This letter is the twenty-first in the ‘Letters to Emily’ series. We are two-thirds done learning about the Johson family. There are twelve more letters to come taking us up to 1882. This letter was written by Betsey Elmer Johnson Wood. As mentioned in the forward to this letter in the prior article, Betsey was sent to the Columbus Lunatic Asylum for which she says she was a ‘prisoner’ for a little over a year. When you contrast this letter with the letters of her brothers Elmer and Josiah, it is a wonder they grew up in the same household. She obviously had spent a lot of time reading the Bible and has quite a vocabulary and learned how to spell. However, this could also be symptom of her obsessive behavior that sent her to the asylum. We will learn more about Betsey in a few letters.
My sister – Emily Johnson Dwight (1808-1886)
Sylvia – Sylvia Johnson Buell (1810-1857, Betsey and Emily’s sister
Juliette – Juliette Johnson Brittan (1813-1835), Betsey and Emily’s sister. After Juliette died, Betsey raised Juliette’s son, Julius.
Sylvester – Sylvester Wood – Betsey’s brother-in-law
Clarissa – Clarissa Johnson Taylor (1818-1885), Betsey and Emily’s sister. Clarissa would bear three daughters, one in 1857, another in 1859, and one more in 1860. All died at birth. Her last child, a daughter, Carrie was born in 1861, and would live until 1924.
Northfield April 12, 1857
My sister; my absent sister; mine in affection and con sanguinity; mine, and yet not mine; for ties are breaking; mortality is perishing; and link after link of the golden chain is broken, which no artist or mechanic can mend, no genius unite, nor physician save; for death insatiate, is still unconquered; still between the fall and the final restoration, whom Christ will finally conquer for the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death (1.Cor. 15; 25, 26) then will pure water of life proceed from the city of God, and Rev. 22,1,2, Rev.2, 7. Rev. 22,14 all be partaker of the tree, which is on either side of the river though it runs part one way and part another. Christ is the corner stone whom the builders disallowed; who connects the parts in one, though built of different materials and possessed of various gifts; yet who can all be partakers of His love. Though the workmanship be different, built by apostles and prophets, fashioned by God’s own perfect knowledge. PS. 133, 14-16. I have prefaced somewhat lengthy, to say another of our number is gone is dead yet lives; I trust lives with angels; beholds the face of the Father.
and, perhaps, our Father, whom she has so soon followed; for we are taught that there we shall know as we are known and that death is swallowed up in victory, and that the soul has a spiritual body fit for the mansion in which it lives after it has left its natural body. (1. Cor. 15, 38-44.) Sylvia is dead (John. 14,2,3) She died the eleventh of March, after a long, distressing illness, which emaciated her system and strength to its utmost. Twenty-two years ago, today (being Sunday and my birthday) was Juliette consigned to the grave in Strongsville while we were in Michigan; and on returning from meeting found Sylvester (my husband’s brother) at our house, who had arrived on a visit from New Brunswick) in our absence, and who is now dead. It was his last visit. Memory crowds recollections on my brain, too many, and serious, for transmission in a letter. Four years ago, also, five, too, I was imprisoned in the Columbus Lunatic Asylum, which belongs to the great State of Ohio, with a shield in the dust, uncovered, but not a defense. I am forty-five years old today. Few have been the days of my pilgrimage and though my lot has been cast in pleasant places, my poor health and extreme sensitiveness which folks call it is a bar to my enjoyment and seems at this age to be worse than ever; or, else it arises from a weakened state of my constitution, or, a morbid action of the system, or, a too over studious mind, perhaps all together. I can trace causes to effects and effects to cause, but the cause of my being I cannot trace. Did the hand of the Lord form me? Did he make me for a taunt? a show? Did His spirit garnish me? give me an immortal soul? (though not like others in its operations, I am told) to be shut up in itself, in its imaginary longing, in its deep seated convictions that god hath raised it up for a world] ? yet, too weak to break the bands which confine it ? too helpless to make its way where revelation and duty point? too fearful, lest sin destroy and overcome its efforts? too destitute of ballast to sail before the wind? too thinly shod to
step on briars? too uncertain of what it believes truth to proclaim it lest it commit an error? and, too, a
woman, helpless, in weakness when seeking instruction. When I think of the women of our country, who are falling by the thousands, after years of protracted suffering fatal and fearful as an epidemic, I feel to cry out, who will come to the help of the Lord, to the help of the Lord against the mighty? Could the courage of Jael the wife of Heber be revived to strike a blow, and level the barriers built around our country women by a false taste, which is weaving misery, a shroud, and a cure for a womb; which gives youth the weakness of age, and shortens age to middle life, even cutting down all classes without hope for the wisdom of the wise has perished; and in that day, saith the prophet, the bow of steel shall be broken;- the arm of the Lord shall triumph; the curse that rests upon the earth shall be removed; for what curse can rest more heavily on a people, than the present afflictive disease, called a uterus by physicians, but, by our maker, in His holy word, womb; which can yet be spoken with as much purity and heard with as much reverence as when the prophets wielded the pen of inspiration under Gods guidance. Who knows but this is the sin which has brought such a judgement: the neglecting to teach our children the purity of this great law, in its simple language, but garb it with false color, a sickly sentimentality; and who do gather, from vile sources, fictitious representation which are heart sickening for parents to contemplate, and, which, causes them to restrain their children from society, perhaps, too closely; but, I must stop I, too, am faulty. I, too, have anxiety to keep children from false instruction, without giving that instruction which awakened curiosity demands, and, which rightly given, would be a safeguard. What mother ever rightly imparted truth to a daughter, did not feel an increase of confidence bestowed on her by that child? but, again, I must stop. Clarissa gave birth to a daughter lately, which died. Your friends are well_ we are as usual.
Do write Truly Betsey E. J. Wood
The photo on the left is the home of John Wilson and his wife Hanna Chapin. It was built in 1843 on 84 acres. In the photo on the left, the home faces the road – Route 8. In 1912 Cyrus Eaton purchased the property and moved the house so that the front of the house faced to the West so that he could sit on the porch and watch the sun go down. The photo on the right is the house after Cyrus Eaton moved it.
The next letter is also written by Betsey. This is another letter that tells little about the family, but more of Betsey’s feelings and how she misses her husband.
