My Genealogy Hound

HORACE HISCOCK, whose portrait* we present on the opposite page, is a worthy representative of the brainy, forceful men who lead in their departments of industry, whose silent influence for good means so much to the prosperity and moral welfare of the land. In his vocation, that of an agriculturist, he is a recognized leader, whose successful methods are worthy of emulation and study. He is a son of Richard and Cynthia (Harris) Hiscock, and was born in the town of Pompey, Onondaga County, N. Y., January 12, 1828.

The family is descended from a prominent family of Massachusetts. His grandfather, Richard Hiscock, was born near Boston, and served for a short time in the Revolutionary War, being present at the battles of Lexington and Bunker Hill. Subsequently he moved to Vermont, and from there in the pioneer days of the last part of the eighteenth century settled in the town of Pompey, Onondaga County, N. Y., where he died in 1840, aged eighty-one years. He followed agricultural pursuits all his life, and found them quite profitable. He was a quiet sort of man, and much preferred home comforts to anything else in the world. He was a Democrat in politics. He married Sarah Cody, and reared this family of children: Cody, deceased; Joel, deceased; Richard, our subject’s father, deceased; Luther, deceased; Alanson, deceased; Polly (King), deceased; Mrs. Van Camp, deceased; and Mrs. Messenger, deceased.

Richard Hiscock was born in the town of Pompey, being one of the first children born there, his birth occurring in 1798. He spent all the active years of his life in his native town, but died in the town of Preble, this county, in March, 1889, having resided there with his son, Horace, the eight years prior to his death. His whole active career was given over to the pursuits of agriculture. He was reserved in his actions, not a man who liked to talk, but he was a deep thinker and a wise counsellor. In politics, he followed the standard of the Democratic party until the late war, and worked with the Republican party from then on, commencing with Abraham Lincoln, and often served as a delegate at party conventions. He was a consistent and faithful member of the First Presbyterian Church of Pompey, and held the office of trustee for many years. He married Cynthia Harris, daughter of Cyrus Harris, who came from Stephentown, Rensselaer County, to Preble, Cortland County, where he performed inestimable service for his town as an energetic, forceful pioneer. He owned a farm of 250 acres at the time of his death, the same farm which our subject now occupies. He was a stanch whig, and attended county and state conventions, being very active in politics for those days. He married Lucy Spring, and to them was given a family of six children, all of whom are now deceased; their names were: Cynthia, Cyrus, Lucy, Loretta, Naoma, and Philander. Four sons composed the family of which our subject was a member. L. Harris, the eldest, now deceased, adopted the legal profession and practiced first in Tully, and then transferred his practice to Syracuse, where he died. He was very influential in the councils of the Republican party, and served his county as Member of Assembly, and as surrogate. He was senior member of the firm of L. H. & F. Hiscock, a leading law firm of Syracuse, N. Y. The second son was Horace, of whom more hereafter. Charles, the next in order of birth, now lives near Syracuse, where he is engaged in farming, and as superintendent of the salt works. He has been for many years and is now the supervisor of the town of De Witt, Onondaga County, as also he was of Lafayette in the same county. Frank, the youngest son, is a resident of Syracuse, N. Y., where he is a prominent attorney, and member of the law firm of Hiscock & Doheny. He has been more actively engaged in politics than any of his brothers. He filled out a very successful term as district attorney, then was sent from his district to Congress, where he represented his constituents for four terms, after which he was U. S. Senator for six years.

Horace Hiscock lived in the town of Pompey until 1868, when he was forty years of age. He received an excellent educational training in the Pompey Academy, and then followed farming in Pompey. From Pompey he moved to Jamesville, near the former place, and was interested in mercantile business there for six years. He then spent six more years in Pittston, Pa., merchandising, and running a general store for a coal company. In 1880 he located on a farm in Preble, in Cortland County, the farm known as the “old Harris farm,” formerly owned by Cyrus Harris, our subject’s mother’s father, to whom reference has already been made. On this farm Mr. Hiscock has lived, his time being taken up with managing his farming interests. He is a Republican in politics, and is an enthusiastic worker still, despite his years, for the party of his choice. In previous years he was one of the foremost men of his party in this section of the State. He was a hard worker, and could always be found at caucuses and conventions, attending the latter as a delegate. With all this activity, it was done with no hope of reward, and indeed Mr. Hiscock has never held any office of consequence. For many years past he has been a deep student of political and social economy, and is very well informed in that branch of literature, to which he has given the closest attention. He is also a man of general information. His personal characteristics are such as draw friends, for he is quiet and unassuming in manner, pleasant and agreeable in his speech, and impresses one with an idea of hidden power. There are few men in whom greater confidence is placed. Mr. Hiscock married Kate E. Holbrook, daughter of Adolphus Holbrook of Pompey, N. Y.

Our subject has a slight weakness for verse-writing, and has occasionally indulged in a few rhymes on local subjects, which have received compliments from his neighbors. They have been published in the neighboring newspapers of Syracuse and Cortland. The first of the two following poems In Memoriam appeared in the Syracuse Journal, in the spring of 1892. The second, entitled Tioughnioga, was given a place in the semi-weekly edition of the Cortland Standard, June 19, 1896.

IN MEMORIAM.

Pompey Hill Some Fifty Years Ago.

Yes, fifty years or more have passed,
It hardly seems that it could be,
Yet time I know has fled so fast —
How like a dream to you and me!
Then I a little lad did ride
Up to the “Hill” from far below,
That steeple tall I first descried,
‘Twas more than fifty years ago.

I’ve heard Horatio Seymour tell,
And he was there — of course ‘twas so —
How when they met the pews to sell,
In that dear church so long ago,
Instead as now, we’d have a lunch;
They had to make a lively show,
In every aisle a pail of punch,
Much more than fifty years ago

Oh what would now this great communion,
Our Presbyterian brothers, say?
And the Women’s Christian Temperance Union
Indeed would turn in sad dismay.
But whisky wasn’t so bad by odds,
Our pious fathers sure would know
It wouldn’t “kill at forty rods,”
So long as fifty years ago.

The pews in spite were orthodox,
So high, so straight up, and so square;
So very like a dry goods box,
Where all the people sat for prayer.
The seats were made of softest pine,
Nor thoughts of cushions then — oh no;
But everything did seem so fine
So long as fifty years ago.

Against the wall, high in a cage,
The minister o’erlooked his fold;
His voice was loud, for tender age,
Poor child, I thought he meant to scold —
But ere the storm of words might weaken,
The fifthlies, sixthlies soothed me so
I slept as sweetly as the deacon —
‘Twas more than fifty years ago.

The first that now my mind recalls
Were Gridley, Shaw, and Father Rand,
Of those that stood on Zion’s walls,
And ministered unto this band;
And if I think of all that came
What wonder if my tears might flow —
The thought of every face and name,
That crowd of fifty years ago.

The Woodfords, Millers, Conklins came,
The Haydens, Wells’s, Birdseyes, Gott,
The Wheatons, Bakers, Balls I name,
And Porters, Doolets, on the spot.
And Sedgwicks: Henry and Charles B.
And Cuylers, Butlers, you may know,
And Woods, ‘twas William, Daniel P.
And Beards of fifty years ago.

Jeromes, and Marshes, Dr. Stearns,
And Northrups, Chappels, Gilletts, Sloans,
And Butts’s, Hiscocks, Pratts in turn,
And Wescott, Stebbins, Smith and Jones,
And Beeches, Seymours, Sweets and Slosson,
With Bishop. Hines, the list may grow,
And Hendricks, Curtis, Webbs and Dawson,
And more, of fifty years ago.

Through ruts, o’er stones, with many a lurch,
Or rising snow-drifts up the hill,
Those people gathered at the church.
Like Christians born of earnest will.
The boys and singers sat above,
The elder people sat below.
They ate their lunch around the stove
At noon some fifty years ago.

‘Twas cake and cheese, may be an apple,
That strengthened then the inner man —
For with two sermons they must grapple,
In early days such was the plan.
They all did stay through morning hour,
To hear the words of wisdom flow,
In afternoon the same with power;
‘Twas thus some fifty years ago.

In that old time what well earned joys!
How sturdy labor made them sweet —
‘Twas thence that sprang the girls and boys
The problems of this age to meet.
Now thinned our ranks — the fathers, mothers,
No more their places here shall know,
And where are all the sisters, brothers,
Our mates of fifty years ago?

On yonder swelling mountain top,
Where first the early light is born,
And marble slabs and pillars prop
As ‘twere the rosy arch of morn;
And a century those old gray stones
Have looked on all the vale below,
There sleep so many sainted ones, —
Our friends of fifty years ago.

And more are scattered o’er the land
Where water runs or grass may grow,
From eastern tide to western strand;
Perchance to Alaska’s fields of snow,
And oft who went with prayer and benison
Comes back in solemn cortege slow,
From other climes a weary denizen,
To the home of fifty years ago.

And now, with mingled smiles and tears,
We who remain look o’er the past,
While all like waves those rolling years
Their whitening spray have o’er us cast
No other age hath known such change
As this our little life doth show;
Such growth of thought, inventions strange, —
So much since fifty years ago.

TIOUGHNIOGA.

Far up Mt. Toppin’s shingly side,
O’er mossy rocks and brakes and fern,
And ‘neath long branches swaying wide
Back to the vale again I turn;
Adown the dizzy sloping height
And far away beyond the plain,
O’er winding stream and lakelet bright,
Mine eyes retrace my steps again.

‘Tis in the morn of springtime bright
And vale and hill are waving green
And dimmest distance bounds the sight
Till fades in blue the melting scene;
And swimming vision knows no rest
Except against the arching sky,
Or pauses on the mountain crest
To note the misty clouds go by.

‘Tis here from boyhood’s days I’ve viewed
Tioughnioga’s stream and plain,
The rugged path o’er rocks pursued
And climbed the gentler slopes again;
And as the distance far I view,
So back through hazy years I dwell
And fain recall the old and new
Of all the scenes I’ve loved so well.

And what of those who gave the name
To this long trail of vale and wood;
Who searched the glades for fleeing game
Or pausing by their campfires stood;
Who careless roved so wild and free
Amid the mighty monarch shades.
And recked not that those shades might be
But mold’ring shrouds above their heads.

For now they sleep, and forest, wood.
And fleetest limb alike lie low,
And not one brave there comes to brood
Beside Tioughnioga’s flow;
And meadows green and fields of corn
And gem like lakes and winding stream
Are tranquil as the summer morn
While pensively I pause to dream.

I dream of boyhood’s time — nay more,
My thoughts go back beyond the day
Of those I knew to those before.
The fathers that had passed away;
The tales beside ancestral fires
That I have heard come back again,
While in the group the aged sires
Recounted all their toils and pain.

O’er rugged roads amid the wild,
Through summer’s heat or winter’s chill,
Came husband, wife and baby child.
And wandering on o’er vale and hill
Came boy and girl, the oxen, cart,
And weary kine, and bleating sheep,
And jaded horse, new life to start
In cabin home by waters deep.

Then came the crash and rose the smoke
Of forests falling here and there,

And rang the axeman’s sturdy stroke
Till many a field lay brown and bare,
And many a low but cheery cot
Was reared along the opening plain,
And many a stubborn, uncouth plot
Was made to yield its store of grain.

And hamlets grew, and household fires
Gleamed through the shady depths of night,
And circling hearths of brawny sires
And mothers true and wee ones bright
All nestled where the fleeing wood
Fell back to let the sunlight down,
That every cot might rear its brood
Of children, laughing, ruddy, brown.

And winter’s eve, with sifting snow
And howling wolf on mountain far,
And hooting owl and moanings low
Of tempest shrouding moon and star,
Staid not the hardy pioneers
Who gathered oft in hearty glee
And had for night or cold no fears
Where hearts were warm and friendship free.

They gathered in some rough hewn pile
Of logs and clay and sticks and stone,
With festive cheer to greet the while
And make their joys and sorrows known.
Huge, blazing logs from hearthstone wide
Flashed gaily o’er the grateful scene,
O’er lad and lass in youthful pride
And sturdy sire with sober mien.

The thrifty houewife plied with care
Her far-fetched skill of those old days,
And baked the crispy corncake rare
And swung the sparerib in the blaze
E’en faithful dog and purring cat
Were happy in that firelit home,
Where hearty cheer and merry chat
In spite of chilling blast had come.

And when the merry round was done,
The meal and dance and rustic play,
The storm again took back its own
Through dreary woods to fight their way;
The men with shirts of madder red
And women with their flannel frocks then
All jumped aboard the old wood sled
And homeward rode behind the oxen.

And thus, with joys and hardships blent,
They builded well for future years.
And toiled right on with hearts content
And took their meed with hopes and fears.
Their work is done; upon the shore
Beyond the mist-bound river turning,
Say, would they fain look back once more,
Back to this land of their sojourning?

But sunken mounds and mossy stones
Are sole reminders of the past;
A century’s forgotten ones
Lie strown like leaves before the blast,
And o’er the wide, once woody vale,
Behold the bustling towns arise,
And, sped along on iron rail.
The mighty steam horse snorts and flies.

Where once, high in its whizzing flight,
For death the feathered arrow wrought,
There speed on trembling wires all bright,
The lightning-winged shafts of thought.
Thus, fairest landscape that I know,
From Toppin’s rocks do I look down —
Down on Tioughnioga’s flow,
On lake and wood and field and town.

*A portrait was included in the original printed volume.