"He breaks the ‘Bread of Life’ with clean hands."

from a student of Jesse Halsey's at McCormick

 

FOREWARD

It may be a presumptuous for a student to undertake the task of writing a biography of his professor, but the joy that the writer has gleaned from making new and rich discoveries of insights into the character of his “Ideal” has and will out-weigh any possible misunderstandings relative to gathering and interpreting the facts.

The writer wishes to thank all who have asked him in obtaining information about Dr. Halsey: Dr. John Frederick Lyons for assisting in finding some of the articles that Dr. Halsey wrote and The Reverend L.W. Harvison a personal friend and admirer of Dr. Halsey who gave many interesting facts about him as a pastor in the Seventh Presbyterian Church, Cincinnati, Ohio.

The “biographer” wishes to beg pardon from Dr. Halsey for the poor attempt at writing his biography. The writer will be very happy to have corrections made where needed.

“My Ideal”

Dr. Jesse Halsey was born in Southampton, Long Island, New York. “Go where you will through these United States, when you find certain names you know their forbears came sometime or other from Southampton—such names as these: Howell, Sayre, HALSEY, Pierson, Cooper, Herrick, Fordham, and Topping.[1]

Along with his big wrists and heavy hands go his covetous ability of doing a thousand-and-one things properly and well. The present writer, observing that these characteristics are generally those of men who have spent many of the formative years on a farm, was not surprised to learn that his “Biographee” was once a farm boy. Could any but a farmer’s heart “see” “farm houses low and sturdy with grey weathered shingles punctuate the flat countryside. Shingles three feet long, rived from red cedar that grew in the swamps, worn thin now where they have defied the east-wind-driven storms of two hundred winters and the bristling heat of as many summers, but with butts still thick enough to cast healthy shadows in endless parallel windows where the long sweeping roofs on the north side slope almost to the ground . . .

“Leaning barns and wood sheds where eel-spears and clam rakes and harpoons prod the latest agricultural machinery. A discarded seine is sometimes seen, used now as a net for tennis or volleyball, but a swift reminder of days when corn was grown with fish for fertilizer—‘two bunkers to a hill.’”[2]

After having done countless chores on the farm and having laid an academic foundation he went to Princeton where he sat at the feet of the famous teacher who conceived the idea for the League of Nations, Woodrow Wilson. A little insight into a teacher-student relationship is suggested by the two swapping dictionaries. After Princeton, Dr. Halsey went to Union Seminary.

Dr. Halsey served with Dr. Wilfred Thomas Grenfell in Labrador, doing countless and diverse duties from fixing plumbing to assisting at the operating table. With Dr. Grenfell, Dr. Halsey shared the rewards of skillful service joyfully rendered. “Dr. Grenfell always had a high regard for him. The same is true of men like Dr. Henry Sloane Coffin and Dr. Robert E. Speer,” writes the Reverend L.W. Harvison.

During the First World War, Dr. Halsey served abroad as chaplain, ministering to our men “whatever, whenever, and wherever.” At the close of the war he “returned from Russia and spoke at the synod of Ohio concerning the fame of Wilson and America in Russia at that time.”[3]

Accepting a pastorate in Cincinnati, Dr. Halsey soon became a “leader of a small growing group of ‘liberal’ ministers at a time when it was dangerous to be known in that Presbytery as a liberal. Largely under his influence, the spirit of that Presbytery was changed from one of belligerent fundamentalism to one of a harmonious fellowship of men of divergent theological beliefs.[4]

While pastor of the Seventh Presbyterian Church there in Cincinnati, Dr. Halsey organized what is now known as the “Presbyterian Ministers’ Breakfast Club.” It meets the first Monday in each month in the dining room of that church. This club grew out of a need for ministers to “get together” in attempting to solve problems and to lay plans. Thanks to the resourcefulness of Dr. Halsey the club was organized and given such a start as to be still a high-light of the month for the ministers.

He is the type of man to whom men instinctively turn for help in time of trouble. He has gone beyond the bounds of organized religion to be friendly to men of other faiths and cults. To other ministers he has been a kind of “pastor’s pastor” or a bishop without Episcopal authority because he has cared nothing for authority over others. “He has unstintedly given of his time to help others and has always been interested in the pastors of the small churches who have been in need.”[5]

Not only is he an outstanding churchman, but a citizen. At Cincinnati he was a positive force for civic righteousness. “There are things to see in Cincinnati—as in any other big city. I am not thinking of them except as they help one to feel the pulse of the municipality and gauge its inner spirit. The Chamber of Commerce will direct you to the sights of the town. I would guide you to its heart.”[6]

“His church was always interested in missions and gave generously. He was interested in improving conditions of church life in the deteriorated West End of Cincinnati. I have known him to drive thirty miles to take food and money to an old man and his wife who were strangers but appealed to him in need. I do not suppose that even he knows how much of his money he has given away to those in need. But these things were never done with an eye to publicity . . . He is a man of humility and utterly devoid of pretension. He has taken criticism humbly where many of us might have been disposed to defend ourselves against it.[7]

Even his best friends do not consider him as a great preacher, yet he is a great preacher from the standpoint that when he preaches it is truth coming out of his big heart and personality. “He is a man who, as much or perhaps more than any other I know, incarnates his gospel.”[8]

He has given many the impression of being blessed with a strong physical constitution, by maintaining a physical pace that is beyond the energy and inclination of most men. He did much of his reading late at night after his family retired and while most of his fellow ministers were asleep.

He breaks the ‘Bread of Life’ with clean hands. “I think he has never said anything ‘off-color’ or smutty.”[9]

“He is a man with a variety of interests: music, art glass, poetry, short stories, cooking, painting, and whatnot . . . He is at much at home in a pair of overalls with a rake or shovel in his hands as in a pulpit robe . . . In Cincinnati, he organized a group of ministers to paint the interior of my church. It would be interesting to know just how many churches he has helped to decorate on the inside and outside.”[10] During the fall and winter of 1945, he was not only instrumental in getting the chapel organ put in, but he did some of the work. During the Christmas holidays he and a few students painted the interior of the chapel.

Dr. Halsey has always been a man of open-mindedness, but he has been unfailing in loyalty to Christ. As a professor of Pastoral Theology he attempts to see (and does see) both sides of the question. He can see with the eyes of the so-called “liberals,” “conservatives,” “radicals,” and whatnot. He sees through the eyes of pupil as well as teacher. He is a friend to everyone.

The “biographer” has made reasonable effort to find and read as much of his writings as possible. Again the old saying, “Great teachers do little writing” is illustrated. The most widely known of his work as a composter and compiler I believe, is his most helpful suggestions for funerals: LIVING HOPE.

The article on the newly revised Book of Common Worship, “A Sense of Direction”[11] gives insight into the Pastor as a lover of good form in worship. (Dr. Halsey served on the revision committee.) The article on “Books of Common Worship” that appeared in the winter number of “Religion in Life” (1933) gives a rather complete list and helpful comments on the various books. Dr. Halsey’s rich, suggestive and helpful prayers, responses, and litanies often have some quotation or paraphrase from works of such great men as Dr. W.E. Orchard and Dr. John Hunter.

Dr. Halsey generously gives much credit to many great men as having exerted influence upon him. It was Dr. Richard S. Campbell, says Dr. Halsey, who influenced him to enter the ministry. About a dozen great men who influenced Dr. Halsey had as their model Maltie Babcock. “Behind him (Dr. Halsey) have been certain persons of Christian influence: his father, his sister, Dr. Grenfell, Dr. Coffin, and others I may not know.”[12]

Dr. Halsey has been shepherding the “budding undershepherds” here at the seminary since 1939. He was not here long before the students found in him a confidential and able counselor. One student remarked, “Dr. Halsey has more ‘horse-sense’ than all of the other professors put together.’”

Dr. Halsey’s office is the most popular office for students seeking sound advice, or coming with sorrows or joys. He gives the student the impression that he has all the time needed to listen to some problem.

It is unfortunate (for the students) that Dr. Halsey’s many duties require his presence off the campus. [Amen is written in the margin by JH.]

In class he is careful to give the student a wholesome combination of the scholarly with the practical. He also sees that every student who takes his courses shall at least know something about weddings and funerals.

The present writer has heard him called or referred to as “Skipper” and “Uncle Jesse.” Perhaps his “nick-names” will suggest a much better biography than a hurried student can possibly write.

[handwritten at bottom] Humbly I say “thank you.” I’ll try to live up to the implications. JH

---

[1] “The East riding of Yorkshire,” Jesse Halsey, The Presby. Tribune, July 1940, p. 12.

[2] IBID, p. 11.

[3] From a personal letter from L.W. Harvison, Harvey, Ill. Oct. 24, ’46.

[4] IBID.

[5] IBID.

[6] “The Spirit of Cincinnati,” Jesse Halsey, The Presbyterian Tribune, May 16, 1935.

[7] From a personal letter from L.W. Harvision.

[8] IBID.

[9] IBID.

[10] IBID

[11] Jesse Halsey, The Presbyterian Tribune, July 1944, p. 17.

[12] From a personal letter from L.W. Harvison.

The Jesse Halsey Manuscript Collection. Special Collections, Princeton Theological Seminary Library.

GRANDFATHER TRAILS | c1927

By Jesse Halsey

My great great grandfather, for whom I am named, was a Revolutionary soldier and officer. When he heard of the Battle of Lexington he and his brother took the king bolt out of the one horse farm wagon, rigged a seat on the two front wheels, and drove an old horse ten miles from his home to Sag Harbor. Here, with other men, they rowed in a whale boat across Long Island Sound to New London, walked to Boston, arriving in time for the Battle of Bunker Hill.

Off and on for the eight years of the war, he was with the army, once at least on Washington’s staff. My grandfather, who heard his grandfather repeat the wartime stories in turn told them to my father and to his own grandchildren, who have rehearsed them to me time and again. My children have heard them from me (ad nauseam, they used to think). But we have had the advantage of the other generations of being able, with our automobile, to visit most of the scenes of grandfather’s activity during the Revolution.

Two miles from where he was born was where we were so fortunate as to spend the summer down on the Atlantic seaboard. The home site is now a cornfield. When I was a boy some of the foundation of the old house and the apple trees were standing. Not a mile away in the village cemetery rest his mortal remains. Some years ago the government furnished an appropriate tombstone and seventy of his descendents placed a similar marble slab at his wife’s grave.

My family, there are seven of us, has trekked to many Revolutionary sites, with an especial interest to those connected with grandfather. We have stood on Bunker Hill, crossed the river and climbed the belfry tower of the old North church, visited the public square in Cambridge, where Washington took command (grandfather was present). We have crossed Long Island Sound more than once, but not in a whale boat. Opposite New London stands Groton monument where grandfather’s brother, Captain Henry, was killed when Benedict Arnold, the traitor, burned the town. That hot June day in 1779, when Washington attached Clinton’s retreating army, grandfather was captain on the general staff. He heard Washington, with an oath, order Charles Lee, another traitor, off the field. He was wounded in the engagement and likely taken to the old Tennant church, which was used as a hospital. One wonders if he drank from Molly Pitcher’s well. He carried the effects of his wound to his death and in his old age used a crutch.

He had, so the story goes, an ardent Tory for a neighbor. In a violent discussion that developed one day, the neighbor maintained that never in America could woolen goods be made the equal of the British products. Grandfather maintained that the American output was equal to the British. A violent altercation developed and the Tory called the patriot a liar, and the patriot, with his crutch, knocked the Tory down and sat astride him until noon, when his son came home from the field and encouraged his father to desist (decamp). He lived to a good old age. He outlived his children, but, fortunately, not his grandchildren, and his grandson, who was my grandfather, told these tales to his grandchildren.

The old days of horse and buggy, of sandy roads and crooked lanes, are gone in many parts of the country. Cars fly through with some terminus in view likely, but their occupants seeing little along the way. The highways are numbered and in most places conspicuously marked and only when a detour sign confronts one in the middle of the road and cannot be disregarded does one take a back road.

Yet, on those less frequented ways are some of the most interesting and beautiful spots that are to be found. They escape the eye of the average tourist. I, for one, miss the Blue Book of a decade ago that gave back roads, the names of lakes and brooks and best of all the historic footnotes that made the journey interesting.

En route to French Lick for the cure, you pass Salem, Indiana. Not one in a thousand knows that here John Hay was born. Oh for an intelligent, informed, and historically minded cartographer! Seeing the Green Mountains and enjoying is in no way hindered as one passes through Brandon to find there a monument to Stephen A Douglas who was born there in the village. Or to turn aside at Bennington and climb the hill to the old town and pay one’s respect to the spirits of the “boys who there resisted Bourgoin’s advance” memorialized in the shaft that rises on the hill. In the same old village one is interested to find that William Lloyd Garrison edited his first abolition sheet. It is off the main highway a little that one finds the Saratoga battle monument near Schuylerville, or the monument to Benedict Arnold’s boot and wounded leg. One must leave the express highway by two miles to sight the Princeton battlefield and house where General Mercer died. A circuit of the Wilderness battlefield is made by using several less frequented back roads. To find Monticello, one leaves the main highway by four miles and lives for a brief hour with Jefferson in the country. That section of the main concreted highway down east where I grew up occasionally affords a glimpse of the ocean and the dunes. To those who know the back roads, pond and bay and sandy strips open in quick succession and the booming surf is ever in one’s ears. But the red lines on the map give no hint of such access.

On the back roads through the Adirondacks one finds the sleeping place of John Brown’s body. Off the trunkline near Kinderhook is hidden the grave of Martin Van Buren and a mile or so away, his old home Lindenwall. Nearby is the site of Ichabod Crane’s schoolhouse and the home of Katrina Van Tassel. One would never guess it as he flies through on Highway No. 9.

Map of the East End

Jesse Halsey | c1934

Jesse Halsey 

The East Riding of Yorkshire in the olden days, it still retains a flavor not found on the west end of the Island where Dutch influence predominated then, and where the Big City reaches out now. The atmosphere changes when one nears the Shinnecock canal. It is, for one thing, always cooler out there; and for another, here one comes to the New England part of Long Island.

Although the modern cottager has come in numbers and with affluence, these “Yorkers,” as the native used to call them, have not changed the scene essentially as many of the summer homes follow the old lines of the colonial or farm house type though there are notable exceptions in [Mr. Atterbury’s] shingled houses that hug the dunes and in an occasional Italian villa or other importation.

Cement has been used on the main highways, but one misses the real beauty of the countryside if he follows these, after he reaches “The East End.” In the last twenty years the local road-masters have developed a road of loam, sand, and oil, which, smoothly honed after each rain, make a perfect highway much more resilient and easy riding than cement or macadam.

Southampton and East Hampton towns are threaded with such roads, almost unknown to the motorist, who goes flying through on the numbered state highway, and misses the innumerable ponds and bays, almost forgetting the ocean itself, until he reaches Nappeague, that long narrow Cape-Cod-like-sand-dune-stretch leading to Montauk. Aside from this one piece of concrete, it is pleasanter to keep to the dirt roads and to spend a little time seeking the natural beauty of the Island’s southeastern fluke.

For like a great leviathan, Long Island throws itself out into the ocean, paralleling the Connecticut shore; with its head safely anchored to Manhattan by the bridges, bathed by the Sound on the starboard, and the Atlantic on the port side, its caudal-fins stick out to sea. One is called Orient, the other Montauk Point.

Historically, this is interesting country. Southampton was founded in June of 1640 and is the oldest English settlement in New York state. Half a dozen “undertakers,” as they were called, organized in Lynn and sailed for western Long Island where they were driven off by the Dutch and so, finally, landed in an estuary of Peconic Bay that they named the North Sea. Four miles further south on the ocean they made their permanent settlement. Several old houses remain from that general period and are worthy of a visit.

The summer colony that has become famous is, naturally, off the main road. First Neck, Cooper’s Neck, or Halsey’s Neck; each has its “lane”; Great Plains and Ox Pasture have theirs also. It will pay one to follow them, driving slowly.

East Hampton is the most perfect New England village outside New England and more perfect than many in New England. Its wide village street with a Common and duck pond, its cemetery, dividing the main street, and the gorgeous elms, make it a perfect setting for “Home Sweet Home,” the boyhood home of John Howard Payne, which faces The Green. “Maidstone” was the old name brought from England. It seems a pity that it was ever changed. This is possibly true of Southampton also, as the old communion cups of the Southampton Church (now loaned to the Metropolitan Museum) spell the name “Sought Hampton”—the Hampton within the sound, or “soughing,” of the sea.

Both Bridge Hampton and Sag Harbor have striking examples of colonial churches with white spires. The Sag Harbor church tower dominates the landscape (or seascape) for miles, and was built in the palmy days of the whaling industry when “The Harbor” rivaled New Bedford and Nantucket. The wharves are deserted now, where once the old whalers lay awaiting their turn to discharge their smelly cargoes of oil. Numerous house in this village have lovely doorways, and there are gardens with box-wood hedges.

Use “Further Lane” or “Hither Lane,” by all means, as you go on from East Hampton. Pass south of Amagansett and take the beach road toward Montauk, then (for once) use the concrete across the Neappeague Beach—all else is white sand. When on Montauk, roam by the side roads and cross roads from bay to ocean. There are several hills where ocean and sound can be seen at once, and in clear weather, the Connecticut shore and Block Island are visible. Visit the fishing dock at Fort Pond (near the station) and plan to spend the late afternoon at the Point driving back into the sunset along the ridge road, with the surf and ocean stretching away on your left.

Another time take the “back road” to Springs from East Hampton and come out at “Fireplace,” opposite Gardiner’s Island where Captain Kidd buried his treasure and where the heirs of old Lyon Gardiner still hold the island in entailed succession.

Six or eight old windmills of Dutch design still stand in this territory. Two of them occasionally can be seen revolving, under sail though no longer actually grinding grist.

Before the days of speed, each hamlet had its name, and though the sign boards no longer indicate anything except the larger villages it will pay to slow down and with a local map visit such a spot as Canoe Place where the Indians portaged their canoes from the South to the North Bay. You will see Quogue on the road map, but not Quiogue; Hampton Bays but neither Good Ground, nor Ram Pasture. You will, likely, brave one sand road and visit the Shinnecock Indian Reservation and there pick up a scrub or a basket. Ponquoque Bridge will take you across Shinnecock Bay to the ocean road, which you can follow—with several short breaks (as indicated on the map) all the way to Montauk.

The cement “slab” is all right for speed. The back lanes, dustless and smooth, are much more interesting and less frequented. This is a leisurely country; explore a bit. No roads are long—they can’t be: sooner or later they lead to water; this bay or that pond—Tiana, Mecox, Georgica, Peconic, or whatnot. And they seem indiscriminately mixed; fresh water lakes within a stone’s throw of the ocean, alternating with tidal estuaries.

Cold Spring, Seabonac, Towd, Wickapogue, Littleworth, Hay Ground, Scuttle Hole are as interesting as the villages, if you can find a guide who knows the local lore and the hidden spots of beauty in the woods. An inquiry addressed to the Colonial Society in Southampton or the Historical Society in East Hampton, should bring a response that would put the antiquarian motorist in touch with a local historian who can lead to genealogical data, or local legends, or authentic history. James Truslow Adams, then a Wall Street broker, began his career as a historian, in a cemetery near Wainscott, studying epitaphs!

British soldiers were stationed in these parts during the Revolution. The fireplace where their General’s mess was prepared still stands in the Herrick House in the North End of Southampton. Near Pudding Hill, British raiders were driven off by a steaming teakettle in the hands of a patriot housewife. A local doctor routed the red coats from Hay Ground with a small pox scare. Old Pomp, a salve, dispatched horses of the enemy, with ground glass placed in their feed.

The oldest house was built by Thomas Halsey in 1688, in the South End of Southampton. The present owner, over zealously, has placed 1628 over the door. (He is a “Yorker” not a native).

In Littleworth, Foster’s Museum deserves a visit—an old barn filled with whaling and other relics. The library at East Hampton contains the priceless Pennypacker collection of books and papers relating to all Long Island subjects. In Southampton and East Hampton there are worthy art museums. Nature’s best contribution is found on the “wood roads” and back lanes.

Good hotels abound, but unfortunately, few farmhouses cater to the tourists. Parks, however, at Montauk provide camping accommodations and cooking places. What could be more fitting than to visit the Montauk docks, buying some live lobsters from the fishermen and then taking them to one of the parks on the Atlantic, and boiling them in sea water? This requires only a good sized kettle. To the more ambitious camp-cook, there is always fish available—“blues” from the surf or weakfish from the bays. (Likely the quickest way to get them is to visit Captain Tithill’s at Fort Pond.)

For the twin eight or the old four, alike, the East End offers its back roads and hidden beauties. The four-ply cement to Jericho or the Merrick Road certainly (25 or 27), but dirt roads after crossing Shinnecock Canal! They will lead through Millstone Brook where the trees have never been cut off; out to the Scallop Pond or around Big Fresh, called Nippaug by the Indians. Minnesunk Lake, or Little Fresh, Conscience Point, where the first settlers landed, Tuckahoe, Squaw Hill, Towd Point, and Holmes Hill—these and dozens of other places are found along the dirt roads.

The East Riding of Yorkshire

By Jesse Halsey, c1938

The East Riding of Yorkshire. Thus it was called in the early days. The name has changed but the savor of the old time lingers.

Farmhouses low and sturdy with gray weathered shingles punctuate the flat countryside. Shingles three feet long, rived from red cedar that grew in the swamps, worn thin now where they have defied the east-wind-driven storms of two hundred winters and the bristling heat of as many summers, but with butts still thick enough to cast healthy shadows in endless parallel windows where the long sweeping roofs on the north side slope almost to the ground.

“Regardless of the direction of the highway those houses were set by their builders always facing the south—and the sun and the sea. Farm houses like that, gray and weathered but trim and tight against the weather, were built, some on village streets and some at the hub of the surrounding acres.

Tiny windowpanes peek out, diamond, and square and oblong, most from the days when glass came from over the water and was priced in shillings and pence and is bubble-scarred and blue streaked and is enchantingly distorting as one peers out.

Lanes there are that wind as one did the cow-paths. Lanes with names like this: Job’s Land, Gin Lane, Loylsome Lane, Hither Lane, Further Land, Middle Lane. Some lead through the woods and some across the meadows but all come at long last—or short—to some water, great or small, fresh or salt—any one of a dozen bays or ponds, or the beach banks and the Ocean.

Squat and square brick chimneys anchor the houses to the ground. Within, these chimneys are fed by fireplaces, one in each and every room. Floorboards creak when you enter, boards half as wide as puncheon head. Low ceilings, paneled woodwork, musical H and L hinges on gently squeaking doors.

Leaning barns and wood sheds where eel-spears and clam rakes and harpoons prod the latest agricultural machinery. A discarded seine is sometimes seen, used now for a net for tennis or volley ball, but a swift reminder of days when corn was grown with fish for fertilizer—“two bunkers to a hill.”

By trim white Churches, surmounted by pointing spires, one comes upon ancestral burying rounds where rhymed epitaphs quarrel with life’s adventures to attempt to perpetuate the excellence of some village worthy—or mayhem his idiosyncrasies.

Names nostalgic attach to the villages, reminiscent of Old England—Southwold, Maidstone, Southampton. The music of the Indian words echoes in geographic designations –Quoque, Quioque, Ponquogue, Kumsebog, Shinnecock, Amagansett, Montauk, as the New Yorkers say. Or as the natives say, Montawk. (I am a native.)

Hamlets, two house or a dozen, a mile apart, or two, the names come back as you flash through, remembering the days when in the springless farm wagon it took half the day to take a grist to the mill. Littleworth, Good Ground, Scuttle Hole, and Hecox. Tuckahoe, Seabonac, North Ben, or Hog Neck. Towd and Cobb and Little Cobb, Flying Point, the Sea Poose, and Wickapoque. Then there was—and is—Scuttle Hole and Wainscott, Sag and Sag Harbor, Water Hill and North Sea and Canoe Place.

Captain’s Neck is there, and Cooper’s Neck, First Neck, and Halsey’s Neck is there, and Cooper’s Neck, First Neck, and the Great and Little Plains.

Windmills, a dozen or so, some in wreck, some in good repair, one, or maybe two, still grinding! And Whalebone Landing, Sandy Hollow, and Coopers Hill, The Twelve Acres or Reeves’ Orchard. In each of these my grandfather owned parcels of woodland. They furnished fuel aplenty for his many fire-placed house. He had inherited the woodland from his father, and he from his, for seven generations since the settlement date. I own it now. It is worth little, that land, but it has furnished fuel for Halsey households for nigh on to three hundred years, one generation after another—ten of them now. A cutting of new growth, is ready, say, once each thirty years.

Some of the wood from those parental acres I heap upon the fire tonight—steady burning hickory with a back of fragrant cedar—and in its glow of memory many things come back some out of the dim past. For I have lived a long time. Sometimes I think it must be close on to two centuries. What I mean is this—in fifty years, and odd, I’ve seen in the village where I was born the change from colonial simplicity in belief, in practice, and in custom to the usages of modern mechanized today.

I can remember for example when one family in our community kept Sabbath from Saturday sundown to Sunday evening, when everyone kept Sabbath in some strict form, when many people had candle moulds and some used them. When the few cottagers were called Yorkers. When most families raised and cured their own pork and canned their own fruit and dried their own vegetables. When potatoes and turnips and cabbage were the sole and staple vegetables for nine months of the year. Salt pork, salt codfish, steady diet. Carrots were for horses, pumpkins would keep only up to Christmas and were never canned, hence the untiring profusion of “pumpkin” pie this time of year.

It is as it were, a sprightly evening in early winter and a fire is burning on the hearth. It seldom snaps; it never smokes for grandfather was a skilled mason and knew his trade. Supper is over and the dishes cleared away, from the kitchen come the sounds of cleaning up and the stirring of buckwheat cakes being “set to rise” for breakfast. A Kerosene lamp burns on the erstwhile dining table now covered with a turkey-red damask cloth. In a Boston rocker by the fire sits and old man and on a foot-stool, toasting his shins, stretches a little boy. Whether he is six or eight or ten I cannot quite tell—no it is not the smoke, grandfather was a capable mason—it must be my eyes. Against the wall, so near that the boy can lean on it, is a seaman’s chest. The old man is reading, the boy listening, when he gets drowsy he leans his head on the chest and dozes off, waking with a start as Napoleon leaves Moscow, or Alexander reaches Babylon.

We must open that chest. Its stout rope handle smell of oakum, its battered exterior betrays its history knocking ‘round the seven seas in more than one forecastle. We should like to see what’s inside. The hand-hammered strap hinges gently protest but the boy turns back the lid. I’ve read in William James that smells quicken sure remembrance—well, they are here in urgent suggestions of far Cathay, the Moluccas, of the Celebes and other spice islands. The old people call it “cassia,” though we say cinnamon; this chest must have brought home cassia on occasion: at any rate its lined with strips of red cedar and San Domingo mahogany and sandal wood. It has fragrance when opened that to me is pleasant, though pungent and pervasive.

The boy explores the contents while his father holds the lamp. A broken backed leather bound Bible, with s’s that look like f’s, an old log book, some maps and charts, a volume of town records, a bunch of yellow letters tied with a faded blue linen rag, a copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, a Bodwich’s Navigator and a box that used to hold a sextant. These and some sea shells from the south seas, (the boy holds one to his ear to hear the throbbing ocean), a few small nuggets of gold from California, more books—a lot of junk, so the boy thought—then. Now—with reverence he closes the lid realizing that the chest is empty—except for memories.

Aunt Libby

from In the East Riding of Yorkshire:

(Quasi-Auto-Biographical. Written for one’s children.)

by Jesse Halsey 

There was the remains of an old fort not far from our house and adjoining our farm. It was near enough the little school house, where we went, that during recess all the boys would run there to play war. On lucky days I commanded the attacking party. That was the American army—the attacking one for the fort had been built by the British when they occupied East Riding after the battle of Long Island.

The house where the British General Sir Wm. Erskine dined still stands next door, but one, to mine. It is a veritable museum of the accumulated colonial wealth of many generations. Its present owner is one of my closest friends. Likewise our children, as were our father and their fathers before them. This kind of consanguinity of the spirit is thicker than blood and defies time.

Of an evening neighbors would come in, Uncle Bill Fowler who had been to California in ’49, had mortgaged his farm to go; came home penniless and had to go back to his masons trade. His nephew John Fowler who mixed mortar for him lived on for many years. He would come to help my father hoe corn. I would be given one row between the two men, Father with two rows on one side and uncle John two rows on the other. He was short and fat but could hoe his own roe as the saying goes and help with mine. “Hi by golly” I can hear him now . . . then he’d start off on some whaling yarn.

This was always the theme of conversation and while the old men would sit spinning yarns little Jess quiet for once, sat listening.

“The year the ‘Old Sabina sailed,’ or the ‘Old Neptune,’ or the ‘Old—“ that careening adjective prefixed all ships’ names. Ten miles away was the Harbor. The hurricane of last month [ed note: Wednesday, September 21, 1938] toppled over the lovely towering spire from the old church that the whale oiled money built a hundred years ago. There for a century it has stood a beacon by night and spire by day. The little village has now sunk to diminutive economic proportions. It cannot be rebuilt. Ichabod—the glory hath departed.

But even in my boyhood a vessel occasionally sailed for the whale fishery and across the sound from New Bedford whalers put out until ten years ago. Every Long Island boy with few exceptions went to sea, all through the years from the Revolution till after the Civil War.

Two years, three years, a hard life but they loved it. And the tales they could tell! I have listened by the hour. Captain Austin Herrick wrecked on the coast of Patagonia and working his way along the coast among the savages and coming home long after he was given up for lost. Willie and Eddie Fowler never heard from, and their mother, my great aunt, telling me in a moment of confidence one day as I went through her yard on the way to school that though they had been gone for fifty years that her gate never clicked but that she went to the window or the door to look and see if they might yet be coming home.

[Great] Aunt Libbie [ed note: Elizabeth P Halsey Fowler 4 Jul 1815] —she gave me my first bath and first spanking I imagine the spanking came first)—was the village midwife and practical nurse, the adviser of its gentry and poor folk alike. Her cookie jar (with raised doughnuts in the winter) was accessible to all the boys of the North End. Her yard (next to the graveyard) was the short way to school. In the Cemetery—and only there—was I allowed to stroll on Sunday. (I can take you on the darkest night to any stone you name.) After the walk in the cemetery, father and I would slip through the back gate to Aunt Libbie’s. He was her favorite nephew. She nursed him when he was a baby, too. And I have one little cloth shoe (beautifully made) that she fabricated for little Charles Henry. In her old age she was still active. I can remember her helping my mother in the care of a sick neighbor—or my mother helping her. They came to our house one morning before daylight, went to the attic and got a pig’s bladder that hung on the rafters. (It had been inflated at butchering time.) This was before the day of rubber water bottles. The bladders of slaughtered animals were always preserved. (Sometimes when the old crop was not exhausted, we boys were allowed to have a new one for a football—not often, however.) My brother was sent off into the night to get ice from the one ice house in the community, over a mile away. Birth and death and all the occasions in between Aunt Libby was always there and most welcome.

Back to my whalers—and the fireside. Capt’n Guss (Halsey) would come and spend the day. He and my Uncle Will (a real uncle—Father’s brother) were my favorites. (When I was seven Uncle Will drowned before my eyes one day when we were clamming—I was too young to understand what was happening but not too little to help had I only known.)  Well, Cap’t Guss would come from Watermill two miles away, and once or twice a year father would go and spend the day with Cap’t Guss (and take me with him). Most Cap’ns’ who came would pat me on the head and straightway forget (I caught on to what they were saying to themselves-“poor child, with no mother”). But Captain Guss thought it worthwhile to talk to a boy. So did Uncle Will who lived across the street. He and father had married sisters. I’d go across the street after our early farm breakfast, in time for theirs. My aunt would try to send me home, but I can hear Uncle Will now . . . “Feed him . . . feed him.” Between Uncle Will and Aunt Libbie I was well supplied.

The East End

by Jesse Halsey

The atmosphere changes when one crosses the Shinnecock canal. It is always cooler out there; and then besides, one comes to the New England part of Long Island. The East Riding of Yorkshire in the old days, it has still a flavor not found on the west end of the Island where Dutch influence predominated.

Although the modern cottager has come in numbers and with affluence, these “Yorkers,” as the native used to call them, have not changed the scene essentially as many of the summer homes follow the old lines of the colonial or farm house type though there are notable exceptions in Mr. Atterbury’s [ed note: architect Grosvenor Atterbury ] shingled houses that hug the dunes and in an occasional Italian villa or other importation.

Cement construction has appeared on the main highways only and one misses the real beauty of the countryside if he follows these after he reaches “The East End.” In the last twenty years the local road-masters have developed a road of loam, sand, and oil, which, smoothly honed after each rain, make a perfect highway much more resilient and easy riding than cement or macadam. Southampton and East Hampton towns are threaded with such roads, almost unknown to the motorist who goes flying through on the numbered state highway, missing the ponds and bays and almost missing the ocean itself until he reaches Nappeague, that long narrow Cape-Cod-like-sand-dune-stretch that leads to Montauk. Aside from this one piece of cement it is better to keep to the dirt roads and spend a little time seeing the natural beauty of the Island’s southeastern fluke.

For like a great leviathan, Long Island throws itself out into the ocean paralleling the Connecticut shore, with its head safely anchored to Manhattan island by the Bridges, bathed by the Sound on the starboard, and the Atlantic on the port side, its tail.

from East Riding of Yorkshire

by Jesse Halsey

Long Island, which sprawls like a great Leviathan across New England’s south shore, with its substantial head abutting rock ribbed Manhattan and its flukes kicking out to sea. It was once named Nassau, indication its Dutch attachments. But the Dutch influence, except for gambrel roofs, never reached beyond the west end, nor did they long hold there. The east end belonged to Connecticut and later to New York (when the Netherlands disappeared) and was known as the East Riding of Yorkshire. There was I born—though the name had long since been changed.

In the spring of 1640 a sloop with twenty settlers left Lynn, Massachusetts, sailed through the Sound and landed on the west end of Long Island. Shortly after landing there they were arrested by the Dutch Authorities, the leaders taken to New Amsterdam where they were reprimanded and let go. They promised to leave Cow Bay and go elsewhere. Back tracking, the rounded Orient Point, sailed ‘round Shelter Island, entered Peconic Bay and landed in a little harbor that they called North Sea. The first woman to alight on the meadow is aid to have ejaculated, “For Conscience sake, I’m on dry land. “ At any rate the spot is called “Conscience Point” unto this day. They landed on June 12, 1640.

Four miles to the north on the Atlantic seaboard they started their little village. “Old Town Pond” saw the first log houses: in a few years the settlement pushed west to a lake called by the Indians “Agawam.” They named their village Southampton.

Among these immigrants, one of the original “undertakers” as they were called was Thomas Halsey who came to Lynn in 1638. I have visited the ancient manor house in Hertfordshire whence he came. The English branch of the family still flourishes with a son of the present generation in Parliament, another in the Church, and a third an Admiral in the Navy. But that is another story.

These men and women were Puritans. They had come truly, for conscience sake, though hope of economic betterment doubtless had its influence. Some of them were second sons of families that would be classed as “landed gentry.” More were of Yeoman stock. Some wrote Esq. after their names, some “Mr.” before and some plain names.

Their colony was built around their church. Literally and figuratively this was true.

Here follows a sample of their laws, transcribed for the old town records still preserved in the office of the town Clerk. (Within two months I have seen and read the old Indian deed by which they bought their land—a whole township for a few coats and bushels of corn--, also the Patents granted by Governor Donghan and Governor Andrus under which South Hampton and East Hampton still in a measure operate, defying to this day in some particulars such as access to the ocean and the land under the waters, the laws of the State of New York.) These rights have been defended within my lifetime in the highest tribunals of the State by the town trustees (one of whom was my father). These ancient rights found their first expression in numerous laws like to the following, all based on Old Testament legislation but soon modified to meet a changing situation.

“1. TRESPASSES. If any man’s swine, or any other beast, or a fire kindled by a man, damage another man’s field, he shall make full restitution for the grain and time lost in securing the swine, &c. Exod.xii.5.6—Lex.xxiv.18. But if a man turn his swine or cattle into another’s field, restitution shall be made of the best he possesses, though it be much better than that which is destroyed. Exod.xxi.34.

“2. If a man’s ox or other beast gore or bite and kill a man or woman, whether child or of riper age, the beast shall be killed, and no benefit of the dead beast reserved to the owner. But if the ox or other beast were wont to push or bite in former time, and the owner hath been told of it, and hath not kept him in, then, the ox or beast shall be forfeited and killed, and the owner also put to death; or else fined to pay, what the judges and person damnified shall lay upon him. Exod.xxi.28,29.

Thus they planned and planted and thus they builded through four pioneering years houses, a school, a church. Then there grew dissension among them. The minister, Abraham Pierson (his son was the first President of Yale College) maintained that citizenship and voting rights in the town meeting were contingent upon membership in the church. This was the policy of “the New Haven” colony. Others held for a separation, that a citizen might vote though not be a communicant. This was the “Hartford” custom. The liberal element out voted the minister so he with his followers left Southampton, going to the mainland under the New Haven jurisdiction. When New Haven and Hartford joined as Connecticut (under the Hartford pattern), Mr. Pierson, true to conviction, moved onto New Jersey and planted Newark.

Our ancestor, Thomas Sr. stayed on, was elected to officers of trust in the town. A house he built still stands, older than any in Plymouth. From that day to this his descendants have held such positions as were in the gift of the citizens of the citizens of the township assembled in that pure democracy known as the “town meeting,” an institution which persisted until a couple of decades ago. (The year I left the village for a somewhat belated college training, I was nominated for town clerk. Such things were in the family tradition.)