Читать книгу Woodside, the North End of Newark, N.J - C. G. Hine - Страница 22

This is the tale of a race

That long years gone took place

On the broad river Passaic

When times were archaic,

And here are the facts in the case:

One Herbert of eccentric renown

Challenged a friend, of the town,

And a supper of game

Should be prize for the same,

And with plenty of wine washed down.

The challenged was clumsy at rowing

And his boat very poor was at going,

While Herbert’s was light

And his rowing a sight

To set all his backers a-crowing.

But, like the hare in the ancient race,

Herbert likewise did slacken his pace,

And soon sought his ease

‘Neath the leaves where the trees

On the waters their shadows did trace.

A bottle he had from the vine

And was having a jolly good time,

When his friend labored by,

To whom Herbert did cry:

“Stop in and have sup of my wine.”

But the tortoise kept steadily at work

While the hare on the bank still did shirk—

Where drink of the gods held him fast,

Where the cool, dark shadows were cast

And the scent of wild flowers did lurk.

The end came as it should in such case,

For the tortoise, though slow, won the race,

And ’twas Herbert who paid for that supper of game.

The story is ended, but for details of same

We’ll drop into prose for a space.

Herbert was well acquainted with Frank Harrison, veteran of the war with Mexico and keeper of the North Ward Hotel on Broad street, opposite Bridge. At some convivial point in his existence he suggested to Harrison that the two have a boat race on the Passaic, from Belleville to Newark, the prize to be a game supper, and the latter, being game himself, though no boatman, accepted the challenge.

The only condition or obligation of the race was that they should start together, and that the first man to cross the finishing line should win. Each could choose his own boat and suit himself as to rowing. Herbert, living on the river, had a light boat which he knew how to handle, was familiar with the currents and eddies and was moreover a good oarsman, while his opponent knew nothing of the Passaic or its ways. The day was warm, the start was made on time and Harrison received the inverted plaudits of the company assembled for the occasion, for it seemed to these wise ones that there could be but one end to such an event. Herbert was away promptly and soon out of sight around the bend where Second river loses its identity, while the dispenser of strong waters was yet finding himself, but as he rowed our eccentric friend became warm and a black bottle, which he had brought along for company, looked up at him from the bottom of the boat with an invitation he could not resist.

He was now well on his way and still his antagonist was not in sight, therefore, hurry seemed out of place, and then the cool depths of the tree-shaded river bank looked inviting and, thinking to tarry but a moment, he put the boat about for the shore.

Once on shore and stretched at his ease the necessity for any race at all did not appear plain to our hero and he gurgled the time away, blissfully careless as to what might happen out in the hot sunshine. Thus the second boat came along, passed and continued on down toward the goal. Possibly Herbert thought he could at any time overtake his clumsy antagonist, possibly he did not go so far in his speculations; whatever his idea was, the tortoise won the race and the game supper.

Herbert shot himself in the Stevens House, New York, on May 17, 1858. He was buried in Mount Pleasant Cemetery, overlooking the river he knew so well, and his epitaph, which he is said to have suggested himself, is the single Latin word “Infelice”.