Over 150 years ago an anonymous author, identified only by the initials J.C.A., penned the tale of John and Isabella, two young lovers who lived near what is now the border between Warren and Watchung, in a village that may then have been known as Mount Bethel. Published in two parts in the Plainfield Gazette on May 31 and June 7, 1848, J. C. A.’s story may have been wholly fanciful or based on local legend – we shall probably never know. What we do know is that the old grave yard about which he or she wrote is the Allen Family Cemetery, the location of which is known only generally.

Herewith, Part Two of the story of John and Isabella:

The day following the burial of the young couple was appointed for the trial of Morse, who had been the cause of so much sorrow.  I need hardly say that the murder of Johnson, followed by the fearful death of Isabella – caused by witnessing the dying agonies of him she loved so devotedly – had created a great excitement in that section.  The fathers of the victims were well known as firm friends of the country; while the young pair, who had been so suddenly cut off in life’s bright morning, were beloved by all who knew them.  Johnson, although as brave as a lion when the occasion required courage, was of a mild and gentle disposition, and was ever ready to do a good act.  Isabella, while naturally fond of retirement and study, was always willing to minister at the bedside of the sick and dying; and the blessing of those who were ready to perish had often been hers.  No hand was more active, or heart more earnest in promoting the happiness of others.  We need not wonder, therefore, that their loss should be deeply felt; and that speedy and stern justice should be demanded against the assassin.  The times would not admit of delay; the country was convulsed with the efforts of those who sought to rivet chains on a people determined to be free; while, on the other hand, nothing was left undone to chastise as they deserved the foes who sought to overthrow the hearthstones and alters of an industrious and happy people.

I have not yet said anything concerning the character of Morse, except that he was a Tory.  He was a young man of dissipated habits and for two or three years had resided near Green-Brook; his professed employments being fishing and hunting – his real ones, gambling and other improper pursuits.  It had been hinted, with every appearance of truth, that he had more than once stopped travelers on the highway and relieved them of the trouble of taking care of their purses.

At the time of the murder, Morse’s character was so bad that he could find few associated except those who were as bad, if that were possible, as himself.  He first became acquainted with Johnson at a barn-raising; and in a conversation at the supper table after the labors of the day, he took occasion to make some remarks on the prospect of trouble between the colonies and the mother country, in which he declared that the colonies were alone to blame, and hoped they might be kept in subjection.  Johnson replied with some spirit, and expressed the opinion that any one who would not stand by his country was unfit to be the companion or associate of those who mean to live free, or die with arms in their hands.  This answer gave offense to Morse, and it was only because he was aware that his opinion was not popular, that he managed to keep his temper tolerably well.  It is very probable, however, that he then consoled himself with the reflection, that on the first convenient opportunity he would be revenged on Johnson.

The trial of Morse took place in a building, which stood close to the burial ground.  This edifice was used as a place of worship, and also as a school house.  The reader must not infer that because I have used the word trial, that it was conducted as murder cases are in our own times.  There was no regular constituted court; and if there had been, so exasperated were the friends of the victims, that it is hardly probably they would have abided the laws delay.  I trust, however, that no one will come to the hasty conclusion that the prisoner did not have fair play.  On the assembling of the people, an old gentleman named Lossing was chosen to conduct the trial.  After alluding to the melancholy scene of the previous day – the burial of the young people - which he did in a becoming manner, he continued, “Our business now is to inquire whether John Johnson came to his death by the act of the prisoner, Anthony Morse, and if so, what shall be his punishment?  In the name of God, I charge you to judge justly, be not warped in your judgment by prejudice; banish all your passions; seek only to ascertain the truth; and let the verdict – whether for or against the prisoner – be one that shall not shame you when the Just One shall summon you to his tribunal.”

It is not my intention to enter into the details of the trial.  The proceedings, through not according to modern form, were conducted with great decorum, and every reasonable chance was given to the prisoner to defend himself, and, if possible, prove his innocence.  He, however, appeared before his judges with reckless disregard of the important issues at stake.  Once only, when a witness alluded to the death of the prisoner’s mother – which it was asserted was caused by a broken heart, in consequence to his dissolute life, did he appear the least concerned; he merely buried his face in his hands for a few moments, and then assumed his former indifference.

The sentence of the court was heard by the prisoner without causing him to exhibit any emotion; he had been of the impression from the moment of his arrest that his life would pay the penalty of his crime.

Ten days had passed away since the trial.  The people had returned to their ordinary avocations, and  - so quickly do we forget the friends and neighbors whose remains we commit to the silent tomb – everything appears to go on as though nothing unusual had occurred.  The parents of the victims, however, had been too deeply shocked to moderate their grief.  They sat with their heads bowed down, while load moans and sobs gave evidence of the fearful sorrow which filled their bosoms.  I once beheld the grief of a mother whose son had been struck down in a moment; and I pray that it may never be my lot again to witness such a heartrending scene.

The day is a lovely one.  The woods are clothed with their richest foliage; the meadows, recently watered with fruitful showers, give evidence that the cattle and sheep which you may see on every cleared spot on this mountain’s side, will be provided for during the storms of the coming winter; the fields of grain wave their golden heads in the morning breeze; the flowers give off their richest fragrance; and the birds warble their hymns of praise to the Creator of all these beautiful objects.

Within ten years there was standing and for aught I know still stands – at the foot of the mountain, about half a mile to the eastward of the old burial ground, a majestic white oak – which, even previous to the revolution, had braved the storms of more than a hundred winters.

On the morning of which I speak there was a large multitude of people assembled in the immediate vicinity of this monarch of the forest.  The occasion is evidently one of great interest, for here are loads of people who have traveled for the last forty-eight hours that they might be present at this hour.

It is astonishing how rapidly certain event will become known.  Is a murder committed, for instance; or does a man, who for years has been known as a good citizen, but finally perhaps is impelled by the sufferings of a starving family to take a sheep from his neighbor’s flock – or, what in the eyes of the world is nearly as bad, apply to the town for aid -  and all the good acts which the man may have performed during a lifetime shall be suddenly forgotten by all who knew him; and the one fault – or misfortune – of his life shall occupy their minds instead.

The multitude have become suddenly excited, and crowd around the foot of the oak.  Some event, which they have evidently been waiting for, and to witness which some of them have journeyed many weary miles, is about to take place.  Here are not only robust men, but gentle maidens, and even young children, all striving to approach a wagon which has stopped under a large limb of the oak which stretches across the road.  A solemn silence pervades the assemblage.  Perhaps, as was customary in those days, some herald of the cross was about to proclaim that the gospel which teaches “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father in heaven.”

A young man in the wagon is supported on his feet by a couple of his companions; a cord, which till now had been concealed in the branches, is slipped over his head; the wagon is driven forward, and Anthony Morse, the murderer – for he it was – is suspended in the air!

The sun continued to shine as brightly as ever, the birds still poured out their richest notes, the cattle quietly grazed on the mountain’s side, all unconscious of the agony that a human being was then suffering.  But here were hundreds of his fellow men quietly gazing on his death throes.  Each one of this vast assemblage – who were not heathen but Christians – were capable of suffering the same pains and partaking of the same pleasures; they were children of the same heavenly Parent; all would finally be summoned to the same judgment seat; and to whom the Judge had alike spoke, “Thou shalt not kill.” And yet, with his injunction fresh in their minds, they were taken away a life, which they had not given, and which – were it ever so desirable to do so – they could not restore! – Among those who had traveled far to witness the dying agonies of a fellow mortal, were men who would have shuddered at the bare idea of shooting a worthless dog, or taking the life of a domestic animal even when required for food; mothers were there, with hearts so tender that they would rebuke a child for disturbing a bird’s nest; and blooming maidens, whose sensibilities would not permit them to look on blood without fainting.  What inconsistent creatures we are!

Almost at the summit of the mountain, about ten yards from the left hand side as you ascend the road leading from the valley, and about half a mile from the dwelling formerly belonging to William D. Stewart, Esq. is – or was the last time I passed the spot six years since – a large stone projecting some five feet above the surface of the ground.  Here the remains of Anthony Morse repose in peace. 

His spirits above who shall describe?  Though he had been guilty of great crimes, who shall say that in the solitude of his cell, or at the foot of the oak, that he did not repent and find pardon?  Let us charitably believe that his pious mother’s prayers were not in vain.

J. C. A.

Our readers as well as ourselves, have doubtless been pleasantly entertained and morally instructed by the agreeable and interested sketches of J. C. A.  The Mountain and Valley adjacent to our Village are interesting, not only for their wild and beautiful scenery, and most splendid prospect from the Mountain’s top, but for the important events associated with their history; the present sketch is not a fancy picture as many of our citizens know, having heard from their fathers perhaps this and similar narratives connected with the times and place to which it refers.  May the author of these sketches long live and kindly favor us with more of a similar character.