Part 2 (1/2)

Affectionately yours, GRANDMA.

BELMONT, January, 1861.

Letter Six

MY DEAR GRANDCHILDREN:

In my previous letters I have endeavored, with the best lights I have, to show you the circ.u.mstances and surroundings of your grandfather?s early life, by giving you a sketch of his parentage, a.s.sociations, youthful characteristics, etc.

But now, I am entering upon a new era. He is a married man-?has left the paternal roof, and is forming new a.s.sociations. The romance of the vine-covered cottage, with the girl of his heart-?which, as fortune smiled, should gradually grow into the stately mansion, with none to share or distract the peculiar joys of early married life, when all is couleur de rose-?were not for him. Life is too earnest for romance; for high and holy responsibilities, in the dispensations of an all-wise Providence, he has to meet and to discharge. He is young and inexperienced, but here are boys, bound to him by a new, but tender tie, just entering the most dangerous period of life, without their natural guides; here are girls, unused to the hard usages of misfortune, suddenly deprived of all ?save innocence and Heaven,? and he is their only earthly protector and friend.

Our parents were both of English descent, and Virginians by birth. They were married young, and settled upon the hereditary estate of my mother, which consisted of a well-improved Virginia plantation.

There they lived, with nothing to interrupt the quiet and ease of their existence, excepting the war of 1812-13, between the United States and England, when my father had to shoulder the musket, as captain of a volunteer company, and leave his family, to fight for his country.

This was the only eventful period of their lives, until my father became fired with the Western Fever, that about that time (the year 1818) began to rage, and which resulted in the purchase and settlement of a cotton plantation in North Alabama. Alabama was then the Eldorado of the far West, and I well remember the disappointment I felt, upon our arrival there, at not seeing ?money growing upon trees,? and ?good old apple brandy flowing from their trunks!?

From this period commenced our misfortunes, which, although trying to my parents, were, by dint of energy and perseverance, readily overcome, at least so as to enable them to support and educate their growing family-?securing the comforts of life, with some of its luxuries?-until, very naturally, aiming at more than this, my father again made a sacrifice of much, with the hope of gaining the more, by removing to St. Louis-?the result of which I have already told you.

My father was honest, frank, social, communicative, and confiding. He possessed an unbounded confidence in his species, believing every man a gentleman who seemed to be one, or was by others esteemed as such, and, in transactions with them, considered their ?word as good as their bond.? From which, as soon as the old and well-tried a.s.sociations of his native State were dissolved, he suffered many pecuniary losses. He was pa.s.sionate, but not revengeful; gay and animated, but subject to occasional reactions, when he became much depressed. He was a high-toned, honorable gentleman, very neat and exact in his personal appearance, but entirely free from pretension.

My mother was orphaned in infancy, and brought up by her grand-parents ?-Mr. and Mrs. Etheldred Taylor. She was proud of her ancestry. I can see and hear her now, when, under circ.u.mstances where her pride was touched, she would say, ?Daughter, remember that pure and rich blood flows in your veins-?the best in the land. If your mother had to live in a hollowed stump, she would be what she is; no outward circ.u.mstances could lower or elevate her one iota;? and she would raise her proud head with the air of an unrighteously dethroned queen. This, I may say, was mother?s great, if not her only fault. She was a pure, lovely, estimable woman; quick and sensitive, but, as a friend, a wife, and mother, she was unexceptionable. Like the Grecian matron, her children were her jewels.

Her education would have been considered limited for these days, yet she was a woman of fine sense and quick intellect. She possessed great delicacy of feeling, an inflexible will, an unusual energy (for a woman) in carrying out what she esteemed right, and an uncontrollable aversion to whatever was mean or cowardly. The training of their children devolved mostly up her, my father finding enough out of doors, in business or pleasure, to occupy him. And faithful she was in teaching them the practical lessons of industry and economy; faithful in dealing with their faults. The only one never checked was pride.

This she appealed to as a stimulant to every other virtue; for virtue she esteemed it-?and virtue it is, in its proper place, and under proper control.

My parents were brought up in the Episcopal church-?with a form of G.o.dliness, without the substance. But the sufferings and death of my eldest sister, who had become a true convert to the religion of Jesus Christ, in the Methodist church, and who died rejoicing in the hope of everlasting life, so impressed my mother that she, too, sought and found the ?one thing needful?-?which happy change, although it took place late in life, was long enough to evince to her children the genuineness of her faith, and the power of the Gospel in making the ?proud in spirit? meek and lowly at the feet of Jesus. She united with the Presbyterian church a few years before her death; and now, as I look back at the days of my childhood and youth, and call to mind all the pleasant and sweet things which memory cherishes, there is nothing so refres.h.i.+ng as the piety of my mother, and that of the dear sister, who, like a pioneer, went before to show us the ”straight and narrow path? through the rugged scenes of this sinful world. Like an oasis in the desert of life, it lives, fresh and green, and ever and anon directs my vision above the storm and tempest to the pure and bright realms of the redeemed.

With this short sketch of the life and character of my parents, from which you can form an idea of the peculiar characteristics and dispositions of their children, who now have become so intimately a.s.sociated with your grandfather, I will proceed to say, that, after the death of my father, which occurred in June, just eleven months after that of my mother, he at once became our loving and beloved head.

We took an affectionate leave of his dear parents, and removed into our own ”rented house;” and that you may be enabled to place us there, I will describe our two best rooms, which were separated by a folding-door, and used as parlor and dining rooms. They were neatly furnished, with nice ingrain carpets, cane-bottom chairs, an extension dining table, and very pretty, straw-colored Venetian window-blinds, trimmed with dark blue cords and ta.s.sels. A mahogany work-stand--the only article ordered from ”the east,” because it was a gift for his wife--was placed in the parlor, for it was too pretty to stay up stairs, (perhaps the emptiness of the parlor made me think so).

Now, my dear children, you may laugh, and, perhaps, feel ashamed that your grandparents should have started in life with so little, and that so plain, especially if you hear others boasting of the wealth and grandeur of theirs. But, when I tell you that after awhile we had a nice sofa, (bought at auction, because it was cheap), and that at another time a small side-board was provided, in like manner, by that dear grandpa, who always did the best he could; and when I tell you that ”grandma” was so happy, and so well satisfied; that n.o.body's house--not even those furnished in the most expensive manner, with the richest carpets, the most ma.s.sive and elegant furniture, mirrored and draped in costly brocatelle--looked half so sweet and pretty to her; when you know, my dear children, and understand, that those people who have so far deteriorated, by false teaching, and the glitter of the world, as to esteem such things more highly than the far richer treasures of the heart, which alone can garnish a home with unsullied beauty, and feel the pity and contempt for them that I do, these trifling baubles will take their appropriate place, and you will see life as it is, and value it for what is pure and genuine--not for that which is false and worthless.

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 p.r.o.nounced 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 G.o.d 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.