Author: Rose

Moses Fellows

Larry Johnson  to Salisbury Historical Society

Apr 30, 2017

Dear Sir or Madam, 

I am a descendant of Moses and Sarah Fellows. They lie buried in an old cemetery in your town. Moses was a Revolutionary War hero and lived to a ripe old age, as did his wife. In 1886 there was an obelisk erected and dedicated to his memory “in the southwest corner of the cemetery at the South Road village in Salisbury, N.H.” which I had the good fortune of visiting with my daughter in 1978. It took some effort to find it, since the cemetery at that time was closed and had been somewhat overgrown with vegetation. My daughter and I did a happy little dance when we found the monument.

In 1902 another ancestor of mine wrote in considerable detail about Moses Fellows in a detailed genealogy that must have entailed gathering text from historical documents still extant at the time. He wrote it on a typewriter (which must have been a new invention then), and fortunately his account survives. There is fascinating lore to be found there, and you can download it from this URL: https://media.wix.com/ugd/740e62_3f69171b222c4ed99365c95973862119.pdf.

Here is a summary and some excerpts regarding Moses, whose biography reads like a history of the Revolutionary War itself:

At age 19 Moses enlisted in the Continental Army on May 10, 1775 for eight months service in Capt. Isaac Baldwin’s company. He fought in the Battle of Bunker Hill on June 17, 1775 in Col. John Stark’s regiment (known as the Connecticut Regiment), “stationed at the rail fence extending their line down to Mystic River. Their ammunition was very limited, only twelve rounds to each man. Orders were issued all along the lines not to fire until the whites of their eyes and then aim at their waistbands. Thus they waited the approach of the British regulars on the morning of June 17th 1775. During the battle Cap’t Baldwin was mortally wounded and borne from the field by two men from Hillsborough, viz. McNeil and Andrews. A ball fired by the British cut off the end of his power horn. With his last charge of power having no ball he fired his ramrod and killed one of the British.”

Then Moses Fellows served in a campaign into Canada that was led by General Benedict Arnold. In the wilderness the soldiers soon found themselves exhausted and lacking for food. Moses survived by killing a partridge. Others ate their moccasins and a dog. On December 13, 1775, they reached Quebec and engaged the British. Moses was one of 60 men under Capt. Morgan who “went to within twenty rods of the palace gate, and discharged a mortar five times at the city. They (the enemy) fired upon them with double headed shot.” That was the last battle before they retreated.

Smallpox broke out among the troops. “About the middle of Jan. 1776, Gen. Arnold’s men that were not taken prisoner left for Montreal.” At that point Moses’ enlistment was up and he went to Fort Chantely in Canada, where he enlisted a second time. That ended after four weeks. On his way home, there occurred this delightful “yankee trick”: 

“He and his comrade, John Bowen, and others started for home on foot, thru the new country. Yankee tricks cropped out occasionally. One day a man killed a partridge and another killed a crow and they skinned them both and put the partridge’s skin on the crow’s body and sold the false partridge at the first tavern they came to for some rum.”

In April 1777 he enlisted for a third time, for three years, along with 10 others in Salisbury who are named in this document. They fought in the battle of Fort Ticonderoga before retreating from Gen. Burgoyne. Then he was in the Battle of Block House. On Aug. 16, 1777, he fought in the Battle of Bennington. And on it goes, there are more details about a number of battles until Moses winds up in Valley Forge on December 11, 1777. There is a vivid description over a couple of pages about the deprivations suffered by the troops there. 

Then on June 27, 1778, he fought in the Battle of Monmouth. “During the battle he captured a British soldier with a horse, conducted him to the rear, delivered him to the proper authorities, and later succeeded in selling the horse for forty dollars.”

In August 1779 he fought an army of Indians and Tories at Tioga, New York (7 miles from present day Elmira, NY) under Gen. Sullivan, where the enemy was routed. Sullivan’s army then went on a path of destruction trough Indian and Tory settlements. They destroyed Indian villages all along the Genesee River and in the town of Genesee itself. 

Then Sullivan’s army settled in for the winter at Morristown, NJ, “where they suffered much more than they did at Valley Forge.”

Moses Fellows was discharged as an Orderly Sergeant at West Point on April 20, 1780. The equipment he brought home with him from the war is described in detail and was still in the family’s possession in 1902. 

In 1780 he enlisted for a fourth time but was not sent to the front. 

In November 1781 he “appears on the town record among a list of soldiers enlisting for three months service.” He enlisted a total of five times.

“In afterlife when his old comrades visited him to talk over times and to drink of his ‘good cider’ it was ’Sergeant Fellows,’ but his neighbors knew him better as ‘Uncle Mose.’”

On March 29, 1832, he was given a pension by Congress, No. 3670, “to commence Mar. 4th 1831. He drew one hundred dollars annually.”

He is buried “in the southwest corner of the cemetery at the South Road village in Salisbury, N.H.” 

“On the 5th day of July 1886, forty years after his interment, his descendants by contributions erected a granite monument over his remains the inscriptions on which read as follows:  

                          “Moses Fellows

         ” Died Jan 39th 1846. Aged 90 Yrs. 5 months and 21 days. 

          A soldier in the Revolution. He fought at the Battle of Bunker Hill   

          and during the war was Sergt. of a company from this vicinity under Gen.

          Stark, at the Battles of Bennings and Saratoga.” 

This family history also has this account of Moses’s father:

John Fellows, born in Salisbury, N.H., April 27, 1720, died there in 1812. He enlisted in the militia assembled in Kingston, N.H. in September of 1755 as one of “three months men” and was stationed in Salisbury “to protect the inhabitants from the Indians.” He was a signatory in 1776 to the Articles of Association sent out by Congress on March 16, 1768. He had been in the British army at the Battle of Quebec in 1759 when General Wolf defeated the French. In 1777 he enlisted in Capt. Ebenezer Webster’s company of Salisbury, N.H. and fought at the Battle of Bennington on August 16, 1777 in Col. Stickney’s regiment.

I trust this genealogy as prepared by John Little in 1902 will be of interest to your Historical Society.

Salisbury Heights Center Village Schools

The Old Red School House photo dated 1890 likely built 1778, photo courtesy of John Drew Trachy. Records indicates that this schoolhouse was located just off the Old turnpike (rte 4 just north of the Heights) and on West Salisbury road.

Center Village School, Salisbury Heights built 1889, Photo ca 1890 Courtesy of John Drew Trachy. Front row: Eleanor Morrill, Eddie Drew, Alice Kilburn, Dan Webster and Lucy Sawyer. Backrow: Lucy Wiggin, Edna Rand (teacher) George Sanborn, Charlie Morgan, Edith Drew, Lizzie Sanborn and Alice Morgan

Wilder and Bowers Oil Mill

Late 1700’s to 1826

The Wilder and Bowers Flax seed mill was a large oil mill  and  the first mill built on Stirrup Iron Pond brook. It did well for a number of years however the cultivation of flax seed ceased and the mill was swept away by a freshet in 1826.

On this site Henry and Samuel Calef erected a grist mill.

After John Emerson, put up a tannery.

The site also housed the William Holme’s saw mill.

Only stonework ruins remains. Private Property, posted.

Location: Junction of rte 127 and Stirrup Iron road (now Gerrish rd), north side.

Freshet Feb 11 & 12, 1824

“This year occurred the “Great Freshet’ on the 11th and 12th of February. It rained all of two nights and part of the one day and carried away all the snow. The ground was frozen and the water ran into the streams, which rose rapidly, and carried away two stone piers and part of the body of Concord lower bridge, one wooden pier about two thirds of Concord upper bridge, all of Canterbury Bridge at Boscawen Plain, the new Republican bridge between Salisbury and  Sanbornton, Smith’s bridge at New Hampton, four bridges on the Contoocook River in Henniker, three in Warner and four in Weare. Immense quantities of timber which had been prepared and carried to the bank of the Merrimack were swept away by the flood, and it was equally destructive to other parts of the State. Timber at this time was drawn in winter upon the banks of the rivers, and in the spring fastened together in immense “rafts” or “shots’, and when the water was at a certain height or “pitch”,  these rafts-“shots”-were run by skilled men over Eastman’s, or Pemigewasset Great Falls, (at Franklin,) in the  Pemigewasset River , and Sewall’s Falls, in Concord , on the Merrimack. There were few man who had the , skill, strength and courage to run a raft of logs over Eastman’s or Pemigewasset Great Falls, in the river on the eastern boundary of the original town of Salisbury,” – from History of Salisbury by John J. Dearborn  1890

E.F. Delancey, Love Letters, Letter 8

Grass Valley, Nevada Co., Cal

July 15, 1859

My Dear Miss Esther, –

I expected to hear from you by the last Steamer, but was disappointed.  I perhaps should not say “disappointed” for you said in the last letter I received that you would be at leisure after the 1st July, where you should be able to attend more fully to my cravings.  You have perhaps found out ere this the capacity of my stomach for larger doses, and have perhaps concluded that you would make me wait a little.  I confess when I am sick to favoring the homeopathic regimen, infinitesimal doses of medicine – but when I am____why away with homeopathic doses and let me have my fill.  I repeat the cause may be as above why you prefer making me wait one steamer or so, while you in the meantime are taking lessons in “the management of a family” etc.  In this respect you are acting very prudently and I commend you for it.  I have thought too, that probably I might have given some offense in my last letter in reference to the French extract in Shirley.  The suggestion was made in the very best feeling and I should regret if it were not received in the same spirit in which it was given.  But I will not anticipate anything of the kind as I deem it praiseworthy rather than otherwise, in a lady to obtain all the accomplishments in her power.  But as I have said before, I will not anticipate, and therefore, please, when you do write let me have a good long letter.  Never mind what you say or what you post in it you can call me anything and everything you please, and turn me about any way you please, and say anything over and over again any way you please – but only give me a good long dose of it for I’ll read every word you write over and over again.  You perhaps will think I am getting crazy in writing this way – but I ain’t.  I confess I feel fidgety – feel as if I can’t rest satisfied – feel a kind of all overish feel that no steamer ought to be allowed to come to California without a letter from you to me on board.  If I were the Government at this moment, I feel as if I would make just such a law, viz. that no steamer should be allowed to land in California or enter the port from the Atlantic States, or I was going to say from anywhere else, that had not on board a letter directed thus:

To/ Edwin F. Delancey

Grass Valley, Nevada Co, Cal

And signed thus

Your affectionate etc.

E. F. Dimond

I say I feel as if I could make this the Supreme law of the land and for the least violation of which I would declare both vessel and cargo forfeited and sell all the crew and passengers into slavery.  I write perhaps in excited terms, or what you may perhaps think as harsh terms, but just think, I have not had a letter so long that I have been compelled to begin at the beginning and read over every one of your letters for I really believe the fiftieth time; and now just let me tell you what I have made up my mind to do, and you needn’t laugh, for I’ll do it.  I won’t put you in the ‘Nand Look Up Book of Excuses’, no indeed I won’t do anything of the kind, but I’ll just read you letters over so often that I’ll get every word at my tongue’s end, and then when we meet and our first k___ is over, just step out and repeat to your very face every word you have written, yes, every word.  Including dates, signatures and everything, and I’ll do it as sure as your name’s Esther, or as sure as that a namesake of yours was once a Royal Queen.  Now don’t this make you feel dreadful, don’t you feel as you hadn’t ought to, for if you do you feel just as I do, and that is , I’ll be hanged if I can’t tell how.  I feel that something is going to make me feel glad or miserable soon, and what it is I can’t guess – but it makes me fidgety and fussy – and bids fair to make me, what I really think I am getting to be, a devilish fool, for pestering you to read such stuff as this.  But dear Esther, I can’t help it, and you are just as much in fault as I am – you’ve just been as bad as I have and it is no more than right that you should feel just as I do, and I hope you will, for then like me you won’t know or be able to find out what the deuce is the matter, only that you want something you feel must have something, you expect to get something and you don’t know whether you will get it or not. Yet have it you must and have it you will or “feathers will fly.”  But I must not write in this strain any longer, for if I do so, the next thing will be to throw off my hat and shouting “Here’s for Salisbury.”  Rush for San Francisco and aboard of the steamer and let business go to the dogs.

I do not think I can answer your last letter at very great length this time.  I made an attempt at answering it before which you have err this received no doubt.

I see an extract or rather a sentence in it reading thus- “Now don’t you feel flattered to think you have made a proselyte of me so easily.”

My answer to this is: “I don’t feel half as much flattered to think I have made a proselyte of you as I would to think (need original) that I had made a something else of you.”

Thus again:  I must tell of how I went to a wedding xxxxx I wondered as I looked upon them if I ever could stand up and promise to love, honor and obey a man as long as we both should live together, and I come to the conclusion I could!xxxx

The beauty of reading, is to profit by our reading, and the sure evidence of your profiting by our reading is given or developed in subsequent action.  The convicted felon, who had never received any tender rearing – but had been an outcast from his very birth, thus replies to a speech of a judge who was condemning him to death.  Among other things Society had done for him he said was this:

You taught me language,

And the profit out

Is – I know how to curse!

Not so with reading – it opens up new ideas to the mind – gives it something to reflect upon – to improve upon – and if availed of will as surely improve the mind so occupied as surely as that that mind sympathizes with matters.  Let me give an instance:

I wrote a letter once to a lady of my acquaintance.  In answer she wrote something like this, “I had thought of taking your inexplicable letter to the Ministers to have him comment upon it, etc.  In reply I expressed the wish that I had been there instead of the letter, so that she might have taken me to the Ministers instead of the letter and have him comment upon us both, winding up his comments with, “and you Esther promise etc, love, honor, etc, obey etc etc.  The answer to this was “I don’t think I should be willing to go to the Ministers and there promise to love, honor and obey! And again “When I am speaking with my friend I deny the existence of any such thing as true love,”  But this lady friend of mine subsequently perused a work which seemed to open up a new world of thought and among the beauties of that work she notes the following: “She speaks my mind when she says:  “Did not I say I prefer a Master xxxx A man I shall feel it impossible not to love and very possible to fear.”  Sometime after my lady friend attends a wedding and says:  “I wondered xxx If I ever could stand up and promise to love, honor and obey a man xxx and I came to the conclusion that I could.”  Thanks to Shirley and her talented authoress for her splendid work.  Here is an instance developed in subsequent action of the benefit of reading and thinking properly.  It makes me smile, too, when that lady writes me that she will not answer my letter on true love, while all the while giving sensible, tangible answer to it in her actions as just instanced for example.

But I have been reading another work lately which I would take the liberty of asking you to peruse for my sake.  I do this because I think you will like it.  The work in question is entitled:

“Robert Graham”  and is written by W. Caroline Lee Hentz

But you must excuse me for coming to so abrupt a conclusion.  I said to you before that I expected to be able to get clear of my mining claims for some other kind of property and perhaps in this way be enabled to reach home earlier that otherwise.  The gentleman with whom I expect to negotiate has just arrived and I must therefore, though very unwillingly, quit your pleasant society for business. Oh how I wish I had a likeness of you that I could set before me while writing to you but never mind.  I hope the day will come when I hope to have more than one likeness of you.  In the meantime, may all the blessing of earth, air and sky be yours.  While I remain,

Yours,

As Ever,

E. F. Delancey

P.S. Please don’t make the shortness of this an excuse for a short answer.  You know I’d write long, if circumstances permitted.

In haste,

E. F. D.

E.F. Delancey, Love Letters, Letter 7

Grass Valley, June 18, 1859

My dearest Miss –

Just let me say,

that I’ve felt very sad,

at not receiving from yourself,

What always makes me glad.

You ask, perhaps, what that may be,

That from sad thoughts unfetter-

I answer that ’tis nothing less,

Than getting of a letter.

A letter from a lady, too,

A lady whom I prize,

A lady who though never seen,

Is still before my eyes.

This seeming contrariety,

Is yet a fact most true,

For in the mind an image rests,

Esther – an image – you!

How came it there I cannot tell,

No more than I can say –

Why comes the darkest hour of night

Just ere the break of day.

To who it is while lying down

And wrapt in soundest sleep.

We dream of things, that in their turn,

Will make us laugh or weep.

To graves as with a chisel sharp

Upon the solid stone –

A fairer name, that seems e’re since

To be for me alone.

For me Alone – for me alone!

Kind Fate grant this behest,

And let my hank’ring spirit find

So coveted a rest

Only one thing I more would ask –

“Tis that thou woulds’t impart

The solid, lasting, joyful fact

That we are one in heart.

Esther and Edwin, grant kind Fate,

They may be join’d as one –

In heart, in mind, in thoughts,thr’o life,

A heaven on earth begun.

Dear Esther – one thing more to ask –

That is – how soon shall we,

Be partners in all else as well

As in our.

E. F. D

If you can any way spare the time please write me a letter soon.  Without you helping hand I feel lonesome indeed.  Do write once more and oblige.  Your E. F. D

E.F. Delancey, Love Letters, Letter 6

Grass Valley, June 2, 1859

My Dear Miss Esther –

You can very well believe that I felt much disappointed at not receiving a letter from you by the two last steamers from New York.  I know that as at present – situated you cannot command leisure at any moment you please, and therefore would not have you for one moment think that I feel any way displeased towards yourself for I can assure you nothing of that kinds exists yet I do so covet a letter from you that I confess to a disappointment, or rather a feeling of disappointment, when the steamer arrived without the so much coveted boon.  There is one consolation, however, and that is that this state of things cannot last forever – “the streams are tending towards the foot or point of the mountain,” and “ere long must muse and mingle into one,” and without laying myself open to the charge of profanity, I can adopt the words of the old hymn, and add-

“Fly quickly round ye wheels of Time,

And bring the joyful day.”

When a person has the mind forced upon a particular object, anything that intervenes to distract that attention is a subject of vexation, and given birth to a fit of the Blues, as you term it and in this state anything gloomy readily patronizes the mind.  The season has been one of the worst we have had in California for many a year, and as I feel that my time is precious now, the continuation of bad weather puts me back in working my Mining Claims, for I had hoped to have worked them out in time to get home, – or to what I now consider as almost a second home, – that is to Salisbury, New Hampshire, in the season of Sleigh rides.  The state of mind super induced by circumstances, as I said before causes the “gloomy” to fraternize readily with it, and thus you will see that my reading has been of the melancholy cast, and that though there is something of the melancholy in the following extracts from various authors, yet there is likewise something of the beautiful in the poetry, that like oil on troubled water, seems to calm down the tempest of disappointment within:  It has always appeared to me the true reading of poetry is the picturing of the scene as it seemed to pass before the author’s mind – but I need not have suggested this to you, if I may presume to judge, from what I have seen through the medium of pen, ink and paper, of the turn of your mind.

Now let me qu0te a stanza or two in the sweet melancholic strain:  The subject is a young lady fading away with Consumption.  She loved music and requests her friend –

When life’s sad dream is o’er,

Its happiness and woe,

And nature weak and wearied out

Has done with all below

Sit near, and while my breath

Comes feebly, let me hear

Thy voice repeat that plaintive strain,

My dying hour to cheer.

Sing while my fluttering pulse,

Its labor faintly plies:

Sing while my spirit hovers near,

And while to God it flies.

And again the sick room – the patient reclining on a couch the entrance of a stranger – the nurse raising the finger in caution,

Softly!

She is lying

With her lips apart.

Softly!

She is dying

Of a broken heart.

Whisper!

She is going

To her final rest.

Whisper!

Life is growing,

Dim within her breast.

Gently!

She is sleeping,

She has breathed her last.

Gently!

While you’re weeping

She to heaven has passed.

And here are four line of poetry that seem so truthful that, I cannot help transcribing them.  The fair authoress has been walking in one of the large Cemeteries when a particular spot is laid off for the burial of infants, and thinking o’er these “Little Graves”, she says:

There’s many an empty cradle, there’s many a vacant bed,

There’s many a lonely bosom, whose life and joy have fled.

For thick in every graveyard the little hillocks lie,

And every hillock represents an angel in the sky.

But here is a beautiful piece of poetry, so like reality, that the scene is easily pictured as we read—It is the death of “Little Jim”.

(The Place)

The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean,

(It’s Condition)

Yet everything with that Cot was wondrous, neat and clean.

(The Weather)

The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild.

(The Occasion)

A patient mother watch’d  beside the death bed of her child.

(The Object)

A little worn out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim,

It was a Cottier’s (a rural laborer living in a cottage) wife and child, they called him little Jim.

(The Mother’s Condition)

And oh to see the briny tear fall down that mother’s cheek,

As she offer’d up a prayer in thought – she was afraid to speek.

Lest she might waken one she lov’d much better that her life.

(The True Mother)

For she had all a Mother heart; had that poor Cottier’s Wife.

With hands uplifted see, she kneels beside the suffers bed,

And prays that God would spare her boy, and take herself instead.

She got her answer from the boy – soft fell the word from him.

(Last Words of the Fading Away)

Mother, the angels do so smile and beckon little Jim;

I have no pain, dear mother, now, but oh I am so dry,

Just moisten poor Jim’s lips again and Mother don’t you cry.

With gentle, trembling haste, she held a teacup to his lips,

He smiled to thatnk her, as he took three little tiny sips;

“Tell Father when he comes from work, I bid good night to him.

(He’s Gone)

And Mother now I’ll go to sleep!”  Alas poor little Jim,

She saw that he was dying, that the child she lov’d so dear

Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear.

(The Entrance of the Father)

But, see the Cottage door is open, the Cottier’s step is heard,

The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word.

(The Effect Upon Him)

He felt that all was o’er – he knew his child was dead

He took the candle in his hand and walked toward the bed.

(Resignation and Hopeful Request)

His quivering lip gave token of the grief he’d fair conceal;

And see, his wife has join’d him – the stricken couple kneel.

With hearts bow’d down with sadness, they humbly ask of Him,

That they in Heaven once more, may meet their own dear little Jim.

But it’s evening and –

Say what shall be my song tonight,

And the strain at the bidding shall flow

Shall the Music be sportive and light,

Or it’s murmers be mournful and low?

Shall the days that are gone flit before us,

The freshness of children come o’er us,

Shall the past yield it’s smiles and it’s tears,

Or the future it’s hopes and it’s fears.

Echo not answering, I must begin of my own volition, and therefore will have to tell you in want of something better, of what I have been reading.  I have been somewhat interested in reading a tale entitled – “Milicent”  —  something after the manner of “Shirley”, tho’ for behind it in beauty of language and sentiment.  I will give you some of the points, without troubling you to procure and read it all.

Milicent, a young lady had grown up in the companionship of a young gentleman, who like Louis Moore, had striven to correct some of the know defects in her character by association.  He loved her and she loved him, but they had never communicated the fact to each other orally/there are other means of communicating that fact beside the voice.  I believe it do you?  The young gentleman at length asks her to become his wife, but unluckily made his request at a moment when one of the defects of character was in the ascendancy over the mind and she peremptorily (emphatically) refused the offered hand – and the young gentleman in astonishment replies –

“You cannot mean, Milicent, what you say.  Many a woman has sacrificed her happiness to her pride; take care, if for your own sake only, how you add to the number.”  To this Milicent responds –

“Yes, Sir, I do mean what I say.  I shall not sacrifice my happiness.  We would not be happy together; you are hard and cold, and I am passionate and headstrong as you tell me.  I could not live with a man who was always watching to detect and reprove.  I should learn to hate my husband in the character of censor and judge.  Life would be one fierce quarrel ever growing fiercer. No Sir, it is because I would have neither of us miserable that I am determined to end this engagement.”

“But Milicent, are you not bound to me by ties which the caprice of a woman cannot break, – your own confessions and promises – have you not loved me, or has the events and our associations of the past ten years, been but a lie, a lengthened, continuous lie.”

“If, she replies scornfully, “your words were anything to me now, I should resent such language.  Have I loved you?  Well enough to submit to be pupil , culprit, almost slave!  I have learnt to dread your presence in the midst of what I deem innocent amusement.  No husband shall school me; the wife’s position is an equal one and you would degrade it.  No, I will not marry to such bondage.  Oft have I said, If Mr. Forrester acts thus again, it shall be the last time, and the last time has come!”

“Stop” cried Mr. F. for I can bear no more.  I should be bent indeed upon my own misery, if I urged you further.  Strand that we have thus deceived ourselves – that, instead of loving me, such intense hatred is burning in your heart.  What blind dreamers we are.”

“I too have dreamed” replied Milicent. “You are not alone in your disappointment; but is all over. – Good bye, Mr. Forrester.”  Her attitude  as she held out her hand was firm and stately, but her averted eyes gleamed with emotion, and her flushed cheeks were wet with tears.  He held her hand a moment in his passionate grasp, but knew not the secret agony against which her indomitable spirit upheld her and thus they parted, as firmly attached to each other as at any moment of their lives.

Time rolled on.  Milicient was not of age, and the estate which her father then owned had been left to him with a promise, that if he had a son, that son should inherit the estate; if no son, then, should, at the time of his death, his oldest daughter be of the age of 21, she should inherit; but if not so, then the estate belonged to his surviving brother, who was requested to make provision for the daughter.  Milicent’s father fell from his horse and was killed before she arrived of age, and her uncle’s family not being congenial she started in life to earn her living and that of her younger sister by teaching music.  The young sister falls sick, and having to go around to private houses to teach, she is sadly put to it, and after struggling against her hard fate is about ready to give up in despair.  Oh how often did these warning words rise up before her.  “Many a woman has sacrificed her happiness to her pride, be careful, if only for your own sake, how you add to the number.”  Mr. Forrester had been endeavoring to find Milicent ever since he had heard of the change in her fortunes, but had not succeeded.  Since the day they had parted Milicent’s love seemed on the increase, adoring the master – grief of bitter self reproach and vain regrets for a future lost forever.  She would dwell on the recollection of his worth; it lowered her pride to the dust; it exalted it anew to think he had loved her.  Memories of low words scarcely heard, but never forgotten; kisses dearer with each reiteration; golden plans frustrated; life’s happiness sacrificed to the caprice of a moment; possessed and moved her beyond control.  Even his friendship rejected.  “Offer it again Mr. Forrester and I will take it humbly.  Come and teach me what now I ought to do, and I will be led, come to me and I will confess my faults – come – or rather never come, lest I sob out my love at your feet.”

In the meantime a gentleman who had seen her at her uncle’s and had fallen in love with her, finds her out, and in her greatest distress, asks her to become his wife.  Though bowed down with poverty and grief, and this offer presenting a wealthy home, she refuses the offer, but he persists, till at length, she replies to him from the fullness of an overcharged heart.

“Never, Sir, never.” Anything rather than perjury of soul and body.  I can never love you.  Let this suffice; my will is fixed; yes, any misery even to desolation, before I lie against God and my love.  Do you understand me Mr. Nalford/the gentleman’s name/.  I will speak more plainly.  You have often heard Mr. Forrester’s name in my uncle’s family.  I have loved him from a child.  No other man can become my husband. 

Winter had set in once more, and Milicent had arrived one morning, weary and ill, at the house of one of her pupils.  The young lady was not ready and the teacher sat down at the piano to wait.  While thus sitting her eyes fell upon a letter lying on the table/it had been purposely put there at Mr. F’s request, to observe the effect it would have upon Milicent, she was well acquainted with his handwriting.  The moment she saw it, the blood rushed to her pale cheeks, and her pulse beat with a passionate force long since subdued, she had thought, – She held that letter in her hand, her eyes devouring the cover and burning with an almost uncontrollable desire to read the enclosure, when the lady of the house entered the room, Mr. Forrester remaining at the door unseen, but ready to enter.  Milicent dropped the letter, she looked as pale as death; her glittering eyes seemed to throw a strange light over her passive face – every faculty was concentrated with that of hearing. – “Madam,” she said at length with a great effort, “excuse what must seem so strange to you.  I thought I heard the voice and recognized the foot steps of a friend of my fathers.  This is his untying.  Is Mr. Forrester in the house?”  The lady smiled, looked behind her and said in reply – “My dear Miss Milicent, is this your father’s friend?”  She raised her eyes – “Milicent,” – there was a depth, an intense depth of passion and of pity in the accent, oh, he loves her still, and what could withhold her from throwing herself into his yearning outstretched arms, now that the doubt was solved.  “Milicent, my love – my wife!”  What need of saying more.  Mr. Forrester has sought, until now, unsuccessfully for Milicent, unresolved to agree the heart he could not believe was false to him, and had found her purer, nobler, “refined as with fire.”  And adds the author, “if I yielded to my bent one describes at length the happiness of their after lives, it might excite the sneer of the incredulous and throw the doubt of fiction over all.”

I have thus condensed a work of some length into a small space, connecting the thread so as to make it understood.  That, as in “Shirley,” there is also a moral in this, is evident – Shirley and Milicent, but Shirley “the noblest of the twain.”

I have been reading over a third time you last letter, and noticed the  lecture you read me on the vested rights of woman, that you say “it is well that women are tinder hearted” and I quote this to ask you where you got this important piece of intelligence.  That women are ‘tender hearts’ or rather that a majority of them are.  I am willing to admit, and can only hope that in writing as you did, it was but a slip of the pen that put a ??? over, and turned what otherwise might have been taken for an e into and i. But perhaps you intended it so.  The tinder you know will not produce fir of itself – but take a flint and steel and produce with them sparks to fall of the tinder and thought he tinder may not ignite from the first or second spark, yet it will finally, and from that spark a lamp is lit, and by that lamp a fire may be kindled and by that fire a kettle may be boiled, or a conflagration ensures.  You will see by the picture I enclose from Naper’s Comicalities, how the Poger family carried out the tender idea.  I have marked this A.  Then again I have said “there are other ways of communicating a fact”, and I find one in the page I have marked B-C.  Well I once related a dream and you though it curious – others can dream as well as I, and therefore what think you of the extract marked D.  And again in one of my letters I mentioned what a sensation the appearance of a lady created years ago in California.  What think you of this, marked E. which I take from a paper published two days since.  Trinity is in the mountains of California.  And there again I told of the doings of the fair sex and now the piece marked F, I take from the same paper.

No mail steamer having been telegraphed as yet, I am reluctantly compelled to place this in the Post Office without the pleasure of acknowledging the receipt of a letter from you.  I had hoped this would not have been the case, for I long to be delivered from a state of suspence and my deliverance I anxiously look for in the next letter from you.  I must here make an addition to the last letter I wrote in that fact that relates to myself.  I do not think I told you in that letter to what state I belong and I now rectify or supply omission, by saying that I am from the State of New York, my last place of residence being in the City of Brooklyn, though my business was done in the city of New York.  Whether I shall ever reside in New York again must depend upon the choice of another, as for myself I have no great partiality for over large cities, and therefore can make myself at home almost anywhere.

I send this with scarcely any other intention than to remind you that I have not forgotten to write.  If there be anything in it worth reading, please preserve what is fit to be read, and consign the rest to oblivion and in the meantime allow me,

To remain,

Dear Miss Esther,

Yours ever,

E.F. Delancy,

Miss E. F. Dimond

Salisbury   67-14-11A N.H.

E.F. Delancey, Love Letters, Letter 5

Grass Valley, Sept, 30 1858

Estimable Fair Damsel –

I received you kind letter by last steamer, and hope the letter I promised in my last has safely reached its destination, although on that point I have some reason for doubt.  The Coach on which that steamers Mail left this place was robbed before it reached Sacramento.  The Mail Bags were found cut open, and those letters containing drafts taken off, and numerous others were found under a bridge covered with mud and water, so defaced as to be unrecognizable.  Whether all the letters were so served is not known, and therefore if you have mine I shall feel glad, as it was written in a very comfortable state of mind.  Expecting to lose some money, with a forlorn hope of saving it I left Grass Valley – returning with that money in my pocket, caused a pleasurable reaction in feeling, in which state of mind the letter to you was written.  As matter with me exercises a great influence over mind, so when that mind is in a comfortable state, I can write the better to be understood, than when the reverse is the case.

But enough on this subject, it may not prove as bad as it looks, and I therefore leave it for another and congenial operations.

In the first place, then, Fair Lady, I design to take your patience while I endeavor to make a few observations on a text which you will find recorded on the 15th line of the 2nd page of the last Epistle of Esther, to Edwin, and 4th line from the bottom of the page, in these words: –

“I cannot compose or write myself.”

The first observation I shall make is that, “the proof of the pudding is the eating thereof.”  Let me illustrate:

The 1st 2nd and part of the 3rd pages of your letter, are filled with a string of excuses. A tissue of special pleadings – the putting this against that and that against the other and the other against something else, for instance: –

“I was disappointed, but when I came to think how ludicrous my letters must seem, etc., etc.  I did not think strange” etc., etc.

And again: –

“I was constrained to think that had you read it before writing, I should not have the pleasure of hearing from you again.” Etc., etc.

And yet again: –

“I have eagerly looked for the time to come when I should hear from you” etc., tec. “unless you should think it was not worth while, to waste time in answering it and in that case I shall not blame you, although I shall feel very sorry” etc., etc.

And further:

“I like to have a good letter from you if I cannot answer it properly.  Therefore, I hope you will not cease to write me/indeed I won’t/ if I do lack the gift of good letter writing.” Etc., etc.

Now, if the above extracts from your letter do not carry out my idea of putting this against that and that against the other, and the other against something else, then there is no such thing as (need original) idea. While reading the first part, therefore of your letter, the old deacon forced himself into my mind involuntarily, and the thought suggested itself that you were under conviction at the time that the case of the old deacon, with a scarcely perceptible alteration, might be made to come pretty near your fit.  This thought was converted into a fact, when I read on a little:  “I am afraid if I have any more excuses you will tell me a story of some other deacon, etc.”  Don’t believe a word of that, however, for that same old deacon will answer the purpose exactly, and leave me all the other deacons for future occasion, if such should arise.

But, to sum up and conclude my observations on the text I have chosen for consideration, let me say, that if you continue to improve in the excuse line, with the same rapidity in that respect as you have since I have had the pleasure of having communication (mutually edifying I trust) with you the time is not far distant when you can easily hold your own with the most astute reasoned of the day.  I thought I could keep grave, but “it’s no use”, the old lady who was asked what was good for the toothache would force herself on me.  Said she “I know a positive cure – you take some hog’s lard and mustard – no, I think it is mustard, but you take some hog’s lard – and – something else, I disremember now, but I am sure it is one or the other, and it will cure the toothache right off.”

There, almost enough about excuses, but an idea has just popped in, it is this: – You just go on in the excuse line, as you have done, a letter while longer, and if I ever get hard up or “strapped” as we say here, I’ll take your letters and compile from them a work with something like the following titles: –

Hand Book

Of

Excuses

Containing

Over

One Thousand Varieties

Being an

Admirable Assistant

To

Letter Writers

In General

And

Young Ladies

In Particular

Copyright – Secured, Etc., Etc.

So much for that side of the picture – now let us turn to the other side and see how easy a thing it is to demonstrate the utter failure of all special pleading to make out for yourself a good case.  Read, if you please, I copy verbatim: –

“I reckon you will think I write strange – but it seems to me just as though I was writing my thoughts without realizing who I was writing to, or for what purpose, only to gratify a peculiar sensation that somehow I cannot account for.  Never having had any previous acquaintance with you and never hearing of you either, it hardly seems real to me now – it is more like a dream, or some wild fancy that has fastened itself to me someway or other.  I would not like to have the spell broken, however, for I would hold sweet communion with my own thoughts and with one that seems singularly connected with my something else.”  “You can laugh at this if you have a mind to, etc., etc.”

Well I have laughed and will laugh and laugh again and laugh every time I read over your letter – not at the sentiments enunciated in the above extract of your letter – but at the idea of the head that conceived, the head that wrote, and the something else that so gracefully closed the casket on so many clusters of brilliant gems, trying to make me believe that the possessor of that head, hand and something else “cannot compose or write.”  Why I can easily conjecture and define your sensations while giving life to that delightful page: –

By turns you felt your glowing mind,

Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined.

Talk about “cannot compose or write,” why I would as soon believe now, that the Atlantic Telegraph Cable had not been laid between American and England!

I am glad that Dame Gossip has taken up her residence in Salisbury.  If you see the old lady and are on confidential terms with her please, say to her, in my behalf, that if the business she is engaged in, in Salisbury, is at any time slack, and she can stand the journey to California, I will promise as much business as she can possibly attend to here – a good steady job all the year round – may so much business that the fear is, the rapid concentration of that kind of gas, would be more than the tongue could work off and the consequent liability to collapse a flue.

But turning from all else, let me come to the most pleasurable portion of my scrawlings.

In the first letter I had the honor, for so I esteem it, of addressing you, occurred something like the following passage:

“A person taken from home very young, and kept away until arrived to years of maturity, will, when brought again to the place of birth have a sensation come over the mind impossible to account for, x x x a dim, indescribable sensation something akin to the foregoing came over me when I first saw the initial of a letter from under your hand” etc., etc.

Let me now add as extract from your first letter in answer:

“I think the initials of the name that woke such fresh memories in your mind must be the same letters that stood for some dear and departed friend” etc. etc.

And yet another extract from you last letter: –

“it seem just as though I was writing my thoughts without realizing who I was writing to or for what purpose, only to gratify a peculiar sensation, that somehow I cannot account for.

Again I related to you a singular dream I once had, and asked your opinion of this and other matters, which was given as follows:

“You have related to me a dream, etc. and asked me to tell you what I think of it.  Well, a very nervous person will sometimes get the mind wrought up to a height that the imagination makes things almost real” etc.

Now let me place on record from your letter the following:  After mentioning that peculiar sensation before spoken of, you add:

Xxx it hardly seems real to me now – it is more like a dream or some wild fancy that has fastened itself to me someway or other I cannot account for.”

If you had asked my opinion of this passage, might I not have said “Well, a very nervous person will sometimes get the mind wrought up to a height that the imagination makes things appear almost real.” Or as you said in that same letter:  “I am one of those kind that was never troubled with what people term the Blues, never thoughtfully sad; still, I think I can sympathise some with suffering humanity and with your in particular.”  I say, I might have thus answered, but the answer would not have described my feelings.  I could not have selected terms more choice, more appropriate, more indicative of intense feeling that the following:

“It hardly seems real” xxx ”yet I should not like to have the spell broken, for I would hold sweet communion with one that seems so singularly connected with my something else!”

Fair Lady, it is as much, nay more than I can do to stand all this.  My feelings are all in a state of jumble, and the only opiate is to lay down the pen and change the scene, till the tempest somewhat subsides.

Two hours have now elapsed, and I set down again and take up the pen.  The past two hours, I have spent with myself, reasoning upon the assimilation of natures – attractive forces in nature, magnetic influence of sympathies, and to atomic theory of creation, where all was confusion until one atom came in contact with another and cohered and attracted another and yet another and so on till one perfect world was the result.  how shall I express myself, though I, on this subject and could come to no satisfactory conclusion.  I can only therefore, compromise with myself, by making this request.  There is a romance called “Shirley”, one of the emanations from the gifted mind of the authoress, Jane Eyre, would you please get that work to be had at all book stores, read it carefully, studiously, and let me have your candid opinion, upon the hero and heroine of that work.  I have a copy here; if there is any particular passage or passages that strike your attention more than others, please not the page, tec. And I can refer to them.

I thank you sincerely for the wish that I might some day visit Salisbury – though not exactly a direct invitation – I think I can yet make out to twist it into an invitation by implication.  Now let me put in a little story, (for stories you are fond of reading, I know you are for you say so, but I hope you don’t: tell stories,” nay, I know you don’t, I feel you don’t.

When a boy, a companion one day put a ball in my hand to which a wire was attached, informing me that it was a musical electric ball.  He requested me to squeeze it in my hand as by so doing it would emit most beautiful music.  I endeavored to do as he bid me, but had scarcely begun to squeeze, when my hand became as it were paralysed, and remained so with the ball in it, until he let go the wire he had in his hand and squeezing mine with the ball still on it brought my hand in contact with a needle which was adroitly concealed in the ball, and made me, instead of it, emit some beautiful music for awhile.  Ever since I have been on the look out for needles in things and now let me apply the story.  You say –,

“A number of city people visit Salisbury yearly to enjoy its nice fresh air and its romantic prospects, which are certainly very delightful.  I know you would think so should you visit Salisbury and I do hope you will grace with your presence sometime these hills and valleys.”

Now did you wrap up that needle in that ball carefully and cutely, but for all I think I can see the electricity.  Once get the ball in my hand and in my hand it must stay, until the person who has charge of the wire chooses to stick the needle in the hand and make me jump again.  But I am never afraid; I may and must get used to this kind of thing some time or other.

I have wished for more than a year to leave California, but if my wish could have been gratified as soon as conceived, what would have been the consequence – you can imagine that as well as myself.  Yes lately I have earnestly tried to accomplish, but almost like as a lady once said of her husband. “I’ve tried everything with John and it’s all of no use, he’s no good.”  So with me – I’ve tried every way to wind up my business and its no use – (the remainder of the wife’s saying I will not add, however, for a regard myself I don’t believe a word of it.)  A year at least must elapse before I can accomplish my object and although I feel –

It were better to stand the lightning shock,

Than moulder (to cause to crumble)  piecemeal on the rock,

Yet it can’t be helped, I must, for awhile at least enact the part of

Patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief.

I am sorry indeed to hear that your flower seeds did not come to hand.  They were seeds of some of the beautiful wild flowers of California, and whether I can replace them in time for your next season of flowers in doubtful, but I will do my best to do so.

But here is something I had not read understandingly before:

“This letter is not very long, but I think it will compensate for your short note.  I will promise you a longer one next time.”  Now what am I to understand by this:  is it that next time you are going to promise me a longer one; if so I hope you will take that back and give me, not a promise of, but actually a long letter next time.

In trying to make out this letter you will see the relevancy of the excuse that I am about to offer, viz. that like the Dutchman I’ve had my outsides nearly knocked in – and with bad pen and ink, very bad ink, and feeling all over I don’t know how you must do me the kindness to supply all defect and oblige,

Dear Lady,

Yours truly,

E.F. D.

Miss E. F. Dimond

Salisbury, N.H.

E.F. Delancey Love Letters, Letter 4

Grass Valley, July 17th, 1858

Estimable Fair Damsel,

I have to apologize for an absence from Grass Valley which has rendered me no doubt in your eyes, a dilatory correspondent, but as this absence has been on business, I presume I can tender that as a sufficient resolve.  Your kind letter, immediately on my arrival in town, which has been only an half hour since.  I hastened to take from the Post Office, and as the time is so short, the Mail closing in half an hour.  I have not only not time to read it but barely time to write this.  Please, therefore, excuse me under the circumstances till next steamer but write in the meantime that long letter you spoke of not having had time to write some time ago and I will in the meantime continue

To remain,

Respectfully,

Your Obedient Servant,

E. F. Delancey

Miss E. F. Dimond

Salisbury

New Hampshire

With a California Magazine

E.F. Delancey Love Letters, Letter 3

Grass Valley, California April 15, 1858

Estimable Fair Damsel,

Glad indeed was I to receive, from under your own hand, a Note by the last steamer, in answer to that “singular and inexplicable letter” which you “don’t feel competent to answer” – yet whatever may have been your feelings on the subject, clear it is you did answer – and accept my thanks for the kindness.  Nothing is more grateful in this far off land than a letter from a friend, and more especially is it so in this instance, when that friend has never been seen, and “exceeding abundantly” more so when that unseen friend is a lady not a giddy girl as the novels have it – of faultless properties – the varied expression of whose dark blue eyes, from soft persuasive eloquence to bright gladsome animation so charms and captivates – with shining bands of nut brown hair drooping low in graceful clusters shading the very cheek, while thick tresses which in their luxuriance seem almost to defy restraint lie thickly gathered over the beautifully rounded head.  The mouth beautifully cut with ruby lips curling with merry archness when parted by the bewitching smile which displays her white and pearly teeth.  Not in all the particulars did my imagination describe the fair lady whose note I so gratefully received.  I say not in all these particulars, yet I confess there were not many left out, and if imagination had deceived me, please pardon imagination, and set it down to ignorance, while I freely acknowledge in this case that “ignorance is bliss.”

You disclaim the voluptuous age of “sweet sixteen” and pleasing is the announcement.  That “dreaded age” has not made a virago (a woman of extraordinary stature, strength, and courage. A woman who has a robust body and mind of a man) of you – more pleasing still.  “Beauty I make no pretensions to” – This I must take with a small grain of allowance, because to a good disposition and agreeable manner there must be added a beauty which cannot be reasoned away by the possessor.

Fair Lady, you had an idea of carrying that singular letter to the Ministers to have him comment upon it.  Now what prospective if not mysterious opening – “to the Ministers!”  Oh how I wished to have been there instead of that singular letter – you might have taken one to the “Ministers”, and have had him comment upon – not me and the letter – but upon us, tapering off his comment with “and you “Esther F. D. promise Etc. Etc. “obey,” Etc. Etc.  Is this a new idea to you?  If it is I am pleased to know it.

I am positively glad you are never troubled with the “Blues” – never thoughtfully sad, and can sympathise with suffering humanity in general, and with me in particular.  There is no mawkish sensibility about this – plain outspoken truth without metaphor or gilding – an insight into your character with all the graceful singlets, the flashing eyes, pearly teeth, and sylphlike forms in the world.  But on a little further, you speak of your poor weak brain.  Now will you allow me just for a moment to stick a pin in here, for although I find it underscored to render it more emphatic, yet I cannot really think you meant what you wrote, for supposing anybody else should intimate you had a poor, weak brain.  What then?  Do you remember of reading of the Methodist deacon, who at the Class Meeting was in the habit of berating himself very badly.  There was a poor, miserable, ungrateful sinner, had done nothing but evil all his days, and all his deeds were evil and he hoped they would pray for him.  The next Brother that rose to speak commenced thus: – “Brothers and Sisters:  I am glad that the Brother who has just sat down has asked an interest in our prayers for I can vouch for the truth of all he has said respecting himself, for I have known him ever since he was a boy.” He had got just thus far when “the brother who had just sat down” raised his finger in a threatening attitude and said sotto voce (whispered) “I’ll lick you for this when Class is out.”  Now as I said suppose somebody had vouched in public for the weakness of your brain, and I standing by, you cannot make me believe that I should not see the threatening attitude, the lightning flash of the eye and the cloud passing fitfully over the brow portending the storm.

When I was at the Academy, the last branch of English education I studied was Navigation.  This to me was a very interesting branch, for I had the most escalated idea of a sailor’s life, and thought that should be my business.  Great pains did I take to master that science – and yet never did I have more difficulty.  I could not see through it – though mechanically I could work out any problem, yet the whys and wherefores seemed beyond my grasp. One day while intensely studying to accomplish my object, and when just near to give it up – a flash of lightning as it were passed through my brain, and cleared away all obstacles and the mystery was solved in an instant.  So in the case of the ever-to-be-remembered by me initials “E. F. D.” what has exercised so great an influence over my mind – had been the subject of my meditations day and nights suddenly burst from a nut shell as it were.  Just imagine when this amazing discovery was made manifest how surprisingly silly I felt – how completely ridiculous thought I should I appear in your eyes, nothing doubting but you would discover the elucidation (clarification) of the mystery at the first glance.  The receipt of your kind note relieved one a little, for if you had solved the mystery, which I suppose would be none at all, you had not mentioned it, and therefore all my fine spun theories – my dreams – my raking California for impressions, from dilapidated bonnets to crying children, Etc. Etc. Etc. had not gone altogether for nothing.

I have known persons prospecting for gold in California – stop and consult together as to which road it was best to take – one would go this way, another that, till at last a different one was taken from any that had been suggested, and by chance or good luck, they would find the very place they were looking for – “diggings that would pay.”  So with me as to the mysterious emotion excited by the initials – it has led me, no matter what kind of a road, to the very place I was looking for, and I am pleased, abundantly pleased, though crooked has been the road, that I have got there safely – to diggings that will pay – excuse the homely mining phrase.

In response to a remark of yours, I would observe, that I am not in a spot in California devoid of female influence.  But female influence in California is not what I should desire.  The population of California is an intermixture from all parts of the known world, and consequently female influence is awfully mixed up.  Again, women are awfully scarce, not one woman to 50 men throughout the country.  Women consequently feel themselves of more importance here than elsewhere, and a man though he has a wife must mind pretty sharply his P’s and Q’s, or he’ll get the sack – for divorces are easily obtained, though they are not often resorted to, for a woman generally will dismiss one husband and take another without much ceremony.  An instance or two:  A fine young woman as to looks resides with her husband a short distance from where I write this.  She is but twenty years of age and resides with her third husband – all three of them living within the distance of a mile and the marriage ceremony having been performed over each, without a divorce having been obtained or sought for.  I do not mean to say that all women in California are so, but what I would say is, that those who are otherwise, are but the exceptions to a general rule.  California is emphatically the hell of henpecked husbands and the paradise of the depraved women.

You say you think if I had had the pleasure of perusing that note of yours my mind would have been differently made up.  Well, dear Miss, I did not peruse that note, but I have perused another, and yet my mind is not differently made up – it is of the same opinion still, only more so!

As o that dream, the “flat stone”, Etc., it is as you surmised – I am waiting for a better time.  I have tried to purchase the property, but failed, and am waiting till an opportunity occurs to exercise my bump of curiosity, and when that good time arrives, allow me to exclaim with old John Gilpin, “may you be there to see.”  In allusion to that dream, I spoke not of the pecuniary worth of it, but of the curious concentration of circumstances attending it.  I doubt not a moment the treasure is there.  Here again I am pleased as ever this has procured one the flattering encomium (warm or high praise) of a valuable correspondent – a title I cordially accept, though with becoming modesty and the usual allowances in such case made and provided.

Your sketch of Fisherville satisfies me that though of moderate dimensions, a deal of manufacturing is done there, and it seems to me that a friend stated some time since, that the raising of live stock had been gone into pretty exclusively recently in Fisherville.  As I do not see this noticed by you, perhaps I may have been mistaken.  This branch of business is a very valuable adjunct to a manufacturing town, in as much as it tends to keep up the equilibrium and give everybody a chance to be equal in one, if not all aspects, a large outlay of capital not being absolutely necessary to enter into this line of business.

One of my good wishes I notice you do not receive thankfully.  I beg pardon, it was a slip perhaps of the pen, I should have known a host of “Ever Fair Daughters” would be too much of one good thing – and therefore as this was intended.

For nothing else but to be mended, allow me to rewrite, qualify and greatly strengthen that wish, and with renewed and pleasurable emotion, hope that like olive branches around your dwelling may a host of “Ever Fair Sons and Daughters” encircle you; that it may be your pride as it will you delight to so train them that the fruit may, when ripe, be luscious and superior.

But as to Fisherville, excuse me dear Miss if I refuse to take all you have said of it upon the faith of your bare word.  In anything else perhaps it might do, but excuse me in this instance, if I rebel against the constituted authority.  “Seeing is believing” is an old saw, and I think quite applicable here, and one which it strikes me forcibly I shall be constrained to adopt to, get at the exact statistics of Fisherville, its manufacturing establishments, it’s flour mills, it’s churches, it’s society it’s associations; and though I must wait awhile in suspense, yet the good time will come, and then, I shall see for myself, shall make acquaintance in proper persona, shall enjoy refreshing communion, shall – shall, shall – (excuse me), but I have no right to say what ‘next’ I shall do, for there is two to talk about that and it might after all be that my shall might be met with somebody else’s you shan’t.  But nous verrons (we shall see).

“I have a great deal more to write you if I had time.”  Fair Lady do take time.  I have read your kind note over and over again and wait impatiently for more.  I promise to read greedily all you write, so do not stint me in quality for I am so already satisfied with the quality, that before I receive an answer to this, I shall have committed to memory every word of your Note.  You perceive I designate in a Note, in contradistinction to the answer to this, which will be a letter containing not only the thoughts suggested by this, but likewise all you would have written in your last if you had had the time.

I must apologize for one thing – not any remissness on my part, but in the Mail Steamer – your Note not being received by one in time to answer by return steamer.  At the time the steamer should have arrived I was here, but when too late to answer by return steamer and the Mail had not arrived I left on business which detained me till yesterday.  I make this statement so that if any imperfection in language or otherwise meets your practiced eye you may attribute it to haste and not intention.

And now Ever Faithfully Devoted accept for yourself the heartiest wishes for your health, wealth of prosperity, present and prospective of one who

-thinks just now he hears a song.

Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong.

The prophetic burden of this vivid day,

Tells of the brightness of a peaceful day,

Notably the cloudless nor devoid of storm,

But sunny for the most and dear and warm,

Mixing up care with hope and peace and joy

As to his gold the refiner adds alloy

That this alloy, tho only worthless dust

May save the precious metal from all rust.

Before I close permit me to ask if anything in California that I can procure and which you know exists here can minister to your gratification.  If so please barely mention it and it is yours.

A small package of the Flower seeds of California accompanies this in a separate envelope and enclosed you will find a small specimen of what we call Amalgam, that is gold held together in small particles by Quicksilver – To take the silver from the Gold it is only necessary to put it on a piece of iron and hold it over the fire till the silver passes off in vapor and leaves the gold pure.

But, however unwilling, yet I must close, by begging you to believe me.

Your humble obliged servant,

Edwin F. Delancey

To:

Miss E. F. Dimond

Fisherville