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.



Letter Fourteen



My Dear Grandchildren:

Before speaking of the changes, the marriage of your mother brought, and the life of self-denial led by her father, in consequence of it, I will relate a few incidents of his every day life. I have already said he was kind to the poor. He was systematic in his contribution for the benefit of this large class in every city; but that did not deprive him of the pleasure of throwing a few dimes into the hands of every applicant, although he often felt that they might be used for a bad purpose and do more harm than good to the recipient. On one occasion as I entered the dining room, just before breakfast, he was having a kind and merry chat at the window, with a shabby looking son of Erin, in the yard below, who declared to his "honor" that he "hadn't tasted a drop!" (upon which fact the matter of giving, or not giving, seemed to turn). He threw him a piece of money, saying, as he did so, "look out, my friend, or that quarter will get you into the calaboose." Next morning it so happened that your grandfather was called to that useful, but uninteresting place, to bail out a colored servant, who was prone, occasionally, to get into scrapes, which subjected him to temporary imprisonment, when, whom should he find there, safely ensconced in one of the cells, but the Irishman, his "old customer," as he called him, in relating the anecdote, which he did with considerable point and humor, making all around the breakfast table laugh heartily. At another time, when we were spending the summer at our country place, near the city, another citizen of the "auld country" presented himself and asked for work. "What kind of work can you do?" inquired your grandfather. "Work, sir! I am not over particular at all, at all." "Can you dig potatoes?" "Praities! Your honor, jist thry me." "Well, I will hire you by the day." "By the day, and sure I've no place to put my head at night." "Well then, my man, I can't hire you, for I have no place for you to sleep." "Sleep, is it? I'd never want a better place than with the horses—the stable, to be sure, on a bit of straw—there's no better place to my mind, sir." The poor fellow's destitution, his worn and tattered clothes, his tangled hair, with a face young and simple, but not vicious looking, touched my husband's heart. Poor Tommy did know how to dig potatoes, if he knew nothing else, and his new master set him to work at his small patch, with the understanding that when he got through with that, he had nothing more for him to do. But Tommy took good care not to get through with that potatoe patch, yet he was always as busy as a bee when he saw "the master" coming that way, who would praise him for his industry and wink at his tricks. Tommy was quite a Merry Andrew, and more knave than fool, after all; and when he became a decent looking man, from the present of a bran new suit—cap-a-pie—and a comb into the bargain, which his thoughtful benefactor procured for him, he was decidedly the lion of the kitchen cabinet. But how to get rid of Tommy became at length a serious question. Just before returning to the city in the fall, he was sent with a note, from "the master," to a farmer, hard by, who gave him a trial, but finding that he was not capable of earning a living, or from some other cause, he soon dismissed him; and, Tommy, much to my dismay, found his way to our city residence. But as the developments of his character in civilized life, were not of the most encouraging nature, it was not a difficult matter for your grandfather to drive him from the premises.

But there was another poor man, of whom I never speak or think, but with feelings of kindness and respect. His remains lie in Bellefontaine, and I have no doubt but that his spirit is happy in the presence of his God. He had lived a poor, but honest life in the west of Ireland, with his wife and children, until, like thousands of his countrymen, he was driven, by hardship and poverty, to seek a better future in this "land of the free and the home of the brave." In extreme poverty they arrived in St. Louis. Not so many in family as when they bade adieu to their native land, having buried one or two children on the banks of the Mississippi. They had all had "ship fever," and a more wretched looking family I had never seen. But notwithstanding their squalid poverty and wretchedness we found them industrious, good people, and Protestants, which was an unusual circumstance among this class of Irish. Your grandfather, who, in his charities, never seemed to forget that God caused his sun to shine upon the evil as well as the good, and who could not allow even a beast to suffer from want, took peculiar pleasure in ministering to the necessities of this virtuous family, and reaped the rare reward of a rich return in gratitude and love. Poor David appeared to look up to him as to a superior being, always addressing him as "Your honor," in the most respectful manner. One day as I was coming out of church I was attracted by the subdued look of this good man, whose tearful eyes were fixed on Rev. Mr. McPheeters and your grandfather, as they walked together down the aisle. I had a good excuse to stop as I was in the advance of my husband, and off to one side I saw him bow most reverently, as he said, "Your riverence"—"Your honor," and out of the abundance of his heart, while tears streamed down his honest face, he gave utterance to his feelings of gratitude to God, and to them, for the blessedness of this holy day. The pathos and eloquence of the sermon had completely overcome him. David was a farmer, and after having been in your grandfather's employ, at first one thing and then another, for a year or two, he finally accepted an advantageous offer, to take charge of a gentleman's farm, some eight or ten miles from the city; and we had heard nothing from the family for several months, when, one cold rainy day in autumn, a wagon was driven up to our front door, containing his remains. His poor afflicted wife came with them, and told, that David had said, "Take me to Mr. Charless to bury me." He had died of congestive fever. No doubt but that it was a comfort to the poor fellow in his dying hour to feel that in this distant land of strangers, he had found a friend who would not neglect "the widow and the fatherless in their affliction," and his confidence was not misplaced, for, from the time of his death, his family lived near us, and never knew, as long as David's good friend lived, what it was to want a friend indeed.

Another anecdote of the poor just occurs to my mind, and as it exhibits your grandfather in another light, I will relate it. Immediately after dinner, on a pleasant day, my two sisters-in-law, who resided together, less than a square from us, came over to our house, with a man, who had just applied to them for assistance. They were deeply interested in behalf of this poor fellow, who was a Frenchman, and "Frenchmen," they said, "were not apt to beg unless in real want." They were sure he was an honest man. One of my sisters was a French Creole, and both were new beginners in active effort for the benefit of the indigent, and did not know exactly the best method of relieving the unfortunate man, "who had just arrived and had a poor sick wife and six little children on the boat at the wharf. A kind-hearted gentleman had offered them a home at his farm in Illinois, a few miles from the river, and all he wished was money sufficient to hire a horse and wagon in which to move his helpless family." While the ladies were presenting his case to me, the Frenchman manifested great anxiety, and made the most touching appeals in the piteous expression of his face and manner. Presently, my husband, who had been indulging in his usual siesta, awoke and came down stairs. "Now, the poor fellow can tell his own story," and "Mr. Charless" was pathetically appealed to, to listen to his tale of woe. Unfortunately for the man he was immediately recognized by your grandfather, who had but a short time before given him a cup of coffee, etc., from the kitchen, and had also procured work for him as a day laborer in a factory, which mode of subsistence not suiting the Frenchman's taste, he had slipped out of, and ran off, before commencing work. It was soon evident, from the juxtaposition of the two, one as accusant, the other defendant, which was not to be mistaken, even by a person ignorant of the language in which they spoke, that all was not right. His friends, the ladies, stared, when, upon each renewed attempt to convict him, he would assure, in the most self-possessed and polite manner, "Your are mistaken, Monsieur, I have no doubt but that the man to whom you refer, was very like me, but not myself, I assure you, sir." Whereupon your grandfather proposed to accompany him to the boat for the purpose of seeing his family, promising to procure him a wagon and every thing necessary for their comfort and removal. But they had not gone far before the Frenchman began to sidle off, as it to turn a corner, but finding that it was no easy matter to get away from the persevering gentleman, who insisted upon being "introduced to the Madame," he made a clean breast of the whole thing, "Monsieur, I have no wife and little children, but you know when a poor man want he get nothing from the ladies unless he have one sick wife, and some poor little children. Excuse me, Monsieur, I mean no disrespect to you." No one liked a joke better than your grandfather, and being something of a tease too, he more than once slily referred to the pitiable condition of the poor Frenchman, which, although enjoyed by others, was not quite so keenly relished by the ladies, who had manifested so much interest in the welfare of the honest man, and his distressed family.

You are not old enough, my dear little children, to remember how devotedly fond "Grandpa" was of children, and how they all loved him, notwithstanding he was always playing some trick upon them. Sometimes at dinner when any of your little cousins were with us and would show by the interest expressed in their faces, when the dessert was being brought in, how eager they were to be "helped," "Grandpa" would quietly and gravely say, "'Aunty,' you needn't give Peter (or perhaps it might be Charless) any of that, he is not fond of 'Charlotte Russe,'" (or whatever the nice thing might happen to be), when Peter, taken aback, half believing, half doubting, would present such a ludicrous picture, by the mingled expression of his countenance that no one present, not even little Peter himself, (when he found out it was all a joke), could avoid a hearty laugh. And thus with a thousand little ways which fascinated the children he was decidedly a favorite among them. He never forgot what he liked, and how he felt, when a boy, and could easily enter into the feelings of a boy and be a sympathizing friend and companion.

I know some little boys whose parents lived on Pine Street, and although this was by no means the direct road from "the garden," they used to watch for "dear Mr. Charless'" return from that oft-frequented place in the cool of the evening, for he would be sure to come that way and stop a minute to fill their hats with peaches or apples, etc. One of these little boys, attracted one evening by a glorious sunset, which stretched its golden streaks and varied hues far and wide, lighting up the azure blue with unusual brilliancy and beauty, asked, "Mamma, is n't that like heaven?" "Something like it, I expect, my son." "There's where good Mr. Charless will go, when he dies!" said the little boy. And thus it was, even children felt the influence of such a godly life, as that of your beloved grandfather.

The marriage of your dear mother, and the necessity of her being so far separated from the home of her parents, away here in Louisiana, where there is no Protestant Church, and among strangers, whose isolated lives throw an almost impassable barrier in the way of social intercourse, made it incumbent on me to remain with her a greater part of the time. Your father gave your mother's parents a very cordial and pressing invitation to spend their winters with them, promising that they would always pass the summer with us, and that we should never be separated from our precious only child. But the business relations of your grandfather made it impossible for him to do more than to pay a visit of five or six weeks during the winter; but with the tender feeling of the father he was willing to submit to the self-denial of separation from his wife, that she might be with the darling of their united hearts. In one of his letters he says, "You ask me, in your last, how I am getting on, I must be honest and say, bad enough. If I were not tied hand and foot I would cut loose from these cold regions and lonely habitations, and fly away to my 'ain wifey, and my ain bairns' in the sunny south." Again he says, when longing to see me, "But I would not have you come too soon, as I know how changeable March and April are here, and how delightful they must be in Louisiana." At another time he says, "Kiss Louis, Lizzie and the babies for me, and believe me that whatever claims business or other ties, may have one me, my heart is ever with my dear ones."

In the winter of 1855 he was elected "President of the Bank of Missouri." I find among my newspaper slips, an article relative to that fact which I will copy: "We announced in our article of Friday last that the name of Joseph Charless, Esq., would probably pass through the Legislature, as the new President of the 'Bank of the State of Missouri.' The Telegraph of this morning announces his election to that important post.

"It is proper for us to say to our distant readers, who Mr. Charless is, and we shall assume to speak of his capacity for the important post confided to him, by the Legislative wisdom of the State.

"The Bank of Missouri is a State institution; were it otherwise we question whether we would refer to the matter at all. It is also by the wisdom of our fathers constituted (vide the Constitution) a monopoly, a moneyed monopoly too, and therefore, wields great power, and it is important to the people of this State to know in whose hands this great moneyed power is to be vested for the next two years, by the act of Legislature, if (perchance) the Bank is not turned into a private corporation, by act of Assembly, with the concurrence of private stockholders. We do not intend to tire our readers with a 'long yarn,' and therefore proceed to say, that, Mr. Charless has lived, man and boy, in this State and in this city 45 years, being the worthy son of a most respected sire, and is now about 50 years of age. Mr. Charless is a gentleman of fair financial ability, and has managed his own private affairs in the prosecution of a large business, with prudence, skill and judgment, and the firm, of which he is head, enjoys a high credit, both at home and abroad.

"He is a gentleman, too, of great suavity of manner, and exhibits a kind spirit in all his intercourse with men (a good quality for the post he is called to) and withal is a man of great firmness of purpose, not stubborn, of indomitable industry, perseverance and energy, and even in moneyed panics (the worst of all panics) would probably be as calm as a summer morning, while at the same time he would act, and act, too, efficiently, looking to the interest and safety of the corporation of which he is the head, and to the interests of the mercantile and trading community, at the same time.

"The private character of the new President is beyond reproach, he is a gentleman of unwavering integrity, and possesses the confidence of his fellow-citizens in an eminent degree. To use the western phrase, he is 'very popular,' but we don't esteem this of much account. It is an idle wind, and may blow south or north to-morrow and proves nothing.

"The new President, however, has not only a good character but a good reputation, and whether he will mar or advance the latter during his presidency, time only can determine."

"Reputation" based upon such a characters as his, could not be marred. But, ah! it was as President of this Bank, he was brought into contact with the wretched being who has robbed the world of a benefactor, and where can I find a word in which to embody an idea of the loss of those he so dearly loved.

He served two years in the State Bank, at which time the term expired, and he determined to be no longer tied down to St. Louis, more than was necessary to attend to his own business. But in the formation of the "Mechanics' Bank" the Board of Directors insisted upon have Mr. Charless for their President. He refused positively, but they still insisted; and, at length, urgently requested that he would accept the presidency of this new institution until fairly established, if for no longer time. He finally acceded to the latter proposition. But after once getting in, there was no getting out of it; for he found the gentlemen with whom he was there associated so very congenial, and his duties not onerous but pleasant, so that he continued to serve them until the day of his death, having signed the last notes on the 1st of June.

It only remains for me to say, my dear children, that after the marriage of your mother, the summers were our gala time, for Lizzie and the boys and grandma were all at home, and happy Grandpa would in his excess of joy forget the lonely winters, which he had endeavored by constant occupation at the store, the bank, and in the Church, to make the best of. His evenings were spent in reading, and in holding communion, by letter writing, with his loved ones far away: which, excepting on Church evenings, he would occasionally vary by a visit to some friend, of whom, I need not say, he had many, who would have esteemed it a privilege, during my absence, to have admitted him into their family circle as a member, but, as he often said, in his letters, he preferred to visit friends, and make his home in the old familiar spot, where he could so readily call up to his mind the earthly idols of his heart.

I shall ever be thankful, to the Ruler of all events, that I was with him during the whole winter immediately preceding his death. We accompanied our daughter and her three little boys to their home in Louisiana in December; staid two weeks with them, and returned together, fully determined to be no more separated; that, in future, together we would visit our children, and together return to our lonely home. For the light that had gone out when our daughter married, was no more kindled in our aching hearts, notwithstanding the joy we felt in the possession of our precious little grandchildren. In earlier life when we pictured to ourselves a green old age, with our "bairn and bairn's bairns" about us, it was a different scene from the reality when it came with its long separations and anxieties.

Our greatest solace during this last winter of our pilgrimage together, was the service of our God. And oh, with what gratitude I shall ever remember His loving kindness and tender mercies towards us. "He leadeth us in ways we know not of." He can comfort in the darkest hour.

The spring came, and with it, a month or two earlier than usual, our beloved ones returned to the longed for homestead, around which were so many tender recollections of a happy, very happy life. How your dear mother clung to that precious father! How she feasted upon his every look. She followed him every where; in his rides, in his strolls through the garden. She accompanied him at night, and at all times to Church, preferring (when we did not ride) to take the long walk with "father" to going with "mother" across the street to "the Second Church." When business called him away from his much prized domestic circle, she would walk, with her arm wrapped around him, to the door, and follow him with her eyes down the street until out of sight. After her return home that spring, when she first saw his portrait, that he had had taken for her, she wept, and could not tell why, except that it was "faultless."

And now, my dear children, I am treading so closely upon that last morning, that I begin to tremble.

On Friday, June 3, 1859, your dear grandfather arose early, and drove, as he was wont to do, to the garden. While there he gathered and tied together a bunch of flowers for his daughter, and when I came down stairs to breakfast he was sitting at the window, where he had evidently read the morning paper and laid it aside, and was enjoying the sports of his little "sonny boys" who were at play on the grass plot. I gave him my last "good morning" kiss, little thinking that in joy our lips would no more be pressed, and turning to the beautiful bouquet, which was placed in a glass of water at our daughter's plate, I took it up and admired it. He had gathered his first fuchsia to put in her bouquet.

Our last breakfast is over. At worship little Charless seated himself opposite his grandpa, and observed him attentively as he read the Bible and one of the metre Psalms. We knelt in prayer, the only words of which, that I remember, are, "We thank thee, O God, that thy mercies are new to us every morning, and fresh every evening." After worship he stood erect before us, his countenance full of his usual look of benevolence and love, as he asked, "What's the order of the day? I will go around to the Planters' House, and see if Dr. and Mrs. Palmer have arrived, and will be back in ten minutes to let you know." (Dr. and Mrs. Palmer of New Orleans were on their return from the "General Assembly" of the Presbyterian Church, and had been invited to stay with us, while they remained in St. Louis). In ten or fifteen minutes the door bell rang violently. A young man entered and tremblingly said, "Mr. Charless is badly hurt on Market Street." I heard nothing more, but running, and hoping that he was not hurt so seriously, I found myself among a crowd of people, and then beside my dying husband! He lay on the floor in the back part of a small store, pale and sweet. Like an angel he looked to me. I did not lose my senses, and I was so impressed with the sanctity of the spot that it seems to me I dropped, but dropped very softly beside him. "Be still and know that I am God," seemed to be spoken by the Holy One, into my ear and heart. And I was still. I thought, of course, this was an accident, but when I heard from his own pale, slightly parted lips, as he answered some one who asked, "Who did this, Mr. Charless," that he was murdered!

Where! Who! I exclaimed, could do this deed! But instantly turning to my husband, I said, "He is more to be pitied than your are, my dear, for he is a fiend! not a man."

Oh, Oh, Oh! If my Father, God, had then lifted up the veil and showed me all I have passed through since, I must have died. But he does not try us more than we are able to bear. Indeed he bestowed such rich spiritual blessings upon us (your dear mother and myself) in that dark hour, that we were astonishingly sustained. We were filled with gratitude because "dear father" was ready. We knew that he had nothing to do, but to die. Like Stephen, he "fell asleep."

My beloved children, I have his dying words written down, and after I show you "what the newspapers say," and you have read his funeral sermon, perhaps I will tell you more about the last moments of your honored, it must be forever honored, grandfather.

Yours, affectionately, GRANDMA.

Belmont, March, 1861.



Letter Fifteen



My Dear Grandchildren:

It has been nearly two years since I last wrote to you, since which time, war has desolated our once prosperous and happy country, and drenched its soil with the blood of her sons. All has been excitement and turmoil. Many widows and orphans have been made—and the wail of anguish has been poured into the ear of the God of Sabbath. But I turn from the revolting facts which belong to the history of the nation—to consider the last sad hours of your revered grandfather, and to copy for your instruction and admonition his dying words.

After having seen something of his daily walk through life, thought upon his sad and unexpected death, and in imagination mingled with the throng that followed him to his last resting place—your mind will naturally revert to the lonely homestead and its desolate inmates. But words cannot picture the anguished of our hearts, the gloom and loneliness of our home—after the last relic of its light and glory had passed away from our view. So you will follow me, my dear children, to that little store on Market Street; look upon the bare floor, and behold your grandfather—the gentle and loving man, in his dying agony! Listen to his words.

He knew he was dying, for he said, in answer to a hope expressed, that he might live—"No, no, no! I am a dead man." After a pause he uttered, fervently, "Lord Jesus, come quickly."

Again, said he, "I am a great sinner." Some one directed him to look to Jesus. "I do look to him. He is my all. He is very precious to my soul."

Again, he said, "I deserve all I suffer, for I am a great sinner."

I heard all this, but do not know how long I had been by him, when he said to me, "Charlotte, I have loved you always—dearly loved you—and I love you to the end." Then turning his eye towards your father, who was on the opposite side of him, said he, "Louis, I leave my family to you—my wife I leave to you."

Some gentleman came up and asked, "Mr. Charless, who shot you?" He replied, "A man by the name of Thornton. I was called upon to testify against him in court last fall. While President of the Bank of Missouri, he brought me some bank notes to redeem. They were stained and had the appearance of having been buried. I asked him where he got those notes. He replied, he had bought them from some boatmen, who said they had found them under a stump, which had been pulled up from a boat having been tied to it. I told him that was a very unlikely story. When called upon to testify, I told, upon oath, what I knew about the matter, but I had no unkind feeling towards the poor fellow. I would have done him a kindness if it had been in my power. I have always tried to be a good neighbor—to do justly—and to love mercy. But I honor my country, and the majesty of her laws, and I have never shrunk from discharging my duty as a man, and as a Christian."

Sometime afterwards he said, "How little we know what is before us."

I remember, my children, in that dark hour, to have seen your dear mother, kneeling at the head of her precious father, in the deepest woe, alternating between glimmerings of hope, and agonizing fear.

To some remark of Col Grimsley, he said, "No, Colonel, no! I forgive my murderer; from the bottom of my heart, I forgive him."

Some one asked him if he would not like to see a minister. He answered, "Send for Mr. McPheeters. You will find him at the Second Presbyterian Church, at the meeting of the Church Extension Committee."

"My dear Pastor, I am glad to see you, I have always loved you. You have tried to instruct men, and I thank you for it."

My beloved sister, for whom my heart is now bleeding—for she too has left us and gone away, to return no more to cheer, to sympathize with, and to comfort us in our sorrows—was at my brother's, six miles from the city, and was late in meeting with us at this mournful scene. When she arrived, in broken accents she asked, "Is there no hope? Is there no hope?" "No hope here," replied my husband, "but a bright hope beyond!"

Thank God! for the bright hope which I have that they met again, not, as then, in sorrow, but in the full enjoyment of the blissful presence of the adorable Jesus! But, come back my thoughts from that joyous abode, to the once happy little earthly home, I used to have, and go with me, dear children, to the same parlors, where your dear mother has had so much pleasure in the days of her youth, and behold, laid on a narrow couch, in agony and blood, that noble form. The beloved and admired of all who knew him. The rooms, the halls, are filled with anxious friends, but stillness reigns. Not a sound is heard save the involuntary groans of the dying Christian. In the midst of them he would sometimes exclaim, "God have mercy upon me a sinner!"

Through that long dark day, little was said. After many paroxysms of intense pain, Mr. McPheeters said, "Mr. Charless, you know something now about the sufferings of Jesus." "Yes," he faintly replied, "I have been thinking about that, while lying here."

Again, Mr. McPheeters repeated, "Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me." In broken accents he replied, "Nevertheless not my will, but Thine be done."

Several times, looking full in my face, said he, "I love you."

Once, with some difficulty, as if to leave his blessing, he placed his hand upon the head of your poor mother, and said, "My precious daughter."

Again and again he uttered, "My poor wife." He well knew how desolate his poor wife would be in this bleak world without him.

Towards the close of his sufferings, said he, "Will my heart strings never break? 'Not my will but thine be done.'"

When he was almost gone, he whispered to me, "I—love—you."

His last words were, "I am satisfied."

PEACEFULLY HE LIVED—PEACEFULLY HE DIED!

And now, my dear children, I have but little more to say. It has been a hard struggle for me to write much that I have written; for it seemed like tearing open my heart. But the ardent desire that the virtues of my husband should not die out as his name has done, and the fear that, as one by one of those who knew and loved him, should be laid in the grave, and the bare fact that he was murdered only remain, a blush might tinge your cheeks, at the mention of his name, lest the ancestor, who thus fell, might by his evil deeds have provoked his untimely end. I have often felt, too, while penning these letters, it is useless; my grandchildren will perhaps never even take the pains to read them, and if read they may not be impressed by them or stimulated to a single effort, to imitate the being I so much love and admire, and whose blood still flows in their own veins.

One of the few friends to whom I communicated my intention to write this sketch, and for whose opinion I have a high regard, wrote me as follows:

"Do not suffer yourself to forget that when your grandchildren shall have become old enough to understand what you write, the present and the future will be the object of their interest, not the past and the dead. They will be unlike humanity, if they take any interest, in what so much interests you. I very much fear that your labors will wholly fail of accomplishing the good your earnest and loving heart intends."

In the same letter he also expresses a fear that it will be impossible for me to make any attempt of the kind which will not be a very partial one. In reference to this, he says:

"The memory comes insensibly to dwell on all that was agreeable, and to intensify it; impartiality ceases; and the almost certain result is, a picture which all who read it, having known the object, see to be colored by the hand of love."

If I had not already written twelve or thirteen letters before this damper to my efforts came to hand; I do not know that I would have had the courage to proceed, and I am now gratified to see, in reperusing the letters of condolence which we received after the death of your grandfather, that they, no less than the public manifestations of the community where he lived and died, corroborate what I have said in relation to him. Of the forty-seven letters received from friends, from every part of the country, there is but one opinion. All speak of him as an uncommon man, whose loss is irreparable. I will copy a few extracts from these letters, scarcely knowing, however, which to select, so full they all are of praises of him, whose memory, I humbly pray, his children may ever cherish as their richest earthly inheritance.

A gentleman of Cincinnati writes: "After the first stunning realization of the horrible crime of which your dear and universally beloved husband has been the victim, we continue to ask ourselves, if such a man is murdered, who can be safe? A man so kind, so just, so gentle, so good. I never knew a man whose whole life and character would have seemed a better guarantee against all violence, even of feeling."

A lady, who had passed the greater part of her life in St. Louis, writes to my brother Henry, from "East Rockport." She says, (after an expression of her heart-felt sympathy for him, and for the bereaved wife and child): "St. Louis has not been alone in her just indignation and horror at the cruel and ruthless deed committed on one of her principal streets; the bitter lament she so recently sent forth to all parts of the country has been re-echoed back again by many hearts and voices, that never knew our poor friend. May I not then, who have known him from his early youth, be permitted to bear my testimony to his many excellencies of character, so justly portrayed by his own Pastor, and others, with whom he was associated? Yes! there is but one voice on that subject, as there should be but one earnest wish, by all who mourn this sad event, 'May I die the death of the righteous, and may my last end be like his.' I know that on the face of the widowed wife and her only child, there rests the expression of unutterable sorrow, but her Maker is her husband, and her fatherless one, His peculiar care. The cold grave does not contain the immortal spirit that she saw contending in its agony for freedom from its clay casket, but it has soared away forever to the fields of light and immortality. May all with whom he has been associated, and all who shall hereafter learn the history of his amiable character, of his serene, and exalted piety, his peaceful conscience, and his martyr death, be so impressed as to join themselves to the 'followers of the Cross,' and bear the same noble testimony to the excellence of our holy religion that our friend, Mr. Charless, has done."

Another lady writes, from Cumberland, Penn., thus: "My heart bleeds for you all, for well I know what a treasure you have lost. Few persons beyond your family circle had a better opportunity of knowing your beloved husband, and none, I venture to say, loved and admired him more. The world at large knew and valued him as a noble Christian gentleman, as a man of sterling integrity, and enlarged benevolence, but who could understand all his excellence and all his loveliness, but those who have been privileged, as I have so often been, to see him in the sweet relations of husband and father, to bow with him at his family altar, and to hear the fervent, yet humble, outpourings of the Christian heart before the mercy seat? Ah! well do I remember how tenderly, how sweetly, his petitions were wont to ascend for me, at the time of my deep and overwhelming sorrow; and when about to leave his hospitable roof, how affectionately he would commend the stricken one to our heavenly Father's gracious care. These remembrances will linger about the heart as long as it throbs with life. Oh! sad, sad is the thought that I shall no more hear that sweet voice pleading with our Father God in behalf of the sorrowing ones, or for the Church of God, so dear to his heart, or committing his loved ones into his gracious care; while, with lowly meekness, he confessed and bewailed his sins, and plead for pardon with a childlike love and trust in our blessed Saviour. But oh! delightful thought, his prayers are now turned to praise."

I will copy a part of a letter, from a gentleman in the city of New York, to show what kind of an impression your dear grandfather made upon strangers.

"June 4, 1859."

"Very dear Madam: Although a stranger to you, I cannot repress the expression of the heart-felt sympathy of myself and my whole family for you in your late terrible bereavement. Language is totally at fault in its poverty to convey what we feel, or give words that shall comfort you in your heavy affliction. Our acquaintance with your dear husband was recent and short, but it was long enough to endear him to our hearts in no ordinary way. We had gone to the house of God in company, and taken sweet counsel together. We had mingled our songs of praise around the domestic altar, and at the same holy place had poured out our united petitions to God for his blessing on our dear families, as well as on the cause of our divine Master. Indeed, I can truly say that our intercourse with your dear husband was all that was sweet and refreshing to the Christian's heart, and time can never efface the delightful impression he left in our family when he took an affectionate leave of us all in order to join you and his dear daughter, and grandchildren. Every look and every word as is fresh as yesterday, and his sweet memory will be cherished by Mrs. S. and myself, and all our children, every one of whom became warmly attached to him.

"I feel that I am doing that which will re-open the bleeding wound, but I cannot help it, as my own emotions must have the relief which this note of sympathy only partially affords. O, how unspeakably dear to us is the thought of his readiness for the great change, and that he is now walking those golden streets, and basking in the smiles of his Saviour. And how consoling the many sweet assurances of our heavenly Father that he doth not willingly afflict, that all things work together for good to them that love God, and that as our day is, so shall our strength be."

In explanation of your grandfather having been a guest of the gentleman who wrote this letter, and yet a stranger to him, it may be of interest to you to know, that in the spring of 1859, just before the return of your dear mother and yourselves to St. Louis, from your Southern home, he paid a short visit to the city of New York, to attend to some business for the Mechanics' Bank, which brought him in contact with Mr. S., "President of the Bank of the Republic," who gave him a pressing invitation to pass the Sabbath day with him, at his country seat, on the Hudson river. He accepted the invitation, accompanied his new made friend on Saturday afternoon, and returned Monday morning; and was thus made acquainted with a charming family, of whom he several times spoke in terms of admiration and affection.

A gentleman, residing in the interior of the State of Missouri, says, in a letter to my brother Taylor: "I cannot in justice to my own feelings refrain from expressing to you the deep, deep grief I felt at the loss of our dear friend, Mr. Charless. In all my intercourse with the world I can safely say that he was the purest and best man I have ever known. Thousands have lost their best friend, society one of its brightest ornaments, and his family—Great God, how can their loss be described. I have been proud for twenty years to claim him as my friend, and if I had no other reason for thinking well of human nature, a knowledge of his character would be sufficient. He was a credit to human nature, and I never, sir, expect to meet his equal again in all that is essential to make a good and true man."

Another gentleman, who dates his letter, Sarcoxie, June 10, in addressing the same brother, after offering his sincere condolence to him, and through him to the immediate family of the deceased, says: "My relations with Mr. Charless it is true were mostly of a business character, yet a relation of this kind of twenty years standing, could not exist with such a man without producing feelings of a kindly character. Such I entertain for him, though I never saw his face; and I am persuaded that he entertained similar feelings toward me. I shall ever cherish his memory as one of the best friends I ever had in my life." Before closing his letter he requests a "lithograph likeness" of your grandfather, which was sent him.

What a rare testimonial is this! Known only as a business man, without ever having seen his face.

Your mother, in reading "Macaulay's Essays," a few days since, was struck with his description of the late Lord Holland, as being so much like her father. She pointed it out to me, and it so exactly accords with my views of him, also, that I think I may be excused by transferring it to this letter, for your perusal. He says of the expression of Lord Holland's face, that it was "singularly compounded of sense, humor, courage, openness, a strong will and a sweet temper," and that he had the "most gracious and interesting countenance that was ever lighted up by the mingled luster of intelligence and benevolence. As it was with the faces of the men of this noble family (referring to Lord Holland and his ancestors) so was it with their minds. Nature had done much for them all. She had moulded them all of that clay, of which she is most sparing. To all she had given strong reason and a sharp wit; a quick relish for every physical and intellectual enjoyment; constitutional intrepidity, and that frankness by which constitutional intrepidity is generally accompanied; spirits which nothing could depress; tempers easy, generous and placable; and that genial courtesy which has its seat in the heart, and of which artificial politeness is only a faint and cold imitation. Such a disposition is the richest inheritance that ever was entailed on any family."

Rev. Mr. Cowen, of Carondelet, on the Sabbath of June 12, 1859, preached to his congregation from the text, "He being dead yet speaketh." After giving an exposition of the text, he calls the attention of his congregation to the lessons of instruction "which this solemn providence" (alluding to the sad death of your grandfather) teaches:

1st. "The death of Mr. Charless teaches us the mysteriousness of God's providence." "In the calamity, dear hearers, which has removed from our midst one of the best men of this, or any previous age of the world, and overwhelmed so many in deep sorrow, we are pointed to the cruel and murderous hand of the assassin, but this was only the proximate cause of his sudden and violent death. There is a high and remote cause to which we must look, if we would find the true source of this event, which has thrilled the heart of this whole community. That cause, dear hearers, is the providence of God."

Rev. Dr. Palmer of New Orleans, whom you recollect was to be our guest when in St. Louis, in June, 1859, told me that on that Sabbath day, when so many tearful eyes were looking for the last time upon the placid countenance of the beloved, who lay so still and cold in his coffin, he saw at the hotel where he was staying, among others who were lamenting the untimely end of Mr. Charless, men of rough appearance, who would one moment use the most horrible oaths of vengeance against the perpetrator of the bloody dead, and the next, their voices softening with expressions of tender regret, big tears were seen streaming down their cheeks, showing, as Dr. Palmer said, "how they loved the man from whom, in a moral point of view, they were so far separated, and the extraordinary influence of his life and character."

Among the many copies that were sent to us of "the Resolutions," which were passed by the various associations of St. Louis, in honor of this dear friend, I will extract but a portion of one:

"Resolved, That in the death of JOSEPH CHARLESS, Esq., we, as representatives of "The Home of the Friendless," are called to grieve for the loss of our First Patron. He whose benefactions, stimulated into action the earliest impulses that led to the establishing of this institution, and whose sympathizing heart and ready hand followed us to the end of his life. Truly of him it may be said, 'The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon him, and he caused the widow's heart to sing for joy.'"

In conclusion, my dear children, I am reminded as I often have been while writing these letters, that my husband was not fond of praise, and that he particularly disliked any approach to it from his wife, for he thought it almost as unbecoming in her to extol his virtues as it would have been to speak in praise of her own. He was, as I have said, an humble man, for he seemed never to forget that he had been redeemed from the curse of a broken law and was indebted to God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, for all that he had or was. And to God truly does the glory belong! Nature had done much for him, but Grace far more. And while, my dear children, I would again and again point you to your noble grandfather as an example worthy of your imitation, I would more earnestly direct your attention higher still, even to the Great Exemplar whom he followed at so great a distance. Attempt to compare any human standard, however exalted to this, and it wanes until it ceases to be seen before the dazzling purity of the Sun of Righteousness! Man, although he was originally made pure, has fallen very low in the scale of moral being, on account of sin. And notwithstanding he may by nature be endowed with many amiable qualities and many excellencies of character, the atmosphere of this sinful world is not favorable to their proper development, so that the virtuous and happy youth, gifted as he may be with intellectual capacity, and having ever so large a share of moral courage, may yet not be able to resist evil; and at last may become a bad, and, consequently, a discontented man. And it is certain, that, although he may live above reproach before his fellows, and achieve wonders in his career through life, he can never be noted for true moral excellence without Christianity.

And now, my dear, very dear children, I am done. But I linger in saying, farewell! Oh, that you all, "children, and children's children, even to the third and fourth generation," may be enabled to give your hearts away, in early life, to that blessed Saviour, who alone is able to fit you for living and for dying, who alone can effectually soothe your sorrows, sweeten every earthly enjoyment, and impart to you, in the midst of the cares, trials, and dangers of life, that calm confidence so beautifully expressed by David, "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want."

That you may be guided by the precepts of God's Holy Word, which is so faithfully taught you from week to week by your own sweet mother, my precious grandchildren, and that the dews of Divine Grace may distil from heaven upon you, making you true men and women, that you may live the life of the righteous, and at last be found among those who have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb, is, and ever will be, the sincere and earnest prayer of,

YOUR LOVING GRANDMA,

C. T. CHARLESS.

Belmont, December 24, 1862.



Letter from Rev. S. B. McPheeters, D.D.

Shelby Co., Kentucky, Sept. 5, 1865.

TO THE GRANDCHILDREN OF MR. JOSEPH CHARLESS.

My Dear Young Friends:

Your Grandmother has told me of the letters she has addressed to you, concerning the life of your Grandfather Charless, giving many incidents and recollections of him, which I doubt not will be of the greatest interest to you, and to those who will come after you; at her request, I will also add a letter on the same subject.

Before doing so, however, I wish to say, that as you are all, at the time I am writing, quite young, and as you will not probably read this until some years are passed, I shall not address you as small children, but anticipating a little, I will have you in my mind, and address you, as you will be a few years hence.

I wish very much that I could give you the picture of your Grandfather, as he was, and as he lives in my memory. And when I first undertook the pleasant task, so distinct was his whole character upon my memory, and so dear was the recollection of Mr. Charless to my heart, that I thought it would be easy to transfer to paper the image that was in my mind. But I have not found it so. I have once and again failed to satisfy myself in efforts I made to draw his moral and social portrait, nor do I know that I will succeed better now. But you may ask what is the difficulty? I will reply by an illustration from nature. When one is familiar with a landscape that is marked by bold mountains, prominent headlands, or rushing torrents, it is not difficult to describe such scenery so that it is at once recognized. Very different, however, it is when one attempts to tell in detail, what it is that makes a rich valley, in a bright spring morning, such an object of beauty and delight to the soul. There are a thousand objects too minute for detailed description, which, blended, charm the eye and please the fancy, and make us exclaim, How beautiful! The verdant grass, and modest flower, and budding tree, and singing bird, and genial sun, and balmy air, and light, and shade, all combine to make a scene, which he who sees it feels, but cannot easily reproduce in the mind of another. So it is with Mr. Charless. That which gave him his peculiar charm was not one or two striking characteristics which distinguished him from other men, but it was a beautiful combination of many noble and lovely traits, in proportions so just, and in harmony so pleasing, that when I have attempted to select this and that characteristic for description, I feel that I have succeeded about as well, as if I had collected a bouquet from the valley of which I just spoke, and should give it to a friend as a picture of the landscape itself. The truth is, my young friends, you will never truly know your Grandfather unless you are so happy as to meet him in heaven. And yet this is no reason that you should not desire to know something of him, and form some true idea of his character. And it is with the hope that I may add to your pleasure that I shall try and give you some account of him from my own personal knowledge and intercourse with him.

My relations to Mr. Charless were intimate for about eight years, I being, during that time, the Pastor of the Church in which he was a Ruling Elder. This official connection necessarily brought me in frequent intercourse with him, and as it was hardly possible to know such a man at all, without wishing to know him better, our intercourse soon ripened into friendship, which continued while he lived.

How well do I remember the first time I saw Mr. Charless, and the impression he made upon me. I had just come to St. Louis, from Virginia, to visit Westminster Church, with a view of settlement as its Pastor, if we should be mutually pleased. Being comparatively young and inexperienced, I felt much diffidence in undertaking the charge of a Church in a large city. It would have taken little to have discouraged me and made me abandon the thought; when I saw St. Louis, I felt so unfit to labor in such a place, that I was more than half regretting that I had listened to the invitation. As soon as he learned that I had arrived he called to see me. And there was something so cordial and winning in his manner, he was so frank and kind, that I at once felt that I could give him my confidence, and that with such men I would love to live and labor. It was Mr. Charless, more than all others in St. Louis, that induced me to make it my home. It would be easy for me to fill sheets with my recollections of personal kindnesses shown me. I never went to him discouraged or dispirited that he did not impart some of the cheerful hope, which was so characteristic of his own mind. I never sought his advice when perplexed, or in doubt, that he did not, by his wise counsel, throw light on the matters presented. But I will not dwell on these things, yet I can never forget them. I have had other friends who were very dear to me, but never such a friend as Mr. Charless; and what he was to me in our peculiar relations, such he was also to many, many others, in the various relations of life. But while so true and valuable a friend, I do not think I ever knew a man who made fewer declarations or professions of friendship.

You will get a very good idea of your grandfather's personal appearance from the excellent portraits of him in the family. He was slightly above the average height, well developed, without being corpulent, had a firm elastic step, and motions indicating vigor and health. His eye was bright, but mild, his features regular and unusually handsome, and his countenance was habitually lighted up by an intelligence and benignity which gave it a peculiar charm, and inspired even strangers with a confidence that such a face could not belong to any but a good and upright man. Mr. Charless was an exceedingly pleasant companion, and, without being either brilliant or witty in conversation, his society was courted and his arrival was always hailed with pleasure by the company in which he mingled, for he brought with him a bright face, a cheerful heart, a genial humor and hearty cordiality that seemed to diffuse itself through all around—children, young people and old people seemed alike to enjoy his society—yet he never seemed to me to make an effort to "be agreeable," he only acted out his natural feelings and disposition, and this was agreeable.

I hesitate some in describing your grandfather as a very polished and polite man. I fear you might put a meaning to those words which would lead you into a wrong view of his character: there is a polish and politeness that is the result of art and painstaking—a thing on the surface—often a disguise, having its root in expediency, always self-conscious and often selfish—something that may please us because it flatters us, but does not win us because we cannot trust it. Nothing could be more unlike Mr. Charless than this. Yet there is a polish which flows from a nice sense of what is fitting and proper to be done in social intercourse, from ease and self-possession, from a kind heart and desire to make others happy; a politeness that is made up of a thousand little acts of self-denial for the comfort of others; that does not obtrude itself upon your notice, but is felt in making you easy; that flows, not from rules, but from good principles and a generous nature, in this sense Mr. Charless was eminently a polished and polite man. I have seen him with persons in humble life, he made them easy and treated them with kindness. I have seen him with men of eminent positions and great reputation, he was at perfect ease himself and commanded their marked respect.

Mr. Charless was not a learned man, and made no pretensions to learning, yet he was remarkably well informed; kept himself acquainted with the current literature of the day, and conversed with intelligence and good sense on all matters that came up in general society. On more than one occasion he surprised me, by showing an amount and accuracy of acquaintance with subjects which I had supposed lay out of the range of his investigation, and of which I should never have known that he had a knowledge had they not casually come up in conversation. I met him one day, and after some general conversation he gave me a book, remarking, "Here is a work to which a friend called my attention. I have read it with so much pleasure that I sent for a copy for you." When I got home I was surprised to find it an elaborate and scientific treatise on the nature of the Church, a work which, I venture the assertion, not one layman in five hundred would have thought of reading, or would have finished if he had begun it.

You will never hear any one who knew your grandfather speak of him without mentioning his great generosity, liberality and kindness to the poor, but no one will ever be able to tell you how much he did to alleviate the sorrows of the distressed, or to help the needy, for he did these things so quietly that none knew it but those received, and Him who sees our secret things; but in my visits to the poor I have seen the tears start in the eyes of widows and orphans at the mention of his name, which told better than words who was their friend and benefactor. Mr. Charless was one of the few men I have ever known who seemed to think, as much as they should, that the manner of bestowing a benefaction, while it adds nothing to the cost of what is given, adds immensely to the value of the thing given, in the estimation of those who receive it. A friend of mind, who was soliciting funds for a charitable purpose, said to me, as he returned from an interview with your grandfather, "It is a pleasure to ask a subscription from Mr. Charless. He gives as though you conferred a favor on him in affording him the opportunity of 'giving.'" This was very characteristic.

Mr. Charless was a modest and very unassuming man, and never pushed himself forward, yet he had a just estimate of his abilities, knew what he could do, and when called upon by circumstances, or by those with whom he acted, to take the lead, if the thing commended itself to his judgment, without ado or apology, he went forward and did it; and I have often been surprised to see how much he could accomplish and how well he did what he undertook. Besides his private business which was large, and complicated, one would think, enough for any man, he took a most active part in all the operations of the Church, in the various benevolent and educational schemes, in commercial and municipal enterprises, and still found time to attend to a multitude of little business matters for friends, who would avail themselves of his experience, and, I will add, (being one of the number myself), impose upon his kindness. But while always busy he never seemed in a hurry. The fact is, he had, in addition to great energy, a most uncommon amount of business talent. He was a thorough business man, and conducted all his affairs on strict business principles; a little circumstance will illustrate this: I was settling with him an account of a few dollars, in some matter which he had attended to for me. I handed him the money and there was a few cents in change, which neither he nor I could make. It was so insignificant that I said, "Never mind, Mr. Charless, that makes no difference." He replied, promptly, "But it does make a difference; the account is not settled until that is paid," and away he went to the other end of the store, stepped to his cashier, got the exact change, and handing it to me, said, with a smile, "You preachers are too often poor business men, and I want my Pastor to be not only a good preacher, but a good business man. The rule is, meet your engagements to the minute and pay your debts to the cent." The whole thing made, as he designed it should, an impression on my mind, and has been of great advantage to me. I have often repeated the anecdote to other clergymen, and hope it has been an advantage to them.

You will often hear from those who knew your grandfather speak of his great kindness, his habitual placidity of temper, and uncommon sweetness of disposition, and all this was eminently true of him; but if you are led by such accounts to think of him as in any degree what is called a yea-nay sort of character, or as destitute of spirit, or even incapable of passion, you will make a great mistake. He was not at all deficient in firmness, and had not only moral but physical courage in an eminent degree. As he never wantonly gave so he never tamely brooked an indignity. His eye could flash as well as laugh. I was one day conversing pleasantly with him in his private office in the Bank, of which he was President. A gentleman came in, evidently in a pet, and addressing Mr. Charless, spoke in a very harsh way, and with broad insinuations against one of the Bank Directors, in relation to some transaction. Before he had well finished his invective Mr. Charless rose to his feet, his eye kindling, every feature of his faced marked by sternness, and replied, "Sir, the gentleman of whom you speak is my personal friend. The charge you bring against him is not true; the facts were these (mentioning them concisely but clearly), and now, sir, you must retract what you have said." The gentleman evidently taken aback, both Mr. Charless' statement of the case, and manner, immediately calmed down, made an explanation and withdrew. I could not resist a hearty laugh at the storm which had so suddenly burst upon us and had been as suddenly quelled, and turning to him said, "Mr. Charless, I had no idea you had so much pluck." He joined the laugh and said, "My Irish will sometimes come up. Besides," he added, more gravely, "that man took no pains to learn the facts of the case, and has a way of bullying that I wanted to put a stop to."

Few men had a keener relish for what was humorous or enjoyed a laugh better than Mr. Charless, and with little children he was playful and would sometimes even join in their sports, and if he did not join them he would look on and seemed to relish with great zest their pranks and joyous shouts and gambols. Perhaps some persons would not have mentioned such a trait of character, as it might seem to imply a want of dignity. I beg leave to differ from such. There is a dignity of manner and a dignity of character, not only quite separable, but often separated. I have known men who had great dignity of manner and very little dignity of character, and they are to me among the most irksome of mortals. Mr. Charless, while not deficient in dignity of manner, when occasion called for it, was truly dignified in character. The one he might drop for a little while, the other he never dropped. The children, with whom he might sport or familiarly talk, respected him just as much as if he had the manner of a Judge on the bench, and then they loved him far better; and there was to me in these occasional overflowings of a genial nature, this return of youthful feeling in mature manhood, this sympathy with children, something very beautiful. It showed how large his heart was, how little he been soured or soiled by contact with the world, how broad, and healthy and true a nature God had endowed him with. The very same large humanity that disposed him to enter into the sports of children led him also to help the widow, to befriend the friendless and soothe the sorrowing.

I have said nothing yet about your grandfather's religious character, and yet this was by far his greatest excellence. He was truly and sincerely pious. By which I mean he truly loved, trusted in, and obeyed Christ. But, although I am a preacher, I do not intend to write you a sermon, and I hope you will not take it as so intended, in what I am about to say to you of the religious character of Mr. Charless. I esteem it by far your greatest loss, in his death before you were old enough to understand him, that you are deprived of the means of learning something about true religion as it was exemplified in him.

Most young people, if not pious themselves, have an idea that religion is in its nature gloomy, or at least that it would interfere with the happiness and vivacity of youth. I know this, for I once thought and felt so myself. And it is just to correct this that I so much regret that you did not know your grandfather Charless; you could not have known him without knowing that he was truly pious, nor could you have helped seeing that he was a happy man, and that his religion, yes, his religion, so far from interfering with, promoted his happiness. You may meet with other examples, but you will rarely find one so striking as his. And I hold, as a matter of fairness, that religion should be judged by just such examples. I know that there are truly pious persons who are not attractive, who are melancholy, or who are sometimes even repulsive in their characters. Do you ask, Why not judge the effect of religion from these as well as from better and more pleasing cases? My reply is: What you see and judge may not be religion at all. In the repulsive it may be only the coarse, rough natural character; with the melancholy it may be dyspepsia. You do not form your estimate of what the glorious light of the sun does in gladdening and beautifying the earth, by its vain struggles with mists and fogs; it may fail to make a potato patch sublime or grand, and yet be in itself both sublime and grand. No, you judge of it by objects in themselves calculated to reflect its excellence, by the life and joy it diffuses on all animated nature, and especially by the exquisite beauty it imparts to some lovely valley, or to grand old mountains whose snow summits it drenches in light until they glitter and radiate like the gates of heaven. So, precisely, in fairness, you should judge religion. Hence I insist that men like Mr. Charless are examples by which religion should be judged. Nature did much for him, made him generous and kind, gave him a large heart and noble impulses. Grace elevated, strengthened, purified all these natural qualities, and brought him in harmony and fellowship with God; set before him, as an object of love, confidence, and imitation, the blessed Saviour; gave him a hope which earthly losses could not dim, and a peace which they only know who have felt it. Why should it not have added to his happiness? Had he lived he would have told you himself that what real happiness he had in this life came more from his religion than all other sources. My young friends if you still stand in doubt on this point I can only say make the experiment yourselves, and if you find what I have said not true, judge me a false witness.

There is a special promise made by Christ, to those who enter their closet and shut the door and pray to their Father which is in secret. How often Mr. Charless brought those words to my mind; and as I used to see him coming from home, with such a cheerful, happy face, as I saw how good men and wicked men respected and honored him, I have said to myself over and often: His Father who seeth in secret is rewarding him openly. In truth this passage was so associated with Mr. Charless in my mind, that I do not know that I have read these words for a number of years before his death and since without thinking of him as a striking illustration of its truth and beauty.

I need not, in concluding, say much to you of the circumstances that snatched from his family, from you, from the Church and the community, such a man. The record of the whole event you will see in the journals, secular and religious, which your Grandmother has so thoughtfully preserved for you. I remember nothing that occurred in St. Louis, during the fourteen years that I resided there, which produced a more profound impression on the public mind, or so stirred its hot indignation, as the death of Mr. Charless by the hand of the assassin who slew him. Nothing, I believe, but the urgent request of Mr. Charless, from his bed of death, prevented the community from avenging themselves without the forms of law for the dark crime committed. And when, at the request of Mr. Charless, the community spared the life of the felon, there was all the sterner purpose that Justice should be meted out to his crime by the hand of law. And no jury could have been found in the city, who, if they had been so disposed, would have ventured to acquit him on false or frivolous pretexts, such as secured the acquittal of many a culprit.

No one felt that the death of the poor wretch who did the deed was any atonement for what he had done, any more than a household can feel that the death of the viper is any atonement for the life of a favorite son it has slain. The viper is crushed and forgotten, the child is remembered, honored and cherished—so it was in this case. The execution of the murderer created no excitement; all that men appeared to desire with regard to him was to know that he was executed, and he was dismissed with loathing and detestation from all minds. I think it exceedingly probably that there are multitudes in St. Louis who could not, without an effort recall the name of Thornton—I do not now myself remember his given name,—but there is not a little boy or girl, there is not a citizen, living there at that time, who does not remember JOSEPH CHARLESS. And I have been struck with the fact that a number of persons who have been at my house in this State, and have asked me, as they looked at your Grandfather's miniature that hangs on my walls—Who is this? When I have told them, all remembered what they had heard, or seen in the papers, of his virtuous life and tragic death; but not one ever asked me the name of his assassin. So true to nature and the orderings of Providence is the proverb of Solomon: "The memory of the just is blessed: but the name of the wicked shall rot."

And now, my dear young friends, let me say to each of you, if you would be virtuous, or happy, or useful, if you would be loved and deserve to be loved, honored and deserve honor, be like JOSEPH CHARLESS. And to this end may the rich blessing of God rest on each of you.

Your Friend

SAM'L B. McPHEETERS.

THE END