Chapter 12

George Johnston, the editor and compiler of this book, was born in Philadelphia, May 15, 1829, the place of his birth being on Penn street, one door south of the southeast corner of Penn and Lombard streets. He is the oldest son of Isaac Johnston, and was named for his grandfather, George Johnston, the youngest son of Isaac Johnson, who lived on his farm, one mile west of the east end of Mason and Dixon's line, as early as 1755. There is reason to believe that the earliest member of the family who lived in that neighborhood was Samuel Johnston, who resided there as early as 1708.

Mr. Johnston's mother, Susan Curry, was a cousin of his father, she being the daughter of Ann Spear, the grandmother of Emma Alice Browne, a sketch of whose life appears in this Volume.

When about two years of age, the subject of this sketch was placed in charge of his paternal grandmother and his uncle, George Johnston, who resided on the homestead, in Cecil county. Here he was carefully nurtured and trained, and here were planted the seeds which have since sprung up and brought forth fruit in his intellectual and moral life. The family being Presbyterian in training, and of the type from which sprang those who in earlier years drafted the Mecklenberg Declaration, the lad was early imbued with those religious principles which ever serve as the true basis of mental growth and moral purpose.

The educational advantages of a half century ago were not such as are enjoyed by the youth of to-day; but such as the neighborhood provided and his uncle's means afforded, were placed at the disposal of the boy, who soon manifested an aptitude to learn. When but five years of age he was sent to what was then called a "Subscription School," kept in the neighborhood. This he attended during the next seven years, and in the Winter time until the year 1849, when he took charge as teacher of a school, in the Center School House, situated near Fair Hill, in Cecil county.

In the Spring of 1847 Mr. Johnston spent three months in Chesapeake City (in this county) as an apprentice to the carpenter business. He completed his trade in the neighborhood in which he had been raised, and from the year 1851 to 1864 spent his time about equally in teaching school and working at his trade.

When the war of the rebellion broke out in 1861, Mr. Johnston, without hesitation, took the side of the Union, and was, during all those dark days, an ardent supporter of the Government, the intensity of his convictions being no doubt increased by the result of his observations during a business trip to Texas and through the South in the Winter of eighteen hundred and sixty and sixty-one.

In the Constitutional Convention of this State in 1864 he served with ability as committee clerk, having accepted the position at the solicitation of the late David Scott (of John), who was a member of that body. While acting as committee clerk, Mr. Johnston had the honor of engrossing that section of the Constitution which abolished slavery in the State of Maryland. Many years afterwards he presented the pen used on that occasion to Frederick Douglass, then United States Marshal of the District of Columbia.

Mr. Johnston's health, which had always been precarious, became so bad in 1875 that he was obliged to abandon his trade and turn his attention to another occupation. Accordingly, two years later he became connected with _The Cecil Whig_, and for about three years had charge of its local columns. While associated with that journal, his attention was attracted to the mine of wealth offered to the investigator by the early history of Cecil county. Prompted by a love of historical investigation, he was led to make researches into this mine--a task hitherto largely unattempted or ineffectually prosecuted. The results of these studies enriched the columns of _The Cecil Whig_ during a period of three years, and attracted wide attention. In 1881 he published the "History of Cecil County, Md., and the Early Settlements Around the Head of the Chesapeake Bay and on the Delaware River, with Sketches of Some of the Old Families of Cecil County." This work, which embodied the results of the author's investigations during a period of some years, is one of rare value. To those who have given but little thought to the subject, it is ever a matter of surprise to learn how closely the history of Cecil and the surrounding counties is interwoven with that of our common country, and how valuable as data of the past are the materials which invited the lover of truth to their discovery. One can scarcely estimate the laborious research involved in the task of gathering the component parts of a history which stretched over a period of nearly two hundred and seventy-five years. Old volumes, musty records, masses of court documents, correspondence (official and otherwise), previous historical attempts, personal knowledge, tradition and personal interviews, were all laid under contribution by the author, and served as sources of his authority. These he has woven together with such judgment in selection, skill in arrangement and force of style and diction, that just as "Gray's Elegy" alone has placed him in the front rank of poets, so this one work has given the author a high and permanent place among the historians of our country. The work attempted is so well done, and withal so accurate and reliable as one of reference and authority, that in recognition of its merits Mr. Johnston has been elected a member of the Historical Societies of Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and Wisconsin.

On January 1, 1883, he became local editor of _The Cecil Democrat_, and was in such capacity connected with that newspaper for three years and a half.

Early in life Mr. Johnston was a pupil of David Scott (of James), who then taught a school in the Fourth district of Cecil county, and whose sister, Miss Hannah F. Scott, he subsequently married. The scholar being advanced in studies beyond the other pupils of the school, naturally a close intimacy was formed between him and his teacher. This afterwards deepened into a friendship which continued without interruption until Mr. Scott's death, and was the means of creating in Mr. Johnston an ardent love of poetry. Since 1851 he has written a number of poems, some of which have appeared in print. These have been so well received by the public that the author, in deference to the wishes of some of his friends, has ventured to include the following rhymes in this work:

HERE AND HEREAFTER.

Sad echoes of unequal strife, Go sighing through the aftermath, That skirts the dark uncertain path, That leads me to the close of life;-- And years ago dark shadows fell Athwart the amber sky of youth, Blighting the bloom of hope and truth, That erst had blossom'd all too well.

The world's great heart beats wild and high, With wealth of bliss and love untold-- While I with unblanch'd eye behold Its fading phantoms wane and die. Without a sigh I mark their flight; A stranger to the world unknown, Amid its mazes all alone, I wander in Egyptian night.

I worship not at its cold shrine, Nor fear the terror of its frown, It cannot chain my spirit down, The soaring of my soul confine. For ah! we parted at the tomb, Where buried hopes of youthful years, Embalm'd in sorrow's bitter tears, Lie mouldering within the gloom.

Ah! few and dim the lights that gleam Around me in life's dismal maze, Scarce seen amid the somber haze That shrouds me in life's dismal dream. I never drank the wine of bliss, Made sweeter by the wealth of joy; My cup is mix'd with griefs alloy, And I have tasted only this.

Life's problem oft to solve, I try, And hope I have not lived in vain, And borne this galling fetter chain Through all its years without a sigh. Some tears, perhaps, I may have dried-- My own in sympathy I shed O'er joys and hopes of others dead, By sorrow's legions crucified.

Earthly joys, alas! are fleeting, Shadowy and evanescent, Scarce full orb'd before the crescent Tells us of their final setting. And soon our starry dreams are wreck'd, And all our earthly hopes sublime Lie stranded on the shores of Time, In drapery of woe bedeck'd,

Yet I know 'tis vain repining;-- Though to-day the sky with sorrow May be overcast, to-morrow All the love-lights may be shining, Made brighter by the long eclipse; And shadows of earth's dreary night, That shrouded from my spirit's sight, Life's glorious Apocalypse.

To tread this weary round of Toil Is not the whole of mortal life;-- There is an unseen inner strife, Where battling for the victor's spoil, The wrong contendeth with the right,-- Passion and pride with gentleness Pity with sorrow and distress-- And faith with sin's deep with'ring blight.

And truth my spirit oft beguiles, While her dear face is wreath'd in smiles, By whisp'ring sweetly unto me; As thou hast measured, it shall be In justice meted out to thee, When thou hast reached the blissful isles Beyond the misty veil of Time; Thou'lt find a rest from earthly wars, And healing for thy earthly scars, Within that sweet supernal clime.

THE TURTLE'S SERMON.

An old and crafty terrapin, Who lately found his speech, Like many another simple lout, Concluded he could preach.

And so he waddled to the shore, And thus address'd his friends-- The bullfrogs and the snappers bold, About their latter ends.

And told them all how they must be Made into soup at last; And how the serpent sharp can see When last year's hide is cast.

And how the wary pickerel Enjoys the minnow sweet, Which he doth never fail to catch, When it goes out to skate;

And how the beaver builds his house Within his winter dam; And how the oyster lays its egg, And hatches out a clam;

And how the busy bumble bee, Doth blow his little horn, Whene'er he goes in quest of food, Amid the standin' corn:

And how the gentle butterfly Sings many a merry tune Because he's glad he has escaped From out the old cocoon;

And how the rabbit flies his kite, When he can find a string; And how the owl sits up all night, To hear the squirrel sing;

And many other curious things That did his hearers good,-- Of cats that did a swimmin' go And eels that chew'd the cud;

And toads that dance upon their ears When they a courtin' go; And moles that stand upon their heads, That they may see the show.

His sermon, as you see, was queer, And muchly out of joint;-- And 'cause the preacher took no text, He failed to make his point.

And soon his hearers all grew tired, And mortified and vex'd, Because he chose to play the fool, And preach without a text.

And so they left him there alone-- And this is what befel-- He grew so mad it broke his heart, And almost burst his shell.

MORAL.

If you successfully would preach, Be sure a text to take, And stick unto it like a leech Until your point you make.

SKYE.

THE DOG WITH THE BEAUTIFUL EYE.

Someone has written a song about "Tray," But no one has courage to write about Skye; So methinks I will rhyme, in my own rugged way, Of the queer little dog with the beautiful eye.

The land that he came from is said to be cold, And nature has dress'd him its storms to defy-- In the ugliest coat that ever was seen-- But giv'n him a charming and beautiful eye.

His coat is so ugly it makes him look old And scrawny and poor and most ready to die; But you'd change your opinion, I think, if you saw The life and the beauty that beams from his eye.

'Twere hard to conceive of an uglier thing Than this queer little dog from the island of Skye-- Grotesque and uncouth, and ugly as sin-- Yet bless'd with a mild and a beautiful eye.

Among dogs, like the heathen Chinee among men, His civilization is not very high; But then his dark ways we can always excuse On account of his lovely and charming bright eye.

He is sad and forlorn, yet so gentle and kind, You could not but love him I'm sure it you'd try-- This dog so demure and so kindly inclined-- This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye.

Sometimes he will follow his master to church; Tho' his piety's weak, I must say with a sigh, Perhaps he's as good as some other ones there Whose piety seems to be all in their eye.

He's full of strange antics--most little dogs are-- And tho' he's forlorn, he can mischief descry; Indeed--I'm strongly impress'd with the fact-- It eternally lurks in his beautiful eye.

His hair is the queerest that dog ever wore; Tho' kind to his master, of strangers he's shy; He is wise in his way; deeply learned in dog lore; Intelligence beams from his beautiful eye.

He's patient and faithful, affectionate too; My love for his virtues time's lapse will defy; I'm sure, if you knew him, you'd love him, like me, This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye.

IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE IT, TRY IT.

'Tis better far to wear away In honest strong endeavor, Than idly rust in slow decay And work and labor never; By honest toil to earn your bread, Or wherewithal to buy it; 'Tis very well, and truly said-- If you don't believe it, try it.

Ye idle loafers in the streets, The honest workman spurning, Know this--a living to be sweet Is better for the earning. To loaf and lounge and lie about, On others' toil to riot, Is only practiced by a lout; No honest man will try it.

Oh! him that earns his daily bread! Despise and spurn him never, A thousand blessings on his head 'Tis he that feeds you ever. Should others work no more than you Quite spare would be your diet, Your gills would turn a livid hue If they would stop and try it.

Then go to work with hands or head, You'll surely profit by it; And strive to earn some honest bread-- You can, if you will try it.

Ye sweeter ones of gentler sex, Who tread the pavement hourly, I do not wish your hearts to vex, Then pray don't take it sourly-- Methinks sometimes 'tis no disgrace Tho' seldom you are nigh it, To be at home, your proper place,-- If you don't believe it, try it. Are there no duties there to do? If so "be up and doing!" No clothes to mend, that you could sew, No beer that's worth the brewing? Then stay at home, sometimes, at least, My counsel, don't defy it, A little rest's as good's a feast, If you don't believe it, try it.

'Tis easy quite to do the right, And in it there is beauty, What e'er you do, do with your might, But always do your duty. Be true unto yourself, and then-- Wise counsel--don't decry it, You can't be false to other men-- If you don't believe it, try it.

BYE AND BYE.

Shadowy, dreamy phantoms ever rising Up before wild Fancy's eyes, With their untold and beauteous splendor, Make us present things despise.

And procrastination whispers softly, Wait a little longer yet; Rashness will defeat your purpose, mortal, And be cause of deep regret.

Wait with patience just a moment longer, Then with safety clutch them fast-- Thus the spirit of delay beguiles us, Till the lucky time is past.

Moments freighted deep with joy ecstatic All unheeded pass away; While we musing scan the misty future, Hoping they will ever stay.

Bye and bye! may gaily point us forward, Unto scenes with joy o'ercast-- Only mirage of Life's barren desert, They are found to be at last.

Bye and bye! with all its artful scheming, Though it may seem most sublime, Wisdom horror-stricken spurneth from her, Knowing only present time.

Reason tells us now's the time for action, And this truth will ever last, Written as it is throughout all nature, On the pages of the Past.

WILLIAM JAMES JONES.

William James Jones was born in Elkton, August 25, 1829, and received his education at the common school and Academy in that town. His youth and early manhood was spent in mechanical pursuits and in the improvement of his mind by a desultory course of reading, and in perfecting himself in the knowledge of the Latin language.

In 1852, Mr. Jones purchased a half interest in the _Cecil Whig_ and became the editor of that journal for a short time, and until its founder P.C. Ricketts, who was then editing the _Daily News_, of Baltimore, returned from that city and resumed the duties of editor of the _Whig_.

In 1853, Mr. Jones commenced the study of the law in the office of John C. Groome, Esq., in Elkton and was admitted to the Bar, September 21, 1855.

In politics Mr. Jones was a Whig, but allied himself with the American party when it was in course of formation and continued to be an active member as long as the party lasted. In 1857 he was appointed State's Attorney for Cecil county, to fill a vacancy, and in 1859 was elected to the same office for the term of four years. At the outbreak of the war of the rebellion Mr. Jones allied himself with the Union cause and was elected to the House of Delegates by the Union party in 1863, and was appointed two years afterwards, United States' District Attorney for the district of Maryland, and held the office for about a year, and until he was removed by President Andrew Johnson for opposing his policy of reconstruction. In 1858 he married Miss Mary Jane Smith, of Connecticut. They are the parents of one son and two daughters, the eldest of whom is the wife of Rev. Walter E. Avery, of the Wilmington Conference.

Mr. Jones is one of the most earnest and successful members of the Elkton Bar, and though not a voluminous writer, in early life contributed poetry to the columns of the _Cecil Whig_, of which the following poems are specimens.

AUTUMN.

The autumn winds are moaning round And through the branches sighing, And autumn leaves upon the ground All seared and dead are lying.

The summer flowers have ceased to bloom For autumn frosts have blighted, And laid them in a cheerless tomb By summer sun unlighted.

Thus all our "fondest hopes decay" Beneath the chill of sorrow, The joys that brightest seem to-day Are withered by the morrow.

But there are flowers that bloom enshrin'd In hearts by love united, Unscathed by the autumn wind, By autumn frost unblighted.

And there are hearts that ever thrill With friendship warm and glowing, And joys unseared by sorrow's chill With hallowed truth o'erflowing.

MARY'S GRAVE.

In a quiet country churchyard From the city far away, Where no marble stands in mockery Above the mould'ring clay; Where rears no sculptured monument-- There grass and flowers wave 'Round a spot where mem'ry lingers-- My once-loved Mary's grave.

They laid her down to slumber In this lonely quiet spot, They raised no stone above her, No epitaph they wrote; They pressed the fresh mould o'er her As earth to earth they gave-- Their hearts with anguish bursting, They turned from Mary's grave.

She knew not much of grief or care Ere yet by Death's cold hand, Her soul was snatched from earth away To join the spirit band: Her mild blue eye hath lost its gleam, No more her sufferings crave The hand of pity, but the tear Falls oft o'er Mary's grave.

I too would pay my tribute there, I who have loved her well. And drop one silent, sorrowing tear This storm of grief to quell; 'Tis all the hope I dare indulge, 'Tis all the boon I crave, To pay the tribute of a tear, Loved Mary, o'er thy grave.

TO ANSELMO.

Anselmo was the nom de plume of David Scott, of James.

I know thee not, and yet I fain Would call thee brother, friend; I know that friendship, virtue, truth, All in thy nature blend.

I know by thee the formal bow, The half deceitful smile Are valued not; they ill become The man that's free from guile.

I know thee not, and yet my breast Thrills ever at thy song, And bleeds to know, that thou hast felt The weight of "woe and wrong."

'Tis said the soul with care opprest Grows patient 'neath the weight, And after years can bear it well E'en though the load be great.

And, that the heart oft stung by grief Is senseless to the pain, And bleeding bares it to the barb, To bid it strike again.

I care not if the heart has borne All that the world can give, Of "disappointment, hate and scorn;" In hope 'twill ever live,

And feel the barb'd and poison'd stings Of anguish, grief and care, As keenly as in years gone by, When first they entered there.

The weary soul by care opprest May utter no complaints, But loaths the weight it cannot bear And weakens till it faints.

FLOWERS.

Bring flowers for the youthful throng, Of variegated glow, And twine of them a gaudy wreath Around each childish brow.

Bring flowers for the maiden gay, Bring flowers rich and rare, And weave the buds of brightest hue Among her waving hair.

Bring flowers to the man of grief-- They hold the syren art, To charm the care-look from his brow, The sorrow from his heart.

Bring flowers for the sick girl's couch; 'Twill cheer her languid eye To know the flowers have bloomed again, And see them ere she die.

Bring flowers when her soul has fled, And place them on her breast, Tho' ere their blooming freshness fade We lay her down to rest.

LIFE.

Life at best is but a dream, We're launched upon a rapid stream, Gushing from some unknown source, Rushing swiftly on its course, Save when amid some painful scene, And then it flows calm and serene, That we may gaze in mute despair On every hated object there.

Fortune our bark and hope our chart, With childish glee on our voy'ge we start, The boat glides merrily o'er the wave. But ah! there's many a storm to brave, And many a dang'rous reef to clear, And rushing rapid o'er which to steer.

Anon the stream grows wide and deep, While here and there wild breakers leap, O'er rocks half hidden by the flood, Where for ages they have stood, Upon whose bleak and rugged crest, Many a proud form sank to rest, And many a heart untouched by care Laid its unstained offering there.

Ah! they have met a happier lot, Whose bark was wrecked ere they forgot The pleasing scenes of childhood's years, 'Mid that tempestuous vale of tears Which farther on begirts the stream, Where phantom hopes like lightning gleam Through the murky air, and flit around The brain with hellish shrieking sound Conjuring up each mad'ning thought, With black despair or malice fraught.

Swiftly, on in our course we go To where sweetest flow'rs are hanging low We stretch our hand their stems to clasp But ah! they're crush'd within our grasp, While forward th' rushing stream flows fast And soon the beauteous scene is past.

At last we view another sight, The shore with drifted snow is white, The stream grows dark and soon we feel An icy coldness o'er us steal, We cast our eyes ahead and see The ocean of Eternity.

When once amid its peaceful waves No holier joy the bosom craves-- Ten thousand stars are shining bright Yet one reflects a purer light-- No sooner does its glowing blaze Attract the spirit's wand'ring gaze, Than all is turned to joy we see-- That star is Immortality.

JOHN HENRY KIMBLE.

John Henry Kimble was born in Buckingham township, Bucks county, Pennsylvania, September 8, 1850. He is the second son of Henry H. Kimble, and is descended on his father's side from English stock, being a lineal descendant from Governor John Carver, who came to this country in the Mayflower in 1620. On his mother's side, his grandfather, Seruch Titus, was a prominent citizen of Bucks county, and, as his name indicates, was of Italian descent.

Mr. Kimble moved with his parents to the Fourth Election district of Cecil county, in the Spring of 1855, and has been engaged in farming all his life, except two years spent in teaching in our public schools. He is a popular music teacher and performer on musical instruments, and has won local distinction as a debater.