A Biographical Sketch of the Life and Character of Joseph Charless Part 8

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 G.o.d. And oh, with what grat.i.tude 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 gra.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 wors.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d, that thy mercies are new to us every morning, and fresh every evening.? After wors.h.i.+p 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 a.s.sembly? 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 sanct.i.ty of the spot that it seems to me I dropped, but dropped very softly beside him. ?Be still and know that I am G.o.d,? 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, G.o.d, had then lifted up the veil and showed me all I have pa.s.sed 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 astonis.h.i.+ngly sustained. We were filled with grat.i.tude 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d! 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 n.o.ble 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, ?G.o.d 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 pa.s.s 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 accomplis.h.i.+ng 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.?