A modern history of Windham county, Connecticut : a Windham county treasure book, Volume I, Part 108

Author: Lincoln, Allen B
Publication date: 1920
Publisher: Chicago : S. J. Clarke publ. co.
Number of Pages: 930

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large room, with a broad, flat, native rock for a hearthstone; and this stone with a never-failing spring nearby, had decided the location of the home-spot beloved by generation after generation.

This was for me the first of many calls at the interesting, historical old farm that was the birthplace and last earthly home of Mrs. Alice Walker Glazier of Willington and of her maiden sisters, Leafy (Relief) and Lindy (Celinda or Malinda). The reminiscences of this venerable, intelligent lady made the old days real to all the gathering, but especially so to Mr. Brown whose timely questions or suggestions fanned the spark of memory to a flame.

The three sisters adored Ermina's two small boys, yet Theron was recog- nized as the prodigy. She produced an ancient family Bible, upon one fly leaf of which was legibly written, with a goose-quill pen, the ink being still unfaded : "Theron Brown, three years old." She also had carefully preserved bits of verse and little notes and letters written by the precocious child during these early years. She told of his love for Bible stories, of his learning "all the school study books by heart; how he borrowed and read every book in the neighborhood, and often talked in rhyme and metre unconsciously." That there had been a sister, Ella, of the new sister-in-law, who died at the age of three, and who had also had this spontaneous gift, added another thread to the mythical tapestry and helped the familiar chatty conversation to endure in memory.

The aim of the industrious mother, whose resources consisted largely in an active mind, a loving heart and a will to do, was to educate both her sons, that having been the purpose of their father. The lads went on observing and absorbing all that Nature had to bestow, as they worked on their grandfather's rugged farm, and all that the community life, which centered about the church, had to confer. The family were well and widely known and the presence of the two fatherless boys added interest to the attractive and hospitable home.

Theron particularly drew attention to himself by his versatility. He wrote verses, illustrated by remarkable pen pictures, both verse and drawings so often being caricatures that they got him into trouble, and these particular manifestations of genius were not encouraged.

It was "The Minister's School" at Westford Hill that gave meaning and definite purpose, and the needed incentive to fit for the popular literary institu- tion at Suffield, just over the hills in the beautiful Connecticut Valley. and within easy distance from the home farm. There as a favorite student he made marvelous progress in every way and Yale followed naturally. Theron always maintained that his brother Albert excelled him in scholarship, but his eyes failing, he was obliged to give up study; but for that brother, his wife and family, Theron had greatest love, loyalty and admiration, always deferring to his brother's judment in practical affairs.

, The impress of those early years in the environment of my neighbor Wind- ham found expression later in his remarkable novel "Under the Mulberry Trees." Here he graphically chronicles incidents of the vanished years, the actors being the people who made up the society of the country-side, Willington, Westford and Ashford. The time was during the years of the silkworm experi- ment, when the mulberry was raised on every farm, and every housewife added to her inevitable domestic routine the raising of silkworms, and the conserva- tion of the raw silk, that by some was followed in all its interesting details until home-made sewing silk became a salable commodity. His devoted grandmother

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was one of those notable house mothers; and the interesting tale is not only a record of peoples with whom he had familiarly mingled, but of the many who figured in the traditions of his forbears. For those who have heard many of the incidents that enliven the story from the lips of the imitative author, told as only he could tell a story when in the mood, the book holds charm as its trueness to life holds value. This gift of recalling the past by imitating voice, manner and individualities, in repeating amusing incidents, made him popu- lar in the reunions at Yale. Year by year he made Ashford and Wellington a call in going from Boston to New Haven, and all that was worth while lost nothing in the telling.

Driving him to the station on one of these occasions I said, "Do not forget anything, especially any of Mr. Depew's pleasantries." The next morning came this telegram: "Read poem through Chauncey's glasses; look for mine in phaeton." Shortly after at Williamstown, Mass., one who had been present said, "It was pleasant to meet you at New Haven." "How was that ?" "Inci- dentally, Theron paid you one of his pleasing tributes on finding his eyeglasses missing, standing manuscript in hand when he said composedly, 'I used them last on my way to the station in Willington. My sister-in-law-in-love-and-in- letters will find them in her phaeton'-Did you?" "Yes, and was so sorry that I did not notice his dropping them." "There was nothing to regret, it but added another 'Brownie' to the occasion; you know Theron is never at a loss for a bright thought to bridge over any situation." Mr. Brown had great resiliency which was a prime factor in helping him to unusual success under favorable conditions.

Ill health and loss of voice power compelled him to leave the ministry in the way of holding a pastorship, and to devote himself entirely to literary work. Just as he was well established as contributor to many leading journals, and in departmental work on the Youth's Companion, the death by drowning on one August vacation day in Ashford of his promising thirteen-year-old son, plunged him into a state of grief and despondency from which he did not rally suffi- ciently to write a line for publication for over a year. With his overwhelming sorrow grave doubts of ever being able to write again obtruded. During this time the sympathy of his college classmates and that of Mr. Daniel S. Ford of the Youth's Companion kept alive in his heart the assurance that if to him life seemed no longer worth while, it meant further service to others and to the world.

This battling with a soul-crushing sorrow was sometimes referred to in an attempt to comfort some one he held dear in affliction, and as a proof that "Love Divine all love compelling" had then come to his aid, and in the years and the trials that followed never failed him. Later his mother, to whom he was devoted, his faithful diary-letter being one unfailing solace of her shut-in years, passed on, and he missed her sympathetic appreciation of his attempts as well as of his successes.

A cheerful episode was the marriage of his idolized only daughter, Helen Preston Brown, to Walter Beckwith Allen, and this gave to him a son-in-law who for the remainder of his life was like a son in devotion and in companion- ship. Never were grandchildren more welcome than the two, Walter and Dor- othy, that followed this union; but their earthly sojourn was brief, and the beautiful young mother soon faded away like a cherished flower. By her own choice she was here at our Maple Corner home on Willington Hill, where she Vol. I-56

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loved to be and where she had passed every summer of her sweet young life. Beautiful in person and in character, her life after the shock of her brother's death, when her own life hung in the balance -; her endeavor to be all in all to her parents; her power of endurance and repression in striving to alleviate their anxiety and sorrow, and that of her husband, was unparalleled. The death of his brother and of Mr. Ford of the Youth's Companion were deeply deplored, and the passing of his wife closed the series of those held most dear ; but he went on and on with his daily life, and his writing became a solace as unfailing in serenity as the golden sunshine of an autumn day.

At the death of his wife, her niece, Gladys Gertrude Preston, a graduate of Simmons, and an ordained deaconness, now Mrs. Percy Maxim, came like an adopted daughter and made it possible for the life of this home-loving student and scholar to flow on without a break in the familiar routine; the quiet of his study being an absolute mental requirement of his work. It was always under- stood by us all that when the spirit moved, he slipped quietly away and as quietly returned. In the writing of "Under the Mulberry Trees," the accumu- lated folk-lore of his wife made the writing to both a delight.

After an attack of grippe that impaired his health, in the late summer of 1913, his devoted son-in-law, Walter B. Allen, brought him in his easy touring car for his usual August vacation trip to Stafford, Willington, Westford and Ashford. At his request this sister-in-law, the only one remaining here of the old intimate family circle, joined the party at Maple Corner. "You are the pilot," he said, with an effort at his old cheerfulness, and hardly spoke again ; but his eloquent eyes missed nothing of the old familiar scenery, of rugged landscape and smiling skies. There were only two who recognized the old land- marks; the Walker homestead in ruins, but the ancient immense butternut tree still reaching out its only remaining limb from which a few yellow leaves for- lornly clung; past the home-spot of his childhood, depleted of buildings, of trees and almost of vegetation, save a huge bunch of house-leek, the live-forever of our grandmother's medicinal herbs.

Taking the road leading to Ashford town, the heavy machine climbed the steep hill, past the Chism home, where the many garden trees, loaded with golden and blush-cheek pears, elicited an exclamation of admiration; onward to Westford Hill, where just north of the church he asked for a moment's pause for the enjoyment of one of the most beautiful and extended views in Wind- ham County; then on again, until the broad, level, grassy village street was reached. He spoke of the Peck home, of which I also had a pleasant memory ; past the site of the old church, the white-pointed spire of which was for many years a suggestive unlift to the spirit, as the eye scanned the horizon from afar, to our destined point, the Dr. Simmons colonial house; the birthplace of his sister-in-law, Mrs. Sarah Simmons Brown, to which she had returned after the death of her husband, John Albert, and the sale of the beautiful farm at Mount Hope.

Here Mrs. Brown and her charming daughter, Miss Anna, made us welcome. It was a short visit to treasure in memory, as have been all my visits at the ideally-delightful home of this family, here and at the farm. There was much pleasant reminiscent talk, and as we left, our hostess, "Sister Sarah," a tall, dignified, beautiful lady of the old school, and Brother Theron, stood beneath the overshadowing trees upon the broad step of native stone in front of the

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fine old colonial doorway and hall, for the words of parting. It was most impressive, like the last line of a life poem.

On February 14th of the following winter, when the news came over the telephone that both had passed away at the same hour during the extreme cold of the previous tempestuous night, she at her home in Ashford and he at his own in Newtonville, Mass., we said, "They must have met on the golden stair."

As pastor and preacher, Mr. Brown won great favor, but as writer and editor he came into touch with many people, and thus is best known. From writing miscellaneous articles for the "Youth's Companion," Mr. Brown came to be exchange editor and for several years edited the two pages of clippings that were such a favorite department of the paper. In the summer of 1878, he and Mrs. Brown visited us in Northfield where he was much interested in obtaining information regarding Timothy Swan, who came to Northfield when he was sixteen; learned the hatter's trade of his brother, and practiced "mak- ing psalm-tunes," "China" being his masterpiece. He attended meetings where Mr. Moody was the speaker, being particularly engaged and impressed as the evangelist was to hold a series of meetings in Boston during the winter. On his return he wrote an article for Companion entitled "Mr. Moody and his Meth- ods" that so pleased Mr. Ford that he entirely changed his work on the paper giving him the control of the "moral and religious" page.

This leading unsigned article Mr. Ford always declared to be the most diffi- cult to write of any in the always-interesting paper, and he found Mr. Brown's discriminating, conscientious work not only a delight but a comfort, that article often striking the keynote for the whole issue. Contributions poured in for that feature leader despite the extreme difficulty of its requirements. The first demand was that the incident be true. Neither charm of matter of literary merit availed if its veracity could not be substantiated. To write that article was a supreme satisfaction to me, but no favor was shown; and when a manu- script was returned, it was accompanied by so graceful a note of rejection that it was almost as great a pleasure to receive as the check on acceptance. All returned manuscripts passing through Mr. Brown's hands were accompanied by a spontaneous expression of regret, often with a flavor of appreciation and a note of encouragement in his characteristic handwriting and were signed "T. B."

Having had a wide and prolonged experience with editors that has left nothing lingering in memory of which to complain, and with many little epi- sodes treasured as links in friendship's chain, this mention is simply to place my friend and brother as a worthy member of this exacting profession of opin- ion, which reaches the creator and the recipient reading publie with a power that no other profession shares. With Mr. Brown it drew from the best forces of life and helped him to keep up and keep place in the ranks of his peers, and has left a pleasant and lasting impression in the hearts of many whom he never met face to face.

So scholarly, versatile and genial a man as Theron Brown could not fail to be companionable, especially to. the young, and all the nephews and nieces loved and deferred to him; but the favorite, as he was to all the family, was Clarence Spellman Preston, whose mother gave her life for him in May, 1876. His grandmother and aunts, Helen and Annie, mothered him and the uncles would seemingly have spoiled him; but he remained unspoiled, lovable and loving, at home in all the households, but at the Brown's, like a son of the house.

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As soon as he left school he was taken into his business by Mr. Allen, who loved him like a brother, and until the breaking out of the war with Spain he was with Mr. and Mrs. Brown. His regiment, the Massachusetts Sixth, was one of the first called upon. His health became broken in Porto Rico, after having participated in all the engagements, and after a few years of battling with the insidious tropical miasma, he passed on, a year after the death of Mr. Brown, to whom his bright young life had been a joy, and to whom he owed more in the formation of his character than he was himself aware. It is impossible to look back over these years without the golden sunshine of Clarence's personality illuminating every family gathering, however casual-a charm not effaced, if invisible.

OBWEBETUCK

(At South Windham, overlooking Windham Cemetery)

"Obwebetuck, once more with grateful feet, I tread at eventide thy mossy height, Forget the city's crowd, the noisy street, And feast upon the landscape with delight.

Afar encircling hills shut in the view, Within, green fields and woods refresh the eye,

While just below Shetucket's line of blue, Reflects the glory of the parent sky.

I see the village, nestling as of old, Beneath the shade of sycamores and elms, Its roofs and spires suffused with sunset gold. The past comes back and memory overwhelms.

A little nearer lies the grassy slope, Where sleep the early lost, but still endeared. No marble mockery of faith and hope, No broken shaft above their dust is reared.

But simple tablets cut from native stone, Record the names of venerated sires, And show the narrow path by which alone Our souls can satisfy their deep desires.

There dwell the living whom I fondly love, Here rest the weary whom I long to see, And in the kindling heaven that bends above, Our blest abode, our Paradise shall be.

Dear Windham, if my wayward heart forget My mother's birthplace and her kindred's home, With none to miss me, none to feel regret,

May I be doomed through earth's wide waste to roam."

-Author Unknown.

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LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON

[From "The National Encyclopedia of American Biography."]

Louise Chandler Moulton was born in Pomfret, Conn., in April, 1835. Miss Chandler was a descendant of the Rev. Aaron Cleveland. She was educated in Pomfret, at the school of the Rev. Dr. Roswell Park, with a final year at Mrs. Willard's Female Seminary, Troy, N. Y. She published her first book, "This, That and the Other," a collection of sketches and poems, when only eighteen years of age, and nearly 20,000 were sold. Then came "Juno Clifford," a novel, which was published anonymously by the Appletons. In 1855 she married William U. Moulton of Boston, the editor of a weekly paper. The following year she began writing for Harper's Magazine. In 1859 the Harpers published a collection of her stories, entitled "My Third Book." She also contributed to The Galaxy, Atlantic, Scribners, etc. She became the Boston literary corre- spondent of the New York Tribune in 1870, and continued in that capacity until she went abroad in 1876. In 1873 she published her first juvenile book, "Bed- Time Stories." It was such a great success that her publishers asked her to call a similar volume, published the following year, "More Bed-Time Stories." "New Bed-Time Stories" appeared in 1880, "Firelight Stories" in 1883, and "Stories Told at Twilight" in 1890. Other works are "Some Women's Hearts," published in 1874; "Poems," in 1878, which were published also in England under the title of "Swallow Flights," and which were published also in America under that title in 1892, with ten poems added to the collection. The volume of "Poems" was followed in 1881 by "Random Rambles," consisting of sketches of foreign travel. In 1887 "Ourselves and Our Neighbors" was published, and in 1889 "Miss Eyre From Boston, and Others." In that year a second volume of poems was published, entitled "In the Garden of Dreams," and which appeared at the same time in London. Mrs. Moulton considered her poems her most important work, and was pronounced by various critics, both English and Amer- ican, one of the best sonneteers of that period. From 1887-1892 Mrs. Moulton wrote a weekly letter on literature for the Boston Sunday Herald. In 1887 she edited "Garden Secrets," written by Phillip Bourke Marston, in 1891, "A Last Harvest," also his writings, and in 1892 a "Collected Edition" of his poems.

LEFT BEHIND By Louise Chandler Moulton

[ Harpers, August, 1881]

Wilt thou forget me in that other sphere- Thou who hast shared my life so long as this- And straight grown dizzy with that greater bliss, Fronting heaven's splendor strong and full and clear, No longer hold the old embraces dear

When some sweet seraph crowns thee with her kiss?

Nay, surely from that rapture thou wouldst miss Some slight, small thing that thou hast cared for here. I do not dream that from those ultimate heights Thou wilt come back to seek me where I bide, But if I follow, patient of thy slights,

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And if I stand there, waiting by thy side, Surely thy heart with some old thrill will stir, And turn thy face toward me, even from her.

BEFORE THE SHRINE By Louise Chandler Moulton [Harpers, April, 1880]

I built a shrine, and set my idol there, And morn and noon and night my knees I bent, And cried aloud until my strength was spent, Beseeching his cold pity with my prayer. Sometimes at dawning, when the day was fair, A ray of light to his stern visage sent The semblance of a smile. "Does he relent," I cried, "this strong god, Love, whose high-priest is Despair?"

But noon came on, and in its full, clear light I saw his lips, as ruthless as of old; And his eyes mocked me like relentless fate, Till I was fain to hide me from his sight; But one swept off from him his mantle's fold,

And lo, my idol was not Love, but Hate.

THE OLDEST FRIEND By Louise Chandler Moulton [Harpers, May, 1883]

Oh, Life, my Life, 'tis many a year since we Took hands together, and came through the morn, When thou and Day and I were newly born- And fair the future looked, and glad and free, A year as long as whole Eternity,

And full of roses with no stinging thorn,

And full of joys that could not be outworn ; And time was measureless for thee and me.

Long have we fared together, thou and I: Thou hast grown dearer, as old friends must grow :

Small wonder if I dread to say good-by When our long pact is over, and I go To enter strange, new worlds beyond the sky With Death, thy rival, to whom none saith "No."

THE LATE SPRING By Ellen Louise Chandler Moulton

She stood alone amidst the April fields- Brown sodden fields, all desolate and bare. "The spring is late," she said, "the faithless spring, That should have come to make the meadows fair.

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"Their sweet South left too soon, among the trees The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro; For them no green boughs wait-their memories Of last year's April had deceived them so."

She watched the homeless birds, the slow, sad spring, The barren fields, and shivering, naked trees. "Thus God has dealt with me, his child," she said, I wait my spring-time, and am cold like these.

"To them will come the fulness of their time; Their spring, though late, will make the meadows fair; Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed ? I am his own-doth not my Father care ?"

TROTH-PLIGHT

By Ellen Louise Chandler Moulton

(For the Golden Wedding of a Husband Thirty-seven Years Blind.)

I brought her home, my bonny bride, Just fifty years ago; Her eyes were bright, Her step was light, Her voice was sweet and low.

In April was our wedding-day- The maiden month, you know, Of tears and smiles, And willful wiles, And flowers that spring from snow.

My love cast down her dear, dark eyes, As if she fain would hide From my fond sight

Her own delight, Half shy, yet happy bride.

But blushes told the tale, instead, As plain as words could speak, In dainty red, That overspread My darling's dainty cheek.

For twice six years and more I watched Her fairer grow each day; My babes were blest Upon her breast, And she was pure as they.

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And then an angel touched my eyes, And turned my day to night, That fading charms Or time's alarms Might never vex my sight.

Thus sitting in the dark I see My darling as of yore- With blushing face And winsome grace, Unchanged, forevermore.

For fifty years of young and fair ! To her I pledge my vow Whose spring-time grace And April face Have lasted until now.

LIKE A CHILD

By Louise Chandler Moulton

[From Harpers Magazine, April, 1875]

Playing there in the sun, Chasing the butterflies, Catching his golden toy, Holding it fast till it dies ;

Singing to match the birds, Calling the robins at will, Glancing here and there, Never a moment still-

Like a child.

Going to school at last, Learning to read and write, Puzzled over his slate, Busy from morn till night, Striving to win a prize, Careless when it is won,

Finding his joy in the strife, Not in the thing that's done.

Busy in eager trade, Buying and selling again, Chasing a golden prize, Glad of a transient gain ; Always beginning anew, Never the long task o'er, Just as it used to be- The butterfly before.

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Seeking a woman's heart, Winning it for his own, Then, too busy for love, Letting it turn to stone. Sure of his plighted troth, What more had a wife to ask ? Is he not doing for her Each day his daily task?

A child, to pine and complain ! A child, to grow so pale! For want of some foolish words Shall a woman's faith fail ? Words! he said them once- What need of anything more ? Does one who has entered a room Go back and wait at the door ?

Baby Mary and Kate Never can climb his knee ; Motherly arms are open- "Father is busy, you see." Too busy to stop to hear A babble of broken talk, To mend the jumping-jack, Or make the new doll walk.

So busy that when Death comes He pleads for a little delay, If not to finish his work, At least a word to say- A word to wife and child, A sentence to tell the truth, That he loves them now, at the last, With the passionate heart of youth.

The kisses of Death are cold, And they turn his lips to stone ; Out of the warm, bright world The man goes all alone. Do angels wait for him there Over the soundless sea ? He goes, as he came, a helpless wight, To a new world's mystery- Like a child.

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A modern history of Windham county, Connecticut : a Windham county treasure book, Volume I, Part 108

Author: Lincoln, Allen B Publication date: 1920 Publisher: Chicago : S. J. Clarke publ. co. Number of Pages: 930

Author: Lincoln, Allen B
Publication date: 1920
Publisher: Chicago : S. J. Clarke publ. co.
Number of Pages: 930