A memorial of the life, character, and death of Rev. Benjamin F. Hosford ...

Preface

It is perhaps due to all concerned to say, that the single object of the writer has been, to present to Mr. Hosford's own intimate friends a picture of the man, the Christian, and the minister, just as they knew him, especially in his more retired walks. And, while he is well aware that a cold and severe taste might find in such a memorial of such a man matter for criticism, he will be satisfied if they who knew, and appreciated, and loved the man, do but see him reflected in the unstudied and unfettered freedom of his own quiet and beautiful daily life. It has often been by no means easy to decide just what selection, from the mass of materials at hand, would best aid in furnishing this portrait, and it is more than probable that in respect to this there have been some errors in judgment. It is proper to add, that the poetic extracts, so freely introduced, are known to have been, to a great extent, specially dear to Mr. Hosford, and have been introduced mainly because they are so vi PREFACE.

tenderly associated with him in the minds of his most intimate friends, and now so touchingly expressive of their recollections of some trait in his character, some phase in his experience, or some scene in his life or death.

With many thanks to those — especially to one most deeply .and tenderly interested — who have aided and cheered him in his labor, the Editor, in laying down his pen, can only say, that, both for the dear departed brother's sake, and for his Master's sake, he would most gladly, were he able, lay upon his tomb a more worthy garland.

Purpureos spargam flores

. . et fungar inani

Munere."

L. T.

West Amesbury, March 24, 1866.

Chapter I

MR. HOSFORD's CHILDHOOD, AND CHILDHOOD'S HOME.

" Our cradle is the starting-place In life ; we run the onward race

And reach the goal, When, in the mansions of the blest, Death leads to its eternal rest The weary soul."

Anon.

Benjamin Franklin Hosford was born in Thetford, Vt., November 11, 18 1J. He was tbe son of Joseph and Abigail (Bartholomew) Hosford, and the youngest of twelve children. Baptized in infancy by " good old Dr. Burton," whose praise was in all the churches, he was trained by his parents as a child of the covenant, and was early impressed with a sense of his sinfulness and his need of a saving interest in Christ. Unfortunately, but few of the incidents of his childhood can now be recalled in a form which permits their introduction here. But the emphatic testimony of all who knew him is, that his early life was one of rare exemption from the common foibles of youth, and of amiable-

ness, cheerfulness, and seriousness, blended in a charl acter of remarkable maturity and symmetry. It was his own cherished intention, during the last years of his life, to write out for his children a sketch of the prominent incidents of his boyhood. Failing strength, however, put the execution of this plan out of his power. Yet often and earnestly did he express his gratitude to God, that he was preserved from the vices into which he saw so many boys continually falling. " Oh, that these boys knew the simplicity and innocence of my early mountain home ! " was often the expressed sigh of his heart, as he witnessed the rush of young people around him into scenes and associations likely to be a life-long injury to them.

But, while he was ever grateful that he had been kept from the common vices and mistakes of youth, he bitterly recalled, as he looked back from manhood, some acts, which, however they may have failed to attract the notice of others, he deeply regretted to the day of his death. One of these painful reminiscences is best given in his own simple but touching words. In a communication addressed to children, he says, —

" I will tell you about Frank H- . He is now

a man ; but when he was a little boy, it used to be his part of the work to bring in the wood at night, after he had come home from school. He then had three sisters, all older than himself. One of them, whom at that time he loved more than the others, after having been married about a year came home again, sick with consumption. She had a room by herself, and, as it was December, she needed a fire also. You would suppose, would you not, that Frank would have been very happy to keep a good fire all the time for the sister he loved so much ( But this increased his work, and though the wood was all cut and piled in a shed near the door, still he began to be tired of bringing it in night after night for so long a time, especially as it did not seem to make his sister any better. It kept him from sliding, or skating, or playing with other boys, or from his books ; so after a while he did not go up to her bed-side, as he used to do, after laying down his wood, to take her by her hand, which was thin and pale and cold, asking her if she wanted him to do anything more which could make her happy.

" One night, when he was more fretful than usual, he threw down his wood carelessly, making a great deal of noise ; and as he went out of the room with a heavy step, muttering to himself some sullen words, his mother observed he was out of patience, and said to him with a low voice, ' You won't have to bring in wood much longer for poor Lucy ! '

" On the next Sabbath evening I was called into the room to see her die ; (and here I will confess that 7~ was that same unkind, impatient Frank.) She was lying on the sofa, her head being supported by her older sister. Her eyes looked very glassy — I never had seen eyes look so. Her nostrils expanded every time she breathed, and being very faint, my mother was fanning her violently ; but it was all in vain ! She breathed shorter and shorter, her eyes gradually closed, and, as if dropping to sleep, she sunk back into her sister's arms — dead ! Her gentle spirit had left us forever ! It was the first time I had ever seen one die, and I wept aloud.

4i Lucy was a very kind and gentle sister to me, and when one of the neighbors who had come in, told me I never should see her again, I wept more bitterly still. I wept every day till she was buried, — when the neighbors came in to see the corpse ; when my brother measured her for a coffin ; when the minister talked to us at the funeral ; when she was let down into the grave, which was dug for her in the garden ; and never did I weep more than on the evening of the next Sabbath, when the family all sat silent around the fire, — not all, for Lucy was not there !

" I grieved much at the loss of so good a sister as she was to me. But one thing grieved me more than all else; and what do you think it was? It was the remembrance of my impatience and fretfulness when I threw down the wood, muttering ; and of my mother's sorrowful words, — — ' You wont have to bring in wood much longer for poor Lucy /' These words were now like burning coals in my bosom. I could not banish them from my mind. I thought of them all day long, and then they haunted me in my dreams. Oh, how I cried that I might see her once more ! Yes, though she was cold, and could not hear one word, nor tell me that she forgave me, yet I wished to whisper in her ear how sorry I was, and that I did not think of what I was saying, and did n't mean to grieve her, and now wished her to forgive me, and love me again as she used to do.

" It is now seventeen years since that happened, and yet it is as fresh in memory as anything that happened yesterday. That one act has cost me more sorrow than any other act of my life. It seems as if God punished me every day for it ; for every day I think of it, and it makes me unhappy.

" I hope my sister forgave me at the time, and I hope too that God has forgiven me, for I now think it was a very great sin, and I have often asked him to forgive me."

When the " Frank " of the preceding story was about twelve years of age, there occurred an incident which deeply moved his heart in a different way, and one to which, years afterward, he was accustomed to look back as the turning-point in his moral probation. The following account of it, from his own pen, was written in 1850: —

" Having been sent on an errand, early one morning, to a neighbor's house, I arrived there just as the father was preparing for family worship. Instead of asking my errand and then sending me back as soon as might

be, Mrs. H invited me to take off my cap and

wait till after prayer. I consented more willingly than she suspected ; for I had great confidence in the piety of both, and somehow hoped that good would come to me from being with them in so sacred a service as

their family devotions. Mr. H had a peculiarly

thoughtful, deliberate, and earnest manner in prayer. I could perfectly understand every petition, and I felt sure it was a sincere petition. During all the prayer,

I stood in one corner of the kitchen, leaning against the wall, with my face hid in my cap. I do not now recollect that there was any special allusion to me in the prayer ; but he who prayed for us seemed to be so near to God, and to unfold his goodness to me in such a light ; there was such a reality about it that, altogether, it was more than heart could endure. I wept in penitence and grief. I prayed, if ever I prayed ; and if ever I was heard, it was in that unspoken cry for mercy. I was too young to know whether I was a Christian or not ; indeed, I did not think I was for some years afterward ; I only knew that I felt toward my Saviour as I had never felt before. But as I now look upon the event, and as I have looked upon it for years, it seems to me clearly to have been the turning-point in my probation, the eventful moment to me. For years I have regarded it as the occasion of my happiness as a Christian, and of whatever success I may have had in my ministry."

At what time Mr. Hosford first had evidence that satisfied his own mind that he had experienced the " great change," there are now no certain means of determining. He did not make a public profession of religion till more than six years after the eventful prayer which so deeply affected him. While he was a member of Dartmouth College, and in the nineteenth year of his age, he united with the Congregational Church at Hanover, N. H. When asked to give some account of his religious experience, he replied, "I grew up into piety by baptism, religious training, and the grace of God."

CHILDHOOD AND CHILDHOOD'S HOME. J

Mr. Hosford never ceased, through his whole earthly sojourn, to bless God for the circumstances in which his early life was spent, for the Christian parents who instructed him in the faith of the Gospel, and for the rich -rural scenery that so largely contributed to the happiness of his youth. His frequent visits to " the dear spot" among the hills of Vermont, and his many allusions to it in his letters, evince an undying and undecaying enthusiasm, remarkable even in a nature so childlike in its attachments.

In 1849 he wrote: "Pleasant news to-day from my childhood's home, to which place my attachment seems strong and sacred as ever. No place do I so long to see at all seasons as that home. None floats so constantly before my vision, and to no place am I indebted for so many pleasant memories and delightful associations, as to that ; and I grieve to think how different, in all probability, will be the circumstances under which any child of mine will grow up, from those of my own youth.

" I feel as if the whole warp of my soul's fabric would be taken out, were I to lose the remembrances and influences of a virtuous, industrious, peaceful home among the ever-varying scenery of the country.

" Now how different must be the structure of a mind and heart fashioned and developed in a hired house, in the changing community of a village or large town, in a monotonous and undulating country, which, as I look upon it, makes me feel something as I do upon the deck of a smoothly rolling vessel.

" Were not Providence somewhat concerned in placing me here, I should feel like asking for a location where duty would be consistent with delight, and usefulness in my calling be cheered by a daily luxuriating amid the beauties and still more beautiful associations of a mountain home. Aside from the joys of true conversion to Christ, I could ask no richer inheritance for a child than such a constant remembrance as I now have of my childhood and youth at home."

In the spring of 1849, he writes from North Thetford : " The enjoyment of this visit is indeed unusually intense, by the thought that my health may be giving way, and I looking on all these scenes for the last time ; nor will 1 deny that a hope in Christ gives me more quietness and peace in anticipation of such an event, than I have ever had before.

" Living amid these scenes is a luxury. . . . What joy a meditative saunter among them imparts. All thanks to the God of my childhood through a pious father who early gave me up in baptism, that while many things remind me of youthful follies and sins, I recall no gross transgressions or vices, whose every thought would sicken."

At Haverhill : " What few thoughts and feelings I ever had which gave me much pleasure, are such as could not exist or arise except in solitude. It would seem as if the tastes I formed in early life among the mountains of Vermont would never be outgrown."

"Sept. 30, 1849. Walked over the scenes of earliest childhood, and was sadly happy. The old road, now a cultivated field, in which the front yard is also lost, — the old house now long without a tenant, partitions torn down, glass broken and windows boarded up, doors nailed, cupboards empty, with here and there a relic so significant of an experience altogether forgotten ; I walked through and through its rooms, and lived over my childhood again, except that the thoughtfulness of manhood gave it a deeper tinge. In one room, mother tells me all her twelve children were born ; and in that same room my two sisters died since my remembrance. This latter fact affected me most. One of the most potent as well as most sacred influences under which I live, is the remembrance of departed kindred and friends, among whom none are more vivid in my recollection than these two sisters ; the one amiable and quiet as the flower at sunset, the other earnest, conscientious, and energetic, as sterling Christian principle must ever be."

" Nov. 30, 1850. In Wordsworth's ' Prelude/ noticed his frequent mention of the scenery of his childhood, and its happy effect upon his mind. I feel it all myself, and thank anew the Providence that ordered my lines to fall to me in such a place as my native home."

Years later, he writes of the changes in his childhood's home thus : " The fields still smile, never more lovingly, but the hands that once tilled them are dust. The brook still murmurs its sweet soothing music across the farm, but the more musical voices of those who used to play with him [me] along its willowy banks or among its smooth pebbles are silent forever. Under the same shady trees where he and his schoolmates played, and around the same cool spring where he and they knelt to drink, other merry children now drink and sing, who perhaps never heard the name of the stranger who stands weeping at the sight. That graceful wavy line of hill-tops along the twilight sky, — oh, how familiar it seems ; how it annihilates the long and wearisome pilgrimage which he has made since its image was first imprinted on his tender mind." And, thinking himself young again, he adds : " And now for the soft hands I used to press, and the sweet voices I used to drink in, and the moist, deep eyes that used to look on these scenes with me, — show me the way to their home But his heart-melting appeal receives no answer save from the .numberless snowy fingers, oh, how many of them, standing up from that sacred enclosure across the fields, ' God's Acre,' as piety calls it, where almost the whole generation of his contemporaries are now gathered in silent, peaceful society.

u And on the landscape, as I look, naught do I see unchanged remain, save the rude cliffs and chiming brooks. To me they make a heavy moan of early friendships past and gone."

Such was the boyhood and the boyhood's home, which the boy and the man alike so invariably honored. " Our sweet, green, birdy, flowery, country home." " This sweet summer vale, full of trout and pickerel, and robins and arbutus." " These cool, silent, religious woods." " The rejoicing country, beautiful and fragrant with flowers, and exulting in sunshine and birdmusic, sends greeting to the toiling, sweltering, prosaic city." These, and expressions like these, abound in all the correspondence of his life.

To complete the picture of that loved home, and the fond lover of its delightful scenery and associations, it is fitting that we introduce the words of a beloved sister, written since the lamented brother's death : —

" Our old homestead once gave shelter to grandparents, parents, and eleven children. With its low but ample roof, small windows, and oaken floors, how friendly it looked out to us children as we clattered in at sunset from winter's school, where we spent so many hours of dulness. Soon spring came timidly on ; we skip out from the highway to stand on the warm earth beneath the ' Old Pine.' We hear the bleating of flocks. Motherless young lambs call after and follow us. We go back and hug them up once more, and after the days become warm, how they amuse us as they circle around the smooth field in a pretty chain.

" Can one count the bare foot-paths, kept smooth by young feet, that led out from the ' Old Red House ' ]

" On a smooth, warm slope near the well-curb, we will visit the gosling tribe, in their low, three-cornered pen. Here, so green and gold, they lie sprawled out in the soft sunshine, or dip in and out the clear water. Tn the sultry summer morning they seek out the path to the cool swamp. What a happy life these gentle creatures led, as they leisurely spat over the sweet, moist turf. Young feet are waiting to run and bring them up at sunset. Oh ! the memory of those lute-like voices ! Sweet home ! I have but to close my eyes and look out to yonder orchard. There it is, meekly seated among apple and cherry trees, patiently awaiting all comers and goers.

" Low red roses come blushing up under the little windows ; cinnamon roses too, the same our grandmother admired, and parcelled out to her little friends. Next to roses we loved the low lilac-bush, whose piercing smell was so refreshing. We thought of the spring morning when it was brought from a kind neighbor's and planted here. See the morning-glories swinging over the great door. Little hands planted and watered these. Now they come suddenly out, wide open, perfect. These must be visited and counted anew each morning. Happy, happy childhood ! when one can love things so evanescent.

" Over this orchard the low grass was spotted with daisies and buttercups. Sweeter yet to the memory was the narrow foot-path winding across, and vanishing, at the low fence, into the highway. Over this silent path, each in turn took his course as he launched out into the great world, and by this, all came back, as, at set of day, our parents watched our return. A few bounds brought us to the brook-side, the meadows, overspread with elms and butternuts, whose tall grass was gay with lilies. And now to the bank of the Connecticut.

"Musing by this silent stream we gather shells, leaving all human anxiety for a future day. Sweet thoughts come gushing up at the name of ' Potato Hill,' its sugar and apple orchards of early time. In the clear, cool morning of spring, we watch the first streak of sunshine along the western hill-tops. Ready and waiting, we string out, following father through woods and over mountain. We then merge into the solitary hill-road. We reach the summit, and sit wearied down before the old log-house with stone chimney, whose light had forever gone out. We feel awed as we tread softly up to the broken door.

" To the north and east a glorious view opens wide before us ; and in clear, fine weather, the ' Franconia Hills ' shine out like walls of alabaster. A soft, moist field lies before us, and, beyond, the low woods, into which we hastily disappear until sunset. Within these woods the slant rays of sun never enter but in midsummer. Here stood the old wigwam, the open fire and boiling-kettles ; and here, sheltered from winds, we loitered out many a pleasant April day.

" Again, while the autumn days are shortening, the slow ox-teams are early seen climbing up the hilly road. Joyous children again string along the path ; we walk and ride by turns.

" So many young hands give the work a lively turn. The carts are heaped with the gold, russet, or red fruit ; but the sun is already behind the tall pines before the whole train is winding down the rough road. We have not forgotten mother and home, left behind. So we gather up a few sweet herbs, and soon meet her at the gate. Too tired to lay plans for the morrow, we go silently to rest.

" Dear, indulgent parents ! How evenly they seem to have held the balance amid distraction ! While seeking to mature the elder children, the cry came, ' Room in thy heart, mother.' True to the last, little Benjamin was welcomed in, pleased with his place and lot. He was from infancy up the most powerful of all in drawing hearts after him ; so gentle, so lowly, all can answer who knew him. With this sweet lamb of the flock, our parents proceeded as indulgent grandparents sometimes do ; but, happy for him, love guided aright. To him laws were needless, himself a law ; so he slid forward year upon year, the same self-poised child, boy, and man. Nothing stirred up the slumbering fire in the old man's heart like a glimpse of the lad as he returned from abroad.

" His first sorrow, when ten years old, could never be wiped out. During this year our two grown sisters obeyed their final summons, and were laid in the front yard under the willow-tree.

" But the grief of his manhood was called out in the fall of an elder brother. The relation between these, though not spoken, was tender and very touching. The elder lived to see his early hopes perfected in the younger, then let slip the golden links, for others he loved to gather up, and crossed over, as we believe, through darkness into light.

" Respecting this elder brother, the younger wrote : 4 Oh, the sad recollection of that rare brother ! Have been thinking more and yet more sadly of him since his release, and, for aught I see, shall go on to the end of my life regretting him. This life to him was in part a failure, inasmuch as he had more talent and ambition than most men ; yet not a failure at all as regards us younger children. His spirit of enterprise raised the tone of reading and thinking in us children, and early set the wheels of thought in motion. Had his electric powers, so remarkable, been modified and mellowed by religion, he would have surpassed his age.'

" Again I say, dear home of our childhood, how sweet the memory of thy by-paths and solitudes, ever fresh, ever new !

" How primitive to launch out, we cared not whither, across fields and meadows, or down the hrook-side, now blue with spring violets, or where honeysuckles hung themselves out on the high warm bank, and the sweetbrier grew up in beauty close to the highway. More than all these, the dear society that beguiled the wayside walk. What a painful want comes back as we revisit these scenes now. Now, reluctant, we move forward ; each step draws out a sigh. Our dear one seldom rode, and I can recall no scene in which he shared, without tears for his early fate. Often I seem to sing with him again, —

'Return, David, return ; E'en the fields and the valleys thy absence do mourn."

" Dear lost one ! we stretch out our arms to thee ; they come back empty, and we say, ' How is the strong staff broken and the beautiful rod.' "

The following communications from Rev. E. F. Slafter, of the American Bible Society, and Rev. L. Thayer, of Windham, N. H., both townsmen and early friends of Mr. Hosford, will be found appropriate in this chapter : —

Rev. and Dear Sir, — In your note just received, you request me to communicate any reminiscences of the boyhood of my departed friend, and I hasten to comply, so far as I am able, with your request.

My acquaintance with the late Rev. Benjamin Franklin Hosford commenced when we were boys, though at first it was not very intimate. His father's farm was in the northeast part of Thetford, Vermont, while my father's was a mile north of the centre of the same town ; and we were five miles apart by the nearest way. We both attended worship at the old Municipal Meeting-house, for so it may be called, as it was the property of the town ; and, with the exception of a very small parish on the northwestern boundary, it was the only one from the first settlement of the precinct ; and had been held together and sustained against all encroachments for more than fifty years, by the wise but exclusive policy of the celebrated and revered Dr. Burton. Down to the period of our boyhood, the internal arrangements of the old meeting-house were the same as they had been from its first erection. The families were seated by some principle of seniority ; the eldest were placed nearest the pulpit, and thus passing off by a sliding scale, leaving the young, quick-eared farmers near the door. The pulpit being the post of honor, was flanked on both sides by the village doctor, the lawyer, and more wealthy merchants, irrespective of age, thus setting aside the controlling principle in the general arrangement, in favor of a wholesome respect for dignitaries. The galleries were devoted to the young men, the young women, and the smaller boys and girls, each sex occupying its respective gallery. A police force of from six to ten tithing-men was conveniently disposed to keep order in this

CHILDHOOD AND CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 1J

juvenile assemblage. Under the surveillance of this police, and the profound metaphysics of the astute Doctor, we had little to do except to keep clear of the tithing-men, and study each other's characters. I think I knew every boy in the parish, so far at least as to have formed a very clear idea of the calibre of each, intellectual, moral, and physical. In this way I had known, for several years, young Hosford, my future schoolmate and life-long friend. In 1830 I was placed by my father in a country-store at the centre of the town. Near by, on the Ompompanoosuc River, was a set of flour-mills. To these young Hosford, then perhaps twelve years of age, was sent, as was the custom of farmers' sons, with the " family grist." During his stay he paid me a visit, and our intimate acquaintance fairly commenced. After various themes of juvenile conversation had been disposed of, he inquired with very deep interest, if I had the cent of the date of 1814. I immediately produced the precious coin. He examined it with great care, and at length proposed to purchase it. I had already heard that it contained a quantity of gold, and was not prepared to set a price. It was examined and reexamined, and finally a " quarter of a dollar " was offered for it. But the examination and the liberal offer both impressed the owner that the coin must be exceedingly valuable, and the glittering " quarter " was reluctantly declined. He turned away with disappointment, leaving the owner in doubt whether he had not lost an opportunity that would not again recur, and the sequel proved that the doubt was well founded. As neither of the parties ever became distinguished bankers, this " gold speculation " was not looked upon as proof that " coming events cast their shadows before," but was often referred to with great merriment in after years, as the beginning of a golden friendship.