George Johnston.
Reading edition
[The editor is indebted to his friend, George A. Blake, Esq., of the Elkton Bar, for the following sketch of his life.]
George Johnston, the editor and compiler of this book, was born in Philadelphia, May 15, 1829, the place of his birth being on Penn street, one door south of the southeast corner of Penn and Lombard streets. He is the oldest son of Isaac Johnston, and was named for his grandfather, George Johnston, the youngest son of Isaac Johnson, who lived on his farm, one mile west of the east end of Mason and Dixon’s line, as early as 1755. There is reason to believe that the earliest member of the family who lived in that neighborhood was Samuel Johnston, who resided there as early as 1708.
Mr. Johnston’s mother, Susan Curry, was a cousin of his father, she being the daughter of Ann Spear, the grandmother of Emma Alice Browne, a sketch of whose life appears in this Volume.
When about two years of age, the subject of this sketch was placed in charge of his paternal grandmother and his uncle, George Johnston, who resided on the homestead, in Cecil county. Here he was carefully nurtured and trained, and here were planted the seeds which have since sprung up and brought forth fruit in his intellectual and moral life. The family being Presbyterian in training, and of the type from which sprang those who in earlier years drafted the Mecklenberg Declaration, the lad was early imbued with those religious principles which ever serve as the true basis of mental growth and moral purpose.
The educational advantages of a half century ago were not such as are enjoyed by the youth of to-day; but such as the neighborhood provided and his uncle’s means afforded, were placed at the disposal of the boy, who soon manifested an aptitude to learn. When but five years of age he was sent to what was then called a “Subscription School,” kept in the neighborhood. This he attended during the next seven years, and in the Winter time until the year 1849, when he took charge as teacher of a school, in the Center School House, situated near Fair Hill, in Cecil county.
In the Spring of 1847 Mr. Johnston spent three months in Chesapeake City (in this county) as an apprentice to the carpenter business. He completed his trade in the neighborhood in which he had been raised, and from the year 1851 to 1864 spent his time about equally in teaching school and working at his trade.
When the war of the rebellion broke out in 1861, Mr. Johnston, without hesitation, took the side of the Union, and was, during all those dark days, an ardent supporter of the Government, the intensity of his convictions being no doubt increased by the result of his observations during a business trip to Texas and through the South in the Winter of eighteen hundred and sixty and sixty-one.
In the Constitutional Convention of this State in 1864 he served with ability as committee clerk, having accepted the position at the solicitation of the late David Scott (of John), who was a member of that body. While acting as committee clerk, Mr. Johnston had the honor of engrossing that section of the Constitution which abolished slavery in the State of Maryland. Many years afterwards he presented the pen used on that occasion to Frederick Douglass, then United States Marshal of the District of Columbia.
Mr. Johnston’s health, which had always been precarious, became so bad in 1875 that he was obliged to abandon his trade and turn his attention to another occupation. Accordingly, two years later he became connected with The Cecil Whig, and for about three years had charge of its local columns. While associated with that journal, his attention was attracted to the mine of wealth offered to the investigator by the early history of Cecil county. Prompted by a love of historical investigation, he was led to make researches into this mine—a task hitherto largely unattempted or ineffectually prosecuted. The results of these studies enriched the columns of The Cecil Whig during a period of three years, and attracted wide attention. In 1881 he published the “History of Cecil County, Md., and the Early Settlements Around the Head of the Chesapeake Bay and on the Delaware River, with Sketches of Some of the Old Families of Cecil County.” This work, which embodied the results of the author’s investigations during a period of some years, is one of rare value. To those who have given but little thought to the subject, it is ever a matter of surprise to learn how closely the history of Cecil and the surrounding counties is interwoven with that of our common country, and how valuable as data of the past are the materials which invited the lover of truth to their discovery. One can scarcely estimate the laborious research involved in the task of gathering the component parts of a history which stretched over a period of nearly two hundred and seventy-five years. Old volumes, musty records, masses of court documents, correspondence (official and otherwise), previous historical attempts, personal knowledge, tradition and personal interviews, were all laid under contribution by the author, and served as sources of his authority. These he has woven together with such judgment in selection, skill in arrangement and force of style and diction, that just as “Gray’s Elegy” alone has placed him in the front rank of poets, so this one work has given the author a high and permanent place among the historians of our country. The work attempted is so well done, and withal so accurate and reliable as one of reference and authority, that in recognition of its merits Mr. Johnston has been elected a member of the Historical Societies of Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and Wisconsin.
On January 1, 1883, he became local editor of The Cecil Democrat, and was in such capacity connected with that newspaper for three years and a half.
Early in life Mr. Johnston was a pupil of David Scott (of James), who then taught a school in the Fourth district of Cecil county, and whose sister, Miss Hannah F. Scott, he subsequently married. The scholar being advanced in studies beyond the other pupils of the school, naturally a close intimacy was formed between him and his teacher. This afterwards deepened into a friendship which continued without interruption until Mr. Scott’s death, and was the means of creating in Mr. Johnston an ardent love of poetry. Since 1851 he has written a number of poems, some of which have appeared in print. These have been so well received by the public that the author, in deference to the wishes of some of his friends, has ventured to include the following rhymes in this work:
Here and Hereafter.
Sad echoes of unequal strife, Go sighing through the aftermath, That skirts the dark uncertain path, That leads me to the close of life;— And years ago dark shadows fell Athwart the amber sky of youth, Blighting the bloom of hope and truth, That erst had blossom’d all too well.
The world’s great heart beats wild and high, With wealth of bliss and love untold— While I with unblanch’d eye behold Its fading phantoms wane and die. Without a sigh I mark their flight; A stranger to the world unknown, Amid its mazes all alone, I wander in Egyptian night.
I worship not at its cold shrine, Nor fear the terror of its frown, It cannot chain my spirit down, The soaring of my soul confine. For ah! we parted at the tomb, Where buried hopes of youthful years, Embalm’d in sorrow’s bitter tears, Lie mouldering within the gloom.
Ah! few and dim the lights that gleam Around me in life’s dismal maze, Scarce seen amid the somber haze That shrouds me in life’s dismal dream. I never drank the wine of bliss, Made sweeter by the wealth of joy; My cup is mix’d with griefs alloy, And I have tasted only this.
Life’s problem oft to solve, I try, And hope I have not lived in vain, And borne this galling fetter chain Through all its years without a sigh. Some tears, perhaps, I may have dried— My own in sympathy I shed O’er joys and hopes of others dead, By sorrow’s legions crucified.
Earthly joys, alas! are fleeting, Shadowy and evanescent, Scarce full orb’d before the crescent Tells us of their final setting. And soon our starry dreams are wreck’d, And all our earthly hopes sublime Lie stranded on the shores of Time, In drapery of woe bedeck’d,
Yet I know ’tis vain repining;— Though to-day the sky with sorrow May be overcast, to-morrow All the love-lights may be shining, Made brighter by the long eclipse; And shadows of earth’s dreary night, That shrouded from my spirit’s sight, Life’s glorious Apocalypse.
To tread this weary round of Toil Is not the whole of mortal life;— There is an unseen inner strife, Where battling for the victor’s spoil, The wrong contendeth with the right,— Passion and pride with gentleness Pity with sorrow and distress— And faith with sin’s deep with’ring blight.
And truth my spirit oft beguiles, While her dear face is wreath’d in smiles, By whisp’ring sweetly unto me; As thou hast measured, it shall be In justice meted out to thee, When thou hast reached the blissful isles Beyond the misty veil of Time; Thou’lt find a rest from earthly wars, And healing for thy earthly scars, Within that sweet supernal clime.
The Turtle’s Sermon.
An old and crafty terrapin, Who lately found his speech, Like many another simple lout, Concluded he could preach.
And so he waddled to the shore, And thus address’d his friends— The bullfrogs and the snappers bold, About their latter ends.
And told them all how they must be Made into soup at last; And how the serpent sharp can see When last year’s hide is cast.
And how the wary pickerel Enjoys the minnow sweet, Which he doth never fail to catch, When it goes out to skate;
And how the beaver builds his house Within his winter dam; And how the oyster lays its egg, And hatches out a clam;
And how the busy bumble bee, Doth blow his little horn, Whene’er he goes in quest of food, Amid the standin’ corn:
And how the gentle butterfly Sings many a merry tune Because he’s glad he has escaped From out the old cocoon;
And how the rabbit flies his kite, When he can find a string; And how the owl sits up all night, To hear the squirrel sing;
And many other curious things That did his hearers good,— Of cats that did a swimmin’ go And eels that chew’d the cud;
And toads that dance upon their ears When they a courtin’ go; And moles that stand upon their heads, That they may see the show.
His sermon, as you see, was queer, And muchly out of joint;— And ’cause the preacher took no text, He failed to make his point.
And soon his hearers all grew tired, And mortified and vex’d, Because he chose to play the fool, And preach without a text.
And so they left him there alone— And this is what befel— He grew so mad it broke his heart, And almost burst his shell.
Moral.
If you successfully would preach, Be sure a text to take, And stick unto it like a leech Until your point you make.
Skye.
The Dog with the Beautiful Eye.
Someone has written a song about “Tray,” But no one has courage to write about Skye; So methinks I will rhyme, in my own rugged way, Of the queer little dog with the beautiful eye.
The land that he came from is said to be cold, And nature has dress’d him its storms to defy— In the ugliest coat that ever was seen— But giv’n him a charming and beautiful eye.
His coat is so ugly it makes him look old And scrawny and poor and most ready to die; But you’d change your opinion, I think, if you saw The life and the beauty that beams from his eye.
’Twere hard to conceive of an uglier thing Than this queer little dog from the island of Skye— Grotesque and uncouth, and ugly as sin— Yet bless’d with a mild and a beautiful eye.
Among dogs, like the heathen Chinee among men, His civilization is not very high; But then his dark ways we can always excuse On account of his lovely and charming bright eye.
He is sad and forlorn, yet so gentle and kind, You could not but love him I’m sure it you’d try— This dog so demure and so kindly inclined— This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye.
Sometimes he will follow his master to church; Tho’ his piety’s weak, I must say with a sigh, Perhaps he’s as good as some other ones there Whose piety seems to be all in their eye.
He’s full of strange antics—most little dogs are— And tho’ he’s forlorn, he can mischief descry; Indeed—I’m strongly impress’d with the fact— It eternally lurks in his beautiful eye.
His hair is the queerest that dog ever wore; Tho’ kind to his master, of strangers he’s shy; He is wise in his way; deeply learned in dog lore; Intelligence beams from his beautiful eye.
He’s patient and faithful, affectionate too; My love for his virtues time’s lapse will defy; I’m sure, if you knew him, you’d love him, like me, This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye.
If You Don’t Believe It, Try It.
’Tis better far to wear away In honest strong endeavor, Than idly rust in slow decay And work and labor never; By honest toil to earn your bread, Or wherewithal to buy it; ’Tis very well, and truly said— If you don’t believe it, try it.
Ye idle loafers in the streets, The honest workman spurning, Know this—a living to be sweet Is better for the earning. To loaf and lounge and lie about, On others’ toil to riot, Is only practiced by a lout; No honest man will try it.
Oh! him that earns his daily bread! Despise and spurn him never, A thousand blessings on his head ’Tis he that feeds you ever. Should others work no more than you Quite spare would be your diet, Your gills would turn a livid hue If they would stop and try it.
Then go to work with hands or head, You’ll surely profit by it; And strive to earn some honest bread— You can, if you will try it.
Ye sweeter ones of gentler sex, Who tread the pavement hourly, I do not wish your hearts to vex, Then pray don’t take it sourly— Methinks sometimes ’tis no disgrace Tho’ seldom you are nigh it, To be at home, your proper place,— If you don’t believe it, try it. Are there no duties there to do? If so “be up and doing!” No clothes to mend, that you could sew, No beer that’s worth the brewing? Then stay at home, sometimes, at least, My counsel, don’t defy it, A little rest’s as good’s a feast, If you don’t believe it, try it.
’Tis easy quite to do the right, And in it there is beauty, What e’er you do, do with your might, But always do your duty. Be true unto yourself, and then— Wise counsel—don’t decry it, You can’t be false to other men— If you don’t believe it, try it.
Bye and Bye.
Shadowy, dreamy phantoms ever rising Up before wild Fancy’s eyes, With their untold and beauteous splendor, Make us present things despise.
And procrastination whispers softly, Wait a little longer yet; Rashness will defeat your purpose, mortal, And be cause of deep regret.
Wait with patience just a moment longer, Then with safety clutch them fast— Thus the spirit of delay beguiles us, Till the lucky time is past.
Moments freighted deep with joy ecstatic All unheeded pass away; While we musing scan the misty future, Hoping they will ever stay.
Bye and bye! may gaily point us forward, Unto scenes with joy o’ercast— Only mirage of Life’s barren desert, They are found to be at last.
Bye and bye! with all its artful scheming, Though it may seem most sublime, Wisdom horror-stricken spurneth from her, Knowing only present time.
Reason tells us now’s the time for action, And this truth will ever last, Written as it is throughout all nature, On the pages of the Past.