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.