Chapter II: Part 2

On the 8th of November--exactly one year after our marriage --your dear mother (then our sweet little Lizzie) was born. Not long after this, I was taken extremely ill with a fever, which lasted many, many weeks. My dear husband is now seen as the tender and devoted nurse. With my sisters, he watched beside me, with his own hands wringing out the flannels from strong, hot lotions, and applying them to my aching limbs, which gave relief (but that only momentary) when as hot as could be borne. No nurse could be procured. The few that were in the city had left from fright when the cholera made its appearance there that fall, and had not returned. But "grandpa" never wearied in attentions to his wife. After the violence of my disease had abated, and I was pronounced by my physicians "out of danger," I continued weak and in a bad state of health for months. Still, how thoughtful, how watchful and attentive he was! Often at night have I waked, and the first object that would meet my eyes would be my husband, walking to and fro with the baby in his arms, trying to hush her to sleep, lest she should disturb me.

For at least six months after my partial recovery my limbs had to be bandaged, to lessen the swelling. No one but he could do this properly. At night he would prepare the bandages, by rolling them tightly, and in the morning, immediately after returning from market, (that he might not lose time from business), he would go through with the tedious process of bandaging--meanwhile keeping up a cheerful conversation, which is so reviving to the invalid; and, after breakfast, he would return to my room, to bid me an affectionate adieu, before leaving for the store.

During this sorrowful year, my dear husband lost both of his sisters. Mrs. Wahrendorff died in November; Mrs. Kerr the May following. In this severe dispensation he derived comfort from the belief that they had exchanged this for a better world, for they both had a well-grounded hope in the merits of a crucified Redeemer; and, even while he mourned for his sisters, he was cheerful.

It is surprising how much real happiness we can have in the midst of trouble, when the heart is right; and it is surprising, too, how much real misery we can have in the midst of prosperity, when there is everything apparently to make life pleasant and blissful, when the heart is wrong.

You know the little song, "Kind words can never die." "Grandma" realizes to-day that they never do; nor kind looks either, nor good deeds. With the God of love, nothing is small. He stoops "to feed the young ravens when they cry," and yet there are men, (not many, I hope), who, from pride, selfishness, and ill-nature, imagine that, as "lords of creation," it is utterly beneath them to minister with their own hands to the sick and feeble, not even excepting the wife of their bosoms. Life is made up of little things. "A cup of cold water" from the hand of a loving, gentle, sympathizing friend, does more to alleviate suffering than rich gifts bestowed by the unfeeling and the proud; than many luxuries provided by the harsh and exacting.

I have first particularized, and then drawn a contrast, my dear children, that you may be the better able to see the beauty and excellency of true goodness; and that, like your grandfather, who has gone to reap the reward, through grace, of a well-spent life, you may be self-denying, gentle, loving, and kind.

Devotedly yours, GRANDMA.

Belmont, January, 1861.

Letter Seven

My Dear Grandchildren:

With a return of comparative good health, "grandma" is again enabled to resume her duties as housekeeper, and is daily seen, with "grandpa," presiding at their family board. Our sisters and brothers, with two young men from "the store," (who, from motives of economy, board with us), and our little daughter, who sits to the left of her father, in her baby dining-chair, constitute the family. How cheerful the scene, after months of sickness and anxiety! "Grandpa," at least, is radiant with happiness and good-humor. No unpleasant word or look is seen or heard during our family repast. Perhaps an awkward boy upsets his cup of coffee, but the quaint remark, "accidents will happen in the best regulated families," spoken with a native courtesy, rarely seen, restores his equilibrium; and thus peacefully, (in the main), day after day passes along, although many little perplexities and cares arise, such as every family are subject to, especially where there are sons just entering the dangerous and tempting paths of youth.

In my particular duties and unavoidable anxieties I had a warm and sympathizing friend, and a good counsellor, in the person of my precious husband. But I felt that I needed more than this to sustain me in the cares, and trials, and sorrows of life. And, besides, I carried about with me a troubled conscience. For, at the commencement of my illness, in the fall of 1832, I was perfectly aware of the approach of danger, and, as I took a look from this world into Eternity, all was dark and void, and the thought of having to meet death thus alarmed me. While a raging fever was fast making me wild, I drew the sheet up over my face, and said, "Let me be quiet." All was stilled, no sound being heard, save an occasional whisper from some loved one, (who was too anxious to be mute), and my own quick breathing, while my heart was struggling for communion with God. Vague as were my ideas of that glorious Being, I prayed that He might spare my life, promising, most solemnly, that if He should do so, I would, upon my recovery, turn my attention to the consideration of Divine Truth; that I would search the Scriptures, to know what they taught, and, should I be assured that the Bible contained a revelation from Heaven, I would, in the future, govern my life by its precepts and doctrines.

Weak and sinful as this prayer was, I believe the God of pity heard and answered it; for, notwithstanding my disinclination to the fulfilment of this vow, made under circumstances so appalling, He bore with me, but never allowed me to forget it. Every appearance of evil --and especially the return of the cholera in our midst the next fall --seemed to me, "like the fingers upon the wall," ready to write my doom. I often tried to become interested in reading the Bible, but that sacred book possessed no charm to me. I found it a hard and unpleasant task to read it at all. At length I summoned up courage to communicate my difficulties and fears to my husband. Prompt in action, he immediately purchased for me "Scott's Commentary," which, he said, would aid me in understanding the Bible; the want of which, he thought, was the reason I could feel no interest in it. He was right; for, before I had finished the book of Matthew, with the systematic and attentive reading of "the notes" and "practical observations," I was convinced that this was none other than the word of that great Being who had made and preserved me all the days of my life. This blessed book--which, hitherto, had been a sealed book to me--now seemed to glow with real life, and unwonted beauty! It was no difficult task for me then, hour after hour, to pore over its sacred pages.

Your grandfather, at this time, was only a nominal believer. He had not earnestly examined this all-important matter, and made it a personal one. Engrossed in business, young and healthy, he no doubt felt, like thousands of others, that there was time enough for him to attend to the interests of his soul, (which, to the natural heart, is insipid, if not distasteful); but, when he saw his wife so deeply interested, he did all he could to encourage her. He knelt with her at the bedside in secret prayer, conversed with her on the subject, went with her to church, and sympathized with her; until, as a reward, I truly believe, for all his kindness to me, at a time when I was ashamed of myself--ashamed to let anyone know (even him) that I felt the weight of unpardoned sin-God touched his heart as with a live coal from off His altar." So, hand and heart, we went together. Sweet is the memory of the ever-to-be-remembered day, when, "in the presence of men and of angels, we avouched the Lord JEHOVAH to be our God, the object of our supreme love and delight; the Lord Jesus Christ to be our Saviour from sin and death, our Prophet, Priest, and King; and the Holy Ghost, our Illuminator, Sanctifier, Comforter, and Guide;" when we gave ourselves away in "a covenant, never to be revoked, to be his willing servants forever, humbly believing that we had been redeemed, not with corruptible things, as silver and gold, but with the precious blood of the Son of God."

How different is the scene now presented at that fireside, where no God had heretofore been acknowledged! For, morning and evening, we surround the Throne of Grace; the Bible is read, a hymn sung, and that sweet voice, which we shall hear no more on earth, with a full confession of sin and unworthiness, humbly pleads with Him "in whom we live, and move, and have our being." A blessing is asked at our meals; preparations are made on Saturday for the holy Sabbath, that no unnecessary work may be done on that day, and servants are exhorted to improve its sacred hours.

After having dedicated ourselves to the service of the living God, we took our little Lizzie--the dearest, richest treasure of our heart and life--and presented her, in the solemn ordinance of baptism, to that Saviour who, when all earth, "took little children in his arms and blessed them," and there promised to pray with, and for her; to impart to her the knowledge of God's holy word, and to bring her up, not for this vain and perishing world, but for Heaven.

Now, my dear children, that I have given you a peep into the home and household of your grandparents, when your mamma was a little babe--before and after they became members of the Church--I will proceed, by telling you that, during that summer, (in July, 1834), your beloved grandfather met with another heavy bereavement, in the death of his father. None were then left of all that united and happy family circle, which caused the homestead to ring with mirth when "grandma," as a bride, first became a member of it, excepting his mother, his brother Edward, and himself. Deep sorrow pervaded our souls, most of all because, before this sad event, we had learned to feel, most keenly, the importance of a careful preparation for "the great change," which we do not know that his father ever made. But, (as I once heard a minister say at a funeral), "we will leave him where he left himself, in secret with his God," with the hope that he was enabled, by that grace which is rich in Christ Jesus, to "make his calling and election sure."

Life is made up of lights and shadows, and, before closing this letter, I will give you an account of a delightful little journey which we made early in September of that year.

Your mamma, who was then just twenty-two months old, was quite delicate, and we thought a little trip into the country would be of service to her; and her papa, having some business in Illinois that would cause an absence of ten or twelve days, concluded to hitch up our little barouche and take us with him. So we started, in fine style, on a beautiful morning--"grandpa," and "grandma," our little Lizzie; and her nurse--which, with a small trunk, a carpet-bag, and a little basket, containing some crackers, etc., for the baby, quite filled the carriage.

Ill tell you there is no such traveling these days of railroads and steam boats! Every body is in too great a hurry to stop and go slowly, as we did in our little barouche, trotting gently along across the prairies of Illinois. How balmy and bracing the air; how quiet the scene; how beautiful the prairies! Some four, some ten, some twenty miles in width--all covered with tall grasses and a profusion of large autumn flowers that waved in graceful undulations before the sweeping breeze. An apt representation of a gently swelling sea, upon whose dark green waves, nature had emptied her lap of richly varied blossoms. We traveled from twenty-five to thirty miles per day; starting early in the morning--while yet the dew glittered before the rising sun. We always took care to learn from our host, the distance and situation of the next good stopping place, where we might dine, and rest a few hours in the heat of the day, after which we would again "hitch up" and start refreshed and strengthened for our evening ride. What magnificent sunsets! How picturesque the woodland bordering of these beautiful prairies, with here and there an humble residence, and a cultivated field. We could not but lift our hearts in adoration and praise.

If God has made this world so fair, where sin and death abound, How beautiful, beyond compare, will Paradise be found.

On we went--passing occasionally through neat little villages, sometimes large towns, such as, Springfield and Jacksonville--until we reached Lewiston, where we spent the Sabbath and attended the village church. In the afternoon of the next day we went to Canton which was the end of our journey. And when "grandpa" had transacted his business there we turned our faces homeward.

The first day upon our return, we lost our way--then appeared clouds and mists, just enough rain falling, to make the high hills we had to climb, slippery and hard upon our poor horse, who manfully pulled away without flagging, until we found a shelter for the night; which, although a wretched one we were very thankful for. From this time, there is but a faint impression left upon my mind of our return, until within a few miles of Alton, when, as the sun was fast sinking into his glorious bed of cloud and fire (giving strong indications of an approaching storm), my anxious husband, after having made a strenuous but vain attempt to obtain a shelter for the night "whipped up" his jaded horse and pressed forward.

It grew dark rapidly. As we passed from the open prairie into the dense forest, we seemed to leave light and hope behind us--for cloud and tempest, lightning, and loud claps of thunder quickly succeeded. For awhile we could discern the road; at length, enveloped in total darkness, it was to be seen, only by the flashes of lightning, which, while it horrified our horse and ourselves, served to guide us and also to show us our danger, from the tall trees as they swung to and fro above and around us. About nine o'clock we discovered (as we thought) in the distance a light from a window, of which we were soon assured --and our fears allayed by hearing "the watch-dog's honest bark."

Next day we reached our snug little home, where we entertained the family with the incidents of our trip--its pleasures, hair-breadth escapes, &c. None were more delighted in that group than our sweet Lizzie, who brought the roses of the prairie home upon her little checks, which were more than a reward for a few untoward events of that delightful and long remembered journey.

Affectionately yours, GRANDMA.

Belmont, January, 1861

Letter Eight

My Dear Grandchildren:

There is a circumstance connected with the death of my father Charless, which I cannot pass over without omitting a very striking feature in the character of my husband, delineating his unselfishness, brotherly affection, and his strict sense of justice. I think his father had deferred making his will until his last illness. At any rate it was not until then that his son, Joseph, learned (from his brother-in-law, Mr. John Kerr), the contents of his father's will, which were, in substance, as follows: Joseph was to inherit all of his father's estate, excepting a lot of ground, fronting on Walnut street, of sixty feet, which was bequeathed to his mother. Thus his brother, Edward, was disinherited. Eliza Wahrendorff, the only child of your grandfather's sister, who afterwards became the wife of my brother, Taylor Blow, had, by the death of her parents, inherited a beautifully improved lot of sixty feet front, on Market street, which was the gift of Eliza's grandfather to her mother, Ann Charless. Edward Charless had unfortunately displeased his father; for, although he was a genial, honorable, and kind-hearted man, he had, in early life, contracted habits of dissipation, which clung to him through life, and which were very displeasing to his father. He had been married a number of years, too, but had no children. The information of Mr. Kerr, respecting the will of my husband's father, was anything but pleasing to him--for he loved his brother, and had a very tender regard for his feelings--and as much as he valued the love and approbation of his father, he could not enjoy it at the expense of his brother. He was very much worried, and seemed scarcely to know what to do. Finally he repaired to the bedside of his father, and, painful as it must have been to him, at such a time, he gently, but earnestly, expostulated with him on the subject. The old gentleman, for some time, persisted in saying, Joseph, you are my favorite son; you have a child, too; while Edward has none. I do not wish my property to be squandered, or to go out of my family: but always received the reply, father, you have but two children, do not, I beg you, make a difference between us, or something equivalent to that. At length he prevailed, and his father had a codicil added to his will, which made his brother an equal heir with himself, the property to come into their possession after the death of their mother, and should these brothers die, leaving no heirs, the estate should belong to his granddaughter, Eliza Wahrendorff. I am sure you will agree with me, dear boys, that your grandfather was right, but how seldom do we see an exhibition of such firm integrity among men, (even among brothers), of whom the poet truthfully says, "If self the wavering balance shake, it's rarely right adjusted."

In the winter of 1836 my husband paid a visit to the eastern cities, for the purpose of purchasing a stock of goods. Previous to this I had always accompanied him, so that, excepting the time he went for his sick brother, (Robert McCloud), to which I have alluded, we had never been separated. He was absent seven weeks, during which time he wrote me twenty-one letters, of which I will quote one entire, and give a few extracts from others, that you may read from his own pen.

"Steamboat Potosi, below Cincinnati, Jan. 1st, 1836.

"A happy new year to my dear Charlotte and to all my dear friends at home! I feel that I should be happy to spend today with you, but though absent, still, in spirit, I am with you, for my thoughts have dwelt all the morning with my dear friends in St. Louis. We left Louisville last night at seven o'clock and are now passing "Rising Sun," a village in Indiana, thirty-five miles below Cincinnati, which we hope to reach by dinner time. I saw no one in Louisville that we knew. Mr. B. was not there and I made no inquiries about his family, as I do not know his partner, Mr. G., and we remained there but a few hours. I read, this morning, the 46th chapter of Isaiah, and, from the fact of this being new years day, my mind has been carried to the goodness of God to usward, in granting all the blessings we enjoy:--His infinite greatness, wisdom and mercy. I feel greater reliance on the atonement of our divine Saviour, and a full assurance that if we are faithful unto the end, we shall reap a crown of immortality and be forever blessed by His presence. Let us then, dear Charlotte, endeavor to realize more than we ever yet have done the reality of eternal things, and fix our minds more on the attainment of the salvation, not only of our own souls, but of all those who are near and dear to us. Let us "seek first the kingdom," feeling assured that all things else will be given us that is best for us. I am satisfied that love to God will purify our souls, and make us better fitted for the trials of this world, and will ensure eternal happiness to us hereafter.

"I send you a kiss, which you must share with our dear little girl, not forgetting aunt Loo's share. When you write, let me know how the boys (my brothers Taylor and Wm.) get on at St. Charles, and the news generally of all the family."

CINCINNATI.

"I have just called on Dr. Drake and family, and find them very pleasant people. We stay here but a few hours, and leave for Wheeling, at 8 o'clock to-night. Remember me to mother, and to all our dear friends at home. Yours truly, JOS. CHARLESS."

This is a very characteristic letter, and I will take occasion here to acknowledge, with shame, that, with my ardent temperament, I was not always pleased with my husband's universal care, and love, and consideration of everybody, without a stronger expression of his feelings for me. When he presented me with a set of pearls, before our marriage, he brought two sets for me to select from, not being able himself to decide which was the prettiest. As soon as I expressed a preference, he handed that set to me, and the other to my sister, politely asking her acceptance of it. While I was pleased to see my sweet sister with a set of pearls, like mine, I would have been more pleased with his attention if it had been directed to me only; and often have I lost sight of his devotion to me--by every act of his life, not less in his love to those most dear to me, than in thousands of other ways--because he did not make a more marked difference in his acts, and bestow upon me, in words, a stronger expression of his love.

But I have lived long enough to find out what empty things words are: how poor and mean, compared with a life which, like "a living epistle, is known and read of all men."

"A happy New Year to my dear C., and all my dear friends," etc. His was a courtesy which sprung from the heart--which was seen alone with his wife in the cordial New Year's greeting, or at the fireside, with familiar loved ones there; that came from his pen, or flew upon the telegraph; a courtesy that carried soul with it, and made everyone feel the value of his friendship and love; not that which is the result of false teaching, or a false heart--to be put on, or put off, as it suits the place or the whim of its possessor.

But I promised to quote some extracts from other letters. Well, here is one: "I hope, dear Charlotte, you have taken care of your health in my absence, and that I shall have the happiness to see you yourself again. I pray the Lord to be merciful unto us, and grant that we may meet again, and that our hearts may once more be raised, with our voices, around our family altar, to Him who purchased us by His blood, and, as we hope, redeemed us unto a new life; and that His blessing may extend to all who are near and dear to us; that all our family may be united in serving the Lord fervently and affectionately."

Again he says: "I hope that, in the letters you have written, you have told me all about the business of the store, and house, and farm, and generally all the news of home, as I will not be able to receive an answer to this, or any of my subsequent letters from the east."

My husband made me his confidant. He did not think me so far beneath him as not to be able to understand, and to appreciate all that interested him--his "business," his "farm. At "the house" he ever considered me the head, while he relieved me of every possible care, by strict personal attention to all out-of-door work connected with housekeeping. This little farm to which he refers was his delight; for it served as recreation from the toils of mercantile life, and afforded him unalloyed pleasure. He was fond of flowers, of fruits, of trees, of meadows, and everything pertaining to country life. It was impossible for him to stand and look at others who were at work in the garden. He would throw off his coat, seize the spade or the hoe, and go to work himself with the most intense relish. Not the most minute little wild flower ever escaped his notice, or was ruthlessly trodden under foot; but, stooping down, he would take up the tiny thing, and hold it up for admiration, seeming to think that others could not but admire it as he did. Oh, my husband! how sweet and pure was your life! Tears fall as I think of thee.

Before this period in the history of your grandfather, we had exchanged our old residence for a very delightful one, near to his paternal home, on Market and Fifth streets. It had been built by Mr. and Mrs. Wahrendorff, for their own use; had a large yard, and every improvement necessary to make it second to none in the city. Here your dear mother passed seven years of her happy childhood, and still remembers what romps she used to have with her papa; how she would watch for him at the alley-gate, with hands full of snow-balls to pelt him with, and how he would catch her up in his arms, kiss her cheeks, plunge them into the snowbank, and then give her a fair chance to pay him back. She remembers what assistance he would render her in the very grave business of catching pigeons, by creeping up behind them, and sprinkling "a little fresh salt upon their tails." She has not forgotten the happy Christmas mornings, when old Santa Claus was sure to load her with presents; nor her school-girl parties, which would have been no parties at all without "papa" to make fun for them; and many other things, perhaps, which I never knew, or noticed, she could tell you. But "grandma" remembers some things, which, as she wants you to see "grandpa" just as he was, she will relate to you.

About this time, we had a dining-room waiter, who, one day, was such a luckless wight as to be very impertinent to me. He was an "exquisite," (in his way), although as black as the "ace of spades;" wore a stiff shirt collar, that looked snow-white, from the contrast, and combed his hair so nicely that it appeared as fleecy as zephyr-worsted. He had, however, a habit of going off, without anybody's knowing where, and staying a long time, neglecting his work, and provoking "grandma." Upon his return, when she would inquire where he had been, his answer invariably was, "To the barbers, ma'am"--accompanied by a bow, and an odoriferous compound of barbarous perfumes, presenting altogether such a ludicrous picture that I could not possibly avoid laughing; after which, of course, I would have to excuse him, with the mild injunction not to stay so long again. Anthony presumed upon this mode of treatment until it ceased to be amusing to me, when, with a good grace, I was enabled to administer a severe reproof, which he returned with the most unheard-of impudence. As soon as his master came in, I related the fact to him. In an instant, as Anthony was passing the dining-room door, my husband sprang at him--caught him by the collar, shook and twirled him around into the gallery, and pounded him with his bare fists to his heart's content. In this changing world, I do not know but that, in the course of time, you little Southerners may become fanatical abolitionists, and, losing sight, in the above case, of the cause of provocation, in your tenderness and sympathy for the slave, will attribute this unceremonious treatment of poor Anthony to the fact that he was one of those "colored unfortunates." Therefore, to set you right, at least, with regard to the character of your grandfather, I will give you another instance of his impulsiveness, which, perhaps, may be considered a flaw in the character of this singularly pure and noble man.

Some years after the circumstance related above, a young friend was living with us who had a hired white girl for a nurse. I soon discovered that she was an unprincipled, saucy girl; but she was smart enough to get on the "blind side" of this young mother, by nursing the babe (as she thought) admirably well. When I could no longer put up with her encroachments, I took the girl to one side, and laid down the law; whereupon the enraged creature was excessively impertinent. After finding that my dear little friend had not the moral courage to dismiss the girl (which she might have done, for I offered to take care of the baby myself until another could be procured), I suppressed my emotions, and bore it as well as I could. From reasons of consideration for my husband, who seemed much wearied that evening after returning home from business, I concluded not to consult him about what was best to be done until next morning, when, upon hearing the particulars of this little episode in domestic life, he arose in great haste, and so excited as scarcely to be able to get into his clothes. I begged him to be calm, but there was no calmness for him until he got hold of the girl, ran her down two flights of stairs, and out of the door into the street, having ordered her, in no very measured terms, never again to cross his threshold.

In the course of his whole life, I witnessed but one (or perhaps two) other instances of like impetuosity. They were rare, indeed, and always immediately followed, as in the cases above referred to, by his usual calmness and good humor, no trace being left of the storm within, save a subdued smile, which had in it more of shame than triumph. I have been told that, in his counting-room, he has occasionally produced a sensation by like demonstrations, caused, in every case, by the entrance of some person who, not knowing the stuff he was made of, would venture to make an attack upon the character of some friend of his; or, perhaps, would make a few insidious remarks, "just to put Mr. Charless on his guard." But the slanderous intruder would soon find out the quicker he was outside of the store the better for him, much to the astonishment, and amusement, too, of his partners and clerks, who, but for those rare flashes of temper, and an occasional "stirring up" of a milder sort among the boys in the store, could not be made to believe it possible that Mr. Charless could be otherwise than mild and genial as a sunbeam.

He was never known to resent, in this kind of way, any indignity shown to himself, which was rarely done by any one. Unfortunately, however, on one occasion, he gained the displeasure of an Irishman, (from whom he had borrowed some money), who was half lawyer, half money-broker. Standing with a group of gentlemen, in conversation about money matters, per centage, etc., your grandfather remarked that he had borrowed a certain amount from Mr. M., for a certain per cent., (naming it). One of the gentlemen asked, "Are you sure, Mr. Charless? for that was my money Mr. M. lent you, and he informed me that you were to pay him only so much," (naming the per cent., which happened to be less than that agreed upon). Mr. Charless, perceiving his faux pas, expressed a regret that he had so unwittingly mentioned what, it seemed, should have been kept secret; which was all he could do. Mr. M., of course, heard of it. He knew well that he could not revenge himself upon him who was the innocent cause of his exposure, in St. Louis; but in New York, where neither were so well known, he did all he could to injure Mr. Charless' reputation. The friends of the latter, having heard of Mr. M.'s unprincipled conduct, in insidiously striving to undermine the confidence reposed in him there, informed him of it, expecting that he would take some notice of the matter--which he did not do. They came again, and protested against his allowing that fellow to continue these aspersions. He smiled, and replied, I am not afraid of his doing me any harm; let him go on. He did go on, and after awhile he returned to St. Louis, when some mutual friend (poor Mr. M. still had friends among gentlemen) informed him that certain reports against Mr. Charless, which had reached St. Louis, as coming from him, were doing him considerable injury; not Mr. C, for he stood too high in the estimation of the community to be injured by slanderous reports of any kind whatever. Whereupon Mr. M. denied having made them, and expressed a determination to explain, and make the matter all right with Mr. Charless. For this purpose, one day, as the latter was passing a livery stable, where Mr. M. was waiting for his buggy to be brought out, he called to Mr. Charless, who passed along without noticing him. Again he called saying, Mr. Charless, I want to speak to you. Mr. Charless waved his hand back at him, and went on. Elevating his voice, said he, Do you refuse to speak to me, sir? Still a wave of the hand-nothing more. This was too much for the hot-headed gentleman. His raving and abuse attracted the attention of everybody about there to the hand, which still waved, as grandpa walked on, and said, too plainly to be mistaken, in its silent contempt, I cant lower myself by speaking to such a dirty fellow as you are.

Without a word or circumstance from your grandfather, it circulated from mouth to mouth, with considerable gusto; from which, I need not say, Mr. M. had the worst of it.

It has given me some pain, my dear children, to speak of these incidents; and, indeed, there are many things (some very sweet to me) that I feel constrained to write which I would gladly keep secret and sacred in my soul, but for a firm conviction that such a halo of light as has shone about my path, from the pure life of your beloved grandfather, should not be allowed to go out. And the faithful historian cannot give the light without the shadows.

Affectionately yours, GRANDMA.

Belmont, February, 1861.

Letter Nine

My Dear Grandchildren:

Before the fire companies were properly organized in St. Louis, or, perhaps, before there were any at all, I was perfectly miserable whenever a fire occurred, for grandpa would be sure to rush to the spot, and up, probably, to the most dangerous places on the tops of houses, or anywhere else, to assist in protecting life or property. Besides the fear that he might lose his life in this way, I felt considerable anxiety on account of his health; for, after these extraordinary exertions, he would return home nearly exhausted. No entreaties or arguments, in urging him to desist, had any weight, until he found that his services were no longer needed.

With this impetuosity of character, he possessed a large share of moral courage. He dared to do right, or what he deemed right, always, and that without display or fear, and entirely indifferent to the opinion of the world. With a modest estimate of himself was blended a quiet satisfaction in the discharge of duty. But not over-careful about what others did or did not do, or at all dictatorial, he cheerfully accorded to all what he claimed for himself, viz: independence of thought and action. No one was more willing to give advice, when asked; none more free from obtruding it uninvited. Thankfully and courteously he always received it, even when pressed upon him beyond what was proper; and although to some of it he might not give a second thought, perceiving at once its invalidity; yet he was too modest, and too polite to intimate the fact-leaving an impression upon the mind of the giver (without the slightest intention to deceive) that he had conferred a favor: which, indeed, by considering the kindness of the motive, he appreciated as such. This was the result of a profound respect for the opinions and feelings of his fellow-men, to whom he would listen patiently, even to the ignorant and the weak, meanwhile giving kind and considerate responses, causing them (no less than his equals) to feel satisfied with themselves and with him, whom each one, high and low, rich and poor, esteemed as his own particular friend: and all this without study, without an effort, because the offspring of a kind, generous, and appreciative nature.

A circumstance occurs to my mind, which, perhaps will give you an idea of your grandfathers kindness and consideration towards those in the humbler walks of life: One morning a plain, honest looking youth, from whom he had purchased some marketing, accompanied him to the house, for the purpose of bringing it. They went into the kitchen together, to warm and dry themselves, and when, in a few moments afterwards, breakfast was announced, grandpa asked me to have a plate placed for the lad; to which I demurred, inquiring if I had not better send breakfast to the kitchen for him? He replied, No. The golden rule directs us to do unto others as we would they should do unto us. Whereupon an argument ensued, I insisting that, according to that rule, his breakfast should be sent out, as I had no doubt that the boy would feel more at ease, and would enjoy his breakfast more in the kitchen than he would at our table. Fixing his eyes upon me, with that kind but reproving expression which was characteristic of him, he said: Charlotte, if we were to stop at the house of that young mans father, I doubt not but that he would give us the best place, and the best of everything he has. Even this did not convince me; when, with his usual dislike to argument, and with that conciliatory kindness which ever marked his intercourse with his family, he yielded the point, gracefully, as though it was a matter of little consequence, so that the young man was only well provided for; but not without a mild, and well-merited reproof, in which he playfully reminded me of my Virginia pride.

And thus it ever was, my dear children, with your honored grandfather. Firm in principle-kind in action; but most kind to those who had the first and highest claim upon him. Never afraid of compromising his dignity or position as head of his family, he always retained it unabated. How unlike some men, who, by attempting to maintain their rights by an overbearing, arbitrary manner, and harsh and unbecoming words, evince a weakness which makes them contemptible, if not in the estimation of the wife and children, at least so in that of others, who plainly discern that littleness, in some shape or other, and not manly dignity and good sense, places them in their unenviable position of master of my own house.

And yet how much do I regret, now, when it is too late to remedy it, that I did not, readily and cheerfully, accede to every wish of this dear friend, whose truly consistent and beautiful character shone out most clearly at home. How much do I regret now, that I should have allowed his few little foibles to annoy me. The greatest of these, and the one that caused more unpleasant words between us than any and all things else, was his carelessness in dress. I do not know that I am scrupulously neat, but I did pride myself in the personal appearance of my husband, which was sometimes seriously marred by an unshaved beard or a soiled shirt. We were once traveling on a steamboat, and, standing on the guards, I discovered him on the wheel-house, and called to him to come to me. A lady asked if that old gentleman was my husband, and said: You look so young, I am surprised that you should have married so old a man. She seemed to be an unoffending, simple-hearted woman, such as we frequently meet in traveling, and I replied, with a smile, He suits me very well, maam; but made use of the earliest opportunity to tell him of it-really taking pleasure in doing so-for I had often expressed my own views on that subject, assuring him that he looked at least twenty years older when he neglected to dress with care, especially if he had not shaved.

Next morning he paid particular attention to making his toilet, declaring it to be his intention to create a sensation, which he certainly succeeded in doing, much to our mutual amusement; for the same lady, eyeing him closely at breakfast; expressed to me afterwards her amazement at the change, giving it as her opinion, that he was the handsomest young gentleman she had ever seen.

I went too boldly to work in trying to correct his careless habits in dress. I formed an idea that it was my duty and my privilege, not only to attend to my husbands wardrobe, but to direct, too, how it should be disposed of; but soon found that he was not to be made to do anything. And, as straws show which way the wind blows, I learned, in most things, to influence him by silken cords. He was willing to be led captive by love and tenderness. Why, when your dear mamma was not more than four or five years of age, she had learned the art of making papa do as she liked. I remember to have heard her say once (slyly to one side), I am going to make papa let me do it. And when asked Make papa? answered, Yes, the way mamma does; and immediately turned to him with her most bewitching little smile, and said, Do please, dear papa, let me.

O! what a joyous home we had! And what changes time has made! The old Wahrendorff house has been rased to the ground, and stores stand in its place. Where domestic peace and happiness reigned-where flowers bloomed-where childhood held its sports and holidays, now is seen the busy mart of this bustling, plodding world. The merry little magnet of that grass-covered spot is now the mother of four children; and the beloved father, upon whom her mother fondly hoped to lean, as she tottered down the hill of life, lies low, at its base.

One of my dear sisters was there seen in her bridals robes, pure and sweet. But now, she is among the angels (as I humbly trust,) clothed in the white robe of a Saviours righteousness. The other still lives to bless us with her presence and her love.

Our brothers have passed their truant school-boy days-sowed their wild oats-have taken their stand among men, and are realizing themselves now the blessedness of a home of conjugal and paternal happiness, and begin to know something of the care and anxiety that has been felt for them, and of the hopes which stimulate to duty. And thus, Time, as he passes, leaves foot-prints, which make the children of to-day the men and women of to-morrow; brings changes which blight our fondest hopes, crush the heart, and leave us, in our tempest-tossed bark, to weather awhile longer the storms upon the voyage of life.

But my mind still reverts to this home of my happy married life. It is Sabbath morning there, and we are around the family altar. The chapter has been read, and we are singing a favorite hymn of the one who reads and prays. It is spring time, and the fresh air comes in through the opened window, perfumed with the rose and the sweet-brier. But we are singing:

The rosy light is dawning, Upon the mountains brow: It is the Sabbath morning, Arise, and pay thy vow. Lift up thy voice to Heaven, In sacred praise and prayer, While unto thee is given The light of life to share.

The landscape, lately shrouded By evenings paler ray, Smiles beauteous and unclouded Before the eye of day; So let our souls, benighted Too long in follys shade, By the kind smiles be lighted To joys that never fade.

O, see those waters streaming In crystal purity; While earth, with verdure teeming, Give rapture to the eye. Let rivers of salvation In larger currents flow, Till every tribe and nation Their healing virtue know.

The morning is past-we have been to church, and dined; and now our little daughter is listening, most eagerly, to the Bible story, which was promised her as a reward for good behavior.

The afternoon has passed. We have had an early tea, and again we surround the Throne of Grace before going to church. The same loved voice is heard again joining in another favorite hymn:

Sweet is the light of Sabbath eve, And soft the sunbeams lingering there: For this blest hour the world I leave, Wafted on wings of faith and prayer.

The time, how lovely, and how still! Peace shines and smiles on all below; The vale, the wood, the stream, the hill, All fair with evenings setting glow.

Season of rest, the tranquil soul Feels the sweet calm, and melts to love: And while these peaceful moments roll, Faith sees a smiling Heaven above.

Nor shall our days of toil be long; Our pilgrimage will soon be trod, And we shall join the ceaseless song, The endless Sabbath of our God.

Affectionately yours, GRANDMA.

Belmont, February, 1861.

Letter Ten

My Dear Grandchildren:

I see in casting a glance back, that I have passed over a good deal in the life of your grandfather, which will, perhaps, be of interest to you; without which, at any rate, this sketch would not be complete. And I intended, when I closed my last letter, to commence this with his career as a business man, and to continue the narrative to the close of his life; and then to give you a distinct account of his influence and deeds in the Church, and in the world, as a Christian. But I do not know, upon further reflection, that it is best to divide up his life in that way; and, indeed, it seems to me rather a difficult and unnatural task to do so, for he strictly followed the injunction of the Apostle: Be diligent in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord. The dividing line, therefore, would be hard to find, if there was one at all.

And these letters, which are a pleasant recreation to me while I write them-and of profit, too, I hope, as I carefully review the life of him who, though dead, still speaketh-would, I fear, become a task, should I change the simple and pleasing plan I have adopted of recalling the past, with the incidents as they occurred, and from them selecting such as I think will best unfold to your view the real, every-day life of him, which, if fairly seen, cannot fail to plant in your young hearts a just pride for such an ancestor, and a holy desire to walk in his steps. With this view, I will retrace, and bring up, briefly and in order, the omissions to which I have alluded.

You remember, I mentioned to you the fact, that your grandfather commenced life, as a business man, by becoming the partner of his father in the drug business. His father had, a few years previously, given up his interest in the Missouri Republican to his son Edward, and commenced a business which was new to him, and that upon a small capital. He found it so profitable, however, that he prevailed on Joseph to abandon his profession, (the practice of which he had but just commenced), and to join him, believing that it would ultimately be more to his advantage to do so. From the profits arising from this business-which regularly increased, with the increase of the city, and that of the country, from the rapid emigration to the Western States-combined with his success in an occasional speculation in land, I doubt not, if grandpa had been at all given to the love of money, or had been ambitious of attaining to great wealth, and had bent his powers of mind and body in that direction, he would have reached the desired goal, perhaps to becoming a millionaire.

But very different from this were the tendencies of his nature. He appreciated money as the means of adding to the sum of human happiness; and, while he was by no means reckless in the use of it, it was a source of great pleasure to him to have it in his power to indulge his family in having what they desired and in living as they pleased, and still to have something over to distribute to the necessities of the indigent. To the Church of Christ he cheerfully contributed to the extent of his ability, esteeming it one of his highest privileges. Pursuing this course, his business meanwhile widening, and constantly becoming more profitable, in the year 1837 or 38, he decided to take a partner, and offered the situation to my brother Henry, which was gladly accepted. After this, (I do not know exactly how long), he purchased a valuable piece of ground in the city, upon a part of which the firm determined to build an oil and lead factory. This proved to be a very expensive and arduous undertaking; and, although it promised, after being fairly established, to be a most profitable investment, yet the capital of the firm was not sufficient to complete and to carry it on successfully until it should reach a self-sustaining point, without doing serious injury to the store, by depriving it of the necessary capital for its success.

During this state of things, which grew worse every day, my husband discerned a portentous cloud in the sky of his commercial prosperity, which resulted after days and nights of anxiety and overtaxed strength of body and mind, in a low state of health and spirits that almost unfitted him for his accumulated business, which, nevertheless, he continued to prosecute with avidity. This was about the year 1841. I do not recollect how long his ill health lasted, but I well remember how his flesh went away-how pale he was-how he perspired at night, from nervous prostration, and how his skin seemed to cleave to his bones. He was still amiable and uncomplaining; but his elasticity, his free-hearted joyousness was gone.

After pressing him for some time to tell me his troubles and difficulties, and sympathizing with him because of them, until a far deeper concern took possession of me on account of his health, and, finding that moderate expostulations did not better things, I determined to make an effort by trying a wifes skill in arousing him from this state of despondency, which threatened such serious consequences; for I might well feel that fortune would be nothing to me without my husband-my husband as he ever had been. And if the worst came to the worst, if he only had sufficient means to pay his debts, (which he said, without doubt, he had), I cared for nothing better than to begin life afresh, with such a husband as I had, with health, youth, business capacity, and a good reputation.

This conversation was not without effect; and he determined, by way of recruiting, to knock off from business, and to make an excursion into the country. This little trip-which was not simply without aim, other than for his health, as he had some business to attend to on the way-acted like a charm, by restoring his wasted energies and his cheerfulness. He returned, in ten or fifteen days, more like himself than he had been for months. After this, he soon recovered entirely; and never again did he lose his equanimity for more, perhaps, than a day or two at a time, although the dreaded blow did come, but not before he had taken a step in the divine life, which served to buoy him up above the ills of this checkered existence.