Читать книгу Woodside, the North End of Newark, N.J - C. G. Hine - Страница 20

About fifty years ago Henry William Herbert, who wrote under the name of Frank N. Forrester, resided on the river bank within the present limits of the cemetery, his place being known as “The Cedars”. A queer, romantic figure about which much of fiction as well as truth has been woven.

To Mr. Boyden and others, whose youth was spent about here, this strange figure was a familiar sight, for the recluse used almost daily to walk down town, his shoulders enveloped in a shawl, and always with a troop of dogs at his heels. Those who so remember him rather resent the fact that his brawls have been made much of and his virtues neglected by such as write of him, for they recall him as an attractive man and pleasant companion with many kindly qualities. Herbert generally made a call at the Black Horse tavern which then stood at the “Stone Bridge”, and after a short stay would continue on to the Park House. He was apt to be brusque with those he did not like, and when “beyond his depth” through too great conviviality inclined to be ugly when opposed.

He was born in London April 7, 1807, and was educated at an English college. He came to New York in 1831, supporting himself by teaching and later by writing short stories, historical novels and books on sports, his “Field Sports of America” soon making his name a familiar one to the lovers of gun and rod.

A Newarker, who has written of him from personal knowledge, says:—

“It is a difficult matter to sift the good from the bad in Herbert’s character. He was in truth a most rare and singular being if he did not possess some virtues.

“When writing his celebrated work, ‘Field Sports of America’, he had access to the Newark Library; not content with the privileges there afforded, he cut out bodily leaves from ‘The Encyclopedia Britannica’, evidently unmindful of the selfishness and criminality of the act. There are some men made up of inconsistencies, and a strange agglomeration of moods. Herbert was one of them.

“There is nothing associated with Herbert’s life that is apt to strike a stranger favorably. He was a direct antithesis of Irving, who possessed a certain magnetic influence. The truth is Irving was a good man and Herbert was not. Herbert was endowed with rare genius, and those who have a desire to become convinced of this fact should read his works; they tower as far above the general literary productions of to-day as does the Oregon pine over the tender sapling. His characters are finely drawn—not overdrawn—his heroines are as pure as the purest, and his villains—distinctive in their characteristics—‘act well their parts’. Though not an extensive verse writer, Herbert was the author of some very creditable poetry, his translation of Æschylus’s ‘Prometheus Bound’ and ‘Agamemnon’ show ripe scholarship and otherwise redound to his credit.

“In several of his novels the subject of this sketch has portrayed his own character far better than it has been or can be done by another. Whatever Herbert’s defects, as an author he was of the highest order; he was a voluminous writer and a fine translator. ‘Marmaduke Wyvil’, ‘Cromwell’ and ‘The Roman Traitor’ are works that stand in the front rank of their class, while among his translations M. Thiers’s ‘Life of the First Consul’ is one of the standard works of literature. In his historical novels he approaches nearer Sir Walter Scott than any author I have been privileged to read. He was, in fact, a dual character—an enigma. His genius merits admiration, and it is safe to say that his fame will not die with the century that gave him birth.”

Many are the stories told to show his eccentric character and occasional violence. During summer days he would place himself on the bank of the river with a gun and threaten to shoot passing boatmen unless they came on shore at his bidding, but no sooner did they land than Herbert would disappear, leaving the affrighted oarsmen in a state of perplexity as to what next. It sounds much like a fool trick from this distance, but his reputation made the experience anything but a pleasant one.

Conviviality was the order of the night at The Cedars, Herbert being much in the habit of inviting friends to enjoy what he termed the hospitality of the place. On one such occasion four guests were drinking with him, when the host suddenly sprang to his feet and produced from a small closet two swords and, throwing one on the table, ordered one of those present to defend himself. Recognizing that the affair might terminate seriously, one of the guests kicked over the table, throwing the lamp to the floor and enveloping the room in sudden darkness. The party “broke up” then and there, and the company made for the Gully road that they might live to fight another day. Herbert was thoroughly crazed by this time, and chased his friends up to and down Belleville avenue. Finally the pursued separated and the pursuer kept on after one of them even to the Black Horse tavern (Broad street and Belleville avenue), where an escape was effected.