Two Centuries of New Milford Connecticut. Various

September he married, in Stratford, Abigail, daughter of Josiah and Alice (Canfield) Bassett, his first cousin, and, in a few days, returned with his bride to the little home on Second Hill. On this spot he lived until his death, February 29, 1796.

      This house was the home of his youngest son, Major Turrill, until his death in 1847. Among my very earliest recollections, is a visit to this old place. It was in 1846. I had just passed my fourth birthday, and spent my first day at school. So I, as the youngest of my name, was taken by my father to pay my respects to the oldest living member of my family. I think that this visit produced one of the most lasting impressions of my childhood. I can recall it now, sixty years after. At that time Major Turrill was seventy-eight years old. The large splint-bottomed chair in which he was seated had four enormous legs, seemingly six inches in diameter at least, the two in front continuing up to support the broad arms on which his hands reposed, the two behind extending far above his head. As he rested his head against the broad splint back, he produced the effect of a grand old gentleman in a rustic frame. Major Turrill was a broad-shouldered man of medium height, very upright even in his seventy-eighth year. He had a large, well-formed head and a strong face of a rather stern cast of countenance, while his hair, which was abundant, was steel gray rather than white. My father presented me to him as the youngest of the race, who had just commenced his life work by his first day at school. He called me to him and, placing a broad hand upon my head, said to my father, “A fine little lad,” then turning to me he said, “You must grow up as fine a man as your grandfather, and stand for your country as he stood for it.”

The marriage of Caleb and Abigail, descended as they were from some of the most important of the founder families (she, from the Baldwins, Bryans, Bruens, and Schells, he, from the Fitches, Pratts and Uffords, and both, from the Canfields, the Mallorys and the Cranes), was an event of great importance in Stratford and Milford; and, when it was known that Caleb was to take his bride to the new Plantation of the Weantinaug, the interest in the affair was much deepened. The conditions in those days were quite different from what they are at present. There were no parlor cars, nor honking autos to whisk the blushing bride, amid a shower of rice and old shoes, to the seclusion of the city hotel, there to hide her nuptial joys among the unknown multitude. So Caleb and Abigail were married in that pleasant Stratford home, she, surrounded by the friends of her girlhood, who, if the records are to be believed, were about the whole community, and he, supported by his three stalwart brothers and troops of cousins. A few days were passed in all the feasting and gayeties of the times, after which the young couple, surrounded by a band of the Stratford friends, started on their wedding journey. At the ferry across the “Great River,” they were bidden farewell on the Stratford bank, only to be received on the Milford shore by an equally enthusiastic band of Milford friends, and to be escorted to Caleb’s home in Milford. This was the founder home of Roger, and Caleb was the fourth generation to bring a bride to its shelter. His bride was a namesake of an earlier Abigail, who, ninety-nine years before, had come with her life mate to the then wilderness of Milford. Now, this second Abigail, this tenderly reared girl of scarce eighteen summers, was starting with her life mate, for another wilderness—the New Milford.

      After a short stay at the old Tyrrell home, the wedding journey was resumed, up the “Great River” to the Weantinaug country. The “house plenishing,” demanded by the customs of those days, had been furnished by Josiah Bassett, and had been securely packed in a stout boat to be rowed and poled up the river, this being, at that time, the only means of conveying heavy articles to the settlements above. The various animals necessary to farming, although scarce in the New plantations, were plentiful in the older ones; and, since Daniel Terrell was a man of “much substance,” as the records say, an abundant supply had been assembled at the usual starting place for the journey up the river to the “Cove,” just above Goodyear’s Island. On a bright September morning, surrounded by brothers and sisters from both families, and a large company of friends and relatives, the newly-married pair set forth.

      The accompanying friends went as far as the first “nooning,” somewhere below Derby. There, the last farewells were said, and Caleb, with his sweet girl wife on the pillion behind him, journeyed to their future home. They moved up the river, camping at night in some quiet nook, their boat, with their provisions and camp equipment, securely fastened to the river’s bank. The bright camp fires flashed out from under the dense foliage of the grand old primeval forests that lined the banks of the Great River, while this pair of children strolled in the deepening gloom, whispering their love, their plans and their hopes of happiness in their home in the wilderness. For four days they thus leisurely journeyed towards the cot on Second Hill, reaching the Cove about noon of the fifth day.

      By the mouth of the little brook that falls into the Cove, just at the foot of “Lovers’ Leap,” they made their last camp, while their boat was being unloaded and a more permanent camp

       FALLS BRIDGE AND THE GORGE

      established, for it would be several days before their belongings could be conveyed to their home. As the sun was sinking toward the cover of Green Pond and Candlewood Mountains, Caleb led his bride up the winding trail that mounts the southern face of the grand old cliffs of Falls Mountain to Waramaug’s Grave; and, from that sightly place, she had her first view of the beautiful Weantinaug Valley. Waramaug’s grave has ever been held an almost sacred spot by the descendants of Caleb and Abigail. In my early youth, on just such another September afternoon, I was taken by my father up this winding trail, and sitting on the grass by the side of those honored stones, was told the tale I have been relating, as each succeeding generation of the name had been told it before me.

      The wedding journey ended in that rough little home on Second Hill. There, the pair lived for fifty-eight years in happy wedlock; there, they reared a family of fourteen children (eleven sons and three daughters) of whom all came to manhood and womanhood; and, thence, in 1796, at nearly four score years, Caleb went to his eternal rest. Abigail survived him more than twenty years, in the full possession of all her faculties, and, at the extreme age of ninety-seven years, seven months, and eleven days, was laid beside the husband of her youth and the loving companion of so many years.

      A wonderful life was that of grandmother Abigail. She lived through four French and Indian wars, and two wars with England. She saw one son go to the last French war and return from the decisive battle on the Heights of Abraham. She saw six sons go to the Revolution, and, having faithfully performed their part in their country’s struggle—at the siege of Boston, in the battle of Long Island and White Plains, in the crossing of the Delaware and at Valley Forge with Washington, in the battles of Trenton, Saratoga, Princeton, Monmouth, and Germantown—return victorious and unscathed. She also saw Stephen and Isaac return from the successful and conclusive struggle at Yorktown. Finally she saw four of her grandsons return from the second contest with England.

      It would be hard to find in American history two more remarkable women than the two Abigails of the Tyrrell family. The first, Abigail Ufford, leaving a happy English home in Essex, braving the trials and privations of the American voyage of 1632, lived through the horrors of the Pequot War, and went with her young husband to found a primitive home in Milford. She stood among that company, which, under the umbrageous trees of Peter Prudden’s home lot, listened to the stately Ansantawa, as, plucking a branch from a tree and gathering a grassy clod from the earth, sticking the branch in the clod and sprinkling it with water from the Milford River, he waved it in the air, declaring that he “gave to them forever, the earth with all thereon, the air, and the waters above and below.” In this home, thus acquired, she lived for fifty-five years, rearing eleven children; saw her sons go to King Philip’s War; and saw them when they had reached man’s estate, start off with their loving helpmates, as their father had done before them, to found other homes—in Southold, in Newark, in Stratford, and in Woodbury. Ninety-nine years after, comes into that Milford home the second Abigail, to venture forth in her turn, like the first Abigail, into the wilderness.

NEW MILFORD IN THE WARS