Thus Scheyichbi, the land of the Indians, became truly and honestly New
Jersey, the land of the English settlers; and to this State belongs the
honor of having been the first in the Union in which the settlers
purchased and paid for the lands on which they settled, and in which the
aboriginal owners were so fairly treated that every foot of the soil not
purchased of them by individuals was bought and paid for by the
government of the State.




FINS, RATTLES, AND WINGS.


When the first settlers came to New Jersey, they found in that country
plenty of wild animals, some of them desirable, and some quite
otherwise. In the first class were great herds of red deer (especially
in the central portion of the State), beavers, hares, and squirrels,
and, among the dangerous kinds, bears, panthers, wolves, wild cats, and
rattlesnakes. There were also many foxes, which were a great injury to
the poultry yards of the settlers. Some of these creatures were so
troublesome, that bounties were paid for the heads of panthers, foxes,
and some other animals.

The white settlers found New Jersey a capital hunting ground. Nothing,
however, that is told about hunting in the early days of New Jersey
equals the accounts which are given of the fishing in the waters of that
State. Soon after the settlement of Burlington, one of the townspeople
wrote to his friends in England, describing the manner in which the
people fished in that place.

The Delaware abounded in fish, and in the spring it swarmed with
herring. When the early Burlingtonians wanted to catch herring, they did
not trouble themselves about nets, or hooks and lines, but they built in
the shallow water near the shore a pen, or, as they called it, a
"pinfold," made by driving stakes into the sand so as to inclose a
circular space about six feet in diameter. On the side toward the open
water an aperture was left; and a big bush was made ready to close this
up when the proper time came. Then the fishermen waded into the water,
carrying with them great birch bushes. Sweeping the water with these,
they slowly advanced toward the pinfold, driving swarms of herring
before them, and so surrounding the frightened fish, that they had no
way of escape, except by rushing through the entrance of the pinfold.
Into the inclosure the shining creatures shot,--pushing, crowding, and
dashing over each other,--until the pen was packed with fish, almost as
closely jammed together as sardines in a tin box. Then the bush was
driven down into the opening; and all that it was necessary to do, was
to dip into the pinfold and take out great handfuls of fish. In this way
bushels of herring could be procured at one time.

It is not to be supposed that in those days game fishing flourished to
any extent; that is, sportsmen did not go out with rods and flies to
catch little fish one at a time, when it was so easy to scoop them up by
dozens.

Shad, too, were very abundant in those days, but not so highly valued as
now. In fact, it is stated that when the settlers became more numerous,
and the herring fewer, these fish were held in higher repute than shad;
so that, when a man bought one hundred herring, he was expected to take
ninety-five herring and five shad, or something in that proportion, shad
being then rather a drug in the market.

In those early days there were denizens of the waters on the shores of
New Jersey very much more valuable than herring, shad, or any other of
these finny creatures, no matter in what dense throngs they might
present themselves. These were whales, of which there were numbers in
Delaware Bay, and even some distance up the river. When the Dutch De
Vries first came into these waters, he came after whales; and even at
the present day one of these great water monsters occasionally
investigates the western coast of New Jersey, generally paying dear for
his curiosity.

There were a great many snakes, many of them rattlesnakes, especially in
the hilly country. The early settlers had a curious way of making
themselves safe from these creatures. When they were going to make a
journey through the woods or along wild country, where they expected to
find snakes, they would take with them several hogs, and drive these
grunting creatures in front of them. Hogs are very fond of eating
snakes, and as they went along they would devour all they met with. It
did not matter to the hogs whether the snakes were poisonous or
harmless, they ate them all the same; for even the most venomous
rattlesnake has but little chance against a porker in good condition,
who, with his coat of bristles and the thick lining of fat under his
skin, is so well protected against the fangs of the snake, that he pays
no more attention to them than we to the seeds of a strawberry when we
are eating one.

Rattlesnakes were in fact the most dangerous wild animals with which the
early settlers had to contend; for they were very numerous, and their
bite, if not treated properly at once, was generally fatal. The Indians,
who well knew the habits of the snake, were not nearly as much afraid of
it as were the whites.

In order to protect one's self against these creatures, unless there are
too many of them, it is only necessary to make noise enough to let the
snake know that some one is approaching, and it gets out of the way as
fast as possible; or, if it has not time to do this, it coils itself up
and springs its rattle, thus giving notice that it is on hand, and ready
to strike.

It has often been said that the snake's rattle is for warning to birds
and other animals; but this is now known to be a mistake, for when a
snake rattles, it strikes its victim almost at the same time, if it has
a chance.

It is now believed that the rattle is used to attract the attention of
birds and other small creatures; and when they turn, and look into the
eyes of the terrible serpent, they are so overcome with terror that they
cannot fly away, and soon become its prey. This is commonly called snake
charming; and a great many instances of it are related by people who are
in the habit of telling the truth, and who have seen a snake charm a
bird which could have flown away just as well as not, had it not been
for the terrible attraction of those great eyes, which drew it nearer
and nearer, until at last it found itself in the jaws of a snake.

The Indians did not give this significance to the rattle: they believed,
as many people now do, that it was merely used as a warning. So, when an
Indian met with a snake which rattled before he came up to it, he took
it to be a snake of honest, straight-forward principles, who wished to
deceive nobody, and therefore gave fair notice of its presence. Such a
serpent was never molested. But if a snake rattled after an Indian had
passed, the red man went back and killed the creature, on the ground
that it was a sneak and a coward, which had neglected to give warning to
the passer-by.

A farmer living in Cumberland County tells a story about having
discovered an island in a swamp, which so abounded in snakes, that he
and some of his neighbors conceived the idea that this was the place
where they made their headquarters, and from which, in summer time, they
wandered to forage upon the country. The farmers waited until winter
before they made an attack upon this stronghold; and then they came and
dug up the ground, knowing that these reptiles always pass the cold
season in a torpid state underground.

It was not long before they came to what might be called in these days a
cold-storage vault. This was a flat-bottomed cavity, filled to the depth
of about three inches with clear spring water; and in this water were
packed away a great number of snakes, evenly laid side by side, so as to
take up as little room as possible. The majority of these creatures were
rattlesnakes; but there were black snakes among them, and one large
spotted snake. Besides these, there were, as the narrator expressed it,
at least a peck of spring frogs; these having probably crawled in to
fill up all corners and vacant places. All these reptiles were of
course dormant and insensible, and were easily destroyed.

There is another story which gives even a better idea of the abundance
of rattlesnakes in the new colony. In a quarry, from which the workmen
were engaged in getting out stone for the foundations of Princeton
College, a wide crack in the rocks was discovered, which led downward to
a large cavity; and in this cave were found about twenty bushels of
rattlesnake bones. There was no reason to believe that this was a snake
cemetery, to which these creatures retired when they supposed they were
approaching the end of their days; but it was, without doubt, a great
rattlesnake trap. The winding narrow passage leading to it must have
been very attractive to a snake seeking for retired quarters in which to
take his long winter nap. Although the cave at the bottom of the great
crack was easy enough to get into, it was so arranged that it was
difficult, if not impossible, for a snake to get out of it, especially
in the spring, when these creatures are very thin and weak, having been
nourished all winter by their own fat. Thus year after year the
rattlesnakes must have gone down into that cavity, without knowing that
they could never get out again.

The great rivals, in point of numbers, to the herring and other fish in
the rivers of New Jersey (and the snakes in their winter quarters
underground), were the wild pigeons in the air. Several times in the
year the settlers would be visited by vast flocks of these birds, which
came in such numbers as to shut out the light of the sun, as if they
had been clouds in the sky. They would remain in one place for a few
days, and then pass on. As it was unnecessary to use hooks and lines to
catch a few fish out of the multitudes which swarmed in the streams, so
it was hardly worth while to waste powder and shot on the vast flocks of
pigeons which visited New Jersey in those days. When they came to roost
in the forests, they could be knocked down with poles and stones; and
thousands and thousands of them were thus obtained by the men and boys,
and very good eating they were.

There was a summer in which the settlers were very much astonished by
the advent of a vast army of invaders to which they were not at all
accustomed. These were locusts, probably of the kind we now call
seventeen-year locusts; and the people were amazed to see these
creatures come up out of the ground, clad in their horny coats of mail,
which they afterwards cast off, when they appeared as winged creatures.

They could not understand how insects encumbered by such hard, unwieldy
shells, could penetrate to such distance below the surface of the earth;
for they did not know that each one of these locusts came from a little
worm which had dropped into the ground many years before, and which had
worked its way down to a great depth, and then, about a sixth of a
century afterward, had reappeared on the surface as a hard-shell locust,
ready to split its back, get out of its shell, spend a few days flying
about in the summer air, lay its eggs in the twigs of trees, and then,
having fulfilled all its duties on this earth, to die.

Although the farmers probably supposed that their crops would be eaten
up by this vast horde of locusts, no great injury was done to them; for,
as we now know, the seventeen-year locusts do not appear upon earth to
destroy crops and vegetation, being far different from the
grasshopper-like locusts which in our Western countries sometimes
devastate large sections of farming lands. The twigs of the trees, which
had been punctured in order that the eggs might be deposited, recovered
their life, and put forth their leaves again when they had ceased to act
as insect incubators.




THE STORY OF A GIRL AND A HOGSHEAD.


Settlers came to New Jersey in various ways. Their voyages were
generally very long, and it often happened that they did not settle at
the place for which they had started, for there were many circumstances
which might induce them to change their mind after they reached this
country.

But there was one settler, and a very valuable one too, who came to New
Jersey in an entirely original and novel fashion. She was a girl only
sixteen years old, and a Swede. There is no reason to suppose that she
wanted to come to America; but circumstances made it necessary that she
should get out of Sweden, and this country was a very good place to come
to. It is said that this girl, whose surname we do not know, but who was
called Elizabeth, was a connection of the Swedish royal family; and, as
there was great trouble at the time between different factions in the
land, it happened that it was dangerous for Elizabeth to remain in
Sweden, and it was very difficult to get her away. It is quite certain
that she was a person of importance, because it was considered
absolutely necessary to keep the authorities from knowing that she was
about to sail for foreign lands.

There are people at the present day who, when they first go on board an
ocean steamer, are very much surprised and disgusted at the small size
of the stateroom they will have to occupy during the voyage; but if they
could have seen the accommodations with which Elizabeth was obliged to
content herself, they would not look with such contempt upon a room in
which three persons can sleep, leaving space to move about.

The people who had Elizabeth's passage in charge conceived the idea that
the safest way to get her on board the vessel, which was waiting at the
dock, would be to ship her as freight. So she was put into a large
hogshead, and securely fastened up, and then carried on board. She must
have been a girl of a good deal of pluck, for the vessel was not to sail
for several days, and she must remain in the hogshead all that time, as
the officials of the port might come on board at any moment and discover
her, if she should get out of her hiding place. I have no doubt that she
was supplied with three or four meals a day through the bunghole.

Not only was Elizabeth's precious self thus duly consigned to America as
if she had been ordinary merchandise, but a great many of her valuable
possessions, jewels, clothes, etc., were also shipped to accompany her.
In the course of time, and it must have been a dreary time to this poor
girl, the ship moved out of the dock, and started on its voyage across
the North Sea, and then over the Atlantic to the new country. Not until
the vessel was well out of sight of land, and free from danger of being
overhauled by a vessel of the Swedish navy, did Elizabeth come out of
her barrel and breathe the fresh sea air.

At that time, early in the seventeenth century, a good many vessels
crossed the Atlantic, and most of them must have made safe and
successful voyages; but it so happened that the ship in which Elizabeth
sailed was not a fortunate craft. When she reached the far-stretching
Jersey coast, dangerous even now to mariners who know it well, this
vessel was overtaken by storm, and soon became a hopeless wreck.

It might have been a very good thing if Elizabeth had concluded to end
her voyage as she began it. If she had put her valuables into her
hogshead, and then had jumped in herself and had asked some of the
sailors to fasten her up, there is no doubt that she would have floated
ashore, if she had known how to keep the open bunghole uppermost,--which
no doubt she did,--and would have saved all her possessions. If one must
float through stormy waves and great breakers, there is no safer way to
do it than in a hogshead, as has been proved by the man who in that way
navigated the fierce rapids at Niagara. But Elizabeth did not go back to
her hogshead. She took her chances with the rest of the people on
board, and with them was cast on the shore of New Jersey.

This shore was absolutely wild and bare, and what became of the others
who reached it, we do not know; but Elizabeth eventually wandered off by
herself, alone and lost in a strange land. If the people who had been so
much concerned about her connection with the Swedish throne had been
able to see her then, they would have been perfectly satisfied that she
would give them no further trouble. How she lived during her days of
wandering and solitude is not told; but when we remember that New Jersey
is noted for its berries and for its clams, and that it was probably
summer time when she was cast ashore (for mariners would generally
calculate to arrive at the settlement in good weather), we may give a
very good guess at Elizabeth's diet.

It was not very long before she found that there was another wanderer in
this desolate and lonely place. She met with a white hunter named
Garrison; and very much surprised must he have been when his eyes first
fell upon her,--almost as much surprised, perhaps, as if he had come
upon a stranded hogshead, with a human voice calling through the
bunghole to be let out.

When a possible heiress of a royal crown meets with a solitary hunter,
probably poor and of no family to speak of, her reception of him depends
very much upon surrounding circumstances. In this case, those
circumstances induced Elizabeth to look upon Garrison with more favor
than she had ever looked upon a king or noble, for there is no doubt
that she would have perished on that wild and uninhabited coast if she
had not met with him.

Of course, the hunter gladly undertook to guide this Swedish girl to a
settlement; and the two started off on their long tramp. It is not at
all surprising that they soon began to like each other, that it was not
long before they fell in love, and that in course of time they were duly
married. If she had ever thought of a marriage with a high-born Swede,
Elizabeth gave up all such notions when she entered her hogshead, and
left all her proud hopes behind her.

This young couple--one of royal Swedish blood, the other a hardy hunter
of the New World--settled near Bridgeton, and there they flourished and
prospered. Elizabeth lived to be ninety-five years old. She had ten
children, and in 1860 it was computed that her descendants numbered at
least a thousand. That any of these considered themselves better than
their neighbors, because it was possible that they might have a drop or
two of royal blood in their veins, is not likely; for but few American
families would care to base their claims of social superiority upon such
a very diluted foundation as this. But they would have good reason to
trace with pride their descent from the plucky girl who started for
America in a hogshead, and who was able to land alone and unassisted on
the Jersey coast in a storm, and to take care of herself after she got
ashore.




THE STORY OF PENELOPE STOUT.


In the early days of New Jersey, the Dutch settlers suffered very much
from Indian hostilities. It was at the time that New Amsterdam,
afterwards New York, was in the possession of the Dutch, that a ship
came from Holland, bringing passengers who intended to settle in the new
country. The ship was unfortunately wrecked in the neighborhood of Sandy
Hook; but all the passengers managed to save themselves, and reached the
shore.

Among these was a young couple whose names we do not know, except that
the wife's maiden name was Penelope Van Princis. Her husband had been
very sick during the voyage; and getting ashore through the surf from
the wreck could not have been of any benefit to him, for, after he had
reached dry land, he felt even worse than he had upon shipboard, and
needed all the attention his wife could give him.

Although the passengers and crew of this vessel had reached the shore,
they did not by any means consider themselves in safety; for they were
very much afraid of the Indians, and desired above everything to make
what haste they could toward New Amsterdam. They therefore started away
as soon as possible. But Penelope's husband was too sick to go any
farther at that time, and his wife was too good a woman to leave her
husband in that lonely spot; and so these two were left behind, while
the rest of the company started for New Amsterdam, promising, however,
that they would send help to the unfortunate couple.

The fears of these immigrants in regard to the Indians were not without
foundation; for the main party had not long departed, when a band of red
men, probably having heard in some way of the wreck of the ship,
appeared upon the scene, and discovered poor Penelope and her sick
husband. It is unfortunately the disposition of most savages to show
little pity for weakness and suffering, and the fact that the poor young
man could not do them any possible harm had no effect upon them, and
they set upon him and killed him; very much as a boy would kill a little
harmless snake, for no reason whatever, except that he was able to do
it.

Then they determined to kill Penelope also, and, attacking her with
their tomahawks, they so cut and wounded her that she fell down bleeding
and insensible. Having built a fire, these brave warriors cooked
themselves a comfortable meal, and then departed. But Penelope was not
killed, and, coming to her senses, her instincts told her that the first
thing to do was to hide herself from these bloodthirsty red men: so,
slowly and painfully, she crawled away to the edge of a wood, and found
there a great hollow tree, into which she crept.

This made but narrow and doleful quarters for a wounded woman, but it
was preferable at that time to the blue sky and fresh air. She did not
leave the tree until nightfall, and then she made her way to the place
where the fire was still glimmering; and by great care, and with what
must have been painful labor, she kept this fire from going out, and so
managed to get a little warmth.

In this way, living in the tree the greater part of the time, and
depending for food chiefly upon the fungous excrescences and gum which
grew on the outside of it,--for she was not able to go in search of
berries and other food,--poor Penelope lived for a few days, with her
dead husband on the beach, and her almost dead self in that cavern-like
tree. The hours must have passed mournfully indeed to this young woman
who had set out for the New World with such bright hopes.

That she survived her terrible hardships was due entirely to the
existence of the danger she most feared; that is, the reappearance of
the Indians. On the second morning, nearly famished and very weak,
Penelope was making her way slowly over the ground, endeavoring to find
something she could eat, or a little dew in the hollow of a leaf, that
she might drink, when suddenly there came out of the woods two tall
Indians, who, naturally enough, were much surprised to find a wounded
white woman there alone upon the seashore.

Penelope gave herself up as lost. There was nothing now for her to do
but to submit to her fate. It was a pity, she thought, that she had not
been slain with her husband.

But the Indians did not immediately rush at her with their tomahawks:
they stood and talked together, evidently about her, with their fierce
eyes continually fixed upon her. Then their conversation became more
animated, and it was soon plain that they were disputing. Of course, she
did not then know the cause of their difference of opinion; but she
found out afterwards that one of them was in favor of killing her upon
the spot, and the other, an older man than his companion, was more
mercifully inclined, and wished to carry her off as a prisoner to their
camp.

At last the older man got the better of the other one; and he, being
determined that the poor wounded woman should be taken care of, took her
up and put her on his shoulder, and marched away with her. That an
Indian should be able to perform a feat like this is not at all
surprising; for when one of them shoots a deer in the forest, though
many of those animals are heavier than Penelope was, he will put it on
his back and carry it through the forests, perhaps for miles, until he
reaches his camp. And so Penelope, as if she had been a deer wounded by
some other hunters, which these men had found, was carried to the Indian
camp.

There she was taken care of. Food and drink were given her. Her wounds
were dressed and treated after the Indian fashion. In due course of time
she recovered her health and strength, and there--living in a wigwam,
among the women and children of the village, pounding corn, cooking
food, carrying burdens as did the Indian women--she remained for some
time, not daring even to try to escape; for in that wild country there
was no place of safety to which it was possible for her to flee.

Although there was a good deal of bad feeling between the Indians and
the whites at that time, they still traded and communicated with each
other; and when, in the course of time, it became known in New Amsterdam
that there was a white woman held as a prisoner in this Indian camp,
there was every reason to suppose that this woman was the young wife who
had been left on the seacoast by the survivors of the wreck.
Consequently some of the men who had been her fellow-passengers came
over to the Indian camp, which was not far from where Middletown now
stands. Here, as they had expected, they found Penelope, and demanded
that the Indians should give her up.

After some discussion, it was agreed that the matter should be left with
Penelope herself; and the old Indian who had saved her life went to
her,--for of course, being an inferior, she was not present at the
conference,--and put the question before her. Here she was, with a
comfortable wigwam, plenty to eat and drink, good Indian clothes to
wear, as well treated as any Indian woman, and, so far as he could see,
with everything to make her comfortable and happy; and here she might
stay if she chose. On the other hand, if she wished to go to New
Amsterdam, she would find there no one with whom she was acquainted,
except the people who had rowed away and left her on that desolate
coast, and who might have come in search of her a long time before if
they really had cared anything about her. If she wanted to live here
among friends who had been kind to her, and be taken care of, she could
do so; if she wanted to go away and live among people who had deserted
her, and who appeared to have forgotten her, she could do that.

Very much to the surprise of this good Indian, Penelope declared that
she should prefer to go and live among people of her own race and
country; and so, much to the regret of her Indian friends, she departed
for New Amsterdam with the men who had come for her.

A year or two after Penelope had gone back to New Amsterdam, being then
about twenty-two, she married an Englishman named Richard Stout, who
afterwards became an important personage. He, with other settlers, went
over to New Jersey and founded a little village, which was called
Middletown, not far from the Indian camp where Penelope had once been a
prisoner. The Indians still remained in this camp, but now they appeared
to be quite friendly to the whites; and the new settlers did not
consider that there was anything dangerous in having these red
neighbors. The good Indian who had been Penelope's protector, now quite
an old man, was very friendly and sociable, and often used to visit Mrs.
Stout. This friendship for the woman whom he had saved from death seemed
to have been strong and sincere.

One day this old Indian came to the house of Mrs. Stout, and, seating
himself in the room where she was, remained for a long time pensive and
silent. This rather unusual conduct made Penelope fear that something
had happened to him; and she questioned him, asking him why he was so
silent, and why he sighed so often. Then the old man spoke out and told
her that he had come on a very important errand, in which he had risked
his own life at the hands of his tribe; but, having saved her life once,
he had determined to do it again, no matter what might happen to
himself.

Then he told her that the good will of the Indians toward their white
neighbors had come to an end, and that it had been determined in council
that an attack should be made that night upon this little village, when
every person in it--men, women, and children--should be put to death,
the houses burned, and the cattle driven away. His brethren no longer
wanted white people living near them.

Of course, this news was a great shock to Penelope. She had now two
little children, and she could not get far away with them and hide, as
she herself had once hidden from Indian foes. But the old man told her
that she need not be afraid: he could not save all the people in the
village, but he was her friend, and he had arranged to save her and her
family. At a certain place, which he described so she could not fail to
find it, he had concealed a canoe; and in that she and her husband, with
the children, could go over to New Amsterdam, and there would be plenty
of time for them to get away before the Indians would attack the place.
Having said this, and having urged her to lose no time in getting away,
the old Indian left.

As soon as he had gone, Penelope sent for her husband, who was working
in the fields, and told him what she had heard, urging him to make
preparations instantly to escape with her. But Mr. Stout was not easily
frightened by news such as this. He pooh-poohed the whole story, and
told his wife that the natives over there in their camp were as well
disposed and friendly as if they had been a company of white settlers,
and that, as these red men and the whites had lived together so long,
trading with each other, and visiting each other with perfect freedom,
there was no reason whatever to suppose that the Indians would suddenly
determine to rise up and massacre a whole settlement of peaceable
neighbors, who had never done them any harm, and who were a great
benefit to them in the way of trading. It would be all nonsense, he
said, to leave their homes, and run away from Indians so extremely
friendly and good-natured as those in the neighboring camp.

But Penelope had entirely different ideas upon the subject. She
thoroughly believed in the old Indian, and was sure that he would not
have come and told her that story unless it had been true. If her
husband chose to stay and risk his life, she could not help it; but she
would not subject herself and her children to the terrible danger which
threatened them. She had begged her husband to go with her; but as he
had refused, and had returned to his work, she and her children would
escape alone.

Consequently she set out with the little ones, and with all haste
possible she reached the place where the canoe was moored among some
tall reeds, and, getting in with the children, she paddled away to New
Amsterdam, hoping she might reach there in time to send assistance to
Middletown before the Indians should attack it.

When Farmer Stout found that his wife had really gone off, and had taken
the children with her, he began to consider the matter seriously, and
concluded that perhaps there might be something in the news which the
old Indian had brought. He consequently called together a number of the
men of the village, and they held a consultation, in which it was
determined that it would be a wise thing to prepare themselves against
the threatened attack; and, arming themselves with all the guns and
pistols they could get, they met together in one of the houses, which
was well adapted for that purpose, and prepared to watch all night.

They did not watch in vain, for about midnight they heard from the woods
that dreadful war whoop which the white settlers now well understood.
They knew it meant the same thing as the roar of the lion, who, after
silently creeping towards his intended victim, suddenly makes the rocks
echo with the sound of his terrible voice, and then gives his fatal
spring.

But although these men might have been stricken with terror, had they
heard such a war cry at a time when they were not expecting it, and from
Indians to whom they were strangers, they were not so terrified at the
coming of these red men with whom, perhaps only the day before, they had
been trading buttons for venison and beans. They could not believe that
these apparently mild and easy-going fellows could really be the
terrible savages they tried to make themselves appear.

So Richard Stout and his companions went boldly out, guns in hand, to
meet the oncoming savages, and, calling a parley, they declared that
they had no intention of resting quietly, and allowing themselves and
families to be slaughtered and their houses burned. If the Indians, who
had so long been their good neighbors, were now determined to become
bloody enemies, they would find that they would have to do a good deal
of hard fighting before they could destroy the village of Middletown;
and, if they persisted in carrying on the bloody job they had
undertaken, a good many of them would be killed before that job was
finished.

Now, it had been very seldom that Indians who had started out to
massacre whites had met with people who acted like this; and these red
men in war paint thought it wise to consider what had been said to them.
A few of them may have had guns, but the majority were armed only with
bows and tomahawks; and these white men had guns and pistols, with
plenty of powder and ball. It would clearly be unsafe to fight them.

So, after discussing the matter among themselves and afterwards talking
it over with the whites, the Indians made up their minds, that, instead
of endeavoring to destroy the inhabitants of Middletown, they would
shake hands with them and make a treaty of peace. They then retired; and
on the following day a general conference was held, in which the whites
agreed to buy the lands on which they had built their town, and an
alliance was made for mutual protection and assistance. This compact was
faithfully observed as long as there were any Indians in the
neighborhood, and Middletown grew and flourished.

Among the citizens of the place there were none who grew and flourished
in a greater degree than the Stout family. Although Penelope bore upon
her body the scars of her wounds until the day of her death, it is
stated, upon good authority, that she lived to be one hundred and ten
years old; so that it is plain that her constitution was not injured by
the sufferings and hardships of the beginning of her life in New
Jersey.

Not only did the Stouts flourish in Middletown, but some of them went a
little southward, and helped to found the town of Hopewell; and here
they increased to such a degree that one of the early historians relates
that the Baptist Church there was founded by the Stouts, and that for
forty-one years the religious meetings were held in the houses of
different members of the Stout family, while, at the time he wrote, half
of the congregation of the church were still Stouts, and that, all in
all, there had been at least two hundred members of that name. So the
Baptist Church in Hopewell, as well as all the churches in Middletown,
owed a great deal to the good Indian who carried poor Penelope to his
village, and cured her of her wounds.




THE SCHOOLMASTER AND THE DOCTOR.


Of course, it was not long after New Jersey began to be settled and
cultivated, before there were a great many boys and girls who also
needed to be cultivated. And if we are to judge their numbers by the
families of Elizabeth, who started for the New World in a hogshead, and
of Penelope, who began her life here in a hollow tree, there must have
been an early opportunity for the establishment of flourishing schools;
that is, so far as numbers of scholars make schools flourishing.

But in fact it does not appear that very early attention was given in
this State to the education of the young. The first school of which we
hear was established in 1664; but it is probable that the first settlers
of New Jersey were not allowed to grow up to be over forty years old
before they had any chance of going to school, and it is likely that
there were small schools in various places of which no historical
mention is made.

It is admitted, however, by the historians of these early days of New
Jersey, that education was not attended to as it should have been; and
we read that in 1693 an act was passed to "establish schoolmasters
within the Province, 'for the cultivation of learning and good manners
for the good and benefit of mankind, which hath hitherto been much
neglected in the Province.'"

These early schools were not of a very high order; the books used by
younger scholars being what were called hornbooks, which were made by
pasting upon a board a piece of paper containing the alphabet and some
lessons in spelling, and covering the whole with a very thin sheet of
horn, which was fastened on the board as glass is fastened over a framed
picture. Thus the children could see the letters and words under the
horn, but were not able to deface or tear the paper. It was difficult to
get books in those days, and a hornbook would last a long time.

We can get a pretty good idea of the character of the schools from an
account given of the establishment of the first school in Newark, where
the town authorities made a contract "with Mr. John Catlin to instruct
their children and servants in as much English, reading, writing, and
arithmetic, as he could teach."

But the people of New Jersey prospered well, and the Colony soon became
noted as one in which there was comfort and good living; and therefore
it is natural that when the people really could afford to apply their
time, thought, and money to objects higher than the tillage of farms and
the building of houses, they went to work earnestly to give their young
people proper opportunities for education, and we find that they were
inclined to do this as earnestly and thoroughly as they had been in the
habit of doing other things.

In consequence of this disposition, what is now Princeton College was
founded in 1746. This institution was first called the "College of New
Jersey," and was established at Elizabethtown. It was in its early days
a very small seat of learning; for, when the Rev. Mr. Dickinson was
appointed to be its president, the faculty consisted entirely of
himself, and his only assistant was an usher. There were then about
twenty students in the college.

In about a year the president died; and the college was then removed to
Newark, where the Rev. Aaron Burr, the father of the celebrated Aaron
Burr, became its president, and it is probable that the faculty was
enlarged. Ten years afterwards the college was established at Princeton.

The manners and customs of the college must have been very primitive,
and we will give a few of the rules which were made for the students:
"Every scholar shall keep his hat off to the president about ten rods,
and about five to the tutors. When walking with a superior, they shall
give him the highest place, and when first going into his company, they
shall show their respects to him by first pulling off their hats; shall
give place to him at any door or entrance; or meeting him going up and
down stairs shall stop, giving him the bannister side;" and, in speaking
to a superior, "shall always give a direct and pertinent answer,
concluding with Sir." Thus it is seen that attention to good manners was
one of the most important branches of study taught at the young
college.

But in certain districts of New Jersey, people seemed to be very slow in
perceiving the advantages of schools in their midst. Schools had sprung
up here and there in towns and villages, many of them boarding schools;
and to these the richer farmers would send their children. But it took
people in some rural places a good while to find out that it would be a
good thing to have a school in their midst.

A story is told of the establishment of a school of this kind in
Deckertown as late as 1833. The people of this village had never thought
it worth while to have a school of their own; and even after a gentleman
of learning and ability, who was well known in the place, offered to
take charge of such a school, they did not look with any favor upon the
enterprise. The only place for a schoolhouse, which he was able to
obtain, was a very small building, consisting of one room, and situated
on the outskirts of the town. Here he started a school with one scholar;
and even this little fellow was not a Jersey boy, but came from New
York.

For a considerable time this single scholar constituted the school, and
he and the schoolmaster walked back and forth from the village to the
little cabin every day; while the only interest that the townspeople
seemed to take in them was shown by their laughing at the schoolmaster,
and comparing him to a hen with one chicken. It must not be supposed
that it was because the citizens did not believe in education; but, as
they had been in the habit of sending their children away to school,
they thought that that was the proper thing to do, and, as there never
had been a school in the town, they saw no reason why there should be
one then. But the school increased, and in less than a year it numbered
twenty scholars.

There is a rather peculiar story told of this school in its early days.
It had been established about two months, when the schoolmaster happened
to be walking in the direction of the school quite late in the evening
and to his amazement he saw that the little room was brilliantly
lighted. Now, as he and his scholar had left it in the afternoon, and he
had locked the door, he could not understand the state of affairs.
Hurrying to the house, he looked in at the window, and saw that the room
was nearly filled with well-dressed men, who were standing and sitting
around a table on which were spread cards and money. He saw that they
were a company of gamblers; but how they came there, and why they came,
he could not imagine. Of course, he could not drive them out; but, after
watching them for a little while, he boldly opened the door and went in
among them.

They were so occupied with their game, however, that they paid little
attention to him; and, after standing with them for a time, he remarked
to one of them that he hoped that when they had finished their game, and
were ready to go away, they would leave everything behind them in as
good order as they had found it, and then he himself departed and went
home. But the next morning, when he and his scholar came to the
schoolhouse, he found everything as they had left it on the afternoon
before; and this schoolmaster might have been excused if he had imagined
that he had dreamed that he saw the curious sight of a company of
gamblers in his schoolhouse.

But he found out afterwards that it was no dream. There was a set of men
gathered together from the neighboring country, who regularly spent
certain evenings in gambling for high stakes. They had discovered that
there was no better place for their meetings than the little
schoolhouse, which was tenanted by two persons in the daytime and by
nobody at night; and, as it was so far away from the other houses, it
was a very convenient place for their secret meetings, and they had been
in the habit of assembling there almost from the very time that it was
cleaned out and arranged for a schoolhouse.

When the schoolmaster found that he had devoted his energies to the
establishment of a very flourishing gambling saloon, when he supposed
that he had founded nothing but a weak little school, he took measures
to prevent any further visits from the gentlemen with the cards and the
money. After that, the exercises in addition, subtraction, and
multiplication, were figured out with a pencil or chalk instead of being
done by means of spades or diamonds.

In those early days the doctor was almost as slow in coming to the front
as was the schoolmaster.

In fact, it is said that the first doctors in New Jersey were women, and
that the people placed such faith in their abilities, that unless a case
were very serious indeed, so that a physician had to be sent for from
the city, they were perfectly satisfied with the services of the women
doctors. It is also stated, that in those days the people of New Jersey
were very healthy. These two statements can be put together in different
ways: some may say, that, where people were so seldom sick, doctors of
great ability were not needed; while, on the other hand, those who have
a higher opinion of womankind might well believe, that, because women
made such good doctors, the people were seldom sick.

It must be remembered, however, that the mothers, wives, sisters, and
daughters of the people of this State, were formerly looked upon as of
more importance than they are now; and among the rights which they
possessed in those early days, but of which they have since been
deprived, was the right of voting. An early writer, speaking of this
privilege, says, "The New Jersey women, however, showed themselves
worthy of the respect of their countrymen by generally declining to
avail themselves of this preposterous proof of it." It is very pleasant
for us to remember that New Jersey was among the first of our States in
which free and equal rights were given to all citizens, male or female,
if they chose to avail themselves of them.

But when the population of New Jersey so increased that it became plain
that the women could not be physicians, and attend at the same time to
their domestic duties, the care of their children, and the demands of
society, the citizens of New Jersey gave as earnest and thorough
attention to their needs in the way of medicine and surgery as they had
given to their needs in the way of college education; and the first
State Medical Society in this country was founded in New Jersey in the
year 1766.

It is said that some of the early doctors of New Jersey possessed great
ability, and, although there could not have been many of them at first,
they arranged for a suitable increase in their society, and nearly every
one of them had one or more students.

A medical student in those days did not occupy the same position that he
holds now. In fact, he was nothing more nor less than an apprentice to
his master. He was bound to the doctor by a regular indenture. He lived
in his family, and, when he was not engaged in his studies, he was
expected to make himself useful in various domestic ways, often learning
the use of the saw in the wood yard.

A very natural consequence of this domestic fashion of pursuing their
studies was, that, when the young doctor started out to establish a
practice for himself, he not only had a certificate or diploma from his
master, but was also provided with a wife, for marriages of medical
students with the daughters of their preceptors were very common.

What further outfit was furnished a student setting out in practice for
himself, may be imagined from the conclusion of an old indenture of
apprenticeship, which states, that when Jacobus Hubbard shall have
fulfilled his apprenticeship of four years and eight months,--during
which he has well and faithfully served his master, his secrets kept,
his lawful commands gladly everywhere obeyed,--he shall be provided,
when he goes forth as doctor, with a "new set of surgeon's pocket
instruments, Solomon's Dispensatory, Quence's Dispensatory, and Fuller
on Fevers."

It is probable that such a very healthy country as New Jersey did not
always give a doctor of a neighborhood sufficient work to occupy his
time, and therefore the early physicians used to combine other
professions with that of medicine and surgery. Some were lawyers, others
clergymen, and many were farmers and planters. The following story is
told about the Rev. Jacob Green, "who lived in Hanover, and was pastor
of the Presbyterian Church in that place. He had also many other
callings, as may be inferred from a letter addressed to him by a wag,
and which was said not to exaggerate the truth:--

"'To the Rev. Jacob Green, _Preacher_.
    "     "     "     "    _Teacher_.
    "     "     "     "    _Doctor_.
    "     "     "     "    _Proctor_.
    "     "     "     "    _Miller_.
    "     "     "     "    _Distiller_.'"

The necessity for this variety of occupation is shown by a letter from a
gentleman named Charles Gordon, living near Plainfield, to his brother,
Dr. John Gordon, in England, in which he says, "If you design to come
hither, you may come as a planter or merchant; but as a doctor of
medicine I cannot advise you, for I hear of no diseases to cure but some
agues and some cutted legs and fingers." Other physicians gave up their
professions at the beginning of the Revolution, and became prominent in
military matters.

Dr. John Cochran, one of the first New Jersey physicians, was a man of
wide experience and reputation. He was surgeon in the British hospital
during the French War, and afterward practiced medicine in New
Brunswick. During the Revolution, he became an army surgeon. He was a
friend of Washington, and, in fact, was quite intimate with the
commander in chief of the American forces. It is said that when
Washington was at West Point in 1779, and the doctor and his family were
stationed at the same place, Washington wrote to Dr. Cochran almost the
only facetious letter which is known to have come from the pen of that
grave and dignified man.

This letter informs the doctor that he has invited Mrs. Cochran and Mrs.
Livingston to dine with him the next day, and says that the table is
large enough for the ladies, and then proceeds to tell "how it is
covered." "Since our arrival at this happy spot, we have had a ham,
sometimes a shoulder of bacon, to grace the head of the table; a piece
of roast beef adorns the foot, and a dish of beans or greens, almost
imperceptible, decorates the center. When the cook has a mind to cut a
figure, which I presume will be the case to-morrow, we have two
beefsteak pies, or dishes of crabs, in addition, one on each side of the
center dish, dividing the space, and reducing the distance between dish
and dish to about six feet, which without them would be twelve feet
apart. Of late, he has had the surprising sagacity to discover that
apples will make pies, and it is a question if in the violence of his
efforts we do not get one of apples instead of having both of beefsteak.
If the ladies can put up with such entertainment, and will submit to
partake of it on plates once tin, now iron (not become so by scouring),
I shall be happy to see them."