Part 3

Across the brook and farther down the street was the little brown schoolhouse, with its stiff hard benches, and open Franklin stove. Behind was an old apple tree, and a barnyard flanked it on the north side. There was a row of maples under which we played, and built stone houses in the soft sand, making wonderful china closets of bricks and shingles and filling them with bits of bright crockery laboriously gathered from the children's homes and carried to school in our aprons.

Early rising was the rule in our house, for the early breakfast was always preceded by family prayers, from which none might be excused; and after it my father went to his office and the children to school. We were happy children then; our simple sports and homely pleasures had a zest which, it seems to me, children in these days of multiplied means of diversion know little of. The free life of the fields and woods; the fun of driving the cows to and from the mountain pastures, and, in spring, carrying home pails of maple sap, and boiling it into sugar; scouring the mountain-sides and pastures for berries and nuts, picking up apples and potatoes in the fall, by which we gained a little money which was all our own; and, in winter, the joys of coasting down the steep hill and far across the fields below by moonlight. The wonderful snow-forts our brothers built and stormed, and the rides over the snow behind the frisky steers on the ox-sled they made; in-doors the home-made dolls and pleasant games, and in the evenings the delightful stories and songs with which our mother entertained us--all these were enjoyed with a relish so keen as to leave nothing more to be desired.

As was most natural, my parents immediately connected themselves with the church of their choice in their new home. The little band composing the Methodist Episcopal church, which answered to the Wesleyan they had left at home, had at that time no church edifice and were holding Sabbath services in the schoolhouses, mostly at West Weatogue, about a mile from our house. I well remember pleasant Sabbath morning walks down the village street, through the "River Lane," bordered by a tall row of Normandy poplars, over the bridge and by the sheep-fold of Squire Owen Pettibone at the corner, where we were allowed, much to our delight, to stop to look at the young lambs with their soft white coats and bright eyes. I remember, too, the weekly evening prayer-meetings held at our own schoolhouse at "early candle-light," when lamps and chairs were brought in by the neighbors, and the simple service, generally conducted by my father, was often as "the house of God and the gate of heaven" to the earnest worshippers. It sometimes happened in the spring-time, when the swollen river flooded the meadows and made the roads along its banks impassable, that the brook which crossed our street was raised to a small river, and the street could be crossed only by boats. When this occurred on a Sabbath the young men would bring a boat, and to our great delight we were rowed over, and the neighbors gathered at the schoolhouse for a Sabbath service at which my father preached.

His talents as a preacher and religious leader were soon perceived and appreciated by the people, and his services were in much demand. It is said that he preached in the schoolhouse at West Weatogue on the evening after his arrival in Simsbury. In those early days he preached frequently, supplying every alternate Sabbath for many of the weaker churches in the vicinity which could not afford a regular pastor. He preached in this way at North Canton, Granby, Bloomfield, Washington Hill, Newfield, Burlington, and many other places. He would often start off on Saturday afternoon for a drive of ten or fifteen miles, leaving his little family to get to church on Sunday as best they could. In cold weather he would wrap himself in his long cloak brought over from England, and with the faithful white horse, go forth to wrestle with the wintry winds and snows, often not returning till Monday. In 1840 the Methodist Episcopal church edifice was built, on land donated by Squire Ensign, a Congregationalist. My father, J. O. Phelps, Esquire, and Mr. Edward C. Vining were appointed building-committee. Through their earnest efforts, it was finally located at Hopmeadow, in spite of strong opposition from some of the most influential members, who resided at "Cases' Farms," now West Simsbury, and who favored its erection there. It was said of my father by his pastor, Rev. I. Simmons, "He was one of the most efficient workers and liberal givers in the erection of the Simsbury church." A contribution was secured by his efforts from the English firm to aid in building the church. It was a plain white structure with long windows and green blinds. The steeple much resembled that of the present Congregational church, but was smaller. They have been not inaptly compared to two boxes piled on one another. The pleasant-toned bell still hangs in the church tower, and it was music in the ears of the little company of Methodists, when its clear notes rang out over the meadows and hillsides, calling them to worship in a church of their own.

The interior was very simple: the plain pews with high doors; the swinging gallery at the rear with the stiff green curtains on brass rings across the front, which were drawn with all due ceremony when the preliminary sounding of the tuning fork announced the beginning of preparations for singing; the plain white pulpit with its purple velvet cushion and hangings and straight seat cushioned with green baize, its door closed and carefully buttoned after the minister had ascended the narrow stairs; the high altar railing inclosing the communion table at which it was so tiresome for children to kneel;--all these form a vivid picture in my memory. Some years later an improvement(?) was introduced which was thought to be a marvel of art, in the shape of a fresco behind the pulpit. It represented two heavy curtains, supported by pillars on each side, looped back by a large cord with immense dark tassels. This was the wonder of our childish eyes for many years. Two large box stoves stood near the entrance doors, at which I used to stand tremblingly to warm myself after our cold ride in winter, while the stalwart young sexton, whose rough manners concealed a kind heart, raked at the glowing coals with his long poker and thrust in the big sticks which soon sent a glow through our chilled hands and feet. The plain little church has been transformed into a neat modern one with a corner tower,[4] and the worshippers with whom my memory fills those pews all lie quietly sleeping on the hillside in the neighboring cemetery. Only their children remain to remind us of them and the good work they did in those early days, but their memory is green, and the fruit of their labors is enjoyed by their children to-day.

In 1844 my father served as pastor of the Simsbury church, giving his services that the church might free itself from debt, which it did. He conducted during all those years a Bible class of ladies in the Sunday School, by whom he was greatly appreciated and beloved. The Sabbaths of those early days were far from being "days of rest" to my father and mother. They were obliged to rise early to get the family ready for church, leaving home at about half-past nine for the two-mile ride to Hopmeadow. Then the two services with Sunday School between, and the drive home occupied the time till four P. M. Then my mother had to prepare the warm supper, and when all was over it was nearly time for the evening prayers, which were never omitted. Not until the restless children were in bed and soothed to sleep by the sweet hymns she used to sing to us, was there a moment of quiet rest for the dear mother. My father at that time always drove to Hopmeadow for the evening service, and later one or two of the older children were allowed to go with him. In pleasant weather, when my father was absent on his preaching tours, my mother would take such of the children as were old enough, and walk to church on Sabbath mornings, leaving the little ones with her friend Mrs. Whitehead.

One of the chief pleasures of that early time was the receipt of letters from the dear mother and sisters left behind, for letters were indeed like angels' visits then. They were full of tender memories and loving messages for the dear ones over the sea. One of my most cherished mementos is a letter written to my mother by my Grandmother Osler in October, 1839, in which she speaks of her joy in hearing of our safe arrival and settlement in our new home and of how much she missed my mother, and her affectionate longing to see the children who were so dear to her. She says,--

"Kiss the three darling children for me. I cannot express my love for them and you, nor my feelings on account of the great distance between us. I shed many tears in reading your much valued letter over and over again. You are all generally uppermost in my thoughts, and I find you wanting more than I can describe. I am very glad you like the appearance of the country and that you were so kindly received. I hope the winters will be more mild than we expected, and that by the blessing of the Almighty you will all be happy and comfortable. Oh! how I would love to see my beloved little Mary, and my darling little Joseph, who seems inclined to remember me by expecting to find me in his new home, and I should have been much pleased to see my dear, sweet, pretty little Susan take to run off, but suppose the misfortune of pulling the hot tea over into her tender bosom put her back some time. Pretty dear! I used to love them all as if they were my own."

She goes on to speak of her health and prospects, and in closing says,--

"I hope the Lord will give me strength according to my day, and by His divine assistance, may I and all of you be led on by His grace in the way to everlasting life."

Such was the love and blessing which descended to us from our godly ancestors. As nearly as I can learn, my grandmother Osler died in 1842, about three years after our coming to America. I well remember my mother's grief when the sad tidings came, and the black dress she wore for some time afterward. Her sisters Julia and Philippa soon returned to the Cape of Good Hope, where their brother and sisters were, and both were married there, but my Aunt Julia only lived a short time, dying soon after the birth of her first child. The sad news came to my mother just before the birth of my sister Julia, and she was named for this dear sister. My mother always loved dear old England with a right loyal affection. She always spoke of it lovingly as "Home," and cherished a longing desire to revisit it at some future day, but she never allowed any feeling of homesickness to interfere with present duty. Her whole heart was given to her family. It was her highest joy to make home bright and happy for her husband and children, though her heart was large enough to take in the church and the neighborhood and every one to whom she might do a kindness. From year to year she toiled patiently and quietly on, with very little to relieve the monotony of her life. 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 passed 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 assisted 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 assist in every possible way. She was, in this way, a member of our family for many years, passing with us through scenes of joy and sorrow, always identifying her interests with ours and giving the most faithful service and unchanging friendship. 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 superstition, 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 assist 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 assist her, which she gladly did. That evening my father, who was suffering from severe headache, asked my mother to offer prayer at the evening worship, 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 God would make them His own, and would care for them if she was taken away from them. On Saturday 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 God 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 passed 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 gratitude 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 God 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 passed 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 rushing 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.