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 Fathers 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."