John Loftus Dalton

Father is dead

John Loftus Dalton died at his home in Pomeroy, at five-fifty last Monday evening. He was stricken with apoplexy at three o'clock in the afternoon and never regained consciousness, dying peacefully. His son John and his wife were the only relatives able to reach his bedside before dissolution came. His daughter, Mrs. Thos. O'Boyle of Clare, arrived a few hours after his death and his other daughter, Mrs. E.J. Masterson of Barnesville, Minn., came this morning. Mr. Dalton had been ill since last March, when hard labor and activity did not bring him the health and comfort that it was hope it would and gradually he failed, day by day and hour by hour, until the thread of life snapped and the soul went out. The strong, robust frame grew weaker and the keen eyes lost their brilliance. He told mother and we children and the neighbors that he would not live long, although he struggled bravely along and fought every atom of the ground with the inevitable fate that awaited him. His first illness came upon him when he overtaxed himself in the Union navy in the Civil War. The injury was permanent and every year it grew upon him until a quarter of a century ago his health began to deteriorate. For the past 26 years he suffered from sclerosis of the arteries which medical skill could not alleviate. It became only a question of time until the disease should conquer. When the final stroke came physicians worked heroically to save him, but could do nothing but prolong life a short time. Father O'Reilly, his pastor, reached his bedside in time to anoint him and prepare him for a happy release.

The funeral will be held at half-past ten o'clock Thursday morning, with solemn requiem high mass in St. Mary's Catholic church, Pomeroy. Rev. Fathers O'Reilly of Manson, Heelan of Fonda, and the Darcy of Clare, will officiate and the Manson choir will render the music. The internment will be in the Pomeroy Catholic cemetery.

Born near the town of Ballyhaunis in the county Mayo, Ireland, John Loftus Dalton lived the life of the average Irish peasant boy until he reached the age of twelve, getting what education he could in the schools of Ireland at that time. He would take the pittance of his tuition and a brick of turf to keep the schoolhouse fire going each day. When his father decided to emigrate to America, the little lad was left behind with his mother and a couple of sisters to fight the battle of life alone until the husband and father could earn enough for their passage to the land of the free, to education, to manhood and happiness. When he was twelve years old, they left the little cabin behind them and crossed the Atlantic in a sailing vessel, the voyage lasting six weeks. First they came to Chicago, and then to Kenosha, Wisc., which became their permanent home. There was no time for the boy to go to school It was work, and hard work for him to help his father and mother and the younger children. Hard work was his life work. He never shirked his duty and never faltered in his devotion to his parents, his first kind act when he had earned the money to buy then the nucleus of their homestead on the south shore of Silver Lake, Wisconsin, where his mother lived until her death two years ago at the age of eighty-six. Four years before the Civil War broke out, he went into the south and worked on "the levee" like thousands of other brawny Irishmen of that time. When the dark clouds of war overspread the country he espoused the cause of the Union and had to flee the south for his life. Arriving in Chicago, he enlisted in the Navy and was assigned to the gunboat Quichita, a river boat on which he remained during his enlistment. After the war was over he returned to Wisconsin, where on November 5, 1866 he married Margaret Boyle, a neighbor's daughter, whose parents had come from the same county in the little green isle of the sea. Their firstborn were twins, Alice and Joseph, the latter of whom died in his second year. Then Florence and later John was born and the little family circle, which has lasted for nearly thirty-eight years was formed. In 1875, father started for the west, the land of promise, to secure a home of his own. His destination was O'Neill City, Nebraska, where he expected to join Captain O'Neill's colony of Irishmen, but when he reached Pomeroy, he was weary of his journey and he settled on the farm which he lived upon until last spring. For thirty-three years he toiled and struggled and his reward was a competence but not rest. But he was happy and contented, always striving, always ambitious, and his home was always a hospitable refuge for the tired traveler and a beacon light for the neighbors for miles around. Father had the courage of a lion and the heart of a woman. He was intensely patriotic and loved his native land with a love that knew no deterioration, and many an Irish wayfarer has had his heart warmed by the eloquence of father and his splendid knowledge of the history of Ireland. He regarded the privilege of the ballot as one f the most sacred right of American citizenship and his political life was as clean as his other life. Poor, good kind old father! Calm and peaceful be your eternal sleep, and my God in his infinite mercy grant you eternal rest. It is hard to write these words and it seems almost impossible to do so for it is hard to realize that never again on earth will we hear his cheery greeting, feel the warm grasp of his hand and listen to his kindly advice and admonition. We children were children with him until the last and he advised and admonished us with the same loving interest in our maturity as he did when we were little children. He did not see the grown man and women, but, instead, the boy and girls of the days when he was young and his proud, pretty wife stood by his side to help him and be all that a good wife and mother could be. Yes, he is dead. For the first time the little family circle is broken, and oh, how sad it is for all of us! It seems only yesterday that we were all together on the old farm, working, studying, singing, visiting with the young people from near and far, and enjoying a good, wholesome, healthy country life. But it's sixteen years since the time we were all married within a year and left the old roof-tree never to return. Sixteen grandchildren have come since then and time has whitened the hair of their fathers and mother while "Grandpa" and "Grandma" have walked down to the parting place in the lane. The old home does not sing with laughter and song anymore. It is not home now, for the splendid, brave, brainy warm-hearted and impulsive Irishman who made it, is cold in death and there is sorrow all about.

Submitted by Constance Nash Nelson