LITTLE TALKS ON BIG SUBJECTS

[The Courier, Poughkeepsie, Sunday July 6, 1913, Page 10]

An Old House

An Old house is a sacred thing. I never enter one without taking off my hat.

A house is the work of man's hands. Like man himself, no sooner does it begin to live than it begins to die. Life for a house is one long struggle with the elements, and in this struggle man helps the house, now strengthening it in one part, where the weather has made inroads, and then in another, repairing its broken portions and building up its worn-out parts, like a good doctor with his patient. But finally there comes a time, when man, thinking the house's usefulness is over, ceases to help it longer and moves away and leaves it to its fate. It has always seemed sad to me that a house which has sheltered many generations and witnessed all the varying changes that take take [sic] place through the years should be left alone to tumble down.

A sad sight is an old and empty house. Like an old horse, which has served faithfully for many years, sold away to hard service in its last days, or an hones [sic] toiler in the factory or shop who has given his life to the payment of big dividends, with strength and muscle gone, discharged with no pension or provision for his declining years, an old house is monument to man's ingratitude to those who serve him. I can excuse the house householder who leaves his house to crumble down, but I despise the farmer who will not deal gently with his old horse, and I hate with a righteous hatred, the capitalists who discharge their faithful employees, and make no provision for their old age. There are higher obligations than those written on the statute books of men. There is a higher tribunal than the Supreme Court of the United States; its decrees are always just and from then there in no appeal.

An old house is a sacred thing. True, it is but wood and stone and mortar and plaster and brick and lime. But in Quebec, that quaint city of our Canadian cousins, they point you out a place near an old stone house and tell you that Americans always take off their hats when they reach it. There is no fine scenery to be seen from it, it is a very commonplace spot: But, there Montgomery fell. There are any number of places in the North and Northwest of our country which rival and surpass in natural scenery the battlefield of Gettysburg, but every depression and mound and hillock and stone of Gettysburg is sacred for there men fought and died in a great cause. A homely little cabin that which was recently restored and set up down there at Lincoln's birthplace in Kentucky, but every knot in it is sacred for there was born the greatest man the world has seen since the Carpenter-Preacher worked and toiled and preached and suffered and sympathized and helped and died in Palestine. Any spot or thing on earth which has witnessed the struggle or the suffering or the sorrow or the success of man is a sacred place to human-folk and to God too. Did He not charge Joshua to set up a monument to mark the place of one of his victories? And it is for this reason that an old house is sacred . Here men and women, God's most precious thing in all his universe, have worked suffered and toiled and accomplished and died. Did not Jesus say that the peace of his disciples was to come to the house that was worthy, and was He not always at his best in a home? Never enter an old house without taking off your hat; never mark or mar it; it is sacred.

There are many old and vacant houses to be met with in sojourning through the rural sections of our country. I saw one of them only the other day. It belonged to the earliest style of architecture in America with a massive chimney and broad halls, and rooms many and large, that spoke of generous hospitality; but the walls were cracked and broken, the windows were out, the floors were nearly gone, the roof had fallen in. A century or less ago a young married couple came to it as their first home. It was lonely at first, but by and bye children came to echo with their shouts, to climb its stairs and romp through the rooms and play long hours in the garret on rainy days. Then one by one the children bade farewell to the old place and the farmer and his wife were alone again, for life is a palindrome, we begin where we end - but not exactly either, for there is much that is good between. Then there were re-unions, as the children came back once a year, or oftener, and brought their children with them. Those were gay times for the old house, for these anniversary and re-union days were good to see; it seemed like living again to hear the shouting and laughing and romping and playing from cellar to attic. But there came a day, a sad day indeed, for the old house, when the children and grand-children were gathered togther [sic] in it, and the neighbors thereabouts were with them, and there was no shouting or playing; but all were very quiet, and a man in black stood in the parlor and read from a black book and every one listened to him reverently; and then they all went away and soon afterward the furniture was moved out and the old house was left alone. And alone, it has been ever since. Once in awhile a stranger will push his way through the bushes that have overgrown the yard, as though to hide it from the world, and wander through its rooms, but mostly it is left alone, for the world is busy and old houses, like old men and women, are soon forgotten.

Walk again through the old rooms hallowed by memories of the past, step softly, do not disturb the stillness, and close the door reverently - for it is an old house.

Chester Allen Smith
[his signature]

But there came a day, a sad day indeed, for the old house, when the children and grand-children were gathered togther [sic] in it, and the neighbors thereabouts were with them, and there was no shouting or playing; but all were very quiet, and a man in black stood in the parlor and read from a black book and every one listened to him reverently;

Poughkeepsie Journal - Wed. 14 August 1822

DIED

In this town on Friday last, in the seventy third year of his age, Major Abraham FORT, an old and respectable inhabitant of this town and a patriot of the revolution - His loss will be deeply regretted by many and especially by the aged partner of his life, and a large family of affectionate children - The tears the desires, and the prayers of affection cannot however preserve life, nor can they bring back the dead - Obedience to the admonition, "Prepare to follow," is the best tribute we can pay to the departed and the wisest improvement we can make of such solemn dispensations.