Some nine months after the death of sister Julia I was attacked with
rheumatic fever. It did not, however, as in her case, turn into typhoid.
My mother and husband were greatly alarmed, especially as Gen. John A.
Logan died of the same disease, during my illness. In the midst of her
distress my mother had a strange feeling that she could save my life by
an effort of will. She did not content herself with praying only, but
strongly opposed the administration of narcotics which the nurse in
attendance was only too ready to give me in order that she herself might
sleep. My mother determined that I should no longer be dosed with these.
She sat by my bedside one night till the small hours of the morning,
when I dropped off into a natural sleep. To her vigilance I probably owe
my life.
One morning while I lay very ill she went quietly into my husband’s
room, asking him to come down-stairs at once. He went immediately and
found the kitchen on fire, the Irish servant-women in a panic of alarm.
Seeing at a glance the cause of the trouble, he caught up the blazing
student-lamp and hurled it out into the snow. It was then an easy task
for him to scrape down the flames from the woodwork. All this was done
so quietly that I knew nothing of the matter.
The physician who attended me was Dr. Abraham Coles, the father of our
landlord. He was an excellent doctor and our very good friend. Doctor
Coles was an elderly man, large and heavy. He was still handsome, with a
wealth of hair that was almost white. The winter of 1886–87 was a very
severe one, the ground covered with ice. Mother made a little path to
the gate with the poker. She noticed with pleasure that Doctor Coles
walked in her little poker path.
She wrote many letters to my husband, as he attended to some of her
business affairs. In this correspondence she chronicles with
affectionate interest the doings of the Hall family, telling us also of
her own proceedings.
BOSTON, _June 8th, ’93_.
MY DEAR DAVID—, ... I telegraphed you to-day to send some
flowers for me to the Players’ Club for my dear friend, Edwin
Booth. If you have not done this before receiving this letter it
will be too late, as the service will be at 9 A.M. to-morrow in
N. Y., the burial to be here, the same evening, I suppose. You
will send me the bill....
241 BEACON ST., BOSTON,
_June 8th, 1896_.
MY DEAR DAVID,—I will do my best to copy a verse of the “Battle
Hymn” to-day, but, oh! I write, every day, until I fairly ache,
and it is mostly, or in great part, for other people’s pleasure
or benefit. I shall write to dear Flossy as soon as I can. Tell
her for me that I heard pleasant things about our dear Carrie
from Mrs. Sally Whitman, recently returned from a brief stay in
Paris.
Always your affect.