Chapter 14

My Dear Grandchildren:

In the summer of 1848 your beloved grandfather, to whom no discharge of duty in the Church of God was felt to be a sacrifice, again determined to change his church connection. A feeble little church, painting for existence, without a pastor or house to worship in, solicited help from the mother church. Every Christian felt that the increasing wants of our growing city demanded more churches, but how many in the Second Presbyterian could obtain their own consent to exchange the comfort and ease of this elegant temple, which at length, after much self-denial of its members, was almost free from debt, and whose pulpit was adorned with the gifted and talented Dr. Potts! who could give up their cushioned and carpeted pews, the choice choir, the grand organ, and the many sweet Christian associations of past years, and throw in their lot with a little handfull of Jesus’ praying disciples, who had few possessions, save that faith which made them lovingly cling to their Master’s cause? My husband had been one of the first to assist in building up the Second Presbyterian church. He was an Elder, and a Trustee, and, after much anxiety, and the utmost straining of his ability to raise and to contribute funds towards the completion of their house of worship, he was just beginning to enjoy the comfort of seeing the debt, which had hung as an incubus over it for years, wiped out, when this new call was made upon him. A few young people proposed to go out to the assistance of the feeble church, upon the condition that Mr. Charless and Mr. Keith would go with them -–wisely concluding that the attempt to sustain it without some such efficient aid, would be utterly in vain. It was thought, however, by the members generally, that it was a useless undertaking to keep the little church, as such, alive; and that it would be better for its few advocates to be merged into the different churches already established. Yet all seemed to think that St. Louis, growing as it was so rapidly in population and in wickedness, needed more houses of public worship; but most of the members of this church evidently shrank from the self-denial necessary thereto.

Your grandfather did not at once accede to this proposal, without first consulting his wife, as to her views, and especially her feelings, and she could not have it in her heart to consider her own comfort and pleasure, or that of their daughter, when he so evidently felt that, for him, this was the path of duty. I cheerfully consented; but, looking back at the “flesh-pots of Egypt” (and there is no doubt a great deal of this kind of worldliness carried even into the Holy place), I requested that we should retain our pew, calculating, as soon as the young church was fairly established, again to occupy it. We both loved and admired, and, like everybody else, felt proud of our minister–-for, without doubt, he stood among the first, if not at the head of the Presbyterian church in the West-–and we knew that no Dr. Potts could be obtained for this poor little church, which seemed to be tossed upon the breakers, and ready to sink. But my husband, like the early disciples, would have been pleased to toil all night upon the sea of Galilee, and at early dawn would have been seen mending the meshes of the broken net, making ready for another day or night of toil, while I would have preferred to sit with the five thousand upon the green grass, to be fed. But I never could gainsay or resist the few, simply spoken words, that revealed the cherished purpose of his soul, adorned, as they were, with eloquence of his unobtrusive and devoted piety. Of the difficulties and hardships endured by that faithful little band before a flourishing church was really established, and what part the subject of this brief history took in it, I must refer you to others, who know the particulars better than I do, and will proceed to other matters.

Early in the fall of 1848 we placed our dear Lizzie at school in Philadelphia, under the care of Mrs. Gardell, who deservedly enjoyed the highest reputation as an instructress of young ladies, being untiring in her efforts to cultivate their hearts, no less than their minds and manners. From the letters of her father, written during that time, I will make but one quotation, merely to show how earnestly he ever longed for the spiritual good of his beloved daughter: “Do you ever think on the subject of your soul’s salvation?-–of its value-–of the importance of giving the subject that attention its magnitude demands, in the morning of life, when the feelings and emotions of the heart are warm and generous-–before the temper and disposition are soured by disappointment? It was for this reason our blessed Saviour desired the young to come unto Him. My dear daughter, you cannot tell how happy your mother and I would be to know that you had consecrated yourself, heart, soul, and body, to the Lord, to serve Him faithfully in this world, that you might be permitted to enjoy Him in mansions of peace in that which is to come. This is the tenor of our morning and evening prayers, and, we trust, of yours also.”

It was our intention to keep our Lizzie at this school for two years, but, the cholera making its appearance in the United States-–a more terrible epidemic than ever before, in the spring of 1849-–determined us to bring her home at the expiration of the first year. Especially as this fearful disease had exhausted itself in St. Louis during that summer, while we were with her at Newport and Nahant, out of its reach, and as it had not yet swept through Philadelphia, we deemed it safest to bring her home, where she might still pursue her studies under the instruction of private teachers.

From the time we had solemnly vowed at the baptismal font to train our child, not for this perishing world, but for Heaven, and thereby could claim the rich promise of a covenant-keeping God-–“I will be a God to you, and to your seed”–-nothing had caused us more anxiety than to know how wisely and faithfully to discharge our duties towards her. Whether strictly to force her into measures, or, by a mild and firm treatment, to win her to love the religion of her parents, was often discussed by us when alone in our chamber. We observed, with pain, that many of the children of our beloved church, whose parents believed that they could do no better part by them than strictly to carry out the rules of the church concerning worldliness, and would not, for any consideration, allow them to learn how to dance, or to attend a dancing party, were by far the giddiest and most reckless of young people. Some, first uniting with the Church, and afterwards disgracing their profession, while still under parental guidance; others, waiting until they were married, and were countenanced by a worldly husband, before throwing off all restraint, and showing these “long-faced Presbyterians” how amazingly dashy and gay they could be. With what natural grace and ease they can now discuss the merits or demerits of the last play! What a keen relish they have for balls! How charming the masquerade was! What delightful sport, in masque, to tell disagreeable and sarcastic truths (or falsities, perhaps), to some luckless ones who very innocently, but ignorantly, preferred to look on at the droll sight with their faces uncovered! Oh, what a disgrace to the child, who, for the sake of a few years (perhaps days) of false and empty pleasure, can do such violence to the feelings of parents, who, whatever their errors, truly love, and would sacrifice everything, except their hope of Heaven, to bless their children and do them good.

Your grandfather, my dear children, who was no extremist, but was “moderate in all things,” thought it best to let his child enjoy everything that was innocent; that, while an act of disobedience-–an untruth, or any direct breach of “The Commandments”-–would cause his displeasure, and was followed by a look that penetrated your mother’s soul, and was a far greater punishment than the rod of her mother, yet she might dance as much as she pleased, for “dancing was children’s sport.” But when she would gravely ask, if, like her school-mates, she might not go to a dancing school, she would be told that her papa and mamma had promised God to bring her up for Heaven, and that they would not be doing that if they fitted her for the gay world: that she must not forget that she was a baptized child of the Church. If she looked doubtful, or was inclined to urge the matter, we would ask her if she wanted us to break our word to God-–which, like any other conscientious child, she would recoil from. When in her sixteenth year, however, while at boarding-school in Mobile, she expressed a greater desire than ever before to take lessons in dancing. They were given in the school, and confined to the pupils; not at night, but in the afternoon, when she required exercise instead of sleep; and we determined, after serious and prayerful reflection, to indulge her in this very natural wish, believing that longer opposition might be attended with a still stronger desire for the forbidden thing, which she could see no harm in, nor we, if confined to the social circle. We knew that God alone could make her a Christian–-could turn her heart from the love of the world to that of holiness-–and we did not believe that He would be less willing to do so because of our yielding to her wishes in this respect, which, our child clearly understood, was done, not from inconsistency on our part, or a vain desire to see her admired in the world; but from a conviction that, at her age, some consideration should be shown to her reasonable desires; especially as she was far from esteeming this indulgence as a license to unbounded worldliness; that the theater and the ball-room were to be conscientiously avoided, as the road that led directly away from all that was pure, holy and happy. And I am now gratified in saying that we have never had cause to regret the course we pursued in this matter -–which ceased to be overrated as soon as its depths were sounded-–our daughter finding, by experience, how empty and shallow this greatly overrated enjoyment is, compared to others, even of a worldly and social nature; how far it falls below the more refined joys of a less conspicuous but more reasonable and choice character, which the cultivated alone can appreciate.

The young lady days, no less than those of her childhood, your mother will tell you, were happy days. Restrained in that only which her parents, and her own conscience, deemed wrong, she was as free and joyous as the birds that carol in their native air. When her sprightly and impulsive nature inclined her to go beyond the bounds of propriety, she was checked. Readily indulged in every reasonable desire, and knowing that nothing worldly afforded her parents so much happiness as that of her own, she did not long mourn over occasional disappointments in personal gratification, which, if indulged in, might have reasonably reflected discredit, if not on her, at least on the religious position of her parents. She had to be reminded, now and then, that she was the child of an Elder of the Church; but never did she intentionally do violence to the feelings or views of him she so much reverenced and loved.

This reminds me of a circumstance, that I will relate: One evening, when your mother was dressing for a party, which was to be given at the house of a friend, a very serious accident occurred a few squares from us. A May-day celebration of school-girls, with their teachers, parents and friends, were suddenly startled with the sound and movement of a falling house, and, in a moment, from the giving way of the floor, they were precipitated from the second story of the house down to the first, and, after a moment’s pause, into the cellar. The alarm was soon noised abroad, and, in a very short time, the building was surrounded by persons-–some, who had relatives there, in agony to know the worst concerning them, some from curiosity, and others to render assistance to the sufferers. Your grandfather rushed to the spot, and remained there as long as there was anything for him to do, in encouraging the sufferers, and in assisting them to their homes.

No one was killed–-though I think one person died from the injuries received there, a few days after the event; but many were dreadfully bruised, and some had limbs broken. After learning who constituted the assembly, who was hurt, and how much, and finding that, although we knew two or three of the injured persons, and entertained a high respect for them, they were not among our particular friends, nor even in our visiting circle--daughter and I concluded that there could be no impropriety in her attending the party: the time of starting having been delayed for awhile, until we were fully assured of all the facts, and had recovered from the shock felt upon the first alarm.

In less than half an hour after she had gone, her father returned from the scene of the disaster, and, learning that Lizzie had gone to the party, was amazed and greatly excited, that, “when our neighbors were dying around us,” our child, knowing the fact, should be permitted to make one of a gay and thoughtless crowd! I was taken aback, for I had not realized the distressing condition of the wounded, and undertook to explain; but feeling condemned, mortified, and chagrined, I immediately proposed to send for her, which he promptly approved of, and, in a few moments, the carriage (which had just returned) was sent back, with an explanatory note from me. Lizzie had that moment taken her place in a cotillion, when the note was handed her. She read it, made an apology to her partner, an explanation to her hostess, bidding her “good evening,” and, in a few minutes more, she was handed into the parlor at home by her friend and escort, regretting, most of all, that she had wounded that kind and tender father, who so deeply sympathized in the sorrows and sufferings of others.

Our house was a gay one. It was thought too much so by some, and perhaps gave umbrage to the feelings of a few of them, who, judging from without, as they passed to and fro, and heard music, and could discern from the street the moving of the heads in the brilliantly lighted parlors, thought, and said, too, “what a shame to reflect discredit upon the cause of Christ by revelry and dancing.” “How much better it would be to appropriate the expenditure of money in these costly preparations to the poor,” etc., etc. But, could they have seen and felt the influence of a Christian light, of which he alone who reflected it was unconscious, as he moved about in congenial mood with the young and gay, or, quietly conversed with the grave, perhaps his own dear pastor; had they but known that the calls upon the benevolence of the Christian man were as sacred, and as cheerfully granted, as those of the indulgent father, perhaps more so, they would not, I am sure, have been so censorious. And then, had they known the facts in the case, that no instrument of music, excepting the piano and guitar, and occasionally a flute, and no professor to play on them, for the purpose of keeping up a dance, had ever been in our house, these worthy people, fastidious Christians as they may have been, could not have felt so grieved.

We used wine too, but only at dinner and at suppers, with the ladies. No side-board drinking was ever done in our house. In our early married life even this was not our custom, for several reasons, two of which I will name: We were members of the old temperance society, which, however, did not forbid the moderate use of wine; but to be consistent with the spirit of our pledge, we used it only when some friend dined with us, whom we supposed was so accustomed to it, that he could not dine with comfort or pleasure without it. We did at one time introduce claret, as an every-day drink at dinner. We had been South for the first time, where the use of this mild wine is a universal practice, especially in New Orleans and Mobile. My husband and sister became quite fond of it, and so did our little Lizzie, who was then only five years old. Her father, consequently, purchased a cask for home use, had it bottled and sent to the house. But we found that our “cold water” brothers became quite excited after drinking it, one saying-–“Sister, I felt like walking over the tops of houses, yesterday, after dinner.” Another complained of the wine flying up into his face, making it so red, and all three appearing a little more merry than usual. Their good brother-in-law, never having known what a selfish feeling was, thought this may be the first step towards giving these boys a taste for drink, and determined at once to forego personal gratification in the use of a beverage which he really enjoyed, and felt all the better for. Next day, by order, the wine was not brought, as usual, to the table. No remark was made about it, until one of “the boys” asked the servant to hand it. My husband then in his ordinary modest cheerful way, explained the reason why the wine was not there. From which time we relapsed into our previous habit of offering a glass of sherry or madeira, only when politeness suggested it. But by the time our daughter was grown up, these brother-sons of his were men, with their habits formed, and capable of judging for themselves, and he no longer felt it incumbent upon him to be over strict.

“Let every one be fully persuaded in his own mind.” “To his own Master he standeth or falleth.” The religion of Jesus Christ is designed for all nations and people, whatever may be their peculiar views, tastes, or vices, and while it cannot exist in a corrupt heart --and when that has been changed, savingly touched by the Holy Spirit, the true light will shine out of it-–yet we should all be careful not to measure other Christians in our measure, which, while it may be the best one for us, may not be exactly adapted to them. “By their fruits you shall know them,” which the Apostle defines thus: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance. Against such there is no law.”

Pleasant and merry times your dear mother had at home, with her young friends, and long to be remembered. But more cherished still to her are the recollections of our religious hours. The same sweet hymns of praise that she loved to sing, while away at school, that would bring tears trickling down her sunny face, and with them that relief which her home-sick heart required, ascended in former times at our morning and evening orison. A few friends dropping in to tea were no excuse to evade the worship of our God. Regularly the Bible and hymn books were placed, before retiring from table, in front of your grandfather, and without an apology, excepting occasionally he might say, “it is our habit,” as he turned the leaves of the Blessed Book.

There were a few restrictions with regard to how often your mother, when a young lady, should accept invitations to spend the evening out, or have invited company at home, but none was so strictly regarded as the one concerning Saturday night: for, as in early childhood she had been taught to put away her toys and irreligious books before the dawn of the Sabbath, she now found it easy and natural, if not to prepare her mind for the sacred day, at least to engage in nothing which might physically unfit her for its enjoyments. And the Sabbath was esteemed “the day of all the week the best.” Often felt so by her, who, in the midst of this fascinating and beautiful world, never forgot that it was the burden of her father’s prayers that like “Mary of old, she might choose that good part which should never be taken from her, and learn like her, to sit humbly at the feet of Jesus.” And this quiet day of rest, so still, so sweet, so unlike the bustle of the world without, is well calculated to arrest the current of worldly thought, and cause the mind to revert to the impressions of happy childhood, and often to incite a desire for joys more pure and stable than Earth can afford.

Christians of an ardent temperament, who have come out from the world without having had previous religious training, are apt to go to extremes, and in trying to keep the Sabbath holy sometimes become slaves to the day, and only breathe freely when Monday comes. This was not the case with your grandfather. The Sabbath seemed to be made for him, not he for the Sabbath. It was his day of sacred rest, in which, however, he was not afraid to laugh as heartily as on other days; nor was he so absorbed in religious duties as to make him less thoughtful of the ordinary claims of life. I have often seen him on the afternoon of that day, when the servants were all out, lay down his religious book or newspaper, and go out to the stable, lead the horses into the yard, water them at the hydrant, and then turn them loose on the grass plot; and, seemingly with the greatest delight, he would watch them as they alternately nipped the green grass, or engaged in those extraordinary fantastic exercises which horses that have been pent up in the stable, or in harness all the week, know so well how to perform. Our back yard was separated from the front by a grape arbor, which extended entirely across, and beyond which boundary the horses were not allowed to pass. In this yard they had carte blanche in their Sabbath day recreation, with one exception; they were not to touch the grape vines. And they well understood from the wave of the book or handkerchief in the hand of their master (who generally, on these occasions, sat in one of the arches of the arbor) that they were to approach no nearer the forbidden thing. Even horses know what kindness is; and I have often been amused in looking at them, from the gallery, as they would follow “grandpa” about the yard evincing evident satisfaction in the many caresses he bestowed upon them. And had he lived, my precious little children, you would soon have learned, in your happy experience of his playfulness, and sympathy with you, on the holy day, that he was far from being a Puritan in his views and feelings.

In the fall of 1852, again in search of health, which of all things belonging to this life (save an unblemished character) was ever the most prized by your dear grandfather, we determined to pass the whole of the approaching winter in the South. We started early in November, went to “Bailey’s Springs,” in North Alabama, intending to proceed from thence to Charleston, then to Mobile, and take New Orleans in our way home in the spring. But after reaching “the Springs” we concluded to give them a fair trial before proceeding further, as we understood from friends, who had tested these waters, that they often proved as beneficial in winter as in summer. Accordingly as we had learned that the accommodations were very indifferent, we made arrangements with the proprietor to rent us three nice, new log cabins, telegraphed to St. Louis for our servants, carriage and horses, and were speedily set up for ourselves. With our own kitchen and cook we needed nothing, for Bailey Springs were situated only nine miles from Florence, where my parents had lived seven years, more than twenty years previous, and our experience did not prove the old adage, “out of sight out of mind,” or the truth of the poetical effusion, “what is friendship but a name.” For our old friends were friends indeed, evincing the most delicate attentions, and making up to us the deficiency in our supplies, from a carpet, to keep the wind from penetrating our open cabin floors, to dog-irons, or a dutch oven, and the like useful articles, besides many rare sweetmeats from their own choice kitchens. Our main supply of provisions, however,--for these Baileys could not understand that mortal man needed more than “hog and hominy”-–came every week from my nephew’s, who is a cotton planter, residing eighteen miles from the Springs. As sure as Friday or Saturday came, so sure came the pack horse, laden with fresh butter, mutton, &c. The presiding genius of these luxuries, who safely guided the richly laden vessel into port, was a grinning, half grown cuffy, whom they called “Bowlegs.” But my only object in telling you of this delightful, but very novel winter sojourn, made so pleasant because of the unwearied attentions, and choice society of a small circle of friends, is to give you a peep at your beloved grandfather in these new circumstances. Cut off, necessarily, a greater part of the time from society, in a wild country, without occupation or recreation, excepting such as we could originate, with many it would have been esteemed unendurable. Especially to men possessing the active and stirring habits of a city life, and to young ladies accustomed to a large circle of congenial friends. But we did not find it unendurable by any means. Your mother often said to me while there, “Mother, I did not know before that my father was such a delightful man, we really need no other society.”

In his gunning excursions, which, in pleasant weather, were frequent, she often accompanied her father, and, from her account of them, upon their return, you would imagine that nothing could have been more charming; but, from the appearance of both father and daughter, you would think they had been rambling over hill and dale, scrambling through briars and wading creeks, without design, for the game that they sought was rarely found, or if found, lost again, before the inexperienced huntsman could level his gun. But who cared for that when they had so much pleasure and sport notwithstanding, and always such glorious anticipations for the morrow. Sometimes, in their eager pursuit after game, they would paddle up and down the creek, watching out on either side for ducks. On these occasions, Lizzie would hold the steering oar, while her father made vigorous use of the propelling ones; but one day his “Lady of the Lake,” (as he called her), in her excitement, at the prospect over the bluffs, of flying ducks, rose to her feet; and, reeling, tipping, over she went, which was the finale of the ducking for that day. From the beneficial effect of the exercise in walking back to “the cabins” no ill result ensued, and next day they were eager to resume their search.

In rainy weather and of evenings your grandfather would often read aloud, while your mother and I were engaged in kitting or sewing; or, she would take up her guitar and sing some of those pretty Scotch airs, of which he was so fond; or, the more deep-toned German songs, which were favorites of mine. And thus we passed nearly thee months, happy months, never to be forgotten; and bidding adieu to these wilds, with improved health, and taking an affectionate leave of the kindest friends, we pursued our way farther south.

The only time that your dear mother and I were separated from her father, after her return from school until her marriage, was in the summer of 1853. In a letter received from him at that time he says, “I hope and pray that daughter will seriously bring her mind to the consideration of this most momentous subject. Oh, that she would remember how good and kind and merciful God has always been to her, and how strong is the obligation she is under to consecrate herself, with all her energies, to God’s service. How happy would we be, could we be permitted to meet her at the table of our Lord, as an humble follower of the blessed Saviour, to feel that her peace is made with God, and that her calling and her election is sure. Nothing which this earth offers could confer so great happiness upon her parents. And will she not now try to find the Saviour, who is always found of them that seek Him earnestly and faithfully? Let us, dear wife, pray more earnestly, that our kind heavenly Father would add this, our greatest mercy and blessing, to the innumerable ones that have followed us all the days of our lives.”

Our kind heavenly Father did “add this, our greatest mercy and blessing, to the innumerable ones that had followed us all the days of our lives,” for not long after this we were permitted to sit together, father, mother, and child, at the table of our Lord. Your beloved mother having consecrated her heart to the blessed Saviour, determined to make a public profession of her faith on the Sabbath morning of February 5th, 1854, when, in the presence of the congregation of “Pine Street Presbyterian Church,” she went forward to the pulpit (accompanied by her precious father), and there, under the ministration of Rev. S. B. McPheeters, dedicated herself, soul and body, to the service of “the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, the only living and true God.”

As soon as this solemn ceremony was concluded, the sweet tones of the organ, accompanied by the choir, came floating over our heads, and seemed like the music of heaven to our souls. They sang:

1. “People of the living God, I have sought the world around, Paths of sin and sorrow trod, Peace and comfort no where found: Now to you my spirit turns, Turns a fugitive unblest; Brethren, where your altar burns, O! receive me into rest.

2. “Lonely I no longer roam, Like the cloud, the wind, the wave; Where you dwell shall be my home, Where you die shall be my grave; Mine the God whom you adore, Your Redeemer shall be mine; Earth can fill my soul no more, Every idol I resign.

3. “Tell me not of gain or loss, Ease, enjoyment, pomp and power; Welcome poverty and cross Shame, reproach, affliction’s hour: ‘Follow me!’ I know thy voice; Jesus, Lord, thy steps I see; Now I take thy yoke by choice; Light thy burden now to me.”

On the 23rd of February, 1854, we gave our dearly beloved child away, to your own dear father. And the light and joy of our house and hearts, the free and joyous hearted girl, became a wife.

Affectionately yours, GRANDMA.