Mrs. Julia R. Cutler.
Mrs. Cutler's graceful pen has already contributed to this volume the sketch of Mrs. Mary Lee Demarest and also another to follow of Mrs. Julia McNair Wright. Her pen has been busy at occasional intervals from girlhood, when as a school-girl her essays were, as a rule, selected and read aloud in the chapel, on Friday afternoons, and a poem securing the gold medal crowned the success.
Living since her marriage, in the old historic house of Mr. Cutler's great-grandfather, the Hon. Silas Condict, fearless patriot of the Revolution, and President of the Council of Safety during the whole of that period that "tried men's souls", it is little wonder that the traditions of '76 clinging about the spot should nurture and develop the poetic spirit of the girl. It was in 1799, after Mr. Condict's return from Congress that he built the present house familiar to us all, but the old house stands near by, full of the most interesting stories and traditions of revolutionary days.
Mrs. Cutler has written many articles, often by request, for papers or magazines, and verses prompted by circumstances or surroundings, or composed when strongly impressed upon an especial subject.
FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, 1791,
SESSION HOUSE AND MANSE.
MORRIS COUNTY SOLDIER'S MONUMENT, 1871.
Before us lies a lovely poem of childhood, entitled "Childish Faith", founded on fact, but we select from the many poems of Mrs. Cutler, the Centennial Poem given below and written on the occasion of the Centennial of the old First Church.
CENTENNIAL FIRST PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH.
The moon shines brightly down, o'er hill and dale
As it shone down, One Hundred years ago,
On these same scenes. The stars look down from Heaven
As they did then, as calm, serene, and bright—
Fit emblems of the God, who changes not.
Only in him can we find sure repose
'Mid change, decay and death, who is the same
To-day as yesterday, forevermore.
Through the clear air peal forth the silvery notes,
Of thy old Bell, thou venerable pile,
Thou dear old Church, whose birthday rare,
We come to celebrate with tender love.
One Hundred years! How long; and yet, how short
When counted with the centuries of the past
That help to make the ages of the world:
How long when measured by our daily cares,
The joys, the sorrows that these years have brought
To us and ours. "Our fathers, where are they?"
The men of strength, one hundred years ago,
As full of courage, purpose, will, as we,
Have gone to join the "innumerable throng"
That worship in the Father's House above.
Their children, girls and boys, like the fair flowers,
Have blossomed, faded, and then passed away,
Leaving their children and grandchildren, too,
To fill their places, take their part in life.
How oft, dear Church, these walls have heard the vows
That bound two hearts in one. How oft the tread
Of those that bore the sainted dead to rest.
How oft the voices, soft and low, of those
Who, trusting in a covenant-keeping God
Gave here their little ones to God. A faith
Which He has blessed, as thou canst truly tell,
In generations past, and will in days to come.
How many servants of the most high God,
Beneath thy roof have uttered words divine,
Taught by the Spirit, leading souls to Christ
And reaping, even here, their great reward.
Many of these have entered into rest
Such as remains for those who love the Lord.
Others to-day, have gathered here to tell
What God has done in years gone by, and bear
Glad testimony to the truth, that in this place
His name has honored been.—'Tis sad to say
Farewell. But 'tis decreed, that thou must go.
Time levels all; and it will lay thee low.
But o'er thy dust full many a tear shall fall,
And many a prayer ascend, that the true God,
Our Father's God, will, with their children dwell,
And that the stately pile which soon shall rise,
Where now, thou art, a monument shall be
Of generations past, recording all
The truth and mercies of a loving God.
Oct. 14th, 1891.