Chapter 4

MY DEAR GRANDCHILDREN:

Twelve months have elapsed since I first made an attempt, by writing, to make you acquainted with your beloved grandfather, who departed this life on the 4th of June, 1859.

I am still a mourner-–such an one as I hope, as I earnestly pray, none of you may ever be. My poor heart is desolate! I have no home in this world, and I long for Heaven. I would gladly lay me down in the grave, but God knows what is best for me, and He does all things well. Then to my task, for I have a portrait to make-–a portrait for you to look at, to imitate, to love, and to reverence. Not a likeness of the external man: you have that to perfection-–so perfect that a friend, who knew him well, remarked, upon looking at it, that the artist must have been inspired. But to show the inner life and the daily walk of that dear man who, for twenty-seven years, six months and twenty-seven days, was the sharer of my joys and sorrows, and the prop of my earthly existence, is a more delicate task. In a few words I could sum up his life and character, for there was nothing extraordinary in it, excepting extraordinary goodness; but, then, how could my dear children, from a few abstract ideas thrown hastily together, see the path he trod, in all its windings, compare it with that of others, and with their own, and learn the lessons it teaches? I do not mean by “extraordinary goodness” that your grandfather had no faults-–that he never did wrong-–for then, you know, he would have been an angel, not a man.

With these preliminaries, I shall endeavor, in much weakness, to set him before you in such a light that you will not fail to see and understand him, and to feel, too, the sweet influences of a presence that always brought with it happiness and peace.

On the 8th of May, 1830, my father, Captain Peter Blow, arrived at St. Louis with his family, consisting of my mother, my two sisters, my four brothers, and myself. We landed at the wharf of our future home on the steamer Atlantic. This being the finest boat that had ever reached this distant western city, the Captain, who was evidently proud of it, proposed to give to the good citizens of this goodly city of ten thousand inhabitants a select pleasure-party on board of her, that, with music, dancing and feasting, they might, to the best advantage, appreciate its dimensions, its comforts and elegancies. My sisters and self having accepted the cordial invitation of the Captain, who had treated us with great kindness and consideration while passengers on his boat, and, attended by our father and a gentleman whom we had formerly known, and who had been residing in the city for a few months, made our appearance for the first time in St. Louis society. Our mother, who was a perfect pattern of propriety, advised us to equip ourselves in our nicest street dresses, and, being strangers, not to participate at all in the dance. Consequently, we were there in the position of “lookers-on in Vienna.” We made good use of our eyes, and kept time to the music in our hearts, but used our feet only in promenading. During the evening I observed several ladies with much interest, but was greatly attracted with but one gentleman, whom I first noticed sitting opposite to us, leaning back in his chair. There was a calm serenity overspreading his handsome features, which wore a joyousness of expression that was irresistible. I pointed him out to our escort, and inquired who he was. He could not tell me; still I could not but observe him. He waltzed once with the belle of the evening (a Miss Selby). My eyes followed them; and I see your dear grandfather now, just as he looked then. He was about the medium size –-five feet nine inches high, and well proportioned; his complexion rather fair, hair dark. His beard was closely shaved, but showed, from the soft, penciled tints about his mouth and chin, that it was likewise black. His eyes were grey. With considerable gaiety of disposition, he evinced a gentleness, a suavity, and a modest grace of deportment, which I have never seen surpassed, if equaled.

In a few weeks Mr. Charless sought an introduction to us, and from that time he became a constant visitor at our house, and in fifteen months from our first acquaintance, he declared himself a suitor for my hand and heart, promising to use the best efforts of his life to make me happy.

I could tell you a good many incidents of our early acquaintance –-of our pleasure-rides in pleasant weather, in gig or on horseback, and of our merry sleigh-rides in winter. Delightful recollections crowd upon me, and, if I were given to novel-writing, I could weave them into a very pretty little love-story; but then I would have to make myself the heroine. There was a little Scotch song, however, that he used to sing to me, and as it will afford me a sweet, sad pleasure to recall it, I will do so, at least as much of it as I can recollect:

“Come over the heather, we’ll trip thegither All in the morning early; With heart and hand I’ll by thee stand, For in truth I lo’e thee dearly, There’s mony a lass I lo’e fu’ well, And mony that lo’e me dearly, But there’s ne’er a lass beside thysel’ I e’er could lo’e sincerely, Come over the heather, we’ll trip thegither, All in the morning early; With heart and hand I’ll by thee stand, For in truth I lo’e thee dearly.”

I have before me now the first letter I ever received from him, expressing what he had several times in vain attempted to speak. For although he was at no loss for thoughts, or words in which to clothe them, in ordinary conversation, yet, whenever he felt a desire to open his heart to me on the subject of his love, he became so much agitated that he had not the courage to venture, and finally wrote and sent me the following letter:

After a brief and simple introduction, he says: "That I love, you is but a faint expression of my feelings, and should I be so happy as to have that feeling reciprocated by you, I pledge you the best efforts of my life to promote your happiness. Nature, I fear, has wrought me in her rougher mould, and unfitted me to appear to advantage in an undertaking like this, in which so much delicacy of sentiment seems to be required in these, our days of refinement. Such as I am-–and I have endeavored to appear without any false coloring--I offer myself a candidate for your affections, for your love. You have known me long enough to find out my faults--for none are without them--and to discover what virtues I may have (if any), and, from these, to form a just estimate of my character.

"I feel that my future happiness, in a great measure, depends on your answer. But suspense to me is the greatest source of unhappiness. Naturally impatient and sanguine, I cannot rest until the result is known. May I hope that my offer will be favorably received, and that hereafter I may subscribe myself, as now, Your devoted, JOS. CHARLESS, Jr.”

If this seems like a "love-letter" to you, my dear children, it does not to me, for it does not embody half of the love and devotion which I ever received from my husband, from the time we stood at the hymenial altar, until, in his last, faint whisper, while he gazed with unutterable tenderness, he said, "I--love--you!"

But I must try to forget, while I am writing to you, my dear children, that I am bereaved. I must not let my sorrows give a coloring to every page, for I know how natural it is to the young to delight in pleasant things, and to flee from that which is gloomy; and, besides, I cannot leave a faithful impression upon your minds of what he was, unless I enter into the spirit of the past, when our sweet home was full of joy, and gladness.

And why should I not be joyous again? Have I not dear children to love me, and is not my dear husband alive, and shall I not see him again? Is not God still good, and has he ever tried me more than I am able to bear? Was he not with me in the deep waters? "I know that in very faithfulness Thou hast afflicted me."

Then let me cease my murmurings; or, rather, let me check my yearnings for what I can never have again--a faithful, loving heart, to bear with me my sorrows, and a strong arm to lean upon. Yes, there is a strong arm upon which I can lean. May I have faith to make use of it! There is a "Friend who sticketh closer than a brother," to whom I can unburden my heart.

Affectionately yours, GRANDMA.

BELMONT, January, 1861.