Autobiography and Letters of Orville Dewey, D.D Part 18

C. is steadily and calmly putting all things into order that he can. . . . He came in the morning after he had enlisted, and said to me with a bright, vigorous, and satisfied expression of countenance, "Well, you see what I have done." I believe some people have been very much stirred and moved by his decision. It is said to have given an impulse to the recruiting, and the quota, I am told, is now about full and there will be no drafting here.

Thinking of these things,--thinking of all possible good or ill to come, your mother and I go about, from hour to hour, sometimes very much weighed down, and sometimes more hopeful and cheerful; and poor J., with the tears ready to come at every turn, is yet going on very bravely and well. . . . Ca.s.sidy is to look after barn-yard, etc., for the winter.

But all this is nothing. Good heaven! do people know, does the world know, what we are doing, when we freely send our sons from peaceful and happy homes to meet what camp-life, and reconnoissances, and battles may bring to them and us? G.o.d help and pity us!

[262] To Mrs. David Lane.

SHEFFIELD, Dec. 19, 1862.

DEAR FRIEND,--I wrote to Mrs. Curtis [FN]last Sat.u.r.day, before I knew what had befallen her, and in that letter sent a message to you, to know of your whereabouts, provided you were still in town. I don't expect an answer from her now, of course, though I have written her since; but thinking that you are probably in New York, I write.

I had hoped to hear from you before now. Through this heavy winter cloud I think friendly rays should s.h.i.+ne, if possible, to warm and cheer it.

It is, indeed, an awful winter. I will not say dismal; my heart is too high for that. But public affairs, and my private share in them, together, make a dread picture in my mind, as if I were gazing upon the pa.s.sing of mighty floods, that may sweep away thousands of dwellings, and mine with them. And though I lift my thoughts to Heaven, there are times when I dare not trust myself to pray aloud; the burden is too great for words. It is singular, but you will understand it,--I think there was never a time when there was less visible devotion in my life than now, when my whole being is resolved into meditations, and strugglings of faith, and communings with the supreme and holy will of G.o.d.

I am writing, my friend, very solemnly for a letter; but never mind that, for we are obliged to take into our terrible questioning now what is always most trying in the problem of life,--the results of human imperfection--

[FN: Mrs. George Curtis, of New York, whose son, Joseph Bridgham Curtis, lieutenant-colonel, commanding a Rhode Island regiment, had just fallen at Fredericksburg, Va.]

[263] human incompetence, brought into the most immediate connection with our own interests and affections. See what it is for our friend Mrs. Curtis to reflect that her son was slain in that seemingly reckless a.s.sault upon the intrenchments at Fredericksburg, or for me that my son may be sent off in rotten transports that may founder amidst the Southern seas.

But do I therefore spend my time in complainings and reproaches, and almost the arraigning of Providence? No. I know that the governing powers are trying to do the best they can. The fact is, a charge is devolved upon them almost beyond human ability to sustain. Neither Russia nor Austria nor France, I believe, ever had a million of soldiers in the field, to clothe, to equip, to feed, to pay, and to direct.

We have them,--we, a peaceful people, suddenly, with no military experience, and there must be mistakes, delays, failures. What then?

Shall we give up the cause of justice, of lawful government, of civilization, and of the unborn ages, and do nothing? If we will not,--if we will not yield up lawful sovereignty to mad revolt, then must we put what power, faculty, skill, we have, to the work, and amidst all our sacrifices and sorrows bow to the awful will of G.o.d.

Have you seen Mrs. Curtis? In her son there was a singular union of loveliness and manliness, of gentleness and courage, and, high over all, perfect self-abnegation. A mother could not well lose in a son more than she has lost. I hope she does not dwell on the seeming untowardness of the event, or that she can take it into a larger philosophy than that of the New York press. . . .

[264] To the Same.

SHEFFIELD, July 26, 1863.

YOUR sympathy, my friend, for us and Charles, is very comforting to me.

Yes, we have heard from him since the surrender of Port Hudson. He wrote to us on the 9th, full of joy, and glorying over the event; but, poor fellow, he had only time to wash in the conquered Mississippi, before his regiment was ordered down to Fort Donaldsonville, and took part in a fight there on the 13th; and we have private advices from Baton Rouge that the brigade (Augur's) is sent down towards Brash-ear City. . . .

Now, when we shall hear of C. I do not venture to antic.i.p.ate, but whenever we do get any news, that is, any good news, you shall have it.

If these horrid New York riots had not lifted up a black and frightful cloud between us and the glorious events in Pennsylvania and the Southwest, we should have burst out into illuminations and cannon-firings all over the North. But the good time is coming FN We shall be ready when Sumter is taken. I hardly know of anything that would stir the Northern heart like that.

I have not seen Mrs. Kemble's book yet. Have you read Calvert's "Gentleman"? It is charming. And "The Tropics," too. And here is Draper's book upon the "Intellectual Development of Europe" on my table.

I augur much from the first dozen pages.

With kind remembrances to Mr. Lane, and love to the girls,

Yours as ever,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

[265] To Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.

SHEFFIELD, Aug. 15, 1863.

MY DEAR BELLOWS,--Such a frolic breeze has not fallen upon these inland waters this good while. Complain of heat! Why, it is as good as champagne to you. Well, I shan't hesitate to write to you, for fear of adding to your overwhelming burdens. A pretty picture your letter is, of a man overwhelmed by burdens! And weigh a hundred and eighty! I can't believe it. Why, I never have weighed more than a hundred and seventy-six. Maybe you are an inch or two taller; and brains, I have often observed, weigh heavy; but yours at the top must be like a gla.s.s of soda-water! Nature did a great thing for you, when it placed that buoyant fountain within you. I have often thought so.

But let me tell you, my dear fellow, that with all the stupendous share you have had in the burdens of this awful time, you have not known, and without knowing can never conceive, of what has weighed upon me for the last nine months. . . . I thank you most heartily for your sympathy with C. After all, my satisfaction in what he has done is not so great as in what his letters, all along, show him to be. . . .

Always and affectionately your friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Mr. and Mrs. Lindsey.

SHEFFIELD, Nov. 28, 1863.

MY DEAR FRIENDS,--I received your letter, dated 20 September, two days ago. I am very sorry to see that you are laboring under the mistaken impression that I [266] have lost my son in the war. Something you misapprehended in-'s letter. You seem to suppose that it was Charles who used that striking language, "Is old Ma.s.sachusetts dead? It is sweet to die for our country!" No; it was Lieutenant-Colonel O'Brien, who fell immediately afterwards. Charles was one of the storming party under O'Brien. He stepped forward at that call, for they had all hesitated a moment, as the call was unexpected; it came upon them suddenly. He behaved as well as if he had fallen; but, thank G.o.d, he is preserved to us, and, is among us in health, in these Thanksgiving days. All were around my table day before yesterday,--three children, with their mother, and three grandchildren.

To Mrs. David Lane.

SHEFFIELD, Dec. 29, 1863.

DEAR FRIEND,--Our life goes on as usual, though those drop from it that made a part of it. We strangely accustom ourselves to everything,--to war and bloodshed, to sickness and pain, to the death of friends; and that which was a bitter sorrow at first, sinks into a quiet sadness. And this not constant, but arising as occasions or trains of thought call it forth. Life is like a procession, in which heavy footsteps and gay equipages, and heat and dust, and struggle and laughter, and music and discord, mingle together. We move on with it all, and our moods partake of it all, and only the breaking asunder of the natural bonds and habitudes of living together (except it be of some especial heart-tie) makes affliction very deep and abiding, or sends us away from the great throng to sit and weep alone. Of friends, I [267] think I have suffered more from the loss of the living than of the dead.

I do not know but you will think that all this is very little like me.

It certainly less belongs to the sad occasion that has suggested it than to any similar one that has ever occurred to me. I shall miss E. S. from my path more than any friend that has ever gone away from it into the unknown realm.

Oh! the unknown realm! Will the time ever come, when men will look into it, or have it, at least, as plainly spread before them as to the telescopic view is the landscape of the moon? I believe that I have as much faith in the future life as others,--perhaps more than most men,--but I am one of those who long for actual vision, who would

"See the Canaan that they love, With unbeclouded eyes."

But now what I have been saying rea.s.serts its claim. The great procession moves on,--past the solemn bier, past holy graves. You are in it, and in these days your life is crowded with cares and engagements.

. . . I wish I could do something for the Great Fair; [FN] but I am exhausted of all my means.

With my love to all around you, I am, as ever, Yours affectionately,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

[FN: The Great Fair, held in New York for the benefit of the Sanitary Commission, and of which Mrs. Lane was the chief manager and inspiring power.]

[268] To Rev. Henry Bellows, D.D. SHEFFIELD, Dec. 31, 1863.

. . . Ah! heaven,--what is rash or wise, shortsighted or far-seeing, too fast or too slow, upon the profound and terrible question, "What is to be done with slavery?" You have been saying something about it, and I rather think, if I could see it, that I should very much agree with you.

Bryant and I had some correspondence about it a year ago, and I said to him; "If you expect this matter to be all settled up in any brief way, if you think that the social status of four millions of people is to be successfully placed on entirely new ground in five years, all historical experience is against you."

However, the real and practical question now is, How ought the Government to proceed? Upon what terms should it consent to receive back and recognize the Rebel States? I confess that I am sometimes tempted to go with a rush on this subject,--since so fair an opportunity is given to destroy the monster,--and to make it the very business and object of the war to sweep it out of existence. But that will be the end; and for the way, things will work out their own issues. And in the mean time I do not see that anything could be better than the cautious and tentative manner in which the President is proceeding.

One thing certainly has shaken my old convictions about the feasibility of immediate emanc.i.p.ation, and that is the experiment of emanc.i.p.ated labor on the Mississippi and about Port Royal. But the severest trial of emanc.i.p.ation, as of democracy,--that is, of freeing black men as of freeing white men,--may not be found at the start, but long after.

[269] To the Same.

SHEFFIELD, Feb. 12, 1864.