; UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

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George StJohn Sheffield

For the Grandchildren

JOHN J. PHELPS.

5Hjat fits femora mag ILifa foftjj tjjem.

CONTENTS.

PAGE
Marian's Letter from her Papa  7
Dr. Tyng's Discourse at the Funeral  35
Resolutions of some Corporate Bodies  49
Extracts from the Daily Press  55
Genealogy, from Marshall's "Ancestry of General
Grant"  67

MARIAN'S LETTER FROM HER PAPA.

MARIAN'S LETTER.

My dear little Daughter, —
TT is a rainy Sunday afternoon on the Jersey farm,
this sixteenth day of May, 1869. I am again tem
porarily in the old farm-house, where, early one morn
ing in September last, you opened your blue eyes
for the first time upon this pleasant earth. You were
our first and only daughter ; and mamma's heart and
mine were filled with great joy and gratitude to wel
come you. Grandpa was here then, and he was glad
too; and those beautiful but stern eyes, which you
will never see again, softened with tender interest and
affection as your faithful nurse placed you — such a
wee little mortal, but two hours old — in his great
arms, and you won your first kiss. Your mamma will
tell you of the last kiss. You were to leave town, and
come with Margaret here to the farm ; while mamma
and I were to stay with grandpa, that we might be
with him when he was baptized. The adieus had
been taken with that cheerful air of comparative in-

IO

difference with which he chose to conceal all feeling,
and escape a scene, and Margaret had gotten you to
the door, when, lifting his head, grandpa called out
(as if the propriety of a more conventional leave-
taking had suggested itself), "Bring her here, Mar
garet : I think I must kiss her." And that was the
last kiss ! The lips of the first and the third generation
met ! Age kissed Youth ! The Future and the Past
embraced ! The grandfather had parted with his little
grand-daughter for ever until the day of reunion on
the shining shore.
We buried him, Marian, only Friday last, — the day
before yesterday. May minutes never be to you such
days as these have been to me! Hour by hour has
memory taken in review the events of my life past, —
my childhood, youth, manhood, — all scenes associated
with his presence to counsel and support ; while anti
cipation has called up visions of maturity, age, death,
with all the varied cares and responsibilities of the
future to be met single-handed without his unerring
judgment, uncheered by his sympathy.
Thus have I been led, hour by hour, since the sunny
Wednesday morning which I shall tell you of, and
which will ever be the most momentous period of my
life. Through all these thoughts comes a strange yearning
toward you, my little daughter; a feeling of pity and

1 1

regret that you should never remember him, — that
all of your nearest ones should have, as a rich legacy,
the experience and knowledge of what he was, and
you be destitute of it. The affection and appreciation
which we all had for his great heart and mind, varied
naturally with the circumstances in which each found
himself placed toward him; yet each had some im
pression, which will be indelible, from your papa,
whose admiration grew every day, as his parts en
abled him more fully to appreciate the remarkable
qualities of his father, down to your fat little brother
Sheffield, whose noisy voice and nonchalant manner
were perceptibly changed as he came into grandpa's
presence and lingered about his chair.
You alone will know him only as a tradition; and
this thought has grown so painful to me, that I seize
these sacred moments, and the first respite that I have
had from the duties attendant upon his death and
burial, to tell you, while yet the impression is so
fresh, of his character, his career, and his death.
The time and place seem to me very suitable. I
write in the library, by its westward windows, and
look from them upon the grass, which is already long
enough to wave, under the blossoming branches of
the pear and peach and apple trees that cover the
slope. Except the servants in a distant part, grandma
and I are the only occupants of the old farm-house,

12

and she is by my side (as she has been every mo
ment since the one that widowed her), gazing upon
the blazing log, that crackles in the wide-throated
chimney-place. From the dining-room, whose stone
walls have seen four generations, comes the noisy
tick of the old clock, that, ticking first in 1739, will
tick away the lives of generations yet to come. It
ticked thus when you were born, at six o'clock on a
mild September morning; it ticked thus, when, at
eight o'clock, at breakfast, in the seat nearest it,
grandpa gave you that first kiss. So has it, so does
it, so long time will it, sing the old song, "For ever,
never; never, for ever."
Your grandpa was born, nearly sixty years ago, at
Simsbury, Conn. You will find the exact date in the
great family Bible, that is always on the stand in
grandma's bedroom, in the Madison- A venue home, —
Oct. 25, 1810; and, when you carefully turn the
leaves of the Family Record, to look further into that
epitome of all life, which strings, upon the triple cords
of Birth, Marriage, Death, all the later history of your
race, and note the items, — so full, to us older ones, of
hope and yet of heartbreak, — two entries should
catch your eye, last among the Births, — "Marian
Phelps, born, Sept. 10, 1868, at Englewood, N.J." It
is not in your papa's hand: in bold clear letters your
grandpa wrote it, and they were the last words he

L3
ever wrote. When, from mamma and brothers and
grandma, you have learned the deep affection we all
bore him, this will be to you a sweet pain, — the
thought that grandpa's thoughts were upon you, the
last time he held that ready pen ; that he chronicled
with it your advent into a world he was soon to leave,
then laid it by for ever.
And, turning further, you will find the last death, —
"John J. Phelps, died at New- York city, May 12, 1869,
aged 58 years 6 months and 17 days, at 219 Madi
son Avenue, at 6.52 a.m." "This is papa's writing,"
you will say; and, if you question when it was writ
ten, and wonder at the wavering characters in which
it was traced, remember, that, on that Wednesday
morning, when grandpa's eyes were just closed, and
grandpa's bosom was yet warm with the trace of the
soul that had just left it, in that dear presence his only
son made the chronicle of what was to him an an
guish of death worse than that he had just witnessed.
Grandpa was born at Simsbury, in the valley of the
Farmington. You have not been there yet, little one,
and have yet to discover the peace and quiet beauty
of that ancestral home. There are woods and moun
tains, and babbling streams, and the song of bird and
bee. There stand a large old wooden house, across
the road, and a stone house your grandpa built for
us, when he had amassed wealth in the city, and

H
sought freedom from the near presence of man, and
all glitter of ostentatious wealth; these are the " Bushy
Hill" of Simsbury, whose plain and unassuming
name peculiarly pleased his fancy. Here, in the
large wooden house, he was born; here he loved to
come and spend his summers; and, in the rural ceme
tery near it, he will repose till the last trump shall
sound. Cradled in luxury and wealth, remembering only
the surroundings of all her grandparents, my little
daughter must not be ashamed to remember that her
grandpa commenced life a poor boy. He was the
son of a New-England farmer, who taught him to
love honesty, country, and God. He could not give
grandpa fine clothes nor pocket-money nor an educa
tion at college; but he gave him all that he could,
and it was enough to make him a man so great and
good, that I shall be a proud and happy father, if,
with the aid of money and friends and university
education, your brothers shall become as useful, as
successful, as influential, by half.
His boyhood was one of toil, — school in winter,
farm-work in summer. Before he was twelve years
old, he followed the plow, among the rocks that held
the scanty soil of that mountainous farm, bare-footed
and bare-headed. And yet he throve, was a merry-
hearted, ruddy - faced, little urchin, who never

i5
whined over a lot that forced him to do a man's
task, while he was longing for a boy's play. In driv
ing through the two miles of forest that separate
Bushy Hill from the village church, your mamma
will point to one of its shadiest streaks, and tell you
that there grandpa plowed, and found his task pecu
liarly light, the soil being so much more tractable
than at adjoining farms. The poor boy had to plow
on many other acres; for your great-grandfather had
many sons, and it was his ambition to leave each one
his own tract. He found land not difficult to buy;
for, although his wealth was scanty, his credit was
unlimited; and the sturdy yeoman found himself the
bewildered possessor of six estates, before he had paid
for one, and to the Moloch of interest were sacrificed
the play-hours of the boys.
Far from home, in solitary clearings surrounded by
woods, as the little plow-boy turns his furrow, or eats
his frugal dinner under the shade of some chestnut-
tree, great thoughts commence to swell within him: —
it is the dawn of ambition filling his heart, with the
longing and unrest of those who strive for the mas-
tery. Solitude, care, and labor are forcing a prema
ture manhood upon the boy of thirteen summers, and
life in earnest is henceforth his. Always faithful to
duty, he still followed the plow, but with a heavy
heart. He thirsted for knowledge. To him, as to

i6

other New-England lads, college was the goal of all
his hopes. This desire was consuming him, and as
yet no chance of its gratification. He must win edu
cation by a struggle with the world.
His entreaties overcame the scruples of father and
mother; and, at fourteen, your grandpa was a prin
ter's apprentice in New Haven. His three years
there were full of achievement. There was home
sickness for the kiss of mother and the cheer of
brotherly companionship; and, at many a Sabbath
twilight, the growing lad walked beyond the limits
of the town, and gazed, with sad and tearful eyes,
homeward toward the Farmington valley. But he
never faltered, never lost sight of his object; and,
before he was sixteen, anonymous articles, placed by
the apprentice under the editor's door, were published
as the genuine " editorials." Jndustrious, obliging,
cheerful, frugal, the apprentice was soon a journey
man, a printer, an editor, a publisher.
At twenty-one, in partnership with Prentice (whose
wit subsequently made famous the " Louisville Jour
nal "), your grandfather edited the " Hartford Cou-
rant." The imprimatur of " Prentice & Phelps " can
be seen, in the older libraries, on many books of biog
raphy, poetry, and travel. While thus engaged, the
poet Whittier, then unknown to fame and winning
his education at the printing-press, was employed by

i7
grandpa: and, just here, I recall a striking feature of
his life. Ever mindful of the struggles of his own
ascent, he was constantly on the lookout for ingen
uous lads, whose efforts for education or position he
might aid. All thus struggling were to him like
brothers, and liberally aided with money and counsel.
He always watched their career; and his pride at
their triumphs was as the pride of a father in his sons.
This interest was heartily reciprocated by the youn
ger men, who looked up to him with a respect and
admiration rare at the present day.
It would seem that his dreams of ambition were
being rapidly realized. The farmer boy was direct
ing at early manhood the most influential press in his
native state. But he was not satisfied. He longed for
a wider field, for action, for a wealth that should spare
his children the sacrifices of poverty. In the romances
which he sometimes penned for his country circulation,
it is easy to see the influence which the metropolitan
splendor of a successful New- York life was gain
ing upon his imagination. His heroes were merchant
princes. Their mansions were rich with all the re
finement of European civilization. Paintings, statues,
books, all the appliances of art, exercised a soften
ing influence upon their homes; and, in the midst
of this material splendor, they ruled a household,
growing up in the practice of every New-England
3

i8

virtue, — integrity, charity, public* spirit, and patri
otism. With your grandfather, Marian, action immediately
followed conception. To believe that a capitalist had
more influence than a country editor was with him to
seek capital. He sells his newspaper, and sets out
afresh to make a fortune. He goes to a new country,
to a wild county of Pennsylvania. He offers his ser
vices to Col. Phinney, who there manufactures glass.
He enacts the scenes of Hogarth's Industrious Ap
prentice. He becomes a partner with his employer,
and marries his daughter. All this was at the little
village of Dundaff. There grandpa wooed and won
that dear little woman who is your grandma, and
whom you already love. Just as he strove to be the
best printer, the best editor, so now he strives to be
the most successful manufacturer. Yet did he never
forget his duties as a citizen. The local items of the
" Dundaff Journal " show grandpa -foremost in every
public work : now making the Fourth-of-July address,
now forming associations for sidewalk or other im
provements. But his spirit still chafed with the narrow limits of
his business. He sells out his interest at Dundaff,
and, with the profits, at last enters New York, and
in an humble way commences the business of his life.
His cousin, a young man from Simsbury, of the same

J9
age, joins him, and in a few years " Eno & Phelps "
are among the leading merchants of the city. I do
not need, my dear little daughter, to dwell upon the
circumstances of this business career. I have gath
ered, from the various newspapers of the last two
or three days, the main incidents in his life which
alone could interest an indifferent public. It is
enough for me to tell you that the incorruptible in
tegrity and surpassing ability which he brought to the
contest had their natural success; and before he was
forty years of age he retired from active business, all
his wishes gratified. I write of these things now to
impress upon you a recollection of these qualities
which we all need to imitate.
He was a strong man: to those who knew him
slightly, he might have seemed a hard man. Having
made up his mind as to the proper course, he was
indifferent to public comment. He did not despise
it: he was independent of it. He acted as one who,
constantly viewing a standard of dazzling light, is
blind to all others. Scrupulously upright in thought
and word and deed, he had little charity for him who
failed: especially could he never tolerate one who, in
any instance, had shown a lack of that mercantile
honor which it was his chief pride to possess. This was
a characteristic universally credited to him: hence
the frequency with which he was solicited to fill posi-

20

tions of large trust and honor. They who were fortu
nate enough to secure his services knew that his
conscience was his strong retreat, and would compel
him to administer the affairs of his trust as if they
were his own. A divided conscience, giving one set
of principles to public duties and another to private
duties, he knew not of. He had courage to do an
unpopular thing, and if he felt himself to be in the
right, no amount of popular odium or private persua
sion deterred him. His strict punctuality made him
always reliable. Reserved in his manner, dwelling
much with his own thoughts, he spoke no idle words;
and as he never uttered, so would he never encourage
a slander. His life was always strictly moral. His
refined nature loathed vice. It long seemed to me
that he was deterred from embracing the Christian
religion by the conduct of men called Christians,
whose notions of integrity seemed to him almost
criminality. In the end he yielded his heart in all
humility to Jesus; and one of those scenes which
ever remain in memory was his baptism by his ven
erable pastor, in the presence of grandma, your
mother, and me, only a few days before his death.
Any picture of your grandpa, however unambitious,
would be no likeness did it fail to exhibit that reserve
in the manifestation of feeling which enveloped and
colored the man. It was not Stoicism, for a Stoic

21
has no feeling: and, in this case, no one whose heart
was ever brought near his failed to recognize, through
all disguises, by some magnetic sympathy, the sur
passing tenderness and devotion of a reciprocated
affection. The few who received the treasure of that
love, never had word or look that proved it; and yet
they never doubted it. I think that neither Aunt Ada
nor I ever won one look or word of love from our
father; yet did we know from childhood that for us
he toiled and schemed and thought and prayed;
that our happiness was his happiness, and our welfare
the spring and motive of his career. For myself,
I can look back to infancy, boyhood, youth, early
manhood, and, through all the scenes of these varied
stages, recognize the shadow of his presence ever
with me; in them all, — school, college, political and
professional life, — I knew his eye was on me, his
watchful sympathy mine. In them all, through these
thirty years of life, was no declaration of sorrow
when defeat came to me, or of joy when success
crowned my efforts. He was an iron furnace, so
hermetically sealed that the sevenfold fire within
exhibited no gleam.
I never knew the philosophy of this strange reti
cence: probably the lonesome hours of boyhood on
the Simsbury hills, the more lonesome hours of the
fierce struggle he waged for wealth and position in

22

youth, aided in developing a natural tendency to this
self-restraint. I never doubted that the pride that
would avoid a ludicrous exposure was one motive.
He felt the danger of scenes — of excessive joy or
grief — did he give rein to his warm emotions, and,
fearful of excess, he repressed the normal flow. It
was something of the same modesty that induced
Coleridge's Genevieve to droop her head and press
to the bosom of her lover
" That he might rather feel than see
The swelling of her heart."
Once I saw his sorrow, once he told his love! —
Your Uncle Frank died a little boy. Your grandpa
and I, then a lad often, sat in an adjacent room, wait
ing for the rustle of the dark angel's wing. The
little breast heaved with the last breath; and, upon
the announcement that all was over, a mighty tremor
shook your grandpa's frame; he bowed his head, and
covered his eyes with his hand. Five minutes later,
he reproved me, the only boy left him, for some
remark that, to his quick test, exhibited moral cow
ardice, and neither voice nor eye revealed the history
of the hour. And he told his love, revealed his ap
preciation of my filial devotion, only in that pressure
of the hand, last Wednesday morning, when the last
effort of consciousness and last grain of strength
united in a supreme effort to tell a boundless love,
that with the effort died.

23
Remembering this excessive reserve of your grand
father, never, little daughter, hastily generalize that
feeling exists only where eye and tongue prove it.
Under many a cold exterior burns the fiercest heat.
There was a certain chivalry in this strong nature,
which lent it a charm, the more winning because un
consciously held. A woman, because she was a
wonlan, commanded his warmest respect, and was
welcome to any service he could render. This respect
alone, so ingrained was it, would, in the absence of
native refinement, of itself, have made him the pure
man he was.
He seemed to feel that there was a deal of disap
pointment and suffering in this world at the best,
and many to complain of it. This conviction made
strong the resolution within him, that it was man's
part, at every sacrifice, not to add to the general
wail. Hence the cheerfulness with which he met
misfortunes; the silence, which he never broke, touch
ing his infirmities. For the last four years, he knew
that his disease was with each day perceptibly short
ening his life, — and he loved life, the influence, the
honor it brought, — yet he never complained, never
admitted he was ill. To the last, as long as voice
lasted him, his cheerful answer always was, "Oh,
pretty well, I thank you." He went to his office as
long as he could walk; he drove, as long as he could

24
get into the carriage; he kept to his library, as long
as he could descend the stairs; sat in the sitting-room,
as long as he could sit, and died in the effort to rise
from his bed at his usual morning hour. Truly, —
" He suffered, and was strong."
To your father, the faces of those he loves are
always beautiful; so to me, your grandpa was strik
ingly handsome; and I believe he was so called by
others. The type was of the highest intellectual
order, his eyes in their depth and brilliancy were
wonderful. I think he never met one whose glance
did not fall before them, when roused by the contem
plation of a mean or cowardly act. Mr. Huntington's
portrait, which will hang in your grandma's sitting-
room, gives a beautiful likeness of the man, during
the last months of his illness, when his armor was laid
aside, and only gentle thoughts of home and friends
and love filled his soul. Of the face in its prime, we
have no painting or photograph that is satisfactory.
There is in Ary Scheffer's " Faust " (the picture where
the scholar listens to the final plea of his tempter) a
strong resemblance. A photograph of this hangs in
the parlor here at Teaneck. In figure, your grandpa
was tall, slim, erect, with a dignity of carriage that
always attracted notice. Strangers often inquired his
name, when he entered a room.

25
As may be assumed from what I have told you, his
friendships were few and ardent. He was civil to all
men; he loved few. His standard of right being so
high, few reached it. With many a pang known to
me, though unspoken, he would, as the years rolled by,
mark off from his cherished list one and another of
those who had succumbed to the temptation of the
day. The few who, resisting to the end, still wore
the white flower of an unsullied manhood, he loved
with a love passing that of woman.
It would be invidious to mention their names here;
but if they are spared, you will need the intelligence
of but a few years to select them, by the honor and
esteem in which your father will ever hold them.
Whether from appreciation of the value of such
friendship, or from a strange fascination that his na
ture exerted, all vied to do him favors without request,
or prospect of reward. I recall a playful remark of
my Uncle Sherman's, when your grandpa once told
him of- an act of great kindness done him by a selfish
churl, whom he had always treated with deserved
contempt: "If a man thought he could get a blow
from your father for doing him a service, he would
seek as eagerly for that blow, as for another man's
kiss." And now, my dear daughter, I approach the sad
moment to which I have often alluded.
4

26

Grandma and I were alone in the Madison-Avenue
house; only on the Monday previous, you and your
brothers, with mamma and nurse, had gone (where
you now are) to the sea-shore at Long Branch. Your
Aunt Ada is yet far away over the seas, at Beirout,
Syria; so that, of our family, only grandma and I
remained at home. Grandpa had been losing his
strength so gradually, that, as yet, there had descended
upon us none of that sorrow which belongs to the last
parting. We dared not look to a speedy issue; and,
while we saw him getting feebler and feebler, so
brave was his spirit, so cheerful were his words, we
failed to realize that he was about to enter the dark
valley. He was never confined to his bed. He re
tired punctually at ten o'clock, and rose punctually
at seven; and, although unable to dress himself, none
of us thought that the end was immediate.
Your papa went daily to his office; and, although
the shadow of the great parting was ever over him,
he had no thought but that there would be a period
of real and conventional illness, where the sick-bed,
and the quiet step of nurse, and the subdued voice and
tempered light, would suggest that at last it was a
sickness unto death. Alas! we did not sufficiently
recognize that iron will, which for months had kept
him in the street, the library, and finally in the sitting-
room; nor how by it he had nerved himself to a
strength beyond that of the body.

27
Tuesday morning, as he read his papers, seated
in his large chair, it struck me that, although the
mien was as undaunted and the eye as bright as
ever, he was perceptibly failing. Possibly the same
thought may have occurred to him; for, in that pecu
liarly gentle way in which he always made a request
that he thought for his sole benefit, he said, "You
will be up early this afternoon, boy?" he made me
understand that my presence would be pleasant to
him. That morning Rev. Dr. Tyng called, and had a
gratifying conversation with him. You will find
reference to it in the eloquent discourse he delivered
at the funeral exercises last Friday. I shall endeavor
to procure a copy of it, that you may read it with this,
and see that the Christian religion is just the same
need and comfort to the strong man as it is to the
frail, woman, and that thoae are
" Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure."
I came up early from the office, and found him
about the same, although breathing with less difficulty
than usual. He seemed truly glad to see me, but was
quiet and not disposed to talk. After a few moments'
delay, I commenced, as was my usual custom, the
reading of the evening papers. Practice, and my
knowledge of his taste and interests, enabled me gen-

28

erally, without hint from him, to cull that only which
would interest him. This night I was unsuccessful.
Several times I started some paragraph, sure of its
interesting him. " Not that, boy." I commenced
another, — "No." Another, — "Nevermind;" and
so the journal was quickly indexed and laid aside, —
laid by me very sorrowfully away.
It was a little incident only, this indifference to
the day's history, but it was full of a sad significance
to me; at last, his interest in the affairs of earth gave
its first sign of fading.
Possibly suspecting the cause of the silence that
ensued, he reminded me that I had spoken of taking
the open air in the garden; so thither I repaired, and
read, in the beginning of Lord Clarendon's life, the
portraits he draws so elaborately of the famous men
of his times, and how death garnered them one after
the other. After dinner, in the twilight, we talked in
a quiet, dreamy way, that suited well the hour; your
grandpa bearing a small part, but showing, by smile
or brief comment, his appreciation and enjoyment.
A faithful friend was wont to come and visit him at
this hour. Knowing him to be too weak for any fur
ther effort that day, and willing to spare him the pain
of denying himself the accustomed pleasure, I pro
posed to visit Mr. Bliss, to which he acceded.
Returning at nine o'clock, I found grandpa seated

29
on the end of Aunt Ada's lounge (it had been moved
from her chamber), his back supported by the wall,
and directly under Aunt Ada's portrait. He ques
tioned me about my call; and, while grandma and I
talked, he listened as before. Oh, could either ofthe
three have known that this was to be the last hour of
intercourse in this world, how much would we have
said ! But there was nothing to tell us that these were
the last hours of earthly communion; and with gleeful
words, because I was happy that he was so comfort
able as to anticipate a good night's rest, I wheeled
him from sitting-room to bed-room, and, with a cheer
ful " Good-night," left him, as I hoped, to pleasant
dreams. But he needed not to dream, when so soon a heav
enly reality was to dwarf all imaginings.
I slept soundly that night, and woke to find the
sunshine in my face, and grandma by my side. " Your
father is restless, and wants to get up and dress," she
said. " I have tried to dissuade him; but he says you
must come and help him up, for he is weary of his
bed." It was half-past six, that Wednesday morning. The
air, that' came, in at the open window, was never balm
ier, the May sunshine never brighter. I went imme
diately to his bedside. He seemed weak, but very
determined to rise.

3°
" You must help me, boy." So, with my assistance,
he sat upright on the edge of the bed, while grandma
sought to clothe him. His undergarments were ad
justed with difficulty: and again we urged him to
desist; but his will was firm as ever, and he insisted
that he would be dressed completely. There was
more delay: the stockings would not go on, and a
larger pair were sought. Finding himself growing
weak, he asked for his medicine. His faithful wife
prepared the draught; while, with difficulty, I poured
it through his uncertain lips, and resumed my position.
I was sitting on the bed, at its centre, while grandpa's
back was leaning, for its support, against my breast.
I had one arm carelessly about him. " Don't hold me
so closely, Walter." I dropped my hand, and watched
my mother, who, on her knees, vainly strove to en
close those icy feet. " Help her, boy; " and I left my
place, to assist her. As soon as I felt those limbs so
cold, so stiff, a sickening fear that perhaps the hour
had indeed come, shivered through my frame. He
saw it, quickly avoided my eye as I looked up, and
said, cheerfully, "I give it up: lay me down."
I laid him down. The inclination was not comfort
able: "Put me higher." I raised him higher yet
upon his pillows. " Will that do, father ? " — " Yes."
And he seemed to fall instantly into a gentle sleep.
I stepped to my dressing-room, when a cry of terror

3i
summoned me again to his side. I had not been ab
sent a minute, but what a fearful change ! A shadow
was descending over those beloved lineaments, —
the white cloud of death. So sudden! Can this be
death ?
In the agony and terror of the first discovery, your
dear grandma rushed wildly to the door to seek for
help. No human arm could avail; and I told her,
that, if this were indeed the end, grandpa would want,
of us in the house, none others beside him than wife
and son; and that brave little woman, whose heart
was breaking, took one of those dear hands, while I
held the other.
The death-shadow stood still for perhaps a minute.
My mother urged me to throw some covering over my
naked shoulders. "Just for a moment, father," said I,
uncertain if he yet heard, as I sought gently to dis
engage my hand. A clasp, warm and strong as that
of early manhood, held me fast. The eyes opened
with one glance of consciousness, and then fixed on
vacancy, as a deep, long breath travelled to the bot
tom of his chest; a sigh, as of comfort and peace, —
another, — and, after a long interval, another.
The sunshine streamed in at the open window, cov
ering the dead and the living alike with glory. John
nie's canary began his morning carol, and poured

32
forth from his little throat a flood of melody, as if mad
with song. The city's hum went on, unchanged out
side, while, in that room, the widow and orphan held
each a hand of the beloved dead. I glanced at the
clock: he had gone home at eight minutes before
seven. Twenty minutes before, I was sleeping, un
conscious of impending calamity.
We closed the blinds, and shut out the sun. The
days of our mourning were commenced.
Your mamma and brothers reached home, in the
early twilight, that same afternoon; and your papa
himself, meeting them at the door with a kiss of wel
come and no word, took both the little fellows by the
hand to the darkling room, where grandpa lay so cold
and silent and white. Neither Sheffield nor Johnnie
showed any fear; and, closing the door of the room
that I might be alone with them, I told them of grand
pa's death, of his love for them, and of our loss. I
told them that the hour would come when they
would so stand by their father's side; and that great
would be their anguish could they not look back and
find the consolation that I did then, in thinking that
no act of disobedience had ever given one moment's
pain to the dead who lay before me.
I need not tell you of the long, weary hours that
followed; of the gloom and silence in the house,

33
where the master lay dead : — this Sabbath afternoon
and evening are nearly spent, as I write, and I approach
the end of my task.
The funeral exercises were held Friday afternoon,
at St. George's church, where for twenty years grandpa
had been a devout and regular attendant. A few rel
atives and friends gathered previously at the house,
and, after prayer from Dr. Murray, accompanied the
remains to the church. The chancel of the church,
and the casket which held the precious form of your
grandpa, were decorated with white flowers in em
blematic forms, — the gifts, in many cases, of anony
mous donors, who thus delicately paid a last tribute
of gratitude to a benefactor.
Governor Morgan, Mr. Bliss, Mr. Chittenden, Mr.
John A. Stewart, Mr. Sloan, Mr. Dodge, Mr. I. N.
Phelps, and Mr. Taylor — all friends of twenty, and
some of forty years' standing — were the pall-bearers.
A little before sunset, we returned, to the home he
had built for us, without him. His earthly record
was made up.
The Sunday afternoon and evening are passed. I
have no time to write more, my dear daughter, of
him who has gone before. When you sometimes
enter the granite vault at Simsbury, where he will
lie, where will lie the hand that pens this, and think
5

34
that you too must come and take your place be
side us, let the dread of loneliness be softened by the
thought, that your place is not far from a grand
parent who would have died to save from stain the
honor of those who came after him.
Your affectionate father, W. W. P.

ADDRESS AT THE FUNERAL.

BY REV. STEPHEN H. TYNG, D.D.

ADDRESS.

"\ /TY FRIENDS, — An hour since found us occupied with
another solemn service of funeral commemoration in
this sacred place, the circumstances of which were far
different from those which meet us now.*
A lovely, youthful, Christian mother lay before us, with
her first-born infant in the same coffin by her side. She
was called in the very morning of life. The courts of the
Lord were filled with a crowd of youth, — literally "of boys
and girls in the temple," — united in the most earnest grief
and the tenderest sympathy and affection.
The one procession retiring, has met the other in its
approach to the same sacred place, for the same affecting
service. But how different is the present large assembly,
and how dissimilar the present object of affectionate interest
and respect ! I now stand before a congregation equally
numerous, composed of the mature and the aged; selected
from- the most influential walks of business and honour among
* Mrs. Caroline Pamela Therriot, wife of J. Alfred Therriot, aged 26.

3§
men. The general aspect is that of age, prosperity, and
large responsibility. And I speak to those who have strug
gled long with an earthly life, and generally with attain
ment and success.
The departed friend who is the object of this extensive
and cordial regard, was a man of mature life, just upon the
edge of decline in the multitude of years, who, by his
energy and faithfulness, had been made successful in life;
and, by his character and personal probity and power, had
won the universal confidence and regard of his associates.
They who compose this assembly have known him well
and known him long.
The former occasion to which I have referred suggested
the inspired words, " The flower fadeth : but the word of our
God shall stand for ever. And this is the word which by
the Gospel is preached unto you."
In the present assembly I am reminded of the words of
our Lord, "When a strong man armed keepeth his palace,
his goods are in peace : but when a stronger than he shall
come upon him, and overcome him, he taketh from him all
his armor wherein he trusted, and divideth his spoils."
In every aspect of his history and character, our departed
friend was truly " a strong man armed." And we now meet
him as this history is literally completed, and " a stronger
than he hath come upon him, and overcome him and spoiled
his house."
As you recall him in his outward physical aspect, he was
indeed " a strong man armed." His elevated and athletic
form moved among us, erect, tall, and vigorous, the type of

39
energy and power, until he was compelled to yield to the
superior power of disease, and by a stronger than himself
was overcome and spoiled.
That vigorous physical power was the fruit of his early
training among the hills of his New-England birthplace ;
of his life of order, temperance, and sobriety ; of his active
and industrious habits of personal exercise and self-control,
through his whole career. Prosperity in his experience, led
to no self-indulgence, and cultivated no wasting habits of
gratification or vice. And, until his last inevitable submis
sion to the power of disease, his whole experience has been
a life of unusual physical health.
In the qualities which marked his moral and mental
growth and action, he was also truly "a strong man armed."
There was in him a decision of character, a firmness of pur
pose, a strength of determination and will, which gave him
a remarkable vigor, in the patience of endurance, in the
tranquillity of earnest pursuit, and in the tenacity of an un
shrinking perseverance. Habitually considerate, meditative,
reserved, his calmness not unfrequently assumed the aspect
of severity ; and his restrained and serious habits of inter
course with others sometimes gave a repelling aspect to his
manners, as they appeared to those, who were little ac
quainted with his generous nature, or his true and upright
character. Thoroughly honest in himself, he scorned the
aspect of dishonesty in others. Completely assiduous and
employed in his own chosen pursuits, he had little patience
with what appeared to him merely shiftlessness or idleness.
Perhaps thoroughly successful in the business of earth, by

4o
his own energies and industry, he might have had little
sympathy with misfortune which seemed to be the result of
a deficiency in purpose, or effort, or self-control. But this
remarkable power of will and unwavering tenacity of pur
pose, gave to his intellectual discrimination and intelligence,
a controul, and deciding authority, over the conduct and opin
ions of others, which was equally remarkable. No one mis
trusted his aspect of uprightness. No one suspected him
of secret injustice or deception. And the supreme confi
dence of his associates was never withheld or restrained.
In his intellectual character he was also " a strong man
armed." Without the early opportunities of literary culti
vation, which in our country are so liberally enjoyed by
thousands ; compelled in the pursuit of his own fortunes
to educate himself on the road, and to make his reading fill
up what he could find of the interstices of occupation, — he
was still a man of wide and commanding understanding,
and furnished with an information upon all general subjects
of human thought,, which gave respectability to his personal
associations, and a very decided influence to his judgment
over the opinions of others. He was from youth, to the ex
tent of his opportunity, a man of reading ; and was famil
iarly and well informed, upon all the subjects of common
literary thought and conversation. His remarkable memory
made him a reference in the facts, and dates, and influences
of history, in which he would very rarely be found mis
taken. And his intelligence and information were adequate
to make him respected, and regarded, in all the associations
of cultivated life.

41
In the uprightness and purity of his moral character and
deportment also, he was "a strong man armed." His walk
among men was not only free from vice : it was positive
and manifest in active virtue, from the days of youth through
every period of his maturity ; in pureness and simplicity of
life, in restraint and abstinence from every questionable
shape of personal indulgence, and in all the outward virtues
which adorn the conduct of man in his social relations and
influences. He might stand among you all, and challenge
you to produce a single dishonoring accusation, or one
charge against him of failure in the most upright relations
of man to his fellow-men. The one subject perhaps of his
own pride was the unqualified consciousness of his own
moral uprightness and self-control.
Thus, my friends, has he appeared before you, truly " a
strong man armed," — armed with health and physical vigor
and power of endurance, — armed with persevering deter
mination and strength of will, — armed with strong powers
of mind and attainments of understanding, — armed with
unblemished morality of character and conduct.
They were the valued armor and ornaments of an earthly
life, — exalted, valued, but perishing. A stronger than he
has come upon him, and overcome him, and taken from him
all his armor and spoiled his goods. And the end of life,
and the whole of life, so far as these elements of human
esteem and glory are concerned, is here before you.
In illustration of this aggregate view of an earthly life,
we may trace the outline of his actual history. We see him
in his boyhood, when he left his father's house among the
6

42
hills of Connecticut, averse to the toils and prospects of a
farmer's life, — strong in that health and energy which the
bracing air of New England gives its children, and in that
habit of thought and purpose which its early training im
parts, — and at thirteen years of age walked to New Haven,
to seek the fortune of his life. There, as he wandered in
pursuit of employment, he entered without previous design
upon a printer's life, and rapidly acquired that art and trade.
While yet a youth, he assumed the department of weekly
editor, and prepared and published a country newspaper,
himself collecting, as well as printing, its variety of intelli
gence and matter of interest for his readers. With enlarging
views of possible attainment in life, in a few years he came
a young man to the city of New York ; still with the one
idea of a more extended employment in the line of his ac
quired art. His narrow quarters were in a partnership
occupation of a garret-room in Dey Street ; his only pos
session, that conscious vigor of body, of purpose, of in
tellect, which we have displayed. Enticed from the walks
of a limited literary life by the apparent openings of busi
ness and trade, we see him next among the mountains of
Pennsylvania engaged in manufactures, and acquiring that
practical information of the topography and mineral value
of the region then surrounding him, which laid the founda
tion of some of the large enterprises in which his later years
have been engaged. All this was while he was yet a youth ;
in his purity of character, in the midst of the temptations of
the city, a pattern to the youth by whom he was sur
rounded.

43
Again he returned to this city, and entered into the gen
eral engagements of a wholesale merchant. And here his
last thirty-five years of domestic peace and enjoyment, and
of public activity and success, have been since completed in
the midst of relations and associations in which he has com
manded and enjoyed universal confidence and respect.
In this period of his ripened success, the mental power of
his whole career has been peculiarly displayed in a life
of uncommon influence and force. His opinion, carefully
formed and decidedly expressed, had the force of authority
with his associates in business. No man commanded more
personal attention and respect. He was well informed on
all subjects ; and he was manifestly inferior in none.
He has departed in the fulness of his prosperity and re
nown ; before age had weakened his powers of thought or
action, or misfortune in any shape had visited his wide
spread interests in the varied objects of his life. The in
sidious power of consumption had laid him by for two years
past, retired from the active pursuits and anxieties of ab
sorbing business ; but not from the ability or the readiness
to impart to others his valuable advice and judgment.
Though retired from active life, he has been shut from the
outward air but a few days, and not in his bed a single one.
Suddenly at last the "strong man armed" has yielded to
the power of .one stronger than he, and lies here overcome
and unresisting in death.
From all this review of his history, I pass to another
aspect of still more interest and importance.
Twenty years have I known him well as an interested

44
and respectful hearer of my instructions as the pastor of this
church. There was no subject on which we conversed which
he did not discuss with ability and thought. His habits of
mind led to a sifting of religious teaching with determination
and independence. His mind was only to be led by real
conviction ; and, habitually inquiring and often objecting,
he was sometimes a severe antagonist. No man could be
an example of more earnest and reverent attention to the
public worship of God, or the official preaching of his word.
He was never among the careless or contemptuous listeners
to the ministry ofthe Gospel. His attendance was uniform,
and his deportment as uniformly serious and respectful,
though no deeper feeling than this had yet been allowed to
control him.
But his soul found at last a power stronger than he ; and
the " strong man armed " yielded the pride of his morality,
and the discussions of his intellect, to the teaching of the
Word and Spirit of God with submission and thankfulness.
His resistance to the controlling power of the truth in Jesus
ceased completely ; and he was subdued to an acceptance
of the grace of the Gospel like a little child.
Many months have passed in this course of my personal
conversations with him. I found him always open and
communicative, as the great subjects of his personal interest
in the Gospel were pressed upon his attention. At first he
was ready to throw our conversation into the shape of a dis
cussion of what he called "the New-England theology."
He reviewed the religious teaching and influence to which
he was accustomed in his youth, and suggested the objec-

45
tions which he had felt, and made, to the doctrines which he
supposed to have been taught. But he closed at last this
line of conversation with the remark, "I would not have
you think that I am in any degree sceptical, or disposed to
reject the Gospel. I am not ashamed to confess to you that
my mind and habits have been very much changed in rela
tion to this subject. I dismiss all questions and objections
now. I have some time since commenced the habit of con
stant secret prayer, and reading of the Scriptures carefully.
I have never given up the little prayers of my childhood
taught me by my mother. But I have now been for many
months earnestly praying upon my knees, and carefully
reading the Word of God."
In making this statement to me he was deeply affected,
and, covering his face with his handkerchief, he wept
much. From this time he never varied from this personal testi
mony of an entire change in his feelings and purposes in
regard to his own proposed religious stand and course.
At a later visit, after much earnest conversation, he said,
" I would not have you think that I have any ritual tenden
cies ; but my baptism was neglected in my childhood, and I
now desire to be baptized." I did not hesitate to comply
with this proposal. He said, " I cannot say any thing more
than I have said already. I trust in my Saviour in the spirit
of a little child. I have no objections to make. I receive
with thankfulness the Word of the living God."
On the first day of May, I baptized him in the presence of
his family. It was a most solemn and interesting scene in-

46
deed. He repeated the answers to the questions in the office
for Baptism in the most earnest and serious manner ; and as
I poured the water upon his head, according to the Lord's
command, he was deeply affected and impressed. His
whole aspect and all his subsequent conversations were
truly those of a child of God, and a true disciple of the Lord
Jesus. In this humble and earnest spirit of faith in the Word of
God, he made his open profession of his trust in the Lord
Jesus Christ, and was baptized as an acknowledged believer
and disciple of the Lord.
On Tuesday, the nth of May, I made him my last visit.
He was still sitting as usual in a large chair, which he
habitually occupied. He was extremely changed in aspect,
and evidently failing rapidly in strength. He could not
converse with freedom, and trembled much in a nervous
excitement, which was doubtless a natural attendant upon
this process of decay.
But he was still more earnestly desirous of religious
counsel than before ; and our conversation was most direct
and vital. At the close of our interview, I presented to him
the question of uniting with us in the Lord's Supper. To
this he assented with great thankfulness ; and we arranged
that on the day but one after, a few Christian friends should
be invited for the particular service which I had proposed.
In the conversation of this day, he said very solemnly
and earnestly, " I feel that it is a very cowardly thing to
postpone this outward profession of faith in a divine Saviour
to sickness and the end of life. But I have but a little while

47
more to live ; and I desire to testify my thankful faith in him
before I go. I much regret that I had not done it long
since." He was evidently very weak, and rapidly sinking ; but I
supposed he would arise again, and perhaps might yet live
for many weeks. He retired at night as comfortably as
usual. The next morning, Wednesday the I2th, he awoke early
and desired to sit up for a little time. He succeeded in
being partially dressed; and then, overcome with the
fatigue, he lay down again.
From that time he spoke no more. Raising his eyes up
ward, and extending his hands, one to her who had been
so much to him in the life now finishing its course, and the
other to his only son, — who we trust survives to perpetuate
this final example of his father's piety, — he breathed in
quietness for a few moments, and then peacefully departed.
All his characteristics were those of " a strong man
armed." Never off his guard, never yielding to mere
influence or authority in his view of duty, he was a man
to resist, calculate, and command ; but never to be over
ruled. As such, the Saviour found him with the power of
his Gospel. And as such, by this mightier power of his
own grace and truth, overcame him, and subdued him under
the dominion of his Spirit.
His intellect yielded with delight. His will submitted
with peace. His own self-confidence was cast away ; and
he found his salvation, freely and fully, in the love, the
power, and the righteousness of Jesus.

48
I appeal to you, my friends, to follow in the example of
his faith, and find your rest at the feet of the same Saviour.
You will excuse the earnestness of my appeal. I speak to
you in his name. He longed to make his own public pro
fession of his acceptance of Christ as his Lord, in the pres
ence of you all. He now speaks to you through me, from
his higher experience and attainment, in the very presence
of his Lord, to urge you, men of influence, of wealth and
power, to seek the same Saviour as your only shelter, and
to find your everlasting rest in him.

RESOLUTIONS OF CERTAIN CORPORATIONS.

RESOLUTIONS.

T^HE following Resolutions were passed by the Board of Man-
-*- agers of the Delaware, Lackawanna, and Western Railroad
Company : —
Resolved, That, with unfeigned sorrow and a deep sense of
privation, we have heard of the death of Mr. John Jay Phelps,
one of the earliest officers of this Company, and for many years
one of its most active and efficient managers.
Resolved, That it is due to the long and faithful services of
Mr. Phelps that this Board should officially take cognizance
of his death, and formally express their appreciation of the intel
ligence, care, fidelity, and conservative judgment which character
ized the discharge of his duties both as an officer and manager of
this Company ; and of the devotion with which, even in declining
health, he cherished the enterprise he had so largely contributed
to originate, and had so earnestly labored to promote.
Resolved, That this Board most earnestly sympathize with the
family of Mr. Phelps in their bereavement ; and that the Secre
tary be instructed to forward to them a certified copy of these
proceedings.

52

United-States Trust Co. op New York,
No. 49 Wall, corner William Street.
At a meeting of the Trustees of the United-States Trust Com
pany of New York, held on the third day of June, 1869, the fol
lowing Resolutions were unanimously adopted, to wit : —
Resolved, That the Trustees of the United-States Trust Com
pany sincerely deplore the death of their late associate John J.
Phelps, one of the original corporators of this Company, and from
its origin a member of its Executive Committee.
Resolved, That to the successful establishment and continued
prosperity of this Institution, Mr. Phelps greatly contributed by
his judgment, his sagacity, and his devotion to its interests.
Prompt in action and reliable in counsel, his services were always
at the command of the Company : with what fidelity and suc
cess they were rendered, the present position of the Company
attests. Resolved, That, while thus prizing the memory of our late
friend as an associate in this Board, we are not forgetful of his
other claims to our esteem and respect, and that, as a merchant
and a citizen, he was distinguished for his industry, integrity,
truthfulness, ability, and comprehensive views.
Resolved, That we tender to the family and relatives of the
deceased our respectful sympathy in the loss they have sustained,
and authorize our President and Secretary to communicate to
them a copy of these resolutions.
Wm. Darrow, John A. Stewart,
Secretary. President.
New York, June 4, 1869.

53

Extract from the Minutes of the National City Bank, of New York,
May 28, 1869.
"John J. Phelps, a prominent director of this Bank, having
departed this life, it is eminently proper that the death of one who
was so devoted to the interests of this Institution, so wise in
counsel, and conscientious in the discharge of his many and ardu
ous duties, should not pass unnoticed.
" Resolved, That, in the death of our late associate, the Direc
tors, as well as this Bank, have sustained a great and irreparable
loss ; that his great capacity, industry, and far-seeing wisdom,
united with unblemished integrity and moral worth, rendered
him invaluable as a member of our body.
" Resolved, That, while his well-earned and deserved success,
in the business of life, made him a bright example for the rising
generation, his high personal qualities endeared him to us, his
associates, by whom his memory will be long and sincerely cher
ished. " Resolved, That these Resolutions be entered in our Minutes,
as a permanent record of our esteem and affection."

54

Resolutions of a similar purport were adopted by the Far
mers' Loan and Trust Company, The Camden and Amboy Rail
road Company, The Cayuga and Susquehanna Railroad Company,
The Manhattan Gas-light Company, The Bleecker-Street Insti
tution for Savings, and other Corporations of which Mr. Phelps
was a manager.

EXTRACTS FROM NEWSPAPERS.

EXTRACTS.

{From the New- York Mail.)
TOHNJ. PHELPS.— Mr. John J. Phelps came to New York
** about forty years ago. He was a native of Connecticut, the
name being an abbreviation of Philips. The family had been
represented in this city by three distinct branches, all of which
had become rich and distinguished. George D. Phelps estab
lished a drug house of great eminence and profit, and was in all
points a very successful man. Anson G. Phelps commenced
making brass kettles about sixty years ago, and founded the great
concern how known as Phelps, Dodge, & Co. ; while John J.
Phelps built up at least three great dry-goods houses, whose his
tories are now perpetuated in the large and flourishing concerns of
S. B. Chittenden & Co., and George Bliss & Co. Anson G.
Phelps died about ten years ago, John J. Phelps died this week,
and George D. is the only survivor of the trio of famous mer
chants. The dry-goods trade, when John J. Phelps began it, was a very
different thing from the dry-goods trade of the present day, and
was located in a different part of the city. A mile and a half
below its present centre, it found quarters in the meanderings of
Pearl Street, where old dwelling-houses had been turned into
stores. Then came the great fire of 1S35, which destroyed about

58
twenty-five acres of these old buildings ; and in their place a new
array of splendid stores in due time appeared. They were then
the pride of New York, being from sixty to one hundred feet in
depth, and included the first floor and basement. The upper
floors were invariably devoted to another business, generally that
of importing dry goods. According to the custom of the trade,
the importer brought goods from Europe, and sold them to the
jobber on a credit of twelve months. The jobber sold to the
country trade on six months, and calculated to get his pay in time
to meet his long notes. A good jobbing store would bring a rent
of $1,500, and a firm of two or three active merchants would only
need a book-keeper, a porter, and an errand boy to assist in carry
ing on trade. To sell $300,000 per annum was considered a fair
business, and a few men who reached sales of a million failed
miserably and were a warning against excessive enterprise.
Such was the state of the dry-goods trade when John J. Phelps
commenced. He was a splendid-looking young fellow of twenty-
five, tall and active, with very striking features and large and
piercing black eyes. The young merchant met with immediate
success, and from that time till the day of his death made money.
The firm of Eno & Phelps became leaders in Pearl Street, and
soon had few successful rivals. At that early day there was little
trade west of Ohio and Michigan. There were no railroads, and
but one canal worthy of the name. New York was a small affair
compared with its present magnitude, containing but two men
worth a million of dollars. These men were Stephen Whitney
and John Jacob Astor. The Nestor of the dry-goods trade was
John Mason, who began as a tailor and ended as a rich merchant.
Eno & Phelps dissolved after ten years of copartnership. Each
commenced new firms, and these different branches are still in
successful operation. Each of these men took hold of real estate
and operated with great boldness.
It is sad to think that while so much business was done in that
street, so little money was made. Most of our Pearl-Street men

59
died poor. The jobbing trade was done under the worst risks of
the credit system, and it seemed that it could reach no enduring
prosperity. When such men as Arthur Tappan & Co., and their
successors, Bowen, McNamee, & Co., fail, and when such houses
as C. W. & J. T. Moore & Co., and Henry Smith & Townsend,
after forty years of trade, end in bankruptcy, it speaks badly for
the general chances. Hence it peculiarly illustrates the talent of
Eno & Phelps, that they made money where others lost. Another
fact shows the vigor of the concern; viz., the number of houses
which grew out of it. From Eno & Phelps have sprung Eno,
Mahony, & Co., Phelps, Chittenden, & Bliss, George Bliss & Co.,
Lee & Case, S. B. Chittenden & Co., &c, all of which proved
prosperous firms. The stamina of the parent house seems to
have been imparted to each of its offspring, and hence their sub
sequent success. We have no doubt that more money has been
made by Eno, Phelps, and their successors, than by any other
dry-goods house, except that of A. T. Stewart & Co. Mr. Phelps
is among the last of the old Pearl-Street merchants. The tradi
tions of that once famous centre of dry-goods interest will be soon
entirely forgotten ; and another generation will hardly credit the
story that silks, satins, broadcloths, sheetings, and fancy goods,
were once found in so remote and sequestered a spot as Pearl
Street.

6o

{From the Troy Times)
The late John J. Phelps was one ofthe largest owners of per
sonal property in this country. He and his friend Moses Taylor
were not ambitious of being numbered among our real-estate
lords. Their gains had been made in dealing with money, and
they preferred to keep them in that shape. They wished to have
their pecuniary resources ready for action at a moment's warning,
in order to seize any opportunity. Such active, resolute, nervous
men do not care to be troubled with the slow details of real es
tate. Mr. Phelps often claimed that real estate was forces shut
in a stronghold, while personal property was an army in the field.
There is a constitutional difference between such men as Phelps
and Taylor, who manage banks, trust companies, and railways,
and such as the Astors who simply hold to land. Mr. Astor's
life contrasted with such, is that of a mere vegetarian. It has
none of the excitement and glow of a great risk and great achieve
ment. To have confined Mr. Phelps to contracts with tenants
and house agents, would have been to coop the eagle.

6i

{From the Rochester Democrat)
The great men of Pearl Street, in its dry-goods importance,
were Arthur Tappan, Eno & Phelps, Greenway, Henry, & Co.,
&c. We know of but few dry-goods men who made any thing
in the long run, and the only millionnaires who graduated here
were Eno & Phelps. Arthur Tappan's store was almost opposite
Greenway, Henry, & Co. ; and the two were diametrically antago
nistic in principles. The former was an abolitionist, while the
latter had a large southern trade, and, of course, had southern
principles. Both failed ruinously, and now their mutual dislikes
are forgotten ; but thirty years ago the southern customers of
Greenway, Henry, & Co., used to gaze with angry eyes on the
headquarters of northern abolitionism. The Tappans were stern
men, and deeply imbued with Puritanical notions.
The firm of Eno & Phelps, to which we have referred, was the
most successful house in the street. The partners were two
Yankees, who combined very rare qualifications. They had fine
personal appearance and great gifts for business. Amos R. Eno
was a rare judge of goods and a first-rate purchaser, while John
J. Phelps was one of the best salesmen New York has ever seen.
After making about $200,000, which occupied the first fifteen
years of their commercial existence, they separated and formed
new houses, each of which prospered. Subsequently they became
operators in real estate and made enormous sums. Mr. Phelps
built some of the finest stores in the city, and, withdrawing to
Wall Street, subsequently gave his whole time and attention to
the management of railways, banks, trust companies, and other
public corporations, where his will was always the law.

62

{From the New- York Evening Express)
Death of John Jay Phelps. — John J. Phelps, one of our
most prominent citizens, died yesterday, at his residence in Madi
son Avenue, in the fifty-ninth year of his age. At the age of
twenty-five, he entered the dry-goods business, in connection with
his cousin, Amos R. Eno, and there laid the foundation of his
fortune. At the age of forty, he retired from business.
He was the founder of the Lackawanna and Western Railway ;
and acted as its president, without salary, until it was completed
and a success. He was the first man in this city that used free
stone as a building material. He was director of the Erie Rail
way until it was completed ; and received the thanks of the
Common Council for his services in that great enterprise. He
was, at various times, a director in the Manhattan Gaslight Com
pany, the Camden and Amboy Railroad, the Mercantile, City,
and Second National Banks, and the Bleecker-Street Savings
Bank. He was a prominent member of the Citizens' Associa
tion.

^

{From the New- York Evening Post.)
Funeral of Mr. John J. Phelps. — St. George's Church was
to-day the scene of two largely attended funerals. At half-past
one o'clock, the obsequies of Mrs. J. A. Therriott took place,
Rev. Dr. Tyng officiating. At three o'clock, the funeral service
was repeated over the remains of the late Mr. John J. Phelps ;
many of the attendants of the first funeral remaining to the second.
Rev. Dr. Tyng again officiated, and delivered an address, alluding
to the career and characteristics of the deceased. The pulpit and
font were decorated with flowers, and the chancel-steps strewn
with flowers and fragrant herbs. The choir sang the usual hymns
and anthems, and Handel's " I know that my Redeemer liveth."

64

{From the New- York Tribune)
The Will of John J. Phelps. — Bequests to Charitable
Institutions. — The will of the late John J. Phelps has been
admitted to probate, and below we print a list of the charitable
bequests contained therein. Mr. Phelps designated his son, Wil
liam Walter Phelps, his son-in-law, David Stuart Dodge, and his
friend George Bliss, as his executors. In the event of the death
of an executor, John A. Stewart is to become his successor ; and,
in the event of the death of a second, D. Willis James is to
become his successor.
After making munificent bequests to the members of his family,
and leaving legacies to his brothers, sisters, and nephews, the will
proceeds as follows : —
" I give and bequeath to my executors the sum of $10,000, in
trust, to pay one half thereof to the Treasurer of the American
Bible Society, incorporated in the State of New York, 1866 ; and
the other half to the Association for the Benefit of Colored Or
phans in New York, to be used for the purposes of the said chari
table societies.
" I give and bequeath to my executors, in trust, $10,000, to pay
one fourth thereof to the Protestant Episcopal Society for the Pro
motion of Evangelical Knowledge ; one fourth to the American
Church Missionary Society, incorporated by the State of New
York, in April, 1816 ; one fourth to the New- York Institution for
the Blind ; and the remaining fourth to the New- York Society for
the Relief of the Ruptured and Crippled, organized and incorpo
rated in the city of New York, 1S63 : each amount to be applied
to the benevolent uses and purposes of the society or institution
securing it, and under its direction.
"I give $3,000 to the Congregational Church in Simsbury,
Connecticut.

65
" I give $3,000 to St. Luke's Hospital in the city of New York,
and $5,000 to the Manhattan Eye and Ear Infirmary.
" I give and bequeath to my son, William Walter Phelps, the
sum of $50,000, in trust, to use the annual income of the same
for the interest and advantage of Yale College, in a manner which
to him shall seem wisest, during his natural life ; and, upon his
death, the said sum of $50,000 shall be paid to the said College,
for what use or purposes he shall direct."

GENEALOGY.

GENEALOGY.

{From Marshall's "Ancestry of General Grant")
' I "'HE late John J. Phelps, Esq., of New- York city, was
-*- descended from the pioneer William Phelps, in the follow
ing line : I. Mr. William Phelps ; II. Joseph, m. Hannah New
ton ; III. Joseph, born 1667, m. Mary Collier, Sarah Case, and
Mary Case ; IV. Ensign David, m. Abigail Pettibone ; V. Cap
tain David, b. 1773: m- Abigail, daughter of Edward Griswold;
VI. Alexander, m. Elizabeth Eno ; VII. John Jay Phelps.
Mr. Phelps was born at Simsbury, Conn., Oct. 25, 1810.
Leaving his father's roof at the early age. of thirteen years, he
commenced, without other resources than the brave spirit within
him, the battle of life. His career was varied, and uniformly
successful. Before his majority, in partnership with George D.
Prentice, Esq., he' edited a newspaper in Hartford. In early
manhood, he manufactured glass in Pennsylvania ; and made that
acquaintance with the coal-fields of the Lackawanna valley, which
was, afterward, so much a source of profit. At a later period, he
laid the foundation of his large fortune, as a wholesale merchant,
in the city of New York, where the name of Eno & Phelps is
still synonymous with all that is enviable in mercantile fame.
They dissolved after ten years' copartnership ; and each com
menced new firms, and these different branches are still in sue-

7o

cessful operation. Each of these men took hold of real estate,
and operated with great boldness.
Before he was forty, John J. Phelps had built a splendid block
on the site of old Grace Church, and another on that of the Park
Theatre. He also initiated that march of trade towards the north
side of the town, which has continued ever since. These opera
tions were equalled by those of his partner, Mr. Eno, who finished
by building the Fifth-Avenue Hotel. Mr. Phelps lived to see
greater changes in business than had previously occurred in an
ordinary lifetime. Instead of a first floor and basement, worth
$1,500 per year, he beheld marble palaces devoted to dry goods.
He also beheld great houses grow up, wielding immense capital,
and employing hundreds of clerks, paying from $10,000 to
$30,000 rent, and selling millions upon millions annually. He
saw the importing business merged into that of jobbing ; and
witnessed the removal of the combined trade, far up town, — so
much so, that it would be difficult to find a yard of calico or
broadcloth on sale within three quarters of a mile of Pearl Street.
As a director of the Erie Railway, Mr. Phelps received the
thanks of his adopted city, in a joint resolution of its legislative
boards. He was also, for a considerable period, identified with
the management of the Delaware, Lackawanna, and Western
Railway Company, which has become, of late years, a highly
prosperous incorporation. It has been created by the consolida
tion of other companies, of which the Ligetts-Gap Railroad Com
pany was the first organized ; and Mr. John J. Phelps was elected
its first President, in 1850, and held this office after it received the
corporate name of the " Lackawanna and Western Railroad Com
pany," when he resigned the presidency in 1853.
The name of the Company was again changed, about this time,
to the "Delaware, Lackawanna, and Western Railroad Com
pany," and Mr. Phelps remained in the Board of Managers until
November, 1863, during the period of the inauguration by the
Board, and successful execution of the project of connecting the

7i
Lackawanna coal-fields by railroad communication with the sea-
coast. Mr. John J. Phelps was the first to use freestone in the archi
tecture of New- York city ; and some of the finest edifices of
the metropolis are the product of his wealth and public spirit.
(James Lenox, Esq., was also one of the first to use freestone
for building purposes in New- York city.) His long connection
with the direction of the Mercantile, Second National, and City
Bank ; Camden and Amboy Railroad Company ; Manhattan
Gas-light Company ; Bleecker-Street Institution for Savings ; and
his many other public and private trusts, — are evidences of the
high esteem in which his judgment and fidelity were held among
his fellow-citizens.
The decease of Mr. John J. Phelps took place in the city of
New York, May 12, 1869. His remains will be conveyed to
Simsbury for interment. His will contained numerous bequests
to educational and charitable institutions.

THE END.

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for -thi founding i) "a Cctttgt bit/tii Colony"

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Gift of the

SHEFFIELD SCIENTIFIC SCHOOL