The Memoirs of John Andrews, Part 4

Here is Part 3 of the Memoirs: Farm Inventions, Politics, and Business.

Father’s Death, Marriage to Mirinda, and New Business Ventures

When the schoolhouse at “Yankeytown” was burned, it contained a small library which of course suffered the same fate. In building the new house, a room was arranged for installing a library in the future, and after a few years it was commenced first by voluntary donations of books and money, and enough was realized in the latter way to purchase more. This was about 1852.

Additions were made in like manner until probably 1856 to 1858, when a wealthy philanthropist of New Harmony anticipated Carnegie in his library gifts by a number of years by giving libraries, if certain conditions of his will were complied with, the sum of five hundred dollars—and as ours fully met the requirements of the will, we got what was called the equivalent in books, but we had no choice in selecting them. We felt that there was collusion between the executor of the will and the bookseller, but rather than make a row, we receipted for what we had.

In 1854 at a meeting of those most interested, a plan was discussed for the loaning of the books, and also for someone to see to it. As no one would wish to spend much time as librarian in this small affair it resulted in choosing Saturday afternoon for distribution and a turn-about for the job of the librarian.

Father and Mother were then on a visit to two sisters of Mother’s—Dorcas Palmer in Ohio and Aunt Mary Smith in Michigan. She was the mother of George A. Smith. Father was so impressed with George’s financial ability that he offered to loan him quite a sum to aid him in a mercantile business. They were gone on this visit three months.

We had a tenant on the farm for several years, and with his help, and when occasion required other help was employed, I kept the farm work going and at the same time paid some attention to the store, which was prospering now with a competent clerk. I think that Father was pleased with results in the farm and was satisfied that I could operate the store to advantage. In a manner he suggested that I take personal control of that also. This was very gratifying to me, and what experience I had in that direction had shown me that I was a better salesman than any clerk we had before.

At this same time the cooperation mill was being built, and perhaps Father exerted himself too much both physically and mentally. He was stricken with what was called congestion chills, and in a few days he died, aged 68 years. Father’ death at this time was a great shock to us and was also a serious loss to the neighborhood community. It entailed on me responsibilities in a financial way that no previous occasions in that direction had occurred to help me to meet.

Fortunately for me nearly all the small obligations that were due him were settled. The main obligation was consolidated in the larger loan to George Smith, which I was able to satisfy at the suggested time the following spring with the specified amount, $2500, and receiving in return his note and his father’s endorsement, and mortgage on sufficient real estate to secure it. This ran for several years at a satisfactory rate of interest. He was very successful in his business, and also in a political way, serving in the State legislature, first in the lower house, then in the Senate for several terms. When the time came that I wished to use the money for a different purpose, he was well able to satisfy me. He died a few years later, aged 68.

Soon after Father’s death and before his will had been acted on, some business matters that were under way stopped for the want of a head, and here I had to assume the responsibility to go on with plans as formulated and soon affairs were in good working order.

The mill was being built under the supervision of a competent miller, one of the largest subscribers who had been a miller all his life. As most of the funds were advanced by Father to the subscribers in the form of loans, and as Father’s death under these conditions at once stopped construction, he—the miller—inquired of me what he should do. I told him to continue as proposed and that the necessary funds would be furnished. Work was soon resumed and in a few months the mill was completed in all its details and operations commenced. The miller’s name was Samuel Black. James Hinkley, who had lately returned from California and took a financial interest, was installed as engineer, and operations commenced and successfully continued for several years. A fine article of both flour and meal was made and found a ready and profitable market in New Orleans.

After a few days Father’s will was read and then probated.

It was satisfactory to all concerned. He appointed his nephew Anson S. Osborn and his most intimate friend Eben Ellis executors. In due time they settled the estate satisfactorily.

He had quite a library for that time and place of standard works of history, biography, and various other subjects. This collection had its beginning while he was in business in New York and additions to it in his latter days. The will specified that this was to be divided in three parts, to my sister Harriet, to Seth and myself. This was done, but it was a pity it had to be as it broke off its value as a whole.

To Seth and myself the farm, jointly or divided as we chose, to Mother a specified sum of money, and the profits of the farm during life. To Harriet a sum of money and eighty acres of land, mostly timber, two miles east of Farmersville. This bequest was intended—and did—equal in value one share in the farm. As I had but little money that I could use of my own, I had to borrow of Mother and Harriet for a time to keep farm, mill and store in successful operation.

In 1856 Harriet and James Hinkley were married. In 1857, having some funds that I felt free to use and knowing that James controlled Harriet’s legacy, I proposed a joint investment in a new business that had for some time been appealing to me.

Most of the farmers had apple orchards and by this time in full bearing. Apple bees were common—the young people getting together, and surrounding a generous pile of fine fruit would spend a pleasant evening in preparing the fruit for drying. This was done by spreading the pared and divided apples on large scaffolds in the sun, or stringing the sections on needle and thread so they could be hung up to dry in the house over the fire or unused rooms. Still, as the crop increased as the trees grew larger, there came to be quite a surplus and much left to waste.

[A bee in the 19th century was a work party.]

But now buyers began to buy up, pack and market them. Insects or disease had not injured it, and a ready and profitable market was developed. It surely seemed an easy way to make money. Why not try it on a larger scale? Here was Illinois joining us on the west with cheap lands and fine market facilities by both railroad and water in all directions. James had a small farm joining ours on which he was planting an orchard. I suggested that we go to Illinois and plant a large one.

After a few days reflection he assented to my proposition and in November 1857 we went and bought 165 acres in Washington county. We paid in due time $15.00 an acre. My cousin Anson Osborn was a nurseryman and on his farm joining ours had a fine lot of the then standard varieties, and the following spring—1858—we bought and shipped to our new purchase some three thousand trees, enough to plant eighty acres. This was one of the first, if not the first commercial orchard ever planted in the state. With some mishaps, through lack of experience, in a few years we had a fine orchard of apple and peach trees in bearing. It was a wonderful and pleasing surprise to me the extraordinary growth the trees made in that apparently worn out soil and the early response in a few years in fruit bearing. This place was 80 miles west from our home in Indiana.

We had employed a man with a family we had always known to take care of it, and they had moved there as soon as planting was finished. He was a good worker but lacked efficiency, and in a year or two they got homesick for their old associates, and returned to Indiana, necessitating a change.

At this time Miss Piper and I, after a year or more correspondence and some personal visits, were married in Lincoln, Illinois, on the 21st September 1858 and immediately went to my home.

For various reasons we thought it best to sell the farm and did so, giving possession the first of March following.

This enabled us to settle the estate in the manner the will prescribed, as the store building was on the farm yet was included in the sale, but the goods remained in the possession of the stock holders and continued business with a competent manager for some time. The mill was distinct and on ground purchased and owned by the stockholders. In both of these interests I retained and added to my shares. Previous to the sale of the farm Mother and Seth had gone to Genessee, Wisconsin, and bought a farm there.

In the spring of 1859 Mirinda and I bid goodbye to Farmersville and went to her father’s at Lincoln [Illinois], stopping a short time at the orchard where I planned some work for the tenant to do. As this was the first time Mirinda had ever been separated for any length of time from her people it was a very happy meeting. Down at the orchard there was several log buildings for stables and a large one of only one room and loft for the tenant. The Finches were living in this and had made it very comfortable. Yet it seemed necessary to build a new house if we should stay there for any length of time, so after stopping at Lincoln for a few days, I went back to make arrangements to build.

Cairo, Illinois, in the 1850s

I arranged with Finch to get out the sills, etc., and then I went down the Illinois Central Railroad to within a few miles of Cairo. There in a swampy locality was fine timber of poplar and cypress and mills competing with each other, very anxious to sell and raise a little money. For two or three days I selected and loaded on the cars quite a lot more than I had intended in the first place. I felt that it would all be needed in time and that never again could it be had at the-then prices. On getting back I was fortunate to find several carpenters wanting work, and they at once went to work, and in six weeks we had a house large enough for two small families. I then sent for Mirinda and in a few days she came and we went to housekeeping.

James Hinkley and Harriet had now sold their home in Indiana and they came and occupied one half the house and we the other. I had bought doors and sash for the windows and got the siding dressed, and we were able to putty in the glass and do the painting. The plastering of the house we left till late summer. It was managed by James while Mirinda and I were on a long visit at her father’s. We had not expected to make this our permanent home but thought to get things started and take time to look around.

With some of the surplus lumber we fixed up the old log house in good shape and we lived in part of it and boarded with the Finches while building the new house. This was Washington County Post Office and R.R. Station, a small place, some shops, two stores, a pharmacy and a very good doctor, and a large depot building in which lived the station agent, who was also the postmaster.

The location and the inhabitants did not appeal to us as a permanent place to reside, and we had not gone there with that expectation. The people were nearly all from the southern states, and consequently the society was not congenial, especially for Mirinda and Harriet. We remained there till 1860 when James and Harriet went to Rockford and Mirinda to her father’s, and I remained for a time at the orchard.

This was the year Lincoln was elected, and as I had now gained my citizenship I had the pleasure of casting my third presidential vote, and this time for the successful aspirant, for that high office, A. Lincoln. I had in 1852 voted for John P. Hebe, the free soil candidate who was defeated by Franklin Pierce and in 1856 for the gallant pathfinder John C. Fremont [who was defeated by James Buchanan]. In the fall of 1860 I made a trip on horseback to Indiana and on my return I joined Mirinda at Lincoln.

Our first child, Charles, was born at Lincoln in October 1859, and our second, Harry, in 1861. Charles was born while his Grandma was living. She died [January 1861, age 46]. We had gone there on my part that Mirinda could be with her mother for a long visit. Both of these boys were to their proud parents very handsome and were made much of by their Aunt Anna, a very bright and beautiful girl of 6 to 7 years old [she was actually 12 in the spring of 1861].

The death of Mrs. Piper occurred while we were making preparations to go there, but as we had agreed to and as Mr. Piper had asked me to come and take charge of his farm for the season, we went there in March 1861, just before Lincoln was inaugurated [inauguration day was March 20]. As soon as the season opened for farm work, the two boys [Mirinda’s brothers Asa and Charles, ages 17 and 15], and myself got to plowing and in May to planting. For reasons of his own Mr. Piper sent Charles to a friend at Mt. Pulaski and that left Asa and I to do the farm work. As there was no small grain, all the plowed ground, some twenty-five or thirty acres, was planted to corn. We got the planting done with some help in good season, and a good stand of corn rewarded our effort and after cultivation gave us a good crop.

In the place of small grain there was a large piece of heavy meadow. Now the question was how was that to be harvested? A part of it was sold on the ground to some of his friends, but the larger part was left for Asa and myself to manage. The men to whom Mr. Piper had sold a part of it went at it with their scythes, and he expected me to do the same. At this I demurred and on inquiry, I found there was a mowing machine in the vicinity that could be hired. I told Asa to look it up. I did not propose to do by hand what could be more readily done by horse power.

Mr. Piper evidently thought I was taking advantage of his offer to harvest it on the ½ shares he had proffered for managing his farm. But knowing the better way I was obdurate. Asa found the machine and employed the owner to come and cut the grass. A hay rack was found a few miles away and that being secured, we were ready for the job, and as the weather was fine, with some additional help, we soon had it all in the stack.

Soon after the corn was ready to lay by, and I was anxious to prepare for the future. James Hinkley in 1859 had left the orchard home and found Rockford satisfactory to him and had bought some property there, had a house built, and moved there in November 1860. When we got the farm work where a vacation of a few weeks would not interfere, I went to visit them—James and Harriet—at their home in Rockford. This was in July 1861. I was pleased with the town and surrounding country, and my only objection was that it was so far north. Realizing that the sisterly sympathy existing between Harriet and Mirinda was a strong factor in making a new home, I took an option for a short time on a lot of seven acres in the city limits adjoining James’ tract of ten acres. The price was about $200 an acre.

Then before closing the deal I went back to Lincoln and soon after down to the orchard. The Finches having left, I installed a new tenant—James Longfellow.

I then went to Farmersville, Indiana, on horseback, a two day trip. This was not a pleasant one. The Civil War was raging, the people were largely southern sympathizers and the Union men kept quiet. At one small village a peculiar and suspicious flag was flying. I went in a public house where there was on the floor the national emblem [the flag of the United States]. Seeing it there, I made an inquiry about the unfurled emblem. I received no satisfactory answer, but the approach of a number of apparent investigators suggested that it might be the part of prudence to resume my journey.


The next day I reached Farmersville. The store buildings with most of the goods had burned the year previous and a very modern store occupied its place. The old cooperative company was superseded by an individual management. My loss by the burned store was several hundred dollars. The mill was still adding to my income in a very generous manner.

On this occasion I settled up all my business there, and in order to do so in one case took a nice buggy to balance an account. Buying a harness, I put my horse to the buggy, my saddle and belongings, including quite a sum of money, in it and started on my return trip.

On my return from Indiana on this occasion I stopped at the orchard for several days. We had quite a drove of hogs, some 60 or 70 head that with proper feed would be marketable in a few months. While in Farmersville a former neighbor was inquiring for stock of that kind to feed, and knowing that we had not sufficient corn at Dubois of our own, I thought this a good chance to get rid of them. Getting a good offer, I sold the lot to be delivered at a town on the Wabash about 70 miles away. This plan was carried out and a check for quite a sum was received.

As the horse that had taken me to and from Indiana could not be spared from the farm, it had to be replaced. Having a number of unbroken colts, I exchanged two of them for a fine large one and started on the way to Lincoln where I arrived after ten days’ absence.

I now closed up the deal for the lots in Rockford. As money at this time was in great demand I received a large rebate for the cash payment of the whole sum. I made arrangements with a carpenter in Rockford to build a house, indicating as near as I could by letter the point or place to build and sending the plan I wished followed.

Ellen Hall, an adopted girl of Mother’s that had been with us for some time and all the while we were at Lincoln helping in the housework on the farm, was sent to Rockford by railroad and also all our household goods.

Here is the final episode. Part 5: Fruit Farming and Permanent Roots in Rockford

The Memoirs of John Andrews, Part 1

I inherited a typescript of the following memoirs written by my great-great grandfather at the request of one of his sons about 1920. John Andrews was born 1 April 1831 near what came to be known as Farmersville, Posey County, Indiana. He lived until 1922, dying at the age of 91 with a clear mind. His memory is remarkable and the details of his early life quite interesting to anyone who is interested in folk history. In transcribing the typescript, I changed punctuation and added words marked with square brackets. I also decided to put notes in square brackets where explanation might be helpful. Here is his story.
*****

School Days, 1835 to 1850

Procrastination is one of my sins. Had I commenced this memoir when my hand was steady, my eyes clear, and brain active, it is possible I could have made it interesting to those who desire to read it, and surely it would have been more pleasant to write it.

Folk portrait of sister and brother in 1840

I was born on the first day of April 1831. My sister Harriet was born some 19 months later. An older sister had passed away before or soon after my birth. My sister [Harriet] was afflicted with some trouble pertaining to female childhood, I know not what, and Father had a little wagon made, and a maid in Mother’s employ was accustomed to pull her about in it, and my first distinct memory was accompanying [them], trudging along beside. I was probably between three and four years old.

[John’s sister Ann was 20 months old when John was born and nearly 3 when she died 17 July 1832. Harriet was 18 months younger than John. Brother Seth was born when John was a month shy of 6 years old. The family lived in Posey County, at the southern tip of Indiana.]

I have no memory when I learned to read or when I first went to school, but it was surely long before a child would be enrolled as a scholar now. But I have a distinct memory of my first school and of some incidents that occurred there, and of my first teacher. I was perhaps between four or five years; the school house was heated by a large open stove. A lot of the little fellows like myself sitting around it dangling our feet from backless benches, when one day the teacher called me out and with a flat ruler in his hand took one of my hands and gave me three spats in my palm, the only time I was ever chastised in school. Why he did it, I never knew, some boyish squabble perhaps. I was too spunky to cry but turned with a smile to my grinning companions.

After two years this teacher, whose name was Felsch, left, [and] another took his place. This was many years before free schools came; the county was divided into districts with trustees to employ teachers and see to other necessary details. Often it would be only for three months. That was a term and sometimes that was the limit for school that year. If the teacher gave satisfaction he would be retained longer. Parents or guardians paid a stipulated price for each scholar enrolled. Thus my schooling went on until I was nine years old, except what Father and Mother taught me in the meantime. About this time my sister had fully regained her health, and having an active mind, our study in some branches was the same in after years. Father had taught me English grammar and I never studied it in school. In fact some of my early teachers could teach only reading, writing, and spelling.

In my sixth year Father became guardian to a cousin, Clark Butler, 4 years my senior, and after a few years we pursued the same studies together.

When I was nine years old we had a teacher for two or three terms who apparently found it necessary to instill knowledge into our youthful brains by the application of long hickory switches to wake up our dullard minds, and there were some who often felt its tingling over their shoulders. Whether it was that I was smarter than some of those who quite often had a taste of the gad, it never fell on me, but an occasional twist of the ears was the extent of my punishment.

One of the duties of the teachers in those days was to convert goose quills into pens and keep them in repair until worn out and exchanged. It is likely that the Declaration of Independence was written with the quill and perhaps also the Constitution was thus transcribed, and would it not be in harmony and justly so if the emancipation of four million slaves accomplished by the pen of Abe Lincoln, had been written by this agency? But this is perhaps a vain hope as metallic pens had then taken the place in the march of progress of the feathery quill. It is said that the cackling of geese once saved Rome. So the goose has played its part in human progress. This is wandering, yet sometimes it is pleasant to step aside from the main line and cull a flower from the fragrant bloom by the roadside.

An incident during this term of school that likely, subconsciously at least, had quite an influence on my life—in the study of arithmetic I had reached vulgar fractions and a problem soon appeared that at first appeared beyond my ability to solve. After some effort to do so I sought the aid of the teacher. Whether he would not or could not explain it I do not know. He had a key—a duplicate of the arithmetic with the examples explained—and probably this one was not included. Anyway after several attempts failed to get help, I determined myself to solve it. I worked at it for one week, and behold it was accomplished. Fractions had no more terrors for me.

This teacher was sued by the father of one of the boys he had severely thrashed and was fined one cent. Soon after that a school meeting was called and it proved a stormy one, and that night the school house burned down, whether by accident or design was not known.

After the burning of the school house, school was kept for a while in a vacant house on our farm and later in a church nearby. But conditions did not suit Father and soon after the fiasco, he took my cousin Clark and me to a school in Mount Vernon. It was several years before we attended the home school again. It was now 1841, I was ten years old. We found the school in Mount Vernon on our advent there kept in an old one room building packed full of scholars, but room was made for us. The first day was an epoch in my life—everyone but Clark perfect strangers, as was the teacher. Our studies were designated and no doubt we “Country Jakes” had the benefit of many sinister smiles and whispered jibes. The day passed. Just as the sun was preparing to don his night robes I was called up and given an example to demonstrate on the black board. It was my first appearance before that august body and my futile attempt to erase an example with my hand raised a snicker. That put the “ginger” in me. I found the sponge, cleared the board and my example soon took the place of the one obliterated. Soon school was dismissed. Darkness was stealing over the earth, and we had 3½ miles to foot it home.

Clark and I soon got in the stride and nervousness soon wore off in school, and on the playground we were accepted as good fellows.

Our teacher here was a well-educated man and as Father wished us to take Latin as one of our studies, soon we were conjugating amo and declining penna through its alternating changes from nominative to ablative. In addition we had geometry hitched on to our arithmetic. As we were put in classes we were behind in some of them and it was hard to catch up.

When we entered this school the town was building a brick two story house which they called “The Seminary,” and as soon as it was finished we moved from our crowded room to a commodious one on the second floor of this building. The Seminary was situated on rising ground on the northern end of the town which shortened our daily walk one-half mile each way. The school room was a fine one, fitted up with seats and desks for two, and heated in winter by a fireplace in one end and a stove in the middle. There was a small recitation room that was used also for storing our wraps, etc. The morning session commenced with reading by turns a chapter in the Bible and prayer by the teacher.

Original Mount Vernon Seminary, 204 F Street, NW

It was the winter term of 1841 that we entered there. It was the boys’ job to sweep, make fires, etc. in turn. In winter Clark and I had to be on the road by seven o’clock, and when our turn came to sweep and fire up, we had to start earlier, and after reaching the building one of us had to go one-half mile to get the key. In the short days of winter the stars would be showing, but if it were not raining a short hour would bring us home to a glorious feast of rich corn bread that Mother knew well how to make, baked in a skillet before the open fire, covered with a lid and red hot coals raked out from a generous fire on top, and underneath. When we reached home wet to the skin, as sometimes we did, that corn bread and a rich bowl of milk made a feast for the gods. This was before the advent of the cook stove. There was a large oven built at the side of the large fire place that Mother used for white bread, pastry, etc.

The teacher here was named Knap. A part of the routine of school work was declamation and composition on alternate Friday afternoons. The boys had to go up on the elevated stand, face the audience and deliver an oration. This at first was a fearful experience, but I soon got so that I enjoyed the situation. The girls as well as boys had to hand in compositions for correction.

Winter passed, spring and summer came and went once, twice, and a new teacher named Collins was installed with his wife as assistant. I turned 14 in 1845. This year sister Harriet was taken out of the home school and went with us to Mount Vernon during summer. We all rode back and forth in a buggy, and after that Harriet and a cousin named Sophronia Phillips (an aunt of Flora) who had lived with us for some time were boarded near the school.

Having now reached the age to help on the farm my studies through the summer were much broken up.

Schoolhouse in Farmersville, sketch by Anne Doane

In the meantime a new schoolhouse was built on the site of the burned one in Farmersville, and fitted with seats and desks, it was a great improvement over the old arrangement. Having secured the services of Mr. Welche for the new school, we never returned to Mount Vernon.

In 1846 the war with Mexico began and a number of my acquaintances volunteered and went, but all of them that I knew except one, who died there, returned. The organizing of a company and a regiment in Mt. Vernon made quite a stir. I do not know that this regiment ever was in battle, but the second in command, Alvin P. Hovey, was afterwards made Brigadier General under Grant at Vicksburg, and afterwards he was Governor of Indiana. He was a native of Posey County. [More information about Posey County military matters and Alvin P. Hovey can be found at this website.]

I was 16 now—I worked on the farm summers and went to school in winter.

This fall we had a new teacher by the name of P.K. Dibbler, and in one respect he was the best I ever had—and he had a crowded school. Quite a number of pupils from a distance took advantage of the opportunity as it was better than they could get at home, although they had to pay extra. He was also a preacher. His salary of 400 dollars was considerably increased by his preaching and outside students. He was an athlete and enjoyed the playground as much as the boys, and this added to his favor with most of the boys. But there was always carping then, and before his time expired there was trouble. He was accused of partiality by some and a hot fight—verbal—took place. As a result, at the end of his second term he quit teaching and went into other business.

Yet there was an episode in this last term perhaps worth recording. The schoolhouse was on a large corner lot and as the national holiday was near at hand, it was decided to have a celebration. The house had two front doors, one for the boys and one for the girls, and in front we built a stage, and with a bolt of domestic [a length of cotton cloth] we made a large awning, and in front we arranged tables and prepared eatables. After some songs by Clark, who was a good singer, I was called on to read the immortal Declaration, and then Mr. Dibbler gave a patriotic address. We enjoyed the feast. The platform in front was for staging a play at night. The house doors behind made a convenient dressing and retiring room. I do not remember what the play was, but we had to have a darky [a common term then that we do not endorse now] and we had a good substitute in one of the boys, and a few girls were included. A number of my old schoolmates from the Mt. Vernon school came out, and as the patriotic fever increased some were induced to declaim their former school orations.

On the whole it was a success and well done. This ended Mr. Dibbler’s term, but he was followed by another well-educated man, by name Murry, and I passed the next winter in school attending two terms of three months each.

About this time, 1848, the discovery of gold in California became for a time the absorbing topic, and in the following year the gold fever raged all over the land, as bad as the late epidemic of flu—a very poor comparison. [He was writing this just after the 1918 influenza pandemic.] A company was organized at Farmersville and some others in the county. Ox and mule teams were secured, large wagons prepared and in due time joined the long trail across the plains. Six months passed ere they reached the gold mines. Many of the animals died, and on the whole not a few of the men and women. A sad ending to many.

A few months later quite a large company went via Panama and were becalmed at Acapulco for several months, but they reached the end after five months. Many were financed, the option a divide of one half of the proceeds. Generally they secured enough to pay expenses and some over, but very few made any very rich strikes. Some returned after two or three years, others made California their home. In another place some of the gold digging will be specialized.

In 1850 a Mr. Howard, a highly educated man, found his way to Farmersville. He had a wife and 10 year old boy. He bought a large lot on which was a very nice cottage and a large shop. But all his life he had been a scholar and a teacher, with an intimate knowledge of Latin and Greek. He was as ignorant of the proper application of labor to get results from either land or machines. They brought all the way from England a lot of tools where better could have been had here. I helped him some in his planting, his little haying, etc. He had a horse that had not been used much and I think he had never graduated in horse handling as there is no doubt he had in Greek. In the fall of 1850 he was hired to teach the winter school, and that was a job he was surely able to do. He was a scholar, an expert in many branches, a wonderful penman, and in drawing, the picture of any article in view came out at the end of his pencil.

One bright winter morning soon after school opening, a girl came in with a bright smile and elastic step and seated herself by my sister Harriet. I was soon attracted by her handsome appearance, the bright eyes illuminating a very intelligent countenance. At the time I thought her to be some fifteen or sixteen years old, but long years after that I found out she had outstripped her age by several years in height. [The girl was just 10 years old at the time.] After a while I became interested in and inquired her name and obtained it from my seat mate. I also noticed that Mr. Howard was soon attracted to her, giving especial attention that looked very much like partiality. One of the studies she essayed as well as some of the rest of us was drawing. I do not think any of us would ever have produced or created any remarkable result in that direction, but from opportunity to see some of her work afterwards, I am very sure she would never have been able to astound the world with any artistic delineation, and would say here that none of the rest of us would have achieved immortality in that line and for that matter in any other.

What was the attraction that led Mr. Howard from London to Indiana I never knew. He seemed very satisfied with the change and cheerfully accepted the conditions he encountered. He and Father were congenial and often met in social intercourse. He taught but one term there but in the fall following he secured a situation in a military school in Kentucky and soon after left for that purpose. Some correspondence was kept up for a time but afterwards he was changed from the Kentucky Academy to Washington, and now we will bid him good-bye. We heard of him quite often for some time.

By this time I had learned [that] the name of the young miss specialized was Mirinda Piper and that her father was a Baptist minister who I had heard a number of times. He had a circle of churches in his charge, visiting each monthly with two day services Saturday and Sunday. Here I will note what will seem odd, especially in the cities—that the country churches then had two front doors and one back door, and as the congregation arrived, the men entered one door and women the other and took seats apart. In case one wished to leave, as was often the case in the prolonged service, they had the back door by which to escape without disturbing the audience. About the time referred to, Mr. Piper’s congregation, through his supervision, built quite a large building for that time and fashioned as above specified.

The interest Mirinda had aroused in my mind continued, and in later years continued in a union of interests via marriage, and for more than sixty years through sunshine and storm, we have happily passed. We have been blessed with three noble boys, two of whom now minister to our wants and comforts.

Here is Part 2 of the Memoirs of John Andrews.

The Missing Letters of Mirinda Piper, part 4

Here is the final installment of letters written by Mirinda Piper to her soon-to-be husband, John Andrews, in the summer of 1858.

Lincoln, July 18th/58

Dear Friend:

No, I do not think, nor have I ever thought, that you would try to influence me in my religious views, nor indeed any other—I have too much confidence in you to ever entertain such an idea. If it seemed any way strange for my parents to speak of it you will please attribute it to their anxiety for my happiness. Often I tell mother she worries herself too much about her children, that she takes trouble when there is no necessity of it. Her whole life and happiness seems wrapped up in her children. That is one reason why I would like to be near her if it was convenient and pleasant for you, but I would not for anything try to influence you to leave your place unless you would rather do so. You might not like this country and then I could never forgive myself for persuading you to move. I know I can be happy with you almost any place and wherever you are contented I will be.

Yes, I am young and fear I am too young to take so great a responsibility. No doubt you will find imperfections in me you do not think of now—but perhaps you will have more patience to bear with me than if you were two or three years younger than you are. I do not know how much older you are than me (would like to though). I will be 18 the 25th day of this month.

Some time next fall will suit me as well as any other if it does you, but if it was not that we live so far apart and see each other so seldom I would certainly be for postponing it until I was older and more experienced. As it is, I am always uneasy about you and if your letters do not come quite as soon as expected I cannot rest until they do come. Perhaps I am foolish to be so but cannot help it. I am telling you all my thoughts but think I have a right to now. Perhaps, you will not like to be troubled with them though.

I ought not to expect a letter once a week. You have been very punctual, more so indeed than I have been. When it is convenient, I would like to have one, but when it is not, do not trouble.

Of course I had my miniature taken for you. If my parents want one, they can have another taken any time. How often have I wished that I had always lived in one place, but I have never had any place that I could call home but a short time. The longest I ever lived in one place was Posey Co. and you know that was not very long.

Yesterday was a great day in Lincoln. Stephan A. Douglass, the democratic candidate for senator was to speak. He was there but he was so hoarse from speaking the night before that he did not address the crowd. Lincoln, his opponent was there also [see note 1]. Dan Rice’s show was there. They said it was the largest crowd ever collected in Lincoln. We have a shower nearly every day. I fear there will be a great amount of sickness here this summer and fall. It certainly has every appearance of a sickly season; I do hope we will escape this time as we had so much sickness last fall.

Most Truly yours,

Mirinda Piper

I had forgotten to say that your religious views are known to me and if they were not it would make no difference. If you wish to write anything on the subject you can do so, I do not require it. You know what I said in relation to that matter when you were here, I want everyone to think just as they please on that and every other subject.

If more was conveyed than was intended by my parents’ letter, it was owing to the cause referred to before and not to any want of confidence in you.

Yours ever,

Mirinda

July 28th, 1858

Dear Friend:

Yours of the 18th was received yesterday and I was much pleased to get it so soon. I fear I have been hasty in wishing you to write every week. Perhaps it will trespass too much on your time and attention; if it does, do not fail to inform me as it will make no great difference if you do not write so often.

The rose you sent me is certainly faded but it still retains a portion of its fragrance and it makes me happy to think when we are separated you still remember me and send a flower now and then.

Please do not take the trouble to bring a dog along out here; of course, you know I was only joking about it.

I was truly pleased to learn your friends at home know of the arrangement between us. I thought perhaps they did, but did not know for certain. I thought it was not possible for you to be coming out here and no one suspicious there was something going on.

We are in the midst of our hay harvest now and your humble servant is engaged in the very delightful occupation of making “pizen things” [see note 2]. We have a shower every day or two so they do not make much progress. I think they will be done in a few days, and I will not be sorry.

I was much pleased with the description of your childhood in your last letter. It does seem you have such command of language, it is so easy for you to express your thoughts; your words flow along like water. It is not my gift, if gift it might be called. I often wish it was. Do not think this is said to flatter for it is not; it is just what I think. Perhaps I am too much given to saying what I think. Sometimes I fear I am.

You must not expect very long or interesting letters but I will promise to do better next time if I can. Hoping you received my other letters and miniature, I will close for the present.

Most Truly yours,

Mirinda Piper

Lincoln, Ill. Aug. 1st 1858

Dear Friend:

August 1st! How the weeks fly I hardly know where the summer has gone and it has passed so pleasantly, too. A letter once a week has been a great destroyer of time. I hardly get through thinking of the contents of one until another comes. I fear it is too pleasant to continue long.

I believe I do appear older than I am; almost all of my acquaintances tell me so, but I fear my actions make me seem younger than I really am. I grew up almost like a weed, so that at twelve years old many persons took me to be sixteen. I often used to wish I was small like other children of my age. I thought I appeared so green and awkward then and have not improved much yet. You talk and write as if you ought to be quite as old as you are but you look much younger [see note 3].

I thank you for the nice ring you sent me; it is very beautiful and I will wear it for your sake; indeed everything you have given yet is beautiful and in good taste. I feel that I am not deserving the regard you have for me, that I am not worthy of it. I hope you will never regret the step you have taken; that you will always think of me as you do now.

You wish to know what I would prefer your business to be as if it was my place to decide what it should be. When you were here you said you did not like farming. I certainly would not follow any occupation I did not like if I were you. It will be immaterial to me what your business is so it is honest and I know it will be for you would not engage in anything that was not. I do not know anything about your business or what would be the most pleasant for you to engage in. What ever will be suited to your feelings and disposition will be perfectly satisfactory to me; it can all be summed up in a few words, do as you please.

If our marriage is to take place next fall, I would some rather it would be near the 19 or 20 of September, though it makes no great difference to me and if that is sooner than would suit your convenience, you can let me know. It may be very important to you when it is and it is not at all to me. I only named that month because you said when you were here you intended coming then. You seem to wish me to name the time but I would much rather you would. I would like to know the time if it is convenient for you to tell me soon.

Yes, more is made of a profession than the subject deserves. I have been taught to believe that sincerety without profession is far preferable to profession without sincerety. Many who marry in their own church are far less happy than others who marry out of it.

I think your “industrious spells” last a long time. They are like mine, I am “industrious by spells” but those spells are almost all the time on me I see so much work to do that must be done; I am very seldom idle and I guess that is pretty much the way with you when you are at home. I believe I could get along very well without working very hard if I did not have it to do but I could not live perfectly idle.

If your thoughts are ever unpleasant to me they will be what they never have been yet. Sometimes I fear mine are not very pleasant to you, some of them at least. I will try and send you a flower some time if I can ever draw one I think is well enough. We have no flowers in our yard this year, it has been such a bad season the seeds all rotted in the ground.

I believe I cannot think of any more nonsense to write so I will close.

I remain most truly yours,

Mirinda Piper

August 8th 1858

Dearest Friend:

It is Sunday again; no doubt you will think I always write on Sunday. Your letters nearly always come on Saturday and that is my reason for writing on that day.

The weather is very warm; I think it is the hottest weather I ever knew. There has been no rain for four or five days and everything seems as if it would burn up or melt or something. I am writing in the woods about a quarter of a mile from the house, on a book seated on an old log and if it was not for the mosquitoes would have a nice time.

My health has been very good this summer or as good as it generally is. I never was very strong, as you know, and I regret that as much as anything else. Our family have all been well so far. My uncle’s family have had one case of chills but I believe they have cured it.

It does seem a long time since I saw you. How often I wish you were nearer so we could see each other now and then, but it is impossible to have everything as we wish. There is always something we would like to change, to have different, and the only way is to be patient and take things as they come but sometimes we are not content to do this.

If it is no trouble for you to write, it certainly is a great pleasure to me to receive your letters; indeed there is nothing could give me so much happiness (except your presence) as to receive a letter from you.

I do not think my letter of July 28th will be very interesting or entertaining as I was very busy at the time and wrote in a great hurry; I hardly know what I did write. I guess this will not be much better, but I will say as you did, will do better next time if I can.

Hoping to hear from you soon, I remain yours ever

Mirinda.

Lincoln, Ill. Aug. 15, 1858

Dear Friend:

It does seem that I ought to have something to write after receiving such a cheering letter as yours of Aug. 8. It is so pleasant to receive such long letters I wish they were all that long, but I ought not to expect it as I do not write such often.

I do think farming the most independent calling in the world; I enjoy it the most. I do love a quiet retired life. True, it requires a great amount of hard labor, there is no occupation but what requires labor of the head or hands, though it does make more work for the women than any other business I believe, but if you conclude to be a farmer, I will try to do my part as well as I can. Of all things, I love to live in the country away from the hurry and bustle of a town or city. I have tried both and would always prefer the country.

It will suit me just as well to start away from home at that time as to wait longer; I can be ready then just as easy as to get ready afterwards. I shall not feel that I am leaving home never to see it again. I know I shall see my friends all again, so I would just as soon go then as any other time. I shall certainly have the wedding private; that is, there will be no one here except what it will be necessary to have, if it suits you so I mean. I never did like to see a crowd at such places and as there is no one in this country will know anything about it there will be no feelings hurt.

I do not know much about politics and would like to know less. I do not read political papers but hear it talked enough. Father and Uncle Louis are continually on that subject and no other, until I get so tired of it I wish to never hear of it again. I believe they are what are called Douglass Democrats. Uncle is very much interested at this time about getting a man in Lincoln elected sheriff, a particular friend of his. He spoke in Mt. Pulaski yesterday; in fact he does nothing but electioneer all the time. (Uncle, I mean). [See note 4.]

It is not any trouble for me to write now. I am happy to have the chance to write every week. Whenever I get so busy I cannot write, will let you know.

I was much amused at your description of Bob Murphy. I expect he is a live curiosity. Such customers are generally hard to get rid of.

It certainly is a great curse to be a worshipper of gold. I see so much of that here, everyone is for himself. They think of nothing but money. Several girls I have become acquainted with, whose fathers are what the world calls wealthy, cannot write a letter fit to be seen and can hardly spell their own name. I often think of the old man’s advice to his daughter; he says “be sure an never marry a poor man but remember the poorest man in the world is one who has money and nothing else.”

This is a very pleasant day, there is wind enough to make everybody feel pleasant and cheerful. How I do love such summer days, I could almost wish them to last always. I am positively ashamed of the letter I wrote last Sunday, it was such hot weather I could not write or think or hardly get my breath, but it is much cooler now and I do not think we will have any more such intensely hot weather this season, hope not anyhow.

You cannot imagine how much happiness it gave me to know that your friends were pleased with your arrangement. They know so little about me I feared they would think you had made a poor choice. I cannot tell what they will think when they are better acquainted, but I sincerely hope they may never have cause to think different.

                     Hoping to hear from you soon, I remain

Yours forever

Mirinda Piper

John Andrews

Aug. 22, 1858

Dearest Friend:

Another week has rolled around, is gone never to be recalled. Nor would I recall it if I could. Not that the week was fraught with sorrow or regret, for it was certainly very pleasant. The anticipation of anything is said to be more pleasant than the reality, but I cannot think so in this case. I have no doubt but that we will be much happier when our hopes are realized than we are now. Yes, I also have trembled when I have thought what may happen in the intervening weeks, for I know how many unseen dangers may lurk in our path, how many secret enemies we may have that we are not aware of. But there is one thing that you may know, come what will, you possess my undivided affections, that there is no other one in the world that I would be willing to have occupy the place you are about to in relation to me, and I firmly believe I am regarded by you in the same light, and therefore nothing could make me think you had changed in your feelings, but your own words.

I do not know how it will seem not to expect a letter but I guess it will be all right after awhile. I shall always preserve your letters with jealous care as the most precious mementoes. I can repeat nearly all of them in my own mind, I have read and reread them so much. I intend to keep them as long as there is any of the paper that is not worn out. I shall not regret the nonreception of a letter so very much for I have always thought a visit was far better than a letter and of course, when I am always with you, will not care about them.

Please tell me what day you will be here and be sure and give yourself plenty of time, for if you do not come as soon as you say you will, I will be uneasy for fear something has happened to you. The chills are very prevalent here now and it is the very kind of weather for the ague, very cool nights and hot sun in the day time.

I cannot think of anything more to write just now, so I will close for the present.

Most truly yours,

Mirinda

September 2, 1858

Dearest Friend:

You will be disappointed at not receiving this at the usual time, but if you have not caught the chills I have. When your last letter came I was quite sick but I am most well now. that is my excuse for not writing sooner. I did think the 19th would be the most convenient time for our wedding but owing to some reasons that I can better explain when you come, have concluded to have it on Tuesday the 21st and we can start on the next day, Wednesday, and as you know about how long it will take to get there, you can make your arrangements to suit. I do not know of any place on the route that I wish to stop at on the way. Don’t be uneasy about me; I am nearly well, but as I am not strong yet, they will not let me write any more than is just necessary. I shall await your coming with anxiety.

I remain yours as ever,

Mirinda

[Ernest wrote to his children:] They were married on September 21st, and they went at once to Farmersville, Indiana, to live for a time. But the farm there was sold the following winter to be turned over to the buyer, March 1, 1859. So they went to Lincoln to visit for a week and your grandfather then went to DuBois to build them a house. Your grandmother remained with her parents for three weeks. In the meantime, she wrote as follows to her husband at DuBois, Illinois.

Lincoln, Ill. March 15, 1859

My Dear Husband:

Perhaps you will not be looking for a letter from me so soon, but I want to hear from you so bad I could not help writing. I hope I shall receive a letter from you soon. I felt very bad and lonely the night you left but I slept tolerably well. I have nothing to write to you but to tell you how bad I want to see you and you know that anyhow.

I do hope you had a pleasant trip. How I wished I could go with you. I know it will not be very long till I see you again but will seem very long to me. I count every day until it is time to go to you. Do write to me very often and tell me how you are getting along with your work. I hope you will have pleasant weather for it.

Tell me whether you have heard anything from the sick folks [see note 5] and whether they have started for Wisconsin yet. I am quite well now. If you get a stove before I come I would some rather you would not get a very small one, but you can do just as you think best about it.

I am your loving wife,

Mirinda.

At the end of three weeks, your grandmother could stand it no longer and went to DuBois.
Seventy years later.

Rockford, Illinois,

April 8, ’28.

Dear Ernest:

Your letter rec’d this morning. I was pleased to hear that you already had new clothes, for knew that if you took that trip East this summer, you would need them. The joke was on me, for I wrote the same request to Harry, and he informed me that he had just got them. Was glad to hear that Fred can pay for his home, for although he probably will be owing you and his mother-in-law on it sometime, it will be safe, and there will be no danger of a foreclosure if he should have some bad luck.
It is fine that you are to have a partner, for at your age you should get out of the office more. Also, that your business has increased to that extent that it can support two families. Harry is pleased too. I hope it will work out all right, that you will like the man, and that he will attract business.
Betty is pleased about her one hundred, said she would put it in the bank. She said, “But Grandma, why did you not get you some new furniture with the money?” I told her that I did not want any, have no callers now, but relatives. Have outlived all my old friends and the younger people don’t like to talk to deaf folks, when there are plenty to talk to who can hear. Do not think can possibly live much longer, for am much weaker than a year ago, and there is no use leaving a lot of furniture no one will want. My old stuff can be burned or given to the Salvation Army if they will take it. This is not gloomy, shall be glad to go. Do not want to live to be as old as Chauncey Depew. [See note 6.]

Monday 9th

I rather looked for you and Vinnie to drive out yesterday and make us a call. Looked for you for two Sundays before, now shall quit looking and likely you will come. The weather was disagreeable yesterday, with some snow on the ground, but this morning is fine with snow mostly gone. Last evening, Mamie walked over here with Harry, and I was so glad to know that she could. The girls came over. Ted and Betty were here and we had a pleasant time. Charles brought the Ford over, and took his mother home. He will go back to Madison tomorrow. Was glad to hear that Helen’s family are well again. Betty’s children started to school this morning. The whole family went to church three times yesterday.

Love to you both,
Mother.


One week later we laid her to rest.


Notes:
1. The Lincoln-Douglas debates of 1858 were still a month away at this time. Abraham Lincoln had challenged Stephen A. Douglas for one of the Illinois U.S. Senate seats. They debated each other seven times from August through October. Lincoln lost the election, but the debates gained him national prominence, eventually leading to his election to the United States presidency.
2. “pizen things”: A pun in common use at the time: “pies and things” for the harvesters to eat.
3. John was nine years older than Mirinda.
4. Louis Dillworth Norton was her uncle. He and his wife, Loucinda, had at that time five children. Two baby daughters had died. They lived in Lincoln, Illinois, where Louis was a practicing attorney.
5. The sick folks were John’s mother, Elizabeth Andrews, and her foster daughter, Ellen Hall, who both had typhoid fever. They recovered all right and moved to Wisconsin to be with John’s brother, Seth.
6. Chauncey Depew was a railroad attorney and then a U.S. Senator from New York. He died just short of his 94th birthday on 5 April 1928.
Family Notes: In her final letter, Mirinda mentions her sons Ernest and Harry, their wives Vinnie and Mamie, and Ernest’s son Fred. She mentions her granddaughter Betty, the daughter of her deceased son Charles. Betty’s husband was Ted. She mentions Charles, who was Harry’s son, going to law school. She also mentions Helen, Ernest’s daughter.

The Missing Letters of Mirinda Piper, part 3

Lincoln, May 12, 1858.

Dear Friend:

I have quite a task before me to answer three letters; but as it is my own fault (and really I do not consider it a task by any means) I have nothing to say. When I received yours of April 20th, I was undecided what to do and waited till I thought it was too late for you to receive a letter from me before leaving home. I am sorry now I did not write immediately for I know what it is to expect a letter and be disappointed.

I received the engraving Saturday night, about four weeks since. It is a beautiful picture, so life like; one almost seems to be in the midst of the happy group. I sincerely thank you for remembering me enough to have it sent.

Truly a private life is far preferable to a public one. A person that serves the public has a thankless office and he must be far happier who is aloof from all the harasses a public life naturally brings with it. If happiness is not to be found at home among our nearest and dearest friends, I ask, where is it to be found?

Please do not think your letters will ever be out of season or visits either. You need not apologize for your letters nor warn me of your visits; any time it is convenient I will not only be pleased but happy to see you or hear from you. I do not know how to express myself about burning your letters. I would as soon think of burning anything else as them, and you surely ought to know that by this time. (Excuse my impertinence)

Well, I was at the wedding. There was not much to describe, except that they both think they are the happiest people in this world, but as that is sure to be the case, it is not much use to tell that. The happy couple start tomorrow on the cars for Missouri where he resides. It is about 14 miles from Kansas in the south part of Missouri. By the way, her name was Miss Rachel Rush and his is Mr. Rankin. By the way (also), there was another of my friends married the same day; so they go, one by one, till there will hardly be any girls here at all after awhile; there is certainly few enough here now.

It has rained almost incessantly here ever since I can’t tell when. The farmers are nearly discouraged and think they will not raise any corn this year at all. The roads are perfectly awful and in many places are impassable.

This is certainly the most entertaining and interesting sheet imaginable. I think if you was to try to burn this, it is so “dry” it would flash up like powder.

I have often thought that my old friends have all forgotten me or only remember me as insignificant and hardly worth mentioning. I have so little confidence in myself some times I think I have not enough and very often I think I have too much.

As it is getting very late, I will close this dry epistle, although I have not written near as much as I thought when I began.

I remain yours                   

Most Truly,                 

Mirinda Piper         

Mr John Andrews

Lincoln, Ill. May 26th, 1858

Dear Friend:

Yours of the 26th was received today, and I was very happy to hear you would be here so soon. I hasten to say that I will be happy to see you and also at any time that it is convenient for you to call, as I said before.

There has more rain fell since you were here than I ever saw in the same length of time before, but as the “oldest inhabitant” is not at home, I do not know how much he has been. The roads are nearly impassable and it seems as if there would never be any more pleasant weather.

I answered yours of May 5th almost immediately on the reception of it, but I suppose the rain has deranged the mails so much that it is uncertain whether you ever received it.

The moon is shining brightly for the first time in a long time. Do you ever look at the moon? Of course you do, but do you ever think that the same moon is looking down on all our friends at the same time, and although we are separated we can be gazing at the same beautiful moon?

I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant journey and arrive here at the time you expected to. I will send this tomorrow and perhaps you will get it by Friday, but if you do not, it will not be much difference as you come soon.

You must not expect a very lengthy or sensible letter this time (but as you never receive any of the latter kind from me you will not be disappointed) as my ideas are very much scattered and confused this evening.

Once more wishing you a safe journey and a pleasant time, I will bid you good night.

Most truly yours,                                

Mirinda Piper                           

Lincoln, June 6th, 1858

Dear Friend:

Well, you did have a good time generally, on your way home and saw some sights. You saw “three drunk men and Miss Jackson”, I presume they were in different crowds. You did stay till “the rain was over” for that day and the next; but on Wednesday the rain came down as if we had not had any for a month. You ask “how large the moon seems to me”, well, about as large as a very small plate, is not that about the size.

Since you were here, I have thought deeply on what you spoke of at that time. I have certainly given you every assurance in my power that you are preferred. I have always had the most entire confidence in you and it has never been shaken since our association began. I believe I am not mistaken in your character—that I do know you, and oh! that you may never think of me different from what you do now. My heart has long been yours, as you already know. My spirit is always with you, whether in danger or out of it. Yes, I have trusted you far and will trust you farther if you can me. I can return no other answer,—although I sometimes tremble when I think that your happiness is involved. Oh! what would I not endur rather than be the cause of unhappiness in you. Destiny seemed to have thrown obstructions in my way from my childhood but could never blot from my memory the virtues I ever believed you to possess. Not even a sense of my deficiencies could make me forget you. But will not the course of the dearest and kindest of friends be a guide and a stay to me? The prospect cheers me and bids me hope I may succeed.

You spoke of my parents. The thought of being separated from me seems very painful to them, yet, to everything else they prefer the happiness of their children, and, honoring you as they do, will not stand in its way.

Now, I have written frankly just what my feelings are towards you. Have I spoken too plainly or said too much? You speak of my happiness. Could I have any greater earthly pleasure than to be loved by one so dear to me?

No doubt you have arrived safe at home before this time and picked up another of my letters on your way. I do hope the mails have not got so entirely out of order that we will not get our letters regularly, for that would certainly give me the “blues” and you know that is a very bad disease.

I was down to Salt Creek today and thought what a pleasant time we had there a few days ago. Your initials are there, just as you left them. Also, I was in town last week and had my miniature taken and our folks say it flatters “orfully” and I think it does too.

Well, I believe I have written all the nonsense I can think of so I will close for the night.

I remain yours as ever,                               

Mirinda Piper                                  

Mr. John Andrews

Lincoln, Ill. June 28th, 1858

Dearest Friend:

Yours of the 20th was received 5 days after it was written, as soon as could be expected, considering the roads and weather.

Although I know it will be a severe trial for me to leave my parents and would rather, if it was perfectly convenient, be near them, I will not be selfish and am willing to go with you where ever you propose. I have not the least shadow of fear that you will “deceive” me, neither have my parents, if I had, I would not have trusted you with my happiness. I am bound to my home by closer ties than most girls of my age. Father being from home so much of the time, I was almost the only companion my mother had, and never being away from home more than one week at a time, it will be very hard on me for a while; but, as I have never lived in one place long at a time, am of course, not much attached to any country. As Father never stays very long in a place, I could not expect you to live near him, and you know my sentiments in regard to changing residences.

You ask, what time do I propose. I would much rather you would suggest some time, as you are as much concerned as I am, and perhaps it would make more difference to you than it would to me; at least you can propose some time in your next; as you have all the trouble of coming, you should certainly have something to say in the matter.

I am glad you intend to write often, it is such a long time to wait for a letter, I get nearly out of patience. Your miniature is a source of great pleasure to me, there is nothing I prize so highly. Why did you not speak about mine when you were here? I would certainly have had it taken, bad as the weather was. If you wish it, I will send it by mail, although would much rather you would come after it, but know that is impossible as you have been here so lately and it is such a great distance.

The Art journal came duly to hand some days since and I am very much pleased with it. There are some very interesting pieces in it, but presume you have seen it.

Father has been very unwell for two or three weeks, so much so he has been on the bed most of the time. This morning he thought he would ride over to Lincoln and did so. He took my letter and on arriving there found it was gone. He looked everywhere he had been but could not find it. I was very sorry and so was he but it could not be helped. I concluded I would write another immediately. I would have waited until I received another from you but knew you would be uneasy; I know I would be. You have the advantage of me in that particular, you take your own letters to the P.O. but I have to send mine by someone else and do not always know whether they will go safe or not. I would not have troubled you with this explanation if I had not thought I might be possible some person would find it and put it in the P.O. and you would think strange receiving two letters so near alike. I know you will excuse it as it was an accident and one that I could not possibly avoid, nor any one else for that matter.

I was just thinking the other day how much we had been favored; none of our letters have been miscarried or lost before and this would not have happened if Father had been well. I have always feared something of the kind would happen ever since the correspondence began. This is truly a “tedious way of communicating with each other” but, as you say, “must be endured for a while yet”.

You do not know how much pleasure your letters give me or I am sure you would write every week. You know, I promised to write every time you did and I will. But I must “bring my few lines to a close.

I remain yours                                   

Very Truly,                                     

Mirinda Piper                             

John Andrews


Ernest John Andrews wrote: The lost letter referred to was no doubt picked up and mailed by some thoughtful person, as it was received, and here it is:

Lincoln, Illinois

June 28th/58

Dear John:

Yours of the 20th was received 5 days after it was written; much sooner than I expected, considering the weather. There has been no rain here for about two weeks and the farmers are complaining of the dry weather and wish it would rain almost as much as they wished it to stop some time since.

Although I know it will be a great trial for me to leave my parents and would rather if it was perfectly convenient be near them, I will not be selfish. I am willing to go with you where ever you propose. I have not the least shadow of a fear that you will deceive me, neither have my parents. I am bound to my home by closer ties than most girls of my age. Father being absent from home so much, I was almost the only companion my mother had, and never being away from home more than a week at a time, it will be hard on me for a time, but not having lived in one place for any length of time of course am not much attached to any country, and you know my sentiments with regard to changing residences. As my parents never stay very long in one place, I could not ask you to live near them unless it perfectly suited you. I am very thankful for your disinterestedness. Few men would be willing to surrender their judgment to any and I certainly do appreciate your kindness. May I ever prove worthy of such tenderness.

You ask what time do I propose. I would much rather you would suggest some time in your next, as you are as much concerned as I am and perhaps it will make more difference to you than it does to me; as you have all the trouble of coming, you certainly ought to have something to say in the matter.

I am glad you are going to write often, it is so long to wait for a letter I get almost out of patience waiting. Your miniature is a source of great pleasure to me; there is nothing I prize so highly. If you had just spoken about mine when you were here, I would have had it taken, bad as the weather was, and if you would like to have it, I will send it to you by mail. I do not think you can send me a dog; you will have to come and bring it and I don’t care how soon. The Art Journal came duly to hand a few says since and I am very much pleased with it but I presume you have seen it. The weather is so warm I can hardly get my breath. If it stays this way long, there will be nothing raised here.

I remain very truly yours,                            

Mirinda Piper                                     

John Andrews very properly wrote to Mirinda’s parents formally and asked for her hand in marriage. Ernest John Andrews wrote: Evidently, John Andrews wrote to the parents, asking for their daughter, as they wrote as follows:

Lincoln, Il. July 5th, 1858

Mr. Andrews

Dear Sir:

                                                                                               Your letter of June 28th was received in my absence and my wife wrote you on another part of this sheet— She was in bad health and perhaps you may not be able to decipher it all.

I join in the request she has made in regard to her religious privileges, etc. Tho’ I must say that I have not the remotest fear of any abridgement.

It truly is a hard task to give up a beloved and favorite child; but I have so much confidence in the hands of them she is confided to that it greatly lessens the pain.

I have not a shadow of reason to offer as an objection, yet, I could wish you could be nearer to us that we might enjoy your society more. But our lots are cast at present where they are and we must submit.

Yours truly,

                    B. B. Piper.

Dear Friend:

Your request recalls to mind a subject on which I have thought much. Not that I expect to arrive at any very wise conclusions by study or thought. But thought toils on like destiny. It is never idle even when the objects of its solicitude are wrapped in quiet slumber. What care, anxiety, on a subject that to all outward seeming should give only joy. Yes, care, not unmingled (I confess) with gratitude and hope. I am not ignorant of the truth that the union of fortunes so widely different in almost everything is a matter of no small moment. I say almost, for the true heart is a priceless gem that can never be excelled. We may speak thus of our human flowers, our coveted treasures; but others are not so partial. Therefore, no small share of wisdom will be required to perform successfully the duties of the new position with which you propose to honor my child; and, will that wisdom be granted in the time of her need? is the question I have asked myself, O! how often.

Even her untaught and absent minded mother might sometimes give counsel that would be useful. But she will need a stronger and wiser friend; and will that true friend, that faithful prompter be ever near; will he find means to impart what will be received in the same spirit of love in which it is given?

Her religious views are known to you. I scarcely think it necessary to say that I desire there may be no abridgement of those privileges to which she has been accustomed. The tenderness with which I have heard you speak of your mother and sister assures me that such a request would be unnecessary. Nor do I believe you would seek to draw her away from the principles whose strength and purity have sustained her under so many trials and which better than any other support can give the power to be a cheerful companion through life. How much you many need such an one is not now known, nor how much you may sacrifice for your fellow men. Minds are seldom endowed with such powers unless they are needed. The field will be shown sooner or later or I misjudge.

I strangely forget. Why do I thus weary you? None but a mother knows a mother’s heart. Your mother! O! that I could know she would never regret, with just cause, the choice of her son. May my child never be lacking to you and yours; and may every cloud and chill mist be driven away by the warm sunshine of affection, should any such arise.

Yes, should you be permitted to claim the performance of the promise so sincerely made you have my full and free consent. You are the only man I ever saw to whom I could willingly have given the child in whose life my own is so perfectly bound up that I tremble to think she is no longer mine. O! may your path be bright. Fain would I pluck away the thorns and leave only the flowers.

“Be pardoned one repining tear, for he who gave her knows how dear.” [note 1]

Undying Truth but claims its own; yet dreaded thought, alone, alone. [note 2]

With my best wishes for the welfare of you and yours.

I am your friend,

                                                     Delia D. Piper

Ernest John Andrews wrote:
This is a remarkable letter. It is the supreme renunciation of a woman of sorrow. Much of the time of her husband was spent away from home, ministering to his various churches, work in which he delighted, and among those who sought to make his life pleasant. While she struggled much alone in ill health against poverty and the sickness of her four young children. Her church ministering was largely to care for those who were often “visitors” but not “company”; who sought often bed and board for a day. Three times she had followed a child to its grave; and long since her own mother had died. In those days, not only were children afflicted with the ills of our day but many more. She, herself, when the letter was written was in “bad health”, and she soon after grew worse and died. She, perhaps, knew that her end was near, and she realized that parting with her “coveted treasure” would end her hopes for joy on earth.

But the letter discloses only respect, admiration, and best wishes towards the seeker of her treasure. She made no complaint. She asked for no delay, though her child was but seventeen. The little she desired was taken for granted. she was a devout church woman; a minister’s wife; and was giving her “child in whom her life was so perfectly bound up” to a comparative stranger who lived beyond the state, and who was neither a church member nor a believer in her creeds. And yet, with breaking heart she writes: “Should you be permitted to claim the performance of the promise so sincerely made, you have my full and free consent. You are the only man I ever saw to whom I could willingly have given the child in whose life my own is so perfectly bound up that I tremble to think she is no longer mine.”

Well may we be proud of her of whom she wrote, and of him to whom she wrote. And well may we be proud of her who wrote. It is such women as she who slowly lead humanity upwards. From this letter and from what I know otherwise, my admiration for her is without bounds.

The letter, too, is the inspiration of genius. Inspired, perhaps, by the crisis which faced her and with the philosopher’s vision, she has expressed truths and only as a poet can. What might she not have done with full opportunity to develop her gift. Without education or training; a mere woman before the woman’s day; without encouragement, without authority, perhaps, her soul bursts forth in imagery and language which puts to shame much of the twaddle of today.

“Thought toils on like destiny.” Who has not found it so? but who has expressed it so forcibly. “The true heart is a priceless gem that can never be excelled.” A profound truth, gracefully expressed, and graciously implying that her correspondent, as well as her own child, had this gem. And throughout the letter the spirit of the philosopher and the poet shines forth. How much is conveyed in the few words which seem to be her own: “Undying Truth but claims its own; yet, dreaded thought, alone, alone.” Bowing to the inevitable, her soul bares its woe.

Let us hope that this woman of sorrow has transmitted the germ of her gifts to her posterity, so that some descendant will benefit humanity as she might have done had she lived a century later.

And let us be thankful that her trust was not misplaced, and that for seventy years or more her child was granted the health and happiness which for so long had been denied to her. [note 3]
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Notes:
1. “Be pardoned one repining tear!/ For He, who gave her, knows how dear,” are lines from Sir Walter Scott’s 1810 poem “The Lady of the Lake.”
2. In Book II of John Keats’ 1818 poem “Endymion,” there is an image of mother Cymbele coming “alone – alone” which might have been familiar to Delia and may have been part of the inspiration for these lines.
3. My own thoughts on Delia D. Piper’s letter are somewhat in agreement with his, but first I note his tone of condescension, unconsciously adopted by a man who was used to a world in which women were second class, but who nevertheless consciously welcomed a change to more equal status. He was writing his analysis of her letter about the time that women were first granted the right to vote in the United States. He was ahead of his time as a genealogist in tracing the lines of all his female ancestors as well as those of his male ancestors. I love that he recognized and celebrated the poetic gifts of his grandmother. However, that he thinks she needed to live a hundred years later to have been able to express such gifts somewhat denigrates the women of her era who did write poetry and very successfully. And Delia herself denigrates her ability to analyze and present coherent thoughts, but her letter belies her modesty. She is perfectly articulate.

Delia Deborah Norton Piper came originally from a somewhat wealthy family, so when she wrote about the problems of a couple with widely disparate financial backgrounds, she knew personally the situation she saw her daughter entering. But where her daughter Mirinda was marrying a man with more wealth than the Piper’s, Delia herself married into poverty after being reared in a home with material advantages. Her father was a liberal man who tried to do for his daughter what he could, allowing for the natural pride of his son-in-law. It was a difficult situation, and perhaps that was part of the unhappiness Delia always felt.