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 grandfather’s 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 man’s 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, ma’am;” 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 husband’s 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 Saviour’s 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 mountain’s 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 evening’s paler ray, Smiles beauteous and unclouded Before the eye of day; So let our souls, benighted Too long in folly’s 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 evening’s 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.