occurred not long after our burglary and which also terrified us boys, 

 was Princeton's only murder of which I ever heard. The victim, a 

 jeweller named Rowan, was killed from behind by blows of a club, the 

 body rifled of its keys and thrown over the brick wall which then en- 

 closed the cemetery on the Witherspoon Street side. The murderer, a 

 desperado from California, named Lewis, was caught in a few days and 

 taken to Trenton, where he was tried, convicted, and hanged. For my 

 brother Lenox and myself, the fear of Lewis, dead and buried, made 

 night hideous. In his Memories of a Soldier, my brother has recorded 

 the emotions which these crimes aroused in him. 



I find it hard to say much about the Civil War, for, until near its 

 end, I can remember but few of its events. What I do remember, was 

 the steady, unrelenting pressure, of the sense of a vast and unending 

 calamity. Among our friends and acquaintances almost every family 

 lived in deadly anxiety for some loved member in the Army or Navy, 

 or already mourned his loss. It was, I think, in 1864 that I had a dream 

 that the war was over and that peace had come. The sense of joyous 

 release and happiness brought by the dream, and the redescending of 

 the black pall when I again awoke to realities have taught me what the 

 war meant to a little child who dwelt in entire security among his own 

 people. 



I wish I might be able to give some adequate conception of the beau- 

 tiful and stimulating family life in my Grandfather's house. The young- 

 est son, Francis Blanchard Hodge, was in his last year at the Theolog- 

 ical Seminary and two of my Grandfather's nephews, William and 

 Edward Hodge of Philadelphia, were also in the Seminary and had their 

 rooms there, but took their meals with us. Richard Hunter, my Grand- 

 mother's nephew, was in college (Class of '64) but lived in our house. 

 My Aunts Katherine (always called "Kitty") and Sarah, young women 

 in their early twenties, my Mother and her three boys completed a 

 (mid-day) dinner table, at which sat seldom less than fourteen or fifteen 

 people and often more. 



It is easy enough to enumerate the factors that made up the family 

 life, what I cannot do is to restore the all-pervading atmosphere of the 

 house. A sincere, profound and vital religion was the inspiration of it 

 all, but, aside from the morning and evening family prayers, religion 

 was never intruded, rarely talked about, but always subconsciously felt. 

 The most unrestrained jollity and fun, wit and repartee, good-natured 

 banter, were perpetually going, but there was never any quarrelling, 

 gossip, or ill-natured talk, or detraction of any one. The war, politics, 



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