Again he says: "I hope that, in the letters you have written, you have told me all about the business of the store, and house, and farm, and generally all the news of home, as I will not be able to receive an answer to this, or any of my subsequent letters from the east."
My husband made me his confidant. He did not think me so far beneath him as not to be able to understand, and to appreciate all that interested him—his "business," his "farm. At "the house" he ever considered me the head, while he relieved me of every possible care, by strict personal attention to all out-of-door work connected with housekeeping. This little farm to which he refers was his delight; for it served as recreation from the toils of mercantile life, and afforded him unalloyed pleasure. He was fond of flowers, of fruits, of trees, of meadows, and everything pertaining to country life. It was impossible for him to stand and look at others who were at work in the garden. He would throw off his coat, seize the spade or the hoe, and go to work himself with the most intense relish. Not the most minute little wild flower ever escaped his notice, or was ruthlessly trodden under foot; but, stooping down, he would take up the tiny thing, and hold it up for admiration, seeming to think that others could not but admire it as he did. Oh, my husband! how sweet and pure was your life! Tears fall as I think of thee.
Before this period in the history of your grandfather, we had exchanged our old residence for a very delightful one, near to his paternal home, on Market and Fifth streets. It had been built by Mr. and Mrs. Wahrendorff, for their own use; had a large yard, and every improvement necessary to make it second to none in the city. Here your dear mother passed seven years of her happy childhood, and still remembers what romps she used to have with her papa; how she would watch for him at the alley-gate, with hands full of snow-balls to pelt him with, and how he would catch her up in his arms, kiss her cheeks, plunge them into the snowbank, and then give her a fair chance to pay him back. She remembers what assistance he would render her in the very grave business of catching pigeons, by creeping up behind them, and sprinkling "a little fresh salt upon their tails." She has not forgotten the happy Christmas mornings, when old Santa Claus was sure to load her with presents; nor her school-girl parties, which would have been no parties at all without "papa" to make fun for them; and many other things, perhaps, which I never knew, or noticed, she could tell you. But "grandma" remembers some things, which, as she wants you to see "grandpa" just as he was, she will relate to you.
About this time, we had a dining-room waiter, who, one day, was such a luckless wight as to be very impertinent to me. He was an "exquisite," (in his way), although as black as the "ace of spades;" wore a stiff shirt collar, that looked snow-white, from the contrast, and combed his hair so nicely that it appeared as fleecy as zephyr-worsted. He had, however, a habit of going off, without anybody's knowing where, and staying a long time, neglecting his work, and provoking "grandma." Upon his return, when she would inquire where he had been, his answer invariably was, "To the barbers, ma'am"—accompanied by a bow, and an odoriferous compound of barbarous perfumes, presenting altogether such a ludicrous picture that I could not possibly avoid laughing; after which, of course, I would have to excuse him, with the mild injunction not to stay so long again. Anthony presumed upon this mode of treatment until it ceased to be amusing to me, when, with a good grace, I was enabled to administer a severe reproof, which he returned with the most unheard-of impudence. As soon as his master came in, I related the fact to him. In an instant, as Anthony was passing the dining-room door, my husband sprang at him—caught him by the collar, shook and twirled him around into the gallery, and pounded him with his bare fists to his heart's content. In this changing world, I do not know but that, in the course of time, you little Southerners may become fanatical abolitionists, and, losing sight, in the above case, of the cause of provocation, in your tenderness and sympathy for the slave, will attribute this unceremonious treatment of poor Anthony to the fact that he was one of those "colored unfortunates." Therefore, to set you right, at least, with regard to the character of your grandfather, I will give you another instance of his impulsiveness, which, perhaps, may be considered a flaw in the character of this singularly pure and noble man.
Some years after the circumstance related above, a young friend was living with us who had a hired white girl for a nurse. I soon discovered that she was an unprincipled, saucy girl; but she was smart enough to get on the "blind side" of this young mother, by nursing the babe (as she thought) admirably well. When I could no longer put up with her encroachments, I took the girl to one side, and laid down the law; whereupon the enraged creature was excessively impertinent. After finding that my dear little friend had not the moral courage to dismiss the girl (which she might have done, for I offered to take care of the baby myself until another could be procured), I suppressed my emotions, and bore it as well as I could. From reasons of consideration for my husband, who seemed much wearied that evening after returning home from business, I concluded not to consult him about what was best to be done until next morning, when, upon hearing the particulars of this little episode in domestic life, he arose in great haste, and so excited as scarcely to be able to get into his clothes. I begged him to be calm, but there was no calmness for him until he got hold of the girl, ran her down two flights of stairs, and out of the door into the street, having ordered her, in no very measured terms, never again to cross his threshold.
In the course of his whole life, I witnessed but one (or perhaps two) other instances of like impetuosity. They were rare, indeed, and always immediately followed, as in the cases above referred to, by his usual calmness and good humor, no trace being left of the storm within, save a subdued smile, which had in it more of shame than triumph. I have been told that, in his counting-room, he has occasionally produced a sensation by like demonstrations, caused, in every case, by the entrance of some person who, not knowing the stuff he was made of, would venture to make an attack upon the character of some friend of his; or, perhaps, would make a few insidious remarks, "just to put Mr. Charless on his guard." But the slanderous intruder would soon find out the quicker he was outside of the store the better for him, much to the astonishment, and amusement, too, of his partners and clerks, who, but for those rare flashes of temper, and an occasional "stirring up" of a milder sort among the boys in the store, could not be made to believe it possible that Mr. Charless could be otherwise than mild and genial as a sunbeam.
He was never known to resent, in this kind of way, any indignity shown to himself, which was rarely done by any one. Unfortunately, however, on one occasion, he gained the displeasure of an Irishman, (from whom he had borrowed some money), who was half lawyer, half money-broker. Standing with a group of gentlemen, in conversation about money matters, per centage, etc., your grandfather remarked that he had borrowed a certain amount from Mr. M., for a certain per cent., (naming it). One of the gentlemen asked, "Are you sure, Mr. Charless? for that was my money Mr. M. lent you, and he informed me that you were to pay him only so much," (naming the per cent., which happened to be less than that agreed upon). Mr. Charless, perceiving his faux pas, expressed a regret that he had so unwittingly mentioned what, it seemed, should have been kept secret; which was all he could do. Mr. M., of course, heard of it. He knew well that he could not revenge himself upon him who was the innocent cause of his exposure, in St. Louis; but in New York, where neither were so well known, he did all he could to injure Mr. Charless' reputation. The friends of the latter, having heard of Mr. M.'s unprincipled conduct, in insidiously striving to undermine the confidence reposed in him there, informed him of it, expecting that he would take some notice of the matter—which he did not do. They came again, and protested against his allowing that fellow to continue these aspersions. He smiled, and replied, I am not afraid of his doing me any harm; let him go on. He did go on, and after awhile he returned to St. Louis, when some mutual friend (poor Mr. M. still had friends among gentlemen) informed him that certain reports against Mr. Charless, which had reached St. Louis, as coming from him, were doing him considerable injury; not Mr. C, for he stood too high in the estimation of the community to be injured by slanderous reports of any kind whatever. Whereupon Mr. M. denied having made them, and expressed a determination to explain, and make the matter all right with Mr. Charless. For this purpose, one day, as the latter was passing a livery stable, where Mr. M. was waiting for his buggy to be brought out, he called to Mr. Charless, who passed along without noticing him. Again he called saying, Mr. Charless, I want to speak to you. Mr. Charless waved his hand back at him, and went on. Elevating his voice, said he, Do you refuse to speak to me, sir? Still a wave of the hand-nothing more. This was too much for the hot-headed gentleman. His raving and abuse attracted the attention of everybody about there to the hand, which still waved, as grandpa walked on, and said, too plainly to be mistaken, in its silent contempt, I cant lower myself by speaking to such a dirty fellow as you are.
Without a word or circumstance from your grandfather, it circulated from mouth to mouth, with considerable gusto; from which, I need not say, Mr. M. had the worst of it.
It has given me some pain, my dear children, to speak of these incidents; and, indeed, there are many things (some very sweet to me) that I feel constrained to write which I would gladly keep secret and sacred in my soul, but for a firm conviction that such a halo of light as has shone about my path, from the pure life of your beloved grandfather, should not be allowed to go out. And the faithful historian cannot give the light without the shadows.
Affectionately yours, GRANDMA.