Part 2 (1/2)

Vacations were a thing unheard of in that day, especially for women, and though my father made frequent journeys to various parts of the country on business, it was not thought of as possible that the mother could leave her post. But her life, so far from being dreary or unsatisfying, was bright with the love and confidence of her husband and the affection of her children. These were her ”joy and crown,” the approval of the Saviour she loved and served was her constant inspiration, and her well-stored mind, and her fondness for good reading furnished pleasant occupation for her leisure hours.

So the years pa.s.sed quietly and peacefully with little change in the life of the family. Two other children came to bless the home, Ann Jane, named for her two grandmothers, born February 23, 1842, and Julia Osler, born June 14, 1845. I must not fail to make mention of one who played quite an important part in the history of our family at this time. This was a young woman named Lucinda Andrus, who came into the family April 1, 1843. She had employment in the factory and a.s.sisted my mother in such ways as she could for her board. She was a woman of excellent Christian character and great kindness of heart, though possessed of strong peculiarities. She was warmly attached to my mother and the children, and very self-sacrificing in her efforts to a.s.sist in every possible way. She was, in this way, a member of our family for many years, pa.s.sing with us through scenes of joy and sorrow, always identifying her interests with ours and giving the most faithful service and unchanging friends.h.i.+p. She was a woman of shrewd good sense and often quite witty, and her quaint remarks and amusing stories and songs enlivened many an evening for the children. She was somewhat credulous, and had great faith in dreams and omens, which we eagerly drank in, somewhat to the discomfort of our mother, who was singularly free from any trace of superst.i.tion, and was the very soul of truth in all her conversation with her children. Lucinda married later in life old Mr.

Thomas Morton, who, as she herself allowed after his death, was not always ”the best of husbands,” though she did think the minister ”might have said a little more about him at his funeral.” Her married life was burdened with hard work and poverty, but her last years were made quite comfortable by the kindness of many friends who respected her and were glad to a.s.sist her. She died in the autumn of 1896. She is remembered by the young people of our family as ”Aunt Lucinda.”

We come now to the time when the clouds gathered heavily over the happy family, and its sweet light went out in darkness. My mother had not been in her usual good health during the summer, and had been at times a little low-spirited. On Monday, July 19, 1848, my father went on a short business trip to Boston, and returning found my mother quite poorly. On Friday she felt decidedly ill and asked Lucinda to remain at home to a.s.sist her, which she gladly did. That evening my father, who was suffering from severe headache, asked my mother to offer prayer at the evening wors.h.i.+p, as she often did, and Lucinda, whose recollection of those scenes was very vivid, describes it as one of the most remarkable prayers she ever heard. The mother's whole soul seemed drawn out in special pleading for her children, that G.o.d would make them His own, and would care for them if she was taken away from them. On Sat.u.r.day she was much worse, and on Sunday her condition was very alarming. The disease having developed as malignant erysipelas, one of the most experienced and skilful physicians from Hartford was called, a good nurse put in charge, and all that human skill could do was done to save the life so precious to us all. But all in vain. It became evident during Monday night that the end was near, and toward morning the family were gathered at her bedside for the last farewell. She called each separately, and commended them to G.o.d with her dying blessing.

Little Julia, only three years old, was in my father's arms, too young to realize the sad parting. My mother asked, ”Where is my little Annie?”

My father lifted her and she laid her hand on Annie's head, but could not speak. My brother Joseph, always impulsive and warm-hearted, burst into tears, and begged forgiveness for any trouble he might have caused her. She spoke words of comfort to him and sank back exhausted. My father asked her, ”Is all well?” She answered, ”All is well. It is well with my soul.” And so in the morning of July 27, 1848, at 6 A. M., gently and peacefully pa.s.sed away one of the purest and sweetest spirits that ever brightened this dark world. Her lifework was finished, and she ”entered into the joy of her Lord.”

No relatives were near enough to comfort and help the family in this time of trial, but neighbors and friends were unwearied in their kindness and sympathy. One instance worthy of mention was that of a young girl named Delia Foley, who was living with the Phelps family and to whom my mother had shown kindness as a stranger. She volunteered her services in preparing the dear form for burial, which was the more remarkable as the disease was of such a nature that there was great fear of contagion. This fact became known to me by accidentally finding Miss Foley, who was now a gray-haired woman, in the family of Hon. Joshua Hale of Newburyport, where she had been an honored and trusted servant for nearly forty years. It was a great pleasure to me to meet her, and to express to her, in such ways as I could, our grat.i.tude for the great kindness rendered to the living and to the dead in the years so long gone by. I gladly record this as an instance of unselfish kindness all too rare in a world like this.

It was in the sultry heat of summer that our great loss occurred, and the oppressive weather seemed to increase the burden of our sorrow. I well remember the desolation which settled down over the home on the evening of that first sorrowful day. To add to the gloom, the storm-clouds gathered darkly. The picture is forever printed in my memory. The father and his little motherless flock were alone in the upper chamber. The rain fell in torrents, the thunder crashed, and every flash of lightning lit up the surrounding country and showed the tall row of poplars in the distant lane, standing stiff and straight against the stormy sky. No wonder that my father gave way to the grief he could no longer control, and the children mingled their tears and sobs with his in unutterable sorrow. The funeral service was held in the Methodist Episcopal church, which was filled with friends who loved and honored my mother in life and sincerely mourned her death. A funeral sermon was preached by her pastor, Rev. M. N. Olmstead, from Acts xxvi, 8,--”Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you that G.o.d should raise the dead?”--in which the sorrowing family were led for comfort to the glorious certainty of the resurrection; and afterwards the sad procession took its way to the cemetery on the hillside. The little children with their black bonnets and frocks were a pathetic picture which appealed to the sympathy of every heart. The last solemn words were said, and we left her there to the peaceful rest of those who sleep in Jesus. The inscription on the stone above her resting-place--”Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord”--was never more fitly applied.

The months pa.s.sed on, and life resumed its usual course, but the painful vacancy was sadly felt in the family. A housekeeper was obtained who did what she could to fill the dreadful void, and our faithful Lucinda remained at her post. But there was no real harmony, and the children began to show the need of a mother's care and love. In this dilemma my father's thoughts were turned, as was natural, towards some one who might fill the important place, and in February, 1849, he married Mrs.

Sarah G. H. Merritt. She was the daughter of one of the old and excellent families of the town, and had been for years a friend of my father and mother, and belonged to the same church. She was married when quite young to Mr. James Merritt, a young man of much promise, and went with him to Spring Hill, Alabama, where they were both engaged in teaching. In little more than a year he died, leaving her a widow before the birth of her first child, which occurred soon after. Her adopted sister had married Mr. Rush Tuller, a merchant in good business at Spring Hill, and with them she found a home and all needed sympathy and help in this time of trial. She was a woman of strong character and most indomitable energy, and rising above her sorrow, she bravely set herself to the task of earning a support for herself and her child. She remained in her position as teacher till her son was old enough to be left, and then coming north she left him in the care of her mother and grandmother, and returned to take up her work. She was a woman of very attractive personality and pleasant manners, vivacious and entertaining in conversation, and though she had not been without opportunities to change her situation, she remained a widow about ten years. Such was the person whom my father brought to us as our new mother, and to make us happy again. There were no relatives to interfere or to make unpleasant comparisons, and we received her with love and confidence, gladly yielding to her the respect and obedience we had been accustomed to give to our own mother, and so the family life flowed on harmoniously. It was no light task she had undertaken, to train a family of five children, and she addressed herself to it with her accustomed energy and courage.

She identified herself fully with the family, and made our interests her own. She endeavored faithfully to improve our manners, to teach us to have confidence in ourselves, and to develop the best that was in us, and in every way to promote the best interests of us all.

She brought with her as members of our family, her son, a boy of nine years, and her mother. It might have been a question whether the new elements would mingle harmoniously with the old, but in this case they certainly did. We were delighted with the idea of a new brother, and he and my brother Joseph, who was near his age, became and always continued real brothers in heart. They were devotedly attached to each other, and were inseparable till my brother's death. Her mother, Mrs. D. G.

Humphrey, was a lady of refinement and intelligence. Though delicate in health and nervously weak, she bore with commendable patience the noise of children, and the rus.h.i.+ng life of such a large family, which was a great contrast to the quietness of her former life. We rejoiced in the acquisition of a grandma, as we had no remembrance of our own. She was an honored member of our family for many years, and as many of her tastes and sentiments were similar to my own, we were much together and enjoyed each other's society.

The schools in our town were very unsatisfactory, and when I reached the age of fifteen it was thought that some better advantages should be given me. Accordingly, I was sent to Wilbraham Academy, one of the oldest and best schools under Methodist auspices in all that region. I was to room with my friend, Miss Mary Weston, of Simsbury, but as she was not quite ready when the term began, I had to begin my experience alone. I was taken by my father and mother in a carriage to Wilbraham, a distance of about thirty miles. I was full of antic.i.p.ation, and all was well as long as they were with me, but I shall never forget the heart-sinking which overwhelmed me when they left me the next day. When I settled down at evening in my little bare room alone, I could not keep the tears from falling as I thought of the pleasant home circle, and heartily wished myself among them. The school buildings were in sharp contrast to the beautiful and nicely adapted appointments of most of the schools and colleges of to-day. They were plain to severity, and some of them showed marks of years of hard usage. The halls and rooms of our dormitory were uncarpeted. Each little room was furnished with a bed with dark chintz spread, a small study table, two wooden chairs, a little box stove for burning wood, and a triangular board fastened in the corner, with a white muslin curtain, for a wash-stand, with a small bookcase above it. These, with a small mirror, completed the furniture, and dreary enough it looked to me on that sad evening. But with the young, though ”weeping may endure for a night, joy cometh in the morning,” and as my room-mate soon came, and I began to be acquainted with the students and interested in my studies, I was very happy. The two years I spent there were among the happiest and most profitable of my life. My sister Susan joined me there the second year, and afterward my brother Joseph. He was also sent later to a school for boys in Norwich, Connecticut, and Susan afterwards attended a private school in Milford, Connecticut. My sisters Annie and Julia were educated in the Hartford schools. Annie also studied music at Music Vale Seminary, Connecticut. Brother James Merritt studied with a private tutor, Mr. T.

G. Gra.s.sie, of Amherst College.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HOME ON CHESTNUT HILL]

It was the wish of my father that Joseph should have a college education, but though he had a very bright mind, and was very literary in his tastes, and himself a good writer, his choice was strongly for a mechanical training. Accordingly, he was placed with the firm of Lincoln Bros. of Hartford to learn the business of a machinist, and afterwards worked with Woodruff & Beach of the same city. He became an expert in the business, and some of the finest work was entrusted to him.

I should mention here the birth of two other children who were most welcome additions to the family circle--George Bickford Davey, named for the business partners, who was born March 18, 1852, and Sarah Jennette, born October 26, 1857.

The year 1857 was one of severe financial crisis. Business of all kinds was almost at a stand-still, and hundreds of workmen were everywhere discharged. The younger men of course were the first to go, and both Joseph and James, being unemployed, resolved to set off for the West and take any chance that offered. After a short experience as farmers' help, they both obtained schools in Illinois. This, however, continued but a short time, as business revived, and Joseph came home and took a position as machinist in the factory. James remained West, and was with his uncle Humphrey's family in Quincy most of the time till he settled later on a farm of his own.

That year was also marked by deep and extensive religious interest, and both brothers became Christians during that year. So all of our family were united in their religious life, as in all other things. In December, 1859, a sad accident cast its dark shadow over us. My father's factory was destroyed by fire. It was about 8 A. M. My father was preparing to go to Hartford, and I was standing by him near a window, when suddenly a sheet of flame shot from beneath the eaves of the factory, lifting the roof, and instantly the wooden building was enveloped in flames. The alarm and excitement were intense. A crowd soon collected, and every effort was made to check the fire and to save those in danger. But the explosion had done its deadly work, and eight of the girls employed were instantly killed, while others were rescued with great difficulty and were badly burned. My brother Joseph, who was at that time employed in the machine department, found himself almost without warning buried beneath a ma.s.s of falling timbers, while flames and smoke poured in all about him. He managed to extricate himself, and made a brave dash for his life. Carrying the window with him, he plunged into the race-way of the water-wheel, and so escaped, though terribly burned. The sad occurrence shrouded the town in gloom. The funeral of the eight unfortunate girls was an event long to be remembered. The company did everything in its power to care for the sufferers, and to help the afflicted families, bearing all expenses and erecting a monument to the dead.

My brother lingered through months of terrible suffering. For some time his life was despaired of, but at last, by the blessing of G.o.d on the efforts of the most skilful physicians, and with good nursing, he slowly recovered. His nervous system, however, had received a shock from which he never fully recovered. As mother was not at all well at that time, most of the day nursing fell to me, while kind friends freely offered their services for the nights. It was a long and trying experience and was followed for me with quite a serious illness, but I always rejoiced in the privilege of ministering to him in this time of greatest need.

In the autumn of 1860 occurred the exciting political campaign which resulted in the election of Abraham Lincoln as President of the United States. I need not describe here the gathering of the clouds nor the bursting of the storm of civil war, whose mutterings had long been heard in the distance. My brother was elected a member of the Connecticut Legislature for 1861, and, though the youngest member, he was very popular and made a fine record as a speaker on the floor of the House.

The war was the absorbing topic of the time. Energetic measures were used to raise troops in response to the call of the President. A committee of the legislature, of which my brother was one, was appointed for this purpose. He threw himself into the cause of his country with all the ardor of his nature. As he labored to induce others to enlist, the conviction grew upon him that he must go himself, or he could not ask others to do so, and when the news of the disaster at Bull Run filled the country with dismay, the question was settled for him. Duty called and he must go. The company of young men he had raised chose him for its Captain, and in November, 1861, leaving his home and promising business prospects, he with his company, Co. H, joined the Twelfth Connecticut regiment, which was soon encamped at Hartford for drill. His health was far from strong, and our family physician declared he should never have consented to his going, but he pa.s.sed the examination and was accepted. He was very popular with his men, and they were ready to do and dare anything with him.

The regiment was encamped at Hartford for the most of the winter, and in the spring was ordered to join Gen. Butler in his expedition against New Orleans. Before the departure, my brother was presented with a beautiful sword and sash by his fellow-townsmen, as a testimonial of their appreciation of his bravery. They left Hartford Feb. 26, 1862. The s.h.i.+p was greatly crowded, and the voyage was made with many discomforts, but on March 8 they reached s.h.i.+p Island, where they were encamped for some weeks. They were not ordered up to New Orleans until just after the taking of the city, much to the disappointment of the young Captain, who was ambitious to see a little of actual warfare. They were stationed at Carrollton just above the city. The situation was low and unhealthy, and my brother, who was greatly weakened by an attack of dysentery while at s.h.i.+p Island, was poorly able to resist the malaria of the region. He felt his danger, and wrote home that if he felt it would be honorable, he should be tempted to resign and come home. But as the young men he had influenced to enlist had not the privilege of resigning, he could not feel that he ought to leave them. He was attacked by typhoid fever soon after the hot weather became intense. He was ill a few days in his tent, but as he grew worse, he was removed to the regimental hospital, a large house near the camp, where he had comfortable quarters and excellent care. Kind comrades stood about his bed, antic.i.p.ating with brotherly kindness his every want. But the most skilful surgeons and faithful nurses were powerless to save him. His system was too much weakened to resist the disease, and after a short illness he pa.s.sed quietly away on the afternoon of Sat.u.r.day, June 21, exchanging the scenes of strife for the land of everlasting peace.

The sad news was flashed over the wires, carrying the deepest sorrow to the home he had so lately left. The family gathered and waited in silent grief for further particulars. A letter from his friend and First Lieutenant, George H. Hanks of Hartford, soon told the sad story. He gave full particulars of his Captain's last hours, and spoke of a conversation they had just before his sickness, in which they mutually promised that in case of the death of either, the survivor should take charge of his effects and inform his friends, and said that he had requested that if he should fall, his body should be sent home to Simsbury. Lieut. Hanks says, ”I promised, and to the extent of my ability I have carried out his request, a.s.sisted by some of his townsmen and personal friends who were at his bedside at the last hour. The body is sent by steamer _McLellan_, in a cask of spirits, carefully fastened in a sitting posture, dressed in full military uniform, and when it was adjusted he looked so natural, one might imagine it was our dear Captain sitting asleep in his chair, with his hands folded across his lap. But alas! it is the long, silent sleep of death. Dear afflicted friends, it is the saddest duty of my life, thus to return to you him who a few months since took leave of you so buoyant and hopeful, and many a tear have I shed while performing it. Possessing but few faults and many virtues, generous to a fault, and honorable to the extreme, he was universally esteemed and beloved by the entire regiment.”

On arriving at New York, the body was transferred to a metallic casket and sent to Simsbury. It was met at Plainville by a delegation of the citizens, who with saddened hearts received him who had recently gone out from them brave and bright and hopeful. The sad home-coming was almost overwhelming to the family. They gathered sorrowfully to mingle their tears for his early death. The body was taken to the Methodist Episcopal church, but the public service was held in the Congregational church, as the other was too small to accommodate the numbers who wished to attend. The large church was filled with a throng of citizens of our own and neighboring towns. Comrades, friends, companions, the Masonic fraternity, all came to mingle their tears and sympathies with the family and relatives, for the brave young life so early sacrificed, and to do honor to him whom they all loved and lamented so sincerely. The funeral discourse was given by the former pastor and dear friend of the family, Rev. Ichabod Simmons of New Haven, from the text, II Timothy iv:3--”A good soldier.” It was a beautiful and appropriate tribute to the departed, with words of hope and comfort for those who mourned him so truly. After the service he was borne tenderly from the Methodist church to his last rest in the hillside cemetery where he had requested to be laid beside his beloved mother. The solemn burial service of the Masonic order closed the services, and so the second great sorrow settled down upon our home.

My brother was a young man of fine natural endowment and a most genial disposition. He was greatly beloved at home, and popular everywhere, especially among the young people, with whom he was always a leader. Mr.

Simmons said of him at his funeral: ”It is a part of my mission to-day to say that a young man of promise has fallen. An earnest and close debater, a great reader of history, with a good memory, and an imagination sparkling with poetry and beauty, he would have stood high among the men of his day. He was a close thinker and reasoner, but never anch.o.r.ed outside the clear, deep waters of the Bible. He was keenly sensitive to the ridiculous, and on occasions could be very sarcastic, yet his tenderness of feeling prevented his wit from wounding the most sensitive. His nature was cast in a merry mould, his wit was original, and in the social circle he was the happy pivot on which the pleasant moments swung. The death of our friend is a general loss to this community. He was a representative spirit among you. As a citizen you had already learned to rank him high in your esteem. His large circle of young friends are especially called to mourn. A bright light has gone out among you.”

The affliction fell with crus.h.i.+ng force upon my father. His heart was almost broken, and it was years before he recovered from the blow.

The events which now came into our family life were of a more cheerful nature. The first break in the home circle was occasioned by my marriage to Rev. John W. Dodge of Newburyport, Ma.s.sachusetts, which occurred November 7, 1860. Mr. Dodge was a graduate of Amherst and Andover, and had at that time accepted a call to be pastor of the Congregational church of Gardiner, Maine. Our acquaintance began by his coming to Simsbury, in November, 1855, to teach a select school. His friend, Mr.