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Bethlehem, Ct. [Connecticut]
Dec. 20th, 1865

My Dear Friends
Fellow Teachers
And Pupils

Less than sixteen months ago I first set foot within the Institute [Caldwell Institute]. All was strange. No familiar tones were heard in kindly greeting. But now how changed! I recognize within those walls the faces of my dearest friends, and no voices, save that of the little prattler by my side, fall more melodiously upon my ear. Joys shared in common may bind heart to heart, but common sorrows more; and may I not believe that we have at least one common grief? Your tearful eyes bore witness that

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not alone I mourned. Your brief acquaintance with the departed one had made her dear to you. Is it strange then that the most familiar intercourse of more than half a score of years had made her more dear to me than life itself? A few weeks ago the future was full of promise. My cup of joy was running over. Providence was kinder than I deserved. Now that a cloud has settled down upon me shall I say that Providence has been unkind? Oh, no. We are all born to die. These tender ties must at sometime be severed, and it being so, Providence has been most kind. Where, when, under what circumstances could this event have happened and brought less poignant sorrow to my heart?

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As her life was beautiful, so was her departure. With what composure she looked beyond the dark valley, and with the eye of faith beheld the glories of the eternal world, none can realize except those friends who at all times had access to her presence and to her heart. She has gone – I no longer enjoy her sweet companionship, and my little child [infant daughter Carrie] is motherless, but an angel of light is beaconing us to follow her to the celestial abodes. Her sun disappeared behind a cloud to burst forth with renewed untold splendor. Oh! The consolation which this thought affords. Had it been otherwise, how could I have endured it? And besides

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this, your words and tears of sympathy have afforded me much relief. God bless you all for them and reward you with his love.

Would you hear of our sorrowful journey?

The day we left you was a stray from April. Clouds, showers and sunshine followed in swift succession, yet it was pleasant – a day fitted for enjoyment to those whose hearts were turned to joy, but one of pain and anxiety to us – pain because we felt so sensitively each sudden motion caused by the roughness of the roads to the vehicle before us which bore those beloved remains, and anxiety lest that form and face should be so marred, that loving friends a thousand miles away

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could no more behold them.

Night drew its curtains around us ere we reached Lexington. There we rested having first consigned our charge to the care of the expressmen, a painful thing to do, as familiarity with the transportation of the dead has made them callous and they forget how tenderly they would wish the remains of their loved ones treated when consigned to the care of strangers. Before there were any indications of approaching day, we were on our way to Cincinnati. There we remained till eleven p.m., nothing unfortunate occurring. I kept watch of our charge as well as circumstances would permit, but

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you know the pain which its transportation across the river, its removal from one office to another, and its final transportation to the cars must have occasioned us.

Our route was the Atlantic and Great Western, and from Cincinnati to New York there was no change except for the living and only one for us. Had we been traveling for pleasure, we could have desired no better fortune or accommodations, and as it was we could not realize the purpose of our journey. Thursday noon we were in New York, and at eight o’clock the following morning left for Connecticut, arriving in Waterbury about twelve o’clock.

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There, twelve miles from our destination, we were met by friends and a hearse from Bethlehem, which place we reached about sunset. There the casket was removed from its enclosure and laid in the same apartment from which eleven years before she who lay within that casket had gone forth a happy bride. You can imagine, though words cannot express our anxiety to know in what condition the precious contents of that casket would be found, and yet we dreaded to look lest our worst fears should be realized.

We finally concluded not to look that night, but a friend was to

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Come the following morning, and ascertain what might be too shocking for us to behold. He came when he found (a joyful news to us!) that no displacement had taken place. We therefore looked and found that countenance which was so placid when we had last seen it almost unchanged. The eyes were a little more sunken, the skin perhaps a little darker, but there was the same serene expression, and almost no change appeared except that the flowers and leaves were no longer fresh, and the sprigs had fallen from the hands. From that time to her burial (Sunday noon), the casket lay as on the last morning at Danville, and mourning friends in

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Large numbers came to look upon that face again. Her mother, now as you know an invalid, was brought in her chair to the side of the casket, that she might once more see the face of that daughter who had left her a few weeks before blooming with health, and full of high hopes for her earthly future. How that mother felt none but a mother who has lost a darling daughter knows.

I had before leaving Danville appointed Saturday for the burial, but friends have desired a postponement till the following day. It was from the Congregational Church a few rods from her father’s house, the church of whose

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choir she was a member when in her girlhood, and at whose altar twelve years ago she had professed her faith in Christ. The other churches (Methodist and Episcopal) suspended their services for the morning and the church was filled to overflowing.

The sermon, by one who knew her well, was most impressive. The hyms [sic] sung at Danville were repeated here. When the large congregation had taken their final look at the lifeless form, we proceeded to the cemetery, about a quarter of a mile distant. It is new, very tastefully laid out, on the west side of the

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street, with a slight westward inclination, and is withal not an unpleasant place to rest after life’s toils are over. There we laid her on that chill December day. Months will pass ere the grass springs or the birds sing above her resting place.

I leave her grave to the care of those who loved her well and who will not fail when spring returns to plant flowers above her and to water them with their tears. What I am describing seems but a dream to me. The last two months seems but a dream – not a horrid dream, only a troubled one. It has been like crossing a desert filled

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with sweet oases. Its memories, though sad, are sweet, and I would not banish them from my recollection.

I soon return to mingle with you again, to share your joys, to share your sorrows, as far as the joys and sorrows of others can be shared. From the bereavement which we have suffered may we learn the lessons it is designed to teach, and impressed with human frailty, impressed with the uncertainty of all things earthly, may we hold ourselves in readiness for any change to which the providence of God may call us.

Affectionately yours,
Augustine Hart