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.