I have sketched our experiences thus far at Rochester, Albany, Troy, New York, Buffalo, and Ohio generally; after which I returned to Albany and Troy, a second time, by the earnest entreaty of friends—taking Glens Falls on the way, where I remained with my uncle John and Calvin; my mother and the girls being at that time in Cincinnati for the second time.
A fortnight after this I returned to my pleasant home in Rochester (corner of Troup and Sophia Streets). I now considered that we were fairly entitled to repose; and thought that, after the publicity given to the Spirit manifestations, through the press, and the thousands of our visitors, including persons from all parts of the Union, the duty imposed on us had been reasonably and, as I deemed, sufficiently discharged.
But it soon became evident that isolation had now become impossible. Invitations and appeals of the most urgent character rained upon me from important individuals, and from collective bodies of prominent men in the respective cities and towns.
The Spirits, who had sent us forth, had well understood that, after our hands had thus been “put to the plough,” it would be beyond our possibility to “look back.” Many friends to the new cause urged their advice that we should establish ourselves in one of the great centres of population and movement, where the thousands and tens of thousands of our locomotive people could conveniently come and hear for themselves. New York was naturally indicated for this purpose, but Cleveland and Cincinnati disputed her claim; while our friends in Rochester insisted that their city was the most appropriate and natural home and centre for the “Rochester Knockings.”
At last our Ohio friends, and indeed all others, concurred in the selection of New York, as a duty and for the good of humanity; while still hoping for occasional excursions for the benefit of other places.
At Rochester, by way of keeping up a continued hold upon us, they offered to provide for the payment of the rent of my house, in the hope that I would eventually return to it. But this I could not accept.
Shall I ever forget that day of our departure from Rochester? Our friends crowded the depot, and the parting embraces and hand-grasps continued even after the train had started in its first slow movements. No small number of our friends made their adieux in tears and blessings: while, for my part, I remember that I did nothing but cry all the way to Syracuse. This was in the early days of January, 1852.
After a few days of stay with friends and relations—(for we were an old Knickerbocker family, and it was in my early childhood that grandfather had transplanted us to Wayne County, which was to us then almost the far West, with its deserted wigwams and wandering Indian hunters)—we settled for a short time in a house temporarily taken, till the one found for me by a good friend, Mr. Sweet, should be ready. I established myself in West 26th Street, in a large and handsome brown stone front, in a neighborhood then of first-rate excellence, in which I resided for two years. From that house I removed to 15th Street, next door to Irving Place; from which, after a residence of a year, I removed, by advice of my friends, to No. 1 Ludlow Place, which I left only to go to my husband’s home in West 37th Street, on my marriage, in 1858, which epoch was also the close of my career of public mediumship. Twenty-six years have now elapsed from that most blessed of days to this. Our home has been indeed a happy one. Though I have lost children, it has never been that which Victor Hugo had not the heart to wish for his worst enemy, a house without a child. Indeed, it has usually been full of them. I am still “mother,” and my husband “father,” to a well-beloved little crowd who are the same to us as our very own, and by whom I am indiscriminately called “Aunt Leah” and “Ma.” And what with relatives, and friends on visits, and nephews and nieces of whose education we have taken charge, for the better advantages of New York, it has been one pretty full of visible inmates, as well as those who are not the less real because invisible. And these latter are ever ready to respond, with the dear familiar raps and alphabet, to our desire to communicate with them; to say nothing of occasional manifestations in other ways, of their presence with us. An earnest thought or request rarely fails to bring our unseen ones.
During two years from the date of my marriage with Calvin R. Brown (see page [230]), he had been slowly declining. He breathed the last breath of his blameless life on the 4th of May, 1853, while I was still residing in 26th Street. He had attained the age of nearly twenty-nine years. Professor S. B. Brittan preached the funeral sermon in New York on the 6th day of May, at 8 o’clock P.M. A large concourse of personal friends and friends of the cause of Spiritualism attended. After Professor Brittan had concluded his discourse, Judge Edmonds delivered a short eulogy which purported to come from the Spirit world. Dr. Gray came in rather late, as he had been detained by professional duties, and begged the indulgence of the audience, as he felt it alike a pleasure and a duty he owed to the departed, to pay a small tribute to his memory, and of condolence to the bereft family. He then said, “I have been his attendant physician, and conversed with him daily during his slow decline. He suffered much at times, but never complained. He always met me with a smile. He had no fear of death, still he wanted to live. He was firm, truthful, and honorable in every sense. He was a husband, a son, and a brother—and a linch-pin in the cause of Spiritualism. Honor to whom honor is due.”
During the delivery of the speeches, rappings were heard all over the room, in response.