Today’s dispatch delves into a puzzling enigma, maybe even a genuine mystery.
Shortly after purchasing Rosslyn in the summer of 2006 friends were touring the house with us when their young son blasted through a doorway.
“Do you think this house is haunted?!”
His optimism was palpable. He related in quick chronicle what he’d discovered during his solo inspection of the house. On the third floor, he assured us, there are hidden doors and secret passageways. Mystery and intrigue percolated in his proud delivery.
He was correct. Small doors and mystery access panels in the backs of cupboards and closets opened into dark attic soffits. However, years of renovation would eventually reveal that these were simply entrances to otherwise inaccessible passages (ie. space behind the point where rafters met knee walls) that permitted service to electric, plumbing, etc. Practical. But slim on mystery.
Shortly thereafter, multiple contractors assured us that the house was probably haunted. Two centuries of living (and, inevitably, at least some “expiring”) within these walls *must* have resulted in a few lingering spirits. Certainly Rosslyn was haunted, right? Right?! Again, a blend of dread and intrigue. But over the yearslong renovation, they gradually abandoned their soothsaying as uneventful days (and not a few evenings) dispelled their early convictions. Mystery anticipated; mystery dispelled.
The Warmth of Your House
Verum Archaeologiam
Across the sprawling inquiry I call Rosslyn Redux, I’ve gathered many posts into a category I call “Archeology of Home”. It’s a moniker I usually use in a quasi metaphorical sense, but not always. In fact, there have been plenty of instances in which we’ve quite literally disinterred and studied artifacts that have informed our understanding (and appreciation) of home.
Sometimes the excavation is figurative, exposing ideas and memories and stories and memories that, when scrutinized reveal what underpins my/our ideas of homeness. In either case, analysis (and sometimes creative exploration) or both real relics and those that exist in the realm of concept have deepened and affirmed our relationship with home.
Today I have an intriguing outlier to share. It’s archeology of home in the layered and often complex sense. And it invites inclusion in my intermittent what-makes-a-house-a-home series: does mystery make a house a home?
Ute Youth, Uintah Valley, Utah (Photo: John K. Hillers, Powell Expedition, 1871-1875)
Concealed Artifacts Considered
While drafting a post that revisits my enduring curiosity about (and reference to) The Farm I asked Katie to remove an old black and white photograph from its frame in order to scan it. Here’s our slightly abbreviated dialogue.
Katie, I’m hoping… you might be able to help me with the photo that I’d like to accompany this post. If you look at the B&W snapshot attached you’ll see a photo of me as a small tyke with an older man. I’m hoping that it may be easy to remove the image and scan it at high definition… Thanks!
I scanned this photo for you. Did you know there were some other photos behind this one in the frame? I scanned everything in case you were interested…
Oh, what a find. You have no idea how moved and intrigued I am by your totally unanticipated discovery. I received this photo from my parents when they were preparing to downsize their Rock Harbor home a year or two before selling it. I imagine they must have repurposed an older frame that contained the images and information you’ve come across. The man in the photo in “Upper Volta” (newly independent from France as of 1960 and then renamed Burkina Faso in 1984) is my uncle Herman Gail Weller, my mother‘s older brother. He was in the U.S. Peace Corps, living in Africa (Ghana and later Liberia, if I recall correctly) in the 1960s when this photograph was apparently taken. No idea about the Ute news clipping and photo. I’ll reach out to my uncle to see what I can find out. What a fascinating layering of history. And what a wild surprise! Thank you, Katie.
I’ll return to the “older man” (aka OMC) when I publish the relevant post soon. But that youthful photograph of my uncle offered a subject for my inquiry.
Uncle Herman in Bobo-Dioulasso, Upper Volta (Burkina Faso), 1967
Herman in Burkina Faso
I sent out an email (with scans of the photos, etc.) to my mother and my uncle. Circuitously the following message made its way back to me.
“The pictures came through on the email from George that you forwarded to me. The pictures were huge compared to the font size of the text. So I had to scroll back and forth and up and down. ….. Of course that was me in Bobo-Djou… in a market. The blankets were called “Mali blankets,” at least by expatriots. Most expatriots that I met in West Africa prized Mali blankets. My beard was nicer in red (then) than in white (now).
The width of each strip in a Mali blanket was the width that a typical loom created. When I traveled to Bamako, Mali one Christmastime, I saw weavers sitting on the sidewalks along the modern paved highway, each with his loom cords tied to the base of a modern street light.
Ah-ha! A few more details in Herman’s notes on reverse of photo.
Caption from Uncle Herman’s Photo in Bobo-Dioulasso, Upper Volta (Burkina Faso)
Another uncanny aside: that Mali blanket hung in my bedroom as a tapestry during my teens. Also a sword from Herman’s West Africa years!
Ute Youth
And what about the handsome fellow with his dog appearing earlier this post?
So far no recollection from Herman to share on this one. Did one of my parents place it in the frame? Someone else. When? Why? The mystery endures.
Let’s take a look at the other artifacts, which at least explain something about the Ute youth, if not its provenance.
Citation for Photograph of Ute Youth by John K. Hillers
This documentation from the Smithsonian Office of Anthropology, Bureau of American Ethnology, Collection is affixed to the back of the photo of the Ute youth. If too blurry for you, here’s the gist.
Neg. No. 1537
Tribe: Ute
“Indian boy and his dog.”
Uintah Valley, eastern slope of the Wasateh Mts., Utah.
By John K. Hillers, Powell Expedition, 1871-1875.
I’m unclear how the Ute youth photo with documentation (above) happen to be located together with the article (below), but the caption (also below) suggests that the image may have been used to illustrate the compelling news clipping.
Ute Caption and Article
Also resonating subtly but pleasantly, the recollection that my maternal grandmother (mother to my mother and Herman) often mailed us news clippings that struck her as individually relevant and appealing. Perhaps she came across and clipped the article, and then sent it to my mother or my uncle?
Perhaps the trappings of home and the lives they echo, albeit sometimes a faintly fading echo, are among the mysteries that make a house a home?
Afterward
The lead image on this post is a dedication, a mystery dedication, that adorns a cardboard panel at the back of the frame. For whom? From whom? Well, we know their name, but who are/were they? I have absolutely no idea, but the sentiment is uncannily appropriate for the current context.
“May the warmth of your house be equal to that of your heart.” — Gerry and Marc Gurvitch
Appropriate, for sure. And perhaps it’s worth gathering well wishes wherever and whenever we come across them.
Essex, NY in 1876 (Source: OW Gray Atlas of Essex County)
Where in the world is Rosslyn? If you’re not too terribly averse to a verse, here’s an introduction writ small (wrapped up in a tidy micropoem.)
Up in the Adirondacks
at the foot of the foothills,
where Champlain's sweet waters
refresh, render respite,
and sooth worldweary souls,
a sanctuary sings
welcoming melodies.
(Source: Where's Rosslyn?)
Poetry not your preference? Pity! 😉 Let’s try this.
Beginning to zero in on where in the world Rosslyn is? If neither the poetics of place nor encyclopedic brevity are helping much, let’s try a map or two. Maybe I can narrow your focus a little further with this line drawing that I created with Katie Shepard for our community blog, Essex on Lake Champlain back in 2015. (If you click on the map it’ll open a window where you can download the unfuzzy PDF complete with a key explaining each of the numbers in the map.)
Essex Architecture Map, July 2015 (Source: Essex on Lake Champlain)
Enough with the old school black and white (and sepia with faint rose highlighting). It’s time for technicolor!
So, where in the world is Rosslyn? Train your eyes on the three docks/piers extending out into Lake Champlain. The middle one is the ferry dock. (See the ferry heading to Vermont?) The smallest of the three man made peninsula’s is Rosslyn’s dock house (aka “boathouse”). Armed with that little insight, perhaps you can find the same property on the two maps above? (Hint: the boathouse wasn’t yet constructed in 1876 when the map at the top of this post was made.)
Heck, it still enchants us despite constant maintenance and seasonal flood worries. And the boathouse hammock is a mini vacation!
Head inland from the boathouse and you’ll discover Rosslyn itself, tucked next to two massive trees, a ginkgo and what I believe is a silver maple (Acer saccharinum). In fact, I’m sitting in the top right room on the second floor right now. Perhaps if you swoop in a little lower you’ll catch me jotting this blog post.
A little further left of the house are the carriage barn (lower) and ice house (upper) which offer up all sorts of mysteries. But those for another day. Unless you remember three curious artifacts I shared with you a while ago… (Source: Essex Aerial View)
Hopefully this helped orient you. Yes, a Google map might be more precise and quicker, but sometimes Rosslyn Redux and the art of homing aren’t particularly precise or quick. Besides, a thin veil of privacy keeps the snoopers away. Or at least adds a little challenge to their quest. But if you’re looking for a little more clarity on where in the world Rosslyn is located, I suggest you check out this hopefully helpful hub: “Where’s Rosslyn?“
Swapping December for January signals that we’re four months into Rosslyn’s icehouse rehabilitation which, in turn, means that I’m four months overdue for a look at (or perhaps the first of several looks at) my love of barns. Truth be told, I’m a bit of a barnophile. And, given my weakness for wabi-sabi, I’m especially keen on bygone barns.
Backcountry Bygone Barns (Source: Geo Davis)
By “bygone barns” I’m conjuring an entire class of rural farm and utility buildings belonging to an earlier time. Think of a barn vernacular with classic lines, practical design, form following function, wearing age and even obsolescence with pride,… I’m even smitten with buildings so dilapidated that they’ve been reduced to their skeletal essence by the forces of nature. Sunlight, moonlight, weather, wildlife, and vegetation permeate these carcasses. The sparse assembly of materials — beaten by the elements for more years than anyone alive can definitively claim to know — endure erect, monumental, lavishly adorned with forgotten functions and the patina of passing time.
My romantic heart and my wabi-sabi aesthetic cling conspiratorially to the possibility of resuscitating, reimagining, and repurposing. Meanwhile the rights of rewilding attempt to discipline my disposition; I ache for the victory of natural forces over human will, the return of these materials to the earth. This tension between between revitalizing and rewilding winds my wonder and perpetuates my desire.
Backcountry Barns Haiku
Time torn, weatherworn
byways by backcountry barns.
Watercolor skies.
(Source: Backcountry Barns)
It’s not uncommon for me to interrupt a bike ride in sight of a bygone barn, ostensibly to make a photograph (which I do), but often I’m still standing ten minutes, fifteen minutes later, still observing, often lost in a sort of contemplative gaze.
[Bygone] barn architecture, especially minimalist barns, patinated with weather and time, speaks to something practically primordial in me. My earliest hope when looking for North Country properties was to convert an old barn into a home. I looked at lots of backcountry barns, but I never made a match. (Source: Backcountry Barns)
Inevitably this lead us to farms, mostly no longer actively being farmed, vestiges of an early time, and earlier lifestyle.
I began looking at forgotten farms, bygone barns, meandering stone walls hemming in overgrown fields… (Source: Leaping & Untethering)
Sagging Bygone Barn (Photo: Geo Davis)
It was a romantic errand that exposed Susan and me to many fascinating properties.
Susan… shared my dream of an old farmhouse surrounded by open meadows with views and sunlight. She liked barns and was even receptive to my occasional flights of fancy about converting an old barn into a home. (Source: The Hunt for a Perfect House)
But the bygone barns in my mind and those we visited were failing to align.
Although a farm on the lake (especially an old barn that could be reimagined as a home) was proving an impossible ambition, our imaginations were piqued on several occasions…
A handsome slate roofed barn, still square after a century or more standing at the crest of an immense field just south of Westport, beguiled me for a while. I imagined a lofty open plan; exposed, rough hewn beams; magnificent views in all directions. But the seller was unable or unwilling to subdivide the field and barn from a much larger farm which included additional fields, an immense dairy barn, various other building for hay and equipment storage, a “pond” for storing cow manure and a large square farmhouse with cupola. And in the end it was a relief to Susan, because, after all, this magnificent barn did not stand on the shores of Lake Champlain. (Source: The Hunt for a Perfect House)
Gradually our search evolved. And shifted.
Some day I still hope to explore the barn vernacular, perhaps in a modern and somewhat interpretive way. (Source: Backcountry Barns)
I wrote that last sentence about a year and a half ago. And, while it’s still 100% accurate, I’m also allowing this curious quest to inspire the icehouse rehab which is, after all, a bygone barn, albeit a diminutive one, purpose built for storing ice. Watching the building get stripped back to its oldest and boldest elements, honoring the legacy of a functionally perfect building that has outlived its functional utility, searching for the simplest and purest path forward, restraining the instinct to disguise the building’s age, and summoning the bygone barn’s story from the dusty darkness. It would not be absurd to compare this last four month’s endeavor to a protracted meditation.
In reworking my notes for this post — notes is too vague; perhaps field notes is closer, or travelogue — I come across a hastily jotted note.
Renovation or Story?!? (Photo: Geo Davis)
I’d written the question to myself as if posed by another, perhaps one of the many capable collaborators on this project. I don’t recall when or why I wrote this, nor am I certain why this seemingly frustrated inquiry was posed in this way. It’s as if I imagined Pam or Hroth or someone else, exasperated, almost pleading to simplify the journey, our journey, to focus fully (and exclusively) on rehabilitation of this bygone barn.
What’s more important, the renovation or your damned story?!?
I’m only about halfway through these notes, but this feels like the right place to pause. I’ll continue this reflection tomorrow, but for now I’ll prime the contemplative pump with an intriguing short film by Matt McFarling called “Bygone Barns” that the inimitable Katie Shepard discovered while helping me sort my jumbled thoughts.
Yesterday I meditated a minute on bygone barns. Ancient farm buildings. Tempered by time, tempted by gravity, and sowbacked beneath the burdens of generations, these rugged utility structures retain (and sometimes gain) a minimalist elegance long after design and construction and use fade into history. My meditation was meandering and inconclusive. In part this was due to the wandering wonder these timeworn buildings inspire in me. And in part it was because my observations are still evolving and inconclusive. I’m not a barn expert, an agricultural architecture preservationist, or even a particularly astute student of barns and farms. But I am a barnophile.
a person with a fondness for structures used to house livestock, grain, etc.
an admirer and/or collector of agricultural outbuildings
Aside from the hubris I’ve just exercised in birthing this barnophile definition, I’m generally inclined to a humbler and less presumptuous relationship with the mostly agrarian artifacts we categorize as barns.
[As an unabashed barnophile with a] weakness for wabi-sabi, I’m especially keen on bygone barns.
By “bygone barns” I’m conjuring an entire class of rural farm and utility buildings belonging to an earlier time. Classic lines, practical design, form following function, wearing age and even obsolescence with pride,… I’m even smitten with buildings so dilapidated that they’ve been reduced to their skeletal essence by the forces of nature. Sunlight, moonlight, weather, wildlife, and vegetation permeate these carcasses. The sparse assembly of materials — beaten by the elements for more years than anyone alive can definitively claim to know — endure erect, monumental, lavishly adorned with forgotten functions and the patina of passing time. (Source: Bygone Barns)
Barn Vernacular (Source: Geo Davis)
But why do forgotten farm buildings enchant me? What reason lurks beneath the tidy text, what foundation for my unusual fascination with these vestiges of a simpler, more local, perhaps even a slower time? Katie Shepard, so very rarely off target, suggests this childhood reminiscence might play into my barn-centric attraction.
My parents, living and working in New York City, had purchased an 1840s farmhouse on 85 acres in Greenwich, New York five months after getting married. I was born less than two years later.
Although The Farm served primarily as a weekend getaway for the next five years, it dominates the geography of my earliest childhood. A stream of nostalgia gilded memories flow from this pastoral source: exploring the time-worn barns, absent livestock except for those conjured up by my energetic imagination and the swallows which darted in and out, building nests in the rafters, gliding like darts through dusty sunbeams; vegetable gardening with my mother; tending apple, pear and quince trees with my father; eating fresh rhubarb, strawberries and blackberries; discovering deer and raccoons and snakes and even a snapping turtle. (Source: The Farm)
As usual, Katie is right. Woven into the earliest tapestries of my childhood are fond associations with barns. This was undoubtedly further reinforced during our years at Homeport given the inordinate amount of time that my brother, sister and I occupied ourselves in the mysterious old barn complete with ballroom and servant’s quarters long since adapted to other uses. And in my grade school years my siblings and I memorized Dylan Thomas’s “Fern Hill” to recite as a birthday gift for my father. I wish I could take credit for this creative gift giving tradition, but it was my mother, Melissa Davis, who gently guided the three of us each winter to select a poem that would appeal to my father, and then to memorize it during our daily 45-60 minute commute to school each morning and and each evening. Three days after Christmas, on my father’s birthday, we would recite the poem together, and (with one notable exception that’s better reserved for another day) my father enjoyed the gift, leaning back, sometimes closing his eyes, and listening attentively. I think “Fern Hill” may have been the best received, and it became a go-to for family recitation over the years, hypnotically weaving itself into the ethos of our childhood the way a prayer might.
Boundaries of a Barnophile
There comes a time to focus the “philos”, or at least to try and narrow or delineate the subject of interest.
I’ve talked around my fascination with barns, barn architecture, barn construction, and barn aesthetics… But I haven’t outlined the tenets for my enduring intrigue, nor have I articulated exactly what I mean when I refer to a barn vernacular. It’s time to draft at least a preliminary look at my love of barns. […]
In the vernacular vocabulary of quintessentially North American architecture, the barn endures as a practical yet proud icon of rural living. […]
Although my fascination with barn vernacular isn’t limited to Yankee barns, it is my most consistent and encompassing vision.(Source: Toward a Barn Vernacular)
In other words, I’m inclined toward classic geometry, roofs steep enough to shed water and snow (with a particular fondness for 9:12 pitch), and unembellished details. And I will always favor bygone barns to new construction. The quality of workmanship and materials stands out, but so too does the story stretching across decades, even centuries.
I consider aging utility buildings — barns, boathouses, icehouses, sugarshacks, etc. — to be at least as intriguing as old houses. More sometimes. So many relics, unselfconscious, candid. Less penchant for concealing, fewer makeovers, more concurrently present years and lives. Sometimes it’s the old, banged up subjects and objects that look the best. Thank goodness for that! (Source: Horse Stall Haiku)
And what of other barn-like buildings, rural utility buildings designed and constructed after the same manner?
School Bus Stop Ahead (Photo: virtualDavis)
They appeal to me as well. In fact, the agricultural DNA isn’t essential to me at all. I suppose I’m somewhat “barn androgynous”, equally smitten with similarly origined buildings even if they’ve never seen a horse, cow, chicken, pig, or hay bale.
That said, it’s worth acknowledging that the architecture of New England barns, Yankee barns, and even — drifting a little further southeast — tobacco barns are especially appealing to me. And if it’s fair to assume that my affinity is at least partly nostalgia-driven, then it’s probably worth adding another influence the those sited above. Four year of boarding school in Old Deerfield, Massachusetts definitely instilled in me an appreciation for early colonial building, and there were a couple of barns that still loom proud in my memory.
Beyond Boundaries
Although I wish I could gather these strings and call it caput, I must further complicate the boundaries I’ve endeavored to delineate above.
While there’s something alluring about the volume and the efficiency of barns, the unpretentious posture with no attempt to conceal functions or mechanism, scale isn’t essential. The small corn crib above, for example, intoxicates my imagination nearly as much as the grand barn at the top of this post.
Baked into my identity as a barnophile, into this somewhat esoteric aesthetic and philosophical appetite, is a tendency to stretch my definition of barns to include other similar outbuildings.
While Rosslyn didn’t fit squarely into the vision of an old farm or a collection of dilapidated barns that I originally was hunting for, this stately home does have three remarkable outbuildings, all three of which lured me as much as the house. In fact, well before we completed our top-to-bottom rehabilitation of the home, we tackled the icehouse, boathouse, and carriage barn. All of them were on the brink. Actually much of the house was as well. But just as we committed to salvaging the home, returning it to its former grandeur, we likewise undertook laborious, challenging efforts to salve the icehouse, boathouse, and carriage barn. All buildings were dilapidated, but the icehouse and boathouse were both succumbing to the omnipresent challenges of weather and neglect.
I’ve posted plenty in the past about Rosslyn’s boathouse, the lakeside folly that beckoned to us from the beginning. For a whimsical mind like my own, smitten with boating adventures — real and imagined — becoming irreversibly enchanted with our small dock house protruding out into Lake Champlain was pretty much inevitable. Although its mission has always been tied to watery locomotion, it is for all practical purposes a sort of barn. A diminutive lakeside barn purpose-built for boating. A utility outbuilding conceived and specifically confected to serve the Kestrel just over a century and a quarter ago.
And Rosslyn’s icehouse, occupying much of my attention these last few months as we cartwheel through an ambitious rehabilitation and adaptive reuse project, is likewise a barn. We often refer to the carriage barn and icehouse, standing as they do side-by-side, as “the barns”. As a utility building designed to complement the architecture of the carriage barn and home, it was nevertheless first and foremost a utility building constructed to support the residents with year round cooling at a time when refrigeration did not yet exist. It was an ice barn!
And so you see perhaps the elasticity of my identity as a barnophile. A barn might not immediately appear to be a barn. But the rudiments, the purpose, and likely the longevity have profited from the heritage of barn building. And this, my friends strikes me as the right place to wrap up. If this this post was intended as a more intimate look at the romance of bygone barns, those that have endured a looong time and even those no longer viable, then I’ve covered my bases. And too, I’ve revisited my original hope of locating an old barn to convert into a home, a hope that has not altogether faded away.
In fact, Susan and I have been for a few years brainstorming a barn-inspired for the future, our future, that just might begin to emerge in the years ahead. Stay tuned…
Back in 2013, I wrote a series of posts on Rev. George Orlia Webster for the Essex on Lake Champlain community blog. I had become interested in this former Essex resident, pastor of the Federated Church in Essex, and prolific composer of liturgical music because of his hymn, “Essex-on-Champlain.”
Today I’ve collected (with the able assistance of Katie Shepard) and lightly curated my earlier posts into a single feature on George O. Webster’s life and career in the enduring hope that it may encourage a new performance (or even a recording!) of “Essex-on-Champlain.”
Reverend George Orlia Webster (Photo credit: Thomas Palmer)
Reverend George Orlia Webster
If the name Reverend George Orlia Webster sounds familiar to you, it’s likely because you’ve heard (or read) the hymn “Essex-on-Champlain” which he wrote in 1929. Or because you’ve read the commemorative plaque at the Essex Community Church (aka the Federated Church) in Essex, NY.
Son of a Baptist minister, Webster attended school at Saxon’s River Academy. His first pastorate after ordination was in St. Johnsbury, Vermont. Of his over 50 years of service as a minister, over 30 were spent in non-denominational settings, often in combined churches with Methodist, Presbyterian, and Baptist members. In later years, Webster was pastor of the Federated Church at Essex, New York, where there is a plaque in his memory. (Hymnary.org)
Reverend George Orlia Webster
In 2013 I received word from two great grandchildren of Rev. George Orlia Webster (1866-1942), Jane Palmer Baker of South Padre Island, Texas and her brother, Thomas Palmer of Galion, Ohio. In addition to a handsome photo of her great grandfather, Ms. Baker shared the brief biography above and the following details which will prove especially helpful to genealogists.
George Orlia Webster (1866-1942) Born: April 25, 1866, Fort Ann, New York. Died: October 1, 1942, Essex, New York. Buried: Bolton Landing, New York.
(Source: Jane Palmer Baker)
Essex resident Norma Goff responded to Ms. Baker’s Facebook post with a poignant personal connection to Rev. George Orlia Webster.
“I have heard much about your great Grandfather, George Webster. I am quite sure he married my parents here in Essex in 1935, and know he was a beloved pastor in this town. I think he is also responsible for writing many hymns, among them, one about Essex!” (Source: Norma Goff)
Undoubtedly many other past and present Essex residents and visitors remember George Orlia Webster as well, and I invite you to share your memories and stories so that we can share them with the community.
POETIC DESTINY
Turning to Webster’s creative legacy, “Essex-on-Champlain” is likely the most famous of his hymns among Essex, NY residents and seasonal habitues, but it represents a mere fraction of this prolific man’s creative output over the years.
Back in 2013, Thomas Palmer shared a wealth of information on his great grandfather, George O. Webster, including the following.
George was born in 1866 to Joseph B. and Francis Webster, his father being a minister himself as well as a Civil War veteran. When George was young, the family had a visit from a lady known as “Aunt Lucy,” who “read” the bumps on heads (“phrenology”). She proclaimed that young George had a “poetic” bump, and sure enough, he went on to author several hundred published hymns, cantatas, musicals, and other works.” (Source: Thomas Palmer)
Apparently Aunt Lucy was on to something. George O. Webster became a prolific author of hymns. Included at the end of this post is a list of 229 hymns that George O. Webster is known to have composed. “Essex-on-Champlain” does not appear on the list, an indication that there may be other hymns likewise overlooked.
I also have scrapbook of his correspondence with well-known hymn writers he knew and/or collaborated with, such as Charles H. Gabriel (who wrote hymns such as “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” “Will the Circle be Unbroken,” etc.) and many others.
Great Grandpa’s best-known hymn is probably “I Need Jesus,” although there are many more that were well-known in their day. That hymn is almost always played or sung at family funerals and important events – it was played at my own wedding. (Source: Thomas Palmer)
Palmer augmented George O. Webster’s biography and provided a manuscript from a newspaper article written by Billy Burger for “The Adirondacker” column in The Record-Post, Au Sable Forks, NY, on Thursday, October 2, 1941. The following excerpts helps illustrate why George O. Webster was considered “one of the most amazing Adirondack personalities” by Record-Post columnist, Billy Burger.
Essex Community Church (aka Federated Church) c. 1930s/40s
A family story relays that Rev. Joseph Webster baptized George as a young man by carving a hole in an icy river in the middle of winter. George received his education at Saxon’s River Academy in Vermont (which is still in operation and known as Vermont Academy). Shortly after graduation, he was ordained as a minister, and his first pastorate was of a Baptist church in Saint Johnsbury, Vermont.
Rev. Webster spent the remainder of his life as a minister and farmer, and had pastorates in Warrensburg, Utica, and Franfort, New York. His last post was as pastor of the Federated Church in Essex, which I believed he considered the culmination of his career as a minister. I know he lived there for many, many years. He lived there with his last wife, Winifred (my own great grandmother had passed away at the age of 26, just a month after my grandmother was born). His two youngest daughters were there a lot as well, Marilla and Agnes.
I know for certain that he had a deep love for the Adirondacks in general and Essex in particular. (Source: Thomas Palmer)
THE SKY PILOT’S PULPIT
The Record-Post columnist Billy Burger profiled George O. Webster in “Sky Pilot” on October 2, 1941, amplifying the portrait offered by Palmer.
After his mother’s death, which occurred soon after Aunt Lucy’s visit, Mr. Webster went to a charge in Vermont and George ran wild. But not for long. Presently a famous lecturer and humorist, “Bob” Burdette, preached a couple of summers in the North River church. He got a grip on George, and this resulted in George’s conversion… George now turned definitely to the Baptist ministry, in which he has served almost fifty years. Significantly enough, although he says he can never be anything but, a Baptist at heart, thirty of the fifty years have been spent in undenominational work. His Federated church at Essex contains Methodist, Baptist and Presbyterian groups and he is also Methodist minister at Whallonsburg.
Because of ill health of the present Mrs. Webster, he was forced to spend twelve years on a farm near Glens Falls. But the old farm just couldn’t keep George out of the pulpit. Before he realized what he was doing he was conducting, with Mrs. Webster’s help, four services a Sunday. The farm chores sandwiched in between. (Billy Burger, “Sky Pilot,” The Adirondacker. The Record-Post, Au Sable Forks, N. Y., October 2, 1941)
As pastor, farmer and hymn composer, George O. Webster appears to have been a veritable renaissance man.
Essex-on-Champlain, by Rev. George O. Webster
ESSEX-ON-CHAMPLAIN, BY GEORGE O. WEBSTER
I’ve wished time and again that there will one day be an opportunity for an “Essex-on-Champlain” sing-a-long, but so far the hymn’s music exists only in my imagination.
If you have not had the opportunity to sing, hear or even read Rev. George O. Webster’s “Essex-on-Champlain” we’ve transcribed the hymn’s lyrics for you below. Although I was made aware that a recording of the hymn was made at one point (and that some of our readers have even listened to the recording), so far I’ve been unsuccessful at locating a copy of the recording. If you can help out, please let me know.
ESSEX-ON-CHAMPLAIN
There’s a wonderland of beauty,
One that has ten thousand charms,
At Essex, old Essex-on-Champlain;
Its attractions grip and hold you
Like some giant lover’s arms,
Dear Essex, dear Essex-on-Champlain.
Then here’s three cheers for Essex,
The fairest spot on the Champlain shore,
Where the moonlight plays like fountains
O’er the crystal lake and mountains,
Dear, dear old Essex, Essex-on-Champlain.
All who know her sing the praises
Of our village by the lake,
Of Essex, old Essex-on-Champlain;
And, with each returning season,
Here their thirst for beauty slake,
At Essex, dear Essex-on-Champlain.
Then here’s three cheers for Essex,
The fairest spot on the Champlain shore,
Where the moonlight plays like fountains
O’er the crystal lake and mountains,
Dear, dear old Essex, Essex-on-Champlain.
Summer skies or wint’ry weather
Have their charms for those who care
For Essex, old Essex-on-Champlain;
And her friends are now a legion
You can find them everywhere,
Dear Essex, dear Essex-on-Champlain.
Then here’s three cheers for Essex,
The fairest spot on the Champlain shore,
Where the moonlight plays like fountains
O’er the crystal lake and mountains,
Dear, dear old Essex, Essex-on-Champlain.
So we sing a song for Essex,
‘Tis a song from out the heart
For Essex, old Essex-on-Champlain;
Wheresoe’er her name is spoken
Fondest mem’ries always start,
Of Essex, dear Essex-on-Champlain.
Then here’s three cheers for Essex,
The fairest spot on the Champlain shore,
Where the moonlight plays like fountains
O’er the crystal lake and mountains,
Dear, dear old Essex, Essex-on-Champlain.
Ever since I began reading about George O. Webster’s “Essex-on-Champlain” I’ve yearned to hear it performed. I hope that one day in the not too distant future it might be possible to make a recording, sung and performed on the Warren A. Cross memorial pipe organ at the Essex Community Church. And back in 2013 there was even rumor that Rev. Webster’s great grandson, Thomas Palmer, a church organist and pianist with a direct-DNA link to the composer may have worked on an audio recording of “Essex-on-Champlain.” Fingers crossed!
GEORGE O. WEBSTER HYMNS
In addition to “Essex-on-Champlain”, Rev. George O. Webster composed literally hundreds of additional hymns. While “Essex-on-Champlain” may be the most hallowed of George O. Webster hymns for Essex residents and visitors, it by no means represents a unique accomplishment. In fact, it didn’t even appear in this impressive directory of hymns composed by Webster, opening the possibility that Webster may have composed additional hymns that are not properly credited. We’ve taken the liberty of updating the list with “Essex-on-Champlain” and we hope you’ll let us know if we’re missing any others.
America, Beloved
Are You Building on the Rock?
Are You Over Borne by Trials?
Arise, Arise, a Voice Is Sounding
Arise, Arise, for Lo, the Night Is Past
Arise, Arise, for Men
Army with Banners Is Marching Along, An
As We March Along, We Will Sing a Song
Awake, O Ye Blossoms
Away in Yonder Forest
Be Loyal to Your Colors
Blossoms Lift Their Sunny Faces
Boys and Girls Repeat
Breaking Through the Clouds Above Us
Call Rings Through the Land, A
Can a Boy Forget His Mother?
Can I Forget the Debt I Owe?
Captain Calls for Volunteers, The
Changeful May Be My Lot
Clericus Hymn, The
Clovers White and Clovers Red
Come Home, Come Home
Conflict Is Raging of Right Against Wrong, A
Cry to Arms Is Heard, The
Day When Heaven and Earth Unite
Do the Storm Clouds Gather So?
Earth’s Victors with Garlands of Flowers
Essex-on-Champlain
Faith Will Keep the Sunlight Shining
Father, So Holy
Fear Not, but Trust
Fill Each Swiftly Passing Day
For His Dear Sake Who Carried
For the Summer’s Golden Hours
For Your Flag and My Flag
Forward, Forward, Soldiers of the Cross
From the Garden of the Heart
From the Heaven’s Opened Portals
From the Riven Side of Jesus
Gates of Life, The
Gird on Your Armor
Go Forward, Go Forward in Jesus’ Conquering Name
God Leads to Victory
God Will Take Care of Me, Why Should I Fear?
God’s Will I Know Is Best for Me
Going Forth to Serve for Jesus
Golden Hours Are Gliding On, The
Guiding Hand I Clearly See, A
Hail to the Great Creator
Have We Climbed the Mount of Vision?
Have You Heard the Call to Battle?
He Took My Place
Hear the Sweet Voice That Is Calling to Thee
Hear You Not the Savior’s Loving Call?
Holy Father, Thou, Throned on High
How Wonderful, How Marvelous
I Am Happy in My Savior
I Have a Mighty Savior
I Know That My Lord Watches o’er Me
I Need Jesus
I Wandered on Life’s Careless Way
I Will Tell the Wondrous Story of Redeeming Love
I Would Go Where Jesus Sends Me
Idly Standing in the Market
If Christ Should Come to Me
If Jesus Will Make Me a Blessing Today
If the Clouds Are Dark and Dreary
If the Way Leads Down
If the Way Seems Hard with the March
If You Can Smile
If You Cannot Cross the Place
If You Will Just Be Happy
If You Would Walk in the Narrow Way
I’m Redeemed with a Price
In Every Hour of Trial
In My Heart He Set the Music Ringing
In My Heart There Swells a Song
In the Great World Field
Is It Well with My Soul
Jesus Gave Himself for Me
Jesus Is a Friend of Mine
Jesus Loves Us
Jesus Set the Music Ringing
Jesus Took the Little Ones
Jesus, Who Knows and Cares
Just a Ray of Sunshine
Just a Whispered Prayer
Keep in Touch with Jesus
Keep the Joy-Note Ringing
King of the Ages
Let a Song of Praise from Our Hearts Upraise
Let the Children of the King
Let the Glory Crowned Banner of Jesus Today
Let the Nations Hear the News of Full Salvation
Let Us Cheer and Help Each Other
Let Us Now the Heart’s Door
Let Us Run Our Race
Let Us Sing for Joy
Let Your Life Be Set
Life Is a Book
Life Is a Friendly Road
Lift Today Your Heads, Ye Mighty Gates
Lift Up Your Heads, Lift Up Your Heads
Listen to the Strain
Lo the Rosy Gleam of the Morn’s First Beam
Long Years I Had Wandered
Lord Is Calling for Men to Serve Him, The
Lord of Life Is Victor Now, The
Lord, Teach Us to Pray
Love Led Him to Calvary
Love Led the Savior, in Days Long Ago
Love of Christ the Savior, The
Lovingly, Tenderly, Tell the Sweet Story
Make Your Life a Means of Blessing
Manger, a Mother, a Baby So Fair, A
Many, Many Years Ago
Many May Strive
March Forth for the King
Men of Our America, The
Mighty God, the King of Life Immortal, The
Mighty Hosts of Sin and Wrong, The
Morning Breaks, I Face the Way Ahead, The
My Heart Is Aglow with a Love Light Divine
Now, in the Pride of the Strength of Thy Youth
O, Fallen Brother, Heed the Call
O Gift Divine, God’s Boundless Love Revealing
O Holy Spirit, Breathe upon Us Now
O Jesus, Lad of Nazareth
O My Brother, Worn
O Precious Word of Jesus
O Savior Dear, My Heart O’erflows with Gladness
When I originally published the series of posts on Webster, I encouraged readers to augment the list, and we did receive two comments filling in some missing information including the following from George O. Webster’s granddaughter, Mary Hartman.
I am G.O. Webster’s granddaughter – Mary Caroline (Palmer) Hartman. Born in Battle Creek, MI in 1939 to Lawrence and Mabel (Webster) Palmer. I am now widowed and reside in Texas. There is an old song book in my possession – “Spiritual Melodies” published by Pilgrim Publishing House in 1942 that contains four hymns you are missing on your list. These are songs with lyrics and music written by George:
Praise His Name
Jesus is Leading Me On
I Met the Christ
My Guide Will Bring Me Home
(Source: Mary Hartman, June 1, 2015)
Well done, Ms. Hartman!
The following was received from Teri Canty.
I have found a piece, mostly known as a descant (or an obbligato) with Silent Night. The two were blended in an arrangement by Anita Smisek. I believe the original hymn may have been known by the title “O Night of Holy Memory”. The text is attributed to George Webster and the music to Ira Wilson. Here are the lyrics:
Neath the silent stars the town is sleeping.
Shepherds on the hills their watch are keeping
Flocks are safe within the fold, secure from danger, want or cold.
Silent, silent night, Holy, Holy night,
Sleep in peace, sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in peace.
O’er the moonlit plains were angels winging.
From the realms afar glad tidings bringing
See their robes of glistening gold, reflecting a celestial light.
Silent, silent night. Holy, holy night
Christ, the Saviour, Christ, the Saviour is born, Christ is born.
Now the dawn grows near the town is waking.
Magi on the hills their goal approaching.
Their gifts are safe within their arms, their hearts have found the loving light
Glorious, glorious night. Heavenly host sing alleluia
Jesus is born.
I haven’t found a music setting for JUST this text; it is always blended with Silent Night. If you have any luck locating the original setting, I’d love to know about it. (Source: Teri Canty, December 30, 2018)
The wonders of crowdsourcing! Now if we can inspire a performance and recording…
