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Note: higan 21 June 1861. Augustus died --- in Alexandria, Virginia, at age unknown. He married Julia Claire Chandler 31 July 1901 in Massachusetts. Julia was born 25 August 1873 in New York. She was the daughter of Harvey Chandler
Julia died --- in Alexandria, Virginia, at age unknown. Augustus married first Margaret Eugania Schnoor [1870-1897]. Margaret was the daughter of Maxmillian & Linda Shnoor of New Baltimore, Michigan. Augustus & Claire had children: Margaret [10 Apr. 1903- ], Chandler [10 Aug. 1905-28 Oct. 1920 drowned], twins: Louis Livingston & Clarence Chandler. Their daughter was Margaret who became a doctor. The family resided in Birmingham, Michigan & later in Alexandria, Virginia. Margaret never married.
Send email to preparer: kalamcc@AOL.com ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Augustus W. Ives found in:
Census Microfilm Records: Michigan, 1910
Age: 49
Gender: M
Race: W
Birthplace: MI
State: Michigan
County: WAYNE
Locale: 2-WD DETROIT
Series: T624
Roll: 680
Part: 1
Page: 32A
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1920 United States Federal Census
Ives, Augustus W
Age: 58 Year: 1920 Birthplace: Michigan Roll: T625_801 Race: White Page: 9A State: Michigan ED: 706 County: Wayne Image: 805 Township: Highland Park ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
1930 United States Federal Census
Ives, Augustus W
Age: 69 Year: 1930 Birthplace: Michigan Roll: T626_1016 Race: White Page: 4A State: Michigan ED: 9 County: Oakland Image: 0268 Township: Birmingham Relationship: Head :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
From: John Dodson [mailto:jwdtjq@goeaston.net]
Sent: Friday, September 30, 2005 10:54 AM
To: Leggett, David
Subject:
This is Agustus Wright Ives by L.T. Ives dated 1887.
David please let me know if you get the pics. John Dodson 410-490-1067
[JPG attached]
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LETTERS OF ELIZA SEAMAN LEGGETT TO HER GRANDSON AUGUSTUS WRIGHT IVES, 1888
April 1st 1888 Drayton Plains, Michigan - Sunday. [Eliza Seaman Leggett, (1815-1900), wife of Augustus Wright Leggett (1816-1885) to her grandson, Augustus Wright Ives (18??-?), son of her daughter, Margaret Wright Leggett, (1843-1928) and Lewis T. Ives, (1833-1894).
Dear Augustus,
I felt flattered last evening when you asked me to write for you some of the reminiscences that lie in my mind. I like to do this - it has ever seemed to me that if one of the two things, Memory or Hope, should be offered to me, as they used [to say] in those old days of legend, I should say, "Give me memory" - for with it lies all the wealth of life. Hope is the perfume of a flower; Memory is the seed - so dear mixed with bits of memory some thoughts that have come to me "in My Open Road" as old Sojourner Truth [(c.1797-1883); she was a fellow abolitionist and New York State native, who before adopting her now-famous moniker in 1843, was known first as Isabella (Dumont) as a slave, then Isabella Van Wagenen.] said of her book.
My Book of Life.
I start; don`t be annoyed if often I make long quotations from authors as they occur to me, for I love the poetry and feel ever grateful for their friendly companionship - thro the years of travel, as I am very close to my seventy-fourth year. I can recall with delight much of the pleasures of Hope - and with these recollections, comes the home in which I was born - the number at that time was 90 Beekman Street - this street was the only street of homes, I mean highly respectable ones, that was on the East side of Broadway, all the way from the Battery up to the Bowery - the other Wall Street that began opposite to the Trinity church in Broadway, being the grand street of business which I suppose is the case now in 1888 - holding as now the destiny of money fate to millions. Beekman Street in the day of my early childhood began at the East Side about the center of the Park where City Hall stands, and continued to Pearl Street. It was also cut through that Street to the East River then - the number was changed to 21 - which is its present number. It stands between Nassau and William Street. While we lived there, my father Doctor Valentine Seaman [(1770-1817)] built the house in the year _____ and the foundation stones were quarried from my [maternal] grandfather`s farm - called Grove Farm [on Throg`s Neck] then and now, the home of John Ferris, [(1733-1814)] who brot the stones to New York in his sloop. The house still stands, and within this year there was a project of tearing it down, but, upon examination, the whole building and foundation were found to be so good, that the idea was given up, a three story house with basement kitchen and very large attic with dormer windows in front and what was called a skittle [?] in the rear. From the first-floor there was a square of four walls that was lighted from a glass dome - this light coming quite to the kitchen stairs at the foot and also giving light to the garret by four square cuts so that this upper room with many lights was to the little girl a most attractive room - it being the place of general deposit for all the trunks, barrels of manuscripts, broken bits - a swing was suspended for the delight of children - a smoke room was there for meats, which were hung for winter use, being prepared for winter use, being prepared at home - a dark, soary room - but full of interests apart from the hams and beef - ghosts and such being in it and often dark corners under the eves [sic]; but amid the broken and retired bits of furniture the most attractive object was a high - oh! as high as the sky almost to the little girl - was a sort of closet opening with two doors and having two apartments - on one side in the top was screwed a very heavy ring from which was suspended the skeleton of a man, jointed so that by pulling a string all sorts of motions would follow, the jaws would open and crack, the fingers go into motion, and the feet and legs as nimble as when the form was clothed with flesh - and life informed the parts. Of course, this skeleton could not be removed, but in the other side was the frame of a boy said to be about 13 years when living - this was a specimen prepared in France, the veins were fixed with wax of the natural color. It was I was told a most perfect specimen - it was varnished so that it was in excellent condition. I loved the mute figure and would often get up alone in the garret, take it to the side of the room were the light would shine in the shutter at the back part of the house and talk and play with the nice little French boy. I did not know what it really meant - all the veins and stiff limbs. I only know that I did so enjoy getting to it. My mother [Anna (Ferris) Seaman, (1771-1854)] was very deaf; so she never could know by step or sound where I was, and altho this square open space thro the house, did not carry any sound from the little me yet I could hear everything even to voices in the kitchen as I was alone a great deal, sisters Marianna [(1810-1831)] and Anna [(1812-a. 1835)] at Boarding school. I had no companions so as I have said loved my skeleton boy, would drape it in such finery as I could get and take flowers from our beautiful garden and put in the stiff fingers - and so pass happy hours singing to it so much. This I tell thee of the garret - to me the most attractive place in the home - yes even more so than the kitchen, if that could be. Well what I liked - I loved. Yes, loved with a sort of heart love.
The garden was also place of delights and the two steps leading from the "Pat-all" was a fairy spot - the peach tree overhung the steps, and the tall white rose had grown so high as to reach the second story windows, great roses as large as Peonies, with a lovely blush in the center and so sweet. This we called "Mother`s Rose Bush;" it seemed to bloom so long - and with the red honey suckle beside it, that dropped its tiny trumpet blossom into the area below. It was all a charmed spot. How I did love to get the pretty fallen tubers and squeeze the clear drops of honey from it. Oh yes, memory keeps all the these treasures for me yet just as sweet now as then. On these two door steps as I learned to read pretty well very early I would get brother`s book of Campbell`s Poems, and I said, "Now I mean to learn by heart all of this." His pleasures of hope grew to be mine - and now I can remember parts not only of it - but those pathetic bits that constantly come with friendly greetings, in this the after math of the early crops - they were the lullabys of my children and the solace of many a sorrow. Soon after I came to live with Mortimer [her son, Mortimer Allen Leggett, (1837-1930), with whom she lived from 1885 to 1898, following the death of her husband in 1885] he said one evening at the table, "Mother recite to me the story of Kosiusko [Thaddeus Kosciusko (1746-1817), Polish hero, statesman, and general; served in American army during the Revolution; later failed to prevent Poland`s partition] from The Pleasures of Hope` [1799 poem by Scottish poet Thomas Campbell, (1777-1844)] as you used to when we were boys." That night when I was in bed many pages of the poem came and the next day I found all was so fresh - and I repeated it, with thoughts of the dear old spot in my early home. Now darling I am going from memory to recite to thee so try dear to think of thy grandmother as a little romantic child, so lonely except for the companionship she could get from bits that seemed to be a part of her soul, that for 70 years this has come to me with the memory of those twilight moments that made "The Pleasures of Hope" a reality, with the bloom of the beautiful rose bush - the coral honey suckle - the shadows of the peach tree:
Ah Summer`s eve when heaven`s etherial brow
Spans with high arch the glittering world below
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye
Where sunlight [lit?] summit mingles with the sky
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape shifting near (smiling)
Tis distance lends enchantment to the view
And robes the mountain in its azure hue
Thus with delight we linger to survey
The promised joys of life`s unmeasured way
They from afar each dim discovered scene
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been
And every form that Fancy can repair
From dark oblivion glows divinely there.
I will not go on, but only quote from memory as I said, to give my idea of the great importance of letting children come to know these ideal teachers, the poets, early in life - for like the little streams by which we have played, they can never be forgotten and come so often to refresh the toil of anxious thoughts like Angel whispers - did thee say too romantic as one travels toward the eighties. As I write, I think of two terms which in middle life seemed a little harsh - cruel perhaps - but now - in the sunset I grow to appreciate as beautiful - the words are - "Second Childhood," and "dotage." Second childhood, to feel that again comes to age with all the first joy of childhood memories which have grown green and flowering again - the cares of life have in great measures ceased to trouble - and to the weariness of the heat of the day age gives rest - nothing can give to the days of youth and earlier the high colors with which we clothe the pastimes and joys that hang in the halls of memory, the enchanting pictures - no painter`s brush - or poet`s fancy can paint the dreams that come to the soul of the old man - with that sort of mystical love which seems a prophesy.
Old age needs not pity, so well, ah so well, it knows that never again will the hard struggles of middle life - or the fierce sorrows of youth torture his midnight rest - often as I see the young covering some cruel smart, and smiling over a bitter grief - I think ah - so long, so long, before the peace comes - when a smile comes gaily - and is not a mask to hide the hurt. Yes, with my soul I pity youth, poets may sing its joys just as they like - It seems a lovely theme, but, an old man or an old woman knows, the many aches - of disappointments, from love or from money trouble, troubles kept secret under the mask so often worn - temptations that consume, pride that crushes, unnamed distresses - those skeletons in many a heart. Middle age grows a little stronger but not yet is the goal as with its success often comes that confidence that misleads, and the Golden Apples that hang so temptingly turn to ashes, the death of hope in middle life are wisped away in old age, and the seething seas grow calm.
Dotage is but a term for Love, tender pitying love, sees beyond, pets - and cares for the bruised children of life - and smiles in the fullness of faith that all will in time be pushed in the peace of Silver hairs - that "Silver lining" I may say to every cloud - and how the old can love and hope that something may be in store for the little ones of the oncoming men - how too they see the sweet results of much that was adverse - and blessings from many a past affliction - the lovely hymn, "Nearer My God to Thee" is a reality in the heart of the ancient - not that death is near, but we are nearer to the meaning of the laws of being and so rest, and if you like the term dote on the joys of life as we have known it, forgetting the sorrows or errors if we deem them such that lifted us up to better understanding - sometimes there seems death in life but - this is not dotage - this is the crumbling of atoms that made force- my father died when I was two years old - and how I have loved that ideal father - you know the Quakers did not deem it well to disturb the young mind by those lessons which might bewilder it and so did not teach them to pray in their religious meetings. It was a rare thing that any one appeared in prayer. Children were taught to be quiet, truthful loving, obedient - the Bible was not read in Friends` homes to the children. The elders read it often generally a chapter in the evening but not aloud - no books were used in meetings or worship which were generally silent - no not to say generally, but frequently so - but I, seeing mother read the Bible, said, "Mother, why can`t I read it too?" She said, "I am willing." (then I may have been thirteen years old) "but I think thee will hardly understand it." So I read but coming to mother with some question regarding Cain and Abel, she said - "read and what seems beyond thy comprehension - let it pass." So I let a greater part pass then and do yet. It was the belief among Friends that to every child born, there was hidden in the mystery of its being a certain portion of the Spirit of God, this is called the "Inner light" - this light as it was needed, revealed to everyone the nature of their duty from the little child and the parents tried in the light given to their more mature understanding to impress their children in the way of duty - they were kept apart - as much as they could be from any contaminating influence, that might lead astray - so it was I was not taught to pray. I went to a school near my home, at five years of age - and little girls of other denominations were there too; so one day little Harriet Hitchcock was telling how wicked it was not to say one`s prayers, the "inner nature" was wicked and I understood what that was - wickedness was a word I knew nothing of; sometimes mother would say, "That is wrong thee will make mischief" or some mild advice - so I asked the little preacher in school what wickedness meant; she said "One of the wickedest things in the world was [is] not to say your prayers." I told her I never said my prayers. My mother, who was the very best woman in the world, had never told me this. "Well, then," said the little girl, "You will go to hell. And that`s all about it." "Well, what was [is] hell?" Then I was instructed in the mysteries - and oh how I did feel. I was taught day by day parts of this prayer until I knew it by heart, but said the child, "You must get on your knees else the prayer won`t do you one bit of good." Now I was afraid to tell mother how I was being taught, and it hurt me, little as I was, to do anything secret from mother. Well, when I know it well, I tried to get on my knees at night but mother was always seeing how we went to bed, but as she could not hear I would slide down (I always slept with mother) and get thro as fast as I could, but I was unhappy; and I would go up to my little skeleton friend in the garret on seventh day, a holy day, and talk to it and cry sometimes. Still, I never failed to pray every night - have every night of my life since. I got a sort of mute sympathy from the little boy - and thus time passed. I loved my sister Marianna.
She was five years older than I was and went to West-Town Boarding School in or near Philadelphia, and one vacation she with myself was up in the small room off the hall in this home in Beekman Street. It was a lovely starlit evening - my prayer I said, "Our Father, who art in heaven," so I thought that was meant for little children whose fathers were dead and in heaven - Oh always I so yearned for my father. Mother always cried when I asked her to tell me something of my father, so I had no one to talk to much, but now this prayer was to that father in heaven; so this evening in the light only of the stars glittering, on my sister`s lap I put out my little arms toward heaven and said - "Oh sister, why can`t my father put out his arms to me when I say Our Father who art in heaven` - he knows how I love him." She said, "Dear it is thy heavenly father that hears thee." "Oh dear sister, can`t my father hear me and see me, when I put out my little arms?" "Come, dear," she said, "It is late, let us go down and see mother." Then she told mother and all that she said was, "Eliza is a dreamy child." And I sat at her feet and hid myself under her petticoat and felt ashamed, I did not know why. An ancient friend was stopping with mother. It was Yearly Meeting week and she said, "Friend Seaman, thee must watch that child, she is a peculiar child." Yes, mother replied, "I am afraid she is a little romantic!" So I cried softly and thought I must be wicked, because mother had said "I am afraid Eliza will be romantic." So it must be that I was wicked - then I cried harder and tho mother could not hear me she felt my sobs and she took me in her arms and said, "Thee is tired, let sister put thee to bed." Ah! my mother, thee never knew thy child. My love for my mother was worship - nothing less, no, no, mother never in her long life knew the soul of her child - always my deepest thought when I dared to tell her was met by an embrace and these words, "Thee is a dreamy child, thee must guard against this else thee will grow to be romantic." Now this word had come to have a dreadful significance to me. I had a cousin, William S. Ferris, [(?-?)] who was in the Lunatic Asylum - a religious mania, accompanied by a disappointment in love - and I would hear a great deal of how he raved and tore his hair so that he had to be put in a straight jacket - and watched by his keepers. I thought he got there by being romantic and I was wretched - "suppose and suppose" just as children do suppose. Again all the comfort I could get was from my little friend the skeleton that one "skeleton in the closet" was my dear "brother," so silent - a sphinx indeed, he kept my sorrows secret, very secret indeed.
Monday, April 2nd 1888. The Quakers were as they termed it, a peculiar people - this day I scarcely know what part they hold, history has told much, yet they are a body so differing from other religious people that many of the different sects will not admit their society to be other than a moral one having not the savor of Truth in it. I will tell thee something of their views and thee can gather as thee likes from history, the story of their beliefs. George Fox [(1624-1691)] was their founder in 1650 in England and was soon joined by George Keith, [(16??-17??] William Penn, [(1644-1718)] and Robert Barckly [Barclay, (1648-1690)] of [?- merely ends in mid-line]
"Thee" and "thy" originated with its founder as opposed to the custom of using the plural for one person - well, Augustus, thee can find the history of this peace loving people when thee likes in many books. [Thomas] Carlyle [(1795-1881)] says: "perhaps the most remarkable thing in modern history is not the Diet of Worms [1521], or still less the battle of Austerlitz [1805] or Waterloo [1815], Petersburgh [1864] or any other Battle; but an incident passed carefully over by most historians, and treated with some ridicule by others: namely George Fox making to himself a Suit of Leather, this man the first of the Quakers, and by trade a shoe maker, was one of those to whom under a ruder or purer form, the Divine Idea of the Universe is pleased to manifest itself; and across all the halls of ignorance and earthy degradation shine thro, in unspeakable awfulness, unspeakable beauty, on their souls; who therefore are rightly accounted prophets - God-professed; or even good as in some periods it has chanced. Sitting in his stall working on tanned hides, amid pincers, post horns, rosin, swine rubbish, and a nameless flood of rubbish, this youth had nevertheless a living spirit belonging to him; also an antique inspired volume, thro which as thro a window, it could look upward to discern its celestial home. The task of a daily pair of shoes, coupled even with some prospect of victuals, and honorable mastership in cordvainery and perhaps the post of third [?- merely ends in mid-line]
in his hundred, as the crown of long faithful serving was nowise satisfaction enough to such a mind: but ever, amid the pareing [sic] and hammering came tones from that far country, came splendors and tenors; for this poor cordvainer, as we have said was a man and the Temple of Immensity: wherein as man he had been sent to minister was full of holy mystery to him."
I will not copy more but turn to page 122 of "Sartor Resartus" and read the bit - chapter 1st, Book III - incidents in modern history:
[("The Tailor Retailored"), by Thomas Carlyle, is ostensibly an introduction to a strange history of clothing by the German Professor of Things in General, Diogenes Teufelsdrockh; its deeper concerns are social injustice, the right way of living in the world, and the large questions of faith and understanding.]
[American poet, John Greenleaf] Whittier [(1807-1892)] is full of the olden Quaker times and stories of their persecutions, also [American poet, Henry Wadsworth] Longfellow, [(1807-1882)] immortalizes them.
Why have I talked so much of the Quakers. Perhaps it is this, that today as always they are working quietly to reform the mistakes of the world, never asking help except from the members of their own society - who have as a body endorsed some measure for emancipation now, for the slave, and now the Freedman, the Indian, working for the growth of peace principles - arbitration, temperance, simplicity in living - truth in such places as it is needed, taking care of its own immediate society, its gospel love to all opposed to war - goodwill to all men. Mrs. [C.M.] Kirkland, a woman of some literary fame said to me at Roslyn, "I think the Quakers as a sect will die out, but the force of their principles will liberate the world." As a society or rather doctrine the Unitarians come nearest to the Quaker altho the latter have no paid ministry - all who feel that they have a message to give are allowed to do so.
I lived in Beekman Street until I was 14 years of age [c. 1829]. Father had built this home with the hope that mother would always live in it, but one Thomas H. [Haight] Leggett, [(1787-1867), son of Joseph Leggett, (1750-1833), who was brother of Thomas Leggett, (1755-1843)] he was a cousin to William H. [Haight] Leggett [(1789-1863), son of Thomas Leggett, (1755-1843)] thy [great] grandfather, built next door to us and digging for a second cellar, the executors of my father`s estate thought best to have the property valued and let Thomas [H.] Leggett buy it, which he did - a great mistake this, had we retained until to-day it is a very valuable piece of real estate and to-day is in such excellent condition. My father was the first person in New York City to have a cemented cistern - he was laughed at for so doing - it was very large and we were never without water. I remember once a woman walking a mile to get a pail full to wash a newborn baby in - such long droughts as we often had, think of the luxury of this great reservoir. When we were about to build the house at Mill Farm, Clintonville, Michigan - old grandpa Leggett [her husband Augustus Wright Leggett, (1815-1885)] asked me what especial thing I wanted. I said, "A very large cemented cistern" - now it is nearly forty years ago since the cistern was made - and until last fall it has never needed the least repair. I think the very best way to do anything is to do it exactly right, and so of Life in all the conditions of it. The meaning I wish to convey is that to do a thing right is following out the plan that is a part of nature`s laws. I love to study mathematics - in morals as well - so much for so much - balances, all that conveys the true meaning of science in any way.
April 4th 1888. Augustus thee will have to take what I write - as notes of days as they come to me - here as I think of it, I will tell how thee and [thy aunt] Blanche [her youngest child, Blanche Irving Leggett (Mrs. James Whittamore), (1860-1922)] helped to decorate the house in Winder St. or rather drape it at the time of Lincoln`s death - all available black had been used from the Cupola down to the basement. Looking out from the windows we saw the funniest appearance about the iron fence and thee and thy little aunt tying up all manner and color of strings - no matter what color tearing in shreds any bit of cloth from kitchen towels to old dusty bits found in the stable. When asked why you had done this you said, "The black was all used up and so you [I] had to take anything you [I] could find, just to show you [I] loved poor old Abraham Lincoln." How Detroit was shrouded that day - how men met each other and wept - and bare all nature, no deception it was sorrow. So pitiful to hear the bells toll, and the streets where the very poor lived - old tattered black drapes and aprons were hung out - the same true sorrow - the only one that was felt by all. When I came into the basement that morning your father was reading the paper - he did not speak - I said, "Lew, [her son-in-law Lewis T. Ives (1833-1894), husband of her daughter, Margaret Wright Leggett, (1843-1928)] what is the news?" Still he did not speak but looked at me so fiercely - and said in the strangest voice - "Abraham Lincoln is dead - shot by an assassin!" No breakfast was eaten that day.
April 10th 1888. I expect Augustus often to repeat myself in the books - I will often in the same book perhaps. Never mind, skip it when it is so. To-day I am thinking of my [maternal] grandfather John Ferris, [(1733-1814)] he died before I was born. I will leave a little blank so that you may among old papers find the dates you need. Grove Farm came into the family from the Hunt side of the house - you can find from William Ferris [(c.1759-?)] chronicles [unknown if these have survived] just when how, if I should begin to hunt up today I should make no headway in my book - my grandfather [Ferris] married Miannah Hunt [(c.1738-1809)]. My mother used to say that her name was Anna and that grandfather in his fondness called her MY Anna, and so the name came to be. I am quite inclined to think it was the case, as my Mother was named Anna and she said it was for her mother - well this My Anna - as I will call her - was a wonderful little person - in all ways that appertained to home rule - and excellent housekeeping. Many anecdotes are related of her bravery during the Revolutionary War, the old house [at Grove Farm] bears the marks of the British bullets. In this great generous mansion there are four kitchens upon the first floor in range with sitting or common room. To save time, you may know that everything in this home was on a most generous scale, large rooms, hall kitchens, from the sitting room that had its outlook over a
great stretch of farmland you saw the Long Island Sound. The first kitchen was next to this room - it also was very large. As we enter it from the back door of the sitting room a swing door, or a door very common in the old houses cut in two parts, the door could be closed to prevent children crawling out - and the upper to let in light and air - there was a pavement of stones for a distance outside the kitchens, these brot from the fields and adjusted as best as they could be, putting flat side upper most. The pump stood directly in front of the door perhaps 20 feet off, with a huge trough to which the horses were brot to drink and in which ducks, geese, and children delighted to dip into. Beside the door and its huge iron handle - which served also for a knocker - was a deep bay window, a seat in it, where, children also delighted to climb. A small passage continuing on nearby the front wall led into the greatest kitchen of all where, when I was young, old Delilah, Dilly for short, reined.
...Continued under the Notes for Augustus's second wife, Clare Chandler.
Note: 103 v. Dr. Augustus Wright Ives was born in Detroit, Wayne County, Mic
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