Is there a curse on those who would disturb Campbell’s grave?

 In 1891, civic-minded individuals from New Haven and West Haven erected a small monument to the memory of Adjutant William Campbell, just across the Post Road from present-day University of New Haven, and a short distance from where he was shot during the invasion of New Haven on July 5, 1779.  The unveiling of the monument was marked by a large gathering, a ceremony, speeches and patriotic music.  The area then adjacent to the gravesite was fairly unsettled, and the Post Road was more of a dirt lane through woods and pastureland.

In light of the considerable recent interest in the Adjutant Campbell gravesite, your historian wishes to offer some of the text from that ceremony.  This text offers significant insight into the sentiments and wishes of the citizens on that day.

From the “Introductory Address” by Simeon E. Baldwin, president of the New Haven Colony Historical Society: For more than a hundred years, this solitary field has been of peculiar interest to the citizens of New Haven. 

The third anniversary of the Declaration of Independence was marked on the shores and waters of Connecticut with the discharge of cannon and military display, but it was the fire and march of a hostile army.  When the day closed, our harbor was lit by the glare of troop-ships, and soon after midnight the alarm rang out from the bells of the churches.

The next morning by sunrise, the British were upon the beach by Savin Rock.  West Bridge had been taken up and their course was shaped for the Westville Road.  Crossing the hill, William Campbell, acting as adjutant of the Guards, rode forward to reconnoiter, and fell, mortally wounded, by the roadside, a few rods from where we are assembled. 

Here in the dead of night, they made his lonely grave, marked after fifty years by a rude stone, set up by one of the founders of the Historical Society, John W. Barber, but which has long since yielded to the touch of time.

And here now we come again, to place above his dust a more enduring monument and to consecrate this spot in perpetual memory of the brave days of old.

Adjutant Campbell fell here in the discharge of his duty to his king and country.  He fell also by the hand of one who was thus discharging his duty to his country—a country without a king.

He went to his death fresh from a generous act of kind humanity to the minister of the village church at West Haven.  His own merit had called him from the ranks in days when the British army was mainly officered by men whose commissions had been bought, not earned.  In the freshness of his youth, in the line of duty, in the front of battle, he fell in a foreign land, to sleep in a stranger’s grave.

The owners of this ground have given it to the Historical Society to keep as his burial place forever; and mainly by the good offices of his countrymen who live among us, it is to be marked by the granite boulder we are to unveil today.

Standing on this hill-top, with its matchless view of our beautiful city with its peaceful bay and encircling cliffs, we look across the valley to the lofty monument towering above East Rock, which commemorates the heroes of the Revolution and of three later wars; glad that so grand a memorial has been raised to our patriot dead; glad also that we live in an age which reverences bravery and humanity, both in friend and foe, and that here we can show that reverence by this solitary grave.

From the” Response on Behalf of the Historical Society” by John T. Blake:

“Blessed are the merciful!”  That simple and impressive epitaph is the irresistible appeal of this lonely tomb for reverence in the name of gratitude, of humanity and of religion.  As we read those words, the Founder of Christianity himself seems to be standing guard above it, and saying to all who approach in the spirit of enmity or of heedless desecration:

“Good friend, for Jesus’ sake, forbear

To dig the dust enclosed here!

Blest be the man that spares these stones,

And curst be he that moves these bones.”

Let us be ever mindful of the wishes of those Nineteenth Century West Haveners who came before us, and who now themselves are relegated to the pages of history.

What is a Father?

 Father’s Day originated as local celebration in 1910 in Spokane , Washington .  In 1924, President Calvin Coolidge supported the establishment of a national Father’s Day.  However, the gears of government often turn slowly, and it wasn’t until 1972 that the permanent national observance of Father’s Day was a reality.  This week, your historian defers to the late Chaplain Bob DuVall of the US Army’s 75th Infantry Division Veterans Association; Chaplain DuVall had some very touching thoughts concerning fatherhood:

 A father never feels worthy of the worship in a child’s eyes.  He is never quite the hero his daughter thinks; never quite the man his son believes him to be, and this worries him--sometimes.  So he works too hard to try to smooth the rough places in the road for those of his own who will follow him.

 A father gets angry when school grades are not as good as he thinks they ought to be.  So he scolds his son--though he knows it is the teacher’s fault.  A father gives his daughter away to another man who is not nearly good enough--so he can have grandchildren who are smarter than anybody’s.  A father makes bets with insurance companies about who will live the longest.  One day he loses--and the bet is paid off to those he leaves behind.

A father gives strength by sharing his strength, happiness by sharing his love. 

A father is someone who knows that giving makes living a pleasure and that thoughtfulness is the best measure of a man.

A father is neither an anchor to hold us back, nor a sail to take us there, but always a guiding light whose love shows us the way.

Whenever, wherever, however he is needed, a father is always there.

A father’s love is strong in its gentleness, gentle in its strength.  It helps you reach new heights of happiness, new depths of understanding, new dimensions of life.

Fathers have a knowledge of life and love not found in books, but in the heart.

There is no one like a father to care so completely, give so quietly, teach so gently, love so much.

I do not know where a father goes when he dies; but I have an idea that after a good rest, he will not just sit on a cloud and wait for the girl he loved and the children she bore.  He will be busy there too--repairing the streets, oiling the gates, fixing the stairs, smoothing the way.

Best Wishes to all those who uphold the honorable traditions of fatherhood