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”.
EARLIER DWELLERS SOUTH OF THE GULLY ROAD.
In 1743 a Dr. Edward Pigot lived hereabouts, as is noted in the Town Meeting of that year, quoted elsewhere; who he was or whence he came is not for me to say. In 1791 Abraham Sandford, Jr., and Elisha Sandford, lived in an old house on the site of the Herbert house, while building the Sandford dwelling, which still stands nearly opposite the Point House. As early as 1680 the property was owned by Henry Rowe, and remained in the possession of the family until about 1812. Mary Rowe, a witch, lived in a cabin here, and may be the same person referred to elsewhere as Moll De Grow.
After that I find no record of a dwelling here until Herbert built. After his death this house was occupied for a short time by Mr. Joseph S. Rano, a shoemaker by trade, and a great hunter and a haunter of the river and its banks; then came Mr. Sanchez y Dolce, who resided here until the dwelling was destroyed by fire. Then came the cemetery, and it is now the dwelling place of many dead.