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Excerpts from Souvenir

Submitted by David M. Waid 

TRIP TO NEW YORK, LONG BRANCH AND ESSEX, CONN.,

SEPTEMBER, 1887.

        "Nothing tends so much to enlarge the mind as traveling, that is, making a visit to other towns, cities or countries besides those in which we were born and educated."

                                        Dr. Isaac Watts.

         How much is there in life!  Who can tell?  Do we not all by our experiences know a little?  Life is but a journey from the cradle to the grave, which at any hour, minute or moment we may find.  There is something in each day of life.  There are twenty-four hours of time that are alike to us all, to "all sorts and conditions of men," and, while we can accomplish nothing without time, let me ask how much we could do with it, how much in a single day?  It does not take a year to pick up a diamond after it is found, neither does it require six months to make a visit in order to know we have enjoyed one.

        On September 1, 1887, my son Guinnip and I took the excursion train which left at 12:30 A. M. for Long Branch, N.J.  I had offered my youngest son, Fred, the privilege of going, but he preferred to take Guinnip's place to help run the thresher with my eldest son, so I proposed to give him whatever he might earn while we were gone.  As Franklin had been to the Centennial at Philadelphia, in 1876, I wished Guinnip (since Fred preferred to stay at home) to accompany me to Long Branch and New York, also to see our kindred in Essex, Conn.

        On arriving in New York, about 10 A. M. following day, we took rooms at Mr. Arnold's, on the corner of Fourth Avenue and East Tenth Street, where we remained during our stay in the city.  Before leaving home we had mapped out many points of interest to visit in the city, such as Brooklyn Bridge, Gen. Grant's tomb, the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, Union Square, Greenwood Cemetery (where I might stand by the resting places of Henry Ward Beecher and Horace Greeley), and other places.

        In the afternoon of the day of our arrival Guinnip and I went to see the so-called "Eighth Wonder of the World," Brooklyn Suspension Bridge, and I marveled that such a magnificent, gigantic and, withal, so beautiful a structure could be erected by mortal hands.  As I stood on Pearl Street, amid the seething multitude and business of city life, I wondered at the sight of three railroads, on the approach to Brooklyn Bridge--horse railway, elevated railroad and steam railway--a truly remarkable sight!

        Bridge is 5,989 feet long, 135 feet high, 85 feet wide; height of towers above water, 276 feet 6 inches; length of span between towers, 1,595 feet 6 inches; total cost, $15,000,000; began in 1870, finished in 1883.  Before this bridge was built, yes, when it was talked of more than twenty years ago, and I read of the wonderful plan to connect New York and Brooklyn by a suspension bridge.  I hoped to live to see it.  When we went to the Centennial, September 18, 1876, we returned home by way of New York, where we spent several days.  At that time the towers for the bridge were built, and two ropes or cables had been thrown across.  We were also present at the "explosion" when they blasted the enormous rocks in order to deepen the channel at "Hell Gate."  But now to be able to ride over this wonderful evidence of man's genius and enterprise by cable railway, sail or ride under it and view it from so many points as I have done, brings, I think, to use fully all the pleasure I then anticipated.

        It is said China has the longest bridge in the world, 23,000 feet long.  "Never cross a bridge until you have come to it ;" but to cross it safely should bring full satisfaction.  And here I would express my gratitude for having crossed so many railroad bridges safely.  Thanks to Him who ruleth over all; thanks to the builders of those bridges, and thanks to the railroad companies and the careful, vigilant train hands.  "All's well that ends well."  Don't go back on a bridge that carries you safely over, nor a boat that brings you safely into harbor.  But these living thoughts seem to break in on my story; yet I have written them, so let them stand.

        On Saturday forenoon, September 3, Guinnip and I visited the "Statue of Liberty" on Bedloe's Island, which we reached by the steamboat "Florence," a little passenger boat that plies between the Battery and the Island (Written while in the Statue, September 3, 1887.--F. C. Waid).  Bedloe's Island is not large, and is walled in, having one house and a few trees on it.  The first things we saw on landing were ten large cannon--five mounted and five lying on the ground.

        We now enter the base of the statue and commence the ascent; and I will not readily forget the gentleman and his two little girls who started to climb up the stairway along with us.  Judging that the little feet and limbs of the children would soon get tired, the father carried the youngest in his arms, whilst I led her little sister up that long stairway until we reached the feet of the statue proper, where at the window we had a good view of many point of interest--New York Bay, East River, Brooklyn Bridge, Governor's Island, the shipping, also of portions of the cities of New York, Brooklyn and New Jersey.  The statue at this writing is not yet finished, but when the interior is completed there will be both the stairway and an elevator.  The granite or rock used in its construction is of a reddish description.

        After ascending and descending so many steps, together with the long walk I had taken in crossing the Suspension Bridge, I was glad to find myself on board the boat bound for the Battery once more.  The fare is twenty-five cents, and the boats run during the day almost hourly.  At the Battery I took a run "up town," as they call it, and on the cars I asked a good-natured conductor how far a pleasure-seeker could ride in New York for a nickle.  "The whole length of a division (ten miles) and back, over the same road or another, the same distance, twenty miles for ten cents."  "Why," said I, "that is as cheap as gas in Meadville when it is furnished at fifty cents per month for a single store!"  So I took the ride and enjoyed it much, not only because of its cheapness, but on account of its being my first twenty-mile ride on an elevated road in New York City, viewing the busy streets teeming with business and life.

        In the afternoon of the same day (September 3), unaccompanied by my son, I visited Gen. Grant's Tomb in Riverside Park; and here I will impart a copy verbatim from my diary:

        "I write the following in my memorandum book, while viewing the tomb of Gen. U. S. Grant, as I sit between his tomb and the Hudson River.  Memory brings back to us the past, and our record still lives.  I am very glad indeed to visit this dear spot, which millions will honor by their presence, not only in the present generation but in times to come.  I love good and great men, and as I get older my love and respect for the memory of those departed increases.  This tells why I am here now.  As I look on the tomb I think of one of America's greatest, and if I might name others I love as well, they would be Washington and Lincoln; yet I, a farmer, have come here to-day, to pay honor to the memory of the departed, whom I loved in life; and as I look into the vault and read on the end of the casket the words, in plain gilt letters, 'U. S. GRANT, DIED JULY 23, 1885,' I am reminded of the Scofield Vault in Lakeview Cemetery, Cleveland, Ohio, where the remains of the lamented James A. Garfield lay awaiting their final resting place, besides other tombs I had visited."

        The great General and a child, the son of a Revolutionary soldier, are the only dead interred in Riverside Park.  This child's grave, which is quite a distance from Grant's vault, and is enclosed within an iron fence, has a small monument surmounted by an urn, and has on the east side this inscription: 

Erected to the Memory of an Amiable Child,

ST. CLAIR POLLOCK.

Died July 15, 1777, in the

Fifth Year of His Age.

(West Side.)

Job xiv:  1, 2:  Man that is born, of a woman

is of few days and full of trouble.  He cometh

 orth like a flower, and is cut down; he fleeth

also as a shadow and continueth not.

         To some of my readers who have not been at Riverside Park, perhaps a few words concerning this historic spot may be of interest; and if the reading of this narrative brings half the pleasure it gives me in writing it, I shall be well satisfied.  The place where the monument is to be erected is the highest point at Riverside, a short distance to the north of the vault and where stands a beautiful grove of some sixteen trees.  There is also a cluster of trees, nine in number, just in rear of the vault.

        Before leaving Riverside Park I purchased a copy of "U. S. Grant's Album," which portrays much of his history from the date of his leaving his home at Galena, Ill., up to his funeral.  The scene, taken all in all, together with the noble Hudson, the Palisades and the many other objects of interest so pleased me that I revisited Riverside Park on the 5th, this time accompanied by my son.

        But while I was here enjoying myself I little thought that a still greater pleasure awaited me in the near future--a visit to the Grant family at their cottage at Elberon, Long Branch, and an interview with the General's widow, her daughter-in-law and grandson.  But I am anticipating.

        On Sunday morning, September 4, being desirous of both seeing and hearing Rev. De Witt Talmage, whose sermons are read by the earth's millions, I proceeded via elevated railway and Brooklyn Bridge to Brooklyn, where I took a street car for the Tabernacle.  On my arrival there I learned it was closed for repairs, so I attended the Episcopal Church near by.  Here I listened to an excellent sermon from the text:  Ye are my friends if ye do whatsoever I command you.  At the close of the regular services the sacrament of the Lord's Supper was celebrated, of which a number of strangers like myself partook.  It takes me all my life to tell what little I know; indeed, until my last sentence is expressed my life will not be complete.  I am glad I can truthfully say I LOVE

ALL MANKIND AND ESPECIALLY ALL CHRISTIANS.  I love as broad a Christianity as the Bible teaches:  For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in Heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother (Matthew xii:50).

        The following incident occurred during the sacrament.  A lady who was sitting on the opposite side of the aisle from me, came to me during the interval of singing, and asked me if they "allowed strangers to commune with them."  My reply was:  "When I am at home they call me a Methodist (This lady informed me she was also a Methodist), and I think where the spirit of the Lord is there is liberty; but I will ask one of the vestrymen who sat near by."  In answer to my inquiry he said:  "Yes, with pleasure; all strangers who are Christians are welcome."  That is what I call Christianity.  Christians should recognize each other.  That lady wanted to commune with them; so did I, along with others.  That kind act will be long remembered by me.

        In the afternoon I visited Greenwood Cemetery, that I might cast my eyes on the grave of Henry Ward Beecher, but on inquiry of the superintendent I learned that he is not interred but lies in a vault a short distance from the entrance.  Proceeding as directed I presently came in view, from a rise of ground, of a miniature lake, the scene, taken in all, being one of the loveliest in Greenwood.  On the east side are vaults, with a driveway between them and the lake, while a path extends on the north side.  I sit on this dear spot and write this sketch beneath the shade of an elm.  I heard Henry Ward Beecher lecture in Meadville about ten years ago, and it gives me joy to visit this cemetery and the resting-place of so famous a man.

        Visitors are informed that the receiving vaults will hold 1,500 persons, and that "that large brown-stone vault holds the remains of Henry Ward Beecher."  Greenwood Cemetery, I am informed, embraces 500 acres, has six miles of driveway and seventeen of footpath.  After spending several hours in looking through the grounds I returned to my pleasant spot to rest and continue my writing, and I had just seated myself when the tolling of the passing bell met my ear, announcing that funerals were in progress.  I found three entering in close proximity, and close behind several more; indeed, I counted seven or eight before leaving the grounds.  At the grave of John Matthews, on an elevated piece of ground, is a sort of mausoleum consisting of marble pillars supporting a canopy, under which is a couch of stone, whereon lies a figure so life-like as to at first startle one--an effigy calculated in all respects to remind the bystander of the common lot of all.  On my way out of the cemetery I entered the office where I took the liberty of asking the president as to the average number of interments, and he kindly gave me the following figures:  Up to that day the whole number of interments was 241,333; average per day, fifteen or sixteen.  These figures, I confess, seemed at first quite startling.  To think of that enormous number being wrapped in the sleep of death, and sixteen daily added to it!  But we are born not only to live but also to die.

        Before finally leaving the cemetery, however, being desirous of seeing the grave of Horace Greeley, the founder of the New York Tribune, I went directly to Oakland Hill.  I am one among the many who cherish the memory of that great man, having from youth up been a reader of the Tribune.  As I came in sight of Oakland Hill, and trod the foot-path, I felt I was nearing the last resting place of one whom I knew yet never saw.  With what interest I looked on the bust surmounting his monument, and the beautiful living flowers placed on each side of the base!

"Beauteous flowers why do we spread

Upon the monuments of the dead."

        The bust which faces the east is a good likeness of Horace Greeley.  The monument is of gray granite, and the total height to the top of the bust I should think nearly twenty feet, the base being probably six feet square.  On the die is embossed a quill pen and a scroll.  On the north side of the base Greeley is represented standing at a printer's case; on the east side is the word GREELEY; on the south side is a design of the old-fashioned plow with single-tree attached to the plow-beam; on the west side is the following inscription on a scroll:  "Horace Greeley born February 3, 1811; Died November 29, 1872; Founder of the Tribune."  The day was fair and had been one of favor and blessing to me.  The sun was setting in its beauty when I turned lingeringly away from the dear summit of Oakland Hill to attend Trinity Church in the evening.

        The ride through Brooklyn, by street railway, at the close of this Sabbath day, was agreeable and pleasant.  Crossing the suspension bridge on foot as I did, in preterence to riding, I had more time to take in the different views to be had from the bridge after sunset, when the city is dressed in evening attire.  The Statue of Liberty held forth her beacon light, and all I saw afforded me infinite delight.  Yet, amid this scene of pleasure I thought, like David, to enquire in His temple, that I may dwell in the house of the Lord forever, so hastened on to church.  There not being any services at Trinity, I went to St. Paul's, near by.  Both these churches are on the west side of Broadway, and are surrounded with many old graves, marked with marble slabs and monuments of ancient dates, the custom being in olden times to have their churches and burial grounds on the same lot.

After listening to a good sermon in St. Paul's, I ended my day's journey in the company of a gentleman whom I spoke to as we came out of church.  I asked him if he knew the name of the minister whom we had just heard, and he said he did not, as they change pulpits frequently in the city, and this one was a stranger.  Thereupon I said to my new acquaintance:  "And that is the case between you and me; but friendship comes by acquaintance."  We seemed pleased with each other's company, and learning that I was on my way to Fourth Avenue and East Tenth Street, he said it was near A. T. Stewart's business house (Before leaving New York I visited A. T. Stewart's business house, which is seven stories in heigh, but very plain.  While in one of the departments I overheard one of the clerks say to a customer:  "Here is a letter from Horace Greeley."  He allowed me to take it in my hand and examine it.  It was dated December 20, 1868.--F. C. Waid), and that he was going by there, as he lived, I think he said, on Twenty-third Street.  Being a stranger and alone, I well appreciated the company of a Christian gentleman, and on arriving at my stopping place we continued to converse for some time.  Finding by his watch that it was after ten o'clock, he shook my hand, and with an assurance from him that our acquaintance had brought friendship, we parted.  This completed my Sunday in New York.

        On the following day, in the forenoon, Guinnip and I visited Central Park, which takes in 850 acres.  It has nine miles of broad carriage drive-way, six miles of bridle path, twenty-eight of foot-path, and has eighteen entrances.  Fifty years ago the place was nothing but a swamp and rocky waste; to-day it is one of the loveliest spots on the continent.

        And now we stand in the shadow of the Egyptian Obelisk that for thirty-five centuries stood beneath the burning sun of Africa.  It is a monolith hewn from the solid rock in the quarry, and carried many miles to be placed on end, all by mechanical appliances unknown to the present age.  Its height is sixty-nine feet two inches (besides the base which measures about seven and one-half feet), and the gross weight is two hundred and nineteen and one quarter tons.  The base stands on three tiers of stones, which are also very old, having been brought, I believe, from Egypt along with the Obelisk.

        In that part of Central Park known as the "Mall" are to be seen statues of Shakespeare, Burns, Sir Walter Scott, Fitz-Greene Halleck, and one of a native Indian in pursuit of game.  Indeed, did space admit, I could fill a volume with a description of the innumerable attractions and beauties of Central Park, my visit to which I shall ever remember as an event of my life well worthy of record.

        Now I come to our trip from New York to Essex, Conn.  At 4 P. M., Monday, September 5, Guinnip and I proceeded on board the elegant steamship "City of Richmond," which sailed at that hour from one of the piers.  In 1864, when my parents, my wife and myself sailed in the steamboat "City of Hartford" from Deep River to Hartford City, I supposed she was still running; but I learned from a gentleman fellow-passenger on board the "City of Richmond" that a few years ago, near the mouth of the Connecticut River, amid a great storm, she ran on some rocks and sank.  He said she was an old boat, having ran over thirty years, during which she had carried thousands of passengers and an immense amount of freight, and that the "City of Richmond" had taken her place.

        This trip to Essex, partly by daylight and partly by moonlight, was a rare treat to us, so many sights to be seen--Brooklyn Bridge, which we passed under, the navy yard, the Fort, Long Island City, and the Islands.  The evergreen shore with its beautiful foliage attracted much of our attention until the moon, "Pale empress of the night," and the twinkling stars appeared with more than ordinary beauty.  Passing boats and occasional glimpses of distant lighthouses broke what monotony there might be in the night trip until "Saybrook" was called out, and we then knew we would soon be at Essex.  [My father attended school one winter at Saybrook before coming to Pennsylvania.]

        On leaving the hotel at Saybrook after breakfast, on the 6th, we went direct to Mrs. F. J. Tiffany, with whom we spent the day, and there we found her brother, Sylvester A. Comstock, whose residence is Phillipsburgh, N. J.  He was on the island, just across the Connecticut River, haying, having a number of hands working for him.  After a short chat with Mrs. Tiffany, we were invited to look over the pleasant home and the surroundings of Essex, including "River Island," etc.  There is a very fine view from this old homestead.  Plenty of apples, pears and grapes are in the orchard, and in the garden we found two rows of beans, the planting of which was Mr. F. A. Tiffany's last work on earth.  He sowed them on Thursday, July 7, 1887; died on the 9th, in his seventy-first year, and was interred on the 11th.  His remains lie in the cemetery in Essex by the graves of Mrs. Tiffany's parents, and on their tombstone (In a letter dated January 7, 1888, I am informed a similar tombstone marks F. A. Tiffany's grave, with this inscription:  F. Augustus Tiffany, born Jan. 23, 1816; died July 9, 1887) is inscribed the following:  "Bela Comstock, born Dec. 17, 1790; died Sept. 20, 1884; Jane W. Comstock, born Oct. 8, 1797, died May 25, 1884."  Among other things we saw about the premises were indications of Mrs. Tiffany's father's handiwork, such as grapevine arbors, gates he hung, etc.  While viewing all these objects Mrs. Tiffany's brother came from his work.

        As I before remarked we had only one day for our visit in Essex, and it was economized much in the following manner:  Guinnip spent a short time with Mr. Comstock, who was engaged in the vinegar trade and farm work, and otherwise enjoyably passed the day.  For myself among other things I accompanied Mrs. Tiffany to the cemetery (distant only a short walk from the homestead), in order to view her husband's grave.  On it lay a beautiful bunch of flowers, and beneath, in silent death, rested the remains of her husband, who, besides being a relative, had been a friend to me whom I had hoped to meet alive.  But such is life.  The letters he had written to me are now only keepsakes and memorials of the departed, dearer to me because written by my beloved friend shortly before the close of his life.