quisitions
just as he did a fine painting, the excellencies and beauties of which
he appreciated, and could point out, without knowing how to use the
brush or the pencil.

He had a keen appreciation of natural beauty, and of the art
which could represent it, either on canvas or in marble. He was fond
of poetry. But of all the poets, Burns stood first in his estimation.
He could enter so easily into the spirit of this writer, because, in
some respects, they were kindred spirits. Burns' touching pathos, his
humor, his love and pity for man and beast, penetrated his own humorous
and nature-loving soul. When the centenary celebration of the birth of
this great poet took place in St. Louis, a few years ago, he was
absent, and I attended, not only for personal gratification, but that I
might, upon his return, give him an account of it. In a letter to your
mother (who was at Belmont) I alluded to the celebration, and said, "It
only needed 'father' to read the 'Cotter's Saturday Night' to have made
it complete in interest." He did read those poems beautifully; and
many of his anecdotes embodied Scotch and Irish nature, and every-day
life, which he would relate with all their native simplicity and humor,
using the brogue of the one, and the accent and provincialism of the
other, to perfection.

He was fond of music; but that, like his love of poetry, was a
simple taste, his decided preference being for Scotch and Irish
ballads. He could speak and read French well--very well, when in
practice.

In much weakness, my dear children, but looking up to God to
guide me into all truth concerning this matter, I have endeavored to
give you a faithful history of the life (as far as it goes) and
character of your beloved grandfather. I am afraid it does not do him
justice, for I have often felt how meager words are to convey an idea
of what he really was. But look at his portrait, and that benevolent,
honest, cheerful countenance, may, in some measure, make up to you what
my pen has failed to do.

I do not believe I have spoken to you of his kindness to the
poor. But ask, in St. Louis, who were among those who wrung their
hands and wept big tears around his cold remains, and you will find he
was the poor man's friend.

I have made but slight allusions to his self-denying labors in
the Church of Christ, because I know comparatively, but little of them.
He never spoke of his good works, as such, not even to me. "Let not
thy