If God has made this world so fair, where sin and death abound,
How beautiful, beyond compare, will Paradise be found.
On we went—passing occasionally through neat little villages, sometimes large towns, such as, Springfield and Jacksonville—until we reached Lewiston, where we spent the Sabbath and attended the village church. In the afternoon of the next day we went to Canton which was the end of our journey. And when "grandpa" had transacted his business there we turned our faces homeward.
The first day upon our return, we lost our way—then appeared clouds and mists, just enough rain falling, to make the high hills we had to climb, slippery and hard upon our poor horse, who manfully pulled away without flagging, until we found a shelter for the night; which, although a wretched one we were very thankful for. From this time, there is but a faint impression left upon my mind of our return, until within a few miles of Alton, when, as the sun was fast sinking into his glorious bed of cloud and fire (giving strong indications of an approaching storm), my anxious husband, after having made a strenuous but vain attempt to obtain a shelter for the night "whipped up" his jaded horse and pressed forward.
It grew dark rapidly. As we passed from the open prairie into the dense forest, we seemed to leave light and hope behind us—for cloud and tempest, lightning, and loud claps of thunder quickly succeeded. For awhile we could discern the road; at length, enveloped in total darkness, it was to be seen, only by the flashes of lightning, which, while it horrified our horse and ourselves, served to guide us and also to show us our danger, from the tall trees as they swung to and fro above and around us. About nine o'clock we discovered (as we thought) in the distance a light from a window, of which we were soon assured —and our fears allayed by hearing "the watch-dog's honest bark."
Next day we reached our snug little home, where we entertained the family with the incidents of our trip—its pleasures, hair-breadth escapes, &c. None were more delighted in that group than our sweet Lizzie, who brought the roses of the prairie home upon her little checks, which were more than a reward for a few untoward events of that delightful and long remembered journey.
Affectionately yours, GRANDMA.
Belmont, January, 1861
Letter Eight
My Dear Grandchildren:
There is a circumstance connected with the death of my father Charless, which I cannot pass over without omitting a very striking feature in the character of my husband, delineating his unselfishness, brotherly affection, and his strict sense of justice. I think his father had deferred making his will until his last illness. At any rate it was not until then that his son, Joseph, learned (from his brother-in-law, Mr. John Kerr), the contents of his father's will, which were, in substance, as follows: Joseph was to inherit all of his father's estate, excepting a lot of ground, fronting on Walnut street, of sixty feet, which was bequeathed to his mother. Thus his brother, Edward, was disinherited. Eliza Wahrendorff, the only child of your grandfather's sister, who afterwards became the wife of my brother, Taylor Blow, had, by the death of her parents, inherited a beautifully improved lot of sixty feet front, on Market street, which was the gift of Eliza's grandfather to her mother, Ann Charless. Edward Charless had unfortunately displeased his father; for, although he was a genial, honorable, and kind-hearted man, he had, in early life, contracted habits of dissipation, which clung to him through life, and which were very displeasing to his father. He had been married a number of years, too, but had no children. The information of Mr. Kerr, respecting the will of my husband's father, was anything but pleasing to him—for he loved his brother, and had a very tender regard for his feelings—and as much as he valued the love and approbation of his father, he could not enjoy it at the expense of his brother. He was very much worried, and seemed scarcely to know what to do. Finally he repaired to the bedside of his father, and, painful as it must have been to him, at such a time, he gently, but earnestly, expostulated with him on the subject. The old gentleman, for some time, persisted in saying, Joseph, you are my favorite son; you have a child, too; while Edward has none. I do not wish my property to be squandered, or to go out of my family: but always received the reply, father, you have but two children, do not, I beg you, make a difference between us, or something equivalent to that. At length he prevailed, and his father had a codicil added to his will, which made his brother an equal heir with himself, the property to come into their possession after the death of their mother, and should these brothers die, leaving no heirs, the estate should belong to his granddaughter, Eliza Wahrendorff. I am sure you will agree with me, dear boys, that your grandfather was right, but how seldom do we see an exhibition of such firm integrity among men, (even among brothers), of whom the poet truthfully says, "If self the wavering balance shake, it's rarely right adjusted."