rich and rare.

And hark! from out their hollows slender, No dismal groans or sighs proceed,-- But tones of joy more sweet and tender Than swelled from Pan's enchanted reed.

Then stay! your use her worth discloses, Your ghastly frames her worth trans.m.u.tes, From withered sticks, to stems of roses-- From creaking reeds, to magic flutes.

Major Lindley Hoffman Miller.

Major Miller, a brother of our well-known townsman, Henry W. Miller, was among the first of the 7th Regiment of New York City, who answered the call of the government to march to Washington for the protection of the Capitol.

He served in that regiment through the riots in New York, and afterwards joined a Colored Regiment and was promoted to the rank of Major. He served in this position at Memphis and elsewhere through the South. In this campaign he lost his health and came home to die. He died in June, 1864, and was laid in old St. Peter's churchyard.

Mr. Miller was a man of brilliant mind and unusual genius. His fugitive poems are very beautiful. They were published in various journals of the time, and one we will add to this short sketch of his brief but valuable life, "The Skater's Song", full of spirit and dash, and gay with the heart of youth.

THE SKATER'S SONG, BY MOONLIGHT!

Come away, from your blazing hearths!

Come away, in the gleaming night, Where the radiant sky is peering down With a million eyes of light!

Heigho! for the glancing ice, For the realm of the old Frost King!

We'll shake the chain of the bounding stream Till all its fetters ring!

Then away! my boys, away!

Far over the ice we'll sweep, And wake the slumbering echo's voice From the gloom of its winter sleep!

Come away, from your cheerless books!

Come away, in the clear, cold air!

And read in the deeps of the starry night G.o.d's endless volume there.

Ho! now we're flashing along, At the snow-flake's drifting rate!

Did ever anything stir the pulse Like a glimmering moonlight skate?

Then away! my boys, away!

Far over the ice we'll sweep, And wake the slumbering echo's voice From the gloom of its winter sleep!

Come away, from the ball-room's glare!

Come away, to a merrier dance,-- To a hall, whose floor is the flashing ice, Whose light is the stars' pure glance!

Now we're watching the moon in her dreams, Now we dash at our speed again; While the stream groans under the icy links Which the frost has forged for his chain!

Then away! my boys, away!

Far over the ice we'll sweep, And wake the slumbering echo's voice From the gloom of its winter sleep!

Come away, each lady fair!

Come, add to the magical sight!

And mingle the silvery tones of your words With the echoing "voices of night"!

Heigho! for the frozen plain!