me into the world as a little
child; that, though rich, he became poor, and was laid in a manger.
This blessed Jesus is your friend. He can hear, and he can answer your
prayers, and knows all you think and feel, all that you say and do.

Affectionately yours, GRANDMA.

BELMONT, January, 1860.

Letter Four

MY DEAR GRANDCHILDREN:

Twelve months have elapsed since I first made an attempt, by
writing, to make you acquainted with your beloved grandfather, who
departed this life on the 4th of June, 1859.

I am still a mourner--such an one as I hope, as I earnestly
pray, none of you may ever be. My poor heart is desolate! I have no
home in this world, and I long for Heaven. I would gladly lay me down
in the grave, but God knows what is best for me, and He does all things
well. Then to my task, for I have a portrait to make--a portrait for
you to look at, to imitate, to love, and to reverence. Not a likeness
of the external man: you have that to perfection--so perfect that a
friend, who knew him well, remarked, upon looking at it, that the
artist must have been inspired. But to show the inner life and the
daily walk of that dear man who, for twenty-seven years, six months and
twenty-seven days, was the sharer of my joys and sorrows, and the prop
of my earthly existence, is a more delicate task. In a few words I
could sum up his life and character, for there was nothing
extraordinary in it, excepting extraordinary goodness; but, then, how
could my dear children, from a few abstract ideas thrown hastily
together, see the path he trod, in all its windings, compare it with
that of others, and with their own, and learn the lessons it teaches?
I do not mean by "extraordinary goodness" that your grandfather had no
faults--that he never did wrong--for then, you know, he would have
been an angel, not a man.

With these preliminaries, I shall endeavor, in much weakness, to
set him before you in such a light that you will not fail to see and
understand him, and to feel, too, the sweet influences of a presence
that always brought with it happiness and peace.

On the 8th of May, 1830, my father, Captain Peter Blow, arrived at
St. Louis with his family, consisting of my mother, my two sisters, my
four brothers, and myself. We landed at the wharf of our future home
on the steamer Atlantic. This being the finest boat that had ever
reached this distant western city, the Captain, who was evidently proud
of i