In my previous letters I have endeavored, with the best lights I
have, to show you the circumstances and surroundings of your
grandfathers early life, by giving you a sketch of his parentage,
associations, 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 associations. 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 associations of his native State were dissolved, he suffered
many pecuniary losses. He was passionate, 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 circumstances 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
circumstances 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 mothers 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 godliness, 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 refreshing 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
associated 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 tassels. 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 nobody's
house--not even those furnished in the most expensive manner, with
the richest carpets, the most massive 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 pronounced 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 God 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.
I have first particularized, and then drawn a contrast, my dear
children, that you may be the better able to see the beauty and
excellency of true goodness; and that, like your grandfather, who has
gone to reap the reward, through grace, of a well-spent life, you may
be self-denying, gentle, loving, and kind.
Devotedly yours, GRANDMA.
Belmont, January, 1861.