13,610
edits
Changes
no edit summary
<div style="text-align: center;">''"''Still Haven," [[New York|New York City]]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">1915</div>
The original copy of the manuscript was obtained by Doug Engle in 2021 from the family of James Stahr, who died in summer of 2019, he either acquired it from Emmaus, or they bound it for him. The original contains a faded photocopied print, and is in a black hardcover binding. It is presently unknown how many copies were made, or survive.
Within the original text, Anna's "mother" and "father" were decapitalized throughout, and I added possessive adjectives. Minor typos in the original are also corrected. Data in italics are added historical notes from Ancestry.com and other independent research.
==My Father and Paternal Grandfather==
It must have been an American, who, when asked about his ancestors, replied, "I don't know anything about my aunt's sisters, or whether she had any." I cannot claim to be much wiser about my ancestry than he was. A desire to know about it did not waken within me, until those who could have satisfied the desire, in Old Testament language, "slept with their fathers". In order that you, my grandchildren, may not be, in this matter, devoid of knowledge as myself, I am going to tell you, in a crude way, the little that I know.
My father's name was Leander Roberts. He was the son of William and Mercy Roberts, and was born among the hills of Otsego Co., [[New York|N.Y.]], at the western end of the Catskill Mountains, June 1st, 1817. He had three brothers older than himself, Alfred, John and William, and one sister younger, named Mercy, after their mother. For the sister, who outlived him several years, father felt a tender affection. Father's mother died when he was eight years old, and he was sent to live in the family of "Uncle John Hamlin"; whether he was really an uncle, I do not know.
* ''According to Ancestry.com (via Becky76957), John Hamlin (b. 1796 Maryland, Otsego, [[New York|N.Y.]] - d. 1855 Sanford, Broome, N.Y.) married Catherine Van Slycke (b. 1804 - d. 1887 Sanford, Broome, N.Y), and they had five children:
In the village of Westford, [[New York|N.Y.]], lived Mr. Peter Platner. He was one of the leading men of the town, and had a large carriage factory. To him, when of proper age, Leander was bound as an apprentice. I do not know for how many years, but probably five. I think he must have lived in family of Mr. Platner, for I never heard of any other arrangement. He was kindly dealt with, and as long as he lived, spoke affectionately of Uncle and Aunt Platner. There were three children in the family: Henry, Mary and a little girl called, familiarly, Frank; I cannot now recall her real name.
* ''Petrus "Peter" Platner (b. 1803 N.Y. - d. 1852 Westford, Otsego, N.Y.), son of Jacob M. Platner (b. 1774 Columbia Co., N.Y. - d. 1828 Otseto Co., N.Y.) & Mereitchen "Maria" Miller Platner (b. 1777 N.Y. - d. 1874 Otsego Co., N.Y.). Peter's great-grandfather Johan Jacob Platner (b. 1710 Grotzingen, Germany - d. 1787 Livingston Manor, Sullivan, N.Y.) emigrated with his 2nd wife Maria Sybilla Zuinger Zwinger Platner (1716-1800) to the U.S. in 1738, where their first son was born that year at Germantown, Columbia, N.Y.''* ''Permelia Howe Platner (b. 1804 N.Y. - d. 1873 Westford, Otsego, N.Y.), daughter of Artemus Howe, Jr. (b. 1775 Bolton, Worcester, MA - d. 1849) & Fanny Parker Howe (1787-1819). Peter & Permelia's children: Olive Platner (b. 1824), Jacob Platner (b. 1828), Mary E. Platner (b. 1830), Fannie Platner (1833-1906), William Henry Platner, Sr. (1835-1892), Permelia Platner (b. 1837) & Lucia W. Platner (b. 1844).
There lived just outside of the village, on a small farm, Mr. Artemas Howe, with his wife and two children, Orsemus and Fanny. Mrs. Howe was a half-sister to Mrs. Platner; so there was much friendly intercourse between the two families. It is not strange that the apprentice boy, separated from his own brothers and sister, soon became friends with the shy little girl; nor is it at all surprising that when Leander had served his apprenticeship, and became a valued workman in the shop, at the age of twenty-one, and the gentle Fanny, now seventeen, and a school-teacher, that their friendship ripened into something more, and they were married. My father sometimes felt a mischievous desire to tell tales of that period, but my mother's embarrassed, "Hush, Leander, that's enough" usually quieted him. How I would like, now, to know all he might have told.
* ''Ancestry.com (via arkmskmdk): Artemas' first wife was his second wife's sister, Anna Parker Howe (1799-1869), they had at least two children:''
** ''Fannie Elizabeth Howe Roberts'', Anna Loizeaux's mother, (b. 1821 N.Y. - d. 1902 Plainfield, [[New Jersey|N.J.]]).'' ** ''Orsemus Howe (b. 1823 Westford, Otsego, N.Y. - d. 1892 Montville, Medina, [[Ohio|OH]]), married Polly M. Cook (b. 1821 Delaware, N.Y. - d. 1895 Chatham, Medina, OH). Five children: Italy Marseone Howe Ripley (1848-1930), Irving Howe (1851-1893), Samuel Harvey Howe (1855-1933), Metta Medora Howe Tanner (1856-1927), Emory R. Howe (1860-1932).''
I never saw a more quiet and self-effacing person than my mother. Only those who knew her well appreciated her as she deserved. Kind and unassuming, she never gave offense. A plain spoken woman, visiting at our house, after my marriage, said to me, "Mrs. Loizeaux, you will never be a lady like your mother." I was neither hurt, nor disposed to quarrel with what I felt was true.
I remember a very few things that belonged to that first housekeeping. I wish I might have now some of the dark blue plates, with their wonderful pictures, that fascinated me as a child, and held their charm until I was a big girl. Then there were knives with bone handles, fastened on by steel rivets. The forks had two slender tines, that father declared were "just the handiest things in the world to pick a chicken's neck with." I remember the operation. One tine was inserted in the passage of the cord, held firmly, and joint after joint dislocated, and removed. How I wished <u>I</u> could do it!
The old clock that stood so many years on the mantle of the sewing-room at 1215 Putnam Avenue was perhaps their proudest possession. It is now in Aunt Elizabeth's garret, waiting to have its case "done over" and its honest old face made more attractive. I am sure I feel sorry for it. I fancy I hear it saying to itself: "How dull it is after ticking away for nearly seventy years, to stand here idle, with only the memories of past years to comfort me! And I don't see why, indeed! I've heard my mistress say while winding me up at night: 'Good old clock; you the the best timekeeper in the house.' I was never lonesome before in my life. So many babies were held up to my face, with eyes big with wonder, while I was made to strike over and over again. I wonder, will I ever hear children's voices again? And I remember the distress of my old mistress, after my master died, because she had lost my key, and she feared she would never hear my voice again. She could not sleep that night, but wept bitterly, and said softly, 'Dear Old Clock!" All the above is true, and I sigh with the old clock as I think of it.
After a few years the little family moved to Schenevus, a pretty, stirring little town at the foot of South Mountain, and my father had a carriage shop of his own. But, after not very long, my father, having a boy and girl of his own, concluded that the town was not the best place in which to "bring them up." Thereupon he bought a small farm on South Hill. Not until it because the fashion to go to the mountains for a vacation, was the grand old hill dignified by the name of "mountain".
==South Hill Farm==
The farm was small: it was stony; so stony that twice a year a "stone-boat" was dragged by oxen over the fields and the stones carefully picked up, a proceeding in which we children were expected to share... nolens volens. All, or at least most of the fences were picturesque stone walls. When, after leaving in the West many years, on our journey East, I first saw stone walls, near Buffalo, my heart leaped as at the sight of an old friend.
The farm was ill suited to raising grain; but well adapted to grazing and stock-raising; hence butter-making and the selling of young stock were its principal sources of profit. A country road divided the farm into two parts; on one hand stood the house; at one side the meadow; behind it, small fields of rye, oats, buckwheat or corn, the woods making a pretty background. Along the woods lay the sheep pasture, so rocky that only sheep could have grazed there. I loved the sheep. To sprinkle salt on the bare rocks, followed by sheep and lambs, bleating their musical ba-a-a, was delightful, and a privilege often granted me.
On the other side of the road were barns, carriage house, granaries and stables surrounded by yards. Beyond were pastures, orchards, meadow-land and a stream skirted by timber, or as we were wont to say, "the woods". It was, indeed, a pleasant, charming country.
==Child Life on the Farm==
I had no sister; my brother was three and a half years older than I, and our tastes were entirely unlike. Sometimes I was permitted to share some outdoor sport, such as riding downhill, with him, and his boy friends. Otherwise we rarely played together. But I was never a lonely little girl. Somewhere, in the fence corner, under a tree, in pleasant weather I had always a playhouse where my treasures were carefully stowed away: bits of broken china for dishes; corncob dolls, dressed in calico pieces and bits of ribbon, collected and saved with care. These dolls were my scholars, for I dearly loved to play at keeping school. It was such fun to lean them up in a row against my treasure-box, for spelling, and to see the one at the foot march proudly to the head of the class. This was <u>easy</u>, since <u>I</u> did the spelling, and marched them up and down as I chose. Perhaps my little grand-daughters, who have such large families of dollies, would like to hear about my dolls. Well, I remember just two. I think these must have been all my family, and that I cared more for books than for dolls.
We children were not allowed to go into the parlor, except when open for visitors; I really do not see why. It was a simple room; its floor covered with a striped rag carpet. There was a bureau in one corner, and a table, and chairs stood against the walls, I suppose waiting patiently for company. stove made the room cheerful when it was cold. A looking-glass, a framed marriage certificate, and one or two pictures adorned the walls.
Well, one day, perhaps it was a rainy day, I stole into the parlor and looked around. I wondered what mother kept in the bureau, anything but "Sunday clothes"? "I think I'll see;" and I opened a drawer, and putting my fingers down carefully, so as not to "muss up" anything, I was startled by feeling something hard.
About a mile and a half from the farm was a little schoolhouse, gray and weather-beaten. I doubt that it had ever been painted; neither were the seats and desks, but the latter were more or less carved by jack-knives. The front seat was low and without a back. On this seat sat the ABC scholars, when not playing out of doors.
A common punishment for trivial offenses was standing on the floor. I had learned my ABC's and AB AB's, and was beginning words of three letters. When I persisted in pronouncing r-e-d "yed", the teacher thought me stubborn and said: "You may stand on the floor until you will say <u>red</u>." How long I stood there I don't know, it was a weary while. Then my brother told the teacher that I always pronounced "y" for "r". She tested me, and sent me to my seat. This is the only time I remember of being punished at school. Probably I needed the spur, for in a few days I had mastered the sound of the letter "r".
No one in our house had time to read stories to me, and I dearly loved stories, and love them still; so I was very anxious to learn to read. Perhaps I learned as much at home as at school. There was a Bible, an almanac, and "The Guide to Holiness", always on the table. I could spell out the words and ask what they were. I must have been a great bother to my busy mother, but I soon learned to read.
I was taken by my parents to visit some friends. We stayed overnight. There were two daughters about twelve and fourteen. One played the organ while her sister sang. After supper they studied their school lessons, and the older people visited. I had found a book and was oblivious to all else. As soon as I was dressed in the morning, I resumed my reading. After breakfast, my father said: "Well, Fanny, I guess we must be going; I will go and hitch up." "Oh, we <u>can't</u> go", cried I, "I haven't finished my book!" When father saw that our departure would be a tearful one, he turned to the girls and inquired the price of the book, and if they would sell it. So I became the proud possessor of my first "very own book": ''Robinson Crusoe''.
The winter school was taught by a man. He could better face the snowdrifts and manage the big boys. There was usually a "birch" on the teacher's desk: if not, and one was needed, the master would ask: "Who has a jack-knife?" Up went all hands, save one. "John, go and cut me a whip; be sure and get me a good one." Sometimes whips were voluntarily brought at noon and laid on the teacher's desk. But there were other punishments besides whipping, indeed, many sorts.
One day my brother was caught in mischief of some kind. The master asked for a long scarf, a knitted woolen comforter. When one was brought, he tied it under Emory's arms, saying: "You are so bad I am going to hang you." Now I supposed hanging under the arms was as fatal as hanging by the neck. As the culprit was dragged toward a big hook by the door, I gave a piercing scream. Proceedings were stayed; instead of being hung, the naughty boy stood on the floor all of the rest of the afternoon.
Not far from the schoolhouse was a church, without steeple or ornament of any kind, but it was painted white, and so were the long sheds back of it, under which the farmers hitched their horses and wagons during services. Here we always went to meeting and to "Sabbath School", for father and mother were Methodists.
How pleasant seemed the Sabbath morning, with its haste to be on time. When the carriage came to the door, I was the first one in, to hold the horses, while my father changed his coat and locked the door. Then the pleasant drive and the S.S. with its singing and repeating of verses, and after the prayer, the excitement of exchanging our S.S. books. After this there was preaching, and last of all, class-meeting. I do not remember any prayer meetings at the church, but sometimes they were held in private houses. My mother was never too tired to go to prayer meeting, or, if very tired, she still felt it her duty to go. Not liking to go alone, she took me for company. When the night was dark, we carried a lantern.
Quite a distance from our house lived an old man who had been a class-leader for many years. As he was ill and bedridden, the meetings were often at his house. To make the distance shorter, mother and I often went through our pasture, then through a piece of woods, crossing the brook on a fallen log. "Weren't we afraid?" Never, there were no wild animals to hurt us; we never met anyone. The country is safer than the city, especially far removed from village or town.
Arrived at Mr. Wager's, I was given a little chair near his bed, so when sleepy, I could lay my head against it, and take a nap. Sometimes I was awakened by an emphatic <u>"Amen</u>!" or the shout: <u>"Glory to God!"</u> so common among the Methodists in those days, and very real when uttered by this aged Christian, so long ill, and so patiently waiting to be called to his home above.
==Camp Meeting and Watchnight==
Of all the Methodist meetings, I like the Camp Meetings best. They were a regular institution and held every year. The tented grove seemed a fitting place in which to worship God; and men and women, of deep piety and earnest purpose, flocked to these meetings, seeking and finding blessing for their souls. The gospel was preached, more or less clearly, and the salvation of sinners earnestly sought. The desire to be a Christian and live for God was felt very early in my life, and always deepened by these occasions.
So also by the solemn Watchnight meeting usually held in the church the last night of the old year. If I fell asleep during the long sermon, I was awake and fresh for the last exercises. A few minutes before Twelve, all stood in silent prayer, to watch the old year out; and, at the first minute of the new year, all joined in singing the New Year's Hymn. I sang it with all my heart, feeling perhaps, what I did not understand. Here is the hymn; perhaps you will agree with me that a child could scarcely be expected to understand it.
<u>New Year's Hymn</u>
His adorable will let us gladly fulfill, and our talent improve by the patience of hope, and the labor of love.
Our life is a dream; our time, as a stream, glides swiftly away, and the fugitive moment refuses to stay.
The arrow is flown, the moment is gone; The millennial year rushes on to our view, and eternity's here.
Oh that each, in the day of His coming, may say, I have fought my way through;
I have finished the work Thou didst give me to do. Oh that each from his Lord may receive the glad word:"Well and faithfully done! Enter into My joy, and sit down on My throne."
==Quarterly Meetings==
* Emory: "I <u>know</u> there is; look at that hat hanging on the woodpile!"
* Mercy: "Yes, I see a hat hanging on a pole."
* Emory: "well, whoever is in the house hung his hat on the woodpile so no one would dare to come in. I'll bet it's a robber."
* Mercy: "Are you sure?"
* Emory: "Hark! I hear a man running up and down stairs; don't you?"
* Mercy: "No, I don't."
* Emory: "Stoop down, quick! I saw a gun pointed out of that open window." Emory sat down by the stone wall which was higher than he was.* Mercy: "I don't see any gun, and I don't believe there is anyone in the house. Let's go in."* Emory: "I tell you <u>there</u> <u>is</u>, and they'll kill us. Come on, we must stoop until we get behind the barn, then we'll run to the Booth's and tell them."
He suited his actions to his words, and I followed, not a little relieved that we did not have to go into the house. Arrived at the neighbors, we told our story in haste and in concert. It had grown more sure and terrible as we ran. The family was at dinner. Mrs. Booth was alarmed. She said to her husband and son: "You had better go right over, before they have time to rob the house." "And take your gun", my brother suggested.
"We haven't got any gun", the young man said, "but I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll sharpen this carving knife and, if there's a man in the house, <u>I'll</u> <u>fix</u> <u>him</u>!"
Mr. Booth laughed at this, and I think Mrs. Booth was glad to have the carving knife sharpened. Then someone said, "I hear a wagon coming, perhaps it is your folks." "Yes, here they are!" And out we ran and climbed into the back of the wagon. I can see now the smile that played around my father's mouth, and the twinkle in his grey eyes as he listened to my brother's excited story. Then he laughed, and mother laughed until she was near crying. "You foolish children", she said as soon as she was able to speak. "Your father painted his old silk hat this morning and hung it on the woodpile to dry, he said it would be nice to wear on rainy days. I left the windows open for I knew it would not rain."
We were quieted, but not altogether pleased. I think it might have suited us better to have found a robber in the house.
==Changes==
==Removal to Ohio==
The time came to go to [[Ohio]], a sad time for our parents, but a joyful time for Emory and me. We had never seen a [[Railroad|railroad]] train, and were quite excited by the thought of riding on the cars. A week at a hotel before our household goods arrived was a great experience. Then we settled in a small house, not half so nice as my grandmother's. In Logan, I attended for the first time a <u>graded</u> school. From the progress made in two years, I think it was an excellent school. It had one feature I never saw in any other school. <u>Monday's</u> lessons were a review of the lessons of the preceding week. Having a good memory and liking to recite by <u>topic</u>, Monday was my favorite school day. I do not wish to linger over our Ohio experiences. Just a few incidents, and then, Westward ho!
==Dress and Peaches==
One morning, Uncle William came with a horse and buggy just after breakfast. "Fanny, I am going into the country; I thought Mercy would like to go with me."
Alas! Mercy's hair was not freshly braided nor was her dress suited for a drive with her fastidious uncle, and he could not wait. "I'll call for Dora", he said, as he went out. Dora was my cousin, the daughter of father's half-brother, James.
Now Dora was pretty, and her mother's first care was to curl Dora's hair, and dress her with pretty clothes. No doubt Dora would be ready. It was a great humiliation to me, but a wholesome one which spurred me to greater care of my person and dress. I decided not to depend on my mother to braid my hair, but to do it myself. I had heard Uncle William said to my mother: "Fanny, you dress Mercy too old for her age." Poor mother, she had never learned dressmaking but she made all my dresses.
Methodists in those days were a very plain people. My mother never wore feathers or flowers, nor did she approve of bows of ribbon. She did not wear jewelry, not even a plain brooch or ring. How could her little daughter be other than plainly dressed?
I think I'll tell you a "really truly" story about myself at this time, at the risk of shocking some reader. Little girls wore bonnets in those days, straw bonnets that came close to the face. It was springtime, and the bonnets had wreaths of tiny rose-buds, pink, or possibly white daisies. Oh! How pretty they were. But my bonnet had a plain white ruche, like my grandmother's cap. As I put it away after meeting, I heard my father say to my mother, "Fanny, I think you ought to have had a wreath in Mercy's bonnet." "Why do you think so?" "Well, I saw her looking around at the girls' bonnets. I believe she will think more about her bonnet than she would if it were like the rest." Mother did not reply.
It happened, the next Sunday, that Uncle William came in just as I got my bonnet to go to Sunday School. I took off the cover of the band-box, and could I believe my eyes? Yes, there was a wreath of pink rose-buds in MY bonnet. Clapping my hands, I exclaimed, "Oh, glory, hallelujah!" Then I felt frightened. I had not meant to say that. Uncle William laughed and said, "Mercy's a Methodist, all right, Fanny; flowers won't hurt her." But it did not end there. I felt that my mother was grieved, and, somehow, I didn't enjoy the wreath. Before the week was over I asked her to take it out and put back the ruche, and she did.
Now about the peaches. I had missed the drive int he country with my uncle, but I was to enjoy one with my father. Peaches were ripe, and the crop was so large that bushels and bushels were left to rot on the ground. It did not pay to take them to market, and the process of canning was not yet known. A farmer had said, "Come out and help yourself to peaches." So into the country we went, enjoying everything: the blue skies and fleecy clouds overhead; the soft summer breezes, the fields and the thrifty overladen orchards. We went home with several bushels of peaches in the back of the wagon: beauties, white and yellow, as large as oranges. Newspapers were spread on the floor of a vacant chamber and the peaches carefully spread out upon them. For many days we FEASTED on peaches.
==Chills and Fever==
At some seasons of the year, Ague Fever was very prevalent. This was attributed to the canal that ran along the outskirts of the city. We lived not very far from the canal. Mother's heart was touched by the sufferings of the poor, and, quite often, taken me with her, we went from house to house with a basket of food - soup, broth, custards, jelly and bread. Sometimes we found the whole family prostrated; some shaking with a chill; others, the chill over, were burning with fever; and no one was able to help the others.
But the ague was not confined to the poor; few escaped it altogether. My father had it severely for a long time. During our stay in Ohio, he took so much quinine that his hearing was permanently dulled. Mother and Emory, after some time, had chills every other day. I escaped so long that I boasted that I was NEVER going to have the ague. Then, one day, every bone in my body ached; I felt a suspicious sensation along my spine. Could it be a CHILL?
I spread a comforter under the "spare bed", an old-fashioned four poster, with a cretonne valance; took a pillow and crawled out of sight, like a wounded creature. No one should know that I had a chill. There I shook BRAVELY, until the chill had passed. When the fever came, I wanted my MOTHER. Oh! How good were her applications of cold water to my burning head! And how BITTER were the quinine powers!
==Protracted Meetings==
The second winter of our stay in Ohio, meetings were held, for many weeks, every night except Saturday. I do not think I missed one of them. A large number "joined the church", and I trust many were truly converted. It was then I became a member of the Methodist Church, which relationship continued until about a year before my marriage.
I desire not to criticize, but must say from many years of experience, that the FINISHED WORK OF CHRIST, as the GROUND OF PEACE, was not preached; at least not as the ONLY ground, so there was no SETTLED peace; how could there be? The prominence given to EXPERIENCE led to self-occupation, which is fatal to true peace. Methodists believed one truly converted might "fall from grace" and be lost.
Happy was the day when I first heard the eternal security of the believer in Christ, plainly preached from the WORD OF GOD, by your dear uncle Paul.
But I have a very tender memory of some godly Methodists. There was "old father Vandeburgh", as everybody called him. He was quite aged and feeble, but was always at the prayer meeting, and among the first to pray. He often sang his favorite hymn, with the chorus: "Only MERCY will do for ME." It seems to me I never met him that he did not speak to me of the Lord Jesus.
One "Sabbath morning" after breakfast, he said to his wife: "I think I'll take a little walk." She watched him, for he seemed more than usually feeble. Midway between the house and barn, he stopped and stood looking up into the sky; only a moment he stopped gazing, then slowly sank to the ground. His wife hurried to him, calling him fondly by his name, but he was "absent from the body, present with the Lord."
Did he hear a voice calling: "Well done, good and faithful servant, enter into the joy of the Lord"? Many who knew him believed so.
==Trials==
At last the wagon was finished, painted and striped with the skill that my father had acquired during his apprenticeship. The doctor said if anything could help mother to recovery, it would be out-door air, entire change and diversion of mind. It was decided that we would go to [[Illinois]] in October. Meanwhile preparations went on SURELY if slowly.
Uncle William, almost crushed by his misfortune, and grieved more for my father than for himself, sold all his personal property, including a silver-mounted harness and handsome buggy. He gave his fine span of grey horses, his gold watch, and what money he could spare, to my father. Then he bade us a sorrowful good-bye, and went to South America or Australia, I cannot be sure which. I believe he was only once heard from afterward.
* ''Ancestry.com indicates (via Becky7657) that William C. Roberts died Jan. 8, 1880 at Handy Township, Livingston, [[Michigan]]. His wife was Caroline "Jane" Wright Roberts (b. 1838 Iosco, Livingston, MI - d. 1924 Hatton Twp., Clare, MI). They had three children together: Carrie (b. 1862), Milo (1871-1947) & Floyd Ard Roberts (1875-1915).''
Father had also a young and valuable horse which he decided to take with us. It would be useful to ride on the way, and afterwards on the farm which my father intended to purchase. Our household goods were crated to be shipped a part of the way by canal; then by rail to our destination.