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From the introductory.
PEAPACK.
It was once a favorite amusement of journalistic humorists to provide moderate merriment for the masses by disporting with the names of places, but the time has almost gone by when the mention of Oshkosh, Kalamazoo, Ypsilanti, and Red Dog is regarded as passably funny. The Australian settlements, the English rural villages, and the lakes of Maine, about which Orpheus C. Kerr wrote a long and fairly tedious poem, are no longer provocative of even limited mirth. There still remains, however, a lingering element of the comic in "Peapack," a name at once concise, alliterative and pastoral. I have known grave physicians, solemn brokers, and even learned lawyers — one of the most eminent living members of that profession was born there — to indulge in bursts of glee over it, while others, with less sense of the ridiculous, have expressed serious doubts whether it ever existed, whether it was not a kind of geographical Mrs. Harris ; and others still have sought to merge its simple personality in the more sonorous but essentially commonplace appellation of "Gladstone." Peapack is not and never can be Gladstone any more than Tarrytown can be Scarborough, or Whippany, Morristown. It preserves its individuality although it lies but a short railway journey from Hoboken; triumphantly American, notwithstanding that it is comprehended within the county of Somerset and that township of Bedminster which took its name from a hamlet in Somersetshire, and it is not at all envious of Pluckemin, Roxiticus, Piscataway, or Parsippany.
There is no place within my knowledge more seductive to the weary struggler who comes upon it after a life of contention in that high-cliffed valley of torture appropriately denominated "Wall Street," or to the despondent patriot who has dimmed the purity of his soul and impaired the vigor of his intellect in wrestling with the problems of tariff reform, the income tax, the anti-trust laws, direct primaries, the initiative, referendum and recall, and how to be virtuous and happy though rich. "It is one of the quietest places in the whole world," as Irving wrote of his beloved Sleepy Hollow; and "if ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley" or those green, attractive hills. Even the invasion of a few gentle and unobtrusive men of wealth has not impaired its beauty, and the snorts and smoke of the motor-car seldom disturb its profound repose. When, from time to time, the hoarse whistle of a Lackawanna locomotive startles the inoffensive rabbit or puts to flight a casual flock of melancholy crows, the sound dies away quickly and is lost in the hollows of the wood-clad heights or mingles with the hum of the bees or the chant of the locusts.
I cannot learn that even one heroic deed was ever performed within its boundaries, although there may have been many of them which history has omitted to chronicle. I am not aware that any mute, inglorious Milton or any Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood rests under the sod of its ancient cemetery. When Baskingridge was convulsed with the excitement attending the capture of the vainglorious Charles Lee at Mrs. White's tavern on that frosty December morning in 1776; while Pluckemin was thrilling with wonder at the grand fete and ball given in honor of the French Alliance — "a most genteel entertainment," according to the patriotic and ponderous Knox, — attended by "above seventy ladies, all of the first ton in the State," and while the ragged army of Washington was marching patiently back and forth through the classic precincts of Vealtown, on its way to or from Morristown, Peapack preserved its restful calm, its placid coolness, its unruffled equanimity. None of these things moved Peapack.
PEAPACK.
It was once a favorite amusement of journalistic humorists to provide moderate merriment for the masses by disporting with the names of places, but the time has almost gone by when the mention of Oshkosh, Kalamazoo, Ypsilanti, and Red Dog is regarded as passably funny. The Australian settlements, the English rural villages, and the lakes of Maine, about which Orpheus C. Kerr wrote a long and fairly tedious poem, are no longer provocative of even limited mirth. There still remains, however, a lingering element of the comic in "Peapack," a name at once concise, alliterative and pastoral. I have known grave physicians, solemn brokers, and even learned lawyers — one of the most eminent living members of that profession was born there — to indulge in bursts of glee over it, while others, with less sense of the ridiculous, have expressed serious doubts whether it ever existed, whether it was not a kind of geographical Mrs. Harris ; and others still have sought to merge its simple personality in the more sonorous but essentially commonplace appellation of "Gladstone." Peapack is not and never can be Gladstone any more than Tarrytown can be Scarborough, or Whippany, Morristown. It preserves its individuality although it lies but a short railway journey from Hoboken; triumphantly American, notwithstanding that it is comprehended within the county of Somerset and that township of Bedminster which took its name from a hamlet in Somersetshire, and it is not at all envious of Pluckemin, Roxiticus, Piscataway, or Parsippany.
There is no place within my knowledge more seductive to the weary struggler who comes upon it after a life of contention in that high-cliffed valley of torture appropriately denominated "Wall Street," or to the despondent patriot who has dimmed the purity of his soul and impaired the vigor of his intellect in wrestling with the problems of tariff reform, the income tax, the anti-trust laws, direct primaries, the initiative, referendum and recall, and how to be virtuous and happy though rich. "It is one of the quietest places in the whole world," as Irving wrote of his beloved Sleepy Hollow; and "if ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley" or those green, attractive hills. Even the invasion of a few gentle and unobtrusive men of wealth has not impaired its beauty, and the snorts and smoke of the motor-car seldom disturb its profound repose. When, from time to time, the hoarse whistle of a Lackawanna locomotive startles the inoffensive rabbit or puts to flight a casual flock of melancholy crows, the sound dies away quickly and is lost in the hollows of the wood-clad heights or mingles with the hum of the bees or the chant of the locusts.
I cannot learn that even one heroic deed was ever performed within its boundaries, although there may have been many of them which history has omitted to chronicle. I am not aware that any mute, inglorious Milton or any Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood rests under the sod of its ancient cemetery. When Baskingridge was convulsed with the excitement attending the capture of the vainglorious Charles Lee at Mrs. White's tavern on that frosty December morning in 1776; while Pluckemin was thrilling with wonder at the grand fete and ball given in honor of the French Alliance — "a most genteel entertainment," according to the patriotic and ponderous Knox, — attended by "above seventy ladies, all of the first ton in the State," and while the ragged army of Washington was marching patiently back and forth through the classic precincts of Vealtown, on its way to or from Morristown, Peapack preserved its restful calm, its placid coolness, its unruffled equanimity. None of these things moved Peapack.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781663527899 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Barnes & Noble Press |
| Publication date: | 07/06/2020 |
| Pages: | 186 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.43(d) |
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