I regret that the paper, giving a minute account of the funeral, has been lost. Arrangements were made by the friends, Judge Edmonds, Dr. Gray, and Mr. Partridge, to procure a church in Rochester, and announce through the papers that the funeral would be held on the 8th of May. These parties telegraphed a message to Isaac Post, of that city, to the above effect, who immediately returned the answer, “Bring on your dead. My house is at your service.” We started on the following morning with his remains. Our party consisted of mother, Maggie, Cathy, Lizzie (my daughter), and myself. They engaged the undertaker to go with us to attend to the burying of our dead. We arrived in Rochester at seven o’clock P.M., and found the hearse and carriages at the depot waiting to take us to Mr. Post’s house, where already had assembled a large company of friends who deeply sympathized with us.
The funeral was appointed at ten o’clock A.M. of the 8th. Rev. Chas. Hammond delivered the funeral sermon. The remains were taken to Mount Hope Cemetery; from whence we returned to Isaac Post’s, where we tarried over night. We engaged a travelling coach early the next morning, and started for Newark, thirty miles east of Rochester. We arrived at my brother David’s about three o’clock P.M. The children all met us at the turn of the lane: all were delighted to see us. We took them in the carriage with us; little Georgie, who was about seven years of age, was wonderfully struck with the appearance of our deep mourning, and said, “Grandma, what makes you all dress so black? Did anybody die?” Mother replied, “Yes, dear, your uncle Calvin died.” He replied, “Oh dear, that’s too bad.” After dinner we all went to sister Maria’s, a distance of one mile, taking the children with us. When David and his family went home, little Georgie wanted to stay with us, which he did, and played with little Charlie Smith until bed-time—when they retired and apparently slept well all night. The next morning Georgie felt sick. My brother Stephen harnessed up his horses, and we took him home. They went for the doctor immediately, but he died before twelve o’clock that day. His funeral was on the 12th day of the month. Two Methodist ministers officiated.
It was a singular coincidence that two Universalist and two Methodist ministers selected the same Bible text, the same funeral hymns, and the same tunes, at the services in New York, Rochester, and Newark. In my affliction I had not noticed this until mother spoke of it, and said it was evident that the same guardian influences had controlled on all these three occasions, distinct as they were in time, place, and circumstances. It was probably meant that we should recognize and feel the presence of the unseen friends, who thus signified their sympathy with us in our grief.
Lizzie, Katie, and myself started for New York on the morning of the 13th, leaving mother and Maggie with David and Elizabeth, who had suffered such a sudden bereavement.
I abstain from speaking of the private friendships which grew out of so much opportunity for acquaintance and intercourse with so many out of the best classes of New York society (in the true sense of the word). I am proud as well as happy to have enjoyed such high and precious and ennobling friendships, many of which are not wholly severed even by that death which only makes our friends invisible for a time to our mortal eyes, since a thought, a wish can still bring to me those signal sounds which are as their voices. I will indulge myself here only with a page or two about two semi-angelic women, Alice and Phœbe Cary, who have now risen into the completeness of their angelhood.
Alice and Phœbe Cary were among my truest, best, and dearest friends. I was introduced to them by Mr. Greeley when we first came to New York, and our friendship continued during their life. We passed many pleasant evenings with the sisters and a few select friends.
The last time I saw Phœbe, we met in Arnold’s store, the day before we sailed for Europe. She came and sat down beside me, and laid her hand gently on mine before I saw her. I was delighted to see her, but was startled by her changed appearance. I rallied her a little, and tried to cheer her. She smiled faintly, but not as she was wont to do. Phœbe had made a confidante of me some time before. She called on me late one afternoon, and sent up word to me to come at once, as she could remain but a short time.
It was an unexpected call, at that hour, and I hastened to see her as soon as possible. She said, “I could not rest without seeing you. Sit down. I want to talk with you.” I inquired about Alice’s health, as usual, and she said, “Alice will never be any better. What shall I do when she leaves me? I cannot live without her.”
Her dark expressive eyes spoke more than her words. I tried to console her, but I did not know the nature of the incurable disease that was slowly but surely wearing Alice’s life away. She remained some time, and when leaving me at the door her eyes filled with tears.
Mr. Robert Cary (their father), and his elder daughter, from Cincinnati, always visited us when they were in New York, and they both related many interesting occurrences which they had witnessed in their own family. I will here relate their “Ghost Story,” as they told it to me.