Читать книгу Sixty Years of California Song - Margaret Blake Alverson - Страница 9

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S FAR back as I can remember my life was associated with music. Father and mother were both highly gifted. In our family were three boys and seven girls, and each possessed a voice of unusual excellence. The looked-for pleasure every day was the morning and evening worship at which the family gathered in the sitting room to hear the word of God explained by my father, Rev. Henry Kroh, D.D. The dear old German hymns, Lobe den Herren, O Meine Seele, Christie, du Lamm Gottes and others, were as familiar to me as the English hymns of today, such as Nearer my God to Thee and All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name. We were not blessed with children's songs, as are the children of today, but sang the same hymns as the older members of the congregation.

Father was descended from a royal Holland family. One of his ancestors was the favorite sister of Admiral Theobold Metzger, Baron of Brada, Major-General of all the Netherlands, who died of paralysis in the sixty-sixth year of his life, February 23, 1691, in the house of the Duke of Chamburg. He had gone with other lords and nobles of the land to Graven Hage to swear allegiance to William III., King of Great Britain, who had just come over from London as the regent of the Netherlands. Even the physician in ordinary, who was sent by the King, was unable to save him. By order of the King his body was placed in a vault in the church on High Street in Brada, March 19, 1691, with extraordinary honor and ceremonies. He had acquired large possessions and wealth, therefore the King ordered that the large estate of the deceased should be taken care of, and placed it under the care of William von Schuylenburg, council of the King. At the same time notice was sent to all princes and potentates in whose countries there was property of the deceased to support His Majesty in this undertaking. Three weeks before his death he had made his will and had given the name of his parents and his five brothers and two sisters.

His sister Barbara was my great-grandmother. After the death of my granduncle some of the family came to America. They were not aware of the death of their distinguished brother and the heirs did not claim the vast fortune, which amounted to 20,000,000 guilders at that time and now with compound interest should be to 200,000,000 to 300,000,000 guilders, and is still in the possession of the King and in the treasuries of the Netherlands. The heirs have been deprived of it all these years, although they have from one generation to another fought the case. At the same time the authorities of Holland are not a little in doubt and are embarrassed for reasons to justify keeping the Metzger von Weibnom estate for Holland.

But the reason of all their decisions, answers and refusals is the unmistakable intention to keep the estate for themselves, even at the cost of truth, justice and honor. The will has been suppressed. We have proof that General Rapp in 1794 at the occupation of Brada had taken the will, dated February 2, 1691, from the city magistrate to carry it to Strassburg for safety. The will has never been executed.

I purposely made this break in my narrative of my childhood in justice to my distinguished father who should have occupied the place that belonged to him by right and title, as he was one of the original heirs mentioned in my uncle's will—the grandson of his favorite sister, Barbara Metzger von Weibnom. My father was a minister. He was Christ-like with his people, and it was beautiful to behold with what reverence the people approached him. He had the mild blue eye the poets write about, his voice was soft in its tenderness when addressing any member of his flock. His bearing was dignified and reverent, and he was a delightful person to know. He was always hopeful, no matter what difficulties arose in regard to the finances of the church. In the true sense of the word he was a father to his people and his family. His elders were all devotion and with them his word was law. In all the years of his ministry I cannot recall any unhappy situation with his congregation. Sadness came only when parting, to be sent to work in another church. He was a great pioneer founder of churches, and the Synod sent him first in one direction, then another.

In consequence of these changes I traveled a great deal in childhood. No sooner had father succeeded in getting a church started and in good running order than he would be sent to some other section of the country. In Virginia, where he was born and bred, he was ordained at the age of twenty-five and soon had a promising charge in Berks county, Pa. From there he was sent to Evansville, Ind. It was while he was filling the pulpit at Womensdorf, Pa., that he met Miss Mary Stouch, to whom he was married in the year 1819. Six children were born to them while at this pastorate. The church in Evansville had been without a pastor for over two years and father was called to fill the position. The parting between the pastor and his people was particularly sad. My mother had to leave her girlhood home for the first time in her life.

Oh, what a sad journey it was for them. It was made by stage and boat and my parents had six young children. Many a time in my childhood I heard the sad tale repeated. And the reception at Evansville was still sadder as the church had been closed and the building almost destroyed by the vicious element and unconverted people who desired no religion to interfere with their ungodliness. Many attempts had been made to restore the building, but those who attempted it were stoned and driven away. When father arrived the people of the congregation who remained advised him not to do anything with the church, for he would meet the same fate as his predecessors. But father was not daunted. He visited the church and the sight of God's house in such a condition made him more determined to do the work for which he had come. After calling several members together he gave out the announcement that he would open the church on the following Sabbath at all hazards. He asked all of the faith to come to his home Saturday evening. About fifty responded, and during the business meeting of the evening seven elders were chosen. When all was satisfactorily adjusted, pastor and people spent the hours in prayer until midnight.

Next morning the faithful people gathered and father, with the Bible in hand, led them in procession until they arrived at the church. In the distance could be seen a line of men, women and boys on both sides of the steps. The elders tried to persuade father to give up the attempt and go no further. He turned to them and said, "I came to conquer for the Lord, and if you do not come with me I shall go alone." When the rabble saw them coming, they began to shout, "Here they come. Here come the saints." A boy approached—more bold than the rest—and as he came father took him by the hand and said, "Good morning, my little man. I am glad to see the young as well as the old to welcome me." Then he spoke to the people and said, "You make me very happy, my dear friends. I did not expect such a large congregation to meet me, a stranger," and took each by the hand. In one hand they held sticks, stones and staves. As he spoke kindly to them, they dropped their missiles and extended their hands. His bravery had awed them and his kindness and magnetism had won them. At last he gained the upper step in front of the church and, like Paul, he cried, "Hear ye the word of the Lord. For today shall peace and righteousness dwell among you. Hear what the Lord God speaketh to you. I came not to make war upon you, but bring you the message of peace. As this building is not in condition to enter, I will give you the divine message from the door of the temple." After a short sermon he told them his mission was to rebuild the church, and he was going to ask them all to help. A short prayer followed his remarks, and the benediction closed this remarkable epoch in the history of the church. Before the year was past the church had been restored. The membership increased, the Sabbath school grew and the church nourished beyond the expectations of the oldest members.

Two and a half years later we went to Mt. Carmel, a small town on the Wabash river. Conditions were more favorable, yet it was not to be stationary, for only two or three years. During that time I was born, June 12, 1836. I made the eighth child—six girls and two boys. When I was a little over three years old, father left Mt. Carmel to fill the vacancy of the church in Jonesborough, Union county, Ill., in an unsettled portion of the state, among good Christian people who had begun to settle on farms and stock farms. Acres of grain and corn fields stretched far and wide. Jonesborough was a very small town where these people got their supplies in exchange for their produce. The women wove their cloth and linen and spun their yarn and did the dairy work, while the men cleared and planted and built log houses, barns and cribs. We were heartily welcomed by these good, primitive people. They had waited so long for a shepherd to lead them that many of the congregation were in waiting and the elders and trustees were on hand to see to the conveyance of the household goods, which were quickly put in waiting wagons.

It was the Indian summer of the year. The foliage was bright and the air crisp and cool. Although a child, the impression made upon me was one that I have gone over in my mind many times, and I can see every inch of the road, the kind people, the beautiful scenery, birds of bright plumage, and rabbits darting across the road at the sound of our wheels. It was late when the journey was ended, but we were made welcome and comfortable by more pleasant faces and willing hands. The parsonage was a large, barnlike-looking place, built partly of logs and "shakes." There was one large room and two small ones adjoining and a shed that extended the length of the house. In the large room was a fine, spacious fireplace, into which had been rolled a large log and a bright fire was blazing which sent a glow of warmth and lit up the logs and rafters and the strips of white plaster, used to close up the cracks and keep the warmth within the room. The floors were made of oak and were white and clean. Several old-fashioned split-bottom chairs graced the room, a long table was placed in the center, upon which was spread a snow-white linen cloth of homespun, and woven by the women. While the wraps were being removed the women had placed upon the table the best that could be prepared for the pastor's welcome. I'll never forget the delicious roast chicken; baked sweet potatoes, baked in the ashes, for cook stoves were not known; the fine hot corn pone baked in the Dutch oven, hot coals heaped upon the lid to brown and crisp; fresh sweet butter, pickles, preserves. Generous loaves of bread, biscuit and cake filled the pantries.

When father entered the room and saw the preparation that had been made he was overcome with the tender hospitality of the women of his new charge. He could not restrain his tears. As they all surrounded the table, he raised his hands in prayer and besought God's blessing upon the people and the charge he had once more accepted. The congregation was scattered far and wide. Many miles separated the neighbors and once a week was the only time when gatherings were held. On the Sabbath the log church was filled with solemn, substantial people, men and women in their homespun garments, healthy and robust the men and rosy and buxom the women. Families came in their conveyances, wagons, carts and old-style buggies; some came on foot, others on horseback, when they did not own a wagon. Rain or shine, the faithful assembled for two services. After the morning service the families gathered and seated under the trees or in their wagons lunched of the food brought along. A fire was built and a huge caldron of coffee was made of parched wheat ground and boiled. Coffee in these days was only for the rich who lived in the cities. Delicious cream and milk was in abundance for all the younger people. After the noon repast the children gathered for the Sunday school. The second service began at 3 o'clock and closed at 4. This work continued for seven years. During that time the log church was replaced by a fine frame church large enough to accommodate six or seven hundred worshipers.

During the years of this pastorate my oldest brother, Rev. Phillip Henry Kroh, was graduated from the theological seminary in Ohio and had returned an ordained minister. He was at once made an assistant by my father, the field being too large for him.

In 1841 father returned from the eastern Synod with the sad tidings that he had been appointed to go to Cincinnati, Ohio. We had lived so long here, we expected it was to be our future home. We had a comfortable house, a maple forest, gardens and stock, and the news came as a severe blow to my poor mother. We had been so happy among the fruits, flowers and country freedom, we were loath to give it up for the city. It was with a sad heart that father parted from these good and faithful people. The only balm for this separation was to leave brother Phillip with them as his successor. He had become endeared to them and had done such good work among the young, they prayed father to leave him if the family must go.

After a journey of three weeks we arrived at the parsonage. The congregation had purchased the old Texas church in the western addition of the city, and the parsonage was attached to the church in the rear. It was a comfortable place of six large rooms. The furniture had preceded the family and everything looked homelike and comfortable, so mother had not the sadness of coming to a bare, cheerless, empty house. We were cordially greeted by the elders' wives and families, and when we arrived dinner was upon the table for us. This welcome was more homelike because of our own things having preceded us. And then we were such a busy family that we had little time to waste in repinings. We were all put in the harness—the Sabbath school and choir. We made visits with our parents to the sick and the poor. Because we spoke nothing but the German language, we were obliged to go to school. My oldest sister, Mary, was soon established in the German department of the public school. She was graduated from the Monticello Seminary, St. Louis, before coming there. She taught during the week in the public school and on Saturday taught English in the synagogue. On the Sabbath she played the melodeon in our church. It was there that, as a child, I learned the grand old German hymns of the church under her guidance and which helped to make me the singer I am today.

We had now been seven years in Cincinnati and the church had flourished so greatly that a second German Reformed church was the outcome of father's ministry. It was built on Webster street for the purpose of housing the overflow of the first church on Betts street. In all this prosperity California gold and missionary fields were opened and discovered in November, 1847. Father was chosen for California, and the only way to go was over the plains. What a sad family was ours while preparations were made which would take father and brother George, who was now 17 years old, away, as we thought, to the other end of the earth. At last the hour came and the tie that bound pastor and people, father, mother and children was severed. My brother George told me the story of the trip as follows:

"The party left Cincinnati down the river on the steamer Pontiac about May 10th, 1849, arrived in St. Louis four days after the fire, May 18th, and remained four days at Weston. We purchased a yoke of oxen. At St. Joseph, Mo., we purchased two more yokes. On the 28th we went up the river and crossed over on flatboats. Here we camped for the night. As far as the eye could see it was one level stretch of land. May 29th we started on the long journey across the plains to California. Our first mishap came in crossing over a bridge made of logs, called a corduroy bridge. In crossing over this bridge one of the oxen was crowded too near the edge. He was crowded off into the water below and was drowned before we could give aid. After traveling for seven days more, the first days in June, we came to Ash Hollow. At this place the party came in contact with a whole tribe of Sioux Indians. They were peaceful, and we traded with them and gave the squaws some necklaces of bright colored beads. After passing the Indian tribe, about five miles away, we camped for the night. We reached Fort Laramie by noon the next day. Here we purchased a fine cow to take the place of the drowned ox. She worked well. She supplied the party with fresh milk as well. Fort Laramie consisted of only the fort and a blacksmith shop. We continued next day and made several stops before we came to Fort Bridger, occupied by the man Bridger and his family. He had a squaw wife and six children. When he learned that father was a missionary, he brought his whole family to our camp and they were all baptized. This was father's first missionary work.

"After leaving here we traveled for days before we got to Salt Lake City, passing through Wyoming. At Salt Lake City father and Brigham Young had a long and heated argument. A number of men and women joined in. Among the women were several who did not believe as they were compelled to, and they were on the side of the missionary. We remained here a week, and we drove the cattle to feed and the Mormons stole them two different times and compelled the company to pay fifteen dollars each time as find money. Rather an expensive stay for one week. When the party left, the women who favored us came out with baskets filled with fresh vegetables, pumpkins, sweet potatoes and squash. With tears in their eyes they said farewell. When we left we employed the services of a Mormon guide. He purposely led us on the wrong trail for sixty miles. It was necessary for us to return and get the right trail. When we started once more he misled us the second time and directed us into a deep canyon. In order to get out of this difficulty we were obliged to take the wagon to pieces and piece by piece we carried them out into safety. His object was to tire out our oxen and get us to desert them so he could appropriate them. At last we discovered his treachery and dismissed him at once. Then we continued our journey along the Santa Fe trail. This was Kit Carson's trail from Salt Lake to Lower California. We continued our travels until we reached Big Muddy river and camped there. The Indians yelled and whooped at us all night long. We could not sleep, for they were the troublesome Piutes. We did not know how to act as they kept concealed and were in great numbers. Two of them, more bold than the others, being also curious, crawled through the willows. We immediately shot at them. In the morning the oxen were rounded up and one was missing. He was driven away by the Indians and killed. We found him several miles further along, with seven arrows piercing his body. Our next camping place was at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains. The snow was eighteen inches deep and there was no food for the cattle. After going a mile further the cow gave out. That left us without any means to haul the wagons. Father left his wagon and we packed our goods on a horse, this being the only animal remaining in father's possession. We were compelled to leave many useful things behind. Father's feet were frozen at this place and we were obliged to cut off his boots to assist him out of his misery. Our sufferings were great and we nearly froze on the trail. We kept going at a slow pace and with great difficulty until we passed the snow belt, and when we came to the green fields or plains our joy knew no bounds. But misfortune overtook us here, for we turned our horse out with the cattle and that was the last we ever saw of him. We came at last to Cottonwood Springs and we camped there for two days to let the remaining cattle rest and eat of herbage.

"In the evening of the second day we started to cross the great desert. We succeeded in crossing by midnight and reached the mountains on the other side. I was so tired I fell asleep beside the trail. The team passed me as I slept. I did not awaken until 2 in the morning. I followed the trail and found the team, a distance of four or five miles ahead of where I took the nap. On reaching camp, father and the company were anxiously awaiting me. We rested for the night. Next morning we started through a deep canyon which eventually opened into a beautiful valley where we saw houses made of adobe. The fields were covered with cattle. This was the first civilization we saw since leaving Salt Lake. Starvation had almost overtaken us and we besought the owner to sell us an ox and we had a feast and appeased our hunger. We had lost all accounting of time until we came here. We camped for the night, and next morning we started for Los Angeles. We arrived there November 18, 1849. The Spaniards had taken a strong liking toward father and wanted to make him their Alcalde, but he refused the honor and told them he had come to preach the gospel and had to go further. On his going they presented him with a fine horse and saddle as a token of their esteem for him. At that time Los Angeles had only a few adobe houses and a Catholic mission. Commodore Stockton had dug trenches around the place as a means of defense. We slowly wended our way for another month when we met a man who had bought a thousand head of cattle. He told father he could earn his way up the coast by helping drive the cattle, but he was not able to do this spirited work, so father and son exchanged places. Father turned the horse over to me and he drove the supply wagon. For the first time in my life I was a real cowboy.