A Woman's Life-Work — Labors and Experiences of Laura S. Haviland. Laura S. Haviland
home." She was my own sister, who married my husband's brother, Daniel Haviland. He continued his remarks, by making suggestions as to the course we would feel it best to pursue about a burying-place for our little daughter, in case of a refusal of Friends to allow a plain marble slab, with her name and date of birth and death in their burying-ground; and suggested the corner of our orchard as a pleasant place, to which I assented. After spending half an hour in this conversation, he went out to his work. I prayed for my Savior's hand to lead me in whatever trial it was necessary for me to pass through.
Little did I think of the heavier stroke which was first to fall. A few days after this dream I was charging myself with being visionary; yet a few of these most impressive dreams, I believe, have been designed for our instruction. My husband was seized with a heavy cold, accompanied by a severe cough, that was increasing; yet he was able to be about the house and barn, giving directions, as to outdoor work, but nothing appeared alarming, when I was aroused by a startling dream of a coffin being brought into our front room by four men, of whom I inquired who was dead. The answer was, "A connection of yours." "I want to see him, for that coffin appears to be for a small man," was my reply. "He is a small man," was the rejoinder, "and you shall see him." Upon this, the closed coffin was brought to me, and I arose and followed the pall-bearers to the graveyard. As the people were standing around the open grave to see the coffin lowered, I saw a little child standing on the very edge of the grave opposite to me. I exclaimed, "Do take that child away, for it will cave into the grave after its father!" At that instant the light sand under its feet gave way, and, as it struck the coffin, the loud, hollow sound awoke me, trembling as with a fit of ague, and with the strong impression that I was soon to part with my beloved companion and infant daughter, although both were sweetly sleeping by my side. With this thrill through my whole being, I resorted to prayer for their restoration to health, if consistent with the divine will.
Although my husband had enjoyed good health a number of years, and had not for seven years previously called upon a physician, yet I now resolved to persuade him to call for one at once. As the clock struck four, and as I was leaving the bed to light the fire, my husband awoke, and said he had enjoyed the most refreshing sleep he had had since taking this cold, and felt so well he thought he soon should be rid of it. Whenever I spoke the chattering of my teeth revealed my agitation, and he expressed fear lest I should be ill from the hard chill. But little did he understand the upheavings of my troubled heart. Soon a severe paroxysm of coughing gave the opportunity to suggest the idea of sending for a physician. At length he consented, as he said, to please me, as he thought this cough would soon give way. But while I went to our boy's study room to awaken our son Harvey to go for the doctor, a severe pain in the region of the lungs was cutting every breath.
The doctor was soon with us, but he thought there were no discouraging symptoms apparent. I seat for Father Haviland, who also thought, as did the doctor, that I was unreasonably troubled; but during the following night he expressed doubts of recovery himself, and requested his will to be written, which was done. As his fever increased, great effort was made to control our feelings in his presence. At one time, as he awoke, he discovered fast-falling tears, and said: "Do not weep for me, my dear wife; remember those beautiful lines:
'God moves in mysterious way,
His wonders to perform.'
We are not to
'Judge the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face'
Our separation will be short at longest. Then we shall be reunited where there is no sorrow—no more dying—in that glorious home. Two days ago there seemed a little cloud; but prayer was answered, and the cloud was all removed. The overshadowing now is that of peace and love." He called for the children. Looking upon us all, he said, "O, how dear you all are to me!" Calling each by name, he gave advice and exhortations as none but a departing husband and father could leave with his family—a legacy more precious than all the golden treasures of earth. Then he added: "I want you, my dear children, to promise me that you will meet your father in heaven. Will you meet me there?" Taking our little babe in his hands, he kissed it and said, "Dear little Lavina will soon be with her father," and closed with the prayer: "O Lord, I commit my dear wife and children into thy bands. Thou art the widow's God, and a loving Father to fatherless children."
The words of the dying Christian, beginning
"What's that steals, that steals upon my frame?
Is it death-is it death?"
were sung by his bedside, and as the last line,
"All is well-all is well,"
was reached, he raised his hands, and repeated, "O, hallelujah to the Lamb!" Then, turning to me, he added, "My dear, I want these lines sung at my funeral." His last words were, "Come, Lord Jesus, thy servant is ready," and with a sweet smile his happy spirit was wafted home, March 13, 1845.
His disease was inflammatory erysipelas, at that time entirely new, and not understood by our physicians. It passed through our portion of the State, a sweeping epidemic, in the Spring of 1845, and proved fatal in most cases. My dear mother, who was with us during this week of sorrow, was taken home with the same disease, and in one week her happy spirit took its flight to God who gave it. She, too, left us hi the triumphs of faith. She had not left us an hour before brother Daniel came for me to go to his dying wife, as she was calling for mother, and he did not dare inform her that mother was dangerously ill. I took my little emaciated babe upon a pillow, and went to my dear sister, who was so soon to leave us. Her first query was, "How is our dear mother?"
"Mother is a happy spirit in heaven," was the reply, "and sister Phoebe will soon meet her there."
Her reply was: "It is well; but I had hoped to meet her once more in this world—yet we'll soon meet, to part no more forever. She soon followed brother Charles; but I trust we will all meet one day, an unbroken band. O how I wish I could see brother Ira!" an absent brother for whom she had often expressed great anxiety in regard to his spiritual and everlasting welfare.
The same burden of soul for the same brother had also rested on the heart of our sainted mother, whose funeral took place two days later. Within one week sister Phoebe died in peace. Here was the third wave of sorrow rolling over us.
From this house of mourning I was removed to my home with the same disease that had taken my husband and mother; and a number of our neighbors Were going the same way. My father and father-in-law thought me dangerously ill-chills and fever, with stricture of the lungs, that made respiration painful. They were very anxious to have the best help that could be obtained at once; "for," said father, "what is done for thee must be done quickly" I told him that every one who had been taken with this disease had died, as physicians of each school did not understand it. But I would return to my home, as they suggested; but felt most easy to trust myself with water treatment, and would like to take a shower-bath every two hours, and try that treatment twelve hours. This was done, and every bath brought relief to respiration, and my lungs became entirely free, though my neck and throat were still badly swollen and inflamed. Cold applications, frequently applied, soon overcame that difficulty, and in three days the disease seemed entirely conquered.
A relapse from taking cold, however, threw me into a stupor; but I was aroused by an expression of a neighbor, as he said: "She is not conscious, and never will be, unless something is done; and if she were a sister of mine a doctor would be here as soon as I could bring him."
"I will see if I can get an expression from her," said my brother
Harvey.
"If we can only learn mother's wish it shall be granted," said my anxious son Harvey.
As I heard their remarks a strong impression came over me that if I were placed in charge of a physician I should not live two days, but if I could tell them to shower my head and neck often I would recover. As I looked upon my anxious fatherless children around my bed I made an effort to speak, but my parched and swollen tongue could not for some time utter a word. The answer to earnest prayer came from Him who numbers even the