Miscellaneous Articles from the Hart Scrapbook

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SATURDAY AFTERNOON, February 8, 1919

Manuel Jeffrey, Now 82, Drove Stage from Lake Port to Wa-
tertown During the Civil War -- Big Freight and Passenger
Business at the Lake in the 50’s and 60’s.

Sackets Harbor, Feb. 8. -- Memories of Sackets Harbor of the days of the middle of the nineteenth century, when side-wheeled vessels plied the St. Lawrence and Lake Ontario and this village was considerable of trade and passenger center, were recalled today by Manuel Jeffrey, 82 years old, who has resided in this vicinity since he was six years old, and who in the Civil war days drove a stage between Sackets Harbor and Watertown.

Mr. Jeffrey was born near London, England, in 1837. When six years old he came to this country with his parents, and the first soil he set foot on after leaving his homeland was at Sackets Harbor. He came across on an ocean liner and transferred immediately to a river boat at Montreal, which brought him here. He made his home with relatives until he was 14, when he hired out at $5 a month. When he was 18 he came to Sackets Harbor.

“In those days there was ten times as much business in Sackets as there is now,” said Mr. Jeffrey. “I can remember driving my four horse coach down on that dock,” he continued, pointing out of the window of his apartment to the dock by the station, “and seeing it covered with people. I have seen from 400 to 600 baskets of peaches put off there in one morning.

“A line of sidewheel vessels ran on the river and the lake then. I recall there were four boats which used to stop here. They were the Cataract, the Niagara, the Ontario, and a Canadian boat the name of which I cannot recall. The Canadian boat had a broom set out from each side of the bow, to signify that she swept the lake, or was the fastest boat in operation on the river.

“The boats all stopped at Sackets Harbor and there was a big trade. There was one boat going each way each day and they used to meet here. They would zigzag back and forth between the United States and Canada, the law requiring that they should not stop at two ports in either country in succession.

“In a gale of wind the boats could go down but could not go up, and sometimes one of them would be held up here. I recall an incident which happened back in ‘64. It really was a case of smuggling, but it happened so far back that I guess I won’t be arrested for it now. Henry Crandall, “Walt” McDowell and I went to Kingston and we bought two or three pieces of cotton cloth. It was about half as cheap in Canada as it was here. We got the cloth al right, but when we came back we found the other boat at the dock. Our boat had to pass that and land right in front of the customs office. It was a puzzle how to get that cotton cloth off. Finally we told the purser not to hurry putting our baggage off, and in the afternoon when everything was quiet we sent “Coon’ Dunbar around with a push cart and took the baggage to my rooms.”

Mr. Jeffrey started driving the stage in 1859 over the old plank road between Sackets Harbor and Watertown, and he recalls some interesting incidents in connection with his work. For the first two years he drove by the month for Luther Barrows, but he finally bought the business from Mr. Barrows and operated it himself.

“In Watertown I used to stay at the Jackman House, a hotel run by Benjamin Jackman where the Otis block now stands. Watertown was then only a village. Watertown was made a city when it had less than 8,000 inhabitants, although that was against the law then. A special act was passed permitting Watertown to become a city with less than the required number of people.”

He continued the stage line until 1865, after the close of the war, when he conducted a livery business for a while. He drove the stage all during the war, and remembers distinctly many of the events of that day.

The 94th regiment was raised at Madison Barracks from northern New York men. The day they left Madison Barracks to march to Watertown to entrain, Mr. Jeffrey drove his stage the length of the column.

“I came upon the regiment just as the end of the column was wheeling from the garrison into the road to Watertown,” he said. “The column was taking up the whole road, marching from fence to fence. They opened up for me, and I never let my four horses get out of a trot. I did not catch up with the head of that column until I got within three miles of Watertown.”

On one occasion the soldiers of the 94th became a bit unruly at the garrison and were bent on giving trouble, but the trouble was quickly squelched by a company of the 7th which had been paroled.

“One company of the 7th regiment was sent here,” he said. “They had been prisoners and could not be used again in battle, so they were sent here for a rest. They came into Sackets Harbor one Sunday morning over the old Sackets Harbor & Ellisburg railroad, one of the last things that road was used for, and they camped in the square.

“The 94th regiment was here then. They were new recruits and they didn’t know much about war and discipline. They came down to where the men of the 7th were cooking their breakfast and hung around making fun of them. The 7th took it in good part but they said, ‘You’ll know more of this war before it is over.’ They did, too, for the 94th was as badly cut up as any regiment that ever went out of here.

“A little later the men of the 94th kicked up a rumpus and started to break into some of the shacks set up here by Watertown business places. They called out the 7th with their shiny bayonets and the 94th quieted down pretty quickly when they saw those bayonets.”

Mr. Jeffrey conducted the livery only a short time when he sold out. In 1874, in partnership with a cousin, Albert Lane, he started a general store, known as Jeffrey & Lane, which ran for several months. Mr. Lane left Sackets Harbor some time after, and is now a wealthy banker and cattle owner in Lander, Wyo. He is also president of a bank in that place.

Mr. Jeffrey later opened a general store of his own in the block which he owned. The block was burned Aug. 29, 1889, and in the next year Mr. Jeffrey built the present Jeffrey block, a two story brick structure near the railroad station.

After he was burned out Mr. Jeffrey did not again enter business for himself but worked for others. For a time he worked in the fish market of Clarke & Elmer, run by C. M. Clarke and William Elmer. This firm was really the beginning of the A. Booth & Co. of Cape Vincent, which does a large fish business now.

Mr. Clarke and Mr. Williams ran a fish market in the basement of the Eveleigh store. Mr. Elmer left the firm and Mr. Clarke took in W. G. Robbins, the firm becoming Clarke & Robbins. They moved to larger quarters near the station, and built a refrigerator. The business continued to grow until the firm was shipping a carload of fish from here daily.

The firm then consolidated with two others, one at Oswego and one at Chaumont, and became the Lake Ontario Fish Company. They moved to Cape Vincent and were taken over later by the A. Booth & Company.

Typist's Note: Mark Wentling, Town of Hounsfield historian, has presented a very nicely done section on Mr. Jeffrey, obit included. Click here.

The Washington Elm.

To The Times:

I was particularly interested in an editorial in The Times Dec. 21 entitled “The Washington Elm Story.”

To me, the Washington legend means much as a historical fact, having in my possession a piece of the supposed elm. Hereby is the tale of the historical elm. My brother, Harry W. Evans, lived in Boston when a severe wind storm occurring in the early 80s broke off a large portion of the tree. As he was passing by and people were examining the chips from the woodman’s axe, he brought it home and it is now in my possession and has been handed down in our family as authentic.

I was more than interested to have The Times admit that Washington took command under this tree and to mention that Edward Everett Hale believed it was true. In my childhood I was brought up to have implicit confidence n Edward Everett Hale as my parents, Horatio and Ellen Mayo Evans, were members of his church in Boston, Mass.

Mrs. C. M. Overton

Belleville, N. Y., Dec. 22, 1931

* * * * * * * * * * * *

BANNER OF GOLD

The story connected with the following touching lines, whose author is not known, adds new beauty to their tender pathos. A few weeks ago, at the age of eighty three, there died in Boston a Christian man who for three years before his death, had read the following verses to his aged wife every evening, after family prayers, before retiring. One of the wayfarers has reached home; the “tired feet” of the other are nearing the same blessed country:

This way is long, my darling,
The road is rough and steep,
And fast across the evening sky
I see the shadows sweep.
But, oh, my love, my darling,
No ill to us can come,
No terror turn us from the path
For we are going home.

Your feet are tired, my darling --
So tired the tender feet!
But think, when we are there at last,
How sweet the rest! how sweet!
For lo! the lamps are lighted.
And yonder gleaming dome,
Before us shining like a star,
Shall guide our footsteps home.

We’ve lost the flowers we gathered
So early in the morn!
And on we go with empty hands,
And garments soiled and worn.
But oh! the great All-Father
Will out to meet us come,
And fairer flowers and whiter robes
There wait for us at home.

Art cold, my love, and famished?
Art faint and sore, athirst?
Be patient yet a little while,
And joyous as at first!
For oh, the sun sets never
Within that land of bloom,
And thou shalt eat the bread of life
And drink life’s wine, at home.

The wind blows cold, my darling,
Adown the mountain steep,
And thick across the evening sky
The darkened shadows creep!
But oh, my love, press onward,
Whatever trials come,
For in the way the Father set
(last line not legible)

* * * * * * * * * *

THE MOTHER WANTS HER BOY.

There’s a homestead waiting for you, my boy
In a quaint, old-fashioned town;
The gray moss clings to the garden wall,
And the dwelling is low and brown;
But a vacant chair by the fireside stands,
And never a grace is said,
But a mother prays that her absent son
Soon may be homeward led.
For the mother wants her boy.

She trains the vines and tends the flowers,
For, she says, “My boy will come;
And I want the quiet, humble place
To be just like the dear old home
That it seemed when he, a gentle lad,
Used to pluck the orchard’s gold,
And gather of roses and lilies tall,
Far more than his hand could hold;
And still I want my boy.”

How well she knows the very place
Where you played at bat and ball;
And the violet cap you wore to school
Still hangs on its hook in the hall.
And when the twilight hour draws near
She steals adown the lane,
To cosset the lambs you used to pet,
And dream you were home again!
For the mother wants her boy.

She is growing old, and her eyes are dim
With watching day by day,
For the children nurtured at her breast
Have slipped from her arms away.
Alone and lonely she names the hours
As the dear ones come and go;
Their coming she calls, “The time of flowers.”
Their going “The hours of snow;”
And ever she wants her boy.

Walk on, toil on, give strength and mind
To the task in your chosen place,
But never forget the dear old home,
And the mother’s loving face.
You may count your blessings score on score,
You may heap your golden grain,
But remember when her grave is made,
Your coming will be in vain, --
‘Tis now she wants her boy.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Home and Mother.

“So Long as I am well and strong I glory in the rough and tumble of life.
No strong, well man but feels a thrill of joy as he enters anew each morning upon his day’s work;
But he must be strong indeed who does not feel like thanking God at night with all his heart if he have a place to turn to as a refuge from the strife of the day.
When we come in at night, weary and worn and dustladen with the burden of the day, how fervently we exclaim,

“Thank God for a place of rest!

Thank God for home!

Thank God for mother!”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Mother Love.

George S. Perin.

What are the very dearest, sweetest memories to you as you look across the years of your life?
There are doubtless many precious ones.
In one mood you will remember the toys of your childhood.
In yet another you will remember the trees and flowers that grow near your house.
Again, you will recall the old schoolhouse and the sweet face of your teacher;
Or all the manifold recreations of your early life will sweep before you in some thought picture.
All these are precious memories,
But sweeter still is the memory of a mother’s love and patient care.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

8:50 PM 9/24/2001

Dear Sisters:

I send you a little poem which I composed myself. I am now past fifty, and all that I say in these lines is true:

My Treasures

I hold in my hand this evening,
A box long guarded with care
And oft I bend above it,
With silent tear and prayer.
Not all the gold in the mountain
Nor yet, the pearls of the sea
Could buy tonight the treasures,
This wee box holds for me.

Only a bunch of letters,
Worn and yellow with age,
And tears quickly gather
As I scan each written page.
One from a loving schoolmate,
Written thirty years tonight;
Dear Grace, it needs no letter
To keep your memory bright.

And one from my dear old mother,
That mother so far away;
It says, “I hope my daughter
You’ll never forget to pray.”
And one from the dear old father,
The last he wrote to me;
It ends, “Good night my loved one
How I’d love your face to see.”

Here’s one, the last of my letters,
What need to read it again,
When every word that is written
Is stamped on heart and brain
Here a broken band ring
Lies in its paper white;
Ah, I loved and kissed the giver
Just thirty years tonight.

Ah, me! here’s a knot of ribbon
And a lock of golden hair,
Once it lay on the head of my baby,
My baby, sweet and fair.
But the mate to that knot of ribbon
Lies on my baby’s breast,
Far, far in God’s acre---
Ah me! but God knew best.

Slowly I lock up my treasures
As the sun is going down.
Leaving a lingering trace of light
On valley, hill and town.
Not all the gold in the mountains,
Nor yet, the pearls of the sea,
Could buy tonight the treasures,
This wee box holds for me.

....................MRS. S. STEINER, Hanna, Wyo.

Mrs. Steiner: Your poem is beautiful and few will read it without recalling some treasure with silent tear and prayer. Particularly impressive is the third verse with its paternal love and dignity of expression, and “My Treasures” is all that the name implies -- Ed.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

There’s a dear and treasured memory
To which I shall always cling,
And that’s the memory of the songs
That I heard my Mother sing.

“Way Down upon the Swanee River,”
Annie Laurie,” and “Old Black Joe,”
Seems to me I hear her singing
In a voice so sweet and low.

And, as twilight shadows gathered
In my little bed I’d creep.
She would come and sit beside me
And sing low ‘till I would sleep.

Sometimes shadows round would gather,
Troubles waves would o’er her roll
Then she sang in trembling accents,
Jesus Lover of my Soul.”

As I listen to the music
That the young folks sing today,
It does not bring the same thrill
As when mother sang that way.

And when life’s work is over
And I reach the Heavenly shore,
The best of all its music
Will be to hear her sing once more.